Hereis the ultimatecollectionof modernfantasyshort stories- a rich legacyof overthirty talespresentedby the mastersin the art of the fantasticin an entertaining varietyof styles:from the humorousto the tragic; from visionsof charmingapparitionsto horrible creaturesthat go bump in the night. With contributorslike H.P. Lovecraft,RobertA. Heinlein,RayBradbury,TheodoreSturgeon,Shirley Jackson,RobertBloch,Fritz Leiber,ZennaHenderson, C.L. Moore, FredricBrown, RogerZelaznyand many more,this collectionpromisesa gatheringof strongly individual storiesby a rangeof talentedartists. Experiencethe newand the strangein different timesand places,and escapefrom reality to worlds unknown-bright or gloomy,antisepticor teeming, harmoniousor shocking,but alwaysdifferent.kt your imaginationrun freeas you enjoy a full scopeof imagesand situationsdisguisedas thingsthat could neverexist- or could thev?
ril$ilr$ 0rltilil$t E D I T E DB Y T E R R YC A R R& MARTINHARRYGREENBERG
B
BRISTOL PARI(
I3m NEW
YORK
Abridgedfrom A TREASURYOF MODERN FANTASY' Copyright @ 1981by Terry Carr and Martin Harry Greenberg All rights reserved.No part of this work may be reproduced or transmittedin any form or by any means'electronicor mechanical,including photocopying,recording' or any information storageand retrieval system,without permission in writing from the Publisher. Publishedin 1994bY Bristol Park Books a divisionof BudgetBook Service,Inc. 386 Park AvenueSouth New York, NY 10016 Publishe.dby arrangementwith Martin Harry Greenbergand the EstateofTerry Carr. Library of CongressCatalogCard Number: 92-7M18 ISBN: 0-88486494-9 Printedin the United Statesof America
ACKNOWTEDGMENTS
"The Rats in the walls" by H. P.Lovecrafr.From weird rates,March, 1924.copyright o 1924 by WeirdTales,copyright renewed.Reprinted by permission of the Scott Meredith Literary Agency,Inc., 845 Third Ave., New York. NY 10022. "The Woman of the Wood" by A. Merritt. From WeirdZales,August, 1926.Copyright@ 1926 by Abraham Merritt. Copyright renewed, 1954, by Abraham Merritt. Reprinted by permission of Brandt & Brandt Literary Agents, lnc. "Trouble With Water" by H. L. Gold. From Unknown,March, 1939.Copyright o 1939 by Street& Smith, renewed 1967by Cond6 Nast. Copyright @ 1980by H. L. Gold. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Thirteen O'Clock" by C.M. Kornbluth. From.S/ring ScienceStories,February, 1941. Copyright o l94l by C. M. Kornbluth, copyright renewed. Reprinted by permission of Robert P. Mills, Ltd. "The Coming of the White Worm" by Clark Ashton Smith. From Stirring ScienceStories, April, 1941. Copyright o 1941, by Clark Ashton Smith, copyright renewed. Reprinted by permission of the &ott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc., 845 Third Ave., New york, Ny t4022. "YesterdayWas Monday" by Theodore Sturgeon.From Unknown,June,1941. Copyright o l94l by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., copyright renewed by Theodore Sturgeon. Reprinted by permissionof Kirby McCauley,Ltd. "They Bite" by Anthony Boucher.From [,lnknownWorlds,August,1943.Copyright @ 1945, 1972by Anthony Boucher.Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown. Ltd. "Call Him Demon" by Henry Kuttner. From Thrilling WondcrStories,Fall, 1946.Copyright o 1945 by Henry Kuttner, copyright renewed 1972.Reprinted by permission of the Harold Matson Company,Inc. "Daemon" by C. L. Moore. From FamousFantasticMysteries,October, 1946.Copyright o 1946by c. L. Moore, copyright renewed 1974.Reprinted by permissionof the Harold Matson Company,Inc. "The Black Ferris" by Ray Bradbury.From ll'eird Toles,May,l948.Copyright @ l94g by Ray Bradbury,copyright renewed 1975.Reprinted by permissionof the Harold Matson company, Inc.
Acknowledgments
1948'Copyrighto ..Displaced by Eric FrankRussell.From weirdlales,September, Person,, of the ScottMeredith Literarv fSai, igOSby Eric Firnk Russell.Reprintedby permission Agency,tnc., glS Third Ave.,New York,NY 10022' Copyrighto 1949by ..our Faircity" by RobertA. Heinlein.Frcm weirdToles,January,l949. the authorand his permission of by l9?5 by RobertA. Heinlein.Reprinted weird Tales, Wood. & McCauley agents,Blassingame, .,comeandGo Mad" by FredricBrown.From weirdTales, Julx 1949.CopyriShto 1949by permissionof the &ott copyrightrenewedby FredricBrown.Reprintedby weird Tales. NY 10022' York, New Ave', MeredithLiteraryAgency,tnc.,845Third .,ThereshallBe No Darkness"by JamesBlish.From Thritlingwonderstories,April' 1950' Inc.Copyrightrenewed'Reprintedby permission Magazines, copyrighto 1950by Standard qf RichardCurtisAssociates. 1950'Copyrighto December, Beyond, "The Loomof Darkness"by JackVance.Frcm Wortds @ by permission vance. Reprinted Inc.,copyright 1977by Jack l95Oby HillmanFeriodicals, Ltd. of Kirby McCauleY, Fiction, ..TheRagThing" by DonaldA. Wollheim.From TheMagazineof FantasyandScience wollheim. A. o Donald by 1969 Inc.; House, by Fantasy l95l copyright 1951. october, Reprintedby permissionof the author. ,,SailOn! SaifOn!" by PhilipJoseFarmer.From Startling 1952.Copyright December, Ston?s, o lg52byphilipJoseFarmer.Reprintedbypermissionoftheauthorandhisagents,theSco MeredithLiteraryAgency,tnc.,845Third Ave.,New York,NY 10022' of Fanlasyand "One OrdinaryDay,with Feanuts"by ShirleyJackson.From I}e Magazine Fiction, Ianuary,1955.Copyright@1955by ShirleyJackson'Reprintedby permission Science of Biandt & BrandtLiteraryAgents,Inc. .That Hell-BoundTrain" by RobertBloch.From TheMagazine Fiction, andScience of Fantasy permission of Kirby @ by Reprinted Inc. Press, 1958.Copyright 1958by Mercury September, McCauley,Ltd. ,,NineYardsof OtherCloth" by ManlyWadeWellman.Frcm TheMagazine and of Fantasy Fiction,November;1958.Copyright@ 1958by MercuryPress,Inc. Reprintedby science permissionof Kirby McCauleY, Ltd. .,TheMontavardeC.amera" and Science of Fantasy by Avram Davidson.From TheMagazine permission o of by lnc. Reprinted Press, Mercury 1959 by Copyright May, 1959. Ficlion, Ltd. Kirby McCairley, ..ManOverboard"by JohnCollier.From TheMagazineof funlasyandScience Fiction,March, 1960.copyright o 1960by Mercury hess, Inc. Reprintedby permissionof the Harold Inc. MatsonCompany, ..My Dear Emily" by JoannaRuss.Frcm TheMagazineof Fantasyand Science Fiction,July, 195i.Copyrighto 1962by MercuryPress,lnc.,copyrighto 1965by JoannaRuss.Reprinted by permissionof CurtisBron'n,Ltd. ..Descending"by ThomasM. Disch.Fmm Fantastic, July,1964.Copyrighto 1964by Thomas permission the author' of M. Disch.Reprintedby .,FourGhostsin Hamlet" by Fritz Leiber.From TheMagazineof FantasyandScience Fiction, of RobertP' 1965.Copyrighto 1965by MercuryPress,lnc. Reprintedby permission January, Mills, Ltd. ,.DivineMadness"by RogerZelazny. of Horol Summer1966'Copyright Fromthe Magazine o 1966by Hcrlth Knowledge, lnc. Reprintedby permissionof RogerZela?ny.
Acknowledgments
Yll
"Narrow valley" by R. A. Lafferty. From The Magazine of Fantasy and science Fiction, September, 1956. Copyright o 1966 by Mercury press, Inc., copyright @ l9?0 by R. A. Lafferty; reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Virginia Kidd. "Timothy" by Keith Roberts. Frcm sf impulse,September 1966. Copyright o 1966 by s/ impulse.Reprinted by permission of the author and E.J. Carnell Literary Agency. "Through a Glass-Darkly" by zenna Henderson. From TheMagazineof Fantasyand science Fiction,oatober, 1970.copyright o 1970by Mercury press,Inc. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brcwn. Ltd. 'Teffty Is Five" by Harlan Ellison app€ared inThe Magazine of Fantasyand ScienceFiction (July, 1977) and in the author's collection, ShatterdaltCopyright @ 19'17,1980by Harlan Ellison. Reprinted by arrangementwith and permissionof the author and the author's agent, Robert P. Mills, Ltd., New York. All rights reserved. "Within the Walls of Tyre" by Michael Bishop.From Weirdbook13,1918.Copyright o 1978 by Michael Bishop. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agent, Virginia Kidd.
CONTENTS
The Ratsin the Walls
Call Him Demon
H. P. LOVECRAFT
HENRY KUTINER
I
t23
The Womanof the Wood
Daemon C. L. MOORE 145
A. MERRITT
t9 Trouble with Water H. L. C,oLD 45
The Black Ferris RAYBMDBURY 165
ThirteenO'Clock
Displaced Person ERICFRANKRUSSELL 173
C. M. KORNBLUTH
63 The Comingof the White Worm
Our Fair City ROBERTA. HEINLEIN 177
CLARK ASHTON SMITH
85 YesterdsyWasMonday
Come and Go Mad FREDRICBROWN t93
TIIEODORE STURGEON
97 They Bite ANTHONYBOUCHER 113
There Shall Be No Darkness JAMESBLISH
227 lx
Contents
My Dear EmilY
The I'oom of Darkness
JOANNA RUSS
JACK VANCE
355
2s9
Descending
The Rag Thing DONALDA. WOLLTIEIM 269
THOMAS M. DISCH
375 Four Ghostsin Hamlet
Sail On! Sail On! PHILIPJOS6FARMER 275
FRITZ LEIBER
387 Divine Madness ROGERZELAZNY
One Ordinary DaY, with Peanuts SHIRLEYJACKSON
28s
4r7
The Hell-Bound Train ROBERTBLOCH
Narrow ValIeY R.A. LAFFERTY
295
425
NfircYordsof ather Cloth
TimothY KEITH ROBERTS
MANLY WADE WELLMAN
307
437
Thc Montavarde Camera AVRAMDAVIDSON
Througha Glass-DarklY ZENNA HENDERSON
M9
323
JeffiyIs Five
Man Overboard
HARLAN ELLISON
JOHN COLLIER
47r
335 Within the Walls of TYre MICHAEL BISHOP
489
INTRODUCTION
This.antholo,gywas createdto fill an astonishinggap in fantasybook publishing. while there have been nume.ousantloiogies of i*tury stories, many of them excellent, until now no one has madethe effort !o gather together in one volume a selectionof the finest stories that have been publishedsince the first ail-fantasymagazinewas born. urtlrry of Fantasy attemptsjust that task; it mi!'trt ue called the "definitive" anthologyof magazinefantasy.Every Jtory in this book originally appearedin a fantasy magazine,and the oveiall mixture of styles.and subjectsshows the rich variety of imaginationthat these magazines havepresented. There are no stories here from books, "slick" magazines,literary reviews, or any sourceother than the central genrepubl-ications.In this way we emphasizethe developmentof a cohesiveand self-awareliterarv movement that has brought great changesto the traditional rantasy modes.The storiesare aranged in chronologicalorder of their publications, making the patternof developmentobvious. - -"Fantasy"connotesdifferent thingsto different people:oneof us might Prf. hrydjately of ghost stories,anotherof fairy iares, a third of the {1bian Nights or the tales of King Arttrur. These*"re the basic types of fantasythroughthe nineteenthand early twentiethcenturies.when magazincs-specificallyd9v9t9dto fantasybeganto appear,they started from this foundation and built an astonishin-gvariety of new iypes of fantasy.The old forms were updated,ne* rfler and techniquescame into use, and even some fundamentalassumptionsof fantaiy writers werereexamined. once regular magazinemarkets for such stories becameavailable many new writers begq tg produce fantasy and they brought new approachesto the genre.Perhapsthe most noticeablewai the faiter pace
xii
Introduction
Wrighthimselfmadetheattemptinlg30withorientalstories;whenits d*eg9 lo !he-Ma.9ic Carpet salesproved Oituppoi":tt;ttg-tftt-titf"YT afterfourteenissues' Map,azine,but '#"; this too *ui untuct"ttRtl andit died
fi"ifi;,
of successful of dozens p"blt";d;,-in"., publishers
with StrangeStories, pulp magazines,entereJthe'weird iantasyfield whichdidwellrora-*rritebutwasdiscontinuedaftertwelveissuesin favor of more lucrativemagazinesin other genres' . -,-, fiction weird These and a r"ro otrr"i insuccessful efforts at serious to support that trrereadershipfor them was too small .";;i;;;o;ed only marginally more than Weird fiiei itsett @nt Wetrd Tales was achievegreater to tried thirties in the o-n"ui"i. A numberof publishers withsexand
ffiU;ilfftorio
fantasy inug*inesthat.combined
Te*or Talesand sadism;suchtitles u" noui, Stories,SinisterStories, Hounds"and of Satan's ioles puUlishedstorieslike "Misress iiiniy .;griJ;"f- the ifatt-tvten." Though they mademoneyfor.a while, they tf* O"pr"rrion waned;this was probably not a coincidence. |.J; sime time, two new fantasymagazineswere-launchedthat ilt"tth" inweird fthr*Jtyp"s of fantasystoriesr4cal]v differentfrom those companlo1 fantasy a March 1g3g,iohn w. campbell added i;i;;.In fiction'magazineAstoundingScience-Fiction titled science io frir terror which irrbrorn, it featureda mo=re"modern" styleof fantasyin stories Its then}es, gun" *uvio rigorously -*titten, togical g",*rd:t"t-.n of fantasy humorous; frequently adventure, of full often il.* .tirpfy L' Ron Kyltner' H:nq camp, de Sprague L. Theodore-Sturg"on, Hubbardand niany otherswroie excellentfantasiesfor this magazine'It lasted for four and a half years, until World War II paper restrictions forced its demise. Almost concurrentlywith unknown's first issue, a new magazrne called FantasticAdveituresappeared- editedby Raymond-A.Palmer - u, u companionmagazineto Amazingstories,it presenteda mixnrre of stytessimitarto thosi in Unknownbutwrittenfor a youngeraudience. Storiesof high adventurewerc of coursefeatured,but the shorterstories were often comic; they had titles like "The SffangeVoyage of Hector Squio"fr' and "The Horse That Talked." Fantastic Adventuresbecame and lastedtill 1953, when it combinedwith a newer' nfrro"."rsful digest-sizemagazine,Fantastic. "The fantasy l946s ilso *a* the rise and great popularity of sev_eral and My-s.teries Fantastic . f amous -ug-in""A"votea frimarily to reprinis magacompanlon were FalxasticNovels,editedby Mary Gnaedinger, tt featured novels reprinted from non-genrepulps and from "irr"s tendedto be lost-raceadventuresby, or in the fr*d"ou","t books; these'IJIte AvonFantasyReaderconcentratedon stories rnannerof. A. Menitt.
Introduction
in fantasyhad usually been slow -the F" stories-theywrot9. Traditionally and moody, but in- order to please readersof poputar fantasy magazines- dl of them "pulp" magazinesat frst - *.iti,rs learnedto be. ry9re spare with their adjectivei, and to get their stories moving quickly. The first all-fantasymagazinewas weird rales, foundedin 1923by publisherJ. c. Henneberger, who was an admirerof EdgarAllan poe's horror stories and wanted promote further writing of-that type. The .to magazine'sfirst editor, Edwin Baird, was less than enthusiasticabout the genre and the issueshe producedwere mostly low in quality. He publishedtheearlystoriesof H.P. I-ovecraft,but only because-Henneberger insisted;Baird's own attemptsto popularizethe magazineincluded publicationof articlesandstoriesby Harry Houdini. (Theiewererevised or ghost-writtenby l,ovecraft.)But salesremainedpoor and aftera year and a half HennebergerreplacedBaird with a new editor, Farnsworth wright. Wriglt quickly provedto be a superbeditor, establishinga reputation in the fantasy genre as towering as that of John W. Campbell was to becomein sciencefiction. In the nearly sixteenyears he edited the magazine,Wright discoveredandpublishedthe work of suchwritersas Clark AshtonSmith, RobertE. Howard, C. L. Moore and many more - literally all the major authorsof magazinefantasyin the twentiesand thirties. (He alsopublishedthe first story of a teenagerwho later became famous as Tennessee Williams.) But Wright had long sufferedfrom Parkinson'sdiseaseand by 1940 his health was failing. When the magazinewas sold to a new publisher,the editorshipwas turnedover to Dorothy Mcllwraith. Wright died later that year, mournedand lauded by his friendsand associates in fantasy. Mcllwraith wasa competenteditorbut shehadto work with a severely curtailedbudget (it had never been large), and weird rcles favorites suchas l.ovecraft, Howard, and smith had eitherdied or stoppedwriting for the magazine. she published early stories by Fritz rpiuer ano TheodoreSturgeon,and discoveredRay Bradbury, publishing most of his excellentearly fantasies.The magazinesurvivedthe fortiei but died in 1954,alongwith most of the otherpulp magazinesin all genres;the pulp era had cometo an end. (Th9 magazinewas briefly revived - for four issues- in the early seventiesunder the editorship of sam Moskowitz. At this writing, anotherrevival is underwaywith Lin carter as editor; it is to appearas a paperback"magazine.") several attemptswere madeduring the 1930sto publish other fantasy magazinesthat would sell to weird Tales's readership.Farnswortl
xiv
Introduction
f r o m t h e e a r | y W e i r d T a l e s a n d t h o s e b v a u t h o r s w h o hStenhen adwritten pulpmagazines'.such,,1s the *GO" before fantasy-horror "f and William Hope' Vincent Ben6t, LorO-bunsany, Ambiose Bierce proved himself aficionado' Hodsson.Donald e- Wollheim, a fantasy to bi o fins editor with this series' Th'lg50sbeganwiththeinauguratio^nofseveralnewfantasymagaBrowne edited ,in"r, .ll-;i ttJ. in-tt" Jigest-Iizec.format.Howard presented issues early its mentioned; Fantastic, which t"t;* Leiber' "f."?Oy and Stgrgeol' excellentstoriesby top writers iuch as Bradbury, so it sales, justified its by d; it ,Oitoriut ddg"t ,"or t* high to be to.authors, rates lower with Fantasic Adventurerind, offering mergeO -n*i"O widely in quality since. There were several excellent but ii". Knight's short-lived venturesby othJr publishersand editors: Damon WorldsBeyondlastedforonlythreeissues;I-esterdel-Rey.sFantas Fiction iagazine presentediour issues;and H' L' Gold's Beyond survived ten issuei. The fifties, a time characterizedby humdrum complacencyin this counffy, felt no str.ongneedfor.fantasy'. -and arguably But the most successfulnew magazrneof the perid the finest fantasy magazineever published wasFantasyand science, launchedlate in 1946 under the editorship of Anthony Boucher and J. FrancisMcComas. Its early issuesfeaturednearly as many reprints as original stories, the reprints being drawn from books and non-genre to new stories, at least half maiazines;but the empiasis soon chang-ed magazineto survive and the enabled firis hction. of itrictr were science fans-butalso the science fantasy only not thrive to the present,attracting fantasyoccasionally welcome (SF apparently readers fiction readership. but not as a steadYdiet.) Fantasyand Siience Fiction, under the editorshipsof Boucher and McComas,later of RobertP. Mills, Avram Davidson,EdwardFerman, and currently, Kristine Kathryn Rosch, becamethe "quality" magazine of fantasy;ii has publishedmost of the important fan-tasystoriesof the Henderson, last thirtf years. Authors such as Richard Matheson,T3;11glla others many far too and Cowper R. Bretnoi, Avram Davidson, Richard pages' its in to nameestablishedtheir reputations in 1950; In England,walter Gillings beganediting science-Fanrasy who Carnell, E. J. to after twi issues,he yielded the editorial chair him replaced Bonfrylioli continuedthe magazinefor thirteenyeafs. Kyril Harrison impulse;Harry title to impulie,later to sf *O r*n changed'the edited ttre final five issues,thl hst of which appearedin 1967. This magazinebrought to prominencesuch British writers as J. G- Ballard RobJrts,ard the U.S. authorThomasBurnettSwain. *ifrittt Th" fantasyreadershipwas slow to organize, at least in comparison
Introduction
with sciencefiction fandom, but in recent years fantasy conventions have becomecotnmon, and literary prizes hive been estiblished, such -gritain's as the world Fantasy Award ano August Derleth Fantasy Award. (Actually, the sf Hugo Award has alwayJ been open to works of fantasy, and severalsuch storieshave won.) There has been a slrong rcsurgencein fantasy book publishing recently, with mass-market houseslike Del Rey Bboks, Dill, and othe, adopting special logos for their fantasy novels and collections. This renascencewas spurredby the great commercialand artistic successof J.R.R. Tolkien'sTheI'ord of the Rings,whichsetoffa boomof so-called "high fantasy"(frequentlyimitative). A revival of RobertE. Howard's storiesabout conan and other warrior-heroesquickry led to many new novelsof "sword andsorcery";andweird/honorfiction hasagainbecome popular,originally as a resultof the republicationof H. p. Iovecraft's works and currently becauseof the great successof writers such as StephenKing. It is a curiousfact that thoughfantasyhasagainbecomevery popular as far as book salesare concerned,this trend has not yet beenreflected in magazinepublishing. The markettoday for short storiesof fantasyis mostly confined (with the notable exception of Fantasy and Science Fiction) to book anthologiesand semi-professionalmagazines. This situation is as sad as it is peculiar - but there is the hope that readersand writers of fantasy short storieswill be inspired by the rich legacypresentedin the pagesthat follow. For as the more than a quarter of a million words of fantasyfiction in this volume indicate,fantasy magazineshave produceda significant amountof quality writing over the years in a wide variety of styles, from the humorousto the ftagic, from visions of charmingapparitionsto horrible creatues that go bump in the night.
TERRY CARR (1937-1987) MARTIN HARRY GREENBERG Oaklandand GreenBav
The Ratsin the Walls H. P. Lovecraft
On July 16,1923,I movedinto ExhamPrioryafter the lastworkmanhad finishedhis labors.The restorationhad beena stupendoustask,for little hadremainedof the desertedpile but a shell-likeruin; yet because it had beenthe seatof my ancestors,Ilet no expensedeterme,The placehadnot been inhabitedsince the reign of Jamesthe First, when a tragedyof intenselyhideous,thoughlargelyunexplained, naturehadstruckdownthe master,five of his children,andseveralservants;anddrivenforth undera cloud of suspicionand terror the third son,my lineal progenitorand the only survivorof the abhorredline. With this soleheir denouncedasa murderer,the estatehadrevertedto the crown, nor had the accusedman made any attempt to exculpate himselfor regainhis property.Shakenby somehorrorgreaterthan that of conscienceor the law,and expressingonly a frantic wish to excludethe ancientedifice from his sight and memory,Walterde la Poer,eleventh BaronExham,fled to Virginiaandtherefoundedthe family which by the
H. P. Lovecreft
- centuryhadbecomeknown asDelapore' -next gxtram Priory had remaineduntenanted,though later allottedto the its peculiarly estatesof the Norrys family and much studiedbecauseof restingon towers Gothic involving anarchitecture architecture; composite wasof a turn in whosefoundation substructure, a saxonor Romanesque native or Druidic even still earlierorderor biendof orders-Roman,and thing, very singular was a cymric,if legendsspeaktruly.This foundation precipice from the biing mergedon one sidewith the solid limestoneof the west of miles a desolatevalleythree whoJebrinl the prioryoverlooked villageof Anchester. Architectsand antiquariansloved to examinethis strangerelic of forgottencenturies,but the countryfolk hatedit. They had hatedit livedthere,andtheyhatedit huidredsof yearsbefore,whenmy ancestors on it. I hadnot beena day now,with the mossandmouldof abandonment in AnchesterbeforeI knew I cameof an accursedhouse'And this week workmenhaveblownup ExhamPriory,andarebusyobliteratingthe traces of its foundations.The barestatisticsof my ancestryI hadalwaysknown, togetherwith the fact that my first Americanforbearhad come to the I hadbeenkeptwholly coloniesundera strangecloud.Of details,however, maintainedby the policy always reticence of the through ignorant of crusading boasted we planter seldom neighbors, Delapores. Unlikeour anykind of nor was heroes; RenaisSance ancestors or othermediaevaland in the sealed recorded been have may traditionhandeddownexceptwhat son for his eldest to squire envelopeleft beforethe Civil War by every those since were achieved glories we cherished posthumous opening.The reserved proud honorable, if somewhat and themigration;the gloriesof a and unsocialVirginialine. andourwholeexistence Duringthe warourfortuneswereextinguished on changedby the burningof carfax, our home the banksof the James. My grandfather,advancedin years,had perishedin that incendiary thathadboundus all to the past.I can andwith him the envelope outrage, recallthat fire todayasI sawit then at the ageof seven,with the Federal soldiersshouting,the womenscreaming,and the negroeshowling and praying.My fatherwasin the army,defendingRichmond,andafter many throughthe linesto join him. formalitiesmy motherandI werepassed Whenthe warendedweall movednorth,whencemy motherhadcome; andI grewto manhood,middleage,andultimatewealthasa stolidYankee. Neither my father nor I ever knew what our hereditaryenvelopehad business contained,and as I mergedinto the graynessof Massachusetts life I lostall interestin the mysterieswhichevidentlylurkedfar backin my family tree.Had I suspectedtheir nature,how gladlyI would haveleft ExhamPrioryto its moss,bats,andcobwebs!
THE RATSIN THEWALLS
My fatherdiedin 1904,but withoutanymessage to leaveto me, or to my only child,Alfred,a motherless boyof ten.It wasthisboywho reversed the orderof familyinformation,for althoughI couldgivehim onlyjesting conjectures aboutthe past,he wroteme of someveryinterestingancestral legendswhen the late war took him to Englandin l9l7 as an aviation otficer. Apparentlythe Delaporeshad a colorful and perhapssinister history,for a friend of my son's,Capt.EdwardNorrysof the RoyalFlying Corps,dweltnearthe familyseatat Anchesterandrelatedsomepeasant superstitionswhich few novelistscould equal for wildnessand incredibility.Norryshimself,of course,did not takethem soseriously:but they amusedmy sonand madegoodmaterialfor his lettersto me. It was this legendrywhich definitely turned my attentionto my transatlantic heritage,and mademe resolveto purchaseand restorethe family seat whichNorrysshowedto Alfredin its picturesque desertion,andofferedto getfor him at a surprisingly reasonable figure,sincehisownunclewasthe presentowner. I boughtExhamPrioryin 1918,but wasalmostimmediately distracted from my plansof restorationby the returnof my sonasa maimedinvalid. Duringthetwoyearsthathe livedI thoughtof nothingbuthis care,having evenplacedmy business underthe directionof partners. In 1921,asI foundmyselfbereaved andaimless. a retiredmanufacturer no longeryoung,I resolvedto divert my remainingyearswith my new possession. VisitingAnchesterin December, I wasentertained by Capt. Norrys, a plump, amiableyoung man who had thought much of my son, and securedhis assistancein gatheringplans and anecdotesto guide in the comingrestoration.Exham Priqry itself I sawwithout emotion,ajumble of tottering mediaeval ruins covered with lichens and honeycombed with rooks'nests,perchedperilouslyupon a precipice,and denudedof floors or other interior featuressavethe stone walls of the separatetowers. As I graduallyrecoveredthe image of the edifice asit had been when my ancestorsleft it over three centuries before,I beganto hire workmen for the reconstruction.[n every caseI was forced to go outside the immediate locality, for the Anchester villagers had an almost unbelievable fear and hatred of the place.This sentiment was so great that it was sometimes communicated to the outside laborers, causing numerous desertions; whilst its scopeappearedto include both the priory and its ancientfamily. My son had told me that he was somewhat avoided during his visits becausehe was a de ld Poer,and I norv found myself subtly ostracisedfor a like reasonuntil I convinced the peasantshow little I knew of my heritage. Even then they sullenly disliked me, so that I had to collect most of the village traditions through the mediation of Norrys. what the people could not forgive, perhaps,was that I had come to restorea symbol so abhorrent
H. P. Lovecreft
to them; for, rationallyor not, they viewedExhamPrioryasnothingless than a hauntof fiendsand werewolves. Piecing together the tales which Norrys collected for me, and themwith the accountsof severalsavantswho hadstudied supplementing the ruins,I deducedthat ExhamPriorystoodon the site of a prehistoric temple; a Druidical or ante-Druidicalthing which must have been contemporarywith Stonehenge.That indescribablerites had been celebratedthere, few doubted,and there were unpleasanttales of the whichthe Romanshad transference of theseritesinto theCybele-worship introduced. Inscriptionsstill visiblein the subcellarboresuchunmistakableletters signof the MagnaMaterwhosedark as "DIv...oPs...MAcNA.MAT..." worshipwasoncevainlyforbiddento Romancitizens.Anchesterhadbeen the campof the third Augustanlegion,asmanyremainsattest,andit was saidthat the templeof Cybelewassplendidandthrongedwith wo$hippers at the biddingof a Phrygianpriest. ceremonies who performednameless Talesaddedthat the fall of the old religiondid not end the orgiesat the temple,but that the priestslivedon in the newfaithwithoutrealchange. Likewisewasit saidthat the rites did not vanishwith the Romanpower' andthat certainamongthe Saxonsaddedto whatremainedof the temple, preserved, makingit the and gaveit the essentialoutline it subsequently centerof a cult fearedthroughhatf the heptarchy.About 1000e.p. the place is mentionedin a chronicleas being a substantialstone priory housing a strangeand powerful monastic order and surroundedby extensivegardenswhichneededno wallsto excludea frightenedpopulace. by the Danes,thoughafterthe NormanConquestit It wasneverdestroyed sincetherewasno impedimentwhen tremendously; must havedeclined Gilbert de la Poer,First granted to my ancestor, the site Henry the Third in BaronExham, 1261. of my family beforethis date there is no evil report,but something strangemusthavehappenedthen.In onechroniclethereis a referenceto a de la boer as"cursedof God" in 1307,whilst villagelegendryhadnothing but evil andfranticfearto tell of the castlethat wentup on the foundations of the old temple and priory.The firesidetaleswere of the most grisly description,all the ghastlierbecauseof their frightenedreticenceand asa raceof hereditary my ancestors Theyrepresented cloudyevasiveness. daemonsbesidewhomGillesde Retzandthe Marquisde Sadewouldseem the veriesttyros,and hinted whisperinglyat their responsibilityfor the of villagersthroughseveralgenerations. disappearances occasional werethe baronsandtheir directheirs; apparently, The worstcharacters, at least,mostwaswhisperedaboutthese.If of healthierinclinations,it was said,an heir would earlyand mysteriouslydie to makeway for another
THE RATSIN THE WALLS more typicalscion.Thereseemedto be an inner cult in the family,presided over by the head of the house, and sometimesclosed to a few members. Gmperament rather than ancestry was evidently ""."piihe basis of this cult, for it was entered by several who married into ttre famity. taoy Margaret Trevor from cornwall, wife of Godfrey, the second son of the fifth baron,becamea favorite bane of children all over the countryside, and the daemonheroine of a particularly horrible old balladnot yet extinct near the welsh border.Preservedin balladry,too, though not lllustrating the same point, is the hideous tale of Lady Mary de la poer, who shortly after her marriageto the Earl of Shrewsfierdwas killed by him and his mother, both of the slayersbeing absolvedand blessedby the priest to whom they confessedwhat they dared not repeat to the world. These myths and ballads,typical as they were of crude superstition, repelled me greatly.Their persistence,and their application to so long a line of my ancestors,were especiallyannoying;whilst the imputationsof monstrous habits proved unpleasantly reminiscent of the one known scandal of my immediate forbears-the case of my cousin, young Randolph Delaporeof carfax, who went among the negroesand becamea voodoo priest after he returned from the Mexican War. I was much lessdisturbedby the vaguertalesof wails and howlingsin the barren, windswept valley beneaththe limestone cliff; of the graveyard stenchesafter the spring rains; of the floundering, squealing white thing on which sir John clave's horse had trod one night in a lonely field; and of the servant who had gone mad at what he sawin the priory in the full light of day.These things were hackneyedspectrallore, and I was at that time a pronounced skeptic. The accounts of vanished peasantswere less to be dismissed,though not especiallysignificantin view of mediaevalcustom. Prying curiosity meant death, and more than one severedhead had been publicly shown on the bastions-now effaced-around Exham priory. A few of the taleswere exceedinglypicturesque,and made me wish I had learnt more of the comparativemythologyin my youth. Therewas.for instance,the belief that a legion of batwingeddevils kept witches'sabbath each night at the priory-a legion whose sustenancemight explain the disproportionate abundance of coarse vegetablesharvested in the vast gardens.And, most vivid of all, there was the dramatic epic of the ratsthe scamperingarmy of obscenevermin which had burst forth from the castle three months after the tragedy that doomed it to desertion-the lean,filthy, ravenousarmy which had sweptall beforeit and devouredfowl, cats,dogs,hogs,sheep,and even two haplesshuman beingsbefore its fury was spent. Around that unforgettable rodent army a whole separatecycle of myths revolves,for it scatteredamong the vilage homes and brought cursesand horrors in its train.
H. P. Lovecreft
Suchwasthelorethatassailedmeaslpushedtocompletion,with the work of restoringmy ancestralhome'It must not be elderlyobstinacy, imaginedforamornentthatthesetalesformedmyprincipalpsychologic praisedandencouraged on the otherhand,I wasconstantly environment. andaidedme.When sunounded who UVCup,.Norrysandthe antiquarians I viewedthe its commencement' the taskwasdone,ou", tr"o^y.arsafter and windows, mullioned ceilings, gre"t ,ooms,wainscottedwalis,vaulted prodigious the for compensated with a pride which fully 6roaOstaircases restoration' the of expense andthe g;"r, attributeof the Middle Ageswascunninglyreproduced, The foundations. n.* p.it, blendedperfectlywith the originalwallsand at seatof my fathers*"s .ompl"te, andt lookedforwardto redeeming last the local fame of the line which ended in me. I would reside here permanently,and provethat a de la Poer (for I had adoptedagainthe friginal rp"iiing of ihe name)neednot be a fiend.My comfortwasperhaps uujrn"nt"O Uyitre fact that, althoughExhamPriory wasmediaevallyfitted' its interior was in truth,wholly new and free from old vermin and old ghostsalike. of consisted As I havesaid,I movedin on July 16,1923.My household particularly fond' am I species latter which of nine cats, sevenservantsand My eldestcat,"Nigger-Manl'wassevenyearsold andhadComewith me the othersI had accumulated from my home in Bolton,Massachusetts; of the priory. the restoration during Norrys'family whilstlivingwith Capt. placidity, my time utmost proceeded the with routine For five duysour had now I data. family of old codification being spent mostly in the flight and tragedy the final of accounts obtainedsomevery circumstantial of Walterde la Poer,which I conceivedto be the probablecontentsof the that my ancestorwas hereditarypaperlostin the fire at Carfax.Itappeared the other membersof his accusedwith much reasonof havingkilled all their sleep,abouttwo in household,exceptfour servantconfederates, but demeanor, whole weeksafter a shockingdiscoverywhich changedhis perhaps the save which, exceptby implication,he disclosedto no one reach' servantswho assistedhim and afterwardfled beyond which includeda father,three brothers,and This deliberateslaughter, two sisters,waslargelycondonedby the villagers,andsoslacklytreatedby the law that its perpetratorescapedhonored,unharmed,and undisguised to virginia; the generalwhisperedsentimentbeingthat he hadpurgedthe landol immemorialcurse.Whatdiscoveryhadpromptedan actsoterrible, I could scarcelyevenconjecture.walter de la Poermust haveknownfor yearsthe sinistertalesabouthis familS so that this materialcould have appalling liven him no fresh impulse.Had he, then, witnessedsome ancientrite. or stumbleduponsomefrightful andrevealingsymbolin the
THE RATSIN THE WALLS
priory or its vicinity? He wasreputedto have beena shy,genileyouth in England.In Virginiahe seemednot somuchhardor bitter asharassed and apprehensive.He was spoken of in the diary of unott adventurer,FrancisHarreyof Beflview,as a man of unexampllo;ustice, ".l"rrfleman honor,and delicacy. on July22occurred thefirst incidentwhich,thoughlightlydismissed at the time, takeson a preternaturalsignificancein relationto later events.It wasso simpleasto be almostnegligible,andcouldnot possiblyhave been noticedunderthecircumstances; for it mustberecalledthat sincet wasin a buildingpracticallyfreshandnew exceptfor the *rtts, rno surrounded by a well-balanced staffof servitors,apprehension wouldiravebeenabsurd despitethe locality. what I afterwardremembered is merelythis-that my old blackcat, whosemoodsI know so well, was undoubtedlyalert ani anxiousto an extent wholly out of keepingwith his naturalcharacter.He rovedfrom room to room, restlessand disrurbed,and sniffed constantlyabout the walls which formedpart of the Gothic structure.I realizehow trite this sounds-like the inevitabledog in the ghoststory,which alwaysgrowls beforehis masterseesthe sheetedfigure-yet I cannotconsisiently suppress it. The followingday a servantcomplainedof restlessness amongall the catsin the house.He cameto me in my study,a lofty westroom on the secondstory,with groinedarches,blackoakpanelling, anda tripleGothic windowoverlookingthe limestonecriff anddesolatevalley;andLvenashe spokeI sawthejetty form of Nigger-Mancreepingalongthe westwall and scratchingat the new panelswhich overlaidthe ancientstone. I told the manthat theremustbesomesingularodoror emanationfrom the old stonework,imperceptibleto human senses,but affectingthe delicateorgansof cats even through the new woodwork.This I truly believed,and when the fellow suggested the presenceof mice or rats,I mentionedthat therehadbeenno ratstherefor threehundredyears,and that eventhe field miceof the surroundingcountrycouldhardlybe found in these high walls, where they had never been known to stray.That afternoonI caltedon capt. Norrys,and he assuredme that it would be quite incrediblefor field mice to infest the priory in sucha suddenand unprecedented fashion. That night,dispensingasusualwith a valet,I retiredin the westtower chamberwhichI hadchosenasmy own,reachedfrom the studyby a stone staircase and shortgallery-the formerpartlyancient,the latier entirely restored.This room was circular,very high, and without wainscotting, beinghung with arraswhich I had myselfchosenin London. seeingthatNigger-Man waswith me,I shutthe heavyGothicdoorand
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H' P' Lovecrsft
retiredbythelightoftheelectricbulbswhichsocleverlycounterfeited and sinking on the carvedand candles,finally switcfrini oif tn" fight canopiedfour.poster,wittr'ttrevenerablecatinhisaccustomedplaceacros out at the narrownorth my feet.I did not At.*ittt t"ittin'' but.gazed aurorain the sky,andthe windowwhich I faced.Therewasa suspicionof traceriesof the windowwerepleasantlysilhouetted'-- distinct ;;iil; fo1 I. rgcall-a At sometime I .utt ttuut fattenquietly asleep' violently from his started cat the when senseof leaving,r.*g" Jrru-r, forward, placidposition.I sawliim in the faint auroralglow,hea{ strained was looking He behind. feet stretched forefeeton my annes,-andhind a point window, the of west intenselyat a point on it, wall somewhat whichtomyeyet'aonottringtomarkit.buttowardwhichallmyattention wasnow directed' not vainly excited' And as I watched,I knew that Nigger-Manwas it did, very slightly' I think Whetherthe arrasactuallymovedI cannotsay. scurryingas distinct But whatI canswearto is that behindit I hearda low, ofratsormice'Inamomentthecathadjumpedbodilyonthescreening weight'and tapestry,bringingthe affectedsectionto the floor with his exposingadamp,ancientwallofstone;patchedhereandtherebyth ..ttot"tJ, and devoidof any traceof rodentprowlers' downthefloor by this partof the wall,clawing NGr"f-lan racedup pawbetweenthe "nO the fallen arrasandseeminglytrying at timesto inserta wall and the oakennoor. fti found nothing,and after a time returned wearilyto his placeacrossmy feet.I had not moved,but I did not sleep againthat night. of In the moining I questionedall the servants,and found that none the remembered the cook that save unusual, them had noticed.nytrting actionsof a catwhichhadiestedon her windowsill.This cathadhowledat someunknownhour of the night,awakingthe cookin time for her to see Li. ourtpurposefullyout of the opendoordownthe stairs.Idrowsedaway who the noontime,and in the afternooncalledagainon Capt.Norrys, incidents-so odd The him. told becameexceedinglyinterestedin what I andelicited slightyet socurious-appealedto his senseof the picturesque, We were ghostly lore. from him a number of reminiscencesof local traps me-some lent of rats,andNorrys genuinelyperplexedat the presence I when localities place in strategic inJ i"tir gt"en,whichI hadthe servants returned. the I retiredearly,beingvery sleepy,but was harassedby dreamsof height immense an from mosthorriblesort,l seimedto be lookingdorvn daemon upona twilit grotto,knee-deepwith filth, wherea white-bearded beasts flabby fungous, swineherddroveabout with his staff a flock of whosesppearancefilledmewithunutterableloathing.Then,asth
THERATSINTHEWALLS
g
swineherdpausedandnoddedoverhis task,a mightyswarmof rats rained down on the stinkingabyssand fefl to devouringbeastsand man arike. From this terrific vision I was abrupttyawakedbv the motions of Nigger-Man, whohadbeensreeping asusuair.rossmy rret.rt isiime I did not haveto questionthe sourceof his snarlsand hisses, tt the fear whichmadehim sink-his clawsinto my ankle,unconscious "nJ of theireffect; for on everyside of the chamberthe walls werealive with nauseous sound-the verminous slitheringof ravenous, giganticrats.Therewasnow no aurorato showthe stateof the arras-the fallensectionof whichhad beenreplaced-butI wasnot too frightenedto switchon the light. As the bulbs leapt into radianceI sawa hideousshakingali over the tapestry,causingthe somewhatpeculiardesignsto executea singular danceof death.This motiondisappeared almostat once,and the sound with it. springingout of bed,I pokedat the arraswith the longhandleof a warming-panthat restednear,and lifted one sectionto sie what lay beneath. Therewasnothingbut the patchedstonewall,andeventhe cat hadlosthis tenserealization of abnormalpresences. when I examinedthe circulartrapthathadbeenplacedin the room,I foundall of the openings sprung' though no trace remainedof what had been caught and had escaped. Furthersleepwasout of thequestion, so,lightinga candle,Iopenedthe doorandwent out in the gallerytowardthe stairsto my study,Nigger-Man followingat my heels.Beforewe hadreachedthe stonesteps,however, the cat darted aheadof me and vanisheddown the ancient flight. As I descended the stairsmyself,I becamesuddenlyawareof soundsin the greatroombelow;soundsof a naturewhichcouldnot be mistaken. The oak-panelled wallswerealivewith rats,scampering and milling, whilst Nigger-Manwas racingabout with the fury of a baffled hunter. Reaching thebottom,Iswitchedon thelight,whichdid notthistimecause the noiseto subside. The ratscontinuedtheir riot, stampeding with such forceanddistinctness thatI couldfinallyassignto theirmotionsa definite direction.Thesecreatures,in numbersapparentlyinexhaustible. were engaged in onestupendous migrationfrom inconceivable heightsto some depthconceivably or inconceivably below. I nowheardstepsin the corridor,andin anothermomenttwo servants pushedopenthe massivedoor.They weresearchingthe housefor some unknown sourceof disturbancewhich had thrown all the cats into a snarlingpanicandcaused themto plungeprecipitately downseveralflights of stairsandsquat,yowling,beforethecloseddoorto thesub-cellar. I asked themif theyhadheardthe rats,but theyrepriedin thenegative. And when I turnedto calltheir attentionto the soundsin the panels,Irealizedthat the noisehad ceased.
10
H' P' Lovecraft
Withthetwomen'Iwentdowntothedoorofthesub.cellar,butfound the crypt below,but the catsalreadyoisp".sra.Lier I resolvedto explore All weresprung'yet all for the presentf m"refy--adt a roulA of the traps' savethe Satisfyingmyselfthat no onehadheardthe rats weretenantless. thinking profoundlyand felinesand rne, f sat in irv 'tuOy titt morning' concerningthe buildingI recallingeveryscrapof leglnd I iradunearthed inhabited. backin the onecomfortablelibrary I sleptsomein the forenoon,leaning not banish.Later I chair which .v -"oi""uJ pfu" of firnishing could me explorethe helped and to Capt.Norrys,who cameover telephoned sub-cellar. Absolutelynothinguntowardwasfound,althoughwecouldnotrepres hands'Every a thrill at the knowleigethat this vault wasbuilt by Roman of Romanesque debased low archandmassiveiillu, ,,o, Roman-not the age the of classicism the bunglingsaxons,but the severeandharmonious familiarto the with inscriptions indeed,thewallsabounded of thecaesars; "P'6ETAE' like exploredthe place-things .niiqu.ri.nr who hadrepeatedly p R o p. . , T E M P. . . D o N A . . . o a ' n d " L . P R A E C ' ' 'v s ' ' ' P o N T I F I ' ' ' A T Y s ' ' ' ' "
to Atysmademe shiver,for I hadreadcatullusandknew The reference wasso somethingof the hidebusrites of the Easterngod,whoseworship to mixeOwiih ttratof Cybele.NorrysandI, by the light of lanterns,tried interpret the odd and nearly effaced designson certain irregularly make rectangularblocksof stonegenerallyheld to be altars,but could was sunt rayed pattern,a of sort that one notftinl of them.Weremembered altars these that suggesting origin, non-Roman heldbistudentsto implya had merely been adoptedby the Romanpriestsfrom some-older and perhapsaboriginaltempleon the samesite.on one of theseblockswere stainswhichmademewonder.Thelargest,in the centerof the ,o111ebror"n room, had certain featureson the upper surfacewhich indicatedits with fire-probablyburnt offerings' connection such werethe sightsin that crypt beforewhosedoor the catshowled, were andwhereNorrysandI now determinedto passthe night.couches nocturnal any mind to not told urougrrtdown by the servants,who were asfor actionsof the cats,andNigger-Manwasadmittedasmuch for help replica modern great oakdoor-a we decidedto keepthe companionship. we wittl slits for ventilation-tightly closed;and, with this attendedto, occur. retiredwith lanternsstill burningto awaitwhatevermight Thevaultwasverydeepinthefoundationsofthepriory,and cliff undoubtedlyfar down on ihe face of the beetling limestone and scuffling goal the of overlookingthe wastevalley.That it hadbeenthe lay we tell. As not ratsI couldnot doubt,thoughwhy,t could unexplainable half'formed with mixed I found my vigil occasionally thera expectantly,
THf, RATSIN THE WALLS
lt
dreams from which the uneasy motions of the cat across my feet would rouse me. Thesedreamswere not wholesome,but horribly like the one I had had the night before.I saw againthe twilit grotto,and the swineherd with his unmentionablefungousbeastswallowingin filth, and as I looked at these things they seemednearer and more distinct-so distinct that I could almost observetheir features.Then I did observethe flabby features of one of them-and awakedwith such a screamthat Nigger-il4anstarted up, whilst capt. Norrys,who had not srept,laughedconsidirably.Norrys might havelaughedmore-or perhapsless-had he known what ii wasthat made me scream.But I did not remembermyself till later.ultimate horror often paralysesmemory in a merciful way. Norrys waked me when the phenomena began. out of the same frightful dreamI wascalledby his gentleshakinguno tris urgingto listen to the cats.Indeed,therewasmuch to listen to, for beyondthJ closeddoor at the headof the stonestepswas a veritablenightmareof feline yelling and clawing, whilst Nigger-Man, unmindful of his kindred outside, was running excitedlyaround the barestone walls,in which I heard the same babel of scurrying rats that had troubled me the night before. An acute terror now rose within me, for here were anomalieswhich nothing normal could well explain. These rats, if not the creaturesof a madnesswhich I sharedwith the catsalone,must be burrowing and sliding in Roman walls I had thought to be of sorid limestone blocks. . . unless perhapsthe action of water through more than seventeencenturieshad eatenwinding tunnels which rodent bodieshad worn clear and ample.... But evenso,the spectralhorror wasno less;for if thesewereliving vermin why did not Norrys heartheir disgustingcommotion?why did he urge me to watch Nigger-Man and listen to the cats outside, and why did he guess wildly and vaguelyat what could have arousedthem? By the time I had managedto tell him, as rationallyas I could, what I thought I was hearing,my earsgaveme the last fading impressionof the scurrying; which had retreatedstill downward,far underneath this deepest of sub-cellarstill it seemedas if the whole cliff below were riddled with questing rats. Norrys was not as skeptical as I had anticipated,but instead seemedprofoundlymoved.He motioned to me to notice that the cats at the door had ceasedtheir clamor,as if giving up the rats for lost; whilst Nigger-Man had a burst of renewed restlessness,and was clawing frantically around the bottom of the large stone altar in the center of thi room, which was nearerNorrys'couch than mine. My fear of the unknown was at this point very great. something astounding had occurred, and I saw that capt. Norrys, a younger,stouter, and presumablymore naturally materialisticman, was affected fully as
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H. P. Lovecreft
muchasmyself-perhapsbecauseofhislifelongandintimatefamiliarity nothingbut watchthe old with locallegend.Wecouldfor the momentdo at the baseof the altar, black cat as he paweO*iift decreasingfervor that persuasivemanner occasionallylooking up and mewing to me in favorfor him' which he usedwnen h! wishedme to performsome the place Norrys now took .l.nr.rn closeto the altar and examined whereNigger-Man*aspao*'ing;sitenttykneelingandscrapingawaythe pre-Romanblockto the lichensof the centurieswhichJoinedthe massive his floor. He did not finO anything,and wasaboutto abandon tesselated even whichmademe shudder' effortswhenI noticeda trivial circumstance alreadyimagined' had I than more thoughit implied nothing at its almost imperceptible looked we both I told him of it, anJ discoveryandacknowledg' fascinated of with the fixedness manifestation setdownnearthe altar lantern the of the flame ment.rt wasonlythis-that air which it hadnot of a draught from wasslightlybut certainlyflickering the crevicebetween from indubitably Ueforereciived, and which came lichens' the away scraping floor and altarwhereNorryswas we spentthe restof thonightin the brilliantlylightedstudy,nervously discussingwhatwe shoulddo next.The discoverythat somevault deeper than the deepestknown masonryof the Romansunderlaythis accursed pile; some vault unsuspectedby the curious antiquariansof three teniuries;wouldhavebeensufficientto exciteus withoutanybackground paused of the sinister.As it was,the fascinationbecametwo-fold;andwe in priory quit forever the in doubt whetherto abandonour searchand brave and superstitiouscaution,or to gratify our senseof adventure *h.ten"t horrorsmight awaitus in the unknowndepths' By morning we had compromised,and decidedto go to London to and scientificmen fit to copewith the gathlr group of archaeologists " it shoutObe mentionedthat beforeleavingthe sub-cellarwe had ilystery. asthe gate vainlyiried to movethe centralaltarwhich we nowrecognized fear.what secretwouldopenthe gate,wisermen to a new pit of nameless to find. have than we would During manydaysin Londoncapt. Norrys and I Presentgdour facts, to five eminentauthorities,all men conjectuies,andlegendaryanecdotes family disclosureswhich future any respect to who could be trusted most of them little disposedto found We develop. explorationsmight and sincerelysympathetic'It is interested intensely ,.ofg but, instead, to namethem all, but I may saythat they includedsir hardlynecessary in the Troadexcitedmostof the world william Brinton,whoseexcavations for AnchesterI felt myselfpoisedon the train in their day.As we all took a the brink of frightful revelations, sensationsymbolizedby the air of mourning amongthe many Americansat the unexpecteddeathof the
THE RATSIN THE WALLS
l3
Presidenton the othersideof the world. On the eveningof August 7 we reachedExham priory, where the servantsassuredme that nothingunusualhadoccurred.The cats,evenold Nigger-Man,had beenperfectlypracid;and not a trap in the househad beensprung.We w91eto beginexploringon the followingday, awaiting whichI assigned well-appointed roomsto all my guests. I myselfretirediir my own towerchamuer,witfNigjer-Man across my feet. sleep camequickly,but hideousdreamsassailedme. There was a visionof a Romanfeastlike that of Trimalchio,with a horrorin a covered platter.Thencamethatdamnable, recurrentthingaboutthe swineherdand his filthy drovein the twilit grotto.yet when I iwoke it wasfult daylight, with normalsoundsin thehousebelow.Therats,livingor spectral, hadnot troubledme; and Nigger-Manwasstill quietlyasleep.on goingdown,I found that the sametranquillity had prevailedelsewhereJa condition whichone of the assembled savants-afellownamedrhornton.devoted to the psychic-ratherabsurdlylaidto the factthatI hadnowbeenshown the thing which certainforceshad wishedto showme. All wasnowready,andat I I e.u. our entiregroupof sevenmen,bearing powerfulelectricsearchlights andimplementsof excavation, wentdownto the sub-cellar andboltedthe doorbehindus.Nigger-Man waswith us,for the investigators foundno occasionto despisehis excitability, and were indeedanxiousthat he bepresentin caseof obscurerodentmanifestations. we notedthe Romaninscriptionsand unknownaltardesignsonly briefly, for three of the savantshad alreadyseen them. and all knew their characteristics. Primeattentionwaspaidto the momentouscentralaltar, and within an hour sir william Brintonhad causedit to tilt backward, balancedby someunknownspeciesof counterweight. Therenow lay revealedsucha horror as would haveoverwhelmedus had we not beenprepared.Througha nearlysquareopeningin the tiled floor,sprawlingon a flight of stonestepsso prodigiouslyworn that it was little more than an inclined plane at the center,was a ghastlyarray of humanor semi-humanbones.Thosewhich retainedtheir collocationas skeletonsshowedattitudesof panic,fear,and overall werethe marksof rodent gnawing.The skulls denoted nothing short of utter idiocy, cretinism,or primitivesemiapedom. Above the hellishly littered steps arched a descendingpassage seeminglychiseledfrom the solid rock, and conductinga current of air. This currentwasnot a suddenandnoxiousrushasfrom a closedvault,but a coolbreezewith somethingof freshness in it. we did not pauselong,but shiveringlybeganto cleara passage down the steps.It wasthen that sir william, examiningthe hewn walls,madethe odd observationthat the passage, accordingto the directionof the strokes,must havebeenchiseled from beneath.
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H. P. Lovecnft
I must be very deliberatenow,and choosemy words' efterptougtringoownafewstepsamidstthegnawedboneswesawtha therewaslightahead;notanymysticphosphorescence'butafiltered in the cliff daylightwhich coutonot ,o.,-,*."pt from unknownfissures notice had escaped fissures that overlookedthe wastevalley.That such wholly valley the is only for not from outsidewas hardly remaricable, beetlingthat only an aeronaut high and is so cdff the but unintr.Uit.O, were study'its face in detail.A few stepsmore, and our breaths ;iJ the Thornton, that fit"i"ffy .n"t h"d from us by what we saw;so literally who man actuallyfaintedin the armsof the dazed psychicinvestigator, his plumpfaceutterly white andflabby,simply Norrys, him. ,tood U"nind gaspor hiss, criedout inarticulatelf-whilsil think that whatI did wasto and covermYeyes. The man behindme-the only one of the partyolder than l-croaked the hackneyed"My God!" in the most crackedvoice I ever heard.Of sevencultivatedmen,only Sir William Brintonretainedhis composure'a he led the partyandmust haveseen thing the moreto his creditbecause the sightfirst. It wasa twilit grottoof enormousheight,stretchingawayfartherthan worldof limitlessmysteryandhorrible anyeyecouldsee;a subtenaneous and otherarchitecturalremains-in one suigestion.Therewerebuildings pattern of tumuli, a savagecircle of ter-rifiedglance I saw a weird Saxonpile, andan early sprawling monoliths,a low-domedRomanruin, a by the ghoulish dwarfed of wood-but 8ll these were English "Ain.. ground. For yardsabout speitaclepresentedby the generalsurfaceof the at leastas or bones the stepsextendedan inSanetangleof humanbones, fallen some humanasthoseon the steps.Like a foamyseathey sfetched, latter these apart,but others wholly or partly articulatedas skeletons; off some fighting invariably in posturesof daemoniacfrenzy,either menaceor clutchingother formswith cannibalintent' stoppedto classifythe skulls,he when Dr. Tiask,the anthropologist, found a degradedmixture which uttelly baffled him. They wele mo'stly lowerthan the Piltdownman in the scaleof evolution,but in everycase definitely human.Many wereof higher grade,and a very few were the skulh of supremelyand sensitivelydevelopedtypes.All the boneswere gnawed,mostlyby rats,but somewhatby othersof the half-humandrove. Mixed with them were rnany tiny bonesof rats-fallen membersof the lethal armywhich closedthe ancientepic. I wonderthat anyman amongus lived andkepthis sanitythroughthat hideousday of discovery.Not Hoffman or Huysmanscould conceivea scene more wildly incredible, more frenetically repellent, or more Gothically grotesquethan the twilit grotto through which we seven
THE RATSIN THE WALLS
l5
staggered; eachstumblingon reveration afterrevelation,andtryingto keep for the noncefrom thinkingof the eventswhich,ouri t"nci.len ptrce therethreehundred,or a thousand,or two thousand,or ten thousandyears ago.Itwastheantechamber_of hell,andpoorThornionrainteJagain *t Tiask told him that someof the skeletonthings,nurt t uur-Jolendeden as quadrupeds throughthe last twentyor moregenerations. Horror piled on horror as we began to interpret the architecturar remains.The quadrupedthings-with their occasionalrecruitsfrom the bipedclass-hadbeenkept in stonepens,out of whichtr,eymurt t.u" brokenin their last delirium of hungeror rat-fear.Therehad beengreat herdsof them,evidentlyfattenedon the coarsevegetables whoseremains couldbefoundasa sortofpoisonous ensilage at thl bottomofhugestone bins older than Rome.I knew now why my ancestorshad had such excessivegardens-wouldto heavenI could forget!The purposeof the herdsI did not haveto ask. sir william,standingwith his searchlight in the Romanruin,translated aloudthe mostshockingritual I haveeverknown;and told of the diet of the antediluviancult which the priestsof cybelefoundandmingledwith their own.Norrys,usedashe wasto the trenches,couldnot wall straight when he cameout of the Englishbuilding.It wasa butchershopano kitchen-he had expectedthat-but it was too much to see familiar Englishimplementsin sucha place,and to readfamiliarEnglishgrafiiti there,someasrecentas1610.Icouldnotgoin thatbuilding-tlat building whosedemonactivitieswerestoppedonly by the daggerof my ancestor Walterde la Poer. what I did ventureto enter wasthe row saxonbuildingwhoseoaken door had fallen,and there I found a terrible row of ten stonecellswith rustybars.Threehadtenants,all skeletonsofhigh grade,andon the bony forefingerof oneI founda sealring with my owncoit-of-arms.sir william founda vault with far oldercellsbelowthe Romanchapel,but thesecells wereempty.Belowthem wasa low crypt with casesof formallyarranged bones,someof them bearingterribreparallelinscriptions.uru"d in Laiin, Greek,and the tongueof phrygia. Meanwhile,Dr. Traskhad openedone of the prehistorictumuli, and broughtto light skullswhichwereslightlymorehumanthana gorilla's,and whichboreindescribably ideographic carvings.Throughall this trorroiml cat stalkedunperturbed.once I saw him monstrouslyperchedatop a mountainof bones,andwonderedat the secretsthat might lie behindhis yelloweyes. Havinggraspedto someslight degreethe frightful revelationsof this twilit area-an areaso hideouslyforeshadowed by my recurrentdreamweturnedto that apparently boundless depthof midnightcavernwhereno
16
H' P' Lovecraft
never know what of light from the cliff could penetrate'We shall -rignir."r-savgian ray little distancewe went,for it was wortosvawnbeyond-tne decidedthatsuch'"''.t'arenotgoodformankind.Buttherewasplentyto searchlights u, .tose at hand,for we-hadnot gonefar beforethe il;;;; and feasted, had fats the pits which in showedthat accurseJinhnit' of army rodent ravenous the driven had *rt*. suddenlackof replenishment then to burstforth first to turn on *re rivingtrerdsof starvingthings,and will the peasants which i., ttt. priory in tnaf tristoricorgyof devastation neverforget' God!thosecarrionblackpitsofsawed,pickedbonesandopenedsku celtic, Those nightmare chasmschoked with the pithecanthropoid, of Some centuries! aiO gn$ish bonesof countlessunhallowed R;;;, others been. thennwerefull, and nonecan sayhow deepthey had once were still bottomlessto our searchlights,and peopledby unnamable traps fancies.what, I thought,of the haplessratsthat stumbledinto such amidstthe blacknesJoftheir questsin this grislyThrtarus? horribly yawningbrink, and I had a on.. my foot slipped,e.i " momentofecstaticfear.t must havebeenmusinga longtime, for I could not seeany of the partybut the plump capt. Norrys.Then therecamea soundfrom that inky,boundless,fartherdistancethat I thoughtI knew; andI sawmy old blackcatdartpastme like a wingedEgyptiangod,straight into the illimitablegulf of the unknown.But I wasnot far behind,for there wasno doubtafter anothersecond.It wasthe eldritchscurryingof those fiend-bornrats,alwaysquestingfor new horrors,and determinedto lead me on even unto thoie grinning cavernsof earth's center where Nyarlathotep,the madfacelessgod,howlsblindly in the darknessto the idiot flute-players. piping - -Mt of two amorphous searchlightexpired,but still I ran. I heardvoices,and yowls,and echoes,but aboveall theregentlyrosethat impious,insidiousscurrying; gentlyrising,rising,asa stiff bloatedcorpsegentlyrisesabovean oily river ihat flows underendlessonyx bridgesto a black,putrid sea' somethingbumpedinto me-somethingsoft andplump.It musthave ravenousarmythatfeaston the dead beenthe rats;the viscous,gelatinous, andthe living.... why shouldn'tratseat a de la Poeras a de la Poereats forbiddenthings?. . ' The waratemy boy,damnthemall ' ' ' andthe Yanks ate Carfax wiih flames and burned the GrandsireDelaporeand the secret.'..No'no,Itellyou,Iamnotthatdemonswineherdinthetwi grotto!It was notEdwaidNorrys'fatfaceon that flabbyfungousthing! ivho ruyr I am a de la Poer?He lived,but my boydied! . . . Shatta Norrys hold the landsof a de la Poer?. . . It's voodoo,I tell you. .'that spotted snake... . curse you, Thornton,I'll teachyou to faint at what my family 'Sblood,thou stinkard,I'll learnye how to gust. . . woldeye swynke do! . . .
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me thilke wys?. .. Magna Mater! Magna Mater!. . . Atys.. . Dia ad aghaidh's adaodaun. . .agus basdunachort! Dhonas'sdhotasort,agusleats a !. . . U n S l . .u. n g l... r r l h . . .c h c h c h . . . . _ That is what theysayI saidwhenthey foundme in the blackness after threehours; found me crouchingin the blacknessover the plump, halfeatenbody of capt. Norrys,with my own cat reapingand tiaring at my throat.Nowtheyhaveblownup Exhampriory,takenmy Nigger-Manaway from me, and shut me into this barredroom at Hanwellwith fearful whispersaboutmy heredityandexperience. Thorntonis in the next room, but they preventme from talkingto him. Theyaretrying,too, to suppress mostof the factsconcerningthe priory.when I speakof poorNorrysthey accuse me of a hideousthing,but theymustknowthatI didnot do it. They must knowit wasthe rats;the slitheringscurryingratswhosescampering will neverlet me sleep;the demonratsthat racebehindthe paddingin this roomandbeckonme downto greaterhorrorsthanI haveeverknown:,the rats they canneverhear; the rats,the rats in the walls.
