The Multillionth Chance E-Book

John Russell Fearn

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 91

Beschreibung

Physicist Grant Mayson re-creates Iana, the wonder girl of long ago, out of scattered atoms—but between them stands the memory of Anrax, long-dead master of science!

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

THE MULTILLIONTH CHANCE

John Russell Fearn

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 1946 by John Russell Fearn

First published Thrilling Wonder Stories, Fall 1946.

Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

CHAPTER 1

Mystery Girl

Grant Mayson had done the job so many times it had lost all its fascination. Long ago, when he had been a mere apprentice to this huge Transmutation Laboratory, he had gaped in wonder at the crash and crackle of twenty million volts of man-made lightning flashing between anode and cathode spheres as base elements were changed into commercial products, or rare metals, according to the demands of the Government.

Now, after twelve years of continuous association with this particular scientific miracle, he was in charge of Laboratory A and not over-thrilled by it either.

Today, as usual, it was the same old routine. He sat with his long, lean body folded up on the tub seat before the control board, deep inside the massive textolite globe which formed the cathode of the twin globes. Through a minute observation slit he saw the opposing globe fifty feet distant, the backdrop of the laboratory equipment behind it.

“Lights out!” he barked into the telephone, and total darkness descended outside his globe.

There were no assistants inside the laboratory: they were in the power-control rooms two blocks away from this center of vast disturbances to come. Grant Mayson was on his own, lord of the lightning indeed, atom-smashing and metal-mutating brought to such a fine art in this year of 1964 that the efforts of Rutherford and Van de Graaf of earlier years seemed like the strugglings of amateurs by comparison.

Grant narrowed his keen blue eyes through the slit in the spherical wall, and took a last look round. He smoothed back the tumbled dark hair from his forehead, reached out his lean hand and closed the master switch.

Nothing to do now but wait for the dials to tell him when the job was done. Unperturbed, he watched lightning flicker and jump in rapid fire flashes. Green, blue, lavender, violet arrows were presently stabbing to the dark laboratory roof and then down the massive supporting columns to earth.…

The electrical fury grew apace, discharging its terrific main load into the giant vacuum tube a few yards away, at the base of which reposed the particular element to be converted. In ten minutes, Grant knew, that cube of crude metal would be gold, its atomic makeup shattered—moulded, and transformed into the precious metal.

Gradually the whole laboratory began to quiver in an eery glow of streamers and fireballs as twenty million volts crashed between the globes. Four minutes—five—six—

* * * *

Ten! The indicator needle quivered on the red line.

Grant shut off the power and the miniature thunderstorm came to a sudden end.

“Lights!” he snapped. He eased his lanky figure out of the chair, mopped his face, then opened the airlock of the dome.

The cold-light arcs were blazing down from the roof now, flooding the wilderness of apparatus. Grant climbed steadily down the metal ladder, smiling at a sensation which once had worried him, that feeling of cramp and of having the hair lifted straight up by the static electricity. The reek of ozone, the smell of hot oil—same old set up.

Humming a tune to himself he crossed the waste of concrete floor towards the vacuum-tube chamber, then half way to it he paused and blinked. His whistling stopped in mid bar and an expression of astounded wonder settled on his lean young face.

There was something in the center of the floor that had no conceivable right to be there. A girl! She lay flat on her back, arms flung back over her head, legs stretched out in front of her.

“What the devil!” Grant whispered, moving a step or two closer to look at her.

She was not like any girl one would see around in the ordinary way. For one thing her clothing was unusual. It consisted of a one piece garment with short sleeves, the material radiating light as though sewn with thousands of minute diamonds. Two dainty, sandaled feet were outthrust revealing a shapely turn of ankle. The arms below the sleeves were delicately moulded, the shoulders supple and broad. Blond hair lay swept back from her wide forehead, partly from natural tendency and partly from electric reaction.

Grant moved directly over her and studied her face. It was oval and intelligent, with rather high cheekbones and delicately pointed chin. The brows were smooth and the nose straight. She had a firm yet womanly mouth.

It suddenly dawned on Grant how utterly impossible the whole occurrence was. The laboratory was tightly locked. Only he and the Chief of Staff had the combination. By no possible means could this girl have entered here—and certainly the place had been empty before he had started up the generators. He recalled his final survey. So?

* * * *

Although a scientist, he was only thirty-three, and he could not deny he experienced a certain thrill of pleasure as he raised the girl gently in his arms. There was something about the contact of her body. But her eyes remained closed, her arms limp. To all intents and purposes she was out cold. Grant took her across to the nearest bench and laid her down upon it, pulling off his smock and rolling it up for use as a pillow.

