Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace (17 page)

Old-fashioned gas fixtures studded the walls, but these appeared to be merely decorative. No gas service out here in the forested wilderness, of course. Just to satisfy his curiosity, Monk tested one, twisting the key and sniffing the opened valve.

“No gas stink,” he reported.

Doc led them up the substantial staircase to the second floor. There were only bedrooms, but these too were bare. Up here, pale scabs of loose paint hung from the cracked ceilings, like dead skin from a molting snake.

There was no sign of a habitation. Evidently, the place had been built before indoor plumbing was invented and never renovated to accommodate modern conveniences.

“Ain’t no one livin’ here,” Monk muttered.

“It’s just a shell,” rumbled Renny, bringing his blocky fists together, as he did when stumped.

“There remains the tower,” reminded Doc, who moved along an L-shaped corridor until he found the sturdy staircase to the attic tower.

They ascended carefully. Step risers creaked forlornly.

“Swell joint for a ghost,” muttered Monk.

“Why don’t you consider moving in?” snapped Ham unkindly. “You would fit right in.”

“I got a good mind to lock you in the attic until you grow some sense,” Monk growled.

“If you had a good mind,” countered Ham, “you would have a forehead instead of those beetling brows.”

Their banter trailed off when they stepped through an unlocked door into the tower void.

The interior was a shadowy cone. But it was not empty.

A DEVICE stood in the center of the room. It was a complicated array remindful of nothing they had ever seen. There were moving parts, rather on the order of a gyroscope, mounted on an ornate pedestal of wrought iron. All appeared to be hand-forged by some imaginative artisan in metal. Doc walked around this carefully, circling it twice. From his lips came a vague susurration—his tremulous trilling, pitched very low. It might have been the bronze man’s version of a near-silent whistle of intrigue.

“This is the heart of the machine,” he said.

“What machine?” asked Long Tom querulously.

“This entire structure,” supplied Doc Savage in a steady voice, “is a machine of a type imaginative writers have long speculated over, but which science has never considered feasible to construct.”

Ham blinked. “I fail to—”

Then everyone froze into silence. The truth sunk in.

“Are you saying this ramshackle old dump is a time machine!” exploded Monk.

Doc did not reply in words. He simply nodded.

They fell to examining the central mechanism. Much of it suggested interlocking or concentric rings. These were calibrated in some manner. Part of it was clearly electrical in nature, but other structures involved specially-shaped crystals whose purpose and function was puzzling in the extreme.

“Reminds me of a gyroscope,” remarked Long Tom.

“That is one way of putting it,” said Doc. “As nearly as I can tell, this is what might be termed a gyroscopic astrolabe.”

Monk clucked, “Johnny, translate that, will ya?”

“I fail to follow,” the bony archeologist said weakly. “But an astrolabe is a device employed by seafarers in olden times to navigate vast oceans by computation of the stars. This construct is infinitely more complex than a navigator’s astrolabe.”

“Consider the possibility that a vehicle can be devised to transport a person back into the past,” stated Doc. “What other considerations must be taken into account?”

Ham frowned. “How far back in time to travel?”

“That is part of it. But there are other problems. For one, the Earth is spinning in space, and for another, the planet is traveling in a constant orbit around the sun. Even the solar system is in motion. To travel back in time one hundred years into the past would risk materializing in outer space, unanchored and floating helplessly in an airless vacuum.”

“Because the Earth itself moves,” crowed Ham.

“Exactly,” said Doc.

Monk grunted, “The guy who thought this up must have been a daggone genius.”

“Constructing a reliable vehicle for temporal displacement is considered impossible,” Doc continued. “The inventor of this machine—for this entire house comprises the time displacer—was unquestionably brilliant. He not only solved the essential problem of reversal in time, but also the issues arising from the celestial mechanics of such a journey.”

“If this is the brain of the thing,” wondered Long Tom, “where are the circuits of the time machine itself?”

“All around us,” said Doc Savage. “The entire house is the time machine. The raised floor and thick walls no doubt conceal the essential electronics involved. I had no opportunity to study them. If indeed, such could not be done without gutting the whole structure.”

