Part 2

Oh, yes, now he knew. It was August 21.

Today United Electric began making deliveries. The construction work was already finished, the concrete dry, the forms already off.

Suddenly he was wide awake. Suddenly he was out of bed, and dressing frantically.

* * * * *

Jimmie Blake excused himself from dinner. His dad and mother smiled wistfully as he dashed upstairs.

Jimmie whistled as he shaved. Shaving was really not necessary, but he imagined it was, and in consequence it was a ritual not to be neglected. For he was a man now. Next week he was going off to college again. He would be a sophomore this year. No more green caps, no more hazing. The whistle swelled in prideful strength.

He looked out of the bathroom window. The sun, already at the edge of the horizon, flung its rays over the suburb of Valley Park. The grass was dry and the leaves were beginning to change color. It was September, September 8, 1940. Jimmie burst into song. One more week and he would be off to college.

Over there, perhaps half a mile away, he could see the sunlight shining on fresh concrete. Garth's Folly, they were calling it already. Garth had spent a fortune building a house that would stand to the end of the world. Two million years, that newspaper article had said.

Too bad. Garth had gone off the deep end, of course. Just when he was really becoming distinguished, he had cracked. Why didn't they have him in an asylum, Jimmie wondered, staring from the window.

Oddly, the landscape shifted. It blurred and twisted, just like it did when you looked through a pane of bad glass. But he wasn't looking through glass.

The air was tinged with a deep violet color. From somewhere, from nowhere and from everywhere, came a shrill whining note, a screaming frequency that lifted rapidly up the scale. It went quickly out of hearing.

The violet deepened to black and the light was gone. Suddenly knives were tearing at his flesh. His body was racked by a thousand pains.

Jimmie Blake screamed. The scream was choked off into horrible silence.

His father came to the foot of the stairs.

"What's wrong, son?" he called.

There was no answer.

His father went upstairs. Mystified, perplexed, he began to search.

"Jimmie!" he called. "_Jimmie!_"

There was no answer.

Jimmie's mother came up the stairs. Her face was suddenly white. One hand was pressed over her heart.

"What--" she began.

Her husband was standing in their son's room. She had not known he was so old, so haggard, and so tired looking.

"Jimmie's gone," he whispered.

He barely managed to catch her as she fell.

* * * * *

Lee Garth's face was white, drawn, pinched. Bloodless. His hair was twisted and tangled, there was a stubble on his face.

He lifted blood-clotted eyes from the screen in front of him, the screen that had suddenly gone blank as he flipped a dial set in the control-studded table on which his hands rested.

Deep in the heart of the tower of steel and concrete a lion-roar went into silence.

"God," Garth whispered. "Dear God."

His voice was cracked and chipped and lined with pain.

His head slumped forward, rested on the table.

Behind him there was a tiny creak as a door opened. He lifted his head to stare dully at the person who stood there.

"Stella? I thought I told you I didn't need a secretary any longer, to write yourself a check and go away?"

"Yes, Mr. Garth."

She came forward holding a tray.

"But I think you need me now more than ever. And so I stayed. I will leave if you order it."

He stared at her. She wasn't pretty, or he had never thought she was. But on her face at this moment was something that made her beautiful. Her eyes were filled with a deep glowing.

He remembered the years she had been his secretary, the years of hard work perfectly performed. If they worked until midnight, she had never complained. Summer, winter, spring, and autumn. Why she had never had a vacation! But then Lee Garth had never had a vacation. He didn't know what the word meant.

He stared at her, at the radiant glowing that was transforming her.

"But--but you must not stay here. You _must not_. Don't you understand? This is the end."

She set the tray in front of him.

"You must eat something. You haven't had a good meal in weeks. Here is a sandwich and a glass of milk."

He was vaguely aware of a gnawing in his stomach, a persistent ache.

"Why--thanks--Yes, I am hungry!" He looked at the tray.

The door creaked as she left the room.

He wolfed the food. He turned again to the table in front of him. He pressed buttons.

