THE “V” FORCE (2)
By:
August 22, 2026
Fred C. Smale’s “The ‘V’ Force” was first published in All Story Magazine, December 1913. Surtees has returned from Tibet with an engraved metal bar that glows in the dark… and has mysterious effects on living things. (As you read, please note that Tolkien didn’t conceive of his malign ring of power until c. 1937.) HiLoBooks is pleased to serialize the story for HILOBROW’s readers.
Two days afterward I was at Bexhill on some business connected with property I had there. I found it necessary to stay the night, and as I was leaving my hotel for a stroll and last pipe before going to bed the boots handed me a telegram. It was from Surtees, forwarded to me from my town address. The message was brief but sufficiently disturbing. It ran:
Come to Pelham Street at once. Urgent.
SURTEES.
Finding it would be impossible for me to reach Pelham Street until well after midnight, I hastily wrote a letter, explaining my sudden change of plan and left it for the man with whom I had an appointment in the morning.
At first the matter of the bar did not occur to me, and, as Surtees was of rather an impulsive nature, I thought his desire to see me might have its origin in some legal bother connected with a certain troublesome brother of his, of whom I knew.
It was a dark, foggy night when I arrived at Pelham Street, and the raw mist seemed to penetrate to my bones. There was a faint glow in the window of Surtees’s sitting-room — not bright enough to indicate that he was up and about — but more as though a bright, clear fire had been left burning in the grate. Then I remembered that he used a gas-stove, and was momentarily puzzled.
There seemed nothing to indicate impatience or anxiety on his part, and, as I had run out of tobacco, I decided to go on to the public-house at the corner — it was not yet midnight — and replenish my stock before seeing Surtees, who smoked a brand too potent for me.
I strode on past the house with this intent, when suddenly my legs became leaden and I felt as though I were battling against a strong head wind. Yet the murky stillness of the atmosphere told me that such was not the case. I strove against the unseen power which was holding me back, but with each step it grew stronger.
The street was deserted or my quaint struggles might have roused some doubts as to my sobriety.
As I paused in bewilderment a ragged tramp came shuffling along. As he passed me he gave a curious growl and staggered against the wall. With odd inconsistency I muttered “Drunk!” and, obeying an uncontrollable impulse, I stepped back to the door of Surtees’s lodgings and rang the bell.
Getting no reply, I tried the door, found it unlocked, and, breathing slightly quicker than usual, I mounted the stairs and knocked at Surtees’s door.
“Who is there?” asked a low, muffled voice, which I nevertheless recognized as that of my friend, and I answered sharply.
“Thank Heaven!” said the voice. “Come in — but take care — take care!”
I opened the door and beheld a strange scene.
Surtees lay in a huddled position on the floor. Close to his face — within twelve inches — was the bar. It shone with a dull radiance, which filled the room, and by its light I saw that Surtees’s eyes were fixed upon it and slightly crossed as in a hypnotic trance.
As I stood momentarily in horrified surprise I became conscious of an almost overwhelming desire to grovel on the floor also. Something seemed to draw me forward and downward with compelling force. Surtees spoke jerkily and as a man struggling breathlessly with an opponent.
“Thank Heaven — in time — I hope!” he gasped, while I grasped the door- lintel and listened.
“Discovered — antidote!” he went on after a moment. “Direct sunlight — even daylight — weakens — nights — powerful — stronger each night — My Lord!”
He broke off with a scream.
“It — draws — life!” he moaned.
He had never turned his eyes to me once all this time, and he now collapsed limply by the side of the accursed bar.
“Look — out!” he whispered.
At first I thought he meant this simply as a warning to myself. Then his real meaning flashed upon me and, bracing myself up, I made determinedly for the window. I reached it in a staggering, drunken fashion and, moving the blind aside, peeped down into the street below, my head humming like a beehive the while.
Three figures, including a policeman, were loitering with apparent aimlessness directly beneath. As I looked a stout man came hastening along. I caught sight of his purple, anxious face in the light of a lamp. When he came up he checked his pace abruptly and lurched aside. The policeman seized him and held him up, while the other two men seemed to look stupidly on.
The sound of the constable’s gruff voice came faintly to my ear. Now came a hansom, driven rapidly. Directly beneath the horse reared up on its haunches. There were shouts and a crash of broken glass. The hansom had turned over.
The street all at once seemed full of people and a woman’s scream rang out shrilly. I dropped the blind and turned aside.
“What does this mean?” I asked, and my voice shook. “Surely this devilish thing —”
Surtees turned his bloodshot eyes on me with an effort.
“I cannot check,” he whispered hoarsely. “All — London — crushed — death! Crowd — mob — panic!”
“What must we do?” I cried.
“Big risk—”
I made a gesture of impatience, the movement turned to burlesque by the force which I felt dragging at every nerve and muscle. What could be worse than our present position?
“We’ll beat it somehow,” I said.
“Make — rush!” said Surtees faintly.
I had unconsciously crept to his side, and we spoke in whispers.
“What — how?” I said vaguely. I felt a leaden dulness coming over me.
Walter Surtees gave an odd, croaking laugh.
“A chase!”
“And if we cannot get away.”
“Remember — priest of Llassi!” was his reply.
“Come, then,” said I. “The sooner the better. I am the stronger – I’ll take it.”
“No,” whispered Surtees promptly.
There was no time for argument.
“Let us carry it together,” said I.
He nodded.
“Glove,” he muttered.
I understood and drew off the thick glove from his left hand and placed it on my own.
“Now,” said I.
“Ready!” he muttered between clenched teeth. We stretched out our hands together.
The bar seemed to leap toward us and there was a sound of impact as it met our hands, as though it were welded to us. I shuddered.
We leaped to our feet, a curious sense of power tingling through our veins. The spell seemed to have been broken.
Meanwhile, the sounds outside had risen to a roar, and the street was filled by a seething, panic-stricken mob.
RADIUM AGE PROTO-SF: “Radium Age” is Josh Glenn’s name for the nascent sf genre’s c. 1900–1935 era, a period which saw the discovery of radioactivity, i.e., the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. More info here.
SERIALIZED BY HILOBOOKS: James Parker’s Cocky the Fox | Annalee Newitz’s “The Great Oxygen Race” | Matthew Battles’s “Imago” | & many more original and reissued novels and stories.