Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
The Onslaught from Rigel
By FLETCHER PRATT
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Wonder StoriesQuarterly Winter 1932. Extensive research did not uncover any evidencethat the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
A jagged beam of flame, intenser than the hottest furnaceleaped through the air, struck the green globe and reached the earth ina thousand tiny rivulets of light.]
* * * * *
THE ONSLAUGHT FROM RIGEL
_By the author of "The Reign of the Ray," "The War of the Giants," etc._
FLETCHER PRATT]
Mr. Pratt is well known for his "Reign of the Ray," and "The War of theGiants" where in both stories he showed his excellent knowledge ofwarfare, and what a future war might be like.
In this story he combines that knowledge with a vivid and fertilescientific imagination to construct an interplanetary story that marks anew triumph for WONDER STORIES QUARTERLY.
We know that many scientists believe that life may originally have cometo earth in the form of spores, from other solar systems and otheruniverses. We therefore might really have had our home dim ages ago, onworlds distantly removed from our earth.
The ability to travel the interstellar spaces, however, might also bepossessed by other creatures--creatures driven by fear, necessity and bythe will to conquer. And if they come, in mighty waves, with scientificpowers far beyond us, to dominate the earth, a terrible time will facethe puny human race.
And in this story they do come, and provoke some of the strangest andmost exciting adventures that have yet been recorded.
* * * * *
THE ONSLAUGHT FROM RIGEL
Murray Lee woke abruptly, with the memory of the sound that had rousedhim drumming at the back of his head, though his conscious mind had beenbeyond its ambit. His first sensation was an overpowering stiffness inevery muscle--a feeling as though he had been pounded all over, thoughhis memory supplied no clue to the reason for such a sensation.
Painfully, he turned over in bed and felt the left elbow where the acheseemed to center. He received the most tremendous shock of his life. Themotion was attended by a creaking clang and the elbow felt exceedinglylike a complex wheel.
He sat up to make sure he was awake, tossing the offending arm free ofthe covers. The motion produced another clang and the arm revealeditself to his astonished gaze as a system of metal bands, bound at theelbow by the mechanism he had felt before, and crowned, where thefingers should be, by steely talons terminating in rubber-likefinger-tips. Yet there seemed to be no lack of feeling in the member.For a few seconds he stared, open-mouthed, then lifted the other arm. Itwas the right-hand counterpart of the device he had been gazing at. Heessayed to move one, then the other--the shining fingers obeyed histhought as though they were flesh and blood.
A sense of expectant fear gripped him as he lifted one of the hands tounbutton his pajamas. He was not deceived in the half-formedexpectation; where the ribs clothed in a respectable amount of muscleshould have been, a row of glistening metal plates appeared. Thoughts ofbody-snatching and bizarre surgery flitted through his mind to beinstantly dismissed. Dreaming? Drunk? A dreadful idea that he might beinsane struck him and he leaped from the bed to confront a mirror. Hisfeet struck the floor with a portentous bang and each step produced asqueak and clank--and he faced the mirror, the familiar mirror beforewhich he had shaved for years. With utter stupefaction he saw an ironcountenance, above which a stiff brush of wire hair projectedludicrously.
One does not go mad at such moments. The shock takes time to sink in."At all events I may as well get dressed," he remarked to himselfpractically. "I don't suppose water will do this hardware any good, soI'll omit the bath; but if I'm crazy I might as well go out and have agood time about it."
Dressing was a process prolonged by an examination of himself and thediscovery that he was a most efficient metal machine. He rather admiredthe smoothness of the hip joints and the way the sliding parts of hisarms fitted together, and was agreeably surprised to find that in themetallizing process his toes had become prehensile. Just for the fun ofit, he pulled one shoe on with the opposite foot.
It was not until he was nearly dressed that he realized that the wontednoise of New York, which reached one as a throaty undertone at theforty-eighth story of a modern apartment building, was somehow absent.Surely, at this hour--he glanced at the clock. It had stopped at aquarter to two. No help there. His watch was inexplicably missing.Probably Ben had borrowed it.... Ah!
That was the idea. Ben Ruby, with whom he occupied the duplex apartmentin the penthouse of the Arbuckle Building, was a scientist of sorts(mainly engaged in the analysis of "booze" samples for millionairesdistrustful of their bootleggers, these days)--he would be able toexplain everything.
He stepped across to the door and dropped the brass knocker, a littletimorous at the sound of his own thudding steps. The door was snatchedopen with unexpected suddenness by a caricature of Ben in metal--ascomplete a machine as himself, but without most of the clothes.
"Come in! Come in!" his friend bellowed in a voice with an oddlyphonographic quality to it. "You look great. Iron Man MacGinnity! Whatdid you put on clothes for? As useful as pants on a rock-drill. I havebreakfast."
"What is it? Am I crazy, are you, or are we both?"
