Генри Каттнер - World’s End

First published in Weird Tales, February 1938 .

Kenneth Blake, struggling into a bulky, ill-fitting garment of black leather, glanced up as old Norwood came into the laboratory. Norwood’s gaunt, wrinkled face was set in frowning lines, as it had been ever since Blake had announced that the experiment would take place today. It was odd that Norwood, who would be only a spectator, was worried and afraid, while Blake was only anxious to get into the Time Machine and test the theories which had engrossed him for seven years.

Blake smiled as he brushed back his blond hair with a mittened hand.

“Don’t look so miserable, Jep,” he said, and raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Good Lord, another gun? You must think I’ll have to stand off an army.”

The other shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It’s as well to be prepared,” he said glumly, but put the revolver aside and came forward to help Blake, who was fumbling with the fastenings of a transparent helmet. Impatiently Norwood brushed away Blake’s gloved fingers, and the younger man, chuckling, watched deft, lean hands fasten the helmet into place.

Blake touched a stud on his suit. His voice sounded, hollow and metallic.

“Can you hear me, Jep?”

“Yes. The phone’s okay—try the heat.”

Blake flicked another stud. After a moment he hastily pushed it back to its original position. His face, seen through the transparent helmet, was glistening with perspiration.

“Too hot for comfort.”

“You may need it, though, Ken. We can’t tell what you’ll find—even if the machine works.”

“If it works! Of course it’ll work.” Blake’s voice was a little uncertain. Norwood had expressed the fear that had been haunting him for years. He turned away to hide his face from Norwood’s searching, faded eyes. If he were to fail now!

No, he wouldn’t fail—he couldn’t! All the tests had succeeded—all but the final one. Yet on that final test the success of the experiment must depend. Suddenly Blake was impatient. He moved across the room, grotesque in his insulated, electrically heated suit, to the Time Machine.

A raised platform of shining metal, eight feet square, with a shoulder-high railing running along its sides—that was the Time Machine. Only Blake and Norwood knew of the long and bitter years that had gone into its making, the endless experiments and the mighty dreams that had made the creation more to them than a machine. The platform, two feet thick, housed a complicated array of machinery—the fruit of seven years’ toil. That was the heart of the machine. From the platform’s center a thick pillar jutted up, studded with gages and dials. A bakelite lever protruded from a slot in the column’s flat top. Blake’s eyes were dreaming as they dwelt on the machine.

And Norwood—strange! At first as enthusiastic as his partner, lately he had grown morose, worried. It was as though he feared the machine his deft hands and Blake’s had created. Sometimes Blake had seen the old man staring at the Time Machine with a brooding dread in his eyes. But Blake himself felt only exhilaration, joyous expectancy at the thought of embarking on the greatest adventure—into time!

Blake ducked under the railing and stood erect on the platform. At his feet was a pile of paraphernalia Norwood had thought he might need—scientific textbooks, a barometer, blankets, tinned food, a large keg of water, and weapons—revolvers, several rifles, and even a sub-machine gun. Norwood couldn’t seem to realize that the machine itself was the best protection against danger—that at the first warning of trouble Blake could put a dozen years between himself and any enemy.

Blake stepped to the pillar and knelt, examining the instruments. After a moment he nodded.

“Ready, Jep?” he called.

“Yes—ready,” Norwood said gruffly.

But Blake did not touch the bakelite lever. He turned to face the old man.

“Think of it, Jep,” he said softly. “When I touch that lever I’ll go on the greatest adventure man has ever known. I’ll be projected into another dimension, while the years and centuries flow past—and then I’ll come back into the three-dimensional world in another time! It’s as though I could free myself from gravitation and let the earth spin around beneath me. Lord, the wonder of it! I—I’ll bring back one of your descendants to visit you, Jep,” he finished, somewhat embarrassed by his outburst. But Norwood did not smile.

“I know how you feel, Ken. And——” He hesitated, went on abruptly. “Don’t you feel something else, too? That—that man wasn’t meant to do this? That in the cosmic scheme of things time was meant to be unchangeable? I feel that, Ken. I—I think we’re doing wrong.”

Blake stared. “Wrong? Time—unchangeable? Why, we’ve changed it already! Those models we made—we sent them into time——”

“Into the future, yes. Not the past. Something went wrong there. Why couldn’t we send a model backward in time?”

“I don’t know,” Blake said slowly. His face changed. “But I’m going to find out. Get back, Jep!”

His hand closed on the bakelite lever, swung it to the left. Nothing happened.

For a heartbeat there was utter silence. Then Norwood said slowly, “You see, Ken? Something’s wrong. According to our calculations you should be in the past now. But you’re not. I tell you, man can’t transgress against the——”

As he spoke Blake moved the lever, pushing it in the opposite direction. With the abruptness of a thunderclap blackness enveloped him.

Involuntarily his hand released the lever. Then, fearful that he might not be able to find it again in the intense darkness, he fumbled blindly until his fingers closed on the bakelite. He called softly, “Jep!”

Or, at least, his tongue formed the name. But he could hear not the slightest sound. It was as though he had been suddenly struck dumb. He called Norwood’s name again, and then shouted it at the top of his voice.

There was no sound.

A surge of exultation leaped up within him. The Time Machine had worked! He had been flung out of three-dimensional space, into an alien dimension in which, apparently, sound could not exist—in which the natural laws might be fantastically warped.

Struck by a sudden thought, he fumbled at his belt, brought up a flashlight. He touched the switch experimentally. The blackness was unbroken. Then—if the flashlight was working—light-vibrations could not exist here.

Panic touched him briefly. How could he read his instruments? For all he knew, he might have already been carried millions of years into the future. Trembling a little, he gripped the flashlight and tapped gently upon the glass that shielded a dial. There was no sound of breaking glass, but presently his fumbling hands touched jagged sharpness. He stripped off a glove and gently touched the needle indicator.

It had not moved, apparently. A mad thought came to him. Suppose time did not exist in this dimension—not time as earth knew it. Or—no, that could not be it. The needle was quivering, as though under the stress of tremendous forces. It had already revolved about its dial, reached its limit—and that limit was approximately a hundred thousand years!

Blind, unreasoning fear gripped Blake as he fumbled for the bakelite lever. When his fingers closed on it he stood silent for a moment, and then quickly jerked it back. The darkness fell away and was gone.

Instantly angry crimson light lanced into Blake’s eyes. He shut them tightly, bringing up his hands in a swift protective gesture before he remembered the shielding helmet. Slowly the pain grew less intense. He opened his eyes, blinking, and stared around.