Hellhounds of the Cosmos, Page 4

couldbe no quarter.

  * * * * *

  The fallen monster howled, but his voice cut short as his foul mouth,with its razor-edged fangs, closed on the other's body. His talons,seeking a hold, clawed deep.

  Mal Shaff, his brain a screaming maelstrom of weird emotions, aimedpile-driver blows at the enemy, clawed and ripped. Together the tworolled, locked tight in titanic battle, on the sandy plain and a greatcloud of heavy dust marked where they struggled.

  In desperation Ouglat put every ounce of his strength into a heave thatbroke the other's grip and flung him away.

  The two monstrosities surged to their feet, their eyes red with hate,glaring through the dust cloud at one another.

  Slowly Ouglat's hand stole to a black, wicked cylinder that hung on abelt at his waist. His fingers closed upon it and he drew the weapon. Ashe leveled it at Mal Shaff, his lips curled back and his featuresdistorted into something that was not pleasant to see.

  Mal Shaff, with doubled fists, saw the great thumb of his enemy slowlydepressing a button on the cylinder, and a great fear held him rootedin his tracks. In the back of his brain something was vainly trying toexplain to him the horror of this thing which the other held.

  Then a multicolored spiral, like a corkscrew column of vapor, sprangfrom the cylinder and flashed toward him. It struck him full on thechest and even as it did so he caught the ugly fire of triumph in thered eyes of his enemy.

  He felt a stinging sensation where the spiral struck, but that was all.He was astounded. He had feared this weapon, had been sure it portendedsome form of horrible death. But all it did was to produce a slightsting.

  For a split second he stood stock-still, then he surged forward andadvanced upon Ouglat, his hands outspread like claws. From his throatcame those horrible sounds, the speech of the fourth dimension.

  "Did I not tell you, foul son of Sargouthe, that I had solved a mysteryyou have never guessed at? Although you destroyed me long ago, I havereturned. Throw away your puny weapon. I am of the lower dimension andam invulnerable to your engines of destruction. You bloated...." Hiswords trailed off into a stream of vileness that could never haveoccurred to a third-dimensional mind.

  Ouglat, with every line of his face distorted with fear, flung theweapon from him, and turning, fled clumsily down the moor, with MalShaff at his heels.

  * * * * *

  Steadily Mal Shaff gained and with only a few feet separating him fromOuglat, he dived with outspread arms at the other's legs.

  The two came down together, but Mal Shaff's grip was broken by the falland the two regained their feet at almost the same instant.

  The wild moor resounded to their throaty roaring and the high cliffsflung back the echoes of the bellowing of the two gladiators below. Itwas sheer strength now and flesh and bone were bruised and broken underthe life-shaking blows that they dealt. Great furrows were plowed in thesand by the sliding of heavy feet as the two fighters shifted to or awayfrom attack. Blood, blood of fourth-dimensional creatures, covered thebodies of the two and stained the sand with its horrible hue.Perspiration streamed from them and their breath came in gulping gasps.

  The lurid sun slid across the purple sky and still the two fought on.Ouglat, one of the ancients, and Mal Shaff, reincarnated. It was abattle of giants, a battle that must have beggared even the titanictilting of forgotten gods and entities in the ages when thethird-dimensional Earth was young.

  Mal Shaff had no conception of time. He may have fought seconds orhours. It seemed an eternity. He had attempted to fight scientifically,but had failed to do so. While one part of him had cried out to eludehis opponent, to wait for openings, to conserve his strength, anotherpart had shouted at him to step in and smash, smash, smash at the hatedmonstrosity pitted against him.

  It seemed Ouglat was growing in size, had become more agile, that hisstrength was greater. His punches hurt more; it was harder to hit him.

  Still Mal Shaff drilled in determinedly, head down, fists working likepistons. As the other seemed to grow stronger and larger, he seemed tobecome smaller and weaker.

  It was queer. Ouglat should be tired, too. His punches should be weaker.He should move more slowly, be heavier on his feet.

  There was no doubt of it. Ouglat was growing larger, was drawing onsome mysterious reserve of strength. From somewhere new force and lifewere flowing into his body. But from where was this strength coming?

