The Exile of Time Read online

  The Exile of Time by Ray Cummings

  Raymond King Cummings was born on August 30th, 1887 in New York. He is considered one of the “founding fathers” of science fiction.

  Cummings was nothing if not prolific, penning more than 750 works for pulp magazines such as Weird Tales and literary publications such as Argosy. Cummings generally wrote under his own name but also as Ray King, Gabrielle Cummings and Gabriel Wilson (a joint pseudonym with his second wife, writer Gabrielle Wilson).

  Cummings is credited with being the first to write of such notions as artificial gravity, invisibility cloaks and paralyzer rays – many of these concepts appeared in novel-length “space operas” and serializations.

  Raymond King Cummings died in Mount Vernon, New York in on 23rd January 1957.

  Index of Contents

  Chapter I - Mysterious Girl

  Chapter II - From Out of the Past

  Chapter III - Tugh, the Cripple

  Chapter IV - The Fight With the Robot

  Chapter V - The Girl from 2930

  Chapter VI - The New York Massacre of 1935

  Chapter VII - The Vengeance of Tugh

  Chapter VIII - The Murder of Major Atwood

  Chapter IX - Migul - Mechanism Almost Human

  Chapter X - Events Engraven on the Scroll of Time

  Chapter XI - Back to the Beginning of Time

  Chapter XII - A Billion Years in An Hour!

  Chapter XIII – In the Burned Forest

  Chapter XIV - A Very Human Princess

  Chapter XV - A Thousand Years into the Future

  Chapter XVI - The New York of 2930

  Chapter XVII - Harl's Confession

  Chapter XVIII - Tugh, the Clever Man

  Chapter XIX - The Pit in the Dam

  Chapter XX - Following Tugh's Vibration-Trail

  Chapter XXI - The Fight in the Power House

  Chapter XXII - The Chase to the End of the World

  Chapter XXIII - Diabolical Exile of Time!

  Chapter XXIV - The Return

  Ray Cummings – A Short Biography

  CHAPTER I

  Mysterious Girl

  The extraordinary incidents began about 1 A.M. in the night of June 8-9, 1935. I was walking through Patton Place, in New York City, with my friend Larry Gregory. My name is George Rankin. My business, and Larry's, are details quite unimportant to this narrative. We had been friends in college. Both of us were working in New York; and with all our relatives in the middle west we were sharing an apartment on this Patton Place, a short crooked, little-known street of not particularly impressive residential buildings lying near the section known as Greenwich Village, where towering office buildings of the business districts encroach close upon it.

  This night at 1 A. M. it was deserted. A taxi stood at a corner; its chauffeur had left it there, and evidently gone to a nearby lunch room. The street lights were, as always, inadequate. The night was sultry and dark, with a leaden sky and a breathless humidity that presaged a thunder storm. The houses were mostly unlighted at this hour. There was an occasional apartment house among them, but mostly they were low, ramshackle affairs of brick and stone.

  We were still three blocks from our apartment when without warning the incidents began which were to plunge us and all the city into disaster. We were upon the threshold of a mystery weird and strange, but we did not know it. Mysterious portals were swinging to engulf us. And all unknowing, we walked into them.

  Larry was saying, "Wish we would get a storm to clear this air, what the devil? George, did you hear that?"

  We stood listening. There had sounded a choking, muffled scream. We were midway in the block. There was not a pedestrian in sight, nor any vehicle save the abandoned taxi at the corner.

  "A woman," he said. "Did it come from this house?"

  We were standing before a three-story brick residence. All its windows were dark. There was a front stoop of several steps, and a basement entryway. The windows were all closed, and the place had the look of being unoccupied.

  "Not in there, Larry," I answered. "It's closed for the summer -" But I got no further; we heard it again. And this time it sounded, not like a scream, but like a woman's voice calling to attract our attention.

  "George! Look there!" Larry cried.

  The glow from a street light illumined the basement entryway, and behind one of the dark windows a girl's face was pressed against the pane.

  Larry stood gripping me, then drew me forward and down the steps of the entryway. There was a girl in the front basement room. Darkness was behind her, but we could see her white frightened face close to the glass. She tapped on the pane, and in the silence we heard her muffled voice:

  "Let me out! Oh, let me get out!"

  The basement door had a locked iron gate. I rattled it. "No way of getting in," I said, then stopped short with surprise. "What the devil -"

  I joined Larry by the window. The girl was only a few inches from us. She had a pale, frightened face; wide, terrified eyes. Even with that first glimpse, I was transfixed by her beauty. And startled; there was something weird about her. A low-necked, white satin dress disclosed her snowy shoulders; her head was surmounted by a pile of snow-white hair, with dangling white curls framing her pale ethereal beauty. She called again.

  "What's the matter with you?" Larry demanded. "Are you alone in there? What is it?"

  She backed from the window; we could see her only as a white blob in the darkness of the basement room.

