They sat about their camp-fire, that little party
of Americans retreating southward from Hudson Bay before the on-coming menace
of the great cold. Sat there, stolid under the awe of the North, under the
uneasiness that the day's trek had laid upon their souls. The three men smoked.
The two women huddled close to each other. Fireglow picked their faces from the
gloom of night among the dwarf firs. A splashing murmur told of the Albany
River's haste to escape from the wilderness, and reach the Bay.
"I don't see what there was in a mere
circular print on a rock-ledge to make our guides desert," said Professor
Thorburn. His voice was as dry as his whole personality. "Most
extraordinary."
"They knew what it was, all right,"
answered Jandron, geologist of the party. "So do I." He rubbed his
cropped mustache. His eyes glinted grayly. I've seen prints like that before.
That was on the Labrador. And I've seen things happen, where they were."
"Something surely happened to our guides,
before they'd got a mile into the bush," put in the Professor's wife;
while Vivian, her sister, gazed into the fire that revealed her as a beauty,
not to be spoiled even by a tam and a rough-knit sweater. "Men don't shoot
wildly, and scream like that, unless—"
"They're all three dead now, anyhow,"
put in Jandron. "So they're out of harm's way. While we—well, we're two
hundred and fifty wicked miles from the C. P. R. rails."
"Forget it, Jandy!" said Marr, the
journalist. "We're just suffering from an attack of nerves, that's all.
Give me a fill of 'baccy. Thanks. We'll all be better in the morning. Ho-hum!
Now, speaking of spooks and such—"
He launched into an account of how he had once
exposed a fraudulent spiritualist, thus proving—to his own satisfaction—that
nothing existed beyond the scope of mankind's everyday life. But nobody gave
him much heed. And silence fell upon the little night-encampment in the wilds;
a silence that was ominous.
Pale, cold stars watched down from spaces
infinitely far beyond man's trivial world.
Next day, stopping for chow on a ledge miles
upstream, Jandron discovered another of the prints. He cautiously summoned the
other two men. They examined the print, while the women-folk were busy by the
fire. A harmless thing the marking seemed; only a ring about four inches in
diameter, a kind of cup-shaped depression with a raised center. A sort of glaze
coated it, as if the granite had been fused by heat.
Jandron knelt, a well-knit figure in bright
mackinaw and canvas leggings, and with a shaking finger explored the smooth
curve of the print in the rock. His brows contracted as he studied it.
"We'd better get along out of this as quick
as we can," said he in an unnatural voice. "You've got your wife to
protect, Thorburn, and I,—well, I've got Vivian. And—"
"You have?" nipped Marr. The light of an
evil jealously gleamed in his heavy-lidded look. "What you need is an alienist."
"Really, Jandron," the Professor
admonished, "you mustn't let your imagination run away with you."
"I suppose it's imagination that keeps this
print cold!" the geologist retorted. His breath made faint, swirling coils
of vapor above it.
"Nothing but a pot-hole," judged
Thorburn, bending his spare, angular body to examine the print. The Professor's
vitality all seemed centered in his big-bulged skull that sheltered a
marvellous thinking machine. Now he put his lean hand to the base of his brain,
rubbing the back of his head as if it ached. Then, under what seemed some
powerful compulsion, he ran his bony finger around the print in the rock.
"By Jove, but it is cold!" he admitted.
"And looks as if it had been stamped right out of the stone. Extraordinary!"
"Dissolved out, you mean," corrected the
geologist. "By cold."
The journalist laughed mockingly.
"Wait till I write this up!" he sneered.
"'Noted Geologist Declares Frigid Ghost Dissolves Granite!'"
Jandron ignored him. He fetched a little water
from the river and poured it into the print.
"Ice!" ejaculated the Professor.
"Solid ice!"
"Frozen in a second," added Jandron,
while Marr frankly stared. "And it'll never melt, either. I tell you, I've
seen some of these rings before; and every time, horrible things have happened.
