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Roy Glashan's Library
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Wonder Stories, March 1931, with "The Green Torture"
Alec Rowley Hilliard was an American writer who worked for the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission in Washington, D.C. He was born on July 7, 1908, and passed away on July 1, 1951, at the age of 42 in Alexandria, Virginia.
Originally from Ithaca, New York, Hilliard was remembered in his obituary as a dedicated professional. He was survived by his wife, Annabel Needham Hilliard, their two children—Elizabeth Janet and Edmund Needham Hilliard—as well as his mother, Esther R. Fiske, and a sister, Elizabeth Hilliard. He was laid to rest at Lake View Cemetery in Ithaca.
MAN, as he progresses upward, is supposed to become more civilized not only in the general conduct of his life but also in his dealing with his fellow man. But that has not been true in the case of warfare. For the horrors that the average soldier was exposed to, the last war was unsurpassed. It was only in the treatment of wounded and mangled men that we were able to demonstrate at all that "civilized method".
The Great War differed from the others in that men were killed in greater numbers and more quickly. And because we have learned that new science allied to the old method of making war (with bomb, bullet and bayonet) destroys not only the vanquished but also the victor, future wars may be fought upon saner methods. After all it is not necessary for two armies to decimate each other in order to determine a victor. Science should be able to provide a means to put men and armies hors de combat without inflicting more than temporary damage upon the soldiers. Our author has conceived of such a weapon, and upon it he has built a truly prophetic story!
IN a room of bare concrete two men stood face to face. The black-bearded man spoke.
"Forget that our countries are at war—forget that you and I are enemies, and let me beg of you to tell them what they want to know; for I would not willingly condemn any human being to the torture you are about to undergo!"
The other, whose face was white and whose jaw was set, smiled grimly.
"Sir, you are a hypocrite. I happen to know that the device is of your own invention."
"True, I conceived it myself—true, it was built under my supervision; but I acted under orders. They told me to devise a method of extracting information from captured prisoners, and I have done it. The Council has sent you to me, and I will not hesitate to obey its orders. I love my country, sir—as much as you do yours."
"The noble Council that must torture a helpless man!" mocked the other.
The black-bearded man flushed, but remained calm.
"A little after the beginning of this century," he said seriously, "the nations of the earth joined against each other in a struggle which we still know by the name of the World War. It was a struggle of brute force. Tens of thousands of men clashed together, hacking each other with knives called bayonets, or disembowelling each other at short range with gunpowder projectiles. True, they made rudimentary attempts to smother each other with gases—true, they engaged in petty squabbles above the ground in their suicidal flying planes; but these were merely side-shows. The basic principle of the affair was the man-to-man combat. At that time, therefore—"
"You can spare me your history lessons, I hope!" interrupted the other impatiently.
The man raised his hand. "I have good reason for saying what I do," he insisted. "At that time, therefore, the importance of any particular man—even of one in command of his fellows—was not great; and his capture was an event of no particular significance. He might have some minor information on strategy, but the method of attack was so cut and dried as to be never in doubt. If a captured man were a spy his captors usually were contented to threaten him with death; and, if he told them nothing, to stand him against a wall and shoot him.
"In 1980, however, it is different. In these days of scientific warfare the importance of the individual has been greatly enhanced. The destructive knowledge that one man can hold in his brain is enormous—awful!
"The Council has reason to believe that you know the particulars of an attack which is to be launched against us. Every destructive agency has its antidote—every attack its defence. And that is why you must tell us what you know."
"That is why I will not tell you what I know!"
"That we shall see, Dr. Thorne!"
Thorne remained silent. For the last two days since his capture he had heard nothing but threats; and now they irritated rather than frightened him. For hours at a time he had been heckled and browbeaten by the most vigorous members of the Council, but not one scrap of information had he divulged. As a last resort they had sent him to Bjornsen, the great scientist and inventor, whom two short years ago—before the outbreak of the war—he would have been proud to call his friend.
A hot anger gripped him. Friend! Never could he forgive Bjornsen for this humiliation of a fellow scientist. After trying his other methods of browbeating him they had put him in this place of bare concrete. And now Bjornsen had come with more threats! Hate gleamed in his eyes.
"Bjornsen, I will never tell you what our attack will be. You will never know until it comes and you are as helpless as a child in our hands—you, your wise Council, and your whole nation!
