The Space Warp. John Russell Fearn

the end of the world?” asked Russia in surprise, and he was answered by his own astronomical expert.

      “Not necessarily. It is not a matter of colliding with a solid body or being swung aside by some superior gravity. It is a matter of—er—conditions. The end of the world, as such, is unlikely, but the effect of this space-warp region on human beings is unpredictable.”

      “We have no comparison by which to measure,” Gray explained. “It has never happened before and all our tests can show us is that heat and light will no longer obey natural law until the warp has been spanned.”

      “And how long will that take?” asked Australia.

      “We don’t know. There is such tremendous depth in the cosmos we just cannot accurately measure how far the flaw in space extends. Summing up the issue, gentle­men, Earth will swim into this mystery region at approxi­mately three o’clock in the afternoon of June thirtieth, four days hence. All of you here, representing your respec­tive Governments, must take the warning to the leaders and they, in turn, in the most palatable manner they can devise, must break the news to their peoples.”

      “That is not difficult,” China commented, “but in return the people will ask for preventative measures. What are we to tell them to do?”

      “I think that can be summed up in three words—‘Stay at home’. People must be urged not to travel unless they really must, and panic movements must be prevented at all costs. As for actual protection against this approaching mystery we have nothing to offer because we just don’t know what we’re getting into!”

      * * * * * * *

      So, quite unashamed of its ignorance, astronomy handed the matter over to Government. In consequence, that same night, the first hint of unexpected things to come went out over the airwaves in every conceivable tongue. In Britain the warning supplanted the normal news bulletins and tens of millions of viewers and listeners looked in. surprise towards their sets as the announcer spoke: “Attention, everyone! Attention, everywhere!”

      Then a pause. The very method of giving the warning was arresting. No news bulletin, even at the start of the last war, had ever been prefaced like this. The announcer paused dramatically, then continued: “This message is transmitted as a warning, and you are asked to listen to it in all seriousness and, should you know of somebody who has not heard it, kindly repeat it to him or them. The Press will cover the details tomorrow and warnings will go out repeatedly at fifteen-minute intervals henceforth. A message from the Government states that it has been advised by the astronomical faction of the world, representing every country, that there lies ahead of us a cosmic disturbance. The nature of the disturbance is not fully known, but it is believed to be connected with the fabric of space itself, the all-surrounding medium in which our planet moves.

      “At approximately three in the afternoon of June thirtieth, four days hence, our planet will swim into this mystery area in the natural course of following its orbit. When that happens it is possible that heat and light waves—and all other radiations that include radio waves—will undergo drastic changes and no longer conform to scientific law as we know it. The effect of this is unpredictable so, until the disturbance has passed—its exact duration is not known—you are advised not to travel. Stay put! For pre­caution extinguish naked light. Lay in food supplies. Do not travel! Do not travel!”

      Some people understood what the announcer was talking about: the vast majority did not, and when an average man does not understand a thing he ignores it and continues to make his plans as before. Samuel Baines and his family, for instance. They had made up their minds to spend their summer holidays in Derbyshire—which was to include an exploration of the Great Peak Cavern—and no warnings about ‘staying put’ were going to stop it. In fact many holidaymakers, whose holidays coincided with the date of the supposed strange happenings, made no alteration in their plans—not from obstinacy but just because they did not understand.

      In England generally the balance seemed to lie between those who were entirely indifferent and those who were secretly scared. Martin Horsley, for instance, a wealthy man and a confirmed invalid, made plans to leave immed­iately for a small hotel in the heart of Sussex. He had been there before—a lonely old-world place miles from anywhere. For some reason Martin Horsley had the mistaken idea that if he hid himself he would be safe.

      Far and wide the warning reached, transmitted by the radio and television stations of every country. One of those hearing it was Woodstock J. Holmes, eminent American financier on vaca­tion in Florida, and his first thought was how he could buy himself out.

      The ships at sea, the aircraft, those in outlying places of the world: every one of them was, if possible, warned of the approaching calamity and each reacted according to his or her nature.

      Despite the endless repetitions of the warnings and the gathering sense of urgency that crept upon everybody as the days passed by, there were four people who did not give a hang about the stars being bright. On June 30th, towards ten in the morning, they drove out of London in a black saloon, and each one of them had the appearance of belong­ing to some high niche of society.

      The two young women lounging in the back of the car were exquisitely dressed in the height of summer fashion—one blonde and the other brunette. The two men in front were also immaculate in lounge suits. The man who was not driving had his head bent as he read the morning paper intently: the other had his cold blue eyes fixed on the busy traffic ahead of him.

      The two women talked occasionally to each other—the blonde in a hard-bitten style and the other in quieter tones, even with a touch of shyness.

      Briefly, the two men were killers—products of London’s vast underworld, their outward immaculacy only achieved on stolen money. Neither man was conscience-stricken by his record or murder: quite the contrary. Mike Woodcroft, at the wheel, had the face of a tiger, and hard blue eyes, whilst “Prayerbook” Meigan, seated next to him; was much more subtle. He was the psalm-singing slayer, preferring the slow destruction of the mind by taunts and pinpricks­ rather than the out-and-out cold-blooded killing.

      The women? Women are women the world over, be they the pick-ups of ruthless criminals or the quiet wives of city clerks. They usually possess the redeeming virtue of a streak of gentleness in their make-up, even if it is cat-like. To this latter class belonged Evelyn Woodcroft, the blonde. She had been Mike’s right hand during the days when he had started his career of crime. At first her conscience had bothered her, then because there was no cure for this ail­ment as long as she belonged to Mike—who, in spite of everything, she loved deeply—she had sought refuge behind a brazen exterior and had on three occasions committed murder rather than look sentimental in Mike’s eyes.

      Janet Meigan was different—very different. She was too good to be mixed up with this bunch. She had married “Prayerbook” under the impression that he was a man of the church: and now she knew the truth she could think of no way out of her predicament, which would not involve the finding of her dead body in the river. Against two men and a woman, all of them killers, she knew, and so did they, that she stood no chance.

      At the moment they were heading out of town to spend the day at Woodcroft’s hideout in the country—a small bungalow which he had bought against the day when he might have to dive for cover. That day had come. Behind the quartet in the heart of London a financier and his wife lay dead. From Mike’s point of view it had been a very necessary elimination. He had “attended” to the man and Evelyn to the woman. Later, by night, they would all hop on a plane for Europe and then....

      “Know anything about science?” asked Prayerbook after a while, slanting a placid grey eye towards Mike.

      “No. And I don’t wanter.”

      “Pity. I know a bit. Paper’s full this morning about this thing what’s supposed to happen to us.”

      “Oh, that!” Mike spat with scorn through the open window:

      “Maybe something in it. It says here that space has gone cockeyed and that because of that it’s difficult to explain what’s going to happen.”

      “Then why