Fletcher Pratt - The Onslaught from Rigel

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THE ONSLAUGHT FROM RIGEL
A Novel by FLETCHER PRATT
Copyright, 1931, by Gernsback Publications, Ltd.
Invaders from a distant star struck Earth like a comet—and the remnants of humanity had
to rise from the dust for battle!
The Survivors of a Cataclysmic Disaster, Turned to Metal, Fight Total Extinction!
CHAPTER I
AWAKENING
MURRAY LEE woke abruptly, the memory of the sound that had roused him drumming at the back
of his head, though his conscious mind had been beyond its ambit. His first sensation was an
overpowering stiffness in every muscle—a feeling of having been pounded all over, though his memory
supplied no clue to the reason for such a sensation. Painfully he turned over in bed and felt the left elbow
where the ache seemed to center. He received the most tremendous shock of his life.
The motion was attended by a creaking clang and the elbow felt exceedingly like a complex wheel.
He sat up to make sure he was awake, tossed the offending arm free of the covers. The motion
produced another clang and the arm revealed itself to his astonished gaze as a system of metal bands,
bound at the elbow by the mechanism he had felt before and crowned, where the fingers should be, by
steely talons terminating in rubber-like fingertips. Yet there seemed to be no lack of feeling in the
member.
For a few seconds he stared, openmouthed, then lifted the other arm. It was the right-hand
counterpart of the device he had been gazing at. He essayed to move one, then the other—the shining
fingers obeyed his thought as though they were flesh and blood.
A sense of expectant fear gripped Lee as he lifted one of the hands to unbutton his pajamas. He was
not deceived in his half-formed expectation—where the ribs clothed in a respectable amount of muscle
should have been, a row of glistening metal plates appeared. Thoughts of body-snatching and bizarre
surgery flitted through his mind to be instantly dismissed.
Dreaming? Drunk? A dreadful idea that he might be insane struck him and he leaped from the bed to
confront a mirror. His feet struck the floor with a portentous bang and each step produced a squeak and
clank—and he faced the mirror, the familiar mirror before which he had shaved for years. With utter
stupefaction he saw an iron countenance above which a stiff brush of wire hair projected ludicrously.
One does not go mad at such moments. The shock takes time to sink in. "At all events I may as well
get dressed," he remarked to himself practically. "I don't suppose water will do this hardware any good,
so omit the bath. But if I'm crazy I might as well go out and have a good time about it."
Dressing was a process prolonged by an examination of himself and the discovery that he was a most
efficient metal machine. He rather admired the smoothness of the hip joints and the way the sliding parts
of his arms fitted together, was agreeably surprised to find that in the metalizing process his toes had
become prehensile. Just for the fun of it he pulled one shoe on with the opposite foot.
IT WAS not until Murray Lee was I nearly dressed that he realized that the wonted noise of New
York, which reached as a throaty undertone to the forty-eighth story of the modern apartment building,
was somehow absent. Surely at this hour —he glanced at the clock. It had stopped at a quarter to two.
No help there. His watch was inexplicably missing. Probably Ben had borrowed it.
That was the idea. Ben Ruby, with whom he occupied the duplex apartment in the penthouse of the
Arbuckle Building, was a scientist of sorts—mainly engaged in the analysis of gland extract samples for
millionaires distrustful of their rejuvenators these days—he would be able to explain everything.
He stepped across to the door and dropped the brass knocker, a little timorous at the sound of his
own thudding steps. The door was snatched open with unexpected suddenness by a caricature of Ben in
metal—as complete a machine as himself but without most of his clothes.
"Come in! Come in!" his friend bellowed in a voice with an oddly phonographic quality to it. "You
look great. Iron Man MacGinnity I What did you put on clothes for? As useful as pants on a rock-drill. I
have breakfast."
"What is it? Am I crazy—are you—or are we both?" Lee asked.
"Of course not. Greatest thing that ever happened. The big comet. They said she was radioactive but
most of 'em wouldn't believe it. Now look what it did." Murray Lee remembered vaguely some
newspaper palaver about a giant comet that was going to strike the earth—argument and
counter-argument as to whether it would have a serious effect.
"Everybody's turned to metal. Nize machinery, ate oop all de axle-grease. You need oil. Stick
around." Ben Ruby disappeared into the bowels of the apartment, the sound of his footsteps ringing
enormous in the vast silence. In an instant he was back with a radio battery in one hand and an oil-can in
the other.