"You began this war, but we shall end it," he continued tauntingly. "And you are helpless. We shall not use anything so old-fashioned as poison gas, so childish as projected disease bacilli, or so unsatisfactory as destructive atomic force. No! Our plans are made, the day is set, and—"
"Enough!" Bjornsen's face was working with fear and fury. He pressed a button in the wall by his side.
"I think you are a little too sure of yourself, Dr. Thorne. I have warned you; I have tried to be decent to you; now all of that is at an end."
HEAVY, muffled footsteps sounded in the corridor. Two muscular negroes appeared, pushing gingerly between them a strange machine. It was squat and heavy-looking, like an upright egg, small end uppermost, and resting upon three broad, rubber-shod wheels. The top was surmounted by a small sharp spike. Other spikes stuck out maliciously from the body and all of them were colored a dark green, shiny, radiant, malignant.
Thorne was silent, staring at the contrivance in utter amazement.
At a guttural word from Bjornsen they released it in the middle of the floor, across which it started slowly moving. One of the negroes handed him what appeared to be a belt, made of oblong iron blocks chained together. This he cast clanking into a corner. And then Thorne felt a cold sensation in his stomach. He gazed wide-eyed. The crawling thing was turning slowly—turning in the direction of the belt!
The black-bearded man regarded it lovingly. "You are surprised, I think," he said with a mocking smile. His fury had abated, and he spoke maliciously—cruelly.
"I will explain to you my pretty crawling thing. It is powered by a battery which will propel it for fifty hours. You see that it is moving towards the metal in the corner. That is mysterious—eh?"
Thorne said nothing. From the belt of the other hung a small ray pistol. A sudden leap might get it.
"That is mysterious only to you," Bjornsen continued. "The metal yonder is highly magnetized. Within my toy is a magnetic needle which controls its movements. Thus it has—ah—it has—an affinity! That is good—eh?" He chuckled. "And it is so shaped that it will not lie upon its back like a turtle. Ah no! That would make it helpless—eh?
"Also I should warn you very earnestly—for it concerns you—that the prongs are needle-sharp, and are coated—pay attention!—are coated with a peculiar poisonous vegetable substance from the region of the Amazon River. There the natives use it on the missiles which they hurl. The slightest prick..." He laughed—but did not complete his sentence.... Thorne was scarcely listening to this harangue, although he vaguely realized its deadly import. He was tensing himself for a spring.
"I had thought of an alternative," the man continued conversationally. "I had thought of attaching a compartment filled with one of my poison gases, which would be released when my toy met with any resistance. But I prefer the prongs. The gas seemed too—too—what shall I say?—too anesthetic! You see, I—"
At this point Thorne leaped. The man jumped back.
"Seize him!" he shouted. Like two great cats, the negroes were upon him; and his struggles were useless.
"Hold him!" ordered Bjornsen. He walked over, and picked up the belt towards which the strange thing was relentlessly moving. This he pulled around the waist of the struggling Thorne. He snapped a padlock, and stood back rubbing his hands.
"You and my toy," he said calmly, "shall play a game of hide and seek together—in the dark! To aid you, you will notice that I have placed a small green light at each end of my toy. I hope that you will watch it carefully. I have found that it requires about twenty seconds to cross this floor. Oh yes! it has been used. The last man that played the game told us what we wanted after twenty hours. A sad case, though; he is now completely insane!" Shaking his head sadly, he spoke to the negroes. They released Thorne, and went into the passageway. Thorne stood still; he could think of nothing to say or do. The black-bearded man bowed ceremoniously.
"I hope that you will not be cold," he said. "I am sorry that I cannot let you have more clothes. However you will find yourself becoming warm naturally. When you want me you have only to press this button in the wall. You should shift your position soon. Goodbye!"
He slipped into the passageway and slammed the heavy door.
THORNE felt a sensation of relief that he was alone. He looked around him curiously. The room was square, about fifteen feet across, and absolutely bare. The walls and floor were of concrete. In the ceiling gleamed a white dome of light.
Slowly he became conscious of a soft whirring sound behind him. He looked down. Less than three inches from his leg pointed the green prongs! The light suddenly went out; absolute blackness enveloped him. He stumbled blindly forward, and crashed against the wall. He faced around, panting and shaking.
And then, as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw the green light. It was small and dim; it cast no gleam. Eyeing it intently, the man felt his way along the wall to the farthest corner of the room.
