path: root/74227-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74227 ***





                    The Scientific Pioneer Returns

                           By Nelson S. Bond

                    Time was no barrier to Lancelot
                  Biggs when he found out Horse-sense
                  Hank alone could solve his problem.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                    Amazing Stories November 1940.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


    [Illustration: Before their eyes a strange figure materialized. It
    was Lancelot Biggs--out of the future!]


This sounds silly. At half past three on a Tuesday afternoon, in
broad daylight, Professor Hallowell of the Midland University physics
department left Jurnegan Hall, walked down a campus path clogged to the
gutters with students--and disappeared into thin air.

This sounds even sillier. At nine-fifteen the next Friday morning,
Travis Tomkins, chief technician of Midland's new observatory, stepped
to the platform of Old Main to speak before an attentive crowd of
twelve hundred undergraduates--and vanished before their eyes!

But this sounds silliest. H. Logan MacDowell, fat, fifty, feverish,
and president of our institute of (alleged) learning, came to _me_
about it! He came on the run. That is, he came at a brisk, lurching
shamble. Which is, to him, the equivalent of a Cunningham four-minute
mile. He collapsed on my studio couch, gasped and panted like the White
King for a minute, then wheezed out a strangled plea.

"Blakeson, you--you've got to do something!"

I looked at his gaping mouth and bulging eyes, and nodded.

"Right!" I remembered. "I've got to rewind my bass rod and see that the
reel is oiled. They'll be running in a week or so."

"No, you impertinent young snippet! I mean, you've got to do something
about these mysterious disappearances."

I laughed right out loud. I bared my arms frankly.

I said, "Grab a look, Prexy! Nothing up the right sleeve; nothing up
the left sleeve. I didn't snatch your pedagogues. After all, just
because certain members of the faculty find it expedient to take a
powder--"

"A what?"

"Powder," I repeated. "Can't you understand plain English? To lift
one's feet. Scram. Blow. Take it on the lam. Sweet whistleberries, Doc,
I'm not something from the 'FOLLOW THAT MAN!' advertisements. I'm just
the publicity expert for this football-team-with-a-campus. If you want
to learn what happened to Hallowell and Tomkins, why don't you get a
dick?"

His jowls sagged to his breastbone. He said in an anguished tone,

"I suppose that means a detective? I did hire one."

"Well? And what did he find out? Aside from the well-known facts that
Hallowell was carrying the torch for a red-headed senior, and Tomkins
was up to his zipper in debt? Did he dig up any clues? Footprints?
Blunt instruments, or ashes with rare cigarettes dangling on the end of
them?"

"He didn't," said H. Logan in a hollow voice, "find anything, Blakeson.
_He_ disappeared, too!"

       *       *       *       *       *

I said, "Oh-oh!" Which was inadequate, but it was all I could think of
at the moment. "That's bad. It must be contagious. But where do I fit
into the picture? Why ask me to do something?"

H. Logan wrestled with his scruples for a long and difficult moment.
Then, suddenly,

"Cleaver!" he blurted. "Where is that man?"

Merely saying the name cost him an effort. And why not? Hank Cleaver
was the one soul whose amiable meanderings, crossing the life-path of
H. Logan MacDowell, had interrupted the smooth flow of traffic along
that broad highway, torn up the roadbed, and sprinkled tar and gravel
along the right-of-way.

The common-sense genius of Hank Cleaver had made MacDowell look like a
cross between a baboon and a stuffed shirt, with the baboon getting the
worst of the bargain.

Then, to cap the climax, Hank had handed Prexy's daughter the jilt,
leaving sweet Helen high and dry at the altar when he returned to his
beloved cabbage patch on his farm.

To say that MacDowell was unfond of Cleaver would be like saying that
nice people disapprove of _Herr_ Hitler.

About the campus it was commonly rumored that the president of Midland
had a little China doll into which, each midnight, he jabbed many red
hot needles.

The plaything wore coveralls and bulldog shoes, just like Hank Cleaver!

I said, "So you're going to call in 'Horse-sense' Hank."[1]

[Footnote 1: Horse-sense Hank Cleaver, one of the best-known characters
in modern science fiction. Hank, a dirt farmer never subjected to
education, has an amazing ability to fix things of a mechanical nature
when they go wrong, make infinitely accurate mathematical calculations
and, above all, foretell the future in his own homely and intimate
fashion.--Ed.]

"Don't talk about him!" growled MacDowell savagely. "Find him! If we
don't solve this mystery soon, we're going to have F.B.I. men romping
all over our campus. The reputation of glorious Midland will be ruined.
Our noble banners, heretofore untouched by the faintest breath of
scandal--"

"Okay!" I said hastily. "Save that for the Alumni Banquet. I'll see
what I can do, Doc."

He left, making noises like a sizzling steak. And I got on the phone.

But the results were strictly stinko. I grabbed a blank on my first
call. The local operator at Westville intoned,

"No, puh-lease! Sor-ree, puh-lease! There is no telephone listed under
the name of 'Gleeber'--"

"Back up," I snorted, "and start over. Look, Sis! 'C' as in cuckoo; 'l'
as in lunkhead, 'e' as in--"

"Oh, is that you, Mr. Blakeson?" she chirruped. "I knew you by the
description." Ouch! "I'm sorry I can't connect you with Mr. Cleaver. Do
you want to talk to Mr. Hawkins?"

"Yeah," I said. "Gimme."

Hawkins was the amateur star-gazer working in Westville as a lay member
of the Midland observatory staff. He owed his reputation to Hank and
his income to me.

But he turned out to be a perfect bust, and I don't mean the Venus de
Milo.

He said, "Hank Cleaver? No, Jim, I haven't seen him for--oh, several
days. I don't know where he is. But why do you want him? What's the
matter? Is anything wrong?"

"Is anything," I countered, "right? Look, Hawkins, take a run out to
his farm. Find Hank and tell him I've got to see him immedi--Who's
there?"

"Nobody," said Hawkins querulously, "but our party-line subscribers.
They're always listening in. What's ailing you, Jim?"

"I wasn't talking to you. There's somebody at the door of my apartment.
Who's there?" I bawled again.

No answer. So I said to Hawkins,

"Well--do what I say. Find Cleaver. Tell him I've got to see him
immediately, if not sooner. And let me know the minute you find him. So
long--Oh, _wait_ a minute, can't you?"

I hung up and stormed to the door, my foot itching to bury itself in
the southern exposure of a salesman facing north. I flung it open,
yelled,

"No, I don't want some! Go peddle your damn junk somewhere else--"

And then my jaw hit the top button of my vest.

"Hank!"

"Hyah, Jim!" said Horse-sense Hank.

       *       *       *       *       *

Big as life and twice as natural. There's only one Horse-sense Hank
Cleaver. When they poured him, they laughed so hard they dropped the
mold and broke it. Tall and gangly, so thin of cheek that the cud
which constantly caresses his bicuspids sticks out like a cue-ball;
tow-colored ravelings of hair waving experimentally in all directions;
raw-boned of wrist; eyes mild and incurious as those of a heifer--that
is my pal, Hank Cleaver.

I clapped him on the back and dragged him, by main force, into my
apartment.

"Golly, guy, I'm glad to see you! You're looking a million. Do you
know, I've been slaving like a census-taker to find you? I've called
Westville, and--"

"I figgered," said Hank mildly, "as how you might be."

