DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939

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Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939

4
HE WHO WAITS
by Harry Warner Jr
     We crouched in the middle of the jungle, coming down from the stratosphere like a blazing meteor. The fire had broken out in the rocket compartments, eating away the blockheads like some great parasite, and we discovered it too late. Already half of your tubes, those on the port side, were not responding, and any moment, it seemed likely, the other would also cease their activity.
     There was not time to brake our craft; before we could have done so, the back rockets might be entirely beyond firing, and we should certainly crash with only the front ones in working order. Without the partly neutralizing effect of the back ones, the flaming gases from those in front would spin the shop around like a top, and it would go crashing down into the virgin wilderness. As it was, though it would be impossible to make a perfect landing, we could at least hope to survive.
     Corby took the controls; I handled the rocket blast. Both of us did everything in our power, but it was useless. A sudden gust of breeze a hundred feet above ground, and in another instant we sideswiped some dense foliage. Then came the crash.
     When I came to my senses I found Corby dead. Seated as he was at the controls, he had suffered the full brunt of the shock, from the angle at which we hit, and must have died instantly. And that was a blessing, doubtlessly -- for a time I wished I were in his place. Then my grief and hopelessness began to abate, and I started casting about for some means of salvation.
     As to my exact location, I had no idea. I knew we had been blasting our way high above India, and in another two hours should have been in Paris. But now--
     It seemed hopeless. Without food, in the midst of a trackless growth of wild plant life, and with no human traces to be seen anywhere, the question was how long I could survive; not could I. My left arm hung limply at the shoulder, and I knew it to be broken. I was bruised and cut in almost every part of my body, from the terrible concussion, and could not hope to make much headway through the jungle. There was the hand rocket flare gun, which was my only hope.
     For four days I lay there, in the midst of that intense heat, not leaving the wreckage. On the first day I had clambered, like an old Ford puffing up a hill, to the top of a nearby promontory, in a hope I knew to be futile, of finding some human trace. But it had been useless. The jungle stretched out on all sides, like a matted web, unbroken.
     Each night I fired my rocket flares--a few each time. Unless some plane were to fly over me at a reasonably low altitude, even this was useless; still I hoped. Knowing all the time that it was a vain hope. On the fourth night I fired the next to the last cartridge--I dared not use the final one in case I might hear a motor roar later--and on the fifth day fell into a sort of delirium.
     How long this lasted I know not. Most of the time I was only half conscious; day and night were blended like a changing scene in a kaleidoscope, and I knew no heat or cold; no pain or any other emotion. I merely existed.

Saving...

4 HE WHO WAITS by Harry Warner Jr We crouched in the middle of the jungle, coming down from the stratosphere like a blazing meteor. The fire had broken out in the rocket compartments, eating away the blockheads like some great parasite, and we discovered it too late. Already half of your tubes, those on the port side, were not responding, and any moment, it seemed likely, the other would also cease their activity. There was not time to brake our craft; before we could have done so, the back rockets might be entirely beyond firing, and we should certainly crash with only the front ones in working order. Without the partly neutralizing effect of the back ones, the flaming gases from those in front would spin the shop around like a top, and it would go crashing down into the virgin wilderness. As it was, though it would be impossible to make a perfect landing, we could at least hope to survive. Corby took the controls; I handled the rocket blast. Both of us did everything in our power, but it was useless. A sudden gust of breeze a hundred feet above ground, and in another instant we sideswiped some dense foliage. Then came the crash. When I came to my senses I found Corby dead. Seated as he was at the controls, he had suffered the full brunt of the shock, from the angle at which we hit, and must have died instantly. And that was a blessing, doubtlessly -- for a time I wished I were in his place. Then my grief and hopelessness began to abate, and I started casting about for some means of salvation. As to my exact location, I had no idea. I knew we had been blasting our way high above India, and in another two hours should have been in Paris. But now-- It seemed hopeless. Without food, in the midst of a trackless growth of wild plant life, and with no human traces to be seen anywhere, the question was how long I could survive; not could I. My left arm hung limply at the shoulder, and I knew it to be broken. I was bruised and cut in almost every part of my body, from the terrible concussion, and could not hope to make much headway through the jungle. There was the hand rocket flare gun, which was my only hope. For four days I lay there, in the midst of that intense heat, not leaving the wreckage. On the first day I had clambered, like an old Ford puffing up a hill, to the top of a nearby promontory, in a hope I knew to be futile, of finding some human trace. But it had been useless. The jungle stretched out on all sides, like a matted web, unbroken. Each night I fired my rocket flares--a few each time. Unless some plane were to fly over me at a reasonably low altitude, even this was useless; still I hoped. Knowing all the time that it was a vain hope. On the fourth night I fired the next to the last cartridge--I dared not use the final one in case I might hear a motor roar later--and on the fifth day fell into a sort of delirium. How long this lasted I know not. Most of the time I was only half conscious; day and night were blended like a changing scene in a kaleidoscope, and I knew no heat or cold; no pain or any other emotion. I merely existed.