tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37708617671736888892024-02-08T10:34:14.507-08:00Fantastic WorldsThe journal of old and new science fiction, fantasy and horror stories, poems, essays and reviews.Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.comBlogger201125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-62215312363243926462018-11-03T10:36:00.001-07:002018-11-03T13:11:20.980-07:00Review - "Some Zombie Contingency Plans," by Kelly Link (2005)<strong>Introduction: </strong>There is a sort of story which pretends to be about one thing but is actually about something else entirely. This can be done well -- in which case it's a continuation of the intellectual conversation in the field, making a much-needed connection between subgenres in a genre or even between genres. An example of doing it well is H. P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos stories, which posit that ancient myths of gods and devils might actually derive from a poorly-understood history of contact with ultraterrestrial, extraterrestrial and interdimensional alien beings -- and this could be even <em>more</em> glorious and horrible than the way that pre-scientific humans perceived them.<br />
An example of doing it poorly is -- well, <em>this</em> story.<br />
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<strong><br />Massive SPOILERS for Everything In the Story</strong><br />
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<strong>Setting: </strong>An upper-middle class house in contemporary suburbia, where some teenagers are having a house party at the invitation of the daughter of the owners, and in the absence of those owners. As we learn, this takes place in which a world in which zombies <em>aren't</em> real.<br />
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<strong>Characters: </strong><br />
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<em><strong>"Soap"</strong></em>, a seemingly-harmless art lover, drifter and petty criminal, probably in his twenties. He is obsessed with the threat of zombie attacks and the question of what to do in such situations.<br />
<strong><em>Carla</em></strong>, a mostly-nice but overly-trusting beautiful girl in her late teens, the daughter of the owners.<br />
<strong><em>Leo</em></strong>, a little kid. Carla's younger brother.<br />
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<strong>Style: </strong>Well-executed descriptive -- it rambles at places, but the digressions are interesting and hence more than forgivable. Enjoyable to read.<br />
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<strong>Plot: </strong>Soap crashes the house party and chats with various teenagers there. He hits it off with Carla, and they have an extended<strong> </strong>conversation, during which Soap discusses his zombie obsession, and tells her how he once accidentally participated in a museum robbery and spent six months in prison in consequence. They wind up in a bed together, under which Leo turns out to be sleeping. Though they flirt, they do not actually make love.<br />
Carla falls asleep.<br />
Soap steals a painting and a lot of money from the room, and tricks Leo into running away with him by claiming to be Wolverine and that he must save Leo from a zombie attack. Soap drives off with his hostage and his loot, his further intentions unknown.<br />
Meanwhile, Carla has a pleasant dream, enjoying what may well be the last moment of true happy innocence she will ever know.<br />
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<strong>Theme: </strong>The true threat comes not from imaginary monsters such as zombies, but from the all-too-real monsters that are human sociopathic criminals, and their predation upon the naïve.<br />
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<strong>Comments: </strong>As a chilling exploration of the mind of a criminal sociopath and just how dangerous he can be to the overly-innocent, this is actually an effective story. From a psychological point of view, it's also an exploration of how criminal sociopaths seek the short-term while renouncing the long-term opportunities they encounter.<br />
Soap's life is one long history of snatching the short-run gains, and it's why he wound up serving six months in prison, and why he now fails to grasp the possible long-term advantages of befriending a richer, higher-status young woman, which Carla offers him. Instead, he steals a painting and some cash, and kidnaps Leo.<br />
Let me emphasize just how stupid it is for him to kidnap Leo. By doing this, he's converted what is at <em>worst</em> grand theft (and might just be petty larceny) into <em>kidnapping a minor</em>, which is a very serious felony. If he demands ransom, he will almost certainly be caught. If he otherwise harms Leo -- especially if he rapes or kills him -- he's looking at <em>decades</em> in prison, and in some states he's looking at Death Row.<br />
The really scary and sad thing is that this aspect of the tale is quite realistic. The difference between a high-functioning and low-functioning sociopath is impulse control. High-functioning sociopaths can control their impulses to commit misdeeds well enough to construct a working moral code which keeps them out of trouble; low-functioning sociopaths tend to lash out at people or snatch up things, and in consequence can't maintain stable relationships and stay out of prison.<br />
Thus, there <em>really are</em> people like Soap out there. And if one is too trusting -- if, for instance, one lets a stranger into one's party, gets drunk with him, goes to bed and falls to sleep with him, as Carla did -- one may discover that he was a low-functioning sociopath, and that even though it would be <em>stupid </em>for him to do this, he may stab one in the back.<br />
Carla's extreme trust in Soap was <em>also</em> stupid. It just so happened that Soap's sexual desire for her, at that moment, was weaker than his desire for friendly conversation. If he'd strongly lusted for her, he would have tried to seduce her, and there's no guarantee that he would have stopped if she'd started to say "no." He might have raped, or even murdered her.<br />
Instead he betrayed her trust an entirely different way, robbed her home and kidnapped her little brother. t <br />
At the end of the story, it's left open exactly what Soap means to do with Leo. Soap doesn't seem to be a very <em>evil</em> sociopath, but he <em>is</em> a sociopath, and one with poor impulse control. He may havwill e kidnapped Leo just to have company on the road, and he may very well let him loose at a truck stop or town, where Leo can find help getting back home. Or, alternately, he may have kidnapped him for some darker purpose. Or may develop such a darker purpose on the spur of the moment.<br />
We don't know, and <em>that</em> is terrifying.<br />
Worse, Soap has in a very fundamental way robbed <em>both</em> Carla and Leo of their innocence, as surely as if he <em>had</em> raped them. Carla trusted Soap: she clearly thought that he was a cool older guy with the self-restraint to avoid groping her, despite the fact that she got into a very compromising position with him. Had he <em>not </em>betrayed her, it is quite possible that they might have become friends, and eventually even lovers (she may not be underaged, and even if she is, she won't be forever).<br />
Now, she not only has not made a new friend, but must live with the knowledge that she was far too trusting, and that her naivete resulted in the kidnapping of her little brother. Even if Leo is returned unharmed, she knows that she has lost the trust of her parents, and even more seriou sly, she has lost her own trust in herself.<br />
It was a lesson which she had to learn someday, but the lesson did not have to be administered quite so harshly. Carla will <a href="https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BreakTheCutie">become sadder, but wiser</a>, and this is sad for us to see as well, because she was a likable character.<br />
Emotionally, this is effective psychological tragedy and horror.<br />
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<strong><em>So Why Didn't I Like the Story?</em></strong><br />
The problem is that this story is sold to its audience as a zombie story. And this isn't a zombie story at all. It's a story about a criminal sociopath who is obsessed with zombies, which is quite another matter.<br />
Yes, I'm quite aware of the concept of metafiction, and I fully grasp that -- by selling this as a zombie story -- Kelly Link is in a milder sense betraying her readers the same way that Soap betrays Carla and Leo. And I'm aware that she probably knows this and is doing this quite intentionally.<br />
The problem is that <em>an author should not betray their audience.</em> Doing so may be clever, but it if done wrong it comes across as a rather nasty cleverness. And in this case, Link is essentially mocking the poor fools who came here thinking they were going to read a story about actual zombies.<br />
<em>That</em> is what "Some Zombie Contingency Plans" does. It sucks in an audience with the promise of zombies, but instead is a story about human sociopathy in a zombie-free world. And <em>that</em> is going too far. <em>That</em> is, morally speaking, auctorial fraud.<br />
And that is why I rate this story as Very Bad. It betrays the reader.<br />
Which is unforgivable.Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-55687474309017135602017-12-30T12:24:00.002-08:002018-09-23T17:43:43.970-07:00Review of "Weep For Day" by Indrapramit Das (2012)<b>Introduction: </b>Being well aware that this story was probably put at the head of the <i>Best New SF 26</i> anthology to highlight some sort of committment to "diversity" (because the author was obviously Indian and was one of whom I had never previously heard), I approached it with some trepidation as to the likely quality. I feared that the quality would be marginal and the entire story a thinly disguised anti-Western rant.<br />
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What did I find? Well, that's the whole point of this article.<br />
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On to the review.<br />
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<b>Major SPOILERS for "Weep For Day"</b><br />
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<b>Setting: </b>"Weep for Day" takes place on what is very obviously to the reader a lost colony, but one which has obviously forgotten its own interstellar origins. The world is tide-locked: its dayside mostly uninhabitable to humans due to its extreme heat, and its nightside mostly unihabitable due to its extreme cold.<br />
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A human civilization has emerged here, which regards the planet as simply the "world," and its star as simply the "Sun." They displaced and apparently exterminated a race of dragons, the "sunwyrms," who dominated the day-side part of the twilight region, and drove the Sunwyrms toward the Night, and further displacing a sapient humanoid race which they term the Nightmares, who were adapted to the night-side region of the twilight zone. <br />
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The humans conquered and settled the twilight belt, founding a planet-girdling conurbation they call The City of Long Shadows, under a semi-theocratic, semi-feudal society which they call the Monarchy. The Monarchy seems in some ways to be rather like the late 18th to early 20th century British, and in some ways like traditional India, which is to say, its flavor is somewhat "Anglo-Indian."<br />
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The humans have fought a generations-long genocidal war against the humanoid Nightmares. As this has gone on, human technology has advanced, to the point of an Industrial Revolution (the "Industrialization") which has led to much larger populations, steam power, railroads and high-quality armor and weapons, including rifles. With these new capabilities, the humans have driven the Shadows to the brink of extinction, and -- with primitive spacesuits and electrical lighting -- are finally advancing into the coldest regions in which the Shadows survive, wiping out the last remnanets of the species.<br />
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I was very impressed by this scenario. It's very Stapledonian, in its image of a planet on which two very different sapient races are struggling for survival. The normal Stapledonian outcome would be the extermination of the lower-tech species by the higher-tech ones, and this is what seems to be happening.<br />
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The quality of the imagination and writing, coupled with the writer's Anglospheric origins, makes me suspect that Indrapramit Das may have actually been inspired <i>by</i> Olaf Stapledon, in particular <i>Last and First Men</i> and <i>Star-Maker</i>. If anyone, especially Mr. Das himself, knows if this is true, I would appreciate commentary on this.<br />
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<b>Plot: </b>The first-person protagonist, Valyzia ("Val") is a young woman growing up in the last decades of the long war against the Nightmares. Her father is a former hero of that war: a knight who ventured into the Night to fight them with the more primitive armor and weapons of the last generation. Her parents love her, and she essentially has a happy childhood, save for her rivalry with her elder brother Velag, who when young is a bit of a coward and crybaby.<br />
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One day when she is eight, Val and Vel are taken by their parents on a trip to a town established on the fringe of the Night, where a local notable shows them a captive Nightmare. Vel is terrified of the creature, but Val is struck by its essential commonality with humans, and pities it. <br />
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Vel is so embarrassed by his fear of the Nightmare that he later violently assaults his sister, threatening to strangle her to death if she makes fun of him. This to some extent poisons their sibling relationship.<br />
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Nine years later, when Val is seventeen, her brother Vel graduates from the military academy and prepares to be shipped off to the front. Val can tell that Vel is nervous about this, and she tries to persuade him to resign from the military, but fails.<br />
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Within the year, her brother is dead, slain in battle by the Nightmares. Val mourns him, for she loved Vel and had long forgiven him for laying hands on her.<br />
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Some years later, Val is an adult participating in a scientific expedition to the Night. She has become a lesbian, which is forbidden in her culture, but she will not forswear her beloved, the biologist Ilydrin, who is also a member of the expedition.<br />
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Her expedition has discovered abandoned caves which reveal something of the culture and history of the Nightmares. They show that the Nightmares were a civilized race, rather than the monstrous horrors the humans imagined them. As the story ends, the expedition is about to attempt to discover if there remain any survivors of the Nightmares, and try to make peaceful contact with them if possible -- a plan with which Val agrees whole-heartedly, though she is well aware that they may well wind up being slaughtered by the (understandably) suspicious Nightmares.<br />
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<b>Characters: </b>Val is a classic hero -- both physically and morally brave -- who is doing a classically-heroic thing. She is putting her life and reputation at risk in order to explore the unknown and end an ancient war-of-mistake. Val is notably intelligent and willing to stand up for what she considers to be right.<br />
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The only unusual thing about her in this regard is that she is a lesbian -- which may be obscurely foreshadowed by her rivalry with Vel. In the classic-heroic mold, she seems to regard her love affair with Ilydrin in romantically-idealistic terms.<br />
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Her father is an admirable character who has courage and loves his family, but who represents both the good and bad aspects of the past. In his youth he clearly saw fighting the Nightmares as a good thing, but he also obviously feels bad after Vel's death for having urged him into a military career. This is shown by his putting away the Nightmare head after Vel falls in battle.<br />
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Val's mother is also loving and caring, but gets less characterization. In part this is because the story is only ~8,000 words long, but in part this may represent that she has somewhat subsumed her own identity in favor of her family's. This may also have helped influenced Val to avoid romantic relationships with men.<br />
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Vel is a complex character who clearly does not really want to go into the Night and fight the Nightmares, but believes that he must in order to live up to his father's example. This is made obvious by his fear of the captive Nightmare and his violence toward Val in their childhood. His fate is all the more tragic, because he never knows that the war has become pointless; the Nightmares are no longer a threat to human domination of the twilight zone.<br />
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Sir Tylvur, the man who owns the captive Nightmare, comes across as cruel and bigoted. He represents the strong strain in the Monarchy that is entirely uncritical of the long genocidal war: he can't see that the Nightmare is a fellow-sapient deserving of compassion, even with it right before him. Or, possibly, he <i>must not</i> see this, because it would damage his own self-esteem.<br />
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Ilydrin doesn't get much characterization, aside from "brave" and "smart," both pre-requisites for her role in the expedition. One hopes that she is well worthy of Val's love.<br />
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<b>Theme: </b>The importance of tolerance and understanding; the extent to which hatred springs from fear and may lead to terrible consequences.<br />
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To elaborate ...<br />
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It is very clear to me that something went wrong with the human colonization of this planet. The humans originally "came out of" the lakes common in the Day-bordering parts of the Shadow zone. It is possible that their ancestors landed there by accident or mistake, in an area which turned out to <i>not </i>be habitable in the long term.<br />
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Their early history consisted of fighting the Sunwyrms, who may or may not have been sapient, but certainly were formidable enough to threaten both the Humans and the Nightmares. The Humans drove the Sunwyrms deeper into the Shadow zone, where they displaced the Nightmares. Only then did the Humans meet the Nightmares.<br />
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The Humans had already lost most of their culture and technology, regressing to (probably) Iron Age barbarians. They were primed to consider other natives of the planet hostile, as they had fought the Sunwyrms. The Nightmares saw the Humans as terrifying invaders, and had an even <i>lower</i> technology (somewhere in the Neolithic to Bronze Age). It was inevitable that the two races met in genocidal conflict.<br />
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And yet it was tragic. The Humans were better adapted to the Day; the Humans to the Night. Thus the Humans could have ranged out further into the Day and the Nightmares to the Night, extracting and trading resources. Instead of a centuries-long genocide, there could have been a peaceful mutual exploitation of the planet, and a peaceful mutual climb up to an advanced technological civilization.<br />
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Had the Humans and Nightmares, <i>from the beginning</i>, realized what Val has realized, much tragedy on <i>both</i> sides might have been avoided.<br />
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But this realization would have required moral courage. Which can, as here demonstrated, be even <i>more</i> important than physical courage.<br />
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And Val, very obviously, has <i>both</i>.<br />
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<b>Analysis: </b>There is a clear analogy here being made to both the Aryan and the British conquests of India. Both these conquests were unnecessarily brutal, and both ended not in the annihilation but rather the merging of the two cultures.<br />
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The Aryan example will be less familiar to many Westerners, but, basically, in the mid-2nd millennium BCE, an Eastern Indo-European people -- the same as the ones who conquered and founded Persia/Iran -- entered the Indian subcontinent and overran its pre-Aryan inhabitants, consisting of whoever it was who comprised the Indus Valley civilization (modern Pakistan) and the Dravidians of the main part of the subcontinent.<br />
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Originally, the Aryans set themselves up as a master race, distinguished both by more classically Indo-European customs and by having lighter skins (the caste system derives from "varna" which literally means "color," it coming from the same roots word as our "varnish"). But in time, despite caste rules the populations interbred and the cultures intermingled, producing what we now think of as traditionally "Indian" culture.<br />
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The British conquest is more familiar. India had been conquered by the Muslim Mughals. As the Mughal Empire broke up, the British expanded from coastal trading enclaves to pick up the pieces, subjugating one after another native principality. The British became quite racist toward the Indians, rendering them second-class subjects in their own lands.<br />
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At the same time, the British brought many advances to India, most notably the Industrial and (to some extent) Information Revolutions. These advances were and are highly-valued, and consequently when the Indians finally regained their indpendence after World War II, they retained major aspects of British culture. Most notably, English is in India one of the major languages (the other two being Hindi and Urdu), and the most prominent one of science and scholarship.<br />
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Thus India has a love-hate relationship with Britain. On the one hand, Britain humiliated India for two centuries. On the other hand, Britain brought a more advanced science and technology, from which India continues to benefit today.<br />
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This leads to a strange combination of defiant nationalism and glorification of Ancient India, with a strong conformity to 19th-20th century British culture -- <i>especially</i> in the Indian upper classes, and especially among scientists and scholars.<br />
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"Weep for Day" somewhat shows this, in that the Monarchy is <i>very</i> reminiscent of the late 19th to early 20th century British Empire (Val even speaks of her generation fashionably mocking the old morals, whch is rather Edwardian or even Interwar British, she just stops short of referring to "Bright Young Things"). On the other hand, Val's family strikes me as very Indian in their basic dynamics, and the names are suspiciously Eastern Indo-European in tone.<br />
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The Nightmares are regarded less as the British regarded the Indians (the British never attempted to wipe out the Indians), nor even as the Aryans treated the Dravidians. Instead, they are seen by the Monarchy as more like the <i>demons</i> of Hindu mythology -- merciless and vicious dark-dwellers who must be destroyed root and branch by avenging demigod-like heroes.<br />
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Of course, this concept of the Nightmares turns out to be largely wrong, as Val discovers by the story's end.<br />
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<b>Tone: </b>This is very much a classic science-fiction story, complete with strange alien world, heroic adventurers, and wondrous discoveries. Yes, it deliberately subverts some of the <i>cliches</i> -- the hero is a lesbian woman, and the monsters turn out to be less monstrous than everyone previously assumed -- but then again so did the Interwar and Golden Age pulp stories, more than many 21st-century stories realize.<br />
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<b>Conclusion: </b>I was mostly very pleasantly surprised. I expected some sort of dreary "check all the Diversity Boxes" production, but instead I found a masterfully-written tale of intellectual and geographical exploration. To the extent that the author being non-Western mattered, it actually <i>helped</i> in that he came out of a different and interesting intellectual tradition, and applied it intelligently to his fictional world.<br />
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The story is imaginative and well-written, and Indrapramit Das clearly a highly-skilled writer. There <i>is </i>a strong theme of anti-imperialism, but it makes perfect sense in the story's context, and is more anti-situational than anti-Western. So Mr. Das, well-done, and I'll likely be seeking out and enjoying more of your work.<br />
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Also, this is a fascinating world, and I want to read more of it.<br />
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You all should, too.Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-69145905047380082242017-07-07T22:25:00.001-07:002018-09-23T17:43:45.248-07:00Retro Review of Men Like Gods, by H. G. Wells (1923)<b>Introduction</b><br />
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Having gotten into science fiction in the <i>first</i> place by reading some of the classics, including of course several of the novels of H. G. Wells (specifically, <i>War of the Worlds</i>, <i>The Time Machine</i>, <i>The Island of Doctor Moreau</i> and <i>The Invisible Man</i>), and having previously owned Wells anthologies including short novel anthologies, I was surprised to discover a Wells science-fiction novel which I had <i>never</i> read. What's more, this is one of the most obscure of his science-fiction novels, and has as far as I know never received a movie adaptation.<br />
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I expected it to be not very good. I knew something of Wells' writing history, namely that he had written almost all of his great science fiction during the 1890's and 1900's, and after that period had fallen into writing "important" mainstream social novels, mostly advocating Fabian Socialism <b>(1)</b>, and most of them terribly forgettable.<br />
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I mean, I expected it to be <i>technically </i>good. Wells was a master writer, and probably couldn't pick up a pen or set to a typewriter without producing work of some merit.<br />
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I was surprised to read what is probably the best utopian novel of the 1920's -- and one which introduced some new concepts into science fiction, some of which I didn't even realize Wells had invented.<br />
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<b>I. Story</b><br />
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In the year 1921, Mr. Barnstaple, a leftist intellectual helping to edit a news magazine, is bored and decides to take a motoring holiday. He sets forth on the road through London, probably headed either to East Anglia or Kent (I'm not familiar enough with the British road system to be able to tell exactly where he was headed), when he suddenly finds himself (and his car) on a road in another world.<br />
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He and eleven other people (the occupants of two other cars on the small stretch of road) have just accidentally fallen into a time-space portal. It's never made entirely clear just <i>what</i> the planet they wind up calling "Utopia" (it's not actually the planet's name) happens to be -- whether another planet in our Universe, or what we would today call a parallel Earth -- but it's a lot like our own world, except that around 3000 years ago, the Utopians passed through their "Last Age of Confusion" -- roughly equivalent to the 19th-20th centuries -- and evolved a new social order.<br />
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They swiftly discover a burning house with two dead bodies, a man and a woman, inside. Barnstaple later discovers that these were a mated pair of scientists who had been working on an interdimensional portal, and whose experiment both succeeded and failed tragically. It was this portal, which was supposed to open up on deep space, which instead opened up on the Earth and brought the twelve Earthlings (Wells uses that exact term) there.<br />
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The Utopians contact their visitors and bring them (by means of advanced airplanes) to a sort of lakefront lodge at which they house the Earthlings. They're apologetic about accidentally drawing them into Utopia, and promise to try to send them back home, and in the meantime treat them as guests.<br />
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The Utopians are healthy, naked and very obviously close to a post-scarcity civilization by early 20th century standards. They have a sort of quasi-socialist anarcho-syndical culture, which has gone beyond religion and war. Barnstaple finds himself rather quickly admiring them.<br />
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One of the other eleven Earthlings, Rupert Catskill (a clear Expy from his biography of none other than Winston Churchill) <b>(2)</b> is a warmongering adventurer who sees weakness here and starts thinking of exploiting it. He is the closest thing this story has to a Villain of the piece: most of the bad things that happen are due to his baneful charisma and ruthless opportunism.<br />
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Another one, Father Amerton (who may well be a Chesterton Expy) is horrified at the fact that the Utopians <i>had</i> a Jesus Christ like figure about 5000 years ago, worshipped him for a couple thousand years, and then ultimately decided that he was an admirable mortal philospher rather than the literal Son of God. He also considers the Utopians shameless for their nudity and (relative) promiscuity (they don't have an institution of marriage, but it's reasonably common for them to find life-mates).<br />
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It turns out that the Earthlings are carrying contagious diseases, some of which are fatal to the Utopians. This is because the Utopians eliminated all contagious diseases among their kind around 1500 years ago, and hence have very little natural resistance. There is a danger of plague.<br />
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The Utopians put the Earthlings in quarantine on top of an old castle which they have preserved and sometimes use as a chemical laboratory, but which is currently vacant. They promise to work out cures for the diseases, purge the Earthlings of them, and then restore them to freedom.<br />
<br />
Rupert Catskill sees the clear parallel with Pizarro and the Incas, and decides that he should lead the dozen Earthlings to conquer Utopia. This is an entirely insane objective, as I'll discuss later on, but the thing to remember is that it hinges on the Utopians being soft, peaceful and helpless before superior Earthling aggressiveness, and on being weakened by the plagues. Step One of his plan is to take a couple of hostages. Barnstaple is utterly horrified by and openly objects to this plan. They override him, and get together a handful of revolvers to achieve this end.<br />
<br />
When Catskill tries to take two leading Utopians hostage, Barnstaple warns them. The Utopians try to escape, and show surprising strength and agility in the process. Catskill's followers wind up shooting both of them to death.<br />
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Barnstaple is treated as a traitor by the other Earthlings, who attempt to kill him. Barnstaple manages to flee the castle, but has to make his way down a dangerous cliff. He is trapped midway down and prepares to die of starvation.<br />
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When three Utopians show up with a ladder, and towing a very thick power cable, Barnstaple waits until they are past and then climbs down the ladder to safety. He is fleeing from the cliff when he notices that the Utopians have set up a curious line of rings, fed by the thick cable, and pointed straight at the castle. The rings glow -- and the castle disappears in what looks like an immense explosion.<br />
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Barnstaple wakes up being tended to by the Utopians. They have found cures for and purged him of his diseases. He is now free to venture among the Utopians and learn of their culture, which he does, in a manner fairly standard to utopian novels, with the help of some friendly native guides.<br />
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One thing he learns is that the glowing-ring thing he saw wasn't precisely a weapon, but rather a portal gun <b>(3)</b> -- a bigger version of the device that brought them into this world. He learns that the castle was rotated through higher dimensions and then set down somewhere the Utopians could subdue the other Earthlings; some fell off during the trip and died, but the ones which remained on or in the castle lived.<br />
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Barnstaple loves the Utopian society he sees but comes to realize he has no true place in it. He's in the position of an Early Bronze Age barbarian brought into a modern Western European kingdom, unable to contribute meaningfully to this culture. The Utopians are willing to keep him in luxury for the rest of his life if he wants to stay; however, they are also willing to send him home.<br />
<br />
He learns that Utopia itself has recently made immense physical discoveries which could open the rest of the Universe to their colonization. The portal that brought him here was one of their experiments in opening space-time gateways: they were surprised to find a parallel world, because what they were <i>trying</i> to do was learn how to open gates to other planets and star systems <b>(4)</b>. The Utopians do not want to make long-term contact with Earth as it is today -- they fear that war would ensue, and they might be then forced to exterminate Mankind -- but perhaps in some future time, Earth's culture will have advanced far enough to allow peaceful intercourse between the two civilizations.<br />
<br />
Barnstaple is energized by this awesome vision of a possible future, and returns home, determined to work to help his own world begin to transform into a civilization as enlightened as that of Utopia.<br />
<br />
<b>II. The Utopians</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
As I've said, their culture could best be described as quasi-socialist anarcho-syndicalism. They've gone beyond private competition and ownership of the means of production; there is no government (but there is a highly-effective system of large-scale voluntary cooperation, mediated by a global communication system <b>(5)</b>. They still use money (in the form of an electronic credit and debit system) but only for goods of medium value (ordinary sustenance is free, and major capital goods are social rather than private property).<br />
<br />
They have been eugenically altering (and possibly genetically engineering) themselves for centuries. They started out almost identical to our humanity, but have become a lot stronger, faster, healthier and smarter by now. Barnstaple, intellectually-gifted by Earthly standards, is a bit below the average Utopian.<br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line they developed telepathy. Barnstaple is able to talk with them from the beginning, but he can never be sure if he's understanding them correctly, because something he <i>almost</i> understands will be rendered by some close English equivalent, and something he doesn't understand at all will come through as gibberish or silence. And he never learns to read their language.<br />
<br />
There is a long tradition of Utopias in science fiction, dating back to Sir Thomas More's <i>Utopia</i> (1516) and including some of the cultures encounterd in <i>Gulliver's Travels</i> (1726). This one is interesting for a few reasons:<br />
<br />
<b>(A) - </b>The Utopians are treated as real characters, including the possession of character flaws. This is particularly true of Lychnis, one of his closest friends, who is suffering from rather severe long-term depression.<br />
<br />
<b>(B) - </b>The Utopian society as a whole is not flawless: it makes mistakes, in particular failing to anticipate Earthling diseases and violence. It is also <i>aware</i> of its own flaws: for instance, that it might be driven to abuse Earth if there was long-term contact.<br />
<br />
<b>(C) - </b>Finally, and related to these, Utopia is not a static, finished society. It is aware that it still knows very little about the Universe, and is looking toward the possiblity of interplanetary and interstellar exploration and expansion. The Utopians have <i>not</i> given up on their ambitions, only on greed and wrath.<br />
<br />
<b>III. Catskill's Crazy Plan</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Catskill believes the the combination of Earthling aggressiveness, Utopian pacifism and Utopian vulnerability to Earth diseases will enable him to play Pizarro conquering the Incan Empire. Let me elucidated why Catskill's plan is not only evil, but also crazy.<br />
<br />
<b>A. Lack of Intelligence: </b>At the point Catskill makes this plan, all they have seen of Utopia is a countryside, a lakefront lodge, the castle, and some terrain they flew over getting to these places. He knows almost nothing about the civilization he means to conquer save that they are relatively pacifistic and promiscuous.<br />
<br />
Admittedly, Pizarro didn't know that much, either. But also he suffers from<br />
<br />
<b>B. Poor Numerical Odds: </b>There are twelve Earthlings (two of them women and one of them unsympathetic to his goals), so call it nine potential combatants. There are ...<br />
<br />
... 250 <i>million</i> Utopians.<br />
<br />
These are worse numerical odds than Pizarro faced. Even if the plagues are incredibly effective and kill 90% of the Utopian population, that would be over 2 million to 1 against him.<br />
<br />
Admittedly, Pizzaro had only a few hundred against a few million, which was around 10 thousand to 1 against him, However, Catskill also has<br />
<br />
<b>C. Inferior Technology: </b>While Pizarro had steel weapons and armor opposed to Neolithic weapons and armor, Catskill has a dozen or so revolvers opposed to ... we never find out what, exactly. The Utopians take his band out with the portal gun, then overcome the survivors while they're confused. But we have no reason to assume that the Utopians couldn't have worked their centuries-to-millennia-superior civilian technology into superior military weapons, if they'd had to do so.<br />
<br />
He also has the problem of<br />
<br />
<b>D. Inferior Troops: </b>There are clues to this earlier in the book. Most notably, there's a scene at the lakefront lodge where one of the chauffeurs attempts to accost a young woman who has come to clean his room. Note: this is a full-grown man versus a girl in her mid to late teens.<br />
<br />
She casually slaps him aside, knocking him down and leaving a bruise. Then goes on about her business.<br />
<br />
The Utopians are simply stronger, pound for pound, than the Earthlings. This is the product of the aforementioned eugenics and possibly genetic engineering.<br />
<br />
This means that the Earthlings don't have the advantage in close combat, either.<br />
<br />
Also<br />
<br />
<b>E. The Plagues Aren't That Bad: </b>The American Indians suffered roughly 90% die-offs from the European plagues of the 16th and 17th centuries. This is the effect on which Catskill is counting to weaken the Utopians.<br />
<br />
But the Incans were a Neolithic society with almost no medical capabilities. When they started falling to plagues, they could do nothing save pray to their gods and try to tend the sick.<br />
<br />
In contrast, the Utopians have low disease resistance because they have an <i>awesome</i> bio-technology, and have eradicated all serious diseases on their planet. After a few Utopians die, their doctors quarantine the ill and rapidly develop cures.<br />
<br />
So they aren't -- as a culture -- weakened by the plagues at all.<br />
<br />
Finally,<br />
<br />
<b>F. Good Is Not Soft: </b>Far from being a decadent culture, past its height and close to collapse, the Utopian society is ambitious, creative, scientifically progressive, and close to launching interplanetary colonization ventures. They are about as threatened by Catskill as we would be by, say, a small band of Bedouin from the 3rd millennium BC.<br />
<br />
The Utopians don't <i>like</i> to kill, and they try non-lethal or at least survivable tactics. But it's made very obvious, both by their actions then and later, that they <i>will</i> fight to protect themselves if attacked, and they are quite capable of killing if they see no better choice.<br />
<br />
Catskill never had a chance.<br />
<br />
<b>Conclusion</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
This is a genuinely-excellent work of science fiction, which I recommend without hesitation to all modern readers.<br />
<br />
<b>======</b><br />
<b>NOTES</b><br />
<b>======</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>(1) - </b>In between seducing Sweet Supergenius Girls, of whom Rebecca West was merely the most famous.<br />
<br />
<b>(2) - </b>One of the reasons why this novel probably isn't better-known today is its casting of a Winston Churchill expy as the <i>Villain.</i> It seems surprising, but consider that in 1921, Churchill was known mainly for colonial adventuring, militarism, strikebreaking, and the failure of the Gallipoli Campaign. And Wells, of course, was a pacifist socialist.<br />
<br />
<b>(3) - </b>As far as I know, the first portal gun in science fiction. And the first portal.<br />
<br />
<b>(4) - </b>This is the first example as far as I know of an interstellar empire and a stargate system, even as a possibility, in science fiction, and it's at least as advanced a concept for the early 1920's as the notion of alien invasions or time machines were in the 1890's. In context: this story was published a few years <i>before</i> <i>The Skylark of Space</i>, and a decade before Olaf Stapledon's more famous works.<br />
<br />
<b>(5) - </b>Close to a proto-Internet, though Wells didn't realize that communications and library functions could be merged. The system as a whole appears to be either sapient or semi-sapient; it's an artificial intelligence of sorts. Keep in mind however that Barnstaple is an illiterate when it comes to the Utopian language, and there's a lot he fails to understand about their culture, <i>by his own admission.</i>Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-55143627337983932242016-05-13T18:20:00.001-07:002018-09-23T17:43:43.607-07:00"Warning From the Stars" (1959) by Ron Cocking<h1 style="text-align: center;">
"Warning From the Stars"</h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Roboto; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;">© 1959</span></b></div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Ron Cocking</h2>
<div class="illo">
</div>
<div class="illo">
It was a beautifully machined container, shaped like a two pound chocolate candy box, the color and texture of lead. The cover fitted so accurately that it was difficult to see where it met the lip on the base.</div>
<br />
Yet when Forster lifted the container from the desk in the security guards' office, he almost hit himself in the face with it, so light was it.<br />
<br />
He read the words clumsily etched by hand into the top surface with some sharp instrument:<br />
<div class="blockquot">
<br />
TO BE OPENED ONLY BY:<br /> <br />
Dr. Richard Forster,<br /> Assistant Director,<br /> Air Force Special Research Center,<br /> Petersport, Md.<br /><br /> CAUTION: Open not later than<br /> 24 hours after receipt.<br /><br /> DO NOT OPEN in atmosphere less<br /> than equivalent of 65,000 feet<br /> above M.S.L.</div>
He turned the container over and over. It bore no other markings—no express label or stamps, no file or reference number, no return address.<br />
<br />
It was superbly machined, he saw.<br />
<br />
Tentatively he pulled at the container cover, it was as firm as if it had been welded on. But then, if the cover had been closed in the thin atmosphere of 65,000 feet, it would be held on by the terrific pressure of a column of air twelve miles high.<br />
<br />
Forster looked up at the burly guard.<br />
<br />
"Who left this here?"<br />
<br />
"Your guess is as good as mine, sir." The man's voice was as close to insolence as the difference in status would allow, and Forster bristled.<br />
<br />
"I just clocked in an hour ago. There was a thick fog came on all of a sudden, and there was a bit of confusion when we were changing over. They didn't say anything about the box when I relieved."<br />
<br />
"Fog?" Forster queried. "How could fog form on a warm morning like this?"<br />
<br />
"You're the scientist, sir. You tell me. Went as fast as it came."<br />
<br />
"Well—it looks like very sloppy security. The contents of this thing must almost certainly be classified. Give me the book and I'll sign for it. I'll phone you the file number when I find the covering instructions."<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
Forster was a nervous, over-conscientious little man, and his day was already ruined, because any departure from strict administrative routine worried and upset him. Only in his field of aviation medicine did he feel competent, secure.<br />
<br />
He knew that around the center they contemptuously called him "Lilliput." The younger researchers were constantly trying to think up new ways to play jokes on him, and annoy him.<br />
<br />
Crawley Preston, the research center's director and his chief, had been summoned to Washington the night before. Forster wished fervently that he was around to deal with this matter. Now that relations between East and West had reached the snapping point, the slightest deviation from security regulations usually meant a full-scale inquiry.<br />
<br />
He signed for the container, and carried it out to the car, still seething impotently over the guard's insolence.<br />
<br />
He placed it beside him on the front seat of his car and drove up to the building which housed part of the labs and also his office.<br />
<br />
He climbed out, then as he slammed the door he happened to glance into the car again.<br />
<br />
The seat covers were made of plastic in a maroon and blue plaid pattern. But where the box had rested there was a dirty grey rectangular patch that hadn't been there before.<br />
<br />
Forster stared, then opened the door again. He rubbed his fingers over the discolored spot; it felt no different than the rest of the fabric. Then he placed the box over the area—it fitted perfectly.<br />
<br />
He flopped down on the seat, his legs dangling out of the car, fighting down a sudden irrational wave of panic. He pushed the container to the other end of the seat.<br />
<i></i><br />
<i>After all</i>, he rationalized, <i>plastics are notoriously unstable under certain conditions. This is probably a new polymer Washington wants tested for behavior under extreme conditions of temperature and pressure. What's gotten into you?</i><br />
<br />
He took a deep breath, picked up the box again. Where it had rested there was another discolored patch on the car seat covers.<br />
<br />
Holding it away from him, Forster hurried into the office, then dumped the box into a metal wastebasket. Then he went to a cabinet and pulled out a Geiger counter, carried it over to the wastebasket. As he pointed the probe at the box the familiar slow clicking reassured him, and feeling a little foolish he put the instrument back on its shelf.<br />
<br />
Hurriedly, he went through his mail; there was nothing in it referring to the package. Then he called the classified filing section; nobody there knew anything about it either.<br />
<br />
For some reason he couldn't explain to himself, he wasn't even surprised.<br />
<br />
He stared into the wastebasket. The clumsily etched instructions glinted up at him: "<i>To be opened as soon as possible....</i>"<br />
<br />
He picked up the phone and called the decompression chamber building.<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
There was no valid reason why he should have been self-conscious as he talked to the lab attendant in charge of the decompression tank. He used it a dozen times a month for tests and experiments, yet when he gave his instructions his voice was labored and strained.<br />
<br />
"Some genius in Washington sent this thing down without any covering instructions, but it has to be opened in a hurry in a thin atmosphere. Er—I'd like you to stay on the intercom for a while in case it blows up in my face or something." He tried to laugh, but all that came out was a croak.<br />
<br />
The attendant nodded indifferently, then helped Forster into the helmet of his pressure suit. He climbed up the steps into the chamber, pulling the airtight door shut behind him. He placed the box on the desk in front of the instrument panel, then turned back to push the door clamps into place.<br />
<br />
For the first time in the hundreds of hours he'd spent in the tank, he knew the meaning of claustrophobia.<br />
<br />
Mechanically, he plugged in his intercom and air lines, went through the other routine checks before ascent, tested communications with the lab attendant, then flicked the exhaust motor switch.<br />
<br />
Now there was little to do except wait. He stared at the box; in the artificial light it seemed full of hidden menace, a knowing aliveness of its own....<br />
<br />
Forster shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as though to throw off the vague blanket of uneasiness that was settling around him. So somebody had forgotten to send a covering message with the container, or else it had been mislaid—that could happen, although with security routine as strict as it was, the possibility was remote. All the same, it could happen. After all, what other explanation was there? What was it he was afraid of? There was something about it—<br />
<br />
He glanced at the altimeter. The needle showed only 10,000 feet, and seemed to be crawling around the dial. He resolved not to look at it for three minutes by the clock on the panel.<br />
<br />
When he checked the altimeter again, it registered just over 30,000 feet. Not even half way yet.<br />
<br />
As the pressure in the tank decreased, he began to be conscious of the need for "reverse breathing"—and he concentrated on using his tongue to check the flow of air into his lungs, then using the thoracic muscles to exhale against the higher pressure inside the suit.<br />
<br />
Time seemed to be passing in micro-seconds ... 25,000 feet ... 30,000 ... 40,000 ... 50,000.<br />
<br />
At 62,500 feet he gently tested the cover of the container again; it lifted.<br />
<br />
As the altimeter needle flickered on the 65,000-foot mark, he cut the exhaust motor and picked up the box. The cover slipped off easily.<br />
<br />
His feeling of anticlimax was almost ludicrous. As he looked in, all the box contained was a flattened roll of some greyish material.<br />
<br />
He took it out; despite its comparative bulk, it was feather-light. It had the appearance of metal, but was as porous and pliable as a good grade of bond paper. He could not feel its texture through his heavy gloves. He took a good look.<br />
<br />
It was new all right—no doubt Washington wanted some tests run on it, although without covering instructions and data this trip was wasted. But some heads would roll when he reported back on the way the container had been shipped in.<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
He started to unroll the material to get a better look at it, then he saw that it was covered with cramped, closely spaced handwriting in a purplish ink—handwriting that was elusively familiar.<br />
Then he read the words written in neat capitals at the top, the name of the man with the familiar handwriting, and fear came back, clamped cold fingers around his throat:<br />
<i></i><br />
<i>James Rawdon Bentley</i><br />
<br />
Dear Dick, the writing went on, Take a large economy-size grip on yourself. I know this is going to sound like a voice from the dead, but I'm very much alive and kicking—in the best of health in fact....<br />
<br />
The writing blurred, and instinctively Forster put his fist up to rub his eyes, only to meet the hard plastic of his helmet visor. James Rawdon Bentley....<br />
<br />
It was January 18, 1951, three years ago, and the jagged line of the Australian coast stretched like a small-scale map to the black curve of the horizon.<br />
<br />
From the converted bomber that was his flying lab, Forster could see the other American observation plane cruising on a parallel course, about half a mile away, and beyond it downwind the fringe of the billowing cloud dome of the super-secret British thermonuclear shot.<br />
<br />
Then suddenly Bentley's voice from the other plane was crackling over the earphones, sharp and urgent:<br />
<br />
"Our Geigers and scintillometers are going crazy! We're getting out of here! There's something coming inside ... a light...."<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
Silence. Forster had watched in helpless horror as the other ship dipped a silver wing, then nosed down ever so slowly, it seemed ... down ... down ... in a dive that seemed to take hours as Forster's plane tracked it, ending in a tiny splash like a pebble being thrown into a pond; then the grimly beautiful iridescence of oil and gasoline spreading across the glassy waters of the Timor Sea.<br />
<br />
No parachutes had opened on the long journey down. An Australian air sea rescue launch and helicopter were at the scene of the crash in minutes, but neither bodies nor survivors had been found, then or later....<br />
<br />
"Everything okay, Doctor Forster?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," he said hoarsely. "Yes ... everything's okay ... just routine."<br />
<br />
Forster focussed his eyes on the writing again. There was no doubt at all that it was Bentley's. They had roomed and studied together for four years at MIT, and then there had been a couple of years' post-graduate work after that. During all that time they had used each other's notes constantly.<br />
<br />
But Bentley was dead.<br />
<br />
Forster read on, stunned:<br />
<br />
First, you'll want to know what happened over the Timor Sea after the shot. Put very simply, I, the rest of the technicians, and the crew of the B-29 were transhipped to another vehicle—without any damage to ourselves. How, I'm not allowed to explain at this stage. Actually, they only wanted me, but it wasn't feasible to collect me and leave the rest behind, so they're all here, safe and well.<br />
<br />
Who are "they," and where am I? The second question I can't answer—not allowed to. "They," roughly translated, are "The Shining Ones," which doesn't tell you anything, of course. Briefly, they're a couple of light-years ahead of Earth in evolution—mentally, morally, and physically, although I use the last word loosely. Too bad that English is a commercial language, it's so hard to discuss really abstract ideas.<br />
<br />
Why am I here? The whole reason for this message is wrapped up in the answer to that.<br />
<br />
As you probably know, Project Longfall, which I was heading up was delayed about a year due to my removal. That was the sole purpose, although I and the rest of us are getting special instruction to keep us occupied.<br />
<br />
About the same time, they also took several other key people from Britain, Russia, and the United States. Others were already here.<br />
<br />
The idea then was <i>delay</i>—to delay more test shots of atomic weapons, in the hope that East and West would come to some agreement. Now, because of the growing volume of tests, and the critical tension which prevails, delay will no longer suffice, and far more drastic steps are to be taken.<br />
I wish you could be here for only a few minutes to see what happens after a multi-megaton thermonuclear test shot is set off on Earth.<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
I can't describe it in terms which would have any relation to your present knowledge of physics. All I can say is that life here is intimately bound up with the higher laws of electro-magnetism which at present are only being guessed at on your level. It's not the radioactivity which you know as such which causes the trouble—there are neutralizing devices throughout the planetary system to take care of that. The damage is caused by an ultra-ultra-short wave radiation which not even the most sensitive scintillometer you have can pick up, a very subtle by-product of every chain reaction.<br />
<br />
It doesn't have too much immediate effect on the lower forms of life—including human beings, if you'll pardon the expression. But here, it causes a ghastly carnage, so ghastly it sickens me even to think about it for a second.<br />
<br />
The incredible thing is that the people here could stop Earth from firing another shot if they wished to, and at 24 hours' notice, but their philosophy is totally opposed to force, even when it means their own destruction. That will give you an idea of the kind of people they are.<br />
<br />
(Here they say that Einstein was on the fringe of discovering the theory involved when he died, but was having trouble with the mathematics. Remember how Einstein always complained that he was really a poor mathematician?)<br />
<br />
But with atomic warfare threatening to break out on Earth at any minute, they have got to do something.<br />
<br />
This is what they plan to do—this is what they <i>are going to do</i>.<br />
<br />
Starting within a few hours after you receive this message, a mass removal of key scientists will begin. They will take 20, 30, or 40—roughly equal numbers from both sides—every few hours as technical conditions allow. That will go on until East and West agree to drop this whole mad weapons race. It will be done quietly, peacefully. Nobody will be hurt except by a fluke. But if needs be, they will lift every major scientific brain off the face of Earth to stop the present drift to disaster for everybody. There are no weapons, no devices that you have at present, which can stop this plan going into effect. There it is—it's as simple as that.<br />
<br />
If you knew what you were really headed for, it would need no steps from here to make both sides on Earth stop this horrible foolishness in a moment.<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
The lesson of Mars is part of the orientation course here. (I'm <i>not</i> on Mars). I'm using up space, so I'll go into note form for a bit. Martians had an atomic war—forgot they had to breathe ... destroyed 60 per cent of their atmosphere ... canals on Mars aren't ... they're closely-spaced line of shafts leading to underground cities ... view from Earth telescopes, shaft mouths appear as dots which run together into lines due to eye-fatigue ... British Royal Astronomical Society figured that out 30 years ago at least ... see papers on their proceedings ... photographs here show monsters created by wholesale mutations ... lasted about four generations before reproduction failed ... now only vegetation on Mars ... saw pictures of last survivors ... horrible ... I was ill for days after ... imagine having to take 40 separate breaths after making a single step!<br />
<br />
Getting back to the others here ... a regular U. N. Remember O'Connor and Walters in our class? They're here. Check, you'll find that O'Connor is "detached" from Oak Ridge and Walters from Aiken for "special duty." That's Central Intelligence's story for their disappearance.<br />
<br />
Remember those top German boys the Russians were supposed to have gotten to before the Allies could reach them after the Nazi collapse? <i>They're here too!</i> And Kamalnikov, and Pretchkin of the Russian Academy.<br />
<br />
Believe me (the style and the writing was a little less urgent again now), I've had all the intellectual stuffing knocked out of me here.<br />
<br />
We all have had, for that matter. We're supposed to be the cream of the crop, but imagine sitting down to instruction from people whose I.Q.s start where yours leaves off!<br />
<br />
But what has really made most of us here feel pretty humble is the way they have demolished Earth's so-called "scientific method"—and used the method itself to prove that it doesn't stand up!<br />
<br />
You know how we've always been taught to observe, collect data, then erect a theory to fit the data, a theory which has to be modified when other data came along which don't fit into it.<br />
<br />
Here they work the opposite way—they say: "Know the fundamental principles governing the operation of the universe and then all the pieces fit together inside this final Truth."<br />
<br />
I understand now why so many of the Oak Ridge boys turned to religion after they had been exposed to the electron microscope for a while—they realized they had gone as far as their "scientific" training would ever take them.<br />
<br />
Time and space are running out. I know all this must sound confused and incredible, Dick; I'm still confused myself. But I want you to think about what I've written, then take the action you think best. I know it won't be easy for you.<br />
<br />
If you think this is some maniac's idea of a joke, you'll have proof very soon that it isn't, because <i>one of the people at your Center is due to leave for here any time now</i>.<br />
<br />
You're wondering why I used this weird and wonderful means of communication. The problem was to find a writing material which would stand up in Earth's atmosphere—oddly enough, it's not the oxygen which causes the trouble, but the so-called "inert" nitrogen. The container will probably not disintegrate for a couple of days at sea level atmospheric pressure, but this material I'm writing on would not last more than a few seconds. That's one reason they picked you—most people just don't have a spare decompression chamber up in the attic! The other reason was that with your photographic memory, you'll know this is my handwriting, beyond the shadow of a doubt, I hope.<br />
I'm sure you've sat in that pressure suit long enough. But remember, if you want to take another look at this, you'll have to put it back in the container before you go "down."<br />
<div class="signing">
</div>
<div class="signing">
Wishing you all you would wish for yourself,<br /> Jim.</div>
<br />
Forster examined the signature. That was the way Bentley made the capital J—it looked almost like a T, with just a faint hook on the bottom of the down-stroke. Then the way it joined the—<br />
<br />
"Hey, Doc—are you going to tie up the tank all day? I've got work to do."<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
Forster recognized the voice on the intercom as Tom Summerford's. Summerford was one of the crop of recent graduates to join the Center—brash, noisy, irresponsible like the rest of them. He knew Forster hated being called "Doc," so he never lost an opportunity to use the word. True, he was gifted and well-trained, but he was a ringleader in playing the practical jokes on Forster which might have been funny in college, but which only wasted a research team's time in these critical days.<br />
Practical joke.<br />
<br />
Anger flooded over him.<br />
<br />
Yes, this was all a macabre game cooked up by Summerford, with the help of some of his pals. Probably they were all out there now, snickering among themselves, waiting to see his face when he came out of the decompression chamber ... waiting to gloat....<br />
<br />
"Hey Doc! You still with us?"<br />
<br />
"I'll be out very shortly," Forster said grimly. "Just wait right there."<br />
<br />
He spun the air inlet controls; impatiently, he watched as the altimeter needle began its anti-clockwise movement.<br />
<br />
He'd call a staff meeting right away, find the culprits and suspend them from duty. Preston would have to back him up. If Summerford proved to be the ringleader, he would insist on his dismissal, Forster decided. And he would see to it that the young punk had trouble getting another post.<br />
<br />
The fantastic waste of time involved in such an elaborate forgery ... Forster trembled with indignation. And using the name of a dead man, above all a scientist who had died in the interests of research, leaving behind him a mystery which still troubled the Atomic Energy Commission, because nobody had ever been able to explain that sudden dive in a plane which was apparently functioning perfectly, and flown by a veteran crew....<br />
<br />
He glanced down at the roll.<br />
<br />
Was it his imagination, or had the purplish ink begun to fade? He ran a length of it through his fingers, and then he saw that in places there were gaps where the writing had disappeared altogether. He glanced up at the altimeter needle, which was sliding by the 24,000-foot mark.<br />
<br />
He looked back at his hands again, just in time to see the roll part in two places, leaving only the narrow strip he held between his gloved fingers.<br />
<br />
He put the strip on the desk, and bent clumsily in his suit to retrieve the other pieces from the floor. But wherever he grabbed it, it fell apart. Now it seemed to be melting before his eyes. In a few seconds there was nothing.<br />
<br />
He straightened up. The strip he had left on the desk had disappeared, too. No ash, no residue. Nothing.<br />
<br />
His thought processes seemed to freeze. He glanced mechanically at the altimeter. It read 2,500 feet.<br />
<br />
He grabbed at the two pieces of the container. They still felt as rigid as ever. He fitted them together carefully, gaining a crumb of security from the act.<br />
<br />
He realized vaguely that the altimeter needle was resting on zero, but he had no idea how long he had been sitting there, trying to find a thread of logic in the confused welter of thoughts, when he heard the scrape of metal on metal as somebody wrestled with the door clamps from the outside.<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
He was certain of only one thing. His memory told him that the signature that was no longer a signature had been written by Jim Rawdon, who couldn't possibly have survived that crash into the Timor Sea....<br />
<br />
From behind, somebody was fumbling with his helmet connections, then fresh air and familiar sounds rushed in on him as the helmet was taken away.<br />
<br />
Summerford's thin, intelligent face was opposite his.<br />
<br />
"Doc! Are you all right?" he was asking sharply. For once, there was no superciliousness in his voice.<br />
<br />
"I'm fine," Forster said heavily. "I—I've got a headache. Stayed in here too long, I suppose."<br />
<br />
"What's in the box?" Summerford asked.<br />
<br />
The way he asked told Forster at once that the youngster knew nothing about it.<br />
<br />
"Er—just some half-baked idea out of the Pentagon. Some colonel trying to justify his existence." He clutched the box to him as though Summerford might try to take it away. "The tank's all yours."<br />
<br />
He turned and clambered out of the chamber. He put the box down on the concrete floor, and climbed out of the pressure suit, watching the box all the time. It seemed to gleam up at him, as though it had eyes, full of silent menace.<br />
<br />
He realized vaguely that Summerford was standing in front of him again, looking anxious.<br />
<br />
"Are you quite sure you're okay?"<br />
<br />
"I'm fine," Forster said, hardly recognizing his own voice.<br />
<br />
He picked up the box and stumbled out, heading for his office.<br />
<br />
When he walked in, his secretary was answering the line fitted with a scrambler, which connected directly with the Pentagon.<br />
<br />
"General Morganson," she said, handing him the receiver.<br />
<br />
Forster took the receiver, sat down at his desk and took a deep breath, fighting hard to regain his self control.<br />
<br />
"Forster," he said into the mouthpiece when the office door closed behind the girl.<br />
<br />
"Forster! What the dickens has happened to Preston? My driver met the train here this morning, but there was no sign of him. But the Pullman porter checked him in last night, and we found all his gear and papers in his compartment!"<br />
<br />
"He left here in plenty of time to catch the train, General," Forster heard himself say. "He took the train to get a night's rest." He realized how irrelevant the last statement was only after he had made it.<br />
<br />
The General was talking again ... important meeting with the Joint Chiefs ... whole briefing team was being held up ... he'd reported it to the C.I.A. as a precautionary measure....<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
Forster could see the words on the roll, the roll that wasn't, as though they were engraved on his eye-retinas: <i>As a beginning, and to prove this isn't just a bit of hocus-pocus, one of the people at your Center is due to leave for here any time now.</i><br />
<br />
"General," Forster broke in hoarsely. "I've got some very important information which you must have. I'll leave by heliplane right away."<br />
<br />
He replaced the phone receiver in its cradle, wondering how convincing he would be able to make his story. At least, even if he didn't have Bentley's letter, he had the container. That should help.<br />
<br />
But when he looked across the desk, he saw that it too had disappeared, without a trace.<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
General Morganson was the newest product of the Atomic Age, half soldier, half scientist—shrewd and perceptive, an intellectual giant.<br />
<br />
He listened carefully, without comment or change of expression, as Forster doggedly went through his story in chronological order.<br />
<br />
Half way through, he held up his hand and started pushing buttons on the console built into his desk. Within a few moments men began filing into the room, and sat down around Forster.<br />
<br />
Then the general motioned to the clerk seated in the corner by a tape recorder.<br />
<br />
"Gentlemen, listen to this playback and then I'll have Dr. Forster here go on from there."<br />
<br />
What was left of Forster's confidence leaked away as he heard his own diffident voice filling the room again. It was like being awake in the middle of a weird dream.<br />
<br />
But when the tape recorder hissed into silence, he went on, staring straight ahead of him in quiet desperation.<br />
<br />
When he ended his story, there was silence for a moment. Everyone sat motionless.<br />
<br />
Then Morganson looked up and around.<br />
<br />
"Well gentlemen? Mr. Bates, C.I.A. first."<br />
<br />
This was no longer a story told by one man; it had become a problem, a situation to be evaluated objectively.<br />
<br />
"Well, sir ... the only part of the thing I can comment on at this point is the stuff about O'Connor and Walters. That checks. They both disappeared without a trace. It was treated as a maximum security situation, and we did give out the story they had been assigned to special duty." He glanced briefly at Forster. "Up until now, we assumed that only the directors at Aiken and Oak Ridge knew the real situation—outside of the Atomic Energy Commission and C.I.A., of course. This represents a very serious leak—or...." His voice trailed away.<br />
<br />
"Colonel Barfield, Intelligence?"<br />
<br />
The young colonel tried to sound flippant, unsuccessfully.<br />
<br />
"General, acting on the assumption the story is true, it would answer about two hundred question marks in our files. Maybe more, with further study."<br />
<br />
The C.I.A. man cleared his throat and raised a finger.<br />
<br />
"For everybody's information," he said, "a preliminary field check shows that Dr. Preston's train was stopped for ten minutes by fog last night. The train's radar installation failed simultaneously. There wouldn't be anything odd about that except the temperature at the time was about 65 degrees, and the humidity was only 55 per cent. Consider that, gentlemen.<br />
<br />
"Theoretically, fog can't form under such conditions. Similar local fog occurred on the occasions when O'Connor and Walters were reported missing. The Met. people couldn't explain that, either. That's all."<br />
<br />
Morganson sat up straight, as though he had suddenly made a decision.<br />
<br />
"I don't think there's any value in further discussion at this point. You will all have transcripts of Dr. Forster's statement within a few minutes. According to that statement, we are due to lose a number of key men in the next few hours. I'll have Code One emergency precautions instituted at all research establishments, and I think the chairman of the Joint Chiefs should hear from me right away. Colonel Barfield, I'd like you to ask Colonel Malinowski, the Russian military attaché to see me here not later than an hour from now. We'll have a full dress conference here at 8 o'clock tomorrow morning, with written evaluation reports in detail from all branches. Dr. Forster, consider yourself assigned to Pentagon duty as of now, and until further notice."<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
Forster sat, dazed, until he realized that the others had left, and the general was standing in front of him.<br />
<br />
"Go get some rest, Forster," the other man said with surprising gentleness. "You've had a tough day."<br />
<br />
As Forster slept that early summer night, weathermen across the world were marking their weather maps with thousands of observations—feathery wind arrows, temperatures, barometric pressures and relative humidities.<br />
<br />
Then, as they drew their isobars, the pattern for the northern hemisphere emerged. A giant high pressure system with its center in northern Oklahoma promised warm fair weather across America. Another, centered east of the Ural Mountains, forecast clear weather for most of Europe and northern Asia.<br />
<br />
A low pressure trough between was dropping light warm rain on the green fields of England, but from Seattle to Washington, D. C, from Stettin to Vladivostock the sun was rising or setting in clear skies.<br />
<br />
Then about 9 P.M. Eastern Standard Time, a thickening mist descended over warm and drowsy southwest South Carolina. It was a fog that was not a fog, observers said afterwards, because there was no damp, no coldness—just a steady loss of visibility until a man couldn't see his hand held up in front of his face, even though a bright moon was shining. Most of the reporting night shift at the Aiken hydrogen bomb plant never reached the tightly-guarded gates. Those who did were not allowed in.<br />
<br />
At the same hour, across the world at the newly-built underground heavy water factory of Rossilovskigorsk, west of the southern tip of Lake Baikal, the late morning sun cast deep shadows into the gaping holes in the hillside which marked the plant entrances and exits. Deep below, miles of filtration chambers hissed quietly as they prepared their deadly concentrate.<br />
<br />
Then, without warning, the sun grew watery and paled, and within a few minutes a haze began to form at ground level. It grew thicker and thicker; the sun became a dim orange sphere, then was blotted out. Total darkness enveloped the area.<br />
<br />
And at the same hour, the watchers manning the lonely circle of probing radar domes, facing each other across the frozen wastes of the Arctic, cursed softly in Russian and English as their scopes sweeping the upper air first went blank and then dark.<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
They were shaken men at the meeting in General Morganson's office the next morning.<br />
<br />
"Over 30 key men gone from Aiken," Morganson was saying. "In terms of goals, it means that our 1960 program now cannot possibly be fulfilled until 1965. If the situation develops as forecast in Dr. Forster's statement, our entire nuclear weapons program will grind to a halt within two weeks. If we drain men from civilian research, it will cause a total breakdown in the civilian atomic power production program. As you all know, the nation's entire economic expansion program is based on the availability of that power. Without it, industry will be forced into a deep freeze. That in turn means we might as well run up a white flag on the White House lawn."<br />
<br />
He smiled thinly. "I would be a lot more worried than I am except we have the first indications that the other side is in the same boat. I broke every regulation in the book last night when I talked to Malinowski. I took the liberty of warning him, on the basis that there was nothing to lose. His reaction then was that it was all a Wall Street-capitalist plot—'psychological warfare,' he called it.<br />
<br />
"He phoned me an hour ago. Sounded as though he'd just seen a ghost. He said the Russian ambassador had asked for an appointment with the Secretary of State this morning...."<br />
<br />
Forster, bewildered and out of his depth in these global problems, let the flood of words pour over him.<br />
<br />
Then he realized that Morganson was staring at him over the telephone receiver at his ear, and that the room was very quiet.<br />
<br />
Then Morganson said respectfully: "Very well, Mr. President. We'll have Doctor Forster there."<br />
<br />
Forster was relegated to the sidelines after his interview with the grave-faced man in the White House. Events were moving swiftly—events which Forster could read behind the blurred black headlines of the newspapers.<br />
<br />
The Russian ambassador was closeted with the Secretary of State for a record six-hour talk. Then the Soviet Foreign Minister took off for Washington at 30 minutes' notice, and another record was made when he spent all day with the President. The Washington columnists began to hint of lessening tension in the cold war, and the wire services carried reports of Russian radio broadcasts talking of a new era of cooperation between East and West.<br />
<br />
Only fragments of the broadcasts could be monitored, because radio reception had suddenly deteriorated right across the world. The reports could not be confirmed because Russia had cut all phone communication with the outside world. There was no possible mode of contact.<br />
<br />
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<br />
Meanwhile, in the United States, television reception was blacking out for hours at a time, with no explanation available. The Civil Aeronautics Administration and the Air Force banned all plane movements under instrument flight conditions, because radar navigational equipment had become so unreliable as to be useless.<br />
<br />
Newspapers across the nation were reporting sudden fogs of short duration which baffled local weathermen. The U. S. Weather Bureau in Washington refused to comment.<br />
<br />
For the first time in the history of an East-West conference, there was no haggling, no propaganda speeches. Hour after hour, even as the talks went on, the cream of the world's scientific brains quietly continued to disappear, it was revealed later.<br />
<br />
In three days, the major powers accomplished what they had failed to do in the previous 15 years. Just 4 days and 21 hours after Forster had first talked to General Morganson at the Pentagon, a treaty was signed ending the world atomic weapons race.<br />
<br />
And it had all happened, was over and done, before the people of the globe could realize what was happening, before they could rise in mass panic in the face of the incredible unknown.<br />
<br />
Almost immediately after the announcement, radio and radar communications suddenly returned to normal, and reports of the mysterious fogs ceased.<br />
<br />
Back at the Center, as he walked down the floodlit ramp of the heliport towards his car, Forster found himself thinking of the experimental work on the dream state which he had performed as a graduate student. He knew that a dream which might take half an hour to recount took only a fraction of a second to occur in the sub-conscious of the sleeper as he awoke.<br />
<br />
It was the same way with the events of the last five days; already details were becoming fuzzy and blurred as though they had happened five years ago.<br />
<br />
He opened the car door, and the soft glow of the dome light filled the interior.<br />
<br />
Then he saw again the neat rectangular discoloration on the seat covers, and the jolt back to reality was almost a physical thing. Relief, overwhelming, flooded over him.<br />
<br />
He looked up into the indigo-velvet sky. Above him was the enormous triangle formed by Deneb, Vega, and Altair. Framed within it were a thousand other dimmer stars, but all, he knew, far, far bigger than the speck of solidified gases called Earth.<br />
<br />
Somewhere out there, living, thinking, breathing was Bentley.<br />
<br />
"Good night," Forster said out loud<br />
<br />
And somehow, he was sure he wasn't talking into thin air.<br />
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
<strong>THE END</strong></div>
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
.===============================================================</div>
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
<strong>COMMENTS:</strong></div>
<div class="theend">
<strong></strong> </div>
<div class="theend">
This is pure and quiet Atomic Horror. Indeed, it is a purer example of Atomic Horror than many in the genre, because the horror is linked directly to our misuse of atomic energy. That misuse threatens us with nuclear annihilation; but it directly threatens powerful aliens -- the story never makes clear whether they are extradimensional, interplanetary or ultra-terrestrial -- with harm.</div>
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
And so the aliens do what thoughtful men cannot. They deprive us of the fruits of our atomic discoveries, by taking away the scientists and engineers we need to reap these fruits. Deprived of these fruits, the economies of both East and West will suffer. And this is still better than the alternative, <em>even for ourselves</em>, because we would have destroyed ourselves.</div>
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
This story touches me deeply, because it was metaphorically prophetic. We <em>really have</em> been robbed of the fruits of atomic energy, because of the superstitions we roused in ourselves by our misuse of its power. And we are suffering today for that misuse, <em>in real life</em>. And, just as in the story, we can't find our way out of it.</div>
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
It ends on a hopeful note, but we don't actually know that our access to atomic energy will be restores. And nor do we in 2016, not really.</div>
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
It's <em>quiet </em>Atomic Horror, though, because there is no giant monster, no fleet of alien flying saucers, no hideous mutations (at least not on <em>Earth</em> -- the whole gamut of Atomic Horror is run by the unfortunate Martians, however). There are only the super-powerful aliens, able to reach right into our most guarded military bases and vanish men away. Which is pretty damn scary, if you think about it.</div>
<div class="theend">
</div>
<div class="theend">
A minor point of interest is that this story was almost certainly written before 1954, because it is set in 1954 ("three years" after 1951) and it talks about a 1960 program which will cannot now be fulfilled iuntil 1965. But the story was actually published in 1959. It must have languished for over five years before it saw the light of day.</div>
Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-650681376557057352015-09-23T06:19:00.000-07:002018-09-23T17:43:44.768-07:00Wishful Thinking About Matriarchy, Compared to Technology as a Source of FreedomThere is a notion that in the past, there was a Matriarchy or Matriarchies, and that in it women were treated better. They were not limited to the roles of wives, mothers caretakers and so on that they are seen occupying (if they are <em>lucky</em>) in every historic culture.<br />
<br />
However, there is no actual historic <em>evidence</em> of the existence of this Matriarchy in the past. There is, at best, evidence that past cultures worshipped Mother Goddesses and accorded women some rights in their children, which is manifestly <em>not</em> the same thing. It is manifestly not the same thing because almost all <em>historic</em> cultures <em>also</em> have worshipped Mother Goddesses (yes, even Medieval Christendom -- think of the cult of Mary Mother of God) and have accorded women some rights in their children (indeed, promoting or restricting these rights has been fertile ground for legislators since the first written legal codes).<br />
<br />
Here's what lies at the nub of the wishful thinking.<br />
<br />
In most, perhaps all, pre-industrial cultures, the vast majority of people of any particular class and role <em>only got to play their role</em>, which was narrowly-defined compared to the equivalent roles in the modern world. This is because pre-industrial cultures are poor and survival to adulthood, let alone old age, was uncertain compared to industrial and information age cultures. You were doing well if you were merely living another day, another month, another year.<br />
<br />
A woman who was getting to be a wife, mother and caretaker was doing <em>well</em>. She <em>wasn't</em> being a whore, a spinster or a beggar, which were some of the other obvious alternatives (and ones which left her far more miserable and less powerful). Lest we imagine that this was because of he Evil Patriarchy, take a look at the way that <em>most</em> men lived in those cultures. They weren't exactly swimming in gravy either. The truth is that living in pre-industrial cultures <em>sucked</em> -- by modern standards.<br />
<br />
Why was this? Because when survival is uncertain, most of what one does has to promote one's own survival and that of one's offspring. Families have to be strong -- weak families fail to provide one with survival-support during bad times (wars, famines, plagues) and their members tend to <em>die</em>; it is from among the stronger families that the survivors are found. People play whatever roles advance the interests of their families, even if this means a woman marrying someone she doesn't love, or a man risking his life in a war about which he doesn't care and for which he is inadequately-equipped and poorly-trained. In return, their families help them out when they're in trouble.<br />
<br />
The world of today, in which we pursue our own happiness even if our paths don't suit our families, is made possible only by our tremendous wealth, which in turn is made possible only by our advanced technology. We take this for granted because we grow up rich (compared to Humans of most times and places); we are exactly like the spoiled children of the aristocracies of previous cultures save in that we mostly live <em>better</em> than they did (the richest and most powerful king of the 18th century died in agony if he got seriously ill, and all his wealth and power couldn't save him, because the doctors had no idea what to do for him).<br />
<br />
Before we feel so superior, consider this -- a half-millennium from now (assuming that we don't manage to stop technological progress in its tracks, or freeze society back into some rigid class structure) humans will be immortal and free of any diseases save those we invent to war upon one another. We will pretty much all have tremendous amounts of energy at our command and live better than the wealthy do today. The humans of that time will pursue life choices impossible to us today.<br />
<br />
What the wishful thinkers don't want to admit is that the Whigs had the right of it. It <em>is</em> technological progress that improves the world, and technological progress is facilitated by Classical Liberal ideas. The "Progressive" (absurd term, in this context!) fantasy of going back to a "sustainable" lower-energy, lower-tech civilization would just throw us back into the Dark Ages. (Perhaps literally, as many of these fantasies have us giving up "unnecessary" lighting). And then, <em>everyone</em> would suffer.<br />
<br />
And what the feminists don't want to admit is that they are <em>wrong </em>about patriarchy being some sort of giant conspiracy which (somehow, don't think too hard about <em>how</em>) displaced a previous matriarchal or egalitarian culture (all over the world, which logically implies that this imaginary matriarchy was <em>inferior</em> in cultural-evolutionary terms, but this though most especially must not contaminate the virgin minds of the feminists). And they are wrong about industrial technology disempowering women; on the contrary, it was the development of industrial technology (and, in particular, scientific medicine) which <em>empowered</em> women.<br />
<br />
The historical evidence is overwhelming. Politically male-dominated societies are the Human norm for pre-industrial cultures. They outcompete sexually-egalitarian or matriarchal societies at those tech levels. It is industrial and informational technology which change the rules of the game and make possible the sexually-egalitarian Western cultures of today.<br />
<br />
If you love sexual equality, then love industrial Science and Technology. Because if we go back to the "good old days" and eschew such knowledge, we will be going right back to the Patriarchy, in its most powerful and unapologetic forms.Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-55681337441410933522015-04-28T19:28:00.000-07:002018-09-23T17:43:43.889-07:00The Millennials in the History of the Mandate<div style="text-align: left;">
(the following refers to the worldlines of the American Mandate)<u><b> </b></u></div>
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<u><b>The Millennials</b></u> <b>born 1983-2005 Civic-Adaptive</b></div>
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Like the generation that fought the First American Civil War, their crisis came too soon and was resolved ambiguously, whipsawing between the First Terrorist War under George W. Bush, the feckless delusions of the Barack Hussein Obama Administration, and the return to battle in the Second Terrorist War. In their youth, they fought hard but were frequently betrayed, as their Boomer and Slacker leaders repeatedly shifted direction, and initially failed to take the Terrorist threat with sufficient seriousness.</div>
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In their prime (2005-2047) they built greatly and enduringly. This is the generation that returned to Luna and colonized Mars, restored the economy after the Second Great Depression, and led the conquest of the Carribean Basin in the Third Terrorist War. But here too they suffered repeated betrayal: their hero President John Garcia failed to prevent the San Antonio Massacre, in which the Narcoterrorist government of Mexico executed a partially-successful nuclear strike against Texas.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Their next hero, President AnthonyPowers, staged a coup from above and made himself the first President to rule the United States of America as a dictatorship, bringing about the fall of the First American Republic in 2040. He completed the conquest of Mexico, winning the Fourth Terrorist War and completely securing American control of the Carribean. By the time that President Biggs restored the Republic in 2045, they had become more than a little cynical of their political leadership.</div>
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<br /></div>
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They were also quite divided, which became obvious once they started moving into leadership positions (2025-2069). They ran the cuntry under Powers and Biggs and the Crazy Fifties. When they advanced into high leadership positions their generalship was largely ineffective in the Second Pacific War. They were saved from the consequences of their indecision by General Randall O'Hare, himself a late Millennial (born 2001). They then led on both sides in the Second (2067-69) and Third (2076-77) American Civil Wars, which ended with the victory of President George Custis Lee.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As elders, many saw their lives blighted by these wars, and they were only too happy to surrender their freedom to George C. Lee when he assumedthe title of Commander Lee the First in 2080. Only the oldest Millennials (such as Jeanne Delarue) remembered a time when the American government did <i>not</i> rule unconstitutionally, save for the brief golden age under Garcia. They had decided to put their trust in princes rather than principles; by and large Commander Lee I did not betray them. Most Millennials died before the suppression of the Omeganists or the Belt Rebellion.</div>
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Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-5187400859549203332015-04-10T22:26:00.002-07:002018-09-23T17:43:43.289-07:00Retro Review of The Collapsium (2000)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"Retro Review of<i> </i><i> </i></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i>The Collapsium</i></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i>© 2000 by</i></b><i><b> Wil McCarthy</b></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b> Review</b></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><b><b>© 2015 by Jordan S. Bassior </b> </b></i></div>
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<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
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<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
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Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-66453607071330108512015-04-09T16:02:00.000-07:002018-09-23T17:43:45.010-07:00George R. R. Martin -- A Giant, Shackled By Dwarfs<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"George R. R. Martin --</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>A Giant, Shackled By Dwarfs"</b></span></div>
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<b> © 2015</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>by</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Jordan S. Bassior </span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Some people were surprised and others saddened when George R. R. Martin came out against the Sad Puppies 3 campaign to restore control of the Hugos to the fans, and expressed (some) support for the Scalzi cabal which is currently trying to control the nominations and voting. I was not surprised, though I am still saddened, because George R. R. Martin is a great author, the sort who could succeed in the field even if the Haydens of Tor opposed him. <br />
<br />
ASoIaF is an extremely good series, the sort of thing that will be
read for pleasure a century or more later. It’s notable for the
author’s grasp of the premises that <b>(1)</b> not all enmities can be neatly divided into good vs.evil, and also <b>(2)</b> nevertheless, some enemies <i>truly are</i> evil.<br />
<br />
However, George R R Martin has problems being even remotely objective
about anything more recent than the War of the Roses. He came into his
writing career trying to avoid service in Vietnam (literally, he wrote a
story, "The Hero" (1971) in part to convince his draft board that he was anti-American) and thus
cast his own <i>personal</i> honor with the Left of that time and the political vagaries of its future.<br />
<br />
Its future has now led him to a place where they <i>hate</i> his
masterwork in a way which he could not have predicted, because of the
shifts in the politics of the feminists which now make him “evil” for
having rape in his stories (even though <i>not</i> having it would be to
absurdly whitewash medieval warfare and undercut one of the main themes
of his story, “war is hell”) and furthermore makes him automatically
suspect for his race, sex and sexual orientation.<br />
<br />
And, because he <i>started</i> his career with an act of semi-betrayal of his own country, one which only became okay because the Left won in the 1970’s, <i>he can’t detach himself</i>.