Incredible things! Something burned this ring out of the stone—burned it out
with the cold interstellar space. Something that can import cold as a permanent
quality of matter. Something that can kill matter, and totally remove it."
"Of course that's all sheer poppycock,"
the journalist tried to laugh, but his brain felt numb.
"This something, this Thing," continued
Jandron, "is a Thing that can't be killed by bullets. It's what caught our
guides on the barrens, as they ran away—poor fools!"
A shadow fell across the print in the rock. Mrs.
Thorburn had come up, was standing there. She had overheard a little of what
Jandron had been saying.
"Nonsense!" she tried to exclaim, but
she was shivering so she could hardly speak.
That night, after a long afternoon of paddling and
portaging—laboring against inhibitions like those in a nightmare—they camped on
shelving rocks that slanted to the river.
"After all," said the Professor, when
supper was done, "we mustn't get into a panic. I know extraordinary things
are reported from the wilderness, and more than one man has come out, raving.
But we, by Jove! with our superior brains—we aren't going to let Nature play us
any tricks!"
"And of course," added his wife, her arm
about Vivian, "everything in the universe is a natural force. There's
really no super-natural, at all."
"Admitted," Jandron replied. "But
how about things outside the universe?"
"And they call you a scientist?" gibed
Marr; but the Professor leaned forward, his brows knit.
"Hm!" he grunted. A little silence fell.
"You don't mean, really," asked Vivian,
"that you think there's life and intelligence—Outside?"
Jandron looked at the girl. Her beauty, haloed
with ruddy gold from the firelight, was a pain to him as he answered:
"Yes, I do. And dangerous life, too. I know
what I've seen, in the North Country. I know what I've seen!"
Silence again, save for the crepitation of the
flames, the fall of an ember, the murmur of the current. Darkness narrowed the
wilderness to just that circle of flickering light ringed by the forest and the
river, brooded over by the pale stars.
"Of course you can't expect a scientific man
to take you seriously," commented the Professor. "I know what I've
seen! I tell you there's Something entirely outside man's knowledge."
"Poor fellow!" scoffed the journalist;
but even as he spoke his hand pressed his forehead.
"There are Things at work," Jandron
affirmed, with dogged persistence. He lighted his pipe with a blazing twig. Its
flame revealed his face drawn, lined. "Things. Things that reckon with us
no more than we do with ants. Less, perhaps."
The flame of the twig died. Night stood closer,
watching.
"Suppose there are?" the girl asked.
"What's that got to do with these prints in the rock?"
"They," answered Jandran, "are
marks left by one of those Things. Footprints, maybe. That Thing is near us,
here and now!"
Marr's laugh broke a long stillness.
"And you," he exclaimed, "with an
A. M. and a B. S. to write after your name,"
"If you knew more," retorted Jandron,
"you'd know a devilish sight less. It's only ignorance that's
cock-sure."
"But," dogmatized the Professor,
"no scientist of any standing has ever admitted any outside interference
with this planet."
"No, and for thousands of years nobody ever
admitted that the world was round, either. What I've seen, I know."
"Well, what have you seen?" asked Mrs.
Thorburn, shivering.
"You'll excuse me, please, for not going into
that just now."
"You mean," the Professor demanded,
dryly, "if the—hm!—this suppositious Thing wants to—?"
"It'll do any infernal thing it takes a fancy
to, yes! If it happens to want us—"
"But what could Things like that want of us?
Why should They come here, at all?"
"Oh, for various reasons. For inanimate
objects, at times, and then again for living beings. They've come here lots of
times, I tell you," Jandron asserted with strange irritation, "and
got what They wanted, and then gone away to—Somewhere. If one of Them happens
to want us, for any reason, It will take us, that's all. If It doesn't want us,
It will ignore us, as we'd ignore gorillas in Africa if we were looking for
gold. But if it was gorilla-fur we wanted, that would be different for the
gorillas, wouldn't it?"
