Amazon

No Right Click

Amazon Quick Linker

Disable Copy Paste

Monday, April 1, 2024

The Devil's Pay by August W. Derleth (Short Story)

 


The Devil's Pay

by August W. Derleth

Originally published in Weird Tales, August 1926

A Five-Minute Story of Black Magic


THE gondola thadded against the dock and a man jumped out. He drew his cloak about him, and the rings on his fingers flashed in the moonlight as he turned to the gondolier.

"I shall be gone perhaps for hours, Messer."

"No matter, Magnificent. I am at your command. I shall wait if need be until the dawn of the second day."

Then wait." He turned and plunged into the shadows, which seemed to reach out to engulf him. He walked swiftly, surely. His face was heavily veiled and his long black cloak reached to his ankles. The few pedestrians who passed him turned and stared for a moment but went on, failing to comprehend his mutterings. The path was none too smooth, and more than once the man from the gondola stumbled over the cobblestones. At length he modified his pace and began to scrutinize the houses about him. He stopped before a low structure squatting before him like an ugly, repulsive denizen of darkness. He raised his hand to rap upon the panel of the door, but before he could do so, it swung inward.

"Come," a voice bade him from the darkness, and he entered. At the farther end of the long hall he could discern & feeble light issuing from beneath the folds of a heavy curtain.

Follow," came the voice again, and he felt his way along the wall to where the curtain was, and when he reached it, it was swept aside and the light fell upon him and enveloped him. He stepped into the room that was thus disclosed, and the curtain fell again into place. Facing him was a man as repellent as the dwelling in which he lived. He was a short man, and his beady eyes flashed venomously at the visitor. He attempted to smile, but his sensual lips curled into & sneer which mocked the attempt. He slowly lowered the flambeau in the sconce which he had held at arm's length to the table behind him, and he endeavored to pierce the veil which covered his visitor's face.

The Duke of Venice raised the veil and moved forward.

"Messer Duca!" gasped the magician, and his face paled a trifle. “What is the cause for this honor, if I may so much as ask, Magnificent"

The duke sank into a chair and gazed meditatively at the wizard before him.

"I have an enemy, Messer Gamani—" He glanced meaningly at his host.

"Ah, Excelleney. Poisons! Or perhaps a keen stiletto," he answered, quick at comprehension.

"No. Neither will do. They avail me nought. I have used them. I have had my enemy set upon, but he turned and slaughtered my men and escaped without so much as a scratch. Diavolot I have sent him wines dilated with the best of poisons, but they have gone into the canals of Venice. I have sent him a gorgeous gown saturated with a deadly poison, but he allowed a lackey to wear it and discovered my plan, for, of course, the lackey died. I have sent him an opal with the curse of hell upon it, but he ground it and returned it to me. But need I go on! I have come to you as a last resort. He must die!"

"I see but one way, Excellency. Would you'-he stopped as if to reconsider, but resumed almost at once at the gesture of impatience manifested by his visitor " would you enlist the powers of darkness"

The duke nodded silently and shrugged his shoulders eloquently.

“You are aware, Messer Duea, that man must pay for consort with Satan?"

"I am aware. I care not for the consequences."

"It is a rash act, Magnificent."

"It remains that my enemy must die," returned the duke coldly.

Messer Gamani shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Since you are determined, Excelleney—.”

"I am."

"Perchance you have a portrait of your enemy?"

"The duke cast something upon the table and the magician's hand closed over it, and he peered at it intently.

"It bears a strong resemblance to the Borgia."

"Cesare? It is not he; it is not a Borgia, much as it may seem."

Nesser Gamani remained silent. He moved to the fireplace and added fuel to the flames.

"Care you to watch my preparation, Excellency! I shall have completed the first part of the task in the space of a glass of sand. If you care not you may retire to my library and amuse yourself among my books."

"That I shall do, Messer Gamani."

A panel in the stone wall near the fireplace swung away and the duke passed into the wizard's library.


The sands in the hour-glass dribbled slowly to a heap, and as the last grains slipped through, Messer Gamani opened the panel in the wall and allowed the duke to enter.

The magician held a wax image in his hand, and he showed it to the duke, who exclaimed sharply: "It resembles him, my enemy, Messer Gamani!"

"It was modeled from the miniature portrait."

"What do you propose to do with it?"

"The image must be burned. It will take another glass of sand, but it can not be hastened."

“But when does my enemy succumb?"

“As the flame from the wax dies, so your enemy dies.

An expression of skepticism crossed the face of the duke.

"I very much doubt."

"Satan does not fail his followers, Magnificent."

"It remains to be seen."

He seated himself and watched the wizard ignite the taper of the wax figure. The incantations of the magician over it drew his attention for a space, and he watched the wax figure dwindle slowly before his eyes. The head was gone, the main body, and the flame sputtered over the legs of the fantastic little mold. As the flame expired over the wax remnants Messer Gamani turned to the duke.

"He is dead, Excellency. At the hour, seven glasses of sand since the setting of the sun."

The duke threw a purse of ducats upon the table, but Messer Gamani made no move to take it.

"Beware, Messer Gamani, if your efforts fail, if you have sported." He indicated the purse. "Take this gold."

"The gold is my pay. But there is more "

"More gola?"

"More pay. Satan must yet exact the penalty."

The duke was walking through the hall, the wizard at his heels. At the door they paused.

"The Devil may have a casket of gold," laughed the duke, "if my enemy is dead."

"Have you heard, Magnificent. The Devil loves nought so much as a soul."

His leering face vanished in the darkness, and the duke relished the vision of the magician's squat head on the end of a pike-pole as he picked his way back to where his gondola awaited him.

Tie stepped from his gondola to the cock before his magnificent palace and stood there a space watching the gondola recede in the distance. He looked up at the moon and wondered about his enemy. If he were not dead the vision of the wizard's head on a pike-pole would no longer be a vision, but a reality.

He was about to turn to ascend the steps to his palace when he heard the swishing of poles in the water. The gondola was coming at a swift rate, he judged. He did not err, for it hove into sight and came directly to the dock upon which he was standing.

"Messer Duca," came a muffled voice from the gondola.

The duke started; he recognized the voice of his watch in the house of his enemy.

"Ho, Messer Marequo. Come you from the residence of the duke?"

"So I do, and I must haste to return, for my absence will be suspected. I have great news.

“The duke—?”

"Is dead."

“Excellent."

"At the end of the sixth hour after sunset he was seized with a most violent pain throughout his body. He screamed that he was burning: that he had been poisoned. But he had not been poisoned, for his food-tasters still live unaffected. At the end of the seventh hour he succumbed in horrible pain, delivering a curse upon you."

"It is well, Messer Marequo. You shall be rewarded amply for this. You have not been followed?"

"I trow not, Magnificent."

Then haste and return; it would not do to have someone suspect you as my envoy."