  I called, "Can you hear us? What is it?"

  Then she screamed again. A low scream; but there was infinite terror in it. And again she was at the window.

  "You will not hurt me? Let me, oh please let me come out!" Her fists pounded the casement.

  What I would have done I don't know. I recall wondering if the policeman would be at our corner down the block; he very seldom was there. I heard Larry saying:

  "What the hell! I'll get her out. George, get me that brick.... Now, get back, girl, I'm going to smash the window."

  But the girl kept her face pressed against the pane. I had never seen such terrified eyes. Terrified at something behind her in the house; and equally frightened at us.

  I call to her: "Come to the door. Can't you come to the door and open it?" I pointed to the basement gate. "Open it! Can you hear me?"

  "Yes, I can hear you, and you speak my language. But you, you will not hurt me? Where am I? This, this was my house a moment ago. I was living here."

  Demented! It flashed to me. An insane girl, locked in this empty house. I gripped Larry; said to him: "Take it easy; there's something queer about this. We can't smash windows. Let's -"

  "You open the door," he called to the girl.

  "I cannot."

  "Why? Is it locked on the inside?"

  "I don't know. Because, oh, hurry! If he, if it comes again!"

  We could see her turn to look behind her.

  Larry demanded, "Are you alone in there?"

  "Yes, now. But, oh! a moment ago he was here!"

  "Then come to the door."

  "I cannot. I don't know where it is. This is so strange and dark a place. And yet it was my home, just a little time ago."

  Demented! And it seemed to me that her accent was very queer. A foreigner, perhaps.

  She went suddenly into frantic fear. Her fists beat the window glass almost hard enough to shatter it.

  "We'd better get her out," I agreed. "Smash it, Larry."

  "Yes." He waved at the girl. "Get back. I'll break the glass. Get away so you won't get hurt."

  The girl receded into the dimness.

  "Watch your hand," I cautioned. Larry took off his coat and wrapped his hand and the brick in it. I gazed behind us. The st
reet was still empty. The slight commotion we had made had attracted no attention.

  The girl cried out again as Larry smashed the pane. "Easy," I called to her. "Take it easy. We won't hurt you."

  The splintering glass fell inward, and Larry pounded around the casement until it was all clear. The rectangular opening was fairly large. We could see a dim basement room of dilapidated furniture: a door opening into a back room; the girl; nearby, a white shape watching us.

  There seemed no one else. "Come on," I said. "You can get out here."

  But she backed away. I was half in the window so I swung my legs over the sill. Larry came after me, and together we advanced on the girl, who shrank before us.

  Then suddenly she ran to meet us, and I had the sudden feeling that she was not insane. Her fear of us was overshadowed by her terror at something else in this dark, deserted house. The terror communicated itself to Larry and me. Something eery, here.

  "Come on," Larry muttered. "Let's get her out of here."

  I had indeed no desire to investigate anything further. The girl let us help her through the window. I stood in the entryway holding her arms. Her dress was of billowing white satin with a single red rose at the breast; her snowy arms and shoulders were bare; white hair was piled high on her small head. Her face, still terrified, showed parted red lips; a little round black beauty patch adorned one of her powdered cheeks. The thought flashed to me that this was a girl in a fancy dress costume. This was a white wig she was wearing!

  I stood with the girl in the entryway, at a loss what to do. I held her soft warm arms; the perfume of her enveloped me.

  "What do you want us to do with you?" I demanded softly. McGuire, the policeman on the block, might at any moment pass. "We might get arrested! What's the matter with you? Can't you explain? Are you hurt?"

  She was staring as though I were a ghost, or some strange animal. "Oh, take me away from this place! I will talk, though I do not know what to say."

  Demented or sane, I had no desire to have her fall into the clutches of the police. Nor could we very well take her to our apartment. But there was my friend Dr. Alten, alienist, who lived within a mile of here.

  "We'll take her to Alten's," I said to Larry, "and find out what this means. She isn't crazy."

  A sudden wild emotion swept me, then. Whatever this mystery, more than anything in the world I did not want the girl to be insane!

  Larry said, "There was a taxi down the street."

  It came, now, slowly along the deserted block. The chauffeur had perhaps heard us, and was cruising past to see if we were possible fares. He halted at the curb. The girl had quieted; but when she saw the taxi her face registered wildest terror, and she shrank against me.

  "No! No! Don't let it kill me!"

  Larry and I were pulling her forward. "What the devil's the matter with you?" Larry demanded again.

  She was suddenly wildly fighting with us. "No! That, that mechanism -"

  "Get her in it!" Larry panted. "We'll have the neighborhood on us!"

  It seemed the only thing to do. We flung her, scrambling and fighting, into the taxi. To the half-frightened, reluctant driver, Larry said vigorously:

  "It's all right; we're just taking her to a doctor. Hurry and get us away from here. There's good money in it for you!"