TheWomanof the Wood A. Merritt
McKay sat on the balconyof the little inn that squattedlike a brown gnome among the pines on the easternshore of the lake. It was a small and lonely lake high up in the Vosges;and yet,lonely is not just the word with which to tag its spirit; rather was it aloof,withdrawn. The mountains came down on every side, making a great tree-lined bowl that seemed,when McKay first saw it, to be filled with the still wine of peace. McKay had worn the wings in the world war with honor,flying first with the French and later with his own country's forces.And as a bird loves the trees, so did McKay love them. llo him they were not merely trunks and roots, branchesand leaves;to him they were personalities.He was acutely awareof differencesin charactereven among the samespecies-that pine was benevolentand jolly; that one austereand monkish; there stood a
A. Merritt
swaggeringbravo,andtheredweltasagewrappedingreenmeditatio that birch wasa wanton-the birch nearher wasvirginal,still a'dream' Thewarhadsappedhim,nerveandbrainandsoul.Througlrallth y".,'tt'uttraopassedsincethenthewoundhadkeptopen.Butnow,ashe to him; ,no rri, car down the vastgreenbowl,he felt its spirit reachout He healing' him promising reachout to him and caressand quiet him, to be woods; seemedto drift like a falling leaf through the clustered cradledby gentlehandsof the trees. He hadsioppedat the little gnomeof an inn, andtherehe hadlingered' day after day,week after week. The treeshadnursedhim; soft whisperingsof leaves,slowchantof the then driven from him the re-echoing n.JtrO pines,had first deadened, The clamorof the war andits sorrorry. openwoundof his spirit hadclosed undertheir greenhealing;hadclosedandbecomescar;andeventhe scar hadbeencoveredandbuiied,asthe scarson Earth'sbreastarecoveredand buried beneaththe falling leavesof Autumn. The treeshad taid green' healinghandson his eyes,banishingthe picturesof war.He had sucked strengthfrom the greenbreastsof the hills' Yet asstrengthflowedbackto him andmind andspirit healed,McKay hadgrownsteadilyawarethat the placewastroubled;that its tranquillity wasnot perfect;that therewasfermentof fearwithin it. It was as though the treeshad waited until he himself had become whole beforethey madetheir own unrestknown to him. Now they were of trying to tell him something;therewasa shrillnessasof apprehension, angei in the whisperingof the leaves,the needledchantingof the pines. And it was this that had kept McKay at the inn-a definite of somethingwrong-something of appeal,consciousness consciousness wrongthat he wasbeingaskedto right.He strainedhis earsto catchwords in the rustlingbranches,wordsthat trembledon the brink of his human understanding. Neverdid theYcrossthat brink. Gradually he had orientatedhimself, had focusedhimself, so he believed,to the point of the valley'sunease. On all the shoresof the laketherewerebut two dwellings.Onewasthe confiding;friendly' inn, andaroundthe inn the treesclusteredprotectively, madeit part of had it, but It was as thoughthey had not only accepted themselves. Not sowasit of the otherhabitation.Onceit hadbeenthe huntinglodge of long-deadlords;now it washalf ruined,forlorn.It stoodaqossthe lake almosiexactlyoppositethe inn andbackuponthe slopea half mile from the shore.once therehadbeenfat fieldsaroundit and a fair orchard. The foresthadmarcheddownuponthem.Hereandtherein the fields,
THE WOMANOF THE WOOD
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scatteredpines and poplarsstoodlike soldiersguardingsome outpost; scoutingpartiesof saplingslurkedamongthe gauntandbrokenfruit trees. But the foresthad not had its way unchecked;raggedstumpsshowed where those who dwelt in the old lodge had cut down the invaders, blackenedpatchesof the woodlandshowedwhere they had fired the woods. Herewasthe conflict he hadsensed.Herethe greenfolk of the forest were both menacedand menacing;at war. The lodge was a fortress beleaguered by the woods,a fortresswhosegarrisonsalliedforth with axe and torch to taketheir toll of the besiegers. YetMcKaysensed pressing-in theinexorable of theforest;hesawit asa greenarmyeverfilling the gapsin its enclosing ranks,shootingits seeds into the clearedplaces,sendingits rootsout to sapthem; andarmedalways with a crushingpatience, a patiencedrawnfrom the stonebreastsof the eternalhills. He had the impressionof constantregardof watchfulness, as though night and day the forest kept its myriadsof eyes upon the lodge; inexorably,not to be swervedfrom its purpose.He had spokenof this impressionto the inn-keeperand his wife, and they had lookedat him oddly. "Old Polleaudoesnot lovethetrees,noi'the oldmanhadsaid."No. nor do his two sons.Theydo not lovethe trees-and verycertainlythe treesdo not lovethem." Betweenthe lodgeand the shore,marchingdown to the vergeof the lakewasa singularlybeautifullittle coppiceof silverbirchesandfirs. The coppicestretchedfor perhapsa quarterof a mile, wasnot more than a hundredfeetor two in depth,andit wasnot alonethe beautyof its trees but their curiousgroupingthat arousedMcKay'sinterestso vividly. At eachend of the coppicewerea dozenor more of the glisteningneedled firs, not clusteredbut spreadout as thoughin openmarchingorder; at widely spacedintervalsalongits other two sidespacedsinglefirs. The birches,slenderanddelicate,grewwithin the guardof thesesturdiertrees, yet not so thickly asto crowdeachother. ToMcKaythe silverbircheswerefor all the worldlike somegaycaravan of lovelydemoiselles underthe protectionof debonairknights.With that oddothersenseof his he sawthe birchesasdelectable damsels, merryand laughing-the pinesas lovers,troubadours in their green-needled mail. And when the windsblew and the crestsof the treesbent underthem,it pickedup fluttering,leafyskirts,bent wasas thoughdaintydemoiselles leafy hoodsand dancedwhile the knightsof the firs drew closerround them,lockedarmswith theirsanddancedwith them to the roaringhorns of the winds. At such times he almostheardsweetlaughterfrom the
22
A. Merritt
birches,shoutingsfrom the firs. Of ati ttretreei in that placeMcKaylovedbestthis little wood;he rowed acrossandrestedin its shade,haddreamedthereand,dreaming,hadheard ;;;; Jfil echoesof the sweetlaughter;evesclosed'hadheardmvsterious andthe soundof dancingfeetlight asfallingleaves;hadtaken wlhisperings dreamoraughtofthatgaietywhichwasthesoulofthelittlewood. And two daysagotre traoseenPolleauand his two sons.McKay had beendreaminginthe coppiceall that afternoon.As duskbeganto fall he had reluctantlyarisenand begunthe row backto the inn. When he had beena few hundredfeet from shorethree men had comeout from the treesand had stoodwatchinghim-three grim, powerfulmen taller than the averageFrenchPeasant. it; He hadcalleda friendlygreetingto them,but theyhadnot answered had sons the one of to his oars, again he bent as Then scowling. stoodthere, raiseda hatchetand had drivenit savagelyinto the trunk of a slim birch besidehim. He thoughthe hearda thin wailingcry from the strickentree,a sighfrom all the little wood. McKayhadfelt asthoughthe keenedgehadbitten into his own flesh. "Stopthat!" he hadcried,"Stopit, damnyou!" For answerthe sonhadstruckagain-and neverhadMcKayseenhate etchedso deepason his faceashe struck.Cursing,a killing ragein heart, he swungthe boataround,racedbackto shore.He hadheardthe hatchet strikeagainand againand,closenow to shore,hadhearda cracklingand overit oncemorethe thin, high wailing'He hadturnedto look' The birch wastottering,wasfalling.But asit hadfallen he hadseena curiousthing.Closebesideit grewone of the firs, and,asthe smallertree crashedover,it droppeduponthe fir like a faintingmaid in the armsof a lover.And asit lay andtrembledthere,oneof the greatbranchesof the fir slipped from under it, whipped out and smote the hatchet wielder a crushingblow upon the head,sendinghim to earth. It had been, of course,only the chanceblow of a bough, bent by asthat treeslippeddown.But pressureof the fallentreeandthen released actionin the branch'srecoil, conscious of suggestion therehadbeensuch in truth, had it beenlike the much, in it, so so much of bitter anger felt eeriepricklingof his scalp, had an vengefulblowof a manthat McKay his hearthadmissedits beat. For a momentPolleauandthe standingsonhadstaredat the sturdyfir with the silverybirch lying on its greenbreastandfoldedin, shieldedby,its needledbouglrsasthough-againthe swift impressioncameto McKayasthoughit werea woundedmaidstretchedon breast,in arms,of knightly lover.For a long momentfatherand sonhad stared' Then.still wordlessbut with that samebitter hatredon boththeir faces,
THE WOMANOF THE WOOD
23
they had stoppedand pickedup the other and with his armsaroundthe neck of eachhad bornehim limply away. McKay,sitting on the balconyof the inn that morning,went overand overthat scene;realizedmoreandmoreclearlythe humanaspectof fallen birch and claspingfir, and the consciousdeliberateness of the fir's blow. And during the two daysthat had elapsedsincethen, he had felt the uneaseof the treesincrease, theirwhispering appealbecamemoreurgent. Whatweretheytryingto tell him? Whatdid theywanthim to do? Troubled, he staredacross the lake,tryingto piercethe miststhathung overit andhid the oppositeshore.And suddenlyit seemedthat he heard the coppicecallinghim, felt it pull the point of his attentiontowardit irresistibly, asthe lodestone swingsandholdsthe compass needle. The coppicecalledhim, badehim cometo it. InstantlyMcKayobeyedthe command;he aroseand walkeddownto theboatlanding;hestepped intohis skiff andbeganto rowacross thelake. As his oarstouchedthe waterhis troublefell fromhim.In its placeflowed peaceanda curiousexaltation. Themistwasthickuponthe lake.Therewasno breathof wind,yet the mist billou,edand drifted.shookandcurtainedunderthe touchof unfelt airy hands. They were alive-the mists; they formedthemselves into fantastic palacespastwhoseopalescent facades he flew; thei built themselvesinto hills and valleysandcircledplainswhosefloorswereripplingsilk. Tiny gleamedout amongthem,anduponthe waterprismaticpatches rainbows shoneand spreadlike spilledwine of opals.He had the illusion of vast distances-thehillsof mistwerergalmountains, thevalleysbetween them werenot illusory.He wasa colossuscleavingthroughsomeelfin world.A trout broke,and it was like leviathanleapingfrom the fathomlessdeep. Aroundthe arcof its bodyrainbowsinterlacedandthendissolvedinto rain of softly gleaminggems-diamondsin dancewith sapphires,flamehearted rubies and pearls with shimmeringsouls of rose. The fish vanished, divingcleanlywithoutsound;thejewelledbowsvanishedwith it; a tiny irisedwhirlpoolswirledfor an instantwheretrout and flashing arcshadbeen. Nowherewas there sound.He let his oarsdrop and leanedforward, drifting. In the silence,beforehim and aroundhim, he felt openingthe gateways of an unknownworld. And suddenlyhe heardthe soundof voices,manyvoices;faint at first and murmurous;louderthey became,swiftly; women'svoicessweetand lilting andmingledwith them the deepertonesof men.Voicesthat lifted andfell in a wild, gaychantingthroughwhosejoyesse ran undertonesboth of sorrowandof rage-as thoughfaeryweaversthreadedthroughsilk spun
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A. Merritt
sombrestrandsdippedin the blackof gravesand crimson of sunbeams, strandsstainedin the red of wrathfulsunsets' soundbreak He drifted on, scarcedaringto breathelest eventhat faint theelfinsong.Closeritrang"nd.lea'"';andnowhebecameawaretha that it the speedof his boatwasinireasing,that it wasno longerdrifting; with ahead pushing him sidewere ttroughthe little r""urt on ;";; ""ctt the over along palms.His boatgroundedandasit rustled soft andnoiJeless smoothpebblesof the beachthe songceased' here McKayhalf aroseand peeredbeforehim. The mistswerethicker at it looking but he c-ouldsee the outlinesof the coppice.It was like it tougttmanycurtainsof fine gauze;its treesseemedshifting,ethereal, utre"l. And movingamongthe treeswerefiguresthat threadedthe boles of leafybouglrsswaying andflitted in rhythmic.eusut"s like the shadows wind' to somecadenced He steppedashoreand madehis way slowlytowardthem. The mists droppedbehindhim, shuttingoff all sightof shore' ihe rhythmicflittingsceased;therewasnowno movementastherewas no sound among thJ trees-yet he felt the little woods abrim with watchinglife. MJKay tried to speak;there wasa spell of silenceon his mouth. ..Youcalledme.I havecometo listento you-to helpyou if I can." The wordsformedwithin his mind, but utter them he couldnot. over and over he tried, desperately;the wordsseemedto die beforehis lips could givethem life. L pittarof mist whirledforwardandhalted,eddyinghalf an arm length away.And suddenlyout of it peereda woman'sface,eyeslevel with his own. A woman'sface-yes; but McKay,staringinto thosestrangeeyes probinghis, knew that facethoughit seemedit wasthat of no womanof itu*.n bt"ed.Theywerewithoutpupils,the irisesdeer'likeandof the soft greenof deepforestdells; within them sparkledtiny star pointsof light The eyeswerewideandsetfar apartbeneatha iike motesin a moonbeam. broad,low brow over which waspiled braidupon braid of hair of palest gold,6raidsthat seemedspunof shiningashesof gold.Her nosewassmall andstraight,her mouth scarletandexquisite.The facewasoval,tapering to a delicatelypointedchin. Beautifulwasthat face,but its beautywasan alienone; elfin. For long momentsthe strangeeyesthrusttheir gazedeepinto his.Then out of the mist two slenderwhite armsstole,the handslong,fingerstapering.The taperingfingerstouchedhis ears. the redlips. "He shallhearl'whispered Immediatelyfromall abouthim a cryarose;in it wasthe whisperingand rustlingof the leavesbeneaththe breathof the winds,the shrillingof the
THE WOMANOF THE WOOD
25
harpstringsof the boughs,the laughterof hidden brooks,the shoutingsof watersflinging themserves down io deepand rockypoors-the voicesof the woodsmadearticulate. "He shallhear!"theycried. The long white fingersrestedon his rips,and their touch wascooras barkof birch on cheekaftersomelong upwardcrimbthrough foresr;coor andsubtlysweet. "He shallspeak,"whisperedthe scarletlips. "He shallspeak!"answeredthe woodvoicesagain,asthough in litany. "He shallsee,"whisperedthe womanandthe cool'fingersiouctreo tris eyes. "He shallsee!"echoedthe woodvoices. The miststhat had hiddenthe coppicefrom McKaywavered,thinned andweregone.In their placewasa limpid, translucent, palelygreenether, faintlyluminous-asthoughhe stoodwithinsomeclearwanemerald. His feetpresseda goldenmossspangledwith tiny starrybluets.Fully revealed beforehim wasthe womanof the strangeeyesandthe faceof eliin beauty. He dwelt for a momentupon the slendershoulders,the firm small tiptilted breasts, the willowlithenessof her body.Fromneckto kneesa smock coveredher, sheerand silken and delicateas though spun of cobwebs; throughit her bodygleamedasthoughfire of the youngspringmoonran in her veins. Beyondheq uponthe goldenmosswereotherwomenlike her,manyof them; they staredat him with the'samewide-setgreeneyesin which dancedthe clouds of sparklingmoonbeammotes; like her they were crownedwith glistening,pallidlygoldenhair; like herstoo weretheir oval faceswith the pointedchins and perilouselfin beauty.only whereshe staredat him gravely,measuringhim, weighinghim-there werethoseof theseher sisterswhoseeyesweremocking;andthosewhoseeyescalledto him with a weirdlytinglingallure,their mouthsathirst;thosewhoseeyes lookeduponhim with curiosityaloneandthosewhosegreateyespleaded with him, prayedto him. within that pellucid,greenlyluminousair McKaywasabruptlyaware that the treesof the coppicestill hada place.only now they weiespectral indeed;theywerelike whiteshadows castathwartaglaucouiscreen;trunk and bough,twig andleaf they arosearoundhim and they wereasthough etchedin air by phantomcraftsmen-thin, unsubstantial; they wereghost treesrootedin anotherspace. suddenlyhe wasawarethat thereweremen amongthe women;men whoseeyesweresetwide apartasweretheirs,asstrangeandpupillessas weretheirsbut with irisesof brownandblue; men wittrpointedchinsand ovalfaces,broadshoulderedandcladin kirtlesof darkesigireen;swarthy-
26
A' Merritt
that samelittle graceof the skinnedmen, muscularand strong,with like them of a beautyalienandelfin' *o*tn-*d McKayheardalittlewailingcry.Heturned.Closebesidehimlayagi men.shelay uponhis green-clad claspedin the armsotone of tie swarthy, and hers were wrath' of flame breast.His eyes,n"tt nii.O with a blaik the birchold glimpse-of a roi-"nln.t*t McKayhad misted,anguished. fir. He saw the of polleau,sson had seni .r.st ing down into the boughs girl' an instant For and birchandfir asimmai.ti.iouUi'ntsaroundthe man scarlet-lipped The girl andmanandbirchandfir seemedoneandthe same' iotun touchedhis shoulder'andthe confusioncleared' o.Shewither';''igt'.ott'"*o'.n,andinhervoiceMcKayheardafaint ,Now is it not pitiful that shewithers-our rusti;; asof mournfulleaves. andso lovely?" sisterwho wasso young'so slender, white skin seemedshrunken;the girl. The the McKaylookedug.inlt moonradiancethatgleamedthroughthebodiesoftheothersinhersw body drooped.The dim and pallid; n"r-Jm arms hung listlessly;her green eyesdull. The misted and iong the parched, mouthtoo waswanand death-a slow on looked He dry' p"i"fv golden hair lustieless,and witheringdeath. who arm that struckher downwither!" the green'cladman "t'tu'it of as strumming " a savage heard heldher shouted,andin his voiceMcKay sun the wither.and heart his winter windsthroughbleakboughs:"May the windsscourge blasthim! May the iain andthe watersdenyhim and him!" the girl. "I thirstl'whisPered the watchingwomen'One cameforward was a stirring There "-o-ng greencrystal.She holdinga chalicethaiwas like thin leavesturnedto the trunk of one of the spectraltrees,reachedup anddrew paused-beside half-resentfuleyes downto her a branch.A slim girl with half-frightened, glidedto her sideandthrewher armsaroundthe ghostlybole.The woman an initf, tn, chalicebent the branchand cut it deepwith what seemed liquid flake of jade. From the wound a faintly opalescent arrow-shaped stepped slowlyfitteOttre,up. \Vhrn it wasfilled the womanbesideMcKay she branch' the bleeding around hands forwardandpressedher own,long to flow' She riepp.O awayand McKay saw that the streamhad ceased arms' her girl unclasped and touchedthe trembling little sister' "It is healedl'saidltLwomangently.'Andit wasyourturn forgotten'" you have will The woundis healed.Soon lips of her The womanwith the chaiiceknelt andset it to the wan,dry The misty who was-withering'Shedrankof it, thirstily,to the lastdrop. palegrew parchedand eyescleared,theysJarkled;the lipsthathadbeenso hadbeenfed with light waning the red,the white UoOV Jieamedasthough new.
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"sing' sisters,"shecried,andshrilly."Dancefor me.sisters!" Againburstout that chantMcKayhadheardashe hadfloatedthrough the mistsuponthe lake.Now,asthen,despitehis openedears,he courd distinguishno words,but clearlyhe understood its mingledthemes-the joy of spring'sawakening, rebirth,with the greenlife stre-aming singingup througheverybough,swellingthebuds,burgeoning with tendJrleavesthe branches; thedanceof thetreesin thescented windsof spring;thedrums of the jubilant rain on leafy hoods;passionof summei sun-pouringits goldenflood downuponthe trees;the moonpassingwith rt.t"iy stepand slow and greenhandsstretchingup to her and drawingfrom irer breast milk of silver fire; riot of wild, gay winds.withtheir mad pipingsand strummings;-softinterlacingof boughs,the kissof amorousleaves-all theseand more,much more that McKaycouldnot understand sinceit dealtwith hidden,secretthingsfor whichmanhasno images,werein that chanting. And all theseand more were in the measures,the rhythms of the dancingof thosestrange,green-eyed womenand brown-skinned men; somethingincrediblyancient yet young as the speedingmoment, somethingof a world beforeand beyondman. McKaylistened,McKaywatched,lostin wonder;his own worldmore than half forgotten;his mind meshedin webof greensorcery. The womanbesidehim touchedhis arm.Shepointedto the girl. "Yetshewithers,"shesaid.'And not all our life,if wepouredit through her lips,couldsaveher." He looked;he sawthat the red wasdrainingslowlyfrom the girl's lips, the luminouslife tideswaning;the'eyesthat had beenso bright were mistingandgrowingdull oncemore,suddenlya greatpity anda greatrage shookhim. He knelt besideheqtookher handsin his. "Thkethem away!Thkeawayyour hands!Theyburn me!" shemoaned. "He tries to helpyou," whisperedthe green-clad man,gently.But he reachedoverand drew McKay'shandsaway. "Not so canyou help her,"saidthe woman. "what canI do?" McKayarose,looked helplesslyfrom oneto the other. "What canI do to help?" The chantingdied,the dancestopped.A silencefell andhe felt upon him the eyesof all. Theyweretense-waiting.The womantook his hands. Their touch wascool and sent a strangesweetness sweepingthroughhis veins. "Therearethreemenyonder,"shesaid."They hateus.soonweshallbe assheis there-withering.Theyhaveswornit, andastheyhaveswornso will theydo.Unless-" she paused;and McKay felt the stirringsof a curiousunease.The
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to tiny sparklingsof moonbeamdancingmotesin her eyeshad changed sparklings' red ;;;. i; u *"v, deeploo'n, thev terrihedhim-those ..Threemen?,,.intrisclouoedmindwasthememoryofPolleauand are ti, i"o sirongsons."Three menl' he repeated,stupidly-"But.what those against do it i", ."n to iou whoaresomany?Whatcouldthreemen gallantsof Yours?" stalwart ---;.1[;'-stre do; shoof-herhead."No-there is nothingour-men-can feargay'Now we nothingthat we canOo.Onr., night and day,we were us. And our warned have kin Our us. t iO day.Theymeanto destioy Against flame. and blade of "igt masters are [ii ."nnot fretpus.Thosethree bladeand flame we arehelPless." ..Bladeand flame!" echoedthe listeners.'Againstbladeand flame we arehelpless." ..Suielywill they destroyusl'murmured the woman."We shallwither all of us.Like her there,or burn-unless-" pressedher suddenlyshethrewwhite armsaroundMcKay'sneck.she lips and his found and tittreboov closeto him. Her scarletmouth sought green flames, clung to itt"-. Througfiall McKay'sbody ran swift, sweet him. to her fire of desire.His own armswent roundher,crushed you shallnot!'" "You shallnot die!" he cried."No-by God, Shedrew backher head,lookeddeepinto his eyes' .'TheyhavesworntOdestroyusl' shesaid,"and soon.With bladeand flametheywill destroyus-these three-unless-" "Unless?"he asked,fiercelY. "Unlessyou-slay themfirst!" sheanswered' A cold shockran throughMcKay,chilling the greensweetfires of his desire.He droppedhis arm from aroundthe woman;thrusther from him. For an instantshetrembledbeforehim. "Slay!" he heardher whisiler-and she wasgone.The spectraltrees The wavered;their outlinesthickenedout of immaterialityinto substance' as moment vertiginous a swift had He green translucencedarkened. vertigo The eyes. his closed He worlds, two itrougtrhe swungbetween passedand he openedthem,lookedaroundhim' McKaystoodon the lakewardskirtsof the little coppice.Therewereno shadowsflitting, no signof the white womenandthe swarthy,green-clad men.His feetwereon greenmoss;gonewasthe softgoldencarpetwith its wasa bluestarlets.Birchesandfirs clusteredsolidlybeforehim. At his.left was withering.It lay tree sturdyfir in whoseneedledarmsa brokenbirch an instant dow1. polleau's slashed menhadsowantonly the birchthat !'or tttt fir and birch the immaterialoutlinesof the green'clad il;il;iahin andgirl man andthe slim girl who withered.For that instantbirch andfir hands his and back, and man seemedone and the same.He stepped
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touchedthe smooth,coolbark of anotherbirchthat rosecloseat his right. upon his handsthe touch of that bark was like-was like?-yes, curiouslywasit like the touchof the longslim handsof the womanof the scarletlips.But it gavehim noneof thatalienrapture,thatpulseof green life her touchhadbrought.yet, now asthen,the toucirsteadiedhim. The outlinesof girl andmanweregone.He lookeduponnothingbut a sturdyfir with a witheringbirchfalleninto its branches. McKay stoodthere,staring,wondering,like a man who has but half awakened from dream.And suddenlya little wind stirredthe leavesof the roundedbirchbesidehim. The leavesmurmured,sighed.The wind grew strongerand the leaveswhispered. "Slay!"he heardthemwhisper-andagain:,,Slay!Helpus! Slay!" And the whisperwasthe voiceof the womanof the scarletlips! Rage,swift and unreasoning, sprangup in McKay.He beganto run up throughthe coppice,up to wherehe knewwasthe old lodgein whichdwelt Polleauandhis sons.And ashe ran the wind blewstronger, andlouderand loudergrewthe whisperingsof the trees. "Slay!"theywhispered. "Slaythem!Saveus! Slay!" "I will slay!I will saveyou!" McKay,panting,hammerpulsebeatingin his ears,rushingthroughthe woodsheardhimselfansweringthat ever louder,ever more insistent command.And in his mind was but one desire-to clutchthe throatsof Polleauandhis sons,to cracktheirnecks; to standby themthenandwatchthemwither;witherlike thatslimgirl in the armsof the green-clad man. Socrying,he cameto the edgeof the coppiceandburstfromit out into a flood of sunshine.For a hundredfeet he ran.and then he wasawarethat the whisperingcommandwas stilled; that he heard no more that maddeningrustlingof wrathfulleaves.A spellseemedto havebeenloosed from him; it wasas thoughhe had brokenthroughsomeweb of sorcery. McKaystopped, droppeduponthe ground,buriedhis facein the grasses. He lay there,marshallinghis thoughtsinto someorderof sanity.What hadhe beenaboutto do? To rush berserkuponthosethreewho lived in the old lodgeand-kill them!And for what?Because that elfin, scarletlippedwomanwhosekisseshe still couldfeel uponhis mouthhad bade him! Because the whisperingtreesof the little woodhadmaddened him with that samecommand! And for this he hadbeenaboutto kill threemen! What were that womanand her sistersand the green-cladswarthy gallantsof theirs?Illusionsof somewakingdream-phantomsbornof the hypnosisof the swirlingmists throughwhich he had rowedand floated acrossthe lake?suchthingswerenot uncommon.McKayknewof those whoby watchingtheshiftingcloudscouldcreateanddwellfor a timewith
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knew otherswho wide open eyeswithin somesimilar land of fantasy; within a neededbut to stareat smoothlyfalling waterto set themselves by dreams summon could who those world of wakingdream;therewere of saucers phantoms in their found g""lng i"t" Uiff of crystal,others " ebonink. shining --fingersupon itiiirtinot the movingmistshavelaidthosesamehypnotic that he had appeal of the sense hiso;'n mind-and his-lovefor the trees birchhave the slim of felt solongandhis memoryof the wantonslaughter phantasms he the all combiriedto paint upon nit druggedconsciousness hadbeheld? Then in the flood of sunshinethe spellhadmelted,his consciousness leapedawake? ivtct
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"Yes,M'sieu?"therewasacidpoliteness nowin thepowerfuloldman's voice."But is it permittedto askwhy youdo not remainat the inn? Its fare is excellentand you arewell liked there." "I havedesireto be alone,"repliedMcKay.'oIdo not like peopletoo closeto me.I wouldhavemy ownland,andsleepundermy ownroofl' "But why cometo me?" askedPolleau."Therearemanyplacesupon thefar sideof thelakethatyoucouldsecure. It is happythere,andthisside is not happy,M'sieu. But tell me, what part of my land is it that you desire?" "That little woodyonder,"answered McKay,andpointedto the coppice. 'Ah! I thoughtso!" whispered Polleau, andbetweenhim andhis sons passeda look of bitter understanding. He lookedat McKay,sombrely. "That woodis not for sale,M'sieuj'he saidat last. "I can afford to pay well for what I want,"saidMcKay."Name your price." "It is not for sale,"repeated Polleau, stolidly,"at anyprice." "Oh, come,"laughedMcKay,althoughhis heartsankat the finalityin that answer."You havemanyacresand what is it but a few trees?I can affordto gratifymy fancies.I will giveyou all the worthof your otherland for it." "You haveaskedwhat that placethat you so desireis, and you have answeredthat it is but a few trees,"saidPolleau,slowly,and the tall son behind him laughed,abruptly,maliciously. "But it is more than that, M'sieu- Oh,muchmorethanthat.And youknowit, elsewhy wouldyou paysuchprice?Yes,youknowit-since youknowalsothatwearereadyto destroyit, andyou wouldsaveit. And who told you all that,M'sieu?"he snarled. There was such malignancein the face thrust suddenlyclose to McKay's,teethbaredby upliftedlip, that involuntarilyhe recoiled. "But a few trees!"snarledold Polleau."Then who told him what we meanto do-eh, Pierre?" Againthe son laughed.And at that laughterMcKay.feltwithin him resurgence of his ownblind hatredashe hadfled throughthe whispering wood.He masteredhimself,turnedaway,therewasnothinghe coulddonow.Polleauhaltedhim. "M'sieu,"he said,"Wait.Enter.Thereis somethingI wouldtell you; somethingtoo I wouldshowyou.Something, perhaps,that I wouldask you." He stoodaside,bowingwith a roughcourtesy.McKay walkedthrough the doorway.Polleauwith his son followedhim. He entereda large,dim roomwhoseceilingwasspannedwith smoke-blackened beams.Fromthese beamshungonionstringsandherbsandsmoke-cured meats.On oneside
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He glanced wasa widefireplace.Huddledbesideit satPolleau'sotherson. of his up ustt ev enteredandMcKaysawthat a bandagecoveredone_side cut had who one the as him recognized t."0, rrioinghis left eye.McKay certain a with reflected he fir, the down the itim Uirctr.'Theblow of hadbeenno futile one. satisfaction, Old Polleaustrodeoverto that son' "Look, M'sieul'he saidandlifted the bandage' socket,red McKaywith a faint tremorof horror,sawa gapingblackened rimmedandeyeless. "Good God,Potteau!"he cried."But this manneedsmedicalattention' I knowsomethlngof wounds.Let me goacrossthe lakeandbringbackmy kit.I will attendhim." Old Polleaushookhis head,althoughhis grim facefor the first time backin place. He drewthe bandages softened. ..It heals,"he said."we havesomeskill in suchthings.Yousawwhatdid it. Youwatchedfrom your boatasthe cursedtreestruckhim. The eyewas crushedand lay uponhis cheek.I cut it away.Now he heals.we do not needyour aid,M'sieu." "Yet he ought not have cut the birch," muttered McKay' more to himselfthan to be heard. fiercely,"Sinceit hatedhim'" "Why not?" askedold Polleau, this old peasantknow? The words what did McKay staredat him. that what he had seenand conviction strengthenedthat deepstubborn heardin the coppicehad beenactuality-no dream.And still more did Polleau'snext wordsstrengthenthat conviction. a sort'Thewood "M'sieu,"he said,"you comehereasambassador-of you. Fourcenturies I shallspeakto hasspokento you.Well,asambassador my peoplehavelived in this place.A centurywe haveownedthis land. M'sieu,in all thoseyearstherehasbeenno momentthat the treeshavenot hatedus-nor we the trees. "For all thosehundredyearstherehavebeenhatredandbattlebetween us and the forest.My father,M'sieu, was crushedby a tree; my elder that he was'was brothercrippledby another.My father'sfather,woodsman lost in the forest-he camebackto us with mind gone,ravingof wood womenwho hadbewitchedandmockedhim,luringhim into swampand the treeshave fenandtangledthicket,tormentinghim.In everygeneration takentheirloil of us-women aswell asmen-maimingor killing us." ,Accidentsl'interrupted Youcannot McKay."This is childish,Polleau. trees:' the blame ,,In yourheartyOudo not believeso,"saidPolleau. "Listen,the feudis were serfs,slavesof the we when began ago it an ancientone.Centuries pick up the fagots, let us they in winter, warm nobles.To cook,to keepus
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the deadbranchesand twigs that droppedfrom the trees.But if we cut downa treeto keepus warm,to keepour womenandour childrenwarm. yes,if we but toredowna branch-theyhangedus,or theythrewus into dungeons to rot,or whippedus till our backswereredlattices. "Theyhadtheirbroadfields,the nobles-butwemustraiseour foodin the patcheswhere the treesdisdainedto grow'And if they did thrust themselves into our poorpatches, then,M'sieu,we must let them have their way-or be flogged,or be throwninto the dungeons or be hanged. "They pressedus in-the trees,"the old man'svoicegrewsharpwith fanatichatred."They stole our fields and they took the food from the mouthsof our children;they droppedtheir fagotsto us like dole to beggars; theytemptedus to warmthwhenthecoldstruckour bones-and theyboreus asfruit a-swingat the endof the foresters'ropesif we yielded to their tempting. "Yes,M'sieu-we diedof coldthattheymightlive!Ourchildrendiedof hungerthat their youngmight find root space!They despisedus-the trees!Wediedthat theymightlive-and we weremen!" "Then,M'sieucamethe Revolutionandthefreedom.Ah, M'sieu,then we tookour toll! Greatlogsroaringin the wintercold-no morehuddling overthe almsof fagots.Fieldswherethe treeshadbeen-no morestarving of our childrenthat theirsmightlive.Nowthe treeswerethe slavesandwe the masters. 'And the treesknewandtheyhatedus! o'Butblowfor blow,a hundredof their livesfor eachlife of ours-we havereturnedtheir hatred.With axeand torch we havefoughtthemeyesblazingred rage,face "The trees!"shriekedPolleau,suddenly, writhing,foamat the cornersof his mouthandgrayhair clutchedin rigid hands- "The cutsedtrees!Armies of the treescreeping-creepingcloser,evercloser-crushingus in! Stealingour fieldsastheydid of old! Buildingtheir dungeonroundusastheybuilt of old the dungeonsof stone! Creeping-creeping! Armies of trees!Legionsof trees!The trees!The cursedtrees!" McKaylistened,appalled. Herewascrimsonheartof hate.Madness! But whatwasat the root of it? Somedeepinheritedinstinct,comingdown from forefatherswho hadhatedthe forestasthe symbolof their masters. Forefatherswhose tides of hatred had overflowedto the green life on which the nobleshadlaid their tabu-as oneneglectedchild will hatethe favoriteon whom loveand gifts arelavished?In suchwarpedminds the crushingfall of a tree,the maimingsweepof a branch,mightwellappearas the naturalgrowthof the forestseemthe implacableadvanceof deliberate, an enemy. And yet-the blowof the fir as the cut birchfell hadbeendeliberate!
A. Merritt and there had been those women of the wood'lPatience."the standingson touchedthe old man's shoulder."Patience! Soon we strike our blow." Some of the frenzy died out of Polleau'sface' Though we cut down a hundredl'he whispered,"By the hundred they return! But one of us,when they strike-he doesnot return' No! They have numbers and they have-time. We are now but three, and we have little time. They watch us as we go through the forest,alert to trip, to strike, to crush! ,,But M'sieu," he turned bloodshot eyesto McKay. "We StrikeOur blow, even as Pierre has said.we strike at the coppicethat you so desire.we strikethere becauseit is the very heartof the forest.Therethe secretlife of the forest runs at full tide. we know-and you know! something that, destroyed,will takethe heart out of the forest-will makeit know us for its mastgrs." "The women!" the standing son's eyes glittered, "I have seen the women there! The fair women with the shining skins who invite-and mock and vanish beforehandscan seizethem'" "The fair women wno peer into our windows in the night-and mock us!" muttered the eyelessson. "They shall mock no more!" shouted Polleau'the frenzy againtaking him. "Soon they shall lie, dying! All of them-all of them! They die!" He caughtMcKay by the shoulders,shook him like a child. "Go tell them that!" he shouted."Say to them that this very day we destroythem. Sayto them it is wewho will laugh when winter comesand we watch their round white bodiesblazein this hearth of ours and warm us! Go-tell them that!" He spun McKay around,pushedhim to the door,openedit and flung him staggeringdown the steps.He heardthe tall son laugh,the door close. Blind with ragehe rushedup the stepsand hurled himself againstthe door. Again the tall son laughed.McKay beat at the door with clenchedfists, cursing. The three within paid no heed. Despair began to dull his rage. could the trees help him-counsel him? He turned and walked slowly down the lield path to the little wood. Slowly and ever more slowly he went as he nearedit. He had failed. He wasa messengerbearinga warrantof death.The bircheswere motionless; their leaveshung listlessly.It was as though they knew he had failed. He pausedat the edgeof the coppice.He lookedat his watch,noted with faint surprisethat alreadyit was high noon. Short shrift enough had the little wood.The work of destructionwould not be long delayed. McKay squaredhis shouldersand passeoin betweenthe trees.It was strangelysilent in the coppice.And it was mournful. He had a senseof life
THE WOMANOF THE WOOD broodingaroundhim, withdrawninto itself; sorrowing.He passedthrough the silent, mournful wood until he reachedthe spot where the rounded, gleaming barked tree stood close to the fir that held the withering birch. still there was no sound,no movement.He laid his hands upon the cool bark of the rounded tree. "Let me see again!" he whispered."Let me hear! Speakto me!" Therewasno answer.Again and againhe called.The coppicewassilent. He wandered through it, whispering, calling. The slim birches stood, passivewith limbs and leavesadrooplike listlessarmsand handsof captive maids awaitingwith dull woe the will of conquerors.The firs seemedto crouchlike hopelessmen with headsin hands.His heart achedto the woe that filled the little wood, this hopelesssubmissionof the trees. When, he wondered,would Polleaustrike.He lookedat his watchagain; an hour had gone by. How long would Polleau wait? He dropped to the moss,back againsta smooth bole. And suddenlyit seemedto McKay that he was a madman-as mad as Polleauand his sons.Calmly,he went over the old peasant'sindictment of the forest;recalledthe faceand eyesfilled with the fanatichate.Madness! After all, the trees were-only trees. Polleau and his sons-so he reasoned-had transferredto them the bitter hatredtheir forefathershad felt for those old lords who had enslavedthem; had laid upon them too all the bitternessof their own struggleto exist in this high forestland.When they struck at the trees,it wasthe ghostsof theseforefathersstriking at the nobleswho had oppressedthem; it was themselvesstriking againsttheir own destiny. The trees were but symbols. It was the warped minds of Polleauand his sonsthat clothedthem in falsesemblanceof consciouslife in blind striving to wreak vengeanceagainstthe ancientmastersand the destiny that had made their lives hard and unceasingbattle againstNature. The nobles were long dead; destiny can be brought to grips by no man. But the treeswerehere and alive.Clothedin mirage,throughthem the driving lust for vengeancecould be sated. And he, McKay, was it not his own deep love and sympathyfor the trees that similarly had clothedthem in that falsesemblanceof consciouslife? Had he not built his own mirage?The treesdid not reallymourn, could not suffer, could not-know. It was his own sorrow that he had transferred to them; only his own sorrow that he felt echoing back to him from them. The treeswere-only trees. Instantly,upon the heelsof that thought,asthough it werean answer,he was awarethat the trunk againstwhich he leanedwas trembling; that the whole coppice was trembling; that all the little leaves were shaking, tremulously. McKay,bewildered,leapedto his feet. Reasontold him that it was the
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wind-yet therewasno wind! werc And ashe stoodthere,a sighingaroseasthougha mournfulbreeze wind! no was there again blowingthroughthe trees-and Louier gte* ttte sighingand within it now faint wailings' ,.Theyc6me!Theylorne! Farewellsisters!Sisters-farewell! " whispers. Clearlyhe heardthe mournful McKay beganto run throughthe treesto the trail that led out to the fieldsof itre otOlodge.And aJhe tan the wooddarkenedasthoughclear shadowsgatheredin it, asthoughvastunseenwingshoveredoverit. The tremblinf of the coppiceincreased;boughtouchedbough,clungto each other; and louderbecamethe sorrowfulcrying: "Farewellsister!Sister!-farewell!" McKay burst out into the open.Halfwaybetweenhim and the lodge were poileau and his sons. They saw him; they pointed and lifted waitingfor themto come,all mockinglyto him brightaxes.He crouched, fine-spuntheoriesgoneandrisingwithin him that sameragethat hours beforehad sent him out to stay' so crouching,he heardfrom the forestedhills a roaringclamor.From everyquarterii came,wrathful,menacing;like the voicesof legionsof greattreesbellowingthroughthe hornsof tempest.The clamormaddened McKay; fannedthe flame of rageto white heat' If the three men heardit, they gaveno sign.They cameon steadily' jeeringat him, wavingtheir keenblades.He ran to meetthem. "Go back!"he shouted."Go back,Polleau!I warnyou!" "He warnsus!" jeeredPolleau."He-Pierre, Jean-he warnsus!" arm shot out andhis handcaughtMcKay'sshoulder The old peasant's pinched grip to the bone.The arm flexed and hurled him that with a againstthe unmaimedson.The son caughthim, twistedhim aboutand whirledhim headlonga dozenyards,crashinghim throughthe brushat the skirt of the wood. McKaysprangto his feet howlinglike a wolf.The clamorof the forest hadgrownstronger. "Kill!" it roared."Kill!" The unmaimedson had raisedhis axe.He broughtit down upon the trunk of a birch,half splittingit with oneblow.McKayhearda wail go up from the little wood.Beforethe axecouldbe withdrawnhe hadcrasheda Iist in the axe wielder'sface.The headof Polleau'sson rockedback; he yelped,and beforeMcKay could strike againhad wrappedstrongarms aroundhim, crushingbreathfrom him. McKayrelaxed,wentlimp, andthe sonloosenedhis grip.InstantlyMcKayslippedout of it andstruckagain, sonwasquicker clasp.Polleau's springingasideto avoidthe rib-breaking thanhe,the longarmscaugtrthim. But asthearmstightened,therewasthe
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sound of sharp splintering and the. birch into which the axe had bitten toppled. [t struck the ground directly behind the wrestling men. Its branchesseemedto reach out and clutch at the feet of polleai,s son. He tripped and fell backward,McKay upon him. The shock of the fall broke his grip and again McKay writhed free. Again he was upon his feet, and again Polleau'sstrong son, quick as he, faced him. Twice McKay's blows found their mark beneathhis heart before once more the long arms trapped him. But their grip was weaker; McKay felt that now his strength was equal. Round and round they rocked,McKay straining to breakaway..Theyfell, and over they rolled and over,arms and legs locked, each striving to free a hand to grip the other's throat. Around them ran polleauand the one-eyed son, shouting encouragementto Pierre, yet neither daring to strike at McKay lest the blow miss and be taken by the other. And all that time McKay heard the little wood shouting. Gone from it now was all mournfulness,all passiveresignation.The wood was alive and raging. He saw the trees shake and bend as though torn by a tempest. Dimly he realizedthat the othersmust hear none of this, seenone of it; as dimly, wonderedwhy this should be. "Kill!" shoutedthe coppice-and over its tumult he heard the roar of the great forest: "Kill! Kill!" He becameaware of two shadowyshapes,shadowyshapesof swarthy green-cladmen, that pressedclose to him as he rolled and fought. "Kill!" they whispered."Let his blood flow! Kill! Let his blood flow!" He tore a wrist free from the son's clutch. Instantly he felt within his hand the hilt of a knife. "Kill!" whisperedthe shadowymen. "Kill!" shriekedthe coppice. "Kill!" roaredthe forest. McKay's free arm swept up and plunged the knife into the throat of Polleau'sson! He heard a choking sob; heard Polleaushriek; felt the hot blood spurt in face and over hand; smelt its salt and faintly acrid odor.The encircling arms dropped from him; he reeled to his feet. As though the blood had been a bridge, the shadowymen leapedfrom immateriality into substances.One threw himself upon the man McKay had stabbed; the other hurled upon Polleau.The maimed son turned and fled, howling with terror. A white woman sprang out from the shadow, threw herself at his feet, clutched them and brought him down. Another woman and another droppedupon him. The note of his shrieking changed from fear to agony; then died abruptly into silence. And now McKay could seenone of the three, neither old polleau or his
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sons,forthegreen-cladmenandthewhitewomencoveredthem! foresthad McKaystoodstupidly,staringat his redhands.Theroarof the joy. The with mad was .fr*grJ io a deeptiiumphalclianting.The coppice they air as becomethin phantomsetchedin emeraldtranslucent trees-had around hadbeenwhenfirst thl greensorceryhadenmeshedhim. And all wood' him woveand dancedthi slim, gleamingwomenof the jubilant.Beyond They ringedhim, their so',g bi'd.'*"eet and shrill; pillars whose them he saw gliding towardhim the womanof the misty were kisseshad pouredthe sweetgreenfire into his veins.Her arms wideeyeswererapton his,herwhitebody to him,herstrange outstretched her red lips werepartedandsmiling-a radiance, gleamedwith the moon The dancing ecstasies. promise of undreamed the icarletchalicefilled with through. her let circle,chanting,broketo Abruptlg a-horror filled McKay.Not of this fair woman,not of her jubilantsisters-butof himself. He hadkilledlAnd thewoundthewarhadleft in hissoul,thewoundhe thoughthadhealed,had opened. HJ rushedthroughthe brokencircle,thrust the shiningwomanaside towardthe lakeshore,The handsandran,weeping, with his blood-stained little criesof pity; He heardlittle cries,tender,appealing; singingceased. softuoicescallingon him to stop,to return.Behindhim wasthe soundof little racingfeet,light asthe fall of leavesupon the moss. McKay ran on. The coppicelightened,the beachwasbeforehim. He heardthe fair womancall him, felt the touch of her hand upon his shoulder.He did not heedher.He ran acrossthe narrowstrip of beach, thrust his boatout into the waterand wadingthroughthe shallowsthrew himselfinto it. He laytherefor a moment,sobbing;thendrewhimselfup,caughtat the oars.He lookedbackat the shoreno\ila scoreof feetaway.At the edgeof the coppicestood the woman,staringat him with pitying, wise eyes. Behindher clusteredthe whitefacesof her sisters,the swarthyfacesof the green-clad men. ..comeback!"the womanwhispered, andheldou! to him slenderarms. in that clear,wise,pitying gaze' lessening horror McKay hesitated,his gaze uponhis blood-stained dropped He half i*ung the boataround.His thought only was in his handsand againthe hysteriagrippedhim. one throatripped his lay with mind-to getfar awayfrom wherePolleau'sson and him. open,to put the lakebetweenthat body Headbent low, McKay bowedto the oars,skimmingswiftly outward. Whenhe lookedup a curtainof mist hadfallenbetweenhim andthe shore. It hid the coppiceand from beyondit there cameto him no sound'He glancedbehind him, back towardthe inn. The mists swungthere,too, concealingit.
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McKay gavesilent thanks for thesevaporouscurtains that hid him from both the dead and the alive. He slipped limply under the thwarts. After a while he leaned over the side of the boat and, shuddering,washed the blood from his hands.He scrubbedthe oar bladeswhere his iands had left red patches.He rippedthe lining out of his coatand drenchingit in the lake he cleansedhis face. He took off the stainedcoat, wrappeoit *ith th. lining round the anchor stone in the skiff and sunk it in itre lake. There were other stainsupon his shirt; but thesehe would have to let be. For a time he rowedaimlessly,finding in the exertion a lesseningof his soul sickness.His numbed mind beganto function, analyzinghis ptight, planning how to meet the future-how to savehim. what ought he do? confess that he had killed polleau's son? what reasoncould he give? only that he had killed becausethe man had been about to cut down sometrees-trees that werehis father'sto do with ashe willed! And if he told of the wood woman, the wood women, the shadowy shapesof their greengallantswho had helped him-who would believe? They would think him mad-mad as he half believedhimself to be. No, none would believehim. None! Nor would confessionbring back life to him he had slain.No; he would not confess. But stay-another thought came! Might he not be-accused? What actually happened to old Polleau and his other son? He had taken it for grantedthat they were dead;that they had died under thosebodieswhite and swarthy.But had they? while the green sorceryhad meshedhim he had held no doubt of this-else why the jubilance of the little wood. the triumphant chantingof the forest? Werethey dead-Polleau and the one-eyedson?Clearlyit cameto him that they had not heardas he had,had not seenas he had.To them McKay and his enemyhad beenbut two men battlingin a woodlandglade;nothing more than that-until the last! until the last? Had they seen more than that even then? No, all that he could depend upon as real was that he had ripped out the throat of one of old Polleau'ssons.That was the one unassailableverity. He had washed the blood of that man from his hands and his face. All else might have been mirage-but one thing was true. He had murderedPolleau'sson! Remorse?He had thought that he had felt it. He knew now that he did not; that he had no shadowofremorse for what he had done.It had been panic that had shakenhim, panic realizationof the strangenesses, reaction from the battle lust, echoesof the war. He had been justified in thatexecution.what right had those men to destroythe little wood; to wipe wantonly its beauty away?
40
A. Merrltt
None! He wasgladtht he hadkilled! AtthatmomentMcKaywouldgladlyhaveturnedhisboatandraced But the .*.f to drink of the crimsonchaliceof the woodwoman'slips. inn' .iri, ,"rr. raising.He sawthat he was closeto the landingof the those of last the to time Lemove his was Therewasno one about.Now accusingstains.After thatthe skiff,slippedunseento his room.He Quiclly he drewup,fastened Thensuddensleepsweptoverhim like lockid the door,startedto undress. downinto oceandepthsof sleep' a wave,drewhim helplessly A knockingat the door awakenedMcKay,and the innkeeper'svoice summonedhim to dinner.Sleepily,he answered,and as the old man's footstepsdiedaway,he rousedhimself.His eyesfell uponhis shirt andthe greatstainsnow rusty brown.Puzzled,he staredat them for a moment, then full memoryclickedbackin place. He walkedto the windowIt wasdusk.A wind wasblowingandthe trees weresinging, -Gon"all the little leavesdancing;the foresthummeda cheerful tnut all the unease,all the inarticulatetroubleandthe fear. vespers. The forestwastranquiland it washappy. He soughtthe coppicethroughthe gatheringtwilight.Its demoiselles weredancinglightlyin the wind,leafyhoodsdipping,leafyskirtsablow. Besidethem marchedthe green troubadours,carefree,waving their needledarms.Gay wasthe little woOd,gayas when its beautyhad first drawnhim to it. hid the stainedshirt in his travellingtrunk, bathed McKayundressed, put sauntereddown to dinner.He ate excellently. a fresh outfit, on and his mind that he felt no regret,no sorrow crossed then now and Wonder Half he wasinclinedto believeit all a he had killed. even,for the man to thinkof did dream-solittle of anyemotion he feel.He hadevenceased mightmean. whatdiscovery His mind wasquiet; he heardthe forestchantingto him that therewas nothing he needfear; and when he sat for a time that night upon the balconya peacethat was half an ecstasystole in upon him from the murmuringwoodsand enfoldedhim. cradledby it he sleptdreamlessly. McKaydid not gofar from the inn that next day.Thelittle wooddanced to wait, whispered gailyandbeckoned him,buthe paidno heed.something lain had lay or io keepthe lakebetweenhim andit until wordcameof what there.And the peacestill wason him. only the old innkeeperseemedto growuneasyasthe hourswentby.He went often to the landing,scanningthe further shore. ..It is strangei'hesaidat lastto McKayasthe sunwasdippingbehind the summits."Polleauwasto seeme heretoday.He neverbreakshis word' If he could not comehe wouldhavesentone of his sons."
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4l
McKaynodded,carelessly. "Thereis anotherthingI do not understandl'went on the old man...I haveseenno smokefrom the lodgeall day.It is as thoughthey werenot there." "Wherecouldthey be?" askedMcKay,indifferently. "[ do not know,"the voicewasmore perturbed."It all troublesme, perhaps M'sieu.Polleau is hard,yes;but he is my neighbor. an accident-" "They wouldlet you know soonenoughif therewasanythingwrong," McKaysaid. ,.If he doesnot cometomorrow "Perhaps, but-" theold manhesitated. andagainI seeno smokeI will go to him," he ended. McKayfelt a little shockrun throughhim-tomorrow then he would know,definitelyknow,whatit wasthat hadhappened in the little wood. "I wouldif I wereyou,"he said."I'd not waittoolongeither.After allwell,accidents do happen." "Will you go with me, M'sieu?"askedthe old man. "No!" whispered the warningvoicewithin McKay..,No!Do not go!" "Sorry,"he said,aloud."But I've somewritingto do .If youshouldneed me sendbackyour man.I'll corne." And all thatnighthe slept,againdreamlessly, whilethe crooningforest cradledhim. The morning passedwithout sign from the oppositeshore.An hour afternoonhe watchedthe old innkeeperandhis man rowacrossthe lake. And suddenlyMcKay's composurewas shaken,his serenecertainty wavered.He unstrappedhis field glassesand kept them on the pair until they hadbeachedthe boatand enteredthe coppice.His heartwasbeating uncomfortably, his handsfelt hot and his lips dry.He scannedthe shore. How longhadtheybeenin the wood?It musthavebeenan hour! What were they doing there?What had they found? He lookedar his watch incredulously. Lessthen fifteen minuteshadpassed. Slowlythe secondstickedby.And it wasall of an hour indeedbeforehe saw them come out upon the shoreand drag their boat into the water. McKay,throatcuriouslydry,a deafeningpulsewithin his ears,steadied himself; forcedhimselfto stroll leisurelydown to the landing. "Everything all right?" he called as they were near.They did not answer;but asthe skiff warpedagainstthe landingthey lookedup at him and on their faceswerestampedhorrorand a greatwonder. "They aredead,M'sieu,"whisperedthe innkeeper. "Polleauandhis two sons-alldead!" McKay'sheartgavea greatleap,a swift faintnesstook him. "Dead!"he cried."What killedthem?" "What but the trees,M'sieu?" answeredthe old man, and McKay
42
A' Merritt
thoughthisgazedweltuponhimstrangely...Thetreeskilledthem.See_ close to its end we found we went up the litile patli itrrougtr the wood, and trees,M'sieu, so it blockedby fallen trees.The flies buzzedaroundthose his sons.A fir had we searchedthere. They were under thern, Polleauand son we found fallen upon Polleau uni ttud crushed in his chest' Another and an eye back, his broken had They beneath a fir and upturned birches. latter'" the wound, new no had been torn out-but that was He paused. ,.It must havebeen a suddenwind," saidhis man. "Yet I never knew of a thosethat wind like that must havebeen.Therewereno treesdown except of the out leaped had they lay upon them. And of those it was as though them' Or it ground upon giounOtYes,asthough they had leapedout of the brokenwere not though giants had torn them out for clubs.They iu, ", were bare-" roots their ,,But the other son-Polleau had two?"-try ashe might, McKay could not keep the tremor out of his voice. .'Pieire,"saidthe old man, and againMcKay felt that strangequality in 'iHe lay beneatha fir. His throat was torn out!" his gaze. ..His throat torn out!" whisperedMcKay. His knifel The knife that had been slippedinto his hand by the shadowyshapes! ,,His thioat wastorn out," repeatedthe innkeeper.'Andin it still wasthe broken branch that had done it. A broken branch, M'sieu, pointed as a knife. It must have caught Pierre as the fir fell and ripping through his throat-been broken off as the tree crashed'" McKay stood,mind whirling in wild conjecture."You said-a broken branch?" McKay askedthrough lips gone white. ,A brokenbranch,M'sieul' the innkeeper'seyessearchedhim. "It was very plain-what it was that happened.Jacquesl'he turned to his man. "Go up to the house." He watcheduntil the man shuffled out of sight' .,Yet not all plain, M'sieu," he Spokelow to McKay. "For in Pierre's hand I found-this." He reachedinto a pocket and drew out a button from which hung a strip of cloth. Cloth and button had once been part of that blood-stainedcoat which McKay had sunk within the lake; torn awayno doubt when death had struck Polleau'sson! McKay strove to speak.The old man raisedhis hand. Button and cloth fell from it, into the water.A wave took it and floated it away; another and another.They watchedit silently until it had vanished' ..Tell me nothing, M'Sieu," the old innkeeperturned to him. "Polleau washard and hard men, too, werehis sons.The treeshatedthem. The trees killed them. And norvthe trees are happy,That is all. And the-souvenir-
THE WOMANOF THE WOOD
43
is gone.I have forgotten I saw it. only M'sieu would better also-go." That night McKay packed. when dawn had broken he stood at his window,lookedlong at the little wood.It was awakening,stirring sleepily like drowsydelicatedemoiselles.He drank in its beauty-for the last time; waved it farewell. McKay breakfastedwell. He dropped into the driver's seat; set the enginehumming. The old innkeeperand his wife, solicitousasever for his welfare, bade him Godspeed.on both their faces was full friendlinessand in the old man's eyes somewhat of puzzled awe. His road lay through the thick forest.Sooninn and lake were far behind him. And singing went McKay, soft whisperingsof leavesfollowing him, glad chanting of needled pines; the voice of the forest tender, friendly, caressing-the forest pouring into him as farewell gift its peace, its happiness,its strength.
Troublewith Water H. L. Gold
Greenbergdid not deservehis surroundings. He wasthe first fishermanof the season,which guaranteed him a fine catch;he satin a dry boat-one without a singleleak-far out on a lake that wasruffled only enoughto agitatehis artificial fly. The sun was warm, the air was cool: he sat comfortablyon a cushion;he hadbroughta heartylunch; andtwo bottles of beerhung overthe sternin the cold water. Any othermanwouldhavebeensoakedwith joy to befishingon sucha splendidday.Normally,Greenberghimself wouldhavebeenecstatic,but insteadof relaxingand waitingfor a nibble,he wasplaguedby worries. This short, slightly gross, definitely bald, eminently respectable businessman liveda gypsylife. Duringthe summerhe livedin a hotelwith kitchenprivilegesin Rockaway;wintershe lived in a hotel with kitchen privilegesin Florida;andin bothplaceshe operatedconcessions. For years now, rain had fallen on scheduleevery weekend,and there had been stormsandfloodson DecorationDay,July 4th andIabor Day.He did not lovehis life, but it wasa way of makinga living. He closedhis eyesand groaned.If he hadonly hada soninsteadof his Rosie!Then thingswouldhavebeenmighty differentFor one thing, a son could run the hot dog and hamburgergriddle,
II. L. Golil
wouldbe Esthercould drawbeer,andhe wouldmakesoft drinks.There at least but himself; to admitted smaltdifferencein the profits,Greenberg for a dowry toward of instead it oseprontscouldbe put asiOefor old age, his rniserablyugly,dumpg pitifully eagerRosie' .All right-so *tr.t Oo-icareif shedon't getmarried?"he hadcriedto his wife ithousand times."I'll supporther.Othermen cansetup boysin I candystoreswith sodafountainsthat haveonly two spigots.why should haveto givea boy a regularInternationalCasino?" ..May your tongueiot in your head,you no-goodpiker!" she would right for a giil to be an old maid.If we haveto die in the ,.rer-. .it "in't Everypennywe don'tneed geimy pooiRosiea husband. poor-house,I'll for living goesto her dowrY!" creenulrg did not hate his daughter,nor did he blame her for his misfortunes;yet,becauseof her,he wasfishingwith a brokenrod that he hadto tapetogether. That morning his wife openedher eyesand saw him packinghis equipment.Sheinstantlycameawake."Go ahead!"sheshrilled-speaking ir a conversationaltone was not one of her accomplishments-"Go fishing,you loafer!Leaveme herealone.I canconnectthe beerpipesand the gai for sodawater.I canbuy ice cream,franffurters,rolls,sirup,and watchthe gasandelectricmen at the sametime.Go ahead-gofishing!" ..I orderedeverythingl'hemumbledsoothingly."The gasand electric won'tbe turnedon today.I onlywantedto gofishing-it's my lastchance. Tell the truth, Esther,canI go fishing Tomorrowwe openthe concession. afterwe open?" "I don't careaboutthat.Am I your wife or ain't I, that you shouldgo orderingeverythingwithout askingme-" He defendedhis actions.Itwasa tacticalmistake.While shewasstill in bed,he shouldhavepickedup his equipmentand left. By the time the argumentgot aroundto Rosie'sdowry,shestoodfacinghim. ..FormyselfI don't care,"sheyelled."What kind of a monsterareyOU that you cango fishingwhile your daughtereatsher heartout? And on a daylike this yet! Youshouldonlyhaveto makesupperanddressRosieup. A lot you carethat a niceboyis comingto suppertonightandmaybetake Rosieout, you no-goodfather,You!" From that point it wasonly one hot protestand a shrill curseto find himselfclutchinghalf a brokenrod,with the otherhalf beingflung at his head. Now he satin his beautifullydry boaton an excellentgamelakefar out fish might collapsehis awarethat anyaverage on LongIsland,desperately tapedrod. what elsecouldhe expect?He hadmissedhis train; he hadhadto wait
TROUBTEWITH WATER
47
for the boathouseproprietor;his favoritedry fly wasmissing;and,since morning,not a fish struckat the bait.Not a singlefish! And it wasgettinglate.He hadno morepatience.He rippedthe capoff a bottleof beeranddrankit, in orderto gaincourageto changehis fly for a lesssportingbloodworm.Ithurt him, but he wanteda fish. The hookandthe squirmingwormsank.Beforeit cameto rest,he felt a nibble.He suckedin his breathexultantlyandsnappedthe hookdeepinto the fish'smouth.sometimes, he thoughtphilosophically, theyjust won't takeartificialbait.He reeledin slowly. "Oh, Lord,"he prayed,"a dollarfor charity-just don't let the rod bend in half whereI tapedit!" It wassaggingdangerously. He lookedat it unhappilyandraisedhis ante to five dollars;evenat that priceit lookedimpossible. He dippedhis rod into the water,parallelwith the line, to removethe strain.He wasgladno onecouldseehim do it. The line reeledin withouta fight. "Have I-God forbid!-got an eel or somethingnot kosher?"he rnumbled.'A plagueon you-why don't you fight?" He did not reallycarewhatit was-evenan eel-anythingat all. He pulled in a long,pointed,brimlessgreenhat. For a momenthe glaredat it. His mouthhardened. Then,viciously, he yankedthe hat off the hook,threwit on the floor and trampledon it. He rubbedhis handstogetherin anguish. 'All dayI fish," he wailed,"two dollarsfor train fare,a dollarfor a boat, a quarterfor bait, a new rod I got to buy-and a five-dollar-mortgage charityhasgot on me. For what?For you, you hat,you!" Out in the wateranextremelycivil voiceaskedpolitely:,.MayI havemy hat,please?" Greenberggloweredup. He sawa little mancomeswimmingvigorously throughthe watertowardhim: smallarmscrossedwith enormousdignity, vast earson a pointedface propellinghim quite rapidly and efficiently. with seriousdeterminationhe drove through the water,and, at the starboardrail,his amazingearskepthim stationarywhilehe lookedgravely at Greenberg. *You arestamping on my hat," he pointedout without anger. To Greenbergthis was highly unimportant."with the ears you're swimmingi'hegrinnedin a superiorway...Doyou look funny!" "How elsecouldI swim?" the little man askedpolitely. "With the armsand legs,like a regularhumanbeing,of course.,' "But I amnot a humanbeing.Iama watergnome,aretativeof the more commonmining gnome.I cannotswim with my afins,because they must be crossedto givean appearance of dignitysuitableto a watergnome;and my feetareusedfor writingandholdingthings.on the otherhand,my ears
48
H. L. Goltl
employthem areperfectlyadaptedfor propulsionin water.Consequently,I requiring matters for that purpose.gut pi;;, my hat-there areseveral time'" *V i*..Cate attention,and I must not waste Greenberg,sunpteasantattitudetowardtheremarkablycivilgnome He had found someonehe could feel superiorto' egocouldexpand'The watergnome ""rif'-onOrtltanOaUte. ;;,"by insultinghim, his depressed tall' ."ttlitirv ---;Wt"t io"r"dinoffensive enough,beingonly two feet he askednastily' Ears?" Big do, to imporiant you got thai'sso Greenberghopedthegnomewouldbeoffended.Hewasnot'sinceh not lre-insultedif a ears,to hirn, wereperfecitynorrnal,just asyou would You -r.u.t of a raceof atrophiedbeingswereto call you "Big Muscles." might evenfeel flattered. iI reallymusthurry,"the gnomesaid,almostanxiously."But if I haveto in answeryour questiontitt oider to get back my hat-we are engaged quite a drain' was year there restockingthaEasternwaterswith fish. Last of The bureiu of fisheriesis cooperatingwith us to some extent, but, to population rises the ,ourr., we cannotdependtoo much on them.until norm.i, everyfish hasinstructionsnot to nibble'" Greenbergallowedhimself a smile,an annoyinglyskepticalsmile. *vtv maii work," the gnomewent on resignedlg"is control of the rainfali over the Easternslaboard.Our fact-findingcommittee,which is scientificallysituated in the meteorologicalcenter of the continent, coordinatesthe rainfall needsof the entire continent; and when they determinethe amountof rain neededin particularspotsof the East,I makeit rain to that extent.Now mayI havemy hat,please?o' Greenberglaughedcoarsely."The first lie was big enough-about tellingthe nJtrnoito bite.Youmakeit rainlike I'm Presidentof the United State;!" He bent towardthe gnomeslyly."How's aboutproof?" "Certainly,if you insist."The gno-e raisedhis patient'triangularface toward a particularlyclear blue spot in the sky, a trifle to one side of Greenberg."Watchthat bit of the sky." Evenwhena smalldarkcloudrapidly Greenberglookedup humorously. formedin thi previouslyclearspot,his grin remainedbroad.Itcouldhave been coincidental.But then large drops of undeniablerain fell over a twenty-footcircle; and Greenberg'smockinggrin shrankand.grewsour. He glaredhatredat the gnome,finally convinced."So you'rethe dirty crookwho makesit rain on weekends!" ..usually on weekendsduring the summer," the gnome admitted. ..Ninety-twopercentof waterconsumptionis on weekdays. Obviouslywe must replacethat water.The weekends,of course,are the logicaltime." "you murderer!Whatdo "But, you thief!" Greenbergcriedhysterically, with your rain?It ain't badenough you carewhatyou do to my concession
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business wouldbe rottenevenwithoutrain,you got to makefloods!" "I'm sorryf'the gnomereplied,untouchedby Greenberg's rhetoric. "we do not createrainfallfor the benefitof men.we arehereto protectthe fish. "Now pleasegiveme my hat.I havewastedenoughtime,whenI should be preparing the extremelyheavyrain neededfor this comingweekend." jumpedto his feet in the unsteadyboat.,.Rainthis weekGreenberg end-when I canmaybemakea profit for a change!A lot you careif you ruin business. May you andyourfish die a horrible,lingering death." And he furiouslyrippedthe greenhat to piecesandhurledthem at the gnome. "I'm reallysorryyoudid that,"the little fellowsaidcalmly,his hugeears treadingwaterwithoutthe slightestincrease of paceto indicatehis anger. "We Little Folk haveno tempersto lose.Nevertheless, occasionally we find it necessary to disciplinecertainof yourpeople,in orderto retainour dignity.I amnot malignant;but,sinceyouhatewaterandthosewholivein it, waterand thosewho live in it will keepawayfrom you." With his armsstill foldedin greatdignity,the tiny watergnomeflipped his vastearsand disappeared in a neatsurfacedive. Greenberggloweredat the spreading circlesof waves.He did not grasp the gnome'sfinal restraining order;he did not evenattemptto interpretit. Insteadhe glaredangrilyout of the cornerof his eyeat the phenomenal circle of rain that fell from a perfectlyclearsky.The gnomemust have remembered it at length,for a mornentlaterthe rainstopped.Like shutting off a faucet,Greenbergunwillinglythought. o'Good-by, weekendbusiness,"he growled."If Estherfinds out I got into an argumentwith the guy who makesit rain-" He madean underhandcast,hopingfor just onefish. The line flew out over the water; then the hook archedupwardand cameto rest several inchesabovethesurface, hangingquitesteadilyandwithoutsupportin the air. "Well,go downin the water,damnyou!" Greenberg saidviciously, and he swishedhis rodbackandforth to pull the hookdownfrom its ridiculous levitation.It refused. Mutteringsomethingincoherentaboutbeinghangedbeforehe'd give in, Greenberghurledhis uselessrod at the water.By this time he wasnot surprisedwhenit hoveredin the air abovethe lake.He merelyglancedredeyedat it, tossedout the remainsof the gnome'shat,andsnatchedup the oars. When he pulled backon them to row to land,they did not touch the water-naturally.Insteadthey flashedunimpededthroughthe air, and Greenbergtumbledinto the borv.
50
H. L. Gold
.A-ha!" he grated."Here'swherethe troublebegins."He bent overthe the keelfloateda remarkabledistanceabovethe side.As he hadsuspected,
lake. Byrowingagainsttheair,hemovedwithmaddeningslownesstowa shorl, nfe a miOievalconceptionof a flying machine.His main concern wasthat no one shouldseehim in his humiliatingposition. At the hotelhe triedto sneakpastthe kitchento the bathroom.He knew that Estherwaitedto cursehim for fishing the day beforeopening'but more especiallyon the very day that a nice boy was comingto seeher Rosie.If he coulddressin a hurry,shemight havelessto say"Oh, thereyou are,you good-for-nothing!" He frozeto a halt. ..Lookat you!" shescreamed shrilly."Filthy-you stink from fish!" "I didn't catchanything,darling,"he protestedtimidly' .,Youstink anyhow.Go takea bath,mayyou drownin it! Get dressedin two minutesor less,andentertainthe boywhenhe getshere.Hurry!" hervoice,startedthewaterin the He lockedhimselfin, happyto escape tub,andstrippedfromthe waistup.A hot bath,he hoped,wouldrid him of feeling. his depressed WhatwouldEsthersay-if she Firit. no fish; now,rain on weekends! knew,of course.And, of course,he wouldnot tell her' "Let myselfin for a lifetime of curses!"he sneered."Ha!" He clampeda new bladeinto his razor,openedthe tube of shaving cream,and staredobjectivelyat the mirror.The dominantfeatureof the soft,chubbyfacethat staredbackwasits uglyblackstubble;but he sethis He reallylookedquitefierceandindomitable. stubbornchin andglowered. pose, Unfortunately,Esther never saw his face in that uncharacteristic otherwiseshewouldspeakmoresoftly. ..HermanGreenberg betweensavagely nevergivesin!" he whiSpered he wants;a lot I fish-anything weekends, no hardenedlips. "Rain on go to him." I care!Believeme, he'll comecrawlingto me before He graduallybecameawarethat his shavingbrushwasnot gettingwet. Whenhe lookeddownandsawthe waterdividinginto streamsthat flowed aroundit, his determinedfaceslippedand grewdesperatelyanxious.He triedto trapthe water-by catchingit in his cuppedhands,by creepingup on it from behind,asif it weresomeshy animal,andshovinghis brushat it-but it brokeand ran awayfrom his touch.Then he jammedhis palm againstthe faucet.Defeated,he heard it gurgle back down the pipe, probablyas far as the main. ,,what do I do now?" he groaned. "will Esthergiveit to me if I don't withoutwater." shave ..I can't how? . But takea shave! andsteppedinto the tub. He lay undressed bath, the off he shut Glumly,
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5l
downto soak.It took a momentof horrified stuporto realizethat he was completelydry and that he lay in a waterlessbathtub.The water,in one surgeof revulsion,hadsweptout onto the floor, "Herman,stopsplashing!"his wifeyelled."I just washedthatfloor.If I find onelittle puddleInllmurderyou!" Greenbergsurveyedthe instep-deep pooloverthe bathroomfloor."yes, my lovel'he croakedunhappily. With an inadequate washraghe chasedthe elusivewater,hopingto mop it all up beforeit couldseepthroughto the apartmentbelowHis washrag remaineddry, however,and he knew that the ceiling underneathwas dripping.The waterwasstill on the floor. In despair,he saton the edgeof the bathtub.For sometime he sat in silence.Then his wife bangedon the door,urging him to come out. He startedand dressedmoodily. Whenhe sneakedout and shut the bathroomdoortightly on the flood inside, he was extremelydirty and his face was raw where he had experimentallyattemptedto shavewith a dry razor. "Rosie!"he calledin a hoarsewhisper."Sh! Where'smamma?" His daughtersat on the studio couch and appliednail-polishto her stubbyfingers.'oYoulook terrible,"she said in a conversational tone. 'Aren't you goingto shave?" He recoiledat the soundof her voice,which,to him, roaredout like a siren."Quiet,Rosie!Sh!" And for furtheremphasis, he shovedhis lipsout againsta warningfinger.He heardhis wife stridingheavilyaroundthe kitchen."Rosiel'hecooed,"I'll giveyoua dollarif you'llmopup thewater I spilledin the bathroom." "I can'tpapa;'shestatedfirmly."I'm all dressed." "Two dollars,Rosie-all right, two and a half, you blackmailer." He flinched when he heardher gaspin the bathroom;but, when she cameout with soakedshoes,he fled downstairs.He wanderedaimlessly towardthe village. Now he was in for it, he thought; screamsfrom Esther,tears from Rosie-plus a new pair of shoesfor Rosieand two and a half dollars.It would be worse,though,if he could not get rid of his whiskersRubbingthe tender spotswherehis dry razorhad rakedhis face,he musedblanklyat a drugstorewindow.He sawnothingto help him, but he went insideanyhowandstoodhopefullyat the drug counter.A facepeered at him througha spacescratchedin the wall casemirror,and the druggist cameout. A nice-looking,intelligentfellow,Greenbergsawat a glance. "What you got for shavingthat I canusewithout water?" "Skin irritation, eh?" the pharmacistreplied."I got somethingvery goodfor that."
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H. L. Gold
with water'" "No. It's just- Well,I don't like to shave ..Well, I got brushlessshaving disappointed. The druggist seemed better'" cream.,,Then he brightened."But I got an electricrazor-much cautiously' "How rnuch?" Greenbergasked "Only fifteen dollars,and it lastsa lifetime'" "GivL me the shavingcream,"Greenbergsaidcoldly' of a military expert'he walkedarounduntil with the tacticalscie-nce sometime afterdark.only thendid he gobackto the hotel,to wait outside. he wai gettinghungry,andthe peoplewho enteredthe It wasafter sevenn hotelhe knewasp"rtn"nentsulnmerguests.At lasta strangerpassedhim and ran up the stairs. Greenberghesitatedfor a moment.The strangerwasscarcelya boy,as that her term Estherhad definitelytermedhim, but Greenbergreasoned wasmerelywish-fulfillment,and he jauntily ran up behindhim' He alloweda few minutesto pass,for the manto introducehimselfand let Esther and Rosiedon their companymanners.Then, securein the knowledgethat therewould be no sceneuntil the guestleft, he entered. urbanelyshookhandswith He waOedthrougha hostile atmosphere, thoughtshrewdly, Greenberg sammieKatz,who wasa doctor-probably, himself. in searchof an office-and excused In the bathroomhe carefullyreadthe directionsfor using brushless shavingcream.He felt lessconfidentwhenhe realizedthat he hadto wash his facethoroughlywith soapandwater,but without benefitof either,he thecreamon,pattedit, andwaitedfor his beardto soften.Itdid not, spread while shaving.He wipedhis facedry.The towelwassticky ashe discovered in paste,and,for that,he knew,there andblack,with whiskerssuspended He wouldhaveto spend wouldbe morehell to pay.He shruggedresignedly. fifteen dollarsfor an electricrazorafter all; this foolishnesswascosting him a fortune! That they werewaitingfor him beforebeginningsupper'was,he knew, only a gesturefor the sakeof company.without changingher hard, brilliant smile,Estherwhispered:"Wait! I'll get you later-" He smiledback,his tortured,slashedfacecreasingpainfully.All that couldbe changedby his beingenormouslypleasantto Rosie'syoungman. he groaned-to take If he couldslip Sammiea few dollars-more expense, everything. Rosieout, Estherwouldforgive in beamingandputtingsammieat easeto think of He wastoo engaged Underothercircumstances whatwouldhappenafterhe atecaviarcanapes. ultra-professional by Sammie's repulsed Greenbergwould have been his commerpointed thing-and waxedmustache-anoffensivelysmall, asa potential him regarded poor Rosie;but Greenberg cialattitudetoward savior.
TROUBLEWITH WATER
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"You openan office yet, DoctorKatz?" "Not yet.You know how thingsare.Anyhow,call me Sammie.,' Greenbergrecognizedthe gambitwith satisfaction, sinceit seemedto pleaseEstherso much.At onestrokeSammiehadingratiatedhimselfand begunbargaining negotiations. Without anotherword,Greenberglifted his spoonto attackthe soup.It wouldbe easyto snarethis eagerdoctor.A doctorlNowonderEstherand Rosiewereso puffedwith joy. In the propercompanyway,he pushedhis spoonawayfrom him. The soupspilledonto the tablecloth. "Not so hard,you dope,"Estherhissed. He drewthe spoontowardhim. The soupleapedoff it like a live thing andsplashed overhim-turning, just beforecontact,to fall on the floor.He gulpedandpushedthe bowlaway.This time the souppouredoverthe side of the plateand lay in a hugepuddleon the table. "I didn't wantanysoupanyhowi'hesaidin a horribleattemptat levity. Luckyfor him, he thoughtwildly,that Sammiewasthereto pacifyEsther with his smoothcollegetalk-not a badfellow,Sammie,in spiteof his mustache;he'd comein handyat times. Greenberglapsedinto a paralysisof fear.He wasthirsty after having eatenthe caviar,which beatsherringany time as a thirst raiser.But the knowlegethat he could not touch water without having it recoil and perhapsspill, made his thirst a monumentalcraving.He attackedthe problemcunningly. He waiteduntil The othersweretalkingrapidlyand ratherhysterically. his couragewasequalto his thirst; then he leanedover the tablewith a glassin his hand."Sammie,do you mind-a little water,huh?" Sammiepouredfrom a pitcherwhile Estherwatchedfor moreof his tricks.It was to be expected,but still he wasshockedwhen the water only suit. explodedout of the glassdirectlyat Sammie's you'll said excusemel' Sammie angrily,"I don't like to eat with "If lunatics." And he left,thoughEsthercriedandbeggedhim to stay.Rosiewastoo stunnedto move.But whenthe doorclosed,Greenbergraisedhis agonized eyesto watchhis wife stalk murderouslytowardhim. Greenbergstood on the boardwalkoutsidehis concessionand glared blearilyat the peaceful,blue,highlyunpleasantocean.He wonderedwhat would happenif he startedat the edgeof the water and strodeout. He couldprobablywalkright to Europeon dry land. It wasearly-muchtooearlyfor business-andhe wastired.Neitherhe nor Esther had slept; and it was practicallycertain that the neighbors
s4
H. L.Goltil
hadn'teither.But aboveall he wasincrediblythirsty' he mixeda soda.Of courseits high water in . spirit of experimentation, content madeit slop onto the floor. For breakfasthe had surreptitiously tried fruit juice andcoffee,withoutsuccess' with his tongue dry to the point of furriness,he sat weakly on a [t wasFridaymorning,which boardwalkbenctiin front of his concession. promise of intenseheat.Hadit been a meantthat the daywasclear,with raining' it naturallywouldhavebeen Saturday, "Thi; yeari' he moaned,"I'll be wiped out. If I can't mix sodas,why shouldbeerstayin a glassfor me? I thoughtI could hire a boy for ten dollarsa weekto run the hot-doggriddle;I couldmakesodas,and Esther coulddrawbeer.All I cando is makehot dogs,Esthercanstill drawbeer; but twentyor maybetwenty-fivea weekI got to paya sodaman.I won't evencomeout square-afortuneI'll lose!" dependon too many Concessions The situationreallywas desperate. factorsto be anythingbut capriciouslyprofitable. His throatwasfiery andhis softbrowneyeshelda fierceglazewhenthe gasand electricwere turned on, the beer pipesconnected,the tank of carbondioxidehitchedto the PuilP, and the refrigeratorstarted. Gradually,the beachwasfilling with bathers.Greenbergwrithedon his benchandenviedthem.Theycouldswimanddrink withouthavingliquids drawawayfrom them as if in horror.They werenot thirstyHis businessexperience And then he sawhis first customersapproach. In a madhastehe put up drinks. buy only soft wasthat morningcustomers hotel. the shuttersand fled to the "Esther" he cried."I got to tell you I can'tstandit-" his wife held her broomlike a baseballbat."Go backto Threateningly, you crazyfool. Ain't you doneenoughalready?" the concession, He couldnot behurt morethanhe hadbeen.For oncehe did not cringe. "You got to help me, Esther." "Why didn't you shave,you no-goodbum?Is that anyway-" I got into an argumentwith a "That's what I got to tell you.Yesterday watergnome-" 'A what?" Estherlookedat him suspiciously. 'A watergnome,"he babbledin a rush of words.'A little manso high, with big earsthat he swimswith, andhe makesit rain-" You'recrazy" "Stop that nonsense. "Herman'oshescreamed. Greenbergpoundedhis foreheadwith his fist. "I ain't crazy.Look, Esther.Comewith me into the kitchen." she followedhim readilyenough,but her attitudemadehim feel more helplessandalonethanever.With her fistson her plumphipsandher feet set wide,shecautiouslywatchedhim try to fill a glassof water.