I think he lives in fear that the Left will turn on him, which is sad,
because he’s a giant of writing and world-building talents. Dwarfs
such as Jemsin and Bradford should be in fear that <i>he</i> will turn on them, rather than the other way round.<br />
<br />
Such is the way in which the crimes of one’s past may shackle one
decades later, even if one apparently escaped scot-free. And the sad
thing? I think the <i>reason</i> this shackles George R. R. Martin is that he is a <i>good</i>
man — he understands honor, which is why he can be restrained by the
awareness that if he breaks free, he will have to accept that he did
something dishonorable.<br />
<br />
The worst of it? A draft is <i>itself</i> against Natural Law, it
was one of the ways in which America let what it to be imagined military
necessity harm its own core principles. This is a delayed price we are paying for the way our own
government abused the rights of Americans from 1939 through 1975, albeit
in a <i>very </i>indirect fashion.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b>Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-81426699360657987292015-02-05T01:56:00.000-08:002018-09-23T17:43:46.606-07:00A Portion of the Biblos Eissnos relating to the Great G'marr, With Notes<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"A Portion of the</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i>Biblos Eissnos</i></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Relating to the Great G'marr,</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>With Notes"</b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© 2013</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">by</span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jordan S. Bassior </span></span> </b></div>
<b> </b> <br />
<br />
[From the commentary to the <i>Book of Eibon</i> called the <i>Biblos Eissnos</i>, believed to have been first penned in Atlantis and brought over to Hyborea, and referring to events in the even more ancient land of Hyperborea] <b>(1)</b><br />
<br />
After the victory of the adherents of Zoth-Aqua <b>(2)</b> those Old Voormis who had turned to the worship of Adukwu <b>(3)</b> were cast out into the frozen mountains of northwestern Hyperborea <b>(4)</b>, many of them drifting southwest into northern Brasilos <b>(5)</b> or perhaps even further around the world into Farthest Khitai <b>(6)</b>, and thence even into the mountains around Kadath in the Cold Waste <b>(7)</b>. There, the worshippers of Adukwu grew savage, great and hairy, and became increasingly bestial.<br />
<br />
In contrast, the worshippers of Zoth-Aqua continued to dwell in cities in the fertile plains, and they rose higher and higher, and hence are known to history as the High Voormis. In ancient Hyperborea, long before the coming of the first Eldren <b>(8)</b>, they learned the arts of writing and mathematics, of construction and metallurgy, of astronomy and navigation. Far from being mere half-beasts, as Eibon claimed <b>(9)</b>, they had before too long developed a civilization of almost our own capabilities <b>(10)</b>.<br />
<br />
The High Voormis spread to many lands and formed many realms. The greatest of these realms was G'marr, which lay in the southern and easterly parts of Hyperborea itself. G'marr had once been a kingdom, but over time the aristocratic and mercantile interests dominated, and eventually the Kings and Queens of G'marr came to heed well to their own High Council. The laws were fair, and justly enforced, and the wealth and power of G'marr grew greater than those of all other kingdoms, until in the fulness of time G'marr ruled directly or directly all the High Voormis, and became known as "Great" G'marr <b>(11).</b><br />
<br />
During all this time the G'marr had faithfully worshipped Zoth-Aqua. But as the G'marr grew Great, they chafed at the restrictions placed upon them by the Priesthood of that somnolent deity, for the Church demanded its tithes and furthermore fettered free philosophical inquiry. A sentiment grew of atheism. In the end there came a civil war. Though the Faithful prayed mightily to their god, Zoth-Aqua did not awake to
aid them, which is one reason he is reputed to be sleepy <b>(12)</b>.<br />
<br />
In consequence, the Faithful were shorn of their tithes and their powers, and fled into the wilderness. There they were unable to maintain the high civlization of G'marr, which they rejected in any case as impious. The faithful however retained metalworking and farming, and hence were greatly superior to the surviving Low Voormis, whose lands the Faithful G'marr now coveted. The Low Voormis had lost the use even of copper, and degenerated to the use only of stone, wood and bone weapons. Hence it was that though no-god had been favored over Zoth-Aqua by Destiny, Zoth-Aqua was favored over Adukwu by that same cosmic force, and the Low Voormis now lost any lands good enough for even subsistence farming, and were reduced to hunting and gathering in the wastelands <b>(13)</b>.<br />
<br />
Free of the Faithful, the Great G'marr progressed still more rapidly. They developed great machines <b>(14)</b>, some powered by water, some by steam, and some by the Earth-currents <b>(15)</b>. They learned to reduce friction, locally reverse entropy and even twist time itself <b>(16)</b>.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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the G'marr machines used their energies with great efficiency, could sometimes
even employ […?…] to achieve perpetual motion <b>(17)</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With these arts the G’marr built great ships
which bent the winds to serve them <b>(18)</b>, and other ships which sailed the
air using gasses of an efficiency greater than that of the lightest occurring in nature <b>(19)</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cities of the Great G’marr were lighted
through perfect-conversion photo-alchemicals; water and power derived from
hydro-mechanical systems of supernal design and reliability; and travel between
them made easy by means of nearly-frictionless tunnels through which the G’marr
rode with rapidity in cars equipped with regenerative gravitic braking systems <b>(20)</b>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">But the proudest achievements of the Great G'marr lay in biomancy. They learned the twisting ladders of life's most fundamental matter, and then the time-linked and spirit-linked webwork that bound them to the generations before and after, and explored the workings of Destiny bound into that life <b>(21)</b>. And, not content with learning these secrets, they used them to change the nature of life forms, rendering them more useful to G'marr purposes. They made crops that could not be blighted, and yielded in abundance even in time of frost or drought, or were fruitful with substances of great alchemical virtue <b>(22)</b>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">And in time they went beyond even this. Duplicating and even surpassing the science of the Serpent Men who had created the Voormis themselves, they took lesser life forms and uplifted them to sapience, making for themselves servitors for divers purposes. This was the origin of many strange creatures known to the Hyperborean bestiaries, such as the ogres and gnoph-keh <b>(23)</b>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Finally, daring still more, the Great G'marr changed <i>themselves</i>. There had always been amongst the Voormis a tendency to become smaller and more compact as they became more civilized, or larger and more bestial as they became less civilized, due both to the effects of selection and destiny. Even before modification the Great G'marr had been smaller than men, though as powerfully-built as apes. After modification the Great G'marr became physically even shorter, averaging about three feet, yet retaining most of their physical strength and acquiring an extreme tenacity upon life, so that they were very hard to slay by violence, and naturally lived for several centuries even without advanced medicaments. Many small animucles swarmed in their blood, protecting and aiding them, thus enabling them to resist most illness and rapidly recover from wounds; and their wyrds were bound to the future so that they were exceedingly fortunate in all things, so they seldom died by accident <b>(24)</b>. </span><br />
<br />
===<br />
<b>NOTES<br /> </b><br />
<b>(1) - </b>Hyperborea is identified with Late Pliocene to Late Pleistocene Greenland, Hyborea with Late Pleistocene Europe. The Atlantis referred to here is not the Early Holocene Kallistos (aka Thera), but rather a small subcontinent, probably located somewhere on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, created by the vulcanism and submerged by violent rifting in that great fault between oceanic plates.<b> </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>(2) - </b>Better known as "Tsathoggua," in the writings of Klarkash-Ton of Atlantis and Luvah-Keraph of ancient Khem.<br />
<br />
<b>(3) - </b>Now generally called "Ithaqua," the Wind-Walker, as detailed in <i>Cultes des Goules</i> (Comte d'Erlette).<br />
<br />
<b>(4) - </b>Around 1.7 MYA, which is to say the early part of the Calabrian, today considered the early part of the Late Pleistocene.<br />
<br />
<b>(5) - </b> Renamed "America" in the 16th century CE.<br />
<br />
<b>(6) - </b>Modern northeastern Siberia. The Bering land bridge was periodically available, and of course at the beginning the Low Voormis would have been able to build boats.<br />
<br />
<b>(7) - </b>Eissnos here refers to the Himalayas and other mountains around Tibet, in Asia, rather than to the Miskatonic Mountains of Antarctica. The Atlanteans who first discovered Antarctica seem to have imagined that it was a continuation of Asia through Lemuria, leading to a mistake analogous to that Columbus made when he confused the Carribean with the Southwestern Pacific, which has led to great confusion regarding the Earthly location of "Leng." It does not help to clarify matters that there is yet a <i>third</i> Leng, in Earth's Dreamlands.<br />
<br />
<b>(8) - </b>Eissnos consistently uses a word which I have here translated as "Eldren" or a phrase which literally translates as "the Elder Race of Man" for the species of human which is generally termed "Hyperboreans" in most sources. As future articles may detail, I consider them to be identical to the race which has passed into Western European folklore and even more Western fantasy literature as the "Elves," though the unfortunate connotations of that word has led me to choose "Eldren" instead. They were very much like <i>Homo sapiens</i>, at least in the beginning: they may even have been of our own genus. Eibon himself was one of them.<br />
<br />
<b>(9) - </b>For all his broad-mindedness, we must remember that even great Eibon was of the same kind who had displaced the Voormis, and he had learned in his cradle the same myth of Voormis inferiority which the Eldren used to justify their rape of the Voormis lands: that they were but bestial savages and the land thus deserved to be in human hands.<br />
<br />
<b>(10) - </b>In other words, by around 1.5 MYA, the Voormis had developed what we would term a Renaissance level of technology, roughly equivalent to that of Europe, Islam or China around the 15th Century A.D. This would have been from a base of the Chalcolithic around 1.7 MYA, roughly equivalent to that of Egypt or Sumer around the 30th century BCE. This means that they took around 200,000 years to make advances which took us around 4,500 years. This was however a lightning rate of progress by the standards of any pre-human race, and said much for High Voormis intelligence and imagination.<br />
<br />
<b>(11) - </b>This seems to have happened by 1.4 MYA, and involved further technological progress to around the level of the Europe of the late 18th century. The G'marr thus advanced our equivalent of around 3 centuries in around 1000 centuries, which means that their rate of progress was actually slowing. The reason will become apparent.<br />
<br />
<b>(12) - </b>Eissnos, despite his fascination with the work of Eibon, was <i>not</i> a worshipper of Tsathoggua, whom he considered a dark inhuman abomination. The Atlanteans were instead worshippers of the gods of Earth, who in their day had greater influence there. These gods of Earth were themselves descended from the main stream of Eldren civilization, and we must remember that Eibon was a heretic in the eyes of his fellow Eldren.<br />
<br />
<b>(13) - </b>This is so profoundly cynical a statement, as are others Eissnos makes in other part of his book, that one wonders if Eissnos' professed devotion to the Gods of Atlantis was merely made for the sake of apparent decency. In other words, Eissnos may have also been an atheist in <i>our</i> meaning of the word.<br />
<br />
<b>(14) - </b>An industrial civilzation, and they seem to have made the jump which took us 50 years in 500, which is a remarkable increase in pace over either the High Voormis or the Little G'marrean eras. Evidently the restraints imposed by the Faithful had indeed constriced G'marrean culture.<br />
<br />
<b>(15) - </b>Water and steam are easy to understand, but what are the "Earth-currents?" Geomagnetism, ley lines, or something less comprehensible? Is this the same force said to be tapped in the possible future Great Redoubt, the last city of Man on Earth? From this point on, the technology of the Great G'marr progresses along paths our own science has not yet taken, while never taking some we found long ago, and comprehension of their achievements becomes more difficult.<br />
<br />
<b>(16) - </b>The first sounds like nanotechnologically tailored surfaces, the second and third are achievements far enough beyond our own that I cannot say with certainity just what forces the G'marr had discovered.<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">(17)
– </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The Atlantean phrase, a translation of a Hyperborean
translation of a G’marrean scientific concept, is incomprehensible in our
terms, something about “applying inter-Azathoth constant through temporal
consumption.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have absolutely <i>no</i>
idea what this means, even in terms of the Mythos.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">(18)
– </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The Atlanteans were perfectly familiar with multi-masted
square and lateen rigs, keels, centerboards, and both wearing and tacking.
Eissnos is thus here talking about something very different, possibly the
psychic control of the Aristotlean element of air, perhaps something even
stranger.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">(19)
– </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">Did the Great G’marr have the Fleach Formula, or something
of that sort?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very chemistry which
makes Fleach Gas even possible has only been explained within the last decade,
and the harmonic interaction it employs between the electromagnetic and strong
nuclear forces is still but obscurely understood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There may be a whole <i>family</i> of Fleach Gas like compounds
still awaiting discovery, which were known to the Great G’marr.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">(20)
– </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">The legendary “quick-tunnels,” referred to in the
better-known works of Eisnoss, are here explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The translation "regenerative gravitic braking systems" is highly-conjectural, and involves an <i>Atlantean</i> speculation as to just how the system worked. Based on other evidence, the quick-tunnels seem to have operated at speeds from around 30 to 240 mph: slower than our own intercity aircraft, but much more inexpensive to the users.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><b>(21) - </b>The first accomplishment was of course to understand the structure of DNA; the second and third things which our own study of genetics have not yet discovered. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><b>(22) - </b>In other words, Genetic Modification. This explains the statement in some primal Hyperborean legends that there was a sort of fruit of peculiar alchemical virtues called a G'marr-berry, from which through complex formulas could be distilled various juices with beneficial magical properties. According to the legend, the bushes which bore these berries were rare, and tended to grow on sites which had been sacred to the Voormis.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><b>(23) - </b>The horned bestial gnoph-keh, rather than the later tribe of human cannibals, usually termed "gnophkeh" (without the hyphen) who adopted that animal as a totem. Though it's certainly possible that the Great G'marr might have been responsible for <i>both</i>, especially in light of the reference to ogres.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><b>(24) - </b>To state in simpler terms, the Great G'marr modified themselves to be shorter while retaining most of their strength, with thick bones and other tissues enabling them to resist physical injury, and some sort of nano-technological symbiotes which acted as phagocytes and damage control machines. The mysterious part is again the reference to "wyrd," which is another term for "destiny." Eissnos here takes for granted that the Great G'marr could scientifically alter an individual or even lineage so that the effects of probability upon it were altered, which is a concept utterly-alien to our own understanding of quantum mechanics -- especially at the macroscopic level! This is something which the Atlanteans believed, but which was considerably beyond their own power -- but apparently not beyond that of the Great G'marr.</span><br />
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<br />Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-11776491467309611502014-12-09T02:06:00.002-08:002018-09-23T17:43:39.663-07:00"Train for Flushing" (1940) by Malcolm Jameson, with Notes and Review<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: x-large;">"Train for Flushing"</span></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><br /></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>© 1940</strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><br /></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">by</span></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><br /></strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Malcolm Jameson</span></strong></div>
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
They ought never to have <nobr>hired</nobr> that man. Even the most stupid of personnel managers should have seen at a glance that he was mad. Perhaps it is too much to expect such efficiency these days—in <i>my</i> time a thing like this could not have happened. They would have known the fellow was under a curse! It only <nobr>shows</nobr> what the world has come to. But I can tell you that if we ever get off this crazy runaway car, I intend to turn the Interboro wrong-side out <strong>(1)</strong>. They needn't think because I am an old man and retired that I am a nobody they can push around. My son Henry, the lawyer one, will build a fire under them—he knows people in this town.<br />
<br /><br />
"And I am not the only victim of the maniac. There is a pleasant, <nobr>elderly woman</nobr> here in the car with me. She was much frightened at first, but she had recognized me for a solid man, and now she stays close to me all the time. She is a Mrs. Herrick, and a quite <nobr>nice woman</nobr>. It was her idea that I write this down—it will help us refresh our memories when we come to testify.<br />
<br /><br />
"Just at the moment, we are speeding atrociously <i>downtown</i> along the Seventh Avenue line of the subway <strong>(2) </strong>—but we are on the <i>uptown</i> express track! The first few times we tore through those other trains it was terrible—I thought we were sure to be killed—and even if we were not, I have to think of my heart. Dr. Steinback told me only last week how careful I should be. Mrs. Herrick has been very brave about it, but it is a scandalous thing to subject anyone to, above all such a kindly little person.<br />
<br /><br />
"The madman who seems to be directing us (if charging wildly up and down these tracks implies <i>direction</i>), is now looking out the front door, staring horribly at the <nobr>gloom</nobr> rushing at us. He is a big man and heavy-set, very weathered and tough-looking. I am nearing eighty and slight <strong>(3)</strong>.<br />
<br /><br />
"There is nothing I can do but wait for the final crash; for crash we must, sooner or later, unless some Interboro official has brains enough to shut off the current to stop us. If <i>he</i> escapes the crash, the police will know him by his heavy <nobr>red beard</nobr> and tattooing on the backs of his hands. The beard is square-cut and there cannot be another one like it in all New York.<br />
<br /><br />
"But I notice I have failed to put down how this insane ride began. My granddaughter, Mrs. Charles L. Terneck, wanted me to see the World's Fair <strong>(4)</strong>, and was to come in from Great Neck and meet me at the subway station. I will say that she insisted someone come with me, but I can take care of myself—I always have—even if my eyes and ears are not what they used to be.<br />
<br /><br />
The train was crowded, but somebody gave me a seat in a corner. Just before we reached the stop, the woman next to me, this Mrs. Herrick, had asked if I knew how to get to Whitestone from Flushing. It was while I was telling her what I knew about the busses, that the train stopped and let everybody off the car but us. I was somewhat irritated at missing the station, but knew that all I had to do was stay on the car, go to Flushing and return. It was then that the maniac guard came in and behaved so queerly.<br />
<br /><br />
"This car was the last one in the train, and the guard had been standing where he belongs, on the platform. But he came into the car, walking with a curious rolling walk (but I do not mean to imply he was drunk, for I do not think so) and his manner was what you might call masterful, almost overbearing. He stopped at the middle door and looked very intensely out to the north, at the sound.<br />
<br /><br />
"'<i>That</i> is not the Scheldt!' he called out, angrily, with a thick, foreign accent, and then he said 'Bah!' loudly, in a tone of disgusted disillusionment.<br />
<br /><br />
"He seemed of a sudden to fly into a great fury. The train was just making its stop at the end of the line, in Flushing. He rushed to the forward platform and somehow broke the coupling. At the same moment, the car began running backward along the track by which we had come. There was no chance for us to get off, even if we had been young and active. The doors were not opened, it happened so quickly.<br />
<br /><br />
"Then he came into the car, muttering to himself. His eye caught the sign of painted tin they put in the windows to show the destination of the trains. He snatched the plate lettered 'Flushing' and tore it to bits with his rough hands, as if it had been cardboard, throwing the pieces down and stamping on them.<br />
<br /><br />
"'That is not Flushing. Not <i>my</i> Flushing—not <i>Vlissingen!</i> But I will find it. I will go there, and not all the devils in Hell nor all the angels in Heaven shall stop me!' <strong>(5)</strong><br />
<br /><br />
"He glowered at us, beating his breast with his clenched fists, as if angry and resentful at us for having deceived him in some manner. It was then that Mrs. Herrick stooped over and took my hand. We had gotten up close to the door to step out at the World's Fair station, but the car did not stop. It continued its wild career straight on, at dizzy speed.<br />
<br /><br />
"'<i>Rugwaartsch</i>!' he shouted, or something equally unintelligible. '<i>Back</i> I must go, like always, but yet will find my Vlissingen!'<br />
<br /><br />
"Then followed the horror of pitching headlong into those trains! The first one we saw coming, Mrs. Herrick screamed. I put my arm around her and braced myself as best I could with my cane. But there was no crash, just a blinding succession of lights and colors, in quick winks. We seemed to go straight through that train, from end to end, at lightning speed, but there was not even a jar. I do not understand that, for I saw it coming, clearly. Since, there have been many others. I have lost count now, we meet so many, and swing from one track to another so giddily at the end of runs.<br />
<br /><br />
"But we have learned, Mrs. Herrick and I, not to dread the collisions—or say, passage—so much. We are more afraid of what the bearded ruffian who dominates this car will do next—surely we cannot go on this way much longer, it has already been many, many hours. I cannot comprehend why the stupid people who run the Interboro do not do something to stop us, so that the police could subdue this maniac and Ican have Henry take me to the District Attorney."<br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
So read the first few pages of the notebook turned over to me by the Missing Persons Bureau. Neither Mrs. Herrick, nor Mr. Dennison, whose handwriting it is, has been found yet, nor the guard he mentions. In contradiction, the Interboro insists no guard employed by them is unaccounted for, and further, that they never had had a man of the above description on their payrolls.<br />
<br /><br />
On the other hand, they have as yet produced no satisfactory explanation of how the car broke loose from the train at Flushing.<br />
<br /><br />
I agree with the police that this notebook contains matter that may have some bearing on the disappearances of these two unfortunate citizens; yet here in the Psychiatric Clinic we are by no means agreed as to the interpretation of this provocative and baffling diary.<br />
<br /><br />
The portion I have just quoted was written with a fountain pen in a crabbed, tremulous hand, quite exactly corresponding to the latest examples of old Mr. Dennison's writing. Then we find a score or more of pages torn out, and a resumption of the record in indelible pencil. The handwriting here is considerably stronger and more assured, yet unmistakably that of the same person. Farther on, there are other places where pages have been torn from the book, and evidence that the journal was but intermittently kept. I quote now all that is legible of the remainder of it.<br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Judging by the alternations of the cold and hot seasons, we have now been on this weird and pointless journey for more than ten years. Oddly enough, we do not suffer physically, although the interminable rushing up and down these caverns under the streets becomes boring. The ordinary wants of the body are strangely absent, or dulled. We sense heat and cold, for example, but do not find their extremes particularly uncomfortable, while food has become an item of far distant memory. I imagine, though, we must sleep a good deal.<br />
<br /><br />
"The guard has very little to do with us, ignoring us most of the time as if we did not exist. He spends his days sitting brooding at the far end of the car, staring at the floor, mumbling in his wild, red beard. On other days he will get up and peer fixedly ahead, as if seeking something. Again, he will pace the aisle in obvious anguish, flinging his outlandish curses over his shoulder as he goes. <em>Verdoemd</em> and <em>verwenscht</em> are the commonest ones—we have learned to recognize them—and he tears his hair in frenzy whenever he pronounces them. His name, he says, is Van Der Dechen, and we find it politic to call him 'Captain.' <strong>(5)</strong><br />
<br /><br />
"I have destroyed what I wrote during the early years (all but the account of the very first day); it seems rather querulous and hysterical now. I was not in good health then, I think, but I have improved noticeably here, and that without medical care. Much of my stiffness, due to a recent arthritis, has left me, and I seem to hear better.<br />
<br /><br />
"Mrs. Herrick and I have long since become accustomed to our forced companionship, and we have learned much about each other. At first, we both worried a good deal over our families' concern about our absence. But when this odd and purposeless kidnapping occurred, we were already so nearly to the end of life (being of about the same age) that we finally concluded our children and grand-children must have been prepared for our going soon, in any event. It left us only with the problem of enduring the tedium of the interminable rolling through the tubes of the Interboro.<br />
<br /><br />
"In the pages I have deleted, I made much of the annoyance we experienced during the early weeks due to flickering through oncoming trains. That soon came to be so commonplace, occurring as it did every few minutes, that it became as unnoticeable as our breathing. As we lost the fear of imminent disaster, our riding became more and more burdensome through the deadly monotony of the tunnels.<br />
<br /><br />
"Mrs. Herrick and I diverted ourselves by talking (and to think in my earlier entries in this journal I complained of her garrulousness!) or by trying to guess at what was going on in the city above us by watching the crowds on the station platforms. That is a difficult game, because we are running so swiftly, and there are frequent intervening trains. A thing that has caused us much speculation and discussion is the changing type of advertising on the bill-posters. Nowadays they are featuring the old favorites—many of the newer toothpastes and medicines seem to have been withdrawn. Did they fail, or has a wave of conservative reaction overwhelmed the country?<br />
<br /><br />
"Another marvel in the weird life we lead is the juvenescence of our home, the runaway car we are confined to. In spite of its unremitting use, always at top speed, it has become steadily brighter, more new-looking. Today it has the appearance of having been recently delivered from the builders' shops.<br />
<br /><br />
I learned half a century ago that having nothing to do, and all the time in the world to do it in, is the surest way to get nothing done. In looking in this book, I find it has been ten years since I made an entry! It is a fair indication of the idle, routine life in this wandering car. The very invariableness of our existence has discouraged keeping notes. But recent developments are beginning to force me to face a situation that has been growing ever more obvious. The cumulative evidence is by now almost overwhelming that this state of ours has a meaning—has an explanation. Yet I dread to think the thing through—to call its name! Because there will be two ways to interpret it. Either it is as I am driven to conclude, or else I… <strong>(7)</strong><br />
<br /><br />
"I must talk it over frankly with Nellie Herrick. She is remarkably poised and level-headed, and understanding. She and I have matured a delightful friendship <strong>(8)</strong>.<br />
<br /><br />
"What disturbs me more than anything is the trend in advertising. They are selling products again that were popular so long ago that I had actually forgotten them. And the appeals are made in the idiom of years ago. Lately it has been hard to see the posters, the station platforms are so full. In the crowds are many uniforms, soldiers and sailors. We infer from that there is another war—but the awful question is, 'What war?'<br />
<br /><br />
"Those are some of the things we can observe in the world over there. In our own little fleeting world, things have developed even more inexplicably. My health and appearance, notably. My hair is no longer white! It is turning dark again in the back, and on top. And the same is true of Nellie's. There are other similar changes for the better. I see much more clearly and my hearing is practically perfect.<br />
<br /><br />
"The culmination of these disturbing signals of retrogression has come with the newest posters. It is their appearance that forces me to face the facts. Behind the crowds we glimpse new appeals, many and insistent-'BUY VICTORY LOAN BONDS!' From the number of them to be seen, one would think we were back in the happy days of 1919, when the soldiers were coming home from the World War <strong>(9)</strong>.<br />
<br /><br />
My talk with Nellie has been most comforting and reassuring. It is hardly likely that we should both be insane and have identical symptoms. The inescapable conclusion that I dreaded to put into words is <i>so</i>—it must be so. In some unaccountable manner, we are <i>unliving</i> life! Time is going backward! '<i>Rugwaartsch</i>,' the mad Dutchman said that first day when he turned back from Flushing; 'we will go backward'—to <i>his</i> Flushing, the one he knew. Who knows what Flushing he knew? It must be the Flushing of another age, or else why should the deranged wizard (if it is he who has thus reversed time) choose a path through time itself? Helpless, we can only wait and see how far he will take us.<br />
<br /><br />
"We are not wholly satisfied with our new theory. Everything does not go backward; otherwise how could it be possible for me to write these lines? I think we are like flies crawling up the walls of an elevator cab while it is in full descent. Their own proper movements, relative to their environment, are upward, but all the while they are being carried relentlessly downward. It is a sobering thought. Yet we are both relieved that we should have been able to speak it. Nellie admits that she has been troubled for some time, hesitating to voice the thought. She called my attention to the subtle way in which our clothing has been changing, an almost imperceptible de-evolution in style.<br />
<br /><br />
We are now on the lookout for ways in which to date ourselves in this headlong plunging into the past. Shortly after writing the above, we were favored with one opportunity not to be mistaken. It was the night of the Armistice. What a night in the subway! Then followed, in inverse order, the various issues of the Liberty Bonds. Over forty years ago-counting time both ways, forward, then again backward—<i>I</i> was up there, a dollar-a-year man, selling them on the streets. Now we suffer a new anguish, imprisoned down here in this racing subway car. The evidence all around us brings a nostalgia that is almost intolerable. None of us knows how perfect his memory is until it is thus prompted. But we cannot go up there, we can only guess at what is going on above us.<br />
<br /><br />
"The realization of what is really happening to us has caused us to be less antagonistic to our conductor. His sullen brooding makes us wonder whether he is not a fellow victim, rather than our abductor, he seems so unaware of us usually. At other times, we regard him as the principal in this drama of the gods and are bewildered at the curious twist of Fate that has entangled us with the destiny of the unhappy Van Der Dechen, for unhappy he certainly is. Our anger at his arrogant behavior has long since died away. We can see that some secret sorrow gnaws continually at his heart.<br />
<br /><br />
"'There is <i>een vloek</i> over me,' he said gravely, one day, halting unexpectedly before us in the midst of one of his agitated pacings of the aisle. He seemed to be trying to explain—apologize for, if you will—our situation. 'Accursed I am, damned!' He drew a great breath, looking at us appealingly. Then his black mood came back on him with a rush, and he strode away growling mighty Dutch oaths. 'But I will best them—God Himself shall not prevent me—not if it takes all eternity!'<br />
<br /><br />
Our orbit is growing more restricted. It is a long time now since we went to Brooklyn, and only the other day we swerved suddenly at Times Square and cut through to Grand Central. Considering this circumstance, the type of car we are in now, and our costumes, we must be in 1905 or thereabouts <strong>(10)</strong>. That is a year I remember with great vividness. It was the year I first came to New York. I keep speculating on what will become of us. In another year we will have plummeted the full history of the subway. What then? Will that be the end?<br />
<br /><br />
"Nellie is the soul of patience. It is a piece of great fortune, a blessing, that since we were doomed to this wild ride, we happened in it together. Our friendship has ripened into a warm affection that lightens the gloom of this tedious wandering.<br />
<br /><br />
It must have been last night that we emerged from the caves of Manhattan. Thirty-four years of darkness is ended. We are now out in the country, going west. Our vehicle is not the same, it is an old-fashioned day coach, and ahead is a small locomotive <strong>(11)</strong>. We cannot see engineer or fireman, but Van Der Dechen frequently ventures across the swaying, open platform and mounts the tender, where he stands firmly with wide-spread legs, scanning the country ahead through an old brass long-glass. His uniform is more nautical than railroadish—it took the sunlight to show that to us. There was always the hint of salt air about him. We should have known who he was from his insistence on being addressed as Captain.<br />
<br /><br />
"The outside world is moving backward! When we look closely at the wagons and buggies in the muddy trails alongside the right of way fence, we can see that the horses or mules are walking or running backward. But we pass them so quickly, as a rule, that their real motion is inconspicuous. We are too grateful for the sunshine and the trees after so many years of gloom, to quibble about this topsy-turvy condition.<br />
<br /><br />
Five years in the open has taught us much about Nature in reverse. There is not so much difference as one would suppose. It took us a long time to notice that the sun rose in the west and sank in the east. Summer follows winter, as it always has. It was our first spring, or rather, the season that we have come to regard as spring, that we were really disconcerted. The trees were bare, the skies cloudy, and the weather cool. We could not know, at first sight, whether we had emerged into spring or fall.<br />
<br /><br />
"The ground was wet, and gradually white patches of snow were forming. Soon, the snow covered everything. The sky darkened and the snow began to flurry, drifting and swirling upward, out of sight. Later we saw the ground covered with dead leaves, so we thought it must be fall. Then a few of the trees were seen to have leaves, then all. Soon the forests were in the full glory of red and brown autumn leaves, but in a few weeks those colors turned gradually through oranges and yellows to dark greens, and we were in full summer. Our 'fall,' which succeeded the summer, was almost normal, except toward the end, when the leaves brightened into paler greens, dwindled little by little to mere buds and then disappeared within the trees.<br />
<br /><br />
"The passage of a troop train, its windows crowded with campaign-hatted heads and waving arms tells us another war has begun (or more properly, ended). The soldiers are returning from Cuba <strong>(12)</strong>. <i>Our</i> wars, in this backward way by which we approach and end in anxiety! More nostalgia—I finished that war as a major. I keep looking eagerly at the throngs on the platforms of the railroad stations as we sweep by them, hoping to sight a familiar face among the yellow-legged cavalry. More than eighty years ago it was, as I reckon it, forty years of it spent on the road to senility and another forty back to the prime of life.<br />
<br /><br />
"Somewhere among those blue-uniformed veterans am I, in my original phase, I cannot know just where, because my memory is vague as to the dates. I have caught myself entertaining the idea of stopping this giddy flight into the past, of getting out and finding my way to my former home. Only, if I could, I would be creating tremendous problems—there would have to be some sort of mutual accommodation between my <i>alter ego</i> and me. It looks impossible, and there are no precedents to guide us.<br />
<br /><br />
"Then, all my affairs have become complicated by the existence of Nell. She and I have had many talks about this strange state of affairs, but they are rarely conclusive. I think I must have over-estimated her judgment a little in the beginning. But it really doesn't matter. She has developed into a stunning woman and her quick, ready sympathy makes up for her lack in that direction. I glory particularly in her hair, which she lets down some days. It is thick and long and beautifully wavy, as hair should be. We often sit on the back platform and she allows it to blow free in the breeze, all the time laughing at me because I adore it so.<br />
<br /><br />
"Captain Van Der Dechen notices us not at all, unless in scorn. His mind, his whole being, is centered on getting back to Flushing—<i>his</i> Flushing, that he calls Vlissingen—wherever that may be in time or space. Well, it appears that he is taking us back, too, but it is backward in time for us. As for him, time seems meaningless. He is unchangeable. Not a single hair of that piratical beard has altered since that far-future day of long ago when he broke our car away from the Interboro train in Queens. Perhaps he suffers from the same sort of unpleasant immortality the mythical Wandering Jew is said to be afflicted with—otherwise why should he complain so bitterly of the curse he says is upon him?<br />
<br /><br />
"Nowadays he talks to himself much of the time, mainly about his ship. It is that which he hopes to find since the Flushing beyond New York proved not to be the one he strove for. He says he left it cruising along a rocky coast. He has either forgotten where he left it or it is no longer there, for we have gone to all the coastal points touched by the railroads. Each failure brings fresh storms of rage and blasphemy; not even perpetual frustration seems to abate the man's determination or capacity for fury.<br />
<br /><br />
That Dutchman has switched trains on us again! This one hasn't even Pintsch gas, nothing but coal oil. It is smoky and it stinks. The engine is a woodburner with a balloon stack. The sparks are very bad and we cough a lot.<br />
<br /><br />
"I went last night when the Dutchman wasn't looking and took a look into the cab of the engine. There is no crew and I found the throttle closed. A few years back that would have struck me as odd, but now I have to accept it. I did mean to stop the train so I could take Nell off, but there is no way to stop it. It just goes along, I don't know how.<br />
<br /><br />
"On the way back I met the Dutchman, shouting and swearing the way he does, on the forward platform. I tried to throw him off the train. I am as big and strong as he is and I don't see why I should put up with his overbearing ways. But when I went to grab him, my hands closed right through. The man is not real! It is strange I never noticed that before. Maybe that is why there is no way to stop the train, and why nobody ever seems to notice us. Maybe the train is not real, either. I must look tomorrow and see whether it casts a shadow. Perhaps even <i>we</i> are not…<br />
<br /><br />
"But Nell is real. I <i>know</i> that.<br />
<br /><br />
The other night we passed a depot platform where there was a political rally—a torchlight parade. They were carrying banners. 'Garfield for President.' If we are ever to get off this train, we must do it soon <strong>(13)</strong>.<br />
<br /><br />
"Nell says no, it would be embarrassing. I try to talk seriously to her about us, but she just laughs and kisses me and says let well enough alone. I wouldn't mind starting life over again, even if these towns do look pretty rough. But Nell says that she was brought up on a Kansas farm by a step-mother and she would rather go on to the end and vanish, if need be, than go back to it.<br />
<br /><br />
"That thing about the end troubles me a lot, and I wish she wouldn't keep mentioning it. It was only lately that I thought about it much, and it worries me more than death ever did in the old days. <i>We know when it will be</i>! 1860 for me—on the third day of August. The last ten years will be terrible—getting smaller, weaker, more helpless all the time, and winding up as a messy, squally baby. Why, that means I have only about ten more years that are fit to live; when I was this young before, I had a lifetime ahead. It's not right! And now <i>she</i> has made a silly little vow—'Until birth do us part!'—and made me say it with her!<br />
<br /><br />
It is too crowded in here, and it jolts awfully. Nell and I are cooped up in the front seats and the Captain stays in the back part—the quarterdeck, he calls it. Sometimes he opens the door and climbs up into the driver's seat. There is no driver, but we have a four-horse team and they gallop all the time, day and night. The Captain says we must use a stagecoach, because he has tried all the railroad tracks and none of them is right. He wants to get back to the sea he came from and to his ship. He is not afraid that it has been stolen, for he says most men are afraid of it—it is a haunted ship, it appears, and brings bad luck.<br />
<br /><br />
"We passed two men on horses this morning. One was going our way and met the other coming. The other fellow stopped him and I heard him holler, 'They killed Custer and all his men!' and the man that was going the same way we were said, 'The bloodthirsty heathens! I'm a-going to jine!'<br />
Nellie cries a lot. She's afraid of Indians. I'm not afraid of Indians. I would like to see one <strong>(14)</strong>.<br />
<br /><br />
"I wish it was a boy with me, instead of this little girl. Then we could do something. All she wants to do is play with that fool dolly. We could make some bows and arrows and shoot at the buffaloes, but she says that is wicked.<br />
<br /><br />
"I tried to get the Captain to talk to me, but he won't. He just laughed and laughed, and said,<br />
"'<i>Een tijd kiezan voor—op schip</i>!'<br />
<br /><br />
"That made me mad, talking crazy talk like that, and I told him so.<br />
<br /><br />
"'Time!' he bellows, laughing like everything.' 'Twill all be right in time!' And he looks hard at me, showing his big teeth in his beard. 'Four—five—six hundred years—more—it is nothing. I have all eternity! But one more on my ship, I will get there. I have sworn it! You come with me and I will show you the sea—the great Indian Sea behind the Cape of Good Hope. Then some day, if those accursed head winds abate, I will take you home with me to Flushing. That I will, though the Devil himself, or all the—' And then he went off to cursing and swearing the way he always does in his crazy Dutchman's talk.<br />
<br /><br />
Nellie is mean to me. She is too bossy. She says she will not play unless I write in the book. She says I am supposed to write something in the book every day. There is not anything to put in the book. <br />
<br /><br />
Same old stagecoach. Same old Captain. Same old everything. I do not like the Captain. He is crazy. In the night-time he points at the stars shining through the roof of the coach and laughs and laughs. Then he gets mad, and swears and curses something awful. When I get big again, I am going to kill him—I wish we could get away—I am afraid—it would be nice if we could find mamma—"<br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
This terminates the legible part of the notebook. All of the writing purporting to have been done in the stagecoach is shaky, and the letters are much larger than earlier in the script. The rest of the contents is infantile scribblings, or grotesque childish drawings. Some of them show feathered Indians drawing bows and shooting arrows. The very last one seems to represent a straight up and down cliff with wiggly lines at the bottom to suggest waves, and off a little way is a crude drawing of a galleon or other antique ship.<br />
<br /><br />
This notebook, together with Mr. Dennison's hat and cane and Mrs. Herrick's handbag, were found in the derailed car that broke away from the Flushing train and plunged off the track into the Meadows. The police are still maintaining a perfunctory hunt for the two missing persons, but I think the fact they brought this journal to us clearly indicates they consider the search hopeless. Personally, I really do not see of what help these notes can be. I fear that by now Mr. Dennison and Mrs. Herrick are quite inaccessible.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>END.</strong><br />
<br /><br />
<strong>======</strong><br />
<strong>NOTES</strong><br />
<strong>======</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong><br />
<strong>(1) - </strong>The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Interborough_Rapid_Transit_Company">Interborough Rapid Transit</a> company, which was established 1904 and bought by New York City in 1940. This story would have been written in 1939, hence the narrator is talking about suing a private company.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(2) - </strong>The 1-2-3 lines, by the MTA's modern designations.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(3) - </strong>"Nearing eighty" in 1939 means he was born ~1860. This becomes important to the story.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(4) - </strong>The reference here is to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1939_New_York_World's_Fair">New York World's Fair of 1939</a>.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(5) - </strong>Once again, Captain Van Der Decken (the more common spelling of the name of the Captain of the <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FlyingDutchman">Flying Dutchman</a>) makes a <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BlasphemousBoast">Blasphemous Boast</a>. You would think he'd learn ...<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(6) - </strong>It's a bit surprising that neither Dennison nor Herrick have figured out just <em>who</em> is their Captain.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(7) - </strong>They are traveling back through time, but in a strange way; they are growing younger, and so are their <em>clothes </em>(becoming of earlier fashions), even though they are <em>thinking</em> in the normal temporal direction relative to the car. The car is growing younger (and of earlier models) too. This is one way the story is obvious fantasy, rather than science fiction.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(8) - </strong>They are, in fact, <em>falling in love</em>. When one considers their very limited physical circumstances, this causes some <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FridgeHorror">Fridge Horror</a> considerations -- how do they get any privacy on a single subway car operated by the Flying Dutchman? Though they have no normal bodily <em>needs</em>, they still<em> </em>might have <em>desires</em>, and they could be <em>emotionally</em> very frustrated. (Or perhaps they come to an accommodation with the Captain --even one for simple <em>privacy</em> could not be explicitly discussed in a respectable pulp story published ~1940).<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(9) - </strong>20 years before their trip started -- they are now (in 1919) only in their late 50's.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(10) - </strong>1905 is 34 years before they started. They are now in their mid 40's.s <br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(11) - </strong>Various open-air railroads preceded the New York City subway system, and now they are leaving the city and heading west into the country.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(12) - </strong>The Spanish-American War of 1898, 41 years before they started. They are now in their late 30's.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(13) - </strong>Garfield was elected in 1880. They are now 59 years before they started, and about 20 years old. If they could get off the train, they could try to have a full life together.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>(14) - </strong>They're about 16 now (in 1876) -- not much more than children.<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>=======</strong><br />
<strong>REVIEW </strong><br />
<strong>=======</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong><br />
This is of course inspired by the legend of the <em>Flying Dutchman</em>, which originated in 17th century nautical lore, and was immortalized in Richard Wagner's 1843 opera. Van Der Decken has somehow lost his ship and wandered into the New York City Subway, from which he takes a car and (accidentally) two confused old people.<br />
<br /><br />
The story is light horror fantasy -- the two mortals taken by Van Der Decken suffer a frightening fate which is much alleviated by the facts that <strong>(1) </strong>they were old and likely to die soon anyway and <strong>(2)</strong> they fall in love and enjoy each other's company during their long, strange journey back through time.<br />
<br /><br />
For a modern reader, the story greatly emphasizes how close the world of 1939 -- just 75 years ago, so most of you reading this know at least one person who remembers it -- was to events we consider safely buried in history. The narrator was born in <em>1860 -- </em>for him, such events as the Sioux Wars and the Spanish-American War belonged to the memories of his teenage years to younger manhood.<br />
<br /><br />
The ultimate fate of the two main characters is unknown. What happened when they were carried back beyond their birth? Were they released to the afterlife? Or did they journey all the way back with Van Der Decken, to serve on his galleon?<br />
<br /><br />
We shall never know ...<br />
<br /><br />
<strong>END.</strong><br />
<br /><br />
<br /><br />
<br />Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-32373398973388691922014-12-07T00:21:00.001-08:002018-09-23T17:43:41.622-07:00"Nemesis" (1917) by H. P. Lovecraft<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"Nemesis"</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© 1917</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">by</span><br /> </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">H. P. Lovecraft</span> </b></span> </div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,<br />
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,<br />
I have lived o'er my lives without number,<br />
I have sounded all things with my sight;<br />
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.<br />
<br />
I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,<br />
When the sky was a vaporous flame;<br />
I have seen the dark universe yawning<br />
Where the black planets roll without aim,<br />
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.<br />
<br />
I had drifted o'er seas without ending,<br />
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,<br />
That the many-forked lightning is rending,<br />
That resound with hysterical cries;<br />
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.<br />
<br />
I have plunged like a deer through the arches<br />
Of the hoary primordial grove,<br />
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,<br />
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,<br />
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.<br />
<br />
I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains<br />
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,<br />
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains<br />
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;<br />
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.<br />
<br />
I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,<br />
I have trod its untenanted hall,<br />
Where the moon rising up from the valleys<br />
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;<br />
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.<br />
<br />
I have peered from the casements in wonder<br />
At the mouldering meadows around,<br />
At the many-roofed village laid under<br />
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;<br />
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.<br />
<br />
I have haunted the tombs of the ages,<br />
I have flown on the pinions of fear,<br />
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;<br />
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:<br />
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.<br />
<br />
I was old when the pharaohs first mounted<br />
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;<br />
I was old in those epochs uncounted<br />
When I, and I only, was vile;<br />
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.<br />
<br />
Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,<br />
And great is the reach of its doom;<br />
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,<br />
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:<br />
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.<br />
<br />
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,<br />
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,<br />
I have lived o'er my lives without number,<br />
I have sounded all things with my sight;<br />
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b> Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-51693228376738188462014-12-05T02:22:00.000-08:002018-09-23T17:43:43.130-07:00"Ooze" (1923) by Anthony M. Rud, with Notes and Review<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="largeinitial" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1em; margin: 0em 0.05em 0em 0em;"><b>"Ooze"</b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="largeinitial" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1em; margin: 0em 0.05em 0em 0em;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">© 1923</span></b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="largeinitial" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1em; margin: 0em 0.05em 0em 0em;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">by</span></b></span><span class="largeinitial" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1em; margin: 0em 0.05em 0em 0em;"><b></b></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="largeinitial" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1em; margin: 0em 0.05em 0em 0em;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></b></span></span><span class="largeinitial" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 3em; line-height: 1em; margin: 0em .05em 0em 0em;"><b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: large;">Anthony M. Rud </span></span></span></b></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="largeinitial" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1em; margin: 0em 0.05em 0em 0em;">I</span>n
the h</span>eart of a second-growth piney-woods jungle of southern Alabama, a
region sparsely settled by backwoods blacks and Cajans — that queer,
half-wild people descended from Acadian exiles of the middle eighteenth
century <b>(1)</b> — stands a strange, enormous ruin.<br />
<br />
Interminable trailers of Cherokee rose, white-laden during a single
month of spring, have climbed the heights of its three remaining walls.
Palmetto fans rise knee high above the base. A dozen scattered live
oaks, now belying their nomenclature because of choking tufts of gray,
Spanish moss and two-foot circlets of mistletoe parasite which have
stripped bare of foliage the gnarled, knotted limbs, lean fantastic
beards against the crumbling brick.<br />
<br />
Immediately beyond, where the ground becomes soggier and lower —
dropping away hopelessly into the tangle of dogwood, holly, poison sumac
and pitcher plants that is Moccasin Swamp — undergrowth of ti-ti and
annis has formed a protecting wall impenetrable to all save the furtive
ones. Some few outcasts utilize the stinking depths of that sinister
swamp, distilling “shinny” of “pure cawn” liquor for illicit trade <b>(2)</b>.<br />
<br />
Tradition
states that this is the case, at least — a tradition which antedates
that of the premature ruin by many decades. I believe it, for during
evenings intervening between investigations of the awesome spot I often
was approached as a possible customer by woodbillies who could not
fathom how anyone dared venture near without plenteous fortification of
liquid courage.<br />
<br />
I know “shinny,” therefore I did not purchase it for personal
consumption. A dozen times I bought a quart or two, merely to establish
credit among the Cajans, pouring away the vile stuff immediately into
the sodden ground. It seemed then that only through filtration and
condensation of their dozens of weird tales regarding “Daid House” could
I arrive at understanding of the mystery and weight of horror hanging
about the place.<br />
<br />
Certain it is that out of all the superstitious cautioning,
head-wagging and whispered nonsensities I obtained only two indisputable
facts. The first was that no money, and no supporting battery of
ten-gauge shotguns loaded with chilled shot, could induce either Cajan
or darky of the region to approach within five hundred yards of that
flowering wall! The second fact I shall dwell upon later.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it would be as well, as I am only a mouthpiece in this
chronicle, to relate in brief why I came to Alabama on this mission <b>(3)</b>.<br />
<br />
I am a scribbler of general fact articles, no fiction writer as was
Lee Cranmer — though doubtless the confession is superfluous. Lee was my
roommate during college days. I knew his family well, admiring John
Corliss Cranmer even more that I admired the son and friend — and almost
as much as Peggy Breede whom Lee married. Peggy liked me, but that was
all. I cherish sanctified memory of her for just that much, as no other
woman before or since has granted this gangling dyspeptic even a hint of
joyous and sorrowful intimacy.<br />
<br />
Work kept me to the city. Lee, on the other hand, coming of wealthy
family — and, from the first, earning from his short stories and novel
royalties more than I wrested from editorial coffers — needed no
anchorage. He and Peggy honeymooned a four-month trip to Alaska, visited
Honolulu the next winter, fished for salmon on Cain's River, New
Brunswick, and generally enjoyed the outdoors at all seasons.<br />
<br />
They kept an apartment in Wilmette, near Chicago, yet, during the few
spring and fall seasons they were “home,” both preferred to rent a
suite at one of the country clubs to which Lee belonged. I suppose they
spent thrice or five times the amount Lee actually earned, yet for my
part I only honored that the two should find such great happiness in
life and still accomplish artistic triumph.<br />
<br />
<span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="14" id="14" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/3"></span>They were honest, zestful young Americans, the type — and pretty nearly the <i>only</i>
type — two million dollars cannot spoil. John Corliss Cranmer, father
of Lee, though as different from his boy as a microscope is different
from a painting by Remington, was even further from being
dollar-conscious. He lived in a world bounded only by the widening
horizon of biological science — and his love for the two who would carry
on that Cranmer name.<br />
<br />
Many a time I used to wonder how it could be that as gentle,
clean-souled and lovable a gentleman as John Corliss Cranmer could have
ventured so far into scientific research without attaining small-caliber
atheism. Few do. He believed both in God and humankind. To accuse him
of murdering his boy and the girl wife who had come to be loved as the
mother of baby Elsie — as well as blood and flesh of his own family —
was a gruesome, terrible absurdity! Yes, even when John Corliss Cranmer
was declared unmistakably insane!<br />
<br />
Lacking a relative in the world, baby Elsie was given to me — and the
middle-aged couple who had accompanied the three as servants about half
of the known world. Elsie would be Peggy over again. I worshiped her,
knowing that if my stewardship of her interests could make of her a
woman of Peggy's loveliness and worth I should not have lived in vain.
And at four Elsie stretched out her arms to me after a vain attempt to
jerk out the bobbed tail of Lord Dick, my tolerant old Airedale — and
called me “papa.”<br />
<br />
I felt a deep-down choking… yes, those strangely long black lashes
some day might droop in fun or coquetry, but now baby Elsie held a
wistful, trusting seriousness in depths of ultramarine eyes — that same
seriousness which only Lee had brought to Peggy.<br />
<br />
Responsibility in one instant become double. That she might come to
love me as more than foster parent was my dearest wish. Still, through
selfishness I could not rob her of rightful heritage; she must know in
after years. And the tale that I would tell her must not be the horrible
suspicion which had been bandied about in common talk!<br />
<br />
I went to Alabama, leaving Elsie in the competent hands of Mrs.
Daniels and her husband, who had helped care for her since birth.<br />
<br />
In my possession, prior to the trip, were the scant facts known to
authorities at the time of John Corliss Cranmer's escape and
disappearance. They were incredible enough.<br />
<br />
For conducting biological research upon forms of protozoan life, John
Corliss Cranmer had hit upon this region of Alabama. Near a great swamp
teeming with microscopic organisms, and situated in a semitropical belt
where freezing weather rarely intruded to harden the bogs, the spot
seemed ideal for his purpose.<br />
<br />
Through
Mobile he could secure supplies daily by truck. The isolation suited
him. With only an octoroon man to act as chef, houseman and valet for
the times he entertained visitors, he brought down scientific apparatus,
occupying temporary quarters in the village of Burdett's Corners while
his woods house was in process of construction.<br />
<br />
By all accounts the Lodge, as he termed it, was a substantial affair
of eight or nine rooms, built of logs and planed lumber bought at Oak
Grove. Lee and Peggy were expected to spend a portion of each year with
him; quail, wild turkey and deer abounded, which fact made such a
vacation certain to please the pair. At other times all save four rooms
were closed.<br />
<br />
This was in 1907, the year of Lee's marriage. Six years later when I
came down, no sign of a house remained except certain mangled and
rotting timbers projecting from viscid soil — or what seemed like soil.
And a twelve-foot wall of brick had been built to enclose the house
completely! One partion of this had fallen <i>inward!</i><br />
<div class="tiInherit" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<b>II</b></div>
<br />
I wasted weeks of time first, interviewing officials of the police
department at Mobile, the town marshals and county sheriffs of
Washington and Mobile counties, and officials of the psychopathic
hospital from which Cranmer made his escape.<br />
<br />
In substance the story was one of baseless homicidal mania. Cranmer
the elder had been away until late fall, attending two scientific
conferences in the North, and then going abroad to compare certain of
his findings with those of a Dr. Gemmler of Prague University.
Unfortunately, Gemmler was assassinated by a religious fanatic shortly
afterward. The fanatic voiced virulent objection to all Mendelian
research as blasphemous. This was his only defense. He was hanged.<br />
<br />
Search of Gemmler's notes and effects revealed nothing save an immense amount of laboratory data on <i>karyokinesis</i>
— the process of chromosome arrangement occurring in first growing
cells of higher animal embryos. Apparently Cranmer had hoped to develop
some similarities, or point out differences between hereditary factors
occurring in lower forms of life and those half-demonstrated in the cat
and monkey. The authorities had found nothing that helped me. Cranmer
had gone crazy; was that not sufficient explanation?<br />
<br />
Perhaps it was for them, but not for me — and Elsie.<br />
<br />
But to the slim basis of fact I was able to unearth:<br />
<br />
No one wondered when a fortnight passed without appearance of <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="16" id="16" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/5"></span>any
person from the Lodge. Why should anyone worry? A provision salesman in
Mobile called up twice, but tailed to complete the connection. He
merely shrugged. The Cranmers had gone away somewhere on a trip. In a
week, a month, a year they would be back. Meanwhile he lost commissions,
but what of it? He had no responsibility for those queer nuts up there
in the piney-woods. Crazy? Of course! Why should any guy with millions
to spend shut himself up among the Cajans and draw microscope-enlarged
notebook pictures of — what the salesman called — “germs”?<br />
<br />
A stir was aroused at the end of the fortnight, but the commotion
confined itself to building circles. Twenty carloads of building brick,
fifty bricklayers, and a quarter-acre of fine-meshed wire — the sort
used for screening off pens of rodents and small marsupials in a
zoological garden — were ordered, <i>damn expense, hurry!</i> by an unshaved, tattered man who identified himself with difficulty as John Corliss Cranmer.<br />
<br />
He looked strange, even then. A certified check for the total amount,
given in advance, and another check of absurd size slung toward a labor
<i>entrepreneur</i>, silenced objection, however. These millionaires
were apt to be flighty. When they wanted something they wanted it at tap
of the bell. Well, why not drag down the big profits? A poorer man
would have been jacked up in a day. Cranmer's fluid gold bathed him in
immunity to criticism.<br />
<br />
The encircling wall was built, and roofed with wire netting which
drooped about the squat-pitch of the Lodge. Curious inquiries of workmen
went unanswered until the final day.<br />
<br />
Then Cranmer, a strange, intense apparition who showed himself more
shabby than a quay derelict, assembled every man jack of the workmen. In
one hand he grasped a wad of blue slips — fifty-six of them. In the
other he held a Luger automatic.<br />
<br />
“I offer each man a thousand dollars for <i>silence!</i>” he announced. “As an alternative — <i>death!</i>
You know little. Will all of you consent to swear upon your honor that
nothing which has occurred here will be mentioned elsewhere? By this I
mean <i>absolute</i> silence! You will not come back here to investigate
anything. You will not tell your wives. You will not open your mouths
even upon the witness stand in case you are called! My price is one
thousand apiece.<br />
<br />
“In case one of you betrays me <i>I give you my word that this man shall die!</i> I am rich. I can hire men to do murder. Well, what do you say?” <b>(4)</b><br />
<br />
The men glanced apprehensively about. The threatening Luger decided
them. To a man they accepted the blue slips — and, save for one <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="17" id="17" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/6"></span>witness
who lost all sense of fear and morality in drink, none of the fifty-six
has broken his pledge, as far as I know. That one bricklayer died later
in delirium tremens.<br />
<div class="tiInherit" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<b>III</b></div>
<br />
They found him the first time, mouthing meaningless phrases
concerning an amoeba — one of the tiny forms of protoplasmic life he was
known to have studied. Also he leaped into a hysteria of
self-accusation. He had murdered two innocent people! The tragedy was
his crime. He had drowned them in ooze! Ah, God!<br />
<br />
Unfortunately for all concerned, Cranmer, dazed and indubitably stark
insane, chose to perform a strange travesty on fishing four miles to
the west of his lodge — on the further border of Moccasin Swamp. His
clothing had been torn to shreds, his hat was gone, and he was coated
from head to foot with gluey mire. It was far from strange that the good
folk of Shanksville, who never had glimpsed the eccentric millionaire,
failed to associate him with Cranmer.<br />
<br />
They took him in, searched his pockets — finding no sign save an
inordinate sum of money — and then put him under medical care. Two
precious weeks elapsed before Dr. Quirk reluctantly acknowledged that he
could do nothing more for this patient, and notified the proper
authorities.<br />
<br />
Then much more time was wasted. Hot April and half of still hotter
May passed by before the loose ends were connected. Then it did little
good to know that this raving unfortunate was Cranmer, or that the two
persons of whom he shouted in disconnected delirium actually had
disappeared. Alienists absolved him of responsibility. He was confined
in a cell reserved for the violent.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, strange things occurred back at the Lodge — which now, for
good and sufficient reason, was becoming known to dwellers of the woods
as Dead House. Until one of the walls fell in, however, there had been
no chance to see — unless one possessed the temerity to climb either one
of the tall live oaks, or mount the barrier itself. No doors or opening
of any sort had been placed in that hastily contructed wall!<br />
<br />
By the time the western side of the wall fell, not a native for miles
around but feared the spot far more than even the bottomless,
snake-infested bogs which lay to west and north.<br />
<br />
The single statement was all John Corliss Cranmer ever gave to the <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="18" id="18" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/7"></span>world.
It proved sufficient. An immediate search was instituted. It showed
that less than three weeks before the day of initial reckoning, his son
and Peggy had come to visit him for the second time that winter —
leaving Elsie in company of the Daniels pair. They had rented a pair of
Gordons for quail hunting, and had gone out. That was the last anyone
had seen of them.<br />
<br />
The backwoods Negro who glimpsed them stalking a covey behind their
two pointing dogs had known no more — even when sweated through twelve
hours of third degree. Certain suspicious circumstances (having to do
only with his regular pursuit of “shinny” transportation) had caused him
to fall under suspicion at first. He was dropped <b>(5)</b>.<br />
<br />
Two days later the scientist himself was apprehended — a gibbering
idiot who sloughed his pole — holding on to the baited hook — into a
marsh where nothing save moccasins, an errant alligator, or amphibian
life could have been snared.<br />
<br />
His mind was three-quarters dead. Cranmer then was in the state of
the dope fiend who rouses to a sitting position to ask seriously how
many Bolshevists were killed by Julius Caesar before he was stabbed by
Brutus, or why it was that Roller canaries sang only on Wednesday
evenings. He knew that tragedy of the most sinister sort had stalked
through his life — but little more, at first.<br />
<br />
Later the police obtained that one statement that he had murdered two
human beings, but never could means or motive be established. Official
guess as to the means was no more than wild conjecture; it mentioned
enticing the victims to the noisome depths of Moccasin Swamp, there to
let them flounder and sink.<br />
<br />
The two were his son and daughter-in-law, Lee and Peggy! <b>(6)</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="tiInherit" style="text-align: center;">
<b>IV</b><br />
<br /></div>
By feigning coma — then awakening with suddenness to assault three
attendants with incredible ferocity and strength — John Corliss Cranmer
escaped from Elizabeth Ritter Hospital.<br />
<br />
How he hid, how he managed to traverse sixty-odd intervening miles
and still balk detection, remains a minor mystery to be explained only
by the assumption that maniacal cunning sufficed to outwit saner
intellects.<br />
<br />
Traverse those miles he did, though until I was fortunate enough to
uncover evidence to this effect, it was supposed generally that he had
made his escape as stowaway on one of the banana boats, or had <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="19" id="19" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/8"></span>buried
himself in some portion of the nearer woods where he was unknown. The
truth ought to be welcome to householders of Shanksville, Burdett's
Corners and vicinage — those excusably prudent ones who to this day keep
loaded shotguns handy and barricade their doors at nightfall.<br />
<br />
The first ten days of my investigation may be touched upon in brief. I
made headquarters in Burdett's Corners, and drove out each morning,
carrying lunch and returning for my grits and piney-woods pork or mutton
before nightfall. My first plan had been to camp out at the edge of the
swamp, for opportunity to enjoy the outdoors comes rarely in my
direction. Yet after one cursory examination of the premises, I
abandoned the idea. I did not <i>want</i> to camp alone there. And I am less superstitious than a real estate agent.<br />
<br />
It was, perhaps, psychic warning: more probably the queer, faint,
salt odor as of fish left to decay, which hung about the ruin, made too
unpleasant an impression upon my olfactory sense <b>(7)</b>. I experienced a
distinct chill every time the lengthening shadows caught me near Dead
House.<br />
<br />
The smell impressed me. In newspaper reports of the case one
ingenious explanation had been worked out. To the rear of the spot where
Dead House had stood — inside the wall — was a swampy hollow circular
in shape. Only a little real mud lay in the bottom of the bowl-like
depression now, but one reporter on the staff of <i>The Mobile Register</i>
guessed that during the tenancy of the lodge it had been a fishpool.
Drying up of the water had killed the fish, who now permeated the
remnant of mud with this foul odor.<br />
<br />
The possibility that Cranmer had needed to keep fresh fish at hand
for some of his experiments silenced the natural objection that in a
country where every stream holds gar, pike, bass, catfish and many other
edible varieties, no one would dream of stocking a stagnant puddle.<br />
<br />
After tramping about the enclosure, testing the queerly brittle,
desiccated top stratum of earth within and speculating concerning the
possible purpose of the wall, I cut off a long limb of chinaberry and
probed the mud. One fragment of fish spine would confirm the guess of
that imaginative reporter.<br />
<br />
I found nothing resembling a piscal skeleton, but established several
facts. First, this mud crater had definite bottom only three or four
feet below the surface of remaining ooze. Second, the fishy stench
become stronger as I stirred. Third, at one time the mud, water, or
whatever had comprised the balance of content, had reached the rim of
the bowl. The last showed by certain marks plain enough when <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="20" id="20" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/9"></span>the crusty, two-inch stratum of upper coating was broken away. It was puzzling.<br />
<br />
The nature of that thin, desiccated effluvium which seemed to cover
everything even to the lower foot or two of brick, came in for next
inspection. It was strange stuff, unlike any earth I ever had seen,
though undoubtedly some form of scum drained in from the swamp at the
time of river floods or cloudbursts (which in this section are common
enough in spring and fall). It crumbled beneath the fingers. When I
walked over it, the stuff crunched hollowly. In fainter degree it
possesed the fishy odor also.<br />
<br />
I took some samples where it lay thickest upon the ground, and also a
few where there seemed to be no more than a depth of a sheet of paper.
