On the High Road to Oblivion

Chapter 9—From Fire to Frying Pan

As he slid down the icy surface of the platform, Findlay Newcombe felt a strange calm. This was not a moment of terror, with life and death in the balance; it was simply a mathematical problem, a conundrum to be solved before time ran out.

The pieces of the puzzle flashed through his head in an instant: the diminishing distance to the end of the platform; the slope of the platform and the rate at which he and Lafayette were sliding; the amount of resistance from friction. Into this equation, he began plugging variables. What will happen if I…?

The solution appeared. With just twenty feet of platform separating the two men from a long free-fall, he twisted around and pressed his gloved palms flat against the metal surface.

The effect on their speed was negligible, but Newcombe’s intent had never been to arrest or even slow their doomward slide. Rather, he sought only to effect a very slight change of course. He had chosen the spot at which to attempt the braking maneuver with utmost care. Where his palms made contact with the metal surface, a sort of pivot point was created, and as they continued forward, he and Lafayette also swung just a little bit to the left.

Close enough.

Newcombe threw one arm out and looped it around the last upright post of the guard rail at the edge of the platform.

A flash of pain shot through his body as the combined mass of Lafayette’s weight and his own pulled sharply against his arm, but he endured. What other choice was there? His legs and lower torso were dangling out into space. Lafayette had both arms wrapped around Newcombe’s waist, hugging him for dear life, and even if the writer could have pried himself loose, there was nothing for him to grab onto.

Thankfully, the ordeal was short-lived. A few moments later, the slope of the platform began to diminish as the airship leveled out. Newcombe heard shouting — Sorensen and Fiona, ordering the crew to close the tail section — and then he felt the chief pilot’s strong grip dragging him back from the brink. In a matter of only a few seconds, the dirigible was sealed up tight and the platform was level once more.

Fiona impulsively knelt and hugged Newcombe. “Goodness, that was so very brave of you.”

Newcombe laughed, feeling strangely exhilarated. “Yes, it rather was. I think perhaps Dodge is having a bad influence on me.”

Sorensen clapped Lafayette on the shoulder and then hauled him to his feet. “I told you to watch your step.”

Lafayette’s normally fair complexion was positively transparent. He nodded, a series of short, staccato head bobs, but said nothing.

“Let’s get below,” Sorensen declared. “I want to find out what just happened. We must have nosed into an updraft. Rotten timing, wouldn’t you say?”

Without waiting for them, the saturnine pilot stalked down the length of the platform to the staircase. Fiona took the other two men by the arm, one on either side, and headed in that direction.

“Rotten timing, indeed,” she said. “I’ve never seen the Majestic do that.”

“How long have you been aboard?” inquired Newcombe.

“A few weeks. Walter picked me up in London and flew me back to the United States. We ran into weather once or twice, but nothing like that.”

“Your first crossing probably followed a polar route. At this latitude, the weather is much less predictable. We might have bumped up against a tropical depression — a hurricane in the making.”

When they reached the staircase, Lafayette abruptly broke his silence. Although he managed a smile, there was a quaver in his voice as he said: “After you, madam.”

Fiona trilled laughter. “Why thank you, Rodney. But call me ‘madam’ again, and we’ll have words.”

Newcombe started to follow, but Lafayette’s hand gripped his bicep, holding him back. As Fiona dipped out of view, the writer leaned close. “Listen to me. The pilot, Sorensen… I think he pushed me.”

Newcombe felt a chill that had nothing to do with ambient temperature on the landing deck. “Are you sure? Maybe he was trying to catch you as you fell.”

“I didn’t fall.” Lafayette squeezed Newcombe’s arm tighter, his paper-white face grimly insistent. “Sorensen tried to kill me.”

The blade descended like a lightning strike, passing close enough to Hurley’s scalp to lop off a curl of his dark hair, and struck the pavement in a ringing spray of bright yellow sparks.