"Sorry, no grease on tap," he remarked briskly. "Typewriter oil." He went to work busily, squirting
drops of oil into Lee's new metallic joints. "Connect this thing up yourself. It fills you with what it takes."
He indicated the battery with an extended toe. "One arm and the opposite leg. There seems to be a
resistance chamber in us somewhere that collects the juice."
Without in the least understanding what it was all about Murray Lee made shift to follow his
instruction.
It was the most singular meal he had ever partaken of but he found it curiously invigorating.
"How about another? No? Have you seen anybody else? It finished most of them."
"Will you sit down and tell me consecutively what it's all about before I bash you?" asked Murray,
petulantly. "Being turned into a machine is not the easiest thing in the world on one's temper. It upsets the
disposition."
"Some sort of a special extra-radioactive gas-storm connected with the comet, I think, though I can't
be sure. It's made machines of all of us, now and forever more. We'll live on electric current after this and
won't have to bother about little things like doctors if we can find a good mechanic. But it killed a lot of
people. Come along, I'll show you."
His hand rang on Murray's arm as he grasped it to lead the way. The hall was portentously dark and
Ben pulled him straight across it to the door marked Fire Exit.
"Elevator?" queried Murray. "No go. No power."
"Oh, Lord, forty-eight stories to walk."
"You'll get used to it." They were clanking to the landing of the floor below and Ben, without the
slightest compunction, pushed boldly into the door of the apartment there. The lock showed signs of
being forced.
"Oh, I broke it in," Ben answered Murray's unspoken query. "Thought I might be able to help, but it
was no use. That fat woman lives here —you know, the one that used to sniff at us in the elevator when
we went on a bender."
ANY qualms Murray felt about looking on the naked face of death were perfunctorily laid to rest as
the scientist led him into the room occupied by the late lady of the elevator. She lay solidly in her bed
amidst the meretricious gorgeousness she had affected in life, the weight of her body sagging the bed
grotesquely toward its center. Instead of the clean-running mechanical devices which marked the
appearance of the two friends, she was nothing but lumps and bumps, a bulging ugly cast-iron statue,
distending the cheap "silk" nightdress.
"See?" said Ben, calmly. "The transmutation wasn't complete. Prob'ly didn't get it as strong as we
did. Look, the window's closed. This will be a warning to people who are afraid to sleep in a draft.
Come along."
Murray lingered. "Isn't there anything we can do?" He felt uncomfortably responsible.
"Not a thing," said Ben, cheerfully. "All she's good for is to stand in the park and look at. Come
along. We've got a lot of stairs to go down. We're too noisy—need a good bath in non-rusting oil."
They reached the street level after an aeon of stairs, Ben leading the way to the corner drug store. All
about them was a complete silence. Fleecy white clouds sailed across the little ribbon of blue visible at
the top of the canyon of the New York city street.
"Lucky it's a nice day," said Ben, boldly stepping into the drug store, the door of which stood open.
"We'll have to figure out this rainy weather thing. It's going to be a problem."
Within, the drug store presented the same phenomena of arrested development as the apartment of
the fat lady at the forty-seventh story. A cast-iron statue of a soda-clerk leaned on the fountain in an
attitude of studied negligence, its lips parted as though addressing some words to the equally metallic
figure of a girl which faced him across the counter. On her steely features was a film of power and the
caked and curling remains of her lipstick showed she had been there for some time.
"By the way," Murray asked, "have you any idea what day it is, and how long we were—under the
influence? It couldn't have happened overnight."
"Why not?" came Ben's voice from the rear of the store. "Say, old dear, rummage around some of
those drawers for rubber gloves, will you? I'd hate to run into high voltage with this outfit."
"Here they are," said Lee. "Let's go. What's the next step?" They were outside.
"Rubber shoes, I fancy," said Ben as his feet skidded on the pavement. "Let's take a taxi there and go
find a shoe store."
Together they managed to slide the cast-iron taxi driver from his seat (Murray was surprised at how
easily he was able to lift a weight he could not have budged in his flesh-and-blood days), deposited him
on the curb and climbed in. The key was fortunately in the switch.