Later I would have a laboratory analysis made.<br />
<br />
Apart from any possible bearing the stuff might have upon the
disappearance of my three friends, I felt the tug of article interest —
that wonder over anything strange or seemingly inexplicable which lends
the hunt for fact a certain glamor and romance all its own. To myself I
was going to have to explain sooner or later just why this lay er
covered the entire space within the walls and was not perceptible <i>anywhere</i> outside! The enigma could wait, however — or so I decided.<br />
<br />
Far more interesting were the traces of violence apparent on wall and
what once had been a house. The latter seemed to have been ripped from
its foundations by a giant hand, crushed out of semblance to a dwelling,
and then cast in fragments about the base of wall — mainly on the south
side, where heaps of twisted, broken timbers lay in profusion. On the
opposite side there had been such heaps once, but now only charred
sticks, coated with that gray-black, omnipresent coat of desiccation,
remained. These piles of charcoal had been sifted and examined most
carefully by the authorities, as one theory had been advanced that
Cranmer had burned the bodies of his victims. Yet no sign whatever of
human remains was discovered.<br />
<br />
The fire, however, pointed out one odd fact which controverted the
reconstructions made by detectives months before. The latter, suggesting
the dried scum to have drained in from the swamp, believed that the
house timbers had floated out to the sides of the wall—there to arrange
themselves in a series of piles! The absurdity of such a theory showed
even more plainly in the fact that <i>if</i> the scum had filtered through in such a flood, the timbers most certainly had been dragged into piles <i>previously!</i> Some had burned — <i>and the scum coated their charred surfaces!</i> <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="21" id="21" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/10"></span>What
had been the force which had torn the lodge to bits as if in spiteful
fury? Why had the parts of the wreckage been burned, the rest to escape?<br />
<br />
Right here I felt was the keynote to the mystery, yet I could imagine
no explanation. That John Corliss Cranmer himself — physically sound,
yet a man who for decades had led a sedentary life — could have
accomplished such a destruction, unaided, was difficult to believe.<br />
<div class="tiInherit" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<b>V</b></div>
<br />
I turned my attention to the wall, hoping for evidence which might suggest another theory.<br />
<br />
That wall had been an example of the worst snide construction. Though
little more than a year old, the parts left standing showed evidence
that they had begun to decay the day the last brick was laid. The mortar
had fallen from the interstices. Here and there a brick had cracked and
dropped out. Fibrils of the climbing vines had penetrated crevices,
working for early destruction.<br />
<br />
And one side already had fallen.<br />
<br />
It was here that the first glimmering suspicion of the terrible truth
was forced upon me. The scattered bricks, even those which had rolled
inward toward the gaping foundation ledge, <i>had not been coated with scum!</i>
This was curious, yet it could be explained by surmise that the flood
itself had undermined this weakest portion of the wall. I cleared away a
mass of brick from the spot on which the structure had stood; to my
surprise I found it exceptionally firm! Hard red clay lay beneath! The
flood conception was faulty; only some great force, exerted from inside
or outside, could have wreaked such destruction.<br />
<br />
When careful measurement, analysis and deduction convinced me —
mainly from the fact that the lowermost layers of brick all had fallen <i>outward</i>, while the upper portions toppled <i>in</i>
— I began to link up this mysterious and horrific force with the one
which had rent the Lodge asunder. It looked as though a typhoon or
gigantic centrifuge had needed elbow room in ripping down the wooden
structure.<br />
<br />
But I got nowhere with the theory, though in ordinary affairs I am
called a man of too great imaginative tendencies. No less than three
editors have cautioned me on this point. Perhaps it was the narrowing
influence of great personal sympathy — yes, and love. I make no excuses,
though beyond a dim understanding that some terrific, <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="22" id="22" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/11"></span>implacable
force must have made spot his playground, I ended my ninth day of
note-taking and investigation almost as much in the dark as I had been
while a thousand miles away in Chicago.<br />
<br />
Then I started among the darkies and Cajans. A whole day I listened
to yarns of the days which preceded Cranmer's escape from Elizabeth
Ritter Hospital — days in which furtive men sniffed poisoned air for
miles around Dead House, finding the odor intolerable. Days in which it
seemed none possessed nerve enough to approach close. Days when the most
fanciful tales of medieval superstitions were spun. These tales I shall
not give; the truth is incredible enough.<br />
<br />
At noon upon the eleventh day I chanced upon Rori Pailleron, a Cajan —
and one of the least prepossessing of all with whom I had come in
contact. “Chanced” perhaps is a bad word. I had listed every dweller of
the woods within a five-mile radius. Rori was sixteenth on my list. I
went to him only after interviewing all four of the Crabiers and two
whole families of Pichons. And Rori regarded me with the utmost
suspicion until I made him a present of the two quarts of “shinny”
purchased of the Pichons.<br />
<br />
Because long practice has perfected me in the technique of seeming to
drink another man's awful liquor — no, I'm not an absolute
prohibitionist; fine wine or twelve-year-in-cask Bourbon whiskey arouses
my definite interest — I fooled Pailleron from the start. I shall omit
preliminaries, and leap to the first admission from him that he knew
more concerning Dead House and its former inmates than any of the other
darkies or Cajans roundabout.<br />
<br />
“…But I ain't talkin'. <i>Sacre!</i> If I should open my gab, what might fly out? It is for keeping silent, y'r damn right!…”<br />
<br />
I agreed. He was a wise man — educated to some extent in the queer
schools and churches maintained exclusively by Cajans in the depths of
the woods, yet naive withal.<br />
<br />
We drank. And I never had to ask another leading question. The made
him want to interest me; and the only extraordinary in this whole neck
of the woods was the Dead House.<br />
<br />
Three-quarters of a pint of acrid, nauseous fluid, and he hinted darkly.<br />
<br />
A pint, and he told me something I scarcely could believe. Another half-pint… But I shall give his confession in condensed form <b>(8)</b>.<br />
<br />
He had known Joe Sibley, the octoroon chef, houseman and valet who
served Cranmer. Through Joe, Rori had furnished certain indispensables
in way of food to the Cranmer household. At first, these salable
articles had been exclusively vegetable — white and yellow turnip, sweet
potatoes, corn and beans — but later, <i>meat</i>!<br />
<br />
Yes, meat especially — whole lambs, slaughtered and quartered, the <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="23" id="23" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/12"></span>coarsest variety of piney-woods pork and beef, all in immense quantity!<br />
<div class="tiInherit" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<b>VI</b></div>
<br />
In December of the fatal winter, Lee and his wife stopped down at the Lodge for ten days or thereabouts.<br />
<br />
They were en route to Cuba at the time, intending to be away five or
six weeks. Their original plan had been only to wait over a day or so in
the piney-woods, but something caused an amendment to the scheme.<br />
<br />
The two dallied. Lee seemed to have become vastly absorbed in
something — so much absorbed that it was only when Peggy insisted upon
continuing their trip that he could tear himself away.<br />
<br />
It was during those ten days that he began buying meat. Meager bits
of it at first — a rabbit, a pair of squirrels, or perhaps a few quail
beyond the number he and Peggy shot. Rori furnished the game, thinking
nothing of it except that Lee paid double prices — and insisted upon
keeping the purchases secret from other members of the household.<br />
<br />
“I'm putting it across on the Governor, Rori!” he said once with a
wink. "Going to give him the shock of his life. So you mustn't let on,
even to Joe, about what I want you to do. Maybe it won't work out, but
if it does…! Dad'll have the scientific world at his feet! He doesn't
blow his own horn anywhere near enough, you know.”<br />
<br />
Rori didn't know. Hadn't a suspicion what Lee was talking about.
Still, if this rich, young idiot wanted to pay him a half dollar in good
silver coin for a quail that anyone — himself included — could knock
down with a five-cent shell, Rori was well satisfied to keep his mouth
shut. Each evening he brought some of the small game. And each day Lee
Cranmer seemed to have use for an additional quail or so...<br />
<br />
When he was ready to leave for Cuba <b>(9)</b>, Lee came forward with the
strangest of propositions. He fairly whispered his vehemence and desire
for secrecy! He would tell Rori, and would pay the Cajan five hundred
dollars — half in advance, and half at the end of five weeks when Lee
himself would return from Cuba — provided Rori agreed to adhere
absolutely to a certain secret program! The money was more than a
fortune to Rori; it was undreamt of affluence. The Cajan acceded.<br />
<br />
“He wuz tellin' me then how the ol' man had raised some kind of pet,”
Rori confided, “an' wanted to get shet of it. So he give it to Lee, <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="24" id="24" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/13"></span>tellin'
him to kill it, but Lee was sot on foolin' him. W'at I ask yer is, w'at
kind of a pet is it w'at lives down in a mud sink an' <i>eats a couple hawgs every night?</i>” <b>(10)</b><br />
<br />
I couldn't imagine, so I pressed him for further details. Here at last was something which sounded like a clue!<br />
He really knew too little. The agreement with Lee provided that if
Rori carried out the provisions exactly, he should be paid extra and at
his exorbitant scale of all additional outlay, when Lee returned.<br />
<br />
The young man gave him a daily schedule which Rori showed. Each
evening he was to procure, slaughter and cut up a definite — and growing
— amount of meat. Every item was checked, and I saw that they ran from
five pounds up to <i>forty!</i><br />
<br />
“What in heaven's name did you do with it?” I demanded, excited now
and pouring him an additional drink for fear caution might return to
him.<br />
<br />
“Took it through the bushes in back an' slung it in the mud sink there! An' suthin' come up an' drug it down!”<br />
<br />
“A gator?”<br />
<br />
“<i>Diable!</i> How should I know? It was dark. I wouldn't go close.”
He shuddered, and the fingers which lifted his glass shook as with
sudden chill. “Mebbe you'd of done it, huh? Not <i>me</i>, though! The young fellah tole me to sling it in, an' I slung it.<br />
<br />
“A couple times I come around in the light, but there wasn't nuthin'
there you could see. Jes' mud, an' some water. Mebbe the thing didn't
come out in daytimes…”<br />
<br />
“Perhaps not,” I agreed, straining every mental resource to imagine
what Lee's sinister pet could have been. “But you said something <i>about two hogs a day?</i>
What did you mean by that? This paper, proof enough that you're telling
the truth so far, states that on the thirty-fifth day you were to throw
forty pounds of meat — any kind — into the sink. Two hogs, even the
piney-woods variety, weigh a lot more than forty pounds!”<br />
<br />
“Them was after — after he come back!”<br />
<br />
From this point onward, Rori's tale became more and more enmeshed in
the vagaries induced by bad liquor. His tongue thickened. I shall give
his story without attempt to reproduce further verbal barbarities, or
the occasional prodding I had to give in order to keep him from
maundering into foolish jargon.<br />
<br />
Lee had paid munificently. His only objection to the manner in which
Rori had carried out his orders was that the orders themselves had been
deficient. The pet, he said, had grown enormously. It was hungry;
ravenous. Lee himself had supplemented the fare with huge <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="25" id="25" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/14"></span>pails of scraps from the kitchen.<br />
<br />
From that day Lee purchased from Rori whole sheep and hogs! The Cajan
continued to bring the carcasses at nightfall, but no longer did Lee
permit him to approach the pool. The young man appeared chronically
excited. He had a tremendous secret — one the extent of which even his
father did not guess, and one which would astonish the world! Only a
week or two more and he would spring it. First he would have to arrange
certain data.<br />
<br />
Then came the day when everyone disappeared from Dead House. Rori
came around several times, but concluded that all of the occupants had
folded tents and departed — doubtless taking their mysterious “pet”
along. Only when he saw from a distance Joe, the octoroon servant,
returning along the road on foot toward the Lodge, did his slow mental
processes begin to ferment. That afternoon Rori visited the strange
place for the next to last time.<br />
<br />
He did not go to the Lodge himself — and there were reasons. While
still some hundreds of yards away from the place a terrible, sustained
screaming reached his ears! It was faint, yet unmistakably the voice of
Joe! Throwing a pair of number two shells into the breech of his
shotgun, Rori hurried on, taking his usual path through the brush at the
back.<br />
<br />
He saw — and as he told me, even “shinny” drunkenness fled his
chattering tones — Joe, the octoroon. Aye, he stood in the yard, far
from the pool into which Rori had thrown the carcasses — <i>and Joe could not move!</i><br />
<br />
Rori failed to explain in full, but <i>something</i>, a slimy,
amorphous something, which glistened in the sunlight, already engulfed
the man to his shoulders! Breath was cut off. Joe's contorted face
writhed with horror and beginning suffocation. One hand — all that was
free of the rest of him! — beat feebly upon the rubbery, translucent
thing that was engulfing his body!<br />
<br />
Then Joe sank from sight…<br />
<div class="tiInherit" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<b>VII</b></div>
<br />
Five days of liquored indulgence passed before Rori, along in his
shaky cabin, convinced himself that he had seen a phantasy born of
alcohol. He came back the last time — to find a high wall of brick
surrounding the Lodge, and including the pool of mud into which he had
thrown the meat!<br />
<br />
While he hesitated, circling the place without discovering an <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="26" id="26" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/15"></span>opening
— which he would not have dared to use, even had he found it — a
crashing, tearing of timbers, and persistent sound of awesome
destruction came from within. He swung himself into one of the oaks near
the wall. And he was just in time to see the last supporting stanchions
of the Lodge give way <i>outward!</i><br />
<br />
The whole structure came apart. The roof fell in — yet seemed to move
after it had fallen! Logs of wall deserted layers of plywood in the
grasp of the shearing machine!<br />
<br />
That was all. Soddenly intoxicated now, Rori mumbled more phrases,
giving me the idea that on another day when he became sober once more,
he might add to his statements, but I — numbed to the soul — scarcely
cared. If that which he related was true, what nightmare of madness must
have been consummated here!<br />
<br />
I could vision some things now which concerned Lee and Peggy,
horrible things. Only remembrance of Elsie kept me faced forward in the
search — for now it seemed almost that the handiwork of a madman must be
preferred to what Rori claimed to have seen! What had been that
sinister translucent thing? That glistening thing which jumped upward
about a man, smothering, engulfing?<br />
<br />
Queerly enough, though such a theory as came most easily to mind now
would have outraged reason in me if suggested concerning total
strangers, I asked myself only what details of Rori's revelation had
been exaggerated by fright and fumes of liquor. And as I sat on the
creaking bench in his cabin, staring unseeing as he lurched down to the
floor, fumbling with a lock box of green tin which lay under his cot,
and muttering, the answer to all my questions lay within reach!<br />
<br />
<br />
It was not until next day, however, that I made the discovery. Heavy of
heart I had reexamined the spot where the Lodge had stood, then made my
way to the Cajan's cabin again, seeking sober confirmation of what he
had told me during intoxication.<br />
<br />
In imagining that such a spree for Rori would be ended by a single
night, however, I was mistaken. He lay sprawled almost as I had left
him. Only two factors were changed. No “shinny” was left — and lying
open, with its miscellaneous contents strewed about, was the tin box.
Rori somehow had managed to open it with the tiny key still clutched in
his hand.<br />
<br />
Concern for his safety alone was what made me notice the box. It was a
receptacle for small fishing tackle of the sort carried here and there
by any sportsman. Tangles of Dowagiac minnows, spool hooks <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="27" id="27" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/16"></span>ranging
in size to silver-backed number eights; three reels still carrying line
of different weights, spinners, casting plus, wobblers, floating baits,
were spilled out upon the rough plank flooring where they might snag
Rori badly if he rolled. I gathered them, intending to save him an
accident.<br />
<br />
With the miscellaneous assortment in my hands, however, I stopped
dead. Something had caught my eye — something lying flush with the
bottom of the lock box! I stared, and then swiftly tossed the hooks and
other impediments upon the table. What I had glimpsed there in the box
was a loose-leaf notebook of the sort used for recording laboratory
data! And Rori scarcely could read, let alone <i>write!</i><br />
<br />
Feverishly, a riot of recognition, surmise, hope and fear bubbling in
my brain, I grabbed the book and threw it open. At once I knew that
this was the end. The pages were scribbled in pencil, but the
handwriting was that precise chirography I knew as belonging to John
Corliss Cranmer, the scientist!<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
Could he not have obeyed my instructions! Oh, God! This…</blockquote>
<br />
These were the words at top of the first page which met my eye.<br />
<br />
Because knowledge of the circumstances, the relation of which I pried
out of the reluctant Rori only some days later when I had him in Mobile
as a police witness for the sake of my friend's vindication, is
necessary to understanding, I shall interpolate.<br />
<br />
Rori had not told me everything. On his late visit to the vicinage of
Dead House he saw more. A crouching figure, seated Turk fashion on top
of the wall, appeared to be writing industriously. Rori recognized the
man as Cranmer, yet did not hail him. He had no opportunity.<br />
<br />
Just as the Cajan came near, Cranmer rose, thrust the notebook, which
had rested across his knees, into the box. Then he turned, tossed
outside the wall both the locked box and a ribbon to which was attached
the key.<br />
<br />
Then his arms raised toward heavens. For five seconds he seemed to
invoke the mercy of Power beyond all of man's scientific prying. And
finally he leaped, <i>inside…!</i><br />
<br />
Rori did not climb to investigate. He knew that directly below this
portion of wall lay the mud sink into which he had thrown the chunks of
meat!<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="28" id="28" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/17"></span>
<br />
<div class="tiInherit" style="text-align: center;">
<b>VIII</b></div>
<br />
This is a true transcription of the statement I inscribed, telling
the sequence of actual events at Dead House. The original of the
statement now lies in the archives of the detective department.<br />
<br />
Cranmer's notebook, though written in a precise hand, yet betrayed
the man's insanity by incoherence and frequent repetitions. My statement
has been accepted now, both by alienists and by detectives who had
entertained different theories in respect to the case. It quashes the
noisome hints and suspicions regarding three of the finest Americans who
ever lived – and also one queer supposition dealing with supposed
criminal tendencies in poor Joe, the octoroon.<br />
<br />
John Corliss Cranmer <i>went</i> insane for sufficient cause!<br />
<br />
<br />
As readers of popular fiction know well, Lee Cranmer's <i>forte</i> was
the writing of what is called — among fellows in the craft —
pseudo-scientific story. In plain words, this means a yarn, based upon
solid fact in the field of astronomy, chemistry, anthropology or
what-not, which carries to logical conclusion improved theories of men
who devote their lives to searching out further nadirs of fact <b>(11)</b>.<br />
<br />
In certain fashion these men are allies of science. Often they
visualize something which has not been imagined even by the best of men
from whom they secure data, thus opening new horizons of possibility. In
a large way Jules Verne was one of these men in his day; Lee Cranmer
bade fair to carry on the work in worthy fashion — work taken up for a
period by an Englishman named Wells, but abandoned for stories of a
different — and, in my humble opinion, less absorbing — type <b>(12)</b>.<br />
<br />
Lee wrote three novels, all published, which dealt with such subjects
— two of the three secured from his own father's labors, and the other
speculating upon the discovery and possible uses of inter-atomic energy.
Upon John Corliss Cranmer's return from Prague that fatal winter, the
father informed Lee that a greater subject than any with which the young
man had dealt now could be tapped.<br />
<br />
Cranmer, senior, had devised a way in which the limiting factors in protozoic life and <i>growth</i>, could be nullified; in time, and with cooperation of biologists who specialized upon <i>karyokinesis</i>
and embryology of higher forms, he hoped — to put the theory in
pragmatic terms — to be able to grow swine the size of elephants, quail
or woodcock with breasts from which a hundredweight of white meat could
be cut away, and steers whose dehorned heads might butt at the third <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="29" id="29" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/18"></span>story of a skyscraper!<br />
<br />
Such result would revolutionize the methods of food supply, of
course. It also would hold out hope for all undersized specimens of
humanity — provided only that if factors inhibiting growth could be
deleted, some methods of stopping gianthood also could be developed.<br />
<br />
Cranmer the elder, through use of an undescribed (in the notebook)
growth medium of which one constituent was agar-agar, and the use of
radium emanations, had succeeded in bringing about apparently
unrestricted growth in the paramoecium protozoan, certain of the
vegetable growths (among which were bacteria), and in the amorphous cell
of protoplasm known as the amoeba — the last a single cell containing
only nucleolus, nucleus, and a space known as the contractile vacuole
which somehow aided in throwing off particles impossible to assimilate
directly. This point may be remembered in respect to the piles of lumber
left near the outside walls surrounding Dead House!<br />
<br />
When Lee Cranmer and his wife came south to visit, John Corliss
Cranmer showed his son an amoeba — normally an organism visible under
low-power microscope — which he had absolved from natural growth
inhibitions. This amoeba, a rubbery, amorphous mass of protoplasm, was
of the size then of a large beef liver. It could have been held in two
cupped hands, placed side by side.<br />
<br />
“How large could it grow?” asked Lee, wide-eyed and interested.<br />
<br />
“So far as I know,” answered his father, “there is <i>no</i> limit now! It might, if it got food enough, grow to be as big as the Masonic Temple!<br />
<br />
“But take it out and kill it. Destroy the organism utterly — burning
the fragments — else there is no telling what might happen. The amoeba,
as I have explained, reproduces by simple division. Any fragment
remaining might be dangerous.”<br />
<br />
Lee took the rubbery, translucent giant cell — but he did not obey
orders. Instead of destroying it as his father had directed, Lee thought
out a plan. Suppose he should grow this organism to tremendous size?
Suppose, when the tale of his father's accomplishment were spread, an
amoeba of many tons weight could be shown in evidence? Lee, of somewhat
sensational cast of mind, determined instantly to keep secret the fact
that he was not destroying the organism, but encouraging its further
growth. Thought of possible peril never crossed his mind <b>(13)</b>.<br />
<br />
He arranged to have the thing fed — allowing for normal increase of
size in an abnormal thing. It fooled him only by growing much more
rapidly. When he came back from Cuba the amoeba practically filled <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="30" id="30" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/19"></span>the whole of the mud sink hollow. He had to give it much greater supplies…<br />
<br />
The giant cell came to absorb as much as two hogs in a single day.
During daylight, while hunger still was appeased, it never emerged,
however. That remained for the time that it could secure no more food
near at hand to satisfy its ravenous and increasing appetite.<br />
<br />
Only instinct for the sensational kept Lee from telling Peggy, his wife, all about the matter. Lee hoped to spring a <i>coup</i>
which would immortalize his father, and surprise his wife terrifically.
Therefore, he kept his own counsel — and made bargains with the Cajan,
Rori, who supplied food daily for the shapeless monster of the pool.<br />
<br />
The tragedy itself came suddenly and unexpectedly. Peggy, feeding the
two Gordon setters that Lee and she used for quail hunting, was in the
Lodge yard before sunset. She romped alone, as Lee himself was dressing.<br />
Of a sudden her screams cut the still air! Without her knowledge, ten foot <i>pseudopods</i>
— those flowing tentacles of protoplasm sent forth by the sinister
occupant of the pool — slid out and around her putteed ankles.<br />
<br />
For a moment at first she did not understand. Then, the horrid
suspicion of truth, her cries rent the air. Lee, at that time struggling
to lace a pair of high shoes, straightened, paled, and grabbed a
revolver as he dashed out.<br />
<br />
In another room a scientist, absorbed in his note-taking, glanced up,
frowned, and then — recognizing the voice — shed his white gown and
came out. He was too late to do aught but gasp with horror.<br />
<br />
In the yard Peggy was half engulfed in a squamous, rubbery something which at first he could not analyze.<br />
<br />
Lee, his boy, was fighting with the sticky folds, and slowly, surely, losing his own grip upon the earth!<br />
<div class="tiInherit" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<b>IX</b></div>
<br />
John Corliss Cranmer was by no means a coward; he stared, cried
aloud, then ran indoors, seizing the first two weapons which came to
hand — a shotgun and hunting knife which lay in sheath in a cartridged
belt across hook of the hall-tree. The knife was ten inches in length
and razor-keen.<br />
<br />
Cranmer rushed out again. He saw an indecent fluid something which as
yet he had not had time to classify — lumped into a six-foot-high
center before his very eyes! It looked like one of <span class="pagenum ws-pagenum" data-page-number="31" id="31" title="Page:Ooze.pdf/20"></span>the micro-organisms he had studied! One grown to frightful dimensions. An amoeba!<br />
<br />
There, some minutes suffocated in the rubbery folds — yet still
apparent beneath the glistening ooze of this monster — were two bodies.<br />
<br />
They were dead. He knew it. Nevertheless he attacked the flowing,
senseless monster with his knife. Shot would do no good. And he found
that even the deep, terrific slashes made by his knife closed together
in a moment and healed. The monster was invulnerable to ordinary attack!<br />
<br />
A pair of <i>pseudopods</i> sought out his ankles, attempting to
bring him low. Both of these he severed — and escaped. Why did he try?
He did not know. The two whom he had sought to rescue were dead, buried
under folds of this horrid thing he knew to be his own discovery and
fabrication.<br />
<br />
Then it was that revulsion and insanity came upon him.<br />
<br />
There ended the story of John Corliss Cranmer, save for one hastily
scribbled paragraph — evidently written at the time Rori had seen him
atop the wall.<br />
<br />
May we not supply with assurance the intervening steps?<br />
<br />
Cranmer was known to have purchased a whole pen of hogs a day or two
following the tragedy. These animals were never seen again. During the
time the wall was being constructed is it not reasonable to assume that
he fed the giant organism within — to keep it quiet? His scientist brain
must have visualized clearly the havoc and horror which could be
wrought by the loathsome thing if it ever were driven by hunger to flow
away from the Lodge and prey upon the country-side!<br />
<br />
With the wall once in place, he evidently figured that starvation or
some other means which he could supply would kill the thing. One of the
means had been made by setting fire to several piles of the disgorged
timbers; probably this had no effect whatever.<br />
<br />
The amoeba was to accomplish still more destruction. In the throes of
hunger it threw its gigantic, formless strength against the walls <i>from the inside</i>;
then every edible morsel within was house assimilated, the logs,
rafters and other fragments being worked out through the contractile
vacuole.<br />
<br />
During some of its last struggles, undoubtedly, the side wall of
brick was weakened — not to collapse, however, until the giant amoeba no
longer could take advantage of the breach. In final death lassitude,
the amoeba stretched itself out in a thin layer over the ground. There
it succumbed, though there is no means of estimating how long a time
intervened.<br />
<br />
The
last paragph in Cramer's notebook, scrawled so badly that it is
possible some words I have not deciphered correctly, reads as follows:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
In my work I have found the means of creating a monster. The
unnatural thing, in turn, has destroyed my work and those whom I held
dear. It is in vain that I assure myself of innocence of spirit. Mine is
the crime of presumption. Now, as expedition — worthless though that
may be — I give myself…</blockquote>
<br />
It is better not to think of that last leap, and the struggle of an insane man in the grip of the dying monster.<br />
<br />
<b>END</b>. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>NOTES</b><br />
<br />
<b>(1) - </b>Variant spelling of "Cajuns," whose derivation is indeed as Mr. Rud explains. H. P. Lovecraft would famously use this same setting in part of <i>The Call of Cthulhu</i> (written 1926, published 1928). It is fairly likely that Lovecraft read "Ooze," so this may have been one of his inspirations.<br />
<br />
<b>(2) - </b>A reminder that this story was written during Prohibition, though of course the avoidance of taxes by moonshine-makers happened before and continued to happen after Prohibition — it continues into the present day. However, there was a <i>lot</i> more money in it during the Prohibition Era.<br />
<br />
<b>(3) - </b>The Cajun ethnic culture is actually more common in Louisiana than in Alabama, though there's no particular reason why some Cajuns couldn't have migrated to Alabama at some point in history.<br />
<br />
<b>(4) - </b>This is seriously insane behavior even by the standards of over a century ago, though at that time rich eccentrics really <i>could</i> reasonably expect to get away with murder, in back-country areas such as the one described. Remember, this was also the time when labor disputes not infrequently led to pitched battles with dozens of casualties on a side.<br />
<br />
<b>(5) - </b>This is pretty brutal treatment meted out to the black man — and, sadly, all too plausible for a black suspect with known criminal tendencies in the South c. 1910. The police were in general brutal by modern standards, a century ago, and the South extremely racist. He was actually fortunate not to be lynched.<br />
<br />
<b>(6) - </b>In comparison, Corliss is rich, obviously crazy, and <i>confessing</i> — brutality to him would be totally counter-productive. The problem is that his confession is so incoherent that the police can't figure out what actually happened; if they presented it as given he could not be convicted upon it, and any competent defense attorney (which his friends and relatives would provide for him) could throw the <i>complete</i> confession back at them and tear it full of holes as the obvious rantings of a lunatic.<br />
<br />
<b>(7) - </b>This would have stuck in Lovecraft's mind if he ever read this; he <i>hated</i> seafood, a dislike we see expressed in <i>The Call of Cthulhu</i> and <i>The Shadow Over Innsmouth</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>(8) - </b>This may have been the scene that inspired Lovecraft to write the similar liquor-based interrogation of Zadok Allen by Robert Olmstead in <i>The Shadow Over Innsmouth</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>(9) - </b>This was, of course, when Cuba was still relatively free and prosperous, having recently (1898) been liberated from Spanish rule by the United States of America. Fidel Castro would not afflict that unfortunate island nation for over half a century. <br />
<br />
<b>(10) - </b>The sequence with the growing demand for raw meat may have inspired Lovecraft to plant the similar clue regarding the growth of Wilbur Whateley's Twin in <i>The Dunwich Horror</i>. In fact this story -- especially its use of layered revelation and interviews with persons speaking in fully-rendered rural dialects -- strikes me as <i>very</i> Lovecraftian in tone. <i>So</i> Lovecraftian, in fact, that it makes me wonder if this wasn't actually an early example of Lovecraft doing a ghost-rewrite, as he frequently did in his later career.<br />
<br />
<b>(11) - </b>This story was written before the term "science fiction" had been coined to describe this sort of tale.<br />
<br />
<b>(12) - </b>H. G. Wells stopped writing much science fiction after the early 1900's, preferring instead to write science fact, speculative essays, and social novels. By the late 1910's and 1920's he had pretty much abandoned science fiction, though he was to return to it in the 1930's with <i>The Shape of Things To Come -- </i>both the book and the (more famous) movie.<br />
<br />
<b>(13) - </b>To be fair to Lee, this was before the concept of attacks by scientifically-created, artificially-enlarged creatures was common. Indeed, this story may have been the first, or one of the first, uses of this trope.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>REVIEW</b><br />
<br />
This is a remarkably-powerful, creepy and well-presented science fiction horror tale. It contains numerous Lovecraftian touches, at a time before H. P. Lovecraft was a well-known horror writer, including the celibate hero, the revelation of the horror one layer at a time, the rustic informants with dialogue rendered in phonetic dialect, the revulsion against anything smelling of the sea, and the amorphous creature. In fact it is <i>so</i> Lovecraftian that I strongly suspect, having finished it, that Lovecraft either helped Rud write this, or was inspired to parts of some of his later works, notably <i>The Call of Cthulhu</i>, <i>The Dunwich Horror, The Shadow Over Innsmouth</i> and <i>At the Mountains of Madness</i>, by elements of this fiction.<br />
<b> </b><br />
I have never seen this story reprinted anywhere, even though it is very obviously ancestral to later several amorphous-horror stories, including one I've reprinted here,<i> </i>Charles Willard Diffin's <i>Spawn of the Stars</i>. This story deserves much wider distribution -- I'm honored to have had the chance to run it on my zine. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as did I.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b>Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-35370594501034835602014-12-04T16:09:00.000-08:002018-09-23T17:43:41.857-07:00SF Lit-Critterdom and Political Correctness as a Means of Temporal Tariff<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"SF Lit-Critterdom and Political Correctness as a Means of Temporal Tariff"</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jordan S. Bassior</span></b></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b>Introduction</b></span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> </span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I was recently looking through the Table of Contents of Weinberg, Dziemianowicz & Greenberg's excellent anthology <i>100 Wild Little Weird Tales</i> (</span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© 1994) and reflecting upon the fact that almost all these stories were now in the public domain owing to the expiration of copyright. And I thought that I was fortunate to live in an age where so many really excellent old stories were now available for free. (In fact, I got the anthology as a present from someone who bought it at a library book sale, so it was close to free for both me and my benefactor).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Then (as I tend to do, because I take a relative and historical view of Time) it occurred to me to ask myself: would the same thing be true if I were in the world of 40 years ago, when my 10-year-old self started to become seriously interested in science fiction, fantasy and horror? And the answer is "No," and the reason for this answer is interesting.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b>I. The Science-Fictional Conversation</b> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Before the 1920's, science fiction did not self-consciously exist as a separate genre. Though the pioneering work in the field had been done by Jules Verne in the last half of the 19th century, and by H. G. Wells in the 1890's through 1910's, and some science fiction and science fantasy series of great later importance had already been started (Edgar Rice Burroughs had already written the first <i>John Carter</i> and <i>Tarzan</i> novels, and L. Frank Baum the early Oz books), there was no explict concept of "science fiction" or "science fantasy" as distinct from general adventure fiction or straight-out fantasy. Science fiction stories were published in mainstream literary or adventure magazines.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">In 1923 J. C. Henneberger founded <i>Weird Tales</i>, and in 1926 Hugo Gernsback founded <i>Amazing Stories</i>. This was the start of the explicit genres of science fantasy and science fiction, and what this meant was that a lot of people who liked such stories were all reading the same magazines and writing letters to the editorial columns. This meant that the start of the <i>conversation</i> of science fiction, the trading of ideas which allowed the genre to build upon its past achievements. It had been a big imaginative step for Verne to conceive of projectiles round the Moon or Wells of super-technological alien invasion, but now every new concept was digested and used as the basis for even-better concepts by the authors who filled the pates of these magazines (which of course included some Verne and Wells reprints, the more so because some of Verne's stuff had already become public-domain).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">As a result the Interwar Era stories -- those from the 1920's through 1930's -- feel "modern" in a way which earlier science fiction does not. This is due not so much to cultural assumptions shared with the present day as it is to intellectual assumptions shared by the writers and transmitted to later science fiction and fantasy by the medium of the old stories. <i>Every science fiction and fantasy author grows up reading the work of his predecessors</i>, and this is a good thing, because one sees farther when one stands on the shoulders of giants. Knowledge of the work of the past helps keep one from re-inventing the wheel -- and more importantly, it lets one use the already-invented wheel to serve as components in one's own vehicles of the imagination.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b>II. Upon the Shoulders of Giants</b> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Of course, there's a downside to this, particularly when a would-be author is simply not all that imaginative. If I'm not aware that hitching a ride on a comet is a concept that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Off_on_a_Comet">has</a> <a href="http://fantasticworlds-jordan179.blogspot.com/2013/02/comets-burial-1953-by-raymond-z-gallun.html">been</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heart_of_the_Comet">done</a> before,<b> </b>I'm liable to write my own off-on-a-comet story in total ignorance of the work of Jules Verne in 1877, Raymond Gallun in 1953, or Gregory Benford and David Brin in 1986. And I'm going to look pretty silly in the eyes of knowledgeable fans when I hop up on my dunghill and crow the credit for being the first ever to come up with the idea.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Does that mean that I must avoid the topic like the plague?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">No! It <i>does</i> mean that I should be aware of the work of those who have preceded me, so that <b>(1)</b> I don't just wind up rewriting their stories with characters typifying today's ephermal cultural fads, and <b>(2) </b>I can use their work <i>as a basis atop which to build my own story</i>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">For instance, a lot of Benford and Brin's novel hinges on the problems caused by social and political change in any decades-long duration space mission. The colony planted on Halley's Comet suffers serious social fissures and even small but violent civil wars, and change that in part comes from the life forms they discover within the comet. At the same time, the Earth they left behind changes in ways that render them intolerant of the cometary colonists.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">So, if I want to write my <i>own</i> story about colonizing a comet, I can take the existence of such social and political problems as a given, and proceed from there. Perhaps the cometary colonists have <i>also</i> read <i>The Heart of the Comet</i>, and institute safeguards designed to <i>prevent</i> civil wars or estrangement from Earth. Perhaps these safeguards work. Perhaps they fail. Perhaps the safeguards <i>themselves</i> pose additional dangers to the colonists, or the Earth. Perhaps what they find in the comet is far more disruptive than mere alien parasite / symbionts.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">This was once not a problem, because up until the 1970's - 1990's, science fiction writers and fans were led (to the extent that anyone can herd cats) by writers and publishers and editors and fans who <i>actually knew the history of science fiction</i>. This occurred for two reasons: <b>(1)</b> science fiction's history as a genre was much shorter, and many of them had <i>been</i> fans during the Interwar Era; and <b>(2) </b>science fiction was not yet trying to be "literary" and written to impress those with lit-critter standards (the New Wave was experimental, mostly a failure, and the parts of it which succeeded were primarily just good stories).</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b>III. Margaret Atwood and <i>The Handmaid's Tale</i></b> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The first sign of the Doom That Came To SFWA was the appearance of a pretentious little hen by the name of Margaret Atwood, who in 1985 laid a book called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Handmaid%27s_Tale"><i>The Handmaid's Tale</i></a>. This was in many ways a rehash of themes familiar to science fiction dating all the way back to the 1940's, most obviously Robert A. Heinlein's <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/If_This_Goes_On%E2%80%94">If This Goes On</a> </i>(1940), which probably pioneered the concept of an American fundamentalist Christian religious dictatorship, complete with its leaders enjoying harems.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">This was not what made Atwood, or her book, so objectionable. The objectionable part was that, having written a fairly normal and cliche (though unusually boring) science fiction novel, Atwood both claimed originality for its premise and complained to everyone who would listen that the novel was being considered "science fiction."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">In the process, she demonstrated so complete an ignorance of the nature of science fiction that it ironically gave credence to her claim of originality, since it's hard to see how she could say things like this for publication if she had really read much science fiction. As she told the <i>Guardian</i>.</span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I like to make a distinction between science fiction proper and
speculative fiction. For me, the science fiction label belongs on books
with things in them that we can't yet do, such as going through a
wormhole in space to another universe; and speculative fiction means a
work that employs the means already to hand, such as DNA identification
and credit cards, and that takes place on Planet Earth.</span></blockquote>
<br />
That is a fair statement of the difference between <i>"soft" and "hard" science fiction</i>, though it's a sign of Atwood's parochialism that she obviously believes that Only Earth Is Real. Even more importantly, it would classify Atwood's story as science fiction <i>in her own terms</i>, since as far as we know a decline in fertility due to pollution and sexually-transmitted diseases as extreme as the one in her story is outright <i>impossible</i> -- meaning that some sort of new and especially virulent pollutants and STD's must have been introduced between then and now. Which is to say this has "things" in it "that we can't yet do."<br />
<br />
She. on a separate occasion and referring to a different book, said to <i>New Scientist</i>:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Science fiction is when you have rockets and chemicals. </blockquote>
<br />
Now, aside from the hilarious assumption that "chemicals" and "rockets" are purely science-fictional subjects (when chemistry and rocketry are both centuries-old fields of intellectual endeavor, something it is perhaps too much of which to expect a lit-critter to be aware), again <i>The Handmaid's Tale</i> is "science fiction" <i>by Atwood's definition</i>, since the whole setting, and future society postulated, hinges on widespread female sterility caused in part by <i>chemical pollutants!</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
These two excerpts demonstrate Atwood's inability to reason clearly, since presumably she's thought about her own book in terms of her own definitions before -- unless she's a <i>total</i> airhead. But then, of course, her definition was made-up to absolve her of the sin of writing "mere" science fiction.<br />
<br />
The problem of course, was <i>not</i> that Margaret Atwood was pontificating upon a subject of which she was laughably ignorant. The problem was that the science fictional professionals treated it as an honor that One So Great as Margaret Atwood (who had been almost unknown outside Lit-Critterdom before this) had deigned to bestow a work of Speculative Fiction upon their unworthy little genre ghetto, and started taking her criticisms to heart.<br />
<br />
Science fiction began to morph into a more literary genre.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>IV. Invaders From Below</b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span> </b><br />
Why is this a bad thing? Because, for a very long time now (at least since the 1950's) literary fiction has become increasingly a denizen of the academic and literary hothouses, and one which actively <i>scorns</i> the clear writing of good stories in favor of incomprehensibly-dense allusions and the exploration of immortal themes in favor of tooting the trumpet of whatever current cause has seized the limited imaginations of political activists. What's more, current Political Correctness holds that Western Civilization and even Science and Technology as a whole are Evil, and science fiction is a creation of the West which explores Science and Technology as its main subject matter.<b></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
So when science fiction accepts the opinions of ignorant lit-critters over its own professional writers, and tries to subordinate itself to the whims of modern academia, what it does is to turn against its own nature and write stories in which all it can do is mock and despise its own heritage. What's more, this results in identically boring and depressing futures: "Due to __X__, civilization has fallen and the survivors struggle amid the ruins / all die helplessly / become enlightened and adopt a grim and endless but sustainable non-technological way of life."<br />
<br />
Also, <i>this has all been done before</i>. The global disaster novel is one of the <i>earliest</i> forms of science fiction. None other than Mary Shelley, one of the founders of science fiction, essayed such a tale, in <i>The Last Man</i> (1826). And one could make a case that John of Patmos' <i>Revelation</i> (written ~ AD 60-90, and included in the canonical <i>New Testament</i> of the <i>Bible</i>) was such a work. Which is to say that this "new" direction in science fiction, recently called "Mundane" (and dissected by none other than myself on <i>Fantastic Worlds</i>), is either almost 200 years old, or almost <i>2000</i> years old, depending upon which inspiration one assumes.<br />
<br />
What's more, because lit-critters pretending to be science fiction writers rarely know much real science, the reasons for the catastrophes are often laughable. <i>The Handmaid's Tale</i>, for instance, involves a heck of a lot of Artistic License for biology, chemistry, biochemistry and demographics -- and even its sociology is also more than a little dubious. When reading global disaster novels written a half-century or more ago this is often obvious; and it's often the case today with such works not written by the scientifically-conversant, from the point of view of someone familiar with real science.<br />
<br />
In contrast, consider Stephen Baxter's <i>Flood</i> (2008) and <i>Ark</i> (2009), which actually manages to come up with a scientifically-plausible reason for a global flood of Biblical proportions -- and then examines the consequences. Somewhat pessimistically, to my mind -- but then Stephen Baxter's always been a <i>certain kind</i> of pessimist (he tends to posit great catastrophes which due to human political stupidity cause tremendous loss of life and culture, but which due to human <i>courage and tenacity</i> Mankind winds up surviving anyway). Stephen Baxter, of course, is both a real science fiction writer and an actual scientist.<br />
<br />
Of course, the works by the lit-critters are rarely very good -- they have flat characterization and depressingly-illogical settings in the pursuit of boring and tendentious themes, leading to hackneyed plots written in the most opaque imaginable style. This translates to "poor sales figures," despite all the efforts of politically-biased editors to promote them by including them or excerpts from them in "Best of" annual anthologies, or politically-biased activist fans to vote them Hugos and Nebulas.<br />
<br />
So why do the editors, writers and fans do it?<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>V. The Time Patrol</b><br />
<br />
Many fans will have noted that one <i>big</i> difference between the supposedly-great science fiction stories of the past -- from before the Invasion of the Lit-Critters<b> </b>-- and those of the present, is very simple. The older stories are plainly and simply <i>better</i>. Some may have wooden characters, or stilted plots, or recycled settings (though the last is something of an illusion, as in many cases these are the stories that <i>pioneered</i> ideas which later science fiction reused); but what they have in common is that they are good <i>stories</i>. They engage the reader's attention, thrill him with wonders or horrors, and expand his mind with meditations upon the strange and unknowable depths of space and time.<br />
<br />
This bothers the lit-critters pretending to be science-fiction writers, because it means that they are facing superior competition. Who would bother to read <i>Yet Another Boring Story Where the Global Economy Collapses and We All Live on Dungheaps Forever Until We Miserably Die</i>, when one can read <i>The Wizard of Oz</i>, <i>A Princess of Mars</i>, <i>At the Mountains of Madness</i>, <i>The Legion of Space</i>, <i>Galactic Patrol</i>, <i>Red Planet</i>, <i>The Demon Princes</i>, <i>Mirkheim</i>, <i>The Chronicles of Amber</i>, <i>Ringworld</i>, or pretty much <i>any</i> major science-fiction story from before 1990?<br />
<br />
Or, for that matter, modern greats such as Gregory Benford's <i>Galactic Center Saga</i>, or Alastair Reynolds <i>Revelation Space</i> series, or John Wright's <i>Golden Oecumene</i> trilogy, or ... (insert favorite here). Actually, we're living in a Golden Age of Science Fiction, despite all that the lit-critters can in their spite and envy of better writers do to damage the field.<br />
<br />
So why the rejection of the past? Because, if fans read the earlier stories, they will both see how much better they are than are the lit-critter droppings that now win Hugos and Nebulas, and that writers like Benford, Brin, Wright, and Reynolds are <i>far</i> more writing to that superior tradition, continuing a more interesting science-fictional conversation, than are the lit-critters.<br />
<br />
By choosing as a standard for acceptance that stories conform to the political fads of today, <i>no matter when they were written</i>, the lit-critters are in effect prohibiting the importation of ideas from earlier times, and any ideas of today which are in any way based on the importation of said ideas. By furthermore enforcing these restrictions in a cliquish and inconsistent fashion (their favorite writers get away with astonishing degrees of racism and sexism, provided that they don't attack the editors' Sacred Cows) they ensure that they can limit the field to that fiction which does not challenge or threaten them -- they cut down the tall poppies before they can reach too dangerous heights.<br />
<br />
If successful, the consequences would be terrible. The tremendous quantity of thought and effort devoted to imagining the possibilities of the future would be thrown aside, to be replaced with boring and depressing predictions of unavoidable doom. Science fiction as a genre would perish: who would bother to write or read stories in entirely-fictional settings which weren't even any <i>fun</i>? <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>VI. Free Minds and Free Markets </b><br />
<br />
In classic fictional fashion, the lit-critters are being defeated by that which they scorned: the power of free minds in (mostly) free markets<b>. </b>They failed to monopolize the executive posistions in science-fiction publishing -- the success of Baen Books has doomed their hopes in this regard. And now, increasingly, they are being circumvented by the ability of electronic publishing and increasingly cheap forms of physical self-publishing to ignore their gate-keeping.<br />
<br />
They fulminate and foam against this, but of course it was inevitable. Even had they managed to control the publishing houses, new ones would have emerged; and, offering the readers the kinds of stories they wanted to read, outcompeted them. Even had neither computer, word processor nor internet been invented, readers would have bought these stories. Barring some sort of totalitarian political control over the press, they had no hope of making their literary embargo practical.<br />
<br />
Since they <i>are</i> socialists, they respond with rage. It's the fault of saboteurs and wreckers, of foolish fans who didn't appreciate "true" quality and of traitors within their own ranks. We are now witnessing the fall of the whole rotten lit-critter establishment, and its purging from our field, by the processes of the market.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Conclusion</b><br />
<br />
Science fiction is the most imaginative, highest and most extensive form of human literature. It embraces within it as subgenres all mundanity. Its fall would have been terrible; thankfully, because we <i>do</i> still live in a free society, it shall not fall.<br />
<br />
A century from now, fans will still be enjoying the fun and exciting fictional settings great science fiction writers create today, and those which they created a century ago. And, of course, new science fiction writers will be creating stories beyond our present imagination.<br />
<br />
And the lit-critters will be, deservedly, forgotten. Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-90144441830390838252014-11-28T09:06:00.002-08:002018-09-23T17:43:47.644-07:00"The Elixir of Invisibility" (1940) by Henry Kuttner, with Review<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"The Elixir of Invisibility"</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© 1940</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">by</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Henry Kuttner</b> </span> </span></div>
<br />
<br />
Richard Raleigh sensed trouble the moment he entered the laboratory. His employer, Dr. Caspar Meek, looked far too pleased with himself. Either somebody was dead or else Meek had been pulling the wings off flies again. That was the way he was. A nice guy who would have got along swell with Torquemada or maybe Nero. <br />
<br />
Besides, Raleigh was worrying about his frogs. They had vanished without trace. His bronzed, good-looking face wore an expression of bitterness as he sat down in a protesting chair and tried to marshal the innumerable things he wanted to say to Meek. After a while, he asked, <br />
<br />
"Well?" <br />
<br />
"Ah," said the scientist, whirling like a Buddha on his desk chair. -His bland, fat face shone in the sunlight. His bald spot glowed with an unholy light. <br />
<br />
"Ah," he repeated, with more emphasis. "There you are. Rick. I — uh — I have finally decided that the job you hold is unworthy of your talents." <br />
<br />
"What do you mean, job?" Raleigh asked. "I'm assistant, cook, errand boy, bottle washer and general stooge. Five jobs at least." <br />
<br />
Meek ignored the note of irony. <br />
<br />
"I have at last decided to allow you to'aid me in niy experiments. You are promoted. We are' colleagues. Your salary is' still the same," he hastened to add, "but what is money compared to the glory of serving science?" <br />
<br />
Raleigh choked back.the impulse to remark that money would mean he could marry Binnie, Meek's lovely but slightly bird-brained daughter. How a heel like the Doc could have fathered such an angel as Binnie was an insoluble problem. It created its own problems too. For Binnie was an old-fashioned girl and wouldn't marry without her father's permission. <br />
<br />
"Get Daddy to say 'yes'," she had murmured into her lover's ear, "and everything will be swell ... " <br />
<br />
"Did you speak?" Meek inquired, breaking into his thoughts. <br />
<br />
"'Frogs' was all I said," Raleigh grunted. "Two months I've been raising giant frogs to make some extra money, and now I find the frog pond empty." His gaze searched the room. <br />
<br />
For some reason Meek chuckled. <br />
<br />
"Never mind that. Look here." <br />
<br />
He indicated several small glass vials that stood on his desk, some with red and some with green labels. <br />
<br />
"Let's get to business. I expect some visitors shortly, and I want you to stay here till they go. Don't say anything. Jtist listen." - . <br />
<br />
Raleigh stared at the vials. <br />
<br />
"Oh. Your invisibility elixir. Who are the visitors?"<br />
<br />
"Reporters."<br />
<br />
"Uh?" The young man goggled. "After what happened? After the gags the papers have been running—" <br />
<br />
A singularly nasty gleam came into Meek's blue eyes. <br />
<br />
"Yes. They called me a faker, I believe—a publicity-hunter. Well, I think they've changed their minds. <br />
<br />
"Ah—there's the bell." <br />
<br />
Raleigh sighed, got up, went into the outer office, opened the door. and was brushed on a wave of excited reporters. A dozen of them at least, yelping for Doctor Meek and with blood in their eyes. Vaguely hoping that they'd tear the scientist limb from limb, Raleigh let them enter. <br />
<br />
Meek greeted them happily.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, gentlemen. Have chairs." <br />
<br />
There were only two chairs, but it was a minor point, unnoticed in the babble. A burly legman leaned over the desk and extended his hands. Either he was reaching for Meek's throat, or else he was tightly gripping something invisible.<br />
<br />
"Frogs!" the reporter said hoarsely. "Invisible frogs!,, And me with a hangover. My God!" <br />
<br />
He shuddered slightly and opened his hands. There was a slight <i>plop!</i> on the desk blotter, a scrambling sound, and a splash from the goldfish bowl in the corner. One of the reporters, a round-faced individual, emitted a faint, faraway sound and drank hurriedly from a brown bottle. <br />
<br />
"I can stand a lot," said the first speaker. "Maybe you had justification. But in the name of God, couldn't you have proved your point in some other way? Look. A parcel comes addressed to me. I open it and it's empty. Then an invisible frog comes up and hits me in the face." <br />
<br />
"A dirty trick," said the short, squat man with jet-black hair and a drooping eyelid. <br />
<br />
A cry came from the corner. Richard Raleigh was touched to the quick. <br />
<br />
"My frogs —" he began in a heartfelt voice. "Be careful where you step, you men." <br />
<br />
Meek coughed warnihgly. "Gentlemen," he said loudly. "I apologize, of course. 1 had to insure your coming here to watch my little demonstration. As I wrote you before, I have invented a fluid' that causes invisibility by creating complete transparency in material objects. <br />
<br />
" I don't know exactly how it works myself. I think some radiation is induced in the cellular or atomic struc-<br />
ture — at least, it makes clothing invisible as well as flesh and blood. "This" — he picked up one of "the red-labeled vials— "is the invisibility elixir. The green-labeled ones are the antidote."<br />
<br />
"Invisible frogs," said the first reporter dully. "I'm not going to write this if I vanish*myself. It's the d. t.'s." <br />
<br />
"I had expected skepticism," Meek continued, "and so I shall give you complete proof. I want you gentlemen to station yourselves at various points around this block. Yoii" — he pointed at one — "will find your handkerchief stolen. You—^will lose your hat. You—" <br />
<br />
"Not my wallet," said that one, hastily buttoning his hip pocket. "Yesterday was payday." <br />
<br />
"I shall visit you invisibly and give you complete proof. I'll leave my card with you all." Meek extended his leather cardcase. "Will that convince you?" <br />
<br />
"Yeah," a sad voice said. "It'll do more than that, I'm afraid. Frogs . . ." <br />
<br />
There was a confused, hopeliess mumbling. <br />
<br />
"Good," Meek said briskly, rublaing his hands. He shooed the reporters out like chickens. There was a momentary confusion; then the room was empty save for the scientist and Raleigh.<br />
<br />
<br />
'The latter stood in a corner, eyeing the desk. He had a brief impression that some of the vials had vanished. Perhaps — <br />
<br />
"Now!" Meek whirled on his assistant. "Take this cardcase, quick." <br />
<br />
"Me?" Raleigh stammered, trying to back through the wall. "Bub-bub—" <br />
<br />
The doctor snatched up a red-labeled vial and advanced, blood in. his eye. <br />
<br />
"Drink this!" <br />
<br />
Raleigh ducked. "I will," he said, "like hell! I have stood for a lot, but when it comes to being a guinea pig—" <br />
<br />
Meek rubbed one of his chins thoughtfully. <br />
<br />
"Now listen," he said in a placating tone. "You heard me tell the reporters my plan. They're stationed around the block now, waiting for an invisible man." <br />
<br />
"They're waiting for you," the other pointed out. <br />
<br />
"Well, if you're invisible, they won't know the difference," Meek said with perfect logic. <br />
<br />
"It's the last straw! You steal my frogs and then —" Raleigh choked. <br />
<br />
Only the image of Binnie restrained him from picking up Meek and battering him around the room. <br />
<br />
"Yes," the doctor said unctuously. "Binnie. I have been thinking I'd take a trip to Mexico with her. I've also been thinking of firing you." <br />
<br />
Raleigh writhed. But Meek held all the cards. Reluctantly he let the vial be thrust into his hand . . . <br />
<br />
The door opened, admitting Binnie and an extroverted dog. The girl was not noteworthy, despite her prettiness, and Raleigh was deceiving himself when he saw wings sprouting from her back. <br />
<br />
The dog, however, was worthy of notice. <br />
<br />
For one thing, Angel was an exhibitionist. He was large and nondescript, with a tinge of bloodhound in his sinister ancestry. Angel was also an arrant coward, but showed his adequate teeth at every opportunity. A dog of good taste, he heartily disliked Meek. <br />
<br />
The sight of Binnie caused a violent reaction within Raleigh. Some might call it love. At any event, knowing that his future depended on Dr. Meek's good will, Raleigh swallowed the elixir and immediately discovered that the missing frogs had taken up residence in his stomach. <br />
<br />
They did it gradually and by stealth. <br />
<br />
Down his gullet they went slipping and scrambling, to land with a succession of dull thuds in the stomach itself. Then they joined hands and danced a bolero. <br />
<br />
Desperately Raleigh seized his head and held it in place just as it began to float off. <br />
<br />
"Gwlg — nwhnk!" he observed.<br />
<br />
Binnie turned, startled. "Wh — what was that? Did I hear something, Dad?" <br />
<br />
"Not at all," Meek denied, smiling. <br />
<br />
"Just something I — uh — was going to eat. Did you want me?" <br />
<br />
The girl turned a rather lovely pink. <br />
<br />
"I was looking for Rick. He — <i>oh!</i>" <br />
<br />
A peculiar reaction seemed to have overtaken Binnie. Her eyes were lambent. <br />
<br />
The doctor looked startled. <br />
<br />
"What's wrong?" <br />
<br />
The girl gulped and looked down. <br />
<br />
"Nothing. It — felt like somebody kissed me. Isn't that silly?" <br />
<br />
"Damned silly," Meek remarked grimly, glaring at empty air. "You must excuse me, Binnie. I have work to do I—" <br />
<br />
He paused, his gaze riveted on the unusual antics of the extroverted dog.<br />
<br />
<br />
Angel was in trouble. His nose was deceiving him. There was a ghost in the room — the ghost of a smell. It smelled like Raleigh, but that gentleman obviously wasn't present. Angel shook his ears away from his eyes and stared around in a baffled and hopeless manner. No Raleigh. But the smell remained. <br />
<br />
Angel put his nose on the carpet and proceeded to drag himself after it, sniffing audibly. Abruptly he halted, with a muffled shriek. His nose had come in violent contact with an invisible shoe. <br />
<br />
It was a toss-up whether or not Angel would collapse. The unfortunate beast began to tremble in every limb. Raleigh, taking pity on the creature, bent down and stroked Angel's head. <br />
<br />
That was the last straw. With a loud cry of distress the dog fainted. <br />
<br />
Meek cleared his throat. Significantly he turned toward the door and opened it, allowing room for the invisible Raleigh to pass through. Under his breath he muttered,<br />
<br />
"The cardcase?" <br />
<br />
"Got it," came an almost inaudible whisper — and Raleigh was gone, leaving a slightly hysterical beast and a girl who, though puzzled, was rather pleased than otherwise. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>CHAPTER II.</b> <br />
<br />
<b>The Robbery </b><br />
<br />
Angel's recovery was swift. His bump of curiosity brought hirri back to consciousness. With canine instinct, he divined that the enigma had left the room, so Angel followed with frantic speed, almost upsetting Dr. Meek. There came the sound of a closing door, followed by quiet, vitriolic profanity spilling from the learned savant's lips. <br />
<br />
He sent Binnie away and went back into his office, to. practice various positions before a full-length mirror. Some of the reporters had carried cameras. <br />
<br />
Meanjvhile the invisible man was lying in the gutter outside the house, nursing a bruised knee. Trouble had been immediate. Raleigh's feet hadn't been where he imagined, and he had taken a nasty spill as a consequence. It was, in a way, like trying to walk with your eyes closed. Distances were too easily misgauged. Raleigh clambered erect, discovered that he had lost the card-case, and searched for it. It lay nearby, and vanished as he picked it up. <br />
<br />
What now? He looked around, feeling oddly isolated and lonely. There were few passers-by. A street car rumbled past. One of the reporters was leaning against a lamp post not far away. <br />
<br />
Reminded of his errand, Raleigh slowly began to walk toward the man. <br />
<br />
He paused directly in front of him, waiting. The reporter made no sign. <br />
<br />
Obviously he didn't see Raleigh.<br />
<br />
The latter delicately reached out and snatched the handkerchief that protruded from the reporter's pocket. So swiftly did it vanish that its disappearance went unnoticed. The reporter yawned, found a cigarette, arid lit a match on his thumbnail. <br />
<br />
Raleigh grinned. This was going to be easy. He extracted a card from the case and slipped it into his victim's pocket in lieu of the handkerchief. <br />
<br />
As he turned away, there came a loud sniff from behind him. Angel was on the trail, his bloodhound instincts fully aroused. His hopeless whine seemed to say, <br />
<br />
"What the hell is this, anyhow?" <br />
<br />
Fearing complications, Raleigh hurried off, There was another reporter halfway down the block, and he accornplished his errand there before the dog caught up with him. A third reporter was leaning against the granite wall of the Fifth Security Bank on the corner, and Raleigh got his cigarette case unnoticed. He was beginning to enjoy the feeling of power his invisibility gave him. If only that damned dog would keep its distance! <br />
<br />
But Angel was dogged, in more than one way. People paused to stare at the odd antics of the creature, who was indulging in some sort of acrobatic dance. He had again located Raleigh, and had decided to leap up and lick his friend's face. Since the man was invisible. Angel's antics looked decidedly peculiar. <br />
<br />
A crowd gathered. "Hydrophoby," said a lean spinster wearing steel-rimmed glasses. <br />
<br />
"Nuts," said a tall, cadaverous man with sad eyes. "The dog's drunk." <br />
<br />
He paused, stared, and after brief consideration, added, <br />
<br />
"No. I'm drunk. Or else mad. Look at that! Is that ghastly-looking dog actually floating in the air, or am I mad?"<br />
<br />
The spinster did not answer, having collapsed in a faint. Cries of amazement rose from the gathering crowd. <br />
<br />
There was reason. <br />
<br />
As Angel sprang up, Raleigh automatically had seized the dog in order to prevent him from falling and hurting himself. To the onlookers it seemed as though Angel was hanging unsupported some four feet above the sidewalk, frantically scrambling and grunting as though trying to maintain the precarious position. <br />
<br />
A policeman pushed his way through the group. His red face turned redder. "Break it up!" he commanded. "What's going on here, anyway?" <br />
<br />
Nobody answered. It wasn't necessary. Patrolman Donovan compressed his lips firmly. A man of little imagination, he realized only that a dog was floating in the air and causing a disturbance. Ergo, the dog would have to come down. <br />
<br />
Marching forward, Donovan placed his large hands on Angel's back and en; deavored to press the beast down to safer ground. Raleigh automatically pushed up. Compressed thus painfully, Angel gasped, cursed softly, and bit the policeman. <br />
<br />
Donovan staggered back, gritting his teeth. He withdrew his nightstick and came on again, looking dangerous. Fearing complications, Raleigh acted. <br />
<br />
The dog seemed to leap through the air, to come violently in contact with Donovan's face. The two, man and beast, collapsed on the sidewalk, but did not remain there. Angel seized the opportunity of biting his tormentor again, after which he fled, Donovan in hot pursuit. Seeing that the spectacle was ended, the crowd dispersed. <br />
<br />
So did Raleigh. He glanced at his wrist-watch, discovered that he couldn't see it, and continued on his errand. It didn't take long.<br />
<br />
<br />
Fifteen minutes later he stepped invisibly into Meek's outer office, using his key. Silently he went into the lab-<br />
oratory, where the scientist still sat behind his desk. <br />
<br />
"Okay," Raleigh said. <br />
<br />
Meek had glanced up nervously. <br />
<br />
"Oh, it's you. I was afraid — it wouldn't do for the reporters to come in yet. They mustn't know you were the invisible man instead of me. Everything all right?" He thrust a vial at Raleigh, who drank its contents. <br />
<br />
A violent shock seized him and then let go. Meek's gaze, which had been wandering around the room, settled. <br />
<br />
He nodded. <br />
<br />
"Good. You're visible again. Well, what happened?" <br />