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"Don't you see?"he wailed."It won't go in the glass.It spillsover.It runs awayfrom me." Shewas puzzled."What happenedto you?" Brokenly,Greenbergtold of his encounterwith the water gnome, leavingout no singledegrading detail.'And now I can'ttouchwater,"he ended."I can'tdrink it. I can'tmakesodas.On top of it all, I got sucha thirst,it's killing mel' Esther'sreactionwasinstantaneous. Shethrewher armsaroundhim, drewhis headdownto her shoulder,andpattedhim comfortinglyasif he werea child."Herman,my poorHerman!"shebreathedtenderly."What did we everdo to deservesucha curse?" "What shallI do, Esther?"he criedhelplessly. Sheheldhim at arms'length."Yougotto goto a doctor,"shesaidfirmly. "How longcanyougowithoutdrinking?Withoutwateryou'lldie.Maybe sometimes I am a little hardon you,but you knowI loveyou-" "I know,mamma,"he sighed."But how cana doctorhelp me?" 'Am I a doctorthat I shouldknow?Go anyhow.What can you lose?" He hesitated. "I needfifteendollarsfor an electricrazorl'hesaidin a low,weakvoice. "So?"shereplied."If yougotto,yougotto.Go,darling.I'lltakecareof the concession." Greenbergno longer felt desertedand alone. He walked almost confidentlyto a doctor'soffice.Manfully,he explained his symptoms. The doctorlistenedwith professional until Greenberg reachedhis sympathy, descriptionof the watergnome. Thenhis eyesglitteredandnarrowed. "I knowjust thethingfor you,Mr. Greenberg," he interrupted."Sit thereuntil I comeback." satquietly.He evenpermittedhimselfa surgeof hope.Butit Greenberg seemedonly a moment later that he was vaguelyconsciousof a siren screamingtowardhim; and then he wasoverwhelmedby the doctorand two interneswho pouncedon him and tried to squeezehim into a bag. He resisted,of course.He wasterrifiedenoughto punchwildly."What areyou doingto me?" he shrieked."Don't put that thing on me!" "Easynowl'the doctorsoothed."Everythingwill be all right." It wason that humiliatingscenethat the policeman,requiredby law to publicambulances, accompany appeared. "What'sup?" he asked. "Don't standthere,youfathead,"aninterneshouted."This man'scrazy. Help us gethim into this straitjacket." But the policemanapproached indecisively. "Thkeit easy,Mr. Greenberg.Theyain't gonnahurt you while I'm here.What'sit all about?" "Mike!" Greenbergcried, and clung to his protector'ssleeve."They
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H. L. Gold
think I'm crazy-" "Of coursehe's crazy]'the doctor stated."He camein here with a fantasticyarn abouta watergnomeputting a curseon him'" "What kind of a curse,Mr. Greenberg?"Mike askedcautiously' "I got into an argumentwith the watergnomewho makesit rain and takescareof the fish,"Greenbergblurted."I toreup his hat.Nowhe won't let watertouchme.I can'tdrink,or anything-" The doctornodded."There you are.Absolutelyinsane." "Shut up." For a long moment Mike staredcuriouslyat Greenberg' Then: "Did any of you scientiststhink of testing him? Here, Mr' Greenberg."He pouredwaterinto a papercup and held it out. Greenbergmovedto takeit. The waterbackedup againstthe cup'sfar lip; whenhe took it in his hand,the watershotout into the air. "Crazy,ishe?" Mike askedwith heavyirony."I guessyou don't know there'sthingslike gnomesand elves.Comewith me, Mr. Greenberg." They went out togetherand walkedtowardthe boardwalk.Greenberg told Mike the entire story and explained how, besides being so it wouldruin him financially. uncomfortableto him personally, "Well,doctorscan'thelpyoul'Mike saidat length."What do theyknow aboutthe Little Folk?And I can't sayI blameyou for sassingthe gnome. You ain't Irish or you'd havespokewith more respectto him. Anyhow, you'rethirsty.Can't you drink anything?" "Not a thing," Greenbergsaidmournfully. They enteredthe concession.A single glancetold Greenbergthat businesswasvery quiet,but eventhat couldnot lowerhis feelingsmore than they alreadywere.Estherclutchedhim as soonas shesawthem. "Well?" sheaskedanxiously. Greenbergshruggedin despair."Nothing.He thoughtI wascrazy." Mike staredat the bar.Memoryseemedto strugglebehindhis reflective eyes."Sure,"he saidaftera longpause."Did you try beer,Mr. Greenberg? when I wasa boymy old mothertold me all aboutelvesandgnomesand the rest of the Little Folk. she knew them, all right. They don't touch alcohol,you know.Try drawinga glassof beer-" Greenbergfiudgedobedientlybehindthe barandhelda glassunderthe spigot.suddenlyhis despondentfacebrightened.Beercreamedinto the glass-and stayedthere! Mike and Esther grinned at each other as Greenbergthrew backhis headand furiouslydrank. "Mike!" he crowed."I'm saved.Yougot to drink with me!" "Well-" Mike protestedfeeblY' By late afternoon,Esther had to closethe concessionand take her husbandand Mike to the hotel' broughta flood of rain. Greenberg The followingday,beingSaturday,
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nursed an imposinghang-overthat was constantlyaggravatedby his havingto drink beerin orderto satisfyhis recurringthirst.He thoughtof forbiddenicebagsand alkalinedrinks in an agonyof longing. "I can'tstandit!." he groaned. "Beerfor breakfast-phooey!" "It's betterthan nothing,"Esthersaidfatalistically. "Sohelpme,I don't knowif it is. But,darling,you ain't madat me on accountof Sammie,areyou?" Shesmiledgently,"Poo! Thlk dowryand he'll comebackquick." "That's what I thought.But what am I goingto do aboutmy curse?" Cheerfully,Mike furled an umbrellaandstrodein with a little old woman, whom he introducedashis mother.Greenbergenviouslysawevidenceof the effectiveness of icebagsandalkalinedrinks,for Mike hadbeenjust as high ashe the daybefore. "Mike told me aboutyou and the gnome,"the old lady said.,,Now I knowthe Little Folk well,andI don't hold youto blamefor insultinghim, seeingyou nevermet a gnomebefore.But I supposeyou wantto getrid of your curse.Are you repentant?" Greenberg shuddered. "Beerfor breakfast! Canyou ask?" "Well,just you go to this lakeand give the gnomeproofJ' "What kind of proof?" Greenbergaskedeagerly. "Bring him sugar.The Little Folk love the stuff-" Greenberg beamed."Did you hearthat,Esther?I'll geta barrel-" "Theylovesugar, but theycan'teatit;'the oldladybrokein. ,.It meltsin water.You got to figureout a wayso it won't.Then the little gentteman'll know you'rerepentantfor real." 'A-ha!" Greenberg cried."I knewtherewasa catch!" Therewasa sympathetic silencewhile his agitatedmind attackedthe problemfrom all angles.Then the old ladysaidin awe:"The minute I saw yourplaceI knewMikehadtoldthetruth.I neverseena sightlikeit in my life-rain comingdown,likethe flood,everywhere else;but all aroundthis place,in a big circle,it's dry asa bone!" while Greenbergscarcelyheardher,Mike noddedand Estherseemed peculiarlyinterestedin the phenomenon. when he admitteddefeatand cameout of his reflectedstupor,he wasalonein the concession, with only a vaguememoryof Esthersayingshewouldnot be backfor severalhours. "What am I goingto do?" he muttered.,.Sugar that won't melt-" He drewa glassof beeranddrankit thoughtfully."particulartheygotto beyet. Ain't it goodenoughif I bringsimplesirup-that's sweet." He potteredaboutthe place,lookingfor somethingto do.He couldnot polish the fountain on the bar,and the few frankfurtersboiling on the griddleprobablywouldgoto waste.Thefloor hadalreadybeenswept.so he
5E
H. L. Gold
sat uneasilyand worriedhis problem. "I'll go to the lake.Itdon'tpay "Monday,no matterwhatl'he resolved, it'll rain." because to go tomorrow.I'll only catcha cold At last Estherreturned,smiling in a strangeway.she was extremely But that gentle,tenderand thoughtful;and for that he wasappreciative. her happiness. for the reason night andall daysundayhe understood she'hadspreadwordthat,while it rainedin everyotherplaceall over that wasmiraculouslydry.So,besidesa headache town, their concession work to had pulse, Greenberg madehis body throb in rhythm to its vast like six mens"tisfyingthe crowdwhomobbedthe placeto seethe miracle andenjoythe dry warmth. How much they took in will neverbe known.Greenbergmadeit a practicenot to discusssuchpersonalmatters.But it is quitedefinitethat not evenin 1929hadhe doneso well overa singleweekend' very earlyMondaymorninghe wasdressingquietly,not to disturbhis wife. Esther,howeveqraisedherselfon her elbowandlookedat him doubtfully. "Herman,"shecalledsoftly'"do you reallyhaveto go?" He turned,puzzled."What do you mean-do I haveto go?" ..well-" shehesitated. Then:"couldn't you waituntil the endof the Herman,darling?" season, back. itep, his faceworkingin horror."Y!.t kind of an He staggered ideais ttrai for my own *nifeto have?"he croaked."Beer I haveto drink wash insteadof water.HowcanI standit? Do you think I likebeer?I can't at act they will how and me; near myself.Alreadypeopledon't like to stand is my beard because a bum like I goaroundlooking thl endof the season? first drunk-the time the all too tough for an electrlcrazor,and I'm Greenbirgto be a drunkard.I wantto be respected-" ,,I know,Herman,darling,"shesighed."But I thoughtfor the sakeof neverdonelike we did this weekend'If our Rosie- Sucha business-we've we'll makea it rainseverysaturdayandsunday,but not on our concession, fortune!" .,Esther!"Hermancried, shocked."DOesn'tmy health mean anything?" ,.6f course,darling.Only I thoughtmaybeyou couldstandit for-" He snatchedhis liat, tii and jacket,and slammedthe door.Outside, He could hear his wife crying,and he though,he stoodindetermineotv. in ietting the gnometo-removethe curse,he realiiedthat,if he succeeded wouldforfeit an opportunityto makea greatdealof money' [f He finishedaressinJmoreslowly.Estherwasright,to a certainextent' he couldtoleratehis waterlesscondition..No!" he gritteddecisively. "Alreadymy friendsavoidme' [t isn't right
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59
that a respectable manlike me shouldalwaysbedrunkandnot takea bath. Sowe'll makelessmoney.Moneyisn't everything-" And with greatdeterminationhe went to the lake. But that evening,beforegoinghome,Mike walkedout of his wayto stopin at the concession. He found Greenbergsitting on a chair,his headin his hands,and his bodyrockingslowlyin anguish. "What is it, Mr. Greenberg?"he askedgently. Greenberglookedup. His eyesweredazed."Oh, you, Mike," he said blankly.Then his gazecleared,grewmoreintelligent,andhe stoodup and led Mike to the bar.Silently,they drankbeer.'oIwentto the laketoday,"he saidhollowly."I walkedall aroundit holleringlike mad.Thegnomedidn't stick his headout of the wateronce." "I know,"Mike noddedsadly."They're busyall the time." Greenbergspreadhis handsimploringly."SowhatcanI do?I can'twrite him a letteror sendhim a telegram;heain'tgota doorto knockon or a bell for me to ring.How do I get him to comeup andtalk?" His shoulderssagged."Here, Mike. Havea cigar.You beena real good friend,but I guesswe'relicked." They stood in an awkwardsilence.Finally Mike blurted: ..Realhot. today.A regularscorcher." "Yeah.Esthersaysbusinesswasprettygood,if it keepsup." Mike fumbled at the Cellophanewrapper.Greenbergsaid: ..Anyhow, supposeI did talk to the gnome.What aboutthe sugar?,' The silencedraggeditself out, becametenseanduncomfortable. Mike was distinctly embarrassed. His brusquenature was not adaptedfor comfortingdiscouragedfriends.with immenseconcentrationhe rolled the cigarbetweenhis fingersand listenedfor a rustle. "Day like this's hell on cigars,"he mumbled,for the sake of conversation. "Driesthemlike nobody'sbusiness. Thisoneain't,though." "Yeah,"Greenbergsaidabstractedly. "Cellophanekeepsthem-" They lookedsuddenlyat eachother,their facescleanof expression. "Holy smoke!"Mike yelled. "Cellophaneon sugar!"Greenbergchokedout. "Yeahn"Mike whisperedin awe."['ll switchmy dayoff with Joe,and['ll go to the lakewith you tomorrow.I'll call for you early." Greenbergpressed his hand,toostrangledby emotionfor speech.When Esthercameto relievehim, he left her at the concession with only the inexperiencedgriddleboy to assisther,while he searchedthe villagefor cubesof sugarwrappedin Cellophane. The sunhadscarcelyrisenwhenMike reachedthehotel,but Greenberg had long beendressedand stoodon the porchwaitingimpatiently.Mike
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H. L. Goltl
alongtoward was genuinelyanxiousfor his friend. Greenbergstaggered pain hangover. terrific a of the with crossed almost his the siation, eyes juice, orange ordered Mike for breamast. cafeteria at a They stopped bacon and eggs,and coffee half-and-half.when he heard the order, Greenberghadto gagdown a lump in his throat. "What'll you have?"the countermanasked. Greenbergflushed."Beerl'he saidhoarsely. ..Youkiddingme?" Greenbergshookhis head,unableto speak."want anything -..Jusiwith it? Cereal,pie,toast-" beer."And he forcedhimself to swallowit. "So help me," he hissedat Mike. "anotherbeerfor breakfastwill kill me!" "I know how it isl' Mike saidarounda mouthful of food' On the train they attemptedto rnakeplans.But they werefacedby a phenomenonthat neither had encounteredbefore, and so they got nowhere.Theywalkedglumlyto the lake,fully awarethattheywouldhave to employthe empiricalmethodof discardingtacticsthat did not work. "How abouta boat?"Mike suggested. "It won't stayin the waterwith me in it. And you can'trow it'" "Well,what'llwe do then?" Greenbergbit his lip and staredat the beautifulblue lake.Therethe gnomelived,sonearto them."Go throughthe woodsalongthe shore,and f,ollerlike hell.I'll go the oppositeway.We'llpasseachotherandmeetat If the gnomecomesup, yell for me." the boathouse. "O.K.;'Mike said,not veryconfidently' Thehre wasquitelargeandtheywalkedslowlyaroundit, pausingoften to get the properstancefor particularlyemphaticshouts.But two hours latJr,when they stoodoppositeeachother with the full diameterof the them,GreenbergheardMike'shoarsevoice:"Hey,gnome!" lake'between yelled."Comeon up!" "Hey,gnome!"Greenberg and An hour later they crossedpaths,They were tired, discouraged, surface' lake's the their throatsburned;and only fishermendisturbed ..Thehell with this,"Mike said."It ain't doinganygood.Let'sgobackto the boathouse:' rasped."I can'tgiveup!" "What'll we do?" Greenberg They trudgedback aroundthe lake, shoutinghalf-heartedly.At the boathouse,Gieenberghad to admit that he was beaten'The boathouse ownermarchedthreateninglytowardhim' *wtrt don't you maniacJget awayfrom here?"he barked."What's the 'hollering and scaringawaythe fish? The guysaresore-" ideaof ,.we,renot goingto hollJr anymore,"Greenbergsaid."It's no use." When they bought beer and Mike, on an impulse,hired a boat,the o$,nercooledoff with amazingrapiditg andwent off to unpackbait.
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"What did you get a boatfor?" Greenberg asked..,I can'tride in it." "You'renot goingto. You'regonnawalk." 'hround the lakeagain?" Greenberg cried. "Nope.Look, Mr. Greenberg.Maybethe gnomecan't hearus through all that water.Gnomesain't hardhearted. If he heardus and thoughtyou weresorry,he'd takehis curseoff you in a jiffy." wasnot convinced. "Maybel'Greenberg "So wheredo I comein?" "The way I figure it, someway or other you pushwateraway,but the waterpushesyou awayjust ashard.Anyhow,I hopeso.If it does,you can walk on the lake."As he spoke,Mike had beenlifting largestonesand dumpingthem on the bottomof the boat."Give me a handwith these." Any activity,howeveruseless, wasbetterthannone,Greenbergfelt.He helpedMike fill the boatuntil just the gunwales wereabovewater.Then Mike got in and shovedoff. "Come onj' Mike said."Try to walk on the water." Greenberg hesitated. I can't?" "Suppose "Nothing'll happento you. You can't get wet; so you won't drown." The logic of Mike's statementreassuredGreenberg.He steppedout boldly.He experienced a peculiarsenseof accomplishment when the waterhastilyretreatedunderhis feet into pressurebowls,and an unseen, powerfulforcebuoyedhim upright acrossthe lake'ssurface.Thoughhis footingwasnot too secure,with carehe wasableto watk quite swiftly. "Now what?"he asked,almosthappily. Mikehadkeptpacewith him in theboat.He shippedhisoarsandpassed Greenberga rock. "We'll drop them all over the lake-make it damned noisydownthereandupsetthe place.That'll gethim up." Theyweremorehopefulnow,andtheir comments,"Here'sone that'll wakehim," and "I'll hit him right on the noodlewith this one,"servedto cheerthem still further.And lessthan half the rockshad beendropped when Greenberghalted,a boulderin his hands.Somethinginside him wrappeditself tightly aroundhis heartand his jaw dropped. Mike followedhis awed,joyful gaze.Tohimself,Mike hadto admitthat thegnome,propelling himselfthroughthewaterwith hisears.armsfolded in tremendousdignity,wasa funny sight. "Must you droprocksand disturbus at our work?" the gnomeasked. Greenberggulped."I'm sorry,Mr. Gnome,"he said nervously."I couldn'tget you to comeup by yelling." The gnomelookedat him. "Oh. Youarethe mortalwho wasdisciplined. Why did you return?" "To tell you that I'm sorry,and I won't insult you again." "Have you proof of your sincerity?"the gnomeaskedquietly. Greenbergfishedfuriouslyin his pocketand broughtout a handfulof
H. L. Gold
wrappedin cellophane,whichhe tremblinglyhandedto the gnome. sugar l'Ah, viiy clever,indeedi' the little man said,unwrappinga cube and popping it iagerly into his mouth."Long time sinceI've hadsome'" A moment later Greenbergsplutteredand flounderedunder the surface.Even if Mike had not caughthis jacket and helpedhim up, he couldalmosthaveeruoyedthe sensationof beingableto drown.
ThirteenO'Clock C. M. Kornbluth
PeterPackerexcitedlydialedhis slide-rule,peeringthrougha lensasone of the minutely scoredlines met with another.He rosefrom his knees, brushingdustfrom the neatcreaseof his sergetrousers.No doubtof itthe househada secretatticroom.Peterdidn't knowanythingaboutsiiding panelsor hiddenbuttons;in the mostdirectway imaginablehe lifted the axehe hadbroughtand crunchedit into the wall. On his third blowhe holedthrough.The rush of air from the darkness wascool and sweet.Smartold boy,his grandfather, thoughtPeter.Direct ventilationall overthe house-evenin a falsecompartment. He chopped awayheartily,the hollowstrokesringingthroughthe emptyatticanddown the stairs. He couldhavewalkedthroughthe holeerectwhenhe wassatisfiedwith his labors;insteadhe cautiously turneda flashlightinsidethe space. The beamwasinvisible;all dusthadlongsincesettled.Petergrunted.The floor
-]
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C. M. Kornbluth
seemedto be sound.He testedit with one foot,half in, half out of the It held. hiddenchamber. The youngman steppedthrougheasily,turning the flashon wallsand floor.The room wasnot large,but it wasclutteredwith a miscellanyof objects-chests,furniture,knick-knacksand what-nots.Peteropeneda chest,wonderingaboutpirategold.But therewasno gold,for the thingwas full to the lid with chiffonsin delicatehues.A faint fragranceof musk filled the air; sachetslong sincepackedawaywerenot entirelygone. Funny thing to hide away,thoughtPeter.But GrandfatherPackerhad beena funny man-havingthis housebuilt to his own verysoundplans, waitingalwayson the Braintreedocksfor the ChinaandIndiaClippersand whatrarecargothey might havebrought.Chiffons!Peterpokedaroundin the box for a moment,then closedthe lid again.Therewereothers. Potsof old He turnedthe beamof the lighton a walllinedwith shelves. probably. And a clock.Peterstaredat andpreserves, workmanship-spices the clock.It wasabouttwo by twoby threefeet-an unusualandawkward wasplain,the caseof crudelyfinishedwood.And size.The workmanship yet therewassomething aboutit-his eyeswidenedashe realizedwhatit was.The dial showedthirteenhours! Betweenthe flat figuresXII and I there wasanother-an equallyflat XIII. What sort of freakthis wasthe youngmandid not know.Vaguelyhe conjecturedon prayer-time,egg-boilingand all the other practical Butnothinghecoulddredgeup fromhis wellof chronometry. applications with this freak.He set the flash on a shelfand storedmind wouldsquare heftedthe clockin his arms,liftingit easily. This,he thought,wouldbearlookinginto.Puttingthelightin his pocket he carriedthe clockdownthe stairsto his second-floorbedroom.It looked there,seton a draftsman'stablehungwith rulesand strangelyincongruous DeterminedlyPeterbeganto pry openthe backwith a chisel, T squares. when it glided smoothly open without tooling. There was better constructionin the old timepiecethan he had realized.The little hinges werestill firm and in workingorder.He peeredinto the worksandticked his nail againstone of the chimes.It soundedsweetand clear' The youngmantook a pair of pliers.Lord knewwherethe key was,he thought,as he beganto wind the clock.Slowlyit got under way,ticking loudly.The thinghadstoppedat 12:59.Thatwouldbenearlyoneo'clockin any other timepiece;on this the minute hand crept slowly towardthe enigmaticXIII. Peterwoundthe strikingmechanismcarefully,and watchedas a little Theminutehandmet the Romannumeral,andwith a click whir sounded. the chimessoundedout in an eerie,janglingdiscord.Peterthoughtwith suddenconfusionthat all wasnot aswell with the clockashe hadthought.
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The chimesgrewlouder,filling the little bedroomwith their clang. Horrified,the youngmanput his handson the clockasthoughhe could stopoff the noise.As he shookthe old cabinetthe pealsredoubleduntil they batteredagainstthe eardrumsof the draftsman,ringing in his skull and resoundingfrom the walls,makinginstrumentsdanceand rattle on the drawing-board. Peterdrew back,his handsto his ears.He wasfilled with nausea, hiseyesblearedandsmarting. As theterribleclockthundered he reached the its without door feebly,the roomswayingand out din end him, nothingrealbut the suddenlyglowingclock-dialand spinningabout thunder of its chimes. the clangand As he openedthe doorit ceased,andhe closedhis eyesin relief ashis nauseapassed.He lookedup again,and his eyeswidenedwith horror. Thoughit wasnoonoutsidea night-windfannedhis face,andthoughhe landingof his GrandfatherPacker'shousedark wason the second-story treesroseabouthim, stretchingasfar asthe eyecouldsee. luminousdial-Peterhadwandered, For threehours-by his wristwatch's thathung aimlessandhorrified,waitingfor dawn.Theauraof strangeness over the forest in which he walkedwas bearable;it was the gnawing suspicionthat he hadgonemadthat shookhim to his verybones.The trees were no ordinarythings,of that he wassure.For he had sat under one forestgiantandleanedbackagainstits boleonly to risewith a cry of terror. He hadfelt its pulsebeatslowlyandregularlyunderthebark.After thathe did not dareto rest,but he wasa youngand normalmale.Whetherhe wouldor not he foundhimselfblunderinginto ditchesand stonesfrom Finally,sprawledon the ground,he slept. sheerexhaustion. Peterwokestiff and sorefrom his nap on the bareground,but he felt better for it. The sun washigh in the heavens;he sawthat it wasabout his terrorsof the night he nearlylaughedat eleveno'clock.Remembering himself.This wasa forest,andtherewereanynumberof saneexplanations howhe gothere.An attackof amnesialastingabouttwelvehourswouldbe one cause.And therewereprobablyotherslessdisturbing. He thoughtthe countrymight be Maine.Godknewhowmanytrainsor busseshe hadtakensincehe losthis memoryin his bedroom.Beginningto whistlehe strodethroughthe woods.Thingsweredifferentin the daytime. There was a sign ahead!He sprintedup to its base.The thing was curiouslylarge-paintedin red characters on a greatslabof wood,posted ground. The signsaidELLIL. He on a deadtreesometwelvefeetfrom the rolledthe nameoverin his mind and decidedthat he didn't recognizeit. But he couldn't be far from a town or house. Aheadof him soundeda thunderousgrunt. "Bears!"he thoughtin a panic.Theyhadbeenhis childhoodbogies;he
C. M. Kornbluth
had beenfrightenedof them ever since.But it wasno bear,he saw He almostwishedit was.Forthethingthatwasveeringon him wasa frightful compositeof everymonsterof mythology,menacinghim with sabrelike clawsand teeth and gustsof flame from its raveningthroat.It stoodonly aboutas high as the man, and its legswerelong, but it seemedideally to the engineer. styledfor destruction, Without adohejumped for a tree and dug his toesinto the groovesof the bark,shinningup it as he usedto as a child.But therewasnothing flamingbreathscorchinghis childlikeaboutit now.With the creature's heelshe climbedlike a monkey,stoppingonly at the third set of main branches,twenty-fivefeet from the ground.Therehe clung,limp and shuddering,and lookeddown, aboutthe baseof the tree,its The creaturewashoppinggrotesquely on out for a firmerpurchase balefuleyeson him.The man'shandreached the branch,and part cameawayin his hand. He had picked a sort of hard,andwith sharpcorners.Peterraisedhis eyes.Why coconut-heavy, not? Carefullynotingthe path that the creaturebelowtook aroundthe trunk he poisedthe fruit carefully.Wettinga finger,he adjustedthe placing. On a free dropthat long you hadto allowfor windage,he thought. Twice more around went the creature,and then its head and the murderousfruit reachedthe samepoint at the sametime. Therewasa crunchingnoisewhichPetercouldhearfromwherehe wasandtheinsides of its headspilledon the forestsward. "Cleverj'saida voicebesidehim on the branch. He turned with a cry. The speakerwas only faintly visible-the shadowof a younggirl, not morethan eighteen,he thought. diaphanous Calmlyit wenton, "You mustbe verymancicto be ableto landa fruit so accurately. Did he giveyou an extrasense?"Her tonewaslight, but from whathe couldseeof her dim featurestheywerecurledin an angrysmile. Nearly letting go of the branchin his bewildermenthe answeredas calmlyashe could,"I don't knowwho you mean.And whatis mancic?" "lnnocent,"she saidcoldly."Eh? I could push you off this branch withouta secondthought.But first you tell me whereAlmarishgot the or a modelfor you.I might turn out a few myself.Are you a doppleganger golem?" andhorrified."I don't evenknowwhat "Neither,"he spat,bewildered they are!" "Strange,"saidthe girl. "I can't readyou."Her eyessquintedprettily and suddenlybecamesolid,luminouswedgesin her transparentface. "Well," shesighed,"let's get out of this." Shetook the man by his elbow anddroppedfrom the branch,haulinghim afterher.Readyfor a sickening impactwith the ground,Peterwincedas his heelstouchedit light as a
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feather.He tried to disengage the girl's grip, but it washardas steel. "None of thati' shewarnedhim. "I havea blast-finger. Or didn't he tell you?" "What's a blast-finger?"demandedthe engineer. "Just so you won't try anything,"shecommented."Watch."Her body solidifiedthen, and she pointedher left index finger at a middling-sized tree. Peter hardly saw what happened,being more interestedin the incidentalmiracleof her faceand figure.But his attentionwasdistracted by a flat crashof thunderandsuddenglare.And the treewasrivenasif by a terrific strokeof lightning.Petersmelledozoneashe lookedfromthe tree to the girl's finger andbackagain."Okay,"he said. "No nonsense?"sheasked."Come on." They passedbetweentwo trees,andthe vista of forestshimmeredand tore,revealing a sortof palace-allwhitestoneandmapletimbers."That's my place,"saidthe girl. II "Nowl' she said,settlingherself into a cane-backed chair.Peterlooked aboutthe room.It wasfurnishedcomfortablywith piecesof antiquemerit, in the bestNew Englandtradition.His gazeshiftedto the girl, slenderand palelyluminous,with a half-smileplayingabouther chiseledfeatures. "Do youmind,"he saidslowly,"not interruptinguntil I'm finishedwith whatI haveto say?" 'A message from Almarish?Go on." And at thathe completely losthis temper."Listen,yousnip!" he raged. you who don't know are or whereI am but I'd like to tell you that this "I mysteryisn't funny or evenmysterious-justdownrightrude.Do you get that?Now-my nameis PeterPacker.Ilive in Braintree, Mass.Imakemy living as a consultingand industrialengineer.This placeobviouslyisn't Braintree, Mass.Right?Then whereis it?" "Ellil," saidthe girl simply. "I sawthaton a signl'saidPacker. "It still doesn'tmeananythingto me. Whereis Ellil?" Her facebecamesuddenlygrave."You may be telling the truth," she saidthoughtfully. "I do not knowyet.Will you allowme to testyou?" "Why shouldI?" he.snapped. "Remembermy blast-finger?" Packerwinced."Yes,"he said."What arethe tests?" "The usual," she smiled. "Rosemaryand garlic, crucifixesand the secretnameof Jehovah.If you get throughthoseyou'reokay."
C. M. Kornbluth
"Then get on with it," the man said,confusedly. ..Holdthese."she passedhim a flowerysprigand a cloveof garlic.He 'All right?" he asked. tookthem.onein eachhand. "On those,yes.Now takethe crossandreadthis name.Youcanput the downnow." vegetables He followedinstructions,stammeringoverthe harshHebrewword.[n a coldfury the girl sprangto her feetandleveledher left indexfingerat him. "Clever,"sheblazed."But youcan'tgetawaywith it! I'll blowyousowide open-" "What did I do?" The girl, thoughsweet-looking, "Wait,"he pleaded. irresponsible. seemedto be absolutely "Becauseyou can't sayit the Name,"she snapped. "Mispronounced straightwithoutcrumblinginto dust!" He lookedat the paperagainandreadaloudslowlyandcarefully."was that right?" he asked. thegirl satdown."Yesi'shesaid."I'm sorry.Youseemto be Crestfallen, okay.A realhuman.Now whatdo you wantto know?" "Well-who areyou?" "I'm a-sort of a "My name'sMelicentl' She smiled deprecatingly. sorceress." "I canbelievethatj' gruntedthe man."Now why shouldyou takeme for a demon,or whateveryou thoughtI was?" him. "I wassure-well,I'd betterbegin shecorrected "Dopplegangerj' at the beginning. You see, I haven't been a sorceressvery long-only two years.My heardit saidthat motherwasa witch-a realone,andprettyfirst-class.I've shebrewedthe neatestspellsin Ellil. All I knowI learnedfromher-never studiedit formally.My motherdidn't die a naturalsort of death,you see. Almarishgot her." "Who'sAlmarish?" Shewrinkledher mouthwith disgust."That thug!" shespat."He and his gangof half-breeddemonsareout to get controlof Ellil. My mother wouldn't stand for it-she told him right out flat over a Multiplex Apparition.And after that he wasgunningfor her steady-no letup at all. And believeme, there are mighty few witcheswho can standup under much of that, but Mother stoodhim off for fifteen years.They got my father-he wasn'tmuchgood-a little while afterI wasborn.Vampires. ..Mother got caught alone in the woodsone morning without her tools-unguents, staffs and things-by a whole flock of golems and "some of them-well, Mother finished zombies."The girl shuddered. her andgot a stakeof myrtlethrough they overwhelmed abouthalf before lost all her magic, of course,and her-she her heart. That finished
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Almarish sent an ordinaryplagueof ants againsther. Adding insult to injury,I call it!" Therewererealtearsof ragein her eyes. 'And what'sthis Almarishdoing now?" askedPeter,fascinated. Melicentshrugged. "He's aftermel'she saidsimply."The banduryou killedwasoneof my watchdogs. And I thoughthe'd sentyou.I'm sorry." "I see,"breathedthe man slowly."What powershashe?" "The usual,Isuppose. But he hasno principlesaboutusingthem.And he hashis gang-I can't affordreal retainers.Of courseI whip up some simulacrawheneverI hold a receptionor anythingof thatsort.Justimages to serveandtakewraps.Theycan'tfight." Peter tightened his jaw. "You must be in a pretty bad way," he volunteereddiffidently. The girl lookedhim full in the eye,her lip trembling.Shechokedout, "I'm in sucha hell of a spot!" and then the gatesopenedand shewas weepingas if her heartwould break.The man staredfrozenlgwondering how he could comforta despondent sorceress. "There,there,"he said tentatively. Shewipedher eyesand lookedat him. "I'm sorry,"shesaidsniffing. "But it's seeinga fairlyfriendlyfaceagainafterall theseyears-no callers but leprechauns and things.You don't know what it's like." "I wonder,"saidPeter,"how you'd like to live in Braintree." "[ don't know,"shesaidbrightly."But how could I get there?" "There shouldbe at leastone way,"reflectedthe man. "But why-what wasthat?" shotout the girl, snatchingup a wand. "Knock on the door,"saidPeter."ShallI openit?" "Pleasel'saidMelicentnervously, holdingup the slenderstaff.Theman stoodasideand swungthe door wide. In walkeda curiouspersonof mottledred and white coloring.One eye wassmalland blue,the other largeandsavagely red.His teethwerequitenormal-exceptthat the four caninesprotrudedtwo incheseachout of his mouth.He walkedwith a limp; oneshoeseemedcuriouslysmall.And therewasa sort of bulgein the trousersthat he worebeneathhis formalmorning-coat. "May I introducemyself,"saidthe individualremovinghis sleekblack topper."I am Balthazar Pike.Youmustbe MissMelicent?And this-ahzombie?"He indicatedPeterwith a dirty leer. "Mr. Packer, Mr. Pike,"saidthe girl.Petersimplystaredin horrorwhile the creaturemurmured."Enchanted." 'And this,I suppose," Melicentdrewherselfup proudly. shesaid,"is the end?" "I fear so, Miss Melicent,"said the creatureregretfully."I have my orders.Yourhousehasbeensurrounded by pickedforces;anyattemptto
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useyour blast-fingeror anyother weaponof offensewill be construedas to reduce resiitance.Underthe lawsof civilizedwarfarewe areempowered you to ashesshould such resistancebe forthcoming.May I have your reply?" The girl surveyedhim haughtily,then,with a lightninglikesweepof her wand,siemedto blot out everylight irl the room.Peterheardher agitated I won't be ableto keepit up voice..'we're in a neutralscreen,Mr. Packer. stinkers-big cheese.He Almarish's of was one for long.Listen!That take me captiveassoonasthey me. He'll from didn't expectany trouble me?" you want to help breakthe screendown.Do "Of course!"explodedthe man. ,.Good.Then you find the third oakfrom the front dooron the left and walk widdershinsthreetimes.You'll find out what to do from them." "Walk how?" askedPeter. "Widdershins-counterclockwise,lord, you'redumb!" Thenthe lightsseemedto go on again,andPetersawthat the roomwas of injureddignity With an expression filled with the half-breedcreatures. 'Are you readyto leavenow, the formally-attiredBalthazarPike asked, MissMelicent?Quiteready?" ,,Thankyou,General,yesl'saidthegirl coldly.Twoof thecreatures took her armsand walkedher from the room.Petersawthat as they stepped overthe thresholdthey vanished,all three.The lastto leavewasPike,who turnedandsaidto theman:"I mustremindyou,Mister-er-ah-that you are trespassing.This property now belongs to the Almarish Realty to the fullest extentof the Corporation.All offenderswill be prosecuted which he steppedoverthe door With law.GooddayMister-er-ah-" and vanished. Hastily Peterfollowedhim acrossthe line, but found himself alone outsideihe house.For which he was grateful."Third oak from the left Simpleenough.Feelingfoolishhe walkedwiddershins doorl'herepeated. threetimes aroundand stoppeddeadwaitingfor something' what a sweet,bravekid shehadbeen!He hopednothingwouldreally happento her-before he got there. He felt a sort of tuggingat his sergetfousersandsteppedbackin alarm. "Well?"shrilleda smallvoice.Peterlookeddownandwinced.Thedirtiest' little creaturehe had everseenwasregardinghim with most bedraggled tiny, sharp eyes. There were others, too, squattingon pebblesand toadstools. ..MissMelicenttold me to askyou whatI shoulddo," saidPeter.As the little leaderof the troopglaredat him he addedhastily,"If you please." ..Likelytalei' pipedthe voiceof the creature. "what's in it for us?" "What do you want?" "I dunnol'saidthe man,bewildered.
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"Greencloth,"the creatureansweredpromptly..,Lotsof it. And if you haveany smallbrassbuttons.them too." Peterhastilyconductedan inventoryof his person."I'm sorry,"he said hesitantly."I haven'tanygreen.How aboutblue?I cansparemy vest."He carefullyloweredthe garmentto the groundamongthe little people. "Looksall rightj'saidtheleader. "Jake!"one of thecreatures advanced and fingeredthe cloth."Hmm-" he said."Good material."Then there wasa whisperedconsultation with the leader,who at lastshoutedup to Peter:"HeadEastfor water.Youcan'tmissit!" "Hey,"saidPeter,blinking.But they werealreadygone.And thoughhe widdershin-walked for the next half hourandeventrieda few incantations remembered from his childhoodthey did not comeback,nor did his vest. So,with his backto the sinkingsun,he headedEastfor water. III "Mahooracity Limitsl'saidthe sign.Peterscratched his headandpassed it. He hadhit the stretchof highwaya few milesbackoncehe hadgotout of the forest,andit seemedto be leadingstraightinto a city of somekind. Therewasa glowaheadin the sky; a glowwhichabruptlybecamea glare. "Jeepers!"the man gasped."Buildings-skyscrapers!" Beforehim reareda sort of triple wall Streetwith which werecombinedthe most spectacularfeaturesof Rockefellercenter.In the suddenway in which thingshappened in Ellil he turneda sort of blind cornerin the roadand foundhimselfin the thick of it. A taxi roaredpasthim; with a mutteredimprecation hejumpedout of the way.The bustlingpeopleon the sidewalks ignoredhim completely. It wasaboutsix o'clock;they wereprobablygoinghomefrom their offices. Theywereall sortsof people-womenandgirls,plainandpretty,menand boys, slim, fat, healthy and dissipated.And striding along in lordly indifferencePetersawa cop. "Excuseme," saidPeter,elbowinghis way throughthe crowdto the memberof Mahoora'sfinest."can you tell me whereI canfind water?" That was,he realized,putting it a bit crudely.But he was hopelessly confusedby the traffic and swarmsof pedestrians. The cop turned on him with a glassystare."water?" he rumbled. "would yezbe wantin'tap,ditch,fire-or cologne?"The manhesitated. He didnt know,he realizedin a suddenpanic.The elves,or whateverthey had been,hadn't specified.cagily he raisedhis hand to his brow and muttered,"'Scuseme-previousengagement-made theappointment for today-just forgot-" He wasedgingawayfrom the cop when he felt a handon his arm.
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"What wasthat aboutwater?"askedthe cophoarsely'puttinghis face the manblurted:"The waterI haveto find to lick nearPeter's.Desperately Almarish!"Who couldtell? Maybethe copwouldhelphim' 'And me a loyal ..what?" thunderedM.P.D.ShieldNo. 2435957507. supporterof the Mayor AlmarishFreedomPeaceand ProgressReform Administration?"He frowned."You look subversiveto me-come on!" and Peter meekly followed him He raisedhis nightstick suggestively, throughthe crowds. "How'd theyget you in here?"askedPeter'scell-mate' peterinspeitedhim. He wasa short,darksortof personwith a pairof "How about brighteyes."suspicion,"saidPeterevasively. disconcertingly you?" I Actuallybecause "Practicingmancywithout a license,theoretically' is?" how it know You machine. triedto buckthe Almarish "Can't sayI do," answeredPeter."I'm a strangerhere'" "Yeah?Well-like this.Fewyearsagowe hada neatlittle hamlethere' Mahoorawasthe biggestlittle city in thesepartsof Ellil, thoughI sayit of swiftness, myself.A little industry-magicchalicesfor export,sandals know?" invisiUititycloaks,invincibleweapons-you "Um," saidPeternoncommittally. ,.Weli,I had a factory-modestlittle chemicalworks.We turnedout love-phiitresfrom my own prescription.It's what I call a neat dodgecuts down eliminatesthe balneummariaeentirely from the processing, the line?" in things dryingtime-maybeyouaren'tfamiliarwith thelatest "Sorry,no." ,.oh-well. then,in cametheseplugsof Almarish.Flyinggoon-squads that wrecked plants and shops on order, labor spies, provocateurs' everything.soonthey'd run out everyracketeerin the placeandhijacked themlocklstockandbarrel.Thentheywentinto politics'Therewasa little scandalaboutbuyingvoteswith fairy gold-people kickedwhenit turned into ashes.But they smoothedthat overwhen they got in' .And then-! Graft right and left, patronage,unemployment'rotten bribery,ineificiency-everythingthat'son the list. And this foodscandals. is their fifth term.How do you like that?" "But how do theystayin office?" "Lordl'said Peter,shocked. "Oh," grinnedhis friend."The first thing they did wasto run up some pretty lniposing public works-tall buildings, bridges,highwaysand *onu."nir. Tt they let it out that they werepartlymadeof half'stuff. that is?" Youknowwhat"o "Noi'said Peter."What is it?" ..well-it's a little hardto describe. But it isn't reallythereandit isn't
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reallynot there.Youcanwalkon it andpickit up andthings,but-well, it's a little hardto describe. Thekickeris this.Half-stuffis thereonlyaslongas you-the onewho prepared a batchof it that is-keep the formulagoing. Soif we votedthoseleechesout of officethey'drelaxtheir formulaandthe half-stuff would vanish and the rest of the buildingsand bridgesand highwaysand monumentswouldfall with a helluvanoiseand damage. How do you like that?" "Efficiencyplus,"saidPeter."Where'sthis Almarishhangout?" "The mayor?"askedhiscell-matesourly."Youdon'tthink he'dbeseen in the city,do you?Somedisgruntled citizenmightsica flockof vampires on his honor.He waselectedin absentia.Ihearhe livesaroundMal-Thva way," "Where'sthat?" askedPetereagerly. "You don't know?Say,you'reas greenas they come!That'sa pretty nastycornerof Ellil-the nastiestanywhere, I guess. It's a volcanicregion, and thoselava-nymphs pretty are tough molls.Then there'sa dragonrancharoundthere.The ownergot carelessand shorvedup missingone day,The dragonsbrokeout and ran wild; they'rethe killingestyou could hopeto see.Anythingelse?" 'No," saidPeter,heavy-hearted. guess not." "I "That's good.BecauseI think we'regoingto trial right now."A guard wasopeningthe dooqclub poised."His Honor,JudgeBalthazarPike will seeyou nowl'saidthe warden.Petergroaned. The half-breeddemon,his sartorialsplendorof the preceding afternoon replacedby judiciaryblacksilk, smiledgrimlyon the two prisoners. "Mr. Morden," he said indicating the erstwhile manufacturer."and Mr.-er-ah?" "Packer!"explodedthe man."What areyou doinghere?" "Haw!" laughedthejudge."That'swhatI wasgoingto askyou.Butfirst we havethis matterof Mr. Mordento disposeof, Excuseme a moment? Clerk,readthe charges." A cowed-looking little manpickedan index-cardfrom a stackandread: "WhereasMr. PercivalMordenof Mahoorahasbeenapprehended in the act of practicingmancyandwhereasthis Mr. Mordendoesnot possess an approved licensefor suchpracticeit is directedthat His Honorchief Judge BalthazarPike declarehim guilty of the practiceof mancy without a license.signed,MayorAlmarish.vote straightPeaceandprogrgssReform Partyfor a cleanand efficient administration."He pausedfor a moment and lookedtimidly at the judge who wascleaninghis talons...That'sit, your honor,"he said. "Oh-thank you.Now,Morden-guilty or not guilty?"
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..what's the difference?" askedthe manufacturer sourly' "Not guiltg I guess." .,Thankyou." The judge took a coin from his pocket."Headsor tails?" he asked. .,TailSl'anSweredMOrden.Then, asideto Peter,"It's magiC,of course. You can't win." The half-breed demon spun the coin dexterously on the judicial bench; it wobbled,slowed,and fell with a tinkle. The judge glanced ,,sorry, old man," he said sympathetically."You seem to be guilty. at it. Imprisonment for life in an oak-tree.You'll find Merlin de Bleys in there with you, I rather fancy.You'll like him. Next casel'he called sharplyas Morden fell through a trapdoor in the floor. Peter advancedbefore the bar of justice. "can't we reason this thing out?" he askedagitatedly."I mean, I'm a strangerhere and if I've done anything I'm sorry-" l.Tutt" exclaimedthe demon.He had torn the cuticle of his left index talon. and it was bleeding. He stanched the green liquid with a handkerchief and looked down at the man. "Done anything?" he asked mildly. ,.oh-dear me, no! Except for a few trifles like felonious impeiiment of an officer in the course of his duty, indecent display' seditious publication, high treasonand unlawful possessionof military and navalsecrets-done anything?" His two odd eyeslookedreproachfully down on the man. Peter felt something flimsy in his hand. Covertly he looked and saw a slip of blue paper on which was written in greenink: "This is Hugo, my other watchOoi.feeO him once a day on greenvegetables.He doesnot like tobacco.In haste,Melicent." There was a stir in the back of the courtroom, and Peter turned to see one of the fire-breathing horrors which had first attackedhim in the forest tearing down the aisle lashing out to right and left, incinerating a troop of officeis with one blast of its terrible breath' BalthazarPike was crawling around under his desk, bawling for more police. Petercried. "You can add one more-possessionof a bandur without a 'em, Hugo!" The monsterflashedan affectionatelook at him license!Sic and went on with the good work of clearing the court. The man sprang aside as the trapdoor opened beneath his feet and whirled on a cop who was trying to swarm over him. with a quick one-two he laid him out and pro.eedrd to the rear of the courtroom, where Hugo was standing off a section of the fire-department that was trying to extinguish his throat. Peter snatched an axe from one and mowed away heartily. Resistance melted awayin a hurry, and Peterpushedthe hair out of his eyesto find that they were alone in the court. ,,come on, boy," he said.whistling cheerily he left the building, the
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bandurat his heels,smokinggently.Petercollareda cop-the sameone who hadfirst arrestedhim. "Now," he snarled."Wheredo I find water?" Stutteringwith fright, and with two poppingeyeson the banduqthe officersaidn"The harbor'stwo blocksdownthe streetif you mean-" "NevermindwhatI mean!"growledPeter,luxuriating in hisnew-found power.He strodeoff pugnaciously, Hugo following. IV "I beg your pardon-are you looking for water?" askeda tall, dark man over Peter's shoulder.Hugo growled and let loose a tongue of flame at the stranger'sfoot. "Shuddup,Hugo," saidPeter.Then, turning to the stranger, oAsa matter of fact I was.Do you-?" "I heard about you from them," said the stranger."You know. The little people." "Yes," said Peter."What do I do now?" "Underground Railroad,"said the stranger."Built after the best Civil War model. Neat, speedyand efficient. Transportationat half the usual cost.I hope you werenotplanning to go by magic carpet?" "No," Peter assuredhim hastily. "I never use them." "That's great,"said the strangergwishinghis long black cloak. "Those carpet people-stifling industry, I call it. They spread a whispering campaign that our road was unsafe! Can you imagine it?" "LJnsafe,"scoffed Peter. "I'll bet they wish their carpets were half as safe as your railroad!" "Well," saidthe strangerthoughtfully,"perhapsnot half assafe. . . No; I wouldn't say half as safe. .." He seemedlikely to go on indefinitely.peter asked,"Where do I get the Underground?" 'A little East of here," said the stranger.He looked about apprehensively. "We'd better not be seen together,"he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Meet you over there by the clock-tower-you can get it there." "Okay," said Peter."But why the secrecy?" "We're really under$round," said the stranger,walking away. Peter rejoined him at the corner of the clock-tower;with an elaborate display of unconcern the stranger walked off, peter following at some distance.soon they wereagainin the forestthat seemedto borderthe city of Mahoora. once they were past the city-limits sign the stranger turned, smiling. "I guess we're safe now," he said. "They could try a raid and drag us back acrossthe line, but they wouldn't like to play with your bandur,I think. Here's the station."
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a sectionof barkon a hugetree;silentlyit slid openlike a He pressed door. Peter saw a row of stepsleadingdown into blackness."Sort of he said. spooky," oncea year."The strangerled "Not at all! I havethe placeghostproofed electrictorch."What's five'branched like a theway,takingout whatlooked light it shed. blue the weird by that?" askedPeter,fascinated looked closer and Peter glory," said the strangercasually' "Hand of was Magic,he thought, probablyall right holdinghis stomach. shuddered, up to the point whereit becamegrave'robbery' to find thatthe Theyarrivedat a neatlytiledstation;Peterwassurprised trainsweretiny things.The onepulledup on the trackswasnot 4shigh as he was."You'll haveto stoke,of course,"saidthe stranger' "What?" demandedPeterindignantly. Are you comingor aren'tyou?" "Usualarrangement. '.Of course-butit seemsstrange," Peterclimbinginto the complained engine.Hugoclimbedup into the coalcar and curledup emittingshort smokyburstsof flamewhichcausedthe strangerto keepglancingat him in fearfor his fuel. "'What'sin the rest of the train?" askedPeter. ..Freight.This is the throughcannonballto Mal-Tava.I havea special shipmentfor Almarish.Booksandthings,furniture,a fewcasesof liquoryou know?" "Yes.Any otherpassengers?" ,.Not this month.I haven'tmuch troublewith them.They'reusually knights and things out to kill sorcererslike Almarish.They take their horsesalongor sendthemaheadby carpet.Do youplanto kill Almarish?" Peterchoked."Yes,"he finallysaid."What'sit to you?" "Nothing-I takeyour moneyand leaveyou whereyou wantto go' A can'taffordopinions.Let'sget up somesteam,eh?" tradesman AmateurishlyPeter shoveledcoal into the little furnace while the andlevers."Don't be in theblackcloakjuggledwith steam-valves stranger tnorried."he advisedPeter."You'll getthe hangof thingsaftera while'" He glancedat a watch."Here we go,"he said,yankingthe whistle-cord' The train startedoff into its tunnel,slidingsmoothlyandalmostsilently along,the only noisebeingfrom the driving rods."why doesn'tit clack againstthe rails?"askedPeter. ..Levitation.Didn't you notice?We'rean inch off the track.Simple, really." "Then why havea track?" askedPeter. The strangersmiledandsaid,"without-" thenstoppedabruptlyand lookedconcernedand baffled.And that wasall the answerPetergot.
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"Waksupj' shoutedthe strangernudgingPeter."We're in the war zone!" "Zasso?"askedPeter,blinking.He had beennappingafter hoursof steadytravel."What war zone?" "Trolls-you know." "No,I don'tl" snappedPeter."What sidearewe on?" "Dependson who stopsus," said the stranger,speedingthe engine. They wereout of the tunnel now,Petersaw,speedingalonga coupleof inches abovethe floor of an immensedim cave.Ahead the glittering doublestrandof the track stretchedinto the distance. "Oh-oh!" mutteredthecloakedstranger. "Troubleahead!"Petersawa vague,stirringcrowdbeforethem."Thosetrolls?"he asked. "Yepi' answeredthe engineerresignedly, slowingthe train. "What do you want?"he askeda solid-lookinglittle manin a raggeduniform."To get the hell out of here,"saidthe little man.He wasaboutthreefeet tall, Peter saw."What happened?" he asked. lickedusl'saidthe troll. "Will you let us on the "The lousyInsurgents train beforethey cut us down?" "Firstl' saidthe engineermethodically, "there isn't room.Second,I haveto keepfriendswith the partyin power.Third, you knowvery well that you can'tbe killed." "Wouldyou like "What if we areimmortal?"askedthe troll agitatedly. to live foreverscattered in little pieces?" saidPeterabruptly,"you getout of it asbestyoucanl'He was "Second," speakingto the engineer.'And first, you candumpall the freightyou have for Almarish.He won't wantit anywaywhenI'm throughwith him." "That right?" askedthe troll. "Not by me!" explodedthe engineer. "Now getyourgangoff the track beforeI ploughthem under!" "Hugo," whisperedPeter.With a lazy growl the bandurscorchedthe napeof the engineer'shead. 'All right,"saidthe engineer. 'All right.Useforce-all right." Then,to the leaderof the trolls,"You tell your menthey canunloadthe freightand get as comfortableas they can." "Wait!" interjectedPeter."InasmuchasI got you out of this scrape-I think-would you be willingto helpme out in a little affairof honorwith Almarish?" "Sure!" saidthe troll. "Anythingat all. Youknow,for a surface-dweller you'renot half bad!" With whichhe beganto spreadthe goodnewsamong his army. Later,when they wereall togetherin the cab,takingturns with the shovel,the troll introducedhimself as GeneralSkaldbergof the Third LoyalistArmy.
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Speedingaheadagainat full speedthe end of the cavernwasin sight when anotherswarm of trolls blockedthe path. "Go through them!" orderedPetercoldly. "Think of whatthis will do to my "For pity'ssake,"plbadedthe stranger. franchise!" "That'syourworryl'saidthe general."You fix it up with the Insurgents' We gaveyou the franchiseanyway-they haveno right of search." "Maybel' muttered the engineer.He closedhis eyes as they went slappinginto the bandof trollsunderfull steam.Whenit wasall overand theywereagaintearingthroughthetunnelhelookedup."How many?"he askedbrokenly. "Why didn't youdo a goodjob "Only threel'saidthe generalregretfully. whileyou wereat it?" "You shouldhavehad your men fire from the freight'carsl'saidthe engineercoldly. "Too badI didn't think of it. Couldyou turn backand takethem in a surpriseattack?" But for the next The engineercursedviolently,givingno directanswer. half hourhe mutteredto himselfdistraitly,groaning"Franchise!"overand overagain. "How much fartherbeforewe get to Mal'Tava?"askedPeterglumly. .,VerysoonnOw,"Saidthe trOll."I wasthereonce.Verybrokenterrainfine for guerillawork." "Got any ideason how to handlethe businessof Almarish?" 'As I rememberitl'he saidslowly,"I The generalscratchedhis head. ideas.It's a funny oncethoughtit wasa pushoverfor someof Clausewitz's the citadel-every' within no fortifications problem-practically tactical probablyhasa Almarish course of steel. Of thing lumpedoutsidein a wall And at his fingertips' magic personally. kinds direct of All lot on the ball pretend to know even don't trolls get men. We off with my that'swhereI Mostly straightmilitary stuff with us." the fine pointsof thaumaturgy. "So I haveto facehim alone?" ..Moreor less,"saidthe general."I havea coupleof guysthat majoredin Military Divination at Ellit Tech Prep.They can probablygive you a for illusions, completelayoutof the citadel,but they won't be responsible to throwin decide MultiplexApparitionsor anythingelseAlmarishmight the way.My personaladviceto you is-be skeptical." "Yes?" askedPetermiserablY. ..Exactly,"said skaldberg."The real difficulty in handling arcane warfareis in knowingwhat'sthere and what ain't. Haveyou any way of Not a spy,exactly-we military men don't sneakingin a confederate? unit'" .pptou"of spying-but a sort of-ah-one'rnan intelligence
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"I havealready," saidPeterdiffidently."She'sa sorceress, but not much goodI think.Hasa blast-finger, though." "Verygood,"gruntedSkaldberg. "Verygoodindeed.God,howwecould have usedher againstthe Insurgents!The houndshad us in a sort of peninsularspot-with only one weakline of supplyandcommunication betweenus and the main force-and I washoldinga hill againsta grand piquetof flying carpetsthat werehurlingthunderbolts at our munitions supply.But their sightswere awayoff and they only got a few of our snipers.God, what a blast-fingerwould have done to those bloody carpets!" The engineershowedsignsof interest."You're right!" he snapped. "Blow'em out of thesky-menaceto life andlimb!I havea bill pendingat the All Ellil Conference on Communication and Tfansportation-would you be interested?" "Nol'gruntedthe general. Theengineer, swishinghis longblackcloak, returnedto his throttlemutteringaboutinjunctionsand fairplay.
v the general. "Easy,now!" whispered "Yessir,"answered a troll goingthroughobviousmentalstrainwhile his hand,seemingly of its ownvolition,scrawled linesandsymbolson a sheet of papor.Peterwaswatching,fascinatedandmystified,asthe specialistin military divinationwasdoinghis stuff. "There!" saidthe troll, relaxing.He lookedat the papercuriouslyand signedit: "Borgenssen, Capt." "Well?" askedGeneralSkaldberg excitedly. "What wasit like?" The Captaingroaned."You should see for yourself,sir!" he said despondently. "Their air-forceis flying dragonsandtheir infantry'sa kind of Krakensquad.What they'redoingout of waterI don't know." "Okayl' saidthe general.He studiedthe drawing."How about their mobility?" "They haven'tgotanyandtheydon't needany,"complainedthe diviner. "Theyjust sit therewaitingfor you-in a solidring.And theair-forcehasa coupleof auxiliaryrocsthat pick up the Krakensand drop them behind your forces.Pincherstuff-very bad." "I'll be the judge of that!" thunderedthe general.,oGetout of my office!"The captainsalutedandstumbledout of the little cavewhichthe generalhad chosento designateas GHQ. His men were"barracked"on the barerock outside.volcanoesrumbledandspatin the distance.There cameone rolling crashthat set Peter'shair on end.
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"Think that wasfor us?" he askednervously. "Nope-I pickedthis spot for lava drainage.I have a hundredmen erectinga shut-off at the only exposedpoint.We'll be safeenough."He turned againto the map,frowning."This is our real worry-what I call or damnnearit. If we couldgetthemto attackus-but those impregnable, rocssmashanythingalongthat line. we'd be cut off like a rosebud.And andsurrounded. with our shortmunitionswe can'taffordto be discovered in!" himself to find man for an army a spot What Ugh! A brassyfemalevoiceasked,"Somep'nbodderin'you,shorty?"The generalspun aroundin a fine purple rage.Peterlookedin horror and on the immodestform of a womanwhohadenteredthe cave astonishment from some occult means.She was a entirely unperceived-presumably a vivid redandher satinskirt an inch or two sluttycreature,her hair dyed abovethe knee.she was violently madeup with flame-coloredrouge, lipstick and eveneye-shadow "Welli' she complainedstridently,puffing on a red cigarette,"wadda youjoiks gawkin'at? Ainchanevvaseena ladybefaw?" "Madam]' beganthe general,outraged. "Candat,"sheadvisedhim easily."I hoidyouseguyschewin'dafat-I wannahelp youseout." Sheseatedherselfon an outcroppingof rock and adjustedher skirt-Northward. '1 concedethat women,"splutteredthe general,"have their placein activitiesof the military-but that placehaslittle or nothingto do with warfareassuch!I demandthat you makeyourselfknown-where did you comefrom?" "Weh did I comefrom?" sheaskedmockingly."Weh,he wansaknow' fingernailsat the rocky Lookit dat!" Shepointedone of her bright-glazed glowing cherry-red.she grew moment, liquid in a floor of the cave,which moment. grew in another cold leeredat the two and spatat the floor.[t "Don't dat meannothin'to youse?"sheasked. The generalstaredat the floor."You must be a volcanonymph'" ..GOodfa you, shOrty!"Shesneered."I representda goils from Local aredese:one,datyouseclearaway toity-tree.Inbrief,chums,ourdemands youse hangaroundin easyreach-in ffom our union hall pronto;two,dat casewe want yousefa poiposesof our own. In retoin fe desedemands, we-dats me an' de goils-will help youseguysout againstAlmarish.Dat lousyfink don't givehis handstime off no more.Dis placemightaswellbe a goddamdesertfa all de men around.Get me?" ..These-ah-purposesof your own in clausetwol' said the general hesitantly."What would they be?" Shesmileddirtily and half-closedher eyes."Escort soivice,ya might callit. Nuttin' harmfulta yer men,cap.We'll probablygettired of demin a
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munt' or two and senddem off safe.You trolls arekindacute." The generalstared,too horrified evento resentbeingcalled"cap." the nymph. "Well?" demanded "Well-yes," saidthe general. "Okay,shortyi' she said,crushingout her cigaretteagainsther palm. 'em off yer army "Da goils'lbe aroun'at dawnfa de attack.I'll try ta keep until de battle'sover.Solong!" Shesankinto the earth,leavingbehind only a smell of fleur-de-floozyperfume. "The thingsI do for the army!" GeneralSkaldberg. "God!" whispered followedcloselyby the In irregularopen formationthe holls advanced, jeering mob of volcanonymphs. "How about it, General?"askedPeter.He and the old soldierwere surveyingthe field of battle from a hill in advanceof their forces;the hideousoctopoidforms of the defendersof Almarish could be plainly seen,lumbering onwardto meetthe trollswith a peculiarsuckinggait. Then, "Here it "Any minute now-any secondl' said Skaldberg. comes!"The farthestadvancedof the trollshad met with the first of the Krakens.The creaturelashedout viciously;Petersawthat its tentacleshad been fitted with studdedbandsand other murderousdevices.The troll dodgednimbly andpulledan invincibleswordon the octopoidmyth.They mixed it; when the strugglewent behindan outcroppingof rock the troll was'in the lead,unharmed,while the slow-moving Krakenwasleaking thinly from a scoreof punctures. "The dragonsi'saidPeter,pointing."Heretheyare."In V formationthe monsterswerelandingon a far end of the battlefield,then comingat a scrabblingrun. "If they make it quicker than the Rymphs-" breathedthe general. Then he sighedrelievedly.Theyhadnot.The carnageamongthe dragons wasalmostfunny; at will the nymphslifted themhigh in the air on jets of steam and squirtedmelted rock in their eyes.Squallingin terror the dragonsflappedinto the air andlumberedoff Southward. "That's ocean,"grinnedthe general."They'll nevercomeback-trying to find newhomes,Isuspect." In an incrediblyshort time the field was littered with the flopping chunksthat hadbeenhewedfrom the Krakens.Living still they were,but powerless. The generalshookhis handwarmly."You'reon your ownnow," he said."Good luck, boy.For.acivilianyou'renot a badsort of eggat all." He walkedaway. Glumly Petersurveyedthe colossalfortressof Almarish.He walked aimlesslyup to its gate,a hugething of bronzeandsilver,andpulledat the silkencordhangingthere.A gongsoundedandthe doorswungopen.Peter
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advancedhopelesslyinto a sort of audiencechamber."So!" thundereda mightyvoice. He sawon a thronehigh above "So what?" askedPeterdespondently. him an imposingfigure."You Almarish?"he askedlistlessly. "I am.And who areyou?" "It doesn'tmatter.I'm PeterPackerof Braintree,Mass.I don't even expectyou to believeme."The throneloweredslowlyandjerkily,asif on Peter.He wasa and approached hydraulicpumps.The wizarddescended to his belt. almost reaching full brown beard with forty, a man of about you arms?" bearing come "have "Why," askedthe sorcerer, ..[t'Sthe Onlyway t couldCOme," SaidPeter."Let me firSt congratulate Not evenbackin you on an efficient,well-oiledsetof politicalmachinery. a high degree.Secondly, graft to such carried the UnitedStateshaveI seen is the neatest Mr. Pike Your is an eye-opener. your choiceof assistants person produce Miss Melicentor of the henchmanI've everseen.Thirdly, I'll haveto useforce." ..Isthatso?"rumbledAlmarish."Youngpuppy!I'd liketo seeyoutry it. Wrestlewith me-two fallsout of three.I dareyou!" up a dareyet,"he Petertook offhis coatof blueserge."I neverpassed said."How abouta mat?" jeered' "Think I'm a sissy?"the sorcerer Peter was stripped for action. "Okay," he said. Slowly Almarish on him, grapplingfor a hold.Peterlet him takehis forearm,then advanced shiftedhis weightso asto hurl the magicianoverhis shouldet.A moment later Peterwas astonishedto find himself on the floor underneaththe wizard. ..Haw!"gruntedAlmarish,rising."Youstill game?"He bracedhimself. .,Yep!"snapped Peter.He hurledhimselfin a flyingtacklethat beganten grip aboutthe feet awayfrom the wizardand endedin a bone-crushing twisted an arrn acrosshis cruelly trunk and knees.Peterswarmedup his fall againstthe himself let and yelped agony, in sudden chest.The magician cheerfully. he said grinning. all," "One floor.Peterrose, Almarishgrappledfor the third fall; Petercagilybackedaway.The wizard hurledhimselfin a bruisingbody-blockagainstPeter,batteringhim off his feet and falling on the youngman.InstinctivelyPeterbridgedhis body, archingit off ihe floor.Almarish,gruntingfiercely,grippedhis arm and turned it slowly,as thoughhe werewindinga clock.Petersnappedover, rollingon the wizard'sown bodyasa fulcrum.He hadhis toe in his hand, and closedhis fist with every ounce of musclehe had. The sorcerer andfell overon his face.Peterjammedhis kneein the wizard's screamed insidesocketandboredownterribly.He couldfeel the bonesbendin his grip.
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"Enough!" gaspedthe wizard.Peterlet him loose. "You made it," said Almarish. "Two out of three." Peter studied his face curiously.Thke off that beard and you had"You said it, Grandfather Packer]'said Peter,grinning. Almarish groaned. "It's a wise child that knows its own fathergrandfather,in this casej' he said. "How could you tell?" "Everthing just clicked," said Peter simply. "You disappearing-that clock-somebody applyingAmericanmethodsin Ellil-and then I shaved you mentally and there you were.Simple?" "Sure is. But how do you think I made out here, boy?" "Shamefully. That kind of thing isn't tolerated any more. It's gangsterism-you'll have to cut it out, gramp." "Gangsterismbe damned!" snortedthe wizard."It's business.Business and common-sense." "Business maybe-certainly not common-sense.My boys wiped out your guard and I might have wiped out you if I had magic stronger than yours." Grandfather Packer chuckled in glee. "Magic? I'll begin at the '63 beginning. When I got that dad-blamedclock back in I dropped right into Ellil-onto the head of an assassinwho was going for a real magician. Getting the set-up I pinned the killer with a half-nelson and the magician dispatchedhim. Then he got grateful-said he was retiring from public life and gave me a kind of token-good for any three wishes. "So I took it, thanking him kindly, and wished for a palaceand a bunch of gutty retainers.It wasin my mind to run Ellil like a business,and I did it the only way I knew how-force. And from that day to this I used only one wish and I haven't a dab of magic more than that!" "I'll be damned!" whisperedPeter. 'And you know what I'm goingto do with thoseother two wishes?I'm going to take you and me right back into the good old U. S. A.!" "Will it only send two people?" "So the magician said." "Grandfather Packerj' said Peter earnestly,"I am about to ask a very greatsacrificeof you. It is also your duty to undo the damagewhich you have done." o'Oh,"said Almarish glumly. "The girl? All right." o'You don't mind?" askedPeter incredulously. it from me to stand in the way of young love," grunted the be "Far wizard sourly. "She's up there." Peter entered timidly; the girl was alternately reading a copy of the Braintree Informer and staring passionately at a photograph of Peter. "Darling," said Peter.
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C.M. Kornbluth
"Dearest!"saidMelicent,catchingon almostimmediately. A shortwhile laterPeterwasaskingher: "Do you mind,dearestif I ask onefavorof you-a verygreatsacrifice?"He produceda small,sharppenknife. And all the gossipfor a monthin Braintreewasof PeterPacker'sstunning youngwife, thoughsomepeoplewonderedhow it wasthat she had only nine fingers.
The Comingof the lVhite Worm Clark Ashton Smith
Evaghthe warlock,dwellingbesidethe borealsea,was awareof many strangeanduntimelyportentsin midsummer. Chilly burnedthe sunabove Mhu Thulanfrom a heavenclearandpallid asice.At evethe aurorawas hungfrom zenithto earthlike anarrasin a highchamberof gods.Wanand rare werethe poppiesand small the anemonesin the cliff-hidden vales behindEvagh'shouse;andthe fruits in his walledgardenwerepaleof rind and greenat the core.He saw by day the unseasonable flight of great multitudesof fowl, goingsouthwardfrom the islesbeyondMhu Thulan; and by night he heardthe clamorof other passingmultitudes Now Evaghwas troubledby theseportents,for his magiccould not whollyinterpretthem.And the rudefisher-folkon the shoreof the haven belowhis housewerealsotroubledin their fashion.Day by daythey had goneforth throughthe summerin their coraclesof elk-hideand willow, castingtheirseines:but in theseinestheydrewonlydeadfishes,blastedas
Clark AshtonSmlth
if by fire or extremecold.And because of this,asthe summerdrewon, it cameto passthat few of them faredany longerto sea. Then, out of the north, whereshipsfrom Cerngothwerewont to ply among the Arctic islands,a galley came drifting with idle oars and aimlesslyveeringhelm. And the tide beachedit amongthe fishermen's boatson the sandsbeneaththe cliff-built houseof Evagh.And, thronging aboutthe galley,the fishersbeheldits oarsmenstill at the oarsand its captainat the helm.But the facesand handsof all werewhite asleprosy; beingindistinguishandthe pupilsof theiropeneyeshadfadedstrangely, of horrorwaswithinthemlikeicein ablefromthewhites;anda blankness deeppoolsfast frozento the bottom. Loath werethe fishersto touch the deadmen; and they murmured, sayingthat a doomwasuponthe sea,anda curseuponall seafaringthings andpeople.But Evagh,deemingthat the bodieswouldrot in the sun and would breedpestilence,commandedthem to build a pile of driftwood aboutthe galley.And when the pile hadrisenabovethe bulwarks,hiding from view the deadrowers,he fired it with his own hands. blackas a storm-cloud, High flamedthe pile, and smokeascended blowing in windy volumes.But when the fire sank,the bodiesof the oarsmenwerestill sittingamidthe moundedembers,andtheir armswere in the postureof rowing,andtheir fingerswereclenched; still outstretched thoughthe oarshad now droppedawayfrom them in brandsand ashes. And the galley'scaptainstooduprightstill in his place:thoughthe burnt helm had fallen besidehim. Naughtbut the raimentof the corpseshad beenconsumed;and they shonewhite as marbleabovethe charringsof wood;and nowhereupon them wasany blacknessleft by the fire. Deemingthis thing an ill prodigy,the fisherswereall aghast,and they fled swiftly to the highmostrocks.But the sorcererEvaghawaitedthe coolingof the brands. Quickly the brands darkened;but smoke arose from them still throughoutthe noonandafternoon;andstill theywereoverhotfor human treadingwhen the hour drew toward sunset.So Evaghfetched water in urnsfrom the seaandcastit uponthe ashesandcharringssothat he might approachthe corpses.After the smokeand hissinghad died, he went forward.Nearingthe bodieshe was awareof a greatcoldness;and the coldnessbeganto achein his handsand ears,andsmotesharplythrough his mantleof fur.Goingstill closer,he touchedoneof the bodieswith his forefinger-tip;and the finger,though lightly pressedand quickly withdrawn,wassearedas if by flame. Evaghwasmuch amazed:for the conditionof the corpseswasa thing unknownto him heretofore;and in all his scienceof wizardrytherewas naughtto enlightenhim.
