Part 1

THE TIME-TECHS OF KRA

By MAX SHERIDAN

_The elusive technical knowledge of eons, past and future, was held captive by the mighty Kralons--learned giant insects that seined the stream of Time for the great Truth that would mold them into unrivalled masters of the universe._

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The little gray man peered timidly over gold-rimmed spectacles at the great black hole which yawned hungrily almost at his feet. He edged back cautiously from the massive steel lattice which guarded its circumference, then plucked timidly at the sleeve of the blue-uniformed guard who stood impressively erect before the barrier's huge gate.

"I--I beg your pardon. Could you tell me when the next one leaves?" he asked in a voice as colorless as his thin, nondescript features.

The guard catalogued the speaker with a glance, and a superior smile lifted the corners of his lips.

"Not figuring on making the Big Drop, are you, Uncle?" he asked in obvious amusement.

"Well, I--"

Then the gilt epaulets on the guard's padded shoulders jerked as he came suddenly to a respectful attention.

"Next Diamvator leaves promptly at 2:30 P.M., sir. Arrives at the Antipodes at 6:30 P.M. Central Standard Time, sir."

The obsequious reply brought a veil of mild surprise to the little man's pale gray eyes.

Then it was replaced with a twinkle of understanding as he saw the Terminal Agent approaching.

J. B. Andrews, the big bluff Supervisory Agent of Earth-Tube, Incorporated, cast a cursory glance at the little gray man, then turned to the guard.

"The 'Vator will leave at 2:35 P.M. today, Jamieson. Five minutes later than schedule. You will act accordingly."

As the Agent turned to leave, the little gray man cleared his throat and said timidly, "I--I'd like to ask about your round trip rate to--to the other side."

The Terminal Agent looked appraisingly at the little man for a moment, then said courteously, "Glad to answer any questions. If you will step over to my office I'll give you one of our brochures which describes in detail the advantages of the Diamvator over surface travel."

When the door had dosed behind them in the Agent's office, the little man's appearance changed subtly. His drooping shoulders were suddenly squarer, and his pale eyes seemed to darken to the color of the granite blocks of the floor.

"Randall is my name, Mr. Andrews. Willard Randall," he said, and his thin, colorless voice seemed to have gained the depth and assurance of a man who is confident of his ability to meet any situation.

Andrews' jaw sagged, and a startled ejaculation burst from his lips.

"You--Randall? I--" The Agent paused, then recovered his usual composure and apologized. "I'm sorry, Mr. Randall. I guess I had expected a--well, a larger man," he completed lamely.

"I understand," Randall said, smiling at Andrews' evident embarrassment. "I don't look exactly like the popular conception of an International Investigation Agent, you mean. But, you see, the less we look like IIA's, the more likely we are to catch someone off-guard."

"That's probably true," Andrews agreed doubtfully, "but--"

"But can I deliver the goods?" Randall completed with a smile. "That's what's worrying you, isn't it?"

Without waiting for an answer from the embarrassed Andrews, Randall continued, "Now, about your trouble. If you'll please outline the whole affair. Absolutely everything you know about it, whether it seems relevant or not."

The Agent for Earth-Tube, Inc. hesitated a moment, then began.

* * * * *

"As you probably know, it was in 1996 that the International Federation of Nations was formed, supplanting the United Nations. At that time all countries were consolidated under a single unified government.

"Because the consolidation definitely obviated the possibility of war, and because the economic situation necessitated a governmental boost, the leaders conceived the idea of utilizing the excess man-power in sinking a huge shaft to investigate the hypothesis that the Earth's core is a vast treasure house of metal.

"The results of the gargantuan undertaking were, from one standpoint, considerably less than miraculous. After penetrating almost four thousand miles to the very center of the Earth, it was found that the major part of the core was metal, alright, but only nickel-iron, which could be mined much more cheaply nearer the Earth's surface.

"There seemed to be no higher a proportion of the rarer metals in the core than on the surface.