"Of course not. Greatest thing that ever happened. The big comet. Theysaid she was radioactive, but most of 'em wouldn't believe it. Now lookwhat it did." (Murray Lee remembered vaguely some newspaper palaverabout a giant comet that was going to strike the earth--argument andcounter-argument as to whether it would have a serious effect.)"Everybody's turned to metal; nize machinery, ate oop all deaxle-grease. You need oil. Stick around."
He disappeared into the bowels of the apartment, the sound of hisfootsteps ringing enormous in the vast silence. In an instant he wasback with a radio battery in one hand and an oil-can in the other.
"Sorry, no grease on tap," he remarked briskly. "Typewriter oil." Hewent to work busily, squirting drops of oil into Lee's new metallicjoints. "Connect this thing up yourself. It fills you with what ittakes." He indicated the battery with an extended toe. "One arm and theopposite leg. There seems to be a resistance chamber in us somewherethat collects the juice."
Without in the least understanding what it was all about, Murray Leemade shift to follow his instruction. It was the most singular meal hehad ever partaken of, but he found it curiously invigorating.
"How about another? No? Have you seen anybody else? It finished most ofthem."
"Will you sit down and tell me consecutively what it's all about beforeI bash you?" asked Murray, petulantly. "Being turned into a machine isnot the easiest thing in the world on one's temper; it upsets thedisposition."
"Some sort of a special extra radioactive gas storm connected with thecomet, I think, though I can't be sure. It's made machines of all of us,now and forever more. We'll live on electric current after this andwon't have to bother about little things like doctors if we can find agood mechanic. But it killed a lot of people. Come along, I'll showyou."
* * * * *
His hand rang on Murray's arm as he grasped it to lead the way. The hallwas portentously dark, and Ben pulled him straight across it to the doormarked "Fire Exit."
"Elevator?" queried Murray.
"No go. No power."
"Oh, Lord, forty-eight stories to walk."
"You'll get used to it." They were clank
ing to the landing of the floorbelow and Ben, without the slightest compunction, pushed boldly into thedoor of the apartment there. The lock showed signs of being forced. "Oh,I broke it in," Ben answered Murray's unspoken query. "Thought I mightbe able to help, but it was no use. That fat woman lives here--you know,the one that used to sniff at us in the elevator when we went on abender."
Any qualms Murray felt about looking on the naked face of death wereperfunctorily laid to rest as the scientist led him into the roomoccupied by the late lady of the elevator. She lay solidly in her bedamidst the meretricious gorgeousness she had affected in life, theweight of her body sagging the bed grotesquely toward its center.Instead of the clean-running mechanical devices which marked theappearance of the two friends, she was nothing but lumps and bumps, abulging, ugly cast-iron statue, distending the cheap "silk" nightdress.
"See?" said Ben, calmly. "The transmutation wasn't complete. Prob'lydidn't get it as strong as we did. Look, the window's closed. This willbe a warning to people who are afraid to sleep in a draft. Come along."
Murray lingered. "Isn't there anything ... we can do?" He feltuncomfortably responsible.
"Not a thing," said Ben, cheerfully. "All she's good for is to standin the park and look at. Come along. We've got a lot of stairs to godown ... we're too noisy; need a good bath in non-rusting oil."
They reached the street level after an aeon of stairs, Ben leading theway to the corner drug store. All about them was a complete silence;fleecy white clouds sailed across the little ribbon of blue visible atthe top of the canyon of the New York city street.
"Lucky it's a nice day," said Ben, boldly stepping into the drug store,the door of which stood open. "We'll have to figure out this rainyweather thing. It's going to present a problem."
Within, the drug store presented the same phenomena of arresteddevelopment as the apartment of the fat lady at the forty-seventh story.A cast-iron statue of a soda-clerk leaned on the fountain in an attitudeof studied negligence, its lips parted as though addressing some wordsto the equally metallic figure of a girl which faced him across thecounter. On her steely features was a film of power, and the caked andcurling remains of her lip stick showed she had been there for sometime.
"By the way," Murray asked, "have you any idea what day it is, and howlong we were--under the influence? It couldn't have happened overnight."
"Why not?" came Ben's voice from the rear of the store. "Say, old dear,rummage around some of those drawers for rubber gloves, will you? I'dhate to run into high voltage with this outfit."
"Ah, here they are," came from Ben finally. "Well, let's go."
"What's the next step?" They were outside.
"Rubber shoes, I fancy," said Ben, as his feet skidded on the pavement."Let's take a taxi there and go find a shoe store."
Together they managed to slide the cast-iron taxi driver from his seat(Murray was surprised at how easily he was able to lift a weight hecould not have budged in his flesh and blood days), deposited him on thecurb and climbed in. The key was fortunately in the switch.
As they swung around the corner into Madison Avenue, Lee gave anexclamation. A scene of ruin and desolation met their eyes. Two or threestreet cars had telescoped and an auto or so had piled into thewreckage. All about were the iron forms of the passengers in theseconveyances, frozen in the various attitudes they had assumed at themoment of the change, and from one or two of them thin streamers ofmetal showed where blood had flowed forth before it had beenirretrievably crystallized to metal.