"What in the world," asked Vivian,
"could a—well, a Thing from Outside want of us?"
"What do men want, say, of guinea-pigs? Men
experiment with 'em, of course. Superior beings use inferior, for their own
ends. To assume that man la the supreme product of evolution is gross
self-conceit. Might not some superior Thing want to experiment with human
beings?
"But how?" demanded Marr,
"The human brain is the most highly-organized
form of matter known to this planet. Suppose, now—"
"Nonsense!" interrupted the Professor.
"All hands to the sleeping-bags, and no more of this. I've got a wretched
headache. Let's anchor in Blanket Bay!"
He, and both the women, turned in. Jandron and
Marr sat a while longer by the fire. They kept plenty of wood piled on it, too,
for an unnatural chill transfixed the night-air. The fire burned strangely
blue, with greenish flicks of flame.
At length, after vast acerbities of disagreement,
the geologist and the newspaperman sought their sleeping-bags. The fire was a
comfort. Not that a fire could avail a pin's weight against a Thing from
interstellar spacs, but subjectively it was a comfort. The instincts of a
million years, centering around protection by fire, cannot be obliterated.
After a time—worn out by a day of nerve-strain and
of battling with swift currents, of flight from Something invisible,
intangible—they all slept.
The depths of space, star-sprinkled, hung above
them with vastness immeasurable, cold beyond all understanding of the human
mind.
Jandron woke first, in a red dawn.
He blinked at the fire, as he crawled from his
sleeping-bag. The fire was dead; and yet it had not burned out. Much wood
remained unconsumed, charred over, as if some gigantic extinguisher had in the
night been lowered over it.
"Hmmm!" growled Jandron. He glanced
about him, on the ledge. "Prints, too. I might have known!"
He aroused Marr. Despite all the jourelist's
mocking hostility, Jandron felt more in common with this man of his own age
than with the Professor, who was close on sixty.
"Look here, now!" said he. "It has
been all around here. See? It put out our fire—maybe the fire annoyed It, some
way—and It walked round us, everywhere." His gray eyes smouldered. "I
guess, by gad, you've got to admit facts, now!"
The journalist could only shiver and stare.
"Lord, what a head I've got on me, this
morning!" he chattered. He rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand, and
started for the river. Most of his assurance had vanished. He looked badly done
up.
"Well, what say?" demanded Jandron.
"See these fresh prints?"
"Damn the prints!" retorted Marr, and
fell to grumbling some unintelligible thing. He washed unsteadily, and remained
crouching at the river's lip, inert, numbed.
Jandron, despite a gnawing at the base of his,
brain, carefully examined the ledge. He found prints scattered everywhere, and
some even on the river-bottom near the shore. Wherever water had collected in
the prints on the rock, it had frozen hard. Each print in the river-bed, too,
was white with ice. Ice that the rushing current could not melt.
"Well, by gad!" he exclaimed. He lighted
his pipe and tried to think. Horribly afraid—yes, he felt horribly afraid, but
determined. Presently, as a little power of concentration came back, he noticed
that all the prints were in straight lines, each mark about two feet from the
next.
"It was observing us while we slept,"
said Jandron.
"What nonsense are you talking, eh?"
demanded Marr. His dark, heavy face sagged. "Fire, now, and grub!"
He got up and shuffled unsteadily away from the
river. Then he stopped with a jerk, staring.
"Look! Look a' that axe!" he gulped,
pointing.
Jandron picked up the axe, by the handle, taking
good care not to touch the steel. The blade was white-furred with frost. And
deep into it, punching out part of the edge, one of the prints was stamped.
"This metal," said he, "is clean
gone. It's been absorbed. The Thing doesn't recognize any difference in
materials. Water and steel and rock are all the same to It.
"You're crazy!" snarled the journalist.
"How could a Thing travel on one leg, hopping along, making marks like
that?"
"It could roll, if it was disk-shaped.
And—"
A cry from the Professor turned them. Thorburn was
stumbling toward them, hands out and tremulous.