The wind whooshed out of my sails.

"You," I gulped, "did?"

"Mmm-hmm. Heard a feller say as how there'd been funny goin's-on down
thisaway. Thought to myself, 'Well, now, Hank, 'pears like fust thing
you know, ol' Jim'll be needin' a mite o' help, so you better hump
along an' give him a lift. So I come, and--" He beamed. "Here I am!"

"Yes," I said weakly. "Here you are."

Dammit, I don't know why I should have been surprised. Especially after
having lived under the same roof as this gawky genius for three solid
months. But as ever, it utterly confounded me to realize that Hank's
thought processes were so simple, so altogether down-to-earth and
natural, that he invariably did the right thing at the right time.

I said, "And a mighty good thing you came, too. But your turnips, Hank?
How--"

He shook his head dolefully. Turnip growing was Hank's one and only
obsession.

"Turnips," he grimaced, "is hell. It don't matter how you plant 'em, or
where, or when, or what you do--they don't never act like you'd expect
'em to. I plant 'em wide, I plant 'em close; I plant 'em in cuts an'
slips an' seeds; I plant 'em yeller, white an' mottled. I water 'em
an' potash 'em an' treat 'em like babies--an' I _still_ can't make 'em
behave!"

He wedged a bulldog-tipped toe into the rug and looked at me from under
his bushy brows.

"Helen?" he asked. "How's Helen?"

"Iroquois!" I told him grimly.

"Come again?"

"After your scalp. Didn't you ever hear the adage about Satan's old
homestead having no fury like a woman left out on the limb? If you bump
into Helen MacDowell, pal, you better fly, not run, to the nearest
cavern."

Hank cracked his knuckles in misery.

"Couldn't do nothin' else, Jim. Couldn't marry her. 'T'warn't
logical."[2]

[Footnote 2: In "The Scientific Pioneer," AMAZING STORIES for March,
1940 Horse-sense Hank refused to marry Helen MacDowell because, with
his uncanny power to foretell the future, Hank knew their baby would be
a chorus girl when it grew up. Hank is allergic to chorines.--ED.]

"So," I reminded him, "aren't females. But never mind that, Hank. Let's
get down to brass tacks. The reason I wanted to see you--"

"I know. About the way them men's been disappearin'," he said. He rose
and walked to my radio set. "'Pears like you oughta have this turned
on. With all the trouble, seems like you'd be listenin' for news
bulletins."

"It's busted," I said. "It hasn't worked for weeks."

       *       *       *       *       *

"No?" He shifted it around, peered into the maze of coils, tubes, wires
and utter incomprehensibles that comprise a modern radio set.

"Hmm. Never see'd the innards o' one o' these things afore.
Interestin', ain't it?"

His lean fingers began weaving among the gleaming entrails. A tiny
crease appeared over his right eye. He muttered as he pushed and
jiggled and explored.

"This one goes there; that one goes _there_. 'Pears like--Well, I'll be
durned!"

Something clicked, and his fingers made a twisting motion. He grinned
at me.

"How d'you make 'er talk, Jim?"

"She doesn't. She's a deaf mute. But that vernier on the left--"

He turned it. My long-silent radio went,
"_Phweeee-gwobble-gwobble!_"--and became coherent. Strains of hot jive
assaulted my eardrums. I moaned.

"Hank, do you know everything? The repairman who looked at it said it
would never work again. He said--"

"He jest wanted to sell you a new one," consoled my friend. "I kinda
figgered as how adjustin' that little hunk o' metal would fix it. You
see--"

But I never got to see. For at that moment my eyes went wobbly all of
a sudden. Out of nowhere came a brilliant light, flooding the room
with blinding intensity. There was no sound; just that sharp, bright
glare--and my arms tingled with a sort of electric vibration.

And as I blinked, the light coalesced into a form! It was, roughly, the
form of a man--and from where its head should be there came a strange,
strained, hollow voice.

"_Ombiggs!_"

Then the light flickered, and was gone, and with it was gone the voice
and the last vestige of my self-control. I let loose one squawk--out
loud!--and dived for the darkness and comparative security of the
region under the couch!

Not so Hank. He stood stockstill in the middle of the floor. I yelled
at him,

"Hank, did _you_ do that? Did you touch something on the radio?"

There was a faint, puzzled look on his face.

"Nope, Jim. I didn't do nothin'. Did you see him, too?"

"I saw him. Whoever he was. But who--how?"

"I dunno." Slowly. "Leastwise, the only thing I can think of is so durn
unlikely--Hey, listen!"

The radio music had stopped suddenly. The voice of the announcer was
clear, crisp, ominous.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program of dance music to
bring you a special bulletin. _Flash!_ Midland University campus. Dr.
H. Logan MacDowell, president of this institution, vanished suddenly
five minutes ago from the midst of a group of friends gathered at his
home to discuss two similar occurrences at Midland within the past week.

"Police efforts to solve the mystery were hampered by the ensuing
panic. A diabolic plot against the persons of eminent American
educators is feared by observers--"

The rest was lost to us. Frenzied footsteps beat a tappity-tappity path
to the door of my apartment, and nervous hands beat wooden panels. A
sweet, familiar voice, now high-pitched in fright, cried,

"Jim! Jim Blakeson! Quick--"

The door and sheer courage were all that sustained her. As I opened
the first, the second gave out. And Helen MacDowell moaned gently and
collapsed into my arms!




                              CHAPTER II

                          Unexpected Journey


I yelled, "Get some water, Hank! And some brandy!"

I carried her to the studio lounge. Hank came back with two glasses. I
gulped the brandy swiftly, and held the water to her lips. Pretty soon
she spluttered, pushed the glass away, and opened her eyes.

"Oh, Jim! The most dreadful thing has happened to daddy. We--_You_!"

Hank swallowed convulsively and essayed a grin.

"'Lo, Helen."

Helen MacDowell's fingers made motions like shears on a rampage. Her
eyes roved. She asked thoughtfully,

"Jim, where's that paperknife you used to have? The long one? I'm going
to stab somebody in the back!"

"Look, sugar," I pleaded, "Hank's come to help us. We have more
important things to worry about now than your injured ego. After we've
cleared up this trouble, you can have him alone in a dark room for ten
minutes--"

"Is that," she demanded fretfully, "a promise?"

But her bitterness subsided; anxiety rekindled in her eyes. That, and
the recollection of a shocking moment.

"Daddy disappeared, Jim! Right from the middle of a group. He was
standing at my side; his shoulder was almost touching mine. Then all of
a sudden--he was gone! Like that!"

Under any other circumstances, I would have guessed that the old
wind-bag had finally blown up and drifted away. But there was precedent
now for his Houdini act. One with sinister overtones. Three men and an
animated gumshoe detective had vanished.

But I said, in a voice that I hoped wouldn't sound too much like a dish
of unchilled tapioca,

"Now, don't worry, Helen. Everything's going to be all right. There
must be a logical explanation for this. Hank's just the man to--"

And then--there it was again!

A blinding flash of light. A weird vibrancy tingling my body, drawing
taut the tiny hairs of my forearms and neck. Light motes dancing
giddily before my eyes, coalescing to form the figure of a man. A
wavering, mobile figure, from the uppermost nebulosity of which
emanated a piteous, hollow voice.