<br />
"Everything went off fine." Raleigh put his loot on the desk. Then the bell rang.<br />
<br />
"I'm relieved," Meek smiled. "I didn't know how the stuff would work on a human being. So far I used it only on frogs and lower animals." <br />
<br />
Raleigh repressed an impulse to wring the scientist's neck. Instead, he . went to the door and admitted a horde of reporters. They emitted short, sharp cries and surrounded Meek's desk. <br />
<br />
"You're jiist on time," said the latter. "Well? Are you satisfied?" <br />
<br />
<br />
There were affirmative noises. A tall, cold-eyed man whom Raleigh did not recognize stepped forward. <br />
<br />
"You made yourself invisible?" he asked. <br />
<br />
"Yes." <br />
<br />
"What a scoop!" chortled a reporter. <br />
<br />
The cold-eyed man said, "Doctor Meek, you're under arrest." <br />
<br />
In the stunned silence he exhibited a gleaming badge. <br />
<br />
"Where's the money?" <br />
<br />
Meek was a statue. But the reporters burst into a babble of excited questions. The detective quelled them.<br />
<br />
"The Fifth Security Bank on the corner has just been robbed. So— " <br />
<br />
"You're crazy!"Meek yelped. "I'll sue you for slander! I — I —" <br />
<br />
"Listen," the detective said. "I saw the whole thing. Banknotes. Packages of them. Floating through the bank and out the door. Banknotes don't have wings. I wouldn't have guessed what happened if I hadn't got talking to the reporter who was waiting outside the bank. You didn't get away with it, Meek—and you'd better make it easy for yourself. Where's the dough?" <br />
<br />
Raleigh turned green. He met Meek's accusing stare and winced. He knew what the scientist must be thinking. <br />
<br />
Sure, Raleigh needed money to marry. It would have been easy for him to slip unobserved into the bank and — <br />
<br />
"That's the man," Meek snarled, thrusting out a pudgy finger at his assistant. "I — I didn't make niyself invisible. He did it for me. I was here all the time." <br />
<br />
"Can you prove that?" the detective asked. "I thought you couldn't. It won't work, pal. There's too much evidence against you. Every reporter in this room is a witness. You left your card with all of^'em. Where's the money?" r* <br />
<br />
Meek snatched for a red-labeled vial on the desk before him. The detective forestalled him. Handcuffs clicked. <br />
<br />
"If that's the way you want it, okay," the lawman grunted. "Come along." <br />
<br />
"Raleigh!" screamed the trapped Meek. "I'll kill you for this!" ' <br />
<br />
The door burst open and Binnie appeared, dragging Angel after her. <br />
<br />
"What —" <br />
<br />
In brief, cogent syllables Dr. Meek explained the situation. <br />
<br />
"Your boy friend robbed a bank and threw the blame on me. I —" <br />
<br />
"Come on" said the detective, and dragged his protesting captive away. The reporters followed. Alone in the office, Binnie, Raleigh and Angel looked at one another.<br />
<br />
The girl sobbed faintly and buried herself in Raleigh's arms. <br />
<br />
"Oh, Rick, what's happened?" <br />
<br />
He explained. "It wasn't my fault. You know that, Binnie, don't you?" <br />
<br />
She hesitated. "Are you—sure?" <br />
<br />
"Binnie 1 You know I wouldn't—" <br />
<br />
"But it does look funny. I believe you, dear, but you have to admit — oh, can't we do something? Can't you do something?" <br />
<br />
"What?" Raleigh asked hopefully. • <br />
<br />
<br />
Binnie's lips tightened. "You've got to save Dad. He can't prove his innocence. He may be sent to prison. Then — then I simply couldn't marry you. Rick." <br />
<br />
Raleigh grunted. "But how could it have happened? Money floated out of the bank, but I was the only invisible man in existence." <br />
<br />
"Were you?" <br />
<br />
There was a little silence. Raleigh said slowly, <br />
<br />
"Uh-huh. I get it. Another invis-ible man—but how?" <br />
<br />
He considered. "Somebody else might have invented an invisibility elixir, but that's too much of a coincidence. We'll take it for granted that those vials on the desk are the only ones in existence." <br />
<br />
"No," Binnie said. "There's more in the safe." She nodded toward a large wall-safe in one comer. <br />
<br />
"Okay, but that's locked. Only your father knows the combination. There's more of the elixir and the antidote in the safe — but we can forget about that just now. Those vials on the desk are important." <br />
<br />
Raleigh's eyes widened. "Come tothink of it, I did have an idea that therewere less of them." <br />
<br />
"When?" <br />
<br />
"After the reporters first arrived — Whoa! Listen to this, Binnie! Suppose one of that gang wasn't a reporter?" <br />
<br />
"But —" <br />
<br />
"No, listen! It's a perfect setup for a crook. Suppose he heard, somehow, what was going to happen today. Suppose he pretended to be a reporter, came in with the others, and swiped a couple of vials when nobody was looking. After he left, he could simply make himself invisible and rob the bank — and the blame would be thrown on your father." <br />
<br />
"You've got it, I bet," Binnie agreed. <br />
<br />
"But what can we do?" <br />
<br />
"Wait a minute." Raleigh was counting the vials. "Uh-huh. -Two missing, besides the ones I used. One of the elixir and one of the antidote." <br />
<br />
He shook his head. "I can't tell the police a story like that." <br />
<br />
"Then you'll just have to get proof," <br />
<br />
Binnie said decidedly. "No, keep away from me. You get Dad out of this mess. You got him into it." <br />
<br />
Touched to the' quick by the unfair accusation, Raleigh gasped. Then his lips tightened. <br />
<br />
"Okay," he nodded. "But if I do - will you marry me?" <br />
<br />
"Yes," said Binnie, and Raleigh hurried out of the office. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>CHAPTER III <br /><br />Tough Guy </b><br />
<br />
Evidence.. That was the thing. <br />
<br />
The whirlpool in Raleigh's brain gave little chance for coherent thought; but he knew, from the many detective stories he had read, that clues were vital. Where could he find them? At the bank, perhaps.<br />
<br />
But it wasn't at the bank that Raleigh discovered a clue. It was across the street, near a vacant lot. And it consisted of small fragments of shat-tered glass, from which a subtle odor still rose. <br />
<br />
Embedded in the glass was a soaked green label. <br />
<br />
The antidote! Raleigh shut his eyes tightly, trying to visualize what had happened. Invisible, the crook had entered the bank and stolen the money. Then, fleeing, he had accidentally dropped the vial containing the antidote. That meant — <br />
<br />
It meant that the culprit was still invisible. He'd have to remain invisible unless he could get more, of the antidote! <br />
<br />
How to catch an unseen thief? Raleigh rubbed his aching head. Sight was useless. When he himself had been invisible, only Angel had detected his presence. <br />
<br />
Angel . . . bloodhounds . . . that was it!, He'd set Angel on the trail. It was a long chance, but the only one. <br />
<br />
It took Raleigh five seconds to get back to the house. Binnie was nowhere around. The office was emptyl <br />
<br />
"Angel!" he called. "Here! Dinner!" <br />
<br />
A violent blow caught Raleigh on the chest. He sat down painfully, while a limp, warm, wet object began to pass rapidly over his face. Angel, it seemed, was pleased by the prospect of dinner. <br />
<br />
"Oh, my God," Raleigh groaned. "That damned dog's invisible too." <br />
<br />
It was true. The floor was a shamb-les, consisting of objects which had once reposed on the desk. Glittering glass shards were everywhere. Pushing away the unseen dog, Raleigh began to scrabble among the wreckage. Finally he sat back, sighing deeply. <br />
<br />
Only two vials remained unbroken. Both were red labeled — the invisibility elixir. No trace of. the antidote remained. But, Raleigh remembered, there was a good supply of it in the safe. He'd just get the combination from Meek and— <br />
<br />
There was no time for that now. The scent might grow cold — perhaps was too cold already. He'd have to use an invisible bloodhound to track an invisible thief. <br />
<br />
How? <br />
<br />
Raleigh secured Angel's collar and leash. By dint of much effort, he finally adjusted things to his satisfaction and stood up, holding the loop of the leash in his hand. His teeth began to chatter.<br />
<br />
It wasn't a pleasant sight. The leash stood out rigidly from Raleigh's fingers, ending in a dog collar that hung unsupported in empty air, bouncing up and down slightly. It was impossible to believe that Angel was really there. Raleigh, on a mad impulse, tried to stick his hand through the nothingness inide the collar, and got nipped. <br />
<br />
"Okay," Raleigh groaned. "Try and behave. Angel. Quiet. To heel." <br />
<br />
He opened the door and departed, doing his best to ignore the collar and leash. It would have been easier to ignore an earthquake. <br />
<br />
Luckily, the street was almost deserted. No one noticed anything amiss as Raleigh dragged the dog to his destination. There he pushed Angel's nose toward the broken vial on the sidewalk and muttered: <br />
<br />
"Trail! Trail, stupid! Go get him!" <br />
<br />
The bloodhound in the composite dog rose to the surface. With a deep bay Angel plunged away, snapping the leash out of Raleigh's hand. Then was seen an incredible sight which caused half a dozen people "to go mad and sent a curvaceous blonde screaming into a saloon with wild gestures. <br />
<br />
"Double Scotch!" she gasped to the bartender. "Quick! I just saw a man chasing a snake down the street, and it was the damnedest snake I ever saw!" <br />
<br />
The frantic collar and leash sped on. <br />
<br />
Cursing softly, Raleigh pursued, his hand outstretched. Angel was on the trail. .. . <br />
<br />
"A snake!" cried a uniformed policeman. He whipped out his service revolver and took steady aim, only to find the gun wrested from his hand by Raleigh. The cop tried to wrench free. <br />
<br />
"Let go!" he shouted. "It'll bite somebody—" <br />
<br />
"No, no!" Raleigh babbled. "It hasn't any teeth. It— it's an old snake. A pet. We've had it in the family for years. Don't shoot!" <br />
<br />
There was a scuffle, terminated by Angel himself. A dog of honor, he had discovered that Raleigh was apparently in trouble. Giving up the trail momentarily, he returned and, waiting for an opportune moment, bit the policeman in the pants. This caused a distraction, and before the cop had recovered, Raleigh .was around the corner, the leash again safely in his hand. <br />
<br />
"Ground glass," he promised the dog. "That's what you'll get for dinner. With arsenic on the side. I'll tear you apart with my bare hands — after you find the guy I'm looking for." <br />
<br />
But Angel had stopped. He was sniffing at a closed door. Raleigh opened it, revealing a flight of stairs that led up into dimness. A cheap rooming house, from which odors of cooking drifted down not too enticingly. <br />
<br />
Angel plunged madly up, dragging Raleigh. One flight. Two. Three. The top story — , ; <br />
<br />
Before another door the dog halted. <br />
<br />
He sniffed, glanced at Raleigh — something the man did not, of course, know — and barked shortly. Nothing happened. <br />
<br />
Raleigh's stomach had turned into ice. Behind this door, he realized, washis quarry. So what? <br />
<br />
Heartily he wished the policeman had followed him. Unarmed, he could do little against an invisible crook who no doubt packed a rod. Well — he'd have to get help. Cops. Lots of them. Hundreds of them, Raleigh hoped. He turned to tiptoe away. ^ <br />
<br />
Just then the door swung open. Angel, in a generous effort to help, had hurled his weight against the panel, and the ancient lock gave way with a grunt. <br />
<br />
The door opened.<br />
<br />
<br />
Raleigh's quick glance back showed him a cheaply furnished room, in the center of which stood a table set for one. A partially devoured steak lay on a platter. The room was empty. <br />
<br />
Sweat burst out on Raleigh's fore-head. He tiptoed in. Then he stopped. <br />
<br />
His stomach hurt. Something had jabbed him there. <br />
<br />
"Don't move," said a low, deadly voice. "I mean, put up your hands. That's right." <br />
<br />
"Ug — ug — I came to rent a room," Raleigh gasped. <br />
<br />
"Yeah? You don't act surprised not to see me. I know you. Meek's sidekick. I saw you in his office. Now turn around and get into that room if you don't want a tunnel through you." <br />
<br />
Raleigh obeyed. As he crossed the threshold, he dodged aside suddenly and cried, <br />
<br />
"Angel! Get him!" <br />
<br />
Nothing happened. From the table came a low grunt. The steak on the platter was vanishing in large bites. Angel wasn't interested in crooks at the moment. It wasn't often that he got a bone with such delectable meat on it. <br />
<br />
"My dinner," said the crook bitterly, closing the door. "Oh, well. I was hav-ing a hell of a time. Kept putting the fork in my eye. This invisibility isn't all it's cracked up to be." <br />
<br />
A key turned in the lock and flew away to disappear, apparently into the robber's pocket. <br />
<br />
"Sit down." <br />
<br />
Raleigh sat down on a rickety couch. He felt unseen hands patting him. <br />
<br />
"No gat. Okay. How'd you find me? Never mind. I can figure it out. Rudy Brant's no sucker." <br />
<br />
"Rudy Brant, eh?" <br />
<br />
"Yeah. What's your handle?" <br />
<br />
Raleigh told him. Then, summoning his courage, he went on. <br />
<br />
"You'd better come along quietly. I know you've lost the antidote. You've got to remain invisible —" <br />
<br />
"I'm glad you dropped in," Brant interrupted. "I was going to pay you a call anyhow. This antidote — where can I get some more of it?" <br />
<br />
"You can't." <br />
<br />
A jolting blow rocked Raleigh's head. <br />
<br />
He saw stars. There was a knife edge of hysteria in Brant's voice as he snarled, <br />
<br />
"Don't get smart with me, wise guy! I — feel this." A sharp point dug painfully into Raleigh's stomach. "Feel that shiv? I can slice you up—" <br />
<br />
"Don't," the other said faintly. <br />
<br />
"Where's the cure?" <br />
<br />
"Locked in Meek's safe. The rest of it got spilled." <br />
<br />
"Yeah? That's what you say." The knife dug deeper. <br />
<br />
"It's the truth," Raleigh gulped. <br />
<br />
"Well—I guess so. That don't matter. You go open that safe. I'll be right behind you. I need the antidote — bad. I can't go on like this." <br />
<br />
Raleigh found it difficult to speak. <br />
<br />
"Sure, Brant. Glad to. Only — only I haven't got the combination. Wait a minute! Don't lose your head. Meek's the only man who knows how to open the safe."<br />
<br />
<br />
Brant said slowly, "Where is he?" <br />
<br />
"In jail — for bank robbery." <br />
<br />
There was a low chuckle. "You're his stooge, huh? Well, get the combination from him and then open the safe. And don't get any funny ideas. I'll be right behind you." The knife wiggled a bit. <br />
<br />
"Don't," Raleigh gurgled. "It tickles. I'll do it." <br />
<br />
"Now!" <br />
<br />
"Y — yes. Now." <br />
<br />
"Well, what in hell are you waiting for?" <br />
<br />
Raleigh got up and went to the door. <br />
<br />
The key flashed into the lock and turned. He sighed and reached for the' handle... <br />
<br />
A fine thing. At his heels was an invisible murderer. And one almost hysterical with fear, seemingly. Raleigh knew he was walking on quicksand. He dared not try to enlist aid. If he gave Brant the slightest reason for suspicion, it would be just too bad. <br />
<br />
He'd have to wait his chance. Once he got inside the jail, to see Meek, things would be different. Surrounded by steel bars, the crook would be under a handicap. <br />
<br />
Where was Angel? Raleigh whistled almost inaudibly, but there was no response. Probably the dog was still in the crook's room. <br />
<br />
"Shut up," said a low voice. <br />
<br />
"I was just — "<br />
<br />
"Shut up and keep moving. Get a taxi." <br />
<br />
Raleigh signalled for one. He got in, and the driver reached around and slammed the door. There was a muffled cry of pain, and Raleigh felt a body fall heavily against him. Profanity sizzled. <br />
<br />
"Sorry, Mister," said the driver, turning a puzzled face. "Did I catch you in the door? I coulda sworn—" <br />
<br />
"It's all right," Raleigh interrupted hastily. "The city jail. Hurry."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>CHAPTER IV <br /> </b><br />
<b>Angel Gabriel </b><br />
<br />
The desk sergeant said Raleigh couldn't see Dr. Meek. Not yet, anyway. Then he turned away to glare at a small, wizened safe-cracker with a pious expression. <br />
<br />
"The angels told me to bust that box," said the little man, apparently continuing with a long and lying story. <br />
<br />
"Preacher Ben's a good name for you," the sergeant growled. "Angels — ha! You'll have plenty of time to see angels in the big house." <br />
<br />
He swung on the protesting Raleigh. <br />
<br />
"I said'no!' Get the hell out! You can see Meek tomorrow, maybe. Now scram." <br />
<br />
Raleigh felt an invisible hand nudge him away. He was thinking desperately. <br />
<br />
He had to see the scientist — there was no time to waste. At any moment Brant's over-tense nerves might snap under the strain, and then murder would result. But how — <br />
<br />
Suddenly Raleigh remembered the two vials of invisibility elixir he had slipped into his pocket before leaving Meek's home. Surreptitiously he felt for them. They were still there. His heart leaped exultantly. <br />
<br />
A perfect hiding place from Brant! <br />
<br />
He'd make hirnself invisible; and then, in safety, he could slip into the jail and see Meek. After that, some plan could be worked out. But first of all, he had to escape from the murderous bank robber. <br />
<br />
How could he manage to swallow the elixir unobserved? <br />
<br />
There was a water cooler in the corner. Gingerly Raleigh walked toward it. His hand, hidden in his coat pocket, uncapped one of the vials. Palming the tiny tube, he took a paper cup from the container and filled it with water. Deftly he let the elixir spill into the cup. <br />
<br />
No sound came from Brant. Had he noticed the stratagem? <br />
<br />
Raleigh swallowed the water at a gulp. The familiar burning sensation raced down his gullet. Simultaneously he jumped aside, whirling. <br />
<br />
The little safe-cracker before the bench let out a shrill cry. <br />
<br />
"That guy! He's an angel! Now he's gone!" <br />
<br />
For a second the sergeant's face was blank as he followed the prisoner's gesture. Then it cleared. <br />
<br />
"Nuts," he remarked.. "He just walked out. Now—" <br />
<br />
"You dirty double-crossing rat!" said a high-pitched voice. "I'll cut off your ears and make you eat 'em!" <br />
<br />
"Who said that?" the sergeant bellowed. <br />
<br />
"Angels," the safe-cracker explained helpfully. <br />
<br />
Raleigh ignored the invisible Brant's threat. The bank robber had realized the trick, but too late to do anything about it. Invisible, he couldn't find another invisible man. Unless, Raleigh thought with a shudder, he used Angel, who was still locked up in Brant's room. <br />
<br />
Well, it was necessary to work fast. Raleigh waited till the inner door was opened, and then slipped through. Quietly he made his way to the cell block. It didn't take him long to find Meek, who was sitting on the edge of his bunk, methodically ripping newspapers into tiny fragments. The scientist didn't look well in prison garments. The gleam in his eye was reptilian. <br />
<br />
"Dr. Meek," Raleigh called softly. <br />
<br />
The prisoner looked up, frowned, and went back to his paper-tearing.<br />
<br />
"Doc! It's me—Raleigh. I'm invisible."<br />
<br />
<br />
That interested Meek.. His jaw dropped. He sprang up, went to the bars and stared through. <br />
<br />
"Raleigh? What—" <br />
<br />
"Sh-h! If they hear us . : . Listen." <br />
<br />
Swiftly he outlined what had happened.<br />
<br />
"That's the set-up," Raleigh finished. <br />
<br />
"Now, for God's sake, give me the combination of the safe so I can get the antidote." <br />
<br />
But Meek hesitated. "Wait a minute. You've still got a vial of the elixir on you?" <br />
<br />
"Sure." <br />
<br />
"I've a better idea. Give it to me. If I'm invisible, I can get out of here." <br />
<br />
Raleigh fumbled in his unseen pocket and brought out the vial. Held within his palm, it was invisible. He dropped it, as he thought, into Meek's out-stretched hand. <br />
<br />
<i>Cr-rack!</i> Glass shattered on the ce-ment floor. <br />
<br />
"You bungling idiot!" Meek howled. "You did that on purpose!" <br />
<br />
Raleigh gurgled helplessly. He made futile groping motions. <br />
<br />
The scientist calmed down — like a Gila monster. <br />
<br />
"You think I'm safer in jail, eh? I never trusted you, Raleigh! Now —" <br />
<br />
"There's more of the elixir in the safe," Raleigh suggested. "Give me the combination, quick. I'll bring you an-<br />
other vial." <br />
<br />
Meek breathed audibly. "And meanwhile this crook — Brant — will be invisibly snatching some of the antidote over your shoulder. Uh-huh. Once he's visible again, he can escape for good and all — and I'll stay here and rot. And that'll be all right with you." <br />
<br />
The scientist's voice rose to a scream of fury. <br />
<br />
"Like hell! You'll stay invisible till you get me out of this!" <br />
<br />
There was little point in remaining, especially since guards were appearing from all directions. Raleigh returned to the room where he had left Brant. The desk sergeant, and the safe-cracker were still arguing fruitlessly about angels. There was only one other person in the room, a uniformed patrolman — unless Brant was present. <br />
<br />
"The angels told me to do it," the prisoner contended. "I can open any safe in the world if they—" <br />
<br />
"What?" The exclamation was ripped involuntarily from Raleigh's lips. <br />
<br />
"Who said that?" the sergeant roared. <br />
<br />
"Angels," the prisoner remarked. <br />
<br />
Raleigh sent a swift glance at the outer, swinging door. Beyond it was the street. If he could somehow inanage to abduct the prisoner — the safe might be opened! <br />
<br />
But how could he kidnap a rnan from the stronghold of the law? <br />
<br />
Raleigh stealthily neared the patrolman, who was sitting in a corner, blinking. A stolid individual, yet per-<br />
haps with some imagination. It would help. Raleigh put his mouth close to the man's ear and whispered softly, <br />
<br />
"<i>You're going to die!</i>"<br />
<br />
<br />
Results were more than satisfactory. The officer turned yellow and shook in every limb. He swiveled around, saw nothing behind him and begain to gurgle. <br />
<br />
Raleigh laughed nastily. "Down you come to hell with me," he whispered. <br />
<br />
The invitation proved unacceptable. At any rate, the policeman fainted, slipping down noiselessly under the row of chairs. His absence went unnoticed. <br />
<br />
That left the sergeant, a somewhat tougher egg. Raleigh slipped up behind the man's chair. Deftly he put his hands about the sergeant's throat and squeezed, not much. Nothing happened.<br />
<br />
The officer remained perfectly motionless, except that he stopped talking. Dead silence fell over the room. <br />
<br />
It grew strained. Raleigh withdrew his hands. The sergeant suddenly unbuttoned his collar. He looked fixedly at his prisoner and licked dry lips. <br />
<br />
The invisible man began to pat the sergeant's cheeks with his palms. Under certain circumstances, this gesture may prove pleasant—even a caress. Always assuming that the hands are . . . visible. <br />
<br />
Raleigh put his palms over the sergeant's eyes. Naturally, this didn't obscure the latter's vision in the least. But when a gloating voice whispered, "Guess who! "the officer's nerves crumbled with an almost audible crash. <br />
<br />
Shrieking, the sergeant rose and fled. <br />
<br />
"Angels," said the safe-cracker, with satisfaction. <br />
<br />
Raleigh didn't care whether he was nuts or not, as long as he could open safes: With one bound he leaped over the desk, seized the prisoner by neck and pants and propelled him through the door. Before the startled crook could protest, he found himself in a taxi headed uptown. ' <br />
<br />
Then Raleigh settled himself for the hysterical outburst he expected. He'd have to calm the little outlaw— explain to him, somehow, the circumstances. <br />
<br />
What had the sergeant called him? <br />
<br />
"Preacher Ben," Raleigh said gently. <br />
<br />
Ben's wrinkled face twisted in a smile. <br />
<br />
"Hello, Gabriel," he beamed. "I expected you." <br />
<br />
"But — hold on, pal. I'm not the angel Gabriel —", <br />
<br />
At this moment a truck.rushed precariously past the front bumpers, and the driver pressed the horn button. A hoarse blast sounded.<br />
<br />
This occurrence confirmed Ben's suspicion. <br />
<br />
"Horn and all," he nodded. "Good old Gabriel. Where are we going?"<br />
<br />
Raleigh almost swore with irritation, but somehow he felt that it would be a mistake to say "Hell!" at this particular moment. Instead, he murmured, "I want you to open a safe for me." <br />
<br />
Ben didn't seem surprised. "All right, Gabe. Do you mind me calling you Gabe? I feel like we're old friends, somehow." <br />
<br />
"That's fine," Raleigh said, swallowing convulsively. "But about this safe —" <br />
<br />
"Oh, I'll need tools. The poljce took mine away. But I can get them." <br />
<br />
"How long will it take?" <br />
<br />
"I dunno. Couple of hours, maybe." <br />
<br />
"Swell," said Raleigh. "Here's the angle. I want you to fake a robbery. I'll show you where. I want you to open the safe and leave it open. Don't take anything. There's no money in it anyway. Got that?" <br />
<br />
"Sure," said Preacher Ben. "Anything you say, Gabe." <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>CHAPTER V <br /><br />Defiance </b><br />
<br />
After that things happened fast — but not fast enough. It took a long time to get the necessary articles for Ben. For some reason the stethoscope was the most difficult to secure. The job was finished at last, by noon the next day. <br />
<br />
Raleigh slipped unnoticed into the house and found Binnie, telling her of the plan. <br />
<br />
"Brant's watching this place, I'm sure," he said. "He knows I'll need the antidote for myself, and he expects your father gave me the combination to the safe. After Ben leaves, Brant will see the safe's open. Be sure and don't draw the curtains in the office." <br />
<br />
"Dad's in court today," Binnie said sadly. "A preliminary hearing or something. I've got to go down and see what happens." <br />
<br />
Something brushed up against Raleigh's leg. He jumped before hearing a familiar whine. <br />
<br />
"Angel!" he said. <br />
<br />
"Oh, yes. She came back." <br />
<br />
The dog must have got out of Brant's room, then. Well, that helped. <br />
<br />
Binnie left. Raleigh went into the office and waited. He glanced occasionally at the window, but saw nothing. Yet he felt sure that Brant was watching the house, which contained the crook's only means of salvation. <br />
<br />
Glass tinkled from a distance. <br />
<br />
Raleigh flattened himself against the wall and waited. The door was swinging open .. . <br />
<br />
Preacher Ben walked in, smiling. His eyes lighted as he saw the safe. Without wasting a moment he came forward, opening a black bag he held. <br />
<br />
He knelt and extracted a stethoscope which he clamped in his ears. Ten minutes later the door of the safe swung outward. <br />
<br />
Obediently Preacher Ben reached in and pretended to pick up various non-existent objects. That was for Brant's benefit, if the crook were watching. Actually, Ben touched none of the dozens of little vials that lay scattered on the floor of the safe—^which was otherwise empty. <br />
<br />
"Wait a minute," Raleigh whispered, and was busy carrying out a certain plan he had worked out in detail previously. At last he stepped back and breathed, <br />
<br />
"Now. Shut it." <br />
<br />
Ben closed the door, but didn't lock the safe. He got up and left the room, and after that the house. He did not reappear, but it is presumed that his after-life was gladdened by his one encounter with the angel Gabriel. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile Raleigh waited. Ben had left the door ajar, unfortunately, but the chance of closing it could not be taken now. Brant might already be invisibly in the room. If he got away now with the antidote .. . <br />
<br />
Raleigh felt in his pocket for the handful of vials he had put there after the safe had been opened. That was okay. Well .. . <br />
<br />
He wondered how Binnie was getting on. She was in court now, watching her father. Raleigh hoped the old coot was squirming. <br />
<br />
He glanced sharply at the door. Had it moved, very slightly? Had Brant arrived? There was no way of telling. And Brant was—armed! <br />
<br />
<br />
If the crook slipped from Raleigh's grasp, got out of the house with the antidote, it would be impossible to find him again. <br />
<br />
Slowly the door of the safe opened. <br />
<br />
Simultaneously Raleigh snapped,<br />
<br />
"Sic him! Get him, Angel!" <br />
<br />
He dived for the door as a guri blasted, ripping plaster from the wall, just behind where he had been standing. <br />
<br />
Raleigh crouched on the threshold like a wrestler. There were noises coming from the safe, in the interior of which he had left Angel. Invisible man and invisible dog were having a dis-agreement. Suddenly a heavy weight cannoned into Raleigh, catching him by surprise despite himself. <br />
<br />
There was an oath in Brant's high-pitched voice. Something exploded under Raleigh's chin, and he was flung back. A lucky blow—but it worked. <br />
<br />
Brant tore free. His footsteps thudded across the carpet. The outer door was ripped open. <br />
<br />
Sick with the realization of failure, Raleigh raced after the escaping crook. He burst out in the blazing sunlight of the street and stood looking around helplessly. Where was the invisible man? <br />
<br />
Goiie! Gone without a trace, amid the throngs on the sidewalk. The street was crowded at this hour. <br />
<br />
Raleigh's stomach took an elevator dive. Then it halted as a familiar sound came to his ears. Angel was barking. <br />
<br />
Heads were turning as the disembodied barks raced past. The dog, using his nose rather than his eyes, was pursuing Brant! <br />
<br />
Raleigh sprinted after the sound. <br />
<br />
People went spinning as he tore into them. Cries of amazement and terror rose. A car swerved to the curb with a squealing of breaks.<br />
<br />
"What's wrong?" <br />
<br />
"Something hit me!" <br />
<br />
A voice shouted, "That's Dr. Meek's house! The invisible man!" <br />
<br />
"The invisible man!" <br />
<br />
Through the tumult shrilled Angel's frantic barks. Raleigh plunged desperately in pursuit. Ignoring the red light at the corner, he darted into a stream of traffic. Not a car slowed. Their drivers saw nothing! <br />
<br />
"The invisible man!" <br />
<br />
The barks were louder. Raleigh heard a scuffle, saw a man topple sideward, yelling. Angel's cries were suddenly muffled. <br />
<br />
A knife materialized out of thin air, clattering on the cement. Raleigh dived, kicking the weapon aside as he smashed into a bulky, unseen body. <br />
<br />
Brant screamed an oath. A gun barked, the bullet breaking a plate-glass window nearby. <br />
<br />
Angel's teeth snapped. Raleigh tried to locate the gun amid a squirming mass of invisible arms and legs. Then he saw it, a few feet away, out of reach. <br />
<br />
Angel saw it too. The misguided dog freed himself and rushed over to the weapon, seizing it in his jaws. He brought it back. <br />
<br />
Both men snatched for the gun at the same moment. Angel, always ready to play, danced back out of reach. The legs of the surrounding mob swallowed her. Somebody fell over Raleigh and rolled away, yelling. <br />
<br />
Brant's fingers were feeling for his attacker's eyes. Raleigh tried to get hold of Brant's throat. He grabbed the man's ears, instead. Since the crook was undeirneath, Raleigh began to bang Brant's head against the sidewalk. <br />
<br />
After that, the fight was over. <br />
<br />
Raleigh got up dazedly, keeping his hand on his captive's coat collar. The crowd was growing. If he drank the antidote now, it would mean long explanations . . . <br />
<br />
Angel barked. Raleigh said, "Sic 'em. Angel! Go get 'em." <br />
<br />
Frantic with valor, the dog obeyed. <br />
<br />
The crowd broke up into a riot. Invisible teeth were everywhere, nipping sharply. Raleigh slung Brant over his shoulder and departed. <br />
<br />
He found a taxi, but hesitated. The driver would balk at invisible passengers. But luckily the man was in a nearby doorway, conversing with friends. Raleigh slung Brant's unconscious form into the cab, clambered under the steering wheel and started the car, heedless of the driver's sudden out-cry. <br />
<br />
Thus a "driverless" taxicab moved rapidly along the street, to the shocked alarm of many. <br />
<br />
Sirens began to scream. Motorcycles pursued. As the cab halted outside the city hall, officers surrounded it. <br />
<br />
"It's empty!" said one. <br />
<br />
And it was. Raleigh was already inside the building, carrying Brant. <br />
<br />
He tried several court rooms before finding the right one, which was packeddue to the sensational nature of the case. Meek was on the stand, his round face choleric with rage at the questioning he had been undergoing. The judge, a skinny, bald old vulture, was peering through thick-lensed glasses and toy-<br />
ing with his gavel. <br />
<br />
The guard at the door was sent staggering aside. Raleigh sprinted down the aisle, halting only when he stood before the bench. <br />
<br />
"Your Honor—" he began. <br />
<br />
"Silence in ,the court!" the judge snapped, using his gavel. But Meek's eyes were glistening. <br />
<br />
He sprang to his feet. "Rick! Is that you?" <br />
<br />
"Silence!" <br />
<br />
The scientist thrust out an imploring hand. <br />
<br />
"Wait, your Honor. My assistant's here." <br />
<br />
"Where?" <br />
<br />
"He's invisible," said Meek. <br />
<br />
The judge poured water from a pitcher and drank it hastily. <br />
<br />
"This—this is most irregular—" <br />
<br />
He stopped. Beneath him, on the floor, a man was betoming visible. <br />
<br />
He was a short, squat fellow, with a drooping eyelid and a day's growth of black beard. He was unconscious. <br />
<br />
"I poured the antidote down his throat," a voice from empty air explained. "Now I'll take some myself."<br />
<br />
<br />
Richard Raleigh reappeared, slightly battered, but grinning. <br />
<br />
The judge drank more water. He said, <br />
<br />
"So. It's true. Not just publicity. I'll be damned—silence in the court!" <br />
<br />
The gavel could not hush the rising tumult. <br />
<br />
Brant was stirring. Officers sprang forward to seize him. Raleigh explained to the judge,<br />
<br />
"That's the real bank robber, your Honor. He —" <br />
<br />
"Money!" one of the policemen said. "His pockets are stuffed with it!" <br />
<br />
The judge used his gavel again. <br />
<br />
"Calm down, please. You —" He pointed at Raleigh. "Take the stand. I want to ask you some questions . . ." <br />
<br />
The questions were answered, though Raleigh could not keep his eyes off Binnie, who sat in the front row, looking more than ever like an angel. He scarcely realized it when the judge had finished and he was requested to step down.<br />
<br />
Reporters were fleeing excitedly. <br />
<br />
"Meek's name cleared! And Brant's got a record! What a scoop!" <br />
<br />
Amid the commotion, Raleigh seized Binnie's hand and found Dr. Meek. The scientist was beaming in triumph. He even smiled at his assistant. <br />
<br />
"Well, well. Thank you, Raleigh." <br />
<br />
Suddenly the blue eyes went reptilian. <br />
<br />
"What d'you want?" <br />
<br />
"I want to marry Binnie—" ' <br />
<br />
The chandelier rocked. Dr. Meek had said "no" that emphatically. <br />
<br />
Raleigh looked swiftly at the girl, who nodded. Two hands lifted as one. <br />
<br />
And — quite suddenly and unexpectedly — Binnie Meek and^ Richard Raleigh disappeared.<br />
<br />
"Come back here!" the doctor yelled. <br />
<br />
He turned toward the bench. "Your Honor, I appeal—" <br />
<br />
The judge was lifting his water glass to his lips. He did not notice a small vial hanging in empty air, emptying its contents into the water. He drank long and thirstily .. . <br />
<br />
"Gosh!" said an awed voice. "Now the judge is gone too!" <br />
<br />
It was a scene long remembered in the annals of the law. Newspapers featured it that night. Riot was an underestimate. Through the confusion Meek ploughed like a spitting cobra, his wild gaze vainly searching for people who weren't there any more. <br />
<br />
".Where are they?" he shouted. "Where's my daughter? Where's that double-crossing assistant of mine?" <br />
<br />
"Where's the judge?" asked a baffled clerk. <br />
<br />
There was a lull in the noisy confusion. And it was at this point that practically everybody in the court room heard, from a distant corner, a disembodied voice which said benignly: <br />
<br />
".. . I now pronounce you man and wife." <br />
<br />
It was due to Dr. Meek's unrestrained remarks at that moment that he was subsequently fined fifty dollars for contempt of court.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b><br />
<br />
<b>=======</b><br />
<b>REVIEW</b><br />
<b>=======</b><br />
<br />
Henry Kuttner (1915-1958) was a highly-versatile science fiction writer, who was both the husband and main writing partner of C. L. Moore. From their marriage in 1940 to his death in 1958, they co-wrote and revised each others' work to the point that it is sometimes difficult to tell their work apart. Some of their collaborate efforts were published under the names Lewis Padgett, Lawrence O'Donnell and C. H. Liddell.<br />
<br />
Moore was the more powerful writer; Kuttner the more versatile one. One type of tale Kuttner wrote but Moore almost never did was comedy. "The Elixir of Invisiblity" is almost pure comic science fiction, and in my opinion, it's a pretty funny story.<br />
<br />
It <i>is </i>genuine science fiction. Kuttner postulates a technology (the elixir of invisibility), defines its parameters, and explores some of its second-order effects. In this case, the <i>funny</i> ones. Which are hilariously rendered, complete with slapstick and pratfalls.<br />
<br />
The original exploration of the corrupting power of invisibility dates back to Plato's fable of the Ring of Gyges (told in the 4th century BC about something that supposedly happened in the 6th century BC). Kuttner would have however been inspired more by H. G. Wells' <i>The Invisible Man</i> (1897), in which the chemist Griffin goes mad under the influence of his formula and turns to crime. That novel was more recent to Kuttner in 1940 than the original <i>Star Trek</i> is to us today. Notably, in "The Elixir of Invisibility" there is an <i>antidote</i>, which is part of what changes the concept from tragic to comic; the other reason why this is comedy, of course, is the characterization.<br />
<br />
<b>Dr. Caspar Meek</b>, the scientist who discovers the invisibility elixir, is an anti-hero. He is neither an evil mad scientist, nor a benign sage; he's not even an absent-minded professor. He's greedy, rather nasty, and even petty. His name is deliberately deceptive on the part of Kuttner; as the character is <i>not</i> "meek" but rather aggressive and unprincipled.<br />
<br />
<b>Richard Raleigh</b>, the hero, is something of a parody of the normal hero of pulp tales. On the surface, he could be one: he's big, strong and fairly intelligent. However, he's neither naturally-adventurous nor particularly skilled at combat; he gets swept up in a series of events that put him in increasing difficulty and danger -- and he doesn't enjoy it at all. He is downright <i>intimidated</i> by Rudy Brant (at least at first), which makes sense: nothing in Richard's background implies that he is used to confronting armed and dangerous criminals. Richard is cunning and willing to use the Elixir of Invisibility to carry out some fairly cruel pranks, if necessary in pursuit of his goals.<br />
<br />
He's in love with<br />
<br />
<b>Binnie Meek</b>, who is the Scientist's Beautiful Daughter. This sort of situation was already <i>cliche</i> by 1940, and Kuttner has fun with it. Richard himself considers her "lovely but slightly bird-brained," an "old-fashioned girl," and wonders "how a heel like the Doc could have fathered such an angel as Binnie."<br />
<br />
But we know from the narrator that Richard is to some extent deceiving himself. For, in one of the few instances where Kuttner pulls back from limited into omniscient 3rd person, Kuttner flat-out states:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The girl was not noteworthy, despite her prettiness, and Raleigh was deceiving himself when he saw wings sprouting from her back.</blockquote>
<br />
and, with regard to Richard's feelings for her<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The sight of Binnie caused a violent reaction within Raleigh. Some might call it love.</blockquote>
<br />
It is perhaps relevant to this characterization that Kuttner was about to marry C. L. Moore at the time that he wrote this tale, and that while Moore may well have been "lovely" (her surviving photographs suggest this, and no doubt <i>Kuttner</i> saw her as such), she was in no way, shape or form "bird-brained," slightly or otherwise. Judging by her stories, she was a tough-minded and slightly cynical romantic of tremendous intelligence and imagination, and her most famous story, "Shambleau" (1933) is essentially about what seduction by mind-control feels like from the point of view of the victim.<br />
<br />
Binnie is obviously not the Shambleau. But then of course C. L. Moore had never actually met an alien psychic vampire that had mimicked human form in its evolution: she probably got the idea for the Shambleau from actual human women she'd seen destroy men with a selfish and draining mockery of love (with a strong admixture of the effects of drug addiction).<br />
<br />
Binnie seems to be manipulating both Raleigh and her father Dr. Meek, and in both cases with her air of sweet angelic innocence. She wants a husband, and has fixed upon Raleigh in this role; but she also wants her father to approve, both because she's "old-fashioned" and because her father is obviously more prosperous than is young Raleigh, and she wants to make sure that however things turn out, she winds up with someone taking care of her.<br />
<br />
<b>Dr. Caspar Meek</b> himself drives a lot of the comedy precisely <i>because</i> he violates the expectations for an Interwar Era pulp scientist. Such personages usually came in two flavors: Good, in which case they were Kindly Scientists and wished to Benefit All Mankind; or Evil, in which case they were Mad Scientists and wished to dominate or destroy all Mankind. Kuttner teases the reader with these expectations the more so because he's otherwise set up the <i>classic</i> situation with Meek's Beautiful Daughter, who is <i>supposed</i> to either support the Kindly Scientist's benevolent goals or oppose the Mad Scientist's malevolent goals in the course of loving the hero.<br />
<br />
But Dr. Meek has neither benevolent or malevolent goals. He just wants to make money (and, as things spiral out of control, stay out of prison). He's fairly ruthless -- among other things, perfectly willing to experiment on Raleigh -- but only in ways which he judges won't get him in trouble. He's <i>unethical</i> rather than maniacally evil, and thus he is a thoroughly-believable character. His relationship to Raleigh is that of employer, patron and (where Binnie is concerned) antagonist.<br />
<br />
Meek's very <i>name </i>speaks of his being a character drawn against fictional expectations. "Caspar" in 1940 would have brought to mind <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caspar_Milquetoast">Caspar Milquetoast</a>, protagonist of the newspaper comic strip <i>The Timid Soul</i>; "Meek" of course describes Milquetoast's most memorable personality trait. His <i>appearance</i> (fat, bland-faced, balding) is meant to suggest a mild and kindly man ...<br />
<br />
... which Dr. Meek <i>isn't</i>. He's an aggressive self-promoter with very little concern for the welfare of anybody else. He will happily ride roughshod over Raleigh's feelings, the happiness of his daughter Binnie, and every other consideration in his quest for fame and fortune. The main reason he's <i>not</i> an evil mad scientist is that he has no particular desire to <i>hurt</i> anyone -- he just wants to succeed, and doesn't much care if anyone else gets hurt in the <i>process</i>.<br />
<br />
Raleigh really dislikes Dr. Meek (as we find out in the very first paragraph of the story), though Raleigh's description of Meek as sadistic is so far out of proportion to anything Meek actually does in the story (and remember, Meek is a cutting-edge scientist with access to a lot of potentially-destructive chemicals) that it calls into question Raleigh's narrative reliability. However, the fact that someone who knows Meek as well as does Raleigh dislikes him so much makes it clear that Meek is <i>not</i> a nice guy.<br />
<br />
In fact it's Dr. Meek's <i>lack</i> of villainy which makes this story a comedy. Were Meek a hero or a villain, it would be either eucatastrophic or catastrophic drama or tragedy. A heroic Meek would have some high purpose for his elixir and be trying to achieve it against the resistance of the short-sighted fools; a villainous Meek would have some dark plan which the heroes must thwart. The Meek in the story is just trying to get rich off his discovery, which in the process attracts the <i>real</i> villain of the piece ...<br />
<br />
<b>Rudy Brant</b>, an out-and-out bad guy. Brant is a ruthless robber who is in it for loot. He's not as <i>smart</i> as Dr. Meek, which is why he's pursuing a path (open criminality) which can only lead to prison or death. But his motives are similar -- he wants money. To Meek, the Elixir of Invisibility is something to market, and damn the consequences. Brant <i>is</i> one of the consequences -- an invisibility formula is of obvious value to a thief.<br />
<br />
Brant clearly has no compunction against killing, though Raleigh's opinion of him as a "murderer" may be extreme: there's no evidence in-story that Brant has ever actually killed anyone. He does, however, repeatedly threaten to do so, and hes definitely not a nice guy by any means. One can tell he's not too bright when he unnecessarily tells Raleigh his true name at their very first encounter.<br />
<br />
The plot in which a kindly scientist invents something which falls into the hands of a ruthless gangster, who uses it as a tool to commit crimes, was quite common in the pulp era -- this was almost the standard story arc of a <i>Doc Savage</i> novel, for instance, and Murray Leinster made frequent use of this story structure. Rudy Brant here fits directly into the stereotype of the ruthless gangster.<br />
<br />
What makes Brant comic is that he is very clearly <i>human</i>, despite his nature as a professional criminal. He complains quite naturally when bad things happen to him, and suffers all the little indignities of being invisible just as does Raleigh. Everything bad that happens in the story, to anyone, is primarily his fault. But one can slightly sympathize with Brant, even though Kuttner never loses sight of his villainy.<br />
<br />
And then there is ...<br />
<br />
<b>Angel</b>, a part-bloodhound mutt who tries his best to be loyal to his friends and fearsome to their foes despite the fact that he's supposedly a coward. I say "supposedly," because Angel actually goes into some fairly dangerous situations, many of which would have been obviously dangerous even to his limited knowledge, and comes through rather heroically. Happily, he survives the stupidity of the humans around him.<br />
<br />
<b>Analysis:</b><br />
<br />
This story is very much about facades, about roles which the characters are expected to play and attempt to despite their possible lack of qualifications. Each of the five main characters encounters situations which overwhelm them.<br />
<br />
Richard Raleigh is supposed to be the hero, and he (mostly) has the courage, strength and wits for it, but several times in the story (such as when confronting the genuinely villainous Brant) he's clearly out of his depth. He signally lacks <i>moral</i> courage -- he starts the story as Dr. Meek's obviously-exploited assistant, and though he revolts against Meek by the end, it seems fairly obvious that he will wind up wrapped around Binnie's little finger as a future henpecked husband.<br />
<br />
Binnie Meek is supposed to be the heroine, and the evidence is that she's a reasonably nice girl. But she's her father's daughter, and what she's mostly doing is gathering up the courage to make the transition from (outwardly) Good Daughter to (ourwardly) Good Wife. She's naturally a dependent sort of woman, and she will go from being dependent on Dr. Meek to being dependent on Richard Raleigh. Kuttner outright states that while she's "old-fashioned," she's not <i>quite</i> as nice as she seems.<br />
<br />
Dr. Caspar Meek is <i>supposed</i> to be a Kindly Scientist, and such is the image he tries to project to the world. He has several nasty qualities, but he's neither ruthless nor crazy enough to be a Mad Scientist either. Really, he's just in it for himself, and while he's highly-intelligent, he does not always think things through -- due to his greed, he can be quite short-sighted. He may well now be financially successful -- he's certainly generated a lot of publicity now -- but he loses his daughter to Richard Raleigh.<br />
<br />
Rudy Brant is supposed to be the villain -- and he goes through all the motions. But the portrayal of Brant as a ruthless gangster is unusually realistic in that he's <i>not that smart -- </i>which makes sense, as brilliant individuals do not normally turn to a life of crime through confrontational robbery. Brant succeeds in robbing the bank but he bungles the follow-up -- he didn't realize he'd need an antidote, he tells Raleigh his full and real name on first encounter, and he doesn't anticipate how Raleigh can use the formula <i>against himself</i>.<br />
<br />
Finally, Angel is the Wonder Dog canine companion. And he's pretty competent for a <i>dog</i>. But he <i>is</i> just a dog, with a dog's limited understanding of what's going on around him. So though he tries to and sometimes succeeds in doing the right thing, often he just gets distracted -- for instance becoming distracted by Rudy Brant's steak and winding up trapped in Brant's apartment while Brant makes off with Raleigh.<br />
<br />
All try to play their usual roles in this sort of story, but they're rather realistic characters caught in a pulp-adventure kind of story, and none of them are really up to the roles. <br />
<br />
<b>Conclusion: </b>"The Elixir of Invisibility" is a very funny story precisely because it explores the mismatch between plausible real people and a very-pulpy science fiction plot. It deserves to be read, both for its insight into the fictional world of c. 1940, and for its own considerable comic merits.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-44361569494075090212014-11-10T00:53:00.003-08:002018-09-23T17:43:42.491-07:00"The Smiling Face" (1950) by Mary Elizabeth Counselman, with Notes and Review<br />
<h1 align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">“The Smiling Face”</span></h1>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b>© 1950</b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>by</b></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Mary Elizabeth
Counselman</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Sir Cedric Harbin, the British archaeologist, rolled his
head from side to side irritably on the<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>canvas
cot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the scream of a <i>jaru – </i>jaguar
– that had waked him this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two
hours ago, it had been the chittering of night-monkeys, half an hour before
that, some other weird jungle-noise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From.the supine position in which he had been lying for
eight sweltering nights already, he glared up at the young Chavante native who
v/as fanning him with a giant fern, to keep away the mosquitoes and the tiny
vicious little pmm flies that swarmed about him. At his look, the boy grinned
apology and began to ply the "shoo-fly" with more energy, the
capivara <b>(1)</b> tooth in his pierced lower lip bobbing furiously. Harbin
cursed, blinking away the sweat that kept trickling down into his eyes. He
tried to sit up despite the adhesive strapped over his bare chest like a
cocoon, but sank back with a groan. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instantly the tent flap opened and a girl hurried in out of
the humid night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Darling? I thought I heard you groaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you in pain?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not miich. Just — bored! And disgusted!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Haven't you gone to bed yet?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sir Cedric looked up at her wearily as she bent over him,
jgently moppiqg the sweat from his face and neck. She was small and blonde and
exquisite,.strikingly beautiful even in her rumpled shirt and jodhpurs. It was
when she smiled, however, that one stopped seeing anything else. A quiet humor
seemed to emanate from her broad sweetly-curved mouth and sparkling blue eyes,
as though they invited one to share some joke that she knew and was about to
tell. The Brazilian Indian boy beamed at her, visibly attracted. Harbin, her
husband though he looked old enough to have been her father — caught at her hand
gratefully.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Diana,” he sighed, “my dearest. “How the devil you can be
so bright and cheery, after the confounded mess I^ve made of this expedition?
Walking into tliat boa constrictor like a — like a damned tourist who'd never
set foot in the Matto Grosso interior!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He scowled in self-condemnation. “Don't know why I ever let
the Foundation talk meinto tliis jaunt, anyhow. On our hoiieymoon! What was I
thinking of, dragging you out into this steaming hell?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now, now, darling!” Diana Harbin laid two fingers over his
mouth. She lifted his head tenderly, gave him a sip of <i>herva matte</i>
through a <i>bombilla</i> <b>(2) </b>stuck in a gourd, tlien riffled through a
month-old magazine. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Here; do try to read_and relax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can't go hunting your precious Lost City with three broken
ribs, and that's all there is to it. So stop fretting about it! Mario has. the
situation well in hand.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A look flashed over Sir Cedric's middle-aged face. It was
gone before his wife observed it, but she did notice a peculiar tense note in
his voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mario — Oh yes,” the archaeologist drawled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Our handsome and dashing young guide.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Handsome?” His wife laughed — so lightly that Sir Cedric
gave her a quizzical look. “Is he? I hadn't noticed . . . Why, Cedric!” She
returned his look, eyes twinkling. “I do believe you're jealous! Of Mario?” She
half-closed her eyes, imitating the sultry attitude of a screen Romeo. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“ ‘Ah-h <i>Senhora!</i> You are like jongle orchid!’” she
mimicked,_then_burst out Jaughing. "Darling, he's so corny!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harbin did not share her mirth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His gray eyes iced over, and narrowed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The devil!” he exploded. “Did he really say that to you?
Insolent half-breed swine! Send him in here; I'll sack him right now!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You'll do nothing of the kind!” his wife laughed,, kissing
him on the forehead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Cedric, don't be absurd. All Brazilians makes passes at
every North American girl they meet. It's—-it's part of the Good Neighbor
Policy!” She gave him another sip of the nutritious tea, looking fondly amused.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mario,” she pointed out, "is a very efiicient guide.
He's kept these war-happy Chavantes from traipsing off to start something with
other tribes we've passed. He's kept: a supply of <i>mandioca</i> and <i>rapadura</i>
<b>(3)</b>, without trading half our equipment to get it. And he's the only
guide in Belem <b>(4)</b> who had the vaguest idea how to reach that Lost City
of yours – if there is one,” she reminded drily. “Remember,, all you have as
proof.is that silly old paper in the Bibliotcca Nacional in Rio. Mario doesn't
believe it<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>exists:” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mario!” the archaeologist snorted. “It Lt.-Cpl. Fawcett and
his sons died trying to find it in 1925 <b>(5)</b>, there must be something to
— Oh, if only I were off this ridiculous cot!" he fumed. "We're only
two days’ march-from the place; I'd stake my life on it! I —</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh well,” his pretty wife patted his arm soothingly.
“There'll be other expeditions, dear. We'll try again; but right now you must
get well'enough to be carried back to Belem. There may be internal injuries we
don't,know about. Ugh, that horrible snake! Dropping on you, from that tree,
crushing you —” She shuddered, then knelt beside him with a little sob,
pressing his hand to her cool cheek. “Oh Cedric, you might have been killed!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harbin relaxed, caressing her long wheat-blond hair, the
bitterness and frustration ebbing slowly from his face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My dearest,” he murmured, “I'll never understand what a
lovely, little Yank like you ever saw in a crotchety, dried-up old — Limey like
me! But my whole outlook was changed, that' night at the Explorers' Club in
Rio, when you, turned away from that ass Forrester, and smiled. At me! When —
when I first saw you smile, Diana, the most wonderful thing happened. It was as
though the — the sun had come up for the first time in my — Oh, rubbish!” Sir
Cedric broke off, embarrassed. “Never was much at expressing my feelings.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You're doing all right!” his wife whispered. “Remind me to
tell yoii how I felt when I first met the famous Sir Cedric Harbin.
Ah-ah!" She dodged his quick embrace. “Not now! After Mario and I get back
from Matura with supplies. Darling, do go to sleep so I can! We're starting at
daybreak, you know.” <b>(6)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harbin returned her smile of gentle humor with a hungry
possessive look. “All right. But you'll hurry back? I mean — Oh, dash it!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His wife bent over to kiss him once more lightly. “Of course
I will,” she whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Next Thursday
is our first anniversary; we've been married a whole month! You don't really
think I'd spend that day withMario and a lot of grinning Tapirapes babbling
‘TJcanto! Ticanto!’ — which isn't my idea of a snappy conversation to put in my
diary!" </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sir Cedric chuckled and lay still, his eyes following Diana
as she left the tent to complete plans for the short journey at dawn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The river village of Matura, he knew,was only a' few miles
down the Rio das Mortes, the River of Death, which had once run red with the
blood of a Portuguese party of mining engineers massacred by Indians. Now it
boasted a small trading post, run by a fat one-eyed Dutchman. There, Diana
could send a wireless message via Belem to the Foundation, saying — Harbin
sighed bitterly—that he was crippled up; that he had made a complete botch of
the expedition. There also Mario could replenish their dwindling stock of
supplies—coffee, quinine <b>(7)</b>, mandioca; perhaps even a few trinkets for
the new native bearers Mario had recently added to their party. The Chavantes
had not appeared to like it much, but even their <i>capitao</i>, their chief,
Burity, could see his men could not carry both the equipment and the injured
white explorer on their return trip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harbin sipped his <i>matte</i>, and thought about the new
porters. They were ugly stunted little Indians — the four Mario had hired—their
loin cloths dirty and i ragged, their greasy black hair hanging long and snaky
under their braided headbands <b>(8)</b>. They were Urubus — Sir Cedric
frowned, trying to recall what the Inspector of Indians at Belem had said about
that tribe;.the “Vulture People,” he had called them. Was it something about a
history of cannibalism? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harbin could not remember. All four of the Urubus had been
fully armed — with bows and five-foot-arrows, with spears, and with blowguns —
when the Brazilian guide had happened across their hunting party. In fact, a
poisoned blowgun dart (presumably aimed at a silver and black iguana) had
barely missed his shoulder, Mario had. reported uncomfortably. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And good riddance!” Harbin muttered half-aloud, glowering
up at the patched roof of the tent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Never did trust those pretty-boys where a woman's concerned!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not one as lovely as Diana—so young and
romantic and impressionable.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hanh? <i>Senhor</i> speak?",The Chavante boy startled
him, waving his fern rapidly and flashing white teeth in a dark brown Mongoloid
face <b>(9)</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What? Oh! Nothing. Just talking to myself,” Harbin snapped.
“Swat thatdamned tarantula over my head, will you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's going to drop on me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Si, senhor!!</i>” The boy hastened to obey, his
solicitude born of the fact that Diana had promised him a pair of her husband's
cufflinks for his pierced ears. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harbin closed his eyes, now lulled by the throbbing hum of
frogs and cicada, now startled awake by the moaning hiss of a near-by anaconda
or the splash of .an alligator in tke river washing sluggishly against the
sandbank where they had made camp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Presently, in spite of the <i>pium</i> flies. Sir Cedric drifted into a
troubled slumber — and a recurrent dream in which his lovely young wife was
lost in a tangle of undergrowth and looped lianas. She kept calling him,
calling and laughing, somewhere just ahead, just out of reach. And he slashed away
helplessly at the green wall of jungle with a <i>facao</i>, a. cutlass-like
machete, which kept turning to flimsy rubber in his hand-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he awoke, torpid and head-achey, the tent was steamy
with mid-morning heat. The Chavante boy was setting his tray of breakfast-—roast
crane, <i>fannha</i> gruel-sweetened with the toftee-like <i>rapadura</i>, and
coffee with fermented sugar-cane. Harbin rnade a wry face, and squinted at the
boy, whose black eyes were gleaming with a curious excitement. His calm voice;
however, betrayed nothing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Bon dia! Senhor durmjou bein?</i>” <b>(10)</b> he
,inquired politely. , </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Muita hem</i>,” Harbin grunted, yawning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where's the Senhora? She had her breakfast yet?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boy smiled brightly, his face an inscrutable mask now,
mysterious and unreadable as the jungle itself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Senhora pe, pe</i>,” he announced, then elaborated in a
painful combination of Portuguese and English. “<i>Senhora es</i> agone. <i>Senhora,
Senhor</i> Mario. <i>Es</i> agone. Say let you esleep, you seeck, no wake.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh! Gone already, have they?” Sir Cedric looked
disappointed, then shrugged. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well — they should be back by tomorrow at sundown. Matura's
only a few miles down the river. They — ” He broke off, puzzled again by the
sly look of amusement on the Chavante boy's face. “Eh? What are you grinning
about?” he demanded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For answer, the boy ran to the. door of the tent and
beckoned. An older, nervous-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
looking Chavante — possibly the boy's father or older
brother — entered warily, braced as to dash out again if the. white man
appeared angry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Senhor?</i> Pliz?” the man stammered; he was Burity, the
chief; Harbin recognized him suddenly from the dried palm frond stuck in' his
pierced lower lip, like a spiky beard from his hairless cliin. “<i>Senhor?</i>"
he began again. "Geev present? Geev present if Burity tell?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Tell what, you gibbering ape?” Sir Cedric snapped. He tried
to prop himself up on his elbows, a sense of foreboding suddenly -knotting his
stomach muscles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes? A;; right, all right — a present! Speak up!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Chavante chief sway.ed, steadying himself against the
tentpole. He was drunk, Harbin perceived; a strong whiff of fiery native rum
reached his nostrils. Twice Burity started to speak, blinked and grinned
foolishly, then blurted out: . </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Senhora. Senhora et Senhor </i>Mario. Es no go. down no,
es go op. No go Matura. Es take boys—" He held up one finger, then two
vaguely. "Es ron away, go Goyaz. Es no come bock.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What!” Harbin wrenched himself to a sitting posture,
oblivious of the pain that knifed through his broken ribs. “You're lying!” he
roared. “I'll — I'll beat you to a pulp, you lying scum! I'll cut your tongue
out for saying a thing like that!” <b>(11)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Burity cringed, shaking his head violently. "No lie! No
lie, Capitao! Es atruth!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Senhor
zangado</i>? No be <i>zangado</i> for Burity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Me no do <i>nada</i>, me <i>manso</i> — good Indian!"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sir Cedric glanced about wildly for something to throw at
him. But the Chavante whirled and darted out of the tent,, followed by the
explorer's angry curses... </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harbin fell back on his cot, breathing hard. Pain clutched
at his chest under the strapping; he had probably torn loose those half-mended
ribs again. The fury of complete helplessness wracked him for a moment. That
Indian was lying; of course<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he was
lying! Diana would no more desert him in this condition than — than — Or, would
she? Could a middle-aged husband ever really be sure of a young and beautiful
wife?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sir Cedric forced himself to lie still, teeth clenched,
fists knotted at his sides. The Chavante boy crawled out from behind a trunk
where he had hidden, and began timidly fanning him again. Harbin waved him away
irritably, then called him back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Boy —?” He hesitated, flushing at his own lack of reserve.
“Boy, did you —? Do you happen to know which way my — the Senhor Mario went? Up
river, or down?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, <i>Capitao</i>.” The Indian boy lowered his eyes
respectfully, but Harbin could detect a secret contempt in his impassive face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is there anyone who could find out for me? A tracker? A
tracker could tell wliich way the bataloa took off, couldn't he?” Sir Cedric
pressed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A tracker, Capitao?” The Chavante was standing before him,
still outwardly respectful. “Yes; tracker tell. But — <i>Brujo</i> know more
better. Ask Brujo look upon <i>Senhora's batalao</i>. Brujo see all theengs —
today, yesterday, tomorrow.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Bru—? Oh yes. Quite.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sir Cedric suppressed a smile. This was not the first time
he had heard marvelous powers attributed to the Brujos, the witch-doctors of
these Matto Grosso native tribes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Inspector of Indians had advised him to take one along
on this expedition — as arbiter, medico, and general adviser to his Chavante
bearers. Brujos were usually old men with wrinkled faces and mystic eyes —
half-crazed from addiction to <i>yage</i>, the deadly topaz-green drug brewed
from liana pulp. Murika, the Brujo of his Cliavantes, was no exception.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Murika, Harbin considered swiftly, would know about
Diana and that sneaky Brazilian, if anyone would. All rumors, all remnants of
local gossip, found their way quickly to those wise old ears — to be palmed off
later on the credulous as knowledge gleaned from supernatural sources. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course, Murika!” Sir Cedric nodded eagerly, snapping his
fingers at the Indian boy. “Well? Go fetch him! At once!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The young Chavante nodded and dashed out of the tent. He
dashed back presently, but more reverently, holding the tent flap aside for a
wizened old Indian to enter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Murika was a very small man, for a Chavante, most of whom
stood well above six feet. But there was something about his erect bearing,
about the serene wrinkled face under its feathered headdress, that commanded
respect. The old man's face and chest were heavily pigmented with red and
black, blue-black stain from the <i>gempapo</i> fruit and ted from the <i>urukti</i>
berry. A jaguar skin, with the tail dragging, was wrapped around his skiilny
loins, and a great deal of stolen copper telegraph wire coiled around his arms
from wrist to elbow. In his pierced lower lip was a rather large bone froni a
howler monkey, which affected his speech but slightly. He evidently knew no
English at all, but spoke perfect Portuguese, probably learned at a Christian
mission school before he took to black magic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His voice was deep and mellow like the music of a distant oboe, and Sir
Cedric was impressed in spite of the smile that twitched at the corners of his
mouth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Murika?" he greeted the old Indian haltingly. “I
— I called you here to — to —“</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The aged Brujo nodded matter-of-factly,stuffing somes kind
of fibre shreds into his cigar-holder-like pipe. He sat down cross-legged
beside the explorer's cot and leaned back comfortably against the
tentpole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without a word he closed his
eyes, puffing slowly at the pipe. A peculiar acrid odor filled the tent, making
Sir Cedric feel suddenly light-headed and queer. He frowned, annoyed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now, see here,” he said. “I've no time for a lot of
mumbo-jumbo. Just.tell me if you know which way my —”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Chavante boy hissed sharply, shaking his head and making
a silencing gesture. On the opposite side of Harbin's cot, he whispered in
obvious awe: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Senhor</i> — do not espeak! <i>Brujo</i> esraoke the <i>ayahuasca</i>.
The drug of second sight —”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh!” Sir Cedric snorted, impatient. “I've heard of that —
damned lot of nonsense. Or,” he smiled wryly, “maybe it isn't. Maybe it works
something like sodium pentothal. Releases the subconscious mind. Helps dig out,
facts the conscious mind's forgotten. Hmmp!” He rolled over on his side,
wincing, to watch the old man as he sat, swaying and smoking, in utter silence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Presently, however, the Brujo's eyes opened. They had a
weird doped look staring unseeingly at Harbin as though they gazed through him,
through the stained tent walls, and farther, much father, through the matted
jungle outside. Very slowly the old witch-doctor began to speak, chanting a
curious singsong now in Chavante, now in Portuguese. Harbin made out the
Portuguese with an effort, but the Indian was beyond him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“… They go toward the rising sun. The <i>batalao</i>
moves slowly. There are three bearers, Chavantes. The Smiling One sleeps under
the <i>toldo</i>. The man watches … Now he shoots the gun, killing a blood-red <i>crara</i>.
He brings the feathers to the <i>Senhora</i>. She laughs, thanking him and
putting the feathers in her golden hair.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sir Cedric cursed, heaving himself upright again furiously.
It was all a lot of silly patter, meaningless and without any foundation on
truth, he told himself sickly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or, was it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Toward
the rising sun,’ the old man had said. Then the <i>batalao</i> was being
paddled east toward Goyaz, just as Burity had said; not west to Matura.
