The Voice Commands E-Book

John Russell Fearn

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

Seitenzahl: 42

Beschreibung

The Voice Commands

Leseprobe

* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *

This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before proceeding. Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at https://www.fadedpage.com.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: The Voice Commands

Date of first publication: 1940

Author: John Russell Fearn (as Dennis Clive) (1908-1960)

Date first posted: Aug. 14, 2022

Date last updated: Aug. 14, 2022

Faded Page eBook #20220824

This eBook was produced by: Alex White & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries.

The Voice Commands

By

John Russel Fearn

Writing under the pseudonym Dennis Clive.

First published Science Fiction, June 1940.

This ebook transcribed from Science Fiction Classics, No. 5, 1940.

Release all weapons on all cities!

1960 . . . 1970 . . . 1980 . . . The parade of endless years of insufferable carnage. Nation against nation.

1981. A cold inhuman peace brooded over the earth. . .

Far out on the Atlantic a solitary synthetic rock still stood, its mighty construction unharmed by the attempts of bombers to destroy it. Warders and criminals alike still lived, had forgotten anything existed save their own bitter little world. Deep down in the dungeons men still stirred, half starved, only given food when a provision ship happened to crash against the rocks and spewed forth its valued cargo.

Yes, deep down in the dungeons two men especially still lived, kept alive by the fire of vengeance. Twenty years of hardship and pent hatred was carved into their bearded faces. Their eyes were smoldering pools as they stared at the warder standing in the open doorway of their cell.

Open! Not for the usual exercise round the gaunt yard—but wide open! And that was not all. . . The guard was grinning, almost vacantly, his usually stonelike countenance split from ear to ear. His keys jangled in his hand.

“Well?” asked Moss’ deep, bitter voice at length.

“You can go,” the man chuckled. “We can all go. No sense in stopping here now a rowing boat’s been thrown up from a wrecked ship. Might as well go out and play. . .”

“Play?” repeated the voice of Arthur Cassell. He got slowly to his feet. His hair and beard were still blond. “Did you say—play?”

“Sure!” The guard grinned again, then tossed his keys away. “We’re all free. Your cell was the last one; no use for the keys anymore. Let’s go!” He turned away whistling.

The two men stared at each other stupidly. Then suddenly Moss started to laugh until the tears ran down his bearded cheeks.

“Play!” he screamed, pounding the wall. “My God—play! After twenty years of this he—

“Take it easy, Hart,” Cassell snapped, gripping his friend’s rag-covered arms. “Don’t go off half-cocked! This is a miracle all right, and we’re going to take advantage of it. Something screwy about it all the same. Come on.”

Together they limped out of the cell into the gloomy corridor. Other prisoners, bearded and melancholy, glanced at them but said nothing. In silence they all trooped upwards to the open reaches of the prison yard, and so finally out onto the wild, spume-swept ridge that gave access to the sea.

The prisoners shivered a little in the cold, bracing blast, did their best to get into what sunshine there was. Cassell and Moss kept together, and at last Moss said:

“Take a look at that! They’re nuts, I think.”

Cassell did not answer. Certainly something was wrong with the guards. They were singing songs—and incredible though it was, those songs were old-fashioned nursery rhymes! As they sang, they walked skippingly towards the steps leading down the cliff face. The grim-faced prisoners followed, stared down the dizzying stretch at the rowboat anchored far below.

“Certainly act as though they’re crazy,” Cassell admitted at last, frowning. Then he stared down at the boat. “Thousand miles in that, huh? Well, I guess it’s better than stopping here. . . Near as I can figure it, it’s summer time, so maybe we’ll make it.”

He started down the steps with Moss behind him, and presently they had joined the others—as bewildered as they were by their incredible good fortune. But most baffling of all was the asinine behavior of the warders—men who had been cruelty itself now as cheerful and considerate as it was possible to be. They seemed to take an actual delight in proving that the boat had some food and water enough to see them all through, if they shared alike. . .

The prisoners glanced at each other and gave it up. Then rowing began. Little by little the boat pulled away from that forbidding pile. The guards still whistled and laughed among themselves; the prisoners pulled on their oars, their faces set and hard within their beards, their exposed skin as white as a fish’s belly.