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The Floating Press - Robert Cromie

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89 pages

English

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Though first published in 1895, this eerily prescient science-fiction novella contains the first-ever description of what an atomic explosion might look like. Often compared by critics to masterworks such as Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and H.G. Wells' The Island of Dr. Moreau, Robert Cromie's The Crack of Doom explores the dangers of unfettered scientific experimentation.

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Science fiction

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776596959
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE CRACK OF DOOM
* * *
ROBERT CROMIE

*
The Crack of Doom First published in 1895 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-695-9 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-696-6 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface Chapter I - The Universe a Mistake! Chapter II - A Strange Experiment Chapter III - "It is Good to Be Alive" Chapter IV - George Delany—Deceased Chapter V - The Murder Club Chapter VI - A Telepathic Telegram Chapter VII - Guilty! Chapter VIII - The Woking Mystery Chapter IX - Cui Bono? Chapter X - Force—A Remedy Chapter XI - Morituri Te Salutant Chapter XII - "No Death—Save in Life" Chapter XIII - Miss Metford's Plan Chapter XIV - Rockingham to the Sharks Chapter XV - "If Not Too Late!" Chapter XVI - £5000 to Detain the Ship Chapter XVII - "This Earth Shall Die" Chapter XVIII - The Flight Chapter XIX - The Catastrophe Chapter XX - Conclusion Endnotes
Preface
*
The rough notes from which this narrative has been constructed weregiven to me by the man who tells the story. For obvious reasons I havealtered the names of the principals, and I hereby pass on the assurancewhich I have received, that the originals of such as are left alive canbe found if their discovery be thought desirable. This alteration ofnames, the piecing together of somewhat disconnected and sometimesnearly indecipherable memoranda, and the reduction of the mass toconsecutive form, are all that has been required of me or would havebeen permitted to me. The expedition to Labrador mentioned by thenarrator has not returned, nor has it ever been definitely traced. Hedoes not undertake to prove that it ever set out. But he avers that allwhich is hereafter set down is truly told, and he leaves it to mankindto accept the warning which it has fallen to him to convey, or await theproof of its sincerity which he believes the end of the century willproduce.
ROBERT CROMIE.
BELFAST, May, 1895 .
Chapter I - The Universe a Mistake!
*
"The Universe is a mistake!"
Thus spake Herbert Brande, a passenger on the Majestic , making forQueenstown Harbour, one evening early in the past year. Foolish as thewords may seem, they were partly influential in leading to my terribleassociation with him, and all that is described in this book.
Brande was standing beside me on the starboard side of the vessel. Wehad been discussing a current astronomical essay, as we watched the hazyblue line of the Irish coast rise on the horizon. This conversation wasinterrupted by Brande, who said, impatiently:
"Why tell us of stars distant so far from this insignificant littleworld of ours—so insignificant that even its own inhabitants speakdisrespectfully of it—that it would take hundreds of years to telegraphto some of them, thousands to others, and millions to the rest? Whylimit oneself to a mere million of years for a dramatic illustration,when there is a star in space distant so far from us that if a telegramleft the earth for it this very night, and maintained for ever itsinitial velocity, it would never reach that star?"
He said this without any apparent effort after rhetorical effect; butthe suddenness with which he had presented a very obvious truism in afresh light to me made the conception of the vastness of spaceabsolutely oppressive. In the hope of changing the subject I replied:
"Nothing is gained by dwelling on these scientific speculations. Themind is only bewildered. The Universe is inexplicable."
"The Universe!" he exclaimed. "That is easily explained. The Universe isa mistake!"
"The greatest mistake of the century, I suppose," I added, somewhatannoyed, for I thought Brande was laughing at me.
"Say, of Time, and I agree with you," he replied, careless of myastonishment.
I did not answer him for some moments.
This man Brande was young in years, but middle-aged in the expression ofhis pale, intellectual face, and old—if age be synonymous withknowledge—in his ideas. His knowledge, indeed, was so exhaustive thatthe scientific pleasantries to which he was prone could always bejustified, dialectically at least, by him when he was contradicted.Those who knew him well did not argue with him. I was always stumblinginto intellectual pitfalls, for I had only known him since the steamerleft New York.
