Authentic Science Fiction, No. 23 — page 26: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A8 THE SINGING SPHERES We gasped involuntarily as the screen brought forth with particular clarity a view of the Great Halls, crammed with populace whom Makkub was apparently addressing. Hues were vivid, details perfect, and to heighten the effect the picture took on in some mysterious way a semblance of three- dimensional solidity. Next instant it had’ faded into milky mistiness. “The operators,” explained Fuzzy-bubble. “They are having difficulties—”’ “They did very nicely just now—” Scene Three materialised—very similar to the first, except that this time swarms of spheres flocked back through. the cleft in the rocks: “Mission accomplished,” murmured Hartnell. “Wonder what they’ve been up to—” I asked Fuzzy-bubble about the time, but apparently the coloured line indicator had failed. Sacrificial spheres flung themselves recklessly into the tube, hardly stopping to make their obeisance. I wondered how many were now left of the original thousand. But the succeeding picture drove away thoughts of anyone save ourselves—for there we were, sitting in a corner of the rocks and looking out towards the brown, desolate plain. Seven or eight spheres clung to the cliff-face above us in a ane line. I thought, somehow, that we looked rather for- orn. | The scene flickered and dissolved, to be replaced on that unholy screen by a representation which set my scalp crawl- , ne with terror and spun my mind into a dizzy, unbelieving whirl. For we gazed upon an unmistakable Kardoon landscape— away from the rugged cliff-line this time. The plain stretched away into brown affinity under that uneasy, pink sky. In the foreground rested three mounds of small rocks, measuring about six feet long and two feet wide. At the head of each mound was placed a small slab of some flat, dark material, and as the screen sprang for an instant to that same brilliant clarity which had marked the third essay by the Machine of Revelation, I distinguished, through a haze of horror, cer-. tain significant words. THE SINGING SPHERES 49 The marker on the first mound read: Francis G. Hartnell, Inter-X 2213/78. The second: Harold Goss, Inter-X 2212/1490. The third: Jon J. Deegan, Inter-X 2213/37. The vanished Wise Ones of Kardoon had constructed an apparatus with power to represent events that had not yet occurred—a machine that was guaranteed by long experi- ence to be accurate in every respect. And it had pictured for us our own graves! CHAPTER EIGHT Under Sentence of Death NLY the dimmest recollection remains in my mind of what happened when that dreadful picture faded from the screen. Ali counsellors seemed to understand its signi- ficance—we had to admit the spheres were nothing if not intelligent—and set up such a horrible screeching and whist- ling of discussion that I was obliged to switch off the inter- com. ‘Then I found myself hustled from the cave by pressure from force-beams, staggering and stumbling along tunnels until finally thrust into the alcove where we had spent the night. We lay there for quite a time, collecting our wits and getting our breath back. . At last, young Hartnell sat up and said: “Well, Pop— what are we going to do to prove that machine a liar?” I felt very depressed. “Is it a liar?” “Ti’d better be,” said Tubby. He wrinkled his nose dis- tastefully. ‘I’ve seen some planets in my time—but this is the limit, so help me!” | “T could imagine better places to be buried on,” said Hart- nell. “The point is—I’m not anxious to be buried anywhere. Where’s the catch? Could they fake that gadget im some way? If so, what are they up to?” ; “Fuzzy-bubble says it always tells the truth,” I reminded comicbooks com