As they swung around the corner into Madison Avenue Lee gave an exclamation. A scene of ruin
and desolation met their eyes. Two or three buses had telescoped and an auto or so had piled into the
wreckage. All about were the iron forms of the passengers in these conveyances, frozen in the various
attitudes they had assumed at the moment of the change, and from one or two of them thin streamers of
metal showed where blood had flowed forth before it had been irretrievably crystallized to metal.
Murray Lee suddenly realized that an enormous amount of machinery had gone to smash everywhere
when the guiding hands had been removed and the guiding brains frozen to useless metal. He gave a little
shudder.
They swung round before a shoe store with grating brakes. The door was locked but Ben, lifting his
foot, calmly kicked a hole in the show window. Murray extended a restraining hand but his friend shook
it off.
"No use asking permission. If the proprietor of this place is still alive anywhere it will be easy enough
to settle up for the damage. If he isn't we have as good a right to it as anybody."
The new toes, which appeared to be longer than those he remembered, made fitting a difficulty and
Murray split two or three shoes before he got a pair on.
"What next?" he asked. "I feel like a drink."
"No use," said Ben. "You're on the wagon for good. Alcohol would play merry hell with your
metalwork. The best thing is to find out how many people we are. For all we know we're the only ones in
the world. This thing seems to have knocked out everybody along the street level. Let's try some of the
taller apartment buildings and see if we can find more penthouse dwellers."
"Or maybe the others came to before us and went away," said Murray.
"True," Ben said. "Anyhow, look-see." He led the way to the taxi.
"Wait," said Murray. "What's that?"
OVER the sound of the starting engine came the echo of heavy footsteps, muffled by shoes.
"Hey! This way!" shouted Ben. The footsteps tentatively approached the corner. Murray ran
forward, then stopped in amazement. The newcomer was a girl—or would have been a girl had she not
been all metal and machinery like themselves. To his eyes, still working on flesh-and-blood standards,
she was anything but good-looking. She was fully and formally dressed, save that she wore no hat—the
high pile of tangled wire that crowned her head made this obviously impossible.
"Oh, what has happened ?" she cried at them. "What can I do? I took a drink of water and it hurt."
"Everything's all right. Just a little metal transformation," said Ben. "Stick around, I'll get you some oil.
You squeak." He was off down the street in a clatter, leaving Murray with the girl.
"Permit me to introduce myself," he said. "I am—or was—Murray Lee. My friend, who has gone to
get you some oil, is Benjamin Franklin Ruby. He thinks the big comet which hit the earth contained
radioactive gas that made us all into metal. Did you live in a penthouse?"
She eyed him darkly. "Somebody told you," she said. "I'm Gloria Rutherford and we have the top
floor of the Sherry-Netherland but all the rest were away when this happened. Pardon me, it hurts me to
talk."
THERE came a crash from down the street, indicating that Ben was forcing another store, and in a
minute he was back with a handful of bottles. With a flourish he offered one to the girl.
"Only castor, but it's the best the market affords," he said. "What we need is a good garage but there
aren't many around here. Go ahead, drink her down, it's all right," he assured the girl, who was
contemplating the bottle in her hand with an expression of distaste.
Following his own recommendation he tipped up one of the bottles and drank a deep draught, then
calmly proceeded to douse himself head to foot with the remainder.
Gloria made a little grimace, then tried it. "Thank you," she said, setting the bottle down. "I didn't
think it was possible anybody could like the stuff except in a magazine ad. Now tell me, where are all the
other people and what do we do?"
"Do?" asked Ben. "Find 'em. How? Ask Mr. Foster. Anybody else in your neck of the woods?"
She shook her head. Murray noticed that the joints of her neck rattled. "Paulson—that's my
maid—was the only other person in our apartment and she seems to be even more solid-iron in the head
than usual—like this lot." She swung her hand round in an expressive gesture toward the image of a
policeman, which was directing two similar images to pause at the curb.
"How about a bonfire?" suggested Murray. "That's the way the Indians or South Africans or
somebody attract attention."
"What could we burn?" asked Ben. "A building, of course. Why not? Property doesn't mean anything
any more with all the property owners dead."
"I know," said Gloria, falling into the spirit of his suggestion. "The old Metropolitan Opera House.
That eyesore has worried me for the last five years."