As to myself, there is little to be told. My history prior to myacquaintance with Brande was commonplace. I was merely an active,athletic Englishman, Arthur Marcel by name. I had studied medicine, andwas a doctor in all but the degree. This certificate had been dispensedwith owing to an unexpected legacy, on receipt of which I determined todevote it to the furtherance of my own amusement. In the pursuit of thisobject, I had visited many lands and had become familiar with most ofthe beaten tracks of travel. I was returning to England after an absenceof three years spent in aimless roaming. My age was thirty-one years,and my salient characteristic at the time was to hold fast by anythingthat interested me, until my humour changed. Brande's conversationalvagaries had amused me on the voyage. His extraordinary comment on theUniverse decided me to cement our shipboard acquaintance before reachingport.
"That explanation of yours," I said, lighting a fresh cigar, andreturning to a subject which I had so recently tried to shelve, "isn'tit rather vague?"
"For the present it must serve," he answered absently.
To force him into admitting that his phrase was only a thoughtlessexclamation, or induce him to defend it, I said:
"It does not serve any reasonable purpose. It adds nothing to knowledge.As it stands, it is neither academic nor practical."
Brande looked at me earnestly for a moment, and then said gravely:
"The academic value of the explanation will be shown to you if you willjoin a society I have founded; and its practicalness will soon be madeplain whether you join or not."
"What do you call this club of yours?" I asked.
"We do not call it a club. We call it a Society—the Cui Bono Society," he answered coldly.
"I like the name," I returned. "It is suggestive. It may meananything—or nothing."
"You will learn later that the Society means something; a good deal, infact."
This was said in the dry, unemotional tone which I afterwards found wasthe only sign of displeasure Brande ever permitted himself to show. Hisarrangements for going on shore at Queenstown had been made early in theday, but he left me to look for his sister, of whom I had seen verylittle on the voyage. The weather had been rough, and as she was not agood sailor, I had only had a rare glimpse of a very dark and handsomegirl, whose society possessed for me a strange attraction, although wewere then almost strangers. Indeed, I regretted keenly, as the time ofour separation approached, having registered my luggage (consistinglargely of curios and mementoes of my travels, of which I was verycareful) for Liverpool. My own time was valueless, and it would havebeen more agreeable to me to continue the journey with the Brandes, nomatter where they went.
There was a choppy sea on when we reached the entrance to the harbour,so the Majestic steamed in between the Carlisle and Camden forts, andon to the man-of-war roads, where the tender met us. By this time,Brande and his sister were ready to go on shore; but as there was aheavy mail to be transhipped, we had still an hour at our disposal. Forsome time we paced the deck, exchanging commonplaces on the voyage andconfidences as to our future plans. It was almost dark, but not darkenough to prevent us from seeing those wonderfully green hills whichlandlock the harbour. To me the verdant woods and hills were delightfulafter the brown plains and interminable prairies on which I had spentmany months. As the lights of Queenstown began to speck the slowlygathering gloom, Miss Brande asked me to point out Rostellan Castle. Itcould not be seen from the vessel, but the familiar legend was easilyrecalled, and this led us to talk about Irish tradition with its weirdromance and never failing pathos. This interested her. Freed now fromthe lassitude of sea-sickness, the girl became more fascinating to meevery moment. Everything she said was worth listening to, apart from thecharming manner in which it was said.
To declare that she was an extremely pretty girl would not convey thestrange, almost unearthly, beauty of her face—as intellectual as herbrother's—and of the charm of her slight but exquisitely mouldedfigure. In her dark eyes there was a sympathy, a compassion, that wasnew to me. It thrilled me with an emotion different from anything thatmy frankly happy, but hitherto wholly selfish life had known. There wasonly one note in her conversation which jarred upon me. She was apt todrift into the extraordinary views of life and death which wereinteresting when formulated by her eccentric brother, but pained mecoming from her lips. In spite of this, the purpose I had contemplatedof joining Brande's Society—evoked as it had been by his own whimsicalobservation—now took definite form. I would join that Society. It wouldbe the best way of keeping near to Natalie Brande.
Her brother returned to us to say that the tender was about to leave theship. He had left us for half an hour. I did not notice his absenceuntil he himself announced it. As we shook hands, I said to him:
"I have been thinking about that Society of yours. I mean to join it."
"I am very glad," he replied. "You will find it a new sensation, quiteout