"_Skleeva! Skleeva_--"

Then a swift, dulled paling of the light. Burning white tarnished
into red-ochre, red-ochre brazened, the green palpitated to a deep
blue-indigo. The figure before my eyes took on form and substance.
I saw with a sense of stark disbelief it was tall and lanky as Hank
himself, that it wore a uniform of some sort, that its eyes were not
unfriendly but haggard and despairing. And then,

"_Ombiggs!_" wailed our impossible visitor. "_Ombiggs! Skleeva?_"

And vanished!

I stood still. Very, very still It was not courage. It was rivets in
the soles of my feet. My brain clamored,

"Go, boys, go!" But my knees were clattering and banging like the
fenders of a T-model Ford.

       *       *       *       *       *

Helen wasn't much better off. Her eyes looked like a pair of
sealed-beam headlights, and the most intelligent sound she could summon
was a faint, plaintive,

"Oooooh!"

Only Hank retained an iota of self-control. And to tell the truth, his
comment was far from enlightening.

"Well!" he said. "So _that's_ it!"

"What's what?" I asked him shakily. My paralysis was slipping away, and
I prepared to do ditto. "Friends, did you see what I saw? Or has the
little brown jug finally done what the Temperance Society told me it
would do some day?"

Hank said, "Now, Jim! It ain't like you to act so. 'Specially when
we've reached what you might call a crooshul moment. Hmm! Now, lemme
see. You folks seen him most plain when he was what color? Blue?"

"Sort of. Bluish-green."

Helen said, "Greenish-blue."

"That's near enough," mused Hank. "That'd be--Hmmm!--'bout .0005
millimetres. I'll tell him that when he comes back--"

"_When he comes back?_"

"Why sure!" Hank stared at me amiably. "He'll be back any minute now.
He done a lot better this time than the first, don't you think? Next
time he'll probably get what he wants."

"And," I faltered, "and I suppose you know what that is?"

"Reckon I do," said Hank complacently. "He wants _me_."

I gave up trying. My brain was in a muddle, anyway.

I said, "All right, Hank. You win. Now get down to straight facts. Who
_is_ he, _where_ did he come from, _why_ does he want you, _how_ do you
know he does, and _what_ is this all about?"

Hank shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, now, Jim, that's a powerful lot of questions at one lump.
Dunno's I can answer 'em all--yet. Hafta talk to him first, o' course,
but as near as I can figger, here's the set-up.

"That guy ain't from our time. He's from some time which ain't come
yet. The future, so to speak. I don't know his name, 'cause he didn't
speak very clear, but I know who he wants 'cause he said me."

Helen said dazedly, "He _said_--"

"'Where's Cleaver?'" explained Hank. "Oh, it wasn't very clear. He was
all excited. But that's what he meant, I reckon."

I swallowed hard and wished the goose pimples would get off my hide.

"You mean," I said, "he's coming back out of future time to talk to
you?"

"Seems as if. More like, he'll want to take me with him," Hank said
calmly.

"What! But, Hank, that would be awful! You mustn't allow anything like
that--"

Hank said bluntly, "You want I should find out where Helen's old man
is, don't you? And them two puffessors? Way I figger, Jim, there must
be somethin' awful drastic goin' on there in the future. Somethin' so
bad, it's got 'em all upset an' they're back-draggin' the past for me.
By accident, they musta got Hallowell an' Tomkins an' Helen's pop. I've
got to get over there an' find out what's the trouble--Here it is!"

       *       *       *       *       *

For an instant there had flickered again that ray of light. Hank warned
hastily,

"You two stand back out o' the way! Keep calm an' don't worry. I'll be
back directly."

He stepped into the middle of the room as the bright, golden light
suddenly flamed anew. He lifted his voice.

"Point oh-oh-oh-five, friend. Or thereabout--"

And the light changed. Slid swiftly down the wavelengths again to that
hue most favorable. The figure appeared, this time firm, unwavering. It
was the face and figure of a man remarkably like Hank Cleaver himself;
a young man, serious-eyed, hopeful of voice.

"Cleaver?" he cried. "You Cleaver?"

Hank nodded. "Mmm-hmm. I'm him."

"Come!" said the young man. "Come, Hank Cleaver."

He held out his hand. And Hank stepped forward into the blaze of
pallid, green-blue light.

Which was just one too many for Helen MacDowell. A tiny groan escaped
her lips. She tottered, pitched forward to Hank's shoulder. Hank turned
worried eyes to me.

"Grab her, Jim! Get her back before--"

And I, too, leaped forward. I got my hands on Helen, started to pull
her from that color-field. I was aware of the distant throbbing of some
unknown machine, then of a swift, sudden shock. Great forces wrenched
at my body. I felt as if I were being racked in a titanic tug-o'-war.
There was an instant of frightful cold, another of giddy nausea, a
sensation of wild, hurtling motion.

Then blackness, soft, warm and impenetrable....

No, not impenetrable. For there was a light in my eyes, and my head was
no longer swimming, and I was lying on something comfortable, and a
friendly voice was saying,

"Here you are, Buster. Drink this!"

So why look a gift drink in the bottle? I drank it, and immediately
felt warmer inside. And more confident, too. Until I lifted my head and
looked about me. Then I let loose a howl that stretched from here to
there, with reverberations.

"Great galloping saints, where am I? No, don't say it! Let me guess.
World's Fair?"

My young companion looked puzzled. He was a decent-looking chap,
except for that wild costume he was wearing. A sort of uniform, but it
reminded me painfully of a Buck Rogers serial. Loose tunic and slacks,
sky-blue, with a Sam Browne belt and a gun holster into which was
jammed a weird-appearing weapon, all knobs and studs and buttons.

"How?" he said.

I said, "My--my friends? Where are they?"

"They're up and around. You're the only fader."

He grinned. "You must be allergic to electricity, huh?"

I was still staring about me. The room was a humdinger. All metal and
plastic and glass; a small cubicle about six by ten, with a single bunk
(that on which I now sat, poised for flight) a desk, chair, porthole--

Porthole!

"So that's it!" I yipped. "Shanghaied!"

       *       *       *       *       *

I made a dive for the porthole, pressed my nose to it, hoping that
across the bounding blue I might see at least one faint ribbon of good
old terra firma.

But there was no land. There was no bounding blue. There weren't even
any clouds or sky! There was--just gray. Wan, dismal gray that seemed
to stretch into infinity!

It was plain that I needed either one less drink or one more. I settled
for the latter. A long, straight one. It snapped me hurriedly out of my
speechlessness.

"Not that it's any of my business," I said, "but it looks to me like
there's nothing outside that porthole but a lot of gray emptiness."

My companion nodded dolefully.

"Yeah," he said, "I know. I've looked--and looked."

"Where I come from, space usually has things stuffed inside it. So
apparently I'm not there. Which being the case, would you mind telling
me where the hell I _am_?" I demanded.

He shook his head. "That's just it, Buster. We don't know."

"You," I told him, "are a big help. Pass the bottle. Do you happen to
know your own name?"

"Yeah," he said. "Mud. It used to be Bert Donovan. I'm the radio
operator aboard this ship."

"Ship?" He was beginning to talk sense now.