Under him, in the belly of the squat tower of concrete and steel, a lion began to roar. The roar increased until the whole structure was shaking with the pressure of inconceivable energies seeking release. It became a whirling, roaring, thundering torrent of sound, a screaming pulse of incalculable force.

* * * * *

Madeline Brown went out into the garden. Her mother watched her go. Not much longer, her mother thought, would she have a daughter. The girl was blooming into womanhood. Within a year or two some young fellow would claim her. The boys were already becoming a bother with their phone calls. Madeline Brown's mother wondered how it would feel to be a grandmother. Lord, she was getting old.

As from a great distance, she heard her daughter call. She rushed into the garden, recognizing the panic in that call.

Madeline was gone. There wasn't a sign of her anywhere. There was only the night coming down.

The mother's scream ripped through the gathering darkness.

"Madeline!"

There was no answer.

* * * * *

A winding river ran through Valley Park, and beside the winding river, in the star-sprinkled September night, John Bruce walked with Jennie West. The browning leaves were beginning to fall. Soon it would be autumn, soon it would be October, and after October, there would not be any Jennie West. There would be Mrs. John Bruce. John hoped that a clerk's salary would support her, but if it wouldn't, he'd darned well get another job.

They stopped beside the river wherein the stars up in the sky were reflected, and it was in his mind to kiss her, but she was in a mood for teasing and she slipped away from him into the soft night. Laughing, he started after her.

Suddenly she screamed in fright.

"Jennie! What is it? Where are you?" John Bruce shouted.

She didn't answer. He started running in the direction from which her scream had come.

He couldn't find her.

"Jennie!"

The stars shifted, the trees bent, the earth twisted, heaved, and rolled. His body was cut with a million knives. There was a whistle in the air.

Then there was silence.

* * * * *

Scoop Martin almost jumped out of bed. He could have sworn the telephone was ringing. But it wasn't. Or was it?

Just another of those nightmares, he decided. He hadn't been sleeping well for over a month. It was hell not to be able to sleep.

He laid down again.

The telephone lifted him out of bed like a jumping-jack coming out of its box.

"Who is it? Oh, I'm sorry, chief, I didn't know it was you. What do you want? Working for you, hasn't a man got any rights at all?--Huh?--I'm sorry. Huh!--_Thirty-eight people gone, just like they had walked off the face of the earth?_ And more reports coming in all the time? All right, all right; I'm on my way to Valley Park right now."

* * * * *

Outside the police station, the street was jammed by a silent crowd, a tense, straining, shifting mass of people. Scoop fought his way through them.

Inside, the station was alive with reporters, A.P. men, specials, U.P. men, a leg man from every sheet in the city. They were all asking questions. A brawny man, with his uniform coat flung open, was trying to answer them. The phone kept interrupting him. Every time it rang, the room dived into silence.

"Madam, I'm sorry. Yes--yes--We'll send a detail right away. You look around the neighborhood yourself. Perhaps she has just gone to the drug store. Yes.... I'm sorry, but I don't know what to tell you. We'll do the best we can."

"Another one?" a reporter queried as the phone went back on the hook. The chief of police nodded.

The strained silence was broken by the harsh breathing of frightened men.

"Lord!" a reporter whispered. "That's seventy-three now. And nobody knows how many may have vanished without being reported!"

The phone rang again. The chief of police grabbed it.

"Hello ... Oh ... Governor. You're right we want the guard. We want them as fast as we can get them."

* * * * *

Martin found a reporter he knew, plugged questions at him.

"They just go out of sight, that's all," the reporter told him. "How it happens, why it happens, nobody knows, least of all the police. When the first two reports came in, they thought it was a couple of snatches, but they've been scared out of that idea now. There's no rime or reason to it. Youngsters, nineteen, twenty years old; boys, girls, couples. Somebody hears them scream, but by the time anybody gets there, they're gone. God knows where they've gone or what has happened to them. Jack Lecroy, heir to the biggest fortune in this town, is gone. Two Polish factory workers, brothers, were in their room. Their old man went in to ask them something. They weren't there. College girls, shirt factory girls. It doesn't discriminate. Talk about the Pied Piper!--What's that?"