The suggestion was endorsed with enthusiasm. They climbed into the taxi and twenty minutes later
were hilariously kindling a blaze in the back-stage section of the old building, running out of it with childish
delight to watch the pillar of smoke grow and spread as the flames caught the timbers, long dry with age.
Murray sighed as they sat on the curb across the street. "This is the only time I've ever been as close
as I wanted to be to a big fire," he complained. "And now there isn't even a policeman around for me to
make faces at. But such is life!"
"What if it sets fire to the whole city?" asked Gloria.
Ben shrugged. "What if?" he replied. "Doesn't mean anything. Bet there aren't more than a couple of
dozen people alive. But I don't think it will. Modern construction in most of these places is too
fireproof."
"Look, there's a bird," said Gloria. indicating a solid metal pigeon, fixed like the human inhabitants of
the city in his last position in life at the edge of the curb. "By the way, what do we eat? Do we live on
castor oil all the time?"
CHAPTER II
A METAL COMMUNITY
THE conversation turned into a discussion of the possibilities of their new form. Whether they would
need sleep was a moot point and they were discussing the advisability of training mechanics as doctors
when the first footsteps announced themselves.
They belonged to a man whose face, ornamented by a neat Van Dyke in wire, gave him the
appearance of a physician of the more fleshly life, but who turned out to be a lawyer named Roberts. He
was delighted with the extraordinary youthfulness and vitality he felt in the new incarnation.
Fully dressed in morning clothes he bore the information that he was one of a group of four who had
achieved the metal transformation atop the French building. He promptly plunged into a discussion of
technicalities with Ben that left the other two out of it and they moved off to the Seventh Avenue side of
the building to see whether any more people were visible.
"Do you miss the people much?" asked Murray by way of making conversation.
"Not a bit," Gloria confessed. "My chief emotion is delight over not having to go to the de la Poers'
tea tomorrow afternoon. Though I suppose we will miss them as time goes on."
"I don't know about that," Murray said. "Life was getting pretty complicated and artificial—at least
for me. There were so many things one had to do before one began living—you know, picking the
proper friends and all that."
Gloria nodded. "I know what you mean. My mother would throw a fit if she knew I were here talking
to you right now. If I met you at a dance in Westchester it would be perfectly all right for me to stay out
with you half the night and drink together. But meeting you in daylight on the street—oh, boy!"
"Well," Murray sighed, "that tripe is all through with now. What do you say we get back and see how
the rest are getting along?"
They found them still in the midst of their argument.
"—evidently some substance so volatile that the mere contact with animal tissue causes a reaction
that leaves nothing of either the element or the tissue," Ben was saying. "You note that these metal bands
reproduce the muscles almost perfectly."
"Yes," the lawyer replied, "but they are too flexible to be any metal I know of. I'm willing to grant
your wider knowledge of chemistry but it doesn't seem reasonable. All I can think of is that some outside
agency has interfered. These joints, for instance"—he touched Ben's elbow, —"and what about the little
rubber pads on your fingers and toes and the end of your nose?"
There was a universal motion on the part of the others to feel of their noses. It was as the lawyer had
said —they were, like the fingers and toes, certainly very much like rubber—and movable!
"Don't know," said Ben. "Who did it, though? That's what boggles your scheme. Everybody's
changed to metal and nobody left to make the changes you mention. However, let's go get the rest of
your folks. I wonder if we ought to have weapons. You two wait here."
He clanked off the lawyer to the taxi. A moment later the tooting of the horn announced their return.
The party consisted, beside Roberts himself, of his daughter Ola Mae, a girl of sixteen, petulant over the
fact that her high-heeled shoes were already breaking down under her weight—a Japanese servant
named Yoshio—and Mrs. Roberts, one of those tall and billowy women of the earlier life who, to the
irritation of the men, turned out to be the strongest of any of them. Fat, apparently, had no metallic
equivalent, and her ample proportions now consisted of bands of metal that made her extraordinarily
powerful.
With these additions the little group adjourned to Times Square to watch the billowing clouds of
smoke rising above the ruins of the opera house.
"What next?" asked Gloria, seating herself on the curbstone.
"Look for more people," said Murray. "Surely we can't be the only frogs in the puddle."
"Why not?" said Ben, argumentatively, with a swing of his arm toward the wreckage-strewn square.
"You forget that this catastrophe has probably wiped out all the animal life of the world and we seven
owe our survival to some fortunate chance."