  A huge fist smashed against Mal Shaff's jaw. He felt himself lifted, andthe next moment he skidded across the sand.

  Lying there, gasping for breath, almost too fagged to rise, with theblack bulk of the enemy looming through the dust cloud before him, hesuddenly realized the source of the other's renewed strength.

  Ouglat was recalling his minions from the third dimension! They wereincorporating in his body, returning to their parent body!

  They were coming back from the third dimension to the fourth dimensionto fight a third-dimensional thing reincarnated in the fourth-dimensionalform it had lost millions of eons ago!

  This was the end, thought Mal Shaff. But he staggered to his feet tomeet the charge of the ancient enemy and a grim song, a death chantimmeasurably old, suddenly and dimly remembered from out of the mists ofcountless millenniums, was on his lips as he swung a pile-driver blowinto the suddenly astonished face of the rushing Ouglat....

  * * * * *

  The milky globe atop the machine in Dr. White's laboratory glowedsoftly, and within that glow two figures seemed to struggle.

  Before the machine, his hands still on the controls, stood Dr. SilasWhite. Behind him the room was crowded with newspapermen andphotographers.

  Hours had passed since the ninety-eight men--ninety-nine, counting HenryWoods--had stepped into the brittle column of light to be shunted backthrough unguessed time to a different plane of existence. The oldscientist, during all those hours, had stood like a graven image beforehis machine, eyes staring fixedly at the globe.

  Through the open windows he had heard the cry of the newsboy as the_Press_ put the greatest scoop of all time on the street. The phone hadrung like mad and George answered it. The doorbell buzzed repeatedly andGeorge ushered in newspapermen who had asked innumerable questions, towhich he had replied briefly, almost mechanically. The reporters hadfought for the use of the one phone in the house and had finally drawnlots for it. A few had raced out to use other phones.

  Photographers came and flashes popped and cameras clicked. The room wasin an uproar. On the rare occasions when the reporters were not usingthe phone the instrument buzzed shrilly. Authoritative voices demandedDr. Silas White. George, his eyes on the old man, stated that Dr. SilasWhite could not be disturbed, that he was busy.

  From the street below came the heavy-throated hum of thousands ofvoices. The street was packed with a jostling crowd of awed humanity,every eye fastened on the house of Dr. Silas White. Lines of police heldthem back.

  "What makes them move so slowly?" asked a reporter, staring at theglobe. "They hardly seem to be moving. It looks like a slow motionpicture."

  "They are not moving slowly," replied Dr. White. "There must be adifference in time in the fourth dimension. Maybe what is hours to us isonly seconds to them. Time must flow more slowly there. Perhaps it is abigger place than this third plane. That may account for it. They aren'tmoving slowly, they are fighting savagely. It's a fight to the death!Watch!"

  * * * * *

  The grotesque arm of one of the figures in the milky globe was movingout slowly, loafing along, aimed at the head of the other. Slowly theother twisted his body aside, but too slowly. The fist finally touchedthe head, still moving slowly forward, the body following as slowly. Thehead of the creature twisted, bent backward, and the body toppled backin a leisurely manner.

  "What does White say?... Can't you get a statement of some sort fromhim? Won't he talk at all? A hell of a fine reporter you are--can't evenget a m
an to open his mouth. Ask him about Henry Woods. Get ahuman-interest slant on Woods walking into the light. Ask him how longthis is going to last. Damn it all, man, do something, and don't botherme again until you have a real story--yes, I said a real story--are youhard of hearing? For God's sake, do something!"

  The editor slammed the receiver on the hook.

  "Brooks," he snapped, "get the War Department at Washington. Ask them ifthey're going to back up White. Go on, go on. Get busy.... How will youget them? I don't know. Just get them, that's all. Get them!"

  Typewriters gibbered like chuckling morons through the roaring tumult ofthe editorial rooms. Copy boys rushed about, white sheets clutched intheir grimy hands. Telephones jangled and strident voices blared throughthe haze that arose from the pipes and cigarettes of perspiring writerswho feverishly transferred to paper the startling events that wererocking the world.

  The editor, his necktie off, his shirt open, his sleeves rolled to theelbow,