"Although somewhat disgruntled at the results of their investigation, the governmental heads knew that they must keep busy the thousands of men thrown out of employment by the dissolution of armies and navies. So, having nothing better in mind, this fantastic WPA was commissioned to put the shaft on through to the other side of the Earth."

Randall nodded impatiently. "I am familiar with the historical data," he said. "Now if you will give me a resumé of the circumstances which have an immediate bearing on the trouble--"

Andrews colored at the little man's tone, and said gruffly, "I was only reviewing the data from the beginning, because there have been several developments in the past which may well have a bearing on our present difficulty."

The Investigation Agent nodded. "Make the historical review as brief as possible, then."

"After the shaft was completed," Andrews continued, more than a little piqued, "the question arose as to what should be done with the hundred billion dollar hole in the ground, now that it was finally completed.

"Some engineers advised salvaging the incredibly heat-resistant fifty-foot thick cellular caisson of Tungalloy, which alone had made possible the penetration through thousands of miles of molten material under tremendous pressure.

"Others maintained that the cost of removing it would be far in excess of the caisson's value.

"While the battle was raging, J. T. Weller, president of Metals, Inc. came to the fore with an offer for a concession on the Earth-Tube.

"He proposed to construct a tubular car or cage which would traverse the almost eight thousand miles in only four hours--more than twenty four hours less than the time required for a trip to the Antipodes by stratosphere plane.

"His argument for the success of the undertaking lay, not so much in the time saved on the trip, but in the novelty of the method of travel, and its value for giving people a taste of what weightless travel in space ships would be like. His imagination capitalized on the fact that Man is always on the alert for some new and strange way of cheating his perambulatory equipment of its needed exercise.

"Before advancing his proposition, he'd had his engineers draw up complete plans and specifications of the proposed cage and the necessary auxiliary equipment.

"The cage itself was to be a zeppelin-shaped projectile--But come, the Diamvator itself is due in five minutes."

Andrews arose and led the way to the terminal gate, and for the next few minutes Randall unobtrusively strolled around the circumference of the Earth-Tube, examining its massive steel barrier. He completed his circuit and was peering timidly through the steel lattice, when a long-drawn "whoooosh" and a metallic click sounded from the black depths.

He turned inquiringly to Andrews, who hastened to explain. "Closing of the air-locks," he said. "You see, the air is only partially exhausted from the Earth-Tube, so that the Diamvator will be held from the Tube sidewall during its free fall. Thus it does not attain the full acceleration of a freely falling body in a vacuum by a great deal. Consequently it does not approach its full pendular ascent from the Earth's center against gravitation.

"It lacks 'falling' to the surface of the Earth by over ten thousand feet, so some means had to be provided for propelling the Vator on up to the surface. To accomplish this, automatic air-locks were installed in the tube almost three hundred miles from either end, with other locks every few miles from there to the surface.

"When the Vator has passed a lower lock, both that one and the lock above it close, and air is admitted under high pressure below the Vator and exhausted above it, thus pushing the car up to the surface, where it is grasped and held by interlocking steel arms--"

Andrews was interrupted by a second "whoooosh" as the upper lock opened, followed immediately by the appearance of the bullet-shaped nose of the Diamvator.

* * * * *

Slowly the tube car ascended until its nose towered far above the heads of the milling crowd which by this time surrounded the terminal. Suddenly a harsh click told that the steel arms had gripped the Vator. Friction rollers whined as they rotated the car until its massive door coincided with the barrier gate.

As Andrews and Randall watched, the guard unlocked the gate and slid it into its slot, then unbarred the Vator door and pushed it open.

"All out for American Terminus, Ladrigo, Brazil," he called in a routine monotone.

Not a sound came from the interior of the Diamvator. The guard hesitated a moment, then stepped through the door into the tube car.

Within ten seconds he reappeared, fright etched on drawn features.

"Mr. Andrews!" he rasped from stiff lips. "It--it's happened again!"

Andrews' heavy features sagged. "No!" he said huskily. "No, it couldn't!"