The Japanese touched him on the arm. "Perhaps sir can inform inquirer, in such case, what is curious
avian object?" he said, pointing upward.
They heard the beat of wings as he spoke and looked up together to see, soaring fifty feet past their
heads a strange parody of a bird with four distinct wings, a long feathered tail and bright intelligent eyes
set in a dome-like head.
There was a moment of excited babbling.
"What is it?"
"Never saw anything like it before."
"Did the comet do that to chickens?" And then, as the strange creature disappeared among the
forest of spires to the east, the voice of the lawyer, used to such tumults, asserted its mastery over the
rest.
"I think," he said, "that whatever that bird is the first thing to be done is find a headquarters of some
kind and establish a mode of life."
"How about finding more people?" asked Gloria. "The more the merrier—and there may be some
who don't know how nice castor oil is." She smiled a metallic smile.
"The fire—" began Ben.
"It would keep some people away."
They debated the point for several minutes, finally deciding that since those present had all come from
the top floors or penthouses of tall buildings the search should be confined to such localities. Each was to
take a car—there were any number for the taking around Times Square—and cover a certain section of
the city, rallying at sundown at the Times building, where Ola Mae and Murray, who could not drive,
were to be left.
ROBERTS was the first one back, swinging a big Peugeot around with the skill of a racing driver. He
had found no one but had a curious tale. In the upper floors of the Waldorf three of the big windows
were smashed and in one corner of the room, amid a maze of chairs fantastically torn as though by a
playful giant, was a pile of soft cloths.
In the midst of this pile, four big eggs reposed. He had picked up one of the eggs and, after weighing
the advisability of bringing it with him, decided he had more important things to do. The owners of the
nest did not appear.
As he emerged from the building, however, the quick motion of a shadow across the street caused
him to look up in time to catch a glimpse of one of the four-winged birds they had seen before and just as
he was driving the car away his ears were assailed by a torrent of screeches and "skrawks" from the
home-corner. He did not look up until the shadow fell across him again when he perceived the bird was
following close behind him, flying low and apparently debating the advisability of attacking him.
Roberts waved his arms and shouted. It had not the slightest effect on the bird, which, now that it
was closer, he perceived to be moving its hind wings along, holding its fore-wings out like those of an
airplane. He had wished for a weapon of some kind. Lacking one, he drew the car up to the curb and
ran into a building.
The bird alighted outside and began to peck the door in but by the time it got through Roberts had
climbed a maze of stairs. Though he could hear it screaming throatily behind him it did not find him and
eventually gave up the search.
The end of this remarkable tale was delivered to an enlarged audience.
Gloria had arrived, bringing a chubby little man who announced himself as F. W. Stevens.
"The boy plunger?" asked Murray absent-mindedly and realized from Gloria's gasp that he had said
the wrong thing.
"Well, I operate in Wall Street." Stevens replied rather stiffly.
Ben came with three recruits. At the sight of the first Murray gasped. Even in the metal caricature, he
had no difficulty in recognizing the high bald forehead, the thin jaws and tooth-brush moustache of Walter
Beeville, greatest living naturalist.
Before dark the others were back —Yoshio with one new acquisition and Mrs. Roberts, whose
energy paralleled her strength, with no less than four, among them an elaborately gowned woman who
proved to be Marta Lami, the Hungarian dancer who had been the sensation of New York at the time of
the catastrophe.
They gathered in the Times Square drug store in a strange babble of phonographic voices and clang
of metal parts against the stone floor and soda fountains. It was Roberts who secured a position behind
one of these erstwhile dispensers of liquid soothing-syrup and rapped for order.
"I think the first thing to be done," he said when the voices had grown quiet in answer to his appeal,
"is to organize the group of people here and search for more. If it had not been for the kindness of Mr.
Ruby here, my family and I would not have known about the necessity of using oil on this new mechanical
makeup nor of the value of electrical current as food. There may be others in the city in the same state.
What is the—ah—sense of the gathering on this topic?"
Stevens was the first to speak. "It's more important to organize and elect a president," he said.
"A very good idea," commented Roberts.
"Well then," said Stevens ponderously, "I move we proceed to elect officers and form a
corporation."
"Second the motion," said Murray almost automatically.