"Lugger, I should say. This is the _Saturn_, friend. IPS freight
lugger, operating on the Earth-Mars shuttle. Or, anyhow, we _used_ to.
_Till_ he got monkeying around with that new power drive of his--"

"IPS?" I strangled. "Earth-Mars? _He?_"

"Take it easy, friend. IPS--interplanetary space ship.
Earth-Mars--round-trip route, originally. Navigator, Lancelot Biggs,
the first mate.[3] Didn't you know--"

[Footnote 3: Author Nelson S. Bond first introduced Lancelot Biggs,
space navigator and jack-of-all-trades, in the November, 1939 issue of
FANTASTIC ADVENTURES, our companion magazine, under the title "F.O.B.
Venus." The second mate aboard the _Saturn_, space freighter plying
between Earth and other colonized planets under the somewhat bilious
leadership of Cap Hanson, Lancelot Biggs got himself promoted to first
mate after getting the space freighter out of a bad fix. Author Bond,
now one of the top-notchers in popular fiction, has in this story
combined two of his best-liked scientifictional characters--Lancelot
Biggs and Horse-sense Hank.--Ed.]

"Omigod!" I bleated. "Don't tell me, but I--we--all of us are in the
_future_!"

Donovan caught me as I was about to collapse and clapped me heartily on
the back. I think it did more harm than good, but at least it brought
me out of the fog.

"Correct," he said unhappily. "We're off in the future--hmm--maybe
two-three hundred years. Myself, I don't understand how the hell it
happened, but--"

At that moment a bell sounded. We turned to a hunk of square glass set
in a side wall. It lighted, and a crusty-looking face scowled down on
us, eyed me appraisingly.

"Ah, so you've recovered, young man? Fine! Your friends are waiting
here in the control turret. Sparks, come along up here. Mr. Biggs has
called a general conference."

The light dimmed. Sparks grinned at me languidly.

"That's the Old Man. Cap Hanson. Well, let's go, Buster. The fireworks
are about to begin."

"The name," I told him, "is Blakeson. And how come the fireworks? Me no
savvy."

"You heard him say L. Biggs was in the control turret, no? That's the
tip-off, Bust--"

"Blakeson!" I said firmly.

"Blakeson," he corrected. "Okay. Buster. Come on!"




                              CHAPTER III

                      Lancelot Biggs' [sqrt](-1)


Things moved so swiftly then that the series of surprises I received
was practically one continuous blow. The walk through the _Saturn_ was
a revelation in itself. Like the cabin in which I had awakened, the
ship was all metal, glass and plastic. And a funny metal at that. It
was hard, but it looked soft, if you know what I mean. Which I'm sure
_I_ don't! The name of the metal, Donovan told me, was "permalloy." It
was a special, non-conductive, something-or-other resistant alloy.

"--invented," said Sparks, "around the end of the twentieth century."
And he looked at me curiously. "Oh. I forgot. You wouldn't know about
that, would you?"

"Look," I said desperately. "Let me know when we get to the
Psychopathic Ward, will you?"

But he didn't get it. We walked down one ramp and up another, through
an observation room, climbed a ladder, and finally ended in the room
the skipper had called the "control turret." And what a place _that_
was!

It looked like an overgrown cyclotron with a purpose. Huge, banked
panels with studs on them, cryptic plates, coiled thingamajigs,
mechanical what nots and doolollies all over. More guys in sky-blue
uniforms. Bells tingling, television screens popping on and off at
intervals....

"Interestin'," said a voice at my elbow, "ain't it?"

And it was Hank, gulping and grinning and shaking my hand.

"Kinda worried about you, Jim. You shouldn't ought to have allowed
yourself to be drawed into the power-field."

But seeing Hank had made me think of Helen; and now, looking for Helen,
I found something that completed my mental collapse. Helen was standing
shoulder to shoulder with--none other than her old man, himself,
in person! And right behind H. Logan MacDowell stood the missing
professors, Hallowell and Tomkins. And lurking behind them, looking
more baffled--if possible--than myself, was an exceedingly disgruntled
individual in a hard hat. The vanishing detective.

I answered their nods weakly. Then I turned to Hank.

"I give up, pal. What is it? The after-world? Or Old Home Week?"

Hank said seriously, "Well, reckon as how you might call it the
after-world, Jim. In a way. It's the world which is to be. But here
comes the feller that can explain everything."

For the door had opened, and in walked the chap whom we had seen thrice
in my apartment, the effervescent spirit of electricity, the blue-green
mystic, the first mate of the _Saturn_--Lancelot Biggs!

       *       *       *       *       *

Did I say "walked?" Excuse it, please. What he did with his feet could
never, by the wildest stretch of the imagination, be called walking.
Oh, he progressed forward, yes--but there are no words to describe his
locomotion. Think of a polar bear on a pogo stick. Or a secretary bird
on skates. A two-footed octopus, even.

His gait was a combination of the worst features of all three. He
lurched and shambled, his bony knees protruding as if acknowledging
introductions at each passage. A sort of, "You let me by this time, and
I'll let you by next time!" deal.

But the peculiarities of Signor Biggs did not end at that point. He
had others. I have said that he looked a bit like Hank Cleaver. That
is true. They shared lean lankiness of build. Each was blessed--or
cursed--with a mop of faded-yellow hair; their eyes were alike in that
they mirrored soft curiosity. But Biggs had an appendage Hank lacked.

Matter of fact, no man ever had an Adam's-apple like that before or
since. It hung in his scrawny throat like an unswallowed cud; and when
he smiled--which was often--or talked, it woggled up and down like a
runaway elevator.

To Sparks, beside me, I said dreamily,

"I see it, but I don't believe it. Is it alive?"

And then Biggs addressed us.

"First of all, I must apologize to you, Mr. Cleaver, and to Miss
MacDowell and Mr. Blakeson for this rude infringement upon your
personal privacy. It was an unwarranted step I took, intruding on your
lives this way, but I hope that you'll agree it was not unforgivable.

"I have already explained to these gentlemen"--he bobbed his head
toward the pedagogues and the shamus--"the urgency of our situation. To
clarify in your minds the how and where of your present location--"

Hank Cleaver _harrumphed!_ and interrupted.

"Reckon as how you can skip that, Lootenant," he said. "It's purty
clear. You bridged the time gap from _your_ time to _ours_ by means of
an ultra-wave temporal aberrant. Brought us up a couple o' centuries to
'bout the--well, 'bout the twenty-third century."

Lancelot Biggs tried hard to swallow the billiard ball under his chin.

"How--how did you know that, Mr. Cleaver?"

Hank scratched his head, and into his eyes came the old, baffled look
that always came there when he was asked _how_ he knew anything.

"Well," he confessed, "I don't 'zackly know how I know, but I do.
Just stands to reason, that's all. When you come slidin' down the
visible waves to hunt for us, an' when we woke to find ourselves on a
space ship--an' as for the time element, well, I alluz 'lowed as how
it'd take people bout fifty years, more or less, to make the first
successful space flight, an' another two hundred to git it workin'
proper--"

Lancelot Biggs' eyes lighted with a great joy.

"Mr. Cleaver, I touch my rocket to you! The ancient records do not
lie. You are indeed a remarkable man. _Now_"--he turned to his
fellow officers triumphantly--"now I _know_ we shall win free of our
difficulties. With your assistance."

       *       *       *       *       *

Hank flushed, and squirmed a bulldog toe.