Then with a bound he was through the Vator door with Randall at his heels. Inside, it took a moment for Randall's eyes to accommodate to the dimmer light. Then he saw that the interior of the Diamvator was remarkably like a comfortable drawing room in a luxurious home.

Several beautifully inlaid walnut tables occupied the central portion of a mirror-like floor. Gleaming chrome and leather chairs were spaced around them. Luxurious davenports and huge easy chairs ringed the circumference of the room, and the whole inviting scene was softly but pleasantly illumined by high-frequency tubes set flush in the domed ceiling.

Randall's glance made the complete circuit of the room before the astounding fact crashed through to his mind that there was not a single person in the room!

Randall stood stock still for a moment, cataloguing the details of the room, and trying to assimilate the facts of this strange enigma.

Then he turned to Andrews and asked, "How many passengers left the Antipodes in the Vator?"

"Ten," Andrews said huskily. "That's three times in the last month this has happened. I--I don't know what--"

"How about cargo?" Randall interrupted, his pale eyes glowing with a newly awakened fire. "Any valuable shipment?"

Andrews shook his head vehemently. "That's what makes it even more inexplicable! Each time this thing has happened there has been nothing but baggage scheduled. The mail and most of our insured expressage goes out on the 6:30 A.M. trip. I--"

"Any idea how anything could possibly disappear from the Diamvator during its trip? Don't you have radio contact with the car?"

Again the Earth-Tube supervisor shook his head. "How anything or anyone could leave the Vator during the trip, even with the aid of its passengers, is more than a mystery. It's impossible! As for contact, we have no communication with the Vator from the time it leaves one side until it reaches the other. You see, the Earth's metal core entirely absorbs and blankets Hertzian waves, making radio communication impossible from car to surface."

Randall nodded. "Do you have a steward on the Tube Car during the trip?"

"Yes," Andrews said wearily. "This is the third we've lost. I don't--"

"That's queer," said Randall suddenly. He pointed to the clock on the mantel above the imitation fireplace. "Over two hours slow," he mused, glancing at his wrist watch. "It's a wonder you fellows wouldn't supply the Vator with a good timepiece."

Andrews' jaw sagged. "Why, that's the same thing that happened the other two times!" he said in amazement. "The first time it was almost six hours fast. The second time, over eight hours slow. And now, two hours slow!"

"Well?" prompted Randall.

"There's something queer about that. The last time I radioed the Antipodes and made sure the clock was correct just before the Vator left!"

Randall was silent for a moment. "Well," he said at last. "There's only one way to track this thing down. And that's to get the information first hand. Andrews, you can book my passage on your next trip."

The Earth-Tube supervisor gasped. "You aren't going in the face of what's happened!"

"Someone has to," Randall returned. "I'll go as your steward."

II

Two hours later Randall stood stiffly at attention in his somewhat oversized steward's uniform while eleven passengers filed into the Diamvator, chattering in excitement over their coming adventure.

Randall wondered with a wry smile what their reactions would be if they knew what had happened to the Diamvator's passengers on three preceding trips. The secret agent had not been entirely in agreement with his Chief's orders that the mysteries be suppressed and that passengers still be accepted. But he saw the logic of keeping the trap baited. And Randall realized, with a warm feeling inside, that his Chief depended upon him to protect the eleven lives which were the bait in a trap which he hoped fervently would not close upon those who set it!

Slowly the chattering passengers took their places in the comfortable chairs. After the yard-thick door had swung ponderously shut, and the outside bar had been thrust home, Randall cautioned the passengers to keep their seats, then found his own place.

There came a sudden breathless drop as the upper lock opened, and the steel arms released the Vator upon the cushioning column of air above the next lower lock. A sibilant hiss sounded through the room as twelve people fought for breath when the Vator floor tried to drop from beneath them.

Two women screamed in high thin voices that tore at the agent's ears. The fat traveling salesman from New Orleans clapped his plump hands to his throat, and his eyes looked like pale blue marbles. The bronzed big game hunter looked as if he were face to face with a lion crouched for attack. The white-haired professional gentleman colored as if he had swallowed a chameleon.