The boat moved away, and the duke exultantly leaped up the steps and into the palace. He ascended to his chamber, threw off his cloak and donned a luxurious gown. His enemy was dead! Now he would no longer be hampered in his nefarious designs by his enemy! His chief councilor must know. He would go to him, now, and inform him of the incident. The Devil could come and take a casket of gold-ten caskets, for that matter, for his enemy was dead.

He started down the stairway as swiftly as his burdensome robe would allow. But half-way down his gown tangled in his legs and he tripped and fell headlong down the stone steps.

A lackey found him next morning. He was dead: his neck was broken.

END

Monday, March 25, 2024

Weird Tales Magazine: December 1937 (Complete Magazine)

 

 

Weird Tales Magazine: December 1937 (Complete Magazine)

 

Editor Title: Weird Tales - 1937 • [Weird Tales Magazine] • (1937) • edited by Farnsworth Wright
Contents (view Concise Listing)

    641 • A Wine of Wizardry (excerpt) • [Virgil Finlay's Poetry Series] • poem by George Sterling
    641 •  Wine of Wizardry • [Virgil Finlay's Poetry Series] • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    643 • The Sea-Witch • novelette by Nictzin Dyalhis
    643 •  The Sea-Witch • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    665 • Fane of the Black Pharaoh • short story by Robert Bloch
    665 •  Fane of the Black Pharaoh • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    677 • The Black Stone Statue • short story by Mary Elizabeth Counselman
    677 •  The Black Stone Statue • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    685 • The Old House on the Hill • poem by Winona Montgomery Gilliland
    686 • Flames of Vengeance • [Jules de Grandin] • novelette by Seabury Quinn
    687 •  Flames of Vengeance • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    705 •  Dr. De Grandin • (1937) • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    705 •  Dr. Trowbridge • (1937) • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    708 • Child of Atlantis • novelette by Edmond Hamilton
    709 •  Child of Atlantis • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    726 • The Voyage of the Neutralia (Part 2 of 3) • serial by B. Wallis
    727 •  The Voyage of the Neutralia (Part 2 of 3) • interior artwork by Virgil Finlay
    740 • Uneasy Lie the Drowned • short story by Donald Wandrei
    744 • The Keen Eyes and Ears of Kara Kedi • short story by Claude Farrère?
    (trans. of La peur du chat 1907)
    748 • Fragment ("And so his boyhood wandered into youth...") • poem by Robert E. Howard
    749 • Polaris • [Dream Cycle] • (1920) • short story by H. P. Lovecraft
    751 •  Weird Story Reprint • (1928) • interior artwork by Hugh Rankin
    751 • Laocoon • (1926) • short story by Bassett Morgan
    760 •  The Eyrie • (1924) • interior artwork by Andrew Brosnatch
    760 • The Eyrie (Weird Tales, December 1937) • [The Eyrie] • essay by Farnsworth Wright [as by The Editor]
    760 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Here It Is • essay by Gertrude Hemken
    761 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): From a Spanish Friend • essay by Jorge Thuillier
    762 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Orchids to Mr. Pryke • essay by Pete Thompson (correspondent)
    762 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Poe Outshone • essay by George W. Skora
    763 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Like Rare Old Wine • essay by Natalie Rockwell
    763 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Trudy, Beware of Oliver! • essay by Henry Kuttner
    764 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): It Happened One Night • essay by Manly Wade Wellman
    764 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): A Conte Cruel • essay by J. Vernon Shea [as by J. Vernon Shea, Jr.]
    764 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Happy vs. Unhappy Endings • essay by Clifton Hall
    765 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): The October Issue • essay by Julius Hopkins
    766 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Hamilton Special • essay by B. M. Reynolds
    766 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): End of the Abyss • essay by J. A. Murphy
    767 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Random Notes by W. C., Jr. • essay by W. C., Jr.
    768 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Concise Comments • essay by Richard H. Jamison [as by Richard F. Jamison]
    768 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Concise Comments • essay by Jean Van Wissink
    768 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Concise Comments • essay by R. N. Nicholaieff
    768 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Concise Comments • essay by Seymour Kapetansky
    768 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Concise Comments • essay by Alvin V. Pershing [as by A. V. Pershing]
    768 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Concise Comments • essay by Edward Landberg
    768 •  Letter (Weird Tales, December 1937): Concise Comments • essay by Henry Kuttner
    bep • Coming Next Month (Weird Tales, December 1937) • essay by uncredited


The PDF might take a minute to load. Or, click to download PDF.

If your Web browser is not configured to display PDF files. No worries, just click here to download the PDF file.

 

👉Weird Tales Bookstore👈

Sunday, March 17, 2024

The Quest of Iranon by H. P. Lovecraft


The Quest of Iranon by H. P. Lovecraft

The Quest of Iranon

By H. P. LOVECRAFT

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales March 1939.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Into the granite city of Teloth wandered the youth, vine-crowned, his yellow hair glistening with myrrh and his purple robe torn with briers of the mountain Sidrak that lies across the antique bridge of stone. The men of Teloth are dark and stern, and dwell in square houses, and with frowns they asked the stranger whence he had come and what were his name and fortune. So the youth answered:

"I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again. I am a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds."

When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city there is no laughter or song, the stern men sometimes look to the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travelers have told. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the color of his tattered robe, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head. But most of the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went away to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his hopes.

"I remember the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the window where I was rocked to sleep. And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble. I remember the square of moonlight on the floor, that was not like any other light, and the visions that danced in the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. And too, I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-colored hills in summer, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the south wind that made the trees sing.

"O Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! How loved I the warm and fragrant groves across the hyaline Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed through the verdant valley! In those groves and in that vale the children wove wreaths for one another, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of the city, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars.

"And in the city were palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Often I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees. And sometimes at sunset I would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open place, and look down upon Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame.

"Long have I missed thee, Aira, for I was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate. All through seven lands have I sought thee, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and laugh not. For I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira."


That night the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him.

"But I am Iranon, a singer of songs," he said, "and have no heart for the cobbler's trade."

"All in Teloth must toil," replied the archon, "for that is the law." Then said Iranon:

"Wherefore do ye toil; is it not that ye may live and be happy? And if ye toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Ye toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song? And if ye suffer no singers among you, where shall be the fruits of your toil? Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. Were not death more pleasing?" But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger.

"Thou art a strange youth, and I like not thy face or thy voice. The words thou speakest are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. Our gods have promised us a haven of life beyond death, where there shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the city by sunset. All here must serve, and song is folly."



"Beyond the Karthian hills lieth Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing."


So Iranon went out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square houses of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sate a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets. And the boy said to him: "Art thou not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seekest a far city in a fair land? I am Romnod, and born in the blood of Teloth, but am not old in the ways of the granite city, and yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song. Beyond the Karthian hills lieth Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible. Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither shouldst thou go and thou wouldst sing and have men listen to thee. Let us leave the city Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. Thou shalt show me the ways of travel and I will attend thy songs at evening when the stars one by one bring dreams to the minds of dreamers. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira thou seekest, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since old days, and a name often changeth. Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor ever laugh or frown at what we say." And Iranon answered:

"Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains and beyond, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or in any spot thou canst find in a day's, or a year's, or a lustrum's journey. Behold, when I was small like thee I dwelt in the valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself that when older I would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to smiling dromedarymen in the market place. But when I went to Sinara I found the dromedarymen all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine; so I travelled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drave me out, so that I wandered to other cities.