By all rights, the steel weapon should have removed Hurricane’s head completely from his shoulders, but at the very instant the swordsman had begun his strike, Nora had hurled her clutch purse at him. The bag, weighted by her thick notebook, hit the man’s forearm, deflecting the chop just enough to spare Hurley.

It was a brief reprieve. Cursing in his native tongue, the Asian man recovered and tried again.

Nora screamed.

The shrieked alarm caused Hurley’s would-be executioner to hesitate, and gave the big man on the ground time to recover from the numbing nerve-strikes. Although he still didn’t possess anything remotely resembling fine motor control, Hurricane managed to roll out from under the poised sword, and in the same motion, lashed out with a kick that caught the distracted blade-wielder off guard.

The Asian man staggered back, but somehow managed to keep his feet. Nevertheless, he had lost the advantage. Nora’s scream, coupled with the fact that several people strolling along the waterfront had witnessed an automatic pistol skittering across the pavement, was magnetically attracting attention. The man thrust his blade back into its scabbard, then took something else from the recesses of his suit jacket and hurled it onto the ground.

There was a blinding flash, and when the spots cleared from Hurley’s vision his assailant was gone, but in his place were two men wearing military uniforms, adorned with the insignia of the Portuguese National Republican Guard and brandishing Browning Hi-Power 9 millimeter pistols.

One of the gendarmes shouted: “Você está sob a apreensão!”

“You are under arrest,” his partner translated.

“Well, that’s different,” Hurricane chuckled, raising his hands.

Nora gaped at him, incredulous. “Different? How’s that?”

“Usually things go from bad to worse.”

Newcombe sipped from his snifter slowly, as if it was scalding coffee, but he barely tasted the potent liquor. Strangely, he had almost forgotten about the brush with death. Just as he had, at the time, treated it like a problem to be solved, he now was able to file it away with all of the other thorny problems he had worked out over the course of his academic life; never mind that, in this particular instance, the consequences of failure would have been absolute and permanent. Rather, his mind was now occupied with the gravity of Lafayette’s accusation, and what it portended. If it was even true.

The writer sat nearby, uncharacteristically quiet, though he was imbibing his cognac with considerably more enthusiasm. Lafayette had said nothing more about the subject, but his body language bespoke a persistent distrust of almost everyone. He hadn’t even touched the cognac Fiona decanted for him until both she and Newcombe had tasted it first.

Sorensen was nowhere to be found. Newcombe presumed that he was off investigating the circumstances behind the near disaster, but if the dark man really had tried to send Lafayette plunging into the Atlantic, what would his next move be? Would he try again? Or would he, perhaps fearing that his intended victim might expose him, make an audacious escape attempt? And then of course, there was the question of motive. Newcombe could think of no reason for the chief pilot to want to harm the writer, and that by itself was a powerful argument that Lafayette had perhaps remembered events in the wrong order.

It was another puzzle for the scientist to figure out, but unfortunately it was an equation with few constants and riddled with the variables of human behavior.

Barron swept into the room a few moments later. “Gentlemen, I’ve just heard of your unfortunate accident. I trust no one was harmed?”

“Just some rattled nerves,” Fiona answered. “Findlay saved the day, but it was a close thing. What happened, Walter?”

“We hit an unexpected updraft, just as we were beginning to ascend back up to our cruising altitude. As they say, all’s well that ends well, but I would nevertheless like an opportunity to make… ah, amends, as it were.”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Lafayette answered, sullen.

“Hear me out please. Or rather, let me show you what I’m talking about.” He made a half-turn and gestured to the door.

Fiona was on her feet immediately. “Well, come on, gents. Let’s give Walter a chance to make things right.”

She said it with her customary enthusiasm and humor, but neither of the two men at the table smiled. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Barron addressed her. “Miss Dunn, would you please excuse us? What I have to say is for Dr. Newcombe and Mr. Lafayette alone.”

Fiona’s smile faltered and it was plainly evident that she was unused to being left out of anything. Nevertheless, she left the room without comment.