Slowly the falling sensation faded, and a vast sigh of relief sounded through the room. Then a second chorus of gasps arose from eleven throats. The young engineer on his way to the uranium mines in Borneo rasped out in a choked voice: "Just--passing through the lower lock--into--near vacuum!"

Randall nodded with effort and waited breathlessly until finally the Vator had attained an almost constant acceleration.

When the eleven passengers had lost a little of their pallor, and a few had even begun to laugh and talk among themselves, Randall arose and strolled around the room.

He quietly examined the massive door which could be opened only from the outside. Then he turned and strolled about the room, carefully but covertly scrutinizing every person aboard.

There were four middle-aged school teachers who were trying to recover the vicarious thrills of vanished youth.

A young couple with the obvious devotion of honeymooners occupied the lounge across the room.

A reserved old gentleman with a mane of white hair and a professional mien sat in the big Morris chair to the right of the newlyweds. Randall immediately catalogued him as a doctor, or perhaps a scientist of some sort.

On the other side of the four school ma'ms was a chap Randall couldn't quite analyze. He was tall and spare and lithe, with the bronze of the sun in his cheeks, and a thousand tiny wrinkles like ripples surrounded the deep blue of his eyes.

Randall instinctively liked the chap. He looked wholesome and true-blue. He looked like a man who'd seen a lot of the world and liked most of it.

The young engineer, the lion hunter, and the fat traveling salesman completed the list of passengers.

The trouble was, Randall concluded, there wasn't a person in the Vator who looked as if he could be guilty of any real crime, much less the wholesale kidnappings, which had evidently taken place.

But if the enigma of the Earth Tube were not instigated by some one in the Vator, how in the name of a thousand mysteries could it happen at all?

Randall shrugged. It looked as if a philosophical approach was worse than hopeless.

He'd have to map out a plan of direct action. A plan that would tell him more of the true characters of his eleven companions.

He looked at the clock on the mantel. It's dial showed a little after 4:00 P.M., so according to the schedule, the Vator should be rapidly nearing the center of the Earth.

Randall started toward the professional gentleman in the big chair. He had completed four steps when sudden catastrophe blasted all plans from his mind.

* * * * *

The women didn't scream this time. It all happened too quickly. There wasn't even time for Randall to complete the step he had started.

Thunder with a thousand toneless voices echoed through his mind. Lightning with the hues of alien spectra shot blindingly into his eyes. He felt as though he had suddenly grasped the two poles of an electric circuit. His muscles contracted spasmodically and numbness clutched with deadly anesthesia at his groping mind.

When the stupor finally began to retreat from Randall's bewildered consciousness, the first sounds he identified were the delayed screams of the four school ma'ms and the bride.

He cautiously opened his smarting eyes and looked around. What he saw was far from reassuring, for it was vividly apparent that they were no longer in the Diamvator. In fact, there was no sign whatever to be seen of the Tube Car!

Randall blinked, looked again. He and his eleven companions were suspended like fallen acrobats in a huge net constructed of closely-woven metallic strands.

A dozen feet above his head was a coruscating sheet of stratified radiance that arched across like a miniature sky, forming a hemispherical dome of light over the great net.

Randall cleared his throat noisily. He had stalked desperate criminals into their hiding places.

He had daringly matched cunning with determined dope rings. He had stood face-to-face with armed murderers, but never as now had he felt so completely at a loss. Never had he been so neatly and easily trapped.

But what was behind it all? And how had it been done? What earthly--or other--agency could contrive to tear twelve people from the interior of a locked metal car traveling in excess of two thousand miles an hour?

Randall shrugged and turned to examine his eleven charges.

The newlyweds, Charles and Evelyn McMahon, were clutching each other frantically as if their very salvation lay in their proximity.

Blake Garnet, the lion hunter, had cautiously gained his feet and was edging gingerly across the net toward Randall.