He sat on the floor; for he knew that he must conserve his strength, and the iron belt was very heavy. He was not frightened now. The ease with which he had evaded the thing gave him confidence. Twenty seconds to get to him, it would take...
He sat about reviewing in his mind the conversation with Bjornsen. He shouldn't have lost his temper; that had been a mistake. Still, he hadn't told them anything useful. They could never guess—never! His mind travelled back to the time of his great discovery—over a year ago, now.
He remembered how he had been experimenting in his laboratory with new high-frequency radio waves for the control of air-torpedoes; how by co-ordinating a series of oscillators he had achieved high frequencies never before dreamed of—a million kilocycles and more; how his whole body had been gripped as by an awful power; how the world had gone black before his eyes, and he had known no more.
Vividly he recalled his recovery two days later in the hospital and his consultation with the puzzled doctor who said he had suffered complete paralysis of the nerves, but could suggest no cause.
With typical scientific curiosity Thorne had set to work to solve the mystery. The fact that his laboratory assistant had suffered in exactly the same way was the clue that finally led to his astounding discovery;—that radio waves passing through the body within a certain range of very high frequencies attack the nerves producing a temporary complete paralysis!
And yet it was not unbelievable, as he had pointed out many times since then. Electromagnetic waves affect the optic nerves only within a very narrow range of frequencies. There are many other colors than those that we see such as red, violet, blue, green...
Green!
As he thought his eyes had been fastened upon the green light. It was the only use for them. The darkness was so complete that he could see no part of his own body.
He grew puzzled, then uneasy. It should be moving, he knew; yet it appeared to be perfectly stationary. The whirring sound had never ceased.
Suddenly, nervously, he leaped to his feet. The realization of what this meant had come to him. He could not see it move! The only tool of perspective left to him—that of change in size—was gone. He felt his way hurriedly along the wall, turned a corner, and moved on until he could see no green light at all. He knew that he must be opposite the side of the machine. He stood absolutely still, straining his eyes.
A speck appeared—moved—he could tell that it was moving slowly sideways—then it became stationary. And he knew that the thing had turned, and was once more coming steadily towards him. He remained motionless as long as he could, but the thought of being in that direct line was unnerving. Again he stumbled along the wall. He sank to the floor in a corner, only to struggle to his feet again, and move uneasily on. He was losing his sense of the passage of time. Twenty seconds to cross the floor, Bjornsen had said. Two minutes—twenty minutes—an hour—it was all the same!
The room was a room no longer. It was an endless wall which scraped his skin as he fled—which bumped and jarred him at its corners.
Hunted by a relentless green death in a timeless and spaceless darkness! The man trembled. The palms of his hands were clammy. He moved in spasmodic jerks, breathing unevenly.
The man became tired. The realization that he was wasting precious energy slowly calmed him.
"I must keep my head!" he muttered. "I must!"
FOR the first time his thoughts turned on the machine itself. Surely a senseless thing could not hunt a man to his death! It was inconceivable. He struggled for a minute to remove the belt, but realized the futility of that. No, he must attack the thing itself.
He followed the wall until no green light was visible. Breathing heavily, he crept out across the floor. He tried to guide himself by the whirring sound, but it seemed to come from everywhere. Suddenly a green light appeared. Clenching his fists and setting his teeth the man walked deliberately towards it as far as he dared. Then he circled quickly, and knew that he must be almost at the side of the thing. He thought that the whirring was louder. He leaned over, and reached down.
With a cry he leaped back. In the nick of time he had remembered the deadly green spike on top. He must approach it from below. Calming himself, he got to his knees. He reached his hand along the floor—farther—farther...
He touched something hard and smooth. It was vibrating softly. Feeling his way carefully, he maneuvered until he had a hand on each side—his fingers beneath it. He was going to lift it as high as he could, and dash it to the floor. He got to his feet, and pulled upwards with all his strength. The thing was unbelievably heavy. He raised it a few inches; then his fingers gave away, and he fell backwards. There was a loud bump, but the soft whirring never ceased.
Nerving himself, he returned to the attack. He would turn it on its back. Perhaps Bjornsen had lied to him. By a series of careful maneuvers he got both hands under one side, and heaved. He leaped back against the wall trembling. The thing had righted itself so quickly that the cold metal had grazed his ankle. He remembered a toy he had once, like this. It would rest in no position except on its base.