"Mebbe you better explain these here difficulties."

It was Biggs' turn to flush.

"I'm afraid," he said miserably, "it's all my fault. Six days ago,
Earth Standard time, we lifted gravs from Long Island space port for
Mars Central. This was to be my final shuttle before getting married
to the skipper's daughter, Diane. Consequently I was a trifle--well,
impatient. But I'm sure you understand, Mr. Cleaver."

Hank said hastily, "You better git on, Lootenant." He didn't look at
Helen, which was a good thing.

"For some time," continued Biggs, "I have been experimenting with a
new device, designed to increase the speed of our vessel. It seemed
particularly appropriate that this shuttle should be the test period.
So with Captain Hanson's permission I installed my new velocity
intensifier on the hypatomics. After we cleared Lunar III, I switched
it on--"

Biggs stopped. His eyes were haunted.

Horse-sense Hank said, "Yeah?"

"There was a moment of frightful acceleration, then a sharp explosion,
and when order was resumed--here we were!"

Nobody spoke, which seemed silly.

"That," I said, "doesn't make sense. Here you were. So _where_ were
you?"

"That," said Biggs dejectedly, "is just what we don't know! Ah, that
sounds ridiculous to you, gentlemen? Believe me, if you knew space, as
we who shuttle back and forth within it in our daily toil, you would
recognize by merely glancing through the quartzite viewpanes that we
are nowhere within the confines of man's studied universe!

"Space is an ebon, eternal night, pricked by a myriad glowing sparks.
The stars wheel in their courses. Comets scream through the infinitude.
The planets, firmly shining in the reflected glory of their several
suns are colored gems upon a velvet pall. But about us now we see
nothing but a dull, endless gray. There are no cosmic clouds, no meteor
mists, no stars; neither light nor dark. Only nothingness, complete and
unresponsive to our best instruments!"

"Huh!" broke in Hank. "Whazzat you say?"

"Apparently," explained the young lieutenant, "our delicate instruments
were broken during the explosion. That is the factor making more
perilous our position. We are not able to orient ourselves, discover
into what portion of the universe our moment of wild flight flung us.

"I have studied and worked and thought on the problem, but to no avail.
That is why, Mr. Cleaver, I undertook to find _you_."

Cleaver looked at the youngster admiringly.

"Smart feller!" he said. "Time-travel, huh? Alluz thought it could be
made to work. Mighta tried it myself if it hadn't been I was so durn
busy on them turnips--"

"It was an accidental discovery, sir. I chanced upon it several months
ago while inventing a new type of uranium speech condenser. It turned
out to be a time-speech trap."[4]

[Footnote 4: "The Madness of Lancelot Biggs," FANTASTIC ADVENTURES,
April, 1940.--ED.]

"Nevertheless," insisted Hank, "you done a good job. Findin' a way to
transport your body across time. An' pickin' me up outa 1940, bringin'
me here. Like to talk to you about that later. But right now--" He
frowned severely. "You say them instruments o' your'n won't work?"

"No, sir."

"Not _a_-tall?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Biggs swallowed with difficulty.

"The truth is, Mr. Cleaver--"

"Hank's good enough."

"Well, Hank, the truth is--the instruments _do_ work! But they work so
dad-blamed funny--"

"Let's," suggested Horse-sense Hank mildly, "have a look."

That was all the invitation the young lieutenant needed. Without so
much as a backward glance at the rest of us, he led Hank to the control
banks of the space freighter. They began to talk in undertones. Biggs
pushed buttons and explained things. I heard snatches about, "tensor
alleviators," "orbital velocity adjusters," and a bunch of terms even
less comprehensible, and gave it up as a bad job.

It was Hank's party. And his headache.

I turned to my self-appointed guide, the radioman, Bert Donovan.

"Do you understand what they're talking about?"

He grinned. "Buster, I've been listening to Lancelot Biggs talk for
almost a year now. And I have yet to understand the first thing he
tells me."

"Then in that case," I said, "it looks to me like a drink is indicated.
Right?"

Right is might, and shall prevail.

       *       *       *       *       *

I don't know how long later it was that we wandered back to the control
turret. It must have been quite a while, for Sparks had shown me
through the entire ship. When we got back, Cap Hanson and Doc Hallowell
were playing a game of high-low, and the _Saturn's_ skipper was giving
Hallowell a good old-fashioned, twenty-third century going over.

Tomkins and MacDowell were napping quietly. The second mate, a guy
named Todd, was making motions at guiding the ship's flight through
nothing, and also making a mild play for Helen MacDowell. And not
getting very far with either job.

Biggs and Cleaver had finished inspecting the instrument panels,
and were in earnest confab by the plot charts. Hank seemed to be
summarizing their decisions.

"--your new gadget was supposed to eliminate every speck of energy
waste, huh?"

"That's right. And thus conserve fuel, at the same time giving
tremendous speed," Biggs nodded.

"An' when you plugged the switch, it gave one whoop an' holler, the
_Saturn_ went like a bat out o' hell for a few seconds--"

"--and then," finished Biggs, "we found ourselves here. That's the
story, Hank. The whole story, so help me. But if, from those few facts
and what I've shown you, you can explain in what part of the universe
we are, you're an even greater genius than history says you were--I
mean, are."

Hank cocked a quizzical eye. "That's funny, ain't it?" he mused. "I
was, but I still am. Time's tricky, Lanse. But, listen, you made one
mistake."

"Yes?"

"In sayin' 'what part o' the universe.' Way I see it that ain't the
explanation _a_-tall. Way I see it, there's two kinds o' universes. The
_is_ an' the _ain't_. An' we're in the other one."

"I--I beg your pardon?" faltered Biggs.

"Put it this way. You draw a graph, an' you cross two lines. The block
at the upper right intersection o' them two lines is the _is_ universe.
The one we live in. Ain't that right?"

Biggs nodded. "That's a simple way of graphing existence, yes. The
horizontal line would represent existence in space, the vertical line
existence in time. At any given moment, a man's position in space and
time is coördinated in the positive sector. But--"

He stopped abruptly, looking at Hank with startled eyes.

"But you don't mean, Hank, we're in the _bottom_ sector of the graph!"

Hank sighed. "'Fraid that's 'zackly what I do mean, Lanse. It's no
wonder nuthin' looked natcheral to you. We done bust plumb out o' space
an' time as we ordinarily know it. We're in the imaginary sector o'
space-time! The coördinate of where we are now ain't even positive
numbers. They're all based on a negative factor--the square root o'
minus one!"




                              CHAPTER IV

                             Danger Ahead


I looked at Bert Donovan and he looked at me. Judging by the faces of
our two screwball intellectuals, there was something smelly on the
_Saturn_. But it was all a deep and dark mystery to me.

I said, "Hank, for old times' sake, would you brush that off again
lightly for me? In words of one syllable, what has the little letter
_i_ got to do with space flight, gray skies and time-travel?"

But Hank ignored me. On the right track at last, he was developing his
arguments.

"Reckon you know more 'bout energy-mass relationships than I do,
Lanse. 'Spect you'll remember, then, the transformations cooked up by
a guy from our time, feller by the name o' Lorentz? Him an' a couple
other guys named Einstein an' Planck fiddled around with hyper-spatial
mechanics an' discovered some interestin' things. Includin' the fact
that mass is altered when it travels at high velocities.