Outside the building a voice had begun to screech.

"It's the end of the world. The angel Gabriel is blowing his horn and the goats are being separated from the sheep. I'm ready, Lord, I'm ready. Come and take me--"

The reporter's face went a shade whiter. "That's another one gone off his nut. But he may be right, for all I know. Where you going?"

Scoop Martin was shoving his way toward the desk of the chief of police. In his mind a phrase had clicked.

"Chief, I'm Martin, of the _Globe_. Listen to me.... I know you don't want to answer any more questions, but I've got an idea. About a month ago I interviewed a scientist living here in Valley Park, Lee Garth. Did you read the story I wrote? He prophesied the end of the world. Then he got busy and built himself a castle that a regiment of artillery couldn't blast down.... Listen, maybe he knows more about this than he told."

The harassed officer stared at Martin, then grabbed his phone. Eventually he laid the receiver back on its hook.

"Garth doesn't answer," he said.

He bit off the end of a cigar. "I'll send a squad."

Two brawny young cops forced their way through the massed throng. The crowd caught the news that they were headed out to Garth's Folly.

They didn't come back.

Another squad, with orders to make a careful investigation, reported that the car of the first squad had run into a tree beside the drive inside the grounds of Garth's place, that the two men were missing, and that Garth was not in his house but was probably inside his concrete tower.

"Maybe," Scoop whispered, as the report came through. "Maybe Garth is doing this. Or maybe--he talked about the end of the world two million years from now--maybe he was lying. Maybe the end of the world is coming right now. Maybe Garth can help us."

"If there is a chance that Garth is either responsible or can help us," the chief of police shouted. "By God, I'll get him out of that place if I have to blast."

The phone rang again. He grabbed it, listened. "We'll do all we can," he said.

He hung up, looked at his own men, at the reporters. "Another one gone."

His fist came down on the desk.

"I'm going to see Lee Garth. Come on, men."

He led the way. Scoop piled into the car. Those who couldn't get into the car, hung on the sides.

They came in sight of the tower of concrete. It was a squat fortress in the starlight. There wasn't a light in it.

"There it is, men," the chief of police said. "Drive up to it. We'll find out if Garth knows anything about this."

Suddenly, to the occupants of the car, the tower seemed to lean toward them. The trees seemed to shiver in a blast of passing air.

But there was no wind. The air was very quiet.

How could trees dance in a wind when there was no wind?

The ground seemed to writhe. It seemed to twitch.

Men screamed.

The car left the drive, plunged forward into a tree. The motor sputtered, coughed indignantly, died. Then the night was silent, except for the deep, bull-throated roar pounding from the tower which Lee Garth had constructed.

There wasn't a man in the car.

Scoop Martin never wrote his story that night. Nor any night thereafter.

* * * * *

Garth had slumped forward, his head on his arms. He awakened to the touch on his shoulder, turned tired eyes up to the girl who had entered.

"You?" his voice was dull and low. "You still here?"

"Yes, Mr. Garth. Here, I have some breakfast for you." Her face was pinched and drawn and only her eyes were beautiful.

He gulped at the food. While he ate, she went to a small opening and looked out. She returned to him, and when he had finished eating, she spoke.

"The militia, or perhaps they are national guardsmen, are here. They have surrounded us."

"What?"

For a moment, he did not understand. "Oh. So soon? No! You must be mistaken."

He went quickly to the opening, stared through it. Minutes passed. To the woman who watched him, he seemed to grow older with each passing moment.

He turned. She was still there. He faced her.

"You--you haven't asked why the militia are here?" It was a question and not a statement.

"No sir."

Her answer left him momentarily at a loss for words.

"You don't know--what happened last night?"

"No. I do not need to know. I doubt if I could understand. It would make no difference." She spoke quickly, the words blurring into each other.

There was suddenly hunger in Lee Garth's eyes, the hunger that grows in lonely men.

"Stella--"

The flat smash of an explosion coming from outside jerked him back to the opening. A deep, angry drone sliced through the morning air. Another explosion slapped the earth.

