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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 1948 by John Russell Fearn
Copyright © 2012 by Philip Harbottle
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For Dave Gibson
CHAPTER ONE
THE EBON SPHERE OF SURREY
The car moved silently away from the house.
“Drive as I direct,” said Michael tersely.
Peter Curzon turned slightly and looked at his friend sitting beside him in the car. He sensed the hostility in the clipped tone, and felt uneasy. But it was dark and the light from the car lamps, high-powered though they were, reflected back only dimly from the road, and all he glimpsed was the vague paleness of hit friend’s face.
“Okay,” he replied lightly. “Lead on, Macduff. But why the eerie mystery? Why the great urge to drive at midnight? And why pick on me?”
“You’ll see. I have a surprise for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, especially for you.”
Peter laughed aloud. “How you revel in the dramatic, Michael. You were always like that as a boy, and even at college. Always the same, moody, elusive, insinuating, theatrical. That’s you, Michael. Now, what’s it all about?”
But the other would not be drawn. “You’ll see!” he repeated. “Take the left fork here.”
“Right you are,” responded Peter obeying his instructions, “but I don’t see why you want to meander through Surrey with me on a pitch black night instead of being at home with Judith like a respectable married man.”
“You leave my wife’s name out of this!” snapped the other.
“Okay, okay! What’s bitten you now? You’re surely not jealous of Judith and me! Why, I’ve known her as long as you have. And you said you didn’t mind my taking her about while you were busy scientificating with your wonderful theories and inventions. So what?”
But the other remained silent.
Peter Curzon slowed the car down. He was a tall, broad shouldered young man with a loosely knit, muscular figure of great strength. He had fair, unruly hair, deep blue twinkling eyes and a jovial, fresh complexioned, good-humoured face. He was a general favourite, especially with the fair sex.
In marked contrast, Michael, though good-looking, even fascinating in his own way, was dark, serious minded, and of far slighter build. He was less athletic, less debonair, and certainly far less popular.
Yet despite his saturnine moodiness, he could be charming when he chose. He was remarkably clever, obviously destined for a brilliant career as a physicist.
And like all clever men he was dissatisfied, jealous of others for qualities he himself lacked. He envied Peter’s physical superiority and his natural easy manners that made him so popular.
Also, like most clever men, he affected to despise his mental inferiors, underrating his friend’s inherent sagacity and sound common sense.
For Peter, maybe no genius, was nevertheless, no fool. Nor was his good humour mere softness of character. He could, on occasion be firm and he was never comfortable unless and until he understood a thing clearly. Always he enquired and wanted to know with a persistence that could be embarrassing.
He stopped the car and turned to Michael. “Now then!” he cried, and there was an edge to his voice, “spill it my lad, and quick.”
Michael changed his tactics. He uttered an amused chuckle. “You are like a great blundering bear, Peter. There’s no finesse about you.”
“Well, what’s the joke?” asked Peter shortly.
“I’ll tell you, since you’re so pressing,” replied Michael.
He leaned closer to him. “I have been working on the greatest invention of all time. For centuries scientists have been studying it intermittently, but at last I have perfected it.” He lowered his voice a little. “Tonight I am putting it to the test and I am impatient to show it to you.”
Peter, though relieved, was still uneasy. “What is this invention?” he asked.
The other lowered his voice to an awed whisper. “I have discovered how to suspend entropy.”
“Suspend what?”
“Entropy, entropy.”
“What on earth...?”
Michael became impatient. “I’ll show you when we get there. You will understand. Come, drive on.”
Peter hesitated a fraction and then, slipping the gears in, settled himself at the wheel and they set off again.
By degrees, following Michael’s directions, he realised he was being detoured from the main Guildford-London road he had been following and was instead speeding down quiet, half-made country lanes. At last they came to a rising stretch of ground swelling up into hills against the stars.
“Guessed where we are?” came Michael’s voice out of the gloom.
“As near as I can tell,” replied Peter, “we are in the region of the old tin mines. I think I can see the outline of the old pitheads against the sky there.”
“Quite right!” Michael sounded pleased. “It may interest you to know that I’ve been doing a lot of exploring around here recently—chiefly at night—while you’ve been acting deputy husband for me.”
“But why should you want to poke about here?” Peter demanded. “Haven’t you enough to do without...?”
“Certainly I have, but in this case it was worth it. You’re my best friend—come with me and I’ll let you into my secret.”
They got out of the car. Taking a torch from his pocket, Michael led the way, across rough stone and rotting planks, to the ancient mine head which for many years had lain abandoned. Looking about him Peter saw that the mine was typical of dozens of such outworked sites scattered about Southern England.
“There are steps down here,” Michael said, flashing the light on iron footrests driven into the side of the shaft. “Take care how you go,” he warned. “Follow me.”
They went down for perhaps two hundred feet, then along a small narrow tunnel which showed dangerous signs of collapse; fissures and rents were cobwebbed across the curved roof and the old teak props, rotten with age and damp, were showing signs of crumbling and giving way.
Finally they came to an old door, which Michael with considerable effort dragged open on squeaking hinges.
“There!” he exclaimed, waving the torch beam into a roomy cave. The light reflected back from a row of heavy machinery ranged along the walls. In the middle of the floor stood a long