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Returning to his house ere night, he burned at each door and window the gums that are most offensive to the northern demons. Afterward he perusedwith sedulouscare the writing of Pnom, in which are collated many powerful exorcisms againstthe white spirits of the pole. For these spirits,it seemed,had laid their powerupon the galley'screw; and he could not but apprehendsome further working of the power. Though a fire burnedin the chamber,piled with fat pine and terebinth,a deadlychill beganto invadethe air towardmidnight.And Evagh'sfingers grew numb on the sheetsof parchment,so that he could scarceturn them. And the cold deepenedsteadily,slowing his blood asif with ice; and he felt on his face the breathing of an icy wind. Yet the heavy doors and stoutpaned windows were tightly closed; and the fire blazedhigh in no need of replenishment. Then, with eyeswhose very lids stiffenedabout them, Evagh saw that the room grew brighterwith a light shiningthroughthe northern windows. Palewas the light, and it enteredthe room in a greatbeam falling directly upon him wherehe sat.And the light searedhis eyeswith a chill radiance, and the cold sharpenedas if somehowone with the brightness;and the wind blew swiftlier out of the light, seemingno longer air but an element rare and unbreathableas ether.Vainly,with numbing thoughts, he stroveto recall the exorcisms of Pnom. And his breath forsook him on the thin wind, and he fell down in a sort of waking swoonthat wasnigh to death.He seemedto hear voicesmuttering unfamiliar spells,while the bleak light and ether ebbedand flowed like a tide about him. And in time it seemed that his eyesand his flesh weretemperedto endurethem, and he breathed once more, and his blood quickenedagain in his veins; and the swoon passed,and he rose up like one that rises from the dead. Full upon him poured the strangelight through the windows.But the stiffness of cold was gone from his limbs, and he felt no more of chillness than was natural to the late summer night. Looking forth from one of the windows,he witnesseda strangemarvel: for in the harbor there toweredan iceberg such as no vessel had yet sighted in its seafaringto the north. It filled the broad haven from shore to shore, and sheered up to a height immeasurablewith piled escarpmentsand tiered precipices; and its pinnacleshung like towersin the zenith.It wasvasterand steeperthan the mountain Yarak,which marks the site of the borealpole; and from it there fell upon seaand land a frosty glittering paler and briglrter than the light of the full moon. On the shorebelow were the charringsof the beachedgalley,and among them the corpsesincombustibleby fire. And alongthe sandsand rocks,the fisher-folk were lying or standing upright in still, rigid postures,as if they had come forth to behold the great iceberg and had been smitten by a
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Clark Ashton Smlth
andthe gardenof Evagh,filled magicsleep.And the wholeharbor-shore, waslike a placewherefrosthasfallenthicklyover with that pallidsplendor, all. Feelinga greatwonder,Evaghwouldhavegoneforth from his house: but,erehe hadtakenthreesteps,a numbnesscameuponall his members, his sensesevenwherehe stood. and deepsleepoverpowered The sunhadrisenwhenhe awoke.Peeringout,he behelda newmarvel: belowit werevisibleno longer. for his gardenandthe rocksandsea-sands In their steadwere level spacesof ice about his house,and tall icepinnacles. Beyondthe vergesof the ice he sawa seathat lay remotelyand far beneath;and beyondthe seathe low loomingof a dim shore. in all this the workingsof a Terrorcameto Evaghnow,for he recognized power Plain it was that his stout of mortal wizards. sorcerybeyondthe granite houseof stoodno longeron the coastof Mhu Thulanbut wasbased iceberghe hadbeheldin the now on someuppercragof that stupendous prayed andknelt to the Old Ones,who dwellsecretly night.Trembling,he in subterrenecavernsor abideunder the seaor in the supermundane And evenas he prayed,he hearda loud knockingat his door' spaces. Fearfullyhe aroseand openedthe portals.Beforehim weretwo men, strangeof visageand bright-skinned,who wore for mantlessuch runeenwovenstuffs as wizardswear.The runeswereuncouthand alien; but when the men bespokehim he understoodsomethingof their speech, isles. which wasin a dialectof the hyperborean "We servethat Outer One whosenameis Rlim Shaikorth,"they said. beyondthe north he hascomein his floatingcitadel,the ice' "From spaces mountainYikilth, from which poursan exceedingcoldnessand a pale splendorthat blaststhe flesh of men. He has sparedus aloneamid the inhabitantsof the isle Thulask,temperingour flesh to the rigor of his abode,makingrespirablefor us the air no mortal man may breathe,and uponYikilth. Theealsohe has takingus to go with him in his seafaring andthin ether.Hail, O to the coldness sparedandacclimatedby his spells great this token: sinceonly the by wizard Evagh,whom we know for a exempted." mightiestof warlocksarethus chosenand SorelyastonishedwasEvagh;but seeingthat he hadnow to dealwith men who were as himself,he questionedcloselythe two magiciansof Thulask.They werenamedDooni andUx Loddhan,andwerewisein the lore of the eldergods.Theywouldtell him nothingof Rlim Shaikorthbut of suchworshipasis given avowedthat their serviceto this beingconsisted to a god,togetherwith the repudiationof all bondsthat hadlinked them heretoforeto mankind.And they told Evaghthat he wasto gowith them at and oncebeforeRlim Shaikorth,and performthe due rite of obeisance, acceptthe bondof alienage.
THE COMINGOF THE WHITE WORM
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So Evagh went with the Thulaskiansand was led by them to a great pinnacleof ice that roseunmeltableinto the sun, beetlingaboveall its fellows.The pinnaclewashollow,andclimbingthereinby stairsof ice,they cameat lastto the chamberof Rlim shaikorth,which wasa circulardome with a roundblockat the center,forminga dais. At sightof that entity which occupiedthe dais,Evagh'spulseswere stilledfor aninstantby terror;and,followingupontheterror,his gorgerose within him throughexcessof loathing.In all the world therewasnothing that couldbe likenedfor its foulnessto Rlim shaikorth.somethinghe had of the semblance of a fat whiteworm; but his bulk wasbeyondthat of the sea-elephant. His half-coiledtail wasthick asthe middlefoldsof his body; andhis front rearedupwardfromthedaisin theform of a whiterounddisk, and uponit wereimprintedvaguelineaments. Amid the visagea mouth curved uncleanlyfrom side to side of the disk, openingand shutting incessantlyon a paleand tonguelessand toothlessmaw.Two eyesockets lay closetogetherabovethe shallownostrils,but the socketswereeyeless, and in them appearedfrom momsnt to moment globulesof a bloodcoloredmatterhavingthe form of eyeballs;and ever the globrilesbroke anddrippeddownbeforethe dais.And from the ice-floorthereascended two masseslike stalagmites, purple and dark as frozengore,which had beenmadeby this ceaseless drippingof the globules. Dooni and ux Loddhanprostratedthemselves, and Evaghdeemedit well to followtheir example.Lyingproneon the ice,he heardthe reddrops fallingwith a splashasof heavytears;andthen,in the domeabovehim, it seemedthat a voice spoke;and the voice was like the soundof some hiddencataractin a glacierhollowwith caverns. "O Evagh,"saidthe voice,"I havepreservedthee from the doom of others,andhavemadetheeastheythat inhabitthe bournof coldnessand inhale the airlessvoid. wisdom ineffableshal be thine, and mastery beyondthe conquest of mortals,if thbu will but worshipme andbecome my thrall.with me thoushaltvoyageamidthe kingdomsandislesof earth, andseethe whitefallingof deathuponthemin the light from yikilth. our comingshallbring eternalfrost on their gardens,andshallset upontheir people'sflesh the rigor of transarcticgulfs.All this shalt thou witness, beingasoneof the lordsof death,supernalandimmortal;andin the end thou shaltreturnwith me to that worldbeyondthe pole,in which is mine abidingempire." Seeingthat he was without choice in the matter,Evagh professed himselfwilling to yield worshipandserviceto the paleworm.Instructed by his fellow-wizards, he performedthe rites that are scarcesuitablefor narration,andsworethe vow of unspeakable alienage.
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for it seemedthat the greaticebergwasguided Strangewasthat voyaging, by soicery,prevailingeveragainstwind andtid,e.And always,astheywent, the chill splendorsmoteafarfrom Yikilth. Proudgalleyswereovertaken, ports,busy andtheir crewswereblastedat the oars.The fair hyperborean passing.Idle weretheir with maritimetraffic,werestilledby the iceberg's the pale when harbors, their in shipping was the idle wharves, and streets light hadcomeandgone.Farinlandfell the rays,bringingto the fieldsand girdensa blight moie lastingthanthat of winter; andforestswerefrozen, andthe beaststhat roamedthemwereturnedasif into marble,sothat men who came long afterwardto that region found the elk and bear and of life.But,sittingin his house mammothstill standingin all the postures awareof no sharpercold than was Evagh the berg, or walkingabroadon shadows. that whichabidesin summer Now.besidesDooniandUx Loddhan,therewerefive otherwizardsthat went with Evaghon that voyage,havingbeenchosenby Rlim Shaikorth and transportJdwith their houses to the berg through unknown enchantment.They were outlandishmen, calledPolarians,from islands nearerthe polethanbroadThulask.Evaghcouldunderstandlittle of their ways;andih.it ror.e.y wasforeignandtheir speechunintelligibleto him; nor wasit knownto the Thulaskians. for Dailythe eightwizardsfoundon their tablesall provendernecessary it. All that supplied thoughtheyknewnot the agency humansustenance; was uneasy wereseeminglyunitedin the worshipof the worm.But Evagh at heart,beholdingthe doomthat went forth eternallyfrom Yikilth upon Ruthfully he sawthe blastingof lovely clties and iruitful ocean-shores. on the thronged flower-girdledCerngothand the stillnessthat descended whitenessthe with sudden that seared frost the and streetsof l"eqquan, garthsand orchardsof the sea-frontingvalleyof Aguil' Ever southwardsailedthe greatberg,bearingits lethalwinter to lands wherethe summersun rodehigh. And Evaghkept his own counseland followedin all ways the customof the others.At intervalsthat were stars,thewarlocksclimbedto by themotionsof thecircumpolar regulated half coiled abodeperpetuallv, Shaikorth Rlim Itt.ifony ciramberin which to the corresponded cadences whose ritual on his daisof ice.There,in a with and worm, the by wept were falling of those eye-liketears that yielded they mouth his of genuiectionstimedto the yawningandshutting io Rlim Shaikorththe requiredadoration.And Evaghlearnedfrom the othersthat the wormsleptfor a periodat eachdarkeningof the moon;and ontv .t that time did the sanguinetearssuspendtheir falling, and the mouth forbearits alternateclosingand gaping' At the third repetitionof the rites, it cameto passthat only seven wizardsclimbedto thetower.Evagh,countingtheir number,perceivedthat
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the missingman was one of the five outlanders.Later,he questioned Dooni and Ux Loddhanand madesignsof inquiry to the four northronsi but it seemedthat the fateof the absentwarlockwasa thing mysteriousto all. Nothing w{lsseenor heardof him; and Evagh,ponderinglong and deeply,wassomewhatdisquieted.For, during the ceremony.inthe tower chamber,it hadseemedto him thatthe wormwasgrosserof bulk andgirth than on any former occasion. Covertlyhe askedthe Thulaskianswhat manner of nutriment was requiredby Rlim Shaikorth. Concerning this,therewassomedispute,for Ux Loddhanmaintainedthat the worm fed on the heartsof white arctic bears,while Dooni sworethat his rightful nourishmentwasthe liver of whales.But, to their knowledge,the worm had not eatenduring their sojournuponYikilth. Still the icebergfollowedits coursebeneaththe heighteningsun; and again,at the star-appointed time, which wasthe forenoonof everythird day,the sorcerersconvenedin the worm's presence. Their number was now but six, and the lost warlockwasanotherof the outlanders.And the wormhadgreatened still morein size,thickeningvisiblyfromheadto tail. Now,in their varioustongues,the six remainingwizardsimplbredthe worm to tell them the fate of their absentfellows.And the worm answered;and his speechwasintelligibleto all, eachthinkingthat he had beenaddressed in his orrn language:"This matteris a mystery,but ye shall all receiveenlightenmentin turn. Know this: the two that havevanished arestill present;andtheyandyealsoshallshareevenasI havepromisedin the ultramundanelore and emperyof Rlim Shaikorth." When they had descendedfrom the tower, Evagh and the two Thulaskiansdebatedthe interpretations of this answer.Evaghmaintained that their missingcompanions werepresentonly in the worm'sbelly; but the others argued that these men had undergonea more mystical translationand were now elevatedbeyondhuman sight and hearing. Forthwiththey beganto makereadywith prayerandausterity,looking for somesublimeapotheosis which wouldcometo them in due turn. But Evaghcould not trust the worm'sequivocalpledges;andfear and doubt remainedwith him. Seekingfor sometraceof the lost Polariansto assuage his doubt,he made searchof the mighty berg,on whosebattlementshis own houseand the housesof the otherwarlockswereperchedlike the tiny hutsof fisherson ocean-cliffs. [n this questthe otherswouldnot accompany him, fearingto incur the worm'sdispleasure. Fromvergeto vergehe roamedunhindered, andhe climbedperilouslyon the upperscarps,and wentdowninto deep crevasses and cavernswherethe sun failedand therewasno other light
Clark AshtonSmith
than the strangelusterof that unearthlyice' Embeddedherein the walls, asif in the stoneof netherstrata,he sawdwellingssuchasmen hadnever built, and vesselsthat might belongto otheragesor worlds;but non'here of anyliving creature;andno spiritor shadow couli he detectthe presence gaveresponseto his evocations. so Evaghwasstill fearfulof the worm'streachery;and he resolvedto remainawakeon the night precedingthe next celebrationof the rites of worship.At eve of that night he assuredhimself that the other warlocks to the numberof five; andthen mansions, wereali housedin their separate he sethimselfto watchwithoutremissionthe entranceof Rlim Shaikorth's tower,which wasplainlyvisiblefrom his own windows' pouringforth a weirdly andcoldlyshonethe greatbergin the darkness, sea. light asoi frorenstars.The moonroseearlyon the eastern But Evagh, n6tOingvigil at his windowtifi midnight,sawthat no visibleform emerged from the to*"er,andnoneenteredit. At midnighttherecarneupon him a and he could sustainhis vigil no longer but slept suddendrowsiness, the remainderof the night. throughout deeply who gatheredin the therewerebut four sorcerers day the following dn ice-domeand gavehomageto Rlim Shaikorth.And Evaghsawthat two more of the outlanders,men of bulk and staturedwarfishbeyondtheir fellows,werenow missing. on nightsprecedingthe ceremonyof worship,the one by onethereafter, The last Polarianwasnext to go; and it vanished. compani;nsof Evagh and Ux Loddhanand Dooni went to the .u1ni to passthat only Evagh tower;andthen EvaghandUx Loddhanwentalone.And terrormounted dailyin Evagh,andhi wouldhavehurledhimselfinto the seafromYikilth, if Ux Loddhan,divining his intention,hadnot warnedhim that no man could departtherefromand live againin solar warmth and terreneair, havingbeenhabituatedto the coldnessand thin ether' so, at that time when the moon had wanedand darkenedwholly' it occuiled that Evagh climbed before Rlim shaikorth with infinite steps.And, enteringthedomewith downcast trepidationandloath,laggard eyes,he foundhimselfthe soleworshipper. A palsyof fear wasupon him as he madeobeisance;and scarcelyhe daredtolift his eyesandiegardtheworm.But soon,ashe beganto perform the customaryginuflections,he becameawarethat the red tearsof Rlim nor wasthereanysound shaikorthno iongerfell on the purplestalagmites; perpetual openingandshutting suchasthe wormwaswontto makeby the of his mouth. And venturingat last to look upward,Evaghbeheldthe abhorrentlyswollenmassof the monster,whosethicknesswasnowsuchas to overhangthe dais'rim; andhe sawthat the mouth andeye-holeswefe closedin slumber.Thereuponhe recalledhow the wizardsof Thulaskhad
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told him that the wormsleptfor anintervalat the darkeningof eachrnoon. Now wasEvaghsorelybewildered:for the riteshe hadlearnedcouldbe fittingly performedonly while the tearsof Rlim Shaikorthfell down and his mouth gapedand closedand gapedagainin a measuredalternation. And none had instructedhim as to what rites weresuitableduring the slumberof the worm.And beingin much doubt,he saidsoftly: "Wakest thou,O Rlim Shaikorth?" In reply,he seemedto heara multitudeof voicesthal issuedobscurely from out the pale,tumid massbeforehim. The soundof the voiceswas weirdlymuffled, but amongthem he distinguishedthe accentsof Dooni andUx Loddhan;andtherewasa thick mutteringof uncouthwordswhich he knew for the speechof the five Polarians;andbeneaththis he caught, or seemedto catch,innumerableundertonesthat werenot the voicesof any creaturesof Earth.And the voicesroseand clamored,like thoseof prisonersin someprofoundoubliette. Anon, as he listenedin awe and horror,the voice of Dooni became articulateabovethe others; and the manifold clamor and muttering asif a multitudewerehushedto hearits spokesman. ceased, And Evagh heardthe tonesof Dooni,saying: "The worm sleeps,but we whom the worm hasdevouredare awake. Direly has he deceivedus, for he came to our housesin the night, devouringus bodilyoneby oneaswe sleptunderhis enchantment. He has eaten our souls even as our bodies,and verily we are part of Rlim Shaikorth,but existonly asin a darkandnoisomedungeon;andwhile the worm wakeswe haveno separate being,but aremergedwhollyinto the beingof Rlim Shaikorth. "Hear, then, O Evagh,the truth which we have learnedfrom our onenesswith the worm.He hassavedus from the white doom and has takenus upon Yikilth for this reason,becausewe aloneof all mankind, who aresorcerersof high attainmentand mastery,may endurethe lethal ice-change andbecomebreathersof the airlessvoid,andthus,in theend,be madesuitablefor hisprovender. "Greatandterribleis the worm,andthe placewherefromhe comesand wheretohe returnsis not to be dreamtof by mortalmen.And the wormis omniscient,savethat he knowsnot the wakingof them he hasdevoured, and their awareness during his slumber.But the worm, though ancient the beyond antiquityof worlds,is not immortaland is vulnerablein one particular.Whosoeverlearnsthe time and meansof his vulnerability,and hasheartfor the undertaking,may slayhim easily.And the time for this deedis duringhis term of sleep.Thereforeweadjuretheenowby the faith of the Old Onesto drawthe swordthou wearestbeneaththy mantleand plungeit into the side of Rlim Shaikorth;for such is the meansof his slaying.
Clerk Ashton Snlth
"Thus only shallthe goingforth of the paledeathbe ended;and only thus shall we, thy fellows,obtainreleasefrom our blind thralldomand andwith us manythat the worm hasbetrayedandeatenin incarceration; formeragesand upondistantworlds.And only by the doingof this thing as a ghost shaltthou escapethe worm'srnouth,nor abidehenceforward thathe whoslaysRlim amongotherghostsin his belly.But know,however, perishin the slaying." Shaikorthmust necessarily madequestionof Dooni andwasanswered Evagh,in greatastonishment, readilyconcerningall that he asked.Much did he learn of the worm's origin and essence,and the mannerin which Yikilth had floateddown from transpolargulfsto voyagethe seasof Earth.Ever,ashe listened,his greatened; thoughdeedsofdark sorceryhadlonginduratedhis abhorrence fleshand soul,makinghim callousto morethan commonhorrors.But of that which he learnedit wereill to speaknow. At lengththerewassilencein the dome;for Evaghhadno longerany will to questionthe ghostof Dooni; and they that wereimprisonedwith Dooni seemedto wait and watchin a stillnessof death. Then,beinga manof muchresolutionandhardihood,Evaghdelayedno swordof longerbut drewfromits ivorysheaththeshortandwell-tempered the dais,he close to Approaching at his baldric. bronzewhich he carried The Shaikorth. blade of Rlim mass plungedthe bladeinto the overswollen bladder, a monstrous had stabbed enteredeasily,slicingandtearing,asif he andwasnot stayedevenby the broadpommel;andthe wholeright handof Evaghwasdrawnafter it into the wound' He perceivedno quiveror stiffing of the worm; but out of the wound theregusheda suddentorrent of blackliquescentmatter,swifteningand deepeningtill the swordwascaughtfrom Evagh'sgraspasif in a mill-race. Hotterfar than bloodandsmokingwith strangesteamyvapors,the liquid his raimentasit fell.Quicklythe icewas pouredoverhis armsandsplashed awash around his feet; but still the fluid welled as if from some inexhaustiblespring of foulness;and it spreadeverywherein meeting poolsand runlets. Evagh would have fled then; but the sable liquid, mounting and flowing,wasabouthis ankleswhenhe nearedthe stairhead;andit rushed adownthe stairwaybeforehim like a cataract.Hotter and hotter it grew, andclutchedat him and boiling,bubbling,while the currentstrengthened drew him like malignanthands.He fearedto essaythe downwardstairs; nor wasthereanyplacein the domewherehe couldclimb for refuge.He turned,strivingagainstthe tide for barefoothold,andsawdimly throug;h The gashhadwidened reekingvaporsthe thronedmassof Rlim Shaikorth. prodigiously, anda streamsurgedfrom it like watersof a brokenweir; and
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yet, for further proof of the worm's unearthly nature, hisbulk wasin no wise diminishedthereby.And still the black fluid came in an evil flood; and it roseswirling aboutthe kneesof Evagh; and the vaporsseemedto takethe form of a myriad phantoms,wreathing and dividing obscurelyas they went past him. Then, tottering giddily on the stairhead,he was sweptawayand hurled to his death on the ice-stepsfar below. That day, on the sea to eastwardof middle Hyperborea,the crews of certain merchant galleysbeheld an unheard-of thing. As they sped northo returning from far ocean isles with a wind that aided their oars, they sighted in the late forenoon a monstrous iceberg whose pinnacles and cragsloomedhigh asmountains.The bergshonein part with a weird light; and from its loftiest pinnacle poured an ink-black torrent; and all the icecliffs and buttressesbeneath were astreamwith rapids and cascadesand sheetedfatls of the same blackness,that fumed like boiling water as they plunged oceanward;and the seaaround the berg wasclouded and streaked for a wide interval as if with the dark fluid of the cuttlefish. The marinersfearedto sail closer;but, full of aweand marveling,they stayedtheir oars and lay watching the berg; and the wind dropped,so that their galleysdrifted within view of it all that day.The bergdwindledswiftly, melting as though some unknown fire consumedit; and the air took on a strangewarmth betweengustsof arctic coldness,and the water about their ships grew tepid. Crag by crag the ice was runneled and eaten away; and huge portions fell off with a mighty splashing;and the highest pinnacle collapsed; but still the blackness poured out as from an unfathomable fountain. The watchers thought, at whiles, that they beheld houses running seaward amid the loosened fragments; but of this they were uncertainbecauseof thoseever-mountingvapors.By sunset-timethe berg had diminished to a mass no larger than a common floe; yet still the welling blacknessoverstreamedit; and it sank low in the wave; and the weird light was quenchedaltogether.Thereafter,the night being moonless, it was lost to vision. A gale rose,blowing stronglyfrom the south; and at dawn the sea was void of any remnant. Concerning the matters related above, many and various legends have gone forth throughout Mhu Thulan and all the hyperborealkingdoms and archipelagoes.The truth is not in such tales, for no man has known the truth heretofore. But I, the sorcerer Eibon, calling up through my necromancythe wave-wanderingspirit of Evagh, have learned from him the true history of the worm's advent.And I have written it down in my volume with such omissions as are needful for the sparing of mortal weaknessand sanity.And men will read this record, together with much more of the elder lore, in days long after the coming and melting of the great glacier.
Yesterday WasMonday TheodoreSturgeon
He HarryWrightrolledoverandsaidsomethingspelled"Bzzzzhha'a-aw!" cheweda bit on a mouthfulof dry air andspatit out,openedoneeyeto see if it reallywould open,openedthe other and closedthe first, closedthe second,swunghis feet onto the floor, openedthem againand stretched. andthe only thing that madeit remarkableat This wasa dailyoccurrence, morning,andall wasthat he did it on a Wednesday wasMonday. Yesterday all right.It waspartlythatneventhough Oh,he knewit waslVednesday he knew yesterdaywas Monday,there was a gap betweenMondayand Whenyou fall asleepandlie there now; andthat musthavebeenTtresday. all night without dreaming,you know,when you wakeup, that time has passed.Younvedonenothing that you can re-remember;you'vehad no particularthoughts,no way to gaugetime, and yet you know that some
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hours have passed. so it was with Harry wright. Tiresday had gone whereveryour eight hours went last night. But he hadn't slept through Tuesday.oh no. He never slept, as a matter of fact, more than six hours at a stretch, and there was no particular reason for him doing so now.Monday was the day beforeyesterday;he had turned in and slept his usual stretch, he had awakened,and it was wednesday. It feltlike Wednesday.There was a Wednesdayishfeel to the air. Harry put on his socksand stood up. He wasn't fooled.He knew what day it was."What happenedto yesterday?"he muttered' "Oh-yesterday was Monday." That sufficed until he got his pajamasoff. "Monday," he mused, reachingfor his underwear,"was quite a while back, seemsas though."If he had beenthe worryingtype,he would havestartedthen and there.But he wasn't.He was an easygoingsort, the kind of man that gets himself into a rut and staysthere until he is pushedout. That was why he wasan automobilemechanicat twenty-threedollarsa week; that's why he had been one for eight yearsnow, and would be from now on, if he could only find Tuesdayand get back to work. Guided by his reflexes,as usual,and with no mental effort at all, which was also usual, he finished washing,dressing,and making his bed. His alarm clock, which never alarmedbecausehe was of such regularhabits, said,asusual,six twenty-twowhen he pausedon the way out, and gavehis room the once-over.And there was a certain somethingabout the place that made even this phlegmaticcharacterstop and think. It wasn't finished. The bed was there, and the picture of Joe Louis. There were the two chairs sharing their usual seven legs, the split table, the pipe-organ bedstead,the beige wallpaper with the two swansover and over and over, the tiny cornersink, the tilted bureau.But none of them werefinished.Not that there were any holes in anything.What paint there had been in the first placewasstill there.But therewasan odor of old cut lumber,a subtle, insistent air of building, about the room and everything in it. It was indefinable,inescapable,and Harry Wright stood there caught up in it, wondering.He glancedsuspiciouslyaroundbut sawnothing he could really be suspiciousof. He shookhis head,lockedthe door and went out into the hall. On the steps a little fellow, just over three feet tall, was gently stroking the third stepfrom the top with a razor-sharpchisel,shapingup a new scar in the dirty wood. He looked up asHarry approached,and stood up quickly. "Hi," said Harry, taking in the man's leather coat, his peaked cap, his 'oWhatchadoing?" wizened,bright-eyedlittle face. "Touch-up," piped the little man. "The actor in the third floor front has a nail in his right heel. He came in late Tuesdaynight and cut the wood
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here.I haveto get it readyfor Wednesday." Harry pointedout. "This is Wednesdayl' "Of course.Alwayshasbeen.Alwayswill be." Harry let that pass,startedon down the stairs.He had achievedhis amazingbovinityby makinga practiceof ignoringthingsh'ecould not understand. But onething botheredhim"Did you saythat fellerin the third floor front wasan actor?" "Yes.They'reall actors,you know." "Your're nuts, friendl' said Harry bluntly. "That guy works on the docksl' "Oh yes-that's his part.That'swhathe acts." "No kiddin'.An'what doeshe do whenhe isn'tacting?" "But he- Well,that'sall he doesdo! That'sall anyof the actorsdo!" "Gee- I thoughthe lookedlike a reg'larguy,too," saidHarry.'An actor?'Magine!" "Excuseme,"saidthe little man,"but I've gotto getbackto work.We mustn't let anythingget by us, you know.They'll be throughTuesday beforelong,and everythingmust be readyfor them." Harrythought:this guy'scrazynuts.He smileduncertainlyand went down to the landingbelow.When he lookedback the man was cutting skillfullyinto the stair,makinga neatlittle nail scratch.Harryshookhis head.This wasa screwymorning.He'd be gladto get backto the shop. Therewasa '39 sedandowntherewith a bustedrearspring.Oncehe got his mind on thathe couldforgetthisnonsense. That'sall thatmattersto a manin a rut.Work,eat,sleep,payday.Why eventry to think anythingelse out? Thestreetwasa riot of activity,but thenit alwayswas.Butnot quitethis way.There wereautomobilesand trucks and busesaround,aplenty,but noneof them weremoving.And noneof them werequite complete.This wasHarry'sown field; if therewasanythinghe didn't knowaboutmotor vehicles,it wasn'tvery important.And throughthat mediumhe beganto get the generalideaof whatwasgoingon. Swarmsof little men who might have beentwins of the one he had spokento werecrowdingaroundthe cars,the sidewalks,the storesand buildings.All wereworkinglike mad with everytool imaginable. Some weretouchingup the finish of the carswith fine wire brushes,laying on networksof microscopic cracksandscratches. Some,with ball peensand mallets,weredentingfendersskillfully,bendingbumpersin anartful crash pattern,spider-webbing safety-glass windshields.Otherswere agingtop dressingwith high-pressure, needlepointsandblasters. Still others were pumpingdustinto upholstery, sandpapering the dashboard finish around light switches,throttles,chokes,to give a finger-wornappearance. Harry
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stood asideas a half dozenof the workersscampereddown the sfieet bearinga fender which they riveted to a 1930 coup6.It was freshly bloodstained. Onceawakenedto this highly unusualactivity,Harry stopped,slightly to watchwhatelsewasgoingon.He sawthe sameprocess open-mouthed, with the housesand stores.Dirt was beingindustriouslyaccomplished windowsovera coatof clearsizing.Woodworkwas beinglaidon plate-glass being cleverly scoredand the paint peeledto make it look correctly and dozensof leather-cladlaborerswereon their hands weather-beaten, poking dustanddirt into thecracksbetweenthe pavingblocks. andknees, busilychewinggumandspittingit A line of themwentdownthesidewalk, who carefullyplacedthe wads crew by another out; they werefollowed them flat. they carried, and stamped accordingto diagrams into somethinglike its brain his rocking Harrysethis teethandmuscled like this or crazypeoplelike position. normal "I ain't neverseena day I gotmyjob to go gonna of my affair' let it be any thisj' he said,"but I ain't hard-working little, of to." And trying vainly to ignore the hundreds figures,he went grimly on down the street. Whenhe got to the garagehe foundno one therebut moreswarmsof little peopleclimbingoverthe place,dullingthe paintwork, stereotyped crackingthe cementflooring,doingtheir hurried,efficientlittle tasksof that he wasso familiarwith the garage, aging.He noticed,only because theywereactuallymakingthemarksthat hadbeenthereaslong ashe had knownthe place."Hell with it," he gritted,anxiousto submergehimself into his ownworldof wrenchesandgreaseguns."I gotmyjob; this is none o' my affair." He lookedabouthim, wonderingif he shouldcleantheseinterlopers out of the garage.Naw-not his affair.He washired to repaircars,not to policethejoint. Longastheykeptawayfromhim-and, of course,animal of the boss The absence cautiontold him thathe wasfar,far outnumbered. the opened he always to Harry; was no surprise mechanics the other and place. He climbedout of his streetclothesandinto coveralls,pickedup a tool caseand walkedoverto the sedan,which he hadleft up on the hydraulic rackyester- that is, Mondaynight.And thatis whenHarrywright losthis else temper.After all,thecarwashisjob, andhe didn'tlikehavinganyone '39 sedanjob-his job his he he hadstarted.Sowhen saw rnesswith a restingsteadilyon its wheelsover the rack, which was down under the floor.andwhenhe sawthat the rearspringwasrepaired,he beganto burn. He dived under the car and ran deft fingers over the rear wheel he had occurrence, In spiteofhis angerat this unprecedented suspensions. it job have done well. "Might hadbeendone to admitto himselfthat the myself,"he muttered.
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A soft clank and a gentle movement caughthis attention. with a roar he reached out and grabbed the leg of one of the ubiquitous little men, wriggledout from under the car,caughthis culprit by his leathercollar,and dangledhim at arm's length. "What are you doing to my job?" Harry bellowed. The little man tucked his chin into the front of his shirt to give his windpipea chance,and said,"Why,I wasjust finishing up that springjob." "Oh. Soyou werejust finishing up on that springjob," Harry whispered, choked with rage.Then, at the top of his voice, "Who told you to touch that car?" "Who told me? What do you- Well, it just had to be done, that's all. You'll have to let me go. I must tighten up those two bolts and lay some dust on the whole thing." "You must what?You get within six feet o'that car and I'll twist your head offn your neck with a Stillson!" "But- It has to be donelt' "You won't do it! Why,I oughta-" "Please let me go! If I don't leave that car the way it was Tuesday night-" "When was T\resdaynight?" "The last act, of course.Let me go, or I'll call the district supervisor!" "Call the devil himself.I'm goingto spreadyou on the sidewalkoutside; and heavenhelp you if I catch you near here again!" The little man's jaw set, his eyes narrowed,and he whipped his feet upward.They crashedinto Wright's jaw; Harry droppedhim and staggered back.The little man begansquealing,"Supervisor!Supervisor!Emergency!" Harry growledand startedafter him; but suddenly,in the air between him and the midget workman,a long white hand appeared.The empty air was swept back, showing an aperture from the garage to blank, blind nothingness.Out of it steppeda tall man in a singleloose-fittinggarment literally studdedwith pockets.The openingclosedbehind the man. Harry cowered before him. Never in his life had he seen such noble, powerfulfeatures,such strengthofpurpose, such broadshoulders,such a deep chest.The man stood with the backsof his hands on his hips, staring at Harry as if he were something somebodyforgot to sweepup. "That's himl' said the little man shrilly. "He is trying to stop me from doing the work!" "Who are you?" askedthe beautiful man, down his nose. "I'm the m-mechanicon this j-j- Who wants to know?" "Iridel, supervisor of the district of Futura. wants to know." "Where in hell did you come from?"
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"I did not comefrom hell' I camefrom Thursdayl' Harryheldhis head."Whatrsall this?" he wailed."Why is todayWedto Tuesday?" Who areall thesecrazylittle guys?Whathappened nesday? the little man scurried Iridel madea slightmotion with his finger,and backunderthe car.Harrywasfrenziedto hearthe wrenchbusilytightening bolts.He half startedto dive underafterthe little fellow,but Iridel said, "Stop!" andwhenIridel said,"Stop!" Harrystopped. "This," said lridel calmly,"is an amazingoccurrence."He regarded 'An actoron stagebeforethe setsare Harry with unemotionalcuriosity. fi nished.Extraordinary." "What stage?"askedHarry."What are you doing here anyhow,and what'sthe ideaof all theselittle guysworkingaroundhere?" "You ask a greatmany questions,actorl' said lridel. "I shall answer them, and then I shall havea few to askyou. Theselittle men are stage hands-I am surprisedthat you didn't realizethat. They are settingthe Tuesday?That's goingon now." stagefor Wednesday. 'Arrgh!" Harrysnorted."How canTuesday be goingon whentoday's Wednesday?" actor." "Todayisn't Wednesday, "Huh?" "Todayis Tuesday." Harryscratchedhis head."Met a feller on the stepsthis mornin'-one of theseherestagehandsof yours.He saidthis wasWednesday." 'Today'issimply Tuesdayis today' Todayis Tuesday. "It ls Wednesday. the namefor the stagesetwhich happensto be in use.'Yesterday'means thesetthatwill beusedafter thesetthathasjust beenused;'Tomorrow'is Yesterdaywas the actorshavefinished with 'today.'This is Wednesday. See?" Monday;todayis Tuesday. Harrysaid,"No." Iridel threw up his long hands."My, you actorsarestupid.Now listen ftene 6:22.Thatmeansthat everything carefully.This is Act Wednesday, you seearoundyou here is being readiedfor 6:22 a.m.on Wednesday. isn't a time; it's a place.The actorsaremovingalongtowardit Wednesday you still don't getthe idea.Let'ssee' . ' ah.Look at that clock. now I see Whatdoesit say?" Harry Wright looked at the big electric clock on the wall over the It wascorrectedhourly andhighly accurate,and it said6:22. compressor. looked at it amazed."Six tw- but my gosh,man,that'swhattime I Harry house. I walkedhere,an' I beenhereten minutesalready!" left the thereis his Iridel shook head."You'vebeenhereno time at all, because their make entrances." no time until the actors
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Harry sat down on a greasedrum and wrinkledup his brainswith the effort he was making. "You mean that this time propositionain't somethingthat movesalongall the time?sorta-well,like a road.A road don't go no place- Youjust go placesalongit. Is that it?" "That'sthe generalidea.In fact,that'sa prettygoodexample. Suppose we saythat it's a road;a highwaybuilt of pavingblocks.Eachblockis a day; the actorsmovealongit, and go throughday after day.And our job here-mine and the little men-is to . . . well,pavethat road.This is the clean-upgang here. They are fixing up the last little details.so that everythingwill be readyfor the actors." Harrysatstill, his mind creakingwith the effectsof this information.He felt as if he hadbeenhit with a leadpipe,andthe shockof it wasbeing drawnout infinitely.This wasthe craziest-sounding thing he hadeverrun into. For no reasonat all he remembereda talk he had had oncewith a drunkenaviationmechanicwho had tried to explainto him how the air flowingoveran airplane'swingsmakesthe machinego up in the air.He hadn't understooda word of the man'sdiscourse, which was all about eddiesand chordsand cambersand foils, dihedralsand the Bernouilli effect. That didn't make any difference;the things flew whether he understoodhow or not; he knewthat because he hadseenthem.This guy Iridel'slecturewasthe samesortof thing.If therewasnothingin all he said,howcomeall theselittle guyswereworkingaroundhere?Why wasn't the clocktellingtime?WherewasTuesday? He thought he'd get that straightfor good and all. "Just where is Tlresday?" he asked. "Over there,"said lridel, and pointed.Harry recoiledand fell off the drum; for when the man extendedhis hand,it disappeared! Harry got up off the floor and saidtautly,,,Do that again." "What?Oh- PointtowardTuesday? Certainly." And he pointed.His handappeared againwhenhe withdrewit. Harrysaid,"My gosh!"andsatdownagainon the drum,sweating and staringat the supervisorof the districtof Futura.,.you point,an' your hand-ain't," he breathed. "What directionis that?" "It is a directionlike any other direction,"said lridel. ,,you know yourselfthere arefour directions-forward,sideward,upward,and"-he pointedagain,andagainhis handvanished-"thatway!" "They nevertol'e me that in school,"saidHarry...Course,I wasjust a kid then,but-" Iridel laughed."It is the fourth dimension-it is duration.The actors movethroughlength,breadth,andheight,anywherethey chooseto within the set.But thereis anothermovement-onethey can'tcontrol-and that is duration."
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.,Howsoonwill theycome. . . eh . . . here?"askedHarry,wavinganarm' pulled out a watch' Iridel dippedinto one of his numberlesspocketsand ..It is now eightthirty-sevenTuesdaymorning,"he said."They'll be here that have as tf,ey finiitr the act, and the scenesin Wednesday ,* ". alreadybeenprePared." patientlSsmiling H"irVthouitriagainfor a moment,whileIridelwaited 'actor' asked, "Hey-this and a littre.Thenhe lookedup at the supervisor that all about?" business-what's ..oh-that. well, it's a play,that'sall.Justlike anyplay-put on for the amusementof an audience." "I wasto a playonce,"saidHarry'"Who'sthe audience?" Iridelstoppidsmiling."Certain- Oneswho maybeamused,"he said' .And now I;m goingto askyou somequestions.How did you get here?" "Walked." morning?" "You walkedfromMondaynightto Wednesday here." to the house "Naw- From 'Ah- But how did you get to Wednesday, six twenty'two?" to work asusual'" just came an' up woke "Well [- Damfino.i ..Thisis an extraordinaryoccurrence," saidlridel, shakinghis headin puzzlement."You'll haveto seethe producer." "Producer?Who'she?" ,.You'llfind out.Inthemeantime, comealongwith me.I can'tleaveyou play. I haveto makemy roundsanyway." here; you'retoo closeto the Iridel walkedtoward the door.Harry was temptedto stay and find himself somemorc work to do, but when lridel glancedbackat him and motioned him out, Harry followed.It was suddenlyimpossibleto do anythingelse. a little workerranup,whipping lurt ashe caughtup with the supervisor, off his cap. ..Iridel,siri' he piped,"the weathermakersput .006of onepercenttoo little moisturein the air on this Set.There'sthreeseventhsof an Ouncetoo little gasolinein the storagetanksunderhere'" "How muchis in the tanks?" gallons,three pints, "Four thousandtwo hundredand seventy-three sevenand twenty-onethirty-fourthsounces'" ..Let it go this time. That was very sloppy work. Iridel grunted. Someonebgoingto get transferredto Limbo for this'" ,.VerygJod, sir;'iaid the little man. "Long as you know we're not ,"rponsibG."He put on his cap,spunaroundthreetimesand rushedoff. :.Lucky for the weathermakersthat the amountof gasin that tank script,"saidIridel. "If anythinginterferes doesn'tcLmeinto Wednesday's jlay, there'sthe devil to pay.Actors haven't the with the continuity of
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senseenoughto coverup, either.Theyareliableto startwholeseriesof miscuesbecause of a little thing like that.The playmight flop and then we'dall be out of work." "Oh," Harryoh-ed."HeyoIridel-what'sthe ideaof thatpatchy-looking placeoverthere?" Iridel followedhis eyes.Harry waslookingat a cornerlot. It wastreelined and overgrownwith weedsand smallsaplings.The vegetationwas true to form aroundthe edgesof the lot, and aroundthe path that ran diagonallythroughit; but the spacesin betweenwerea planesurface.Not a leaf nor a bladeof grassgrewthere;it wasnaked-looking, blank,and absolutelywithout any color whatever. "Oh, that," answeredIridel. "There are only two charactersin Act Wednesday who will use that path. Thereforeit is as grown-overas it shouldbe.The restof the lot doesn'tenterinto the play,so we don't have to do anythingwith it." "But- Suppose someone wandered off the pathon Wednesdayi' Harry offered. "He'd beduefor a surfrise,Iguess. But it couldhardlyhappen.Special promptersare alwaysdetailedto spotslike that, to keepthe actorsfrom goingastrayor missingany cues." "'Whoarethey-the prompters,Imean?" "Prompters?G.Als-GuardianAngels.That'swhat the scriptwriters "[ heardo'themj'saidHarry. "Yes, they havetheir work cut out for themj' said the supervisor. 'Actors are always forgetting their lines when they shouldn't, or remembering them whenthe scriptcallsfor a lapse.Well,it lookspretty goodhere.Let's havea look at Friday." "Friday?You meanto tell me you'reworkingon Fridayalready?" "Of course!Why,we workyearsin advance!How on earthdo you think wecouldgetour treesgrownotherwise? Here-stepin!" Iridelput out his hand, seizedempty air, drew it aside to show the kind of absolute nothingnesshe hadfirst appeared from, and wavedHarry on. "Y-youwantme to go in there?"askedHarrydiffidently. "Certainly.Hurry,now!" Harry lookedat the sectionof void with a ratherweak-kneedrook,but could not withstandthe supervisor's strangecompulsion.He stepped througlr. And it wasn'tso bad.Therewereno whirlinglights,no sensations of falling, no falling unconscious. It wasjust like steppinginto another room-which is what had happened.He found himself in a greatround chamber,whoseroundness wastoucheda bit with the indistinct.That is. it
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it' hadcurvedwallsanda domedroof,but therewassomethingelseabout had so Iridel It seemedto stretch off in that direction toward which pointed.The walls were lined with an amazingarrayof astonishingly control machinery-switchesand ground-glassscreens,indicatorsand andlevers.Movingdeftly beforethemwasa crewof dials,knurledkno-bs, men,eachlookingexactlylike Iridel.exceptthat their garmentshad no pockets.Harry stoodwide-eyed,hypnotizedby the enormouscomplexity bf tnr controisand the easewith which the men workedamongthem. "Comewith me,"he said."The produceris in Irideltouchedhis shoulder. is now; we'll find out what to be donewith youl' They startedacrossthe floor.Harry hadnot quite time to wonderhow long it wouldtakethem to crossthat enormousroom,for when they had takJnperhapsa dozenstepsthey found themselvesat the oppositewall. The oidinarylu*r of spaceandtime simplydid not applyin the place. bronze,soveryhighlypolishedthat Theystoppedat a doorof burnished they couldsie throughit. It openedandlridel pushedHarrythrough'The from the only lesthe be separated doorswungshut.Hairy,panic-stricken himself get flung to, used thing in this weirdworld he could beginto into heels, over head againstthe greatbronzeportal.It bouncedhim back, knees. and got hands up to his the middleof tne floor.He rolledoverand He was in a tiny room, one end of which was filled by a colossal teakwooddesk,The man sitting there regardedhim with amusement. ,.where'dyou blowin from?" he asked;andhis voicewaslike the angry hurricane' beesoundof an approaching 'Are you the Producer?" ,.Weli,I,llbe darnedi'saidthe man,andsmiled.It seemed to fill the in this but noticed; man, Harry a big was He light. with whole room verily most be how big. "I'll telling no way of place, was there deceptive for you? houses Building persistent aren't lot, a You're darnid.An actor. for requests and sending go together into. Getting me that I almostnever or ignoring then say and have to I to what betterparts.Listeningcarefully just and chance' more one for asking Aiways misintirpretingmy "dnice. thegate. thatup too.And nowoneof youcrashes whenyougetit, messing What'syour trouble,anYwaY?" Therewas somethingaboutthe producerthat botheredHarry,but he couldnot placewhatit was,unlessit wasthe factthat the manawedhim "and stammered, andhe didn't knowwhy."I wokeup in wednesdayl'he throat his cleared He I mean-" I meanMonday. yesterdaywasTuesday. andstartedover."I wentto sleepMondaynight andwokeup Wednesday' and I'm lookingfor TuesdaYl' "What do you wantme to do aboutit?" ..well-couldn't you tell me how to get backthere?I got workto do."
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"Oh-I get iti' said the producer."You want a favor from me. you know, someday,some one of you fellows is going to come to me wanting to give me something, free and for nothing, and then I am going to drop quietly dead.Don't I have enough trouble running this show without taking up time and spaceby doing favors for the likes of you?" He drew a couple of breathsand then smiled again."However-I have alwaystried to be just, even if it is a toughjob sometimes.Go on out and tell Iridel to show you the way back.I think I know what happenedto you; when you madeyour exit from the last act you played in, you somehowmanagedto walk out behind the wrong curtainwhen you reachedthe wings.There'sgoingto be a prompter sent to Limbo for this. Go on now-beat it." Harry openedhis mouth to speak,thought better of it and scuttledout the door,which openedbeforehim. He stoodin the huge controlchamber. breathinghard.Iridel walked up to him. "Well?" "He saysfor you to get me out of here." 'All righti' said lridel. "This way." He led the way to a curtained doorwaymuch like the one they had used to come in. Besideit were two dials,one marked in days,and the other in hours and minutes. "Monday night good enoughfor you?" askedlridel. "Swell," said Harry. Iridel set the dials for 9:30 p.m. on Monday."So long, actor.Maybe I'll see you againsome time." "So longl' said Harry. He turned and steppedthrough the door. He was back in the garage,and there wasno curtaineddoorwaybehind him. He turned to asklridel if this would enablehim to go to bed againand do Tuesdayright from the start, but Iridel was gone. The garagewas a blazeof light. Harry glancedup at the clock- It said fifteen secondsafter nine-thirty. That was funny; everyone should be home by now except Slim Jim, the night man, who hung out until four in the morning serving up gasat the pumps outside.A quick glancearound sufficed. This might be Monday night, but it was a Monday night he hadn't known. The placewas filled with the little men again! Harry sat on the fender of a convertible and groaned."Now what have I got myself into?" he askedhimself. He could see that he was at a different place-in-timefrom the one in which he had met lridel. There, they had been working to build, working with a precisionand nicety that was a pleasureto watch. But hereThe little men weredifferent,in the first place.They weretired-looking, sick, slow.There were scoresof overseersabout, and Harry winced with one of the little fellows when one of the men in white lashed out with a
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crewsworked,so the Mondaygangsslaved. long whip. As the Wednesday wasdifferent.For herethey werebreaking doing they were end ttre work Beforehis eyes,Harry sawsectionsof away. down,breakingup, carting away by the sackloadby lines of pulverized, toted paving lifted out, greatbeamsupendedto support He saw little men. lrudging,browbeaten pried the walls. He heardthe gang of out the iooi, while bricks were torn away.He sawwallsand patches roofing of workingon the rool saw driven onslaught,and beforehe roof boih melt awayunder that driving, on a sectionof the dead alone knewwhatwashappeninghe wasstanding lot' corner white plain he hadnoticedbeforeon the mind; he ran out into the night, It w;s too much for his overburdened breakingthroughlines of ladenslaves,throughneatand growingpilesof rubble,screr-ing for Iridel. He ran for a long time, and finally dropped downbehinda stackof lumberout wherethe Unitarianchurchusedto be, droppedbecausehe could go no farther.He heardfootstepsand tried to *rfi ni.relf smaller.They came on steadily; one of the overseers roundedthe cornerand stoodlookingat him. Harry wasin deepshadow, but he knew the man in white couldseein the dark' "Come out o'there," gratedthe man.Harry cameout' "You the guywasyellin'for lridel?" Harrynodded. ..whatmakesyouthink you'llfind Iridelin Limbo?"sneered his captor. you, anywaY?" "Who are Harryhadlearnedby this time."I'm an actorl'hesaidin a smallvoice. by mistake,and they sentme backhere." "I got into Wednesday "'Whatfor?" "Huh? Why-I guessit wasa mistake,that'sall'" ThemansteppedforwardandgrabbedHarryby the collar.He wasabout eighttimes aspowerfulasa hydraulicjack. "Don't giveme no guff, pall' s"id the man."Nobodygetssent to Limbo by mistake,or if he didn't do somethin'upthereto makehim deserveit. Comeclean,now" ..I didn't do nothin'." Harrywailed."I askedthem the way back,and they showedme a door,and I went throughit andcamehere.That'sall I know.Stopit, you'rechokingme!" The man droppedhim suddenly."Listen, babe,you know who I am? Hey?" Harryshookhis head."Oh-you don't.Well,I'm Gurrah!" i,yeah?"Harry said,not beingableto think of anythingelseat the moment. to be waitingfor something Gurrahpuffedout his chestandappeared more from Harry.when nothing came,he walkedup to the mechanic, 'Ain't scared,huh? Toughguy,huh? Neverheardof breathedin his face. Gurrah,supervisorof Limbo an' the roughest,toughestson of the devil huh?" from Incidenceto EternitY,
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Now Harrywasa peaceable man,but if therewasanythinghe hated,it wasto havea strangerbreathehis badbreathpugnaciously at him. Before he knewit hadhappened, Gurrahwassprawledeightfeetaway,andHarry wasstandingalonerubbinghis left knuckles-quite the moresurprisedof the two. Gurrahsatup, feelinghis face."Why,you. . .you hit me!" he roared.He got up and cameover to Harry."You hit me!" he saidsoftly,his voice slightly out of focusin amazement. Harry wishedhe hadn't-wished he wasin bedor in Futuraor deador something. Gurrahreached out with a heavyfist and-patted him on the shoulder."Heyl' he said,suddenly friendlg "you'reall right.Heh! Tooka pokeat me,didn't you?Bedamned! First time in a montho'Mondaysanyoneevermadea passat me.Lastwas a fellernamedOrton.I killed 'im." Harrypaled. Gurrahleanedbackagainstthe lumberpile."Dam'f I didn't enjoythat, feller.Yeah.Thisis a hell of ajob theypalmedoff on me,butwhatcanyou do? Breakinodown-breakin' down. No soonerget throughone job, workin'top speed,drivin'the boystill theybleed,thantheygiveyou the devilfor not bein'halfwaythroughanotherjob.You'dthink['d beenin the businesslongenoughto knowwhatit wasall about,aftermorethan eight hundredan' twentymillion acts,wouldn'tyou?Heh.Try to tell themthat. Shipa loadof doghousesup to Wednesday, sneakin'it pastbackstage nice asyou please.They turn right aroundand call me up. 'What'sthe matter with you,Gurrah?Themdoghousesis no good.Wesentyoua list o'wornout itemstwo actsago.Oneo' the itemswasdoghouses. Snapout of it or wesendsomeone backtherewhocanreadan'putyouon a toteline.'That's whatI get-act in andactout.An'doesit do anygoodto tell 'em thatmy aidegotthe message an'droppeddeadbeforehe gotit to me?No. Uh-uh. I If sayanythingaboutthat,they tell me to stopworkin' 'em to death.If I do that,theykick because my shipmentsdon't comein fastenough." He pausedfor breath.Harry had a hunch that if he kept Gurrah in a goodmoodit mightbenefithim. He asked,"What'syourjob, anyway?" "Job?"Gurrahhowled."Callthisajob? Tearin'downthesets,shippin' what'sgoodto the act afternext,junkin'the rest?'oHe snorted. Harry asked,"You meanthey usethe samepropsoveragain?" "That'sright.Theydon'tlast,though.Six,eightacts,maybe.Thenthey got to build new onesand weatherthem and knock 'em aroundto make 'em look as if they wasused." Therewassilencefor a time.Gurrah,havinggot his bitterness off his chestfor the first time in literallyages,wasfeelingpacified.Harry didn't knowhow to feel.He linally brokethe ice."Hey,Gurrah- How'm I goin' to get backinto the play?"
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,.what'sit to me?How'dyou- oh, that'sright,youwalkedin fromthe controlroom,huh?That it?" Harry nodded. 'Anihow" growledGurrah,"did you get inta the controlroom?" "Iridel broughtme." "Then what?" and-" "Well,I wentto seethe producer, '(Th' producerlHoly- You meanyou walkedright in and-" Gurrah moppedhis brow "What'dhe saY?" 'iWhy-he said he guessedit wasn't my fault that I woke up in He saidto tell lridel to ship me back." Wednesday. ..An' Iridel threw you back to Monday."And Gurrah threw back his shaggyheadand roared. "What's funny,"askedHarry,a little peeved. ,.Iridell' said Gurrah. "Do you realizethat I've beentrying for fifty thousandactsor more to get somethingon that pretty ol' heel, and he dropsyourightin my lap.Pal,I can'tthankyouenough!He wassupposed to sendyoubackinto the play,andinsteado'that youwind up in yesterday! why,I'll blackmailhim till the endof time!" He whirledexultantly,called to a group of bedraggledlittle men who were staggeringunder a boys!"he called."[ corneritoneon their wayto thejunkyard."Takeit eaSy, No more snotty backs! busted more got ol' Iridel by the short hair.No Hawhawhaw!" messages! Harry,a little amazedat all this, put in a timid word, "Hey-Gurrah' Whataboutme?" At his shouttwo little workers, Gurrahturned."You? oh. Tel-e-phone!" a trifle less bedraggledthan the rest, trotted up. One hoppedup and perchedon Gurrah'sright shoulder;the otherdrapedhimselfoverthe left, with his headforward.Gurrahgrabbedthe latterby the neck,broughtthe man'sheadcloseandshoutedinto his ear,"Give me Iridel!" Therewasa moment'swait,thenthe little manon his othershoulderspokein lridel's voice.into Gurrah'sear,"Well?" "Hiyah, fancypants!" "Fancy- I begyour- Who is this?" ..[t's Gurrah,you futuristicparasite.I got a couplethingsto tell you." "Gurrah!How-dareyou talk to me like that! I'll haveyou-" ..You'11 haveme in yourjob if I tell all I know.You'rea walt on the nose progress, Iridel." of is "What the meaningof this?" ..The rneaningof this is that you had instructionssent to you by the produceran' you muffedthem.Hadanactor,there,didn't you?He sawthe Loss,didn't he?Toldyou he wasto be sentback,didn't he?Senthim right
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overto me insteadof to the play,didn'tyou?you'reslippin',Iridel.Gettin' old. Well,get off the wire.I'm callin' the boss,right now" "The boss?Oh-don't do that,old man.Look,let,stalk this thingover. Ah-about thatshipmentof three-legged dogsI waswantingyouto round up for me; I guessI can do withoutthem.Any little favorI cando for tt
you-
-"you'll damn well do, after this. you better, Goldilocks.'n Gurrah knocked the two small heads together, breaking the connection and probablythe heads,and turned grinning to Harry."you seef'he explained, "that Iridel feller is a damn good supervisor,but he's a stickler for detail. He sendspeopleto Limbo for the silliestlittle mistakes.FIenever forgives anyoneand he never forgetsa slip. He's the causeof half the misery back here,with his hurry-up orders.Now things are gonnabe different. The boss has wanted to give Iridel a doseof his own medicinefor a long time now, but Irrie never gave him a chance." Harry said patiently,'About me getting back now-" 'oMy fran'!" Gurrah bellowed.He delvedinto a pocketand pulled out a watchlike Iridel's. "It's elevenforty on Tuesday,"he said.,,We'll shootyou back therenow.You'll haveto dopeout your own reasonsfor disappearing. Don't spill too much, or a lot of people will suffer for it-you the most. Ready?" Harry nodded; Gurrah swept out a hand and opened the curtain to nothingness."You'll find yourself quite a ways from where you started," he said, "becauseyou did a little moving around here. Go ahead." "Thanksj'said Harry. Gurrah laughed."Don't thank me, chum. You rateall the thanks!Heyif, after yr,.-r.rck off, you don't make out so good up there, let them toss you over to me. You'll be treated good; you've my word on it. Beat itl Holding his breath, Harry Wright steppedthrough the doorway. He had to walk thirty blocks to the garage,and when he got there the bosswas waiting for him. "Where you been,Wright?" "l-lost my way." "Don't get wise.What do you think this is-vacation time? Get going on the springjob. Damn it, it won't be finished now till tomorra." Harry lookedhim straightin the eye and said,"Listen.It'll be finished tonight. I happen to know." And, still grinning, he went back into the garageand took out his tools.
TheyBite Anthony Boucher
Therewasno path,only the almostverticalascent.crumbled rock for a few yards,with the rootsof sagefinding their scantyrife in the dry soil. Then jagged outcroppingsof crude crags,sometimeswith accidental footholds,sometimeswith overhangingand untrustworthybranchesof greasewood, sometimeswith no aid to climbingbut the leverageof your musclesand the ingenuityof your balance. The sagewasas drablygreenas the rock wasdrablybrown.The only color wasthe occasional rosyspikesof a barrelcactus. Hugh thllant swung himself up onto the last pinnacle.It had a deliberate,shapedlook about it-a petrified fortressof Lilliputians,a Gibraltarof pygmies.Thllantperchedon its battlementsand unslungiris field glasses. 113
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The desertvalleyspreadbelowhim. The tiny clusterof buildingsthat wasOasis,the exiguousclusterof palmsthat gavenameto the town and shelterof his own tent and to the shackhe wasbuilding,the dead-ended to nothing,the oiledroadsdiagramming highwayleadingstraightforwardly subdivision' optimistic the vacantblocksof an glasses werefixed beyondthe oasisand Thllantsawnoneof these.His gliders wereclearandvivid to him, The the town of Oasisofl the dry lake. as sharplyand minutely were with them and the uniformedmen busy schoolwasmore than glass. training The visible as a nest of ants under seemedthe focus to Tbllant, particular, strange usuallyactive.Onegliderin glance backat the older it and of attention.Men wouldcomeandexamine modelsin comParison. with the new only the cornerof Thllant'sleft eyewasnot preoccupied thin and and little glider.In that corner somethingmoved,something man.It for a 6ro*n as the earth.Too largefor a rabbit,much too small gliders oddlyhardto dartedacrossthat cornerof vision,andTlrllantfound on. concentrate the bifocalsand deliberately looked about him' His down He set pinnaclesurveyedthe narrow,flat area of the crest. Nothing stirred' irlothingstoodout againstthe sageand rock but onebarrelof rosyspikes' Whenhe was againandresumedhis observations. He took up the glasses notebook. black the little in the results entered done,he methodically in winter. sunless often cold and is desert The His handwasstill white. of capable fully his eyes, as trained well But it was a firm hand,and as had registered they which and dimensions recordingfaithfullythe designs so accurately. a smudge Oncehishandslipped,andhehadto eraseandredraw,leaving the edgeof acnoss had slipped thing him. The lean,brown thatdispleased that where would swEar' he his vision again.Going towardthe eastedge, a stegosaur' of set of rocksjutted like the spineson the back Only whenhis noteswerecompleteddid he yield to curiosity,andeven then with cynical self-reproach.He was physicallytired, for him an unusualstat;, fromthis dailyclimbingandfromclearingthe groundfor his shack-to-be.The eye musclesplay odd nervoustricks. There could be armor. nothingbehindthe stegosaur's Theie wasnothing.Nothingaliveand moving.Only the torn and half' pluckedcarcassof a bird, which lookedas thoughit hadbeengnawedby somesmallanimal. It was halfway down the hill-hill in western terminology,though anywhereeastof the Rockiesit would have been considereda sizable mountain-that Tallantagainhada glimpseof a movingfigure'
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But this wasno trick of a nervouseye.It wasnot little nor thin nor brown.It wastall andbroadandworea loud red-and-black lumberjacket. It bellowed,"Thllant!"in a cheerfulandlustyvoice. Thllantdrew near the man and said,"Hello." He pausedand added, "Your advantage, I think." The mangrinnedbroadly."Don't knowme?well,I daresayten yearsis a longtime, andthe californiadesertain't exactlythe chineie rice fields. How'sstuff? Still loadeddownwith Secretsfor Sale?" Thllanttrieddesperately not to reactto that-shot, but he stiffeneda little. "sorry. The prospectorgetup had me fooled.Good to see you again, Morgan." The man'seyesnarrowed. "Justhavingmy little jokel' he smiled.,.of courseyou wouldn'thaveno seriousreasonfor mountainclimbingaround a glider school,now,wouldyou? And you'd kind of needfield glassesto keepan eyeon the pretty birdies." "I'm out herefor my health."Tallant'svoicesoundedunnaturalevento himsell "sure,sure.Youwerealwaysin it for your health.And cometo think of it, my ownhealthain't beennonetoo goodlately.I've got me a little cabin wayto hell-and-gone aroundhere,andI do me a litile prospecting nowand then. And somehowit just strikesme, Tallant,like maybet hit a pretty goodlode today." "Nonsense, old man.Youcansee-" "I'd surehateto tell anyof themArmy men out at the field someof the storiesI knowaboutchina andthe kind of men I usedto knowout there. wouldn't cottonto them storiesa bit, the Army wouldn't.But if I wasto havea drink too many'andget talkative-like-" "Tell you what,"Thllantsuggested brusquely."It's gettingnearsunset now, and my tent's chilly for eveningvisits. But drop around in the morningandwe'll talk overold times.Isrum still your tipple?" "Sureis. Kind of expensivenow,you understand-" "I'll lay somein. You canfind the placeeasily-over by the oasis.And we . . . we might be ableto talk aboutyour prospecting, too." Tallant'sthin lips wereset firm as he walkedaway. The bartenderopeneda bottleof beerandplunkedit on the damp-circled counter."That'll be twentycents,"he said,then addedasan afterthought, "Want a glass?Sometimestouristsdo." Tallantlookedat the otherssitting at the counter-the red-eyedand unshavenold man,the flight sergeantunhappilydrinkinga coke-it was afterArmy hoursfor beer-the youngmanwith the long,dirty trenchcoat and the pipe and the new-lookingbrownbeard-and sawno glasses...I
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guessI won't be a touristl'he decided. This wasthe first time Tallanthadhada chanceto visit the DesertSport spot.It wasaswell to be seenaroundin a community.otherwisepeople blgin to wonderand say,"Who is that man out by the oasis?Why don't you everseehim anyPlace?" The sportspotwasquietthat night.Thefour of themat the counter,two Army boysshootingpool,anda half-dozenof the localmengatheredabout worker a roundpokertable,soberlyandwordlesslycleaninga conStruction whosemind seemedmore on his beerthan on his cards. "You just passingthrough?'nthe bartenderaskedsociably. Tallantshookhis head."I'm moving in. when the Army turned me down for my lungs,I decidedI better do somethingabout it. Heardso much aboutyour climatehereI thoughtI might aswell try it"' ..surething,"the bartendernodded."You takeup until theystartedthis gliderschool,just abouteveryotherguyyou meetin the desertis herefor his health.Me,I hadsinus,andlook at me now lt's the air." Tallantbreathedthe atmosphereof smokeand beersuds,but did not smile."['m lookingforwardto miracles." t'You'll get 'em. Whereabouts you staying?" 'the old Carkerplace''" "Over that way a bit. The agentcalledit Tallantfelt the curiouslisteningsilenceandfrowned.The bartenderhad startedto speakand then thoughtbetter of it. The youngman with the beardlookedat him oddly.The old manfixed him with redandwateryeyes that hada fadedglint of pity in them.For a moment,Thllantfelt a chill that hadnothingto do with the night air of the desert. The old mandrankhis beerin quickgulpsandfrownedasthoughtrying At lasthe wipedbeerfrom his bristlylipsandsaid, to formulatea sentence. in the adobe,wasyou?" to stay aiming wasn't "You gone pretty to pieces.Easierto rig me up a little shack much [t's "No. livable. Meanwhile,I've got a tent." the adobe try to make than mind you don't go pokingaround But mebbe. then, right, all "That's that thereadobe." "I don't think I'm apt to. But why not? Wantanotherbeer?" The old man shookhis headreluctantlyand slid from his stoolto the ground.'No thanks.Idon't riglrtlyknowasI-" "Yes?" ..Nothing.Thanksall the same."He turned and shuffledto the door. Tallantsmiled."But why shoutdI stayclearof the adobe?"he called after him. The old man mumbled. "What?" ..Theybite," saidthe old man,and went out shiveringinto the night.