"Pardon me." It was the voice of Beeville the naturalist. "I don't think we ought to adopt any formal
organization yet. It hardly seems necessary. We are practically in the golden age, with all the resources of
an immense city at the disposal of—fourteen people. And we know very little about ourselves. All the
medical and biological science of the world must be discarded and built up again.
"At this very moment we may be suffering from the lack of something that is absolutely necessary to
our existence—though I admit I cannot imagine what it could be. I think the first thing to do is to
investigate our possibilities and establish the science of mechanical medicine. As to the rest of our details
of existence, they don't matter much at present."
A MURMUR of approval went round the room and Stevens looked somewhat put out.
"We could hardly adopt anarchy as a form of government," he offered dubiously.
"Oh, yes, we could," said Marta Lami. "Hurray for anarchy. The Red Flag forever. Free love, free
beer, no work!"
"Yes," said Gloria, "what's the use of all this metalizing, anyway ? We got rid of a lot of old
applesauce about restrictions and here you want to tie us up again. More and better anarchy!"
"Say," came a deep and raucous voice from one of the newcomers. "Why don't we have just a straw
boss for a while till we see how things work out? If anyone gets fresh the straw boss can jump him or
kick him out but those that stick with the crowd have to listen to him. How's that?"
"Fine," said Ben, heartily.
There was a clanging round of metallic applause as three or four people clapped their hands.
"There is a motion—" began Roberts.
"Oh, tie a can to it," said Gloria irreverently, "I nominate Ben Ruby as head man of the colony of
New York for—three months. Every body that's for it, stick up your hands."
Eleven hands went up. Gloria looked around at those who remained recalcitrant and concentrated
her gaze on Stevens. "Won't you join us, Mr. Stevens?" she asked sweetly.
"I don't think this is the way to do things," said the Wall Street man with a touch of asperity. "It's
altogether irregular and no permanent good can result from it. However, I will act with the rest."
"And you, Yoshio?"
"I am uncertain that permission is granted to this miserable worm to vote."
"Certainly. We're all starting from scratch. Who else is there? What about you, Mr. Lee?"
"I know him too well."
The rest of the opposition dissolved in laughter and Ben made his way to the place at the counter,
vacated by Roberts.
"The first thing we need is have some light," Ruby said. "Does anyone know where candles can be
had around here? I suppose there ought to be some in the drug store across the street but I don't know
where and there's no light to look by."
"How about flashlights? There's an electrical and video store up the block."
"Fine, Murray you go look. Now, Miss Roberts, will you be our secretary? I think the first thing to
do is to get down the name and occupation of everyone here. That will give us a start toward finding out
what we can do. Ready? Now you, Miss Rutherford, first."
"My name is Gloria Rutherford and I can't do anything but play tennis, drink and drive a car."
The rest of the replies followed. F. W. Stevens, Wall Street—Theodore Roberts, lawyer—Archibald
Tholfsen, chess-player—H. M. Dangerfield, editor—Francis X. O'Hara, trucking business. This was the
loud-voiced man who had cut the Gordian knot of the argument about organization. "Are you a
mechanic; too?" asked Ben.
"Well, not a first class one but I know a little about machinery."
"Good, you're appointed our doctor."
Paul Farrelly, publisher—Albert F. Massey, artist—the voices droned on in the uncertain illumination
of the flashlights.
"Very well then," said Ben at the conclusion of the list. "The first thing I'll do is appoint Walter
Beeville director of research. Fact Number one for him is that we aren't going to need much of any sleep.
I don't feel the need of it at all and don't seem to see any signs among you.
"O'Hara will help him on the mechanical side—I suggest that as Mr. Beeville will need to observe all
of us we make the Rockefeller Institute our headquarters. He will have the apparatus there to carry on his
work. Let's go."
CHAPTER III
REBELLION
THEY whirled away to the east side of the city and up Second Avenue like a triumphal cortege,
摘要：

  THEONSLAUGHTFROMRIGEL ANovelbyFLETCHERPRATT Copyright,1931,byGernsbackPublications,Ltd. InvadersfromadistantstarstruckEarthlikeacomet—andtheremnantsofhumanityhadtorisefromthedustforbattle!TheSurvivorsofaCataclysmicDisaster,TurnedtoMetal,FightTotalExtinction! CHAPTERI AWAKENING MURRAYLEEwokeabruptl...

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