The four school ma'ms were trying frantically to sit up, clutching each other as if separation spelled death.

Randall remembered their names because they were so thoroughly, almost ludicrously American. Retta Shields, Laura Hanks and Sarah Nelson were the three thin ones, and Mamie Wilson was the plump, good-natured one.

Paul Gerard, the white-haired professional gentleman, was interestedly gazing up at the coruscating hemisphere of radiance.

Angus McClellan, the lean whimsical chap whom Randall hadn't been able to catalogue, was talking in low tones with Gordon Malherne, the young engineer.

Randall started forward to meet Blake Garnet, when suddenly the net began to sink beneath his feet.

Down and down it sank, until Randall felt a firm foundation under his feet. Then the edges of the net were pulled up and over until the twelve humans were rolled pell-mell together in the bottom of a huge woven bag. A huge eye peered in at the twelve startled humans. An eye that glinted light from a thousand separate facets.

Randall heard his own gasp amid the bedlam of mingled screams and shouts from the passengers. Then a huge clawed arm reached down through the opening at the top of the net bag. Reached straight for the huddled humans.

Randall felt the chitinous limb slide past his body, then a frenzied scream dinned in his ears.

The kicking thrashing body of Evelyn McMahon was lifted high in the air to disappear through the opening above.

Her husband had clutched her until she was torn from his grasp, and now, with a low cry of anguish he started climbing frantically up the strands of the net.

He had clambered half the distance when the chitin-covered limb appeared again, and Charles McMahon went to join his bride.

Randall was heartsick. He could do nothing, absolutely nothing, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds until that huge claw would return for another struggling, screaming human.

He hoped frantically that he would escape the horrible suspense; that he himself would be the next victim. However, he wasn't. He had to wait until two of the school teachers and the young engineer were gone before the opposing claws closed around him.

He waited for the crushing violence of those great talons, but instead, there was only a gentle pressure as he felt himself lifted smoothly and easily from the net.

In another moment he was set free in a small open field covered with a thick carpet of grass. A tall stockade constructed of foot-thick wooden piling, sharpened at the upper ends, enclosed fifteen or twenty acres of field.

* * * * *

He looked around and saw Charles McMahon trying to calm his sobbing bride, and Gordon Malherne, the engineer, chafing the hands of the two school teachers who had preceded him.

Randall started toward the group, when a shadow passed over him, and Doctor Gerard was released from the great claw almost beside him. The white-haired scientist scrambled to his feet and turned toward Randall with a grimace.

"Nice business," he said. "I used to consider Entomology a respectable profession, and I fancied myself quite capable in my line. But from the looks of our captor, I guess my job has grown too big for me!"

Randall tried to smile at the other's joke, but his grin wasn't very successful. "Let's see what we can do for the women folk," he suggested.

Their work was immediately complicated by the arrival of the other two teachers in quick succession. They were finally beginning to have a little success in quieting the trembling women, when the claw again appeared, depositing Jerome Jackson beside them.

The fat little salesman scrambled to his feet with a squall of fear. His cheeks quivered like twin puddings, and his eyes seemed almost to be growing on stalks.

"Wha--what was it?" he quavered.

Randall almost smiled. "Doctor Gerard seems to think it's somewhat buggy," he replied. "You can draw your own conclusions."

Jackson was about to reply when the claw again descended, and Blake Garnet was released.

His black eyes were inky pools of consternation, and his healthy bronze had faded a dozen shades. He recovered his composure quickly when he saw his companions, and a thin smile fought through.

"Looks like a one-bug plague to me," he remarked. "--Whoops, here comes our cowpuncher!"

Angus McClellan still had his one-sided grin as he shook his long lanky body and looked quizzically at the disheveled group of humans.

"Never had anything like that around Sidney," he said. "Chamber of Commerce wouldn't allow it. What's the next installment anyway of the 'Clue of the Chitin Claw'?"

Randall shook his head. "That's all of us, I guess. Anybody hurt?"

Everyone looked around, and finally all shook their heads.