Murray Lee suddenly realized that an enormous amount of machinery hadgone to smash everywhere when the guiding hands had been removed and theguiding brains frozen to useless metal. He gave a little shudder.
* * * * *
They swung round before a shoe store with grating brakes. The door waslocked, but Ben, lifting his foot, calmly kicked a hole in the showwindow. Murray extended a restraining hand, but his friend shook it off.
"No use asking permission. If the proprietor of this place is stillalive anywhere, it will be easy enough to settle up for the damage; ifhe isn't, we have as good a right to it as anybody."
The new toes, which appeared to be longer than those he remembered, madefitting a difficulty, and Murray split two or three shoes before he gota pair on.
"What next?" he asked. "I feel like a drink."
"No use," said Ben. "You're on the wagon for good. Alcohol would playmerry hell with your metalwork. The best thing is to find out how manypeople we are. For all we know, we're the only ones in the world. Thisthing seems to have knocked out everybody along the street level. Let'stry some of the taller apartment buildings and see if we can find morepenthouse dwellers."
"Or maybe the others came to before us and went away," offered Murray.
"True," Ben replied. "Anyhow, look-see." He led the way to the taxi.
"Wait," said Murray. "What's that?"
Above the sound of the starting engine came the echo of heavy footsteps,muffled by shoes.
"Hey! Coo-ee! This way!" shouted Ben. The footsteps tentativelyapproached the corner. Murray ran forward, then stopped in amazement.The newcomer was a girl--or would have been a girl had she not been allmetal and machinery like themselves. To his eyes, still working onflesh-and-blood standards, she was anything but good-looking. She wasfully and formally dressed, save that she wore no hat--the high pile oftangled wire that crowned her head made this obviously impossible.
"Oh, what _has_ happened?" she cried at them. "What can I do? I took adrink of water and it hurt."
"Everything's all right. Just a little metal transformation," said Ben."Stick around, I'll get you some oil. You squeak." He was off down thestreet in a clatter, leaving Murray with the newcomer.
"Permit me to introduce myself," he offered. "I am--or was--Murray Lee.My friend, who has gone to get you some oil, is Benjamin Franklin Ruby.He thinks the big comet which hit the earth contained radioactive gasthat made us all into metal. Did you live in a penthouse?"
She eyed him darkly. "Somebody told you," she said, "I'm GloriaRutherford, and we have the top floor of the Sherry-Netherland, but allthe rest were away when this happened.... Oh, pardon me, it hurts me totalk."
There came a crash from down the street, indicating that Ben was forcinganother store, and in a minute he was back with a handful of bottles.With a flourish he offered one to the girl. "Only castor, but it's thebest the market affords," he said. "What we need is a good garage, butthere aren't many around here.... Go ahead, drink her down, it's allright," he assured the girl, who was contemplating the bottle in herhand with an expression of distaste.
Following his own recommendation, he tipped up one of the bottles anddrank a deep draught, then calmly proceeded to douse himself from headto foot with the remainder.
She made a little grimace, then tried it. "Thank you," she said, settingthe bottle down. "I didn't think it was possible anybody could like thestuff except in a magazine ad. Now tell me, where are all the otherpeople and what do we do?"
"Do?" queried Ben. "Find 'em. How? Ask Mr. Foster. Anybody else in yourneck of the woods?"
She shook her head. Murray noticed that the joints of her neck rattled."Paulson--that's my maid--was the only other person in our apartment,and she seems to be even more solid-iron in the head than usual--likethis lot." She swung her hand round in an expressive gesture toward theimage of a policeman which was directing two similar images to pause atthe curb.
"How about a bonfire?" suggested Murray. "That's the way the Indians orSouth Africans or somebody, attract attention."
"What could we burn?" asked Ben. "... A building, of course. Why not?Property doesn't mean anything any more with all the property ownersdead."
"I know," said Gloria Rutherford, falling into the spirit of hissuggestion. "The old Metropolitan Opera. That eyesore has worried me forthe last five years."
The suggestion was endorsed with enthusiasm. They climbed into the taxiand twenty minutes later were h
ilariously kindling a blaze in theback-stage section of the old building, running out of it with childishdelight to watch the pillar of smoke grow and spread as the flamescaught the timbers, long dry with age.
Murray sighed as they sat on the curb across the street. "This is theonly time I've ever been as close as I wanted to be to a big fire," hecomplained, "and now there isn't even a policeman around for me to makefaces at. But such is life!"
"What if it sets fire to the whole city?" inquired Gloria practically.
Ben shrugged. "What if?" he replied. "Doesn't mean anything. Bet therearen't more than a couple of dozen people alive. But I don't think itwill. Modern construction in most of these places is too fireproof."
"Look, there's a bird," said Gloria, indicating a solid metal sparrow,fixed, like the human inhabitants of the city, in his last position inlife at the edge of the curb. "By the way, what do we eat? Do we live oncastor oil all the time?"