"Bombers! A squadron of planes! The fools! What are they saying about me out there, I wonder? No matter. I did what I had to do. Or tried. There is only one thing left to do."

There was no anger in his voice. There was only resignation.

"Stella," he said, "if you ran from the door, I think they would let you escape. They want me instead of you. You could say I had held you prisoner."

Her voice was level.

"But what about you?"

"I will stay," Lee Garth answered.

"Here?"

He nodded.

"No!"

"I really didn't mean I will stay here," he amended. "I will go there. I am needed, I think."

She did not understand. No one else would have understood. But she had no need for understanding. She knew the secret that surpasses understanding.

She shook her head. "If you stay, I stay."

His eyes met hers.

"There are numerous things," he whispered, "that I would like to do over, if I had the chance. You understand?"

The smile that lifted out of her eyes was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He choked. There was an obstruction in his throat.

"Stella--"

"Yes, Mr. Garth."

Smash!

The morning rocked with the explosion of another bomb.

"Quickly!" he gasped. "Stand here beside me. This tower won't stand a direct hit. There isn't a second to lose."

She moved to his side.

He put his arm around her. His free hand moved among the controls on the table.

Below them, in the heart of the tower of concrete and steel, a bull-throated roar started building up, started howling as energies beyond computation were set in motion.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I think it won't hurt very long."

She was still smiling.

* * * * *

Goggling, Tompkins read the description.

"Perhaps as the result of a direct bomb hit, but more likely as the result of the release by Garth himself of some super-powerful explosive that burned but did not explode, the tower vanished in flame. The concrete glowed red, then appeared to run, then quivered for a moment like jelly. There was a blast of furious heat which forced back the attackers. The tower puffed into dust.

"There is now no question but that Garth was responsible for the people who vanished. They stopped disappearing when the tower dissolved. What Garth was attempting no one knows, but he escaped the stern justice that would have been meted out to him by committing suicide."

"By the great Godfrey!" Tompkins muttered. "That fellow had discovered atomic power. What he was using it for, I don't know. But he had it. Nothing else could produce a result like that. He had it. And I let it get away! I called Sullivan off, because that story in the paper about Garth predicting the end of the earth made me think he was a cracked fool. But he had atomic power. And I could have had it, if I hadn't called Sullivan off. He had it. And I let it get away."

Back and forth across the private office, he paced, muttering.

"He had it. He had atomic power. I could have had it. But I let it get away."

* * * * *

For an infinitesimal fraction of a second, as inconceivable energies were somehow released, the low hills and the trees growing on the low hills seemed to writhe and twist as if the light rays were being bent by some refracting medium.

Then the translating force collapsed.

Lee Garth fell. Not far, not over a few feet. His legs buckled under him as he landed. He rolled. He stopped rolling. The ground was soft, and to his weary body it was a perfect haven for rest. Earth, soft earth, and rest. His senses reeled. As he lost consciousness, he felt someone tugging at him.

For a long time there was only the consciousness of complete relaxation, rest, surcease from striving. Rest! How he needed it.

But a confused babble of voices kept intruding. And someone was rubbing his head.

As he opened his eyes, he saw that his head was in a woman's lap. Who was she? And why should she have his head in her lap? He had never had anything to do with women. Oh. Stella. Oh....

"Mr. Garth," Stella whispered. "You had better stand up, if you can. There is going to be--trouble."

Oh, yes, trouble. There had always been trouble, but somehow he had not thought to find it here. But he got to his feet slowly.

He found himself in the center of a circle of people. Men and women. Several of the men wore blue, police uniforms. The men in blue had guns. The others had clubs. Some had rocks. Even some of the girls had rocks.

"It's Garth," he heard a voice say.

"Yeah, it's Garth all right," another voice answered.

"Gentlemen," Lee Garth said.

"Shut up!" a voice answered.

"What have you done to us, Garth?

"Yeah, that's what we want to know: what have you done to us, Garth?

"Don't try to deny it! We know you did it.

"Where are we, Garth?

"You and your experiments!"

Lee Garth ran his eyes around the circle. A small, wolfish-faced chap caught his attention. He recognized the man. Martin. A newspaper man.

