Read Ebook: The Drone A Play in Three Acts by Mayne Rutherford

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Ebook has 594 lines and 28901 words, and 12 pages

IN CAVERNS BELOW

If we were told to list a dozen writers whom we considered great science-fiction authors, we should certainly place the name of Stanton A. Coblentz high up in the list.

When Coblentz writes a short story, it is excellent, but when he composes a novel, such as the present one, you will have to go far and wide to find a better story.

We sincerely believe that "In Caverns Below" will go down in science-fiction history with the other novels of Stanton A. Coblentz and will be re-read by the ever-growing multitude of science-fiction fans during future decades.

Here we find everything that distinguishes our author's work from all others--what more can we say?

It is now five years since Philip Clay and I were given up by the world as lost, five years since we plunged into that appalling adventure from which, even today, we have barely begun to recover. During nine tenths of that time, we dwelt far from the sight of our fellow men in a remote and incredible land of wizardry and terror; we made discoveries which, we are certain, have never been surpassed since Columbus voyaged westward to the New World; we encountered perils that we still shudder to recall, and experienced triumphs that make us sigh regretfully in recollection. And it is only by the rarest of good fortune that we survive to tell the story to those who, long ago, wept at the news of our passing.

One fact in the case, and only one, will be remembered by the public. In the autumn of 1929, newspapers throughout the country reported that Philip Clay and Frank Comstock, mining engineers and boon companions, disappeared in the depths of a silver mine in Nevada. It was generally believed that a cave-in of unexplained origin had been responsible for their death, and that they had been crushed beyond recognition, for no trace of their mutilated bodies was ever found. The world, with its insatiable appetite for tragedy and horror, was naturally interested for a time, but as the days and weeks wore by and no further news was forthcoming, public attention was diverted to other affairs, and Comstock and Clay were forgotten....

Yet it is I, Frank Comstock, who write these words. It is I, Frank Comstock, who a few months ago returned as if from the grave, to announce that Clay and I had not been killed in the mine disaster. It is I, Frank Comstock, who have come back to record my experiences, and to proclaim that, even in this twentieth century, there are more worlds about us than our philosophy has ever taken into account.

Let me therefore go back over these harrowing five years and try to report, as simply and accurately as I can, each episode in the whole chain of extraordinary events.

It will be needless to linger over the preliminaries, to tell how Clay and I, chums at college, had been partners since our graduation from Western Institute of Mining twelve years before, how we had pooled our fortunes and joined our lives and spent all of our time in mutual experiments and enterprises in the back-regions of Montana, Idaho, and other states of the mountain belt. Passing over all this, let me tell how, in September, 1929, we were called to pass judgment upon the old Carlson Flat silver mine, which an eastern syndicate was just reopening in a particularly remote region of central Nevada. I recall how, for two days, we trailed with our pack-team over the desert mountains, our nostrils assaulted by the fine alkaline dust and our eyes wearied by the never-ending gray and yellow of the sagebrush. "A God-forsaken country!" muttered Clay, his fine blue eyes lighted with a reminiscent gleam, as he thought of the wooded mountains of the north. "Heavens, but I'll be thankful when we get out of here!"

Little, however, did he realize how long it would be before we would get out!

At last, to our relief, we reached Carlson Flat--as desolate a spot as was imaginable, at the edge of a narrow barren plateau just beneath a projecting stony ridge that beetled a thousand feet above us. Fortunately, the location mattered little, since we spent most of the time underground; but we did not particularly relish our task in that old, long-abandoned mine, whose shafts were not only unusually dank and narrow, but exceptionally deep. For some reason that I cannot explain, a premonition came to us both; it was as if some voice from within us cried out, "Flee! Flee, before it is too late!" We seemed to read some nameless menace in those dark sloping galleries, lighted only by the fluttering illumination of our torches; and, accustomed though we were to underground labyrinths, we somehow could not laugh away the sense of peril that confronted us in every foot-fall and shadow.

"Guess we're growing soft-headed in our old age!" suggested Clay, with a forced attempt at jocularity.