"Whut I figger musta happened is this. The gadget you invented worked
even better'n you expected. It worked so durn well that it give the
_Saturn_ one whale of a kick in the pants. Made it accelerate at a
speed _greater than that of light_!

"So then what? Why, then the _plus_ universe warn't big enough to
hold the _Saturn_ any more! That wild minute or two you talked about
was when you exceeded the limitin' velocity. An' then here you was in
the minus universe! Which is, so to speak, the negative matrix of the
normal _plus_ universe we ordinarily live in."

It didn't make sense to me, but apparently it did to Lieutenant Biggs.
He passed a damp palm across a sweating forehead.

"You're right, Cleaver! You must be right, because your argument
agrees with all the known theories and observed facts. The incredible
readings on our instruments, the weird surroundings in which we find
ourselves--" He stared at my friend sombrely. "But what are we going
to do? How shall we get out of here?"

Hank said, "Same way we come in. We blast out."

"But I've tried that, Hank," Biggs defended. "Before I realized the
full extent of our situation. And nothing happened. There's something
strange in the response of the motors. Don't ask me what. It's hard to
say, when the _Saturn_ is plunging into beaconless, starless nothing.
But stepped-up acceleration is just a waste of fuel."

"Yeah?" mused Hank. "That's queer. Now, I wonder why--"

At that instant came a most unexpected interruption. Todd, who had been
quietly tending his controls, suddenly came to life with a startled cry.

"Well, I'll be--Biggs! Captain Hanson!"

"Yes?" Both men answered at once.

"There--there's a large body before us!"

       *       *       *       *       *

He pressed a button. A glassy pane above the panel glowed into
life. As if a portion of the _Saturn's_ prow had been sheared away,
I was looking at the vista before us. But it was no longer empty
as, according to Biggs, it had been ever since the moment of the
"accident." The stark, gray loneliness was relieved now by a monstrous
pockmark in space. A giant sphere, imponderably distant, but definitely
on our trajectory!

Hanson was a man of action, I learned. He leaped to the
intercommunicating system.

"Chief Garrity! Large body for'rd! Reverse hypes and apply drag
instantly. Todd, plot a course revision! Man! What a monster! Biggs,
get out the charts. Something solid at last. Maybe we've busted back
into our own universe!"

Biggs said, "Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" His eyes questioned Hank. But
Cleaver shook his head.

"Nope, I don't think so. It ain't logical. That's a phenom--a phenom--a
pee-culiarity o' the cockeyed universe we're in--Hey! What's goin' on
here?"

The constant hum of the hypatomic motors below, one I had hardly
noticed until suddenly it no longer throbbed in my ears, had subtly
altered. A brief instant of silence, a jarring concussion--and a
deeper, more resonant sound.

Biggs explained, "That's the hypatomics being thrown into reverse.
Anti-grav units are activated in the nose of the ship, then when we
get the course variation we swing around our objective. Common space
practice, Hank."

"That's what," said Hank dubiously, "I figgered. Is it common space
practice to make a beeline for danger, though, like Billy-be-damned?"

And he pointed to the visiplate. Biggs' eyes followed his finger--and
Biggs gasped.

"Great whirling comets! It's got us caught!"

For despite the mounting clamor of the reversed engines, despite the
anti-gravitational units of which Biggs had boasted, despite the
swiftly redoubled orders and efforts of a shocked Captain Hanson--the
_Saturn's_ speed had definitely increased!

The figure in the plate was looming larger moment by moment, and
even to my untrained eye it was plain that we were slam-banging,
hell-for-leather, toward a crackup!

Don't ask me what happened in the next few minutes. I wouldn't know.
It's all one whirling blind spot in my memory. Up till now, this entire
affair had partaken of the nature of a dream. Amusing, not unpleasant,
but quite remote and faintly incredible.

Now, suddenly, I realized it was not a dream. But that I, Jim
Blakeson, publicity representative of Midland U., had somehow been
dragged out of the normal routine of everyday life and thrust into a
wild, impossible adventure in a world three centuries beyond my time.

It was a disturbing awakening. It didn't make matters a bit better
to realize that I was now--along with five other twentieth century
exiles--in imminent peril of being slapped out of existence by a
gigantic planet that shouldn't be in a dull, gray universe that didn't
exist!

       *       *       *       *       *

About me, frantic figures boiled and churned. The skipper of the Saturn
was bouncing about the control room like a bipedal gadfly, jerking
switches, bellowing orders, pawing through charts that--to me at
least--were a complete mystery.

Dick Todd still sat, tense and grim-jawed, in his bucket-shaped pilot's
chair. His fingers played the banked controls before him as the fingers
of an accomplished organist seek stops, but so far as I could see,
his movements availed nothing. For the object in the visiplate loomed
larger and ever larger.

Lancelot Biggs had wasted very little time scanning charts. Despairing
of finding any record of this cosmic visitant, he had grabbed paper
and pencil, and was now scrawling hasty calculations. Hank Cleaver
was watching him. I glanced at Helen. She was watching Hank. Rather
hopefully, I thought.

Hank said, "What's it show, Lanse?"

Biggs looked up at him haggardly.

"The mass of that planet must be terrific. It has a heavy gravitational
attraction. We're accelerating by leaps and bounds. At our present rate
of acceleration, only about twenty minutes remain before we--we--"

He paused, glancing helplessly at Helen MacDowell. There was a strange
longing in his eyes. I remembered, all of a sudden, a fact he had
mentioned. That somewhere back on Earth, a girl waited for him. A girl
who had promised to be his wife. His next words showed that he shared
my thought.

"I don't mind checking out," he said quietly. "We who dare the
spaceways risk that hazard always. But I wish I could have seen her
once more before--"

It was then that Hallowell pushed forward. He was scared, and plenty
scared. So scared that his voice was a thin, bleating yammer.

"Lieutenant, you can at least send us back to our proper time! You
can't let us die like this! Without a chance--like trapped rats!"

"Rats!" I said scornfully. "Speak for yourself, Hallowell!" But
Lancelot Biggs nodded.

"He's right. We still have twenty minutes. It is not right that you of
another age should share our fate. We must get the temporal deflector
into operation, send all of you back--"

Hank cried sharply, "Just us? Why not everybody, Lanse? Let's _all_
escape to the twentieth century. The whole kit an' kiboodle!"

But Biggs shook his head.

"I'm afraid that is impossible, Hank. There are limitations to temporal
transmission. You and your friends can enter _our_ time because
there is no natural barrier, but _we_ cannot violate the established
world-line of things that have been. We never were in your time,
therefore we cannot now go there. But, wait--"

He spun swiftly to a wall-audio, spoke to the engine room below.

"Get the deflector ready. We're sending our guests back!" Then, nodding
to all of us, "If you will come with me--"

       *       *       *       *       *

We started for the door. But we had taken just a few steps when the
audio buzzed. Biggs answered its call, listened for a moment, cried out,

"But Garrity, are you absolutely sure? It can't be! It mustn't be!"

The clacking voice was regretful but positive. I felt a thin, cold
edge running up and down my spine. Now I look back upon it, I think I
guessed what Garrity was saying even before Biggs turned to us, his
eyes wide with sympathy and sorrow.