"I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and have gazed on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. I have been to Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai, and have dwelt long in Olathoë in the land of Lomar. But though I have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few, and I know that welcome shall wait me only in Aira, the city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed Oonai across the Karthian hills, which may indeed be Aira, though I think not. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilst of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly."


At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to Oonai the city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that they were both happy after a fashion. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. So it came to pass one day that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zura.

Then one night when the moon was full the travellers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad lights of Oonai. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. The lights of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, whilst the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor by the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sleep with song. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing; so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom songs and dreams would bring pleasure. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revellers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not an hundredth so fair as Aira.

When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the domes of Oonai were not golden in the sun, but gray and dismal. And the men of Oonai were pale with revelling, and dull with wine, and unlike the radiant men of Aira. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his songs Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Often at night Iranon sang to the revellers, but he was always as before, crowned only with the vine of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the hyaline Nithra. In the frescoed halls of the monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing.

It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revellers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and the flute-players. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, and listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and at evening told again his dreams of Aira, the city of marble and beryl. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snored heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green budding branches, such as Romnod used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in the ragged purple in which he had come, and garlanded with fresh vines from the mountains.

Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand and cherish his songs and dreams. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the lands beyond the Bnazic desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreaths upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira.


So came he one night to the squalid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. To this man Iranon spoke, as to so many others:

"Canst thou tell me where I may find Aira, the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline Nithra and where the falls of the tiny Kra sing to verdant valleys and hills forested with yath-trees?" And the shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, and noted each line of the stranger's face, and his golden hair, and his crown of vine-leaves. But he was old, and replied:

"O stranger, I have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years. I heard them in my youth from the lips of a playmate, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams, who would weave long tales about the moon and the flowers and the west wind. We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ran away when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things that never can be! Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth. Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone."

And in the twilight, as the stars came out one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with withered vine leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood.

That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world.

Monday, October 23, 2023

Volume 1, Number 3, May, 1923: The Unique Magazine by Various

Weird Tales, Volume 1, Number 3, May, 1923: The unique magazine by Various
 

WEIRD TALES

THE UNIQUE MAGAZINE

EDWIN BAIRD, Editor

Published monthly by THE RURAL PUBLISHING CORPORATION.

 

VOLUME 1 25 Cents NUMBER 3

Contents for May, 1923

Nineteen Thrilling Short Stories
Two Complete Novelettes
Two Two-Part Stories
Interesting, Odd and Weird Happenings

THE MOON TERRORA. G. BIRCH5
A Remarkable Novel
THE SECRET FEARBY KENNETH DUANE WHIPPLE22
A “Creepy” Detective Story
JUNGLE BEASTSWILLIAM P. BARRON23
A Complete Novelette
THE GOLDEN CAVERNSJULIAN KILMAN30
A Condensed Novel
VIALS OF INSECTSPAUL ELLSWORTH TRIEM39
Short Story
AN EYE FOR AN EYEG. W. CRANE49
Short Story
THE FLOOR ABOVEM. HUMPHREYS52
A Short Story with a Horrifying Climax
PENELOPEVINCENT STARRETT57
A Fantastic Tale
THE PURPLE HEARTHERMAN SISK61
The Story of a Haunted Cabin
FELINEBRUCE GRANT62
A Whimsical Storiette
TWO HOURS OF DEATHE. THAYLES EMMONS64
A Ghost Story
MIDNIGHT BLACKHAMILTON CRAIGIE67
Short Story
THE HAUNTED AND THE HAUNTERSBULWER LYTTON70
An Old Masterpiece
THE WHISPERING THINGLAURIE McCLINTOCK AND CULPEPER CHUNN78
The Conclusion of a Frightful Mystery Novel
THE DEATH CELLF. K. MOSS85
A Weird Short Story
THE DEVIL PLANTLYLE WILSON HOLDEN89
A Story of Ghastly Retribution
THE THUNDER VOICEF. WALTER WILSON92
The Story of a Hairy Monster
CASE NO. 27MOLLIE FRANK ELLIS96
A Few Minutes in a Madhouse
THE FINALEWILLIAM MERRIT99
A Short Story
THE CLOSED CABINET
101
A Story of the Eighteenth Century
THE EYRIEBY THE EDITOR113


The PDF might take a minute to load. Or, click to download PDF.

If your Web browser is not configured to display PDF files. No worries, just click here to download the PDF file.

 

👉Buy Weird Tales Here👈

Saturday, September 2, 2023

His Last Appearance By H. Bedford-Jones

 

His Last Appearance By H. Bedford-Jones

 

His Last Appearance

 

By

H. BEDFORD-JONES

 

First published Weird Tales, July 1943.


What makes this country you revere?

  Not trees and earth and citied roar

  And ways of life—but something more:

Voices that rise from far and near,

  Voices of those who went before

  And gave their lives by field and shore.

 

What makes this fatherland you love?

  Not prating words nor gestures grand,

  But you yourself. Your soul’s command,

Stern self-denial (faith above

  All else), your strength of heart and hand—

  These go to make your fatherland.

Gordon sat looking out across the reefs and the blue sparkling Pacific, from which the last vestiges of war had vanished half a year ago.

The great Brisbane Clipper, instead of pausing here in mid-Pacific to refuel, was moored to the floats; a hurricane somewhere over the horizon ahead had halted her. The passengers were occupying the little rest-house. There was nothing on this bare coral islet except the hangars and sheds, the workers’ quarters and shops, the rest-house and the radio and weather station, and a few isolated graves left over from war days.

Gordon was a tough citizen, hard as rock and with as much sentiment in him as a block of granite might have. During the war he had worked up to top place in the shipyards. After the sudden Nazi collapse he had piled up money, shrewdly, and got into politics. It was Gordon, they say, who was partly responsible for winning the Japanese war; it was he who hammered away until the policy of cutting off the octopus tentacles was abandoned and the bombing fleets wiped the Jap cities off the earth’s face. He got no credit for it; he had few friends and was well hated in many quarters. He had the heart of a crocodile, and the sympathetic appeal of an iceberg, by all accounts.

Now he was on a sight-seeing tour of the world, the great new world slowly emerging from its war-agonies. His flinty features, his bitter hard eyes, showed no kindliness for anything or anyone. Back in the shipyards they used to call him “Rock” Gordon; usually they added another word to it.

Such was the man who sat on the wide veranda of the rest-house and chewed at an unlighted cigar and sipped a long cool drink.

One of the Clipper pilots came out of the doorway and paused beside Gordon, who indicated two white objects at a projecting point of the island.

“What are those white things?”