Did the
Brujo know for certain, from tracks he had found along the riverbank
amid a network of other spoors—the round cuplike tracks of jaguars, the
broad three-toed marks of a tapir, the splayed track of the capivara,
those sheep-sized water-guinea-pigs of the jungle? Or was he only
guessing? -</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
". . . Now she sings," Murika droned abruptly. "She sings this song, it is plain to hear ... " He began to hum. And Harbin's scalp 'prickled as he recognized the halting strains of Noel Coward's "Never-Try to Bind Me," an old favorite of Diana's. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The very tune she had been dancing to,with young Forrester, at the Explorer's Club that night — tliat night —- Amazingly, unbelievably, Murika was even singing the words now, although he knew not a phrase of English <b>(13)</b>: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Never try to hold .. . </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Never try to bind me, </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Take me as you find me. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Love and let me go . . ,</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The sound of those words, their import so obviously meaningless to that wrinkled Chavante singer, stabbed at Sir Cedric like a knife thrust. <br />
<br />
"Stop!" he yelled furiously. "That's — it's a lot of damned nonsense! How - how could you possibly hear them, if they set off down the river — or up the river, as you say — four or live hours ago?" <br />
<br />
The old Brujo closed his eyes, for answer. In a few moments,, when he opened them and looked at the white man again, their weird faraway look was gone. He rose from his cross-legged position and stood quietly beside Harbin's cot, waiting. Sir Cedric glowered at him, then shrugged and thrust a cheap plug of tobacco at the old Indian, who took it with a gracious air of bestowing a gift rather tlian of receiving one. <br />
<br />
"Is there more which you wish to know, <i>Capitao?</i>" he asked softly. "Murika has looked into the past—-and has seen the padre in Rio speaking the rharriage vows. The <i>Capitao</i> drops the ring, in his eagerness to place it on the Smiling One's finger. A man with a golden mustache picks it up and gives it back to—-." <br />
<br />
Harbin started, his scalp prickling again. "Kimball!" he murmured. "He^-he was my best man. And I did drop the ring . . . How could you possibly know . . .? Did you ever overhear Diana and myself . . .? That must be it," he broke off, surreptitiously mopping at his forehead. "Of course. Nothing . . . supernatural about it!" <b>(14)</b><br />
<br />
Murika's bland expression did not change. He merely stood quietly, waiting, looking more sure of himself than Harbin had ever felt in his whole life. In fact, the quiet wisdom in that wrinkled, face made him feel more unsure of himself now than ever. <br />
<br />
"Do you desire that I shall look into the future, <i>Capitao?</i>" the old Chavante asked gently., "The <i>ayahtiasca</i> sends, the eyes in all directions. One is able to see what was, what is, and what is to be." <b>(15)</b><br />
<br />
"The devil you can!" Sir Cedric snorted, more to convince himself than to scoff at Murika. "All right!" he snapped. "What is to be? My wife's run off with a damned Brazilian, you say. Is she coming back?"<br />
<br />
Murika took another puff at the pipe, his eyes again taking on that opaque drugged look, the pupils widening until the iris had disappeared. Harbin watched him, fascinated, trying to feel amused and scornful, trying to deny that hollow sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. <br />
<br />
Murika, opened his eyes wide, swaying. His voice sounded very thin and echoing as he spoke, like the voice of one shouting down a mine shaft. <br />
<br />
"I see . . . " he intoned. "I hear .. . the Smiling One . . . screaming. It is written in the stars . . . that the <i>Capitao</i> may keep before him, for all the rest of his days, the smiling face of his <i>senhora</i> <b>(16)</b>. But . . ." <br />
<br />
"Yes.''" Harbin urged tensely, as the <br />
<br />
Brujo paused. "Yes?" <br />
<br />
"But it is also written in the stars," Murika said thinly, "that the sight of it will drive the <i>Capitao</i> into madness. This I see, and no more." <br />
<br />
Sir Cedric expelled a quivering breath. <br />
<br />
Rubbish, all of this, sheer rubbish. And yet . . . That bit about the Noel Coward song, and the dropped ring. And Kimball's blond mustache—he and Diana had certainly never mentioned that in Murika's hearing, though it might have been only a clever bit of guesswork <b>(17)</b>. Still— <br />
<br />
He lay back on his cot, battling for self-control. At his sides his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms.<br />
<br />
Two drops of blood oozed from the broken flesh and ran down his wrists, unfelt. But Murika noticed them, and' approached the white man's cot. He made a few curious passes in the air with a monkey skull produced from somewhere under the folds of his jaguar skin, then laid the skull gently on Harbin's forehead. <br />
<br />
"<i>Capitao</i>," the old rnah said. "Forgiveness is better than vengeance . . . " <b>(18)</b><br />
<br />
The archaeologist jerked his head away savagely, the monkey skull bumping hollowly to the ground as he glared up at Murika.<br />
<br />
"Get out of here!" he grated, sweat popping out on his forehead and upper lip. <br />
<br />
"What are you trying to do to me, lying here trussed up? Are you trying to drive me crazy? <i>Get out!</i>" . '' <br />
<br />
He wrenched himself up again, panting and cursing. The Chavante boy dodged behind his trunk again, but the old Brujo merely bowed slightly and backed toward the tent opening. <br />
<br />
"Jealousy," he said in his soft mellow Portuguese, "is like a poison, <i>Capitao</i>. The <i>Senhor</i> stands where the trail forks. Think well!" <br />
<br />
"<i>Get out!</i>" Harbin roared, hurling his gourd of <i>matte</i> at the old Indian's head. <br />
<br />
The missile described a peculiar curve as it neared its target, however, and fell harmlessly to the floor. Again the white man shivered; he had heard before how a Brujp can deflect the flight of^\ an arrow or a blow-gun dart. Impossible, of course.<br />
<br />
<br />
He fell back, gritting his teeth against the pain of his ribs. Sweat poured from his forehead now; the tent was like a steam cabinet. From outside he could hear the faint splashing of an alligator somewhere upriver, the dismal hiss of a flock of <i>ciganas</i>, the mew of a hawk sailing enviously above where some of the bearers were shooting fish with their short bows and five-foot arrows barbed witli the tails of <i>arrays</i>—sting-rays. Harbin's mind sailed upstream, following a <i>batalao</i> where a lovely blond girl and. a handsome young man sat very close together under the palm-thatched <i>toldo</i> awning. Perhaps they were kissing now; perhaps only clinging together, in the way of young lovers. <br />
<br />
A groan escaped him, half rage, half pain. Diana, Diana. Of course it had been too good to be true. The first handsome, virile young idiot to come along, and she had left him — the glamor of his reputation worn thin, now that she had seen him make such a botch of this expedition. He would never hold her again, never see that dazzling good-humored smile of hers that had caused the Chavantes to call her <i>Rjssante</i>; the Smiling One. <br />
<br />
Harbin's eyes chilled. Dammit, she was always smiling!. Had she actually been cheerful and courageous, or was she merely laughing at him? These American girls, they were so light-hearted, so unconventional — unlike all the strait-laced British women he had known <b>(19)</b>.. Perhaps she had merely married him for a lark, planning all along to leave him when she became bored! Leave him to face all these grinning natives, to get back to Belem the best way' he could — without a guide. <br />
<br />
At the thought of Mario, Sir Cedric's face hardened. Damned insolent Brazilian! If he could follow them, if he could only get his hands around that tanned neck! His fingers flexed with the desire to kill, and suddenly he let out a roared command: <br />
<br />
"Boy! Boy! Where the devil are you hiding?" The Chavante lad scrambled out frorn behind his trunk, quaking. "Get me Burity again!" Harbin snapped, then shook his head. "No, no — he wouldn't go. It's Urubu country. Ah—!" His eyes glittered. "Those new porters! Send them to me. <i>Now!</i>" <br />
<br />
The Indian boy dashed off to obey, eager to placate and worried about that gift of cufflinks. He was back with the four squat Urubus in five minutes, and Harbin looked them over, still quivering with rage; He blurted his order in Portuguese, then in a few halting words of Chavante, but the Vulture Men shook their heads, grinning foolishly <b>(20)</b>. Harbin scowled, resorting to sign-language. <br />
<br />
"Senhora . . ." He drew the form of.a woman in the air. "Understand? I want you to . . . bring her back," he made scooping motion toward himself.<br />
<br />
The leader of the .Urubus, a stocky evil-eyed Indian with deep scars cut from eye-corners to mouthcorners, nodded suddenly, and jabbered a few words to the other three. <br />
<br />
They nodded eagerly, gabbling — and sounding for all the world, Harbin thought with a shudder, like the nauseous, hideous-looking birds they worshipped. The leader edged forward, beady eyes gleaming. <br />
<br />
"<i>Turi?</i>" he asked slyly, then brought up an English word, pointing to Harbin, then vaguely out into the jungle. "Mon?" <br />
<br />
"Oh — the white man? Mario?" Harbin's face was contorted. "The devil with Mario!" he growled. "I don't care what you do to him!" He made a broad gesture of dismissal, at which the Urubu chief grinned delightedly, nodding and replying with a throat-cutting gesture. His face held the unholy delight of a child given permission to pull the wings off a fly. <br />
<br />
Then' they were gone, like a flock of. gabbling seavenger-birds, and Harbin lay back on his' cot, closing his eyes wearily. <br />
<br />
In a day or so the Urubus, in a light fast <i>monlaria</i>, could overtake the other, slower boat. And well, if they were cannibals, if that was what the Inspector of Indians had warned him; the devil with Mario! Luring a man's, wife away from him as he lay helpless, unable to follow! Diana, they would bring back with them, and — well, he could take it from there <b>(21)</b>.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tears of reproach seeped from between Harbin's closed lids. Diana—:how could she have done this to him? But she was such a child, easily impressed, overly romantic. Forgiveness? What was it old Murika had said about forgiveness being better tlian vengeance? Sir Cedric smiled wryly. Well, after a time, perhaps he would forgive her. They could build a life together, even with the memory of her having run off with that handsome guide standing like an impenetrable wall of 'jungle between them. It wouldn't, really. Harbin's smile became peaceful, almost eager. He was a civilized man, he told himself<b>. (22)</b> The daily sight of his wife's smiling face would not, as Murika predicted, "drive him into madness." Probably, after he forgave, her for this outrageous escapade, she would love him all the more, really love him. <br />
<br />
"Acu!" one of the Chavarites in the river-shallows was shouting; he had evidently speared a <i>pirara </i>— or else been bitten on the bare leg by-a man-eating <i>piranha</i>, those murderous little fish that could strip a man's skeleton in a few minutes <b>(23)</b>. "Acu!" they were forever shouting, these savages — the word meaning "Hello!," or "Hooray!," or merely "Ouch!" according to the events of the moment. Harbin smiled at their simplicity.<br />
<br />
Sighing, settling himself to wait and to forgive, the archaeologist drifted into a restless slurnber, with the Chavante. boy plying his giant fern once more timidly. His eyes on Harbin's sleeping' face were wide and shocked, and warily respectful now <b>(24)</b>,<br />
<br />
<br />
All night Sir Cedric dreamed of his lovely wife. All the next day, and the next two following, he lay docilely on his cot, taking the last of the quinine and eating what was brought him without a murmur. A hundred times, sentimentally, he made up speeches to chide Diana, ever so uhderstandingly, for her unfaithfulness. She would cry, then fling her' arms around his neck and beg him to forgive her. Which he would, Harbin told himself wearily, humbly. All he wanted was to have her back, smiling at him, smiling in the old way as if none of this had ever happened. A small prickle of conscience nagged him now and then, thinking of the Urubu's gesture when he spoke of Mario. Suppose Diana loved the blighter? Had he any right to — But what sort of life would she lead with a jungle guide? Harbin snorted. Whatever the rotter was going to get, he richly deserved! Killing a man, or having him killed, for seducing your wife was the accepted thing, here in hot-tempered Brazil. Besides — Sir Cedric gave a hard laugh — he could say he hadn't really given that order to the Urubu chief; that the Indian had misunderstood him <b>(25)</b>.<br />
<br />
On the fifth day after the Vulture Menhad set out, old Murika walked silently into his tent. He stood for a moment, staring curiously at the supine white man, then walked slowly over to him.<br />
<br />
"<i>Capitao</i>," he said softly, "you have given an order to the Urubu men, and it is not good. The Senhor stood at the forked trail, and he has taken the wrong turning." <br />
<br />
Harbin started. Had the old blighter been hovering outside his tent, eavesdropping? He scowled, ordering the Brujo to leave with an impatient gesture. Arrogant old devil! 'Give them an inch and they'd take a mile! <br />
<br />
But Murika did not leave. His large vague eyes were troubled, and. again they had that faraway look. Again Harbin's nose wrinkled as he smelled the acrid odor of <i>ayahuasca</i>, from the Brujo's pipe. Murika was staring at him—and through him. <br />
<br />
"I see . . ." the mellow voice intoned. " see .... a Lost City, which the jungle has eaten. There are great blocks of stone, carven with strange writing. The Smiling One stands before it, while the man takes her picture." <br />
<br />
""The devil you say!" Sir Cedric pulled himself erect, glaring. "So the rotter's not only stolen my wife', but he's jumped the gun on my expedition, eh? Going to claim the credit for finding my —" His eyes glittered coldly. "Well, then — it's good enough for him, whatever they'll do to him!" he muttered under his breath. "I'm glad I sent them! I'm <i>glad!</i>" <br />
<br />
Murika said nothing, but shook his head very slowly. <br />
<br />
"They are but children," he said quietly. "Do not condemn the forest people, <i>Capitao</i>, if 1 they do not understand. "They go only to do the <i>Senhor</i>'s bidding." <br />
<br />
Harbin nodded impatiently, eyes narrowed. "All right. So I told them to kill him! What's it to you, you shriveled-up old fool?" he snapped, waving Murika from his tent. "Get out of here! They should be back here with my wife by tomorrow at sundown—and that's all I want!" he muttered. "I—I'll never let her out of my sight again, and that's certain! Romantic child. Doesn't know her own mind." <br />
<br />
He reached for his gourd of <i>matte</i>, sipped at it, then lay still. Through the long sweltering jungle-night he lay, sleeping little, his heart pounding with eagerness. Through the steaming day he waited, trying to peruse the old magazine he had read through twice already. The pain in his ribs had subsided now; the broken ends of bone were knitting again. Well, the devil take his confounded ribs! Tomorrow he'd have the bearers lift him into the boat, and he and Diana would go back to civilization. They'd follow the river, even if it took longer. He'd not keep her here in this green hell another day longer than necessary. Back at Belem, in a decent hotel, he'd rnake her forget all about Mario. He'd shower her with presents, make subtle love to her,<br />
<br />
<br />
Abruptly, a cry reached his ears. He had been straining for the sound, praying for it to come. The Urubus were back. Now, darting to the tent opening, his Chavante boy turned and nodded, wide-eyed and subdued.<br />
<br />
"<i>Capitdo?</i>" he announced, in a respectful whisper; almost as he addressed the Brujo, <br />
<br />
Harbin noted with a grin of self-satisfaction. " "Capitao? The — the <i>Senhor</i> Mario is not with them. The three bearers of our tribe were slain, or escaped. But — the. Smiling Oiie,-they have brought back as the <i>Senhor</i> ordered."<br />
<br />
"Oh? Good, good!" Sir Cedric, mopped at his face, nervous and eager. "Have they landed? Send them.in here. Hutryl Hurry!" <br />
<br />
He braced himself for the sight of his wife, perhaps being dragged angrily in between two grinning Urubus.. But the chief came in alone, to present him with a crumpled sheet of paper. Harbin frowned,,reading it swiftly. His heart leaped. It was a note Diana had evidently been writing to him when the Vulture Men overtook them at the Lost City; a note proving her innocence,-her loyalty, the love he had doubted.<br />
<br />
Flushing, miserably ashamed but grateful, Harbin's lips moved, reading:<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>My darling —<br /><br />I'm sending this message.back by one of the Chavantes. By now you must know we didn't go .to Matura, and never planned to go. I persuaded Mario to take me on to your Lost City, so your expedition need not be a flop. My dear, it seemed to mean so much to you, and I couldn't bear to see you looking so disgusted with yourself. I didn't tell you because I knew you'd stop me from trying it alone. <br /><br />Mario has taken some pictures, and I've copied a few hieroglyphics off the stones, also some pottery. Darling, you and Lieutenant Colonel Fawcett and your silly paper in Rio were right. There's a sort of temple here,, Inca, I believe. The altar stone, for sacrifice, is inlaid with gold and silver — I wish you could see it. But I've made maps, and we can come back after your ribs ha—</i><br />
<br />
The note broke oflf, significantly. Sir Cedric raised his eyes, looking up at the grinning Urubu beaming down at him like an evil stunted child of some forest-demon. Again he nodded happily,' pleased to have carried out the Capitao's orders so well. Again he made the throat-cutting gesture — and suddenly, like a cold hand on his heart, Sir Cedric remembered what the Inspector of Indians had said about the Urubu tribe. Not a history of cannibalism. Of head-hunting! <br />
<br />
Harbin swallowed on a -dry throat. What had he caused his young wife to witness, what horrible rites? Would she ever forgive him, ever look at him again without a shiver of revulsion? Would she ? <br />
<br />
"Rissante?" he asked hoarsely. "Where's — Where's my wife?" He made the sign of a woman's body in the air hurriedly, pointing to himself. "Tell her to come in! Bring her here! Quickly!" <br />
<br />
The Urubu grinned evilly, nodding several times like a small boy proud of the homework he was handing in to Teacher. He called out a few words of his dialect, and one of the other Indians entered, carrying a small wicker basket.<br />
<br />
Even before he jerked off the lid and saw the shrunken thing inside —-lips stitched together in a hideous travesty pf a smile, the long blond hair unbound and carefully brushed clean of blood-flecks — Harbin began to scream. . . .<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b><br />
<br />
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<b>NOTES</b></div>
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<b>(1) – </b>“Capivara” is an old variant spelling for
“capybara.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Capybaras are the largest
rodents in the world, averaging around 100 lbs, and dwell in wetlands.</div>
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<b>(2) – </b>“Herva matte” is a variant spelling for the
beverage now generally just called “mate,” a tea-like beverage made by adding
hot (but not boiling) water to the finely-grated leaves of the <i>yerba mate</i>
plant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is rich in caffeine and
vitamins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i>bombilla</i> is a
metal straw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are, incidentally,
the <i>Spanish</i> names for them, not the Portuguese.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>(3) – </b>“Mandioca” is a variant spelling for manioc or
cassava, a starchy poisonous root out of which (once the cyanide is removed by
preparation) is made flour and bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Rapadura” is the Portuguese name for unrefined whole cane sugar,
generally stored and consumed in blocks.</div>
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<b>(4) – </b>A northern city of Brazil, capital of Para, 100
miles upriver from the mouth of the Amazon and a major shipping port.</div>
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<b>(5) – </b>Lt. Col. Percival Harrison Fawcett (1867-1925),
British Royal Artillery, and his son Jack (1903-1925) both disappeared
searching for the lost city of “Z,” which may be identical with the ruins of
Kuhikugu, discovered around 2000 by Heckenberger in the area where Fawcett
disappeared.</div>
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<b>(6) – </b>Harbin’s ability to “embrace” her with three
broken ribs would have been limited, anyway – tough Explorer Hero or not!</div>
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<b>(7) – </b>Quinine is a medicine made from tree-bark which
is useful against malaria.</div>
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<b>(8) – </b>This is a standard of this sort of Golden Age
adventure story – the apposition of the reasonably-trustworthy native tribe,
often described in Noble Savage or at least neutral terms; to the treacherous
native tribe, who are described as being almost subhuman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s some justification for this, as
cutures or subcultures who are poor at playing positive-sum games are often
careless of their appearance as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still, it usually comes off as Beauty Equals Goodness, and often with a
strong racialist element as well.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>(9) – </b>“Mongoloid” here meaning “East Asian like”
rather than referring to Down’s Syndrome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is semi-accurate, as Amerindian populations are descended from East
Siberian peoples, but the fission between the two groups occurred before the
evolution of the epicanthic eyelid fold.</div>
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<b>(10) – </b>“Good day!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Did Sir sleep well?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Note the
difference between the Chavante’s halting English and his relatively-fluent
Portuguese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is good writing – a
poor writer of this era would have assumed that the native was merely <i>stupid</i>
because he spoke poor English.</div>
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<b>(11) – </b>At this point, you will have noticed that
Cedric is a prick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
partially-excusable by his frustrating and enraging situation – he’s close to
the object of his search, unable to proceed any further because of a painful
injury, and he’s worried that his beloved and much-younger wife may have run
off with the young, handsome guide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
only <i>partially-</i>excusable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even
by 1950 standards, Cedric is being harsh and abusive to Burity – and for
telling him a <i>truth</i> that Cedric didn’t want to hear. <br />
<br />
<b>(12) </b><b><b>– </b></b>A real song. You can listen to it <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cE6lSBjkPKY">here</a>. Beautiful, isn't it?<br />
<br />
<b>(13) </b><b><b>– </b></b>Cedric and Murika are presumably conversing in Portuguese, mostly rendered into English for the English-literate magazine readership.<br />
<br />
<b>(14) </b><b><b>– </b></b>The skepticism of the Man of Science is here almost obligatory in this sort of tale. It is meant to indicate that the supernatural element is true given the lack of any plausible mechanism for it to be false.<br />
<br />
<b>(15) </b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b>Or, in modern Western terms, Murika is claiming the powers of retrocognition, clairvoyance and precognition.<br />
<br />
<b>(16) </b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b>"... the <i>Capitao</i> may keep before him, for all the rest of his days, the smiling face of his <i>senhora</i> ..." The term for this is <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/ExactWords">Exact Words</a>, and it is frequently a driver for horror stories: compare with the mother's wish in "The Monkey's Paw." (W. W. Jacobs, 1902). The point is irony: the <i>letter</i> of the wish or prophecy is fulfilled, but most definitely <i>not</i> the spirit. This is most <i>certainly</i> the case here.<br />
<br />
<b>(17) </b><b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b></b>Cedric is reaching here: most of the people Murika would have seen would have been brown or black-haired. If Murika had <i>guessed</i> "blonde" he presumably would have been reasoning by analogy with Diana's own hair..<br />
<br />
<b>(18) </b><b><b><b><b><b><b>–</b></b></b></b></b> </b>Ironically, the pagan witch-doctor is here schooling Cedric in a Christian philosophy. This is less improbable than it seems: real Latin American Indians frequently practice a combination of Roman Catholicism and various native faiths <b><b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b></b></b>and Murika is a fluent Portuguese-speaker, so he was probably educated to some extent by European-descended Brazilians.<br />
<br />
<b>(19) </b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b>–</b></b></b></b></b> </b></b>This apposition of American honesty and playfulness with British hypocrisy and stuffiness was a very old theme in American literature, most famously in the works of Henry James but actually far older (it's in <i>Our American Cousin</i>, the play that President Lincoln didn't get to finish watching in 1865, and was already a <i>cliche</i> by then) . It was based to some extent on truth, and to some extent on an American misunderstanding of British customs. It would in 1949-50 have been recently reinforced by the experiences of American servicemen in Britain during World War II, who found British girls simultaneously standoffish and absurdly easy <b><b><b><b><b><b><b>–</b></b></b></b></b></b></b> in part because of divergences in courtship customs between the Mother Country and her former colony over the last century and three-quarters.<br />
<br />
<b>(20) </b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b>–</b></b></b></b></b></b> </b>The Urubus are of course grinning in <i>embarrassment </i>at their inability to understand what Sir Cedric is saying. This should be a warning to Cedric that he should not attempt to give them complex orders on any crucial matter. He's too angry to grasp this.<br />
<br />
<b>(21) </b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b></b></b></b>Sir Cedric is very much <i>not</i> thinking this through. Even if the Urubus had understood what he actually wanted them to do, what sort of a marriage would he have had if his suspicions had been correct and he had murdered her lover and taken her back by force?</div>
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<b>(22) </b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b></b></b></b>Rather ironically, as this "civilized man" has just essentially ordered his savage mercenaries to murder his wife's lover and drag his wife back to camp by main force. At least, that's what he <i>meant</i> to do.</div>
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<b>(23) </b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b>Piranha are over-rated as threats to Mankind. Humans are smart and agile enough, and piranha sufficiently small, that it is hard for them to do major damage to a man before he <i>jumps out of the water</i>, and consequently there are no verified reports of them actually killing anyone who wasn't first incapacitated for some other reason. But really, how could one write a pulp story set in the Amazon without at least <i>mentioning</i> them? Piranha are traditional in such tales -- and they <i>are</i> nasty little creatures.</div>
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<b>(24) </b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b>There is serious irony here. Sir Cedric laughs at the "simplicity" of the Chavantes, and the Chavante boy is shocked and "respectful" of him, in Cedric's own perception. But, actually, what's going on is that the Chavantes have a much better idea of what the Urubus are going to do than does Sir Cedric, and the Chavante boy is utterly horrified that Cedric has given such orders regarding <i>his own wife</i>, whom the Chavantes adore.</div>
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<b>(25) </b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b>Deep, <i>deep</i> irony here. The Urubu chief has <i>really</i> "misunderstood" Cedric, in a way which Cedric would never have wanted.</div>
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=======</div>
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<b>REVIEW</b></div>
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<br />
This
is psychological horror, set right at the intersection between magical
and mundane adventure; after reading it I had difficulty classifying it
properly. In terms of genre it is actually fairly close to modern
"magical realism," though its political assumptions would horrify most
present-day writers of such. It is interesting both as a story in its
own right, and in terms of what it reveals about the attitudes regarding
the world which were common 65 years ago.<br />
<br />
The major fantasy element is, of course, Murika's psychic powers. This is <i>almost</i> not fantasy, since we modern Westerners were and are fairly credulous about the magical abilities of native shamans. The reason why the element makes it fantasy is that it is key to the internal logic of the story; without it Cedric would not have important information regarding Diana's actions. The reason why it is still almost <i>not</i> fantasy is that it is included essentially for dramatic purposes and the mechanism is very cursorily explored <b><b><b>– </b></b></b>Murika inhales a drug concentrates, and does magic.<br />
<br />
The obvious comparison is with one of the Shakespeare plays that incorporates what we would call "fantasy" elements such as the Three Witches in <i>Macbeth</i>. Arguably, such elements were almost science-fictional in Shakespeare, because witchcraft and socrery were part of the Elizabethan / Jacobean world view: to them, black magic seemed as serious a threat as (say) bio-terrorism does to us. That black magic doesn't really work, while bio-warfare does, is irrelevant to an analysis of the shared assumptions of author and audience..<br />
<br />
In 1600, black magic seemed real to most Westerners. 350 years later it did not. But of course this is a weird tale, and the reality of native shamanistic powers was by 1950 a common assumption in this kind of story. In the more explicitly-fantastic tales of the Cthulhu Mythos this would usually be explained as survivals of some sort of alien super-science; in this more mundane weird tale, it is just accepted as part of the trappings of the jungle tale, as much as the vines or the anacondas.<br />
The next thing one will notice in the story is Sir Cedric's situation. He's an older man, madly in love with his younger wife, and in a situation where he must prove himself to his colleagues by finding Fawcett's Lost City of Z. And he has been -- most frustratingly -- checked of his ambition when he was within a few days' march of his objective, by the injuries he suffered in an anaconda attack.<br />
<br />
What's more, he fears that his wife -- to whom he's been married only a month -- has now realized from his physical weakness that she has wed a broken-down old man and is having an affair with their guide Mario, who is young and handsome. This is a reasonable fear, though unfair given Diana's loving and loyal personality (well-shown in the the first part of the story). It's easy to sympathize with Cedric in this situation.<br />
<br />
From a modern perspective, what is most offensive about Sir Cedric's attitude is his unremitting <i>racism</i>. He treats the natives as almost subhuman savages, sees no problem with breaking his word to Burity (which is rather <i>foolish</i>, as Burity is the chief among his bearers, on whom he is now greatly dependent given his injuries) and even behaves disrespectfully to Murika, who consistently displays kindness and wisdom.<br />
<br />
Sir Cedric is being <i>less</i> racist by the standards of 1950 than he would be by today's standards. But he <i>is</i> being racist even by the standards of 1950. No Edgar Rice Burroughs hero would have behaved thus, and Cedric is not meant by Counselman to be seen as behaving heroically or well when he abuses his own bearers. It is very obvous from the conversation between Cedric and Murika, in which Murika warns him of the poison of jealousy, and Cedric reacts with irrational rage, that the author was very much aware of the flaws she wrote into her protagonist.<br />
<br />
In his rage at his wife's imagined betrayal, and contempt for his friendly Chavantes, he makes the mistake of giving an ambiguous and poorly-thought-out order to the <i>truly</i> savage Urubus. The consequences are tragic, and in a manner common to both epic and real history ("Who shall rid me of this troublesome priest?"). But that is the nature of anger and hate: they may miscarry and strike the target one <i>least</i> wants to harm.<br />
<br />
This is a true tragedy. Sir Cedric must have been an admirable man in the beginning, both to have chosen such a demanding form of archaeology and to have won such a woman as Diana. But, laid up by the anaconda's attack, his ambition and determination festers until he rages at the Chavantes and issues terrible orders to the Urubus, orders more terrible than he realizes.<br />
<br />
As I said, this is <i>psychological </i>horror, about Man's inhumanity to Man. And not simply the savagery of a primitive people, but rather of a representative of the upper class of what in 1950 would have been considered by the readers to be the most civilized nation on the Earth -- Sir Cedric, a highly-educated English gentleman.<br />
<br />
It is true that that the actual atrocity is committed by the Urubus, the <i>least</i> sympathetic of the five cultural groups (Americans, Britons, Brazilians, Chavantes and Urubus) represented in this tale. But this provides no easy moral out for Sir Cedric. For it is he who has hired the Urubus (against the advice of the Brazilians and Chavantes). And it is he who gives them the order that sends them on their lethal course. Cruel though the Urubus are represented as being in this story, they would have done his party no harm had he not loosed them on them <i>himself</i>.<br />
<br />
It is true that Sir Cedric did not intend them to murder his wife. But he gave orders to people with whom he had no language in common, people whom he knew were cruel in combat. And he <i>meant</i> them to kill Mario. Much as Cedric values Diana more than Mario (and so would the male, American or British, reader of <i>Weird Tales</i>), <i>this is not a moral judgement</i>.<br />
<br />
What is more, <i>both</i> of them were innocent. Diana was actually trying to save the expedition and her husband's academic reputation. Mario obviously admired her, but had done nothing worse than flirt with her. Sir Cedric would have discovered this, had he been able to control his temper. Instead, he lost his temper, and with it everything he cared about. Even if he's now able to find the City of Z, his victory will be ashes in his mouth <b><b><b><b><b><b><b><b>– </b></b></b></b></b></b></b></b>he's lost the true love who could have comforted him in his old age. In fact, the story implies that he goes <i>insane</i>.<br />
<br />
This is, essentially a cautionary tale about anger and suspicion, and it succeeds powerfully at this objective.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b>Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-16289610833731376452014-11-09T00:05:00.000-08:002018-09-23T17:43:40.111-07:00Guardians of the Unused Gate -- the Resentment of the Lit-Critters Against the Great Science-Fiction Writers of the Past<div class="comment-body">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>"Guardians of the Unused Gate --</b></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Resentment of the Lit-Critters Against the Great Science-Fiction Writers of the Past"</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">by</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">Jordan S. Bassior</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<br />
It is a surprisingly common delusion on the
part of the lit-critters that greatness in the field is dependent upon
their approval. In fact it is dependent upon having the audience, and
trying to be a gate-keeper merely means that the audience will take
another path and leave oneself standing there on an empty road,
defending one’s gate.<br />
<br />
I’ve noticed that the current crop of gate-keepers have decided to
hate the great writers of the past. This is a common theme in literary
history, and the usual reason is self-doubt and envy. The gate-keepers
and their writers doubt that they can <i>write</i> as well as any of the
great science fiction writers of the past — they picked John W.
Campbell’s stable as writers to hate because virtually any decent sf
writer who published in the late 1930’s through late 1950’s had multiple
appearances in <i>Astounding</i> — so instead of even <i>trying</i>, to write that well, they try to tear those great writers down through guilt-by-association.<br />
<br />
I must pause for a moment for astonishment at the notion of “guilt”
by association with John W. Campbell, Jr., or of anyone being ashamed of
being in the august company of writers he encouraged, or of liking
their work. Seriously, to feel guilt or shame for this, one would have
to be completely ignorant of the history of science fiction and never
read a story written before the 1980’s or 1990’s. This would be an act
of intellectual “purity” equivalent to refusing to ever read Shakespeare
or anything inspired by him (a joke with the same punchline, as pretty
much <i>all</i> subsequent English literature was inspired at least
indirectly by Shakespeare and the same thing is true for the Campbellian
science fiction writers).<br />
<br />
I think that half the reason why the standard of “excellence” chosen
is adherence to political correctness, a system of values distinguished
by the most extraordinary transience of its tenets in such a manner that
no one of one generation can hope to predict the political correctness
of the next (who in the 1990’s could have predicted that feminists would
be jumping on board to defend Muslim fundamentalists, for instance?) is
in order to disqualify all previous science fiction writers from the
competition. If not, why the eagerness to distort the truth in order to
hunt down deviances of the writers of the 1940’s and 1950’s from a set
of standards which they had no way of knowing would exist in that form?<br />
<br />
They are unmoved by the obvious point that, if they tear down the
writers of a half-century ago for failing to conform to today’s
political masks, they themselves will be torn down a half-century from
now for failing to conflrm to that future’s political masks, for several
reasons.<br />
<br />
<b>(1)</b> They are poor time-binders — they wouldn’t believe
nonsense like political correctness if they understood that other times
and places were really real,<br />
<br />
<b>(2)</b> They assume that they are Special Snowflakes and that the mob they try to raise could never turn on them, and finally<br />
<br />
<b>(3)</b> Some, I think, <i>know</i> they are mediocre little clumps
of excrement and that they will be entirely unknown a half-century from
now, so it matters little to them.<br />
<br />
So they stand at the gate on the increasingly-unused road, fiercely
defending their path, while the bulk of fandom enters by new gates for
new destinations, and sometimes looks curiously at the lunatics guarding
the unused passage.<br />
</div>
Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-72736890270337740912014-11-08T00:34:00.003-08:002018-09-23T17:43:45.725-07:00"Omega, the Man" (1933) by Lowell Howard Morrow, with Notes and Commentary<!--[if !mso]>
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<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></h2>
<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">“Omega, the Man”</span></h2>
<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></h2>
<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">© 1933</span></h2>
<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></h2>
<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">by</span></h2>
<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></h2>
<h2 style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.5pt;">Lowell Howard Morrow</span></h2>
<h2 style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;"> </span></h2>
<h2 style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 18.0pt;"> </span></h2>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
silver airship cut swiftly through the hot thin air. The noonday sun blazed
down upon it and the desert world below. All about was the solemn silence of
death. No living thing appeared either in the air or on the drab, gray earth.
Only the aircraft itself displayed any signs of life. The sky, blue as indigo,
held not the shadow of a cloud, and on the horizon the mountains notched into
it like the teeth of a giant saw <b>(1)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The airship finally
came to a hovering stop, then dropped rapidly toward the salt-encrusted plain.
It came to rest at last on the bottom of a great, bowl-shaped hollow situated
at the end of a chasm whose gray, rock-strewn sides rose in rugged terraces for
miles back into the sky. In a few moments a panel in the vessel's side rolled
noiselessly upward, disclosing a brilliant light, and from the interior of the
airship soon appeared two figures who paused at the aperture and gazed out over
the parched earth. Then without fear or visible effort—although they were
seventy-five feet above the ground—they emerged from the ship and floated down
to earth.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">These two humans—the
sole survivors of all earth's children—were man and wife—Omega and Thalma. They
were burned a deep cherry by the fierce rays of the sun. In stature they were
above the average man now on earth. Their legs were slender and almost
fleshless, because for many centuries man had ceased to walk. Their feet were
mere toeless protuberances attached to the ankle bone. Their arms were long and
as spare as their legs, but their hands, although small, were well-proportioned
and powerful. Their abdominal regions were very small, but above them were
enormous chests sheltering lungs of tremendous power, for thus nature had
armored man against the rarefaction of the earth's atmosphere. But the most
remarkable parts about this truly remarkable couple were there massive heads
set upon short, slim necks. The cranial development was extraordinary, their
bulging foreheads denoting great brain power. Their eyes—set wide apart—were
large and round, dark and luminous with intelligence and their ears were
remarkably large, being attuned to all the music and voices of life. While
their nostrils were large and dilated, their mouths were very small, though sensuous
and full-lipped. They were entirely hairless—for even the eyebrows and the
eyelashes of man had entirely disappeared ages before. And when they smiled
they betrayed no gleam of teeth, for nature had long discarded teeth in man's
evolution <b>(2)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The great, silver ship
of the sky now rested in a deep pocket on the floor of an ancient sea. Millions
of years, under the sucking energy of the sun and the whip of many winds, had
sapped its waters, until only a shallow, brackish lake remained. Along the
shores of this lake, which covered scarcely more than a hundred acres, a rim of
yellowish, green grass followed the water's edge and struggled against the
inevitable, and here and there among the grasses flowers of faded colors and
attenuated foliage reared their heads bravely in the burning sunshine. And this
lone lake, nestled in the lowest spot among the mountains and valleys which
once floored the Pacific, now held the last of earth's waters. Barren and
lifeless the rest of the world baked under a merciless sun.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Now</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
clasping hands, like children at play, Omega and Thalma approached the lake.
They glided over the ground, merely touching their feet to the highest points,
and finally stopped with their feet in the warm, still water.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega ran his cupped
hand through the water, then drank eagerly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is
good," he said in a low, musical voice. "And there is much of it.
Here we may live a long time." <b>(3)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thalma laughed with
sheer joy, her large, red-rimmed eyes aglow with mother light and love.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I am glad,"
she cried. "I know that Alpha will be happy here."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is so, my
love, and—"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega checked and
stared out over the glassy lake. A spot in its center was stirring uneasily.
Great bubbles rose to the surface and eddied to one side, then suddenly huge
cascades of water shot into the air as if ejected by subterraneous pressure. As
they stared in silent astonishment the commotion suddenly ceased and the
surface of the lake became as tranquil as before.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"There is
volcanic action out there," said Omega fearfully. "At any time the
ground may open and engulf the lake in a pit of fire. But no, that cannot
be," he added, staring at Thalma with an odd light in his eyes. For he
suddenly recalled that no volcanic action or earth tremor had disturbed the
surface crust for ages.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"What is it,
Omega?" she whispered in accents of awe.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Nothing to fear,
my dear, I am sure," he replied, averting his eyes. "Likely some
fissure in the rock has suddenly opened."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And then he embraced
her in the joy of new-found life. For long ages mind had communicated with mind
by telepathic waves, speech being used for its cheer and companionship.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We will make
ready for Alpha," said Omega joyfully. "In very truth he may be able
to carry on. Moisture may return to earth, and it is more likely to return here
than elsewhere. Remember what the Mirror showed last week over the Sahara
plains—the makings of a cloud!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">They cheered each
other by this remembrance how, just before they had consumed the last of the
water in their recent home and buried the last of their neighbors and friends,
the reflecting Mirror had brought a view of a few stray wisps of vapor above
the Great Sahara which once had been reclaimed by man, where teeming millions
in by-gone ages had lived their lives.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"The inclination
of the earth's axis is changing as we know," <b>(4)</b> he went on hopefully as they
turned back toward the ship. "The moisture may come back."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">His was the voice of
hope but not of conviction. Hope, planted in man's soul in the beginning, still
burned brightly in these last stout hearts.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Alpha was still
unborn. Omega and Thalma had willed a male child <b>(5)</b>. In him was to be the
beginning of a new race which they hoped with the aid of science would repeople
the earth. Hence his name, the first letter of the Greek alphabet, of which
"omega" is the last.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I am afraid, my
love," said Thalma, looking back over her shoulder at the placid lake.
"I wonder what heaved the water about that way."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Don't worry
about it, my dear," he said as they paused beneath the ship and he put his
arm protectingly about her. "As I have said, it probably was the shifting
of a rock on the bed of the lake. It is nothing to worry about, and I feel that
we have nothing to fear for a long, long time. And we have so much joy to look
forward to. Remember Alpha is coming, and think of his glorious future! Think
of his changing all this!" And he swept his hand toward the grim, gray
hills. "Just think of again gardenizing the world!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
was indeed a dreary view upon which they gazed. On every side, upon the mountains
and hills, over salt-encrusted plains and upon the rocks, were the skeletons
and shells of departed life. Fossils of the animal and the vegetable kingdoms
greeted one on every hand. Great fronds of palms of the deep, draped with weird
remains of marine life long extinct, stood gaunt and desolate and rust-covered
in the hollows and on the hills. Long tresses of sea weed and moss, now crisp
and dead as desert sands, still clung in wreaths and festoons to rock and tree
and plant just as they had done in that far-off age, when washed by the waters
of the sea. Great forests of coral, once white and pink and red with teeming
life but now drab and dead, still thrust their arms upward, their former beauty
covered and distorted by the dust of the ages. Whales and sharks and serpents
and fish of divers species and sizes, together with great eels and monsters of
the deep, lay thickly over the land, their mummified remains shriveled by the
intense heat, their ghastliness softened by the ashes of the years.</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Millions of ages had
rolled away since the struggle began—the battle of life on earth against the
encroachments of death. And now death stalked everywhere, grinning with
malicious triumph, for he had but one more battle to fight. Already his grisly
clutch was closing on the standard of victory. Man had mastered life but he had
not conquered death. With the magic wand of science he had reached out into
space and viewed the life of far-off worlds. He had routed superstition and
fear and selfishness. He had banished disease and learned all nature's secrets;
had even visited other worlds and had come to know and understand his God, but
still death had marched grimly on. For even the abysmal moment of creation had
marked the world for his prey. Slowly but surely death had closed his cold
hands about the earth. The sun flung forth his hot rays and drew more and more
of the earth's moisture and dissipated it in space. Gradually the forests
vanished and then the streams and lakes dwindled and disappeared. By this time
the atmosphere had thinned almost imperceptibly—and only by the aid of his
scientific instruments had man been able to detect its thinning. Less and less
rain fell, and finally even the ice-caps about the poles trickled away. Cold
and gaunt and shadowy those regions lay silent and lifeless throughout the long
nights, and loomed like gray ghosts in the hushed light of the summer. The sun
blazed on relentlessly and the shores of the seven seas receded age after age,
but with his science and his machines man had doggedly followed the retreating
waters, husbanded and harnessed them and thus retained his grip on life.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But now at last life
on earth had come to its final battlefield. The plans of the battle were
sharply drawn, but there could be no doubt of the issue. No one knew this
better than Omega, for the sun shone on with undiminished power. Yet the
rotation of the earth had slackened until twenty-five hours constituted a day,
while the year was 379 days and a fraction in length. Man, gradually adjusting
himself to the new conditions and environment, had triumphed even in the face
of a losing fight. For he had learned to smile into the hollow sockets of
death, to laugh at the empty promises of life <b>(6)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Back</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
in their ship Omega and Thalma gazed out over the dead world, where the salt
crystals gleamed and sparkled in the sunshine.</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Will all this
ever become green again and full of joy and life?" asked Thalma wearily.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Why not?"
asked Omega. "Although the race has come to its last stand, water is here
and before it is gone who knows what may happen?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega spoke only to
please his wife, for well he knew in his heart that the star of hope had
forever set. And always he was thinking of that commotion in the waters of the
lake. What could have caused it? What did it portend? He was sure that the
answer was to be one of tragedy.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We know that for
uncounted ages the world was green and beautiful, was vibrant with life and
joy," he went on. "And why may it not be so again, even though now it
is garbed in the clothes of the sepulchre? Let us trust in the power of our
son."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thalma did not answer,
and Omega, seeing that she was terribly depressed, fell silent. So they sat in
their great airship, strangely dejected despite the close proximity of the
life-giving water, while the sun flamed through the cloudless sky and set in a
crimson flood beyond the lifeless plains. Night fell but still they sat
brooding. The stars shone out in the purple heavens, but they noticed not their
glory. The ship was wrapped in an awful silence. No night wind whispered its
message nor warmed the cold, desolate earth, stretching down from the poles,
nor cooled the hot wastes about the equator. The naked mountains rose stark and
forbidding into the sky, which hung like a great, bejeweled bowl over the
sun-scorched plains, where the dust of many ages lay undisturbed. The shadows
lay deep and dark over the valleys and among the streets of cities dead and
silent for many ages, and searched out deep chasms which when the world was
young had felt the surge of the restless seas. No form of life winged its way
through the darkness and called to its mate. No beast of prey rent the air with
its challenge. No insect chirped. No slimy shape crawled over the rocks. Dark
and solemn, mysterious and still, the earth sped on through the night.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Morning</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
found them in much better spirits. Over their breakfast, which consisted almost
wholly of food in tablet form, they discussed their plans. After which they
went to the lookout in the bow of the ship and gazed out at the gray world.
There was no change. The same heart-breaking monotony of death confronted them.
But despite it all they finally smiled into each other's eyes.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is
home," said Omega proudly. "The last home we shall ever know."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"My God,
look!" suddenly gasped Thalma, clutching his arm and pointing a trembling
finger toward the lake. "What—is that?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Following her gesture
he stared in terror and stupefaction. Rising above the center of the lake where
the day before they had beheld the agitated waters, was an enormous,
scale-covered neck surmounted by a long, snake-like head whose round, red eyes
were sheltered beneath black, horny hoods. The horrible creature's head was
swaying back and forth as its black tongue darted in and out between wide-open
jaws displaying single rows of sharp teeth. Fully fifteen feet above the lake
the awful eyes looked toward the land. And as the neck moved in unison with the
swaying head the scales seemed to slide under and over one another a perfect
armor for the neck.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"A plesiosaurian!"
exclaimed Omega, leveling his glasses at the beast. "No—how can that
be?" he added in bewilderment. "Those monsters were supposed to be
extinct ages ago. And they had a smooth skin, while this thing has scales, like
those of a brontosaurus, which was really a land animal. This must be a cross
between the two that through the process of evolution has been developed </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(7)</b></span>.
Anyway it is the last of the species and it has come here—to die." </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Like us it has
followed the water and come here to die," said Thalma as she also leveled
glasses <b>(8)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For several minutes
they watched the swaying head which every little while twisted from side to
side, as the blazing eyes seemed to be searching for prey, while a whitish
saliva dripped from the jaws. The body of the beast, which they knew to be
enormous, was hidden beneath the water, but the agitation on the surface showed
that powerful feet and legs were stirring.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes, it has come
here to die," repeated Omega, "to fight for the last drop of earth's
water. It now has possession of the lake, and unless we kill it, it will kill
us or drive us away."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Almost with the words
Omega seized an atomic gun and pointed it at the brute's head. But before he
could sight the weapon and pull the trigger the monster, as though sensing danger,
suddenly jerked down its head and a moment later it had disappeared beneath the
surface <b>(9)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It has
gone!" cried Thalma. She was trembling as with a chill, and her eyes were
wide with terror.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It will appear
again," said Omega, "and then we will kill it, for the water belongs
to man. Doubtless that huge beast is all that remains of life on earth save
ourselves. To-night while you sleep here in the ship, I will take a gun, take
position behind a rock on the shore of the lake and watch for its appearance. I
think shortly after nightfall when the rocks are cool it leaves the water and
comes on land in a vain search for food, for beyond a doubt it has devoured
everything in the lake, save marine mosses and the like. Yet as it has survived
all contemporary life except man, it may live for centuries unless we destroy
it."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"But there are
not centuries of water out there," Thalma said. "As to your hunting
this monster alone, I will not hear of it. I shall go with you. Together we
will destroy this menace of our new home."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Omega's eloquence could not dissuade her. So, after the sun had set and the dry
cold had chilled the hot rocks, they set out along the shore of the lake and
looked eagerly out over the still water for a sight of their enemy. Nothing
disturbed the silvery surface of the water. Crouching behind a mass of coral
they waited, but throughout the long, still night they watched without reward,
for nothing moved within their range of vision. The stars, wonderfully large
and brilliant in that rarefied atmosphere, seemed to be the only link between
them and the unknown. Only their own hurried breathing and the muffled thumps
of their wildly beating hearts broke the silence. And as the sun rose again
above the dead plains, weary and discouraged they returned to the ship.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">While keeping up a
bold front for Thalma's sake, Omega's heart was sad, for he well knew that
unless they could vanquish that marine monster they were doomed. That such a
dreadful creature had come to them from the mists of antiquity, as it were, was
incredible. Yet he had seen it, Thalma had seen it, and it resembled some of
the sea-monsters he had heard of in the past. They could not doubt its
existence and must prepare for the worst.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega's name had been
conferred on him by an ironical whim of fate. When he was born there were still
many people on earth inhabiting the low valleys of the Pacific's floor where
much water still remained. But the droughts had increased with the years, and
before Omega had reached middle-life all rain had ceased to fall. The
atmosphere became so rare, even near the ground, that it was difficult for the
people with the aid of their machines to draw sufficient oxygen and nitrogen
from it to prepare the food which had been man's principal sustenance for ages.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Gradually the weaker
peoples had succumbed. But the remnants of the nations gathered about the
receding waters, all foreseeing the end, but all determined to defer it as long
as possible <b>(10)</b>. There was no recourse. For ages before Omega was born the nations,
knowing that the earth was drying up, had fought one another for the privilege
of migrating to another planet to fight its inhabitants for its possession. The
battle had been so bitterly contested that two-thirds of the combatants were
slain. By the aid of their space-cars the victors colonized other planets in
our solar system leaving the vanquished on earth to shift for themselves. There
was nothing for them to do but to fight on and await the end, for no space-car
that man had ever devised was able to penetrate the cold, far-reaches of space.
Only among the family of our own sun could he navigate his ships. And now, like
the earth, every member of that once glorious family was dead or dying. For
millions of years, Mars, his ruddy glow gone forever, had rolled through space,
the tomb of a mighty civilization. The ashes of Venus were growing cold. Life
on Mercury, Jupiter and Saturn already was in the throes of dissolution, and
the cold, barren wastes of Uranus and Neptune always had forbidden man <b>(11)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So it seemed that the
name, Omega, had been fittingly bestowed. More than ever the stark truth made
him shudder with apprehension, and he felt that only the coming of Alpha would
give him strength to carry on.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Now we must make
ready for Alpha," said Omega, even while thoughts of the sea-monster
chilled his heart. "We will make our servants prepare the way. Here in
this valley must be born a new race of men. Life must come from death. Come,
Thalma."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
smiled back at him, reassured by his confident manner, and together they
entered a lower compartment of the ship. This compartment contained the
servants of which Omega had spoken—divers machinery and other marvels of man's
construction. Omega touched several buttons and a section of the ship's hull
rolled aside. He pressed other buttons and whirled wheels. Then great sections
of mirror slid out into the air and without apparent direction or control they
ranged themselves far up on a steep hillside. Yet all were under perfect
control. With invisible, atomic rays Omega made all do his bidding. For
countless centuries man had mastered the atom, divided it, harnessed its
electrons. Following the discoveries of the great French scientist, Becquerel,
man had learned that the potential energy of all atoms—especially that of
radium—is almost limitless. And as the disintegration of the atom carries an
electrical discharge, man had learned to control this energy. Omega's machines,
utilizing atoms from everywhere, even the ether, split them by radio-activity
through electromagnetic waves, and utilized the energy of their electrons which
always move in fixed orbits. There being forty radio-active substances, Omega
took advantage of them all, and equalizing the atomic weight of the
atoms—whether those around a hydrogen nucleus or a helium nucleus—he broke the
atoms down and directed the charges of their electrons. Then his motors
amplified the discharges and, through the medium of an electric current,
projected them in the form of invisible atomic rays which he could control and
direct against any object and sustain and move at will by means of oscillating
currents <b>(12)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Soon upon the
hillside, perfectly arranged and adjusted, appeared a giant, parabolic,
refracting mirror with which he could obtain a view of any portion of the earth's
surface by sending vibrating currents around the world and reproducing
impressions already recorded on the ether, on the surface of the mirror. And
beneath its center was a receiver, through which he might have heard the
minutest sound around the world, had there been any to hear.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The small, atomic
motors—which drew their energy both from hydrogen nuclei, the ether of space
and the radio-active substances of all metals—now were placed on the hillside
near the great mirror. There motors were capable of creating and focusing
light, without bulb or other container, whenever and wherever needed. All were
operated with scarcely any effort by Omega.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In a measure it seemed
strange that the Greek alphabet and all the classics of the ancients had
survived antiquity. But the latest inventions of man explained it all. For man
with his machines had reached far back into the shadowy past and proved the
immortality of all thought and action. All the records of history, all the
triumphs and defeats, the joys and sorrows and aspirations of humanity, came
out of the past and marched across the screen of his historical recorder. As
nothing is ever lost, all sounds and impressions occurring on earth since the
dawn of its creation, being already impressed on the sensitive plastic and
all-pervading ether, the same as a photograph is recorded on its film or plate,
man had developed a machine for drawing on these impressions until at will the
history of the world was before him </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(13)</b></span>. Even the varied life of the ancients came
out of the past. Saints and sinners, slaves and masters mingled. Confucius sat
before him in humility; Guatama counseled his followers to be humble; Christ
died upon the cross. Warriors and statesmen shouted their triumphs and bewailed
their defeats. Philosophers expounded their wisdom and Socrates drank the
hemlock. Hannibal and Caesar and Alexander fought their battles, and Napoleon
marched gory and unafraid from Austerlitz to Waterloo. All came back at the
call of Omega's science </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(14)</b></span>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
has been stated it was a giant craft on which Omega and Thalma had come to this
last retreat of man. Within its interior were all the latest marvels of man's
ingenuity and skill. These instruments of almost supernatural power not only
reached back into the past but also penetrated the future. There was a great
atomic-electric motor used in creating and controlling climate as long as there
was any to control. Sending forth electromagnetic waves it massed and directed
the atmospheric pressure, sending heat waves here, cold ones there, thus
causing droughts and rainfall at will <b>(15)</b>. But now, as with the case of most of the
other machines, Omega needed it no longer. He kept it because it linked him
with the joy of the past. Besides, there was the mind-control appliance by
whose aid man's mind might visit other worlds. This was done through the
development of the subconscious and the discipline of the will. But Omega was
weary of these pilgrimages, because his body could not perform those far-off
flights. As time went on he realized that the earth was his natural home. Even
the earth's neighbors, dead and dying, offered him no haven.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yes, Omega and Thalma
had garnered the gist of the world's treasures before commencing this last
trek. Gold and precious stones were common objects to them, because for
countless ages man had made them at will, but around those they had brought
clustered sacred memories of loved ones gone before. The biological machine in
the chemical laboratory of the ship—the machine that brought forth life from
nature's bountiful storehouse—was of little use now that both atmosphere and
moisture were nearly gone. Yet Omega cherished this machine, and aside from its
associations with the past, it held for him a fascination that he could not
understand <b>(16)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Having set the Mirror
and other mechanical servants in position, Omega and Thalma returned to the
ship, and slept throughout the day, for with the descending sun they must again
go forth to hunt that scaly demon which had taken possession of the earth's
last water.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The night was
moonless, but the bright starlight brought all objects into plain relief
against the dark rocks. Taking position on the slope several rods above the
beach, Omega and Thalma watched the lake eagerly, but nothing disturbed its
mirror-like surface. As on the preceding night the awful silence appalled
them—even though they were accustomed to the vast solitude. It was so calm and
still, so full of death and mystery, that it seemed they must cry out in the
agony of their emotions. As the very silence was crushing their spirits so the
knowledge that only one form of life on earth stood between them and the water
to which their last hope clung, was maddening. How they longed to battle the
hideous monster! But the hours dragged on with nothing to disturb the dead,
heart-breaking silence. At last the Great Dipper had swung so far around that
dawn appeared <b>(17)</b>. Yet there had been not a ripple on the lake. Omega concluded
that his guess was wrong—the beast did not leave the water at night to search
for food. Perhaps it had learned the futility of such a search in a dead,
dust-covered world.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Wearied</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
by their long and fruitless vigil they must have dozed, for suddenly Omega, who
sat but a yard or two from Thalma, was aroused by a padded footfall and the
exhalations of a noisome breath. Looking up he was horrified to see the monster
towering above him, its head swaying gently to and fro, as its great, awkward
feet sent it lunging forward and backward for many feet, its spotted,
scale-covered body trailed over the rocks. By suddenly rounding the shoulder of
the rock, sheltering Omega and Thalma, its head held high, it seemed not to
have seen the two humans, for its terrible unblinking eyes were fixed ahead on
the water. However, Omega, paralyzed with fear and astonishment, and being
directly in the beast's path, believed that his hour had come. This was to be
the end of all his plans—to be crushed by the enormous weight of the monster
which challenged his right to live. But in that tense moment when he thought
that it was all over, the lithe form of Thalma reached his side and in a frenzy
of terror pulled him away. But even then the sloping belly of the onrushing
beast tore him from her frail hands and dashed him against the rock.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">While he lay there
stunned and unable to move, Thalma discharged her weapon at the monster. Three
times she fired in quick succession but the shots went wild, and in another
moment the great brute struck the water with a resounding splash and
disappeared from view. For a few minutes a trail of surface bubbles marked its
rapid course toward the lake's center, then all was motionless and still as
before.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Are you hurt,
Omega?" Thalma cried anxiously, kneeling by his side <b>(18)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Just shaken up a
bit," he returned, sitting up with an effort. "Great hunters are
we," he went on with a laugh. "We almost allowed the game to catch
the hunters! Well, let's go back to the ship. We'll get him next time."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But their narrow
escape had shaken their nerve. All day long they remained safely in the ship
and kept their guns trained on the lake hoping that the beast would show
himself. How or when it had left the lake they could not surmise, but that it
was more formidable than they had thought now seemed certain, and Omega
concluded to bring science to his aid. In this way he was sure that he would
soon exterminate the monster.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So the next day he lay
a cable carrying a high voltage all around the lake and connected it with traps
of various designs both in the water and on the land. No more would they risk
their lives hunting the beast in the open after nightfall.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The hot, still days
that followed were anxious ones for these last children of life. Not a trap was
sprung. The beast did not drag his slimy body and tail across the heavily
charged cable. The last of his kind, fighting the last battle of existence, it
seemed that nature had endowed him with uncanny cunning. There was the
life-giving water for whose possession no human kind challenged them, but this
enemy was more terrible than any man, savage or civilized whom the earth had
ever known <b>(19)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">During</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
these anxious, watchful days Omega and Thalma went often to the Mirror and
gazed into it in search of vapor clouds. And more than once those gossamer-like
formations appeared over different parts of the world to gladden their hearts
only to fade away before their vision. The reflections of those embryo clouds
became less frequent as the days wore on. Omega and Thalma knew that they had
no right to hope for the return of water vapor. Their instruments, so finely
attuned as to appear endowed with intelligence, the records of the past and
their own common sense told them that. But nature and life in the upper reaches
of the air were dying as hard as their own hope. They knew that the aerial
manifestations they witnessed were but symptoms of the death struggle. And yet
a real cloud, dark and pregnant with moisture, suddenly appeared in the Mirror.
Consulting the chart they saw that it was hovering over a great land of plain
and mountains which formerly had been a part of the United States of America <b>(20)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We will go and
examine this gift from heaven," said Omega. "It moves over a once
beautiful land, which the voices of history tell us, harbored a race of the
free millions of years ago."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes, we will
go," agreed Thalma. "It may be after all that Alpha will first see
the light far from this dreadful hollow and—and—that monster out there in the
lake."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega hung his head.
Well he knew that the presence of the monster was slowly killing his beloved.
She complained not, but her dreams were disturbed with frightful visions, and
often Omega awakened to find her at a window staring out over the lake with
terror-stricken eyes.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This new cloud was
thousands of miles to the east but with fond anticipations they entered the
ship and plunged toward it. But although they reached the spot in one hour, the
last remnant of vapor dissolved before their eyes, and they turned sadly
homeward, once more beaten by the inexorable decrees of fate.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So having decided at
last that this deep valley must remain their home forever, Omega looked about
for a suitable building site, for although the ship was safe and comfortable
they longed for a home on the earth. But the ever present menace of the
sea-monster saddened them and filled them with misgivings, despite the fact
that Omega could guard the cottage electrically. But Omega wondered whether
electric safeguards would keep this creature from coming some night to the
cottage and sticking his loathsome head in at door or window. Omega shuddered
at the thought, but refrained from mentioning such a possibility to Thalma <b>(21)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Having selected a site
under the branches of a great coral tree standing within the shade of an
overhanging rock, Omega erected a cottage. It took him but a few days to build
and furnish this building from supplies on the ship. It was complete in every
feature, even to running water from the lake. Grass was brought from the lake
and a lawn laid out about the cottage in the shadows of the rock. The grass was
kept watered for Thalma's sake, even though the water was needed for other
purposes and the lake was diminishing steadily. But she was sacred in his
eyes—she the last mother the old earth ever was to know.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The interior of the
cottage was embellished like a palace, for treasures were brought from the
airship to grace its walls. The richest rugs, curtains, tapestries and silks
the world had ever known were there for Thalma's pleasure and comfort.
Paintings of green verdure, of forests and plains of waving grass, of tumbling
mountain streams and cool, placid lakes, Omega drew from the young days of the
earth. The power to portray nature's moods and beauties had increased in many
men with the passing of time. He placed these scenes before Thalma's couch that
their cool and inspiring presence might comfort her while she awaited the
coming of the child.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
morning being weary of the stark monotony of the valley, whose eastern wall was
distant many miles, Omega and Thalma determined to scale the heights above. For
sometimes in the sinister aspect of the chasm's walls, it seemed that the rocks
would close together and crush out their lives. They concluded not to take the
air-car, but to go on a rambling picnic with the ever present hope that they
might discover another oasis of life.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Hand in hand they rose
into the air, up and up for miles past frowning cliffs and dark caverns,
yawning like grinning skulls above the outposts of death. There was no visible
effort in their flight. They but took advantage of nature's laws which man had
long understood. At last on the highest peak they paused to rest on a
dust-covered rock.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The red sun rose above
the cheerless horizon and blazed on them from a deep azure sky slashed across
by bars of purple and gold. More than nine miles beneath them spread the deep
gorge, where nestled their little home, looking like a doll-house, and above it
shone the great, silver ship. The lake shone like a speck of silver on the drab
rocks. They gazed down upon it in an attitude of worship, for it alone in all
that vast realm of peaks and plains and valleys symbolized life. Then suddenly
a dark speck appeared on the surface of the lake. Omega looked at Thalma
apprehensively, for well he knew the meaning of that speck. Her face was pale
and drawn, and she clung to Omega as they pointed their glasses at the water.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The monster was again
disporting himself. He threshed the water into foam with his long, sinuous
body, while his head wagged and his terrible eyes looked toward the land. It
was the first sight they had had of him since the night he almost killed Omega.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Look!"
breathed Thalma, "it is coming ashore. Oh, I did hope that it was
dead!" And trembling violently she clung closer to her lord.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Never mind,
dear," consoled Omega as he watched the great beast waddle toward the
shore. "We will get him this time," he went on exultingly.
"Watch—he is going to get into the trap!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But they were again
doomed to disappointment. Within a few rods of the shore, with its great,
spotted body nearly all out of the water, the monster stopped, lifted its head
and looked slowly around in every direction. Then apparently scenting danger,
it turned, floundered back to the center of the lake and submerged.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I—I—am
afraid," shuddered Thalma.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"There is nothing
to fear," reassured Omega. "The beast cannot get to our home, and one
of these days he will either get caught in a trap or we will get a shot at
him."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Although Omega spoke
bravely he was really worried about the beast and the influence it was having
on Thalma. He realized that he must at once devise a better method of
extermination. Even though he did not fear it so much personally its presence
was disturbing, and it was daily absorbing so much water needful for
themselves <b>(22)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
great gash in the earth's crust stretching for many miles below them had been
the deepest part of the Pacific Ocean when its blue waves still lapped the
shores of continents, and that little lake, far down in the earth's bosom, was
the pitiful remainder of that once mighty sea. Far to the north-west, showing
plainly against the sky in the focus of their binoculars, were great ridges of
mountain and table land, rising gaunt and desolate from the ancient bed of the
sea—the site of the ancient empire of Japan <b>(23)</b>. Round about them on every hand
were the mute remains of marine life, for the spot where they sat had been far
below the surface of the sea. Silent, mysterious, hopeless and dreary, the
prospect appalled even their stout hearts. How they yearned for the sight of
some living thing there upon those high peaks. Silence supreme and dreadful, in
which even their voices, hushed and tremulous, sounded profane, cowed them by
its unending solemnity and the relentless grip. Gray and nude save for their
pall of dust the mountains rose into the sky, eternal in their ghostly majesty.
And the dark valleys between with their gray lips of death looked like the
gaping mouths of hell.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Death! death!
eternal and triumphant death, thou art everywhere!" cried Omega, springing
up and gazing with hopeless eyes about over the desolation.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thalma rose and
touched his arm. A smile of faith and confidence shone on her face. He looked
at her in wonder.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Nay, death is
not everywhere," she reproved gently. "Remember Alpha, our son. In
him life does and will live again."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Forgive me,
Thalma," said Omega, taking her in his arms. "You speak truly. With
your loyalty and courage I know we will win."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And so as it had
always been from the beginning of time, even so in these last days it took
woman's love and devotion to sustain man.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Now Omega gazed around
on the abode of death with an expression of disdain. He challenged it and dared
it to do its worst. Life still triumphed, for he had Thalma and Alpha was
coming soon. He would not surrender. He would fight the dark forces of
death—even that horrible monster down there in the lake—and conquer them all.
He would again 'gardenize' the world. The stubborn power of hope, that heritage
from his atavistic ancestors, was surging through his blood.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We will change
all this," he went on, waving his hand toward the far rim of the sky.
"We are still masters of life. But now let us descend," he added in
answer to her approving smile.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So saying again hand
in hand they stepped off into space and floated easily down toward their last
home.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega knew that his
first important task was to get rid of the beast. The fear-haunted expression
in Thalma's eyes brooked no delay. Accordingly they went to the ship, and each
taking a small sack they filled them with depth bombs. Thus armed they floated
out over the lake in quest of their enemy. But although quite shallow the water
was opaque for the most part being discolored by vegetable matter stirred up by
the monster, and the transparent portions were too deep for them to see bottom <b>(24)</b>.
Long and carefully they searched at a safe distance above the water, but no
sight of the beast could be seen. Then hoping that a chance shot might reach
and destroy him they passed to and fro over the lake's center and dropped their
bombs. Great columns of water were sent high in air deluging them with spray.
That was all. Still, they had no way of knowing whether a bomb had struck home.
In spots the water was so violently agitated as to suggest that the monster
writhed in a death struggle. But at last all became as quiet as before.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
now occurred to Omega to surround the lake with an invisible wall of
electricity of such power as to electrocute the beast should he attempt to go
over or through it. This was accomplished by increasing the power of his motors
and by automatic controls projecting a high voltage potential through the air
around the lake <b>(25)</b>. And then in addition to other protective appliances already
installed Omega put a similar wall about the cottage, much to Thalma's relief
and delight.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One night they had
retired early, Thalma being weary and her time but a few weeks away. To the
sweet strain of music which had been in the air for ages, they soon fell
asleep. How long he had slept Omega could never guess, but he was awakened
suddenly. He sat up bewildered and stared into the darkness, because for some
reason all lamps were out. And then he became aware of a peculiar sound coming
from afar. It was a queer noise combining the roar of the surf upon a
rock-bound coast, the sigh of the night wind through a forest and the rumble of
thunder. Suddenly it seemed to him that earth and cottage were trembling, and
the walls of the room swayed and buckled as though smitten by a great wind.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Frantically he rubbed
his eyes, convinced that it was all a dream. But the noise drew nearer,
thundered in his ears. In terror he got to his feet, tried to cry out. The
words froze on his lips, for just then the wall before him crashed in as though
struck by an avalanche. Then came a grinding, splitting jumble of sounds, the
solid ground shook under the passage of some mighty force which increased for a
moment followed by a piercing scream.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Frozen with horror
Omega stared around the wrecked room whose tottering walls seemed about to fall
upon him. Where was Thalma? In a frenzy he stared into the darkness, felt over
the couch. She was gone!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In some way he got
outside and there in the direction of the lake he saw the monster, its great
bulk looming high above the ground, its head swaying with the swing of its legs
as it lumbered along. And, merciful God—held in the grip of the monster's jaws
was Thalma!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The awful sight
galvanized Omega to action. With a hoarse scream he launched himself at the
beast, passed rapidly through the air above the monster and reached out for his
wife. Scream after scream rent the still air as he pressed forward and the
beast lurched on in its haste to reach the lake with its prey. But now Omega
was close to his beloved, and he reached out to grasp her as once more he
screamed right into the ears of his enemy. Then perhaps in sheer terror at the audacity
of man, the great jaws of the monster relaxed and Thalma fell limp and
unconscious to the ground.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As the beast lumbered
on Omega knelt by her side.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Thank God,"
he breathed, "she lives!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then he took her in
his arms and turned back to the ruined home just as a great splash informed him
that once more the monster had entered his element to challenge them for its
possession.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thalma</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
soon revived, but she clung to Omega and gazed about fearfully. How she had
wandered out of doors and had been snapped up by the beast she could not tell,
but Omega said that she must have been walking in her sleep. They went at once
to the ship and there spent the remainder of the night <b>(26)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Every light, including
those about the Mirror, had been extinguished by the beast breaking the
circuit. Yet it appeared that the latter's passage through the electric wall
had caused no harm. Omega explained that likely its bony scales had acted as an
insulator against the action of the invisible wall.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">While the cottage was
being repaired they remained on the ship. But despite their recent harrowing
experience, they went back to the cottage when the repairs were complete. It
was more home-like than the ship, and Thalma had learned to love it, for it was
to be the cradle of a new race. But before they again took up their residence
there Omega had erected a high fence around the cottage yard. This fence was
built of heavy cables securely fastened to huge posts, and each cable carried
an electric charge of 75,000 volts. Omega was confident that the beast could
never break through. His confidence was shared by Thalma, but as an additional
precaution she suggested that Omega place a similar fence about the lake. He
did so, and when the last cable was in place they stood back and surveyed the
work with satisfaction <b>(27)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We have him
now," exulted Omega. "He can never leave the lake alive, much less
reach the cottage. Despite his tough armor of scales this high potential will
penetrate to his vitals."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is
well," said Thalma as they turned away.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As they neared the
cottage they knew that a crisis was at hand. Forgetting the dead world about
them and subduing the fears that sometimes clutched their hearts, they lived in
the joy of anticipation and made ready for the advent of a new soul.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Night came down
moonless and dark save for the light of the stars. In the recesses of the rocks
and in the bottoms of the valleys intense darkness held sway. But the grounds
and the home of Omega and Thalma were ablaze with a thousand lamps, and on the
near-by hillsides giant searchlights, which seemed to have no basis, which were
born in the bosom of the air and blazed without visible cause, shot their rays
into the sky for miles. Yet the powerful lights about the cottage were so
tinted as to be restful to the eye. Thus silent and with clock-like regularity
the agents of Omega performed their functions. Man had mastered all the
elements of life. All were his friends and servants, and none was his master
save one—death.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In a perfect setting
and exactly at the time set for the event Alpha came into the world, the child
thrived from its first intake of earth's air.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Three weeks from birth
Alpha partook of solid food in tablet form drawn chiefly from gaseous sources <b>(28)</b>.
At two months his speech was perfect, and at six months his education began. By
glandular control Omega nurtured both his body and his mind and developed them
rapidly. Small wonder that this child—the last to grace and bless the
world—became his parent's only joy and hope. They guarded him from all dangers,
instructed him in the great part he was to play in the world's future and set
about to conserve that element on which all depended—the waters of the lake.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
during all these long, hot days and frigid nights, the close proximity of the
monster cast a shadow over their souls, marred their happiness by day and
terrorized their dreams by night. Often, when the sun beat down upon the lake,
they saw his hideous head rise high above the water and regard them with
baleful eyes. Twice while at play Alpha had seen him and had run screaming to
the protection of his mother, who had great difficulty in persuading him that
there was no danger. This seemed to be true, for the monster made no attempt to
force the fence. Endowed with more than the cunning of its remote progenitors,
it seemed to realize that it was trapped. Many nights Omega and Thalma, armed
with their ray guns and other implements of destruction, watched for the beast
to attempt to come on land. Sometimes he would raise his head and look at them
so long and steadily that icy chills ran along their spines and their hands
shook so that they could not sight their weapons and therefore shot wild. Then
the head would sink out of sight again <b>(29)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Secure as they felt
against his horrible presence it finally began to sap their courage. Besides,
the lake fascinated Alpha, now but three years old but large and strong. He
loved to wander by its shore and dabble in the water, but so long as the beast
remained, an ever present danger was in this play. Besides there was the fear
that he might escape the watchfulness of his parents and come in contact with
one of the high tension cables.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And then Omega
determined to try another plan—he would electrically charge the water of the
lake. He hoped that this would reach the monster in his watery lair and kill
him instantly. So he constructed two giant magnets and placed one on each end
of the lake. Then harnessing all the electrical energy at his command he sent a
tremendous current through the water with high potential, alternating it at ten
second intervals for an hour.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Two weeks later he
watched for the carcass of the beast to rise. He felt now that his problem was
to get rid of it so that it would not pollute the water, but it did not appear.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With fear and
trembling Omega observed that the water of the lake was receding inch by inch.
Then by chemical action on the coral beds and on the rocks, he created a dense
cloud and caused it to form over the lake, thus in a measure protecting it from
the sun's rays. But day by day, despite the sheltering cloud, the water
receded. Day after day Omega moved his gauges hoping against hope that somehow
and somewhere nature would again awaken and bring water upon the earth.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">During all these days
and months the monster did not raise its head above the surface of the
lake—Omega was certain of this, for had the water been disturbed ever so little
his water seismograph, as well as his cameras, would have recorded it. The
monster was dead at last and they were profoundly thankful. They were the
undisputed masters of the earth's last water! Now Alpha could play about the
shore and swim in the shallow water in peace and safety. So the dangerous fence
was removed <b>(30)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
knew that in the beginning the Creator had made man master of his own destiny.
He had endowed him with reason and given the earth into his keeping. Omega
thoroughly understood the Ruling Power of the universe. He read aright His
commands, blazoned across the breasts of billions of worlds, and by the same
token he knew that humanity on earth was doomed. Yet he was urged on by that
unconquerable spirit which had made man king of all. He set up his rain-making
machinery with the smile of a fatalist. For hundreds of miles its sinuous beams
sprang into the sky, writhed about like great, hungry serpents with their
tremendous sucking and receiving maws, then coiled back to earth bringing not a
drop. But one day the Mirror again showed small, faint clouds upon its surface.
They were scattered over various parts of the world and their presence made
Omega wonder. There appeared to be no reason for them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I do not
understand those clouds," he said to Thalma as he sat with her and Alpha
in the shade of the coral tree. "Perhaps there are hidden places of
moisture, that have escaped the receiving rays of this mirror."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Let us go and
see," exclaimed Thalma, her eyes agleam with a new hope. "Let us make
another voyage around the world. Alpha has never been far from home."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"That is
so," he agreed. "We will go at once."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So they entered the
silver ship and sailed away over the hot, dry wastes, on and on over the cities
of antiquity. The ruins of New York, London, Paris and other marts of the
ancients were visited in their melancholy quest for life. But even the sites of
these cities were hard to find. Only the tops of the tallest structures, such
as the tip of the Washington monument and the towers of office buildings stood
above the ashes and sands of centuries. But not even the shadow of a cloud was
seen. Still they sailed on—even skirted the dark wastes of the poles and
stopped in deep valleys to test for water. Twice around the equatorial regions
they voyaged in search of a new and better haven, but in vain. The insistent
cry for water burned in their souls and led them back to the little lake—the
last sop nature had to offer the remnant of her children <b>(31)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Although</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
the days were still hot and blistering, the nights were cold, ice often forming
on the lake near the shore and lingering until touched by the advancing sun.
Omega understood, and again a cold fear clutched his heart. Unless by some
miracle of the heavens sufficient moisture should come back to the earth, no
human soul could long endure the heat of the day and the freezing temperature
of night <b>(32)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">To still further
conserve the precious water of the lake, Omega now extended the folds of the
cloud curtain down to its shores thus completely enclosing it. And as this
further reduced the evaporation to a remarkable extent the hopes of Omega and
Thalma took on new life. Here they visioned Alpha and his children living and
dying in peace, now that the monster was no more.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With the help of
additional safeguards Omega reckoned that the water might be made to last many
more years, and, before it could become wholly exhausted, some whim of nature
might again shower the earth with rain <b>(33)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Now to pass the
time—for there was nothing to do except to direct the appliances about
them—this last trio of mortals loved to leave the shelter of the cottage, now
that they had nothing further to fear from the sea-monster, when the westering
sun was low, and ramble among the shadows of the cliffs and commune with the
past, until the chill of night drove them indoors. Sometimes sitting there in
the dusk Thalma and Alpha would listen to Omega's rich voice as he recounted an
epic story in the life of long ago. So to-day seated together on a cliff above
the airship, they watched the sun descend. Thalma and Alpha had asked for a
story, but Omega refused. For some time he had sat silent, his great, brilliant
eyes on the flaming sun as it sank toward the rim of the earth. A great
loneliness had suddenly seized him. He recognized it as a presentiment of
disaster. It was beyond the analysis of reason, but for the first time in his
life he longed to hold back that sun. Somehow he feared the advent of the
night. It seemed to him that before the morning light would again flood the
earth a dire calamity would befall them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Why so
sad?" asked Thalma fearfully, and Alpha, at his father's knees, looked up
in wonder.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is
nothing," replied Omega with forced composure as he caressed the boy.
"Some foolish thoughts of mine. Now as it is getting chilly I think we had
better go down. Oh, how I dread this awful cold which is creeping steadily and
mercilessly over the world!" he added softly, his eyes lingering on the
sun.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With her usual sweet
smile Thalma agreed. So they rose and floated down. When they reached the floor
of the valley they paused and regarded the cloud that screened the lake.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It does
well," remarked Omega. "It will make the water last into the
years."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes, and all for
our boy," said Thalma proudly. Alpha had left them and was playing along
the shore.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is now time
that a mate for him be on the way," went on Omega wistfully. "He must
have a sister, you know."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is true,"
she agreed with a glad smile.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega had spoken
truly. Without a mate Alpha could not perpetuate the race. And so it was
arranged that before the rising of the morrow's sun a new life should begin.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Science had steadily
advanced the span of life. When Alpha was born Omega was two hundred years old,
but that was only middle age. Thalma was twenty-five years his junior. The
human birth-rate had decreased with the passing of the centuries and nature now
demanded the most exacting conditions for the propagation of the human species.