"Hello, Martin," Garth said.

"What the hell have you done to us, Garth?" Martin said, scowling. He was truculent. He was also scared. He had a rock in his hand.

"I--" Garth began.

A man with a club stepped forward. "Whatever you've done, I want you to un-do it, see? You brought me here. You damned well better be ready to take me back, see! And be fast about it."

"But that is impossible," Garth answered.

"What!"

"I can't take you back. I can't return you. You're here, and here you will have to stay."

Anger ran through the group like a hurricane through a forest.

"Damn you, Garth!" a voice growled.

"What do you think we are--guinea pigs?"

"You're going to take us home, or else!"

"If you think you can move us into this damned country, where there ain't a house in sight and no sign there ever was one, you've got another think coming."

"Darn you, Garth."

In all the tumult Garth heard only one voice on his side, a girl's voice.

"John Bruce," the girl said. "You give Mr. Garth a chance to explain. He didn't do this without a reason."

"Aw, Jennie," the tall youth beside her answered. "You keep out of this. Garth brought us here without asking us, and he's darned well going to take us back."

"But I can't," Lee Garth said firmly.

Silence fell.

In the silence Stella whispered. "Mr. Garth, we had better run, if we can. They won't listen, they don't want to listen. They're scared, and dangerous."

The difference between a crowd and a mob is an angry voice expressing the thoughts lurking in the minds of all.

"You can't return us, eh?" the angry voice said. "Well, we'll just fix your clock. Come on, boys!"

Lee Garth would have stayed, but Stella pushed him, got him started. He fought his way through the circle of men. Then the two were running.

The mob gave chase.

The crack of a pistol shuddered behind them. A slug tore into a tree near Garth. The gun boomed again. Angry men screamed.

Run, Garth thought. It wouldn't do much good, but the instinct was to run, to preserve life as long as possible. Run! Through the trees, up the hillside. Men were coming. Run. Was this the right turning? It was. Up the hill, up the nearer hill.

Only he couldn't run much farther. His heart was beginning to hurt. Didn't matter. Death came to everything eventually, to Xerxes, to Leonidas, to Charles Martel, to Copernicus, and Galileo. Death was coming to him at the hands of those angry, frightened men, coming quickly, unless he found what he sought, what he knew was here, somewhere.

Where was the thing he sought? He had to find it, quickly. He couldn't run much farther.

They were at the top of the nearer hill.

Then Garth saw what he was seeking.

A huge sphere. A ball made out of some strange, silvery metal. It rested on top of the nearer hill.

Garth and the girl staggered toward it.

Out from it reached twin fingers of light. The streamers touched Garth, they touched the girl.

"We're there," Garth sighed. "We've found the place. We've won. We're safe."

Yelping with the lust to kill, the men came through the woods, came up the hill.

Fingers of light reached out from the sphere. A glowing streamer touched another man. He dropped the rock he was carrying. Another man. He laid down his club.

Something rode the streamers of light. A message. It whispered to the men the light touched. Their cries ran into quick silence. They looked at each other, they looked at Garth and the girl with him. Both were leaning against the sphere. They seemed to be drawing strength from it. They were smiling.

An awed whisper ran through the men who had so recently been a mob.

"What is that thing, that ball?"

"Look at the light coming from it!"

"Say, I think we were wrong about this fellow, Garth."

"When that light touched me, I changed my mind about him."

"Let's go see what this is all about."

"Come on. Nothing is going to hurt us. I feel it."

Slowly, they approached. Anger had already left them. Now fear left them. Only awe remained.

Then a voice began to speak.

* * * * *

Here and there upon this earth are fields where men, looking backward, say, "Here history was made. Because of what happened here, a new world came into being."

There is a pass in Greece, a field in France, a backyard in Holland. There are fields in America too.

There is a field two million years in the future!

* * * * *

Dawn world or dusk world?

The sun went down the western sky. Its rays were flung over the group clustered around the globe, over the listening men, who stared quickly at each other, then away, then stole a glance at Garth, leaning against that globe. Over the frightened, clinging, awed girls, who listened too.