Monsters of the Ray Page 9

  I danced, I shouted, I chortled with glee, with the pure joy of destruction. I was fighting unearthly supernatural beings with an unearthly, supernatural weapon,

  I felt a strange exaltation, as if I were a superior being, almost as if I were a spirit battling with conquering evil spirits. I was drunk with my power, my invincibility.

  The power of that ray was inconceivable, No matter how far distant the monsters might be, it picked them out, exploded them, disintegrated them. Some were already far across the plain, traveling rapidly towards the buildings, following, after Harris, who was nowhere to be seen, who, I felt sure, had reached the shelter of the house or the laboratory in safety. Every monster had been wiped from existence in the neighborhood of the platform. Several that had been about to pass through the arch, had been overtaken by the ray and destroyed. Only the three that were rapidly receding towards the buildings remained. For a moment I hesitated, fearing that if I turned the ray upon them I might inadvertently injure Harris, who had fled that way. Then I remembered his statement that the ray was harmless to organic matter, that he could stand before it without injury. I waited no longer.

  Carefully I swung the nozzle aimed it at the lurching, undulating, gray forms looming vast against the buildings beyond.

  A volcano seemed to burst into eruption. The world seemed to thunder and crash about my ears. I had a faint, a fleeting vision of lurid flames, of a rending, thundering detonation that seemed to rock the earth—and then: oblivion.

  The sun was sinking when I came to my senses. The world was bathed in a lurid glow, and for an instant I thought a terrific conflagration was near at hand. I groaned with agony as I tried to rise. I felt bruised, as sore as though I had been pounding with giant hammers. My head was splitting. With an effort I moved my arms; they at least were whole; I felt my head gingerly but could find no fracture; nothing more serious than a deep scalp wound. Little by little I moved my legs, I thanked God there were no bones broken. And though I suffered excruciating pain in so doing, I gritted my teeth, and, rising to a sitting posture, gazed about.

  I was surrounded by wreckage, by splintered timbers, by the remains of instruments and apparatus that I recognized as the devices Harris had installed upon the platform, the platform that had collapsed with me upon it.

  Sudden memory flashed back to me. What had happened? What had caused that terrific explosion? I managed to turn my head. Where the great dyke had stood was a mass of tumbled, jumbled blocks of stones, blocks with their edges clean-cut by the ray. Only two rough, jagged, columnar fragments of the dyke remained standing. Everything else, all the centre, weakened by the continual cutting, had fallen by the concussion of that terrific blast.

  Groaning, raising myself inch by inch, I rose to my feet. I stared about. The great black arch, the Hauro-Yana, had been riven, and a great gap showed in its centre. Not a living thing was visible upon the plain, but across it, gleaming, shimmering in the light of the sinking sun, were the slime-trails left by those awful monsters from another planet. A cold shiver swept over me at sight of the paths of hardening slime, at memory of the horrible things, at recollection of their destruction, Where, I wondered, was Harris? He must have witnessed the annihilation of the things. Why had he not come to my assistance?

  I shouted his name as loudly as I could, but there was no answer.

  Slowly, painfully, helping myself with a stick, I picked myself up amid the wreckage of the platform; I toiled step by step, dragging one foot after the other, towards the buildings. But before I had gone fifty paces I stopped, stared, rubbed my eyes, aghast. Not a building was in sight, not a tree rose against the lurid sky where Harris' house and gardens had stood!

  Forgetting my aches and pains, filled with terror of what it might presage, I hurried forward. My worst fears were fulfilled. Only heaps of shattered masonry and wreckage were to be seen where Harris’ house, workshop and laboratory had been. And where the latter had stood was a great pit, a miniature crater in the earth,

  Slowly realization came to me as, overcome, utterly spent, filled with numbing sorrow, I sat there amid the ruins while twilight fell over the scene of desolation. The laboratory had been full of chemicals, Harris had great quantities of the synthetic ray-making materials on hand. The ray, aimed at the distant monsters rushing towards the buildings, had reached beyond them, had fallen upon the laboratory and had exploded the chemicals stored there. It was all clear now, all plain.

  But realization had come too late. Bitterly I blamed myself. For a space I contemplated ending my mental tortures by my own hand. I had been the means of Harris' death. By accident I had destroyed him, while I was striving to save the world from the monsters of the ray.

  There was but one consolation, one chance that I was not, technically, a murderer. There was a possibility, a remote chance, that the explosion had not killed Harris, that before it had taken place he had been overtaken by the things and had been killed, devoured by them. But that thought was, if anything, more terrible, more horrible than the thought that I had killed him. No, no, no! I cried to myself and to the silent night. Not that! Better a thousand times that he found death in the explosion of his laboratory, than that I killed him with my own hands!

  The uncertainty was terrible. How I lived through that night with my mind tortured and racked with doubts, fears, self-reproaches and heartbreaking sorrow, I shall never know, But all things have an end and at last day dawned over that scene: of death and desolation. And as I glanced about and the very place seemed dead, I remembered that other scene, when only the body of the pre-Incan king remained in the desolated city and I felt that history was repeating itself at Hauro-Yana.

  Why I remained there, I do not know.