“Grave markers,” said the Clipper man. “Two Flying Fortress chaps are buried there, Cox and Magruder. They landed here during the war; quite a story to it. The Nips wiped ’em out, finally. At low tide, on the left of the channel, you can see what’s left of a Jap destroyer they perforated.”

“Why weren’t they taken home for burial?” snapped Gordon.

“Seems like they wanted to stay here; nothing but coral rock to bury ’em in, but they liked it. When we retook the island, later, we found a notebook they had written in, asking to be buried here if they were killed. Apparently they had worked up an affection for the place, God knows why! They’re the ones who named it Coral Territory.”

“Affection for this blistering hole!” sniffed Gordon. “Isn’t likely.”

“You never know. The mechanics here tell some darned funny stories; they claim that Cap’n Magruder sticks around here. Even in full daylight. Some swear they’ve seen him.”

“Rot!” said Gordon scornfully. “Show me a photo of a ghost and I’ll believe it, maybe.”

The pilot laughed. “Well, you give a chap three months on this coral reef, and he goes nuts; he can see anything. One of the men even claimed he had talked with Magruder’s ghost. And you’d be surprised how many folks take it seriously. Some cockeyed geezer back home wrote it up in a magazine, claiming that a reef like this in the middle of the ocean was an ideal place for occult manifestations, as he called it. Something about vibrations or frequencies; I don’t savvy it, myself.”

Gordon merely grunted disdainfully, and the pilot went his way, thankful to escape silly questions about how soon the Clipper would get off.


Some time passed. Gordon was not in the least sleepy; his tremendous energy needed little sleep. And he seldom drank; this gin-and-bitters was his only drink today. His head was perfectly clear. In fact, he was thinking about a big business deal he could put through by radiogram. He glanced at his watch, computing the difference in time between here and San Francisco. He was on Pacific time here; it was precisely three o’clock. He remembered to wind his wrist-watch. As he was doing it, an officer came up the steps and nodded to him. His was a strange face to Gordon; probably, he thought, one of the men stationed here.

“Like to look around the place?” asked the stranger.

“Too hot,” grunted Gordon. The other laughed. He was a boyish-looking young chap, and oddly enough wore an army uniform, flier’s wings and the insigna of a captain.

“It was a lot hotter when we came. Just a year ago today, three o’clock. How’d you like to turn the time back? It might be done, with a man like you. When a chap has a lot of vitality, things like that can happen.”

“I don’t get you,” growled Gordon. The other lit a cigarette, smilingly.

“No, I expect you don’t. But you will. This island is a wonderful place, really! It’s a part of the United States now, you know; the Congress enacted it, just after the war, on account of the things that happened here. Sort of a public monument, like the National Parks at home.”

Gordon was not interested, and merely grunted. The other rattled on lightly.

“Grand ship, that Clipper yonder! Y’ know, we came here in a Fortress; one of the old B type, without guns in the belly and tail. She was good, though. That was just after Pearl Harbor. We were making for Manila, and ran slap into a hell of a Jap flotilla and their planes came up at us. My ship got it hot and heavy, we lost contact, and that’s how we happened to come down here—”

This was the last Gordon remembered, later. He seemed to merge somehow with the man talking to him; everything seemed to merge. The Clipper vanished. The boats and the rest-house itself disappeared. Nothing was left except a few sheds, and a big plane that sat on the coral sand near the sheds. It was a Nakashima, an old type of Jap naval plane, and a group of Japs were working around it.

The Fortress had no choice; she came down in a long, straight dive, with blood leaking out of her. Ack-ack fire had played the devil with her. Magruder had the controls, his boyish features white and set and strained. He was unhurt, but his co-pilot was dead. The radio man and his radio were blown all to hell. None of the crew was alive except Cox, the bombardier, and the burly sergeant-mechanic, Griswold.

Magruder would have preferred that any of the others might have traded places with Cox. Neither he nor Cox had much use for each other. However, all that was in the past. Magruder looked at his gauges; the gas tanks damned near empty. The line must have been cut somewhere. Well, he had plenty to do his work here and get down.


The Fortress shivered. A white burst showed close by; others blossomed behind. The Japs down below had seen her. An ack-ack gun was whipping away down below. Men were frantically getting into the Nakashima and trying to get her up. Magruder laughed at that. Small chance! That Nip fighter was his meat now.

The two remaining engines roared full; two had been shot dead. The Fortress swooped and circled, and her guns jetted flame. A crazy hysteria had taken hold of Magruder. When the Nakashima burst into flame, he went after the gun crew and they were wiped out. Then he got after the running, screaming, panicked Japs who were breaking for cover. More bursts swept them. Magruder ran them down like grounded pigeons. He ducked and swooped and banked all over the coral reef and back again, killing Japs. He had already heard what these Nips had done to the Clipper people when they took over this coral islet.

Then a wild hope seized him. There must be fuel here—he might be able to get away with the patched-up Fortress! That is, if he could land her. There was something wrong. That shell-burst had smashed something—his controls would not respond—

She crashed, and did a beautiful job of it, but not till Magruder had cut the switch. The crash knocked him silly; the whole front end was a twisted wreck.

Cox and Griswold got him out the hatch. He came out of it in no time and was quite all right. The three sat down on the hot coral, got rid of needless equipment, and lit up cigarettes.

“Well, we’re here,” said Magruder, looking around. The Nakashima was burning and sending up a pillar of smoke. Not a living thing was in sight.

“Any orders, sir?” asked Griswold. Magruder shook his head. “Then I’ll take a look around. Might be able to clap a bandage on some of these Japs.”

“After a fifty-caliber bullet hits, they don’t need a bandage,” said Cox. Griswold grinned, slapped his holstered pistol, and sauntered away. Magruder sat with his head swimming, until Cox brought him out of it with a quiet remark.

“Nice landing we made, Cap’n. Looks like it washed up Betsy for keeps.”

Betsy was the Fortress.

“Lucky to make any landing at all,” said Magruder. “And you’d better keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Oh!” chirped Cox. He was a little fellow, full of ginger. “And I s’pose you’d like to be saluted every hour, and have me promote your meals and your coffee and keep your boots shined? Like hell I will! You’re nothing but a pilot now, and a lousy one.”


Magruder came from Portland, and Cox from Seattle, and neither of them forgot it.

“You’ve needed a poke in your sour puss for a long time, and now you get it,” said Magruder, standing up. “And—”

He was cut short by the sharp, heavy report of a shot, then another, then several all at once. Both men swung around. Sergeant Griswold, halfway up the island, had run into three Nips hiding in a crevice of the coral, and they were not dead. Magruder broke into a run, but Cox outran him, lugging out his service pistol.

By the time Magruder got there the last Nip was dead, but so was Griswold. They had plugged him as he came up. Magruder looked down at Griswold, his face working, then up at Cox.

“Damn it!” he said. “Look, Coxy, let’s forget everything.”

Cox put out his hand, and they shook. Cox and Griswold had been great pals.

“You know,” said Cox, “we got a lot of work to do. Burying.”