Thalma at her age could not afford to wait longer. Alpha's mate must be
provided forthwith <b>(34)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Alpha wants to
play a while before going in," Thalma continued presently. "I will
remain with him."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Very well,
dear," said Omega. "I will go on and prepare dinner."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So saying he set his
face toward the cottage, but before he had taken a dozen steps he was startled
by a piercing scream from Thalma. He turned swiftly, then stood paralyzed with
terror and amazement. Out of the cloud curtain surrounding the lake protruded
the ugly scale-covered head and neck of the monster he had believed dead! And
the horrible, swaying head was darting down toward the playing boy! The
monster's jaws were spread wide, its black tongue was leaping out and in like
lightning, the sickening saliva was dripping upon the sand, and its awful eyes
were blazing like coals. And then in a twinkling the huge jaws seized the
child, the head reared back, the jaws closed, stifling the lad's screams, and
it started to draw back into the cloud <b>(35)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">,
after the first onrush of horror, life came again to Omega's numbed senses. He
darted forward with a mad cry, and as he swung through the air rather than ran,
he seized a stone and hurled it at the brute's head. His aim was true and the
stone struck the great brute on the bony hood above the right eye. It did not
harm, but it maddened the monster. Hissing horribly it swung Alpha high in the
air and with a fling dashed him down upon the rocks. Then with a hoarse bellow
it turned upon Omega. With its first forward lunge it seemed about to crush
Thalma, who was between it and its intended victim. But the sight of her
mangled child and the danger to her lord roused all the latent fury and courage
in her soul and made of her a fighting demon. Like Omega she grabbed the first
weapon at hand—a stone the size of a man's fist—and with the hot breath of the
monster in her face she hurled the stone with all her strength straight into
the red, gaping mouth.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With a blood-curdling
scream the brute halted, reared backward, then ran its head back and forth over
the rocks. Its loathsome body threshed about in the lake, throwing water far up
on the beach. Then in its contortions it wallowed up out of the lake as it
swung its terrible head about in agony, all the while hissing its challenge.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Terror-stricken,
unable to move, Omega and Thalma watched it and could not understand its
writhings. But as it continued to writhe and groan they understood at last—the
stone had lodged firmly in its throat and was choking it to death <b>(36)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then they sprang to
Alpha's side. Omega gathered him up in his arms, but he saw with one agonized
glance that he was dead. His skull was crushed and it appeared that every bone
in his body was broken.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega's heart was
bursting, but he did not cry out. Holding the crushed body of his son, he
raised his eyes to that God who throughout the ages had hidden His face from
man, and smiled a brave smile of humility and resignation. While Thalma,
understanding all, looked on dumb and dry-eyed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Leaving the monster
floundering about in its death agony, they took their beloved son to the
cottage and there injected those chemicals which would forever arrest decay.
Then they placed him on his cot that he might be with them to the end of life.
It was then that Thalma, broken in spirit, found refuge and relief in tears
which have always been woman's solace and savior.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And Omega, gazing out
toward the lake, saw that the monster lay still. They had won their long
battle, but at an awful cost. Omega realized that the gigantic creature,
probably deep in a water cavern, had been only stunned by the electric charges.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Thalma</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
refused to be comforted. Day after day she wept above the lifeless form of her
boy. All Omega's words of consolation, all his reasoning and faith in the
wisdom and justice of all things, failed to soothe her torn heart. Nor did the
promise of another child, rouse her from her sorrow. She steadfastly refused to
consider another child. Life had lost its last hold on her soul, and now she
was ready to surrender to that cruel fate which had given them mirages of
promise and mocked their misery. In vain Omega explained that it was their duty
to fight on; that they, the last of a once noble race, must not show the white
feather of cowardice. He mentioned the great consolation they had of having
their beloved son ever near them, though lifeless. But Thalma longed for the
presence of the soul, for those words of endearment and love that had thrilled
her mother heart.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before the embalmment
it would have been possible for Omega to restore life to his boy. Man had
mastered all the secrets of biology and life. He could have mended the broken
bones and tissues, revitalized the heart and lungs and cleared the brain. Alpha
would have walked with them again. But his personality would not have been
there. That mysterious something, men call the soul, had fled forever, and so
far mankind had not been able to create its counterpart <b>(37)</b>. To have brought life
again to Alpha would have been a travesty on the brilliant mind they had known.
Omega recalled many pathetic examples of such resuscitation where the living
had walked in death.</span><br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega foresaw the end,
but he smiled in the face of it all. He was the same kind and loving companion
Thalma had always known, her every want his command and law. But no more she
realized its inspiration and love. He seldom left her side any more, but
sometimes overcome with sorrow he would soar up above the peaks and commune
alone with the past.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So to-day he had risen
higher than usual. The red sun beat upon his body as he hovered in the hot air,
his eyes fixed on the distant sky line. He gazed like a famished animal, for it
seemed to him that at last a cloud must appear above that hopeless shore of
land and sky and bring renewed life to him and his. Yet he fully realized the
impossibility of such a thing. Slowly his great, dark eyes roved around the
horizon. He loathed its dreary monotony, and still it fascinated him. Beyond
that dead line of land and sky lay nothing but ghastly death. His many voyages
in the airship and the reflecting Mirror told him that, but still he hoped on.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When at last he glided
down to the cottage the sun was low. Having registered the time in his mind
when he left Thalma — for countless generations man had dispensed with
time-keeping devices <b>(38) </b>— he realized that he had been gone just three hours.
Reproaching himself for his negligence he entered the doorway, then stared
aghast.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Upon Thalma's wide
couch facing a painting of the ancient, green world, she had placed the body of
Alpha, then lain down by his side. Her glazed eyes were fixed upon the picture,
and for the first time in many weeks there was a smile about her lips.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega knelt by her
side, took her cold hands in his and feverishly kissed her brow. With a grief
too deep for tears he smiled at death, thankful for the love she had borne him.
Nor did he censure the Plan of the Creator, the Plan that had led him, Omega,
scion of the world's great, up to the zenith of life and now left him alone,
the sole representative of its power. Thalma had passed on, and in the first
crushing moments of his agony Omega was tempted to join her. Without effort and
without fear or pain, his was the power to check the machinery of life <b>(39)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Crushed</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
and broken, Omega sat by his dead, while the shadows of night entered the
valley and wrapped all in their soft embrace. When would his own hour strike?
He might retard or hasten that time, but the real answer lay in that little
lake out there under the stars, daily shrinking despite the cloud curtain.
There was nothing more to live for, yet he determined to live, to go down
fighting like a valiant knight of old, to set an example for the sons of other
worlds.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But despite his brave
resolution his grief for a while seemed likely to master him. Heart-broken he
finally went out into the cold dusk and gazed up at the heavens appealingly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Alone!" he
whispered as an overwhelming sense of his isolation tore his spirit.
"Alone in a dead world—the sole survivor of its vanished life!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He slumped to the
ground and buried his face in the cold dust. His thoughts were jumbled in a
maze of pain and sorrow. He could neither pray nor think. Gasping, dying a
thousand deaths, he lay there groveling in the dust. But at last he rose,
dashed the dust from his eyes and again faced the sky. He would accept the
cruel mandate of nature. He would live on and try to conquer all—even death.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He cast his eyes along
the shore of the lake, and there in the starlight loomed the form of the dead
monster which, but for Thalma's unerring aim, would have been the last of
earth's creatures. Omega sighed and turned back to his dead.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But despite his
resolution to live the loneliness was sapping Omega's spirit. During the
following weeks in a mood of recklessness and despair he allowed the cloud
curtain to dissolve above the lake. Once more the sun's hot rays poured down
unhindered and the lake receded rapidly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As time went on Omega
grew more restless. Only by taking many voyages around the world was he able to
endure the appalling silence. He was the last traveler to visit the ancient
marts of man, he was the last hope and despair of life. Sometimes he talked
aloud to himself, but his words sounded hollow and ghostly in that deep
silence, which only added to his misery.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And then one day in a
fit of desperation he rebelled. He cursed the fate that had selected him to
drink the last bitter dregs of life. In this desperate frame of mind he evolved
a daring plan. He would not drink those dregs alone!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
the chemical laboratory of the ship were all the elements of creative force and
life known to man. From the four corners of the earth they had been garnered,
and some had come from sister planets. Here were the ingredients of creation.
For thousands of years man had been able to create various forms of life. He
had evolved many pulsing, squirming things. He had even made man-like apes
possessing the instinct of obedience, and which he used for servants, and much
of his animal food also had been created in this manner <b>(40)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Being skilled in all
branches of biology and chemistry Omega would create a comrade to share his
long wait for death. So he set to work and the task eased the pain in his
heart. He placed his chemicals in the test tube and watched the cell evolve
until it pulsated with life. Carefully nursing the frail embryo he added other
plasms, then fertilized the whole with warm spermatozoa and placed it in the
incubator over which glowed a violet, radio-active light <b>(41)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The young life
developed quickly and soon began to take form within the glass walls. In a
month it half-filled the incubator, and at the end of six weeks he released it,
but it still grew amazingly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At first Omega was
appalled by the monstrosity he had created, for it was a loathsome, repulsive
creature. Its head was flat and broad and sat upon its sloping shoulders
without a connecting neck. Its legs were short, but its arms were long, and
when standing erect it carried them well in front of an enormous torso. Its
short hands and feet were webbed like those of a duck. It had no visible ears,
and its nostrils were mere holes above a wide, grinning, thin-lipped mouth,
which was always spread in a grin. Its large, round, red eyes had no gleam of
intelligence, and its hairless skin, covered with minute, sucker-like scales,
lay in loose, ugly folds across its great chest. Most of its movements were
slow and uncertain, and it hopped about over the floor like a giant toad,
uttering guttural sounds deep within its chest. Omega had set out to create an
ape-man, but this thing was neither man nor beast, bird or reptile, but a
travesty on all—an unspeakable horror from the dead womb of the past <b>(42)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yet hideous as this
creature was Omega looked upon it with a certain degree of gratitude. It was a
companion at least, and it seemed to reciprocate the respect of its creator by
fawning upon him and licking his hand. Its red tongue always hung from its
slavering mouth like that of a panting dog. Omega named it The Grinner, because
of its habitual and ghastly smile. He took it to the cottage that it might wait
on him through the long hours of solitude. That night it slept by his side,
content and motionless. But the next morning after this first night of
incongruous companionship Omega was awakened by its stertorous breathing and the
touch of a cold, clammy sweat which was oozing from its pores and dropping upon
the floor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Throughout</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
the day Omega marveled at this phenomenon. He noticed that the weird thing went
often to the drinking fountain and wrapped its tongue about the water jet. That
night he awakened at midnight to find The Grinner gone. He did not bother to
look for him and mid-forenoon he returned. His rotund form seemed to have grown
even larger, and as he ambled about on all fours the sweat trickled from his
repulsive skin and trailed across the floor. It was a strange thing and Omega
was at a loss to account for it, but his wonder was eclipsed by his
appreciation of The Grinner's companionship. The Grinner was often absent for
hours at a time, but he always returned of his own free will. Omega often saw
him ambling among the rocks or stretched out in the sun on the beach. He formed
the habit of letting him have his way, which was that of extreme laziness. But
during all this time he was growing prodigiously. In three months he had become
a monster weighing well over half a ton, but he still retained his amiable
nature and affection for his master.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
seldom left the cottage. Determined to live as long as possible—for the age-old
urge of life still persisted—to do nothing to hasten his end, he, nevertheless,
was doing nothing to defer it. His soul in the past, he desired only to be near
his dear ones. For hours he would sit gazing on their peaceful features,
pouring into their heedless ears the love songs of his heart. Living for them,
patiently awaiting the day when he, too, could enter into rest, he paid less
and less attention to The Grinner, only noticing that he grew more horrible and
repulsive as his size increased.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Lonely and despondent
Omega at last left the cottage only to go to the airship for supplies. He
seldom even looked toward the lake. It was a long time since he had walked
about its shores, but one afternoon the impulse came to wander that way again.
He was amazed that the water was disappearing so rapidly. The body of the
monster now lay more than fifteen rods from the water's edge, though it had
been killed on the edge of the lake.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With an indifferent
and melancholy gaze Omega looked across the lake. Suddenly his stare became
fixed and wild, like that of one stricken dumb. About twenty rods out the water
was suddenly agitated as though by the movement of some great bulk along its
bottom, and then for a fleeting instant he glimpsed a dark, shining form heave
above the surface, then sink out of sight before he could grasp its details.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"My God," he
exclaimed hoarsely, "there is another sea-monster! Likely it is the mate
of the one Thalma killed. I might have known there would be a mate. We were
dealing with two of the beasts all that time. And now this thing disputes my
right to the water!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega's face grew grim
and stern as he glared out over the water and his heart-beats quickened. The
latent combativeness of humanity was once more aroused in him. He had
considered himself the last representative of life on earth. He should remain
the last. No beast should claim that honor. He would kill it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then for two weeks he
waited and watched for it to reappear, waited with all the terrible atomic
weapons at hand, but he saw it no more. The Grinner sleeping in the sand was
the only form of life to be seen, and at last he became weary of the hunt. He
figured that some day he would charge the lake, but there was no hurry.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At last Omega lost all
interest in the things about him. The Grinner came and went unhindered and
almost unnoticed. He continued to grow, but Omega gave him little thought. Even
the treasures in the airship had lost their lure for him. Disconsolate and
hopeless, yet clinging grimly to life, he passed his time in the company of his
dead.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He had not left the
cottage for several weeks, when one cold morning after a sleepless night,
something impelled him to go in search of The Grinner who had been absent all
night. As this had become a frequent occurrence during the past two months
Omega's curiosity was aroused. As he glided toward the lake he wondered why his
interest in his surroundings had been aroused by thoughts of The Grinner, and
once more he thought of killing that other sea-monster in the lake. The lake!
He stopped and stared and stared. The lake was gone! Only a pool of an acre or
two remained, and in its center, disporting himself in glee was—not the monster
he was looking for—but The Grinner! The bloated creature was rolling about in
the water with all the abandonment of a mud-wallowing hog.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
gazed in astonishment, then a shrill laugh escaped him. He had mistaken The
Grinner for another monster of the deep. It was the last joke of life, and it
was on him.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then he realized that
this grotesque child of his hands, having in its system the combined thirst of
the dry ages—man, animal, plant, bird and reptile—was sucking up the lake,
absorbing it through his pores, then sweating it out only to repeat the
process. Water was his element and food. From the dim, dry past had come
nature's cry for water to find expression in this monster of Omega's making.
That which he had created for a companion had grown into a terrible menace,
which was rapidly exhausting his remaining stronghold of life. But, somehow,
Omega did not care, and as he watched the monstrous thing finally flounder its
way to the shore and lie down panting in the sun, he was glad that it was not
another monster of the deep <b>(43)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For a moment Omega's
eyes rested on the drying form of the dead beast on the slope above him, then
with a shudder he turned to The Grinner.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He went up close and
stared into its terrible eyes which blinked back at him as its mouth spread in
a leer. Already the sweat was coursing along the slimy folds of its skin and
dripping off to be swallowed by the thirsty ground. It was a huge water sucker.
It took water in enormous quantities, fed upon its organisms, then discharged
it through its skin. Assisted by the rays of the sun it was rapidly drying up
the lake.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Now, as Omega stood
regarding it in awe and wonder, it showed signs of distress. It began to writhe
and utter hoarse cries of pain. Its eyes rolled horribly, its great,
barrel-like body heaved and trembled, and it waved its long arms and threshed
its feet upon the ground. Omega realized that it was the victim of its own
abnormal appetite. With the relish of a gormandizer it had taken more of its
peculiar food than even its prodigious maw could assimilate. Soon its struggles
became fiercer. It rolled over and over in contortions of agony, the sweat
streaming from its body, while a pitiful moaning came from its horrid mouth.
But at last it became quiet, its moanings trailed off into silence, it jerked
spasmodically and lay still.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega approached and
placed his hand over its heart. There was no pulsation. The Grinner was dead.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">With a sigh Omega
turned back to the cottage. Although he was now alone once more, he did not
care. All he had to do was to prepare himself for the Great Adventure, which
despite all man's god-like achievements, still remained a mystery.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Now that the lake was
almost gone it again drew his attention. The sickly grass had long since given
up trying to follow the retreating water and now was only a dead and melancholy
strip of yellow far back from the shore. Every day Omega went to the little
pool and calmly watched it fade away, watched without qualms of fear or
heartache. He was ready. But even now, hot and weary, he refused adequately to
slake his thirst. He must fight on to the last, for such was the prerogative
and duty of the human race. He must conserve that precious fluid.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span><br />
<hr align="center" size="2" width="100%" />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
last there came a morning when Omega, gazing from his doorway, looked in vain
for the shining pool. Nothing but a brown expanse of rock and sand met his view
where the lake had been. Already the salt crystals were glinting in the sun. A
long, lingering sigh escaped him. It had come at last! The last water of those
mighty seas which once had covered nearly the whole earth, had departed leaving
him alone with the dead of ages.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Hot and feverish he
glided over the dry bed of the lake. Finally in the lowest depression on earth
he found, in a little hollow of rock, a mere cupful of water. Like a
thirst-maddened animal he sucked it up in great gulps, then licked the rock
dry. <span class="smcap">IT WAS THE LAST DROP! <b>(44)</b></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Omega rose, his face
calm and resigned. With a smile of gratitude he looked up at the sky. The water
was bitter, but he was thankful he had been given the final cup.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then he went to the
airship and shot up into the blue and on around the world in a voyage of
farewell. In a few hours he was back. Reverently he set the airship down on its
landing place. He was through with it now. Its usefulness was gone, its great,
pulsing motors forever silent, soon to be covered with the dust of ages, he
would leave it a monument to mankind. For a little while he wandered among the
treasures of the ship. Sacred as they were they still mocked him with their
impotency to stay the hand of death. But he loved them all. Thalma had loved
them and they had been Alpha's playmates, and their marvelous powers had been his
hope and inspiration. With loving caresses and a full heart he bade good bye to
these treasures of his fathers, soon to become the keepsakes of death.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At last having
completed the rounds he let himself out into the still air. Resolutely he set
his face toward home.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The hot noonday sun,
beating fiercely down on the dead world, entered the cottage and fell in a
flood of glory about the couch where Omega, the last man, lay between his loved
ones. His great eyes were set and staring, but on his features rested a smile
of peace—the seal of life's last dream.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"The rest is
silence."</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">END.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">======</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">NOTES</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">======</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(1) - </b>The sky is indigo because the Earth has lost much of its atmosphere, and it is cloudless because the Earth has become an extreme desert planet. However, the sharply-notched mountains imply recent vulcanism, which would have resulted in some replacement of atmosphere and hydrosphere. The importance of volcanic activity in this regard was not well grasped in the early 1930's, when the connections between geology and volatiles were much more poorly-understood than is the case today.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(2) - </b> This was a common concept of future human evolution during the early to mid 20th century. The point which everyone missed was that Man's capabilities to alter both himself and his environment would advance much more rapidly than evolution's ability to alter the human race. Much of the adaptations described are unlikely because humans would choose other and better ones.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(3) - </b>One wonders why the water wouldn't be brine, given the extensive dehydration of the Earth previously described. On the other hand, it's perfectly plausible that the humans of Omega's and Thalma's time are capable of separating salt from water in their own bodies, as can modern flamingoes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(4) - </b>A <i>literal</i> "As you know, Bob" (well, Thalma) and thus clumsy. There's no reason why Omega would have to <i>remind</i> Thalma of the fact that they both knew the Earth's action was changing, and people often <i>do</i> remind the ones they love of some hopeful fact pertinent to their situation, just to make them feel better.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(5) - </b>They
clearly have conscious control over normally-autonomous bodily
processes. It's not obvious how Omega can control whether he makes male
or female sperm cells (and I'm not sure that the biology of the early
1930's actually knew that it <i>was</i> the sex of the sperm cell which
in mammals determines the sex of the child). It is however quite
believable that Thalma can control and be aware of her time of
ovulation. I'm ok with both, however, because some mammals actually <i>can</i> control the sex of their offspring. (We <i>still</i> don't know how they do it).</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(6) - </b>"Millions of ages" is an uncertain length of time, but must refer to at least hundreds of millions of years, possibly billions, given the degree to which the Earth has lost its atmosphere and hydrosphere. By that metric an "age" would have lasted centuries to millennia, which corresponds well with historical (though not geological) "ages."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(7) - </b>This is seriously-mistaken taxonomy, biology and natural history: and needs to be discussed in detail.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plesiosauria">Pleisiosaurs</a> were neither dinosaurs nor even closely related to dinosaurs. Plesiosaurs were in the superorder <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sauropterygia">Sauropterygia</a>, which contained numerous marine reptiles, and which belongs to the infraclass <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lepidosauromorpha">Lepidosauromorpha</a>, the same group which comprises all modern diapsids which are not archosaurs: which is to say, all modern lizards and snakes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Brontosaurus" (now renamed "apatosaurus" because the type specimen brontosaur turned out to be an accidental chimera) was s a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sauropod">sauropod</a> dinosaur. The sauropods were <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saurischia">saurischians</a>, the "lizard-hipped" dinosaurs that (confusingly) are the ones also including the very un-lizardlike <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theropod">theropods</a>. The saurschian dinosaurs either gave rise to or were very closely related to Class Aves -- the birds. All <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dinosauria">Dinosauria</a> belong to the infraclass <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archosauromorpha">Archosauramoprha</a>, the group which includes modern crocodilians and birds. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Is this a big difference, since both are cladistically <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sauropsida">Sauropsida</a>? Well, suppose we were talking about mammals. Among mammals, two infraclasses are Eutheria (placental mammals) and Metatheria (the marsupials). So, roughly speaking, we are talking about a genetic distance between apatosaurs and plesiosaurs roughly equivalent to the genetic distance betwen humans and kangaroo.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(My wife, who has her degree in Natural History, dissents -- she thinks the genetic distance is even <i>greater</i> -- more like the distance between humans and monotremes or even humans and cynodonts). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The reason why a hybrid seemed plausible to the author is that both apatosaurs and plesiosaurs were animals with fat bodies, long necks and small heads in proportion to their bodies. This is called "convergent evolution," and in this case the convergence is for entirely different reasons (plesiosaurs needed fat bodies because they lived in water which rapidly drained their body heat, apatosaurs to house guts capable of digesting their diet of rough vegetation; plesiosaurs had long necks and small heads to lash out and catch fish, apatosaurs to reach up to and browse high tree branches).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By the same token, humans and red kangaroos are both bipeds with the ability to fight by biting or by administering blows with all four of their limbs. This, too is convergent evolution and it happened for different reasons (their bipedal gaits are very different, and in the case of the red kangaroo the tail is actually evolving into a third limb complete with nail at the end). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The chance
of an apatosaur and a plesiosaur producing viable offspring is roughly
the same as the chance of a human producing viable offspring with a red
kangaroo. Which is to say, close to nil.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There is also the minor matter that both apatosaurs and plesiosaurs went extinct tens of millions of years before the first human ever lived. Which raises the question of how <i>either</i> was available to leave descendants into Omega's time ...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The story implicitly answers this question. Humanity has developed a means of looking backward in time (which is why they are familiar with Greek history and philosophy). The same technology, combined with powerful microscopy, would make it possible to directly read the genetic codes of both pleisosaurs and apatosaurs, and genengineer transgenic creatures combining the DNA of both kinds of animal. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Why</i> anyone would want to do this is another matter, but then given hundreds of millions of years of history and millions of cultures and subcultures, <i>someone</i> might do it, if for no better reason than <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olaf_Stapledon">Olaf Stapledon</a>'s <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_and_First_Men#Human_species">Third Men</a> from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_and_First_Men"><i>Last and First Men</i></a> (1930), who regarded genetic engineering as an art form worth doing for its own sweet sake. Indeed, there's been more than enough time for thousands of human species to have appeared -- Omega, Thalma and Alpha are definitely <i>not</i> modern <i>homo sapiens sapiens</i>, from their description.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(8) - </b>It is curious, and perhaps wishful thinking, that Omega and Thalma agree, based on very little evidence, that the lake-beast is the last of its kind and has come to the lake to die. The first is far from obvious and in fact proves technically false since there is at least one more such beast (though there don't appear to be any other lakes left on the Earth, so it may be <i>almost </i>true). The second is true only in the sense that Omega winds up killing both of the surviving lake-beasts, but it would not have been true had he not been obsessed with colonizing that particular location.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(9) - </b>This (and later events of the tale) make me believe that the lake-beast is not only sentient, and probably sapient, but also shares some of the psychic powers of Omega's human race. This is the only way it could possibly avoid death when being hunted by everything from plasma-guns to aerial depth-charges -- it must be able to track Omega and his family by telepathy and be instantly aware of any immediate hostile intent.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(10) - </b>It is rather strange that the decline from several nations clustered around the remnants of the Pacific to <i>just two human beings</i> should have occurred within the lifetime of one single man, Omega. There is no hint in the story that Omega is immortal, though he certainly may have been naturally long-lived by 1930's standards. Given Omega's own rather violent nature (at no point does he consider the possibility of a truce with the lake-beast), it is possible that Omega's people accelerated their doom by civil strife. I can easily see Omega's kind as a somewhat-prettier version of the Itorloo -- though the Itorloo were actually better at survival on a dying planet!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(11) - </b>This concept of the human future, with Mankind spending hundreds of millions of years trapped in a Solar System which is now dying with its Sun, and with even interplanetary space travel not achieved until millions of years after the present day, seems to be strongly drawing upon Olaf Stapledon's <i>Last and First Men</i> (1930), to which I have already alluded. In this case, Morrow has assumed that numerous Solar worlds were colonized but that this now means that all habitable worlds are already-occupied and mutually-doomed, meaning that Omega has no hope of sanctuary off Earth. I will discuss the implications (and flaws) in this vision later, in my Commentary.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(12) - </b>Sadly, nuclear fission doesn't work this way -- it would be convenient if we could break down radioactives all the way to hydrogen and helium, gaining energy at every step of the process. Indeed, if we could do this, we could then use the hydrogen and helium as <i>fusion</i> fuel, building them back up and thus having a perpetual-motion machine! In fact, neither fission nor fusion are energy-efficient processes past the first few steps, and each such process has an "nuclear ash" end-state (iron for fusion, lead for fission) beyond which one actually <i>loses</i> energy pushing the process further.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(13) - </b>Given that we are now able to detect extrasolar planets with equipment of far less capability, one implication of the technology described is that Omega should be in continuous contact with any and all sapients in the Solar System who wish such contact, and <i>have a complete map of all star systems in the Galaxy to which he possesses a line of sight</i>. These implications would have been totally lost on Morrow and on every writer of his time, with the possible exceptions of E. E. "Doc" Smith and </span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">John W. Campbell </span> (who separately postulated super-telescopes of this sort in the Skylark and the Black Star series respectively). Very few science-fiction writers predicted the long-range telescopic detection of extra-solar planets -- as late as the early 1990's, just before we actually achieved the capability, science fiction assumed that we wouldn't be able to see the planets of an alien star system until we sent a starship there.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(14) - </b>This is a good example of the exaggeration of the importance of "real" history in much science-fiction set in the very far future. "Omega, the Man" is set sometime around 250 to 2500 million years in the future, and yet all the history referenced in this paragraph is between around 600 BC to 1900 AD -- which is to say, in a mere 2500 years of history. There is no mention of any important figures existing after Napoleon. Realistically, the vast majority of historical references should have been to persons not yet born at the time of the story's writing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(15) - </b>In other words, Omega's ship can provide unlimited long-term life support, both for itself and for its surroundings, given the right elemental feedstocks -- and its engines have a considerable degree of elemental transmutation capabilities, so at the cost of burning fuel faster, the ship can convert almost <i>any</i> mass into air, water and food. This raises certain questions regarding the <i>necessity</i> of natural air, water and food sources to Omega and his culture, ones which are incompletely answered in the immediately-succeeding paragraph.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(16) - </b>The argument that the machine is useless because the air and water are mostly gone makes no sense: aside from the fact that Omega's ship can perform elemental conversion, the very rocks of the Earth would contain oxygen and hydrogen (much of it in the relatively-convenient form of hydrates) which atomic power could provide enough energy to chemically-extract -- unless, of course, previous Earthly civilizations have already extracted it all (but note: this is a <i>lot</i> of water). But if <i>that</i> much water has been extracted from the crust, there wouldn't be any lakes at the surface either -- unless the lake were left behind by some previous attempt at terraforming. In any case, the simplest assumption is that Omega isn't as skilled at chemistry as he might be, which makes sense, as he and Thalma are the only people available to rebuild, and they probably aren't <i>really</i> <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/OmnidisciplinaryScientist">Omnidisciplinary Scientists</a>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(17) - </b>Unless this is a new constellation with a similar name, Morrow has made a serious astronomical error. After hundreds of millions of years, the mix of stars close enough to the Sun to be visible in constellations would be entirely different, and in entirely different positions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(18) - </b>Thalma gets points here for <i>rescuing</i> Omega instead of just standing there and screaming (or worse, fainting) like <i>some</i> Interwar Era pulp heroines. Morrow gets point for being willing to write the action scene with the roles thus inverted </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(19)</b></span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b> - </b></span></b><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It is fairly obvious, from this and other aspects of the lake-beast's behavior, that the lake-beast is probably sapient.</span><b> </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(20) - </b>We never find out from where this cloud came, nor do our protagonists seem to care, which may be a flaw in the story. You would think that Omega and Thalma would be more than a little bit curious, given that clouds are vaporized water and the water shortage drives this whole story.<b> </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(21) - </b>This is more than a little bit foolish of Omega, given that Thalma has already amply demonstrated that she is no fragile flower. What's more, Omega's decision is partially-responsible for the tragedy which follows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(22) - </b>I'm not sure what Morrow means by "absorbing so much water needful for themselves." While water is obviously at a premium on this dying Earth, there <i>must</i> be an ecosystem including oxygenators and detritus feeders in the lake, otherwise the waters would be incapable of supporting smaller organisms on which the lake-monster could feed. Given that, fear that the lake-creature would somehow <i>contaminate the entire lake with its wastes</i> seems hysterical.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(23) -</b> This puts Omega and Thalma right in the Ryukyu Trench, probably in the northeastern end, if they can see the Japanese mainland. This is dubious enough by 1930's geology, in that the land forms should have changed drastically over hundreds of millions of years; it is nonsense in light of what we know today about continental drift. The theory of continental drift was known in the 1930's -- Lovecraft used it in <i>At the Mountains of Madness</i> -- but it was not generally believed, because most of the supporting evidence had not yet been discovered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(24) - </b>That Omega does not think of what to us would be the obvious technological solutions -- sonar, homing torpedoes -- reminds us of just how primitive was anti-submarine (in this case, anti-lake-monster) warfare in the 1930's. This illustrates a point, common in Interwar Science Fiction, of writers being utterly incapable of predicting the massive technological progress that World War II would bring -- within a mere <i>six years</i> of this story's publication, Allied warships would be routinely deploying "Asdic" (sonar) technology against German submarines. To be fair to Morrow, though some of this technology had actually been developed by 1933, much of it was specialized and highly secret at the time.<b><br /></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(25) -</b> Again, this is an esoteric technology being used instead of a much more practical lower-tech solution: automated radar-directed cannons. And again, this is not really Morrow's fault. Precisely such sorts of electrical barriers (run along actual cabling) had been proposed by Edison during World War One and were being postulated (as wireless systems) by Tesla at around the time the story was written. Primitive radar systems had actually been developed by the early 1930's, but were military secrets, and nobody predicted the immense miniaturization of electronics which would make automated weapons systems practical by the 1960's.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(26) - </b>It is actually a bit surprising that Thalma survived this attack, given that this creature was gigantic and actually <i>had her in its jaws</i>. Indeed, this makes me wonder about its intentions. Omega's really-inexcusable mistake here is that he doesn't react by moving both of them to a more fortified residence. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(27) - </b>Thalma has more common sense than Omega, but both of them are being too proud for their own good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(28) - </b>This begs a colossal question: if they can synthesize <i>food</i> from the air, why can't they extract<i> water</i> from the air? Assuming <i>any</i> humidity whatsoever, the latter task is by <i>far</i> the technologically-easier one. This is essentially a subset of Morrow's huge misunderstanding of geochemistry: it is very difficult to grasp how the Earth could be in anything like the same shape in terms of continents, etc. and yet have somehow lost <i>every bit of water</i> trapped in the rocks, including potential water in the form of oxygen and hydrogen atoms incorporated into minerals.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(29) - </b>This all but directly implies that the beast is not merely sapient, but has powerful psychic abilities to boot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(30) - </b>This is mind-bogglingly wishful thinking. They haven't actually seen a corpse, they've never charted the lake bottom in detail, and yet it doesn't occur to them that there could be subterranean passages leading to other sources of oxygen for the beast? Or that it might not have taken shelter in these while the lake had been charged with electricity? And, with all this profligate expenditure of energy, they couldn't have thought of a <i>better</i> plan for its use? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(31) - </b>It is exceedingly unlikely that any of this would have survived hundreds of millions of years, save perhaps as anomalous stratigraphic patterns. Of course, we are free to postulate advances in construction technology such that buildings became essentially non-erodible and indestructible save for major folding events.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(32) - </b>Easily countered with his super-nuclear powerplant and some internal climate control. Omega's <i>real</i> problem is that all organic life is mostly water. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(33) - </b>This is only possible if there are sub-surface water reserves. If there are, though, <i>why is Omega playing around with this dangerous lake?</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(34) - </b>The mathematics of this are dubious, but can't be checked unless we know to what age Thalma is fertile. It seems to <i>me</i> that Thalma should logically have enough lifespan left to produce numerous offspring, but then maybe she only forms one egg every several years, or something of the sort? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(35) - </b>A sadly predictable outcome, given that Omega and Thalma <i>insisted</i> on living right next to the monster-haunted lake. It has an air of nightmare tragedy, and as emotional description it is truly effective. But it all could have been avoided if the two main characters hadn't been so <i>stubborn</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(36) - </b>An astonishingly-effective use of an astonishingly-primitive weapon, especially compared to the rays and shells and bombs which they had previously expended upon the beast to no effect. Then again, they'd never <i>hit</i> it with their high-tech attacks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(37) - </b>Personality is a dynamic pattern; and Alpha was dead too long by the time they could get him help for such to be restored, even though they could have regenerated his body.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(38) - </b>Perfect time-sense -- a rather useful ability, and one which I can see having either evolved in or been engineered into his ancestors long ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(39) - </b>Despairing totally, Thalma had <i>willed herself to die</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(40) - </b>This is one of the reasons why I think that Omega's people had gained most of their superhuman inherent abilities by design, rather than blind evolution. If they could create life <i>ex nihilo</i>, merely modifying existing life forms would be a trivial feat by comparison.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(41) - </b>This rather confused description of how Omega created life should serve as a reminder of just how little even those who were scientifically-literate knew about how a sperm and egg became an embryo almost a century ago. Also, notice the techno-babble use of the word "radioactive" in this passage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(42) - </b>I know that Morrow is trying to make a point about the futility of consoling oneself with artificial life after all hope of natural life is lost, but given Omega's supposed skill at biochemistry, I have to take the grotesqueness of The Grinner to imply that Omega is simply going utterly <i>insane</i> with loneliness and is in his madness forgetting much of his lore.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>(43) - </b>This is an astonishingly confused description of water-usage, which makes me wonder whether or not Morrow really grasped basic chemistry, or if Omega was going so crazy by this point that he had forgotten everything he ever knew. While The Grinner could certainly deplete Omega's available supply of <i>pure</i> water, there is no way that he could be significantly depleting the actual supply of <i>water</i>, unless<i> </i>Omega had <i>designed him to do so</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This is because a normal life form would simply drink the water and then excrete it via breath, sweat, urination and defecation. The result would be <i>polluted</i> water, but such water could simply be run through water purifiers and rendered potable. This would have been possible even with Interwar Era technology, let alone the technology of Omega's far future. And Morrow should have known this -- there's no excuse for him if he didn't.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Of course, if Omega actually <i>designed</i> The Grinner with some sort of exotic metabolism that electrolyzed the water into oxygen and hydrogen and excreted the hydrogen, that's another story. Then he really <i>could</i> remove the water from easy chemical reclamation. But this isn't how most Earthlife works, and it isn't how scientists thought it worked a century ago, either.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /><b>(44) - </b>Again, either Morrow was ignorant here of known science or Omega was crazy. Hydrology doesn't work like that. There would be water remaining below ground level, unless the bottom of the lake were made of solid rock with no cracks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">What Morrow could not have known in 1932-33, of course, was that <i>most</i> of the Earth's water is actually contained in the mantle. This was only discovered when we worked out the mechanisms powering plate tectonics. So I won't hold him liable for missing <i>that</i> point.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>=====================================================</b> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>COMMENTARY: </b>Omega was, of course, driven mad with grief by the end of the story. This makes sense. He had lost his beloved wife and child, and had no sapient companionship. That is why he made The Grinner even if we take his mastery of science straight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The story is of course Romantic, allegorical and rather religious. Man's time has passed, and thus the efforts of Omega and Thalma to regenerate Mankind are doomed to failure. They were impious, yet magnificent, Having lost wife and child, Omega is now sterile; all his super-science can accomplish is to create an ugly creature which hastens his own end.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />Though I totally disagree with the logic, I find the concept strangely and poetically <i>beautiful.</i> Despite the scientific flaws of the story, even for its day, it is a great tale of loss, tragedy, desparation and madness. It deserves to be read more today.</span><br />
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</xml><![endif]-->Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-77086317113069664632014-09-25T17:42:00.002-07:002018-09-23T17:43:46.287-07:00Review -- Sparrowind: The Dragon Who Lived As A Night (2014) by R. K. Modena<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 1.4em;">"Review: </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 1.8em;"><i>Sparrowind: The Dragon Who Lived As A Knight</i></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 1.0em;"><i><span style="font-family: times new roman;">©</span></i></span><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 1.0em;"> 2014</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 1.4em;">by R. K. Modena"</span></span></span></b><br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 0.9em;">© 2014</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 1.4em;">by Jordan S. Bassior</span></b></span></span></div>
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<br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Available for $1.01 on <a data-cke-saved-href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/rk-modena/sparrowind/ebook/product-21804231.html" href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/rk-modena/sparrowind/ebook/product-21804231.html">Lulu</a> and as an <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/au/book/sparrowind/id921831830?mt=11">iBook</a> for $0.99.</i><br /><br />This
11,000-word novelette is the coming of age story of Sparrowind, a young
Dragon. Sparrowind is small -- about the size of a rhino ("two draft
horses" is his self-description) and nearsighted, which makes him poorly
equipped for the traditional Dragon way of life of hunting prey and
fighting rival Dragons. His mother points out to him that "The world is
big enough that perhaps you'll find a place that's right for you ...
Perhaps you'll find it before you die."<br /><br />The story is largely
concerned with Sparrowind trying to find his place in life. Fortunately
for Sparrowind, he may be small and have weak eyes, but he has a keen
mind and strong will, and after reading some Human books, he resolves to
become a knight -- an honorable warrior -- and make a place for himself
in Human society. This is of course far from easy for him, given that
his species has a bad reputation among Humans. The obstacles that
Sparrowind encounters, and the manners in which he deals with them, are
the meat and drink of the tale.<br /><br /><i>Sparrowind</i> is well
written, in an easy and well-flowing style highly suited to reading
aloud. The main character is engaging and sympathetic, and reading this
story I cared about him. Despite the fact that there is considerable
incident, the plot is very tight, as it has to be in such a short
novelistic form, and the plot is well-resolved, with enough new threads
suggested that there is obvious room for sequels.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">The
setting is sketched out only briefly -- the limited part of it (mostly
the region of a mountain pass and the principality which controls the
pass) shown in the rather short novelette comes across as Standard
Fantasy, but that's not bad: there is only so much that the author can
develop in such a short format. What we see of it <i>makes sense</i>,
and I happen to know that it's part of a much larger and richer fantasy
universe, which will almost certainly be explored in other tales.</span></span><br /><br />Where <i>Sparrowind</i>
really shines is in its ethical themes. The main point of the story is
that a person creates his own identity: he is something in particular
and comes from somewhere in particular, but where he chooses to go from
there and who he chooses to be is his own responsibility. Sparrowind
himself chooses to be an honorable knight in Human society, which
governs his fate; another character who started as someone more
acceptable to Humanity makes different choices, and finds a different
fate.<br /><br />The story also stresses the importance of mutualistic as opposed to predatory behavior. Sparrowind <i>is</i>
biologically a predator (he initially supports himself by fishing) but
his goal is toe find a way to co-exist with Humans through social and
economic exchange, and by acting as a protector. Another character
could have been a protector, but chooses to behave as a predator
instead. The story makes plain the superiority of mutualism to
predation as a mode of behavior for sapient beings.<br /><br />What strikes
me very strongly about this novelette is that it is extremely logical
and yet has a strong emotional undertone. This very much suits
Sparrowind's point of view, as he is a highly intelligent and logical
thinker, yet one strongly driven by his desire to find his place in life
and win acceptance from others. This combination of strong
inetelligence and strong emotion gives powee to the tale.<br /><br />All in all, this is an excellent story, and I hope to see many more from the author.</span></span><br /></div>
Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-68557690465501520822014-01-14T11:31:00.001-08:002018-09-23T17:43:45.169-07:00Why I Hate Technologically-Static Fantasy<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"Why I Hate Technologically-Static Fantasy"</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© 2014</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">by</span></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: large;">Jordan S. Bassior </span> </b> </div>
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<a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HomePage">TV Tropes</a> is a lovely site, in part because it has terms for almost everything one encounters in fiction. One such term is "<a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MedievalStasis">Medieval Stasis</a>," which it defines as being<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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a situation in which, as far as the technological, cultural, and
sociopolitical level are concerned, thousands of years pass as if they
were minutes.</blockquote>
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This describes much fantasy fiction. Whatever technologies they had a couple thousand years ago, they have now: this and no more. Whatever cultures existed then, with whatever artistic, literary and musical developments, are pretty much what they have now, with perhaps the specific elements having changed in a non-progressive fashion (some being forgotten and new ones devised). Whatever social and political systems existed then are what exist now, only the personnel having changed.<br />
<br />
Such a situation is <i>not</i> characteristic of actual human history. While it is true that technological change was <i>very</i> slow before the invention of agriculture and the consequent appearance of towns containing many thousands of people who could easily exchange ideas, once the first towns <i>did</i> appear (no more than around 10 thousand years ago) human technology began to advance quite rapidly on milllennial timescales (if that doesn't sound like much, consider that during the preceding Paleolithic, human tool kits barely changed from millennium to millenium -- more like what one encounters in Medieval Stasis fantasy).<br />
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The invention of writing speeded things up further, because now any major scientific developments could be recorded and made available to future generations as a base on which to build. Writing appears around 6000 years ago, and since its invention there has been no millennium without significant scientific and technological progress. Even a fairly stagnant culture such as that of Ancient Egypt progressed, both due to internal creativity and due to diffusion from other culture-centers (think the Hyksos invasion and the adoption of chariots, or the wars with the Hittites and the adoption of iron weapons), on millennial timescales.<br />
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The invention of alphabetic writing (and simplified ideographic systems such as the Chinese <i>as usually applied in practice</i>), which occurred around 3000 years ago, resulted in another acceleration of human progress. Now, not merely priestly scribal specialists, scholarly aristocrats and merchant princes; but also gentries, merchants and the better sort of artisans, could make use of writing to record and transmit information to future generations. Starting from around 2500 years ago, it is safe to say that technology, culture and society began to register signfiicant changes on a timescale of <i>centuries</i> rather than <i>millennia</i>.<br />
<br />
This is often obscured by our perspective standing on the heights of a global industrial and information age civilization, looking down on the pre-industrial ages and seeing them all as "low tech." For instance, one might accurately point out that people started using "swords" around 5000 years ago, and kept on using them all the way through the World Wars (Japanese officers carried <i>katanas</i> into battle as late as Okinawa), and that therefore nothing much changed in terms of personal weaponry until the invention of handguns a bit over 500 years ago.<br />
<br />
That conclusion, of course, is wrong. It ignores incremental and sometimes revolutionary improvements in technology, which over time can reach a point such that the earlier examples of that technology are far inferior to the later ones.<br />
<br />
To take the example of the sword, the earliest swords -- forged over 6000 years ago -- were made of fairly weak bronze alloys which were not strong enough to enable multi-foot long blades: any broadsword made of the early bronze alloys would have bent or broken at the first contact with armor or an opposing weapon, and after a few strokes have become a useless mass of twisted metal. Thus, they were usually designed as "sickle swords" -- weapons with long hafts supporting relatively short sickle-like blades, reducing the stress experienced by the blade at impact and hence allowing it to survive through much of the battle.<br />
<br />
Metallurgy advanced, even before iron smithing was developed. The swords of later Bronze Age times were made of better alloys and by smiths who better grasped the capabilities of their materials. These were recognizably similar to modern designs -- though the hafts were still longer and the blades shorter than any swords which we would design today.<br />
<br />
When iron smithing was developed, around 3500 years ago, it became possible to lengthen and sharpen the blade. An iron sword could survive a whole battle with only minor damage if skillfully wielded (one reason, in addition to the expense of forging them, why swords were the weapon of military <i>professionals</i> was that amateurs would inevitably break them). These longer and sharper swords became increasingly useful, and hence both tactically and <i>culturally</i> important.<br />
<br />
Iron smithing is complex and there was progressive development in the art from early Classical through Modern times. From the Celtic broadsword of around 2500 years ago to the Roman shortsword of around 2000 years ago to the Germanic broadsword of around 1500 years ago to the Medieval longsword of about 1000 years ago, to the Renaissance rapiers and <i>katanas</i> of around 500 years ago, there was a steady technological improvement. Swordsmithing probably reached its apex ~ AD 1500, but there has been incremental improvements even since then -- for instance, the average cavalry saber of AD 1900 was technologically superior to all but the finsest scimitars of the early Modern era.<br />
<br />
I chose to focus on swords because they are both an iconic technology of fantasy (as in "sword and sorcery") and because they are the sort of technology which tends <i>not</i> to be lost in periods of social disruption such as barbarian invasions (quite the contrary: weapons technology usually <i>advances rapidly</i> in times of general war!). I could have picked any of a number of other technologies, both military and civilian, with which to make my point -- but I'm writing an essay here, not a textbook.<br />
<br />
Swords, of course, while beautiful weapons, are not one of the basic human technologies. The lives of most people in a society -- even of the urban dwellers, and even of the <i>literate</i> urban dwellers, would not be much affected by whether their warrior elites fought with swords, spears, axes, clubs, or their fists (though there are some <i>in</i>-obvious cultural effects: for instance, the transition from bronze to iron weapons resulted in a transition from god-kingship based empires to urban republic based ones, because the cost of good weapons was now within the reach of the middle classes).<br />
<br />
Instead, let's look at a <i>really</i> basic technology -- agriculture. It was the transition from hunter-gatherer horticltural ways of life to agricultural ones which triggered civilization in general: even primitive agriculture can support around 100 times as many people in most areas as can advanced hunting and gathering. (This -- the "Agricultural Revolution" -- is a change so immense that even most fantasy writers sit up and take notice of it). While some towns of a few hundred to few thousand inhabitants were possible in really favored areas (usually at rivermouths or lakefronts allowing multiple kinds of hunting, fishing and gathering), large towns of several thousand or more were impractical before the development of farming. This started around 12,000 years ago, and by around 6000 years ago had reached the point of what we would consider small (though poorly-organized) cities in Egypt and the Fertile Crescent. This is what we term the "Neolithic" to "Cuprolithic" period, because stone and other found-material tools were the basis of crafts technology, though by the end of this age they were being supplemented by copper for specialized crafts application.<br />
<br />
Farming fundamentally changes the cultural game. Hunter-gatherers live in fairly small numbers and with only limited social specialization: every man has to know how to hunt and fight; every woman how to gather and practice crafts. Limited numbers limit the size of the "social brain" which can consider problems. Limited specialization limits technology because few can become real experts at anything. Large projects are impossible: one needs <i>numbers</i> and <i>organization</i> to build a Pyramid, or a Stonehenge.<br />
<br />
With farming, population sizes can grow. What's more, even though for economic reasons <i>most</i> people (90-99 percent, depending on the society) must farm as a full-time occupation, <i>some</i> people can instead study a craft specialty and make this occupation their primary source of income, trading their products to other people (including farmers and shopkeepers) for their (literal) daily bread. Because they depend upon this specialty, they get very good at it. What's more, they have an incentive to at least incrementally improve the practice of this craft.<br />
<br />
The prices of specialization, unfortunately, are social inequality and anonymity. Everyone in a hunter-gatherer community is roughly equal: at most, some <i>families</i> may be favored because of close kinship with a chief or shaman, though in small groups everyone is kin in any case. As the village grows into the town or city, one is no longer "Jeff" nor even "Jeff the Potter," one becomes merely "a potter" or "a farmer," dealt with by ritual according to one's class and occupation rather than as a unique individual. And if one's craft is more expensive, specialized and in demand, then one's status is higher -- the jeweler sneers at the potter, who sneers at the farmer.<br />
<br />
Of course, the highest status occupations are those of priest and warrior. The priest is important not only because he intercedes with the gods (even if they don't exist, this promotes social peace and harmony) but also because he normally has mastered some craft specializations of immense value, such as medicine or mathematics. The warrior is important because he is much better at fighting and killing, a training which can be applied against foreign foes and dissident citizens alike. The ordinary farmer may mumble cantrips or brawl with clubs or even hunt with spears, but farming is a full-time occupation most times of the year: the farmer does not have <i>time</i> to master priestly or warlike skills, even if he is so inclined and there is no actual prohibition upon such studies.<br />
<br />
Technological progress widens this divide. The Neolithic warrior has only the advantage of skill over the Neolithic farmer (and in really primitive cultures is probably a farmer himself): his weapons and armor, such as they are, are better by only a thin margin. The Bronze Age warrior uses weapons which are functionally quite different from hunting weapons or farm implements, requiring the mastery of very different skills to use them, and his weapons and armor are expensive.<br />
<br />
But the Bronze Age warrior also has a wider margin of superiority over the barbarian raider or rebellious villager: his helmet, breastplate and shield can repel the arrows and spears of his foe, while his well-forged spear or sword can go right through their furs or leathers. Due to the human desire for self-preservation, his mere appearance on the field, angry and hungry to kill, may put his foes to flight -- read the <i>Iliad</i> for a fairly-accurate depiction of such morale effects.<br />
<br />
Hence, warrior elites appear beside priestly elites, and both become socially dominant. They usually support each other in this dominance: the temple sends forth warriors to enforce its demands for tribute to the gods; the temple consecrates a king to lead the warriors. The threefold order known to medieval political science has appeared: "those who work, those who fight and those who pray." (For variety, compare the Eastern Indo-European Aryan concept, where there is a fourth fundamental class -- "those who trade.")<br />
<br />
Generally speaking the specialized classes -- the priests, warriors, and elite merchants/artisans -- hold themselves above the mass of the people, who are farmers. The exact balance of status varies from civilization to civilization, but usually two highest classes are the priests and warriors, in that order (often, priests and warriors come from the same families); and the merchants/artisans form a class between them and the farmers.<br />
<br />
Organized by the priesthood and with this organization enforced by the warriors, the early civilizations develop irrigation and transportation systems which allow much greater crop yields per acre, and the transportation of the agricultural surpluses to the cities where they enable further urban growth. One main functional difference, in fact, between a town and a city is that a mere town is usually able to subsist from its own surrounding farms, while a city requires a large agricultural hinterland, and must have the power or wealth to compel or purchase the surplus needed to survive, let alone grow.<br />
<br />
The important invention which enables the growth of cities is writing, which enables larger-scale and more precise forms of social organization. Writing, for instance, makes regular tax collection less disruptive, as specific taxation amounts or rates can be set, and enforced, upon citizen and subject alike. It also makes it easier to organize large projects, such as the construction of irrigation networks or monuments.<br />
<br />
We are now squarely in the historical realm emulated by most modern heroic fantasy -- a world of cities, farmers, wilderness, priests, warriors and kings. On this most basic level -- the level of the peasant farmer and his relationship to the social elites -- human culture doesn't change all <i>that </i>much from around 4000 BC (the appearance of proto-writing) to around AD 1750 (the dawn of the Industrial Revolution).<br />
<br />
And this gets to the heart of why I hate medieval stasis fantasy.<br />
<br />
Though it is usually glossed over by the more superficial fantasy writers, the fact is that this sort of traditional agricultural civilization is built firmly on the foundation of a downtrodden peasantry. What's worse, up to a certain limit (the point at which the agricultural workforce is <i>so</i> put-upon that it cannot grow, or even maintain its numbers), the civilization works <i>better</i> the <i>more</i> downtrodden the peasantry. This is because the larger the taxes extracted from the peasants, the larger and more capable becomes the specialist classes who produce the goods and services which provide the civilization a competitive advantage over its rivals.<br />
<br />
Now, there <i>is</i> a basic incompatibility here between economic and military needs. Though the warrior elites provide officers for military organizations, they are not large enough to form complete armies, especially for the purposes of garrsion, engineering, and main battle duties. The military must recruit for this purpose. Since pre-industrial cities are unhealthy places save for the elites (until the 19th century AD, they were population sinks -- their death rates exceeded their birth rates, requiring constant attraction of new population from the countryside), this means that the (literal) rank and file of one's military must be recruited from the countryside.<br />
<br />
But if one's peasants are to be enlisted in the army and trained to war, then this imposes a limit on how severely they can be oppressed, since past a point a militarily-competent peasantry <i>will</i> revolt. There is a solution, a solution which provides a significant competitive advantage to any civilization which adopts it, and which consequently has been adopted by most pre-industrial civilizations. It is a solution so horrible that it is one of the darkest stains in our history as a species.<br />
<br />
That solution is <i>slavery</i>.<br />
<br />
What one does is to degrade a mass of people -- they may be either war-captives, purchased foreigners or one's own economic failures -- <i>below</i> the status of peasantry, to the status of <i>property</i>. They are almost always explicitly denied the right to wield weapons, or allowed to do so only in the service of elites. They are used to perform the heaviest and most unpleasant agricultural or mining labor, often of a sort which causes rapid physical deterioration. Some elite slaves may also be used for the less desirable sorts of crafts or scribal work -- there are even cases of slave-soldieries, though such often cease to be slaves save in name in a few generations. And, of course, some slaves become favorites of members of the elites, and may enjoy a precarious comfort from such relationships (which often include routine availability for sexual degradation). The Roman Empire is the (literally) classical example of a civilization based on a large slave underclass, and their dependence on slavery was one of the roots of their ruthlessness, since ruthlessness is <i>necessary</i> to manage a large workforce of slaves.<br />
<br />
What a pre-industrial technological stasis means is that this horrible system, where most of the population is condemned to a dreary, short and unpleasant life as subsistence farmers -- and a large minority of them cease to be even human, in social terms -- is <i>eternal</i>. One may defeat this or that Dark Lord who wants to make things even <i>worse</i> (perhaps by enslaving or slaughtering <i>everybody</i>), but not even the Good Guys are doing anything toward any long-term overall improvement in the surrounding society. Indeed, to some extent the popularity of Dark Lords in this sort of story is to paper-over the essential <i>hopelessness</i> of the societies being presented -- because however bad things normally are, one can get behind fighting off the guy who wants to tear <i>everything</i> good down.<br />
<br />
Real history can be pretty depressing. There is a tendency for the same, stupid things to happen over and over again; a repetition of cruelty and oppression, fanaticism and witch-hunting, one disaster after another as civilizations rise and attempt to build something beautiful in the world, only to go down before barbarian invasion, climate change, or the exhaustion of local resources.<br />
<br />
But there is one inspiring thing about our history. No matter how bad things have sometimes gotten, there is an overall rise in civilization and technology, a path leading upward to the transcendence of this or that human liimitation, to the stars.<br />
<br />
Absent this path, history -- and life -- are hopeless.<br />
<br />
I prefer fantasy which does not block this path in the name of nostalgia.<br />
<br />
<b>END</b> <br />
<br />
<br />Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-58117749987496727862013-11-21T01:04:00.001-08:002018-09-23T17:43:44.129-07:00"The Ice-Demon" (1933) by Clark Ashton Smith<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"The Ice-Demon"</b></span></div>
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<b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© 1933</span></b></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">by</span></b></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Clark Ashton Smith </span></b></span> </b> </div>
<br />
<br />
Quanga the huntsman, with Hoom Feethos and Eibur Tsanth, two of the
most enterprising jewelers of Iqqua, had crossed the borders of a region
into which men went but seldom — and wherefrom they returned even more
rarely. Traveling north from Iqqua, they had passed into desolate Mhu
Thulan, where the great glacier of Polarion had rolled like a frozen sea
upon wealthy and far-famed cities, covering the broad isthmus from
shore to shore beneath fathoms of perpetual ice.<br />
<br />
The shell-shaped domes of Cerngoth, it was fabled, could still be seen
deep down in the glaciation; and the high, keen spires of Oggon-Zhai
were embedded therein, together with fern-palm and mammoth and the
square black temples of the god Tsathoggua. All this had occurred many
centuries ago; and still the ice, a mighty, glittering rampart, was
moving south upon deserted lands.<br />
<br />
Now, in the path of the embattled glacier, Quanga led his companions on a
bold quest. Their object was nothing less than the retrieval of the
rubies of King Haalor, who, with the wizard Ommum-Vog and many
full-caparisoned soldiers, had gone out five decades before to make war
upon the polar ice. From this fantastic expedition, neither Haalor nor
OmmumVog had come back; and the sorry, ragged remnant of their
men-at-arms, returning to Iqqua, after two moons, had told a dire tale.<br />
<br />
The army, they said, had made its encampment on a sort of knoll,
carefully chosen by Ommum-Vog, in full sight of the vanward ice. Then
the mighty sorcerer, standing with Haalor amid a ring of braziers that
fumed incessantly with golden smoke, and reciting runes that were older
than the world, had conjured up a fiery orb, vaster and redder than the
southward-circling sun of heaven. And the orb, with blazing beams that
smote from the zenith, torrid and effulgent, had caused the sun to seem
no more than a daylight moon, and the soldiers had almost swooned from
its heat in their heavy panoply. But beneath its beams the verges of the
glacier melted and ran in swift rills and rivers, so that Haalor for a
time was hopeful of reconquering the realm of Mhu Thulan over which his
forefathers had ruled in bygone ages.<br />
<br />
The rushing waters had deepened, flowing past the knoll on which the
army waited. Then, as if by a hostile magic, the rivers began to give
forth a pale and stifling mist, that blinded the conjured sun of
Ommum-Vog, so that its sultry beams grew faint and chill and had power
no longer on the ice.<br />
<br />
Vainly the wizard had put forth other spells, trying to dissipate the
deep and gelid fog. But the vapor drew down, evil and clammy, coiling
and wreathing like knots of phantom serpents, and filling nen's marrows
as if with the cold of death. It covered all the camp, a tangible thing,
ever colder and thicker, numbing the limbs of those who groped blindly
and could not see the faces of their fellows at arm's-length. A few of
the common soldiers, somehow, reached its outer confines and crept
fearfully away beneath the wan sun, seeing no longer in the skies the
wizard globe that had been called up by Ommum-Vog. And looking back
presently, as they fled in strange terror, they beheld, instead of the
low-lying mist they had thought to see, a newly frozen sheet of ice that
covered the mound on which the king and the sorcerer had made their
encampment. The ice rose higher above the ground than a tall man's head;
and dimly, in its glittering depth, the fleeing soldiers saw the
imprisoned forms of their leaders and companions.<br />
<br />
Deeming that this thing was no natural occurrence, but a sorcery that
had been exerted by the great glacier, and that the glacier itself was a
live, malignant entity with powers of unknown bale, they did not
slacken their flight. And the ice had suffered them to depart in peace,
as if to give warning of the fate of those who dared to assail it.<br />
<br />
Some there were who believed the tale, and some who doubted. But the
kings that ruled in Iqqua after Haalor went not forth to do battle with
the ice; and no wizard rose to make war upon it with conjured suns. Men
fled before the ever-advancing glaciations; and strange legends were told
of how people had been overtaken or cut off in lonely valleys by
sudden, diabolic shiftings of the ice, as if it had stretched out a
living hand. And legends there were, of awful crevasses that yawned
abruptly and closed like monstrous mouths upon them that dared the
frozen waste; of winds like the breath of boreal demons, that blasted
men's flesh with instant, utter cold and turned them into statues hard
as granite. In time the whole region, for many miles before the glacier,
was generally shunned; and only the hardiest hunters would follow their
quarry into the winter-blighted land.<br />
<br />
Now it happened that the fearless huntsman Iluac, the elder brother of
Quanga, had gone into Mhu Thulan, and had pursued an enormous black fox
that led him afar on the mighty fields of the ice-sheet. For many
leagues he trailed it, coming never within bowshot of the beast; and at
length he came to a great mound on the plain, that seemed to mark the
position of a buried hill. And Iluac thought that the fox entered a
cavern in the mound; so, with lifted bow and a poised arrow at the
string, he went after it into the cavern.<br />
<br />
The place was like a chamber of boreal kings or gods. All about him, in a
dim green light, were huge, glimmering pillars; and giant icicles hung
from the roof in the forrn of stalactites. The floor sloped downward;
and Iluac came to the cave's end without finding any trace of the fox.
But in the transparent depth of the further wall, at the bottom, he saw
the standing shapes of many men, deep-frozen and sealed up as in a tomb,
with undecaying bodies and fair, unshrunken features. The men were
armed with tall spears, and most of them wore the panoply of soldiers.
But among them, in the van, there stood a haughty figure attired in the
sea-blue robes of a king; and beside him was a bowed ancient who wore
the night-black garb of a sorcerer. The robes of the regal figure were
heavily sewn with gems that burned like colored stars through the ice;
and great rubies red as gouts of newly congealing blood were arranged in
the lines of a triangle on the bosom, forming the royal sign of the
kings of Iqqua. So Iluac knew, by these tokens, that he had found the
tomb of Haalor and OmmumVog and the soldiers with whom they had gone up
against the ice in former days.<br />
<br />
Overawed by the strangeness of it all, and remembering now the old
legends, Iluac lost his courage for the first time, and quitted the
chamber without delay. Nowhere could he find the black fox; and
abandoning the chase, he returned southward, reaching the lands below
the glacier without mishap. But he swore later that the ice had changed
in a weird manner while he was following the fox, so that he was unsure
of his direction for a while after leaving the cavern. There were steep
ridges and hummocks where none had been before, making his return a
toilsome journey; and the glaciation seemed to extend itself for many
miles beyond its former limits. And because of these things, which he
could not explain or understand, a curious eery fear was born in the
heart of Iluac.<br />
<br />
Never again did he go back upon the glacier; but he told his brother
Quanga of that which he had found, and described the location of the
cavern-chamber in which King Haalor and Ommum-Vog and their men-at-arms
were entombed. And soon after this, Iluac was killed by a white bear on
which he had used all his arrows in vain.<br />
<br />
Quanga was no less brave than Iluac; and he did not fear the glacier,
since he had been upon it many times and had noticed nothing untoward.
His was a heart that lusted after gain, and often he thought of the
rubies of Haalor, locked with the king in eternal ice; and it seemed to
him that a bold man might recover the rubies.<br />
<br />
So, one summer, while trading in Iqqua with his furs, he went to the
jewelers Bibur Tsanth and Hoom Feethos, taking with him a few garnets
that he had found in a northern valley. While the jewelers were
appraising the garnets, he spoke idly of the rubies of Haalor, and
inquired craftily as to their value. Then, hearing the great worth of
the gems, aod noting the greedy interest that was shown by Hoom Feethos
and Eibur Tsanth, he told them the tale he had heard from his brother
Iluac, and offered, if they would promise him half the value of the
rubies, to guide them to the hidden cave.<br />
<br />
The jewelers agreed to this proposition, in spite of the hardships of
the proposed journey, and the difficulty they might afterward encounter
in disposing surreptitiously of gems that belonged to the royal family
of Iqqua and would be claimed by the present king, Ralour, if their
discovery were learned. The fabulous worth of the rubies had fired their
avarice. Quanga, on his part, desired the complicity and connivance of
the dealers, knowing that it would be hard for him to sell the jewels
otherwise. He did not trust Hoom Feethos and Eibur Tsanth, and it was
for this reason that he required them to go with him to the cavern and
pay over to him the agreed sum of money as soon as they were in
possession of the treasure.<br />
<br />
The strange trio had set forth in mid-summer. Now, after two weeks of
journeying through a wild, sub-arctic region, they were approaching the
confines of the eternal ice. They traveled on foot, and their supplies
were carried by three horses little larger than musk-oxen. Quanga, an
unerring marksman, hunted for their daily food the hares and waterfowl
of the country.<br />
<br />
Behind them, in a cloudless turquoise heaven, there burned the low sun
that was said to have described a loftier ecliptic in former ages.
Drifts of unmelting snow were heaped in the shadows of the higher hills;
and in steep valleys they came upon the vanward glaciers of the
ice-sheet. The trees and shrubs were already sparse and stunted, in a
land where rich forests had flourished in olden time beneath a milder
climate. But poppies flamed in the meadows and along the slopes,
spreading their frail beauty like a scarlet rug before the feet of
perennial winter; and the quiet pools and stagnant-flowing streams were
lined with white water-lilies.<br />
<br />
A little to the east, they saw the fuming of volcanic peaks that still
resisted the inroads of the glaciers. On the west were high, gaunt
mountains whose sheer cliffs and pinnacles were topped with snow, and
around those nether slopes the ice had climbed like an inundating sea.
Before them was the looming, crenelated wall of the realm-wide
glaciation, moving equally on plain and hill, uprooting the trees, and
pressing the soil forward in vast folds and ridges. Its progress had
been stayed a little by the northern summer. Quanga and the jewelers, as
they went on, came to turbid rills, made by a temporary melting, that
issued from beneath the glittering blue-green ramparts.<br />
<br />
They left their pack-horses in a grassy valley, tethered by long cords
of elf-thong to the dwarfish willows. Then, carrying such provisions and
other equipment as they might require for a two days' journey, they
climbed the ice-slope at a point selected by Quanga as being most
readily accessible, and started in the direction of the cave that had
been found by Iluac. Quanga took his bearings from the position of the
volcanic mountains, and also from two isolated peaks that rose on the
sheeted plain to the north like the breasts of a giantess beneath her
shining armor.<br />
<br />
The three were well equipped for all the exigencies of their search.
Quanga carried a curious pick-ax of finely tempered bronze, to be used
in disentombing the body of King Haalor; and he was armed with a short,
leaf-shaped sword, in addition to his bow and quiver of arrows. His
garments were made from the fur of a giant bear, brown-black in color.<br />
<br />
Hoom Feethos and Eibur Tsanth, in raiment heavily quilted with
eider-down against the cold, followed him complainingly but with
avaricious eagerness. They had not enjoyed the long marches through a
desolate, bleakening land, nor the rough fare and exposure to the
northern elements. Moreover, they had taken a dislike to Quanga, whom
they considered rude and overbearing. Their grievances were aggravated
by the fact that he was now compelling them to carry most of the
supplies in addition to the two heavy bags. of gold which they were to
exchange later for the gems. Nothing less valuable than the rubies of
Haalor would have induced them to come so far, or to set foot on the
formidable wastes of the ice-sheet.<br />
<br />
The scene before them was like some frozen world of the outer void.
Vast, unbroken, save for a few scattered mounds and ridges, the plain
extended to the white horizon and its armored peaks. Nothing seemed to
live or move on the awful, glistening vistas, whose nearer levels were
swept clean of snow. The sun appeared to grow pale and chill, and to
recede behind the adventurers; and a wind blew upon them from the ice,
like a breath from abysses beyond the pole. Apart from the boreal
desolation and drearness, however, there was nothing to dismay Quanga or
his companions. None of them was superstitious, and they deemed that
the old tales were idle myths, were no more than fear-born delusions.
Quanga smiled commiseratively at the thought of his brother Iluac, who
had been so oddly frightened and had fancied such extraordinary things
after the finding of Haalor. It was a singular weakness in Iluac, the
rash and almost foolhardy hunter who had feared neither man nor beast.
As to the trapping of Haalor and Ommum-Vog and their army in the
glacier, it was plain that they had allowed themselves to be overtaken
by the winter storms; and the few survivors, mentally unhinged by their
hardships, had told a wild story. Ice — even though it had conquered
half of a continent — was merely ice, and its workings conformed
invariably to certain natural laws. Iluac had said that the ice-sheet
was a great demon, cruel, greedy, and loth to give up that which it had
taken. But such beliefs were crude and primitive superstitions, not to
be entertained by enlightened minds of the Pleistocene age.<br />
<br />
They had climbed the rampart at an early hour of morning. Quanga assured
the jewelers that they would reach the cavern by noon at the latest,
even if there should be a certain amount of difficulty and delay in
locating it.<br />
<br />
The plain before them was remarkably free of crevasses, and there was
little to obstruct their advance. Steering their way with the two
breast-shaped mountains for landmarks before them, they come after three
hours to a hill-like elevation that corresponded to the mound of
Iluac's story. With little trouble, they found the opening of the deep
chamber.<br />
<br />
It seemed that the place had changed little if at all since the visit of
Iluac, for the interior, with its columns and pendant icicles,
conformed closely to his description. The entrance was like a fanged
maw. Within, the floor sloped downward at a slippery angle for more than
a hundred feet. The chamber swam with a cold and glaucous translucency
that filtered through the dome-like roof. At the lower end, in the
striated wall, Quanga and the jewelers saw the embedded shapes of a
number of men, among which they distinguished easily the tall, blue-clad
corpse of King Haalor and the dark, bowed mummy of Ommum-Vog. Behind
these, the shapes of others, lifting their serried spears eternally, and
receding downward in stiff ranks through unfathomable depths, were
faintly discernible.<br />
<br />
Haalor stood regal and erect, with wide-open eyes that stared haughtily
as in life. Upon his bosom the triangle of hot and blood-bright rubies
smouldered unquenchably in the glacial gloom; and the colder eyes of
topazes, of beryls, of diamonds, of chrysolites, gleamed and twinkled
from his azure raiment. It seemed that the fabulous gems were separated
by no more than a foot or two of ice from the greedy fingers of the
hunter and his companions.<br />
<br />
Without speaking, they stared raptly at the far-sought treasure. Apart
from the great rubies, the jewelers were also estimating the value of
the other gems worn by Haalor. These alone, they thought complacently,
would have made it worth while to endure the fatigue of the journey and
the insolence of Quanga.<br />
<br />
The hunter, on his part, was wishing that he had driven an even steeper
bargain. The two bags of gold, however, would make him a wealthy man. He
could drink to his full content the costly wines, redder than the
rubies, that came from far Uzuldaroum in the south. The tawny,
slant-eyed girls of Iqqua would dance at his bidding; and he could
gamble for high stakes.<br />
<br />
All three were unmindful of the eeriness of their situation, alone in
that boreal solitude with the frozen dead; and they were oblivious
likewise to the ghoulish nature of the robbery they were about to
commit. Without waiting to be urged by his companions, Quanga raised the
keen and highly tempered pick of bronze, and began to assail the
translucent wall with mighty blows.<br />
<br />
The ice rang shrilly beneath the pick, and dropped away in crystal
splinters and diamond lumps. In a few minutes, he had made a large
cavity; and only a thin shell, cracked and shattering, remained before
the body of Haalor. This shell Quanga proceeded to pry off with great
care; and soon the triangle of monstrous rubies, more or less encrusted
still with clinging ice, lay bare to his fingers. While the proud, bleak
eyes of Haalor stared immovably upon him from behind their glassy mask,
the hunter dropped the pick, and drawing his sharp, leaf-shaped sword
from its scabbard, he began to sever the fine silver wires by which the
rubies were attached cunningly to the king's raiment. In his haste he
ripped away portions of the sea-blue fabric, baring the frozen and
dead-white flesh beneath. One by one, as he removed the rubies, he gave
them to Hoom Feethos, standing close behind him; and the dealer,
bright-eyed with avarice, drooling a little with ecstasy, stored them
carefully in a huge pouch of mottled lizard-skin that he had brought
along for the purpose.<br />
<br />
The last ruby had been secured, and Quanga was about to turn his
attention to the lesser jewels that adorned the king's garments in
curious patterns and signs of astrological or hieratic significance.
