The Crack of Doom

The Crack of Doom
by Robert Cromie

Author of "A Plunge into Space," etc.

Second Edition
London
Digby, Long & Co.
18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C.
1895

PREFACE
The rough notes from which this narrative has been constructed were
given to me by the man who tells the story. For obvious reasons I have
altered the names of the principals, and I hereby pass on the assurance
which I have received, that the originals of such as are left alive can be
found if their discovery be thought desirable. This alteration of names,
the piecing together of somewhat disconnected and sometimes nearly
indecipherable memoranda, and the reduction of the mass to
consecutive form, are all that has been required of me or would have
been permitted to me. The expedition to Labrador mentioned by the
narrator has not returned, nor has it ever been definitely traced. He does
not undertake to prove that it ever set out. But he avers that all which is
hereafter set down is truly told, and he leaves it to mankind to accept
the warning which it has fallen to him to convey, or await the proof of

its sincerity which he believes the end of the century will produce.
ROBERT CROMIE.
BELFAST, May, 1895.

CONTENTS
I. THE UNIVERSE A MISTAKE!
II. A STRANGE EXPERIMENT
III. "IT IS GOOD TO BE ALIVE"
IV. GEORGE DELANY--DECEASED
V. THE MURDER CLUB
VI. A TELEPATHIC TELEGRAM
VII. GUILTY!
VIII. THE WOKING MYSTERY
IX. CUI BONO?
X. FORCE--A REMEDY
XI. MORITURI TE SALUTANT
XII. "NO DEATH--SAVE IN LIFE"
XIII. MISS METFORD'S PLAN
XIV. ROCKINGHAM TO THE SHARKS
XV. "IF NOT TOO LATE"

XVI. £5000 TO DETAIN THE SHIP
XVII. "THIS EARTH SHALL DIE"
XVIII. THE FLIGHT
XIX. THE CATASTROPHE
XX. CONCLUSION

THE CRACK OF DOOM
CHAPTER I.
THE UNIVERSE A MISTAKE!
"THE Universe is a mistake!"
Thus spake Herbert Brande, a passenger on the Majestic, making for
Queenstown Harbour, one evening early in the past year. Foolish as the
words may seem, they were partly influential in leading to my terrible
association with him, and all that is described in this book.
Brande was standing beside me on the starboard side of the vessel. We
had been discussing a current astronomical essay, as we watched the
hazy blue line of the Irish coast rise on the horizon. This conversation
was interrupted by Brande, who said, impatiently:
"Why tell us of stars distant so far from this insignificant little world of
ours--so insignificant that even its own inhabitants speak
disrespectfully of it--that it would take hundreds of years to telegraph
to some of them, thousands to others, and millions to the rest? Why
limit oneself to a mere million of years for a dramatic illustration, when
there is a star in space distant so far from us that if a telegram left the
earth for it this very night, and maintained for ever its initial velocity, it
would never reach that star?"

He said this without any apparent effort after rhetorical effect; but the
suddenness with which he had presented a very obvious truism in a
fresh light to me made the conception of the vastness of space
absolutely oppressive. In the hope of changing the subject I replied:
"Nothing is gained by dwelling on these scientific speculations. The
mind is only bewildered. The Universe is inexplicable."
"The Universe!" he exclaimed. "That is easily explained. The Universe
is a mistake!"
"The greatest mistake of the century, I suppose," I added, somewhat
annoyed, for I thought Brande was laughing at me.
"Say, of Time, and I agree with you," he replied, careless of my
astonishment.
I did not answer him for some moments.
This man Brande was young in years, but middle-aged in the
expression of his pale, intellectual face, and old--if age be synonymous
with knowledge--in his ideas. His knowledge, indeed, was so
exhaustive that the scientific pleasantries to which he was prone could
always be justified, dialectically at least, by him when he was
contradicted. Those who knew him well did not argue with him. I was
always stumbling into intellectual pitfalls, for I had only known him
since the steamer left New York.
As to myself, there is little to be told. My history prior to my
acquaintance with Brande was commonplace. I was merely an active,
athletic Englishman, Arthur Marcel by name. I had studied medicine,
and was a doctor in all but the degree. This certificate had been
dispensed with owing to an unexpected legacy, on receipt of which I
determined to devote it to the furtherance of my own amusement. In the
pursuit of this object, I had visited many lands and had become familiar
with most of the beaten tracks of travel. I was returning to England
after an absence of