They stood in the weird tower room that from the outside was so reminiscent of a witch’s conical cap, studying the mechanical brain of the thing. It was like nothing any of them had ever seen before, which given that the bronze man’s tiny band comprised some of the greatest scientific minds of the century, said a great deal.

“So every time we approached this place,” Renny remarked, “the house took itself back in time.”

Doc nodded. “Triggered by a photoelectric cell, which I have disabled. It was a perfect mechanism to prevent the house from falling into unfriendly hands. Every time someone approached, the mechanism threw the dwelling back to a predetermined year in the past. A timer caused it to reappear later. Anyone encountering the phenomenon, even the most rational of individuals, would be inculcated with superstitious fear.”

“Except us, naturally,” boasted Monk.

Ham made a sneering sound of disgust.

Johnny looked thoughtful. “Earlier, you said that you had been transported into the past. What happened to you there?”

Doc Savage hesitated. “I would rather that account wait. We have an urgent mission to accomplish. Big Neck must be brought back to his own time.”

“That’s simple,” said Monk. “We’ll lock him in a closet and send the whole works back.”

“There is more to the problem than that,” advised Doc. “When I was in the past, I met the man who owns this time transporter.”

“Holy cow!” boomed Renny. “You mean to say the guy lives in the past?”

“No, he is
trapped
in the past. The unfortunate is being held for ransom by the Big Necks. I promised the Iowans that I would bring back their chief. They, in turn, vowed to release this man.”

“What’s his name?” asked Long Tom.

“He would not tell me. But that is something we can uncover later. First, two of you will come with me, while the others will remain here to guard the location.”

Everyone hesitated—except for Johnny Littlejohn.

“I will gladly volunteer,” he said, eyes bright.

Doc looked to the others. They were brave men, willing to court death and danger. But here was the prospect of a journey into the unknown unlike any they had ever faced. It forced them, for once, to consider the risks involved. Feet shuffled. Eyes searched the ceiling. Ham Brooks fell to examining his mangled sword cane, frowned deeply, and tossed it away with disdain. All this temporizing was an unusual sight.

Various expressions crossed Monk Mayfair’s wide, simian features.

“Heck,” he said at last, “count me in.”

Ham abruptly inserted, “Include me, as well. If that hairy ape is willing, so am I.”

“Best to keep this party small,” said Doc. “Three will have to remain behind.”

“Let Monk remain behind,” declared Ham. “He would only frighten the Indians.”

Grinning, Monk extracted a coin from his hip pocket. “Match you for the privilege,” he suggested.

“Heads,” Ham said sharply.

Monk gave the nickel a flip with his thumb. It spun and rang in the air. A hairy hand snapped out, and caught it. Monk slapped it onto the back of his other hand, removing the fingers holding it.

“Tails,” he crowed.

“Let me see, insect!”

Monk displayed the coin. It was a buffalo nickel. The humped shape of the buffalo showed plainly.

“You have used two-headed coins to trick me in the past,” complained Ham. “Let me see the other side.”

Grinning, Monk reversed the coin, showing the Indian profile that proved the coin was genuine.

“It is settled,” said Doc. “Begin divesting yourselves of any weapons and other items.”

Johnny blinked. “Why?”

“We can’t risk the possibility of losing modern weapons in the past, where they could fall in the wrong hands and be duplicated. That eventuality could alter the course of history as we know it now.”

“Good thinkin’,” said Monk, unholstering his supermachine pistol. Johnny followed suit.

Doc Savage did not carry a weapon of his own, but he removed his special equipment vest and began emptying its pockets. Certain items, such as a padded container of fragile glass marbles—actually anesthetic grenades—he kept, since once used, they were no longer effective, and could not be duplicated by the science of the Nineteenth Century.

“Wrist watches as well,” reminded Doc. “And modern money.”

When it was over, a pile of items sagged in Renny Renwick’s huge arms.

Unseen by anyone, Monk palmed his buffalo-head nickel. He considered it to be his lucky coin, and feared that Ham Brooks would appropriate it out of spite.

“Now we will fetch Big Neck,” announced Doc.

THEY found the Iowan where they left him, slumbering on the fading autumn grass, oblivious to all.