"My wife—!" he choked.
Vivian was kneeling beside her sister, frightened,
dazed.
"Something's happened!" stammered the
Professor. "Here—come here—!"
Mrs. Thorburn was beyond any power of theirs, to
help. She was still breathing; but her respirations were stertorous, and a
complete paralysla had stricken her. Her eyes, half-open and expressionless,
showed pupils startlingly dilated. No resources of the party's drug-kit
produced the slightest effect on the woman.
The next half-hour was a confused panic, breaking
camp, getting Mrs. Thorburn into a canoe, and leaving that accursed place, with
a furious energy of terror that could no longer reason. Up-stream, ever up
against the swirl of the current the party fought, driven by horror. With no
thought of food or drink, paying no heed to landmarks, lashed forward only by
the mad desire to be gone, the three men and the girl flung every ounce of
their energy into the paddles. Their panting breath mingled with the sound of
swirling eddies. A mist-blurred sun brooded over the northern wilds. Unheeded,
hosts of black-flies sang high-pitched keenings all about the fugitives. On
either hand the forest waited, watched.
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—she 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. Firs 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 lle 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 timber-wolf would have come as 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 star, 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, unmitigably. Do ants, by any waving of antenna, 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 away elsewhere;
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 lumber-camp. 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 duffle-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 lumber-camp; 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, and there's no market for spruce timber or
pulpwood at 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. His 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
hardtack, 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 might 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 here, 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.
"Vivian!" croaked Jandron, staggering
away from the body. He fumbled to the bunk where the girl had lain. The bunk
was quite deserted.
On the stove, in which lay half-charred wood—wood
smothered out as if by some noxious gas—still stood the coffee-pot. The liquid
in it was frozen solid. Of Vivian and the journalist, no trace remained.
Along one of the sagging beams that supported the
roof, Jandron's horror-blasted gaze perceived a straight line of frosted
prints, ring-shaped, bitten deep.
"Vivian! Vivian!"
No answer.
Shaking, sick, gray, half-blind with a horror not
of this world, Jandron peered slowly around. The duffle-bag and supplies were
gone. Nothing was left but that coffee-pot and the revolver at Jandron's hip.
Jandron turned, then. A-stare, his skull feeling
empty as a burst drum, he crept lamely to the door and out—out into the snow.
Snow. It came slanting down. From a gray sky it
steadily filtered. The trees showed no leaf. Birches, poplars, rock-maples all
stood naked. Only the conifers drooped sickly-green. In a little shallow across
the river snow lay white on thin ice.
Ice? Snow? Rapt with terror, Jandron stared. Why,
then, he must have been unconscious three or four weeks? But how—?
Suddenly, all along the upper branches of trees
that edged the clearing, puffs of snow flicked down. The geologist shuffled
after two half-obliterated sets of footprints that wavered toward the landing.
His body was leaden. He wheezed, as he reached the
river. The light, dim as it was, hurt his eyes. He blinked in a confusion that
could just perceive one canoe was gone. He pressed a hand to his head, where an
iron band seemed screwed up tight, tighter.
"Vivian! Marr! Halloooo!"
Not even an echo. Silence clamped the world;
silence, and a cold that gnawed. Everything had gone a sinister gray.
After a certain time—though time now possessed
neither reality nor duration—Jandron dragged himself back to the camp and
stumbled in. Heedless of the staring corpse he crumpled down by the stove and
tried to think, but his brain had been emptied of power. Everything blent to a
gray blur. Snow kept slithering in through the roof.
"Well, why don't you come and get me.
Thing?" suddenly snarled Jandron. "Here I am. Damn you, come and get
me!"
Voices. Suddenly he heard voices. Yes, somebody
was outside, there. Singularly aggrieved, he got up and limped to the door. He
squinted out into the gray; saw two figures down by the landing. With numb
indifference he recognized the girl and Marr.
