Spawn of The Comet
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Spawn of The Comet

Harold Thompson Rich

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eBook - ePub

Spawn of The Comet

Harold Thompson Rich

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About This Book

A swarm of huge, fiery ants, brood of a mystery comet, burst from their shells to threaten the unsuspecting world.

H. Thompson Rich was an American poet, editor and author of science fiction stories.

Rich was born in Bayonne, New Jersey, the son of Ellen Jeannette (Flowers) and William Watson Rich. He earned a Bachelor of Science from Dartmouth College in 1915. He served with the U.S. Army in World War I. He was editor of The Forum, 1917-1918. He married Dorothy Wise in 1921. Living in New York City, he made a living as a freelance writer for many years, then went into business with F.B. Vandegrift & Co., New York, customhouse brokers and freight forwarding. He served in the Army again in World War II.

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Information

Year
2020
ISBN
9781087895222
Edition
1
Two people stand in the open cockpit of a winged car. They're shooting something.

Professor Wentworth swung his cannon ray upon that advancing horde.

Spawn of the Comet

By H. Thompson Rich
A swarm of huge, fiery ants, brood of a mystery comet, burst from their shells to threaten the unsuspecting world.
Tokyo, June 10 (AP).ā€”A number of the meteors that pelted Japan last night, as the earth passed through the tail of the Mystery Comet have been found and are puzzling astronomers everywhere.
About the size of baseballs, orange in color, they appear to be of some unknown metal. So far, due to their extreme hardness, all attempts to analyze them have failed.
Their uniformity of size and marking gives rise to the popular belief that they are seeds, and, fantastic though this conception is, it finds support in certain scientific quarters here.
Jim Carter read the news dispatch thoughtfully and handed it back to his chief without comment.
ā€œWell, what do you make of it?ā€
Miles Overton, city editor of The New York Press, shoved his green eye-shade far back on his bald head and glanced up irritably from his littered desk.
ā€œI donā€™t know,ā€ said Jim.
ā€œYou donā€™t know!ā€ Overton snorted, biting his dead cigar impatiently. ā€œAnd I suppose you donā€™t know theyā€™re finding the damn things right here in New York, not to mention Chicago, London, Rio and a few other places,ā€ he added.
ā€œYes, I know about New York. Itā€™s a regular egg hunt.ā€
ā€œEgg hunt is right! But why tell me all this now? I didnā€™t see any mention of ā€™em in your report of last nightā€™s proceedings. Did you see any?ā€
ā€œNo, but I saw a lot of shooting stars!ā€ said Jim, recalling that weird experience he and the rest of humanity had passed through so recently.
ā€œYeah, Iā€™ll say!ā€ Overton lit his wrecked cigar and dragged on it soothingly. ā€œNow then, getting back to casesā€”what are these damn things, anyway? Thatā€™s what Iā€™d like to know.ā€
ā€œSo would I,ā€ said Jim. ā€œMaybe they are seeds?ā€
Overton frowned. He was a solid man, not given to fancies. He had a paper to get out every day and that taxed his imagination to the limit. There was no gray matter left for any such idle musings as Jim suggested. What he wanted was facts, and he wanted them right away.
ā€œEggs will do!ā€ he said. ā€œGo out and get oneā€”and find out whatā€™s inside it.ā€
ā€œOkay, Chief,ā€ said Jim, but he knew it was a large order. ā€œIā€™ll have one on your desk for breakfast!ā€
Then, with a grave face that denied his light words, he stepped from the city room on that fantastic assignment.
It was the television broadcast hour and crowds thronged the upper level of Radio Plaza, gazing, intently at the bulletin screen, as Jim Carter emerged from the Press tower.
News from the ends of the earth, in audio-picture form, flashed before their view; but only the reports on the strange meteors from the tail of 1947, IVā€”so designated by astronomers because it was the fourth comet discovered that yearā€”held their interest. Nothing since the great Antarctic gold rush of ā€™33 had so gripped the public as the dramatic arrival and startling behavior of this mysterious visitant from outer space.
Jim paused a moment, halfway across the Plaza, to take a look at the screen himself.
The substance of the Tokyo dispatch, supplemented by pictures of Japanese scientists working over the baffling orange spheres, had just gone off. Now came a flash from Berlin, in which a celebrated German chemist was seen directing an effort to cut into one of them with an acid drill. It failed and the scientist turned to declare to the world that the substance seemed more like crystal than metal and was harder than diamond.
Jim tarried no longer. He knew where he was going. It was still early and Joan would be upā€”Joan Wentworth, daughter of Professor Stephen Wentworth, who held the chair of astro-lithology at Hartford University. It was as their guest at the observatory last night that he had seen 1947, IV at close range, as the earth passed through her golden train with that awesome, unparalleled display of fireworks.
Now heā€™d have the pleasure of seeing Joan again, and at the same time get the low-down from her father on those confounded seedsā€”or eggs, rather. If anyone could crack one of them, heā€™d bet Professor Wentworth could.
So, hastening toward the base of Plaza Airport, he took an elevator to ramp-level 118, where his auto-plane was parked, and five minutes later was winging his way to Hartford.
Throttle wide, Jim did the eighty miles to the Connecticut capital in a quarter of an hour.
Then, banking down through the warm June night onto the University landing field, he retracted the wings of his swift little bus and motored to the foot of Observatory Hill.
Parking outside the Wentworth home, he mounted the steps and rang the bell.
It was answered by a slim, appealing girl of perhaps twenty-two. Hers was a wistful, oval face, with a small, upturned nose; and her clear hazel eyes were the sort that always seem to be enjoying some amusing secret of their own. Her hair was a soft brown, worn loose to the shoulders, after the style then in vogue.
ā€œJoan!ā€ blurted Jim.
ā€œWhat brings you here at such an hour, Jimmy Carter?ā€ she asked with mock severity.
ā€œYou!ā€
ā€œI donā€™t believe you.ā€
ā€œWhat then have I come for?ā€
ā€œYouā€™ve come to interview father about those met...

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