Fiona’s dismissal gave Newcombe a pang, but he focused his attention on Lafayette, curious to see how he would react. Finally, after several awkwardly silent seconds, the writer relented. He downed the last of his cognac, and stood up.

Barron led them along the central corridor, and as they neared the aft end, Newcombe feared that their host planned to take them back up to the platform. He was relieved when Barron instead opened the last door on the left side and escorted them into a large open room that Newcombe immediately recognized as a laboratory.

The scientist quickly identified most of the equipment and apparatuses stored on shelves around the perimeter of the lab, but the device that occupied a large table in the center was not familiar to him. It bore a vague resemblance to a photographic projector, the device used to project the images from a film negative onto chemically treated paper to produce photographs, but Newcombe suspected the device was used to project something other than light.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” The scientist hastened over to it and began inspecting the machine closely. “This is the prototype resonance wave generator?”

“I thought you might like to see it in operation.” Barron went to one of the storage shelves and fetched a large metal pail. Newcombe glanced at the contents as the other man emptied the pail onto a metal tray under the projector; several pieces of brown rock — sandstone by the look of it, but without his correct prescription eyeglasses, Newcombe couldn’t make out details of the rock grain.

Barron took three pairs of goggles from a drawer and passed them around. When all had donned the protective eyewear, their host directed them to stand well away from the device. “The resonance waves can induce mild nausea, so you’ll want to keep your distance. Otherwise, it’s quite safe as long as you don’t put any part of your body under the emitter.”

He threw a switch on the projector, and Newcombe immediately felt a pulsing vibration pass through his body, like the deep beat of a bass drum but without any sound. The sensation was particularly strong in his abdominal cavity, and as Barron had warned, he felt himself growing queasy. But that was nothing compared to what happened to the sandstone pieces under the projector.

For a few seconds, the rocks merely rattled together, but then, without any sort of violent eruption, they slumped into a pile of fine sediment. The sand quickly formed into a broad circle on the tray, and rippled like the surface a puddle struck by raindrops until Barron switched the device off.

“Astonishing.” Newcombe stepped forward and, with a nod from Barron indicating that it was now safe, ran his finger through the powdered rock.

“The waves completely break down all the molecular bonds,” Barron said. “It literally liquefied the rock.”

“The possible applications for this are limitless. Hard rock mining, tunnels for transportation…”

“What would have happened if we had gotten too close?” Lafayette asked.

A tight smile crossed Barron’s face and he pointed to the sand. “Imagine those are your bones.”

Lafayette swallowed nervously. Newcombe recalled that Barron’s motive in building the device was not at all altruistic. As if sensing Newcombe’s thoughts, their host continued: “Dr. Newcombe, you are correct. This is a technology, and as such might be used for any number of purposes, many of which would be beneficent. It might surprise you to learn that my intention in developing this device is not what it seems.”

Newcombe chose his words carefully. “Are saying that you don’t plan to turn this into a weapon?”

“I could not speak of this openly in front of General Vaughn. He represents the interest of the American War Department, and I need their money in order to continue my research. In reality, my intentions are quite different.” Barron brought his hands together in a thoughtful gesture. “Do you recall the expression that became popular during the Great War? ‘The war to end all wars’? A naïve sentiment, and perhaps all the more terrible because of what it portends. Tens of millions of people died in that war; how many more will die in the next? Hundreds of millions, perhaps? How many young men will perish in a senseless struggle to move the lines on a map?”

As he spoke, Barron’s normally calm demeanor became more agitated. “Machine guns, poisonous gas, and now, armies desire death rays — a weapon that can turn men’s bones to dust.”

Newcombe shook his head. “They why would you build it for them?”

“I am building the device at their direction, but I am not building it for them.” Barron smiled cryptically, but the storm in his eyes did not abate. “I fought in the Great War. I believed in the romance of the struggle; the glory of sacrifice. I believed, and I raised my son to believe it as well.”