"Why should they bother me again?" he
nebulously wondered. Can't they go away and leave me alone?" He felt
peevish irritation.
Then, a modicum of reason returning, he sensed
that they were arguing. Vivian, beside a canoe freshly dragged from thin ice,
was pointing; Marr was gesticulating. All at once Marr snarled, turned from
her, plodded with bent back toward the camp.
"But listen!" she called, her rough-knit
sweater all powdered with snow. "That's the way!" She gestured
downstream.
"I'm not going either way!" Marr
retorted. "I'm going to stay right here!" He came on, bareheaded.
Snow grayed his stubble of beard; but on his head it melted as it fell, as if
some fever there had raised the brain-stuff to improbable temperatures.
"I'm going to stay right here, all summer." His heavy lids sagged.
Puffy and evil, his lips showed a glint of teeth. "Let me alone!"
Vivian lagged after him, kicking up the ash-like
snow. With indifference, Jandron watched them. Trivial human creatures!
Suddenly Marr saw him in the doorway and stopped
short. He drew his gun; he aimed at Jandron.
"You get out!" he mouthed. "Why in
———— can't you stay dead?"
"Put that gun down, you idiot!" Jandron
managed to retort. The girl stopped and seemed trying to understand. "We
can get away yet, if we all stick together."
"Are you going to get out and leave me
alone?" demanded the journalist, holding his gun steadily enough.
Jandron, wholly indifferent, watched the muzzle.
Vague curiosity possessed him. Just what, he wondered, did it feel like to be
shot?
Mart pulled trigger.
Snap!
The cartridge missed fire. Not even powder would
burn.
Marr laughed, horribly, and shambled forward.
"Serves him right!" he mouthed, "He'd better not come back
again!"
Jandron understood that Marr had seen him fall.
But still he felt himself standing there, alive. He shuffled away from the
door. No matter whether he was alive or dead, there was always Vivian to be
saved.
The journalist came to the door, paused, looked
down, grunted and passed into the camp. He shut the door. Jandron heard the
rotten wooden bar of the latch drop. From within echoed a laugh, monstrous in
its brutality.
Then quivering, the geologist felt a touch on his
arm.
"Why did you desert us like that?" he
heard Vivian's reproach. "Why?"
He turned, hardly able to see her at all.
"Listen," he said, thickly. "I'll
admit anything. It's all right. But just forget it, for now. We've got to get
out o' here. The Professor is dead, in there, and Marr's gone mad and
barricaded himself in there. So there's no use staying. There's a chance for us
yet. Come along!"
He took her by the arm and tried to draw her
toward the river, but she held back. The hate in her face sickened him. He
shook in the grip of a mighty chill.
"Go, with—you?" she demanded.
"Yes, by God!" he retorted, in a swift
blaze of anger, "or I'll kill you where you stand. It shan't get you,
anyhow!"
Swiftly piercing, a greater cold smote to his
inner marrows. A long row of the cup-shaped prints had just appeared in the
snow beside the camp. And from these marks wafted a faint, bluish vapor of
unthinkable cold.
"What are you staring at?" the girl demanded.
"Those prints! In the snow, there—see?" He pointed a shaking finger.
"How can there be snow at this season?"
He could have wept for the pity of her, the love
of her. On her red tam, her tangle of rebel hair, her sweater, the snow came
steadily drifting; yet there she stood before him and prated of summer. Jandron
heaved himself out of a very slough of down-dragging lassitudes. He whipped
himself into action.
"Summer, winter—no matter!" he flung at
her. "You're coming along with me!" He seized her arm with the
brutality of desperation that must hurt, to save. And murder, too, lay in his
soul. He knew that he would strangle her with his naked hands, if need were,
before he would ever leave her there, for It to work Its horrible will upon.
"You come with me," he mouthed, "or
by the Almighty—!"
Marr's scream in the camp, whirled him toward the
door. That scream rose higher, higher, even more and more piercing, just like
the screams of the runaway Indian guides in what now appeared the infinitely
long ago. It seemed to last hours; and always it rose, rose, as if being wrung
out of a human body by some kind of agony not conceivable in this world.
