Fugitive of Time. John Russell Fearn
ever nearer....
The 1953 Vargo Statten version of the story was translated, first in France in 1955, and then the following year in Italy by Patrizio Dalloro (from the French). Interestingly, the Italian publisher, Mondadori, did not issue it as a science fiction novel, but put it out in their modern novel lists. In the 1970s and 1980s the novel was also republished in France by Aredit as a graphic novel (as were many other of his Scion novels translated in the French Anticipation series of novels). So highly did the comic strip publishers regard the story, that instead of abridging it to fit a single volume, they split it into two episodes, and published it, unabridged, in two separate volumes. A few years later it was reissued in a single double-sized volume. The quality of the novel was further attested when I sold it to F. A. Thorpe in England, who published it in their Linford Mystery Library series in 2006.
When I retyped the novel for submission to Thorpe, I noticed for the first time that there were considerable differences in the text between the Star Weekly and Scion paperback versions. A careful study of them (together with Fearn’s original correspondence) revealed something very interesting! Fearn had originally written the novel to a length in excess of 45,000 words, which the Star Weekly had skilfully condensed to 40,000 words. But in the meantime Fearn himself had rewritten and condensed the novel even further (to only 36,000 words) for its UK book publication. Here and there Fearn had deleted different passages, so that each version contained text that was missing from the other! In my own retyping from the longer Star version, I carefully restored any additional text that was in Zero Hour. The final mss. came out at almost 44,000 words, almost completely restored to its original form, and consequently read even better than any previously published version.
I have always considered it a pity that this novel was fated never to be published with its original Ron Turner cover and former title, Fugitive of Time. Some years ago, I even commissioned Ron Turner to recreate his cover painting, for just this purpose. But it is only now, with Borgo Press publishing many of the best of Fearn’s novels in the U.S.A. for the first time, that the opportunity has at last arisen!
I am proud to present to new readers one of Fearn’s best novels under its original title and with its original cover painting!
—Philip Harbottle,
Wallsend, England, 2012
CHAPTER ONE
The Photographs
The advertisement was not very attractively worded since it commenced with the words ‘Guinea Pig wanted’. But when at length Gordon Fryer read it all, his interest stirred slightly:
Guinea Pig wanted. Male. Between 20 and 30. Must be intelligent. Scientific experiment. Positively no danger. Monetary Reward. Apply: Dr. Boden Royd, The Larches, Nether Bolling, Berks.
It was a spring morning in 2006 when Gordon Fryer read the advertisement, and the more he thought about it the more it seemed to fit in with his need—which was certainly desperate. A long run of bad luck had practically made him penniless, the London engineering firm for which he worked had gone into liquidation, and Gordon Fryer was flat broke. Hence St. James Park this sunny morning, a daily paper lifted from the nearby wastebasket, and now this.
Gordon Fryer did not look like a guinea pig. He was quite good-looking, black-haired, blue-eyed, ruddy-cheeked.
“Nether Bolling, Berkshire,” he mused. “Fair distance from London. Might thumb a ride and see if there’s anything in this.”
So he got up from the park bench, and thwacking the paper against his thigh, marched vigorously to the main thoroughfare. In another hour, his walk less vigorous, he had gained the city environs and began to look about him for a vehicle. He found it at length when, using up his last reserves, he had lunch at a motel. The burly driver consuming hash next to him would be passing through Nether Bolling on his way to Reading.
“Know anything about a Doctor Royd?” Gordon asked.
“Can’t say I do, chum. What is ’e? Medical bloke?”
“He lives at the Larches in Nether Bolling. There my information ends.”
The driver shrugged. “Nether Bolling’s a cockeyed sort of dump. ’Bout four cottages, a few big swank houses, and that’s it. Sort of place you’d find ’ermits.”
“I see. Good of you to give me a lift.”
“Think nothin’ of it. You don’t get far in this world—or the next—if you don’t ’elp folks out now an’ again.”
So Gordon Fryer received his lift, seated in the cab of the truck as it sped through the green lanes where the buds were ripening with the promise of summer. It was toward two o’clock when Gordon alighted in Nether Bolling and took his farewell of the lorry driver.... And the driver had been right. Nether Bolling was definitely nothing more than a scattering of cottages, farms, and—quite isolated—tall and dignified residences set well back behind still bare-looking trees.
Not knowing a larch from an elm, and certainly not guided by the leaves at this time of year, Gordon had to inspect each solemn-looking residence before he discovered the right one.
It was a mansion of an early period, well kept, the grounds laid out by experts. Gordon walked up the long drive and pressed the gleaming brass of the bell button at the front door.
He waited, and at length, the polished oak portal opened silently, and a tall, hatchet-faced being with somewhat distended nostrils looked out into the sunlight.
“Your pleasure, sir?” he enquired.
“I’m Gordon Fryer. Dr. Royd is asking for a guinea pig.”
“A—” Understanding dawned on the butler’s cadaverous face as he saw the newspaper Gordon was carrying. “Oh, yes, sir. Will you kindly step inside?”
Gordon obeyed, stepping into an enormous hall overweighed with massive furniture, armor, and costly antiques. He found himself wondering, whilst he waited, what kind of a profession Dr. Royd could be in to boast all these evidences of wealth. Then the butler returned.
“If you will step this way, sir?”
Gordon did so and presently entered a magnificent library. The door closed quietly. Gordon’s preconceived notion of some fiftyish man with a prosperous waistline and large cigar was instantly destroyed. Instead, he beheld a quiet-looking man of apparent middle age, his gray hair untidy, his suit creased, his pale gray eyes peering over the tops of old-fashioned steel-rimmed spectacles. He had been seated working at his desk, but he rose to his feet with extended hand as Gordon entered.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fryer! Have a seat— That’s it!”
Gordon obeyed. Somehow he could not imagine himself doing anything else but as he was told while dealing with this amiable-looking old codger with the high-pitched, meandering voice.
“So you wish to be a guinea-pig, do you?” Dr. Royd reseated himself at the desk.
“I don’t want to be, sir. I have no choice.”
“What prompted you to answer my advertisement?”
“I answered it for the simple reason that I have no money. I’m out of a job and they’re hard to come by at the moment in my profession—”
“What is your profession?”
“I have none right now. Normally I’m a mechanical engineer. They’re ten-a-penny at the moment, as you know.”
“No, I don’t know. I don’t know anything, really, unless it directly relates to my interests. I’m a scientist, Mr. Fryer, as you will have gathered from my advertisement. I am a doctor of physics, not medicine. If anything is wrong with you physically, I wouldn’t be able to diagnose it.”
Gordon smiled uncomfortably. “I—I wouldn’t expect you to, Dr. Royd. But in regard to the advertisement, I’m quite willing.”
Royd peered over his spectacles. “Are you? To do what?”
“Whatever