  The promise, and the reassurance of the physician's address, convinced the chauffeur. We whirled off toward Washington Square.

  Within the swaying taxi I sat holding the trembling girl. She was sobbing now, but quieting.

  "There," I murmured. "We won't hurt you; we're just taking you to a doctor. You can explain to him. He's very intelligent."

  "Yes," she said softly. "Yes. Thank you. I'm all right now."

  She relaxed against me. So beautiful, so dainty a creature.

  Larry leaned toward us. "You're better now?"

  "Yes."

  "That's fine. You'll be all right. Don't think about it."

  He was convinced she was insane. I breathed again the vague hope that it might not be so. She was huddled against me. Her face, upturned to mine, had color in it now; red lips; a faint rose tint in the pale cheeks.

  She murmured, "Is this New York?"

  My heart sank. "Yes," I answered. "Of course it is."

  "But when?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, what year?"

  "Why, 1935!"

  She caught her breath. "And your name is -"

  "George Rankin."

  "And I," her laugh had a queer break in it - "I am Mistress Mary Atwood. But just a few minutes ago, oh, am I dreaming? Surely I'm not insane!"

  Larry again leaned over us. "What are you talking about?"

  "You're friendly, you two. Like men; strange, so very strange-looking young men. This, this carriage without any horses, I know now it won't hurt me."

  She sat up. "Take me to your doctor. And then to the general of your army. I must see him, and warn him. Warn you all." She was turning half hysterical again. She laughed wildly. "Your general, he won't be General Washington, of course. But I must warn him."

  She gripped me. "You think I am demented. But I am not. I am Mary Atwood, daughter of Major Charles Atwood, of General Washington's staff. That was my home, where you broke the window. But it did not look like that a few moments ago. You tell me this is the year 1935, but just a few moments ago I was living in the year 1777!"

  CHAPTER II

  From Out of the Past

  "Sane?" said Dr. Alten. "Of course she's sane." He stood gazing down at Mary Atwood. He was a tall, slim fellow, this famous young alienist, with dark hair turning slightly grey at the temples and a neat black mustache that made him look older than he was. Dr. Alten at this time, in spite of his eminence, had not yet turned forty.

  "She's sane," he reiterated. "Though from what you tell me, it's a wonder that she is." He smiled gently at the girl. "If you don't mind, my dear, tell us just what happened to you, as calmly as you can."

  She sat by an electrolier in Dr. Alten's living room. The yellow light gleamed on her white satin dress, on her white shoulders, her beautiful face with its little round black beauty patch, and the curls of the white wig dangling to her neck. From beneath the billowing, flounced skirt the two satin points of her slippers showed.

  A beauty of the year 1777! This thing so strange! I gazed at her with quickened pulse. It seemed that I was dreaming; that as I sat before her in my tweed business suit with its tubular trousers I was the anachronism! This should have been candle-light illumining us; I should have been a powdered and bewigged gallant, in gorgeous satin and frilled shirt to match her dress. How strange, how futuristic we three men of 1935 must have looked to her! And this city through which we had whirled her in the throbbing taxi, no wonder she was overwrought.

  Alten fumbled in the pockets of his dressing gown for cigarettes. "Go ahead, Miss Mary. You are among friends. I promise we will try and understand."

  She smiled. "Yes. I, I believe you." Her voice was low. She sat staring at the floor, choosing her words carefully; and though she stumbled a little, her story was coherent. Upon the wings of her words my fancy conjured that other Time-world, more than a hundred and fifty years ago.

  "I was at home to-night," she began. "To-night after dinner. I have no relatives except my father. He is General Washington's aide. We live, our home is north of the city. I was alone, except for the servants.

  "Father sent word to-night that he was coming to see me. The messenger got through the British lines. But the redcoats are everywhere. They were quartered in our house. For months I have been little more than a servant to a dozen of My Lord's Howe's officers. They are gentlemen, though: I have no complaint. Then they left, and father, knowing it, wanted to come to see me.

  "He should not have tried it. Our house is watched. He promised me he would not wear the British red." She shuddered. "Anything but that, to have him executed as a spy. He would not risk that, but wear merely a long black cloak.
r />   "He was to come about ten o'clock. But at midnight there was no sign of him. The servants were asleep. I sat alone, and every pounding hoof-beat on the road matched my heart.

  "Then I went into the garden. There was a dim moon in and out of the clouds. It was hot, like to-night. I mean, why it was to-night. It's so strange -"

  In the silence of Alten's living room we could hear the hurried ticking of his little mantle clock, and from the street outside came the roar of a passing elevated train and the honk of a taxi. This was New York of 1935. But to me the crowding ghosts of the past were here. In fancy I saw the white pillars of the moonlit Atwood home. A garden with a dirt road beside it. Red-coated British soldiers passing.... And to the south the little city of New York extending northward from crooked Maiden Lane and the Bowling Green....