But I still recall how his rugged face, indistinctly visible in the glare of the flashlight, took on a troubled expression as he uttered these words; and I know how his unspoken fears communicated themselves to me in a shudder of apprehension.

None the less, being reasonable beings, we would not let our misgivings deter us from investigating the mine. Would that we had taken warning from our own sense of danger! For, on the third day, we were hurled into catastrophe.

It was then that we had decided to inspect the furthest and deepest section of the diggings. Accompanied by two or three workmen and an official of the company, we made our way tortuously through galleries that seemed miles long, and penetrated the dim, dank descent hundreds of feet beneath the desert floor. As we groped and fumbled silently downward, I was in far from a cheerful mood, for that weird, mysterious feeling of peril was still with me, the feeling of walking into a trap! Besides, as if to lend a basis of reason to my forebodings, what was that sudden faint trembling of the earth that I seemed to feel every now and then, that occasional rude jarring of the gallery floor, as if from the concussion of a distant explosion?--or was it only my imagination?

"Did you feel that?" I demanded of Clay, upon being shaken by the severest of the tremors. But he merely snapped, "Feel what?" and the pale light of the torches did not reveal the workings of his features.

"Seemed like an earthquake to me!" I muttered, as the ground beneath my feet once more gave a slight, almost imperceptible fluttering.

"Earthquake? Nonsense!" flung back Clay. "How could it be? We're way out of the earthquake belt, aren't we?"

I mumbled in the affirmative, but was not reassured.

Nevertheless, we said no more about the matter, and a few minutes later we had reached the lower limits of the mine. Forgetting my fears, I had pushed on with Clay ahead of our companions and was just turning my flashlight on an ore-producing ledge at the bottom of the gallery ... when suddenly there occurred that event which only too completely justified my alarm.

Like many of life's crises, it was all over in a minute. Yet it seemed infinitely prolonged, seemed packed with the experience of hours, of days, almost of years. I can still relive the dagger-shaft of terror that shot through me when the earth, without warning, gave a quick convulsive lurch, like the deck of a vessel in a storm at sea; I can still hear the sharp frightened exclamation from the throat of Clay and the startled shouts of our companions from down the tunnel. Once more I listen to the crunching, grinding, and groaning of the earth and the low rumbling from far subterranean depths; I am again pitched headlong to the floor as the ground beneath us heaves and threshes; I catch the panic-gleam in the eyes of my companion as he tries vainly to clutch a projecting spike of rock; then for an instant, as the commotion momentarily subsides, I almost succeed in regaining my feet, only to be hurled down again with a fury that leaves me bruised and bleeding.

As I strive for the second time to pick myself up, my ears ring with a tumult as of an avalanche. With terrorizing force, the crash and thunder of falling rock breaks upon my stunned senses; the roof of the gallery has collapsed, and Clay and I are cut-off from our companions in a chamber only a few yards across, at the extreme end of the tunnel!

Desperately, like mountain climbers on a crumbling precipice, we strive to maintain our balance on the narrow floor of our prison. But we are as helpless as babes. We see the fissure widening, spreading out like the pitchy jaws of doom; we know that, in an instant, we will no longer have a foothold; then, at the moment of supreme horror, the light in Clay's flashlight flickers and goes out, and we are plunged into utter darkness....

At the same time, clutching instinctively at the overhanging rocks, which delay, but cannot halt our flight, we feel ourselves slipping. I hear once again Clay's cry of consternation; I hear the uproar of sliding earth and rock; I feel my arms and shoulders bruised and mangled; I have a sense of suffocation, a sense of being buried beneath tons of dead matter; then, all at once, a veil of quietness, of vacancy, of oblivion blots out my consciousness.

A Mysterious Light

I have always marvelled that Clay and I lived through the cataclysm. But probably we owe our survival to the fact that the fissure, far from being perpendicular, sloped at an angle of only thirty or forty degrees, so that, while rolling over and over in our descent, we were at least spared a direct drop.

At all events, we finally did come to a stop without receiving any fatal hurt. It may have been minutes, or it may have been hours, before I recovered consciousness; but when at length I came to myself, it was with a dull aching in the head, and with a sensation of soreness in every limb and muscle.