Doc Savage lifted him in his great corded arms and bore the limp-limbed brave back into the parlor.

“Do you understand the mechanism well enough to operate it?” asked Johnny.

“I do not,” admitted Doc. “But since it is set to go back to a predetermined month and year, it is not necessary that I do so.” Turning to Renny, Long Tom and Ham, he said, “Once you three retreat to the forest, I will reengage the so-called magic-eye mechanism. At my signal, you will approach the building. That will trip the electric eye and actuate the time transporter.”

Renny and Long Tom looked uneasy.

“This sounds kinda risky,” Renny offered.

“It
is
risky. But it must be done. It is as important to retrieve the stranded man from the past as it is to return Big Neck to his tribe.”

No one offered any contradictory thought on that score.

Renny rumbled, “I feel like we ought to shake hands in farewell, or something.”

“Aw, we’ll be back soon enough,” snorted Monk. “Heck, we ain’t even goin’ far.”

“Not in geographic terms,” agreed Johnny.

“Still,” cautioneded Ham Brooks, “if something unfortunate befalls you, or you cannot return to the house in time, you will all be marooned back in 1829.”

“If we do not return with the house,” explained Doc calmly, “simply trip the electric eye repeatedly until we do.”

“O.K.,” said Long Tom. “But if something does go wrong, it’s a long walk back to October, 1937.”

“Indubitably so,” agreed Johnny. “A walk of some one hundred and eight years in duration.”

With that sober assessment hanging in the dim air, Ham Brooks, Long Tom Roberts and Renny Renwick retreated to the porch and walked up the narrow lane through the close-pressing trees.

When the trio reached a point they thought correct, they turned around.

Doc Savage’s voice called out, saying, “You may proceed.”

Together, they approached the house. There was no sensation of triggering the electric eye, of course. It was impalpable, as well as not visible, being a beam of infra-red light.

The blood-colored Victorian dwelling simply popped out of existence like a soap bubble. They felt a movement of air all around them, as if the surrounding atmosphere were rushing in to fill the sudden vacuum. Leaves rustled briefly. That was all.

Despite the fact that they were psychologically prepared for the phenomenon—at least, they thought they were—audible gasps came from their compressed lips.

“That’s that,” rumbled Renny.

“You make it sound like they’re gone forever,” breathed Ham Brooks.

“It will be a calamity if they are,” moaned Long Tom, the biggest pessimist of the group, next to Renny.

The pallid electrical wizard stared at the void where the hideous dwelling once stood.

“Anyone see what became of Monk’s pig?” he asked after a time.

Ham looked about. “He was here a minute ago.” His sharp gaze found the hoof marks of the ungainly shoat in the dirt, followed them with his dark eyes.

“They lead back in the direction of the house,” he said.

“You don’t suppose…” Renny started to say.

“Habeas could have jumped onto the porch just before the house left our era,” Long Tom mused. “The way it wraps around, no one would have noticed.”

“If that is the case,” muttered Ham, “Monk is going to have his hands full.”

Chapter XVII

BEAUTY IN THE DARKNESS

THERE WERE TWO or three sounds made by Spook Davis taking random passes in the darkness with his brick.

“I still can’t find anybody!” he gulped.

Gull said, “Relax.”

Gulliver Greene sat perfectly still, crowded a little between the girl and senseless Ivan Cass. He did not say anything, being fully dumbfounded. When lightning came, a long lurid brightness, Spook Davis leaned forward, popping his eyes at the girl.

Her deliciously cinnamon-hued hair was fluffy, tousled by the rough handling, and her exquisite lips were drawn thin, her blue eyes wide. She still wore the frock of dark burlap which had the effect of setting off her breathtaking contours.

Spook Davis sighed deeply in the following darkness.

“I don’t blame you for hiding that shoe,” he told Gull.

“Oh!” Saint Pete said. “It’s you two!”

Her voice struck Gull as being as perfect as it had that time when he came upon her trying to capture and question poor old Box Daniels. That reminded him of how, when he had seized her on that occasion out by the filling station, she had gasped for him to rush back and get old Box Daniels, only to disappear when he did so. He decided to start his questions at that point.