Higher, higher—
Then it stopped.
Jandron hurled himself against the plank door. The
bar smashed; the door shivered inward.
With a cry, Jandron recoiled. He covered his eyes
with a hand that quivered, claw-like.
"Go away, Vivian! Don't come here—don't
look—"
He stumbled away, babbling.
Out of the door crept something like a man. A
queer, broken, bent over thing; a thing crippled, shrunken and flabby, that
whined.
This thing—yes, it was still Marr—crouched down at
one side, quivering, whimpering. It moved its hands as a crushed ant moves its
antennæ, jerkily, without significance.
All at once Jandron no longer felt afraid. He
walked quite steadily to Marr, who was breathing in little gasps. From the camp
issued an odor unlike anything terrestrial. A thin, grayish grease covered the
sill.
Jandron caught hold of the crumpling journalist's
arm. Marr's eyes leered, filmed, unseeing. He gave the impression of a creature
whose back has been broken, whose whole essence and energy have been wrenched
asunder, yet in which life somehow clings, palpitant. A creature vivisected.
Away through the snow Jandron dragged him. Marr
made no resistance; just let himself be led, whining a little, palsied,
rickety, shattered. The girl, her face whitely cold as the snow that fell on
it, came after.
Thus they reached the landing at the river.
"Come, now, let's get away!" Jandron
made shift to articulate. Marr said nothing. But when Jandron tried to bundle
him into a canoe, something in the journalist revived with swift, mad
hatefulness. That something lashed him into a spasm of wiry, incredibly venomous
resistance. Slavers of blood and foam streaked Marr's lips. He made horrid
noises, like an animal. He howled dismally, and bit, clawed, writhed and
grovelled! he tried to sink his teeth into Jandron's leg. He fought
appallingly, as men must have fought in the inconceivably remote days even
before the Stone Age. And Vivian helped him. Her fury was a tiger-cat's.
Between the pair of them, they almost did him in.
They almost dragged Jandron down—and themselves, too—into the black river that
ran swiftly sucking under the ice. Not till Jandron had quite flung off all
vague notions and restraints of gallantry; not until he struck from the
shoulder—to kill, if need were—did he best them.
He beat the pair of them unconscious, trussed them
hand and foot with the painters of the canoes, rolled them into the larger
canoe, and shoved off. After that, the blankness of a measureless oblivion
descended.
Only from what he was told, weeks after, in the
Royal Victoria Hospital at Montreal, did Jandron ever learn how and when a
field-squad of Dominion Foresters had found them drifting in Lake Moosawamkeag.
And that knowledge filtered slowly into his brain during a period inchoate as
Iceland fogs.
That Marr was dead and the girl alive—that much,
at all events, was solid. He could hold to that; he could climb back, with
that, to the real world again.
Jandron climbed back, came back. Time healed him,
as it healed the girl. After a long, long while, they had speech together.
Cautiously he sounded her wells of memory. He saw that she recalled nothing. So
he told her white lies about capsized canoes and the sad death—in
realistically-described rapids—of all the party except herself and him.
Vivian believed. Fate, Jandron knew, was being
very kind to both of them.
But Vivian could never understand in the least
why, her husband, not very long after marriage, asked her not to wear a
wedding-ring or any ring whatever.
"Men are so queer!" covers a multitude
of psychic agonies.
Life, for Jandron—life, softened by Vivian—knit
itself up into some reasonable semblance of a normal pattern. But when, at
lengthening intervals, memories even now awake—memories crawling amid the slime
of cosmic mysteries that it is madness to approach—or when at certain times
Jandron sees a ring of any sort, his heart chills with a cold that reeks of the
horrors of Infinity.
And from shadows past the boundaries of our
universe seem to beckon Things that, God grant, can never till the end of time
be known on earth.
+ + +
