Ten From Infinity

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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net







SOMETHING WAS WRONG


It began when a pedestrian got hit by a cab in New York City. No doubt
it was the only motor mishap in the history of creation that reached out
among the stars--for far out in space a signal was registered:
_Something has gone wrong...._

And something had gone wrong, for the doctors discovered their accident
patient had _two_ hearts. It was the beginning of the discovery that the
Earth had been invaded by 10 such creatures from Outer Space.

Every effort was made to learn their purpose. An orbital flight was
launched to spot alien bodies--only to be destroyed in space. One of the
alien men was captured--but no threat of pain or death could unlock the
secret in his brain.

Something had gone wrong. And somehow, some way had to be found to make
it right--before the threat of danger overwhelmed all mankind.


AUTHOR'S PROFILE

Ivar Jorgensen is the pen name of a former topflight magazine editor who
is now devoting his full time to free-lance writing.

He was born in St. Louis and spent most of his early years in the
Midwest. Before getting into the publishing field he held a number of
jobs, including those of elevator operator and theater usher.

Mr. Jorgensen has written numerous science-fiction short stories as well
as several contemporary and suspense novels. TEN FROM INFINITY is his
first full-length science-fiction novel.


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_A Science-Fiction Novel_

TEN FROM INFINITY

Ivar Jorgensen

Cover Painting by Ralph Brillhart




A Monarch Books Science-Fiction Novel
Published in January, 1963
Copyright (C) 1963 by Ivar Jorgensen

Monarch Books are published by MONARCH BOOKS, INC., Capital Building,
Derby, Connecticut, and represent the works of outstanding novelists and
writers of non-fiction especially chosen for their literary merit and
reading entertainment.

Printed in the United States of America
All Rights Reserved


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1


It began when a pedestrian got hit by a cab at the corner of 59th Street
and Park Avenue, Manhattan, New York City, U.S.A. No doubt it was the
first motor mishap in the history of creation that reached out among the
stars.

The pedestrian was walking south on Park Avenue, toward Grand Central
Station. He was looking at the upper skeleton of the vast new Pan Am
Building which blocked out the sky in that direction. But he should have
been watching traffic because a yellow cab tagged him neatly and knocked
him across the walk into a clump of pigeons that scattered upward in all
directions.

The cab driver swore. Citizenry gathered. An alert free-lance news
photographer who happened to be passing took the most important shot of
his career. After a while, the ambulance came and the dazed pedestrian
was pointed toward the nearest emergency ward, which happened to be in
the Park Hill Hospital.

The pigeons settled back. The curious went their different ways.

And far out in space, among the yellow pinpoints we call stars, a signal
was registered. The signal was of grave import to those who received it.

The signal said, _Something has gone wrong._

       *       *       *       *       *

From the springboard of this incident, there emerged several occurrences
of note. The first in sequence took place in the Park Hill Hospital. The
time of that particular ambulance's arrival was 11:15 P.M. At
that hour the harvest of violence in Manhattan was being delivered to
its logical granaries in the form of broken heads, slashed bodies, and
dazed, shock-strained eyes. The examining rooms at Park Hill were full,
and some cases of lesser import were waiting on stretchers and benches
in the corridors.

That was where the pedestrian waited. Unlike others, he was very
patient. He seemed to understand that this sort of thing took time; or
perhaps he didn't. At any rate, he lay staring up at the ceiling,
unmoving, seemingly uncaring, until an intern named Frank Corson stopped
beside his stretcher and looked down at him in moody-eyed weariness.
Then Corson managed a smile.

"Sorry about the service, mister. Full house tonight."

"That's quite all--right."

Corson touched the broken leg. "I can give you a shot if the pain's
hitting too hard."

"It does not--pain."

"Stout fellow." Frank Corson probed with fingers that were growing more
expert day by day. "Good clean break. Not swelling, either." He touched
the patient's wrist, then put a stethoscope to his chest.

Actually, he was thinking of a different chest and different legs at the
time--the ones belonging to a copper-haired girl named Rhoda Kane.
Rhoda's legs were far more alluring. Her chest had added equipment that
was a haven of rest under trying circumstances, and Corson yearned for
midnight when he would quit this charnel house and climb into Rhoda's
convertible and--perhaps later--do a little chest analysis without
benefit of stethoscope.

Now he sighed, commandeered a passing orderly, and went to work.

Twenty minutes later he saw his patient deposited in a ten-bed ward.