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The bartenderwasbackat his post."I'm gladhe didn't takethat beeryou offeredhiml'he said.'Along aboutthis time in the eveningI haveto stop servinghim. For oncehe had the senseto quit." Thllantpushedhis own emptybottleforward."I hopeI didn't frighten him away." "Frighten?Well,misteEI think maybethat'sjust what you did do. He didn't wantbeerthat sort of came,like you might say,from the old Carker place.Someof the old-timershere,they'refunny that way." Tallantgrinned,"[s it haunted?" "Not whatyou'dcallhaunted,no.No ghoststherethat I everheardofl' He wipedthe counterwith a clothand seemedto wipethe subjectaway with it. The flight sergeantpushedhis Cokebottleaway,huntedin his pocket for nickels,andwentoverto the pinballmachine.The youngmanwith the beardslid ontohis vacantstool."Hopeold Jakedidn't worryyou,"he said. Thllantlaughed."I supposeeverytownhasits desertedhomestead with a grislytradition.Butthissoundsa little different.No ghosts, andtheybite. Do you know anythingaboutit?" 'A little]'the youngmansaidseriously. 'A little.Justenoughto-" o'Have Thllantwascurious. one on me and tell me aboutit." The flight sergeantsworebitterly at the machine. Beergurgledthroughthe beard."You see,"the youngman began,"the desert'ssobig youcan'tbe alonein it. Evernoticethat?It's all emptyand there'snothingin sight,but there'salwayssomethingmovingoverthere whereyou can'tquiteseeit.It's somethingverydry andthin and brown, only whenyou look aroundit isn't there.Everseeit?" "Opticalfatigue-" Tbllantbegan. "Sure.I know.Every man to his own legend.There isn't a tribe of Indianshasn't got someway of accountingfor it. You'veheardof the Watchers? And the twentieth-century white man comesalong,and itos opticalfatigue.Only in the nineteenthcenturythingsweren'tquite the same,and therewerethe Carkers." "You'vegot a speciallocalizedlegend?" "Call it that.You glimpsethingsout of the cornerof your mind, same like you glimpselean,dry thingsout of the cornerof youreye.Youencase 'em in solid circumstance and they'renot so bad.That is known as the Growthof Legend.The Folk Mind in Action.Youtakethe Carkersandthe thingsyou don't quite seeand you put 'em together.And they bite.1' Thllantwonderedhow long that beardhad been absorbingbeer."And what werethe Carkers?"he promptedpolitely. "Ever hearof SawneyBean?Scotland-reignof JamesFirst, or maybe the Sixth,thoughI think Roughead's wrongon that for once,Or let's be
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No?Ever Kansasin the 1870s? moremdern-ever hearof the Benders? Or Feefi-fo-fum? Or Polyphemus? hearof Procrustes? "There areogres,you know.They'reno legend.They'refact,they are' The inn wherenine guestsleft for everyten that arrived,the mountain cabinthat shelteredtravelersfrom the snow,shelteredthem all winter till stretchesof roadthat the meltingspringuncoveredtheir bones,the lonely'em find everywhere.All passengers traveled halfway-you'll so many communications too before pretty this country much in overEuropeand becamewhat they are.Profitablebusiness.And it wasn'tjust the profit. The Bendersmademoney,sure;but that wasn'twhy they killed all their victimsascarefullyasa kosherbutcher.SawneyBeangot so he didn't give a damnaboutthe profit; hejust neededto lay in moremeatfor the winter. 'And think of the chancesyou'd haveat an oasis." "So theseCarkersof yourswere,asyou call them,ogres?" "Carkers,ogres-maybethey wereBenders'The Benderswerenever seen alive, you know, after the townspeoplefound those curiously butcheredbones.There'sa rumor they got this far west.And the time checkspretty well. There wasn't any to$'n here in the eighties.Just a coupleof Indianfamilies,lastof a dyingtribe living on at the oasis.They vanishedafter the Carkersmovedin. That'snot so surprising.The white Nobodyworriedaboutthem.But they anyway. raceis a sortof super-ogre, usedto worryaboutwhy so manytravelersnevergot acrossthis stretchof desert.The travelersused to stop over at the Carkers',You see,and somehowtheyoftennevergotanyfarther.Theirwagons'dbefoundmaybe they foundthe bones,too, fifteen milesbeyondin the desert.Sometimes parchedandwhite.Gnawed-looking, they saidsometimes." "And nobodyeverdid anythingabouttheseCarkers?" "Oh, sure.We didn't haveKing JamesSixth-only I still think it was First-to ride up on a greatwhite horsefor a gesture,but twice Army camehereand wipedthem all out." detachments "Twice?Onewiping-outwoulddo for most families."Tirllantsmiled. "Uh-uh. That wasno slip. They wipedout the Carkerstwice because, 'ern out and still travelers you see,oncedidn't do any good.They wiped 'em out again. vanishedandstill thereweregnawedbones.Sotheywiped After that they gaveup, and peopledetouredthe oasis.It madea longer, hardertrip, but after all-" Tallantlauglred."You meanto saytheseCarkerswereimmortal?" "I don't knowaboutimmortal.Theysomehowjust didn't die veryeasy. Maybe,if they werethe Benders-andI sort of like to think they werethey learneda little more aboutwhat they weredoing out here on the desert.Maybethey put togetherwhat the Indiansknew and what they knew. and it worked.Maybe whatever they made their sacrificesto
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understod them betterout herethan in Kansas." 'And what'sbecomeof them-asidefrom seeingthemoutof thecorner of the eye?" "There'sforty yearsbetwenthe lastof the Carkerhistoryandthis new settlementat the oasis.And peoplewon't talk much aboutwhat they learnedherein the first yearor so.Only that they stayawayfrom that old Carkeradobe.Theytell somestories- The priestsayshe wassittingin the confessional one hot Saturdayafternoonand thoughthe hearda penitent comein. He waiteda long time and finally lifted the gauzeto seewas anybodythere.Something wasthere,and it bit. He'sgot threefingerson his right hand now, which looks funny as hell when he gives a benediction." Thllantpushedtheir two bottlestowardthe bartender."That yarn,my youngfriend,has earnedanotherbeer.How aboutit, bartender?Is he alwayscheerfullike this,or is thisjust somethinghe'simprovised for my benefit?" The bartenderset out the fresh bottleswith greatsolemnity."Me, I wouldn't'vetold you all that myself,but then, he's a strangertoo and maybedon't feelthe samewaywe do here.For him it's just a story." "It's more comfortablethat wayl' saidthe youngman with the beard, and he took a firm hold on his beerbottle. "But aslongasyou'veheardthatmuchi'saidthebartender, "you might aswell- It waslastwinter,whenwe hadthatcoldspell.Youheardfunny just to warmup. storiesthatwinter.Wolvescominginto prospectors'cabins Well,businesswasn'tso good.Wedon't havea licensefor hardliquor,and the boysdon't drink much beerwhenit's that cold.But theyusedto come in anywaybecausewe'vegot that big oil burner. "So one night there'sa bunchof 'em in here-old Jakewashere,that you wastalkingto, and his dog Jigger-and I think I hearsomebodyelse comein. The door creaksa little. But I don't seenobody,and the poker game'sgoing,and we'retalkingjust like we'retalkingnow,and all of a suddenI heara kind of a noiselike crack!overtherein that cornerbehind thejukeboxnearthe burner. "I gooverto seewhatgoesandit getsawaybeforeI canseeit verygood. But it waslittle andthin andit didn'thaveno clotheson.It must'vebeen damnedcold that winter." 'And what wasthe crackingnoise?"Tallantaskeddutifully. Jiggerwithoutanynoise. "That?Thatwasa bone.Itmust'vestrangled He wasa little dog.It atemostof the flesh,andif it hadn'tcrackedthe bone for the marrowit could'vefinished.You canstill seethe spotsoverthere. The bloodneverdid comeout." There had been silenceall throughthe story.Now suddenlyall hell
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brokeloose.The flight sergeantlet out a splendidyell andbeganpointing excitedly at the pinball machine and yelling for his payoff. The constructionworkerdramaticallydesertedthe pokergame'knockinghis andannouncedlugubriouslythat theseguyshere chairoverin the process, hadtheir own rules,see? Any atmosphereof carker-inspiredhorror was dissipated.Tallant whistledas he walkedover to put a nickel in the jukebox.He glanced casuallyat the floor.Yes,therewasa stain,for what that wasworth. He smiledcheerfullyandfelt rathergratefulto the Carkers.Theywere goingto solvehis blackmailproblemvery neatly. Tallantdreamedof powerthat night.It wasa commondreamwith him. He wasa ruler of the new AmericanCorporateStatethat wouldfollowthe war; and he saidto this man, "Come!" and he came,and to that man, "Do this!" andtheydid it. "Go!" andhe wenl,andto his servants, Then the youngman with the beardwasstandingbeforehim, and the dirty trenchcoatwaslike the robesof an ancientprophet.And the young mansaid,"You seeyourselfridinghigh,don't you?Ridingthe crestof the wave-the Wave of the Future, you call it. But there's a deep, dark undertowthat you don't see,andthat's a part of the Past.And the Present andevenyour Future.Thereis evil in mankindthat is blackereventhan your evil, and infinitely moreancient." And there was somethingin the shadowsbehind the young man, somethinglittle and leanand brown. Tirllant'sdreamdid not disturb him the followingmorning'Nor did the interviewwith Morgan.He fried his baconand thoughtof the approaching eggsanddevouredthem cheerfully.The wind haddieddownfor a change, andthe sun waswarmenoughso that he couldstrip to the waistwhile he clearedland for his shack.His macheteglinted brilliantly as it swung throughthe air and struckat the rootsof the brush. When Morganarrivedhis full facewasred and sweating. "We'll "It's coolovertherein theshadeof the adobe,"Thllantsuggested. be more comfortable."And in the comfortableshadeof the adobehe swungthe macheteonceandcloveMorgan'sfull, red,sweatingfacein two. It wasso simple.It took lesseffort thanuprootinga clumpof sage.And andwasoften it wassosafe.Morganlived in a cabinwayto hell-and-gone for months,if trips.No onewouldnoticehis absence awayon prospecting then. No one had any reasonto connecthim with Tallant.And no one in adobe. Oasiswouldhunt for him in the Carker'haunted The bodywasheavy,andthe blooddrippedwarmon Tallant'sbareskin. with relief he dumpedwhat hadbeenMorganon the floor of the adobe. Therewereno boards,no flooring.Justthe earth.Hard,but not too hardto
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dig a gravein. And no onewaslikely to comepokingaroundin this taboo territory to noticethe grave.Let ayearor so go by,and the graveand the bonesit containedwouldbe attributedto the Carkers. The cornerof Thllant'seyebotheredhim again.Deliberatelyhe lookod aboutthe interiorof the adobe. The little furniture wascrude and heavy,with no attemptto smooth downthe strokesof the ax.It washeld togetherwith woodenpegsor halfrottedthongs.Therewereage-oldcindersin the fireplace,and the dusty shardsof a cookingjar amongthem. And therewasa deeplyhollowedstone,coveredwith stainsthat might have been rust, if stone rusted.Behind it was a tiny figure, clumJily fashionedof clay and sticks.It wassomethinglike a man and something like a lizard,andsomethinglike the thingsthat flit acrossthe corneror tni eye. curious now,Tallantpeeredaboutfurther.He penetratedto the corner that the one unglassed windowlightedbut dimly.And therehe let out a little chokinggasp.For a momenthe wasrigid with horror.Thenhe smiled andall but laughedaloud. This explainedeverything.somecuriousindividuarhadseenthis, and from his accountshad burgeonedthe whole legend.The carkers had indeedlearnedsomethingfrom the Indians,but that secretwasthe art of embalming. It wasa perfectmummy.Eitherthe Indianart hadshrunkbodies,or this wasthat of a ten-year-oldboy.Therewasno flesh.only skin andboneand taut,dry stretchesof tendonbetween.The eyelidswereclosed;the sockets lookedhollow under them. The nosewas sunkenand almostlost. The scantlips were tightly curled back from the long and very white teeth, which stoodforth all the more brilliantlyagainstthe deep-brownskin. It wasa curiouslittle trove,this mummy.Thllantwasalreadycalculating the chancesfor raising a decent sum of money from an interested anthropologist-murdercan producesuch delightfullyprofitablechance by-products-whenhe noticedthe infinitesimalriseand fall of the chest. The Carkerwasnot dead.[t wassleeping. Tallantdid not darestopto think beyondtheinstant.This wasno time to pauseto considerif suchthingswerepossiblein a well-orderedworld.It wasno time to reflecton the disposalof the bodyof Morgan.It wasa time to snatchup your macheteand get out of there. _ But in the doorwayhe halted.There,comingacrossthe desert,heading for the adobe,clearlyseenthis time, wasanother-a female. He madeaninvoluntarygestureof indecision.The bladeof the machete clangedringinglyagainstthe adobewall. He heardthe dry shufflingof a rousedsleeperbehindhim.
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He turned fully now,the macheteraised.Disposeof this nearerone in his first,-ttren face the female.There was no room even for terror thoughts,onlYfor action. Tie le,anbiown shapedartedat him avidly.He movedlightly awayand stoodpoisedfor its secondcharge.Itshotforwardagain.He took onestep back,machetearm raised;and fell headlongover the corpseof Morgan' met Befoiehe couldrise,the thin thing wasuponhim. Its sharpteethhad throughthe palm of his left hand. to the floor' The machetemovedswiftly.The thin dry bodyfell headless Therewasno blood. The grip of the teethdid not relax.Paincoursedup Thllant'sleft arm-a as sharper]morebitter pain than you wouldexpectfrom the bite. Almost thoughvenomHi droppedthe machete,andhis strongwhitehandpluckedandtwisted at the dry brownlips.The teethstayedclenched,unrelaxing'He satbracing his back againstthe wall and grippedthe headbetweenhis knees.He pulled.His fleshripped,andbloodformeddustyclotson the dirt floor.But the bite wasfirm. His worldhadbecomereducednowto that handandthat head.Nothing outsidemattered.He must free himself.He raisedhis achingarm to his face,andwith his ownteethhe tore at that unrelentinggrip.The dry flesh crumbledawayin desertdust,but the teethwerelockedfast.He torehis lip of againsttheir white keenness,and tastedin his mouth the sweetness bloodand somethingelse. to hii feetagain.He knewwhathe mustdo.Laterhe could He staggered usecauteiy,a tourniquet,seea doctorwith a storyabouta Gila monstertheir headigrip too,don't they?-but he knewwhathe mustdo now. He raisedthe macheteand struckagain. His white handlay on the brownfloor,grippedby the white teethin the brown face. He proppedhimself againstthe adobewall, momentarily unableto move.His openwrist hungoverthe deeplyhollowedstone.His blood and his strengthand his life pouredout beforethe little figure of sticksand clay. The female stood in the doorwaynow, the sun bright on her thin Shedid not move.He knewthat shewaswaitingfor the hollorv brownness. stoneto fill.
Call Him Demon Henry Kuttner
A long time afterwardshe went back to Los Angelesand drove past GrandmotherKeaton'shouse.It hadn't changeda greatdeal,really,but whathadseemedan elegantmansionto her childish,1920eyeswasnowa big ramshackleframestructure,graywith scalingpaint. After twenty-fiveyearsthe-insecurity-wasn't there any more, but therestill persisteda dull, irrational,remembereduneasiness, an echoof the time JaneLarkin had spentin that housewhen shewasnine, a thin, big-eyedgirl with the BusterBrownbangsso fashionablethen. Lookingback,she could remembertoo much and too little. A child's mind is curiouslydifferentfrom an adult's.when Janewentinto the living roomunderthe greenglasschandelieron that Junedayin 1920,shemade a dutiful roundof the family,kissingthem all. GrandmotherKeatonand chilly Aunt Bessieandthe four uncles.Shedid not hesitatewhenshecame to the new uncle-who wasdifferent. r23
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The other kids watchedher with impassiveeyes.They knew.They saw she knew.But they said nothingjust then. Janerealizedshe could not mentlonthe-the trouble-either,until they broughtit up. That waspart of the silent etiquette of childhood. But the whole house was full of The adultsmerelysenseda trouble,somethingvaguelywrong' uneasiness. The children,Janesaw,knew. Jane Afterwardtheygatheredin the backyard,underthe big date-palm. the looks the saw She waited. fingired her newnecklaceand ostentatiously noticed?" you really she think othersexchanged-looksthat said,"Do hide-and-seek' And finally Beatrice,the oldest,suggested "We oughtto tell her,Beej' little Charlessaid. Beatricekept her eyesfrom Charles. "Tell her what?You'recrazy,Charles." Charleswasinsistentbut vague. "You know." "Keep your old secret,"Janesaid."I knowwhat it is, anyhow'He'snot my uncle." ..see9"Emily crowed."she did too seeit.I told you she'dnotice." .,It's kind of iunnyl'Jane said.Sheknewvery well that the man in the living roomwa5n'ther uncleandneverhadbeen,andhe waspretending, quitJhard-hard enougtrto convincethe grown-ups-thathe hadalways beenhere.With the clear,unprejudicedeyeof immaturity'Janecouldsee that he wasn'tan ordinarygrown-up'He wassort of-empty' 'About threeweeksago'" "He just came,"Emily said' ."Threedays,"charlescorrected,trying to help,but his temporalsense He measuredtime by the yardstickof wasn'tdependenton the calendar. events,anddaysweren'tstandardsizedfor him. Theywerelongerwhenhe wassickor whenit rained,andfar too shortwhenhe wasridingthe merrygo-roundat OceanParkor playinggamesin the backyard' said. "It wasthreeweeksi'Beatrice "Where'dhe comefrom?" Janeasked. Thereweresecretglancesexchanged. "I don't knowi' Beatricesaidcarefully. ,.Hecameout of a big roundholethat keptgoingaroundl'Charlessaid. "It's like a Christmastree throughthere,all fiery." ..Don'ttell liesi' Emily said."Did you evertruly seethat,Charles?" "No, Only sort of." "Don't theynotice?" Janemeantthe adults. ..No,"Beatiicetoldher,andthe childrenall lookedtou'ardthe houseand ponderedthe inscrutablewaysof grown-ups."They act like he's always Leenhere.Even Granny.Aunt Bessiesaidhe camebefore/ did. Only I knew that wasn'tright."
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"Three weeks]'Charlessaid,changinghis mind. "He's makingthem all feel sicki' Emily said.'Aunt Bessietakes aspirinsall the time." Janeconsidered. On the faceof it, the situationseemeda little silly.An weeks unclethree old?Perhapsthe adultsweremerelypretending,asthey sometimes did,with esotericadultmotives.Butsomehow thatdidn'tseem quitethe answer. Childrenareneverdeceivedverylongaboutsuchthings. Charles,now that the ice wasbrokenand Janeno longeran outsider, burst suddenlyinto excitedgabble. "Tell her,Bee!The realsecret-you know.CanI showher the Roadof YellowBricks?Please,Bee?Huh?" Then the silenceagain.Charleswastalking too much.Janeknew the Roadof Yellow Bricks,of course.It ran straightthrough Oz from the DeadlyDesertto the EmeraldCity. After a long time Emily nodded. "Wegotto tell her,youknowj'shesaid."Only shemightgetscared.It's so dark." "You werescaredl'Bobbysaid."You cried,the first time." "I didn't. Anyhowit-it's only makebelieve." "Qh, no!" Charlessaid."I reachedout andtouchedthecrownlasttime." "It isn't a crown,"Emily said."It's ftin. Ruggedo." Janethoughtof the unclewho wasn'ta realuncle-who wasn'ta real person."ls heRuggedo?"sheasked. The childrenunderstood. "Oh, no," Charlessaid."Ruggedolivesin the cellar.We givehim meat. All red and bluggy.He likesit! Gobble,gobble!" Beatricelookedat Jane.Shenoddedtowardthe clubhouse,whichwasa piano-boxwith a genuinesecretlock. Then, somehow,quite deftly,she shifted the conversationonto anothersubject.A gameof cowboys-andIndiansstartedpresentlyand Bobby,howlingterribly,ledthe rout around the house. The piano-boxsmelledpleasantlyof acaciadrifting throughthe cracks. Beatrice and Jane, huddled together in the warm dimness,heard diminishingIndian-cries in the distance. Beatricelookedcuriouslyadult just now. "I'm gladyou came,Janie,"shesaid."The little kids don't understand at all. It's prettyawful." "Who is he?" Beatriceshivered."I don't know.I think he lives in the cellar."She hesitated."You haveto getto him throughthe attic,though.I'dbe awfully scaredif the little kids weren'tso-so-they don't seemto mind at all." "But, Bee!Who ls he?"
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Beatriceturnedher headand lookedat Jane,and it wasquite evident it thenthat shecouldnot or wouldnot say.Therewasa barrier.But because Wrong Uncle. the wasimportant,shetried.Shementioned "I think Ruggedo'sthe sameas him. I know he is' really.Charlesand Bobby say so-and they know They know better than I do. They're littler.... It's hardto explain,but-well, it's sort of like the Scoodlers. Remember?" racethat dweltin a cavernon the roadto Thatunpleasant TheScoodlers. Oz and hadthe convenientability to detachtheir headsand hurl them at passers-by. After a momentthe parallelbecameevident.A Scoodlercould havehis headin one placeandhis bodyin another,but both partswould belongto the sameScoodler. Of coursethe phantomuncle had a headand a body both. But Jane couldunderstandvaguelythe possibilityof his doublenature,one of him movingdeceptivelythroughthe house,focusof a strangemalaise,andthe formless,nestingin a cellarandwaitingfor red meat.... othernameless, more than any of us aboutit," Beatricesaid."He was knows "Charles found out we'd haveto feedR-Ruggedo.Wetried different the onewho has to be raw meat.And if we stopped-somethingawful things,but it We wouldhappen. kids foundthat out." It was significant that Jane didn't ask how. Children take their equivalentof telepathyfor granted. "Theydon't know,"Beatriceadded."We canl tell them." "No," Janesaid,andthe two girls lookedat one another,caughtin the terrible,helplessproblemof immaturity,the knowledgethat the moresof andthat childrenmust the adultworld aretoo complicatedto understand, walk warily.Adults arealwaysright.They arean alienrace. Luckily for the other children,they had come upon the Enemy in a body.one child alonemight havehadviolent hysterics.But charles,who was only six, still youngenoughso that the madethe first discoveries, processof goinginsanein that particularway wasn'tpossiblefor him. A six-year-oldis in a congenitallypsychoticstate;it is normalto him. "And they'vebeensick eversincehe camei' Beatricesaid. Jane had alreadyseen that. A wolf may don sheepskinand slide into a flock,but the sheepareapt to becomenervous,though unobserved they cannotdiscoverthe sourceof their discomfort. It wasa matterof mood.Evenhe showedthe samemood-uneasiness, waiting,sensingthat somethingwaswrongand not knowingwhat-but Janecould tell he didn't with iim it wassimplya matterof camouflage. the arbitrary norm he had from varying by attention attract want to human form. the chosen-that of Janeacceptedit. The uncle who was-empty-the one in the cellar
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called Ruggedo, who had to be fed regularly on raw meat, so that Somethingwouldn't happen.. . . A masquerader,from somewhere.He had power,and he had limitations. The obvious evidencesof his power were acceptedwithout question. Children are realists. It was not incredible to them, for this hungry, inhuman strangerto appearamong them-for here he was. He came from somewhere.Out of time, or space,or an inconceivable place.He never had any human feelings;the children sensedthat easily. He pretended very cleverly to be human, and.he could warp the adult minds to implant artificial memoriesof his existence.The adultsthought they rememberedhim. An adult will recognizea mirage; a child will be deceived.But conversely,an intellectualmiragewill deceivean adult,not a child. Ruggedo'spower couldn't warp their minds, for those minds were neither quite human nor quite sane,from the adult standpoint.Beatrice, who was oldest, was afraid. She had the beginnings of empathy and imagination.Little Charlie felt mostly excitement.Bobby,the smallest,had alreadybegunto be bored.... Perhapslater Beatriceremembereda little of what Ruggedolookedlike, but the others never did. For they reachedhim by a very strangeroad,and perhapsthey were somewhatalteredthemselvesduring the time they were with him. He acceptedor rejectedfood; that was all. Upstairs,the body of the Scoodlerpretendedto be human, while the Scoodler'sheadlay in that little, horrible qest he had made by warping space,so he was invisible and intangible to anyone who didn't know how to find the Road of Yellow Bricks. What washe? Without standardsof comparison-and therearenone,in this world-he cannot be named.The children thought of him as Ruggedo. But he was not the fat, half-comic, inevitably frustrated Gnome King. He was never that. Call him demon. As a name-symbol,it implies too much and not enough.But it will have to do. By the standardof maturity he was monster,alien,super-being.But becauseof what he did, and what he wanted-call him demon. One afternoon, a few days later, Beatrice hunted up Jane. "How much money have you got, Janie?" she asked, "Four dollarsand thirty-five cents,"Janesaid,after investigation."Dad gaveme five dollars at the station.I bought some popcorn and-welldifferent things." "Gee, I'm glad you came when you didl' Beatrice blew out a long breath.Tacitlyit wasagreedthat the prevalentsocialismof childhoodclubs
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wouldapplyin this moreurgentclubbingtogetherof interests.Jane'ssmall hoardwasavailablenot for anyindividualamongthem,but for the goodof the group...we wererunningout of money,"Beatricesaid."Grannycaught us tiking meatout of the iceboxandwe don't dareany more.But we can get a lot with your moneY." Neither of them thoughtof the inevitabletime when that fund would Four dollarsand thirty-fivecentsseemedfabulous,in that be exhausted. era.And theyneedn'tbuyexpensivemeat,solongasit wasrawandbloody. streetwith its occasional Theywalkedtogetherdownthe acacia-shaded leanini palms and droopingpeppeftrees.They bought two poundsof twentycentson sodas' hamburgerand improvidentlysquandered when they got backto the house,sundaylethargyhad set in. uncles simon and Jameshadgoneout for cigars,anduncles Lew andBert were readingthe papers,while Aunt Bessiecrocheted.GrandmotherKeaton The two girls read ioung'sMagazine,diligently seekingspicy passages. portieres,looking in. pausedbehindthe beaded "Come on, kids," Lew said in his deep,resonantvoice. "Seen the funniesyet?Mutt andJeff aregood.And SparkPlug-" "Mr. Gibsonis goodenoughfor mei'GrandmotherKeatonsaid."He's a realartist.His peoplelook like people." The door bangedopen and Uncle Jamesappeared,fat, grinning, obviouslyhappy from severalbeers.Uncle Simon pacedhim like a personified conscience. 'At any rate, it's quiet," he said,turning a sour glanceon Janeand Beatrice."The children make such a rumpus sometimesI can't hear myselfthink." "Granny,"Beatriceasked,"wherearethe kids?" "In the kitchen,I think, dear.Theywantedsomewaterfor something." "Thanks."The two girlswentout,leavingthe roomfilled with a growing discomfort.The sheepweresensingthe wolf atmosphere of sub-threshold amongthem, but the sheepskindisguisewas sufficient' They did not know... The kids werein the kitchen,busilypaintingonesectionof the comics with brushesandwater.Whenyoudid that,picturesemerged.Onepageof had beenchemicallytreatedso that moisturewould bring the newspaper in a classwith but singularlyglamOrous, out the variouscolors,dull pastels, paperthe Chinese water, and in bloom would flowersthat the Japanese prizes. tiny shelledalmondsthat held From behindher,Beatricedeftly producedthe butcher'spackage. "Two pounds,"she said."Janie had somemoney'and Merton's was openthis afternoon.I thoughtwe'd better'.. ." Emily kept on paintingdiligently.Charlesjumped up.
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'Are we goingup now,huh?" Janewasuneasy. "I don't knowif I'd bettercomealong.I-" "I don't want to either,"Bobbysaid,but that wastreason.Charlessaid Bobbywasscared. else." "I'm not.It just isn'tanyfun.I wantto playsomething "Emily," Beatricesaidsoftly."You don't haveto go this time." "Yes,I do." Emily lookedup at lastfrom her painting."I'm not scared." "I wantto seethe lights,"Charlessaid.Beatricewhirledon him, "You tell suchlies,Charles!Therearen'tanylights." anyhow." "There areso.Sometimes, aren't." "There "There areso.You'retoo dumb to seethem.Let's go and feedhim." It wasunderstoodthat Beatricetook commandnow.Shewasthe oldest. Shewasalso,Janesensed,moreafraidthan the others,evenEmily. Theywentupstairs,Beatricecarryingthe parcelof meat.Shehadalready cut the string.In the upperhall they groupedbeforea door. "This is the way,Janiei' Charlessaidratherproudly."We gottago up to the attic.There'sa swing-downladderin the bathroomceiling.Wehaveto climb up on the tub to reach." "My dress]'Janesaiddoubtfully. "You won't get dirty.Comeon." Charleswantedto be first, but he wastoo short.Beatriceclimbedto the and rim of the tub andtuggedat a ringin the ceiling.Thetrapdoorcreaked slowly,with a certainmajesty,besidethe tub.It wasn't the stairsdescended dark up there.Light camevaguelythroughthe attic windows. and they "Come on, Janiel' Beatricesaid,with a queerbreathlessness, all scrambledup somehow,by dint of violent acrobatics. The attic waswarm,quietanddusty.Plankswerelaid acrossthe beams. Cartonsand trunks werehereand there. Beatricewasalreadywalkingalongoneof the beams.Janewatchedher. Beatricedidn't look back; she didn't say anything.Once her hand gropedout behindher; Charles,who wasnearest, took it. Then Beatrice reacheda planklaid acrossto anotherrafter.Shecrossedit. Shewent onstopped-andcameback,with Charles. "You were "You weren't doing it right," Charlessaid disappointedly. wrong thing." thinking of the facelookedoddlywhite in the golden,faintlight. Beatrice's Janemet her cousin'seyes."Bee-" "You haveto think of somethingelse,"Beatricesaidquickly."It's all right.Comeon." Charlesat her heels,she startedagainacrossthe plank.Charleswas monotone: in a rhythmic,mechanical sayingsomething,
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"One,two,bucklemyshoe, Three, four,knockat thedoor Five,six,pickup sticks-" Beatricedisappeared. "Seven, eight;laythem- " Charlesdisappeared. followed.And vanished. rebelliousness, Bobby,his shouldersexpressing Emily madea smallsound. "Oh- Emilyl" Janesaid. But her youngestcousinonly said,"I don't want to go down there, Janie!" o'Youdon't haveto." "Yes,I dol' Emilysaid."I'll tell youwhat.Iwon'tbe afraidif youcome right afterme. I alwaysthink there'ssomethingcomingup behindme to grab-but if you promiseto comeright after,it'll be all right." "I promise,"Janesaid. Emily walkedacrossthe bridge.Janewaswatchingclosely Reassured, Shewassuddenly-gone. this time.Yet shedid not seeEmily disappear. Janesteppedforward,and stoppedas a soundcamefrom downstairs. "Jane!"Aunt Bessie'svoice."Janel" lt waslouderandmoreperemptory now."Jane,whereareyou?Comehereto me!" lookingacrossthe plank bridge.It was quite Janestoodmotionless, empty,andtherewasno traceof Emily or the otherchildren.The atticwas of suddenlyfull of invisiblemenace.Yet shewouldhavegoneon, because promise, ifher "Jone! " andfollowedthe summonsto Aont Bessie's Janereluctantlydescended prim-mouthed womanwaspinningfabricand movingher bedroom.That lips impatiently. "Whereon earthhaveyou been,Jane?I've beencallingandcalling." "We wereplayingl'Janesaid."Did you wantme, Aunt Bessie?" "I shouldsayI did,"Aunt Bessiesaid."This collarI've beencrocheting. It's for a dressfor you. Comehere and let me try it on. How you grow, child!" And after that there was an eternity of pinning and wriggling,while Janekeptthinking of Emily,aloneand afraidsomewherein the attic.She beganto hate Aunt Bessie.Yet the thoughtof rebellionor escapenever crossedher mind. The adultswereabsolutemonarchs.As far as relative valueswent,tryingon the collarwasmoreimportant,at this moment,than
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anythingelsein the world, At least,to the adultswho administeredthe world. While Emily,aloneandafraidon the bridgethat led to-elsewhere.... The uncleswereplayingpoker.Aunt Gertrude,the vaudevilleactress, had unexpectedlyarrivedfor a few daysand wastalking with Grandmother KeatonandAunt Bessiein the living room.Aunt Gertrudewassmalland pretty,verycharming, with a bisquedelicacyanda gustofor life thatfilled Janewith admiration. But shewassubduednow. "This placegivesme the creeps,"she said,making a dart with her foldedfan at Jane'snose."Hello, funny-face.Why aren'tyou playingwith the otherkids?" "Oh, ['m tired,"Janesaid,wonderingaboutEmily.It hadbeennearlyan hour since'At yourageI wasnevertired,"Aunt Gertrudesaid."Now look at me. Threea dayand that awfulstraightmanI've got-Ma, did I tell lou-" The voicespitchedlower. JanewatchedAunt Bessie'sskinnyfingersmovemonotonouslyasshe dartedher crochethookthroughthe silk. "What'swrong "This placeis a morguej'Aunt Gertrudesaidsuddenly. Who'sdead?" with everybody? "It's the airl' Aunt Bessiesaid."Too hot the yearround." in winter,Bessiemy girl, and you'll be gladof a "You playRochester I feel-mm-n-it's like beingon stage warmclimate.It isn't that,anyway. afterthe curtain'sgoneup." "It's your fancyl'hermothersaid. "Ghostsl'Aunt Gertrudesaid,and wassilent.GrandmotherKeaton lookedsharplyat Jane. "Comeoverhere,childl' shesaid. Room was madeon the soft, capaciouslap that had held so many youngsters. warmthandtried to let her mind Janesnuggledagainstthat reassuring go blank,transferringall senseof responsibilityto GrandmotherKeaton. But it wouldn't work.Therewassomethingwrongin the house,and the heavywavesof it beatout from a centervery nearthem. The WrongUncle.Hungerand the avidityto be fed. The nearnessof bloodymeattantalizinghim ashe lay hiddenin his strange,unguessable nestelsewhere-otherwhere-inthat strangeplacewherethe childrenhad vanished. He wasdownthere,slaveringfor the food;he wasup here,empty,avid, a vortexof hungervery nearby. He wasdouble,a doubleuncle,maskedbut terrifyinglyclear....
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Jane closedher eyes and dug her head deeperinto Grandmother Keaton'sshoulder. Aunt Gertrude gossipedin an oddly tense voice, as if she sensed wrongnessunderthe surfaceand wasfrightenedsubtly. "I;m openingat SantaBarbarain a coupleof days,Mal' shesaid'"Iwhat'swrbngwith thishouse,anyhow?I'm asjumpyasa cattoday!-andI wantyou all to comedownandcatchthe first show.It'sa musicalcornedy. I've beenpromotedJ' "I've seenthe Princeof Pilsenbefore'" ..Not with me in it. It's my treat.I'veengaged roomsat the hotelalready. The kidshaveto cometoo.Wantto seeyour auntieact,Jane?" shoulder. Janenoddedagainsther grandmother's 'Auntie," Janesaidsuddenly."Did you seeall the uncles?" "CertainlyI did." .All of them?uncle Jamesanduncle Bertanduncle Simonanduncle Lew?" Why?" "The wholekaboodle. just wondered." "l So Aunt Gertrudehadn't noticedthe WrongUncle either.Shewasn't Janethought. truly observant, "I haven'tseenthe kids,though.If theydon'thurry up,theywon't get any of the presentsI've brought.You'dneverguesswhat I havefor you, Janie." heardeventhat excitingpromise.For suddenlythe But Janescarcely tensionin the air gaveway.The WrongUncle who had beena vortex of hunger a moment before was a vortex of ecstasynow. Somewhere, that other somehow, somehow, at lastRuggedowasbeingfed.Somewhere, half of the doubleunclewasdevouringhis bloodyfare.' . . Janiewasnot in GrandmotherKeaton'slap any more'The room was not aroundher.The roomwasa spinningdarknessthat winkedwith tiny lights-Christmastreelights,Charleshadcalledthem-and therewasa coreof terror in the centerof the whirl. Here in the vanishedfoom the nestwherethe WrongUnclewasa funnelleadingfrom that unimaginable otherhalf of him dwelt,andthroughthe funnel,into the room'pouredthe full ecstatictide of his satiety. Somehowin this instant Janewas very near the other childrenwho Shecouldalmostsense muststandbesidethat spinningfocusof darkness. almostput out her handto touchtheirs. their presence, Nowthe darknessshiveredandthe bright,tiny lightsdrewtogether,and into her mind camea gushof impossiblememories.Shewastoo nearhim. And he wascarelessas he fed. He wasnot guardinghis thoughts.They pouredout,formlessasan animal's,filling the dark.Thoughtsof redfood,
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and of other times and placeswhere that samered food had been brought him by other hands. It was incredible. The memories were not of earth, not of this time or place.He had traveledfar,Ruggedo.Inmany guises.He rememberednow, in a flow of shapelessvisions, he rememberedtearing through furred sides that squirmed away from his hunger, rememberedthe gush of hot sweet rednessthrough the fur. Not the fur of anythingJanehad ever imaginedbefore... . He remembereda greatcourt pavedwith shiningthings,and something in bright chains in the center,and rings of watching eyesashe entered and neared the sacrifice. As he tore his due from its smooth sides.the cruel chains clanked aroundhim as he fed.... Janetried to closeher eyesand not watch.But it wasnot with eyesthat she watched.And she was ashamedand a little sickenedbecauseshe was sharing in that feastotasting the warm red sweetnesswith Ruggedoin memory, feeling the spin of ecstasythrough her head as it spun through his. 'Ah-the kids arecoming now," Aunt Gertrude was sayingfrom a long way off. Jane heard her dimly, and then more clearly, and then suddenly Grandmother Keaton's lap wassoft beneathher again,and shewas back in the familiar room. 'A herd of elephantson the stairs,eh?" Aunt Gertrude said. They were returning. Jane could hear them too now. Really,they were making much less noise than usual. They were subdued until about halfwaydown the stairs,and then therewasa suddenoutburstof clattering and chatter that rang false to Jane'sears. The children came in, Beatrice a little white, Emily pink and puffy around the eyes.Charleswas bubbling over with repressedexcitement,but Bobby,the smallest,was glum and bored.At sight of Aunt Gertrude,the uproar redoubled,though Beatriceexchangeda quick, significantglance with Jane. 'excited Then presentsand noise, and the uncles coming back in; discussion of the trip to Santa Barbara-a strained cheerinessthat, somehow,kept dying down into heavy silence. None of the adults ever really looked over their shoulders,but-the feeling was of bad things to come. Only the children-not even Aunt Gertrude-were aware of the complete emptinessof the Wrong Uncle. The projection of a lazy, torpid, semi-mindlessentity. Superficially he was as convincingly human as if he had never focusedhis hunger here under this roof, never let his thoughts
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whirl through the minds of the children,never rememberedhis red, drippingfeastsof other timesand places. i{" ** very satednow.They couldfeel the torpor pulsingout in slow, drowsywavesso that all the grown-upswereyawningandwonderingwhy. But evennow he wasempty.Not real.The "nobody-there"feelingwasas acuteasever to all the small,keen,perceptivemindsthat sawhim as he was. Later,at bedtime,only Charleswantedto talk aboutthe matter.Itseemed to Janethat Beatricehadgrownup a little sincethe earlyafternoon'Bobby was reading The JungleBook, or pretendingto, with much pleased admirationof the picturesshowingShereKhan,the tiger.Emily hadturned to be asleep' her faceto the wall andwaspretending .Aunt Bessiecalledmel'Janetold her,sensing a faintreproach. "I tried thing on collar try that assoonasI couldgetawayfrom her.Shewantedto mg.tt
,.oh." The apologywasaccepted. But Beatricestill refusedto talk.Jane wentoverto Emily'sbedandput her arm aroundthe little girl. "Mad at me, Emily?" ttNo.tt
"You are,though.I couldn'thelpit, honey." "It wasall right,"Emily said."I didn't care." 'All brightandshinyi'Charlessaidsleepily. "Like a Christmastree." Beatricewhirledon him. "Shutup!" shecried."Shutup,Charles!Shut up, shut up, shutup!" Aunt Bessieput her headinto the room. "What'sthe mattet children?"sheasked. "Nothing,Auntiel' Beatricesaid."We werejust playing'" it lay torpidin its curiodsnest.The housewas Fed,temporarilysatiated, asleep.Eventhe WrongUncleslept,for Ruggedowas silent,the occupants a goodmimic. The Wrong Uncle was not a phantasm,not a mere projectionof Ruggedo.As an ameobaextendsa pseudo'podtowardfood,so Ruggedo hadextendedandcreatedthe wrong uncle. But therethe parallelstopped. For the WrongUnclewasnot an elasticextensionthatcouldbe withdrawn limb,asa man'sarmis.Fromthe at will. Rather,he-it-was a permanent goes,andthe arm stretches brainthroughthe neuralsystemthe message out, the fingersconstrict-and thereis food in the hand'sgrip' But Ruggedo'sextensionwas less limited. It was not permanently boundby rigid naturallawsof matter.An arm may be paintedblack.And the wrong Unclelookedandactedhuman,exceptto clearimmatureeyes.
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Therewererulesto be followed,evenby Ruggedo. The naturallawsof a worldcouldbindit, to a certainextent.Therewerecycles.Thelife-spanof a mother-caterpillar is run by cycles,andbeforeit canspinits cocoonand metamorphize, it must eat-eat-eat. Not until the time of changehas comecanit evadeits currentincarnation. Nor couldRuggedo change, now, until the end of its cycle had come. Then there would be another metamorphosis, astherehadalready, in theunthinkable eternityof its past, beena million curiousmutations. But, at present,it was boundby the rules of its currentcycle.The extensioncouldnot be withdrawn.And the wronguncle wasa partof it, andit wasa partof the WrongUncle. The Scoodler'sbodyand the Scoodler'shead. Throughthe darkhousebeatthe unceasing, drowsywavesof satietyslowly,imperceptiblyquickeningtowardthat nervouspulseof aviditythat alwayscame after the processesof ingestionand digestionhad been completed. _ Aunt Bessierolledoverandbeganto snore.Inanotherroom,the wrong Uncle,withoutwaking,turnedon his backandalsosnored. The talentof protective mimicrywaswelldeveloped.... It wasafternoonagain,thoughby onlyhalfanhour,andthe pulsein the househadchangedsubtlyin tempoandmood. "[f we'regoingup to santaBarbara," GrandmotherKeatonhad said, "I'm goingto takethechildrendownto thedentisttoday.Theirteethwant cleaning,and it's hardenoughto get an appointment with Dr. Hoverfor one youngster, not to mentionfour.Jane,your motherwroteme you'd beento the dentista monthago,so you needn'tgoJ' After that the troublehung unspokenover the chitdren.But no one mentionedit. only, as GrandmotherKeatonherdedthe kids out on the porch,Beatricewaitedtill last.Janewasin thedoorway, watching. Beatrice reachedbehindher without looking,fumbled,found Jane'shand.and squeezed it hard.Thatwasall. But the responsibilityhad beenpassedon. No wordshadbeenneeded. Beatrice hadsaidplainlythatit wasJane's job now.Itwasherresponsibility. shedarednot delaytoolong.shewastoovividlyawareof therisingtide of depression affectingthe adults.Ruggedowasgettinghungryagain. she watchedher cousinstill they vanishedbeneaththe peppertrees, and the distantrumbleof the trolleyput a periodto any hopeof their return.After that,Janewalkedto the butchershopandboughttwo pounds of meat.Shedranka soda.Thenshecamebackto the house. Shefelt the pulsebeatingout faster. shegot a tin panfrom the kitchenandput the meaton it, andslippedup to the bathroom.Itwashardto reachtheatticwith her burdenandwithout
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h e l p , b u t s h e d i d i t . I n t h e w a r m s t i l l n e s s b e n e a t h t hher eroofshestood and relieve of this waiting,half-hopingto ne.. Aunt Bessiecall again duty.But no voicecame. prosaicto Thesimplemecn.ni.sof whatshehadto do weresufficiently wasnot shewasscarcelynine' And it i"., ai a little distance.Besides, t ""p in the attic. dark Shewalkedalongtherafter,balancing,tillshecametotheplankbridge Shefelt its resilientvibrationunderfoot' "One,two,bucklemYshoe, knockat thedoon Three,foun Five,six,pickuPsticks, eight- " Seven, The mind hadto shemissedthe waytwice.The third time shesucceeded. the bridge,and crossed she pitch just abstraction.... of the right be at turned,andIt wasdim, almostdark,in this place.It smelledcoldandhollow,of the perhaps undergrouno.without surpriseshe knew she was deepdown, to acceptable was as it. That from perhaps far away very beneaththe house, no surprise' Shefelt her asthe restof the strangeness. curiously,she seemedto knsw the way.She was going.into a tiny andyet at the sametime shewanderedfor a while throughlowenclosure, verydim, smellingof coldandmoisture'An endless, roofed,hollowspaces, unpleasantplaceto the mind, and a dangerousplaceas well to wander throughwith one'slittle pan of meat. ft found the meataccePtable. LookingbacklateqJanehadno recollectionwhateverof it. she did not know how she had profferedthe food, or how it had been received,or spaceand smallnesslt lay dreamingof wherein that placeof paradoxical other worldsand eras. she only knew that the darknessspunaroundher again,winkingwith little lights,asit devouredits food.Memoriesswirledfrom its mind to hers asif thi two mindswereof onefabric.Shesawmoreclearlythis time' She as sawa greatwingedthing cagedin a glitteringPeo,andsheremembered wings the feeling leap, with Ruggedo's leaped and remembered, Rugge-Oo uuflet abouther and feelingher rendinghungerrip into the body'and tastingavidlythe hot, sweet,saltyfluid bubblingout' It wasa mixedmemory.Blendingwith it, othervictimsshiftedbeneath Ruggedo'sgrip, the featherypinionsbecomingthe beat of greatclawed arriJ anAthe writhe of reptilianlitheness.All his victimsbecameone in memoryas he ate.
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one flash of anothermemoryopenedbriefly towardthe last.Janewas awareof a greatswayinggardenof flowerslarger than herself,and of cowled figures moving silently among them, and of a victim with palehairlyinghelpless showering uponthe lip of onegiganticflower,held down with chainslike shiningblossoms.And it seemedto Janethat she herself went cowled among those silent figures,and that he-itRuggedo-inanotherguisewalkedbesideher towardthe sacrifice. It wasthe first humansacrificehe hadrecalled.Janewouldhavelikedto knorvmore aboutthat. Shehad no moral scruples,of course.Food was food. But the memoryflickeredsmoothlyinto anotherpicture and she neversawtheend.shedid not reallyneedto seeit. Therewasonlyoneend to all thesememories.Perhapsit wasaswell for her that Ruggedodid not dwell overlongon that particularmomentof all his bloodymeals. "Seventeen, eighte:en, Maidsin waiting, Nineteen, twenty-" Shetiltedprecariously backacross the rafters,holdingher emptypan.The atticsmelleddusty.Ithelpedto takeawaythereekof remembered crimson fromhermind.... When the childrencameback,Beatricesaidsimply,"Did you?" and Janenodded.Thetaboostill held.Theywouldnot discuss themattermore fully exceptin caseof realneed.And the drowsy,torpid beatin the house. the psychicemptiness of the WrongUncle,showedplainlythatthe danger hadbeenavertedagain-fora time.... "Read me about Mowgli, Granny,"Bobby said. GrandmotherKeaton settleddown, wiped and adjustedher spectacles, and took up Kipling. Presentlythe other children were drawn into the charmedcircle. Grandmotherspokeof ShereKhan'sdownfall-of the cattledriven into the deepgulchto drawthe tiger-and of the earth-shaking stampedethat smashed the killer into bloodypulp. "Wellf' GrandmotherKeatonsaid,closingthe book,"that's the end of ShereKhan.He'd deadnow." "No he isn't," Bobbyrousedand saidsleepily. "Of coursehe is.Goodanddead.The cattlekilledhim." "Only at the end,Granny.If you start readingat the beginningagain, ShereKhan'sright there." Bobby,of course,wastoo youngto haveany conceptionof death.you were killed sometimesin games of cowboys-and-lndians, an ending neitherregrettable nor fatal.Deathis an absoluteterm that needspersonal experienceto be madeunderstandable.
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uncle Lew smokedhis pipe and wrinkled the brownskin aroundhis eyesat uncle Bert, who bit his lips and hesitateda long time between moves.But UncleLewwonthe chessgameanyway'UncleJameswinkedat Aunt Gertrudeand saidhe thoughthe'd take a walk, would she like to comealong?Shewould. After their departure,Aunt Bessielookedup' sniffed' .,Youjust takea whiff of their breathswhen they comeback,Ma," she said."Why do Youstandfor it?" But GrandmotherKeatonchuckledand strokedBobby'shair.He had fallenasleepon her lap,his handscurledinto smallfists,his cheeksfaintly flushed. Uncle Simon'sgauntfigurestoodby the window. He watchedthroughthe curtains,and saidnothingat all' .,Earlyto bed,"Aunt Bessiesaid."If we'regoingto santaBarbara in the morning.Children!" And that wasthat. andGrandmotherKeaton By morningBobbywasrunninga temperature, Bobbyvery sullen,but made This Santa Barbara. his life in iisk to refused about for many wondering had problem been children the the solved that he wasarriving father said Jane's from call telephone hours.Also, a now.Jane,who little brother a had pick she and up his daughter, to thatday her mother hoped and was relieved, the stork, had no illusions about wouldn'tbe sickanymorenow A conclavewasheld in Bobby'sbedroombeforebreaKast. said'"Promiseyou'll do it?" "You knowwhatto do, Bobbyl'Beatrice "Promise.Uh-huh." "You cando it today,Janie,beforeyour fathercomes.And you'd better get a lot of meatand leaveit for Bobby." "I can't buy any meat without money;' Bobby said. Somewhat reluctantlyBeatricecountedout what wasleft of Jane'ssmallhoard,and handedit over.Bobbystuffedthe changeunderhis pillow andpulledat the red flannelwoundaroundhis neck. he said."I'm not sick,anyway." "It scratches." ..It wasthosegreenpearsyou ate yesterdayi'Emily saidvery meanly. . "You thoughtnobodysawyou,didn't you?" Charlescamein; he had beendownstairs.He wasbreathless. "Hey,knowwhathappened?"he said."Hehurt his foot.Now he can't go to SantaBarbara.Ibet he did it on purpose." "Gosh,"Janesaid.'oHow?" ,.Hesaidhe twistedit on the stairs.But I bet it's a lie. He just doesn't wantto go."
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"Maybe he can't go-that far," Beatrice said, with a sudden flash of intuition, and they spokeno more of the subject.But Beatrice,Emily and Charles were all relieved that the Wrong Uncle was not to go to Santa Barbarawith them, after all. It took two taxis to carry the travelersand their luggage.Grandmother Keaton, the Wrong Uncle, and Jane stood on the front porch and waved. The automobiles clattered ofl and Jane promptly got some money from Bobby and went to the butcher store, returning heavy-laden. The Wrong Uncle,leaning on a cane,hobbled into the sun-parlorand lay down. Grandmother Keaton made a repulsive but healthful drink for Bobby, and Jane decided not to do what she had to do until afternoon. Bobby read The Jungle.Book,stumbling over the hard words, and, for the while, the truce held. Janewas not to forget that day quickly.The smells were sharply distinct; the odor of baking bread from the kitchen, the sticky-sweetflower scents from outside,the slightly dusty, rich-brown aroma exhaled by the sunwarmed rugs and furniture. Grandmother Keaton went up to her bedroom to cold-creamher hands and face, and Jane lounged on the threshold, watching. It was a charming room, in its comfortable,unimaginativeway. The curtainswere so stiffly starchedthat they billowed out in crisp whiteness, and the bureau was cluttered with fascinating objects-a pincushion shapedlike a doll, a tiny red china shoe,with tinier gray china mice on it, a cameo brooch bearing a portrait of Grandmother Keaton as a girl. And slowly, insistently,the pulse increased,felt even here, in this bedroom,where Janefelt it was a rather impossibleintrusion. Directly after lunch the bell rang, and it was Jane'sfather,come to take her back to SanFrancisco.He was in a hurry to catch the train, and there was time only for a hurried conversationbefore the two were whisked off in the waiting taxi. But Jane had found time to run upstairs and say goodbyeto Bobby-and tell him where the meat was hidden. 'All right, Janie,"Bobby said. "Goodbye." Sheknew she should not have left the job to Bobby.A naggingsenseof responsibility haunted her all the way to the railroad station. She was only vaguely awareof adult voicessayingthe train would be very late, and of her father suggestingthat the circuswas in town.... It was a good circus. She almost forgot Bobby and the crisis that would be mounting so dangerouslyunlesshe met it as he had promised.Early eveningwas blue as they moved with the crowdout of the tent. And then through a rift Janesawa small, familiar figure, and the bottom droppedout of her stomach. She knew. Mr. Larkin saw Bobby in almost the sameinstant. He called sharply,and
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a moment later the two childfen were looking at one another,Bobby's plump facesullen. ' .,Doesyour grandmotherknow you'rehere,Bobby?"Mr, Larkin said. "Well,I guessnotl'BobbYsaid. ..you oulht to be paddled,youngman.Comealong,both of you. I'll haveto phoneher right away.She'llbe worriedto death'" In the drugstore,while he telephoned,Janelookedat her cousin.she was sufferini the first pangsof maturity's burden,the knowledgeof misused. responsibility "Bobby,"shesaid."Did You?" ,,Youleaveme alone,"Bobbysaidwith a scowl.Therewassilence. calleda taxi.There'llbe Mr. Larkin cameback."NobodyanswEred.I've just time to get Bobbybackbeforeour train leaves'" In the taxi also there was mostly silence.As for what might be happeningat the house,Janedid not think of that at all. The mind hasits own automaticprotections.And in any case,it wastoo late now'" ' when the taxi drew up the housewasblazingwith orangesquaresof windowsin the dusk.Thereweremen on the porch,andlight glintedon a policeofficer'sshield. .,Youkidswaithere,"Mr.Larkinsaiduneasily. "Don't getout of the car." pulled newspaperas Mr. folded a out and shrugged taxi driver The to Bobby,her spoke porch. seat Jane the back In the toward Larkinhurried voicevery soft. It wasnot evenan accusation. "You didn'tl'she whispered. back. "I was tired of that game.I whispered "I don't care,"Bobby giggled. He "I won,anyhowl'hedeclared. play somethingelse." wantedto "How? Whathappened?" ..Thepolicecame,like I knewtheywould.He neverthoughtof that.SoI won.tt
"But how?" ,.well, it wassort of like TheJungleEook shootingtigers,remember? Theytied a kid to a stakeand,whenthe tigercomes-bang!only the kids wereall goneto SantaBarbara,and you'd gonetoo. SoI usedGranny.I didn't think she'dmind. Sheplaysgameswith us a lot. And anyhow,she wasthe only one left." "But Bobby,a kid doesn'tmeana kid like us' It meansa babygoat'And anyhow-" i'Oh!" Bobbywhispered. "Oh-weil, anyhow,IthoughtGrannywould fast."He grinnedscornfully."/1e'sdumb," run fat to too She's right. beall he said."He shouldhaveknon'the huntersalwayscomewhenyoutie a kid out for the tiger.He doesn'tknow anything.when I told him I'd locked Granny in hir room and nobodyelse was around,I thought he might
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guess." Bobbylookedcrafty."I wassmart.Itoldhim throughthewindow.t thoughthe mightthink aboutme beinga kid.But he didn't.He wentright upstairs-fast.He evenforgotto limp. I guesshe wasprettyhungryby then."Bobbyglancedtorvardthe swarmingporch."Prob'lythe policehave got him now,"he addedcarelessly. "It waseasyas pie. I won." Jane'smind hadnot followedthesefancies. "[s shedead?"sheasked,very softly. Bobbylookedat her.The wordhada differentmeaningfor him. Ithad no meaning,beyonda phasein a game.And, to his knowledge,the tiger had neverharmedthe tetheredkid. Mr.Larkinwascomingbackto the taxi now,walkingveryslowlyandnot verystraight. Janecouldnot seehis face.... It washushedup,of course,asmuchaspossible. Thechildren,who knew somuchmorethanthosewhowereshieldingthem,werefutilelyprotected from the knowledgeof what had happened.As futilely as they,in their turn,hadtriedto protecttheir elders.Exceptfor the two oldestgirls,they didn't particularlycare.The gamewasover.Grannyhadhadto go awayon a long,longjourney,andshewouldneverbe back. They understoodwhat that meantwell enough. The WrongUncle,on the otherhand,hadhadto go awaytoo,theywere told,to a big hospitalwherehe wouldbe takencareof all his life. This puzzledthemall a little,for it fell somewhatoutsidethe limits of their experience. Deaththey understood very imperfectly, but this other thing was completelymystifying.They didn't greatlycare,once their interestfaded,though Bobbyfor sometime listenedto readingsof The JungleBookwithunusualattention,wonderingif this time theywouldtake thetigerawayinsteadof killinghim on thespot.Theyneverdid,of course. Evidentlyin reallife tigersweredifferent.... For a long time afterward,in nightmares,Jane'sperverseimagination dweltuponandrelivedthe thingsshewouldnot let it rememberwhenshe wasawake,ShewouldseeGranny'sbedroomasshehadseenit last,the starchedcurtainsbillowing,the sunshine,the red chinashoe,the dollpincushion.Granny,rubbing cold-creaminto her wrinkled hands and lookingup moreandmorenervouslyfrom time to time asthe long,avid wavesof hungerpulsedthroughthe housefrom the thing in its dreadful hollow placedown below. It must have been very hungry.The Wrong Uncle, pretendingto a wrenchedankledownstairs, musthaveshiftedandturneduponthe couch, that hollow man, empty and blind of everythingbut the need for sustenance,the one red food he could not live without. The empty
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automatonin the sunporchand the ravenousbeing in its warp below pulsingwith one hunger,raveningfor one food... ' It hadbeenvery wiseof Bobbyto speakthroughthe windowwhenhe deliveredhis baitedmessage. Upstairsin the lockedroom,Granny must havediscoveredpresently that she could not get out. Her fat, mottled fingers,slipperyfrom coldcreaming,must havetuggedvainly at the knob. Janedreamedof the soundof thosefootstepsmanytimes'Thetreadshe hadneverheardwaslouderandmorerealto her than anywhichhadever soundedin her ears.she knew very surely how they must havecome boundingup the stairs,thump,thump,thump,two stepsat a time,sothat Granny*outOlook up in alarm,knowingit couldnot bethe Unclewith his wrenchedankle.she would havejumped up then, her heart knocking, thinkingwildly of burglars. It can'thavelastedlong.The stepswouldhavetakenscarcelythe.length of a heart-beatto comedown the hall. And by now the housewould be shakingandpulsingwith onetriumphantroarof hungeralmostappeased. The thumping stepswould beat in rhythm to it, the long quick strides down the hall. And then the key comingwith dreadfulpurposefulness thenclickingin the lock.And ... Usuallythen Janeawoke. Janetold herselfthatmanytimes,thenand A little boyisn't responsible. later.she didn't seeBobbyagainvery often, and when she did he had hadcrowdedout the old.He got a forgottena greatdeal;new experiences puppyfor christmas,and he startedto school.when he heardthat the WrongUnclehaddiedin the asylumhe hadhadto think hardto remember who they meant,for to the youngerchildrenthe WrongUncle hadnever beena memberof the family,only a part in a gamethey had playedand won. Graduallythe namelessdistresswhich had oncepervadedthe house' in the daysjust mostdesperate, It wasstrongest, hold fadedandceased. afterGranny'sdeath,but everyoneattributedthat to shock.Whenit died awaythey weresure. By sheeraccidentBobby'scold,limitedlogichadbeencorrect.Ruggedo would not havebeenplayingfair if he had broughtstill anotherwrong Uncleinto the game,and Bobbyhadtrustedhim to observethe rules.He did observethem,for they werea law he couldnot break. Ruggedoand the wrong uncle were parts of a whole, indissolubly completed boundinto their cycle.Not until the cyclehd beensuccessfully So,in broken' the cord or retracted be extension Wrong Uncle the Could helpless' was the end,Ruggedo In the usylnm,the wrong uncle slowlystarved.He would not touch
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whatthey offered.He knewwhathe wanted,but they wouldnot givehim that.The headand the body died together,and the housethat had been GrandmotherKeaton'swaspeacefuloncemore. If Bobbyeverremembered, no one knew it. He hadactedwith perfect logic,limited only by his experience. If you do somethingsufficientlybad, the policemanwill comeandget you.And he wastired of the game.Only his competitiveinstinct kept him from simply quitting it and playing somethingelse. As it was,he wantedto win-and he hadwon. No adultwouldhavedonewhatBobbydid-but a child is of a different species.By adultstandards, a child is not wholly sane.Because of the way his mind worked,then-becauseof what he did. and what he wantedCall him demon.
Daemon C. L. Moore
Padre,the wordscomeslowly.It is a longtime now sinceI havespokenin the Portuguesetongue.For more than a year,my companionsherewere those who do not speakwith the tonguesof men. And you must padre,that in Rio, whereI wasborn,I wasnamedLuiz o Bobo, remember, which is to say,Luiz the Simple.There was somethingwrongwith my head,so that my handswerealwaysclumsyand my feet stumbledover eachother.I couldnot rememberverymuch.But I couldseethings.yes, padre,I could seethingssuchas other men do not know I can see things now. Do you know who standsbesideyo:u,padre, listeningwhile I talk?Nevermind that.I am Luiz o Bobostill,thoughhere on this islandthereweregreatpowersof healing,andI canremembernow the thingsthat happened to me yearsago.More easilythanI remember whathappenedlastweekor the weekbeforethat.The yearhasbeenlike a singleday,for time on this islandis not like time outside.When a man lives with them,thercis no time. The ni4fas,Imean.And the others.. . . r45
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Iamnotlying.Whyshouldl?tamgoingtodie,quitesoonnow.You Yourcrucifix is wereright toielime tltat,padre.ButI knew.I knewalready. urry pritty,padre.llikethl wayit shinesin the sun.But thatis not for me. you see,i'h"u" alwaysknown the thingsthat walk besidemen-other men.Not me.Perhapsthey aresouls,andI haveno soul,beingsimple.or perhapsthey aredaemonssuchasonly clevermen have.Or perhapsthey areUottrthesethings.I do not know.But I knowthat I am dying.After the go away,I would not careto live. nirtfas -Sinri you*r no*rI cameto thisplace,Iwill tell youif thetimeremains to me.Youwill not believe.This is the oneplaceon earth,I think, where theylingeredstill-those thingsyou do not believe' liut bifore I speakof them,I must gobackto anearlierday,whenI was youngbesidethe uluebayof Rio,undersugarLoaf.I rememberthe docks bf nio, andthe childrenwho mockedme.I wasbig andstrong,but I waso Bobowitha mind that knew no yesterdayor tomorrow. waskind to me.ShewasfromCear6,where Minhaavti,mygrandmother, the yearlydroughtskill hope,andshewashalf blind,with painin her back always.Sheworkedso that we could eat,and she did not scoldme too much. I knorvthat she was good.It was somethingI could see; I have alwayshad that power. did not waken.she was cold when I one morningmy grandmother me for the-good thing-about frighten not did touchedher hand.That and kissedher'and then I went her eyes I closed her lingeredfor a while. o Bobo,I thought that someone I was because hungry, and away.I was kindness.... mightgiveme food,out of In the end,I foragedfrom the rubbish-heaps. I did not starve.But I waslost andalone.Haveyou everfelt that,padre? It is like a bitter wind from the mountainsandno sheepskincloakcanshut and I rememberthat it out.One night I wanderedinto a sailors'saloon, there weremany dark shapeswith eyesthat shone,hoveringbesidethe menwho drankthere.The menhadred,windburnedfacesandtarryhands. 'guordiente until the roomwhirled aroundand went They mademe drink dark. I woke in a dirty bunk. I heardplanksgroaningand the floor rocked underme. I stumbledon deck,half blind in the Yes,padre,Ihadbeenshanghaied. andthereI founda man who hada strangeand shining dazzlingsunlight, daemon.He wasthe captainof the ship,thoughI did not know it then.I sawthe man at all.I waslookingat the daemon' scarcely you Now,mostmenhaveshapesthat walk behindthem,padre.Perhaps I sawin the saloon. knowthat,too.Someof themaredark,likethe shapes some someof them arebright,like that which followedmy grandmother.
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of them arecolored,palecolorslike ashesor rainbows.But this manhada scarletdaemon. And it wasa scarletbesidewhichblooditselfis ashen.The colorblindedme.And yet it drewme,too.I couldnot takemy eyesaway, nor couldI lookat it longwithoutpain.I neversawa colormorebeautiful, nor morefrightening.It mademy heartshrinkwithin me,andquiverlike a dog that fearsthe whip. If I have a soul, perhapsit was my soul that quivered.And I fearedthe beautyof the colorasmuchasI fearedthe terror it awokein me. It is not goodto seebeautyin that which is evil. Other men upon the deck had daemonstoo. Dark shapesand pale shapesthat follorvedthem like their shadows. But I sawall the daemons waverawayfromthe red,beautifulthing thathungabovethe captainof the ship. The other daemonswatchedout of burningeyes.The red daemonhad no eyes.Itsbeautiful,blindfacewasturnedalwaystowardthecaptain,asif it sawonly throughhis vision.I couldseethe linesof its closedlids.And my terrorof its beauty,andmy terrorof its evil, werenothingto my terror of the momentwhen the red daemonmight lift thoselids and look out uponthe world. The captain'snamewasJonahStryker.He wasa cruel man,dangerous to be near.The men hatedhim. Theywereat his mercywhile we wereat sea, andthe captainwasat the mercyof his daemon.That waswhy I couldnot hatehim asthe othersdid. Perhapsit waspity I felt for JonahStryker.And you, who know men betterthan I, will understandthat the pity I hadfor him madethe captainhateme morebitterlythanevenhis crewhatedhim. WhenI cameon deckthat first morning,because I wasblindedby the sun andby the rednessof the scarletdaemon,andbecause I wasignorant andbewildered,Ibrokea shipboard rule.Whatit was,Idonot know.There were so many,and I never could remembervery clearlyin thosedays. PerhapsI walkedbetweenhim and the wind. Wouldthat be wrongon a clipper ship,padre?I neverunderstood. The captainshoutedat me, in the Yankeetongue,evil wordswhose meaningI did not know,but the daemonglowedredderwhen he spoke them.And he struck me with his fist, so that I fell. Therewasa look of secretblisson the blind crimsonfacehoveringabovehis, becauseof the angerthat rosein him.I thoughtthat throughthe captain'seyesthe closed eyesof the daemonwerewatchingme. I wept.In thatmoment,for thefirst time,I knewhowtruly alonea man like me must be.For I hadno daemon.Itwasnot the simplelonelinessfor my grandmotheror for humancompanionship that broughtthe tearsto my eyes.ThatI couldendure.But I sawthe look ofjoy uponthe blind daemonfacebecause of the captain'sevil,andI remembered the lookof joy thata
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brightshapesometimeswearswhofollowsa goodman.And I knewthatno deedof mine wouldeverbringjoy or sorrowto that whichmovesbehinda man with a soul. I lay upon the bright,hot deckand wept,not becauseof the blow,but becauseI knew suddenly,for the first time, that I wasalone.No daemon I haveno soul.That for goodor evil wouldeverfollowme.Perhapsbecause you couldunderstand. father,is somethingnot even loneliness, The captainseizedmy arm andpulledme roughlyto my feet'I did not then,the wordshe spokein his Yankeetongue,thoughlaterI understand, pickedup enoughof that speechto know what men weresayingaround me. You may think it strangethat o Bobocouldlearna foreigntongue,It waseasyfor me.Easier,perhaps,than for a wiserman.Much I readupon andthereweremanywordswhoserealsoundsI the facesof their daemons, I foundin the hum of thoughtsabouta whose meaning did not know,but man'shead. Thecaptainshoutedfor a mannamedBarton,andthefirst matehurried up,lookingfrightened.The captainpushedme backagainstthe rail sothat seeinghim and the deckand the watchingdaemonsthrough I staggered, the rainbowsthat tearscastbeforeone'seyes. Therewasloud talk, and manygesturestowardme and the other two from the port of Rio.The first matetapped menwho hadbeenshanghaied his headwhenhe pointedto me,andthe captaincursedagainin the tongue of the foreigners,so that his daemonsmiled very sweetlyat his shoulder. I think that wasthe first time I let the captainseepity on my facewhenI lookedat him. That wasthe one thing he could not bear.He snatcheda belayingpin from the rail andstruckme in the facewith it, sothat I felt the teethbreak in my mouth.The btoodI spatuponthe deckwasa beautifulcolor,but it looked paler than water besidethe color of the captain'sdaemon.I rememberall the daemonsbut the red one leaneda little forwardwhen theysawbloodrunning,snuffingup the smellandthe brightnessof it like incense.The red one did not eventurn his blind face' The captainstruckme againbecauseI hadsoiledhis deck.My first task aboardthe DancingMartho was to scrub up my own blood from the planking. Afterwardthey draggedme to the galleyandthrewme into the narrcw alley at the cook's feet. I burned my handson the stove.The captain laughedto seeme jump backfrom it. It is a terrible thing that, thoughI heardhis laughtermanytimes a day,I neverheardmirth in it. But there wasmirth on his daemon'sface. Painwaswith me for manydaysthereafter,becauseof the beatingand the burns,but I wasgladin a way.Painkeptmy mind from the lonelinessI
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hadjust discovered in myself.Thosewerebad days,padre.The worstdays of my life. Afterward,when I wasno longerlonely,I lookedbackupon them asa soul in paradisemight look backon purgatory. No,I amstill alone.Nothingfollowsme asthingsfollowothermen.But hereon the islandand I found the ninfas,and I wascontent. I foundthembecause ofthe shaughnessy. I canunderstand him todayin a wayI couldnot dojust then.He wasa wisemanandI am o Bobo,butl think I know someof his thoughtsnow,becausetodayI, too, know I am goingto die. The Shaughnessy livedmanydayswith death.I donot knowhowlong.It wasweeksandmonthsin comingto him, thoughit lived in his lungsand his heartasa child liveswithin its mother,bidingits time to be born.The Shaughnessy wasa passenger. He had much money,so that he could do whathe willedwith his lastdaysof living.Alsohe cameof a greatfamilyin a foreignlandcalledIreland.The captainhatedhim for manyreasons. He scornedhim becauseof his weakness, and he fearedhim becausehe was ill. Perhapshe enviedhim too,because his peoplehadoncebeenkingsand because the shaughnessy wasnot afraidto die.The captain,Iknow,feared death.He fearedit mostterribly.He wasright to fearit. He couldnot know that a daemonrodeuponhis shoulder,smilingits sweet,secretsmile,but someinstinctmust havewarnedhim that it wasthere,bidingits time like the deathin the Shaughnessy's lungs. I saw the captaindie. I know he was right to fear the hour of his daemon.... Thosewerebaddayson the ship.Theywereworsebecause of the great beautyall aroundus.I hadneverbeenat seabefore,andthe motionof the shipwasa wonderto me, the cloudsof strainingsailaboveus andthe sea all about,streakedwith the colorsof the currentsanddazzlingwherethe sun-tracklay.white gulls followedus with their yellowfeet tuckedup as theysoaredoverthe deck,andporpoises followedtoo,playingin greatarcs aboutthe ship and drippingdiamondsin the sun. I workedhard,for no morewagesthanfreedomfrom blowswhenI did well, andthe scrapsthat wereleft from the tableafter the cookhadeaten his fill. The cookwasnot a badmanlike the captain,but he wasnot a good man,either.He did not care.His daemonwassmoky,asleep,indifferentto the cookand the world. It wasthe Shaughnessy who mademy life worththe troubleof living.If it had not beenfor him,I might havesurrendered life and goneinto the breathingseasomenight whenno onewaslooking.It wouldnot havebeen a sin for me, asiit wouldbe for a man with a soul. But becauseof the shaughnessy I did not. He had a strangesort of daemonhimself,mother-of-pearl in the light,with gleamsof darkercolors
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when the shadorvs of night cameon. He may havebeena badman in his of deathin him openedhis eyes,perhaps. day.I do not know.The presence I knowonly that to me he wasvery kind.His daemongrewbrighterasthe man himselfgrewweakwith the oncomingof death. He told me manytales.I haveneverseenthe foreigncountryof lreland, but I walkedthereoften in my dreamsbecauseof the taleshe told. The the Shaughnessy foreignislescalledGreecegrewclearto me too, because haddwelt thereand lovedthem. And he told me of things which he said were not really true, but I I sawthemso clearly thoughthe saidthat with only half his mind,because wasa manof fleshandbloodto me,with a whilehe talked.GreatOdysseus shining daemonon his shoulder,and the voyagethat took so many as if I myself had enchantedyearswas a voyageI almostremembered, toiled amongthe crew. andI knewwhy the poetusedthat word He totd me of burningSappho, knewtoo,thoughwe did not speakof for her,andI think the Shaughnessy it.I knewhowdazzlingthe thing musthavebeenthatfollowedher through the white streetsof Lesbosandleaneduponher shoulderwhile shesang. andonceI think I saw,far He told me of the nereidsandthe oceanids, awayin the sun-trackthat blindedmy eyes,a mighty headrise dripping from the water,andheardthe musicof a wreathedhorn asTriton calledto his fish-tailedgirls. TheDancingMarthastopped at Jamaicafor a cargoof sugarandrum.Then we struckout acrossthe blue watertowarda countrycalledEngland.But our luck wasbad.Nothing wasright aboutthe ship on that voyage.Our hadnot beencleanedastheyshouldbe,andthe drinkingwater water-casks becamefoul. A man canpick the maggotsout of his salt pork if he must, but badwateris a thing he cannotmend. Sothe captainorderedour coursechangedfor a little islandhe knewin thesewaters.It wastoo tiny to be inhabited,a rock risingout of the great blue deepswith a freshspringbubblinghigh up in a cup of the forested crags. I sawit risingin the dawnlike a greencloudon the horizon.Thenit was jewel a of greenaswedrewnearer,floatingon the bluewater.And my heart wasa bubblein my chest,shiningwith rainborpcolors,lighterthan the air aroundme.Partof my mind thoughtthat the islandwasan islein Rio Bay, and somehowI fett that I had come home again and would find my grandmotherwaitingon the shore,I forgotso muchin thosedays.I forgot that shewasdead.I thoughtwe wouldcirclethe islandandcomein across the dancingBayto the foot of the Ruad'Oporto,with the loraelycity rising on its hills abovethe water.
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I felt sosureof all this that I ran to tell the Shaughnessy of my delightin homecoming.And because I washurrying,andblind to all on deckwith the vision of Rio in my eyes,I blunderedinto the captainhimself.He staggeredand caughtmy arm to savehis footing,and we were so close togetherthat for a momentthe crimsondaemonswayedabovemy own head,its eyeless faceturneddownto mine. I lookedup at that beautiful,smilingface,so nearthat I couldtouch it and yet, I knew,farther awaythan the fartheststar.I lookedat it and screamed in terror.I hadneverbeenso neara daemonbefore,andI could feel its breathon my face,sweet-smelling, burning my skin with its scorchingcold. Thecaptainwaswhitewith his angerandhis-his envy?Perhaps it was envyhe felt evenof me, o Bobo,for a manwith a daemonlike that one hangingon his shouldermaywell envy the manwithout a soul.He hated me bitterly,because he knewI pitiedhim, andto receivethe pity of o Bobo mustbe a veryhumblingthing.Alsohe knewthatI couldnot lookat him for more than a moment or two, becauseof the blinding color of his daemon.I think he did not know why I blinked and looked away, shudderinginside,wheneverhe crossedmy path.But he knew it wasnot the angryfearwhichothermenfelt for him whichmademeavertmy eyes. I think he sensedthat because he wasdamnedI couldnot gazeuponhim long,andthat too madehim hateandfearandenvythe lowliestmanin his crew. All the color went out of his faceas he lookedat me, and the daemon abovehim flusheda deeperandlovelierscarlet,andthe captainreachedfor a belayingpin with a handthat trembled.Thatwhichlookedout of his eyes wasnot a manat all, but a daemon,anda daemonthat quiveredwith joy as I wasquiveringwith terror. I heardthe bonecrackwhenthe clubcamedownuponmy skull.I saw lightning dazzleacrossmy eyesandmy headwasfilled with brightness.I rememberalmostnothingmore of that bad time. A little night closed aroundme and I sawthroughit only when the lightningof the captain's blowsilluminedthe dark.I heardhis daemonlaughing. When the day came back to me, I was lying on the deck with the Shaughnessy kneelingbesideme bathingmy face with somethingthat stung.His daemonwatchedme overhis shoulder,bright mother-of-pearl colors,its facecompassionate.I did not lookat it. Theloneliness in mewas sharperthan the pain of my body,becauseno daemonof my own hung shiningovermy hurts, and no daemoneverwould. The Shaughnessy spokein the soft,hushingPortuguese of Lisboa,that alwayssoundedso strangeto me. "Lie still,Luizl'he wassaying."Don't cry.I'llseethathe nevertouches you again."