A bell shrilled. He turned impatiently to the department telephone. The voice of Balmore, chief of staff, was at the other end.

“Finished with Mutation Forty-two-G, Mayson?” he asked.

“I—er—yes, sir, I’ve finished.” Grant rubbed his head. He was a trifle perplexed.

“Good! What results?”

“Results?” Grant looked towards the vacuum tube and gave a sudden start. “I don’t know yet, sir. I haven’t looked.”

“Haven’t looked!” Balmore ejaculated. “How the devil much longer are you going to be? I’m waiting for your report. Or is there something wrong?”

“Well, not exactly, sir. I just—er—”

“There is something wrong!” Balmore decided. “I’ll come over right away.”

Grant winced and put the receiver back. He realized now that he was in considerable difficulty. Women, unless they were technicians and specially authorized by the Science Council, were utterly taboo in the varied departments. Any infraction meant dismissal. And here was a startling and none too discreetly attired blonde lying out cold on the bench.

Grant was a fast thinker when it came to physics, but in this emergency he was stumped.

In the intervening time he tried to think up half a dozen places where he could conceal the lady, but none of them seemed practicable. He was still trying to make up his mind when the laboratory door lock clicked and Stephen Balmore came in.

* * * *

He was a small, sharp-featured man, likeable enough in his way, but filled with the austerity inseparable from his high position.

“Just what is wrong here, Grant?” he demanded, striding forward. “You’re taking the devil of a—great guns!”

He broke off, as he caught sight of the girl.

“That’s the reason, sir,” Grant said uneasily. “I give you my word that I don’t know where she came from. I’d just finished my routine when I found her lying unconscious on the floor.”

“Oh!” Balmore said.

As a man of the world he did not commit himself any further for the moment. He went closer to the girl and stared down at her, stroking his chin, his eyes traveling down the rounded lines of her figure.

“Extraordinary!” he said, and coughed sharply.

Grant said nothing for the moment because he feared the wrong words might pop out.

“You realize this can be very serious, Mayson?” Balmore’s use of the surname showed he was on his high horse. “You know the rules. It is preposterous for you to say that this woman just—just happened. Science is not magic, you know. She must have been hidden here, or something, and the electricity discharge probably drove her out of concealment. Then she was overcome. She looks as though she has come from some kind of social party. The dress, I mean. Amazing material!”

“I don’t agree that she was hidden somewhere, sir,” Grant said, with sudden firmness. “This laboratory was totally empty when I began, and she was here when I’d finished. The only thing that happened between my checkup and discovery of her was the discharge of twenty million volts of electricity. That, under certain conditions, might produce many things!”

“But not a blonde, young man!”

Balmore considered, then his sternness relaxed a trifle.

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, Grant, for if I do you may find yourself without a job. I don’t want that. If you can find a logical reason for this occurrence, I’ll ask the Council to give you a full hearing. For the moment this young lady had—er—better be removed to the hospital.”

Balmore paused and watched sharply as the girl suddenly moved lazily. In fact she would probably have fallen off the bench entirely had not Grant seized her shoulders. Languidly she sat up and opened a pair of very large, steady gray eyes.

Grant looked at her, and Balmore peered over his shoulder.

“Who are you?” Grant demanded. “How did you get here?”

For a moment or two she did not seem to understand. Then she broke into a tumbling succession of strange words. Short little sentences with the words oddly broken off. At the end of two minutes of nonstop gibberish, she looked from one man to the other in plaintive inquiry.

“No good,” Grant shrugged. “We don’t understand you. Do you, sir?”

“Hanged if I do,” Balmore replied. “I’m not bad at languages, but this has me beaten. We’d better get the experts to work….Anyway, Grant, this lessens the charge against you. This girl is not ordinary by any means, either in language, looks, or—hmm!—figure.” He glanced at her keenly.

“Fine girl, confound it,” he growled.

Grant smiled in relief and by motions showed the girl that she was expected to stand up. She nodded her golden head and slid gracefully from the bench. She was about five feet eight tall, with the majestic carriage of a queen.

“This way.” Balmore motioned, taking her arm. He nodded back at Grant. “Get the report of that mutation, Grant, then come along to the hospital. We’ll see what we can do there.”

Grant nodded, bitterly aware of the fact that he dare not show he was jealous of his chief’s monopoly of the mystery girl.

CHAPTER 2

The Council Decides