“Yeah,” said Magruder. “Let’s make sure of these Nips, first.”

They fell to work searching, but those .50 machine-gun bullets had played no favorites. Their only job was to get rid of the bodies, which were simply slid into the water on the ebb tide. It was different with Sergeant Griswold and the rest of the crew of the Fortress; they were boxed and laid in the sand above high tide. This job took the two of them through the night and most of the next day.

There was no lack of material for boxes. All the stores and materials of the Clipper people were here and the Nips had landed a lot besides; it looked, thought Magruder, as though the base were to be permanently held, which meant that more Japs would be along. Not a pleasant reflection.

This fear quite spoiled what would have otherwise been an adventure worth while.

The radio station had been wrecked by shellfire when the Japs took over the islet; repairs were under way, but there was no hope of using the outfit. The Fortress radio was nothing but ragged fragments, like Betsy herself. They salvaged two of their machine-guns but were low on ammunition.

Water and food supplies were ample. The shops and other buildings had also been shelled to bits, though rebuilding had begun. Stock piles of gasoline and fuel oil, all made in the U.S.A., were under the sheds.

“Y’know, we could stay here a long while and just take sun-baths,” said Cox on the second evening, relaxing after that hard day’s work.

“That is, if nobody else came along.”

“You said it, Cap’n. When do you look for ’em?”

“Tomorrow or next week or next month,” said Magruder lazily. “Our first job is to get organized for defense. We’re out of the air but still at home.”

“What d’ye mean, home?”

“Well, this is part of our country, isn’t it? The guys that were here when the Nips came, put up a hell of a fight; they’re dead or eating rice and fish-heads now. I’d sooner be dead than on that starvation diet. Yes, this island is U.S. soil, sure enough.”

“Not the kind of soil we got around Seattle,” said Cox, eyeing the snowy coral sand. “Maybe it reminds you of Portland; they got a lot of sand up that way.”

“No argument, Coxy,” returned Magruder, refusing the challenge. “We got to stick together, bud. The Sarge checked out here; but before him—think of those guys the Nips caught! No graves around; they must have been fed to the fish, too. Well, that helps all the more to make this U.S. ground.”

“Oh, I get the idea now,” said Cox. “Does make it easier to think of it that way, sure! We get to beefing about back home—well, this is part of home, sure! The old U.S. has reached out a hell of a ways to get here, though. Y’know, I’d like to see one of them whistling Navy planes coming down the sky.”

“What you’ll see is something else sooner, I reckon.”

“And when we run out of cigarettes?”

“Use what we took off those Nips. Maybe we’ll find some in the stores, too.”


Now began sunny, endless days of preparation against the worst. For two men to even dream of beating off any Jap force that might come, was fantastic; and yet some fantastic things had been done in this war.

Magruder had two things in mind; first defense, and second emplacement. They had two heavy machine-guns off Betsy but mighty little ammunition; a number of Tommy-guns with boxes of cartridges, and a beautiful Jap machine-gun of lighter caliber, of the type invented by a White Russian refugee, that will not overheat. There was a battery of ack-ack emplaced, but only half a dozen shells left for same; practically useless.

In a newly-built emplacement, however, was installed a three-inch quick-firing gun, with case after case of ammunition to hand. The Japs had obviously been aiming to install an entire battery of these guns here, but only one had arrived. The situation for it was superb, commanding the reefs and the one channel of approach, and indeed the entire islet.

Magruder consulted with the bombardier.

“We only got one gun crew, and that’s me,” said Cox, grinning cheerfully. “So you praise the Lord and I’ll pass the ammunition. I reckon I can serve that three-inch baby, though those shells aren’t peanuts by any means. Better keep that Jap machine-gun for close quarters. You figure on planes strafing us?”

“Figure on everything,” Magruder said. “If we hold off till a plane’s right on top of us, we might get her with the ack-ack; otherwise not. What scares me is the idea of a landing party.”

“It ain’t nice to think of, for a fact; not half as nice as the Seattle waterfront,” observed Cox, “But if it happens, I reckon we’ll raise some hell before we go under. Look what I found in Griswold’s stuff!”

He unfolded a Stars and Stripes of silk, which ran to some size.

“Don’t hoist it now,” said Magruder. “If the Nips do show up, we want to do our first advertising with bullets.”

They decided to plant the two heavy machine-guns close to the water, after careful plotting out where any landing party might be expected to come ashore. Well back of these they got to work building a barricade of coral chunks, deciding to place the Jap gun here; this was a labor of some days.

The monotony here was frightful—monotony of sea and sky, of coral sand, of food, of each other. A week of it had Magruder’s nerves ragged and Cox yapping at him like a terrier. They came to blows, but in the midst of a battle royal sober sense came back to them both at the same moment; they sheepishly abandoned the scrap and went for a swim, and this was a lesson. They drew more together after this, appreciated each other more.

“What you said about this being a part of home,” observed Cox one evening, “kind of grows more true all the time. U.S. soil, I mean. It feels that way, somehow. My folks live in Seattle, and I had a job at Olympia till I went into the army. This is nothing like that country, and yet I got the feeling that this is part of home, too.”

“So it is,” assented Magruder. “That’s because men died here to hold it, our men. Just a naked little coral reef, of course, but it was part of the great Clipper adventure. It wasn’t worth anything till we took it in, but now its worth a hell of a lot, same as Midway and Guam and the rest. I’m glad you’ve got that U.S. flag to run up. We won’t have an earthly chance if the Japs do come, you know.”

“Shucks! No bullet’s got my name on it,” declared Cox scornfully.

“How do you know?”

“Fortune-teller told me so. I’ve got a real long life-line.”

Magruder made no comment. It was a good feeling to have; he wished he could feel the same.

“Fine and healthy for us here, anyhow, even if the grub’s monotonous,” he said cheerfully. “Only one thing I do wish—that’s for some earth, real earth. This blasted coral rock and sand isn’t real. Gets on my nerves sometimes.”

“That’s right,” said Cox. “Earth with worms in it, huh? Say, you know—if this is part of our country, what state does it belong to?”

Here an argument started and it went far. They finally decided that the island was a territory all to itself, like Hawaii or Alaska; that stood to reason, said Cox.

With morning they began a game that sounded silly yet was serious. They named the island, whose name was unknown to them; they called it Coral Territory. They went over it yard by yard and named the reefs and bays, then went on to divide it up into various portions—a statehouse here, a courthouse there.


This game lasted for two days, until Cox broke down and put his face in his arms and bawled. Magruder comforted him; it was sheer loneliness, empty sea and sky that got on the nerves. They ended up by laughing in unison.

They had neglected to keep track of time, but figured it was a trifle over two weeks from the day they came down, when one morning Magruder was up and yelling, and Cox joined him, and they hurriedly made a bonfire of scrap they had collected. A plane, a whistling Navy plane sure enough, as the queer radio-like whistle of her struts sounded. But she was high and far, a mere silvery fleck in the sunrise; she passed and was gone, and in silence they beat out the smoke signal.