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I did not knowuntil thenthatI wasweeping.Itwasnot for pain.It was for the look on his daemon'sfase,and for loneliness. said,"when he comesbackfrom the island,l'll have The shaughnessy him." He saidmore than that, but I wasnot listening.I was it out with andthoughtscamehardthroughthe sleepiness with thought, a struggling my brain. that alwaysclouded meantkindly,but I knewthe captainwasmasterupon The Shaughnessy the ship.And it still seemedto me that we wereanchoredin the Bayof Rio and my grandmotherawaitedme on the shore' I sat up. Beyondthe rail the high greenislandwas bright, sunshine winking from the waterall aroundit, and from the leavesthat clothedits slopes.IknewwhatI wasgoingto do. went awayfor more water,I got to my feet' When the Shaughnessy Therewasmuchpainin rhyhead,andall my bodyachedfrom thecaptain's blows,and the deckwasreelingunderfootwith a motionthe wavescould not giveit. WhenI got to the rail, I fell acrossit beforeI couldjump, and slid into the seaveryquietly. I rememberonly flashesafter that. Saltwater burning me, and great waveslifting and falling all aroundme, and the breathhot in my lungs whenthe waterdid not burn evenhotterthere.Thentherewassandunder my knees,and I crawledup a little beachand I think I fell asleepin the shelterof a clump of palms. Then I dreamedthat it wasdark, with starshangingoverheadalmost near enoughto touch,and so bright they burnedmy eyes.I dreamedI heardmen callingme throughthe trees,andI did not answer.I dreamedI heard voices quarreling, the captain's voice loud and angry, the tight and thin. I dreamedof oarlockscreakingand water Shaughnessy's splashingfrom dipping blades,and the sound of it recedinginto the warmthand darkness. I put up a handto toucha starclusterthat hungabovemy head,andthe cluster was bright and tingling to feel. Then I saw that it was the face. Shaughnessy's thatthecaptain I remembered because I said,"Oh, s'nhon"inawhisper, had spokenfrom very closeby. smiledat me in the starlight'"Don't whisper,Luiz. The Shaughnessy We'realonenow." waskind to me, andthe days I washappyon the island.The Shaughnessy werelongandbright,andthe islanditself wasfriendly.Oneknowsthat of a place.And I thought,in thosedays,that I wouldneverseethe captainagain or his beautifulscarletdaemonsmiling its blind, secretsmile abovehis shoulder.He hadleft us to die upon the island,and one of us did die.
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The Shaughnessy said that anotherman might have perishedof the blowsthe captaingaveme.But I think because my brainis sucha simple thing it mendedeasily,andperhapsthe blowthat mademy skull cracklet in a little moreof wit thanI hadownedbefore.or perhapshappiness did it, plentyof food to eat,and the shaughnessy's talesof the thingsthat-that you do not believe,meupadre. grewweakasI grewstrong.He lay all dayin the shade Theshaughnessy of a broadtree by the shore,and as his strengthfailed him, his daemon grewbrighterand more remote,as if it werealreadyhalfwaythroughthe veil of anotherworld. When I was well again,the Shaughnessy showedme how to build a thatchedlean-tothat would withstandthe rain. "There may be hurricanes,Luizl'he saidto me. ,,Thisbataca will be blowndou,n.Will you rememberhow to build another?" "Sim,"I said."I shallremember. Youwill showme." "No, Luiz.I shallnot be here.Youmustremember." He told me manythings,overandoveragain,verypatiently.Howto find the shellfishon the rockswhen the tide wasout, how to trap fish in the stream,which fruit I might eat and what I must nevertouch.It wasnot easyfor me. When I tried to remembertoo much it mademy headhurt. I exploredthe island,comingbackto tell him all I hadfound.At first I wassurethatwhenI hadcrossed the highhills andstoodupontheir peaksI would seethe beautifulslopesof Rio shiningacrossthe water.My heart sankwhen I stoodfor the first time upon the heightsand sawonly more ocean,empty,heavingbetweenme and the horizon. But I soonforgot again,and Rio and the pastfadedfrom my mind. I found the pool cuppedhigh in a hollow of the crags,whereclearsweet water bubbledup in the shadowof the treesand the streamletdropped awayin a seriesof poolsandfallstowardthe levelsfar below.Ifoundgroves of paletreeswith leaveslike streaminghair,rustlingwith the noiseof the waterfall.I found no peoplehere,and yet I felt alwaysthat there were watchersamongthe leaves,and it seemedto me that laughtersounded sometimesbehindme, smotheredwhen I turnedmy head. When I told the Shaughnessy this he smiledat me. "['ve told youtoomanytalesj'hesaid."But if anyonecouldseethem.I think it would be you, Luizl' "Sim,s'nhor,"I said.Tellme againof the forest-women. Couldtheybe here,do you think, s'nhor?" He let sandtrickle throughhis fingers,watchingit asif the fall of sand had somemeaningto his mind that I could not fathom. 'Ah, well,"he said,"they might be.Theylike the olivegrovesof Greece best,andthe tall treeson olympus.But everymountainhasits oread.Here.
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the too,perhaps.The Little Peopleleft lrelandyearsagoandfor all I know put to places this as such or".Ot havefled from civilizationtoo, andfound themin mindof home'... that "There wasone who tumed into a fountainonce,longago'I saw magic of a sort have been fountainin Greece.I drankfrom it. Theremust in ttre waters,for I alwayswent backto Greeceafter that.I'd leave,but I I can'tgo couldn'tstayawaylong.';He smiledat me."Maybenow,because backagain,the oreadshavecometo me here'" I toJfeOhardat him to seeif he meantwhat he said,but he shookhis you, headandsmiledagain."I think theyhaven'tcomefor me.Maybefor you'll see really Luiz. Beliefis what they want.If you believe,perhaps them.I'd be the lastmanto denya thinglike that.You'llneedsomething like them to keepyou company,my friend-afterwardl' And he trickled sandthrouglrhis fingersagain,watchingit fatl with a look uponhis faceI did not understand. The night came swiftly on that island.It was a lovely place.The saidislandshavea magicall their own,for they arethe place shaughnessy whereearthandoceanmeet.Weusedto lie on the shorewatchingthe fire that burnedupon the edgesof the waveslap up the beachand breathe away again,and the Shjughnessytold me many tales. His voice was growingweakeqand he did not trouble so much any more to test my it".oiy for the lessonshe hadtaught.But he spokeof ancientmagic,and .o.. andmorein theselastdays,his mind turnedbackto the wondersof the countrycalledIreland' He told me of the little greenpeoplewith their lanternslow down swift asthe swiftestbird, a amongthe ferns.He told me of the unicfirnio, magiJalstagwith onehorn upon its foreheadaslong asthe shaft of a spear And he told me of Pan,goat-footed, *d .r sharpaswhateveris sharpest. movingthroughthe woodlandwith laughterrunningbeforehim andpanic behind,the samepanicterror which my languageand the shaughnessy's get from his name'Pdnico,we Brazilianscall it' one eveninghe calledto me andheldup a woodencross."I'uiz, lookat thisl' he said.I sawthat upon the armsof the crosshe had madedeep carvingswith his knife. "This is my namei' he told rne. "If anyoneevef .o."Jh"ta askingfor me, you must showthem this cross'" I lookedat it closely.I knewwhat he meantaboutthe name-it is that sortof enchantmentin which markingscanspeakwith a voicetoo tiny for the earsto hear.I am o BoboandI neverlearnedto read,so that I do not understandhow this may be done. .,somedayl'the shaughnessy wenton, "I think someonewill come.My with whateverstoryCaptainStryker be satisfied noi may peopleat home may talk.If they do find this island' sailor a drunken or them. inuentsfor
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Luiz, I want this crossabovemy graveto tell them who I was.And for anotherreasonl'he saidthoughtfully."For anotherreasontoo. But that neednot worry you, meuamigo." He toldmewhereto digthebedfor him.He did not tell meto put in the leavesandthe flowers.I thoughtof that myself,threedayslater,whenthe timecame..,. Because he hadwishedit, I put him in the earth.I did not like doingit. But in a wayI fearednot to carryout his commands, for the daemonof ihe Shaughnessy still hoveredabovehim, very bright,very bright-so brightI couldnot lookit in theface.Ithoughttherewasmusiccomingfromit, but I couldnot be sure. I put the flowersover him and then the earth.Therewasmore to go backin the gravethan I had takenout, so I madea moundabovehim, as long asthe Shaughnessy waslong,andI drovein the stakeof the wooden cross,abovewherehis headwas,ashe hadtold me.Then for a momentI laid my earto the markingsto seeif I couldhearwhattheyweresaying,for it seemedto me that the soundof his name,whisperedto me by the marks his handshad made,would lightenmy lonelinessa little. But I heard nothing. WhenI lookedup, I sawhis daemonglowlike the sunat noon,a light so brightI couldnot bearit uponmy eyes.Iput my handsbeforethem.When I took them down again,therewasno daemon. Youwill not believeme whenI tell you this,padre,but in that moment the-the feelof theislandchanged. All theleaves, I think,turnedtheother way on the trees,once,with a rustle like one vastsyllablewhisperedfor that time only,and neveragain. I think I knowwhatthesyllablewas.Perhaps I will tell you,later-if you let me. And the islandbreathed.Itwaslike a manwhohasheldhis breathfor a longwhile,in fearor pain,andlet it run out deeplywhenthe fearor the pain departed. I did not know,then,whatit was.But I thoughtI wouldgo up the steep rocksto the pool,because I wanteda placethatwouldnot remindme of the Shaughnessy. So I climbed the cragsamongthe hangingtrees.And it seemedto me that I heardlaughterwhen the wind rustledamongthem. once I sawwhatI thoughtmust be a ninfa,brownandgreenin the forest. But shewastoo shy.Iturnedmy head,andthe brownandgreenstilledinto the bark and foliageof the tree. When I came to the pool, the unicorn was drinking. He was very beautiful,whiterthanfoam,whiterthana cloud,andhis manelay uponhis greatshoulderslike sprayuponthe shoulderof a wave.The tip of his long, spiraledhom just touchedthe wateras he drank,so that the ripplesran
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he scentedme' outwardin circlesall aroundit. He tossedhis headwhen from.his velvet water sparkling the of *o t ru* the glitteringdiamonds in it, and a reflecting pool leaves with mtnzle.Hehad ,y., ui gtreenasa spotof brilht gold in the centerof eacheye' -' he turnedfrom the waterand with the greateststateliness, V..y slo:wly, .onid"*"y into the forJst.IknowI hearda singingwherehe disappeared' I wasstiil o Bobothen.Idrankwherehe haddrunk,thinkingtherewasa strange,sweettasteto the waternow,andthen t wentdowntothe barraca perhapsthe on tf,e'beach, for I had forgotten alreadyand thought mightbe there..' ' Shaughnessy Nilht came, I slept.Dawncame,andI wokeagain.Ibathedin the "nd shellfishandfruit, anddrankof the little streamthat fell orr.nl I gathered from the rnountainpool.And asI leanedto drink, two whitedrippingarms roseup to claspmy neck,anda mouthaswetandcoldasthe waterpresSed mine.tt wasthe kissof acceptance. After that the ninfasof the islandno longerhid their facesfrom me. My hair and beardgrewlong.My garmentstore upon the bushesand becametheragsyouseenow.Idid not care.Itdid not matter.Itwasnot my And I wasonewith the ninlosand facethey s"t".Theysawmy simpleness. the others. The oreadof the mountaincameout to me often,besidethe poolwhere the unicorncameto drink. Shewaswiseandstrange,beingimmortal.The eyesslantedupwardin her head,andher hair wasa showerof greenleaves biowingalwaysbackwardin a wind that movedabouther when no other blew.Sheusedto sit besidethe poolin the hot,still afternoons,the breezeC unicorn lying besideher and her brown fingers combingout his silver mane.Her wiseslantingeyes,the color of shadowsin the forest,and his roundgreeneyesthe colorof the pool,with the flecksof goldin each,used to watchme aswe talked. The oreadtold me many things.Many things I could never tell you, I believed'they Because hadguessed. padre.Bfiit wasasthe shaughnessy lived,they could weregladof my presencethere.while the shaughnessy from the other watched they plane but being, of into the come out not no longer' afraid were they But afraid. had been side....They For manyyearsthey havebeenhomelessnow,blowingaboutthe world in searchoi somespot of land whereno disbeliefdwells,and whereone otherthing hasnot takenfooting.. . . They told me of the islesof Greece, with loveinO tongingupontheir tongues,andit seemedto me that I heard speakagainin their words' the Shaughnessy Thevtlold." or tn" one I hadnot yet seen,or morethan glimpsed.That gravein the happenedwhen I chancedto passnear the shaughnessy's hadfallen'I his name that bore cross the and I saw dimnessof the evening,
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took it up and held it to my ear again,hoping the tiny voicesof the markingswouldwhisper.But that is a mysterywhichhasneverbeengiven me. I sawthe-the One-loitering by that grave.But when I put up the cross,he went away,slowly,saunteringinto the dark woods,and a thin pipingfloatedbackto me from the spotwherehe had vanished. Perhapsthe One did not care for my presencethere. The others welcomedme.It wasnot oftenanymore,theysaid,that menlike me were free to moveamongthem.Sincethe hour of their banishment,they told me,andweptwhentheyspokeof that hour,therehadbeentoo few among mankindwho reallyknew them. I askedaboutthe banishment,and they saidthat it hadhappenedlong ago,very long ago.A greatstarhadstoodstill in the sky overa stablein a townwhosenameI do not know.OnceI knewit.I do not remembernow.It wasa town with a beautifulname. The skiesopenedand therewassingingin the heavens,and after that the godsof Greecehad to flee. They havebeenfleeingeversince. TheyweregladI hadcometo join them.And I wasdoublyglad.For the first time sincemy grandmother died,I knewI wasnot alone.Eventhe had not beenas closeto me as theseninfaswere.For the Shaughnessy Shaughnessy had a daemon.The ninfasare immortal,but they haveno souls.That,I think,is why theywelcomed mesowarmly.Wewithoutsouls aregladof companionship amongothersof our kind.Thereis a loneliness amongour kind that canonly beassuaged by huddlingtogether.The ninfas knew it, who must live forever,and I sharedit with them, who may die beforethis night is over. Well,it wasgoodto live uponthe island.The daysandmonthswentby beautifully,full of clearcolorsandthe smellof the seaandthe starsat night asbrightaslanternsjust aboveus.I evengrewlessBobo,because the ninfos spokewisdom of a kind I never heard among men. They were good months. And then, one day,JonahStrykercamebackto the island. You know, padre,why he came.The Shaughnessy in his wisdom had guessedthat in Ireland men of the Shaughnessy's family might ask questionsof CaptainStryker-questionsthe captaincouldnot answer.But it hadnot beenguessed that the captainmight returnto the island,swiftly, peoplecoulddiscoverthe truth, with the thought beforethe Shaughnessy's in his evil mind of wiping out all tracesof the two he hadleft to die. I wassittingon the shorethat day,listeningto the songsof two ninfosof the nereidkind astheylay in the edgeof the surf,with the wavesbreaking overthemwhenthewaterlappedup the slopesof sand.Theywereswaying
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fish-bodiesas they sang,and I heardthe their beautifulrainbow-colored whisperof the surf in their voices,andthe long rhythmsof the undersea' But suddenlytherecamea breakin their song,andI sawupononeface beforeme, and then the other,a look of terror come.The greenbloodin their veinssankbackwith fear,and they lookedat me, white with pallor as if they hadhalfwayceasedto be. with one and strangelytransparent, motion they tumed their headsand staredout to sea' I staredtoo. I think the first thing I saw was that flash of burning crimson,far out overthe waves.And my heartquiveredwithin me like a dog that fearsthe whip. I knew that beautiful,terriblecolor too well. It wasonlythenthat I sawthe DancingMartha,lyingatanchorbeyonda ridgeof rock.Betweenthe shipandthe shorea smallboatrockeduponthe asthe onemanin the boatbent and waves,lightflashingfrom oar-blades him, hanginglike a crimsoncloud,the work. Above to his roseand bent glowed. terriblescarlet When I lookedback,the ninfashd vanished.Whetherthey slid back into the sea,or whetherthey meltedaWayinto nothingnessbeforeme I shallneverknownow.I did not seethemagain. I went back a little way into the forest,and watchedfrom amongthe trees.No dryadsspoketo me,but I couldheartheir quickbreathingandthe leavestrembledall about me. I could not look at the scarletdaemon comingnearerand neareroverthe blue water,but I could not look away long,either.It wasso beautifuland so evil. The captainwasalonein the boat.I wasnot quite so EoDothen and I understoodwhy.He beachedthe boatand climbedup the slopeof sand, the daemonswayingbehind him like a crimsonshadow.I could seeits blind eyesand the beautiful,quiet faceshut up with blissbecauseof the thing the captainhad come to do. He was carryingin his hand a long shiningpistol,and he walkedcarefully,lookingto left and right. His face wasanxious,and his mouth hadgrownmorecruel in the monthssinceI sawhim last. I wassorryfor him, but I wasvery frightened,too.I knewhe meantto kill whomeverhe foundaliveuponthe island,sothat no tong,uecouldtell peopleof his wickeddeed. the Shaughnessy's He foundmy thatchedbarracaat the edgeof the shore,andkickedit to pieceswith his heavyboots.Thenhe wenton until he sawthe longmound bed,with the crossstandingwherehis headlay. aborrethe Shaughnessy's the markingsupon it spoketo him as they and He bent over the cross, nothing,but he heardandknew.He put me. heard I wouldneverspeakto grave. pulled cross from the Shaughnessy's up the out his hand and of the fire I the to embers and my barraca the ruins of Then he wentto and fed the his knee upon the cross He broke kept smoulderingthere.
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piecesinto thehot coals.Thewoodwasdry.Isawit catchflameandburn.I saw,too, the faint stirring of wind that sprangup with the flames,and I heardthe sighingthat ran throughthe treesaroundme. Now there was nothing here to tell the searcherswho might come afterwardthat the Shaughnessy lay in the islandearth.Nothing-except myself. He sawmy footprintsaroundthe ruined barraca.He stoopedto look. Whenhe roseagainandpeeredaroundthe shoreandforest,Icouldseehis eyesshine,andit wasthe daemonwho lookedout of them,not the man. Followingmy tracks,he beganto moveslowlytowardthe forestwhereI washiding. ThenI wasveryfrightened.I roseandfled throughthe trees,andI heard the dryadswhimperingaboutme asI ran.Theydrewbacktheir boughsto let me passand sweptthem backafter me to bar the way.I ran and ran, upwardamongthe rocks,until I cameto the pool of the unicorn,andthe oreadof the mountainstood there waiting for me, her arm acrossthe unicorn'sneck. Therewasa risingwind uponthe island.The leavesthreshedandtalked andthe oread'sleafyhair blewbackwardfrom her face amongthemselves, with its wiseslantingeyes.The unicorn'ssilvermanetossedin that wind and the waterruffled in the pool. "There is troublecoming,Luizl'the oreadtold me. "The daemon.I know."I noddedto her,and then blinked,becauseit growingso to methatsheandtheunicorn,likethesea-ninfas,were seemed paleI couldseethe treesbehindthemthroughtheir bodies;But perhaps that wasbecausethe scarletof the daemonhadhurt my eyes. 'A "There is a man with a soul againupon our island,"the oreadsaid. man who doesnot believe.Perhapswe will haveto go, Luiz." had a daemontoo," I told her."Yet you werehere "The Shaughnessy beforehis daemonleft him to the earth.Why must you go now?" "His wasa gooddaemon.Evenso,wewerenot fully herewhile he lived. Luiz,thathour I told you of whena starstoodabovea Youmustremember, stablewherea child lay,andall our powerwentfrom us.Wherethe soulsof men dwell,we cannotstay.This new manhasbroughta veryevil soulwith him.It frightensus.Yetsincehe hadburnedthe cross,perhaps the Master "The Master?"I asked. "The One we serve.The One you serve,Luiz. The One I think the Shaughnessy served,thoughhe did not know it. The Lord of the opened eyesandthe far places.He couldnot comeuntil the Signwastakendown. Onceyou had a glimpseof him, when the Sienfell by accidentfrom the grave,but perhapsyou haveforgottenthat." "I havenot forgotten.I am not so BoDonow."
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Shesmiledat me,andI couldseethetreebehindherthroughthe smile. "Then perhapsyou can help the Masterwhen the time comes.We cannot help. We are too weak already,becauseof the presenceof the the manwith the daemon.See?"Shetouchedmy hand,andI unbeliever, felt not the firm, softbrushof fingersbut onlya coolnesslike mist blowing acrossmy skin. "Perhapsthe Mastercanfight himj' the oreadsaid,andher voicewas veryfaint,like a voicefrom far away,thoughshespokefrom sonearto me. "I do not know aboutthat. We must go, Luiz. We may not meet again. Good-by,carobobo,while I can still saygood-by...."The last of it was faint asthe hushingof the leaves,andthe oreadandthe unicorntogether lookedlike smokeblowingfrom a campfireacrossthe glade. The knowledgeof my lonelinesscameover me then more painfully than I had felt it sincethat hour when I first lookedupon the captain's daemonand knew at last what my own sorrowwas.But I hadno time to grieve,for there was a suddenfrightenedwhisperingamongthe leaves behindme. and then the crackleof feet in boots,and then a flicker of terriblecrimsonamongthe trees. I ran.I did not knorvwhereI ran.I heardthe dryaduying, so it must havebeenamongtrees.But at lastI cameout uponthe shoreagainand I long gravewithout a crossaboveit. And I stopped sawthe Shaughnessy's short,and a thrill of terror went throughme. For therewasa Something that croucheduponthe grave. dim fearthat moves The fearin me thenwasa new thing.A monstrous, like a cloudaboutthe Master.I knewhe meantme no harm,but the fear washeavyuponme,makingmy headspinwith panic.Pdnico.... The Masterroseupon the grave,and he stampedhis goat'hoofedfoot twice and set the pipesto his beardedlips. I hearda thin, strangewailing musicthat madethe bloodchill insideme.And at thefirst soundof it there cameagainwhat I hadheardoncebeforeupon the island. The leavesupon all the treesturned over once,with a great single whisperingof onesyllable.The syllablewasthe Master'sname.I fled from fled to it in thepnicoall menhavefelt whohearthatnamepronounced.I the edgeof the beach,and I couldflee no farther.SoI crouchedbehinda hillock of rockon the wet sand,andwatchedwhatcameafterme from the trees. lt wasthe captain,with his daemonswayinglike smokeabovehis head. He carriedthe longpistolready,andhis eyesmovedfrom left to right along the beach,seekinglike a wild beastfor his quarry. grave. He sawthe Master,standingupon the Shaughnessy's The daemonswayed I sawhow he stopped,rigid, like a man of stone.
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I sawhow he stared.And forwardabovehis head,he stoppedso suddenly. suchwashis disbelief,thatfor aninstantI thoughteventhe outlinesof the Mastergrewhazy.Thereis greatpowerin the men with souls. I stood up behind my rock. I cried abovethe noisesof the surf, " "Master-GreatPan-I believe! his headand his bulk wassolid again. He tossed horned He heardme. pipes lips. to his He setthe CaptainStrykerwhirled when he heardme. The long pistol swungup andtherewasa flashanda roar,andsomethingwentby me with a whineof anger.Itdid not touchme. Thenthe musicof the pipesbegan.A terriblemusic,thin andhigh,like the ringingin the earsthat hasno source.It seizedthe captainasif with thin, strongfingers,makinghim turn backto the sound.He stoodrigid again,staring,straining.The daemonabovehim turneduneasilyfrom side to side,likea snakeswaying. ThenCaptainStrykerran.I sawthe sandfly up from underhis bootsas he fled southwardalong the shore.His daemonwent after him, a red shadowwith its eyesstill closed,and after them both went Pan,moving the pipesto his lips and his hornsshining delicatelyon the goathoofs, goldenin the sun. And that middayterrorI think wasgreaterthananyterrorthat canstalk a manby dark. I waitedbesidemy rock.The seawasemptybehindme exceptfor the DancingMarthawaitingthe captain'sordersat its anchor.But no ninfas camein on the foamto keepme company;no headsrosewreathedwith out of the water.The seawasemptyandthe islandwasemptytoo, seaweed exceptfor a mananda daemonandthe Piperwho followedat their heels. MyselfI do not count.I haveno soul. It wasnearlydarkwhenthey camebackalongthe beach.I think the Piperhadhuntedthemcleararoundtheisland,goingslowlyon hisdelicate hoofs,neverhurrying,neverfaltering,andthat dreadfulthin musicalways in the captain'sears. I sawthe captain'sfacewhenhe camebackin the twilight.It wasan old white,with deeplinesin it andeyesaswild asPan's. man'sface,haggard, His clothingwastorn to ribbonsand his handsbled,but he still held the pistol and the red daemonstill hung swayingabovehim. I think the captaindid not know that he hadcomebackto his starting place.By that time, all placesmust havelookedaliketo him. He came waveringtowardme blindly.I roseup behindmy rock. When he sawme he lifted the pistol againand gaspedsomeYankee words.He wasa strongman,CaptainStryker.With all he hadenduredin thatlongchase,he still hadthe powerto rememberhe mustkill me.I did
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riot think he had reloadedthe pistol, and I stood up facing him acrossthe sand. Behind him Pan'spipesshrilled a warning,but the Master did not draw nearerto come betweenus. The red daemonswayedat the captain'sback. and I knew why Pan did not come to my aid. Those who lost their power when the Child was born can never lay hands upon men who possessa soul.Even a soul asevil asthe captain'sstoodlike a rock betweenhim and the touch of Pan.Only the pipescould reacha human'sears,but there was that in the sound of the pipes which did all Pan neededto do. It could not saveme. I heardthe captainlaugh,without breath,a strange, hoarsesound,and I sawthe lightning dazzlefrom the pistol'smouth. The crashit madewaslike a blow that struck me here,in the chest.I almostfell. That blow was heavy,but I scarcelynoticed it then. There was too much to do. The captain was laughing, and I thought of the Shaughnessy,and I stumbledforwardand took the pistol by its hot muzzlewith my hand.I am strong.I tore it from the captain'sfist and he stoodthere gapingat me, not believing anything he saw.He breathedin dreadful,deepgasps,and I found I was gaspingtoo, but I did not know why just then. The captain'seyesmet mine, and I think he sawthat evennow I had no hate for him-only pity. For the man behind the eyesvanishedand the crimson daemon of his rage looked out, becauseI dared to feel sorrow for him.I looked into the eyesthat werenot his, but the eyesbehind the closed lids of the beautiful,blind faceabovehim. It I hated,not him. And it wasit I struck. I lifted the pistol and smashedit into the captain'sface. I was not very clear in my headjust then. I struck the daemonwith my blow,but it wasthe captainwho reeledbackwardthreestepsand then fel[.I am very strong.One blow was all I needed. For a moment therewasno soundin all the island.Even the waveskept their peace.The captain shudderedand gave one sigh, like that of a man who comesback to living reluctantly.He got his handsbeneathhim and rose upon them, peering at me through the hair that had fallen acrosshis forehead.[Ie was snarlinglike an animal. I do not know what he intendedthen.I think he would havefought me until one of us was dead.But abovehim just then I saw the daemon stir. It wasthe first time I had ever seenit move exceptin answerto the captain's motion. All his life it had followed him, blind, silent, a shadowthat echoed his gait and gestures.Now for the first time it did not obey him. Now it roseup to a great,shiningheight abovehis head,and its color was suddenly very deep,very bright and deep,a blinding thing that hung above him too hot in color to look at. Over the beautiful blind face a look of triumph came.I sawecstasydawn over that face in all its glory and its evil.
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I knew that this was the hour of the daemon. Someknowledgedeeperthan any wisdom warned me to cover my eyes. For I saw its lids flicker, and I knew it would not be good to watch when that terrible gazelookedout at last upon a world it had never seenexcept through the captain'seyes. I fell to my knees and coveredmy face.And the captain,seeingthat, must have known at long last what it was I saw behind him. I think now that in the hour of a man'sdeath,he knows.I think in that last moment he knows,and turns, and for the first time and the last,looks his daemonin the face. I did not see him do it. I did not see anything. But I heard a great, resonantcry,like the mighty music that beatsthroughparadise,a cry full of triumph and thanksgiving, and joy at the end of a long, long, weary road. There was mirth in it, and beauty,and all the evil the mind can compass. Then fire glowed through my fingers and through my eyelids and into my brain.I could not shut it out.I did not even needto lift my headto see, for that sight would have blazed through my very bones. I saw the daemon fall upon its master. The captainsprangto his feet with a howl like a beast'showl, no mind or soul in it. He threw back his head and his arms went up to beat that swooping,beautiful,crimson thing away. No flesh could opposeit. This wasits hour.What setsthat hour I do not know, but the daemon knew, and nothing could stop it now. I saw the flaming thing descendupon the captain like a falling star. Through his defendingarms it swept,and throughhis flesh and his bones and into the hollows where the soul dwells. He stood for an instant transfixed, motionless,glowing with that bath of crimson light. Then I saw the crimson begin to shine throughhim, so that the shadowsof his bonesstood out upon the skin. And then fire shot up, wreathingfrom his eyesand mouth and nostrils.He was a lantern of flesh for that fire of the burning spirit.But he wasa lantern that is consumedby the flame it carries... . When the color becametoo bright for the eyesto bearit,I tried to turn away.I could not. The pain in my chest was too great. I thought of the Shaughnessy in that moment, who knew, too, what pain in the chest was like. I think that was the first moment when it came to me that.like the Shaughnessy,Itoo was going to die. Before my eyes,the captain burned in the fire of his daemon, burned and burned, his living eyes looking out at me through the crimson glory, and the laughter of the daemonvery sweetabovethe sound of the whining flame, I could not watch and I could not turn away. But at last the whine beganto die. Then the laughter roared out in one
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greatpealof triumph,andthe beautifulcrimsoncolor'so dreadfullymore crimsonthanblood,flaredin a greatburstof light that turnedto blackness againstmy eyeballs. WhenI couldseeagain,the captain'sbodylayflat uponthe sand.I know deathwhen I seeit. He wasnot burnedat all. He lookedasanydeadman looks,flat and silent.It washis soul I hadwatchedburning,not his body. The daemonhad gonebackagainto its own place.I knew that, for I on the island. couldfeel my aloneness The Othershadgonetoo.The presenceof that fiery daemonwasmore' theyshunan evil soul in the end,thantheir powercouldendure.Perhaps nothingof goodand morefearfullythan a goodone,knowingthemselves evil, but fearingwhattheydo not understand. after.The menfrom the DancingMarthatook Youknow,padre,whatcame their captainawaynext morning.Theywerefrightenedof the island.They lookedfor that whichhadkilled him, but they did not look far,andI hid in the emptyforestuntil theywentaway. I do not remembertheir going.Therewasa burningin my chest,and this bloodI breatheout ran from time to time, asit doesnow.I do not like the sightof it. Bloodis a beautifulcolor,but it remindsme of too muchthat wasbeautifulalso,andmuchredder.... Then you came,padre.ldo not knowhow longthereafter.Iknowthe peoplebroughtyouwith their ship,to find him or his grave. Shaughnessy's Youknownow And I am gladyoucame.Itis goodto havea manlike you besideme at this time. I wish I had a daemonof my own, to growvery bright and vanishwhen I die, but that is not for o Boboand I am usedto that kind of loneliness. I wouldnot live, you see,now that the ninfasaregone.To be with them wasgood,andwe comfortedoneanotherin our lonelinessbut,padre,Iwill tell youthis much.It wasa chillycomfortwe gaveeachother,at the best'I am a man,thoughbobo,andI know,They areninfas,andwill neverguess howwarmandwonderfulit mustbeto owna soul.I wouldnot tell themif I could.I wassorryfor the ninfos,Wdre.They are,you see,immortal, As for me, I will forget lonelinessin a little while' I will forget everything.I wouldnot want to be a ninfaandlive forever. Thereis one behindyou,padre.Itis yery bright.It watchesme across yourshoulder,andits eyesarewiseandsad.No, daemon,this is no time for sadness. Besorryfor the ninfas,daemon,andfor menlike him who burned this beach.But not for me.I am well content. upon go now. I will
The Black Ferris Ray Bradbury
The carnivalhadcometo townlike an Octoberwind,like a darkbatflying over the cold lake, bones rattling in the night, mourning, sighing, whisperingup the tentsin the dark rain.It stayedon for a month by the gray,restlesslakeof October,in the blackweatherand increasingstorms andleadenskies. During the third week,at twilight on a Thursday,the two small boys walkedalongthe lakeshorein the cold wind. 'Aw, I don't believeyou,"saidPeter. "Come on, and I'll showyou," saidHank. Theyleft wadsof spit behindthemall alongthe moistbrownsandof the crashingshore.They ran to the lonely carnivalgrounds.It had been raining.The carnivallay by the soundinglakewith nobodybuyingtickets from theflaky blackbooths,nobodyhopingto getthe saltedhamsfromthe whining roulette wheels,and none of the thin-fat freaks on the big platforms.The midwaywassilent,all the graytentshissingon the wind like giganticprehistoricwings.At eight o'clockperhaps,ghastlylights wouldflashon,voiceswouldshout,musicwouldgoout overthe lake.Now therewasonlya blind hunchbacksitting on a blackbooth,feelingof the 165
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crackedchinacup from which he wasdrinking someperfumedbrew. "Therel' saidHank,Pointing. The blackFerriswheelroselike an immenselight-bulbedconstellation againstthe cloudysky,silent. "I still don't believewhat you saidaboutit," saidPeter. "Youwait,I sawit happen.Idon't knowhow,but it did'Youknowhow carnivalsare; all funny.Okay;this one'sevenfunniet' Peterlet himselfbe led to the high greenhiding placeof a tree. Hank stiffened."IIist/ There'sMr. Cooger,the carnivalman, Suddenly, now!" Hidden,theywatched. Mr. Cooger,a man of somethirty'five years,dressedin sharp,bright with oil, driftedunderthe tree,a clothes,a lapelcarnation,hair greased in town threeweeksbefore, He had arrived his head. on hat derby bronn people the streetfrom insidehis shiny on hat at derby his brown shaking the horn. tooting red Ford, spokea word.The NowMr.Coogernoddedat the little blind hunchback, seatandsent into a black Mr. cooger fumbling,locked hunchback blindly, hummed. Machinery sky. twilight the ominous him whirling up into "See!" whisperedHank. "The Ferris wheel'sgoingthe wrong way. insteadof forwards!" Backwards "So what?" saidPeter. "Watch!" The black Ferris wheel whirled twenty-fivetimes around.Then the blind hunchbackput out his pale handsand haltedthe machinery.The Ferriswheelstopped,gentlyswaying,at a certainblackseat. boy steppedout. He walkedoff acrossthe whispering A ten-year-old carnivalground,in the shadows. Peteralmostfell from his limb. He searchedthe Ferriswheelwith his eyes."Where'sMr Cooger!" Hank pokedhim. "You wouldn'tbelieve!Now seel" "Where'sMr. Coogerat!" "Comeon, quick,run!" Hankdroppedandwassprintingbeforehe hit the ground. Undergiantchestnuttrees,next to the ravine,the lightswereburningin Mrs. Foley's white mansion.Piano music tinkled. Within the warm irrevocawindows,peoplemoved.Outside,it beganto rain,despondently, forever bly, and ever. "['m so wet]' grievedPeter,crouchingin the bushes."Like sorneone squirtedme with a hose.Horvmuch longerdo we wait?" 'oSh!"saidHank,cloakedin wet mystery. Theyhadfollowedthe little boyfrom the Ferriswheelup throughtown,
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down dark streetsto Mrs. Foley'sravine house.Now, inside the warm dining room of the housethe strangelittle boy satat dinner,forking and spooningrich lamb chopsand mashedpotatoes. "I knowhis namej'whispered Hank,quickly."My Mom told me about him the other day,she said, 'Hank, you hear aboutthe li'l orphanboy movedin Mrs.Foley's?well, his nameis Josephpikesandhejust cameto Mrs. Foley'sonedayabouttwo weeksagoandsaidhow he wasan orphan run awayandcouldhe havesomethingto eat,andhim andMrs.Foleybeen gettingon like hot applepie ever since.'That's what my Mom said," finishedHank,peeringthroughthe steamyFoleywindow.water dripped from his nose.He held onto Peterwho wastwitchingwith cold.,.pete,I didn't like his looksfrom the first, I didn't.He looked-mean." "I'm scared,"saidPeter,franklywailing...I'm cold and hungryand I don't knowwhatthis'sall about." "Gosh, you're dumb!" Hank shookhis head,eyesshut in disgust. "Don't you see,threeweeksagothe carnivalcame.And aboutthe same time this little ole orphanshowsup at Mrs.Foley's.And Mrs.Foley'sson dieda longtime agoonenightonewinter,andshe'sneverbeenthe same. so here'sthis little ole orphanboywho buttersher all around." "Ohl' saidPeter,shaking. "Comeon," saidHank.Theymarchedto the front doorandbangedthe lion knocker. After awhilethe dooropenedandMrs.Foleylookedout. "You'reall wet,comein," shesaid."My land,"sheherdedtheminto the hall. "What do you want?" shesaid,bendingoverthem,a tall ladywith laceon her full bosomanda palethin facewith whitehairoverit. ..you're HenryWalterson, aren'tyou?" Hank nodded,glancingfearfullyat the dining room wherethe strange little boylookedup fromhis eating."Canwe seeyoualone,ma'am?,'And when the old ladylookedpalelysurprised,Hank crept overand shut the hall doorandwhispered at her."we got to warnyouaboutsomething, it's aboutthat boycometo live with you,that orphan?" The hall grew suddenly cold. Mrs. Foley drew herself high "Well?"
"He's from the carnival,and he ain't a bof, he's a man, and he's planningon living herewith you until he finds whereyour moneyis and then run off with it somenight,andpeoplewill lookfor him but because they'll be lookingfor a little ten-year-oldboy they won't recognizehim whenhe walksby a thirty-five-yearman,namedMr. cooger!" ciied Hank. "What areyoutalkingabout?"declaredMrs. Foley. "The carnivaland the Ferriswheeland this strangeman,Mr. cooger, the Ferriswheelgoingbackwardand makinghim younger,Idon't know
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when how,andhim cominghereasa boy,andyou can'ttrust him, because go it'll and forward,and he hasyour moneyhe'll get on the Ferriswheel gone forever!" he'll be thirty-fiveyearsold again,and the boy'l1be ..Goodnight, Henry Walterson,don't evercomeback!" shoutedMrs. Foley. The door slammed.PeterandHank foundthemselvesin the rain once more.It soakedinto andinto them,coldandcomplete' ..smartguy,"snortedPeter."Now you fixed it. suppoSehe heardus, supposehe comesand kills us in our bedstonight,to shut us all up for keeps!" "He wouldn'tdo that," saidHank. "Wouldn'the?" PeterseizedHank'sarm."Look'" In the big baywindow of the dining room no$,the meshcurtain pulled aside.Standingiherein the pink light,his handmadeinto a menacingfist, wasthe little orphanboy.His facewashorribleto see,the teethbared,the eyeshateful,thJ lipsmouthingout terriblewords.Thatwasall.The orphan uby wasthere only a second,then gone.The curtainfell into place'The rain poureddorrnuponthe house.Hank andPeterwalkedslowlyhomein the storm. During suppel Father looked at Hank and said, "If you don't catch youwere,by God!What'sthis about Soaked, pneurionia,I'llbe surprised. the carnival?" lookingat the rattling occasionally Hankfussedat his mashedpotatoes, man, Dad?" the carnival Mr. Cooger, know windows."You Father' asked lapel?" pink his in carnation the with "The one him around?" seen up. sat "Yes!" Hank "You've ..Hestaysdownthe streetat Mrs.O'l,eary'sboardinghouse,got a room in back.Why?" "Nothingl'saidHank,his faceglowing After supperHankput througha callto Peteron the phone'At the other end of the line, Petersoundedmiserablewith coughing. .,Listen,Pete!" saidHank."I seeit all now.when that li'l ole orphan boy,JosephPikes,getsMrs. Foley'smoney'he's got a goodplan'" "What?" ..He'll stick aroundtown as the carnivalman,living in a rcom at Mrs. o'Leary's. That way nobody'll get suspiciousof him. Everybody'llbe lookingfor that nastylittle boy and he'll be gone.And he'll be walking all disguisedasthe carnivalman.That way,nobody'llsuspectthe around-, carniva'lat all. It would look funny if the carnivalsuddenlypulled up stakes:' "Oh." saidPeter,sniffling.
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"So we got to actfastj'saidHank. "Nobody'llbelieveus,I triedto tell my folksbut theysaidhogwash!" moanedPeter. "We got to acttonight,anyway. Because why?Because he'sgonnatry to kill us! We'rethe only onesthat know andif we tell the policeto keepan eyeon him, he'sthe onewhostoleMrs.Foley'smoneyin cahootswith the orphanboy,he won'tlivepeaceful.Ibethejust triessomething tonight.So, I tell you,meetme at Mrs. Foley'sin half an hour." '4w," saidPeter. "You wannadie?" "No." Thoughtfully. "Well, then.Meet me thereand I bet we seethat orphanboy sneaking out with the money,tonight, and running back down to the carnival groundswith it, whenMrs.Foley'sasleep.I'llseeyouthere.Solong,Pete!" "Young man;' said Father,standingbehind him as he hung up the phone."You'renot goinganywhere.You'regoingstraightup to bed.Here." He marchedHank upstairs."Now hand me out everythingyou got on." Hank undressed. "There'reno other clothesin your room are there?" askedFather. "No, sir,they'reall in the hall closetl'saidHank,disconsolately. "Good," saidDad and shut and lockedthe door. Hankstoodthere,naked."Holy Cowl'he said. "Go to bedl'saidFather. Peterarrivedat Mrs. Foley'shouseat aboutnine-thirty,sneezing,lostin a vastraincoatandmariner'scap.He stoodlike a smallwaterhydranton the street,mourningsoftly over his fate.The lights in the Foleyhousewere warmly on upstairs.Peterwaitedfor a half an hour,lookingat the raindrenchedslickstreetsof night. Finally therewasa dartingpaleness, a rustlein wet bushes. "Hank?" Peterquestionedthe bushes. "Yeah."Hank steppedout. "Goshr"saidPeter,staring."You're-you'renaked!" "I ran all the way]' saidHank."Dad wouldn'tlet me out." "You'll get pneumonia,"saidPeter. The lights in the housewent out. "Duck," cried Hank, boundingbehind some bushes.They waited. "Pete,"saidHank."You'rewearingpants,aren'tyou?" "Suref'saidPete. "Well, you'rewearinga raincoat,and nobody'llknow,so lend me your pants,"askedHank. A reluctanttransaction wasmade.Hankpulledthe pantson.
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The rain let up. The cloudsbeganto breakapart. In aboutten minutesa smallfigureemergedfrom the house,bearinga largepapersackfilled with someenormousloot or other' "Thetehe isl'whisPeredHank. "Therehe goes!"criedPeter. The orphanboy ran swiftlY. "Get afterhim!" criedHank. They gavechasethroughthe chestnuttrees,but the orphanboy was swift, up the hill, throughthe night streetsof town, down pastthe rail yards,pastthe factories,to the midwayof the desertedcarnival.Hankand Peterweightedashe waswith the heavyraincoat' Peterwerepoorseconds, The thumpingof Hank'sbarefeet sounded cold. with frozen and Hank town. throughthe ,,Hurry,Pete!we can'tlet him getto that Ferriswheelbeforewe do,if backinto a man we'll neverproveanything!" he changes ..I'm hurrying!"But Petewasleft behindasHankthuddedon alonein the clearingweather. rcynful"mockedthe orphanboy,dartingaway,no more than a shadow ahead,now.Now vanishinginto the carnivalyard. Hankstoppedat the edgeof the carnivallot.The Ferriswheelwasgoing up andup into the sky,a big nebulaof starscaughton the dark earthand turning forwardand forward,insteadof backward,and there sat Joseph laughingup andaroundanddownand Pikesin a greenpaintedbucket-seat, up and aroundand down at little old Hank standingthere,and the little blind hunchbackhadhis handon the roaring,oily blackmachinethat made of the Ferriswheelgoaheadandahead.The midwaywasdesertedbecause in wasstill,but its musicplayedandcrashed therain.Themerry-go-round And JosephPikesrodeup into the cloudyskyandcame the openspaces. down and eachtime he went aroundhe was a yearolder,his laughing the bonesof it, the meaneyesof it, grewdeep,his facechanged, changed, whirling,whirling the wild hair of it, sittingtherein the greenbucket-seat swiftly,laughinginto the bleakheavenswherenowandagaina lastsplit of lightningshoweditself. Hank ran forwardat the hunchbackby the machine.On the way he The black pickedup a tent spike.,,Here,now!" yelledthe hunchback. fumbling hunchback, the stormed around. "You!" Ferriswheelwhirled the screamed away. "Ouch!" and danced in the kneecap out.Hankhit him the Ferris to stop brake the machine reach tried to man,fallingforward.He wheel.Whenhe put his handon the brake,Hankranin andslammedthe tent spikeagainstthe fingers,mashingthem.He hit them twice.The man heldhis handin hisotherhand,howling.He kickedat Hank.Hankgrabbed the foot,pulled,the manslippedin the mud andfell. Hank hit him on the head,shouting.
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The Ferris wheel went around and around and around. "Stop, stop the wheel!" cried JosephPikes-Mr.Cooger flung up in a stormy cold sky in the bubbled constellationof whirl and rush and wind. "[ can't move,"groanedthe hunchback.Hank jumped on his chestand they thrashed,biting, kicking. "Stop, stop the wheel!" cried Mr. Cooger,a man, a different man and voice this time, coming aroundin panic,going up into the roaringhissing sky of the Ferris wheel. The wind blew through the high dark wheel spokes."Stop, stop, oh, pleasestop the wheel!" Hank leaped up from the sprawled hunchback. He started in on the brakemechanism,hitting it, jamming it, putting chunks of metal in it, tying it with rope, now and againhitting at the crawlingweepingdwarf. "Stop,stopostop the wheel!" waileda voicehigh in the night wherethe windy moon was coming out of the vaporouswhite cloudsnow...Stop.. ." The voice faded. Now the carnival was ablazewith suddenlight. Men sprangout of tents, camerunning.Hank felt himselfjerked into the air with oathsand beatings rained on him. From a distancethere was a sound of Peter'svoice and behind Peter,at full tilt, a police officer with pistol drawn. "Stop, stop the wheel!" In the wind the voice sighedaway. The voice repeatedand repeated. The dark carnivalmen tried to applythe brake.Nothing happened.The machine hummed and turned the wheel around and around. The mechanismwasjammed. "Stop!" cried the voice one last time. Silence. Without a word the Ferris wheel flew in a circle,a high systemof electric stars and metal and seats.There was no sound now but the sound of the motor which died and stopped.The Ferris wheel coastedfor a minute, all the carnival peoplelooking up at it, the policemanlooking up at it, Hank and Peterlooking up at it. The Ferris wheel stopped.A crowd had gatheredat the noise. A few fishermen from the wharfhouse,a few switchmen from the rail yards.The Ferris wheel stood whining and stretching in the wind. "Lookl' everybody said. The policeman turned and the carnival people turned and the fishermenturned and they all lookedat the occupantin the black-painted seat at the bottom of the ride. The wind touched and moved the black wooden seatin a gentle rocking rhythm, crooning over the occupantin the dim carnival light. A skeleton sat there, a paper bag of money in its hands, a brown derby hat on its head.
DisplacedPerson Eric Frank Russell
He glidedout of the gatheringduskandseatedhimselfat the otherendof the benchandgazedabsentlyacrossthe lake.The settingsunhaddribbled bloodin the sky.Mandarinduckspaddledthroughcrimsonstreakson the waters.The parkheldits usualeventidehush; the only soundswerethe rustle of leavesand grasses,the murmuring of secludedloversand the muted tootingsof distantcars. Whenthe benchquiveredits announcement of companyI hadglanced alongit half-expectingto find somederelicthopingto cadgethe priceof a bed.The contrastbetweenthe anticipatedand the seenwassuch tliat I lookedagain,long, carefully,out of the cornersof my eyesso that he wouldn'tnoticeit. Despitethe greytonesof twilight what I sawwasa studyin blackand white.He hadthin,sensitivefeaturesaswhiteashis glovesandhis shirtfront. His shoesand suit were not quite as black as his finely curved eyebrowsand well-groomedhair.His eyeswereblackestof all: that solid, supernalblacknessthat can be no deeperor darker.Yet they were alive with an underlyingglow. He hadno hat.A slenderwalking-stick of ebonyrestedcasuallyagainst 173
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his legs.A black,silk-linedcloakhungfrom his shoulders.If he hadbeen doingit for the movieshe couldnot havepresenteda betterpictureof a distinguishedforeigner. abouthim in the waymindsco whenmomentarily My mind speculated they havenothing elseto occupythem. A Europeanrefugee,it decided. Possiblyan eminentsurgeonor sculptor.Or perhapsa writer or painter, morelikely the latter. I stoleanotherlook at him. In the loweringlight the pale profile was with the dark.The hawklike.The glowbehindthe eyeswasstrengthening cloak lent him a peculiarmqjesty.The treeswere stretchingtheir arms towardhim as if to give aid and comfortthroughthe long,long night. No hint of sufferingmarkedthat face.It hadnothingin commonwith wearing the worn, lined featuresI had seen elsewhere,countenances the whip andthe horrorcamp.On foreverthe memoriesof the manacles, the contrary,it held a mixture of boldnessand serenity,of confidencein the belief that one day the tide must turn. ImpulsivelyI decidedthat he was a musician.I could imaginehim conductinga tremendouschoir of fifty thousandvoices. "I am fond of music,"he saidin low,rich tones. His faceturnedtowardme, revealinga pronouncedpeakin his glossy blackhair. of his remarkcaughtme at a disadvan"Really?" The unexpectedness tage.Without knowingit I must havevoicedmy thoughtsaloud.Rather feeblyI asked,"Of whatkind?" "This." He usedhis ebonystickto indicatethe worldat large."The sigh of endingdayl' "Yes,it is soothingi'I agreed. "It is my time," he said."The time when the day ends-as all things must end." "That's truei' I saidfor lack of anythingbetter. Weweresilentawhile.Slowlythe horizonsoakedthe bloodfrom the sky. The city put on its lights and a wan moonfloatedoverits towers. "You're not a nativeof this place?"I prompted. "Nol' restinglong,slenderhandsuponhis stick,he gazedmeditatively forward."I haveno country.I am a displacedperson." "Itm sorry." "Thankyou,l'hesaid. I couldn't just sit there and leavehim to stew in his own juice. The choicewasto continuethe conversationor depart.Therewasno needto go.SoI continued. "Careto tell me aboutit?" His headcameroundandhe studiedme asif onlynowfully awareof my
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presence.That weird light in his orbs could almost be felt. He smiled graduallyand tolerantly,showingperfectteeth. "ShouldI?" "You don't have to. But sometimesit helps to get things off one's mind." "I doubt it. Besides,Iwouldbe wastingyour time." "Not at all. I'm wastingit anyway." Smilingagain,he usedhis stick to drawunseeable circlesin front of his blackshoes. "In this day and ageit is an all too familiarstoryl'he said.'A leader becameso blindedby his own glorythat he considered himself incapable of makingblunders.He rejectedall adviceand resentedall criticism.He developeddelusionsof grandeur,posedasthe final arbiteron everything from birth to death,and therebybrought into being a movementfor his overthrow. He createdthe seedsof his owndestruction.It wasinevitablein the circumstances." '.Andrightlyso,"I supported. o'Tohell with dictators!" grasp. The stick slippedfrom his He pickedit up, juggled it idly, resumedhis circledrawing. "The revoltdidn't succeed?"I suggested. "No." He looked at the circlesand struck a line through them. ,,It proved too early and too weak. It was crushed with the utmost ruthlessness.Then came the purge." His glowing eyes surveyedthe sentineltrees."I createdthatopposition. I still think it wasjustified.But I darenot go back.Not yet." "A fat lot you shouldcareaboutthat.You'rein a goodcountrynow and you canfit into it comfortably." "I don't think so. I'm not especiallywelcome His voice was deeper."Not want€d-anywhere." "Oh, nonsense!" I retorted. "Everybody is wanted by someone, somewhere. Cheerup.Don't bemorbid.After all,it's wortha lotjust to be free." "No manis freeuntil he'sbeyondhis enemy'sreach."He glancedat me with anirritatingtouchof amusement. almostasif he considered that I had yet to learnthe factsof life. "when one'sfoe hasgainedcontrolof every channelof informationandpropaganda, whenhe usesthemto presenthis owncaseandutterlysuppress mine,whenhe offerscalculatedliesastruth and damnsthe truth asa lie, thereis little hopefor me." "Well, that's your way of looking at things.I cannot blameyou for feelingbitter aboutbygoneexperiences. But you'vegot to forgetthem. Here,you'reliving in a differentworld.We'vefreespeech.A man cansay whathe likes.write whathe likes."
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"If only that weretrue." ..It is tiuel'I asserted, slightlyannoyed."Here you cancall the Rajahof Baman arrggantandoverfedparasiteif you wish.Nobodycanpreventyou from doingso,not eventhe police.We'refree,as I've told you." He stoodup, toweringamid embracingtrees.From my sitting position his heightseemedenormous.The moonlit his facein paleghastliness. "Your faith is comforting but baseless." "No!" I denied. He turnedaway.His capeswungbehindhim and billowedin the night breezeuntil it resembledmighty wings. "My narnej'he murmuredsoftlg "is Lucifer." After that therewasonly the whisperof the wind.
Our FairCity Robert A. Heinlein
PetePerkinsturnedinto the All-Nite ParkingLot and calledout, "Hi, Pappy!" Theold parkinglot attendantlookedup andanswered, "Be with you in a moment,Pete."He wastearinga Sundaycomicsheetin narrowstrips.A little whirlwindwaltzednearhim, pickingup piecesof old newspaper and bits of dirt andflingingthem in the facesof passing pedestrians. The old man held out to it a long streamerof the brightly coloredfunny-paper. "Here,Kitten,"he coaxed."Come,Kitten..." The whirlwindhesitated,then drew itself up until it was quite tall, jumped two parkedcars,and landedright nearhim. It seemedto sniff at the offering. "Thkeit, Kitten," the old mancalledsoftlyandlet the gaystreamerslip from his fingers.The whirlwind whippedit up and woundit aroundits middle.He toreoff anotherandyet another;the whirlwindwoundthemin a corkscrewthrough the loose mass of dirty paper and trash that constitutedits visiblebody.Renewedby cold guststhat poureddownthe canyonof tall buildings,it swirledfasterandevertaller,while it lifted the 177
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coloredpaperribbonsin a fantasticupswepthair-do.The old man turned, smiling."Kitten doeslike new clothes." "Thkeit easy,Pappy,or you'll haveme believingin itl' can seeher'" "Eh? You don't haveto believein Kitten-you 'it'-could ..Yeah, what understand Sure-butyouactasif she-I mean you say." "You still don't think so?" His voicewasgentlytolerant. "Now,Pappy!" up andtookit' "Here, "Hmm.... Lendme yourhat."Pappyreached .,come back, Kitten!" The whirlwind was playing called. he Kitten," aroundovertheir heads,severalstorieshigh.It dippeddown' Perkins' demanded "Hey! Whereyou goingwith that chapeau?" ..Justa moment...Here,Kitten!" The whirlwindsatdown suddenly, it spillingits load.The old manhandedit the hat.The whirlwindsnatched and startedit up a fast,long spiral. "Hey!" yelpedPerkins."What do you think you'redoing?That'snot funny-that hat costme six bucksonly threeyearsago." "Don't worry,"the old man soothed."Kitten will bring it back." "Shewill, huh? Morelikelyshe'lldumpit in the river." "Oh, no! Kitten neverdropsanythingshedoesn'twantto drop.Watch." The old manlookedup to wherethe hatwasdancingnearthe penthouseof the hotelacrossthe street."Kitten! Oh, Kitten! Bringit back'" The whirlwindhesitated,the hat fell a coupleof stories'It swooped, caughtit, andjuggledit reluctantly."Bring it here,Kitten." The hat commenceda downwardspiral,finishingin a long curving swoop.It hit Perkinsfull in the face."She was trying to put it on your "Usuallyshe'smoreaccurate'" headl'the attendantexplained. picked up his hat and stood looking at the "She is, eh?" Perkins whirlwind,mouthopen. "Convinced?"askedthe old man. "'Convinced?'Oh,sho'sho.'" He lookedbackat his hat'thenagainat the whirlwind. "Pappy,this callsfor a drink." They went inside the lot's little sheltershack;Pappyfound glasses; Perkinsproduceda pint, nearlyfull, and pouredtwo generousslugs.He toSsedhis down,pouredanother,andsatdown."The first wasin honorof Kittenl' he announced."This one is to fortify me for the Mayor's banquet." "You haveto coverthat?" Pappycluck-cluckedsympathetically. ,.Haveto write a column aboutsomethln& Pappy.'Last night Hizzoner the Mayor,surroundedby a glittering galaxyof high-binders,grifters, and ballot thieves,was the recipientof a testimonialdinner sycophants, expect Pappy;the cashcustomers .'Got to writesomething, celebrating..
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it. Why don't I braceup like a man and go on relief?" "Today'scolumn was good,Pete,"the old man comfortedhim. He pickedup a copyof the DailyForum;Perkinstook it from him andran his eyedown his own column. " 'Our FairCity,by PeterPerkins]" he read,andbelowthat " 'What,No Horsecars?It is the tradition of our civic paradisethat what was good enoughfor the foundingfathersis goodenoughfor us.We stumbleover the very chuckholein which great-uncleTozierbrokehis leg in '09. It is goodto knowthat the bathwater,runningout,is not goneforever,but will returnthroughthe kitchenfaucet,thickeranddisguisedwith chlorine,but the same.(Memo-Hizzoner usesbottled spring water.Must look into this.) "'But I mustreporta dismaying hasdoneawaywith change. Someone the horsecars! "'You maynot believethis.Ourpublicconveyances run soseldomand slowlythatyou maynot havenoticedit; nevertheless I swearthat I sawone wobblingdownGrandAvenuewith no horsesof anysort.It seemedto be propelledby somenewfangledelectricaldevice. "'Even in the atomic age some changesare too much. I urge all citizens. . .' " Perkinsgavea snortof disgust."It's tacklinga pillboxwith a Pappy.This beanshooter, town is corrupt;it'll staycorrupt.Why shouldI beatout my brainson suchpiffle? Hand me the bottle." "Don't be discouraged, Pete.The tyrant fearsthe laughmore than the bullet." assassin's "Where'dyou pick that up? Okay,soI'm not funny.I'vetriedlaughing them out of office andit hasn'tworked.My effortsareaspointlessasthe activitiesof your friend the whirling dervish." The windowsrattledundera gustyimpact."Don't talk that way about 'oShe's Kitten;'the old mancautioned. sensitive." "I apologize."He stood up and bowedtoward the door. "Kitten, I apologize. Youractivitiesaremoreuseful thanmine."He turnedto his host. go out and talk to her, Pappy.I'd rather do that than go to the "L€t's Mayor'sbanquel,if I hadmy druthers." Theywentoutside,Perkinsbearingwith him the remainsof the colored comic sheet.He begantearingoff streamers."Here, Kitty! Here, Kitty! Soup'son!" The whirlwind bent down and acceptedthe strips as fast as he tore them. "She'sstill got the onesyou gaveher." "Certainly," agreedPappy."Kitten is a pack rat. When she likes somethingshe'll keepit indefinitely." "Doesn't sheeverget tired?Theremust be somecalmdays." "It's neverreallycalmhere.It's the arrangementof the buildingsand
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the wayThird Streetleadsup from the river.But I think shehidesher pet playthingson topsof buildings." peeredinto the swirling trash."I'll bet she'sgot The newspaperman frommonthsback.Say,Pappy,Iseea columnin this,oneabout newspapers our trashcollectionserviceandhowwe don'tcleanour streets.I'lldig up somepapersa coupleof yearsold andclaimthat they havebeenblowing aroundtown sincepublication." "Why fake it?" answeredPappy,"Let's see what Kitten has." He whistled softly. "Come, baby-let Pappy see your playthings."The whirlwind bulged out; its contentsmoved less rapidly.The attendant pluckeda pieceof old newspaperfrom it in passing."HetE'sone three monthsold." "We'll haveto do betterthan that." "['ll try again."He reachedout and snatchedanother."Last June." "That's better." A car honked for serviceand the old man hurried away.When he 'Any luck?" returnedPerkinswas still watchingthe hoveringcolumn. askedPappy. them away." "Shewon't let me havethem.Snatches 'Naughty Kittenj' the old man said."Peteis a friend of ours.You be nice to him." The whirlwind fidgeteduncertainly. "[t's all right,"saidPerkins."Shedidn't know.But look,Pappy-seethat pieceup there?A front page." "You wantit?" 'DEWEY'something. Youdon't "Yes.Lookclosely-theheadlinereads supposeshe'sbeenhoardingit sincethe '44 campaign?" And "Could be.Kitten hasbeenaroundhereaslongasI canremember. she doeshoardthings.Wait a second."He calledout softly.Shortlythe paperwasin his hands."Now we'll see." Perkinspeeredat it. "I'll be a short-termSenator!Can you top that, Pappy?" The headlineread:"DeweyCapturesManila"; the datewas "1898." Twenty minutes later they were still consideringit over the last of staredat the yellowed,filthy sheet. Perkins'bottle. The newspaperman "Don't tell me this hasbeenblowingaroundtownfor the lasthalf centuryl' "Why not?" that the streetshaven'tbeencleanedin " .Whynot?'Well,I'll concede paper wouldn'tlast.Sunand rain and so forth." that time, but this "Kitten is very carefulof her toys.She probablyput it under cover during badweather." "For the love of Mike, Pappy,you don't reallybelieve. .. But you do. Frankly,Idon't carewhereshegot it; the officialtheoryis goingto be that
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this particularpieceof paperhas beenkicking aroundour dirty streets, unnoticedanduncollected,for the pastfifty years.Boy,am I goingto have fun!" He rolledthe fragmentcarefullyandstartedto put it in his pocket. "Say,don't do that!" his host protested. "Why not? I'm goingto takeit downand get a pic of it." "You mustn't!It belongsto Kitten-I just borrowedit." "Huh? Are you nuts?" Pete-she'll let you "She'llbe upsetif shedoesn'tget it back.Please, you want to." look at it any time The old man was so earnestthat Perkinswas stopped."Supposewe neverseeit again?My storyhangson it." "It's no goodto you-she hasto keepit, to makeyour storystandup. Don't worry-l'll tell her that she mustn't lose it under any circumstances." "Well-okay." They steppedoutsideand Pappytalkedearnestlyto Kitten, then gaveher the 1898fragment.Shepromptlytuckedit into the top of her column.Perkinssaidgood-byeto PappSandstartedto leavethe lot. He pausedand turned around, looking a little befuddled."Say, Pappy.,." "Yes,Pete?" "You don't reallythink that whirlwindis alive,do you?" "Why not?" "Why not? Why not, the mansays?" "How do you knowyouare alive?" "Well," saidPappyreasonably, l-well, now,if you put it..I'He stopped. "But...Why, because "I got pal." don't know.You me, Pappysmiled."You see?" Kitten]' He tippedhis hat to "Uh, I guessso.G'night,Pappy.G'night, the whirlwind.The columnbowed. The managingeditorsentfor Perkins.n'Look,Petel'he said,chuckinga sheafof graycopypaperat him, "whimsy is all right, but I'd like to see somecopythat wasn'tdashedoff in a gin mill." Perkinslookedover the pagesshovedat him. "Our Fair City,by Peter Perkins.Whistle Up The Wind. Walkingour streetsalwaysis a piquant, evenadventurious, experience. Wepick our waythroughtheassortedtrash, bitsof old garbage, cigarettebutts,andotherlessappetizingitemsthat stud our sidewalkswhileour facesareassaulted by morebouyantsouvenirs,the confetti of last Halloween,shredsof deadleaves,and other items too weather-beaten to be identified.However,I had alwaysassumedthat a constant turnover in the riches of our streets causedthem to renew themselves at leasteverysevenyears..." The columnthen told of the whirlwind that containedthe fifty-year-oldnewspaper andchallengedany
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other city in the countryto matchit. Perkins. "'Smatterwith it?" demanded "Beatingthe drum aboutthe filth in the streetsis fine, Pete,but giveit a factualapproach." Perkinsleanedoverthe desk."Boss,this rsfactual." "Huh? Don't be silly,Pete." "Silly,he says.lnok ..." Perkinsgavehim a circumstantialaccountof Kitten and the 1898newspaper. "Pete,you must havebeendrinking." "Only Javaand tomatojuice. Crossmy heartand hopeto die." I'll bet the whirlwind cameright up to the bar "How aboutyesterday? with you." "I wascold,stone. . ." Perkinsstoppedhimselfandstoodon his dignity. "That's my story.Print it, or fire me." "Don't be like that, Pete.I don't want your job; I just want a column with somemeat.Dig up somefacts on man-hoursand costsfor street cleaning,comparedwith other cities." "Who'd readthatjunk? Comedownthe streetwith me.I'll sftowyouthe facts.Wait a moment-I'll pick up a photographer." A few minuteslater Perkinswasintroducingthe managingeditor and ClarenceV Weemsto Pappy.Clarenceunlimberedhis camera."Takea pic of him?" "Not yet, Clarence.Pappy,can you get Kitten to give us back the museumpiece?" "Why,sure."The old man lookedup and whistled."Oh, Kitten! Come to Pappy." Abovetheir headsa tiny gusttookshape,pickedup bits of paper and strayleaves,and settledon the lot. Perkinspeeredinto it. "Shehasn'tgot it;'he saidin aggrievedtones. "She'llgetif'Pappy steppedforwarduntil the whirlwindenfoldedhim. They could seehis lips move,but the wordsdid not reachthem. 'oNow?"saidClarence. "Not yet." The whirlwind boundedup and leapt over an adjoining building.The managingeditor openedhis mouth,closedit again. Kitten was soonback.Shedroppedeverythingelseand hadjust one pieceof papet - thepaper."Now!" saidPerkins."Canyou geta shotof that paper,Clarence-whileit's in the air?" 'oNatchl'saidClarence,andraisedhis SpeedGraphic."Backa little, and hold it," he ordered,speakingto the whirlwind. Kitten hesitatedandseemedaboutto skitteraway."Bring it aroundslow "and turn it over-no, no! Not that andeasy,Kitten," Pappysupplemented, way-the other edgeup." The paperflattenedout and sailedslowlypast them, the headlineshowing.
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"Did you get it?" Perkinsdemanded. "Natch." saidClarence."[s that all?" he askedthe editor. "Natc-[ mean.that'sall." "Okayj' saidClarence,pickedup his case,and left. The editorsighed."Gentlemen,"he said,"let's havea drink." FourdrinkslaterPerkinsandhis bosswerestill arguing.Pappy hadleft. Boss,"Petewassaying,"you can't print an item abouta "Be reasonable, live whirlwind.They'd laughyou out of town." ManagingEditorGainesstraightened himself. policy print to "It's the of the Forum all the news,andprint it straight. print it." He relaxed."Hey! Waiter!Moreof the sameThis is news-we and not so much soda." impossible." "But it's scientifically "You sawit, didn't you?" "Yes,but . .." Gaines stoppedhim. "We'll ask the SmithsonianInstitution to investigateit." "They'll laugh at you," Perkinsinsisted."Ever hear of masshypnotism?" sawit, too." "Huh? No, that'sno explanation-Clarence "What doesthat prove?" "Obvious-to be hypnotizedyou haveto havea mind, Ipsofacto." "You meanlpsedixit." Perkins,youshouldn'tdrink in thedaytime.Nowstart "Quit hiccuping. overand sayit slowly." "How do you know Clarencedoesn'thavea mind?" 'oWell,he'salive-he must havesomesort of a mind,then." Thewhirlwindis alive;therefore it hasa "That'sjust whatI wassaying. mind. Perkins,if those longbeardsfrom the Smithsonianare going to persistin their unscientificattitude,I for one will not standfor it. The Forumwill not standfor it. You will not standfor it." "Won'tI?" "Not for oneminute.Iwantyouto knowthe Forumis behindyou,Pete. You go backto the parkinglot andget an interviewwith that whirlwind." "But I've got one.You wouldn'tlet me print it:' "Who wouldn't let you print it? I'll fire him! Come on, Pete.We're goingto blowthis town sky hieh.Stopthe run. Hold the front page.Get busy!" He put on Pete'shat and stroderapidlyinto the men'sroom. Petesettledhimselfat his deskwith a containerof coffee,a can of tomatojuice, and the Midnight Finat (late afternoon)edition.Under a four-columncut of Kitten'stoy washis column.boxedandmovedto the
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front page.Eighteen-pointboldfaceorderedsEE EDITORIAL PAGE TWELVE.On pagetwelveanotherblackline enjoinedhim to SEEOUR FAIR CITY PAGE ONE. He ignored this and read: MR. MAYORRESIGN!!!! Petereadit andchuckled."An ill wind-" "-symbolic of the spiritual filth lurking in the dark cornersof the city hall." "-will growto cyclonic proportionsand sweepa corrupt and shamelessadministrationfiom office."The editorialpointedout that the contractfor streetcleaningand trashremovalwasheld by the Mayor'sbrother'in'law,andthen suggested that the whirlwind could give betterservicecheaper. The telephonejingled.He pickedit up andsaid,"Okay-you startedit." "They got me downat "Pete-is that you?" Pappy'svoicedemanded. the stationhouse." "What for?" "They claim Kitten is a publicnuisance." "I'll be right over." He stoppedby the Art Department,snagged Clarence,and left. Pappywas seatedin the station lieutenant'soffice, looking stubborn.Perkinsshovedhis way in. "What's he here for?" he jerking a thumb at Pappy. demanded, lieutenant looked sour."What are you butting in for, Perkins? The not his lawyer." You're "No$r?" saidClarence. "Not yet, Clarence.For news,Dumbrosky-I work for a newspaper, I repeat-what'she in for?" remember? "Obstructingan officer in the performanceof his duty." "That right,Pappy?" The old man lookeddisgusted."This character-" He indicatedone of the policemen"-comes up to my lot and tries to snatchthe Manila-Bay paperawayfrom Kitten. I tell her to keepit up out of his way'Then he waveshis stickat me andordersme to takeit awayfromher.I tell him what he cando with his stick."He shrugged."So herewe are." "I get it;'Perkins told him, and turned to Dumbrosky."You got a call from the city hall, didn't you? So you sent Dugandown to do the dirty work. What I don't get is why you sent Dugan.I hearhe's so dumb you don't evenlet him collectthe pay-offon his own beat." "That'sa lie!" put in Dugan."I do so..." "Shut up, Dugan!"his bossthundered."Now,seehere,Perkins-you clearout. Thereain't no story here." "No story?" Perkinssaid softly. "The police force tries to arest a whirlwind and you saythere'sno story?" "Now?" saidClarence. "Nobodytried to arrestno whirlwind! Now scram." "Then how comeyou're chargingPappywith obstructingan offtcer?