  As day spread over the mesa and the sunlight streamed over the Andean summits, once more I rose and aimlessly, with no conscious; purpose in view, I began to wander about, to search amid the ruins and the devastation for some trace of Harris, some proof that he had not met that other and more horrible fate.

  Yet I could find nothing, no bruised and mangled flesh, no fragments of anything human. At last, utterly spent, realizing that I could do no more and faint for want of food and sleep, I turned my weary feet towards the Indian village.

  Less than a quarter of a mile from where I had spent the night, I came upon him. So natural, so peaceful he seemed, that at first I thought him asleep. His face was calm, composed, and a smile was upon his lips. But as I stooped, hoping against, hope that he was alive, full realization of what had happened came to me.

  Still clutched in his hand was his revolver, and in his right temple was the round blue mark ringed with dry blood, where the fatal bullet had entered his brain. Harris had taken his own life, and glancing up I knew the reason why. Within a score of paces from where the body lay there was a heap of slimy matter. Beyond it stretched the glistening, varnish-like pathway made by one of the monsters of the ray. Harris had realized he could not escape, he knew—he must have known —that if I destroyed the thing with the ray the explosion would follow. Death was certain in either case, and rather than be devoured, absorbed by that loathsome, awful thing, or be blown to atoms—perhaps mangled and not killed out-right by the explosion—he had taken the quicker, more merciful way.

  I was still bending over him, tears streaming down my cheeks, when a sound caused me to turn, and I saw two Indians standing beside me.

  Of all their people they alone survived. Their presence was like a gift, a blessing from heaven to me. Their companionship saved I me from insanity I am sure, and I never, without them, could I have escaped from Huara-Yana.

  There is little more to be told. With the Indians' help I gave Harris proper and—so I trust—Christian burial. Then, having eaten and rested and in a measure recovered the use of my muscles, we started on that long and terrible journey across the mountains from Huara-Yana to Tucin.

  Days were occupied in that trip, but eventually we arrived at the little village and there, bidding farewell to the tw
o men who had stood by me so faithfully, I secured

  The mules and guides and in due time reached the railway and civilization. Far back in the heart of Andes, amid the massive ruins of a long-past civilization, Frank Ogden Harris sleeps the eternal sleep. As far as the world knows he came to his death through an accident, the explosion of chemicals in his laboratory in Peru. Only two non-committal Indians and myself know the true story of his death and the astounding events that led up to it. If the Indians ever tell of it, their stories will be put down as fables, legends, myths. So, to all intents and purposes, only I, who was a witness of and a participant in those amazing occurrences can reveal the facts as I have herein related them,

  No doubt my story, too, will be scoffed at, ridiculed, declared fiction or the ravings of an overwrought or injured brain, as hallucinations brought on by the explosion of Harris' laboratory.

  But if those who scoff and doubt wish proofs, let them go to Tucin. Let them hunt up Chupi-Sara and Lucamo-Tesi, then let them journey over the Andean summits to Huara-Yana where they will find the ruins of the pre-Incan city, the shattered black arch of Huara-Yana, the debris of the great dyke, the splintered remnants of the platform and the broken instruments and perchance—for I know not if they remain—the great paths of sun-dried slime left by those unspeakable, horrible monsters of the ray.

  THE END

  About the Author

  Alpheus Hyatt Verrill, known as Hyatt Verrill, (1871-1954) was an American archaeologist, explorer, inventor, illustrator and author. He was the son of Addison Emery Verrill (1839–1926), the first professor of zoology at Yale University. Hyatt Verrill wrote on a wide variety of topics, including natural history, travel, radio and whaling. He participated in a number of archaeological expeditions to the West Indies, South, and Central America. He travelled extensively throughout the West Indies, and all of the Americas, North, Central and South. Theodore Roosevelt stated: "It was my friend Verrill here, who really put the West Indies on the map.” During 1896 he served as natural history editor of Webster's International Dictionary., and he illustrated many of his own writings as well. During 1902 Verrill invented the autochrome process of natural-color photography. Among his writings are many science fiction works including twenty six published in 'Amazing Stories' pulp magazines.

  Other works by A. Hyatt Verrill

  Into the Green Prism

  Beyond the Green Prism

  The Golden City: A Tale of Adventure in Unknown Guiana

  The Boy Adventurers: In the Land of the Monkey Men

  The Treasure of the Golden God

  Through the Andes

  The Inner World

  Magazine Appearances:

  The Bridge of

  When the Moon Ran Wild (by Ray Ainsbury)

  Beyond the Pole

  Through the Crater's Rim

  The Man Who Could Vanish

  The Plague of the Living Dead

  The Voice from the Inner World

  The Ultra-Elixir of Youth

  The Astounding Discoveries of Doctor Mentiroso (by H. Hyatt Verrill)

  The Psychological Solution

  The King of the Monkey Men

  The World of the Giant Ants

  Death From the Skies

  Vampires of the Desert

  Dirigibles of Death

  The Feathered Detective

  The Non-Gravitational Vortex

  Monsters of the Ray

  A Visit to Suari

  When the Moon Ran Wild

  The Exterminator

  The Death Drum

  The Mummy of Ret-Seh

  The Flying Head

  The Ghostly Vengeance