Yet, where one was, might come others; this hope gave them a lift.

“That soil you talked about one night, with earth worms,” Cox said abruptly upon a day, as they dried off in the hot sun after swimming. “I been thinking about it. I’d like to see some of it, too. Earth, with moss on it, and maybe a sapling starting up green. You know there’s not one blessed green thing here?”

“That’s a fact,” said Magruder, nodding. “If there was any earth, there’d be green things sprouting, you bet! You take that little headland of coral, up there just past Radio City—that’d be a swell place to plant Griswold, if there was just some real dirt soil to do it in! You’d see trees there in no time.”

“If there was water, which there ain’t,” said Cox, dreamily. “I’m getting sort of tired of this here canned water.”

“Well, it’s good water anyhow.”

“Yeah, but I bet them drums had oil or gas in ’em once, by the taste. Hello, tide’s out! Let’s go get us a fresh pan fry.”

Low tide brought riches, as always, for the reef pools often held all sorts of fish, but today Magruder cut his foot on the coral, a bad cut. Cox got out Betsy’s first-aid kit and Magruder was almost glad of the injury, since it made a welcome break in the overwhelming monotony of life. But he had to hobble.

Among the meager effects of the Japanese who had been here, they discovered a tiny portable phonograph. At first they disdained it; later on the thing became a life-saver. The only records were, of course, in Japanese, but two of them were music. Cox got the idea of inventing a dance to go with this alleged music, and they cavorted about by the hour in rather crazy attitudes and steps. It was exercise, and it did help to break the time, but Magruder found that accursed music imprinted on his brain and so finally called a halt.

They summoned up every aid of imagination and invention to make a spot in the unending hours. They played war games chiefly, imagining landings at various parts of Coral Territory and working up skill in serving the guns. Since there was abundance of shells for the three-inch, they even got in some practice with it, also with the light machine-gun. The tommy guns, with drums of ammunition ready, were placed here and there for quick reference in case of attack. There were some rifles, with no end of .25 caliber cartridges, but these they disdained.

Cox got a staff rigged with the silk flag, ready to run up either to call for help or to speak defiance. Also, mindful of how they had picked off the running Japs, Magruder got out everything white he could find, for coverage.

“If they do come, our cue is to lie doggo,” he said. “Uniforms show up too plain against this white coral and sand. Funny thing is, if there were two hundred of us we’d find ourself in hot water, but just two men—well, Hirohito wouldn’t pay any heed to ’em.”

“Three,” said Cox. Magruder gave him a look of inquiry. “The Sarge. He’s sticking around, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know, and neither do you.”

“Sure I do!” asserted the bombardier. “The Sarge loved Betsy like a child. You can bet he’s hanging around her right now. And those other guys who were here in the first place. All of ’em. Coral Territory is part of our country, isn’t it? When a guy gets bumped off in these parts, where else can he go?”

This frightened Magruder. He was wise enough not to argue about it; Cox had an absolute fixed idea on the subject. Magruder himself, at times, was tempted to absurd thoughts and illusions, but fought resolutely against them. He hoped Cox would not go dotty about ghosts.


One day a queer thing happened. Their own yellow rubber boat, which was automatically released when the hatch was opened, had been ripped to pieces in the crash; not even the repair kit availed to make her serviceable. But, of an afternoon, a speck of yellow grew on the sea and came drifting in upon the tide, bobbing right along with the current that swept among the reefs. It was some other aviator’s rubber boat, and it was inflated; the attached bottle of CO2 had been used, and the packet of emergency rations was missing. Nothing to tell where it came from.

There was something gruesome and terrible about this arrival from nowhere and far more so when Magruder figured out its story. They turned the “doughnut” over and saw a lot of small patches along the edges and bottom. The repair kit had been just about used up putting them in place.

“No telling where it came from; must have come a long way,” he said, looking down at the thing with darkening eyes. His bronzed features were grave. “But this chap had one hell of a time.”

“How you figure that?” demanded Cox.

“He landed all right somewhere at sea; the rations are gone, but he didn’t starve to death. See those patches? We’ve heard plenty about how sharks like these yellow doughnuts—how they rub against ’em and nibble at ’em. That’s what happened here. The CO2 flask is empty, too—not a sizzle in it.”

“I don’t get the idea,” said Cox, puzzled.

“Well, a shark nibbled. To repair the hole, this guy had to slip into the sea and work. Happened nearly a dozen times. That damned shark must have stuck right with him. See what would have happened to us if we’d come down at sea? This guy either got grabbed just after he had fixed the last hole, or else he went off his nut completely and slid overboard, and the shark got his meal and quit.”

Cox shivered. He stared at the doughnut with brooding eyes.

“I expect you’ll claim the thing got here by accident,” he observed. “But it didn’t. It was steered here. That guy was making for the nearest U.S. soil, and this is it, pard. Probably the Sarge went out to meet him and helped fetch it here. No, sir, this was no happenstance! You can’t tell me it was.”

Magruder swallowed hard, but proffered no objections. Never argue with a screwy guy; it only makes him worse.

“Well, now we’ve got a boat, so we can paddle around and do some fishing,” he said.

A bright thought. For the next two days they did little except make use of the rubber boat; once they blew off the island and had the devil’s own time paddling back. There were no sharks about, luckily.

“I guess this place must be quite a rendezvous for guys who have passed out,” said Cox, as they were shaving on the third morning. “If we only could see them, there must be a crowd hanging around. Coral Territory would have a big voting list—”

“Lay off it, will you? Lay off!” broke out Magruder.

“Okay,” said Cox, surprised but complaisant. He strolled off toward the shore, then came back on the hop. “Hey! Why did you deflate the doughnut?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, somebody did. She was blown up last night and now she’s flat as a pancake!”

Magruder hurried along with him. Sure enough, the rubber boat was flat and nothing to account for it.

“It’s a sign, that’s what,” Cox declared in his serious, matter-of-fact way. “I’ll bet the Sarge did it, or maybe the guy who fetched it here.”

“You’re nuts,” said Magruder, exasperated. “A sign of what?”

“Trouble. A sign that we’re not to budge out in that doughnut again.”

“Now look,” Magruder said patiently. “This coral is sharp as hell in spots. The rubber got chafed somewhere and sprang a leak, that’s all. We can blow her up a bit and put her under water like an inner tube, and find the spot by the bubbles. We’ve got the CO2 flask and the repair kit from our own outfit to use.”

Cox shook his head dubiously.

“You can if you like. Not me! We’d be in a fine fix if the Nips showed up while we were paddling somewhere off Cape Lookout or Radio City! No, sir, I know a sign when I see it. I’m going to load up that ack-ack gun right now and fill the belts on the machine-gun.”

“Better eat first,” snapped Magruder. “If you’re so darned certain about your sign, we’d better fill our bellies. I’ll have a porterhouse steak, nice and juicy, and not too well done, and a dozen eggs and some prime bacon. And don’t burn the toast.”

Cox grinned at this and grudgingly said breakfast might come first; and so it did.