Then, amid their preoccupation, he and Hoom Feethos were startled by a
loud and splintering crash that ended with myriad tinklings as of broken
glass. Turning, they saw that a huge icicle had fallen from the
cavern-dome; and its point, as if aimed unerringly, had cloven the skull
of Eibur Tsanth, who lay amid the debris of shattered ice with the
sharp end of the fragment deeply embedded in his oozing brain. He had
died, instantly, without knowledge of his doom.<br />
<br />
The accident, it seemed, was a perfectly natural one, such as might
occur in summer from a slight melting of the immense pendant; but, amid
their consternation, Quanga and Hoom Feethos were compelled to take note
of certain circumstances that were far from normal or explicable.
During the removal of the rubies, on which their attention had been
centered so exclusively, the chamber had narrowed to half of its former
width, and had also closed down from above, till the hanging icicles
were almost upon them, like the champing teeth of some tremendous mouth.
The place had darkened, and the light was such as might filter into
arctic seas beneath heavy floes. The incline of the cave had grown
steeper, as if it were pitching into bottomless depths. Far up --
incredibly far — the two men beheld the tiny entrance, which seemed no
bigger than the mouth of a fox's hole.<br />
<br />
For an instant, they were stupefied. The changes of the cavern could
admit of no natural explanation; and the Hyperboreans felt the clammy
surge of all the superstitious terrors that they had formerly
disclaimed. No longer could they deny the conscious, animate
malevolence, the diabolic powers of bale imputed to the ice in old
legends.<br />
<br />
Realizing their peril, and spurred by a wild panic, they started to
climb the incline. Hoom Feethos retained the bulging pouch of rubies, as
well as the heavy bag of gold coins that hung from his girdle; and
Quanga had enough presence of mind to keep his sword and pick-ax. In
their terror-driven haste, however, both forgot the second bag of gold,
which lay beside Eibur Tsanth, under the debris of the shattered
pendant.<br />
<br />
The supernatural narrowing of the cave, the dreadful and sinister
closing-down of its roof, had apparently ceased. At any rate, the
Hyperboreans could detect no visible continuation of the process as they
climbed frantically and precariously toward the opening. They were
forced to stoop in many places to avoid the mighty fangs that threatened
to descend upon them; and even with the rough tigerskin buskins that
they wore, it was hard to keep their footing on the terrible slope.
Sometimes they pulled themselves up by means of the slippery,
pillar-like formations; and often Quanga, who led the way, was compelled
to hew hasty steps in the incline with his pick.<br />
<br />
Hoom Feethos was too terrified for even the most rudimentary reflection.
But Quanga, as he climbed, was considering the monstrous alterations of
the cave, which he could not aline with his wide and various experience
of the phenomena of nature. He tried to convince himself that he had
made a singular error in estimating the chamber's dimensions and the
inclination of its fioor. The effort was useless: he still found himself
confronted by a thing that outraged his reason; a thing that distorted
the known face of the world with unearthly, hideous madness, and mingled
a malign chaos with its ordered workings.<br />
<br />
After an ascent that was frightfully prolonged, like the effort to
escape from some delirious, tedious nightmare predicament, they neared
the cavern-mouth. There was barely room now for a man to creep on his
belly beneath the sharp and ponderous teeth. Quanga, feeling that the
fangs might close upon him like those of some great monster, hurled
himself forward and started to wriggle through the opening with a most
unheroic celerity. Something held him back, and he thought, for one
moment of stark horror, that his worst apprehensions were being
realized. Then he found that his bow and quiver of arrows, which he had
forgotten to remove from his shoulders, were caught against the pendant
ice. While Hoom Feethos gibbered in a frenzy of fear and impatience, he
crawled back and relieved himself of the impeding weapons, which he
thrust before him together with his pick in a second and more successful
attempt to pass through the strait opening.<br />
<br />
Rising to his feet on the open glacier, he heard a wild cry from Hoom
Feethos, who, trying to follow Quanga, had become tightly wedged in the
entrance through his greater girth. His right hand, clutching the pouch
of rubies, was thrust forward beyond the threshold of the cave. He
howled incessantly, with half-coherent protestations that the cruel
ice-teeth were crunching him to death.<br />
<br />
In spite of the eery terrors that had unmanned him, the hunter still
retained enough courage to go back and try to assist Hoom Feethos. He
was about to assail the huge icicles with his pick, when he heard an
agonizing scream from the jeweler, followed by a harsh and indescribable
grating. There had been no visible movement of the fangs — and yet
Quanga now saw that they had reached the cavern-floor! The body of Hoom
Feethos, pierced through and through by one of the icicles, and ground
down by the blunter teeth, was spurting blood on the glacier, like the
red mist from a wine-press.<br />
<br />
Quanga doubted the very testimony of his senses. The thing before him
was patently impossible — there was no mark of cleavage in the mound
above the cavern-mouth, to explain the descent of those awful fangs.
Before his very eyes, but too swiftly for direct cognition, this
unthinkable enormity had occurred.<br />
Hoom Feethos was beyond all earthly help, and Quanga, now wholly the
slave of a hideous panic, would hardly have stayed longer to assist him
in any case. But seeing the pouch that had fallen forward from the dead
jeweler's fingers, the hunter snatched it up through an impulse of
terror-mingled greed; and then, with no backward glance, he fled on the
glacier, toward the low-circling sun.<br />
<br />
For a few moments, as he ran, Quanga failed to perceive the sinister and
ill-boding alterations, comparable to those of the cave, whicb had
somehow occurred in the sheeted plain itself. With a terrific shock,
which became an actual vertigo, he saw that he was climbing a long,
insanely tilted slope above whose remote extreme the sun had receded
strangely, and was now small and chill as if seen from an outer planet.
The very sky was different: though still perfectly cloudless, it had
taken on a curious deathly pallor. A brooding sense of inimical
volition, a vast and freezing malignity, seemed to pervade the air and
to settle upon Quanga like an incubus. But more terrifying than all
else, in its proof of a conscious and malign derangement of natural law,
was the giddy poleward inclination that had been assumed by the level
plateau.<br />
<br />
Quanga felt that creation itself had gone mad, and had left him at the
mercy of demoniacal forces from the godless outer gulfs. Keeping a
perilous foot-hold, weaving and staggering laboriously upward, he feared
momently that he would slip and fall and slide back for ever into
arctic depths unfathomable. And yet, when he dared to pause at last, and
turned shudderingly to peer down at the supposed descent, he saw behind
him an acclivity similar in all respects to the one he was climbing: a
mad; oblique wall of ice, that rose interminably to a second remote sun.<br />
<br />
In the confusion of that strange bouleversement, he seemed to lose the
last remnant of equilibrium; and the glacier reeled and pitched about
him like an overturning world as he strove to recover the sense of
direction that had never before deserted him. Everywhere, it appeared,
there were small and wan parhelia that mocked him above unending glacial
scarps. He resumed his hopeless climb through a topsy-turvy world of
illusion: whether north, south, east or west, he could not tell.<br />
<br />
A sudden wind swept downward on the glacier; it shrieked in Quanga's
ears like the myriad voices of taunting devils; it moaned and laughed
and ululated with shrill notes as of crackling ice. It seemed to pluck
at Quanga with live malicious fingers, to suck the breath for which he
had fought agonizingly. In spite of his heavy raiment, and the speed of
his toilsome ascent, he felt its bitter, mordant teeth, searching and
biting even to the marrow.<br />
<br />
Dimly, as he continued to climb upward, he saw that the ice was no
longer smooth, but had risen into pillars and pyramids around him, or
was fretted obscenely into wilder shapes. Immense, malignant profiles
leered in blue-green crystal; the malformed heads of bestial devils
frowned; and rearing dragons writhed immovably along the scarp, or sank
frozen into deep crevasses.<br />
<br />
Apart from these imaginary forms that were assumed by the ice itself,
Quanga saw, or believed that he saw, human bodies and faces embedded in
the glacier. Pale hands appeared to reach dimly and imploringly toward
him from the depths; and he felt upon him the frost-bound eyes of men
who had been lost in former years; and beheld their sunken limbs, grown
rigid in strange attitudes of torture.<br />
<br />
Quanga was no longer capable of thought. Deaf, blind, primordial
terrors, older than reason, had filled his mind with their atavistic
darkness. They drove him on implacably, as a beast is driven, and would
not let him pause or flag on the mocking, nightmare slope. Reflection
would have told him only that his ultimate escape was impossible; that
the ice, a live and conscious and maleficent thing, was merely playing a
cruel and fantastic game which it had somehow devised in its incredible
animism. So, perhaps, it was well that he had lost the power of
reflection.<br />
<br />
Beyond hope and without warning, he came to the end of the glaciation.
It was like the sudden shift of a dream, which takes the dreamer
unaware; and he stared uncomprehendingly for some moments at the
familiar Hyperborean valleys below the rampart, to the south, and the
volcanoes that fumed darkly beyond the southeastern hills.<br />
<br />
His flight from the cavern had consumed almost the whole of the long,
subpolar afternoon, and the sun was now swinging close above the
horizon. The parhelia had vanished, and the ice-sheet, as if by some
prodigious legerdemain, had resumed its normal horizontality. If he had
been able to compare his impressions, Quanga would have realized that at
no time had he surprised the glacier in the accomplishment of its
bewildering supernatural changes.<br />
<br />
Doubtfully, as if it were a mirage that might fade at any moment, he
surveyed the landscape below the battlements. To all appearances, he had
returned to the very place from which he and the jewelers had begun
their disastrous journey on the ice. Before him an easy declivity,
fretted and runneled, ran down toward the grassy meadows. Fearing that
it was all deceitful and unreal — a fair, beguiling trap, a new
treachery of the element that he had grown to regard as a cruel and
almighty demon — Quanga descended the slope with hasty leaps and bounds.
Even when he stood ankle-deep in the great club-mosses, with leafy
willows and sedgy grasses about him, he could not quite believe in the
verity of his escape.<br />
<br />
The mindless prompting of a panic fear still drove him on; and a primal
instinct, equally mindless, drew him toward the volcanic peaks. The
instinct told him that he would find refuge from the bitter boreal cold
amid their purlieus; and there, if anywhere, he would be safe from the
diabolical machinations of the glacier. Boiling springs were said to
flow perpetually from the nether slopes of these mountains; great
geysers, roaring and hissing like infernal cauldrons, filled the higher
gullies with scalding cataracts. The long snows that swept upon
Hyperborea were turned to mild rains in the vicinity of the volcanoes;
and there a rich and sultry-colored flora, formerly native to the whole
region, but now exotic, flourished throughout the seasons.<br />
<br />
Quanga could not find the little shaggy horses that he and his
companions had left tethered to the dwarf willows in the valley-meadow.
Perhaps, after all, it was not the same valley. At any rate, he did not
stay his flight to search for them. Without delay or lingering, after
one fearful backward look at the menacing mass of the glaciation, he
started off in a direct line for the smoke-plumed mountains.<br />
<br />
The sun sank lower, skirting endlessly the southwestern horizon, and
flooding the battlemented ice and the rolling landscape with a light of
pale amethyst. Quanga, with iron thews inured to protracted marches,
pressed on in his unremitting terror, and was overtaken gradually by a
long, ethereal-tinted twilight of northern summer.<br />
<br />
Somehow, through all the stages of his flight, he had retained the
pick-ax, as well as his bow and arrows. Automatically, hours before, he
had placed the heavy pouch of rubies in the bosorn of his raiment for
safekeeping. He had forgotten them, and he did not even notice the
trickle of water from the melting of crusted ice about the jewels, that
seeped upon his flesh from the lizard-skin pouch.<br />
<br />
Crossing one of the innumerable valleys, he stumbled against a
protruding willow-root, and the pick was hurled from his fingers as he
fell. Rising to his feet, he ran on without stopping to retrieve it.<br />
<br />
A ruddy glow from the volcanoes was now visible on the darkening sky. It
brightened as Quanga went on; and he felt that he was nearing the
far-sought, inviolable sanctuary. Though still thoroughly shaken and
demoralized by his preterhuman ordeals, he began to think that he might
escape from the ice-demon after all.<br />
<br />
Suddenly he became aware of a consuming thirst, to which he had been
oblivious heretofore. Daring to pause in one of the shallow valleys, he
drank from a blossom-bordered stream. Then, beneath the crushing load of
an unconsciously accumulated fatigue, he flung himself down to rest for
a little while among the blood-red poppies that were purple with
twilight.<br />
<br />
Sleep fell like a soft and overwhelming snow upon his eyelids, but was
soon broken by evil dreams in which he still fled vainly from the
mocking and inexorable glacier. He awoke in a cold horror, sweating and
shivering, and found himself staring at the northern sky, where a
delicate flush was dying slowly. It seemed to him that a great shadow,
malign and massive aod somehow solid, was moving upon the horizon and
striding over the low hills toward the valley in which he lay. It came
with inexpressible speed, and the last light appeared to fall from the
heavens, chill as a reflection caught in ice.<br />
<br />
He started to his feet with the stiffness of prolonged exhaustion in all
his body, and the nightmare stupefaction of slumber still mingling with
his half-awakened fears. In this state, with a mad, momentary defiance,
he unslung his bow and discharged arrow after arrow, emptying his
quiver at the huge and bleak and formless shadow that seemed to impend
before him on the sky. Having done this, he resumed his headlong flight.<br />
<br />
Even as he ran, he shivered uncontrollably with the sudden and intense
cold that had filled the valley. Vaguely, with an access of fear, he
felt that there was something unwholesome and unnatural about the cold —
something that did not belong to the place or the season. The glowing
volcanoes were quite near, and soon he would reach their outlying hills.
The air about him should be temperate, even if not actually warm.<br />
<br />
All at once, the air darkened before him, with a sourceless, blue-green
glimmering in its depths. For a moment, he saw the featureless Shadow
that rose gigantically upon his path and obscured the very stars and the
glare of the volcanoes. Then, with the swirling of a tempest-driven
vapor, it closed about him, gelid and relentless. It was like phantom
ice — a thing that blinded his eyes and stifled his breath, as if he
were buried in some glacial tomb. It was cold with a transarctic rigor,
such as he had never known, that ached unbearably in all his flesh, and
was followed by a swiftly spreading numbness.<br />
<br />
Dimly he heard a sound as of clashing icicles, a grinding as of heavy
floes, in the blue-green gloom that tightened and thickened around him.
It was as if the soul of the glacier, malign and implacable, had
overtaken him in his flight. At times he struggled numbly, in
half-drowsy terror. With some obscure impulse, as if to propitiate a
vengeful deity, he took the pouch of rubies from his bosom with
prolonged and painful effort, aod tried to hurl it away. The thongs that
tied the pouch were loosened by its fall, and Quanga heard faintly, as
if from a great distance, the tinkle of the rubies as they rolled and
scattered on some hard surface. Then oblivion deepened about him, and he
fell forward stiffly, without knowing that he had fallen.<br />
<br />
Morning found him beside a little stream, stark-frozen, and lying on his
face in a circle of poppies that had been blackened as if by the
footprint of some gigantic demon of frost. A nearby pool, formed by the
leisurely rill, was covered with thin ice; and on the ice, like gouts of
frozen blood, there lay the scattered rubies of Haalor. In its own
time, the great glacier, moving slowly and irresistibly southward, would
reclaim them.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b><br />
<br />
<b> =========== </b><br />
<b>COMMENTS: </b> <br />
===========<br />
<br />
Truly did the mad Scotsman sing:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
She wore a black tiara<br />
Rare gems upon her fingers<br />
And she came from distant waters<br />
Where northern lights explode<br />
To celebrate the dawning<br />
Of the new wastes of winter<br />
Gathering royal momentum<br />
On the icy road.</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
...<br />
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Capturing black pieces<br />
In a glass-fronted museum<br />
The white queen rolls<br />
On the chessboard of the dawn<br />
Squeezing through the valleys<br />
Pausing briefly in the corries<br />
The Ice-Mother mates<br />
And a new age is born. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>(1)</b></blockquote>
<br />
and truly does Clark Ashton Smith warn of Her who destroyed Polaris and Mhu Thulan and in the end Hyperborea, crushing their ancient cities beneath her mass, just as one day she will crush London and New York and Chicago. The turning Earth tilts on its axis as the millennia wear and the convergence of the <a href="http://www.indiana.edu/~geol105/images/gaia_chapter_4/milankovitch.htm">Milankovitch</a> cycles approaches, and when the stars are right Borea, the Lady of the Ice, the Forgotten Enemy whom we forget at our peril, will come rumbling down from the Cold Wastes again.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b> <br />
<br />
<b>======</b><br />
<b>NOTES</b><br />
<b>======</b><br />
<br />
<b>(1) - </b>Ian Anderson, "<a href="http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/jethrotull/somethingsonthemove.html">Something's On the Move</a>" (1979)<br />
<br />
<b>(2) - </b>Arthur C. Clarke "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Forgotten_Enemy">The Forgotten Enemy</a>" (1948)<br />
<br />
<br />Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-65270752342338999812013-11-15T02:09:00.000-08:002018-09-23T17:43:44.848-07:00"The Coming of the Ice" (1926) by G. Peyton Wertenbaker, with Notes and Commentary<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span class="dcap">"The Coming of the Ice"</span></b></span></div>
<div class="cap" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span class="dcap"><span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">©</span> 1926</span> </span></b></div>
<div class="cap" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span class="dcap">by</span></b></span></div>
<div class="cap" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span class="dcap">G. Peyton Wertenbaker</span></b></span></div>
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<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">It</span> is strange to be alone, and so
cold. To be the last man on
earth....</div>
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
The snow drives silently about
me, ceaselessly, drearily. And I
am isolated in this tiny white, indistinguishable
corner of a
blurred world, surely the loneliest
creature in the universe.
How many thousands of years is
it since I last knew the true companionship?
For a long time I
have been lonely, but there were
people, creatures of flesh and
blood. Now they are gone. Now I
have not even the stars to keep
me company, for they are all lost
in an infinity of snow and twilight
here below.<br />
<br />
If only I could know how long
it has been since first I was imprisoned
upon the earth. It cannot
matter now. And yet some
vague dissatisfaction, some faint
instinct, asks over and over in
my throbbing ears: What year?
What year?<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
It was in the year 1930 that the
great thing began in my life.
There was then a very great man
who performed operations on his
fellows to compose their vitals—we
called such men surgeons.
John Granden wore the title
"Sir" before his name, in indication
of nobility by birth according
to the prevailing standards
in England. But surgery was
only a hobby of Sir John's, if I
must be precise, for, while he
had achieved an enormous reputation
as a surgeon, he always
felt that his real work lay in the
experimental end of his profession.
He was, in a way, a dreamer,
but a dreamer who could make
his dreams come true.<br />
<br />
I was a very close friend of
Sir John's. In fact, we shared the
same apartments in London. I
have never forgotten that day
when he first mentioned to me
his momentous discovery. I had
just come in from a long sleigh-ride
in the country with Alice,
and I was seated drowsily in the
window-seat, writing idly in my
mind a description of the wind
and the snow and the grey twilight
of the evening. It is
strange, is it not, that my tale
should begin and end with the
snow and the twilight.<br />
<br />
Sir John opened suddenly a
door at one end of the room and
came hurrying across to another
door. He looked at me, grinning
rather like a triumphant maniac.<br />
<br />
"It's coming!" he cried, without
pausing, "I've almost got it!"
I smiled at him: he looked very
ludicrous at that moment.<br />
<br />
"What have you got?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Good Lord, man, the Secret—the
Secret!" And then he was
gone again, the door closing
upon his victorious cry, "The
Secret!"<br />
<br />
I was, of course, amused. But I
was also very much interested. I
knew Sir John well enough to
realize that, however amazing
his appearance might be, there
would be nothing absurd about
his "Secret"—whatever it was.
But it was useless to speculate. I
could only hope for enlightenment
at dinner. So I immersed myself
in one of the surgeon's volumes
from his fine Library of Imagination,
and waited.<br />
<br />
I think the book was one of
Mr. H. G. Wells', probably "The
Sleeper Awakes," or some other
of his brilliant fantasies and
predictions, for I was in a mood
conducive to belief in almost
anything when, later, we sat
down together across the table. I
only wish I could give some idea
of the atmosphere that permeated
our apartments, the reality it
lent to whatever was vast and
amazing and strange. You could
then, whoever you are, understand
a little the ease with which
I accepted Sir John's new discovery.<br />
<br />
He began to explain it to me at
once, as though he could keep it
to himself no longer.<br />
<br />
"Did you think I had gone
mad, Dennell?" he asked. "I
quite wonder that I haven't.
Why, I have been studying for
many years—for most of my life—on
this problem. And, suddenly,
I have solved it! Or, rather, I
am afraid I have solved another
one much greater."<br />
<br />
"Tell me about it, but for God's
sake don't be technical."<br />
<br />
"Right," he said. Then he
paused. "Dennell, it's <i>magnificent</i>!
It will change everything
that is in the world." His eyes
held mine suddenly with the fatality
of a hypnotist's. "Dennell,
it is the Secret of Eternal
Life," he said.<br />
<br />
"Good Lord, Sir John!" I
cried, half inclined to laugh.<br />
<br />
"I mean it," he said. "You
know I have spent most of my life
studying the processes of birth,
trying to find out precisely what
went on in the whole history of
conception."<br />
<br />
"You have found out?"<br />
<br />
"No, that is just what amuses
me. I have discovered something
else without knowing yet what
causes either process.<br />
<br />
"I don't want to be technical,
and I know very little of what
actually takes place myself. But
I can try to give you some idea
of it."<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">It</span> is thousands, perhaps millions
of years since Sir John
explained to me. What little I
understood at the time I may
have forgotten, yet I try to reproduce
what I can of his theory.</div>
<br />
"In my study of the processes
of birth," he began, "I discovered
the rudiments of an action which
takes place in the bodies of both
men and women. There are certain
properties in the foods we
eat that remain in the body for
the reproduction of life, two distinct
Essences, so to speak, of
which one is retained by the
woman, another by the man. It is
the union of these two properties
that, of course, creates the child <b>(1)</b>.<br />
<br />
"Now, I made a slight mistake
one day in experimenting with a
guinea-pig, and I re-arranged
certain organs which I need not
describe so that I thought I had
completely messed up the poor
creature's abdomen. It lived,
however, and I laid it aside. It
was some years later that I happened
to notice it again. It had
not given birth to any young,
but I was amazed to note that it
had apparently grown no older:
it seemed precisely in the same
state of growth in which I had
left it.<br />
<br />
"From that I built up. I re-examined
the guinea-pig, and observed
it carefully. I need not detail
my studies. But in the end I
found that my 'mistake' had in
reality been a momentous discovery.
I found that I had only
to close certain organs, to re-arrange
certain ducts, and to
open certain dormant organs,
and, <i>mirabile dictu</i>, the whole
process of reproduction was
changed.<br />
<br />
"You have heard, of course,
that our bodies are continually
changing, hour by hour, minute
by minute, so that every few
years we have been literally reborn.
Some such principle as this
seems to operate in reproduction,
except that, instead of the old
body being replaced by the new,
and in its form, approximately,
the new body is created apart
from it. It is the creation of children
that causes us to die, it
would seem, because if this activity
is, so to speak, dammed up
or turned aside into new channels,
the reproduction operates
on the old body, renewing it continually <b>(2)</b>.
It is very obscure and
very absurd, is it not? But the
most absurd part of it is that it
is true. Whatever the true explanation
may be, the fact remains
that the operation can be
done, that it actually prolongs
life indefinitely, and that I alone
know the secret."<br />
<br />
Sir John told me a very great
deal more, but, after all, I think
it amounted to little more than
this. It would be impossible for
me to express the great hold his
discovery took upon my mind the
moment he recounted it. From
the very first, under the spell of
his personality, I believed, and I
knew he was speaking the truth.
And it opened up before me new
vistas. I began to see myself become
suddenly eternal, never
again to know the fear of death.
I could see myself storing up,
century after century, an amplitude
of wisdom and experience
that would make me truly a god.<br />
<br />
"Sir John!" I cried, long before
he was finished. "You must
perform that operation on me!"<br />
<br />
"But, Dennell, you are too
hasty. You must not put yourself
so rashly into my hands."<br />
<br />
"You have perfected the operation,
haven't you?"<br />
<br />
"That is true," he said.<br />
<br />
"You must try it out on somebody,
must you not?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, of course. And yet—somehow,
Dennell, I am afraid. I
cannot help feeling that man is
not yet prepared for such a vast
thing. There are sacrifices. One
must give up love and all sensual
pleasure. This operation not only
takes away the mere fact of reproduction,
but it deprives one of
all the things that go with sex,
all love, all sense of beauty, all
feeling for poetry and the arts.
It leaves only the few emotions,
selfish emotions, that are necessary
to self-preservation. Do you
not see? One becomes an intellect,
nothing more—a cold apotheosis
of reason. And I, for one,
cannot face such a thing calmly." <b>(3)</b><br />
<br />
"But, Sir John, like many
fears, it is largely horrible in the
foresight. After you have
changed your nature you cannot
regret it. What you are would be
as horrible an idea to you afterwards
as the thought of what you
will be seems now."<br />
<br />
"True, true. I know it. But it is
hard to face, nevertheless."<br />
<br />
"I am not afraid to face it."<br />
<br />
"You do not understand it,
Dennell, I am afraid. And I wonder
whether you or I or any of us
on this earth are ready for such
a step. After all, to make a race
deathless, one should be sure it is
a perfect race." <b>(4)</b><br />
<br />
"Sir John," I said, "it is not
you who have to face this, nor
any one else in the world till you
are ready. But I am firmly resolved,
and I demand it of you as
my friend."<br />
<br />
Well, we argued much further,
but in the end I won. Sir John
promised to perform the operation
three days later.<br />
<br />
... But do you perceive now
what I had forgotten during all
that discussion, the one thing I
had thought I could never forget
so long as I lived, not even for an
instant? It was my love for Alice—I
had forgotten that! <b>(5)</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">I cannot</span> write here all the infinity
of emotions I experienced
later, when, with Alice in my
arms, it suddenly came upon me
what I had done. Ages ago—I
have forgotten how to feel. I
could name now a thousand feelings
I used to have, but I can no
longer even understand them.
For only the heart can understand
the heart, and the intellect
only the intellect.</div>
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
With Alice in my arms, I told
the whole story. It was she who,
with her quick instinct, grasped
what I had never noticed <b>(6)</b>.<br />
<br />
"But Carl!" she cried, "Don't
you see?—It will mean that we
can never be married!" And, for
the first time, I understood. If
only I could re-capture some
conception of that love! I have always
known, since the last shred
of comprehension slipped from
me, that I lost something very
wonderful when I lost love. But
what does it matter? I lost Alice
too, and I could not have known
love again without her.<br />
<br />
We were very sad and very
tragic that night. For hours and
hours we argued the question
over. But I felt somewhat that I
was inextricably caught in my
fate, that I could not retreat
now from my resolve. I was perhaps,
very school-boyish, but I
felt that it would be cowardice to
back out now. But it was Alice
again who perceived a final aspect
of the matter.<br />
<br />
"Carl," she said to me, her
lips very close to mine, "it need
not come between our love. After
all, ours would be a poor sort of
love if it were not more of the
mind than of the flesh. We shall
remain lovers, but we shall forget
mere carnal desire. I shall submit
to that operation too!" <b>(7)</b><br />
<br />
And I could not shake her
from her resolve. I would speak
of danger that I could not let her
face. But, after the fashion of
women, she disarmed me with
the accusation that I did not love
her, that I did not want her love,
that I was trying to escape from
love. What answer had I for that,
but that I loved her and would do
anything in the world not to lose
her?<br />
<br />
I have wondered sometimes
since whether we might have
known the love of the mind. Is
love something entirely of the
flesh, something created by an
ironic God merely to propagate
His race? Or can there be love
without emotion, love without
passion—love between two cold
intellects? <b>(8)</b> I do not know. I did
not ask then. I accepted anything
that would make our way more
easy.<br />
<br />
There is no need to draw out
the tale. Already my hand wavers,
and my time grows short.
Soon there will be no more of me,
no more of my tale—no more of
Mankind. There will be only the
snow, and the ice, and the cold ...<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">Three</span> days later I entered
John's Hospital with Alice
on my arm. All my affairs—and
they were few </div>
<div class="cap">
enough—were in
order. I had insisted that Alice
wait until I had come safely
through the operation, before
she submitted to it. I had been
carefully starved for two days,
and I was lost in an unreal world
of white walls and white clothes
and white lights, drunk with my
dreams of the future. When I
was wheeled into the operating
room on the long, hard table, for
a moment it shone with brilliant
distinctness, a neat, methodical
white chamber, tall and more or
less circular. Then I was beneath
the glare of soft white lights, and
the room faded into a misty
vagueness from which little steel
rays flashed and quivered from
silvery cold instruments. For a
moment our hands, Sir John's
and mine, gripped, and we were
saying good-bye—for a little
while—in the way men say these
things. Then I felt the warm
touch of Alice's lips upon mine,
and I felt sudden painful things I
cannot describe, that I could not
have described then. For a moment
I felt that I must rise and
cry out that I could not do it. But
the feeling passed, and I was
passive.</div>
<br />
Something was pressed about
my mouth and nose, something
with an ethereal smell. Staring
eyes swam about me from behind
their white masks. I struggled
instinctively, but in vain—I was
held securely. Infinitesimal
points of light began to wave
back and forth on a pitch-black
background; a great hollow buzzing
echoed in my head. My head
seemed suddenly to have become
all throat, a great, cavernous,
empty throat in which sounds
and lights were mingled together,
in a swift rhythm, approaching,
receding eternally. Then, I
think, there were dreams. But I
have forgotten them....<br />
<br />
I began to emerge from the effect
of the ether. Everything was
dim, but I could perceive Alice
beside me, and Sir John.<br />
<br />
"Bravely done!" Sir John was
saying, and Alice, too, was saying
something, but I cannot remember
what. For a long while
we talked, I speaking the nonsense
of those who are coming
out from under ether, they teasing
me a little solemnly. But
after a little while I became
aware of the fact that they were
about to leave. Suddenly, God
knows why, I knew that they
must not leave. Something cried
in the back of my head that they
<i>must</i> stay—one cannot explain
these things, except by after
events. I began to press them to
remain, but they smiled and said
they must get their dinner. I
commanded them not to go; but
they spoke kindly and said they
would be back before long. I
think I even wept a little, like a
child, but Sir John said something
to the nurse, who began to
reason with me firmly, and then
they were gone, and somehow I
was asleep....<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">When</span> I awoke again, my
head was fairly clear, but
there was an abominable reek of
ether all about me. The moment I
opened my eyes, I felt that something
had happened. I asked for
Sir John and for Alice. I saw a
swift, curious look that I could
not interpret come over the face
of the nurse, then she was calm
again, her countenance impassive.
She reassured me in quick
meaningless phrases, and told
me to sleep. But I could not
sleep: I was absolutely sure that
something had happened to
them, to my friend and to the
woman I loved. Yet all my insistence
profited me nothing, for
the nurses were a silent lot. Finally,
I think, they must have
given me a sleeping potion of
some sort, for I fell asleep again.</div>
<br />
For two endless, chaotic days,
I saw nothing of either of them,
Alice or Sir John. I became more
and more agitated, the nurse
more and more taciturn. She
would only say that they had
gone away for a day or two.<br />
<br />
And then, on the third day, I
found out. They thought I was
asleep. The night nurse had just
come in to relieve the other.<br />
<br />
"Has he been asking about
them again?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes, poor fellow. I have hardly
managed to keep him quiet."<br />
<br />
"We will have to keep it from
him until he is recovered fully."
There was a long pause, and I
could hardly control my labored
breathing.<br />
<br />
"How sudden it was!" one of
them said. "To be killed like
that—" I heard no more, for I
leapt suddenly up in bed, crying
out.<br />
<br />
"Quick! For God's sake, tell
me what has happened!" I
jumped to the floor and seized
one of them by the collar. She
was horrified. I shook her with a
superhuman strength.<br />
<br />
"Tell me!" I shouted, "Tell me—Or
I'll—!" She told me—what
else could she do.<br />
<br />
"They were killed in an accident,"
she gasped, "in a taxi—a
collision—the Strand—!" <b>(9)</b> And
at that moment a crowd of nurses
and attendants arrived, called by
the other frantic woman, and
they put me to bed again.<br />
<br />
I have no memory of the next
few days. I was in delirium, and
I was never told what I said during
my ravings. Nor can I express
the feelings I was saturated
with when at last I regained
my mind again. Between
my old emotions and any attempt
to put them into words, or
even to remember them, lies always
that insurmountable wall
of my Change. I cannot understand
what I must have felt, I
cannot express it.<br />
I only know that for weeks I
was sunk in a misery beyond any
misery I had ever imagined before.
The only two friends I had
on earth were gone to me. I was
left alone. And, for the first time,
I began to see before me all these
endless years that would be the
same, dull, lonely.<br />
<br />
Yet I recovered. I could feel
each day the growth of a strange
new vigor in my limbs, a vast
force that was something tangibly
expressive to eternal life.
Slowly my anguish began to die.
After a week more, I began to
understand how my emotions
were leaving me, how love and
beauty and everything of which
poetry was made—how all this
was going. I could not bear the
thought at first. I would look at
the golden sunlight and the blue
shadow of the wind, and I would
say,<br />
"<br />
God! How beautiful!" And
the words would echo meaninglessly
in my ears. Or I would remember
Alice's face, that face I
had once loved so inextinguishably,
and I would weep and clutch
my forehead, and clench my
fists, crying,<br />
"<br />
O God, how can I live without
her!" Yet there would be a little
strange fancy in my head at the
same moment, saying,<br />
"<br />
Who is this Alice? You know
no such person." And truly I
would wonder whether she had
ever existed <b>(10)</b>.<br />
<br />
So, slowly, the old emotions
were shed away from me, and I
began to joy in a corresponding
growth of my mental perceptions.
I began to toy idly with
mathematical formulae I had
forgotten years ago, in the same
fashion that a poet toys with a
word and its shades of meaning.
I would look at everything with
new, seeing eyes, new perception,
and I would understand things I
had never understood before, because
formerly my emotions had
always occupied me more than
my thoughts.<br />
<br />
And so the weeks went by,
until, one day, I was well.<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
What, after all, is the use
of this chronicle? Surely there
will never be men to read it. I
have heard them say that the
snow will never go. I will be buried,
it will be buried with me;
and it will be the end of us both.
Yet, somehow, it eases my weary
soul a little to write....<br />
<br />
Need I say that I lived, thereafter,
many thousands of thousands
of years, until this day? I
cannot detail that life. It is a
long round of new, fantastic impressions,
coming dream-like,
one after another, melting into
each other. In looking back, as in
looking back upon dreams, I
seem to recall only a few isolated
periods clearly; and it seems
that my imagination must have
filled in the swift movement between
episodes. I think now, of
necessity, in terms of centuries
and millenniums, rather than
days and months.... The snow
blows terribly about my little
fire, and I know it will soon gather
courage to quench us both ...<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">Years</span> passed, at first with a
sort of clear wonder. I
watched things that took place
everywhere in the world. I studied.
The other students were
much amazed to see me, a man of
thirty odd, coming back to college.</div>
<br />
"But Judas, Dennell, you've already
got your Ph.D! What
more do you want?" So they
would all ask me. And I would
reply;<br />
<br />
"I want an M.D. and an
F.R.C.S." I didn't tell them that
I wanted degrees in Law, too,
and in Biology and Chemistry,
in Architecture and Engineering,
in Psychology and Philosophy.
Even so, I believe they
thought me mad. But poor
fools! I would think. They can
hardly realize that I have all of
eternity before me to study.<br />
<br />
I went to school for many decades.
I would pass from University
to University, leisurely
gathering all the fruits of every
subject I took up, revelling in
study as no student revelled ever
before. There was no need of
hurry in my life, no fear of death
too soon. There was a magnificence
of vigor in my body, and a
magnificence of vision and clarity
in my brain. I felt myself a
super-man. I had only to go on
storing up wisdom until the day
should come when all knowledge
of the world was mine, and then
I could command the world. I
had no need for hurry. O vast
life! How I gloried in my eternity!
And how little good it has
ever done me, by the irony of
God.<br />
<br />
For several centuries, changing
my name and passing from
place to place, I continued my
studies. I had no consciousness
of monotony, for, to the intellect,
monotony cannot exist: it was
one of those emotions I had left
behind. One day, however, in the
year 2132, a great discovery was
made by a man called Zarentzov.
It had to do with the curvature
of space, quite changing the conceptions
that we had all followed
since Einstein. I had long ago
mastered the last detail of Einstein's
theory, as had, in time,
the rest of the world. I threw myself
immediately into the study
of this new, epoch-making conception.<br />
<br />
To my amazement, it all
seemed to me curiously dim and
elusive. I could not quite grasp
what Zarentzov was trying to
formulate.<br />
<br />
"Why," I cried, "the thing is a
monstrous fraud!" I went to the
professor of Physics in the University
I then attended, and I
told him it was a fraud, a huge
book of mere nonsense. He
looked at me rather pityingly.<br />
<br />
"I am afraid, Modevski," he
said, addressing me by the name
I was at the time using, "I am
afraid you do not understand it,
that is all. When your mind has
broadened, you will. You should
apply yourself more carefully to
your Physics." But that angered
me, for I had mastered my Physics
before he was ever born. I
challenged him to explain the
theory. And he did! He put it,
obviously, in the clearest language
he could. Yet I understood
nothing. I stared at him dumbly,
until he shook his head impatiently,
saying that it was useless,
that if I could not grasp it
I would simply have to keep on
studying. I was stunned. I wandered
away in a daze.<br />
<br />
For do you see what happened?
During all those years I
had studied ceaselessly, and my
mind had been clear and quick as
the day I first had left the hospital.
But all that time I had been
able only to remain what I was—an
extraordinarily intelligent
man of the twentieth century.
And the rest of the race had been
progressing! It had been swiftly
gathering knowledge and power
and ability all that time, faster
and faster, while I had been only
remaining still. And now here
was Zarentzov and the teachers
of the Universities, and, probably,
a hundred intelligent men,
who had all outstripped me! I
was being left behind <b>(11)</b>.<br />
<br />
And that is what happened. I
need not dilate further upon it.
By the end of that century I had
been left behind by all the students
of the world, and I never
did understand Zarentzov. Other
men came with other theories,
and these theories were accepted
by the world. But I could not
understand them. My intellectual
life was at an end. I had
nothing more to understand. I
knew everything I was capable
of knowing, and, thenceforth, I
could only play wearily with the
old ideas <b>(12)</b>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">Many</span> things happened in the
world. A time came when
the East and West, two mighty
unified hemispheres, rose up in
arms: the civil war of a planet. I
recall only chaotic visions of fire
and thunder and hell. It was all
incomprehensible to me: like a
bizarre dream, things happened,
people rushed about, but I never
knew what they were doing. I
lurked during all that time in a
tiny shuddering hole under the
city of Yokohama, and by a miracle
I survived. And the East
won. But it seems to have mattered
little who did win, for all
the world had become, in all except
its few remaining prejudices,
a single race, and nothing
was changed when it was all rebuilt
again, under a single government <b>(13)</b>.</div>
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
I saw the first of the strange
creatures who appeared among
us in the year 6371, men who
were later known to be from the
planet Venus <b>(14)</b>. But they were repulsed,
for they were savages
compared with the Earthmen, although
they were about equal to
the people of my own century,
1900. Those of them who did not
perish of the cold after the intense
warmth of their world, and
those who were not killed by our
hands, those few returned silently
home again. And I have
always regretted that I had not
the courage to go with them.<br />
<br />
I watched a time when the
world reached perfection in mechanics,
when men could accomplish
anything with a touch of
the finger. Strange men, these
creatures of the hundredth century,
men with huge brains and
tiny shriveled bodies, atrophied
limbs, and slow, ponderous movements
on their little conveyances <b>(15)</b>.
It was I, with my ancient compunctions,
who shuddered when
at last they put to death all the
perverts, the criminals, and the
insane, ridding the world of the
scum for which they had no more
need. It was then that I was
forced to produce my tattered
old papers, proving my identity
and my story. They knew it was
true, in some strange fashion of
theirs, and, thereafter, I was
kept on exhibition as an archaic
survival <b>(16)</b>.<br />
<br />
I saw the world made immortal
through the new invention of a
man called Kathol, who used
somewhat the same method "legend"
decreed had been used upon
me <b>(17)</b>. I observed the end of speech,
of all perceptions except one,
when men learned to communicate
directly by thought, and to
receive directly into the brain
all the myriad vibrations of the
universe <b>(18)</b>.<br />
<br />
All these things I saw, and
more, until that time when there
was no more discovery, but a
Perfect World in which there
was no need for anything but
memory <b>(19)</b>. Men ceased to count
time at last. Several hundred
years after the 154th Dynasty
from the Last War, or, as we
would have counted in my time,
about 200,000 A.D., official records
of time were no longer kept
carefully. They fell into disuse.
Men began to forget years, to
forget time at all. Of what significance
was time when one
was immortal?<b></b> <b>(20)</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">After</span> long, long uncounted
centuries, a time came when
the days grew noticeably colder.
Slowly the winters became longer,
and the summers diminished
to but a month or two. Fierce
storms raged endlessly in winter,
and in summer sometimes there
was severe frost, sometimes
there was only frost. In the high
places and in the north and the
sub-equatorial south, the snow
came and would not go.</div>
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
Men died by the thousands in
the higher latitudes. New York
became, after awhile, the furthest
habitable city north, an
arctic city, where warmth seldom
penetrated. And great fields of
ice began to make their way
southward, grinding before them
the brittle remains of civilizations,
covering over relentlessly
all of man's proud work.<br />
<br />
Snow appeared in Florida and
Italy one summer. In the end,
snow was there always. Men
left New York, Chicago, Paris,
Yokohama, and everywhere they
traveled by the millions southward,
perishing as they went,
pursued by the snow and the
cold, and that inevitable field of
ice. They were feeble creatures
when the Cold first came upon
them, but I speak in terms of
thousands of years; and they
turned every weapon of science
to the recovery of their physical
power, for they foresaw that the
only chance for survival lay in a
hard, strong body. As for me, at
last I had found a use for my
few powers, for my physique
was the finest in that world. It
was but little comfort, however,
for we were all united in our
awful fear of that Cold and that
grinding field of Ice. All the
great cities were deserted. We
would catch silent, fearful
glimpses of them as we sped on
in our machines over the snow—great
hungry, haggard skeletons
of cities, shrouded in banks of
snow, snow that the wind rustled
through desolate streets where
the cream of human life once had
passed in calm security. Yet still
the Ice pursued. For men had
forgotten about that Last Ice
Age when they ceased to reckon
time, when they lost sight of the
future and steeped themselves in
memories. They had not remembered
that a time must come
when Ice would lie white and
smooth over all the earth, when
the sun would shine bleakly between
unending intervals of dim,
twilight snow and sleet <b>(21)</b>.<br />
<br />
Slowly the Ice pursued us
down the earth, until all the feeble
remains of civilization were
gathered in Egypt and India and
South America. The deserts
flowered again, but the frost
would come always to bite the
tiny crops. For still the Ice came.
All the world now, but for a narrow
strip about the equator, was
one great silent desolate vista of
stark ice-plains, ice that brooded
above the hidden ruins of cities
that had endured for hundreds
of thousands of years. It was
terrible to imagine the awful
solitude and the endless twilight
that lay on these places, and the
grim snow, sailing in silence
over all.... <b>(22)</b><br />
<br />
It surrounded us on all sides,
until life remained only in a few
scattered clearings all about that
equator of the globe, with an
eternal fire going to hold away
the hungry Ice. Perpetual winter
reigned now; and we were becoming
terror-stricken beasts
that preyed on each other for a
life already doomed. Ah, but I, I
the archaic survival, I had my
revenge then, with my great
physique and strong jaws—God!
Let me think of something else.
Those men who lived upon each
other—it was horrible. And I
was one.<br />
<br />
<br />
<hr />
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
<div class="cap">
<span class="dcap">So</span> inevitably the Ice
closed in.... One day the
men of our tiny clearing were
but a score. We huddled about
our dying fire of bones and stray
logs. We said nothing. We just
sat, in deep, wordless, thoughtless
silence. We were the last outpost
of Mankind.</div>
<div class="cap">
<br /></div>
I think suddenly something
very noble must have transformed
these creatures to a semblance
of what they had been of
old. I saw, in their eyes, the question
they sent from one to another,
and in every eye I saw that
the answer was, Yes. With one
accord they rose before my eyes
and, ignoring me as a baser
creature, they stripped away
their load of tattered rags and,
one by one, they stalked with
their tiny shrivelled limbs into
the shivering gale of swirling,
gusting snow, and disappeared.
And I was alone.... <b>(23)</b><br />
<br />
So am I alone now. I have written
this last fantastic history of
myself and of Mankind upon a
substance that will, I know, outlast
even the snow and the Ice—as
it has outlasted Mankind that
made it. It is the only thing with
which I have never parted. For
is it not irony that I should be
the historian of this race—I, a
savage, an "archaic survival?"
Why do I write? God knows, but
some instinct prompts me, although
there will never be men
to read <b>(24)</b>.<br />
<br />
I have been sitting here, waiting,
and I have thought often of
Sir John and Alice, whom I
loved. Can it be that I am feeling
again, after all these ages, some
tiny portion of that emotion, that
great passion I once knew? I see
her face before me, the face I
have lost from my thoughts for
eons, and something is in it that
stirs my blood again. Her eyes
are half-closed and deep, her lips
are parted as though I could
crush them with an infinity of
wonder and discovery. O God! It
is love again, love that I thought
was lost! They have often smiled
upon me when I spoke of God,
and muttered about my foolish,
primitive superstitions. But they
are gone, and I am left who believe
in God, and surely there is
purpose in it.<br />
<br />
I am cold, I have written. Ah,
I am frozen. My breath freezes as
it mingles with the air, and I can
hardly move my numbed fingers.
The Ice is closing over me, and I
cannot break it any longer. The
storm cries weirdly all about me
in the twilight, and I know this
is the end. The end of the world.
And I—I, the last man....<br />
<br />
The last man....<br />
<br />
... I am cold—cold....<br />
<br />
But is it you, Alice? Is it you?<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>=====</b><br />
<b>NOTES </b><br />
<b>=====</b><br />
<br />
<b>(1) - </b><i>There are certain
properties in the foods we
eat that remain in the body for
the reproduction of life, two distinct
Essences, so to speak, of
which one is retained by the
woman, another by the man. It is
the union of these two properties
that, of course, creates the child.</i><br />
<br />
The importance of nucleic acid, and specifically the structure of DNA, would not be discovered for another generation. The theory being expressed here is a biochemical version of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Bergson">Henri Bergson</a>'s <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89lan_vital"><i>elan vital</i></a>, from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Creative_Evolution_%28book%29"><i>Creative Evolution</i></a> (1907). It is of course wrong in detail, though it does <i>generally</i> anticipate the roles of DNA and RNA in the cell.<br />
<br />
<b>(2) - </b><i>"... It is the creation of children
that causes us to die, it
would seem, because if this activity
is, so to speak, dammed up
or turned aside into new channels,
the reproduction operates
on the old body, renewing it continually ..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
This is a restatement of a very old theory, dating back at least a couple of thousand millennia, to the effect that the vital essences are drained off by sexuality in general (and reproduction in particular), and that therefore sexual self-denial would preserve life indefinitely. It is quite true that frequent childbirth under pre-industrial conditions is likely to <i>shorten</i> a woman's life, and the energetic pursuit of sex for reasons of danger and disease to shorten a man's. However, the existence disproof of this theory is that the celibate are <i>not</i>, in fact, immortal -- nor are they exceptionally long-lived save by the operations of the aforementioned factors.<br />
<br />
<b>(3) - </b>The idea that stopping the sex drive would also stop all other aesthetic, creative and indeed positive emotional impulses is very much a product of <a href="http://psychology.about.com/od/sigmundfreud/a/freudian-theory.htm">Freudian psychological theory</a>, and is almost certainly untrue. Not ony isn't sex <i>that</i> central to even human psychology, but our affectionate emotions almost certainly derive from primitive mammalian ancestors, and specifically from maternal love and the desire to huddle for mutual warmth and protection. In many mammals, affection and sex are entirely divorced, and asexually-oriented humans are certainly capable of appreciating art or loving their friends and family: they lack<i> sex drive</i>, rather than lacking all positive emotions.<br />
<br />
<b>(4) - </b><i>"... And I wonder
whether you or I or any of us
on this earth are ready for such
a step. After all, to make a race
deathless, one should be sure it is
a perfect race."</i><br />
<br />
This of course assumes that a "deathless" race could not change, or would never have the desire to change arising from purely rational motives. Both assumptions strike me as dubious, though they well might be true <i>as regards John Granden's specific procedure</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>(5) - </b>Mmm, so you've just had it explained to you that Granden's process will not only destroy your potency <i>and</i> your sex drive, but also <i>all aesthetic and affectionate emotions</i>, and it doesn't occur to you that going through this procedure might mess up your <i>marriage</i> plans? Ah, those stiff-upper-life British types with their utter lack of common sense ...!<br />
<br />
<b>(6) - </b>... And Alice instantly perceives the obvious point which Dennell has missed. <br />
<br />
<b>(7) - </b>Alice loves Dennell perhaps more than he deserves.<br />
<br />
<b>(8) - </b>Here we see the limitations of any philosophy of positive affect in the time before the development of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Game_theory">game theory</a>. First pioneered by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_von_Neumann">John von Neumann</a> and outlined first in <i>On the Theory of Parlor Games</i> (1928) and then in greater scope in a paper, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_von_Neumann"><i>Theory of Games and Economic Behavior</i></a> (1944) co-written with Oskar Morgenstern, game theory gained wide acceptance in the 1950's. Its significance is that it shows why, in purely and coldly-logical terms, benevolence and cooperation are wise strategies. A lot of early science fiction assumes that utterly-rational beings would also be amoral and might be utterly-uncooperative: it is thanks to game theory that we now know that this is improbable. <br />
<br />
<b>(9) - </b>Truly a <i>diablos ex machina</i>, and one which obviously acts to reduce Dennell's emotional connections with the rest of the human race.<br />
<br />
<b>(10) - </b>Dennell is incapable of understanding his old emotionally-tinged memories of Alice, or indeed of anything else which produced postive emotional affect in him. This is one of the reasons why I wouldn't volunteer for this process: immortality without emotional pleasure would be personally-meaningless.<br />
<br />
<b>(11) - </b>This seems to assume that people are eternally-limited by the assumptions they first learned, which actually makes little sense if one has essentially unlimited wealth (a coldly-rational immortal could easily save enough money to invest in such a way as to become wealthy in half a century) and can continuously study. A more plausible explanation is that the very regenerative powers of the Granden Process are l<a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MySkullRunnethOver">imiting the ability of Dennell's mind to form new neural connections and specifically <i>to prune old ones</i></a>. This would pose especial problems for an immortal, and note that by this point Dennell is something like 200 years old.<br />
<br />
<b>(12) - </b>It's a bit surprising, though that in over 200 years of medical progress, nobody has figured out how to duplicate, improve or reverse the Granden Process, <i>even though Dennell knows the Process is possible and could presumably tell other scientists</i>. This is of course a necessary assumption for the narrative.<br />
<br />
<b>(13) - </b>This is something of a <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TakeThat">Take That</a> to the <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/YellowPeril">Yellow Peril</a> theories then very common, and popular in Interwar Era science-fiction. Wertenbaker (correctly, in my opinion) points out that after centuries of globalization, the very racial differences which frightened the theorists would have long since vanished as the races of Man merged into one. Even the cultures of East and West have by this time become one, to the point that the change of management is meaningless from Dennell's admittedly-cold point of view.<br />
<br />
<b>(14) - </b>Much Interwar Era science-fiction deeply overestimated the difficulty of inter-planetary travel. It is of course <i>possible </i>that a civilization thousands of years in advance of our time would either be unable or uninterested in the situation on the closest major terrestrial planet to their own, and of course 4500 years is enough time for two whole cycles of civilizations rising and falling.<br />
<br />
<b>(15) - </b>The notion of men of the future as giant-brained creatures manipulating the physical world entirely by machinery dates back to the early 20th century, and can also be seen in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olaf_Stapledon">Stapledon</a>'s <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Last_and_First_Men"><i>Last and First Men </i></a>(1930) and. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edmond_Hamilton">Hamilton</a>'s "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Man_Who_Evolved">The Man Who Evolved</a>" (1931) (which I once reviewed <a href="http://jordan179.livejournal.com/44059.html">here</a>). The idea derives from the observation of human evolutionary changes from the other great apes, and is decades older even than "The Coming of the Ice" (which, however, pre-dates my other two examples of its application). <br />
<br />
<b>(16) - </b>The irony here is that Dennell, who has been rendered emotionally-flat by the Granden Process, is emotionally-horrified by the cruelty of the 7th Millennial culture -- <i>because he remembers a kinder and more sentimental civilization</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>(17) - </b>At this point humanity has well and truly passed by Dennell, because Kathol has reinvented the Granden Process. Dennell meant to be a god among men, but is now simply an archaic survival.<br />
<br />
<b>(18) - </b>The development of universal human telepathy may have been the last flowering of the culture of the super-intelligent cyborgs, because if the Kathol Process works exactly like the Granden Process, it would logically freeze their further cultural development, probably in no more than a millennium.<br />
<br />
<b>(19) - </b>From Dennell's point of view. Since he has only a very limited understanding of the culture of the telepathic super-intelligent cyborgs, who are far his intellectual superiors, this may be the apparent "perfection" of the human world as viewed by a domestic cat.<br />
<br />
<b>(20) - </b>It seems obvious to me that the Perfect World has become highly-decadent -- as the events of the next section strongly imply.<br />
<br />
<b>(21) - </b>Notice that the supposed "Perfect World" of ultimate technological development is unable to engage in large-scale climatological engineering? Or colonize other planets, or even handle a terrestrial migration competently. And they've forgotten about the last Ice Age, <i>despite the fact that they could simply ask Dennell about it</i>. As I said, highly-decadent.<br />
<br />
<b>(22) - </b>This is more than a mere Ice Age. It is a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snowball_Earth">Snowball Earth</a> event. It is quite likely that the actions of the men of the Perfect World, as they lost their records and their science became myth, severely damaged the planetary atmosphere in such a way as to prevent the climate from stablizing at merely Pleistocene levels of temperature.<br />
<br />
The last such event was the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marinoan">Marinoan Glaciation</a>, which lasted from 650-635 MYA. Neither this event, nor its timing, nor the very <i>possibility</i> of Snowball Earth events, were known in the early 20th century when this story was written.<br />
<br />
<b>(23) - </b>I would call it a surrender to an inevitability which became inevitable first largely through the arrogant ignorance of the men of the Perfect World, and then through their repeated underestimation of the threat until matters had gone too far for reversal. This is hardly "nobility," it's more like a tantrum at the unfriendliness of the Universe to the intellectually self-blinded. But then, Dennell is cold in more than one sense of the word, as indeed were the super-intelligent cyborgs.<br />
<br />
<b>(24) - </b>What, <i>no one</i> ever founded successful inter-planetary or inter-stellar colonies in <i>hundreds of millennia</i>? And remember, the Kathol Process was not discovered until around 200,000 AD, so Mankind had lots of time before they froze their intellectual development. Though of course it's possible that the other descendants of the men of today are far more alien to Dennell than were the super-intelligent cyborgs. And of course Dennell has no way to actually contact them at this point: he's freezing to death somewhere near Earth's Equator.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>===========</b><br />
<b>COMMENTS</b><br />
<b>=========== </b> <br />
<br />
This is the story of a quest for Transcendence <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GoneHorriblyRight">gone horribly right</a>. John Granden sought immortality because it is an obvious medical goal. Dennell wanted to become <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheAgeless">immortal</a>, despite the drawbacks of the process, because he was fascinated by the future and wanted to become a <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Transhuman">god amongst men</a>. And he indeed got to live for hundreds of thousands of years, eventually becoming the last man on Earth.<br />
<br />
The price of this was literally his humanity. He lost the ability to have sex, to love, even to experience much in the way of any emotional affect. His mind -- merely-human despite his flattened emotions -- was unable to adapt much after a mere two centuries of life. He spent thousands of years hiding his true nature as the <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FishOutOfTemporalWater">world around him grew increasingly alien</a>, and finally became a sort of <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/LivingRelic">museum-piece</a>, valued by the posthumans around him largely for his rarity. And he witnesses the (protracted and depressing) <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/ApocalypseHow/Class4">end of the human race on Earth</a>.<br />
<br />
This is clearly meant as a cautionary tale. Had Dennell not undergone the Granden Process, he would have had a normal and perhaps happy life in the 20th century. Becoming immortal destroyed most of his ability to <i>experience</i> happiness and eventually resulted in him living for hundreds of millennia in a world more alien to him than the 20th century would have been to an earlier human species. And there is a strong hint that when <i>humanity as a whole</i> became immortal telepathic super-intelligent cyborgs, they lost their drive, leading to their ultimate extirpation on Earth (and possibly extinction in the Universe).<br />
<br />
The nature of Dennell's life strikes me as nightmarish. He doesn't describe it that way, but then he has trouble experiencing any emotions at all. <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/FridgeHorror">Consider this</a>: he enjoys something like 200 years of actually being able to understand the discoveries of the future. This is followed by more than 4,000 years of finding himself in an increasingly-alien world <i>which he cannot really understand no matter how hard he tries</i>, surviving mainly because he got very good at survival over that first two centuries. Then, when he has to reveal his true identity and nature (because Earthly culture has evolved into something so cruel that it would kill him merely for being different) he spends <i>well over 200,000 years</i> as a curiosity, living in a world that is now almost completely incomprehensible to him. He doesn't even seem to fully-grasp just how decadent the Perfect World has become until it is wiped out by a Snowball Earth event, probably because he only has the vaguest possible notion of how any of it works.<br />
<br />
From a modern point of view, it is interesting and a bit puzzling how Earthly humanity manages to reach such a dead-end of development. By 6371 AD, Earth humans are far more advanced than are the Venusians, who are able (with an essentially 20th century culture) to carry out an (admittedly-unsuccessful) interplanetary invasion of the Earth. Yet at no point does Dennell mention human expansion beyond the Earth (though it is of course possible that the Venusians are themselves the descendants of human colonists from one of the preceding civilizational cycles, and humanity is now omnipresent in the Solar System and perhaps beyond, which <i>may be why the Earth-humans can't easily expand beyond the Earth</i>). <br />
<br />
Dennell also seems to take the claims of the Perfect World to its own ultimate perfection at face-value, despite the fact that at the time of narration he is completely aware that Earth-humans are extinct or very close to extinction. Part of this may be that he never really understands much of any culture much beyond the early 3rd millennium. Part of it may be that Dennell, while well-educated, doesn't seem to have much common sense at all. (Things might have been different for him had Alice become his fellow-immortal). And a big part of it is that writers of the Interwar Era had only very vague ideas as to the difficulty or ease of space travel compared to other possible future achievements.<br />
<br />
In any case, this story is well-written, evocative, and packs a lot of Big Ideas into a small space while having great emotional impact. This is an excellent example of early Interwar Era science-fiction.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b>Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-89426747973270231062013-11-13T20:57:00.000-08:002018-09-23T17:43:47.485-07:00"A Question of Etiquette" (1942) by Robert Bloch, with Commentary<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>"A Question of Etiquette"</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">by</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Robert Bloch </span> </b></span></div>
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<b> </b> <br />
<br />
The house was old, like all the rest of them on the block. The gate squeaked as I pushed it open. That was the only, sound I heard. My shoes had stopped squeaking, hours ago. Taking the census takes the squeak out of shoes very quickly.<br />
<br />
I walked up the steps of the porch. I was tired of walking up steps. I rang the bell. I was tired of ringing the bell.Feet sounded, inside., I was tired of feet sounding inside.<br />
<br />
Just the same; I braced myself, ."Here it comes," I thought. "Another nose!" <br />
<br />
And I was particularly tired of counting noses. <br />
<br />
You understand how it is. Walk all day. Ring doorbells. Lug a heavy portfolio under your arm. Ask the same stupid questions over and over again. And when you finish, you haven't sold anybody a vacuum cleaner. You haven't sold a Fuller brush, or even a package of shoe laces. All you get out of it is four cents a nose taking the census. There's no chance for advancement. Uncle Sam isn't going to call you~into^ffirprivatT office, hand you a cigar, and say, "Well, now! I hear you've been doing a mighty fine.job of this house-to-house work. From now on you're going to sit at this desk.. No more nose-counting for .you."<br />
<br />
No, all you get out of this census business is a new list of noses-to count tomorrow. Four-cent noses. Big ones and little ones, pug noses and hooked noses, and red, white and blue schnozzles—until you develop a case of nasal allergy. You feel that if the door opens on just one more nose you'll slam it back and go away after tweaking or punching that nose. <br />
<br />
So here I was, waiting for this particular nose to stick out. I braced myself, and the door opened.<br />
<br />
A sharp pinched beak appeared, the advance guard for a nondescript face and an ordinary housewife's body. The nose sniffed the air and hovered there somewhat uncertainly in the protecting shadow of the door. <br />
<br />
"Well?" <br />
<br />
"I'm from the U. S. Government, madame. I'm taking the census." <br />
<br />
"Oh. Census-taker?" <br />
<br />
"Yes. May I come in and ask you a few questions?"<br />
<br />
This kind of sparkling' dialogue went on all day. Just one great big exchange of personalities after another.<br />
<br />
"Come on." <br />
<br />
Down a dark hall, into a dark parlor. <br />
<br />
A lamp flared up as I set the bulky portfolio down on the table, opened it up, and drew out the form. <br />
<br />
<br />
The woman watched me. Her solid face was expressionless. Housewife's face. Used to watching encyclopedia salesmen and bill collectors, with one eye kept on the kitchen stove.<br />
<br />
Well, thirty-five questions to wade through. Routine. I filled in the MALE or FEMALE. bracket, and the RACE bracket, set down the address. Then, <br />
<br />
"Name?" <br />
<br />
"Lisa Lorini." , . <br />
<br />
"Married or single?" <br />
<br />
"Single."<br />
<br />
"Age?" <br />
<br />
"Four hundred and seven." <br />
<br />
"Age?"<br />
<br />
"Four hundred and seven." <br />
<br />
"Oh—what?" <br />
<br />
"Four hundred and seven." <br />
<br />
All right, so I work all day, so I run into a half-wit. I looked into the blank face. Well, hurry on, get it over with. <br />
<br />
"Your occupation?" <br />
<br />
"I am a witch." <br />
<br />
"What?" <br />
<br />
"I said that I am a witch." <br />
<br />
For four cents it wasn't worth it. I pretended to write it down and skipped to the next question. <br />
<br />
"Who do you work for?" ' • <br />
<br />
"I work for myself. And, of course, for my Master." <br />
<br />
"Master?" <br />
<br />
"Satan Merkatrig. The Devil."<br />
<br />
<br />
For ten cents it wasn't worth it Lisa Lorini, single, four hundred and seven years old, a witch, working for the Devil. Oh, no, it wasn't worth while for fifty cents.<br />
<br />
"Thanks. That's all. I'll be going now." <br />
<br />
The woman wasn't interested. I folded up the sheet, jammed it into the portfolio, grabbed my hat, turned around, and headed for the door. <br />
<br />
The door was gone. <br />
<br />
Well, I can't help it. The door <i>was</i> gone. <br />
<br />
It had been there only a minute ago, just a plain, ordinary door in an ordinary sitting room. There, was an armchair at one side of it and a small table at the other. <br />
<br />
Well, I saw the armchair and I saw the table. But there was no door in between. <br />
<br />
I started off in another direction. Over here, perhaps. Still no door. No door anywhere in the room. <br />
<br />
Walking around in the hot sun all day isn't good for anybody. Brooding about noses is the first sign, Then you begin to hear voices answering questions in a crazy way. After that you can't find doors. All right. I turned to the woman. <br />
<br />
"Madam—would you show me the way out of here.' I must have—" <br />
<br />
"There is no way out." <br />
<br />
Funny. I hadn't noticed the quality of her voice. It was pitched evenly, but low. Resonant. And there was no tiredness in it. I sensed something else. Was it— amusement? <br />
<br />
"But—" <br />
<br />
"I should like you to stay here with me for a while. It was fortunate that you dropped in." <br />
<br />
"Dropped in," from a witch! But she <i>wasn't</i> a witch, damn it! There are no witches. <br />
<br />
<i>There are no doors. </i><br />
<br />
Now I hadn't seen the fireplace behind me. I hadn't seen the flame. But the fire was burning, and there was a pot on the hearth , irons. She stooped over, and a shadow fell across the wall. <br />
<br />
It was a big, black shadow. Big and black, in the way that a frightened child says the words. A big, black shadow of a woman, creeping, across the wall. <br />
<br />
I stared at Lisa Lorini. She still looked like a housewife. Black hair, plaited and parted.in the middle. A slim figure, un-bent by years. <br />
<br />
Four hundred and seven years— <br />
<br />
A good thought to skip. Her face now; the nose was sharp, the mouth taut, the eyes slightly slitted. But the features were quite ordinary. Quite ordinary, except that the trick of firelight lent them a vulpine cast. A red face grinning as it bent over a pot.<br />
<br />
"You will share a cup of tea with me." <br />
<br />
"Really, I must be—" <br />
<br />
"It is prepared. Sit down, young man, please do. I'll just take it off the fire."<br />
<br />
No, she was feeble-minded. Feeble-minded, like the old hags they used to burn at the stake in medieval days. Hundreds of thousands of crones and beldames burned at the stake. All of them feeble-minded. Millions of them. All feeble-minded. Not a sane one in the lot. Of course not. Witches were a myth. All of the millions were merely crazy in the same way, with the same story. Millions of lunatics. There were no witches. Only— <br />
<br />
Only I was afraid.<br />
<br />
She was smiling at me. One claw—one hand, I mean—held out the cup. Steam spiralled up from a brownish, liquid. Tea. Witch-brew. Drink it and—<br />
<br />
Drink it and shut up! This was foolishness, I tried to look around again for the door, but it was dark in that room. <br />
<br />
The fire flickered so. If was quite red, that fire. I couldn't see clearly. Besides, it was hot in here. Drink the tea and get out. <br />
<br />
She had a cup too. It wasn't poison. She hadn't dropped anything into it. What is it witches are supposed to drop? Herbs, I guessed. And all that stuff you read about in .Macbeth. They believed it in those days. Lunatics!<br />
<br />
So I drank the .tea. Maybe she'd let me out then,. Or rather, I'd humor her'and drink it and then get out. That, sounded a little better.<br />
<br />
"I don't have many visitors," <br />
<br />
Her words came softly. Across the table I felt,her eyes watching my face. I imitated a man smiling. ' <br />
<br />
"I used to. But business has fallen off." <br />
<br />
"Business?" <br />
<br />
"Witchcraft. Sorcery. It's no good any more. So few people believe. They don't come to me for love-philtres, or little things' like that, let alone the big,things. <br />
<br />
I haven't made a poppet for years." <br />
<br />
"Poppet?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"One of those little wax dolls shaped like a man. The kind you stick pins in when you wish death upon your enemies. Men don't hate any more. They don't want a witches' curse. I have not killed for years. Biisiness has fallen off." <br />
<br />
Sure, sure. Kill anybody today? No? All right, let's clos? the office up, our business has fallen off. <br />
<br />
Just a tired business woman. A career girl, no less.<br />
<br />
But my hand, trembled so I nearly dropped my tea-cup.<br />
<br />
"All of my beautiful spells and—but you're not drinking your tea." <br />
<br />
The condemned man and his hearty breakfast. Eat your cereal, it's good for you! <br />
<br />
"Drink your tea." <br />
<br />
Quite a spot. My head told me that I must drink it. Drink it to prove that she was crazy, or that I was crazy, that there were no witches and nothing would happen. My hands didn't want me to drink it, though. It took quite a bit of maneuvering to get the cup to my lips. She watched me as I sipped. <br />
<br />
The tea.was bitter, acrid but warm. A ,foreign brew, but it, wasn't Oolong. It went down easily enough, except for that tart .taste.. .. . <br />
<br />
"I am surprised, young man; that you evinced so little interest in my occupation. One does not meet a witch every day." <br />
<br />
She had to tell me. <br />
<br />
"I'd like to talk about it," I said. "Some other time. But really, I've got a lot of names on my list, and I have to be going. Thanks for the tea." -<br />
<br />
I kept looking around for the door. The fire made a sort of red pattern in the room — but not wholly there. The red pattern was in my head, too. It flamed and danced. The.tea had been hot and now heat shimmered through my head. Shadows mingled with the red pattern in the room, and they too seemed to invade my brain. Dark shadows from the dark brew of the tea. Shimmering red and shadows in my head, before my eyes, blocking the vision of the door. I couldn't see.it." I had the illusion that if I concentrated hard enough, <br />
and long enough, I could find it. It was <i>there</i>, somewhere in the room, somewhere amidst the redness and the shadows. It <i>had</i> to be there. But I couldn't see it. <br />
<br />
I could see her, though, quite clearly. Her nondescript features were stronger now. That grim, ironic smile held an ancient wisdom. She didn't need wrinkles. That smile was older than a mortal lifetime could engrave on a face. It was as old as the grin on a skull.:. ^ <br />
<br />
Yes, I could see her, eveii if I couldn't see the door for lights and shadows.<br />
<br />
"I must go now," I said. My voice sounded far away. Only her eyes were close. Her eyes, holding the red light and the black shadow. <br />
<br />
I stood up. <br />
<br />
I <i>tried</i> to stand up. <br />
<br />
Once I drank nine vodkas in a hot tavern, then rose to go home and found myself lying on the floor. Now I had drunk a cup of tea and when I rose—'<br />
<br />
I <i>rose</i>.<br />
<br />
Floated. My feet weren't touching the floor. They were resting on air—solid air, made up of red firelight, dark shadow-blur. My limbs tingled with something stronger than vodka. Little needles pin-cushioned my body. I weaved in air. <br />
"I—" <br />
<br />
"Don't leave yet." Her voice didn't notice my position. Her smile did. She understood, all right. "Don't leave yet," said Lisa Lorini. "I have so few guests. You must come with me tonight:" <br />
<br />
"Come with you." <br />
<br />
"I am going—out." <br />
<br />
"A party?" Always the stiff upper lip, ready retort, mustn't realize where I was, <i>how</i> I was. ' <br />
<br />
Her smile deepened, yawned, engulfed the thought. "Yes, you might call it that. And I need you as a matter of etiquette."<br />
<br />
A witches' etiquette. Beezlebub and Emily Post! I was crazy, definitely. Floating in air, and talking etiquette. <br />
<br />
"You see," said Lisa Lorini, "I must obey certain—rules. Just as you, holding a dinner party, must not seat thirteen at dinner. I must not hold a Sabbath unless there are thirteen present. A full coven..He wouldn't like it." <br />
<br />
"He?" <br />
<br />
"Satan Merkatrig." Again the smile.<br />
<br />
I began to, dread that srmle, prepare for it — like a convict lashed to a post, waiting for the next cut of the whip. <br />
<br />
"And so you mu^t come with me to the Sabbath tonight," said Lisa Lorini. <br />
<br />
"A witches' Sabbath?"<br />
<br />
"Exactly. We hold it on the hills. We have far to travel, so you must prepare." <br />
<br />
"I'm not going." <br />
<br />
<br />
Yes , and a three-year-old kid isn't going to bed when its parents tell it to, either. I knew what good my refusal was when I wobbled there in the air. I knew it when I saw her eyes. She didn't have to emphasize it with her laugh, though. <br />
<br />
I was learning fast. An hour ago it was lunacy. Now that chuckle crept up and scraped at my heart. Witchcraft, Black Magic, ancient dreads in a room of black and red. It was real; just as real as when thousands died screaming in the flames to expiate their evil in an age when men were wise enough to dread man's blasphemy before the laws of God and Natiure. <br />
<br />
"You are going. Maggit shall prepare you." <br />
<br />
Maggit appeared. There was no door, so I don't know how Maggit got into the room. I don't know exactly what Maggit was, either. Maggit was small and furry, like a weasel with human hands—very tiny—and a face. It wasn't a human face, although Maggit did have eyes and ears and a mouth and nose. But the evil in that face transcended humanity—the evil, peering out from a tiny hood of animalfur, and grinning with a wisdom neither animals or humans should possess. <br />
<br />
Maggit crawled across the floor and piped, "Mistress Lisa?" in a detestably shrill little voice that somehow shocked me more than anything else. <br />
<br />
Maggit was—what was the term—the witch's familiar. The animal thing, given to a witch or sorcerer by the Devil, when the Black Bible of the Sabbath was signed in the coven. The little fiend, the'familiar spirit, servant of Satan.<br />
<br />
Only such things don't exist, save in the laws and the writings of every civilized nation for thousands of years. Such things cannot be. <br />
<br />
So it was imagination that crawled up my floating body as I wavered, powerless to move a hand against that'hideous, furry pattering that chilled my flesh. It was hallucination's tiny paws that began to rub my chest and throat with a yellowish paste or salve Lisa, Lorini gave to it from a jar on the table.. It was,legend that chuckled and rubbed the burning ointment on my limbs. It was nightniare that perched on my shoulder, chattered in my ear, and lisped unspeakable vileness as it rocked with glee. <br />
<br />
"The flying ointment." Lisa Lorini's voice came through a burning wave that caused my tingling body to tremble. "Now we can depart."<br />
<br />
I scarcely noticed her nakedriess. The black hair, swirling how, covered her like a cloak. <br />
<br />
Or a shroud. A shroud , for long-dead wickedness to wear. Her slim hands rubbed the yellow paste upon her limbs. Her body floated upward, joined mine. <br />
<br />
"No broomsticks?" I thought, hysterically. From some popular magazine I remembered an' article on the "delusions of flight." Witch-ointment, rubbed on the limbs to give the illusion of flying through space. Popular fancy had transformed the ointment to broomsticks. But the salve was real enough. Pov/erful drugs. Aconite, belladonna, others. Giving rise to these hallucinations. Any chemist could prepare it. Run down to your neighborhood druggist tonight and— <br />
<br />
I had to stop that. <br />
<br />
I couldn't. <br />
<br />
"Hold my hand." She grasped it. Two electric wires met. Tingling shocks ran through me. We were rising. Was that a door? Floating out. Darkness. Night. Floating along. She held me. <br />
<br />
Superman, the cartoon character. Stop that .hysteria! Up into blackness, her naked white body curved^ like the ivory horns of a half rfioon. <br />
<br />
The cottage below. Witches' cottage. "Let me live in a house by the side of the road and—" Yes, very funny. "And be a fiend to man." Hysteria again. 'Who wouldn't be hysterical, floating through air with a Sabbath hag? And Maggit, chittering as it rocked on her shoulder, its tiny, paws locked in her raven hair. ' <br />
<br />
And then we swooped. I held on. The burning was gone now. The wind was rushing, by. Below, the city twinkled. Cities always, twinkle. Little lights, built to ward off the great blackness of night. The blackness where wolves howl and owls screech, the blackness where the, dead dwell, and the things that are not dead. Lights to guard,, lights .to hide a fear. And we, above, flying through tliat fear, into its blackest depths. <br />
<br />
I don't know how long, how far. I don't know how we descended. There was the dark, domed hill, and the fire flaring at its peak. There were the crouching figures — white against the shadowed hillside, black against the .flaming fires. A horde of furry creatures scampered at the feet of the presences. There were eight, nine, ten—no, eleven. <br />
<br />
Plus Lisa Lorini and myself. <br />
<br />
Thirteen in a coven. <br />
<br />
Thirteen—and the- sacrifice.<br />
<br />
I didn't look at the faces. Tliey were not meant to be looked at, only <i>dreamed</i>. <br />
<br />
Lisa Lorini's own' face was masked by exultation. It was she who prepared the sacrifice. The black goat was led to a rock before the fire. One of the other crones wielded the knife. A third held the bowl.<br />
And when the bowl was filled, all drank. Yes, I said <i>all</i>. <br />
<br />
<br />
That ointment burned. Even on my feet it held me^ in a burning web. I couldn't run, I couldn't riiove out of the circle. of firelight. And when the drum began to pound, I joined the circle. The furry things were lapping at the empty bowl, and their chattering was drowned in the drumming din, the howling. <br />
<br />
"Lisa has brought.an acolyte," wheezed one of the hags. <br />
<br />
'Tis in place of Meg, who could not come," called Lisa Lorini.<br />
<br />
Those are the last intelligible words I heard, the last intelligible thought I managed to retain.<br />
<br />
Because the howling rose and the fire rose, and it became revival meeting— voodoo—bedlam, only worse than any of these prosaic terms. Tlaey were calling on somebody. <br />
<br />
Somebody came. <br />
<br />
No burst of flames. No lightning. No theatricals. That was all done by the crones. It meant nothing, really; no more than any savage cavortings about a stone idol.<br />
<br />
It was pure business. He stepped out from behind one of the rocks, carrying a large book under his arm, for all the world like a bank examiner coming to examine balances. <br />
<br />
But bank examiners are not—black. He wasn't negroid, liot in the least, but—black. Even the eyeballs, the fingernails. A black shadow, a limping shadow. Whether he wore a cloak, or whether a deeper shadow draped his figure, I don't know. <br />
<br />
They were quiet when he entered the circle. He opened his book and they crowded around. Their mumbling rose in the night. I crouched down next to the rocks.<br />
<br />
Lisa Lorini was talking to him, pointing rny way. He didn't turn his head, but he was aware of me. He didn't smile, or nod, or exhibit a single movement. But I <i>felt</i> him do those things. He handed out orders. He heard reports. <br />
<br />
It was a business meeting. Satan and Co., holding a Board Meeting on a hilltop. Souls bartered, dark deeds recorded. And the black man scribbled in his book, the beldames babbled, and I crouched there trembling in the night while the little furry creatures skulked about my ankles. I shouldn't have trembled, for the black man's actions were very prosaic after all. <br />
<br />
Prosaic—as hell. <br />
<br />
Then it happened. The white figures screamed down out of the dark sky. The clinging figure at its breasts dropped to the ground. There was a cry. <br />
<br />
"Meg! Meg has come!" <br />
<br />
Meg, the missing witch. <br />
<br />
They turned as she advanced, breathless. <br />
<br />
The black man <i>spoke</i> then. I won't attempt to set down the soimd of it. Something of rusty locks and the primal grumbling of volcanoes. Age and depth, mingled in a sort of loathsome hissing, as though articulate human speech could not frame the concepts of daemonic thought <br />
<br />
"There are fourteen at coven."<br />
<br />
They all were shaking. White jelly figures in the firelight. The voice did it. <br />
<br />
Lisa Lorini whirled. She dragged me into the circle before I could attempt resistance. <br />
<br />
"I—I thought Meg wasn't—" <br />
<br />
"There are fourteen. Fourteen." <br />
<br />