Barron did not elaborate, and he didn’t need to. The sorrow in his voice when he mentioned his son spoke volumes. The Great War had cost Barron his child, and in his grief, he had found a new purpose: to put an end to war. If that meant creating a weapon so terrible that no one would ever dare fight again, then that at least was rationale the scientist could understand. Any doubts that Newcombe might have harbored as to Barron’s sincerity were swept away with the revelation.

Barron shook his head, as if to banish the rising emotional tide, and then turned to Lafayette. “I promised that I would make amends, did I not?”

“You mean there’s more?”

“Oh, indeed, Mr. Lafayette.” He set his goggles on the table and gestured to the door. As they walked back into the corridor, Barron continued. “As you know, it was never my intention for you to be brought aboard. Unlike Dr. Newcombe, your presence here was completely accidental. But there is a word for accidents such as this: serendipity.

“You know that you are here because the October Brotherhood intended to abduct David Dalton, along with Dr. Newcombe, to prevent them from accepting my invitation to come aboard the Majestic. My reasons for wanting to have Dr. Newcombe here are quite apparent, but have you asked yourself why I wanted Mr. Dalton along?”

Lafayette glanced at Newcombe and then shrugged.

“The reason is not so complicated.” Barron opened another door and stood aside to permit the men to enter.

As fantastic as the laboratory had been, Newcombe was thoroughly awestruck by the Majestic’s library. The room looked like it might have been transplanted in its entirety from an Ivy League university, or perhaps a private club. Plush Chesterfield sofas and chairs lined the walls. The shelves and desks were fashioned of tropical hardwoods. The former contained countless leather bound volumes, many of them classics that Newcombe recognized by name, and many that he did not. Yet these were the appointments one would expect to find in a reading room; Newcombe’s amazement stemmed from a different source.

“I owe you yet another apology, Mr. Lafayette. I was not familiar with your work, but since your arrival, I have made an effort to rectify that situation. And I must say, I am suitably impressed. Your stories are lurid and sensational, as one would expect to find in the pulp magazines, but that cannot disguise your talent as a wordsmith. I hope you will not think I am praising you with faint damns, but Mr. Lafayette, you are a much better writer than I expected.”

Lafayette shuffled his feet uncomfortably, unable to meet Barron’s gaze. “You have my books in your library?”

Barron smiled patiently. “My collection is quite comprehensive, but no. I read your stories… only a few of them, mind you, but that was enough… I read them on this.”

He gestured to the desk that had immediately caught Newcombe’s eye. Sitting atop it was an object the scientist had instantly recognized. The electrically powered device was turned on and humming, and displayed on its large slightly convex cathode ray tube screen was the image of an open book. The picture was slightly grainy, but by holding his borrowed glasses a little further from his eyes, he found he could read the print.

“You have a television,” Newcombe gasped.

“Yes. This is, I’ll grant you, a rather unusual way to use the medium, but it was preferable to having someone transcribe the entire document and send it by teletype.” Barron picked up a telephone receiver and spoke into it. “Turn the page, please.”

A hand appeared on the screen and carried out the command.

“I don’t understand,” Lafayette said. “This is a camera image of my book?”

Barron nodded. “A television camera to be precise. In New York City. The camera captures the images and then sends them out as radio waves. This device turns the signal back into a picture.”

Newcombe rested a hand on the television. “Imagine if it were possible to somehow record an entire library this way. You could have access to thousands of books.”

“That—” an aghast Lafayette pointed an accusing finger at the screen, “is not a book. A book is something you hold in your hand. It has a certain feel… the smell of the paper. I can’t imagine a world where books are just pictures on some kind of electronic machine.”

“Once upon a time,” Newcombe argued, “men believed that only birds should fly. The idea of speaking across vast distances by radio or telephone would have been considered witchcraft.”

“It is a useful tool, nothing more.” Barron turned to the writer and fixed him with a penetrating gaze. “I know that you have expressed a desire to return to New York at the first opportunity, but I would like you to entertain another possibility. You see, Mr. Lafayette, I want you to write my story.”