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WhatwasDugandoing-flying a kite?" "He's not chargedwith obstructingan officer." "He's not, eh? Justwhat haveyou bookedhim for?', "He's not booked.We'reholdinghim for questioning." "so?not booked, no warrant,no crimealleged,iust pickup a citizenand roust him around,Gestapostyle."Perkinsturned to pappy.,.you're not under arrest.My adviceis to get up and walk out that door." Pappystartedto getup."Hey!" LieutenantDumbrosky boundedout of his chair,grabbedPappyby the shoulderand pushedhim down..ol'm givingthe ordersaroundhere.Youstay..." "Now!" yelledPerkins.Clarence's flashbulbfrozethem.Then Dumbroskystartedup again. "Who let him in here?Dugan-get that camera." "Nyannh!"saidClarenceand held it awayfrom the cop.They started doinga little Maypoledance,with Clarence as the Maypole. "Hold it!" yelledPerkins."Go aheadandgrabthecamera,Dugan-I'm just achingto write the story.'PoliceLieutenantDestroysEvidenceof PoliceBrutality."' "What do you wantI shoulddo, Lieutenant?"pleadedDugan. Dumbroskylookeddisgusted."siddownandcloseyour face.Don't use that picture,Perkins-I'm warningyou." "Of what?Going to makeme dancewith Dugan?Comeon, pappy. Comeon, Clarence." Theyleft. "our Faircity" readthe next day:"city Hall startsclean Up.while the city streetcleanerswereenjoyingtheir usualsiesta,LieutenantDumbroskg acting on orders of Hizzoner'soffice, raided our Third Avenue whirlwind. It went sour, as PatrolmanDugan could not entice the whirlwind into the paddywagon.DauntlessDuganwas undeterred;he took a citizenstandingnearby,oneJamesMetcalfe,parking-lotattendant, into custodyasan accomplice of the whirlwind.An accomplice in what, Dugandidn't say-everybodyknowsthat an accompliceis something prettyawful.LieutenantDumbroskyquestioned the accomplice. &e cut-. LieutenantDumbroskyweighs215 pounds,without his shoes.The accomplice weighsl19. "Moral: Don't get underfootwhen the policedepartmentis playing gameswith the wind. . "P.s. As wegoto press,the whirlwindis still holdingthe lggg museum piece.Stopby Third andMain andtakea look.Betterhurry-Dumbrosky is expectedto makean arrestmomentarily." Pete'scolumncontinuedneedlingtheadministration thefollowingday: "ThoseMissingFiles.Itis annoying to knowthatanydocumentneededby the Grand Jury is sure to be mislaid beforeit can be introducedin
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be hired evidence.we suggestthat Kitten, our Third Avenuewhirlwind, which is item any with andentrusted by the city asfitJctert extraordinary usedto exam civil special the likely to Le neededlater.Shecould take flunks. rewardthe faithful-the one nobodyever why limit Kittento a lowlyclericaljob?Sheis persistent-and "Indeedo qualified shehangson to whatshegets.No one will arguethat sheis less than somecity officialswe havehad. "Let's run Kitten for Mayor! She'san ideal candidate-shehas the commontouch,shedoesn'tmind hurly-burly,sheruns aroundin circles, sheknowshow to throwdirt, andthe oppositioncan'tpin anythingon her. ,As to the sort of Mayorshewouldmake,thereis an old story-Aesop told it-about King Log and King stork. we're fed up with King stork; King Log wouldbe welcomerelief. ..Memoto Hizzoner-what didbecomeof thoseGrandAvenuepaving bids? ,.P.S.Kitten still hasthe 1898newspaper on exhibit.stopby andseeit some way to intimidate a out before our police departmentfigures whirlwind." Petesnaggedclarenceanddrifted downto the parkinglot. The lot was fencednow; a manat a gatehandedthemtwo ticketsbut wavedawaytheir money.Inside he found a largecircle chainedoff for Kitten and Pappy insideit.Theypushedtheir waythroughthe crowdto the old man."Looks like you'recoiningmoner PaPPYI' ,,ihouldbe,but I'rn not.Theytried to closeme up this morning,Pete. fee and posta bond wantedme to paythe $50-a-daycircus-and-carnival besides.SoI quit chargingfor the tickets-but t'm keepingtrackof them. 'ern,by gee." I'll sue ..Youwon't collect,not in this torvn.Nevermind,we'll make'em squirm till they let uP." "That's not all. They tried to captureKitten this morning'" "Huh? Who?HoY?" ..Thecops.Theyshowedup with oneof thoseblowermachinesusedto andtakea suction.The idea ventilatemanholes,riggedto run backwards grabwhatshewascarrying." to anyhow it, or into wasto suckKitten oown me." have called Petewhistled."You should ..Wasn'tnecessary. I warnedKitten and she stashedthe Spanish-War papersomeplace,then cameback.she loved it. she went throughthat she'dzip throughand machineaboutsix times,like a merry-go-round. shetook sergeant through time pep Last ever. than comeout morefull of his cap.They ruined and machine the Yancel'scapwith her andit clogged -got disgustedandleftl' petei chortled."You still shouldhavecalledme. Clarenceshouldhav.e gottena pictureof that."
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"Got itl' said Clarence. "Huh? I didn't know you were here this morning, Clarence." "You didn't ast me." Petelooked at him. "Clarence,darling-the idea of a news picture is to print it, not to hide it in the Art Department." "On your desk," said Clarence. "oh. well,let's moveon to a lessconfusingsubject.Pappy,I'dlike to put up a big sign here." "Why not! What do you want to say?" "Kitten-for-Mayor-whirlwind campaign Headquarters.stick a 24sheetacrossthe corner of the lot, where they can seeit both ways.It fits in with-oh, oh! Company,girls!" He jerked his head toward the entrance. SergeantYancel was back. 'All right, all right!" he was saying.'1Move on! Clear out of here." He and three cohortswere urging the spectatorsout of the lot. Pete went to him. "What goeson, Yancel?" Yancel looked around. "Oh, it's you, huh? Well, you, too-we got to clear this place out. Emergency." Pete looked back over his shoulder."Better get Kitten out of the way, Pappy!" he calledout. "Now, Clarence." "Got it," said Clarence. "Okayl' Pete answered."Now, Yancel, you might tell me what it is we just took a picture of, so we can title it properly." "Smart guy. You and your stoogehad better scram if you don't want your headsblown off. We're setting up a bazooka." "You're setting up a what?" Pete looked toward the squad car, unbelievingly.Sure enough, two of the cops were unloading a bazooka. "Keep shooting,kid;' he said to Clarence. "Natch," said Clarence.
'And quit poppingyour bubblegum. Now, look,Yancel-I'm just a newsboy. What in the world is the idea?"
"Stick aroundand find out, wise guy."Yancelturned away."okay there! ' Startdoing it-commence firing!" 'At the One of copslooked up. what, Sergeant?" "I thought you used to be a marine-at the whirlwind, of course.'o Pappyleaned over Pete'sshoulder."What are they doing?" "I'm beginningto get a glimmering. Pappy,keep Kitten out of range-I think they mean to put a rocket shell through her gizzard.It might bust up dynamic stability or something." "Kitten's safe.I told her to hide. But this is crazy,Pete.They must be absolute,complete and teetotal nuts." 'Any law saysa cop has to be saneto be on the force?"
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"What whirlwind, Sergeant?"the bazookaman was asking. Yancel started to tell him, forcefully,then deflated when he realizedthat no whirlwind was available. he yelled.o'You "You wait," he told him, and turned to Pappy. chasedawaythat whirlwind. Get it back herel' Pete took out his notebook. "This is interesting,Yancel.Is it "vour professionalopinion that a whirlwind can be orderedaround like a trained dog? Is that the official positionof the police department?" "I . . . No comment!You button up, or I'll run you in'" .,By all means.But you havethat Buck-Rogerscannonpointed so that. after the shell passesthrough the whirlwind, if any,it should end up.iust about at the city hall. Is this a plot to assassinateHizzoner?" yancel looked around suddenly,then let his gazetravel an imaginary trajectory. "Hey, you lugs!" he shouted."Point that thing the other way.You want to knock off the MaYor?" ,'That'sbetter,"Petetold the Sergeant. "Now they haveit trainedon the wait." can't First National Bank.I yancel looked over the situation again."Point it where it won't hurt nobodyl' he ordered."Do I have to do all your thinking?" "But, Sergeant..." "Well?" "You point it. We'll fire it." Petewatchedthem. "Clarence,"he sighed,"you stick aroundand get a pic of them loadingit back into the car.That will be in aboutfive minutes' i.ppy and I will be in the Happy Hour Bar-Grill.Get a nice picture,with Yancel'sfeatures," "Natch," said Clarence. The next installmentof "Our Fair City" featuredthree cuts and was headed"Police DeclareWar on Whirlwind." Petetook a copy and set out for the parking lot, intending to show it to Pappy. pappy wasn't there. Nor was Kitten. He looked around the neighborhood, poking his nose in lunchroomsand bars.No luck" He headedback toward the Forumbuilding,telling himself that Papp! might be shopping,or at a movie.He returnedto his desk,madea coupleof falsestartson a column for the morrow,crumpled them up and went to the Art Department."Hey! Clarence!Haveyou been down to the parkinglot today?" "Nah.tt
"Pappy'smissing." "So what?" "Well, come along.We got to find himl'
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"Why?" But he came,lugginghis camera. The lot was still deserted,no Pappy,no Kitten-not even a stray breeze. Peteturned away."Come on, Clarence-say,what are you shootingnow?" Clarencehad his cameraturned up towardthe sky."Not shooting,"said Clarence."Light is no good." "What was it?" "Whirlwind." "Huh? Kitten?" "Maybe." "Here, Kitten-come Kitten." The whirlwind came back near him, spun faster,and pickedup a pieceof cardboardit had dropped.It whipped it around, then let him have it in the face. "That's not funny, Kitten," Pete complained."Where's pappy?" The whirlwind sidled back toward him. He saw it reach again for the cardboard."No, you don't!" he yelped and reachedfor it, too. The whirlwind beat him to it. It carried it up some hundred feet and sailed it back. The card caught him edgewiseon the bridge of the nose. "Kitten!" Pete yelled. "Quit the horsing around." It was a printed notice, about six by eight inches.Evidently it had been tackedup; there weresmall tearsat all four corners.It read: "THE RITZCLASSIC" and under that, "Room 2013, SingleOccupancy$6.00,Double occupancy $8.00." There followed a printed list of the house rules. Pete stared at it and frowned. Suddenly he chucked it back at the whirlwind. Kitten immediately tossedit back in his face. "Come on, Clarencel'he saidbriskly."'We'regoing to the Ritz-Classicroom 2013:' "Natch." said Clarence. The Ritz-Classicwas a colossalfleabag, favored by the bookie-andmadame set, three blocks away. Pete avoided the desk by using the basemententrance.The elevatorboy lookedat Clarenge'scameraand said, "No, you don't, Doc. No divorce casesin this hotel." "Relax," Pete told him. "That's not a real camera. we peddle marijuana-that's the hay mow." "whyn't you sayso? You hadn't ought to carry it in a camera.you make peoplenervous.What floor?" "Twenty-one." The elevator operator took them up nonstop, ignoring other calls. "That'll be two bucks.Specialservice." "What do you pay for the concession?"inquired pete. "You gotta nerve to beef-with your racket." They went back down a floor by stair and looked up room 2013. pete tried the knob cautiously; the door was locked. He knocked on it-no
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answer.He pressedan ear to it and thought he could hear movement inside.He steppedback,frowning. Clarencesaid, "I just remembersomething,"and trotted away.He returned quickly,with a red fire ax. "Now?" he askedPete. 'A lovelythought,Clarence!Not yet." Petepoundedand yelled,,"Pappy! Oh, Pappy!" A large woman in a pink coolie coat openedthe door behind them. "How do you expecta party to sleep?"she demanded. Pete said, "Quiet, madame!We're on the air." He listened.This time there were soundsof strugglingand then, "Pete! ps-" "Now!" saidPete.Clarencestartedswinging. The lock gaveup on the third swing,Petepouredin, with Clarenceafter him. He collidedwith someonecoming out and sat down abruptly.When he got up he sawPappyon a bed.The old man wasbusilytryingto getrid of a towel tied aroundhis mouth. 'em!" yelled Pappy. Petesnatchedit away."Get "Soon as I get you untied." "I ain't tied. They took my pants.Boy,I thoughtyou'd never come!" "Took Kitten a while to make me understand." 'em." "I got 'em," announcedClarence."Both of "Where?" demandedPete. "Here," said Clarenceproudly,and pattedhis camera. Pete restrainedhis answerand ran to the door."They went thataway," saidthe largewoman,pointing.He took out, skiddedaroundthe cornerand saw an elevatordoor just closing. Petestopped,bewilderedby the crowdjust outsidethe hotel. He was looking uncertainly around when Pappy grabbed him. "There! That touringcar!" The car Pappypointedout waseventhen swingingout from the curb just beyondthe rank of cabsin front of the hotel; with a deep growl it pickedup speed,and headedaway.Peteyankedopen the door of the nearestcab. "Follow that car!" he yelled.They all piled in. "Why?" askedthe hackie. Clarencelifted the fire ax. "Now?" he asked. The driver ducked."Forgetitl' he said."lt wasjust a yak."He let in his clutch. The hack driver's skill helped them in the downtown streets,but the driver of the touring car swung right on Third and headedfor the river. They streamedacrossit, fifty yardsapart,with traffic snarledbehindthem, The cabbieturnedhis head. and then wereon the no-speed-limitfreeway. "Is the cameratruck keePinguP?" "What cameratruck?"
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'Ain't this a movie?" "Good grief, no! That car is filled with kidnappers.Faster!" 'A snatch?I don't want no part of it." He brakedsuddenly. Pete took the ax and prodded the driver. "You catch 'em!" The hack speededup againbut the driver protested,"Not in this wreck. They got more power than me." PappygrabbedPete'sarm. "Ther€'s Kitten!" "Where? Oh. never mind that now!" "Slow down!" yelled Pappy."Kitten, oh, Kitten-over here!" The whirlwind swoopeddown and kept pacewith them. Pappycalled to it, "Here, baby! Go get that car! Up ahead-get it!" Kitten seemed confused, uncertain. Pappy repeated it and she took off-like a whirlwind. Shedippedand gathereda loadof paperand trashas she flew. They saw her dip and strike the car ahead,throwing paper in the face of the driver. The car wobbled.She struck again.The car veered,climbed the curb, ricochetedagainstthe crashrail, and fetchedup againsta lamp post. Five minutes later Pete,having left Kitten, Clarence,and the fire ax to hold the fort over two hoodlums suffering from abrasion, multiple contusionsand shock,was feedinga dime into a pay phone at the nearest filling station. He dialed long distance. "Gimme the F,B.L's kidnap number," he demanded. "You know-the Washington, D.C., snatch number.t' "My goodness,"said the operator,"do you mind if I listen in?" "Get me that number!" "Right away!" Presently a voice answered."Federal Bureau of Investigation." "Lemme talk to Hoover!Huh? Okay,okay-I'll talk to you. Listen, this is a snatchcase.I've got 'em on ice, for the moment, but unlessyou get one of your boys from your local office here pronto there won't be any snatch case-not if the city cops get here first. What?" Pete quieted down and explainedwho he was,where he was,and the more believableaspectsof the eventsthat had led up to the presentsituation.The governmentman cut in on him as he was urging speedand more speedand more speedand assuredhim that the local office was alreadybeing notified. Petegot back to the wreck just asLieutenant Dumbrosky climbed out of a squadcar.Petehurried up. "Don't do it, Dumbroskyl'he yelled. The big cop hesitated."Don't do what?" "Don't do anything.The HB.I.areon their way now-and you're already implicated. Don't make it any worse." Petepointedto the two gunsels;Clarencewassitting on one and resting the spike of the ax againstthe back of the other. "These birds have alreadv
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sung.This town is aboutto fall apart.If you hurrg you might be ableto get a planefor Mexico." Dumbroskylookedat him. "Wise guyi'he saiddoubtfully. 'Ask them.Theyconfessed." he announced. Oneof the hoodsraisedhis head."We wasthreatened," us." Theyassaulted "Take'em in, lieutenant. "Go ahead,"Petesaidcheerfully."Takeus all in-together. Then you won't be ableto losethat pair beforethe F,B.I.canquestionthem.Maybe you cancop a plea." "Now?" askedClarence. Dumbroskyswungaround."Put that ax down!" "Do ashe says,Clarence.Get your camerareadyto geta pictureasthe G-men arrive." "You didn't sendfor no G-menl' "Look behindyou!" A darkbluesedanslidquietlyto a stopandfourlean,briskmengotout. The first of them said,"Is theresomeoneherenamedPeterPerkins?" "Me," saidPete."Do you mind if I kissyou?" It wasafterdarkbut the parkinglot wascrowdedandnoisy.A standfor the visitorshad been erectedon one side, new Mayor and distinguished oppositeit wasa bandstand;acrossthe front wasa largeilluminatedsign: "HoME oF KITTEN-HoNoRARy cITtzEN oF ouR FAIRCITY."
In the fenced-offcirclein the middleKitten herselfbouncedandspun and swayedand danced.Petestoodon one side of the circlewith Pappy 'All oppositehim; at four-footintervalsaroundit childrenwereposted. set?"calledout Pete. 'All setl' answeredPappy.Together,Pete,Pappyand the kids started gathered theribbonsup throwingserpentine intothering.Kittenswooped, and wrappedthem aroundherself. "Confetti!" yelledPete.Eachof the kids dumpeda sackfultowardthe whirlwind-little of it reachedthe ground. "Balloons!"yelledPete."Lights!" Eachof the childrenstartedblowing up toy balloons;eachhad a dozendifferentcolors.As fast as they were cameon; inflatedthey fed them to Kitten. Floodlightsand searchlights Kitten wastransformedinto a fountainof boiling,bubblingcolor,several storieshigh. "Now?" saidClarence. t'No$r!"
ComeandGoMad Fredric Brown
whenhe hadawakened that morning.He knew He hadknownit, somehow, it moresurelynow,staringout of the editorialroomwindowinto the early afternoonsunlightslantingdorvnamongthe buildingsto casta patternof light and shadow.He knew that soon, perhapseven today,something importantwasgoingto happen.Whethergoodor badhe did not know,but he darklysuspected. And with reason;therearefew goodthingsthat may unexpectedlyhappento a man, things, that is, of lasting importance. Disastercan strike from innumerabledirections,in amazinglydiverse ways. A voicesaid,"Hey,Mr. Vinel'and he turnedawayfrom the window, slowly.That in itself wasstrangefor it wasnot his mannerto moveslowly; he was a small, volatile man, almost catlike in the quicknessof his reactionsand his movements. But this time somethingmadehim turn slowlyfrom the window,almost as though he never againexpectedto seethat chiaroscuroof an early afternoon. He said,"Hi, Red."
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The freckled copy boy said, "His Nibs wants to see ya." "Now?" "Naw. Atcher convenience.Sometime next week, maybe. If yer busy, give him an apperntment." He put his fist against Red's chin and shoved, and the copy boy staggeredback in assumeddistress. He went over to the water cooler.He pressedhis thumb on the button and water gurgledinto the paper cup. Harry Wheeler saunteredover and said, "Hiya, Nappy. What's up? Going on the carpet?" He said, "Sure, for a raise." He drank and crumpledthe cup, tossingit into the wastebasket. He went over to the door marked Private and went through it. Walter J. Candler,thd managingeditor,lookedup from the work on his desk and said affably,"Sit down, Vine. Be with you in a moment," and then looked down again. He slid into the chair oppositeCandler,worried a cigaretteout of his shirt pocket and lighted it. He studied the back of the sheet of paper of which the managingeditor was readingthe front. There wasn't anything on the back of it. The M.E. put the paper down and looked at him. "Vine, I've got a screwy one. You're good on screwy ones." He grinnedslowly at the M.E. He said,"[f that's a compliment,thanks." "It's a compliment,all right. You've done some pretty tough things for us. This one's different.I've never yet askeda reporter to do anything I wouldn't do myself.lwouldn't do this, so I'm not askingyou to." The M.E. picked up the paper he'd been readingand then put it down again without even looking at it. "Ever hear of Ellsworth Joyce Randolph?" "Head of the asylum?Hell yes, I've met him. Casually." "How'd he impressyou?" He was awarethat the managingeditor was staring at him intently, that it wasn't too casuala question.He parried."What do you mean? In what way? You mean is he a goodJoe,is he a good politician,has he got a good bedsidemanner for a psychiatrist,or what?" "I mean, how sanedo you think he is?" He looked at Candler and Candler wasn't kidding. Candler was strictly deadpan. He began to laugh, and then he stopped laughing. He leaned forward across Candler's desk. "Ellsworth Joyce Randolph," he said. "You're talking about Ellsworth JoyceRandolph?" Candler nodded. "Dr. Randolph was in here this morning. He told a
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ratherstrangestory.He didn't wantme to print it. He did wantme to check on it. to sendour bestmanto checkon it. He saidif wefoundit wastruewe couldprint it in hundredandtwentyline typein redink." Candlergrinned wryly."We could,at that." face."But thestory He stumpedout his cigarette andstudiedCandler's itself is so screwyyou'renot surewhetherDr. Randolphhimselfmight be insane? " "Exactly." 'And what'stoughaboutthe assignment?" "The doc saysa reportercouldget the storyonly from the inside." "You mean,go in asa guardor something?" Candlersaid,'As something." ttoh.tt
He gotup out of the chairandwalkedoverto the window,stoodwith his backto the managingeditor,lookingout.The sunhadmovedhardlyat all. Yet the shadowpatternin the streetslookeddifferent,obscurelydifferent. The shadowpatterninsidehim wasdifferent,too.This,he knew,waswhat had beengoingto happen.He turnedaround.He said,"No. Hell no." Candlershruggedimperceptibly."Don't blame you. I haven't even askedyou to. I wouldn'tdo it myself." He asked,"What does EllsworthJoyceRandolphthink is going on insidehis nut-house?It must be somethingprettyscrewyif it madeyou wonderwhetherRandolphhimselfis sane." him I wouldn't,whetheror not you "I can'ttell youthat,Vine.Promised took the assignment." "You mean-evenif I took the job I still wouldn'tknow what I was lookingfor?" You wouldn'tbe objective.You'dbe "That'sright.You'dbe prejudiced. lookingfor something,and you might think you found it whetherit was there or not. Or you might be so prejudicedagainstfinding it that you'd refuseto recognizeit if it bit you in the leg." He strodefromthewindowoverto the deskandbangedhis fist downon it. He said,"Goddamnit, Candleqwhy me?You know whathappenedto me threeyearsago." "Sute.Amnesia." Justlike that.But I haven'tkept it any secretthat I "Sure,amnesia. nevergot overthat amnesia.I'm thirty yearsold-or am I? My memory goesbackthreeyears.Do youknowwhatit feelslike to havea blankwallin your memoryonly threeyearsback? "Oh, sure,I knowwhat'son the othersideof that wall.I know because everybodytells me. I know I startedhere as a copy boy ten yearsago.I
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knowwhereI wasborn andwhenand I knowmy parentsareboth dead.t knowwhattheylooklike-becauseI've seentheirpictures.IknowI didnt havea wife and kids,becauseeverybodywho knew me told me I didn't. Get that part-everybodywho knew me, not everybodyI knew.I didn't know anybody. "Sure,I've doneall right sincethen.After I got out of the hospital-and I don't evenrememberthe accidentthat put me there-I did all right back herebecauseI still knew how to write newsstories,eventhoughI hadto learneverybody'snameall overagain.I wasn'tanyworseoff than a new reporterstartingcold on a paperin a strangecity.And everybodywasas helpfulashell." Candlerraiseda placatinghandto stemthe tide.He said,"Okay,Nappy. Yousaidno,andthat'senough.I don'tseewhatall that'sgotto dowith this story,but all you hadto do wassayno. Soforgetaboutit." The tenseness hadn't goneout of him. He said,"You don't seewhat that'sgotto do with the story?You ask-or, all right,you don't ask,you suggest-thatI,getmyselfcertifiedasa madman,go into an asylumas a patient.When-how muchconfidencecouldanyonehavein his ownmind whenhe can'tremembergoingto school,can'trememberthe first time he met anyof the peoplehe workswith everydagcan'trememberstartingon the job he works at, can't remember-anythingback of three years before?" Abruptlyhe struckthe deskagainwith his fist, andthen lookedfoolish aboutit. He said,"I'm sorry.I didn't meanto get woundup aboutit like that." Candlersaid,"Sit dorvn." "The answer'sstill no." "Sit down,anyway." He satdown and fumbleda cigaretteout of his pocket,got it lighted. Candlersaid,"I didn't even meanto mentionit, but I've got to now. Now that you talkedthat way.I didn't know you felt like that aboutyour amnesia. I thoughtthat waswaterunderthe bridge. "Listen,when Dr.Randolphaskedme whatreporterwe hadthat could best cover it, I told him about you. What your backgroundwas. He remembered meetingyou, too, incidentally.But he hadn'tknownyou had amnesia." me?" "Is that why you suggested "Skip that till I makemy point.He saidthat while you werethere,he'd be gladto try one of the newer,milder formsof shocktreatmenton you, and that it might restoreyour lost memories.He saidit would be worth trying." "He didn't sayit wouldwork."
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"He saidit might; that it wouldn'tdo anyharm." He stubbedout thecigarettefromwhichhe'dtakenonlythreedrags.He glaredat Candler.He didn't have to say what was in his mind; the managingeditorcouldreadit. Candlersaid,"Calmdown,boy.Remember I didn'tbringit up until you yourselfstartedin on ho'rrmuchthat memory-wallbotheredyou.I wasn't savingit for ammunition.I mentionedit only out of fairnessto you, after the way you talked." "Fairness!" Candlershrugged. it. Thenyoustartedravingat "Yousaidno.I accepted me and put me in a spotwhereI had to mentionsomethingI'd hardly thoughtof at the time.Forgetit. How'sthatgraftstorycoming?Any new leads? " "You goingto put someoneelseon the asylumstory?" 'oNo.You'rethe logicalone for it." "What rsthe story?It mustbe prettywoollyif it makesyou wonderif Dr.Randolphis sane.Doeshe think his patientsoughtto tradeplaceswith his doctors,or what?" "Sure,youcan'ttell me.That'sreallybeautifuldoublebait. He laughed. Curiosity-andhopeof knockingdownthatwall.Sowhat'stherestof it? If I sayyesinsteadof no,howlongwill I bethere,underwhatcircumstances? What chancehaveI got of gettingout again?How do I get in?" Candlersaidslowly,"Vine,I'm not sureanymoreI wantyou to try it. Let'sskip the wholething." anyway." "Let's not.Not until you answermy questions, 'All right. You'dgo in anonymously; so there wouldn't be any stigma attachedif the storywouldn'twork out.If it does,you cantell the whole truth-including Dr.Randolph's collusionin gettingyouin andout again. The cat will be out of the bag,then. "You might getwhatyouwantin a few days-and you wouldn'tstayon it morethana coupleof weeksin anycase." "How manyat the asylumwouldknowwho I wasandwhat I wasthere for, besidesRandolph? " "No one."Candlerleanedforwardand held up four fingersof his left hand."Four peoplewouldhaveto be in on it. You."He pointedto one finger."Me." A second."Dr. Randolphl'Thethird finger.'And oneother reporterfrom here." "Not that I'd object,but why the otherreporter?" twoways.First,he'll gowith youto somepsychiatrist; "Intermediary.In Randolphwill recommendoneyou canfool comparatively easily.He'll be yourbrotherandrequestthat youbeexaminedandcertified.Youconvince you'renuts and he'll certifyyou.Of courseit takestwo the psychiatrist
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doctorsto put you away,but Randolphwill be the second.Your alleged brotherwill want Randolphfor the secondone:' 'All this underan assumedname?" "If you prefer.Of coursethere'sno realreasonwhy it shouldbe." "That'sthe wayI feel aboutit. Keepit out of the papers,of course.Tell everybodyaroundhere-except my-hey, in that casewe couldn't make up a brother.But CharlieDoerr,in Circulation,is my first cousinand my nearestliving relative.He'd do, wouldn'the?" '"Sure. And he'd haveto be intermediarythe restof the way,then.Visit you at the asylumand bring backanythingyou haveto sendback'" "And if, in a coupleof weeks,I've foundnothing,you'll springme?" Candlernodded."['ll passthe word to Randolph;he'll interviewyou andpronounceyou cured,andyou'reout.Youcomebackhere,andyou've beenon vacation.That'sall." "What kind of insanityshouldI pretendto have?" He thouglrtCandlersquirmeda little in his chair.Candlersaid,"Wellwouldn't this Nappybusinessbe a natural?[ mean,paranoiais a form of [t's insanitywhich Dr. Randolphtold me, hasn'tanyphysicalsymptoms. just a delusionsupportedby a systematicframeworkof rationalization. A paranoiaccan be sanein everyway exceptone." He watchedCandlerandtherewasa faint twistedgrin on his lips. "You meanI shouldthink I'm Napoleon?" Candlergesturedslightly."Chooseyour own delusion.But-isn't that onea natural?I mean,the boysaroundthe office alwayskiddingyou and callingyou Nappy.And-" He finishedweakly,"-and everything." "Want to do it?" And then Candlerlookedat him squarely. He stoodup. "I think so.I'll let you know for suretomorrowmorning afterI've slepton it, but unofficially-yes.Is that goodenough?" Candlernodded. He said, "['m taking the rest of the afternoonoff; I'm going to the And t'll Haven'tanythingelseto do anyway. libraryto readup on paranoia. talk to CharlieDoerrthis evening.Okay?" "Fine. Thanks." He grinnedat Candler.He leanedacrossthe desk.He said,"I'll let youin on a little secret,nowthat thingshavegonethis far.Don't tell anyone.I an Napoleon!" It wasa goodexit line, so he went oul II He got his hat and coatand went outside,out of the air-conditioningand into the hot sunlight.Out of the quiet madhouseof a newspaperoffice
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after deadline, into the quieter madhouse of the streets on a sultry July afternoon. He tilted his panamaback on his head and ran his handkerchief across his forehead. where was he going? Not to the library to bone up on paranoia; that had been a gag to get off for the rest of the afternoon. He'd readeverythingthe library had on paranoia-and on allied subjects-over two yearsago.He was an expert on it. He could fool any psychiatristin the country into thinking that he was sane-or that he wasn't. He walkednorth to the park and sat down on one of the benchesin the shade.He put his hat on the bench beside him and mopped his forehead again. He staredout at the grass,bright green in the sunlight,at the pigeons with their silly head-bobbingmethodof walking,at a red squirrelthat came down one side of a tree,lookedabouthim and scurriedup itr" other sideof the sametree. And he thought back to the wall of amnesia of three years ago. The wall that hadn't been a wall at all. The phraseintrigued him: a wall at all. Pigeonson the grass,alas.A wall at all. It wasn't a wall at all; it was a shift, an abrupt change.A line had been drawn between two lives. Twenty-sevenyearsof a life before the accident. Three yearsof a life since the accident. They were not the same life. But no one knew. until this afternoon he had never even hinted the truth-if it rvasthetruth-to anyone.He'd usedit asan exit line in leaving candler's office, knowing candler would take it as a gag.Even so, one had to be careful; use a gag-linelike that often, and peoplebegin to wonder. The fact that his extensiveinjuries from that accidenthad included a brokenjaw was probablyresponsiblefor the fact that today he was free and not in an insaneasylum.That brokenjaw-it had beenin a castwhen he'd returned to consciousness forty-eighthours after his car had run head-on into a truck ten miles out of town-had prevented him from talking for three weeks. And by the end of three weeks,despitethe pain and the confusionthat had filled him, he'd had a chanceto think things over.He'd invented the wall. The amnesia, the convenient amnesia that was so much more believablethan the truth as he knew it. But rryasthe truth as he knew it? That was the haunting ghost that had ridden him for three years now, since the very hour when he had awakenedto whiteness in a white room and a stranger,strangelydressed,had been sitting beside a bed the like of which had been in no field hospitalhe'd ever heardof or seen.A bed with an overhead framework. And wh.en he looked from the stranger's face
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downat his ownbody,he sawthat oneof his legsandbothof his armswere in castsandthatthe castof the legstuckupwardat anangle,a roperunning overa pulleyholdingit so. He'd tried to openhis mouth to askwherehe was,what hadhappened to him, and that waswhen he discoveredthe caston his jaw. He'd staredat the stranger,hopingthe latter wouldhavesenseenough to volunteerthe informationandthe strangerhadgrinnedat him andsaid, "Hi, George.Backwith us,huh? You'llbe all right." And therewassomethingstrangeaboutthe language-until he placed whatit was.English.was he in the handsof the English?And it wasa language,too, which he knew little of, yet he understoodthe stranger perfectly.And why did the strangercall him George? Maybesomeof the doubt,someof the fiercebewilderment,showedin his eyis, for the strangerleanedcloserto the bed.He said,"Maybeyou're still confused,George.You werein a pretty bad smash-up.You ran that coupeof yourshead-oninto a graveltruck. That wastwo daysago,and you;rejust comingout of it for the first time.You'reall right,but you'll be in the hospitalfor a while, till all the bonesyou bustedknit. Nothing seriouslywrongwith you." And thenwavesof painhadcomeandsweptawaythe confusion,andhe hadclosedhis eyes. Another voicein the room said,"We're goingto give you a hypo,Mr' vine," but he hadn'tdaredopenhis eyesagain.It waseasierto fight the painwithoutseeing. Therehadbeenthe prick of a needlein his upperarm.And prettysoon there'dbeennothingness. when he camebackagain-twelvehourslater,he learnedafterwardsit had beento the samewhite room,the samestrangebed,but this time there was a womanin the room, a womanin a strangewhite costume standingat the foot of the bedstudyinga paperthat wasfastenedto a piece of board. Shesmiled at him when she saw that his eyeswere open.She said, .,Goodmorning,Mr. vine. Hope you're feeling better.I'll tell Dr. Holt you'rebackwith us." She went awayand came back with a man who was also strangely dressed,in roughlythe samefashionas had beenthe strangerwho had calledhim George. who The doctorlookedat him and chuckled."Got a patient,for once,'Are face sobered. his Then write notes." can't talk backto me. Or even you in pain,though?Blink onceif you'renot, twice if you are." The pain wasn't really very bad this time, and he blinked once.The "That cousinof yoursl' he said,"haskept doctornoddedwith satisfaction.
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callingup.He'll begladto knowyou'regoingto be backin shapeto-well, to listenif not to talk. Guessit won't hurt you to seehim a while this evening." Thenurserearranged hisbedclothing andthen,mercifully, bothsheand the doctor had gone, leaving him alone to straightenout his chaotic thoughts. straightenthemout? Thathadbeenthreeyearsago,andhe hadn'tbeen ableto straightenthem out yet: The startlingfactthat they'dspokenEnglishandthat he'd understood that barbarictongueperfectly,despitehis slightpreviousknowledgeof it. How couldan accidenthavemadehim suddenlyfluent in a languagehe'd knownbut slightly? The startlingfactthat they'dcalledhim by a differentname...George,' hadbeenthe nameusedby the manwho'dbeenbesidehis bedlastnight. "Mr. Vine," the nurse had calledhim. GeorgeVine, an English n.me, surely. But therewasone thing a thousandtimesmorestartlingthan eitherof those:It waswhatlastnight'sstranger(Couldhebethe ..cousin"of whom the doctorhad spoken?)had told him aboutthe accident."you ran that coupeof yourshead-oninto a graveltruck." The amazingthing, the contradictorything, wasthat he knewwhat a coupewas andwhata truckwas. Not thathe hadanyrecollection of having driven either,of the accidentitself,or of anythingbeyondthat moment when he'd beensitting in the tent after Lodi-but-but how could a pictureof a coupe,something drivenby a gasoline engineariseto his mind when sucha concepthad neverbeenrn his mind before. Therewasthat madminglingof two worlds-the one sharpand clear and definite.The world he'd lived his twenty-seven yearsof life in, the worldinto whichhe'dbeenborntwenty-seven yearsago,on August15th, 1769,in corsica.The world in whichhe'd goneto sleep-it seimedlike lastnight-in his tent at Lodi,asGeneralof the Army in ltaly,afterhis first importantvictory in the field. And then there was this disturbingworld into which he had been awakened, this whiteworldin whichpeoplespokean English-now that he thought of it-which was different from the English he had heard spokenat Brienne,in valence,at Toulon,and yet which he understood perfectly, whichhe knewinstinctivelythat he couldspeakif hisjaw were not in a cast.This world in which peoplecalledhim GeorgeVinL, and in which,strangestof all, peopleusedwordsthat he did not know,couldnot conceivablyknow,and yet which broughtpicturesto his mind. Coupe,truck. They were both forms of-the word cameto his mind unbidden-automobiles. He concentrated on whatan automobilewasand
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how it worked.and the informationwas there.The cylinderblock, the pistonsdriven by explosionsof gasolinevapor,ignited by a spark of electricityfrom a generatorElectricity.He openedhis eyesandlookedupwardat the shadedlight in the ceiling,and he knew,somehow,that it wasan electriclight, and in a generalwayhe knewwhatelectricitywas. The Italian Galvani-yes, he'd readof someexperimentsof Galvani, anythingpracticalsuchas a light like that. but they hadn't encompassed And staring at the shadedlight, he visualizedbehind it water po$'er He caughthis runningdynamos,milesof wire,motorsrunninggenerators. breathat the conceptthat cameto him out of his own mind, or part of his own mind. The faint, fumbling experimentsof Galvaniwith their weakcurrents the unmysterious and kicking frogs' legs had scarcelyforeshadowed thing yet; was the strangest that and in the ceiling; up mysteryof that light part of his mind found it mysteriousand anotherpart took it for granted and understoodin a generalsort of way how it all worked. L€t's see,he thought,the electriclight wasinventedby ThomasAlva Edisonsomewherearound-Ridiculous;he'd beengoing to say around 1900,andit wasnow only 1796! And then the reallyhorriblething cameto him andhe tried-painfully' in vain-to sit up in bed.It had been1900,his memorytold him, and haddied Edisonhaddiedin 1931-anda mannamedNapoleonBonaparte a hundredandten yearsbeforethat,in 1821. He'd nearlygoneinsanethen. And, saneor insane,only the factthat he couldnot speakhadkepthim out of a madhouse;it gavehim time to think thingsout,time to realizethat his only chance lay in pretending amnesia,in pretending that he nothingof life prior to the accident.Theydon't put you in a remembered Theytell youwhoyouare,letyougobackto what madhouse for amnesia. they tell you your former life was.They let you pick up the threadsand weavethem, while you try to remember. Three yearsago he'd done that. Now, tomorrow,he was going to a psychiatrist andsaythat he was-Napoleon! III Overheada big bird of a planedronedby The slantof the sunwasgreater. laughing,quietly to himself-not the began at it and and he lookedup it sprangfrom the conception Truelaughterbecause laughterof madness.
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of Napoleon Bonaparteriding in a plane like that and from the overwhelmingincongruityof that idea. It came to him then that he'd never ridden in a plane that he remembered. MaybeGeorgevine had; at sometime in the twenty-seven yearsof life Georgevine hadspent,he must have.But did that meanthat hehadriddenin one?Thatwasa questionthatwaspartof the big question. He got up andstartedto walkagain.It wasalmostfive o'clock;pretty sooncharlie Doerrwouldbe leavingthe paperandgoinghomefor dinner. Maybehe'd betterphonecharlieandbe surehe'd be homethis evening. He headedfor the nearestbarandphoned;he got charliejust in time. He said,"This is George.Goingto be homethis evening?" "sure,George.I wasgoingto a pokergame,but I caliedit off whenI learnedyou'd be around." "When you learned- Oh, Candlertalkedto you?" "Yeah.say,Ididn'tknowyou'dphoneme or I'd havecalledMarge,but howaboutcomingoutfor dinner?It'll beall rightwith her,I'llcallhernow if you can." He said,"Thanks,no, charlie.Got a dinnerdate.And say,aboutthat cardgame;you cango.I cangetthereaboutsevenandwe won't haveto talk all evening;an hour'll be enough.you wouldn't be leavingbefore eight anyway." charlie said,"Don't worryaboutit; I don't much wantto go anyway, andyou haven'tbeenout for a while.so I'll seeyou at seven,-then." Fromthe phonebooth,he walkedoverto the barandordereda beer.He wonderedwhy he'd turned down the invitation to .dinner;probably because, subconsciously, he wantedanothercoupleof hours6y himself beforehe talkedto anyone,evenCharlieand Marge. He sippedhis beerslowly,because he wantedto makeit last; he hadto staysobertonight,plentysober.Therewasstill time to changehis mind; he'dleft himselfa loophole,howeversmall.He couldstill goio candlerin the morningand sayhe'd decidednot to do it. over the rim of his glasshe staredat himselfin the back-barmirror. small,sandy-haired, with freckleson hisnose,stocky. Thesmallandstocky partfitted all right; but the restof it! Not the remotestresemblance. He drankanotherbeerslowry,and that madeit harf pastfive. He wanderedout againand walked,this time towardtown.He walked pastthe Bladeandlookedup to the third floor andat the window he'd been lookingout of whencandlerhadsentfor him. He wonderedif he'd ever sit by that windowagainand look out acrossa sunlit afternoon. Maybe.Maybenot. He thoughtaboutClare.Did he wantto seeher tonight? well, no, to be honestaboutit, he didn't. But if he disappeared for two
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weeksor so without havingevensaidgood-byeto her,then he'd haveto write her off his books. He'd better. He stoppedin at a drugstoreand calledher home.He said,"This is George,Clare. Listen, I'm being sent out of to$'n tomorrow on an assignment;don't know how long I'll be gone.One of thosethingsthat mightbea fewdaysor a fewweeks.But couldI seeyoulatethis evening,to sayso long?" "Why sure,George.Whattime?" "It might be after nine, but not much after.That be okay?I'm seeing Charliefirst, on business;may not be ableto get awaybeforenine." "Of course,George.Any time." He stoppedin at a hamburgerstand,althoughhe wasn't hungry,and managedto eata sandwichanda pieceof pie.That madeit a quarterafter six and,if he walked,he'dgetto Charlie'satjust abouttherighttime.Sohe walked. Charliemet him at the door.With fingerson his lips,hejerkedhis head backwardtoward the kitchen where Marge was wiping dishes. He whispered,"I didn't tell Marge,George.It'd worry her." He wantedto askCharliewhy it would,or should,worry Marge,but he didn't. Maybehe wasa little afraidof the answer.It wouldhaveto mean and that wasa badsign.He that Margewasworryingabouthim already, thoughthe'd beencarryingeverythingoff prettywell for threeyearsnow. Charliewasleadinghim into the living Anyway,he couldn'taskbecause room and the kitchen was within easyearshot,and Charliewas saying, "Glad you decidedyou'd like a gameof chess,George.Margeis goingout tonight; movie she wantsto seedorvnat the neighborhoodshow.I was but I didn't want to," goingto that cardgameout of self-defense, andmen out of the closetandstartedto setup a He got the chessboard gameon the coffeetable. Margecamein with a tray bearingtall cold glassesof beerand put it Shesaid,"Hi, George.Hearyou'regoingaway don'nbesidethechessboard. weeks." a coupleof He nodded."But I don't knowwhere.Candler-the managingeditorandI saidsure,and askedme if I'd be freefor an out of town assignment it tomorrow." tell me about he saidhe'd hands,a pawnin each,andhe touched Charliewasholdingoutclenched got movedpawnto king's fourth and, white. He Charlie'sleft hand and his when Charliedid the same,advanced queen'spawn. Margewas fussingwith her hat in front of the mirror. Shesaid,"If you'renot herewhen I get back,George,so long and goodluck." 'BYe." He said,"Thanks,Marge.
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He madea few moremovesbeforeMargecameover,readyto go,kissed Charliegood-bye,and then kissedhim lightly on the forehead.Shesaid, "Takecareof yourself,George." For a momenthis eyesmet her paleblue onesand he thought,she rs worryingaboutme.It scaredhim a little. After the door had closedbehind heq he said, "Let's not finish the game,Charlie.Let's get to the brasstacks,becauseI've got to seeClare aboutnine.DunnohowlongI'll be gone,so I can'tverywell not saygoodbye to her." Charlielookedup at him. "You and Clareserious,George?" "I don't know" Charliepickedup his beerandtook a sip.Suddenlyhis voicewasbrisk andbusinesslike. He said,'All right,let'ssit on the brasstacks.We'vegot an appointmentfor eleveno'clocktomorrowmorningwith a guy named Irving, Dr. W. E. Irving, in the AppletonBlock.He's a psychiatrist;Dr. Randolphrecommended him. "I calledhim up this afternoonafterCandlertalkedto me; Candlerhad alreadyphonedRandolph.Igavemy right name.My storywasthis: I've got a cousinwho'sbeenactingqueer latelyandwhomI wantedhim to talkto.I didn't give the cousin'sname.I didn't tell him in whatway you'd been actingqueer;I duckedthe questionandsaidI'd ratherhavehimjudgefor himselfwithoutprejudice.IsaidI'd talkedyouinto talkingto a psychiatrist and that the only one I knew of wasRandolph;that I'd calledRandolph, who saidhe didnl do much privatepracticeand recommended Irving.I told him I wasyour nearestliving relative. "That leavesthe way open to Randolphfor the secondnameon the certificate.If you cantalk Irving into thinking you'rereallyinsaneandhe wantsto signyou up,I caninsiston havingRandolph, whomI wantedin the first place.And this time,of course,Randolphwill agree." "Youdidn't saya thingaboutwhatkind of insanityyoususpected me of having?" Charlieshookhis head.He said,"So,anyway,neitherof us goesto work atthe Bladetomorrorp.I'llleavehomethe usualtime soMargewon't know anything,but I'll meetyoudowntown-say, in the lobbyof the Christinaat a quarter of eleven.And if you can convince Irving that you're commitable-ifthat'stheword-we'll getRandolph rightawayandgetthe wholething settledtomorrow." "And if I changemy mind?" "Then['ll calltheappointment off.That'sall.Look,isn'tthatall thereis to talk over? Let's play this gameof chessout; it's only twenty after sgven." He shookhis head."['d rathertalk, Charlie.One thing you forgotto
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cover,anyway. After tomorrcwHowoftenyoucomingto seeme to pick up bulletinsfor Candler?" "Oh, sure,I forgotthat. As often as visiting hourswill permit-three Fridayafternoons.Tornorrow'sFridag timesa week.Monday,Wednesday, so if you g€t in, the first time ['ll be ableto seeyou is Mondayl' "Okay.Say,Charlie,did Candlerevenhint to youat whatthe storyis that I'm supposedto get tn there?" CharlieDoerrshookhis headslowly."Not a word.Whatis it? Or is it too secretfor you to talk about?" He staredat Charlie,wondering.And suddenlyhe felt that he couldn't tell the truth; that he didn't knorveither.Itwouldmakehim look sosilly.It hadn'tsoundedso foolishwhen Candlerhadgiventhe reason-a reason, anyway-for not telling him, but it wouldsoundfoolishnow. He said,"If he didn't tell you,I guessI'd betternot either,Charlie."And sincethat didn't soundtoo convincing,he added,"I promisedCandlerI wouldn't." Bothglasses of beerwereemptyby then,andCharlietooktheminto the kitchenfor refilling. He followedCharlie,somehowpreferringthe informalityof the kitchen. his elbowson the backof it, and of a kitchenchair,leaning He sata-straddle Charlieleanedagainstthe refrigerator. Charliesaid,"Prosit!" and they drank,and then Charlieasked,"Have you got your storyreadyfor Doc Irving?" He nodded."Did Candlertell you what I'm to tell him?" "You mean,that you'reNapoleon?"Charliechuckled. Did that chucklering true?He lookedat Charlie,andhe knewthat what he wasthinkingwascompletelyincredible.Charliewassquareandhonest astheycame.CharlieandMargewerehis bestfriends;they'dbeenhis best friendsfor three yearsthat he knew of. Longerthan that, a hell of a lot longer,accordingto Charlie.But beyond those three years-that was somethingelseagain. the wordsweregoingto stick a little. But He clearedhis throatbecause he hadto ask,he hadto be sure."Charlie,['m goingto askyou a hell of a question.Isthis business on the up andup?" "Huh?" "It's a hell of a thing to ask.But-look, youandCandlerdon't think I'm crazy,do you?Youdidn't work this out betweenyou to getme put awaywithout my knowingit washappening, or anywayexamined-painlessly, you?" till too late,did Charliewasstaringat him. He said,"Jeez,George,you don't think I'd do a thing like that,do you?" "No, I don't. But-you could think it wasfor my own good,and you
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mighton thatbasis.Look,charlie,if it rsthat,if you thinkthat, let me point out thatthisisn'tfair.['m goingup against a psychiatrist tomorrowto lie to him, to try to convincehim that I havedelusions. Not to be honestwith him. And that wouldbe unfairas hell, to me. you seethat,don't you, Charlie?" charlie'sfacegota little white.He saidslowly,"BeforeGod,George,it's nothinglike that.All I know aboutthis is whatcandterandyou havetold me.tt
"You think I'm sane,fully sane?', Charlielickedhis lips.He said,,.youwantit straight?" ttYes.tt "I neverdoubtedit, until this moment.unless-well.amnesia is a form of mentalaberration,I suppose,and you'venevergot overthat, but that isn't whatyou mean,is it?" ttNo.tt
"Then, until right now-George, that soundslike a persecution complex,if you reallymeantwhatyou askedme.A conspiracy to geryou to- surelyyou canseehow ridiculousit is. what possiblereasonwould eithercandleror I haveto getyouto lie yourselfinto beingcommitted?" He said,"I'm sorry,charlie.It wasjust a screwymomentarynotion.No, i.Let'sfinish I don't think that,of course."He glancedat his wristwatch. that chessgame,huh?" "Fine. Wait till I give us a refill to takealong.,' He playedcarelesslyand managedto losewithin fifteen minutes.He turneddowncharlie'soffer of a chancefor revengeandleanedbackin his chair. He said,"charlie,everhearof chessmen comingin redand black?" "N-no. Either blackand white,or red and white,any I've everseen. Why?" "well-" He grinned."I supposeI oughtn'tto tell you this afterjust makingyou wonderwhetherI'm reallysaneafterall, but I've beenhaving recurrentdreamsrecently.No crazierthanordinarydreamsexceptthat I'vi beendreamingthe samethingsoverand over.one of them is something abouta gamebetweenthe red and the black;I don't evenknow whether it's chess.Youknowhowit is whenyou dream;thingsseemto makesense whethertheydo or not.In the dreamI don't wonderwhetherthe red-andblackbusiness is chessor not; I know,I guess,or seemto know.But the knowledgedoesn'tcarryover.you know what I mean?" "Sure.Go on.tt "well, charlie, I've b-eenwonderingif it just might havesomethingto do with the othersideof that wall of amnesiaI've nJverbeenableto cross. This is the first time in my-well, not in my life, maybe,but in the three
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yearsI rememberof it, that I've had recurrentdreams.I wonderif-if memorymay not be trying to get through. for instance?Or,in "Did I ever havea set of red and blackchessmen, or baseball basketball have intramural any school I went to, did they that?" like anything betweenred teamsand blackteams,or-or Charliethoughtfor a long momentbeforehe shookhis head'"No, he said,"nothing like that.Of coursethere'sred andblackin toulette-rouge et noir.And it's the two colorsin a deckof playingcards." "No,I'm prettysureit doesn'ttie in with cardsor roulette.It's not-not the red and the black.They'rethe players, like that. [t's a gamebetween Think hard,charlie; not aboutwhereyou might haverun into somehow. that idea,but wherelmight have." He watchedCharlie struggleand after a while he said, "Okay,don't sprainyour brain,Charlie.Try this one.Thebrightlyshining." "The brightlyshiningwhat?" "Just that phrase,thebrightlyshining.Doesit meananythingto you,at all?" ttNo.tt
"Okay,"he said."Forgetit." IV He wasearly and he walkedpastclare's house,as far as the cornerand stoodunderthe big elm there,smokingthe rest of his cigarette,thinking bleakly. Therewasn'tanythingto think about,really; all he had to do wassay And stalloff her questionsasto where good-byeto her.Twoeasysyllables. he was going,exactlyhow long he'd be gone.Be quiet and casualand unemotionalabout it, just as though they didn't mean anything in particularto eachother. It hadto be that way.He'd known clare wilson a yearand a half now, andhe'd kepther danglingthat long; it wasn'tfair.This hadto be the end, for her sake.He hadaboutasmuchbusinessaskinga womanto marryhim as-as a madmanwho thinks he's Napoleon! He droppedhis cigaretteandgroundit viciouslyinto the walk with his heel,then went backto the house,up on the porch,and rangthe bell. Clareherselfcameto the door.The light from the hallwaybehindher face. madeher hair a circletof spun gold aroundher shadowed He wantedto takeher into his armsso badlythat he clenchedhis fists with the effort it took to keephis armsdown. ,StupidlShe said,"Hi, Clare.How'severything?" "I donit know,George.How ls everything?Aren't you comingin?"
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She'dsteppedbackfrom the doorwayto let him pastand the light was on her facenow,sweetlygrave.Sheknew somethingwasup, he thought; her expressionand the tone of her voicegavethat away. He didn't wantto go in. He said,"It's sucha beautifulnight,Clare.kt's takea stroll." 'All right,George."Shecameout ontothe porch. is "It a fine night,such beautifulstars."Sheturned and lookedat him. "Is one of them yours?" He starteda little. Then he steppedforwardandtook her elbow,guiding her downthe porchsteps.He saidlightly,'All of them aremine.Wantto buy any?" "You wouldn'tgiveme one?Justa teenylittle dwarfstar,maybe?Even one that I'd haveto usea telescopeto see?" They wereout on the sidewalkthen, out of hearingof the house,and abruptlyher voicechanged, the playfulnotedroppedfrom it, andsheasked anotherquestion,"What's wrong,George?" He openedhis mouth to say nothing was wrong,and then closedit again.Therewasn'tany lie that he couldtell her,and he couldn't tell her the truth, either.Her askingof thatquestion,in thatway,shouldhavemade thingseasier;it madethem moredifficult. Sheaskedanother,"You meanto saygood-byefor-for good,don't you, George?" He said,"Yes,"andhis mouth wasvery dry.He didn't knowwhetherit cameout as an articulatemonosyllableor not, and he wettedhis lips and tried again.He said,"Yes,['m afraidso,Clare." "Why?" He couldn't makehimselfturn to look at her,he staredblindly ahead. He said,"I-I can'ttell you,Clare.But it's theonlythingI cando.It's best for both of us." "Tell me one thing, George.Are you reallygoingaway?Or was that just-an excuse?" "It's true.I'm goingaway;I don't knowfor how long.But don't askme where,please.I can't tell you that." "Maybe I cantell you, George.Do you mind if I do?" He mindedall right; he mindedterribly.But how couldhe sayso? He didn't sayanything,becausehe couldn't sayyes,either. They werebesidethe park now,the little neighborhoodpark that was only a blocksquareanddidn't offer muchin the wayof privacy,but which did havebenches. And he steeredher-or shesteeredhim: he didn't know which-into the park and they sat down on a bench.There were other peoplein the park,but not too near.Still he hadn'tanswered her question. Shesatvery closeto him on the bench.Shesaid."You'vebeenworried aboutyour mind,haven'tyou,George?"
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"Well-yes, in a way,yes,I have." "And your goingawayhassomethingto do with that,hasn'tit? You're goingsomewherefor observationor treatment,or both?" "somethinglike that.[t's not assimpleasthat,Clare,andI-I just can't tell you aboutit." Sheputherhandon hishand,lyingon his knee.Shesaid,"I knewit was like that,George.And I don'taskyouto tell me anythingabout something it. "Just-just don't saywhatyoumeantto say.Saysolonginsteadof goodbye.Don't evenwriteme,if youdon'twantto.But don'tbe nobleandcall everythingoff hereand now,for my sake.At leastwait until you'vebeen whereveryou'regoing.Will you?" He gulped.She madeit sound so simple when actuallyit was so 'All right, clare. If you want it that way." Miserablyhe said, complicated. Abruptlyshestoodup. "Let's get back,George." He stoodbesideher."But it's early." .,I know.but sometimes-Well,there'sa psychological momentto end a date,George.Iknowthatsoundssilly,but afterwhatwe'vesaid,wouldn't it be-uh-anticlimactic-to- " He laugheda little. He said,"I seewhat you mean." They walkedbackto her home in silence.He didn't know whetherit washappyor unhappysilence;he wastoo mixedup for that. porch,in front of the door,sheturnedandfacedhim. on the shadowed Silence. said. she "George," "Oh, damnyou,George;quit beingso nobleor whateveryou'rebeing' form Unless,of course,youdon'tloveme.Unlessthis is just an elaborate giving you're it?" me. Is of-of runaround Therewere only two things he could do. one was run like hell. The other was what he did. He put his arms around her and kissedher. Hungrily. When that wasover,and it wasn'tovertoo quickly,he wasbreathinga little hardand not thinking too clearly,for he wassayingwhat he hadn't meantto sayat all, "[ love you, Clare.I love you; I love you so," And she said, "[ love you, too' dear.You'll come back to me, won't you?" And he said,"Yes, Ies." It waSfour miles or so from her home to his roominghouse,but he walked,and the walk seemedto takeonly seconds' He satat the windowof his room,with the light out, thinking,but the thoughtswent in the sameold circlesthey'd gonein for threeyears. No newfactorhadbeenaddedexceptthat nowhe wasgoingto stickhis neckout,wayout,milesout.Maybe,just maybe,thisthingwasgoingto be settledone way or the-other.
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Out there,out his window,the starswerebright diamondsin the sky. Wasoneof them his starof destiny?If so,he wasgoingto followit, follow it eveninto the madhouseif it led there.Insidehim wasa deeplyrooted convictionthat this wasn'taccident,that it wasn'tcoincidence that hadted to his beingaskedto tell the truth underguiseof falsehood. His star of destiny. Brightlysftinlag?No,the phrasefrom his dreamsdid not referto that; it wasnot an adjectivephrase,but a noun. Thebrightlyshining.Whatwas/le brightlyshining? And the red and the black?He'd thought of everythingCharliehad suggested, andotherthings,too.Checkers, for instance.But it wasnot that. The red and the black. Well, whateverthe answerwas,he was running full-speedtowardit now,not awayfrom it. After a while he went to bed,but it wasa long time beforehe went to sleep.
v CharlieDoerr cameout of the inner office markedPrivateand put his hand out. He said,"Good luck, George.The doc's readyto talk to you now.tt
He shookCharlie'shandandsaid,"You mightaswell run along.['ll see you Monday,first visiting day." "I'll wait here," Charlie said. "I took the day off work anyway, remember?Besides,maybeyou won't haveto go." He droppedCharlie'shand, and staredinto Charlie'sface. He said slowly,"What do you mean,Charlie-maybeI won't haveto go." "Why-" Charlielookedpuzded."Why,maybehe'll tell you you'reall right,or just suggestregularvisitsto seehim until you'restraightened out, or-" Charliefinishedweakly,"-or solnothing." Unbelievingly, he staredat Charlie.He wantedto ask,am I crazyor are you, but that soundedcrazyunder the circumstances. But he had to be sure,surethat Charliejust hadn'tlet somethingslip from his mind; maybe he'd fallen into the role he wassupposedto be playingwhenhe talkedto the doctorjust now.He asked,"Charlie,don't you rememberthat-" And even the rest of that questionseemedinsanefor him to be asking,with charlie staringblanklyat him. The answerwasin charlie'sface:it didn't haveto be broughtto Charlie'slips. Charliesaidagain,"I'll wait, of course.Goodluck, George." He looked into Charlie's eyes and nodded,then turned and went
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through the door markedPrivate.He closedit behind him, meanwhile studyingthe manwho hadbeensittingbehindthe deskandwho hadrisen as he entered.A big man,broadshouldered,iron grayhair. "Dr.Irving?" "Yes,Mr. Vine.Will you be seated,please?" He slid into the comfortable,paddedarmchairacrossthe deskfrom the doctor. "Mr. Vine," saidthe doctor,"a first interviewof this sort is alwaysa bit difficult. For the patient,I mean.Until you know me better,it will be difficult for you to overcomea certainreticencein discussingyourself. Wouldyou preferto talk, to tell me thingsyour own way,or would you ratherI askedquestions?" He thoughtthat over.He'd hada storyready,but thosefew wordswith Charliein the waitingroom hadchangedeverything. He said,"Perhapsyou'd betteraskquestions." "Very well."Therewasa pencilin Dr.Irving'shandandpaperon the deskbeforehim. "Where and when wereyou born?" He took a deepbreath."To the best of my knowledge,in Corsicaon Augustlsth, 1769.I don't actuallyrememberbeingborn,of course.I do rememberthingsfrom my boyhoodon Corsica,though'We stayedthere until I wasten, and after that I wassent to schoolat Brienne." Insteadof writing,the doctorwastappingthe paperlightly with the tip of his pencil.He asked,"What monthandyearis this?" 'August,1769.Yes,Iknowthatshouldmakemea hundredandseventy' someyearsold.Youwantto knowhow I accountfor that.I don't.Nor do I accountfor the fact that NapoleonBonapartedied in 1821." He leanedback in the chair and crossedhis arms,staringup at the or the discrepancies. ceiling."I don't attemptto accountfor the paradoxes andasidefrom my memorg to own according themassuch.But I recognize years. won't recount I twenty-seven pro for logic or con,I wasNapoleon the history books. in down duringthat time; it's all whathappened the armies in charge of "But in l796,afterthe battleof Lodi,while I was just goes to sleep as anyone in Italg I went to sleep.As far as I knew, anywhere,anytime.But I wokeup-with no sensewhateverof durationby the way-in a hospitalin townhere,andI wasinformedthat my namewas yearsold. GeorgeVine,that the yearwas1944,andthat I wastwenty-seven part was all. Absolutely yearsold checked,andthat "The twenty-seven of anypartsof GeorgeVine'slife, prior to hisall.I haveno recollections my-waking up in the hospitalafterthe accident.Iknowquite a bit about his earlylife now,but only becauseI've beentold. "[ know when and wherehe wasborn, wherehe went to school,and when he startedwork at the Blade.I know when he enlistedin the army
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andwhenhe wasdischarged-late in 1943-because he developed a trick knee after a leg injury.Not in combat,incidentally,and therewasn'tany 'psycho-neurotic' on my-his-discharge." The doctorquit doodlingwith the pencil.He asked,"You'vefelt this wayfor threeyears-andkept it a secret?" "Yes. I had time to think things over after the accident,and yes, I decidedthen to acceptwhat they told me aboutmy identity.They'dhave lockedme up,of course.Incidentally,I've triedtofigureout ananswer.I've studied Dunne's theory of time-even CharlesFort!" He grinned suddenly."Ever readaboutCasperHauser?" Dr.Irving nodded. "Maybehe wasplayingsmartthe way I did. And I wonderhow many pretendedthey didn't know what happenedprior to a other amnesiacs certaindate-rather than admit they had memoriesat obviousvariance with the facts." Dr. Irving saidslowlS"Your cousininformsme that you werea bitah-'hepped' was his word-on the subjectof Napoleonbeforeyour accident.How do you accountfor that?" "I've told youI don't accountfor anyof it. But I canverifythe fact,aside from whatCharlieDoerrsaysaboutit. Apparentlyl-the GeorgeVine I, if I waseverGeorgeVine-was quiteinterestedin Napoleon,hadreadabout him, madea heroof him, andhadtalkedabouthim quite a bit. Enoughso that the fellowshe workedwith at theBladehad,nicknamed him.Nappy."' "I noticeyoudistinguishbetweenyourselfandGeorgeVine.Are youor areyou not he?" "I have been for three years.Beforethat-I haveno recollectionof beingGeorgeVine. I don't think I was.I think-as nearlyas I think anything-that /, threeyearsago,wokeup in GeorgeVine's body." "Havingdonewhat for a hundredand seventy-some years?" "I haven'tthe faintestidea.Incidentally, I don't doubt that this rs GeorgeVine's body,and with it I inheritedhis knowledge-excepthis personalmemories.For example,I knew how to handlehis job at the newspaper, althoughI didn't rememberany of the peopleI workedwith there.I havehisknowledge of English,for instance, andhisabilityto write. I knewhow to operatea typewriter. My handwritingis the sameashis." "If you think that you arenot Vine, how do you accountfor that?" He leanedforward."I think part of me rbGeorgeVine, and part of me isn't.I think sometransference hashappened whichis outsidethe run of ordinaryhuman experience.That doesn't necessarilymean that it's supernatural-northat I'm insane.Doesit?" Dr. Irving didn't answer.Instead,he asked,..you kept this secretfor three years, for understandablereasons.Now, presumablyfor other
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reasons,you decide to tell. What are the other reasons?What has happenedto changeyour attitude?" It wasthe questionthat had beenbotheringhim. He said slowly, "BecauseI don't believe in coincidence.Because somethingin the situationitself haschanged.BecauseI'm willing to risk imprisonmentas a paranoiacto find out the truth." "What in the situationhaschanged?" "Yesterdayit wassuggested-bymy employer-that I feigninsanityfor a practicalreason.And the verykind of insanitywhichI have,if any.Surely, I will admit the possibilitythat I'm insane.But I can only operateon the theory that I'm not. You know that you'reDr. Willard E. Irving; you can only operateon that theory-but how do you knowyouare?Maybeyou're insane,but you can only act as thoughyou'renot." "You think youremployeris partof a plot-ah-against you?Youthink to getyou into a sanitarium?" thereis a conspiracy "I don't know.Here'swhat hashappenedto me sinceyestetdaynoon." He tooka deepbreath.Thenhe plunged.He toldDr.Irvingthewholestory of his interviewwith Candler,what CandlerhadsaidaboutDr. Randolph, about his talk with Charlie Doerr last night and about Charlie's bewilderingabout-facein the waitingroom. When he was throughhe said,"That's all." He lookedat Dr. Irving's facewith morecuriositythan concern,trying to readit. He expressionless added,quite casually,"You don't believeme, of course.You think I'm insane." He met lrving's eyessquarely.He said,"You haveno choice-unless you would chooseto believeI'm telling you an elaborateset of lies to convinceyou I'm insane.I mean,as a scientistand as a psychiatrist,you cannotevenadmitthe possibilitythat the thingsI believe-&now- are objectivelytrue.Am I not right?" "I fear that you are.So?" "So go aheadandsignyour commitment.I'mgoingto follow this thing through.Even to the detail of havingDr. EllsworthJoyceRandolphsign the secondone." "You makeno objection?" "Would it do any goodif I did?" "On one point,yes,Mr. Vine. If a patienthasa prejudiceagainst-or a it is bestnot to havehim underthat delusionconcerning-onepsychiatrist, particularpsychiatrist'scare.If you think Dr. Randolphis concernedin a plot againstyou,I would suggestthat anotherone be named." He saidsoftly,"Even if I chooseRandolph?" Dr. Irving waveda deprecatinghand,"Of course,if both you and Mr. Doerr prefer-"
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"We prefer." The iron gray headnoddedgravely."Of courseyou understandone it will thing;if Dr.RandolphandI decideyoushouldgoto the sanitarium, not be for custodialcare.It will be for your recoverythroughtreatment." He nodded. Dr. Irving stood. "You'll pardon me a moment? I'll phone Dr. Randolph." He watchedDr.Irvinggothrougha doorto an innerroom.He thought; there'sa phoneon his deskright there;but he doesn'twantme to overhear the conversation. He satthereveryquietlyuntil Irvingcamebackandsaid,"Dr. Randolph is free.And I phonedfor a cabto takeus there.You'llpardonme again?I'd like to speakto your cousin,Mr. Doerr." He satthereanddidn't watchthe doctorleavein the oppositedirection for the waitingroom.He could havegoneto the door and tried to catch wordsin the low-voicedconversation, but he didn't.Hejust satthereuntil he heardthe waitingroomdooropenbehindhim andCharlie'svoicesaid, "Corneon, George.The cabwill be waitingdownstairsby nowl' They went downin the elevatorandthe cabwasthere.Dr. lrving gave the address. In the cab,about half way there,he said,"It's a beautifulday,"and Charlieclearedhis throat and said,"Yeah,it is." The rest of the way he didn't try it againandnobodysaidanything. VI He wore gray trousersand a gray shirt, open at the collar and with no necktiethathe mightdecideto hanghimselfwith.No belt,either,for the samereason,althoughthe trousersbuttonedso snuglyaroundthe waist that therewasno dangerof themfallingoff. Justastherewasno dangerof his falling out any of the windows;they werebarred. He wasnot in a cell, however;it wasa largeward on the third floor. Thereweresevenothermenin theward.His eyesranoverthem.Twowere playingcheckers,sitting on the floor with a boardon the floor between them.Onesatin a chair,staringfixedly at nothing;two leanedagainstthe bars of one of the open windows,looking out and talking casuallyand sanely.Onereada magazine. Onesatin a corner,playingsmootharpeggios on a pianothat wasn'tthereat all. He stoodleaningagainstthe wall,watchingthe otherseven.He'd been heretwo hoursnow; it seemedlike two years. The interviewwith Dr.EllsworthJoyceRandolphhadgonesmoothly;it
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had beenpracticallya duplicateof his interview with lrving. And quite obviously,Dr. Randolphhad neverheardof him before. He'd expectedthat, of course. He felt very calm,now.For a while, he'd decided,he wasn't goingto think, wasn'tgoingto worry,wasn'tevengoingto feel. He strolledoverand stoodwatchingthe checkergame. It wasa sanecheckergame;the ruleswerebeingfollowed. One of the men lookedup and asked,"What's your name?" It wasa perfectlysanequestion;the only thing wrongwith it wasthat the same four times now within the two hours man had askedthe samequestion_ he'd beenhere. He said,"GeorgeVine." RayBassington. Call me Ray.Are you insane?" "Mine's Bassington, ttNo.tt
"Someof usareandsomeof us aren't.He is."He lookedat the manwho wasplayingthe imaginarypiano."Do you playcheckers?" "Not very well." "Good. We eat pretty soonnow.Anything you want to know,just ask mg.tt
"How do you get out of here?Wait, I don't meanthat for a gag,or what'sthe procedure?" anything.Seriously, go "You in front of the boardoncea month.Theyaskyou questionsand decideif you go or stay.Sometimesthey stick needlesin you. What you downfor?" "Down for? Whatdo you mean?" dementia praecox,involutional "Feeble-minded,manic-depressive, melancholia-" I guess." "Oh. Paranoia, "That's bad.Then they stick needlesin you." A bell rangsomewhere. "That's dinnerl' said the other checkerplayer."Ever try to commit suicide?Or kill anyone?" ttNo.tt
"They'll let you eat at an A tablethen, with knife and fork." The doorof the wardwasbeingopened.It openedoutwardanda guard stoodoutsideandsaid,'All righf'They filed out,all exceptthe manwho wassitting in the chair staringinto space. "How abouthim?" he askedRayBassington. just going into the "He'll miss a meal tonight. Manic-depressive, depressive stage.Theylet you missonemeal;if you'renot ableto goto the next they takeyou and feedyou.You a manic-depressive?" ttNo.tt
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"You'relucky.It's hell whenyou'reon the down-swing. Here,through this door." It wasa big room.Thblesand bencheswerecrowdedwith men in gray shirtsand gray trousers,like his. A guardgrabbedhis arm as he went throughthe doorwayand said,"There.That seat." It wasrightbesidethe door.Therewasa tin plate,messywith food,and a spoonbesideit. He asked,"Don't I get a knifeandfork?I wastold-" The guardgavehim a shovetowardthe seat..,Observation period,seven days.Nobodygetssilverwaretill their observationperiod'sover.siddown." He sat down.No one at his table had silverware.All the otherswere eating,severalof them noisily and messily.He kept his eyeson his own plate,unappetizingas that was.He toyedwith his spoonand managedto eata few piecesof potatoout of the stewandoneor two of the chunksof meatthat weremostlylean. The coffeewasin a tin cup andhe wonderedwhy until he realizedhow breakablean ordinarycup would be and how lethal courdbe one of the heavymugscheaprestaurants use. The coffeewasweakandcool;he couldn'tdrink it. He satbackandclosedhis eyes.Whenhe openedthemagaintherewas an emptyplateand an emptycup in front of him and the man at his left was eating very rapidly.It was the man who'd been playingthe nonexistentpiano. He thought,if I'm herelongenough,I'll gethungryenoughto eatthat stuff. He didn't like the thoughtof beingtherethat long. After a while a bell rangandthey got up, onetableat a time on signals he didn'tcatch,andfiled out.His grouphadcomein last;it wentout first. RayBassington wasbehindhim on the stairs.He said,.,you'll get used to it. What'dyou sayyour nameis?" What'd you sityyour nameis?" "GeorgeVine." Bassington laughed.The door shut on them and a key turned. He sawit wasdark outside.He went over to one of the windowsand staredout throughthe bars.Therewasa singlebrightstarthat showedjust abovethe top of the elm treein the yard.y'*sstar?well, he'd followedit here.A clouddriftedacrossit. someonewasstandingbesidehim. He turnedhis headand sawit was the man who'd beenplayingpiano.He had a dark,foreign-looking face with intenseblackeyes;iust then he wassmiling,as thoughat a secret joke. "You'renew here,aren'tyou?Or just get put in this ward,which?" "New.GeorgeVine's the name." "Baroni.Musician.Usedto be,anyway. Now-let it go.Anythingyou
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want to knon,aboutthe place?" "Sure.Ho-wto get out of it." Baronilaughed,without particularamusementbut not bitterly either. ,.First,convincethem you'reall right again.Mind tellingwhat'swrong with you-or don't you want to talk aboutit? someof us mind, others don't." He lookedat Baroni,wonderingwhich way he felt. Finally he said,"[ guessI don't mind.I-think I'm Napoleon'" "Are you?" 'Am I what?" 'Are youNapoleon?If you aren't,that'sonething.Thenmaybeyou'll get out of here,in six monthsor so. If you rcally are-that's bad.You'll probablydie here." "Why? I mean,if I am,then I'm saneand-" ,.Noithepoint.point'swhethertheythink you'resaneor not.Waythey figure,if you think you'reNapoleonyou'renot sane.Q' E' D' You stay here." "Even if I tell them I'm convincedI'm GeorgeVine?" ,.They'veworkedwith paranoiabefore.And that'swhatthey'vegotyou downfor,counton it. And anytime a paranoiacgetstired of a place,he'll They knon'that." try to lie his way out of it. They weren'tborn yesterday. "In general,yes,but how-" A suddencoldchill wentdownhis spine.He didn't haveto finish the in you- It hadn't meantanythingwhen Ray question.Theystickneedles had saidit. Bassington The dark man nodded."Truth seruml' he said."when a paranoiac reachesthe stagewherehe'scuredf he'stellingthe truth, theymakesure he's telling it beforethey let him go." He thoughtwhata beautifultrapit hadbeenthat he'd walkedinto.He'd probablydie here,now. He leanedhis headagainstthe cool iron barsand closedhis eyes.He heardfootstepswalkingawayfrom him and knew he wasalone' He openedhis eyesand lookedout into blackness;now the cloudshad drifted acrossthe moon,too. Clare,he thought; Clare. A trap. But-if therewasa trap,theremustbe a trapper' He waSsaneor he wasinsane.If he wassane,he'd walkedinto a trap, andif therewasa trap, theremustbe a trapper,or trappers' If he wasinsaneGod, let it be that he wasinsane.That way everythingmadesuch sweetlysimplesense,and somedayhe might be out of here,he might go
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backto workingfor the Blade,possiblyevenwith a memoryof all the years he'd workedthere.Or that GeorgeVne hadworkedthere. That wasthe catch.I1ewasn'tGeorgeVine. And therewasanothercatch.He wasn'tinsane. The cool iron of the barsagainsthis forehead. After a while he heardthe door openand lookedaround.Two guards hadcomein. A wild hope,reasonless, surgedup insidehim. It didn't rast. "Bedtime,you guys,"saidone of the guards.He lookedat the manicdepressive sittingmotionless on thechairandsaid,"Nuts.Hey,Bassington, helpme get this guy inl' The other guard,a heavy-setman with hair close-cropped like a wrestler's,cameoverto the window. "You.You'rethe new one in here.Vine.ain't it?" He nodded. "Want trouble,or goingto be good?"Fingersof the guard'sright hand clenched.the fist wentback. "Don't wanttrouble.Got enough." The guardrelaxeda little. "Okay,stick to that and you'll get along. Vacantbunk'sin there."He pointed."One on the right.Makeit up yourself in the morning.stayin the bunk andmind your own business. If there's anynoiseor troubleherein the ward,we comein andtakecareof it. Our own way.You wouldn'tlike it:' He didn'ttrusthimselfto speak,sohejust nodded.He turnedandwent throughthe doorof thecubicleto whichthe guardhadpointed.Therewere two bunksin there;the manic-depressive who'd beenon the chair was lying flat on his backon the other,staringblindly up at the ceilingthrough wide-openeyes.They'd pulled his shoesoff, leavinghim otherwise dressed. He turnedto his own bunk, knowingtherewasnothingon earthhe could do for the other man, no way he could reachhim through the impenetrableshell of blank misery which is the manic-depressivens intermittentcompanion. He turneddowna graysheet-blanket on his own bunk andfoundunder it anothergraysheet-blanket atopa hardbutsmoothpad.He slippedoff his shirt and trousersandhung them on a hook on the wall at the foot of his bed. He lookedaroundfor a switch to turn off the light overheadand couldn't find one.But, evenas he looked,the light went out. A singlelight still burnedsomewhere in the wardroomoutside,andby it he couldseeto takehis shoesandsocksoff andget into the bunk. He lay very quietfor a while,hearingonly two sounds,bothfaint and seemingfar away.Somewhere in anothercubicleoff the wardsomeonewas singingquietlyto himself,a wordlessmonody;somewhere elsesomeone
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elsewassobbing.In his own cubicle,he couldn't heareventhe soundof breathingfrom his roommate. Thentherewasa shuffleof barefeetandsomeonein the opendoorway said,"GeorgeVine." He said,"Yes?" ..shhhh,not so loud. This is Bassington. want to tell you aboutthat you evertanglewith him." Don't before. guard;I shouldhavewarned "I didn't." ..I heard;you weresmart.He',llslugyou to piecesif you givehim half a chance.He's a sadist.A lot of guardsare; that'swhy they'rebughousers; If they get fired one place that's what they call themselves,bughousers. for being too brutal they get on at anotherone.He'll be in againin the morning;I thoughtI'd warnYou." Thp shadowin the doorwaYwasgone. feelingratherthan He lay there in the dimness,the almost-darkness, thinking. wondering.Did mad peopleever know that they were mad? Couldtheytetl?Waseveryoneof them sure,ashe wassure-? Thatquiet,still thing lying in the bunk nearhis,inarticulatelysuffering, withdrawn from human reach into a profound misery beyond the of the saneunderstanding "NapoleonBonaparte!" A cliar voice,but hadit beenwithin his mind, or from without?He sat up on the bunk.His eyespiercedthe dimness,coulddiscernno form,no shadow,in the doorwaY. He said."Yes?" VII only then, sitting up on the bunk and having answered"Yesj' did he realizethe nameby which the voicehadcalledhim. "Get up. Dress." He swunghis legsout overthe edgeof the bunk,stoodup. He reached for his shirt andwasslippinghis armsinto it beforehe stoppedandasked, "Why?" "To learnthe truth." "Who areyou?" he asked. ..Donot speakaloud.Icanhearyou.I amwithinyouandwithout.Ihave no name." "Then whatareyou?" He saidit aloud,without thinking' 'An instrumentof The BrightlyShining." He droppedthe trousershe'dbeenholding.He satdowncarefullyon the edgeof the bunk,leanedoverand gropedaroundfor them'
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His mind groped,too.Gropedfor he knewnot what.Finallyhe founda question-/re question.He didn't ask it aloudthis time; he thoughtit, concentrated on it ashe straightened out his trousersandthrusthis legsin them. 'Am I mad?" The answer-No-- cameclearand sharpasa spokenword,but hadit beenspoken?Or wasit a soundthat wasonly in his mind? He foundhis shoesandpulledthemon his feet.As he fumbledthe laces into some sort of knots, he thought,"Who-what-is The Brightly Shining?" "The BrightlyShiningis thatwhichis Earth.Itis the intelligence of our planet.It is oneof threeintelligences in the solarsystem,oneof manyin the universe.Earth is one; it is calledThe BrightlyShiningl' he thought. "I do not understand," "You will. Are you ready?" He finishedthe secondknot.He stoodup.Thevoicesaid,"Come.Walk silently." It wasasthoughhewasbeingledthroughthealmostdarkness, although he felt no physicaltouchupon him; he sawno physicalpresence beside him. But he walkedconfidently, althoughquietlyon tiptoe,knowinghe wouldnot walk into anythingnor stumble.Throughthe big roomthat was the ward,and then his outstretchedhandtouchedthe knob of a door. He turnedit gentlyandthedooropenedinward.Lightblindedhim.The voicesaid,"Wait," and he stoodimmobile.He could hear sound-the rustleof paper,theturn of a page-outsidethedoor,in thelightedcorridor. Then from acrossthe hall camethe soundof a shrill scream.A chair scrapedand feet hit the floor of the corridor,walking awaytowardthe soundof the scream.A door openedand closed. The voicesaid,"Come]' andhe pulledthe dooropenthe restof the way and went outside,pastthe deskand the emptychairthat had beenjust outsidethe doorof the ward. Another door,anothercorridor.The voicesaid,"Wait," the voicesaid, "Come"; this time a guardslept.He tiptoedpast.Downsteps. He thoughtthe question,"Wheream I going?" "Mad."saidthe voice. "But yousaidI wasn't-" He'dspokenaloudandthesoundstartledhim almostmorethanhadthe answerto his lastquestion.And in the silence that followedthe wordshe'd spokentherecame-from the bottomof the stairsand aroundthe corner-the soundof a buzzingswitchboard,and someonesaid,"Yes?... Okay,Doctor,I'll be right up." Footsteps andthe closingof an elevatordoor. He wentdownthe remainingstairsandaroundthe cornerandhe wasin
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the front main hall.Therewasan emptydeskwith a switchboardbesideit. He walkedpastit and to the front door.It wasbolted and he threw the heavybolt. He wentoutside,into the night. He walkedquietlyacrosscement,acrossgravel;then his shoeswereon grassandhe didn't haveto tiptoeanymore.It wasasdarknowasthe inside oftreesnearbyandleavesbrushedhis ofan elephant;he felt the presence but he walkedrapidly,confidently,and his hand went face occasionally, forwardjust in time to touch a brick wall. He reachedup and he could touch the top of it; he pulled himselfup and overit. Therewasbrokenglasson the flat top of the wall; he cut his clothesand his fleshbadly,but he felt no pain,only the wetnessof blood and the stickinessof blood. He walkedalonga lightedroad,he walkedalongdarkandemptystreets, he walkeddown a darkeralley.He openedthe back gateof a yard and walkedto the backdoorof a house.He openedthe doorandwentin. There wasa lightedroomat the front of the house;he couldseethe rectangleof light at the end of a corridor.He went alongthe corridor and into the lightedroom. Someonewho had beenseatedat a deskstoodup. Someone,a man' whosefacehe knew but whom he could not"Yes]'saidthe man,smiling,"you knowme,but you do not knowme. Your mind is under partial contrcl and your ability to recognizeme is blockedout. Other than that and your analgesia-youare coveredwith bloodfromtheglasson thewall,but youdon'tfeelhnypain-your mindis normaland you aresane." "What's it all about?"he asksd."Why wasI broughthere?" "Becauseyou aresane.I'm sorryaboutthat,becauseyou can't be.It is not so much that you retainedmemoryof your previouslife, after you'd beenmoved.That happens.It is that you somehowknow somethingof whatyou shouldn't-somethingof The BrightlyShining,andof the Game betweenthe red and the black.For that reason-" "For that reason.what?" he asked. The manhe knewanddid not knowsmiledgently."For that re:Nonyou mustknowthe rest,sothat youwill knownothingat all.For everythingwill addto nothing.The truth will drive you mad." "That I do not believe." ..of courseyou don't.If the truth wereconceivable to you,it wouldnot drive you mad.But you cannotremotelyconceivethe truth'" A powerfulangersurgedup within him. He staredat the familiarface that he knewanddid not know,andhe stareddownat himself;at the torn andbloodygrayuniform,at his torn andbloodyhands.The handshooked
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like clawswith the desireto kill-someone,the someone, whoeverit was, who stoodbeforehim. He asked,"What areyou?" "I am an instrumentof The BrightlyShining." "The samewhichled me here,or another?'o "One is all, all is one. Within the whole and its parts,there is no difference. One instrumentis anotherand the red is the blackand the blackis the white and thereis no difference.The BrightlyShiningis the soul of the Earth.I usesoalas the nearestword in your vocabulary." Hatredwasalmosta brightlight.It wasalmostsomething thathe could leaninto,leanhis weightagainst. He asked,"What is The BrightlyShining?"He madethe wordsa curse in his mouth. "Knowingwill makeyou mad.Youwantto know?" "Yes."He madea curseout of that simple,sibilantsyllable. The lightsweredimming.Or wasit his eyes?The roomwasbecoming dimmer,andat thesametimereceding. It wasbecoming a tiny cubeof dim light,seenfrom afarandoutside,from somewhere in the distantdark,ever receding,turning into a pin-point of light, and within that point of tight everthe hatedThing,the man-or wasit a man?-standingbesidethe desk. Into darkness, into space, up andapartfromthe earth-a dim spherein the night, a recedingsphereoutlined againstthe spangledblacknessof eternalspace,occultingthe stars,a disk of black. It stoppedreceding, andtime stopped. It wasasthoughthe clockof the universestoodstill. Besidehim, out of the void,spokethe voiceof the instrumentof The BrightlyShining. "Behold,"it said."The Beingof Earth." He beheld.Not as though an outwardchangewas occurring,but an inward one, as thoughhis senseswerebeing changedto enablehim to perceivesomethinghithertounseeable. The ball that wasEarth beganto glow.Brightlyto shine. "Youseethe intelligence thatrulesEarth,"saidthe voice."The sumof the blackandthewhiteandthered,thatareone,dividedonlyasthe lobes of a brainaredivided,the trinity that is one." The glowingballandthe starsbehindit faded,andthe darknessbecame deeperdarknessandthentherewasdim light,growingbrighteqandhe was backin the roomwith the manstandingat the desk. "You saw,"saidthe man whom he hated."But you do not understand. You ask, whathaveyou seen,whatis The BrightlyShining?It is a group intelligence,the true intelligenceof Earth,oneintelligenceamongthreein the Solarsystem,oneamongmanyin the universe.