The voice hinted. Just <i>hinted</i> its anger. <br />
<br />
"But—"<br />
<br />
."There is a Law. There is a Punishment." .<br />
<br />
The voice capitalized the words. <br />
<br />
"Mercy—" ; <br />
<br />
You don't ask <i>him</i> for mercy. <br />
<br />
.1 saw it happen. I saw her clutch at her throat when his black paw grazed.her wrist. Lisa Lorini writhed to the ground, wriggled for a moment like a white slug impaled on a stick, and then lay silent. <br />
<br />
The black eyes, the black pupils turned to me. ,<br />
<br />
"There must be thirteen. That is the Law. So you shall sign and take her place." <br />
<br />
"I?" <br />
<br />
You don't question <i>him</i>, either.<br />
<br />
Somebody was holding the bowl. Another, guided my hand, opened, the book he gave to her. <br />
<br />
I felt the clinging, furry form of Maggit move swiftly over my chest: It was at my neck—nibbling. A trickle of blood fell in the bowl. A sharpened stick dipped in. it. The- stick was placed in my hand. <br />
<br />
"Sign," said the voice of. the black man. <br />
<br />
You don't disobey him—not when you hear the voice.<br />
<br />
And then his hand, his black hand, reached out and gripped mine. I felt a surge, a blinding wave of redness, blackness, voice-depth, wind. .. <br />
<br />
Something was lying on the ground now, but it wasn't Lisa Lorini. I glanced at the body because it looked familiar. It was my own body that lay there.<br />
<br />
"I unbaptize thee in the'name of—" <br />
<br />
Maggit led me away. Maggit whispered, "Fly."<br />
<br />
I didn't hear. The soaring journey back was instinct—instinct born in another's body, another's brain. <br />
<br />
I slept in that house, slept in the darkness, slept in the conviction that when I awoke the dream would be over. <br />
<br />
I awoke. <br />
<br />
I saw the mirror. <br />
<br />
I saw Lisa Lorini, witch, with my own eyes—peering out of her„body.<br />
<br />
Maggit chattered at my feet. <br />
<br />
That was a.week ago. Since that time I've learned to listen to Maggit. Maggit tells me things. . <br />
<br />
Maggit showed me her books, and her stock of herbs; Maggit told me how.to make the philtres and the potions, and what to do to keep this body of mine from aging. Maggit told me how to brew the tea, and compound the paste. Maggit says that the coven meets again on the hilltop tonight. <br />
<br />
I remember the rest, of course. I know that now I've signed the book and taken Lisa Lorini's place, I can't escape. Unles's I use her method. Bring another to the coven, and let—etiquette—have its way. <br />
<br />
That's the only solution.<br />
<br />
<br />
Today, after a week, they must be looking for me. Census headquarters must have sent out another man on,my route. Herb Jackson might take it over. He's in this district. Yes, Herb Jackson might knock on my door late this afternooni and come into ask Lisa Lorini some questions'about the census.<br />
<br />
"When he comes, I should be. ready. , <br />
<br />
I think I'm going to get busy and brew up a pot of that tea.<br />
<br />
<b>END.</b><br />
<br />
<b>===</b><br />
<br />
<b>COMMENTARY</b><br />
<br />
This is a story about a very ordinary guy who falls into an extremely-terrible situation<b> </b>through little apparent fault of his own. He's obviously meant to be a little bit smarter and better-educated than are most people (notice his awareness of the legends of the witch-cult, which were essential to permit auctorial exposition in a strict first-person story in which every other character was hostile) but not much stronger-willed than most. Note that he drank the tea without question and then was unable to break through any of the illusions, commands or other spells that he found himself under.<br />
<br />
The tone of the tale is very much like a dream turned into a nightmare. The story starts very prosaically, with a census taker knocking on a door, moves into strangeness when Lisa Lorini claims to be a 407-year-old witch, then begins building toward nightmare when the protagonist realizes that he can't find the door. The full nightmare is reached when the census-taker is flown off to a hill to partake in sacrifice and sign away his soul into the Black Book, with the climax being the death of Lisa Lorini and the protagonist's soul transferred into her own form.<br />
<br />
Bloch's handles this transition well. The story starts with very matter-of-fact narration, with the style mounting to a mad delirium. We especially get to see the transition in the narrator's own mental state: at first bored, then calmly-dismissive of the witch's claims, then increasingly unnerved, frightened and ultimately terrified.<br />
<br />
The "escape" which Lisa may have made refers to escape from serving the Devil, and one wonders about the effectiveness of this "escape," since she has certainly done much evil since becoming a witch. The census-taker's body may have died; certainly Lisa's spirit is no longer in Lisa's body, <i>if this WAS her original form</i> (since there is no guarantee that this is the first time that this body-swap has happened). Likewise, the census-taker must be assuming that his life on Earth will be over should he "escape" the same way: it is a matter for debate whether or not the Devil would take him anyway, since his trick would be inherently evil.<br />
<br />
The body-swapping is right out of Lovecraft's <i>The Thing on the Doorstep</i>. If this is supposed to be a Mythos tale (there is, however, no obvious reason why it should be taken as such). It's not obvious <i>who</i> did this. My guess would be that Lisa deliberately chose to swap into the dead (or dying) body of the census-taker to escape her service to the Black Man. One possibility is that the census-taker's body <i>isn't</i> truly dead (or that if it is the witch can re-animate and preserve it from decay) and that Lisa has thus made a <i>complete</i> escape.<br />
<br />
The description of the cult and the Black Man come straight out of H. P. Lovecraft's "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dreams_in_the_witch_house">Dreams in the Witch House</a>." In that story, the Black Man was identified with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nyarlathotep">Nyarlathotep</a>. Of course, Lovecraft was himself inspired by actual European legends of witchcraft and witch-cults, which included the concept of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Men_in_Black#Folkloric_explanations">the Black Man</a> (including his description as being genuinely "black" rather than merely Negro) so it's debatable whether or not Bloch was cribbing from Lovecraft, or both from medieval and early modern mythology.<br />
<br />
Lisa Lorini is an interesting variant on the <i>cliche</i> <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/WickedWitch">Wicked Witch</a>, in that she is neither a crone (like <a href="http://lovecraft.wikia.com/wiki/Keziah_Mason">Keziah Mason</a>) nor a <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/HotWitch">Hot Witch</a> (like Ephraim Waite in Asenath Waite's body): she looks and acts exceedingly normal, until she chooses to reveal her true nature. She's scary because of what she says and does, and the increasingly-sinister expressions on her face, as she reveals her true nature. She seems an altogether interesting character, and it's too bad that we don't get more insight into her personality and motivations.<br />
<br />
One thing that a modern reader will surely notice is that Maggit -- a classic <a href="http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Familiar">familiar</a> of the Satanic variety -- is treated as all the creepier because it has a vaguely human-like face, hands and voice. This is based on accounts of witchcraft going back to the 16th century, and very directly based on Brown Jenkin (who was Keziah Mason's familiar). The point is that a character of this sort might well today be seen as rather cute (even if still evil): our modern attraction to furries runs very much against an earlier concept of them as horribly unnatural.<br />
<br />
All in all this is a good horror tale, the more so because where Bloch borrows from Lovecraft he does so using totally-different characters -- even Maggit is not physically the same sort of creature as Brown Jenkin -- and hence made the concepts his own. The strong focus on the narrator's internal mental state is also very much Bloch's, and a characterization technique Bloch would raise to his own heights in the intensely-psychological tales he would write in the 1950's and 1960's.<br />
<br />
Well worth running, and well worth the read.<br />
<br />
<b>END</b>Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-18770992914853177682013-11-11T15:55:00.000-08:002018-09-23T17:43:40.429-07:00Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-25629432362678089262013-11-08T08:22:00.000-08:002018-09-23T17:43:41.304-07:00"From An Amber Block" (1930) by Tom Curry<!--[if !mso]>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 24.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“From An Amber Block”</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">© 1930</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">by</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tom Curry</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"<span class="dcap">These</span> should prove especially valuable and interesting
without a doubt, Marable," said the tall, slightly stooped man. He waved a
long hand toward the masses of yellow brown which filled the floor of the
spacious workrooms, towering almost to the skylights, high above their heads <b>(1)</b>.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Is that coal in
the biggest one with the dark center?" asked an attractive young woman who
stood beside the elder of the men.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I am inclined to
believe it will prove to be some sort of black liquid," said Marable, a
big man of thirty-five.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There were other
people about the immense rooms, the laboratories of the famous Museum of
Natural History <b>(2)</b>. Light streamed in from the skylights and windows;
fossils of all kinds, some immense in size, were distributed about. Skilled
specialists were chipping away at matrices other artists were reconstructing,
doing a thousand things necessary to the work.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A hum of low talking,
accompanied by the irregular tapping of chisels on stone, came to their ears,
though they took no heed of this, since they worked here day after day, and it
was but the usual sound of the paleontologists' laboratory <b>(3)</b>.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable threw back his
blond head. He glanced again toward the dark haired, blue eyed young woman, but
when he caught her eye, he looked away and spoke to her father, Professor Young
(<b>4) (5)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I think that big
one will turn out to be the largest single piece of amber ever mined," he
said. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"There were many
difficulties in getting it out, for the workmen seemed afraid of it, did not
want to handle it for some silly reason or other."</span></div>
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<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Professor</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Young, curator, was an expert in his line, but young Marable had charge of
these particular fossil blocks, the amber being pure because it was mixed with
lignite. The particular block which held the interest of the three was a huge
yellow brown mass of irregular shape. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Vaguely,
through the outer shell of impure amber, could be seen the heart of ink. The
chunk weighed many tons, and its crate had just been removed by some workmen
and was being taken away, piece by piece.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The three gazed at the
immense mass, which filled the greater part of one end of the laboratory and
towered almost to the skylights. It was a small mountain, compared to the size
of the room, and in this case the mountain had come to man <b>(6)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Miss Betty, I
think we had better begin by drawing a rough sketch of the block," said
Marable.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty Young, daughter
of the curator, nodded. She was working as assistant and secretary to Marable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well—what do you
think of them?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The voice behind them
caused them to turn, and they looked into the face of Andrew Leffler, the
millionaire paleontologist, whose wealth and interest in the museum had made it
possible for the institution to acquire the amber.</span></div>
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<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Leffler</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">,
a keen, quick moving little man, whose chin was decorated with a white Van Dyke
beard, was very proud of the new acquisition <b>(7)</b>.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Everybody is
talking about the big one," he continued, putting his hand on Marable's
shoulder. "Orling is coming to see, and many others. As I told you, the
workmen who handled it feared the big one. There were rumors about some unknown
devil which lay hidden in the inklike substance, caught there like the
proverbial fly in the amber. Well, let us hope there is something good in
there, something that will make worth while all our effort."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Leffler wandered away,
to speak to others who inspected the amber blocks.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Superstition is
curious, isn't it?" said Marable. "How can anyone think that a fossil
creature, penned in such a cell for thousands and thousands of years, could do
any harm?" <b>(8)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Professor Young
shrugged. "It is just as you say. Superstition is not reasonable. These
amber blocks were mined in the Manchurian lignite deposits by Chinese coolies
under Japanese masters. They believe anything, the coolies. I remember working
once with a crew of them that thought—" <b>(9)</b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The professor stopped
suddenly, for his daughter had uttered a little cry of alarm. He felt her hand
upon his arm, and turned toward her.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"What is it,
dear?" he asked.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She was pointing
toward the biggest amber block, and her eyes were wide open and showed she had
seen something, or imagined that she had seen something, that frightened her <b>(10)</b>.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Professor</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Young followed the direction of her finger. He saw that she was staring at the
black heart of the amber block; but when he looked he could see nothing but the
vague, irregular outline of the inky substance.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"What is it,
dear?" asked Young again.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I—I thought I
saw it looking out, eyes that stared at us—"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The girl broke off,
laughed shortly, and added, "I suppose it was Mr. Leffler's talking.
There's nothing there now."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Probably the
Manchurian devil shows itself only to you," said her father jokingly.
"Well, be careful, dear. If it takes a notion to jump out at you, call me
and I'll exorcise it for you."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty blushed and
laughed again. She looked at Marable, expecting to see a smile of derision on
the young man's face, but his expression was grave.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The light from above
was diminishing; outside sounded the roar of home-going traffic.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well, we must go
home," said Professor Young. "There's a hard and interesting day
ahead of us to-morrow, and I want to read Orling's new work on matrices before
we begin chipping at the amber."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Young turned on his
heel and strode toward the locker at the end of the room where he kept his coat
and hat. Betty, about to follow him, was aware of a hand on her arm, and she
turned to find Marable staring at her.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I saw them,
too," he whispered. "Could it have been just imagination? Was it some
refraction of the light?"</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
girl paled. "I—I don't know," she replied, in a low voice. "I
thought I saw two terrible eyes glaring at me from the inky heart. But when
father laughed at me, I was ashamed of myself and thought it was just my
fancy."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"The center is
liquid, I'm sure," said Marable. "We will find that out soon enough,
when we get started."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Anyway, you must
be careful, and so must father," declared the girl.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She looked at the
block again, as it towered there above them, as though she expected it to open
and the monster of the coolies' imagination leap out.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Come along,
Betty," called her father.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She realized then that
Marable was holding her hand. She pulled away and went to join her father <b>(10)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was slow work,
chipping away the matrix. Only a bit at a time could be cut into, for they came
upon many insects imbedded in the amber. These small creatures proved intensely
interesting to the paleontologists, for some were new to science and had to be
carefully preserved for study later on.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable and her father
labored all day. Betty, aiding them, was obviously nervous. She kept begging
her father to take care, and finally, when he stopped work and asked her what
ailed her, she could not tell him.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Be
careful," she said, again and again.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
father realized that she was afraid of the amber block, and he poked fun at her
ceaselessly. Marable said nothing.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It's getting
much softer, now the outside shell is pierced," said Young, late in the
day.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes," said
Marable, pausing in his work of chipping away a portion of matrix. "Soon
we will strike the heart, and then we will find out whether we are right about
it being liquid. We must make some preparations for catching it, if it proves
to be so." <b>(12)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The light was fading.
Outside, it was cold, but the laboratories were well heated by steam. Close by
where they worked was a radiator, so that they had been kept warm all day.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Most of the workers in
the room were making ready to leave. Young and Marable, loath to leave such
interesting material, put down their chisels last of all. Throughout the day
various scientific visitors had interrupted them to inspect the immense amber
block, and hear the history of it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All day, Betty Young
had stared fascinatedly at the inky center.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I think it must
have been imagination," she whispered to Marable, when Young had gone to
don his coat and hat. "I saw nothing to-day."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Nor did I,"
confessed Marable. "But I thought I heard dull scrapings inside the block.
My brain tells me I'm an imaginative fool, that nothing could be alive inside
there, but just the same, I keep thinking about those eyes we thought we saw.
It shows how far the imagination will take one."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It's getting
dark, Betty," said her father. "Better not stay here in the shadows
or the devil will get you. I wonder if it will be Chinese or up-to-date
American!"</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
girl laughed, said good night to Marable, and followed her father from the
laboratory. As they crossed the threshold a stout, red-faced man in a gray
uniform, a watchman's clock hanging at his side, raised his hat and smiled at
the young woman and her father.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Hello,
Rooney," cried Betty .</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"How d'ye do,
Miss Young! Stayin' late this evenin'?" <b>(13)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"No, we're
leaving now, Rooney. Good night."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"G' night, Miss
Young. Sleep happy."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Thanks,
Rooney."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The old night watchman
was a jolly fellow, and everybody liked him. He was very fond of Betty, and the
young woman always passed a pleasant word with him <b>(14)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Rooney entered the
room where the amber blocks were. The girl walked with her father down the long
corridor. She heard Marable's step behind them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Wait for me a
moment, father," she said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She went back, smiling
at Marable as she passed him, and entered the door, but remained in the portal
and called to Rooney, who was down the laboratory.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He came hurrying to
her side at her nervous hail.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"What is it,
ma'am?" asked Rooney.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"You'll be
careful, won't you, Rooney?" she asked in a low voice.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Oh, yes, ma'am.
I'm always careful. Nobody can get in to harm anything while Rooney's
about."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I don't mean
that. I want you to be careful yourself, when you're in this room
to-night."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Why, miss, what
is there to be wary of? Nothin' but some funny lookin' stones, far as I can
see." <b>(15)</b></span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
young woman was embarrassed by her own impalpable fears, and she took leave of
Rooney and rejoined her father, determined to overcome them and dismiss them
from her mind.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All the way home and
during their evening meal and afterwards, Professor Young poked fun at Betty.
She took it good-naturedly, and laughed to see her father in such fine humor.
Professor Young was a widower, and Betty was housekeeper in their flat; though
a maid did the cooking for them and cleaned the rooms, the young woman planned
the meals and saw to it that everything was homelike for them <b>(16)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After a pleasant
evening together, reading, and discussing the new additions to the collection,
they went to bed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty Young slept
fitfully. She was harassed by dreams, dreams of huge eyes that came closer and
closer to her, that at last seemed to engulf her.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She awakened finally
from a nap, and started up in her bed. The sun was up, but the clock on the bureau
said it was only seven o'clock, too early to arise for the day's work. But then
the sound of the telephone bell ringing in the hall caused her to get up and
don her slippers and dressing gown and hurry out into the living room.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
she reached the phone, however, she heard her father's voice answering.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Hello.... Yes,
speaking. Good morning, Smythe."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Smythe was the janitor
of the museum. Betty, standing behind her father, wondered what he could want
that he should phone so early in the morning. Her father's next words sent a
thrill of fright through her heart.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"My God! I—I
can't believe it!" cried Young. "Is he dead?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was a pause;
Betty caught the sound of the excited Smythe's tones through the receiver.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Who—who is
it?" she whispered, clasping her parent's arm.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I'll be right
down, yes."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Young hung up, turned
to his daughter. His face was sad, heavily lined with shadows of sorrow.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Dear, there's
been a tragedy at the museum during the night. Poor Rooney has been murdered—at
least so they believe—and Smythe, who found him, wants me to come down and see
if anything has been stolen. I must go at once. The body is in our
laboratory."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Rooney? Ah, poor
fellow." <b>(17)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The girl wept a
little, but braced herself to assist her father.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I'm going with
you," she said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"No, no. You'd
better remain here: you can come along later," said Young. "I don't
like to have you see such sights, dear. It wouldn't be good for you."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I'll be all
right. I promise you I will."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She insisted and he
was forced to let her accompany him to the museum. They hailed a cab and were
soon at the door. The elevator took them to the top floor, and swiftly they
passed along the corridors and came to the portal which led into the rooms
where the amber blocks were.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Smythe</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
greeted them, a worried look on his seamed face. "I've sent for an
ambulance, Professor," he said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Young nodded, brushed
past him, and entered the laboratory. In the morning light the amber blocks had
taken on a reddish tinge. Now, they seemed to oppress the young woman, who had
bravely remained at her father's side as he walked quickly to the base of the
biggest block.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A vague shape lay in
the shadows between the wall and the largest amber mass. Professor Young bent
over the body of Rooney, and felt the pulse.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"He's been dead
some time," he said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She nodded, stricken
to the heart by this terrible end of her old friend Rooney <b>(18)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"There's nothing
we can do for him, now," went on her father soberly. "It looks as
though he had been set upon and stabbed time after time by his assailant or
assailants, whoever they were."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"How—how pale he
is," said Betty. "Poor Rooney was so jolly and red-faced, but his
skin is like chalk."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"And he's
shrunken, too. It seems there's no blood left in his veins," said her father.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">,
who had been called also, came in then and aided in the examination. He said
good morning to Betty and her father, and then went to bend over Rooney's body.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"See the look of
abject terror on his face," Betty heard Marable say to her father as the
two examined the corpse. "He must have been very much afraid of whoever
killed him."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"They beat him up
frightfully," said Young. "There must have been several of the
assassins; it would take more than one man to do such damage."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes. His ribs are
crushed in—see, this gash, Professor, would be enough to cause death without
any of the other wounds."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty Young could not
take her eyes from the ghastly sight. She steeled herself to bear it, and
prayed for strength that she should not faint and cause her father trouble. She
could see the two men examining a large blistered area under the corpse's
armpit, in the center of which was a sharp vertical slit which had without
doubt punctured the artery near the surface of the axilla. Perhaps it had pierced
even to the heart <b>(19)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Bloodless,"
exclaimed Marable, noticing the same thing as her father had spoken of.
"It is as if the blood had been pumped out of his body!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes, I think it
has drained out."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"There is not
much of a pool here where he lies, though," said Marable, in a low voice.
"See, there are only splotches about, from various cuts he received."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Maybe he was
dragged here from another room," said Young. "When the others come,
we will soon know if anything is missing. It seems that men desperate enough to
commit such a murder would not leave without trying to get what they came
after. Unless, of course, the killing of Rooney frightened them away before
they could get their booty."</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Smythe</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
approached the group, with a physician in tow. The latter confirmed the facts
which Marable and Young had found: that Rooney had been killed by the deep gash
near the heart and that most of the blood was drained from the body.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"They seem like
the slashes from an extremely sharp and large razor," said the medical
man.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Others were coming in
to look at Rooney, and the museum was buzzing with activity as various
curators, alarmed about the safety of their valuable collections, feverishly
examined their charges.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"He punched his
clock in here at two A.M.," said Smythe. "I seen that. It's the last
time he'll ever do his duty, poor feller."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Curious
odor," said the doctor, sniffing. "It smells like musk, but is fetid.
I suppose it's some chemical you use."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I noticed that,
too," said Professor Young. "I don't recognize it, myself."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable, who had been
looking at the floor between the great block of amber and the body, uttered an
exclamation which caused the two men to look up.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"There are wavy
lines leading around back of the block," said Marable, in answer to their
questions.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
young man disappeared behind the block, and then he called to them excitedly to
join him. Betty Young pressed closer, and finally slipped past the corpse and
stood by her father.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
her, she saw a large pool of black liquid. It had been hidden by the corner of
the block, so that they had not noticed it, so busy were they looking at
Rooney.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And there was a great
cavity in the heart of the amber block. Pieces of the yellow brown mass lay
about, as though they had fallen off and allowed the inky substance to escape.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It's hardened or
dried out in the air," said Young.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It looks like
black lacquer," said Betty.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The musky smell was
stronger here. The great amber block seemed to stifle them with its size.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Our chipping and
hammering and the heat of the radiator causing it to expand must have forced
out the sepia, or whatever it is," said Young. There was a disappointed
note in his voice "I had hoped that inside the liquid we would discover a
fossil of value," he went on.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable looked at
Betty Young. They stared at one another for some seconds, and both knew that
the same thought had occurred to the other. The frightful eyes—had they then
been but figments of the imagination?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable began looking
around carefully, here and there. Betty realized what he was doing, and she was
frightened. She went to his side. "Oh, be careful," she whispered.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"The giant block
has been moved a little," he replied, looking into her pretty face.
"Have you noticed that?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Now that she was told
to look, she could see the extremely heavy amber block was no longer in the
position it had been in. Marks on the floor showed where it had been dragged or
shifted from its original resting place.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Young gasped. What force could be so powerful that it could even budge so many
tons? A derrick had been used, and rollers placed under the block when men had
moved it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Reason tried to assert
itself. "It—it must have exploded. That would cause it to shift," she
said faintly <b>(20)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable shrugged. His
examination was interrupted by the arrival of the museum's chemist, sent for by
Young. The chemist took a sample of the black liquid for analysis. Reports were
coming in from all over the museum, different departments declaring, one after
another, that nothing had been disturbed or stolen from their sections.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty Young went again
to Marable's side. She followed the direction of his eyes, and saw long,
clawlike marks on the floor, radiating from the sepia <b>(21)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Doctor
Marable," she said, "please don't—don't look any longer. Leave this
terrible place for the day, anyway, until we see what happens in the next
twenty-four hours."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He smiled and shook
his head. "I must make a search," he replied. "My brain calls me
a fool, but just the same, I'm worried."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Do you really think
...?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He nodded, divining
her thought. The girl shivered. She felt terror mounting to her heart, and the
matter-of-fact attitudes of the others in the great laboratory did not allay
her fears.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Rooney's body was
removed. The place was cleaned up by workmen, and Marable's search—if that was
what his constant roving about the laboratory could be called—ceased for a
time. The chemist's report came in. The black liquid was some sort of animal
secretion, melonotic probably <b>(22)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
spite of the fact that they had learned so many facts about the murder, they as
yet had not solved the mystery. Who had murdered Rooney, and why? And where had
his blood gone to? In no other rooms could be found any traces of a struggle.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"If you won't do
anything else, please carry a gun," begged Betty of Marable. "I'm
going to try to take father home, right after lunch, if he'll go. He's so
stubborn. I can't make him take care. I've got to watch him and stay beside
him."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Very well,"
replied Marable. "I'll get a revolver. Not that I think it would be of
much use, if I did find—" He broke off, and shrugged his broad shoulders <b>(23)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Leffler came storming
into the room. "What's this I hear?" he cried, approaching Marable.
"A watchman killed in the night? Carelessness, man, carelessness! The
authorities here are absurd! They hold priceless treasures and allow thieves to
enter and wreak their will. You, Marable, what's all this mean?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Leffler was angry.
Marable looked into his red face coolly. "We do the best we can, Mr.
Leffler," he said. "It is unlikely that anyone would wish to steal
such a thing as that block of amber."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He waved toward the
giant mass <b>(24)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Leffler made a gesture
of impatience. "It cost me many thousands of dollars," he cried <b>(25)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is time for
lunch, Professor," said Betty.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable bowed to
Leffler and left the millionaire sputtering away, inspecting the various
specimens he had contributed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The one o'clock gong
had struck, and all the workers and investigators were leaving in
paleontological laboratories for a bite to eat.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">,
with Betty, went out last. Leffler was over in one corner of the room, hidden
from their sight by a corner of an amber block. They could hear Leffler still
uttering complaints about the carelessness of the men in charge of that section
of the museum, and Marable smiled at Betty sadly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Poor
Rooney," he said. "Betty, I feel more or less responsible, in a
way."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"No, no,"
cried the girl. "How could you have foreseen such a thing?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable shook his
head. "Those eyes, you know. I should have taken precautions. But I had no
idea it could burst from its prison so."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">For the first time
Marable had definitely mentioned his idea of what had occurred. The girl had
understood it all along, from their broken conversation and from the look in
the young scientist's eyes.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She sighed deeply.
"You will get a revolver before you search further?" she said.
"I'm going to. Smythe has one, and I know he'll lend it to me."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I will," he
promised. "You know, Leffler has the same idea we have, I think. That's
why he keeps talking about it being our fault. I believe he has seen something,
too. His talk about the devil inside the block was half in earnest. I suppose
he put it down to imagination, or perhaps he did not think this fossil to be
dangerous." <b>(26)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">They went out
together, and walked toward the restaurant they frequented. Her father was
there, lunching with one of the superintendents of the museum. He smiled and
waved to Betty.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Everyone, of course,
was discussing the killing of Rooney.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
an hour, during which the two young people spoke little, Marable and Betty
Young left the restaurant and started back toward the museum. Her father was
still at his table.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">They walked up the
driveway entrance, and then Marable uttered an exclamation. "Something's
wrong," he said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was a small
crowd of people collected on the steps. The outer doors, instead of being open
as usual, were closed and guards stood peering out.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable and Betty were
admitted, after they had pushed their way to the doors.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Museum's closed
to the public, sir," replied a guard to Marable's question.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Why?" asked
Marable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Somethin's
happened up in the paleontological laboratories," answered the guard.
"Dunno just what, but orders come to clear the rooms and not let anybody
in but members of the staff, sir."<span class="pagenum"></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable hurried
forward. Betty was at his heels. "Please get yourself a gun," she
said, clutching his arm and holding him back.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"All right. I'll
borrow one from a guard."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He returned to the
front doors, and came back, slipping a large pistol into his side pocket.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I want you to
wait here," he said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"No. I'm going
with you."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Please," he
said. "As your superior, I order you to remain downstairs."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The girl shrugged. She
allowed him to climb the stairs to the first floor, and then she hurried back
in search of Smythe.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Smythe</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
obtained a gun for her, and as she did not wish to wait for the slow elevator,
she ran up the steps. Smythe could not tell her definitely what had occurred in
the upper laboratory that had caused the museum to be closed for the day <b>(27)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Her heart beating
swiftly, Betty Young hurried up the second flight of stairs to the third floor.
A workman, whom the girl recognized as a manual laborer in the paleontological
rooms, came running down, passing her in full flight, a look of abject terror
on his face.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"What is
it?" she cried.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He was so frightened
he could not talk logically. "There was a black fog—I saw a red snake with
legs—"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She waited for no
more. A pang of fear for the safety of Marable shot through her heart, and she
forced herself on to the top floor.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Up there was a haze,
faintly black, which filled the corridors. As Betty Young drew closer to the
door of the paleontological laboratories, the mist grew more opaque. It was as
though a sooty fog permeated the air, and the girl could see it was pouring
from the door of the laboratory in heavy coils. And her nostrils caught the
strange odor of fetid musk <b>(28)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She was greatly
frightened; but she gripped the gun and pushed on.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
to her ears came the sound of a scream, the terrible scream of a mortally
wounded man. Instinctively she knew it was not Marable, but she feared for the
young professor, and with an answering cry she rushed into the smoky atmosphere
of the outer laboratories.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Walter!"
she called.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But evidently he did
not hear her, for no reply came. Or was it that something had happened to him?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She paused on the
threshold of the big room where were the amber blocks.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">About the vast floor
space stood the numerous masses of stone and amber, some covered with immense
canvas shrouds which made them look like ghost hillocks in the dimness. Betty
Young stood, gasping in fright, clutching the pistol in her hand, trying to
catch the sounds of men in that chamber of horror.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She heard, then, a
faint whimpering, and then noises which she identified in her mind as something
being dragged along the marble flooring. A muffled scream, weak, reached her
ears, and as she took a step forward, silence came.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She listened longer,
but now the sunlight coming through the window to make murky patches in the
opaque black fog was her chief sensation.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Walter!"
she called.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Go back, Betty,
go back!"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The mist seemed to
muffle voices as well as obscure the vision. She advanced farther into the
laboratory, trying to locate Marable. Bravely the girl pushed toward the
biggest amber block. It was here that she felt instinctively that she would
find the source of danger.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Leffler!"
she heard Marable say, almost at her elbow, and the young man groaned. The girl
came upon him, bending over something on the floor.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
knelt beside him, gripping his arm. Now she could see the outline of Leffler's
body at her feet. The wealthy collector was doubled up on the ground,
shrivelled as had been Rooney. His feet, moving as though by reflex action,
patted the floor from time to time, making a curious clicking sound as the
buttons of his gray spats struck the marble <b>(28)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But it was obvious,
even in the murky light, that Leffler was dead, that he had been sucked dry of
blood.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty Young screamed.
She could not help it. The black fog choked her and she gasped for breath.
Leaving Marable, she ran toward the windows to throw them open.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The first one she
tried was heavy, and she smashed the glass with the butt of the gun. She broke
several panes in two of the windows, and the mist rolled out from the
laboratory.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She started to return
to the side of Marable. He uttered a sudden shout, and she hurried back to
where she had left him, stumbling over Leffler's body, recoiling at this touch
of death.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable was not there,
but she could hear him nearby.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Cool air was rushing
in from the windows, and gradually the fog was disappearing. Betty Young saw
Marable now, standing nearby, staring at the bulk of an amber block which was
still covered by its canvas shroud. Though not as large as the prize exhibit,
this block of amber was large and filled many yards of space.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Betty, please go
outside and call some of the men," begged Marable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But he did not look at
her, and she caught his fascinated stare. Following the direction of his gaze,
the girl saw that a whisp of smoky mist was curling up from under the edge of
the canvas cover.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It is
there," whispered Betty.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
had a knife which he had picked up from a bench, and with this he began quietly
to cut the canvas case of the block, keeping several feet to each side of the
spot where the fog showed from beneath the shroud.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable cut swiftly
and efficiently, though the cloth was heavy and he was forced to climb up
several feet on the block to make his work effective. The girl watched,
fascinated with horror and curiosity.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">To their ears came a
curious, sucking sound, and once a vague tentacle form showed from the bottom
of the canvas.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">At last Marable seized
the edge of the cut he had made and, with a violent heave, sent the canvas flap
flying over the big block.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty Young screamed.
At last she had a sight of the terrible creature which her imagination had
painted in loathing and horror. A flash of brilliant scarlet, dabbed with black
patches, was her impression of the beast. A head flat and reptilian, long,
tubular, with movable nostrils and antennae at the end, framed two eyes which
were familiar enough to her, for they were the orbs which had stared from the
inside of the amber block. She had dreamed of those eyes.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But the reptile moved
like a flash of red light, though she knew its bulk was great; it sprayed forth
black mist from the appendages at the end of its nose, and the crumpling of
canvas reached her ears as the beast endeavored to conceal itself on the
opposite side of the block.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
had run to the other side of the mass. The air, rushing in from the windows,
had cleared the mist, in spite of the new clouds the creature had emitted, and
Betty could see for some feet in either direction now.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She walked, with
stiff, frozen muscles, around to join Marable. As she came near to him, she saw
him jerking off the entire canvas cover of the block to expose the horrible
reptile to the light of day.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And now the two stood
staring at the awful sight. The creature had flattened itself into the crevices
and irregular surfaces of the block, but it was too large to hide in anything
but a huge space. They saw before them its great bulk, bright red skin blotched
with black, which rose and fell with the breathing of the reptile. Its long,
powerful tail, tapering off from the fat, loathsome body, was curled around the
bottom of the block.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"That's where
it's been hidden, under the shroud. We've been within a few feet of it every
moment we've been at work," said Marable, his voice dry. "There were
many hiding places for it, but it chose the best. It came out only when there
was comparative quiet, to get its food...."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"We—we must kill
it," stammered the girl.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But she could not
move. She was looking at the immense, cruel, lidless eyes, which balefully held
her as a serpent paralyzes a bird. The tubular nostrils and antennae seemed to
be sniffing at them, waving to and fro.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"See the white
expanse of cornea, how large it is," whispered Marable. "The pupils
are nothing but black slits now." The interest excited by this living
fossil was almost enough to stifle the dread of the creature in the man <b>(30)</b>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But the girl saw the
huge flat head and the crinkled tissue of the frilled mouth with its sucker
disks.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Suddenly</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">,
from the central portion of the sucker-cup mouth issued a long, straight red
fang.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The two drew back as
the living fossil raised a short clawed leg.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"It has the thick
body of an immense python and the clawed legs of a dinosaur," said Marable,
speaking as though he were delivering a lecture. The sight, without doubt,
fascinated him as a scientist. He almost forgot the danger.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Oh, it's
horrible," whispered the girl.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She clung to his arm.
He went on talking. "It is some sort of terrestrial octopus...." <b>(31)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">To the girl, it seemed
that the living fossil was endless in length. Coil after coil showed as the
ripples passed along its body and the straight fang threatened them with
destruction.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"See, it is
armored," said Marable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Betty, no one
has ever had such an experience as this, seen such a sight, and lived to tell
of it. It must be ravenous with hunger, shut up in its amber cell inside the
black fluid. I—"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A sharp, whistling
hiss interrupted his speech. The reptile was puffing and swelling, and as it
grew in bulk with the intake of the air, its enamel-like scales stood out like
bosses on the great body. It spat forth a cloud of black, oily mist, and
Marable came to himself at last.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He raised his revolver
and fired at the creature, sending shot after shot from the heavy revolver into
the head <b>(32)</b>.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Young screamed as the reptile reared up and made a movement toward them.
Marable and the girl retreated swiftly, as the beast thumped to the floor with
a thud and started at them, advancing with a queer, crawling movement.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It was between them
and the door. Betty thrust her gun into Marable's hands, for his own was empty
and he had hurled it at the monster.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Hurry! Run for
your life!" ordered Marable, placing himself between Betty and the
reptile.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She would not leave
him till he swerved to one side, going dangerously close to the beast and
firing into its head. The rush of the flowing body stopped; it turned and
pursued him, leaving the girl safe for the moment, but separated from Marable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Luckily, on the smooth
marble it could not get an efficient grip with its clawlike arms. It was clumsy
in its gait, and for a time the man eluded it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Betty Young, looking
about for a weapon, calling for help at the top of her lungs, caught sight of a
fireman's ax in a glass case on the wall. She ran over, smashed the glass with
the small hammer, and took out the heavy ax.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Shot after shot
reverberated through the big laboratory as Marable tried to stop the monster.
Betty, bravely closing in from the rear, saw Marable leaping from side to side
as the brute struck viciously at him time and again.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
creature had been emitting cloud after cloud of black fog, and the atmosphere,
in spite of the open windows, was dim in its vicinity. Vaguely Betty heard
shouts from the far hall, but all she could do was to call out in return and
run toward the horror.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">,
out of breath, had climbed to the top of an amber block. Betty, close by, saw
the reptile rear its bulk up into the air, until it was high enough to strike
the man.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Before it could send
forth its death-dealing fang to pin Marable to the block, however, Betty Young
brought the ax down on its back with all her strength.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There was a sickening
thud as the sharp weapon sunk deep into the fleshy back. She struck again, and
the creature fell in folds, like a collapsing spring. It lashed back at her,
but she leaped clear as it slashed in agony, thrashing about so that the whole
room seemed to rock.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable came
scrambling down the side of the block to help her. He was breathing hard, and
she turned toward him; as Betty looked away, a portion of the scarlet tail hit
her in the body and she fell, striking her head on the floor.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable reached down,
seized the ax, and in a desperate frenzy hacked at the reptile's awful head. He
leaped in and out like a terrier, sinking the ax deep into the neck and head of
the beast. He gave the impression of slashing at heavy rubber, and Betty Young,
trying to drag herself away from that dangerous body, heard his whistling
breath.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">They were almost
hidden from one another now, in the mist which came from the thing's nostrils.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Help,
help!" screamed the girl, mustering her last strength in the despairing
cry.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She saw Marable go
down, then, as the reptile hit him a glancing blow with its body. When the
powerful young fellow did not rise, the girl thought it was all over. The air
really became black to her; she fainted and lay still.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Betty Young opened her eyes, the air had cleared greatly, and she could see the
familiar outlines of the paleontological laboratory and the bulks of the amber
blocks. Her father was holding her head in his lap, and was bathing her temples
with water.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Darling,"
he said, "are you badly hurt?"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"No," she
murmured faintly. "I'm—I'm all right. But—but Walter—did it—"</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"He's all
right," said her father. "The reptile was dying, and could do him no
damage. We finished it off." <b>(36)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then, Marable, covered
with blood, which he was trying to wipe from his hands and clothes, came and
smiled down at her.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Well," said
Professor Young, "you two have mutilated a marvelous and unique specimen
between you."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There were several men
examining something nearby. Turning her eyes in their direction, Betty saw they
were viewing the remains of the reptile.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
helped her to her feet, and stood with one arm about her. Professor Orling, the
famous specialist on fossil reptiles, was speaking now, and the others
listened.</span></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"I think we will
find it to be some sort of missing link between the dinosaurs and mososaurs <b>(34)</b>.
It is surely unbelievable that such a creature should be found alive; but
perhaps it can be explained. It is related to the amphibians and was able to
live in or out of the water. Now, we have many instances of reptiles such as
lizards and toads penned up in solid rock but surviving for hundreds of years.
Evidently this great reptile went through the same sort of experience. I would
say that there has been some great upheaval of nature, that the reptile was
caught in its prison of amber thousands and thousands of years ago. Through
hibernation and perhaps a preservative drug it emitted in the black fluid, this
creature has been able to survive its long imprisonment. Naturally, when it was
released by the cutting away of part of the amber which penned it in, it burst
its cell, ravenous with hunger. The fanglike tooth we see was its main weapon
of attack, and it set upon the unfortunate watchman. After knocking him
unconscious, its sucker-like fringe glued the mouth near the heart while the
fang shot into the arteries and drew forth the body fluids. There is a great
deal to be done with this valuable find, gentlemen. I would suggest that—"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="dropcap" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="dcap"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
grunted. "Oh, hell," he murmured in Betty Young's ear. "To the
devil with paleontology, Betty. You saved my life. Come out and let's get
married. I love you."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The girl smiled up
into his eyes. The scientists close by were listening fascinatedly to Orling's
words, and had no time to watch the two young people, for they stared at the
reptile's body as the great man went from section to section, lecturing upon
one point after another.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"You've forgotten
paleontology for a moment, thank goodness," said Betty. "I'm
glad."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Yes, Betty dear.
This terrible experience has shaken me, and I realized how much I love you when
I saw you in danger. What an awful few minutes! If I had to live them over
again, I don't think I could face them."</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">"Never
mind," she murmured. "We are safe, Walter. After all, it's not every
woman who is helped by a living fossil to make the man she loves realize he
loves her!" <b>(37)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">END.</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: double windowtext 2.25pt; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: double windowtext 2.25pt; padding: 1.0pt 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div style="border: none; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: double windowtext 2.25pt; mso-border-top-alt: double windowtext 2.25pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">NOTES</span></b></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(1) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">These
are ludicrously-large masses of amber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For some context, the biggest block of amber currently existing in
Europe masses about 4 kilograms, which is to say 10 <i>pounds</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These fictional blocks would mass <i>tons</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Necessary for the story, but about as likely
as a boulder-sized diamond.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(2) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Almost
certainly the New York City Museum of Natural History.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Astounding </i>was based out of New York,
many of its writers were either New York or at least Northeast US based, and
hence monsters, aliens and the like often appeared in the Big Apple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like Toho Studios <i>kaiju</i> movies
and the city of Tokyo.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(3) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
is a plausible description, especially since the methods of 1930 were a bit
rougher and readier than those today when it came to extracting fossils from
the surrounding rocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today the lab
would be less noisy, and there would be more mechanical and electronic
sounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And much less of the fossils
would get <i>destroyed</i>.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(4) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Spreading
out the physical descriptions this way seems more technically-artistic but is
in my opinion less effective, as one has to really sift through said
descriptions to get a good image of the three main characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here, quick concentrated descriptions would
really work better for the flow of the story.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(5) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We
have once again hit the common <i>cliché</i> in stories of this era of having
the female lead be the daughter of an elder scientist character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this case, she <i>is</i> acting as an
assistant to the curator, so she has <i>some</i> excuse to be there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This whole trope was slightly justified, as
female scientists were relatively rare in the 1930’s, but it <i>is</i> tiresome
to see it repeated so endlessly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(6) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">To
be explicit about why a piece of amber this size is very, very improbable, one
should consider that amber forms from dried <i>tree sap</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A tree gets cut, oozes sap, and amber
results.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine the size of the tree
needed to exude a multi-ton mass of dripping sap (and note for the story’s
scenario to work it <i>has</i> to have oozed from a cut in the tree), and one
will swiftly realize how unlikely is the premise.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(7) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Interwar
Era pulps, always-eager to concentrate responsibility on a single man, were
very fond of the “millionaire scientist” character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such were much less common in reality than in science
fiction:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>generally speaking, rich
people either focused on making or on keeping their fortunes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This <i>particular</i> character, appearing
in connection with prehistoric beasties trapped in amber, is obviously on the
conceptual lineage leading to John Hammond, the owner of Jurassic Park in the
eponymous novel.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This in turn makes me
even more appreciative of H. P. Lovecraft’s Miskatonic University, which was by
the standards of its day a highly-realistic creation, in that Lovecraft
realized that no one man was in a position to be funding all these studies,
expeditions and the like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So he created
an <i>institution</i> which did that sort of thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well done, old gent!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(8) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable,
as a <i>paleontologist</i>, has no excuse for saying “thousands of thousands of
years” rather than the more-plausible “millions of millions” or even <i>tens</i>
of millions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would be roughly like
an astronomer saying that a given star was “billions” rather than “tens of
trillions” of miles away (1 LY roughly equals 6 trillion miles).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(9) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Given
what we now know of the Japanese treatment of the Chinese in this era, and that
miners have a rough life even under the best of regimes, this little digression
comes off as crueler and more racist than the author probably intended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back then, it was just taken for granted
that the Japanese were bossing around the Chinese.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(10) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Of
course the girl is the first one to get scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it were one of the men, he might not look as manly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really, considering what she’s seeing, I
think it would have shocked <i>any</i> of the characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at least <i>startled</i> him.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(11) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">No
one is allowed to get even <i>slightly</i> romantic save under the spur of
fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The logic of pre-teens watching a
horror movie, applied to adults.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(12) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
might sound absurd, but given a <i>multi-ton</i> block of amber, the core might
well still be a (highly-viscous) liquid even after tens of millions of years
(the very slow leakage would be impeded by the thickness of the shell and would
be a surface area effect from a liquid volume).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In which case one would need more than minor “preparations” to
catch the flow, as there might well be tons of liquid inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the other hand, the flow would happen <i>very</i>
slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My real-world knowledge of this
is limited, because – well – there <i>are</i> no multi-ton blocks of amber!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(13) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Stock
Irish <i>and</i> a night watchman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
not selling this man any life insurance!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(14) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(*nods
approvingly*)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’re going to kill a
Red Shirt, give the audience a reason to like him – even an <i>informed</i>
reason to like him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Works for Stephen
King!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(15) – (</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">*nods
again*) And we get a reason to like <i>Betty</i> too (other than her being a
smartie <i>and</i> a cutie), <i>and</i> we get Foreshadowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good work, Mr. Curry!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(16) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Almost
always in stories of this era, the female character who challenges traditional
gender roles by being a scientist <i>also</i> confirms them by being nurturing
to the man in her life (in this case, her father).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was almost reflexive on the part of the author, unless she
was being set up to be some sort of villain.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(17) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Ah,
Rooney (*sniff*).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We scarcely knew
ye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>O, the bitterness of seeing my
forebodings about the author’s foreshadowing confirmed!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(18) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tom
Curry gets more points from me by showing Betty have an emotional reaction to
the death of someone she’s known (even casually) for <i>years</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much pulp fiction, then and now, would just
increment the body count and have the other characters treat it as important
only from the point of view of their <i>own</i> danger.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(19) – </span></b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
Betty actually knows the anatomical terminology (which she would, as the
assistant to the curator of a Museum of <i>Natural History</i>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now <i>I</i> want to marry this girl!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(It’s no doubt purely
coincidental that my <i>real</i> wife works in that field and knows the
terminology). </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(20) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
is actually plausible, though of course since we know that this is a
science-fiction horror story (and have seen the illustration) we all know what <i>really</i>
happened.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(21) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And
we have confirmation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To be fair to the
main characters, this scenario <i>is</i> more than a bit unbelievable,
especially if one knows one’s taphonomy.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(22) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All
“melonotic” means is “abnormally dark,” which we already know from the earlier
description.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(23) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Note
the relative sanity of the Interwar Era regarding guns as opposed to attitudes
of the present day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In modern New York
City, Marable would need a permit, and probably wouldn’t get one in time
anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1930, all he needs to do is
drop by a store and pick one up.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">On the other hand, <i>Rooney</i>
was armed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t do him much good.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(24) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I
think that Leffler is meant to look like a jerk in this exchange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Notice that he doesn’t give a damn about the
fact that a man was killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also note
Marable’s lack of sympathy for him.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(25) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This
is as bad a failure to appreciate scale as is the earlier statement of the
block being “thousands of years” old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
block of amber that big would be worth many <i>millions</i>, even in the
1930’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, the only reason it
wouldn’t be worth <i>billions</i> is that its very discovery would have
instantly collapsed the global amber market!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(26) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Good
characterization.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody wanted to be
the first to state the wild theory that happens in this case to be true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When someone does, it’s Marable, and he says
it in private to Betty, who is at this point at least his long-time personal
friend.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(27) – </span></b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Classic</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">
interaction between the Protective Hero and the Spunky Heroine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wants her to stay out of the building
with the dangerous monster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gives
her a direct order to keep out, she nods her head, and the moment he’s gone she
ignores his command, grabs a gun and runs in after him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did I mention I’d happily marry Betty?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(28) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Points
to the author for giving the creature a <i>color</i> and an <i>odor</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to mention the apparent special ability
to exude that fog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These sorts of
details can easily be forgotten in a short story, and they make the monster
both more interesting and seem more real. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(29) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">How
hath fallen the mighty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Note the irony
that Leffler has died of exactly the same sort of “carelessness” that killed
Rooney, whose loss Leffler saw as trivial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Also, the little detail of Leffler’s “gray spats” drumming on the floor
makes this a particularly gruesome death scene.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In the original
version of <i>Jurassic Park</i>, Hammond suffers an equally Karmic Death.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(30) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Marable’s
fascination with the beast, even in this dangerous situation, is quite
believable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s seeing, hearing and <i>smelling</i>
a creature from an age which normally leaves only petrified remains, and this
includes all sorts of details of motion and soft tissue which one rarely is
able to tell from a mere fossil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>I’d
</i>be awestruck too, in his place.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(31) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Well,
no, it’s <i>not</i> an octopus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No more
than is an elephant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The appearance of
tentacle-like appendages in more than one vertebrate lineage is a good example
of parallel evolution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has nothing
to do with descent from cephalopods, who have taken the tentacle structure
farther than has any other Earthly life form.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(32) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Shooting
it is a shame from a scientific point of view, but it <i>is</i> trying to <i>eat</i>
them.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(33) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Why
did the axe-blows kill it, when the gunshots didn’t?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First of all, the thing is armored and we have no idea if the
bullets were getting all the way through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Secondly, we have no reason to assume that Marable or Betty are good
shots, and the target is skinny, moving and exuding black fog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, note that it took a <i>lot</i> of
axe-blows to kill it, and this <i>after</i> it had been repeatedly shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Marable would have run out of ammunition
before the thing died, if he’d not had any weapon besides the gun.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(34) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
we now know, mosasaurs were marine lizards of the Late Cretaceous, which would
thus have lived around 100 MYA to 65 MYA<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the 1920’s, radio-isotopic dating had not yet been invented, and the
estimated times would have been more like 75 MYA to 50 MYA, or even less.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, they <i>did</i> know that the
timespan in question was in the tens of millions of years.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Mosasaurs, like all
lizards, were lepidosauromorpha.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
lepidosauromorpha diverged from the archosauromorpha (ancestors of birds,
crocodilians and dinosaurs) sometimes in the Late Permian (around 275 MYA to
250 MYA, and even in the 1920’s they would have dated the Permian back to at
least 100 MYA, if not longer).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus,
our creature is probably of Permian origin. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Manchurian coal
deposits discovered by the Japanese were indeed laid down in the Late
Permian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s nice that the author gets
this point right, which makes me think that he may have been aware of the age
of the split between lizards and dinosaurs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is kind of strange, given that he gets the <i>broad</i> chronology
so very wrong (speaking of “thousands of years”).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I don’t know if early
20<sup>th</sup> century scientists realized just how distant was the connection
between lizards and dinosaurs (especially Late-Cretaceous dinosaurs).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tendency, visible even today, to call
anything pre-Tertiary and vaguely reptilian (including many proto-mammals!) a
“dinosaur” must have been more common then, especially among non-specialists.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">More on the creature
in the Commentary.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(35) – </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">A
perfect Rescue Romance proposal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh,
these emotionally-repressed pulp heroes, who were utterly-unaware of or unable
to act upon their romantic attraction to the heroine until she was <b>(a) </b>endangered
and <b>(b) </b>rescued by the hero’s own efforts!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This is <i>not</i> a
“Victorian” let alone “Regency” thing, by the way:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>any hero from that age would have been declaring his sentiments
in multi-paragraph dialogue, or at least internal monologue, long before this
point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a male-oriented pulp
thing:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the (female-oriented) romance
pulps would have had more foreshadowing of the romantic theme.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(This story has <i>some</i>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>note the prior hand-holding and Marable’s
obviously-protective command to Betty to stay clear of the museum).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Would this love really
work out?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sure, why not?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ve known each other for years as
colleagues and friends:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she probably
liked him all along and was <i>hoping</i> he’d express interest, as Betty
implies at the end.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: double windowtext 2.25pt; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: double windowtext 2.25pt; padding: 1.0pt 0in 1.0pt 0in;">
<div style="border: none; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: double windowtext 2.25pt; mso-border-top-alt: double windowtext 2.25pt; mso-padding-alt: 1.0pt 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">COMMENTS</span></b></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This is an exciting
monster story, better than average for the period, and utterly-enjoyable when
one engages in the necessary willing suspension of disbelief.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">One reason I liked the
story was Betty Young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To begin with,
she’s actually the point of view character – did you notice that we get to see
her <i>dreams</i> and that the final suspense is created because she faints
(probably a combination of the concussion she gets from the creature’s
tail-whip and from its noxious black fog) before it’s obvious whether or not
Marable will win.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is strict third
person limited narration:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>we don’t get
to hear anyone’s thoughts but hers and we don’t get to see any scene which she
cannot personally witness.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I emphasize her excuse
for fainting here because she’s <i>not</i> by any means a helpless
heroine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is one of the first
people to realize that there’s a monster in the amber block; she responds to
the confirmation of this by (against direct orders!) grabbing a gun and rushing
in after her beloved, and she takes several measures which aid the
protagonists’ victory, namely:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(1) – insisting that
Marable arm himself, which allows him to first wound and slow the creature.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(2) – opening the
window, thus diluting the choking and obscuring black fog, and finally </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">(3) – <i>finding the
axe</i> which Marable uses to finish-off the creature.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s safe to say that
if Betty hadn’t gone in after Marable, the hero probably would have
perished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus Betty is not only the
point-of-view character, but her actions directly achieve her goals in the
story – the creature is slain, her friend Rooney avenged and the life of her
beloved saved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and she <i>gets</i>
the guy at the end, too!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This is quite atypical
in Interwar Era science-fiction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Edgar
Rice Burroughs was one of those who routinely <i>did</i> have strong female
characters (even when the focus was on the male leads), which is why we <i>remember</i>
Jane Porter and Dejah Thoris today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Most writers just had cute living dolls for the bad guys to menace and
give the hero a chance to be heroic.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The basic plot is
fairly standard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sealed Evil (or at
least Danger, the creature in this tale is just an animal) in a Can is found
and unsealed, monster escapes, protagonists risk their lives trying to put it
down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is also the fundamental
structure of (say) John W. Campbell’s “Who Goes There?”, and many less famous
works.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The premise
(prehistoric beast preserved alive in amber, escapes to menace heroes) is
similar to <i>Jurassic Park</i> (though Science Marches On, and Crichton has
his scientists resurrect his beasts from preserved DNA rather than finding them
alive).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i>setting</i> is similar
to that of <i>Relic</i> (1995) by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, in that
the creature is attacking people in a large natural history museum.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s kind of strange
that Curry is so coy about the age of the creature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given the parts he gets <i>right</i>, it’s difficult to imagine
Curry as a Creationist:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>there’s a total
lack of pontificating, for instance, about Antediluvian monsters which God
never meant to live in the modern world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yet there is that recurrent “thousands of years,” which is very strange
given that Tom Curry was born in 1900 and even late-19<sup>th</sup> century
books would have measured the time in <i>millions</i> of years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he convinced by Lord Kelvin’s 1863
calculation which argued that the Earth was no more than 100 million years
old?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Kelvin, though, would have
placed the Permian at more than “thousands” of years ago.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It’s possible (given
that the Scopes Monkey Trial was just half a decade past) that someone (author
or editor) was afraid of controversy on this issue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this seems odd given that this was published in a New York
based science-fiction magazine – neither Curry nor Gold had to teach in the
Tennessee public school system!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Writer,
editor, and readers would have known better.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Curry certainly
understood biochemistry well enough that he realized the need for at least some
handwaving as to the creature’s survival in the amber. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“<i>Through
hibernation and perhaps a preservative drug it emitted in the black fluid, this
creature has been able to survive its long imprisonment.</i>”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The creature itself is
quite imaginatively conceived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is <i>not</i>
a typical modern reptile or even basal lizard:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>in particular it exudes an obscuring and slightly-toxic gas, has a
tentacular appendage and a sucker mouth with a single fang which it uses to
drink blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nice thing about this
is that all its strangenesses are matters of biochemistry and soft
tissues:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>precisely the sort of things
which do not well fossilize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
improbable, but <i>possible</i>, that some Late Permian reptiles had all these
characteristics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would have been
easy for Curry to make it just a Big Dumb Lizard, and Curry is to be commended
for his creativity.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All in all, a story
well worth reading, and one I was happy to be able to anthologize!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">END.</span></b></div>
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</xml><![endif]-->Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3770861767173688889.post-29807860313081054942013-10-29T13:19:00.000-07:002018-09-23T17:43:41.543-07:00Retro Review - The Black Sun (1997) by Jack Williamson<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>"Retro Review -</b></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>'<i>The Black Sun</i></b></span></div>
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</xml><![endif]--><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© 1997</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">by</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Jack Williamson'</span></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">© 2013</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">by</span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b>Jordan Bassior</b> </span></span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b>Introduction:</b> Jack Williamson (1908-2006) was often called "The Dean of Science Fiction." He published his first story ("The Metal Man") in 1928, and kept on writing science fiction and fantasy for the rest of his life. Born in the fading years of the Old West, he was well-aware of the importance of frontiers in the past, and imagined their importance in the future. Williamson was 89 years old when he wrote <i>The Black Sun</i>, and yet it is full of the energy of youth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><b>Background: </b>Sometime in the 21st century, Mankind is still mostly-confined to the Earth, making only sporadic ventures into the nearer parts of the Solar System. However, the invention of the quantum drive promises humanity expansion to the stars. But this drive has severe limitations which make interstellar colonization seem impractical and irrelevant to the homeworld.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The quantum drive converts the ship to a gigantic quantum packet which is converted back to matter when it enters the gravity well of another star. The quantum packet travels at the speed of light, and the aim is sufficiently inaccurate that there is no guarantee of just <i>which</i> star (if any) the packet will reach. There is a good chance that the ship will go many milllions or even billions of light-years before reconversaion, and a possibility that it will simply dissipate in intergalactic space.<b> </b></span></div>
Jordan179http://www.blogger.com/profile/04175992431854812417noreply@blogger.com0