He would try once more. He stood with his back against the wall, his legs wide apart, and waited. He could not tell how long he waited, but suddenly the thing was very near. The light was almost beneath him. Now he could see its slow advance. He tensed himself. He was terribly afraid, but he did not move. And then as it seemed about to press itself upon him, he jumped sideways. And then what he had hoped for happened. The whirring ceased, the light stopped in its advance, and he knew that the deadly prongs were against the wall.
He knew that there were prongs at the other end, he knew that the devilish thing could reverse itself, but he blindly hoped that because it was stopped it would not start again. He crossed the floor. He held his breath. To his ears came the soft, steady purr. He sank to the floor, sobbing.
He knew that he could not leave the wall again. Never again could he approach that awful machine voluntarily. He must flee—flee continually—how long? Fifty hours, his tormenter had said. That meant nothing. What was an hour? How...
Light—dazzling, blinding! He clapped his hands to his eyes. It was some minutes before he could see—see the thing approaching from the center of the floor—squat, implacable. Quickly he looked away. On the floor by the door lay food, and water in a paper cup. He knew that he was being watched.
High in the door was a porthole of heavy glass. Faintly he heard a laugh. A mad anger gripped him. He ran at the machine, and beat its hard sides with his fists. The light went out. His terror returning with the darkness, he retreated, hit heavily against the wall, and fell.
He tried to close his eyes to shut out the green light, but he could not. He must watch it; it held him. He felt that he Could not move. He heard his heart-beats blended with the soft purr behind that dull, green, menacing eye. It was coming—coming...
With a shuddering sigh he staggered to his feet. He couldn't stand it—he didn't care what happened. He felt along the wall—There! he had it. His finger was on the button.
THEN realization came, and he paused.
He, Dr. Thorne, who had already been hailed as the savior of his country was now its betrayer. He, who had supervised the construction of the great broadcasting machine which was to make helpless the enemies of his country, was now about to make it useless.
His hand dropped from the button, and clenched by his side. Rather than do that he would cast himself upon those deadly prongs.
And yet, even as the thought came to his mind, he knew that he could never approach the thing. His eyes fixed upon the green light and a horrible fear in his heart, he backed slowly away.
The man lay huddled in a corner, staring—fascinated by the point of green. It would get him now. Time after time he had forced his failing body into action. There had been periods of calm when he had paced slowly along the endless wall until his feet were abraded and sore; there had been periods of madness when he had lurched to right and left, bumping and bruising himself. But he had grown weak. He had eaten the food, and no more had come.
For an interminable time he had fought off drowsiness. In spite of all his efforts his eyes would close. He had counted sixty times sixty, and had dozed—warned by a sixth sense he had awakened to a green light very near, had leaped up in terror, had rushed headlong against the unyielding wall, had sunk down helpless. It would get him now.
The green light grew and grew. It became immense—all-encompassing. The steady whirr grew louder and louder. With a piercing pain in his side, he was sinking—falling headlong into a great, green, roaring void—down—swiftly down...
Sunlight on a white coverlet, bending figures, and:
"Feeling better, Doctor?"
Thorne turned his head upon the pillow. He recognized the voice of Rand, his assistant; and strove to speak.
"Please lie quietly. You are in a hospital, and you are all right."
Thorne stirred uneasily. His body was very sore—especially one side. He wet his lips with his tongue.
"Please don't try to talk. I will tell you everything that happened. Because of your capture the attack was made ahead of schedule, and it was a glorious success. When—they recovered, they begged for peace at any terms. The war is over!"
Thorne smiled weakly. He was very happy. There were other things he wanted to know, however. He opened his mouth, but the other continued.
"Well, an air squadron was sent over right away because the first thing everybody wanted to do was to find you, if you were still alive; and I went along with them, of course. When we got there they took us to a big house, and in the cellar we found you. You were all rolled up in a corner, and right beside you was the strangest machine I have ever seen. Three prongs on the front of it had pierced your side. A sort of iron belt around your waist was all that kept it from killing you. But with that and the radio paralysis on top of it we thought you were surely gone, and I congratulate—"
Thorne's eyes were wide with wonder. "But the prongs—the poison?" he whispered.
"Poison? Nobody saw any poison. The prongs were painted green, but why anybody should want to paint them we couldn't imagine. Maybe—"
Thorne closed his eyes, and sighed, then he laughed brokenly, triumphantly...
"Of course he didn't want to kill me," he muttered, "the devil, the clever devil!"
And nobody knew what he meant.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.