Coral Territory was an unsteady sort of thing; it was always trembling. When the tide was on the make, the surf battered the long reefs ferociously, making the whole island shiver underfoot. The surf was worse than usual this morning, just now the tides being extra high.


Magruder went at the job of fixing the doughnut himself. Sure enough, he found a couple of spots where the coral must have chafed through the stout rubber, and he set about making repairs. It was quite a job, and he took the deflated boat up under shelter of the sheds, as the morning sun grew hotter. Cox’s fixed idea about ghosts weighed his mind heavily. Too bad, he thought, that the little fellow had these crazy notions. It was a bad sign. He glanced up and noted that Cox, sure enough, was pottering around with the artillery. For the two guns taken off Betsy they had fixed up finger triggers to replace the automatic triggers, and had made a neat job of it. Cox was quite an adept with tools.

Magruder was aching for a cigarette when he got the patches in place. They had agreed not to smoke around these sheds where the gas and oil and explosives were stacked; also, with no supplies on hand, they were low on cigarettes and rationed them at the rate of four per day per man. Only a dozen or so now remained.

Stepping out from the shade, Magruder took out his first cigarette of the day and was in the act of lighting it when he heard Cox yell. He looked up. The bombardier was standing beside the Betsy’s machine-gun nest and waving. Magruder swung around, took one glance at the horizon, and dived back to shelter of the shed. Cox likewise vanished, next instant.

She was coming in, not very high but fast, from the west. The morning sunlight etched her sharply as she came and distinctly showed the Jap insignia on wings and tail. Magruder, lying motionless, damned the binoculars that were not at hand; however, he could see her clearly enough. She was not large at all, just a tiny reconnaissance plane such as might be carried on any ship’s deck and catapulted off. He could see two dots of heads craning over the side; she was coming lower to examine the islet. Down to a scant hundred feet, he judged.

She gave a sudden upward jump and zoomed up and over; the sight of Betsy lying there must have been quite a shock to the Nips. On past the far end, she banked sharply and came back, again dropping low to investigate. The absence of all life on the islet no doubt encouraged her to closer examination.

Then, suddenly, one of the Betsy’s guns let go with a burst; that was Cox, unable to resist. The Jap was directly overhead at the instant, and before she was gone Cox gave her a second burst. Magruder, staring up, distinctly saw the heavy bullets ripping her apart. His heart jumped. He leaped to his feet, yelling frantically.

The plane never had a chance to take fire. She just dived; she came down in the water right off Radio City and kept going. The water closed over her and that was all. The two Nips went with her and stayed with her.


Magruder scrambled over to the guns and pounded Cox delightedly on the back. They yelled, stared at each other and the water, laughed together in wild delight.

“That’s one for Betsy,” said Cox. “I bet the Sarge is tickled about it!”

“Boy! You sure did it properly!” Magruder exclaimed. Then he fell sober. “Well, I guess you know what this means. She didn’t just come from nowhere.”

“You said it, Cap’n. Take a gander north by west.”

Magruder looked. Sure enough, a smudge of smoke showed on the horizon.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll hand it to you for your sign, Coxy. Let’s get into our whites. And no use going easy on the cigarettes. Too bad you didn’t bring that Nip down on the coral—we’d have likely got some good smokes out of her.”

Cox grinned, though he was a bit pale around the mouth. He knew what was coming, all right.

“I expect we’d better use up that ack-ack ammunition first,” Magruder said as they got into their white duds. “That is, if there are no other planes around. Likely that one was carried on a ship and was the only one. They’ll guess there’s something wrong when she doesn’t report or show up; they’ll spot the Fortress, too.”

“Why the ack-ack gun, then?”

“Because she’s got a damned good range and those little shells are deadly; but they’re contact shells. If we can throw ’em into a ship, she’s a goner. They’d be no good against a landing party. Not enough of ’em. And then there’s the location of the gun, too, away from the others.”

He had figured this out carefully, the ack-ack gun, an imitation of a Brenn model, being placed well off to one side by itself. There were only seven shells left for her.

With the binoculars, they watched from the ruined radio station as the smoke first blossomed, then became a dot; then two dots. Being an army man and not a navy flier, Magruder had no training in distinguishing ships, but here he needed none. Two craft were headed for the island. One was a freighter of some size, the other was a destroyer. Both were Japanese.

“Betsy must feel mighty gloomy,” said Magruder, “to think of the fine big bull’s-eye Jap marking on the for’ard deck of that freighter, and her lying here helpless to get in the air! Well, bud, that makes it pretty clear. No more planes. A transport filled with men to get the works here in shape, and a destroyer.”

“Want to put up the flag?”

“Not yet. Not till we see if we can tempt them to come close. Once they know we’re here and fighting, they’ll shell the living guts out of Coral Territory.”

“What we want, then, is to get the destroyer if we can.”

Magruder made no answer, except a grunt, and looked at the wan moon, high in the sky. Most of the night and nights to come would be moonless; however, that three-inch gun had a range of five miles or so—in expert hands. No expert hands here.

“We’d better duck,” he said. “They’ll be watching.”

Their white rags grotesque in the sunlight, they came back to the ack-ack gun, which no longer pointed skyward. Those seven little conical shells made the heart sink, so puny were they. After putting them into one of the quick-firing holders, they lit cigarettes and waited, watching the water.

The destroyer was now coming well ahead of the freighter, evidently running in for a closer look at the island. The disappearance of that scouting plane must have puzzled the Nips considerably; but the immobile Fortress would be visible a long way off.

Oddly enough, Magruder felt unexcited, even a little depressed. Two men could not hope to do much of anything. He watched the destroyer as she came in toward the reef channel. Officers were clumped on her bridge, examining the shores; men were clumped about her guns fore and aft. She was ready for any trouble that might show itself.

“How far you want to let her come?” asked Cox hoarsely.

“Close as she’ll come,” replied Magruder. His mouth felt dry. “Once we use up those seven shells, you want to get to hell out of here. Over to the three-inch gun. That dugout she’s in will give us protection.”

“I’m a swell runner,” said Cox. “Glad I smashed Betsy’s bomb-sight. They won’t get that, even if they do get us.”

“Get ready to jump,” said Magruder, passing him the glasses. “Watch where the first shell lands, then lift or depress her. We won’t have any chance to play at range-finding. That twist in the channel, by the outer reefs, I figured at a thousand yards; she’s there now. The gun’s laid for five hundred, off that hummock of coral where we caught the devil-fish. Closer than that, she’d be coming ashore on us, so stand by.”

He dropped his cigarette and went to the gun, and waited, wishing he knew more about artillery. An expert hand would hit those Nips like a bolt from the blue before they knew what had happened!

The destroyer had slowed speed. The freighter or transport was standing off about three miles, he calculated, evidently awaiting word before coming along. The destroyer evidently knew these waters well, probably had been here before. She was heading straight for the central lagoon. She was off the hummock now; she was dead in the sights—

Magruder sighed and went to work. He was not happy about it. The gun banged and jumped. The fumes hid the result from sight.