"My friends," he said in a choked voice, "forgive me for what I must
say. Your lot is irrevocably cast with ours. The strain on the motors
has burnt out several vital units. There is not time enough now to
repair them. The temporal deflector is--useless!"

That was a jolt. The way my several comrades took the message was the
measure of their characters. Hallowell cried out sharply, began to
scream protests in a frightened voice until Prexy--fat, staid, stuffy
old H. Logan, himself--silenced him with a backhander across the mouth.

"That will do, Hallowell!" snapped MacDowell. And he seemed to grow
three inches. It was a mile in my estimation. "I think, Lieutenant
Biggs," he said, "we need no further apologies. We are not afraid to
die with you."

I forgot to dislike the old guy then. I loved him a little bit for
that. And I liked Tomkins' reaction, too. The little observatory
technician sighed wistfully.

"It's too bad, though. I should have liked to take back to our time a
knowledge of some of the marvels we have seen here."

The detective said nothing. He still didn't seem to know what the hell
it was all about. But Helen MacDowell was as game as her old man.

She said, "We're not licked yet. I still think Hank--I mean, Mr.
Cleaver--will find a way out of this."

Biggs said gently, "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Cleaver. This is the end for
all of us."

Helen's eyes darkened suddenly.

"_Mrs._ Cleaver! My dear lieutenant! I'll thank you not to couple my
name with that of this--this person! What ever made you think I was his
wife? I wouldn't marry him if he were the last man on earth--"

And then Lancelot Biggs did a strange thing! For a startled moment he
stared at Helen MacDowell incredulously. Then he loosed a terrific
whoop. And I don't mean whisper.

"_Eeee-yow!_" he howled. "You and Hank aren't married?"

"Why, of course not!"

"You--you haven't any children?"

Helen turned brick-red.

"After _all_, Lieutenant--" she began stiffly. "But, _really_!"

I don't think Biggs heard her. For he had leaped to Cleaver's side, was
pounding him enthusiastically upon the back and shoulders.

"It's all right, then! You understand--it's all right! Get those
brain-cells to work, Hank, old boy! It's in the bag! _Eeee-yowee!_"

And Hank Cleaver, from the depths of a brown study, said suddenly,

"Say, looka here--I been thinkin'--"




                               CHAPTER V

                              Minus Math


Lancelot Biggs said feverishly, "Don't think, Hank--act! Anything you
say is all right by me. You're in command here! Give your orders!"

Hank said hesitantly, "Well, if you say so--" and moved to the audio.
With his unerring sense of assurance, he selected the right button,
contacted the engine room. Chief Engineer Garrity's grizzled face
appeared in the plate.

"Yes, sorr?"

"Chief, turn off them there reverse engines right away," said Hank
hesitantly. "An' disconnect them anti--er--anti-grav doogummies."

Garrity's jaw fell open. He said, "I--I beg your pardon, sorr!" and
looked around the room for verification of the orders. Cap Hanson, too,
had heard the command, and was turning a violent mauve. But Lancelot
Biggs nodded.

"Do as Mr. Cleaver says, Chief."

"--an' when you git done doin' them things," Hank persisted gravely, "I
want you should git up steam. An' push for'rd as hard an' as fast as
you can. With--" He swallowed hard. "With the auxil'ry use o' that new
speed gadget Lootenant Biggs invented."

Garrity almost strangled, but he got the words out.

"Yes ... sorr!" Then he faded from the plate. Biggs stared at Hank.

"You--you're sure you know what you're doing, Cleaver?"

"I think I do," said Horse-sense Hank. "It's the only thing makes
sense. I figgered an' figgered, and it looks to me like there's only
one logical way to act. We'll know in a minute if I'm right."

He dug his toe into the carpet, sort of grunted, coughed, glanced at
Biggs.

"Got a mite excited about me not bein' married, son. I been thinkin'
that over. You mean to say--"

Biggs, looking confused, said,

"But you see, Hank--"

"Yeah. Reckon I do. An' you--an' you--"

"Yes, sir," said Lancelot Biggs.

I stared at Donovan.

I said, "What makes with the brain trust? Double talk?"

He said, "Don't ask me, Buster. I just work here. Or used to. It's
even money whether I continue working or learn to play a harp. What
with that screwy command your friend Hank gave--"

Then he, and I and everyone in the room stopped speaking. For again
there had come, remotely, a different tone-value from the engine room.
Hank's orders were being obeyed! And all eyes centered painfully on the
visiplate in which, almost blotting the entire frame now, was mirrored
the on-rushing planet....

       *       *       *       *       *

Can I explain my feelings to you? I doubt it. All I can think of is to
say that I felt like a very tiny fly on a wall, watching helplessly,
wingless, unable to escape, as a gigantic flyswatter smashed down at
frightful speed upon me. The _Saturn_ was a huge craft, yes, but it was
a speck of dry dust compared to the colossal sphere toward which it
plunged.

At this velocity there could be but one result to a collision. Death,
swift, crushing, horrible, for all of us. A moment, I thought, of
incredible pain. A torrent of madness beating at the eardrums, the
fires of hell flaming before the eyes--then oblivion.

Nearer came the planet. I could see now that it was as mad and wild as
the unspawned negative universe in which it floated. No life. No thin
film of atmosphere to blue the sharp definition of its raw terrain. A
weird, dead world in a universe that could not be.

I was aware of Donovan at my side, breathing hard. I glanced across the
room at Lancelot Biggs. His eyes were strained, the muscles of his jaw
white. His lips were half parted. Perhaps it was imagination, but I
thought I caught the whisper of a name.

"Diane!"

And then a stranger thing happened. There came a sudden, tender little
cry from Helen MacDowell. A flurry of movement. And then she was
across the room, was in the arms of Hank Cleaver! And she didn't seem
to care that her words carried to all of us.

"You've failed, Hank! But I don't care. I don't care. It's too late to
pretend now that I hate you. For I don't. I love you, Hank...."

Then everything happened at once. My eyes leaped back from the
Helen-Hank tableau to the visiplate, as abruptly there came a crashing
explosion from the bowels of the ship. I saw the planet before us now
within--it seemed--but inches! There was a high, tortured screaming in
my ears. The grind of motors, the pounding of massive drums, a scream
ripping from the throat of Hallowell, a muffled curse from Cap Hanson--

Then a horrible, wrenching shock. I felt my body lifting, floating,
hurtling across the floor! Something fell sprawling upon me, glass
splintered, a dozen voices cried out at once.

And everything was black, and there was a dead and sickly pressure
across my body--

--from the center of which came a muffled voice. The voice of Bert
Donovan.

"Well, I'll be triple and everlastingly damned to a fare-you-well!"

I kicked, and he wriggled. I kicked again and he moved.

I said, "If you'll get off my head, you damned fool, maybe I can see
what's going on!"

He got up. And so did I. All about the control room, men were picking
themselves up, lifting their voices in astonishment, staring at a
visiplate from which had disappeared that gigantic, threatening orb.

       *       *       *       *       *

A visiplate in which was now depicted sweet, jet depths of darkness,
pin-pricked with glowing points of light!

Cap Hanson's voice was a paean of joy.

"We're home again! Home in our own universe! By God--in our own solar
system! For there's Io, the pretty little devil!"

Helen was crying, "Then you didn't fail, Hank! It worked! We're saved!"