"Where am I?" I gasped, still but hazily aware of what had happened, and with the sickly, absurd feeling that perhaps I had died and was reawakening in the Afterlife. And it was only the sound of another human voice that brought me once more to my senses.

"Where are you? Would to God I knew!--down in hell, I guess!" came in mumbled accents from an unseen figure.

"Much hurt, Phil?" I jerked out, striving vainly to locate my friend amid the impenetrable blackness. And, as I spoke, I moved to a sitting position and made my first effort to extricate myself from the rocks and dust that buried me almost waist-deep.

"No, not hurt much!" came Clay's drawled reply. "A few little cuts and bruises, more or less, and one black eye. But what does that amount to? Couldn't use the eye down here, anyway!"

And then, after a moment of silence, he asked, "How about you, Frank? Hope you're not banged up too much."

"No, I'm all right," I protested, as stanchly as I could, considering that I felt as if I had been run through a threshing-machine.

"We'll sure be able to collect big damages!" proceeded Clay, as optimistically as though we had already made our escape. "But say, old pal, you certainly were right about the earthquake! That one was a whopper! I didn't know they had them around this part of the country!"

"Neither did I!" I declared. And, even as I spoke, a violent shudder once more went through me. The earth was again trembling!

"Guess the climate here isn't any too healthy!" decided my friend, while from somewhere amid the darkness, I heard him shaking off the d?bris and struggling to his feet. "Don't know where we are, Frank, but I wouldn't mind being anywhere else! Come! Where are you, old fellow?"

As we had lost the flashlights in our fall, it took us several anxious minutes to locate one another amid that tar-like blackness. Several times we stumbled over unseen obstacles, and more than once we followed a false lead; but at length, guided by the sound of each other's voices, we brushed shoulders in the darkness. And thenceforth, like lost children, we held hands lest we lose track of each other.

Where had we fallen?--to what hidden cavern deep in the earth's maw? This was the question we asked ourselves many times, as we groped our way down the sloping floor, we could not guess whither. Yet each moment we were making discoveries. After a few minutes, as we shuffled cautiously forward, we had passed the d?bris-littered area and found a smooth stone floor slanting beneath our feet. And we discovered that, a yard or two to each side of us, was a polished stone wall!

"Holy Jerusalem!" whistled my companion. "Who'd have thought the mine reached down this far?"

"Mine?" I returned, derisively. "Your misfortunes must have gone to your head, Phil! When did you ever see a mine with polished walls?"

"Well, what is it if not a mine?" he flung back in gruff challenge. "What is it? Just tell me that!"

Not being able to answer, I remained silent. But a strange suspicion, which had been forming in my mind, was gradually deepening; and involuntarily I shuddered once more and pressed closer to my friend--nor was I reassured by the renewed trembling of the earth which from time to time interrupted our ruminations.

I am afraid that grim conjectures came into the mind of Clay also, for he remained tense and silent for many minutes as we continued to fumble, like blind men, down those uncanny subterranean corridors.

"The devil take us both!" he at last muttered, with an attempted levity that did not serve to conceal his alarm. "You'd think we were going straight down to Dante's Inferno! Why, I can almost feel the little imps dancing in the darkness all about us!"

"The imps be damned!" I snapped in unseemly irritation.

"But seriously, old man, where do you suppose we are?--in the pit of some extinct volcano?"

"Possibly--but that doesn't explain why the walls are so smooth and even."

"No, it doesn't. However, mightn't it be the channel of a dried-up subterranean river? In the course of ages, the water might have washed the walls smooth."

"It might have," I conceded, briefly. Yet deep within me, there was the feeling, the persistent feeling, that it was not water that had hollowed out the passageway.

For ten or fifteen minutes we plodded on without a word, moving at a snail's pace in our anxiety, and not aware of any change in our environment. The walls were still as polished and regular as ever; the blackness was as absolute and as unbroken; the occasional jarring of the earth continued at uneven intervals, growing a little more pronounced than before, but disturbing us less, since we were now becoming used to it.

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