“Over her!” Cox came with a yell and grabbed the depressing wheel. “Not much, but a little. There y’are—now give her hell!”


The destroyer was swinging around. The gun began to jump and the fumes hid her; Magruder fired the six remaining shells. He heard Cox yelling jubilantly, then scrambled up beside the bombardier and both of them legged it frantically for the cover of the dugout by the heavy gun. A shell exploded behind them, exactly beside the ack-ack gun; then hell broke loose all along the coral strand.

Before ducking for cover, Magruder looked at the destroyer; nothing seemed to have happened, but Cox was cursing and yelling in mad excitement. Then Magruder saw that something had indeed happened. The destroyer’s guns were belching smoke and flame, but she was swinging farther and farther, quite aimlessly. And the tide was on the ebb now.

“By gad, she’s going on that submerged reef!” yelled Cox. “That whole bunch of shells went into her stern, Cap’n! I could see ’em! She’s knocked out!”

A shell burst overhead and he ducked for cover.

The destroyer was giving all she had, while she had it to give. Her shells burst chiefly around the ack-ack gun, then searched out everything in sight. A tremendous detonation shook the very ground under their feet; Magruder looked, to see the oil and gas and munitions sheds going up in an inferno of fire and black smoke. Then Cox grabbed his arm.

“Look! She’s on the coral, heeling over—can’t bring her guns to bear—”

So she was. Down by the stern, she had struck the coral hard. They could see the men on the deck getting to their feet after the shock.

“Let’s go!” snapped Magruder. A burst of mad excitement went through him like an electric current. Both of them leaped for the three-inch gun controls. Like a wounded snake, striking frantically at nothing in blind ferocity, the destroyer was now sending a hail of machine-gun bullets at the island, giving the silent Betsy a thorough shooting-up. Through this conculsive madness the three-incher launched her shells, carefully, slowly, deliberately.

Magruder made two clean misses. By that time, lead was hurtling all around. Then the next shell went slap into her—and the next—and the next. Three in a row; then her decks lifted up in a tremendous burst of white, hiding her from view.

“That’s it,” said Cox hoarsely. “Steam; she’s gone up. Some of those Nips may come across the channel and get ashore. See you later.”

Magruder crawled out, watched Cox running and picking up a tommy-gun, and then sat down and looked at what had been the destroyer. It was unreal, incredible, past believing; but it was true. She was nothing but a hulk on the reef, vomiting black smoke and flame skyward. Finished, forever.

A few black dots appeared, swimming across the narrow channel. After a little, the chatter of Cox’s tommy-gun lifted vibrantly and angrily, then it fell silent. Nothing more happened. Dull explosions took place aboard the burning destroyer. Her bows blew out, then she just burned. Cox came walking back. He did not seem particularly happy.

“I guess it was a hell of a thing to do,” he said, then sat down and scowled at the water. “But hell! It had to be done.”

“All finished?” asked Magruder, and Cox nodded. “Yes, it had to be done, old scout, so cheer up.”

There was a whine in the air, a growing shriek like the trump of doom; they dropped flat, as a shell exploded fifty yards away. Now they remembered the freighter. She was firing a heavy gun and steaming away.

“She’s lighting a shuck for home!” cried Cox. Magruder shook his head, and looked again at the pale high moon, and sighed.

“No such luck. Just getting out of our range. You’ll see.”

They did. She lay well off, a mere dot, and sent shells hurtling in regularly, to burst everywhere and anywhere. And nothing else happened.


Magruder and Cox retired to the far end of the islet and stayed there. The smoke from the burning gasoline dump died out gradually. The destroyer smoked on by fits and starts. The shelling continued until the sun sank in red fury, then stopped.

“Now for it,” said Magruder. “Here’s the last cigarette; we’ll divide it. Better go back and see what we can find to eat before it comes.”

“Before what comes?” demanded Cox.

“Night. And landing barges.”

They sat waiting under the stars, by the two guns taken from Betsy. The coral was all shell-pits, the sheds were gone, the ack-ack gun was gone. The flag still blew where Cox had mounted it during the afternoon. Darkness crept down upon the waters, but smoke hazed everything; only, from the nearer reefs, ran flashes of phosphorescence like pale moonbeams along the water, as the surf broke. No light showed anywhere.

What happened, there under the stars and smoke? It was impossible to say; two men could not watch everywhere. Betsy’s guns ripped out for the last time; a wild frantic chattering and screaming came from barges creeping in upon the lagoon, then the ammunition gave out.

They used the light Jap machine-gun after this, but not long. Barges must have come in at several points. Other machine-guns began to rip and chatter from the right and from behind. Cox cried out something and tumbled on his face and lay in a heap. Magruder felt a shock, then another shock, and that was really all that he remembered about it, for there was no pain at all, nothing to remember afterward. He was quite emphatic on this point.

“That’s funny,” said Rock Gordon. “You know, I always thought it must hurt like everything to—”

He blinked in surprise and sat silent, for he was talking to no one. The officer with the flyer’s wings was not there at all; he was gone. Gordon looked around and found himself quite alone, the unlit cigar between his fingers. He frowned, shook himself, and looked at his watch, incredulous.

Four minutes past three! Four minutes had passed—why it was impossible! Yet the ice in his glass had not even melted. He lifted it and drank, and his hand shook a little.

“My God!” he said to himself. “Am I nuts or what?” There was no answer. He just sat there for a long while, looking out at the sun and the white coral and the reefs, and the iron framework of the Jap destroyer that showed at low water.

Gordon located the Clipper captain that evening, and handed him a radiogram.

“I wish you’d get this off for me,” he said. “It’s to the general manager of your line. Is it clear?”

The pilot glanced over the message. Astonishment came into his face.

“Good Lord, Mr. Gordon! Oregon earth—a ton of Oregon soil shipped here and put around those graves—why, do you know what that will cost?”

Gordon’s flinty features hardened.

“Cost be damned!” he snapped. “Can it be done?”

“Yes, I suppose it can. But there’s no necessity of that; the graves are well protected and cared for—”

“No necessity?” broke in Gordon, his words like bullets. “No necessity of anything, where dead men are concerned. That’s the trouble with people like you, from Congress down. When a man’s dead, there’s no necessity of anything. Well, I want those two boys reburied in Oregon earth; I want a ton of it brought here and the job done properly, and I’ll pay all expenses. And if anybody asks you why, the answer is that both Cox and Magruder would like it, and by God that’s answer enough!”

So it was, too.

 


About the Author


Henry Bedford-Jones

Henry Bedford-Jones (1887-1949) was a Canadian born author. Born in Napanee, Ontario, his family moved to the United States when he was a teenager and he eventually became a naturalized citizen. He was a prolific author of over 1200 short stories and about 100 novels, many of them set in the adventure theme. He contributed to several series for juvenile readers. Some of his stories ventured into the fantasy and horror genres. (Encyclopedia of Science Fiction)

  H. Bedford-Jones at Amazon