And Biggs, only sane man in a roomful of delight-maddened lunatics, was
ambling to the audio, face wreathed in a seraphic grin.

"Garrity?" he called down to the chief engineer. "Take a look out
the viewpanes if you want to holler with joy. And then--set course
for home! And, oh, yes, Garrity--set men to work immediately on the
repairing of the temporal deflector."

So that was that. We took time off to recuperate. Some hours later we
were standing in the _Saturn_ before a large, cylindrical, glass-walled
machine, Lancelot Biggs' "time-travel" gadget which had absorbed us up
here into the future. That is most of us were still standing here in
the _Saturn_.

Professor Hallowell had already been projected back to our time. So
had Travis Tomkins, Midland's observatory expert, his arms loaded with
books from the ship's library describing the great inventions of, as on
the _Saturn_, the last two centuries--or, to us of 1940, the inventions
of the _next_ two hundred years.

"Which books," commented Lancelot Biggs wryly, "will do Tomkins a lot
of good--I don't think! They won't arrive with him, you know--because
in his time they weren't even written! I hope both those fellows will
return to their original places on Earth. Rather amazing, wouldn't
it be," he chuckled, "if something went wrong with the machine and
Hallowell appeared suddenly on the campus of Midland University with
some gadget from the future--_his_ future--which fell into his pocket
in his transit through space and time!"

"Campus?" exclaimed H. Logan MacDowell. "Don't tell me that time-travel
thing of yours will actually set us down again in our own time!"

"If it doesn't," grinned Lancelot Biggs, "a lot of faces are going to
be very red indeed."

He motioned to the second mate, Lt. Dick Todd. Todd set himself at the
controls. Then he nodded to the detective.

With unseemly haste the gumshoe scrambled into the time machine.

"Contact!" Biggs ordered.

The second mate pressed the button that sent the snooper back to
Midland campus. That lug! I don't think he ever did figure out what it
was all about! In fact a week later, when I met him skulking along a
corridor, I asked him how he liked his round trip through space.

"I'm trying not to think about it," he groaned. "Confidentially, in
another ten days I'll be able to believe it never happened _a_-tall, no
sir!"

"Brother," I said to myself, "if imagination was a baby chick, you
couldn't scratch yourself out of an egg-shell."

But I'm getting ahead of the story. After we got rid of the gumshoe,
there was Prexy H. Logan MacDowell to be considered.

"You are next, sir," Lancelot Biggs said courteously. "And a pleasant
journey."

"Harrumph!" growled his academic nibs. "This is a damnable outrage!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Biggs bowed him into the time-traveling contraption.

"I think you've got something there," he grinned--and signalled to
Dick Todd. One second later H. Logan was flitting through space back
home.

And now it was time for last farewells. But Biggs asked, in gripping
Hank's hand, the question I'd been dying to ask myself, but hadn't
dared.

"You should tell me, Hank, how you struck on the solution. We may get
in a jam like that again, some day. And if we do--"

"Send for me," grinned Hank. "I like this period o' your'n okay, Bud.
But you won't get in no more messes like that. Not if you tone down the
speed o' that gadget o' your'n, like I told you to.

"My figgerin'? Why, it was just plain, dumb hosslogic, that's all. The
tip-off come when we started whiskin' faster an' faster by the moment
toward that there planet in our path.

"Y'see, we was in a negative universe. We decided that. But whut we
overlooked was the simple, logical fact that in a negative universe all
natcheral physical laws ought to operate in reverse!

"Way I see it, we just happened across that planet by accident. An' had
we been content to let well enough alone, we'd never have come anywhere
near it! It would have shunted us off on its own account!"

I said, "What? How do you figure--"

Biggs exclaimed, "_I_ see! In our positive universe, it is axiomatic
that all objects attract each other in direct ratio to their masses.
But in a _negative_ universe--"

"They'd repel each other," nodded Hank. "Right. I guess we was dumb,
though. We done the _one_ thing we shouldn't have ever done. Put out
anti-gravs and repellor-beams against the upstart planet! Which was
the one thing calc'lated to drag us to it! In this backward universe,
mathematics an' physics worked in reverse. Anti-gravitational beams
attracted, and propellors repelled!"

Biggs sighed. "And I've always considered myself a logical man! What
you did was turn on every available, ounce of energy and thrust the
_Saturn_ at full speed _toward_ the planet, realizing that for every
action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and that the planet's
terrific repelling force would throw us completely back out of negative
space--is that it?"

Hank gazed at him admiringly.

"I reckon," he said softly, "that's about it. But you sure explain it
purty...."

       *       *       *       *       *

So why go on? We got into the machine, then. Hank and Helen and I. And
again things began flickering. And at the last minute, I remembered
there was something I wanted to ask Biggs, but it was too late then,
for there came another moment of giddy spinning, fireworks in my eyes
and butterflies in my tummy, and then--

We were back in my apartment. And it was broad daylight, but my radio
was still on, as I had left it, and already it was blatting a news
item about how Prof. Hallowell had inexplicably returned. There'd be
other flashes later, I knew. And a lot of explaining to be done to an
unbelieving public....

       *       *       *       *       *

Then I said, "Damn!"

"Yeah?" said Hank. "Why for, Jim?"

"Something I meant to ask Biggs and forgot. But you can tell me, I
guess. One thing I never did understand, was why Biggs got so excited
when he found out you and Helen were not married. What difference did
_that_ make? Why did that cause him to show such great confidence that
we were going to pull out of our jam?"

Hank flushed. "Well, you see--" he hesitated.

"I don't. But I'm listening."

"Well, it was this way. Soon as Lanse learned me an' Helen wasn't
hitched, he couldn't help knowin' everything was gonna be all right. On
account of it warn't logical her an' me should git kilt _before_ we was
married an'--an' had a youngster...."

His face was flaming. But I was inexorable.

"I still don't get it. Why not? Why wasn't it logical?"

"Aw, durn, Jim--don't you see? Because Biggs knew that much o' my
'history.' That is, my future, to me, is my _past_ to him. He knew who
I'd married, and that me an' my wife had a youngster, an' consequently
if them things hadn't happened yet, we was bound to live an' make 'em
happen!"

So it finally sank in.

I said, "Golly! You're right--as usual! But wasn't it a lucky break
that Lancelot Biggs happened to know something about your history,
Hank? Your name must be pretty well known to the men of the future--"

Hank writhed in embarrassment.

"Well, now, I wouldn't 'zackly say that, Jim. Lanse knew about me, yes.
But then, he'd be likely to. Him an' me bein' related, so to speak--"

"Related!"

"Yeah. Spoke to him 'bout it later. Y'see, Lanse is a sort of grandson
o' mine, with a lot o' great-greats on the front of it--" He gulped and
looked at Helen miserably. "I--I'm afeared they ain't nothin' we can do
'bout it, Helen. Lanse says you was his great-great-grandmammy!"

And then Helen MacDowell--smiled! And it was the kind of smile I hope
to see some time on the lips of a woman looking at me. And she said,
very softly,

"There's no sense in fighting fate, is there, Hank? What must be, must
be. And there _is_ something we can do--to make the future happier...."

Aw, hell! I promised Helen she could have him alone in a dark room,
didn't I? So I said good-by.

I don't think either of them heard me. In fact, I'm sure of it!



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74227 ***