The Space Warp. John Russell Fearn

brush up on your science: Normally, light waves are transmitted through space in the form of waves, and anything from violet to red, between the ranges of three thousand and seven thousand Angstrom units is visible to us. The other vibrations are not, being in the invisible spectrum. But, if as seems likely, a fault has developed in the medium we call space it is possible that the two vibra­tions of which we are most conscious, light and heat, may take on different properties. Either may change their rate of vibration; new and unknown wavelengths may reach us. The breakdown of an apparently immutable law makes it impossible to predict what may happen. Earth is hurtling straight towards such a flaw in space now and towards mid-afternoon today unusual effects may be noticed. People should be on their guard and—”

      “Aw, shut up!” Woodcroft interrupted, with a sideways glance. “What the hell do you want to be reading that bunk for? Haven’t we enough on our minds as it is? Con­centrate on the moment! We’ve tough work ahead of us, Prayerbook. Rubbing out Crocker and his wife means we’ve got to get out of the country quick as we can.”

      “I know, I know,” Prayerbook grumbled, slapping the paper down on his knee. “Can’t blame a feller for doing a bit of thinking, though.”

      “But surely there can’t really be anything in this scientific stuff?” Janet Meigan asked, her brown exes reflecting a vague disquiet. “With the TV and radio warnings and now these glaring headlines it makes you wonder—”

      “Bunk!” Woodcroft decided, setting his square jaw. “Just something to fill the paper. The scientists have been pretty quiet lately since the talk about a World Atomic Pact. They have to do something to boost circulation!”

      Woodcroft’s remark stopped all conversation concerning the flaw—for the time being anyhow. And whilst it had been proceeding an omnipotent observer would have beheld Earth sweeping onwards in her orbit, nearer and nearer to that mystery region where lay the unknown.

      And in faraway Florida, Woodstock J. Holmes, the great financier, was becoming somewhat concerned for his eighteen stones of blubber. Warnings had been battering at him, and everybody else, for such a long time he was com­mencing to take notice. Suppose there was something in it? And, because he possessed so much money and influence, even to owning the main airline between Florida, New York, and London, he was able to pay the expense of a famous American scientist to come and talk things over with him in his hotel.

      “What I want to know, Sheldon, is: how will it affect me?” Holmes strode up and down the fan-cooled room as he talked, motioning with his fragrant cigar. “I’m too big a man to be involved in some scientific hocus-pocus which might upset my financial plans.”

      Sheldon, as cold-blooded a scientist as any alive, eyed the tycoon steadily. “Big man or otherwise, sir, I’m afraid it means trouble,” he answered. “As for your financial interests—their continuation depends on how things work out.”

      “Everything is as vague as that?”

      “I’m afraid so.”

      “What kind of scientists do you call yourselves? Before stampeding the world as you are doing you should work out some kind of preventative measure. You fellows live too much in the clouds. You forget how many interests are going to be disturbed by this—this something.”

      “We have no preventative to offer, Mr. Holmes, and warning had to be given.” Sheldon hesitated, looking puzzled. “Might I ask why you sent for me? Surely not just to repeat what has already been broadcast?”

      Holmes came to a stop in his pacing, his jowls shaking as he thumped the table beside him. “I want you to tell me where I can find sanctuary. Where is the best place to go? The Tropics, the Arctic, or what? Which spot on this planet is the safest?”

      “There will not be one. The Eskimo and the Hottentot will be equally affected. Don’t you understand, Mr. Holmes, that we just don’t know what will happen? But we do know that the entire Earth will be involved.”

      Holmes gave a grim smile. “Now you listen to me, Sheldon! Science, the treasured baby of the Government these days, must have made some kind of preparation for this potential disaster—or whatever it is. Science loves its secrets far too much to leave them open to possible destruc­tion. You and other scientists must have some spot on this Earth where you feel you can perhaps be safe. Where is that place? I have the right to know. Dammit, my own money founded the Institute of Molecular Research, anyway! Not that I know a thing about molecules, but my accountants tell me I might as well be philanthropic.”

      “All scientific formulae and other things of value have been transferred to Annex 10 in the Adirondack Moun­tains,” Sheldon answered. “Annex 10, in case you are not aware of it, is a full-sized building built as a retreat in case of war. It is overshadowed by a gigantic mountain ledge that protects it from the air, and it stands at least five hundred feet above ground level. Every scientist of importance is also there, waiting to study this space-warp phenomenon when it arrives.”

      “That’s all I wanted to know.” Holmes stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. “I’m coming back with you. I’m as important as any scientist—in fact more so. Without my money science would be in a mess anyway.”

      “I shall have to get permission,” Sheldon said, reaching for the phone—but Holmes stopped him.

      “Permission be damned! That I shall be with you will be enough. We’ll leave right away.”

      In face of which there was, nothing Sheldon could do, but he wondered how his brother scientists would take it when the money-bags strode into their midst.

      * * * * * * *

      Meanwhile, in England, Martin Horsley had arrived at his old-world hotel in the heart of Sussex. It lay well back from the main road, screened by elm trees. The nearest habitation was five miles away, hence the hotel was useful only to those who owned their own cars. It was exclusive, hush-hush, and possessed a proprietor-manager highly skilled in the art of handling wealthy clients.

      Grumbling and grousing, as pale as death and about as substantial, Martin Horsley alighted from his Rolls limousine and tugged a plaid blanket irritably about his bony shoulders. “Took you long enough to get here!” he reprimanded the poker-faced chauffeur. “I’m about frozen!”

      “Sorry, sir,” the chauffeur apologised, and wondered how any man could be frozen in midsummer.

      “You will be, Dawson—you will be! I don’t forget things like this. Bah! Nobody cares a hang how much I suffer.”

      “No, sir.”

      “Eh?” Horsley aimed beady eyes and the chauffeur coughed.

      “I mean yessir. Sorry, sir.”

      “Fetch the luggage and stop muttering.”

      The chauffeur obeyed, but he went on muttering—under his breath. Stumping his heavy stick on the gravel of the driveway Horsley advanced to the hotel, passed under its ancient archway, and so into the main hall where the proprietor was washing his hands with invisible soap.

      “Delighted to see you again, Mr. Horsley. Delighted! How are you?”

      “Rotten—and stop blabbering. What rooms did you reserve for me?”

      “Same as before, Mr. Horsley. I think you—”

      “They won’t do. There are bats in this place and I can hear them at night. Change the rooms.”

      “But, sir, I—”

      “Change ’em!” Horsley nearly shouted, and the pro­prietor fled behind his reception desk to make hasty altera­tions in his allocations. Finally he smiled.

      “I have just the right place, Mr. Horsley, if you’ll come with me. You’ll like it. Overlooking the countryside. As you say, most of the upper rooms do carry the sound of bats at night. They’re in the old disused belfry on the top of this building. It used to be a church, you know.”

      “I didn’t know and I don’t care. Show