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"What, then, is man? Men are pawns,in gamesof-to youcomplexity,betweenthe redandthe black,the white andthe unbelievable Playedby one part of an organismagainstanother black,for amusement. part,to while awayan instantof eternity.Therearevastergames,played Not with man. betweengalaxies. peculiarto Earth,whichtolerateshis presence for a "Man is a parasite little while.He exitsnowhereelsein the cosmos,and he doesnot exist wars,which he thinks he herefor long.A little while, a few chessboard fights himself- You beginto understand." The man at the desksmiled. "You want to knowof yourself.Nothingis lessimportant.A movewas made,beforeLodi. The opportunitywas there for a move of the red; a wasneeded;it wasa turningpoint in moreruthlesspersonality stronger, game. Do you understandnow? A pinch history-which meansin the hitter wasput in to becomeNapoleonl' two words.'And then?" He managed some "The BrightlyShiningdoesnot kill. Youhadto beput somewhere, time. Longlater a man namedGeorgeVine waskilled in an accident;his bodywasstill usable.GeorgeVine hadnot beeninsane,but he hadhada wasamusing." Napoleoniccomplex.The transfetence to reachthe manat the desk.The "No doubt."Againit wasimpossible hatreditselfwasa wall betweenthem."Then GeorgeVine is dead?" you knewa little toomuch,mustgomadsothat "Yes.And you,because you will knownothing.Knowingthe truth will driveyou mad." ttNo!tt
The instrumentonly smiled. VIII The room,the cubeof light,dimmed;it seemedto tilt. Still standing,he was going over backward,his position becominghorizontalinsteadof vertical. His weight was on his back and under him was the soft-hard And he smoothnessof his bunk, the roughnessof a gray sheet-blanket. couldmove;he satup. Hadhe beendreaming?Hadhe reallybeenoutsidethe asylum?He held up his hands,touchedoneto the other,andtheywerewet with something sticky.Sowasthe front of his shirt andthe thighsandkneesof his trousers. And his shoeswereon. was The bloodwastherefrom climbingthe wall.And nowthe analgesia leaving,and pain was beginningto come into his hands,his chest,his stomachand his legs.Sharpbiting pain.
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He said aloud, "I am not mad. I am not mad," Was he screamingit? A voice said, "No. Not yet." Was it the voice that had been here in the room before? Or was it the voice of the man who had stood in the liehted room? Or had both been the same voice? lt said,"Ask,'What is man?"' Mechanically,he askedit. "Man is a blind alley in evolution,who came too late to compete,who has alwaysbeen controlled and playedwith by The Brightly Shining, which was old and wise before man walked erect. "Man is a parasiteupon a planet populated before he came, populated by a Being that is one and many, a billion cells but a single mind, a single intelligence, a single will-as is true of every other populatedplanet in the universe. "Man is a joke, a clown, a parasite.He is nothing; he will be less." "Come and go mad." He was gettingout of bed again;he was walking.Through the doorway of the cubicle,alongthe ward.To the door that led to the corridor; a thin crack of light showedunder it. But this time his hand did not reachout for the knob. Instead he stood there facing the dooq and it began to glow; slowly it becamelight and visible. As though from sorpewherean invisible spotlight played upon it, the door becamea visible rectanglein the surroundingblackness;as brightly visible as the crack under it. The voice said, "You see before you a cell of your ruler, a cell unintelligentin itself,yet a tiny part of a unit which is intelligent,one of a trillion units which make up tlle intelligencewhich rules the earth-and you. And which earth-wideintelligenceis one of a million intelligences which rule the universe." "The door?I don't-" The voice spoke no more; it had withdrawn, but somehowinside his mind was the echo of silent laughter. He leanedcloserand sawwhat he wasmeant to see.An ant was crawling up the door. His eyesfollowedit, and numbing horror crawledapace,up his spine.A hundred things that had been told and shown him suddenlyfitted into a pattern,a pattern of sheerhorror.The black,the white, the red; the black ants,the white ants,the red ants; the playerswith men, separatelobes of a single group brain, the intelligence that was one. Man an accident,a parasite,a pawn; a million planetsin the universeinhabited each by an insect race that was a single intelligence for the planet-and all the intelligencestogetherwere the singlecosmicintelligencethat was-God! The one-syllableword wouldn't come.
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He wentmad,instead. He beatuponthe now-darkdoorwith his bloodyhands,with his knees, his face, with himself, although alreadyhe had forgotten why, had forgottenwhat he wantedto crush. He was raving mad-dementia praecox,not paranoia-whenthey released his bodyby puttingit intoa straitjacket, released it fromfrenzyto quietude. He was quietly mad-paranoia,not dementiapraecox-whenthey releasedhim as saneelevenmonthslater. yousee,is a peculiaraffliction;it hasno physicalsymptoms, Paranoia, it is merelythe presence of a fixed delusion.A seriesof metrazolshockshad clearedup the dementiapraecoxand left only the fixed delusionthat he wasGeorgeVine, a reporter. The asylumauthoritiesthoughthe was,too, so the delusionwasnot recognizedas such and they releasedhim and gavehim a certificateto provehe wassane. He marriedClare;he still worksatthe Blade-for a mannamedCandler. He still playschesswith his cousin,CharlieDoerr.He still sees-for periodiccheckups-bothDr.Irving andDr. Randolph. Which of them smilesinwardly?What goodwouldit do you to know? It doesn'tmatter.Don't you understand? Nothingmatters!
ThereShall Be No Darkness JamesBlish
It wasabout 10:00P.M.when PaulFootedecidedthat there wasa monster at Newcliffe's houseparty. Foote was tight at the time-tighter than he liked to be ever. He sprawledin a too-easychair in the front room on the end of his spine,his arms restingon the high arms of the chair.A half-empty glassdepended laxly from his right hand. A darker spot on one gray trouser-legshowed where some of the drink had gone. Through half-shut eyes he watched Jarmoskowskiat the piano. The pianistwasplaying,finally,the Scriabinsonatafor which the restof the gatheringhad beenwaiting but for Foote,who wasa painterwith a tin ear,it wasn't music at all. It was a cantrap,whoseimplicationswere secret and horrible. The room was stuffy and was only half as,largeasit had been during the afternoonand Footewasafraidthat he wasthe only living man in it except for Jan Jarmoskowski.The rest were wax figures, pretendingto be humans in an aesthetictrance. Of Jarmoskowski'svitality there could be no question. He was not handsome but there was in him a pure brute force that had its own beauty-that and the beauty of precision with which the force was 227
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controlled. When his big hairy hands came down it seemedthat the piano should fall into flinders. But the impact of fingers on keys wascalculatedto the single dyne. It was odd to seesuch delicacybehind such a face.Jarmoskowski'shair grew too low on his rounded head despite the fact that he had avoided carefully any suggestionof Musician's Haircut. His brows were straight, rectangular,so shaggythat they seemedto meet. From where Foote sat he noticed for the first time the odd way the Pole'searswereplaced-tilted forwardasif in animalattention,so that the vestigial"point" really was in the uppermostposition. They were cocked directly toward the keyboard, reminding Foote irresistibly of the dog on the His Master's Voice trade-mark. Where had he seen that head before? In Matthias Griinewald, perhaps-in that panelon the IsenheimAltar that showedthe Temptation of St.Anthony. Or was it one of the illustrations in the Red Grimoire,those odd old woodcuts that Chris Lundgren called "Rorschach tests of the mediaevalmind"? Jarmoskowskifinished the ftriabin, paused,touchedhis handstogether reflectively, began a work of his own, the Galliard Fantasque. The wax figures did not stir, but a soft eerie sigh of recognition came from their frozen lips. There was another person in the room but Foote could not tell who it was.When he turned his unfocusedeyesto count,his mind went back on him and he never managedto reach a total. But somehowthere was the impression of another presencethat had not been of the party before. Jarmoskowskiwas not the presence.He had been there before.But he had something to do with it. There was an eighth presencenow and it had somethingto do with Jarmoskowski. What was it? For it was there-there was no doubt about that. The energywhich the rest of Foote's sensesordinarily would haveconsumedwasflowing into his instincts now becausehis senseswere numbed. Acutely, poignantly, his instincts told him of the Monster. It hoveredaround the piano, sat next to Jarmoskowskias he caressedthe musical beast'steeth. blended with the long body and the serpentine fingers. Foote had never had the horrors from drinking before and he knew he did not have them now. A part of his mind which was not drunk had recognizedreal horror somewherein this room. And the whole of his mind, its skepticalbarriersdown, believedand trembledwithin itself. The batlike circling of the frantic notes was stilled abruptly' Foote 'Already?" he said stupidly. blinked, startled. 'Already?" Jarmoskowskiechoed."But that's a long piece,Paul.Your
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fascinationspeakswell for my writing." His eyesflashedredly as he lookeddirectlyat the painter.Footetried franticallyto rememberwhetheror not his eyeshadbeenred during the afternoon.Or whetherit waspossiblefor anyman'seyesto beasredat any time as this man'swsrenow. "The writing?" he said,condensing the far-flungdiffusionof his brain. Newcliffe'shighballsweredamn strong."Hardly the writing, Jan.Such fingersas thosecould put fascinationinto ThreeBlindMice." He laughedinside at the paradeof emotionswhich marchedacross face.Startlementat a complimentfrom Foote-for there Jarmoskowski's hadbeenan inexplicableantagonism betweenthe two sincethe pianisthad first arrived-then puzzledreflection-then finally veiled angeras the hiddenslur baredits fangsin his mind.Nevertheless the mancouldlaugh at it. "They arelong,aren'tthey?"he saidto the restof the group,unrolling them like the party noisemakerswhich turn from snail to snakewhen blownthrough."But it's a mistaketo suppose thattheyassistmy playing,I assureyou.Mostlytheystumbleovereachother.Especiallyoverthis one." He heldup his handsfor inspection.SuddenlyFootewastrembling.On bothhands,the indexfingersandthe middlefingerswereexactlythe same length. "I supposeLundgrenwouldcall me a mutation,It's a nuisanceat the piano." Doris Gilmore, once a studentof Jarmoskowski in Prague,and still obviously,painfully,in love with him, shookcopperyhair backfrom her shouldersand held up her own hands. "My fingersareso stubby,"shesaidruefully."Hardlypianist'shandsat "The hands of a master pianist," Jarmoskowskisaid. He smiled. scratchinghis palmsabstractedly, andFootefoundhimselfin a universeof brilliantperfectly-even teeth.No, not perfectlyeven.The polishedrows were boundedalmostmathematically by slightlylongercuspids.They reminded him of that idiotic Poe story-was it Berenice?Obviously Jarmoskowski would not die a natural death.He would be killed by a dentistfor possession of thoseteeth. "Three fourths of the greatestpianistsI know havehandslike truck drivers,"Jarmoskowski was saying."surgeonstoo, as Lundgrenwill tell you. Long fingers tend to be clumsy." o'You seem to manage to make tremendous
the same,"
Newcliffesaid,gettingup. "Thank you, Tom."Jarmoskowski seemedto takehis host'srisingasa signalthat he wasnot goingto be requiredto playanymore.He lifted his
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feet from the pedalsand swungthem aroundto the end of the bench. Severalof the othersrosealso.Footestruggledup to numb feet from the infernaldepthsof the armchair.He set his glasscautiouslyon the side' tableandpickedhis way overto ChristianLundgren. "I readyour paper,the one you readto the StockholmCongress,"he handsare-" said,controllinghis tonguewith difficulty."Jarmoskowski's said,lookingat Footewith sharp,troubledeyes. "Yes,"the psychiatrist SuddenlyFoote was awareof Lundgren'schain of thought.The gray, andwonderingwhether his drunkenness, chubbylittle manwasassessing or not Footewouldhaveforgottenthe wholebusinessin the morning. Lundgrenmadea gestureof dismissal."I sawthem," he said,his tone This is the twentieth flat. 'A mutationprobably,as he himself suggests. century.I'm goingto bed and fiorgetit. Which you may takefor adviceas well asinformation." He stalkedout of the room,leavingFootestandingalone,wondering or more alarmedthan before'Lundgrenshould whetherto be reassured waswhathe seemedknow Still.if Jarmoskowski party appearedto be surviving quite nicely without Foote. The were starting up about the big room. Jarmoskowskiand Conversations Doris sharedthe pianobenchand weretalking in low tones,punctuated asthe Poleshowedher easierwaysof now andthen by brilliant arpeggios handlingthe work shehad playedbeforedinner. Jamesand Bennington,the Americancritic, weredissectingJames' most recentnovel for a fascinatedNewcliffe.BlandlyinnocentCaroline Newcliffewas talking to the air aboutnothing at all. Nobodymissed Lundgrenand it seemedunlikelythat Footewouldbe missed. He walkedwith wobblynonchalanceinto the dining room,wherethe butlerwasstill clearingthe table. Returnin the mo;ning."He "'Scuseme," he said."Little experiment. snatcheda knife from the table,lookedfor the door which led from the dining room into the foyer,propelledhimselfthroughit. The hallwaywas dim but intelligible. As he closedthe doorto his roomhe pausedfor a momentto listento technicalexhibitionon the keys.It might be that at Jarmoskowski's would give anothersort of exhibition.If he did midnight Jarmoskowski Footewould be gladto havethe knife. He shruggeduneasily,closedthe door all the way and walkedoverto his bedroomwindow. stoodaloneon the terraceof Newcliffe'scountry At l1:30,Jarmoskowski house.Althoughtherewasno wind the night wasfrozenwith a piercing a black cold-but he did not seemto noticeit. He stoodmotionless,like jets steam like twin of his breathing, of the long streamers with only statue,
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from the nostrilsof a dragon,to showthat he wasalive. Throughthe hazeof lacethat curtainedFoote'swindowJarmoskowski wasan heroicpillar of blackstone-but a pillar abovea fumarole. The front of the housewasentirelydark and the moonlightgleamed dully'onthe snow.Inthe dim light the heavytowerwhichwasthe central structurewas like someancientdonjon-keep. Thin slits of embrasures watchedthe landscapewith a dark vacuity and each of the crowning merlonsworea helmetof snow. Thehousehuddledagainstthemaliceof thewhitenight.A senseof age investedit. Thecurtainssmeltof dustandantiquity. It seemedimpossible that anyonebut FooteandJarmoskowski couldbe alivein it. After a long momentFootemovedthe curtainveryslightlyanddrewit back. His facewasdrenchedin moonlightand he drew backinto the dark again,leavingthe curtainsparted. If Jarmoskowski sawthe furtive motion he gaveno sign.He remained engrossedin the acerb beauty of the night. Almost the whole of Newcliffe'sestatewasvisiblefrom wherehe stood.Eventhe blackborder of theforest,beyondthegolfcourseto the right,couldbeseenthroughthe dry frigid air.A few isolatedtreesstoodnearerthe house,castinggrotesque shadows on the snow,shadows that flowedandchangedshapewith infinite slownessas the moon moved. Jarmoskowskisighed and scratchedhis left palm. His tips moved soundlessly. A wanderingcloudfloatedidly towardthe moon,its shadowpreceding it, glidingin a rushof darkness towardthehouse.Thegentreripplesof the snowbankscontortedin the vastumbra,assumeddemonshapes,twisted bodieshalf-risingfromtheearth,sinkingback,risingagain,whirlingcloser. A dampfrigid wind rosebriefly,whippingcrystallineshowersof snowfrom the terraceflagstones. The wind diedasthe shadowengulfedthe house.For a long instantthe darkness andsilencepersisted. Then,fromsomewhere amongthe stables behindthe house,a dog raisedhis voicein a faint sustainedthrobbing howl.Othersjoinedhim. Jarmoskowski's teeth gleameddimly in the occludedmoonlight.He stooda momentlonger-thenhisheadturnedwith startlingquickness and his eyesflasheda feral scarletat the dark windowwhereFootehovered. Footereleasedthe curtainshastily.Even throughthem he could seethe pianist'sgrim phosphorescent smile.Jarmoskowski went back into the house. There was a single small light burning in the corridor. Jarmoskowski's room was at the end of the hall next to Foote's. As he walked reflectivelv
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towardit the doorof the roomacrossfrom Foote'sswungopenand Doris Gilmore came out, clad in a housecoat,a towel over her arm and a toothbrushin her hand. turnedtowardher.Footeslippedbehind "Oh!" shesaid.Jarmoskowski room.He did not proposeto haveDorisa his backandinto Jarmoskowski's witnessto the thing he expectedfrom Jarmoskowski' In a quietervoiceDoris said,"Oh, it's you, Jan.You startledme." ..soI seel'Jarmoskowski's voicesaid.Footecantedoneeyearoundthe edgeof the door."It appearsthat we arethe night-owlsof the party." ..Therestaretight.Especiallythat horriblepainter.I've beenreadingthe Tom left by my bed and I linally decidedto go to sleeptoo. magazines Whathaveyou beendoing?" ,.Oh,I wasjust outon theterrace, gettinga breathof air.I likethewinter night-it bites." too,"shesaid."Did you hearthem?" "The dogsarerestless, and smiled."Why doesa full moon makea said Jarmoskowski "Yesl' himself? " f,or feel so sorry dog about." there's a banshee "Maybe said."This houseisn't old enoughto have "I doubt itl' Jarmoskowski psychopomps, far as I know none of Tom'sor caroline's As any family privilege of dying in it." the had relativeshave .'Youtalk asif you almostbelievedit:' Therewasa shiverin her voice. moretightlyabouther slim waist. Shewrappedthe housecoat "I comefrom a countrywherebelief in suchthingsis common'In Polandmost of the skepticsareimported." "I wishyou'dpretendto be an exceptionl'shesaid."You giveme the creeps.t' He nodded seriously.They looked at each other.Then he stepped forwardand took her handsin his. If he were wrong he'd Foote felt a belatedflicker of embarrassment. speedilyfind himselfin a positionfor whichno apologywouldbe possible. "Jan,"she smilinguncertainly. Thegirl waslookingup at Jarmoskowski, said. said."Wait.It hasbeena long time sincePrague." "No," Jarmoskowski "I seej'shesaid.Shetried to releaseher hands. saidsharply,"You don't see.I was eighteenthen. You Jarmoskowski were-what wasit?-eleven, I think. tn thosedaysI wasproudof your schoolgirlcrushbut of courseinfinitely too old for you; I amnot soold any moreandyou areso lovely-no, no, hearme out' please!Doris'I loveyou now,as I canseeyou loveme, but-" In the brief pauseFootecouldhearthe sharpindrawnbreathsthat Doris
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Gilmorewastryingto control.He writhedwith shamefor himself.He had no business being"But we must wait,Doris-until I warnyou of somethingneitherof us could havedreamedin the old days." "Warnme?" pausedagain.Then he said,"You will find it hard "Yes,"Jarmoskowski to believe.But if youdo wemayyetbehappy. Doris,Icannotbea skeptic.I am-t'
He stopped. He had looked down abstractedlyat her hands as if searchingfor preciselythe right words.Then, slowly,he turned her hands over until they restedpalms up upon his. An expressionof inexpressible shock crossedhis face and Foote saw his grip tighten spasmodically. In that silent moment, Foote knew that he had been right about Jarmoskowskiand despitehis pleasurehe was frightened. For an instant Jarmoskowskishut his eyes.The musclesalong his jaw stood out with the violencewith which he was clenchinghis teeth. Then, deliberately,he folded Doris'hands togetherand his curiousfingers made a fist about them. When his eyes opened again they were red as flame in the weak light. Dorisjerked her handsfree and crossedthem over her breasts."Janwhat is it? What's the matter?" His face, that should have been flying into flinders under the force of the thing behind it, came under control muscle by muscle. "Nothing," he said."There's really no point in what I was going to say. Nice to have seen you again,Doris. Good night." He brushed past her, walked the rest of the way down the corridor, wrenchedbackthe doorknobof his own room.Footebarelymanagedto get out of his way. Behind the house a dog howled and was silent again.
II In Jarmoskowski'sroom the moonlight playedin through the open window upon a carefully turned-down bed and the cold air had penetrated every cranny. He shut the door and went directly acrossthe room to the table besidehis bed. As he crossedthe path of silvery light his shadowwas oddly foreshortened,so that it looked as if it were walking on all fours. There was a lamp on the side table and he reachedfor it. Then he stoppeddeadstill, his hand halfwayto the switch. He seemed to be listening.Finally,he turned and lookedbackacrossthe room, directly at the spot behind the door where Foote was standing.
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It was the blackestspot of all, for it had its back to the moon. But Jarmoskowskisaid immediately,"Hello, Paul'Aren't you up rather late?" Foote did not reply for a while. His senseswere still a little alcoholnumbed and he was overwhelmedby the thing he knew to be' He stood silently in the darkness,watching the Pole'sbarelyvisible figure besidethe fresh bed, and the sound of his own breathing was loud in his ears.The broad flat streamer of moonlight lay between them like a metallic river. "I'm going to bed shortly,"he said at last. His voice soundedflat and dead and faraway,as if belonging to someoneelse entirely. "I just came to issuea little warning." "Well, well," said Jarmoskowskipleasantly."Warnings seemto be all the voguethis evening.Do you customarilypayyour socialcallswith a knife in your hand?" "Thatls the warning,Jarmoskowski'The knife is a-silver knife." "You must be drunker than ever,"saidthe pianist'"Why don't you just go to bed? We can talk about it in the morning." "Don't give me that," Foote snapped savagely'"You can't fool me. I know you for what you are." 'All right. I'll bite, as Benningtonwould say." "Yes,you'd bite," Footesaidand his voiceshooka little despitehimself. "Shall I give it a name, Jarmoskowski?In Poland they called you Yrolok, didnst they? And in France it was loup-garou.Inthe Carpathiansit was stregoicaor stregaor Wkoslakl' ..Your command of languagesiS greater than yOur common senSe.But you interestme strangely.Isn'tit a little out of seasonfor such things?The aconitesdo not bloom in the deadof winter. And perhapsthe thing you call so many fluent namesis also out of the seaSonin nineteen Sixty-two." "The dogshate you]'Foote said softly."That was a fine displayBrucey put on when Tom brought him in from his run and he found you here. walked sidewisethrough the room, growling, watching you with every step until Tom draggedhim out. He's howling now.And that shock you got from the table silver at dinner-I heardyour excuseabout rubber'soledshoes' ..I looked under the table, if you recall, and your shoesturned out to be leather-soled.But was a prettli feeble excuse anyhow,for anybody knows that you can't get an electric shock from an ungroundedpiece of tableware, no matter how long you've beenscuffing rubber.It wasthe silver that hurt you the first time you touched it. Silver'sdeadly,isn't it? .And thosefingers-the index fingersas long as the middle ones-you were clever about those. You were careful to call everybody'sattention to them. It's supposed to be the obvious that everybody misses. But 'Purloined Letter' gag has been worked too often in Jarmoskowski.that detective stories. It didn't fool Lundgren and it didn't fool me."
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'Ahl'Jarmoskowskisaid. "Quite a catalogue." "There's more. How does it happenthat your eyeswere gray all afternoonandturnedredassoonasthe moonrose?And the palmsof your hands-therewassomehair growingthere,but you shavedit off, didn't you, Jarmoskowski? I've been watchingyou scratchthem. Everything aboutyou,the wayyoulook,thewayyouact-everythingyousayscreams your naturein a dozenlanguages to anyonewho knowsthe signs." After a long silenceJarmoskowskisaid, "I see.You've been most attentive,Paul-I seeyou arewhatpeoplecallthe suspicious drunk.But I your warning,Paul.Let us suppose appreciate that whatyou sayof me is true. Have you thought that, knowingthat you know,I would haveno choiceany more?That the first word you said to me aboutit all might brandyourpalmwith the pentagram?" Footehadnot thoughtaboutit. He hadspenttoo much time trying to convincehimself that it wasall a pipe dream.A shockof blinding terror convulsedhim. The silverknife clatteredto the floor.He snatchedup his hands and stared frantically at them, straining his eyes through the blackness.The full horror implicit in Jarmoskowski's suggestionstruck him all at oncewith paralyzingforce. From the other side of his moonlit room,Jarmoskowski's voicecame mockingly."So-you hadn't thought.Betterneverthanlate,Paul!" The dim figure of Jarmoskowskibeganto writhe and ripple in the reflectedmoonlight.It foreshortened, twistingobscenely, sinkingtoward the floor, flesh and clothing alike changinginto somethingnot yet describable. A cry rippedfrom Foote'sthroatand he willedhis legsto movewith frantic, nightmarishurgency.His clutchinghand graspedthe doorknob. Tearinghis eyesfrom the hypnoticfascinationof the thing that wasgoing on acrossfrom him he leapedfrom his cornerand out into the corridor. A baresecondafter he had slammedthe door,somethingstruck it a frightfulblowfrom the inside.The panelingsplit.He held it shutwith all the strengthin his body. A dim white shapedrifteddownuponhim throughthe dark corridor anda freshspasmof fearsentriversof sweatdownon his back,his sides, into his eyes.But it wasonly the girl. "Paul!What on earth!What'sthe matter!" "Quick!" he chokedout. "Get somethingsilver-somethingheavy madeout of silver-quick, quick!" Despiteher astonishment the franticurgencyin his voicewasenough. Shedartedbackinto her room. To Footeit seemedeternitybeforeshereturned-aneternitywhile he listenedwith abnormallysensitizedearsfor a soundinsidethe room.Once
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he thoughthe hearda low growlbut he wasnot sure.The sealikehissing and sighingof his blood,rushingthroughthe channelsof the inner ear, seemedveryloud to him. He couldn'timaginewhy it wasnot arousingthe wholecountryside.He clung to the doorknoband panted. Then the girl wasback,bearinga silvercandlesticknearlythreefeet in length-a weaponthat was almost too good, for his fright-weakened muscleshadsomedifficulty in lifting it. He shiftedhis grip on the knobto his left hand.heftedthe candlestickawkwardly. 'All right,"he said,in whathe hopedwasa grim voice'"Now let him comg." nameis this all about?"Dorissaid."You'rewaking "What in heaven's everybodyin the housewith this racket.Look-even oneof the dogsis in to seg-" "Thedog!" He swungaround,releasingthe doorknob.Not ten pacesfrom them,an enormouscoal-blackanimal,nearlyfive feet in length,grinnedat them with polishedfangs.As soon as it saw Foote move it snarled.Its eyes gleamedred in the singlebulb. It sprang. Footelifted the candlestickhigh and broughtit down-but the animal wasnot there.Somehowthe leapwasnevercompleted.Therewasa brief flash of movementat the open end of the corridor,then darknessand silence. ..He sawthe candlestickl'Footepanted."Must havejumped out the windowand comearoundthroughthe front door.Sawthe silverand beat lt."
"Paul!"Doriscried."What-how did youknowthatthingwouldjump? It wasso big! Silver-" He chuckled,surprisingevenhimself.He hada mentalpictureof what the truth wouldsoundlike to Doris."Thati' he said,"was a wolf and a whoppingone.Eventhe usualkind of wolf isn't veryfriendlyand-" Footstlps soundedon the floor aboveand the voice of Newcliffe, grumblingloudly,camedownthe stairs.Newcliffelikedhis eveningsnoisy and his nights quiet. The whole house seemedto have heard the commotion,for in a momenta numberof half-cladfigureswereelbowing out into the corridor,wantingto know what wasup. Abruptly the lights went on, revealingblinking facesand pajama-clad formsstrugglinginto robes.Newcliffecamedownthe stairs.Carolinewas with him, impeccableeven in disarray,her face openly and honestly beautiful.Shemadean excellentfoil for Tom. ignorantand unashamedly She*"s no lion-hunterbut she lovedparties.Evidentlyshewaspleased that the partywasstartingagain.
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in a gravellyvoice."Foote,are "What'sall this?" Newcliffedemanded you the centerof this whirlpool?Why all the noise?" "Werewolf,"saidFoote,suddenlyvery consciousof how meaningless the word would be here. "We've got a werewolfhere.And somebody's markedout for him." How elsecouldyou put it? Let it stand. Therewasa chorusof "What's" asthe groupjostledabouthim. "Eh? What was that?...Werewolf,I thought he said...What'sthis all about?...Somebody's beena wolf... Is thatnew?Whatan uproar!" "Paul,"Lundgren'svoicecut through."Details,please." a werewolf,"Footesaidgrimly,,makinghis tone as "Jarmoskowski's emotionlessand factualas he could. "[ suspectedit earliertonight and wentinto his roomandaccused him of it. He changedshape,right on the spotwhile I waswatching." The sweatstartedout afreshat the recollectionof that horrible,halfseenmutation."He camearoundinto the hall andwentfor us andI scared him off with a silvercandlestick for a club."He realizedsuddenlythat he still held the candlestick,brandishedit as proof."Doris saw the wolfshe'll vouchfor that." "I sawa bigdoglikething,all right,"Dorisadmitted.'And it didjump at us.It wasblackandhadhugeteeth.But-Paul, wasthat supposed to be Jan?Why,that's ridiculous!" "It certainlyisl' Newcliffesaid feelingly."Getting us all up for a practicaljoke. Probablyone of the dogsis loose." "Do you haveany coal-blackdogsfive feet long?" Footedemanded 'And where'sJarmoskowski desperately. now.Why isn't he here?Answer me that!" Benningtongavea skepticalgrunt from the backgroundand opened Jarmoskowski's door.The party tried to jam itself into the room.Foote forcedhis way throughthe jam. "See?He isn't here,either.And the bed'snot beensleptin. Doris,you sawhim go in there.Did you seehim corneout?" The girl lookedstartled."No, but I wasin my room-" "All right.Here.Lookat this."Footeled the wayoverto the windowand pointed."See?The printson the snow?" One by one the othersleanedout. Therewasno arguingit. A set of animal prints, like large dogtracks,led awayfrom a spot just beneath Jarmoskowski's window-a spotwherethe disturbedsnowindicatedthe landingof someheavybody. "Follow them around,"Footesaid."They leadaroundto the front door, and in." "Have you tracedthem?" Jamesasked.
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"I don't have to.I saw the thing, Jamesl "Maybe he just went for a walk," Carolinesuggested. "Barefoot?There are his shoes." Benningtonvaultedover the windowsill with an agility astonishingfor so round a man and plowed away with slipperedfeet along the line of tracks.A little while later he enteredthe room behind their backs. "Paul'sright," he said,abovethe hub-bub of excitedconversation."The trackSgo aroundto the front door,then comeout againand go awayaround the side of the housetowardthe golf course."He rolled up his wet pajamacuffs awkwardly. "This is crazyl' Newcliffe declared angrily' "This is the twentieth century.We're like a lot of little children,panickedby darkness.There'sno such thing as a werewolf!" "l wouldn't placeany wagerson thati' Jamessaid."Millions of people have thought so for hundredsof years.That's a lot of people'" Newcliffeturned sharplyto Lundgren."Chris,I can dependupon you at leastto have your wits about you." The psychiatristsmiled wanly."You didn't read my Stockholm paper, Most of it dealt with did you, Tom? I mean my paperon mental diseases. lycanthropy- werewolfism." "You mean-you believethis idiot story?" "l spotted Jarmoskowskiearly in the evening," Lundgren said. "He must haveshavedthe hair on his palmsbut he hasall the other signs-eyes bloodshotwith moonrise,ltrst and secondlingers of equallength, pointed ears,domed prefrontalbones,elongatedupper cuspidsor fangs-in short, the typicalhyperpinealtype-a lycanthropel' "Why didn't you say something?" "l have a natural horror of being laughedat," Lundgren said drily' 'And / didn't want to draw Jarmoskowski'sattention to me. These caseshave a way of making enemiesvery easily." endocrine-imbalance Foote grinned ruefully. If he had thought of that part of it before accusingJarmoskowskihe would have kept his big mouth shut. "Lycanthropy is quite common," Lundgren droned, "but seldom mentioned. It is the little-known aberration of a little-known ductless gland.It appearsto enablethe victim to control his body." "l'm still leery of this whole business,"Bennington growled, fiom somewheredeep in his pigeon'schest."I've known Jan for years.Nice fella-did a lot for me once. And I think there's enough discord in this houseso that I won't add to it much if I sayI wouldn't trust Paul Foote as far as I could throw him. By heaven,Paul,if this doesturn out to be some practicaljoke of yours-" 'Ask Lundgren,"Foote said.
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Therewasdeadsilence,brokenonly by heavybreathing.Lundgrenwas knownto everyoneof themasthe world'sultimateauthorityon hormonecreatedinsanity.Nobodyseemedto want to askhim. "Paul'sright,"Lundgrensaidat last."Takeit or leaveit. Jarmoskowski is a lycanthrope.A hyperpineal.No other gland could affect the bloodvesselsof the eyeslike that or makesuch a reorganization of the cells possible.Jarmoskowski is inarguablya werewolf." Benningtonsagged,the light of righteousincredulitydying from his eyes."I'll be damned!"he muttered. "We'vegot to gethim tonightl'Footesaid."He's seenthe pentagram on somebody'spalm-somebodyin the party." "What'sthat?" askedJames. "Common illusion of lycanthropicseizures,"Lundgren said. "Hallucination,Ishouldsay.A five-pointed starinscribedin a circle-you find it in all the old mysticalbooks,right backto the so-calledfourth and fifth Booksof Moses.The wgrewolfseesit on the palmof his next victim." Therewasa gaspinglittle screamfrom Doris."so that'sit!" shecried. "Dear God,I'm the one! He sawsomethingon my handtonightwhile we weretalking in the hall. He wasawfully startledand went awaywithout anotherword.He saidhe wasgoingto warnme aboutsomethingandthen hg-t'
"Steady,"Benningtonsaid in a soft voicethat had all the penetrating power of a thunderclap."There's safetyin numbers.We're all here." Nevertheless, he couldnot keephimselffromglancingsurreptitiouslyover his shoulder. "Well, that settlesi('James saidin earnestsqueakytones...We'vegot to trail the-the beastand kill him. It shouldbe easyto follow his trail in the snow.we mustkill him beforehe kills Dorisor somebodyelse.Evenif he missesus it wouldbejust asbadto havehim roamingthe countryside." "What are you going to kill him with?" askedLundgrenmatter-of"l said,whatareyou goingto kill him with? With that pinealhormone in his bloodhe can laughat any ordinarybullet.And sincethere are no chapelsdedicatedto st. Hubert aroundhereyou can't scarehim to death with a church-blessed bullet." "Silverwill do." Footesaid. "Yes,silverwill do.It poisonsthe pinearin-catalysis. But areyou going out to hunt a full-grownwolf, a giant wolf, armedwith table silver and candlesticks? or is somebodyheremetallurgistenoughto casta decent silverbullet?" Footesighed.With the burdenof proof lifted from him, completely
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soberedup by shock,he felt a little morelike his old self,despitethe pallof horrorwhich hung overthem. "Like I alwaystell my friendsl'he said,"there'snevera dull momentat a Newcliffehouseparty." III The clockstruckone-thirty.Footepickedup one of Newcliffe'srifles and heftedit.It felt-useless.He said,"How areyou coming?" The groupby the kitchen stoveshooktheir headsin comicalunison. one of the gasburnershadbeenjury-riggedasa giantBunsenburnerand theyweretryingto melt downsomesoft unalloyedsilverarticles,mostlyof Mexicanmanufacture. bowl,alsoMexican,for a crucible. Theywereusinga smallearthenware It wasliddedwith the bottomof a flowerpot,the hole in which hadbeen pluggedwith a mixtureof gardenclayandrockwoolyankedforciblyout of the insulationin the attic.The awkwardflame leaptuncertainlyand sent fantasticshadowsflickeringovertheir intent faces. "We've got it melted, all rightl' Benningtonsaid, lifting the lid cautiouslywith a pair of kitchentongsandpeeringin. "But whatdo we do now? Drop it from the top of the tower?" "You can't kill a wolf with buckshot,"Newcliffepointedout.Now that the problemhad been reducedtemporarilyfrom a hypernaturalone to 'And I haven't got a decent ordinaryhunting he was in his element. shotgunhereanyhow.But we oughtto be ableto whacktogethera mold. The bullet shouldbe soft enoughso that it won't ruin the rifling of my guns." carryingseveral He openedthe doorto the cellarstairsanddisappeared, their howling renewed dogs the ordinarycartridgesin one hand.Faintly put her. around his arm and Doris beganto tremble.Foote "It's all right," he said."We'll get him. You'resafeenough." "I knowl'she agreedin a smallvoice."But everytime I Sheswallowed. think of the wayhe lookedat my handsandhow red his eyeswere- You don't supposehe's prowlingaroundthe house?That that'swhat the dogs arehowlingabout?" "I don't knonl'Foote saidcarefully."But dogsarefunny that way.They I supposea man with pinearinin his can sensethingsat greatdistances. bloodwouldhavea strongodorto them.But he probablyknowsthat we're after his scalp,so he won't be hangingaroundif he's smart." a tremuloussmile.'All rightl'shesaid."I'll try not to be shemanaged pat,feelinga little absurd. frightened."He gaveher an awkwardreassuring
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"Do you suppose we canusethe dogs?"Jameswantedto know. "Certainly,"saidLundgren."Dogshavealwaysbeenour greatestallies againstthe abnormal.You sawwhat a rageJarmoskowski's very presence put Bruceyin this afternoon.He must havesmelledthe incipientseizure. Ah, Tom-what did you manage?" Newcliffeset a woodenbox on the table."I pried the slug out of one shell for eachgun," he said,"and madeimpressions in clay.The cold has madethe stuff pretty hard,so it's a passable mold. Bring the silver over here.tt
Benningtonlifted his improvisedcrucible from the burner. which immediatelyshot up a tall blue flame.Jamescarefullyturnedit off. 'All right,pour,"Newcliffe said."Lundgren,youdon'tsuppose it might helpto chanta blessingor something?" "Not unlessJarmoskowski overheardit-probably not eventhen since we haven'ta priestamongus." "Okay.Pour,Bennington,beforethe goo hardens." Benningtondecantedsluggishlymoltensilverinto eachdepression in the clayandNewcliffecleanedawaythe oozyresiduefrom the castsbefore it hadtime to thicken.At anyothertime the wholescenewouldhavebeen funny-now it was grimly grotesque.Newcliffepicked up the box and carriedit backdownto the cellar,wherethe emasculated cartridgesawaited their new slugs. "Who's goingto carrythesethings,now?" Footeasked."Therearefive rifles.James,how aboutyou?" "I couldn'thit anelephant's rumpat threepaces. Tom'san expertshot. Sois Benningtonhere,with a shotgunanyhow." "I can usea rifle," Benningtonsaiddiffidently. "I've donesomeshooting,"Footesaid."During the Battleof the BulgeI evenhit something." "Ij' Lundgrensaid,"am an honorarymemberof the SwissMilitia." Nobodylaughed.Most of them wereawarethat Lundgrenin his own obscurewaywasbragging,that he hadsomethingto bragabout.Newcliffe appearedabruptlyfrom the cellar. "I pried'emloose,cooled'emwith snowandrolled'emout with a file. They'reprobablybadlycrystallizedbut we needn'tlet that worry us." He put one cartridgein the chamberof eachrifle and shot the bolts home."There'sno sensein loadingtheseanymorethoroughly-ordinary bulletsareno goodanyhow,chris says.Just makeyour first shotscount. Who'selected?" Foote,Lundgrenand Benningtoneachtook a rifle. Newcliffetook the fourth and handedthe last one to his wife. "I say,waita minute,"Jamesobjected. "Do youthink that'swise,Tom?
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I mean, taking Carolinealong?" "Why certainly,"Newcliffe said,looking surprised."She shootslike a fiend-she's snatched prizes away from me a couple of times. I thought everybodywas going along." "That isn't rightl' Foote said. "Especiallynot Doris, since the wolfthat is,I don't think she ought to go." 'Are you going to leaveher here by herself?" ..Oh no!" Doris cried. "Not here! I've got to go! I don't want to wait all alone in this house.He might come back, and there'd be nobody here. I couldn't stand it!" "We're alt goinll' Newcliffe concluded. "We can't leave Doris here unprotectedand we need caroline's marksmanship.Let's get going. It's two now" He put on his heavycoatand with the heavy-eyedbutleq went out to get the dogs.The rest of the company got out their own heavy clothes. Doris and Caroline climbed into ski-suits.They assembledone by one in the living room. Lundgren's eyes swung on a vase of irislike flowers. "Hello, what's this?" he said. ..Monkshoodl'caroline informed him. "we grow it in the greenhouse. It's pretty,isn't it? Though the gardenersaysit's poisonous." "Chris.t'Foote said. "That isn't wolfsbane,is it?" The psychiatristshookhis head."I'm no botanist.Ican't tell one aconite from the other.But it hardly matters.Hyperpinealsare allergic to the whole group.The pollen, you see.As in hay fever your hyperpinealbreathesthe pollen, anaphylaxissets in and-" "The last twist of the knifel' Jamesmurmured. A clamoring of dogs outside announcedthat Newcliffe was ready.with somber facesthe party filed out through the front door.For some reasonall of them avoidedsteppingon the wolf's prints in the snow.Their mien was that of condemnedprisonerson the way to the tumbrels.Lundgren took one of the sprigs of flowers from the vase. The moon had passedits zenith and was almost half-way down the sky, projecting the Bastille-like shadowof the housebeforeit. But there wasstill plenty of light and the house itself was glowing from basement to tower room. Lundgren located Brucey in the milling yapping pack and abruptly thrust the sprig of flowers under his muzzle.The animal sniffed once,then crouched back and snarled softlY. "Wolfsbane," Lundgren Said."DOgs don't react to the OtheracOniteSbasisof the legend,no doubt. Better fire your gardener,Caroline.In the end he's to blame for all this in the dead of winter. Lycanthropy normally is an autumn affliction." James said.
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"Evena man who sayshisprayers Beforehe sleepseachnight May turn to wolf whenthe wotfsboneblooms And the moonis highand bright." "Stop it, you give me the horrorsj' Foote snappedangrity. "well, the dog knows now," said Newcliffe. "Good. It would have been hard for them to pick up the spoor from cold snow but Brucey can lead them. Let's go." The tracks of the wolf were clearand sharpin the snow.It had formed a hard crust from which fine, powdery showers of tiny ice-crystalswere shipped by a fitful wind. The tracks led around the side of the house and out acrossthe golf course.The little group plodded grimly along beside them. The spoor was cold for the dogsbut every so often they would pick up a faint trace and go bounding ahead,yanking their master after them. For the most part however the party had to depend upon its eyes. A heavy mass of clouds had gatheredin the west. The moon dipped lower.Foote's shadow,grotesquelylengthened,marched on before him and the crusted snow crunched and crackled beneath his feet. There was a watchful unnaturally still atmosphereto the night and they all moved in tense silence except for a few subduedgrowls and barks from the dogs. Once the marks of the werewolf doubled back a short distance,then doubled again as if the monster had turned for a moment to look back at the house before continuing his prowling. For the most part however the trail led directly toward the dark boundary of the woods. As the brush beganto rise about them they stoppedby mutual consent and peeredwarily ahead,rifles held readyfor instant action.Far out across the countrysidebehind them, the greatcloud-shadowonce more beganits sailing. The brilliantly lit house stood out fantasticallyin the gloom. "shbuld have turned those out," Newcliffe muttered, looking back. "Outlines us." The dogs strained at their leashes.In the black west was an inaudible muttering as of winter thunder. Brucey pointed a quivering nose at the woods and growled. "He's in there, all right." "we'd better step on it," Bennington said, whispering. "Going to be plenty dark in about five minutes. Storm." Still they hesitated,regardingthe menacingdarknessof the forest.Then Newcliffe waved his gun hand in the conventionaldeploy-as-skirmishers signaland plowedforward.The rest spreadout in a looselyspacedline and followed and Foote's finger trembled over his trigger. The forest in the shrouded darknesswas a place of clutching brittle
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claws, contorted bodies, and the briefly glimpsed demon-facesof ambushedhorrors.It was Dante'sjungle, the woodsof Purgatory,whereeach tree was a body frozenin agonyand branchesweregnarledarms and fingers which groanedin the wind or gavesharptiny tinkling screamsas they were broken off. The underbrushgraspedat Foote'slegs.His feet brokejarringly through the crust of snowor weresupportedby it when he leastexpectedsupport. His shoulders struck unseen tree-trunks. Imagined thirrgs sniffed frightfully at his heelsor slunk abouthim just beyondhis rangeof vision. The touch of a hand was enough to make him jump and smother an involuntaryoutcry.The dogs strainedand panted,weaving,no longer snarling,silent with a vicious intentness. "They've pickedup something,all right," Benningtonwhispered."Turn 'em loose,Tom?" Newcliffe bent and snappedthe leashesfree. Without a sound the animalsshot aheadand disappeared. Over the forestthe oncomingstorm-cloudscrawledacrossthe moon. Total blacknessengulfedthem. The beam of a powerfulflashlightlanced from Newcliffe's free hand, picking out a path of tracks on the brushlitteredsnow.The restof the night drew in closeraboutthe blue-whiteray. "Hate to do this," Newcliffe said. "It gives us away.But he knows we're- Hello, it's snowing." "Let's go then," Foote said."The trackswill be blottedout shortly." A terribleclamorousbayingrolledsuddenlythroughthe woods."That's i//"Newcliffe shouted."Listento them! Go get him, Brucey!" They crashedahead.Foote'sheart was beatingwildly, his nervesat an impossiblepitch. The bellowing cry of the dogs echoedall around him, filling the universewith noise. "They must havesightedhim," he panted."What a racket!They'll raise the whole countryside." They plowedblindly throughthe snow-filledwoods.Then, without any flocculatedthe air. interval,they stumbledinto a smallclearing.Snowflakes and he tripped savagely',, SomethingdashedbetweenFoote'slegs,snapping and fell into a drift. Foote'smouth wasfull of A voiceshoutedsomethingindistinguishable. jerked his headup-and lookedstraightinto the red rage-glowing snow.He eyes of the wolf. It was standingon the other side of the clearing,facing him, the dogs leapingabout it, snappingfuriously at its legs.It madeno soundat all but crouched tiger-iashion,its lips drawn back in a grinning travesty of smile.It lashedat the dogsasthey camecloser.One of the Jarmoskowski's dogs alreadylay writhing on the ground,,a dark pool spreadingfrom it, staining the snow.
THERESHALL BE NO DARKNESS "Shoot, for heaven'ssake!" somebodyscreamed. Newcliffe clappedhis rifle to his shoulder,then loweredit indecisively. "I can't," he said. "The dogs are in the way." "The heck with the dogs!" Jamesshouted."This is no fox-hunt! Shoot, TorD,you're the only one of us that's clear." It was Foote who fired first. The rifle's flat crack echoed through the woodsand snow pulled up in a little explosionby the wolf"sleft hind pad.A concerted groan arose from the party and Newcliffe's voice thundered aboveit, ordering his dogs back. Bennington aimed with inexorable care. The werewolf did not wait. With a screamingsnarl he burst through the ring of dogs and charged. Footejumped in front of Doris, throwing one arm acrosshis throat.The world dissolvedinto rolling, twisting pandemonium,filled with screaming and shouting and the frantic hatred of dogs. The snow flew thick. Newcliffe's flashlight rolled away and lay on the snorry,regardingthe treetops with an idiot stare. Then there was the sound of a heavy body moving swiftly away.The shouting died gradually. 'Anybody hurt?" James' voice asked.There was general a chorus of no's. Newcliffe retrievedhis flashlight and playedit about but the snowfall had reachedblizzard proportions and the light showednothing but shadows and cold confetti. "He got awayl' Bennington said. "And the snow will cover his tracks. Better call your dogs back, Tom." "They're back," Newcliffe said. "When I call them off they come off." He bent over the body of the injured animal, which was still twitching feebly."So-sol' he said softly. "So-Brucey. Easy-easy. So,Brucey-so." Still murmuring, he brought his rifle into position with one arm. The dog's tail beat feebly againstthe snow. "So, Brucey." The rifle crashed. Newcliffe arose,and looked away."It looks as if we lose round one," he said tonelessly.
IV It seemedto becomedaylight very quickly.The butler weilt phlegmatically aroundthe house,snappingoff the lights.If he knew what was going on he gaveno sign of it. "Cappy?" Newcliffe saidinto the phone. 'ol,istenand get this straightit's important. Senda cable to ConsolidatedWarfareService-noo no, not
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the Zurich office,they've officesin London-and placean orderfor a case of .44 calibrerifle cartridges. "Listen to me, dammit, I'm not through yet-with silvers/ugs.Yes, that's right-silver-and it had better be the pure stuff,,too. No, not sterling,that's too hard.Tell them I want them flown over,and that they've got to arrive here tomorrow.Yes,I know it's impossiblebut if you offer them enough-yes, of courseI'll coverit. Got that?" "Garlicl' Lundgren said to Caroline.She wrote it dutifully on her marketinglist. "How many windowsdoesthis placehave?All right, make it one clove for eachand get half a dozen boxesof rosemary,too." He turnedto Foote."We must covereveryangle,"he saidsomberly.'As soonasTom getsoff the phoneI'll try to raisethe local priestand get him out here with a truckloadof silver crucifixes.Understand.Paul.there is a strongphysiological basisbehindall the mediaevalmumbo-jumbo. "The herbs are anti-spasmodics-theyact rather as ephedrinedoesin hay fever to reducethe violenceof the seizure.It's possiblethat Jan may not be able to maintain the wolf shapeif he getsa goodenoughsniff. As for the religioustrappings,that's all psychological. "If Jan happensto be a skepticin such mattersthey won't bother him but I suspecthe's-'o Lundgren'sEnglish abruptlygaveout. The word he wanted obviously was not in his vocabulary." Aberglaeubig,"he said. "Criandre." "Superstitious?"Foote suggested, smiling grimly. "Yes. Yes,certainly.Who has better reason,may I ask?" "But how doeshe maintainthe wolf shapeat all?" "Oh, that's the easiestpart. You know how water takesthe shapeof a vesselit sits in? Well, protoplasmis a liquid. This pineal hormone lowers the surfacetensionof the cells and at the sametime short-circuitsthe sympatheticnervoussystemdirectly to the cerebralcortex. "Result,a plastic,malleablebodywithin limits. A wolf is easiestbecause the skeletonsare similar-not much pinearincan do with bone,you see. An apewould be easier,but apesdon't eat peoplel' 'And vampires? Are theyjust advancedcasesof the samething?" "Vampires,"said Lundgren pontifically,"are peoplewe put in padded cells.It's impossibleto changethe bony structurerftalmuch. They just think they'rebats.But yes,it's advancedhyperpinealism. In the laststages it is quite somethingto see. "The surfacetension is loweredso much that the cells begin to boil away.Pretty soon there is just a mess.The processis arrestedwhen the vascularsystem can no longer circulatethe hormone but of coursethe victim is dead long before that." "No cure?"
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perhaps, but until then- We will be doingJana "None yet.Someday favor." 'Also," Newcliffewassaying, "drive overand pick me up six Browning just the riflesthemselves. automatic rifles.Nevermind the bipods, What? Well,youmightcallit a siege.All right,Cappy.No,Iwon'tbein today.Pay everybodyoff and sendthem homeuntil further notice." "It's a goodthing,"Footesaid,"that Newcliffehasmoney." "It's a goodthing,"saidLundgren,"that he hasme-and you.We'll see how twentiethcenturymethodscancopewith this Dark-Agedisease." Newcliffehung up and Lundgrentook possession of the phone.'As soonasmy mangetsbackfrom the villageI'm goingto setout traps.He may be ableto detecthiddenmetal.I've knowndogsthat coulddo it by smell in wet weatherbut it's worth a try." "What'sto preventhis just goingaway?"Doris asked.Somehowthe shadowsof exhaustionand fear aroundher eyesmadeher lovelierthan ever. 'As I understand it he thinkshe'sboundby thepentagram;'Foote said. At the telephone, whereLundgrenevidentlywaslisteningto a different conversation with eachear,therewasan energeticnod. "In the old books,the figureis supposedto be a suretrap for demons andsuchif youcanlure them into it. And the werewolffeelscompelledto go only for the personwhomhe thinksis markedwith itl' Lundgrensaid,"Excuseme,"and put his handoverthe mouth-piece. "Only lastssevendays,"he said. "The compulsion?Then we'll haveto get him beforethen." "Well, maybewe'll sleeptonightanyhow,"Doris saiddubiously. Lundgrenhung up and rejoinedthem. "I didn't havemuch difficulty sellingthe goodFatherthe idea,"he said."But he only has crucifixes enoughfor our groundfloorwindows.By the way,he wantsa pictureof Jan in casehe shouldturn up in the village." "There are no existingphotographs of Jarmoskowski," Newcliffesaid positively."He neverallowedany to be taken.[t was a headacheto his concertmanager." "That'sunderstandable," Lundgrensaid."Withhis cellradiogens under constantstimulationany pictureof him would turn out over-exposed anyhow-probably a totalblank.And that in turn wouldexposeJan." "Well, that'stoo badbut it's not irreparable," Footesaid.He wasgladto be of someuseagain.He openedNewcliffe'sdeskandtook out a sheetof stationeryand a pencil. In ten minutes he had produceda head of profileashe hadseenhim at the pianothat Jarmoskowski in three-quarter lastnight so manycenturiesago.Lundgrenstudiedit. "To the lifef'he said."I'll sendthis overby messenger. Youdrawwell, Paul."
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Benningtonlaughed."You're not telling him anything he doesn't Footethought,therewasconsiderablyless know,"he said.Nevertheless, animosityin the critic's manner. "What now?" Jamesasked. "We wait," Newcliffesaid."Bennington'sgun wasruined by that one handmade slug.Wecan'taffofdto haveour weaponstakenout of action.If jobs heretomorrow they'll havethe machine-made I know Consolidated getting now he'sshownus he's we'll have hope him. Right Then some of morethan a matchfor us in opencountry." of what it The grouplookedat eachother.Somelittle understanding nights,helpless wouldmeanto wait throughnervousdaysandfear-stalked and inactive,alreadyshowedon their faces.But there were necessities beforewhich the demandsof merelyhumanfeelingswereforcedto yield. The conferencebrokeup in silence. For Foote,as for the rest,that night was instilled with dread,pregnant everyinstantwith terrorof the outcrythat the next momentmiShtbring' Thewaningmoon,greenishandsickly,reeledoverthe housethrougha sky troubled with fulgurousclouds.An insistentwind made distant wolfhowls,shookfrom the treessoft soundslike the paddingof stealthypaws, rattledwindowswith the scrapeof clawstrying for a hold. The atmosphereof the house,hot and stuffy becauseof the closed windowsand reekingof garlic,was stretchedto an impossibletautness with waiting.In the empty room next to Footethere wasthe imagined of a turned' comingandgoingof thin ghostsandthe crouchedexpectancy down bed-awaiting an occupantwho might depressthe sheetsin a of the tiny pitifUlglint of the crucifix shockingpattern,perhapsregardless or groaned turned restlessly, pillow. sleepers him, other Above upon the nightmares. and startedup from chilling The boundarybetweenthe realandthe unrealhadbeenlet downin his mind and in the flickeringshadowsof the moon and the dark errandsof the ghoststherewasno way of makinganyselection.He hadenteredthe of the borderlandbetweenthe humanandthe demon, blackness cobwebby wherenothingis evermore than half true-or half untruth. voices the blasphemous After a while,on the thresholdof this darkness, wind, The of the hidden evil things beyondit beganto seepthrough. voices, the abandoningthe trees and gables,whisperedand echoed countingthe victimsslowlyasdeathstalkedthroughthe house. One. Tlvo. Three-closernov! Four-the fourth sleeperstruggleda little. Footecouldheara muflled creakof springsoverhis head.
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Five. Six-who wasSix?Who is next?When? Seven-OhLord,I'm next. . .I'm next. . .I'm next. He curled into a ball, trembling.The wind died awayand there was silence,tremendoussilence.After a long while he uncuiled,swearingat himselfbut not aloud-because he wasafraidto hearhis own voice.cut that out, now.Foote,you bloodyfool. you're like a kid hiding from the goblins.You'reperfectlysafe.Lundgrensaysso. Mammasaysso. How the heckdoesLundgrenknow? He's an expert.He wrotea paper.Go ahead,be a kid. Rememberyour childhoodfaith in the printedword?Alt right then.Go to sleep,will you? Theregoesthat damnedcountingagain. But after a while his wom-downnerveswouldbe deniedno longer.He slepta little but fitfully,fallingin his dreamsthroughsuchdeeppits of evil that he awokefightingthe coversandgaspingfor the vitiated iarlic-heavy air.Therewas a fetid foulnessin his mouth and his heart piunded. He threw off the coversandsat up, lightinga cigarettewith tremblinghands and trying not to seethe shadowsthe flame threw . He wasno longerwaitingfor the night to end.He had forgottenthat thereeverwassucha thing asdaylight,waswaitingonly for the-inevitable growlthat wouldheraldthe lasthorror.Thusit wasa shockalmost beyond bearingto look out the windowandseethe brighteningof dawnoverthe forest. After staringincredulouslyat it for a moment he snubbedout his cigarettein the candlestick-whichhe hadbeencarryingaroundthe house as if it hadgrownto him-and collapsed. with a siitr tre wasinstantlyin deepanddreamless sleep. when he finally came to consciousness he was being shaken and Bennington'svoicewas his ear."Get up, man," the crilic wassaying. !n "No, you needn'treachfor the candlestick-everything's okaythus far." Footegrinned."It's a pleasureto seea friendlyexpression on your face, Bennington,"he saidwith a faint glow of generalrelief. Bennington lookeda little abashed. youl'he admitted..,I "I misjudged guessit takesa crisisto bringout what'sreallyin a mansothat blunt brains like mine can seeit. you don't mind if I continueto dislikeyour latest abstractions, I trust?" "That's your function," Foote said cheerfully."To be a gadfly.Now what'shappened?" "Newcliffegot up earlyandmadethe roundsof the traps.we got a good-
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good-you'll see' sizedrabbitout of one of them and madea stew-very on the snow' it and on blood was The other one was empty but there him'" for Lundgrenisn't up yet but we'vesavedscrapings in. "Hope it Jaies pokedtris t euoaroundthe doorjamb, then c,ame shirt Foote's from cigarette a crippleshim," he said,dextrouslysnaffling and the butler, ..pardon but us deserted me. All the servantshave pociet. will bring cigarettesup from the village'" nobody ..My,myl' saidFoote."Eveiyonefeelsso chipper.Boy,I neverthought I'd be asgi.Oto seeanysunriseasI wastoday's'" t'[f you-" liketheworld'sbiggesttea-kettle' Therewasa soundoutside.Itsounded and cameback' Somethingflitted throughthe sky,wheeled 'A ,.Cripesl,Footesaid,-shading iiis eyes. big jet job. What'she doing here?" in over The planecircledsilently,jets cut' It lost flying speedandqfided forest' the for the golf course,struckanorotteoat breakneckspeedstraight At tlhelast minute the pilot spunto a stopexpertly' -"By heaven,I'llbet that'sNewcliffe'sbullets!"
Theypoundeddownstairs.Bythetimetheyreachedthefrontroomthe them. piloi*", comingin with Newtnffe.A heavycasewasslungbetween said' he "Loo\ sighed' Then Newcliffepriedthe caseopen. ?t't-q;'he ,,Nice,shiny brass.;oid;*, and dull-silvei headsmachinedfor perfect accuracy-yurn'yum.Icouldjuststandhereandpetthem.Whereareyou from?" ..Croydon],saidthepilot...Ifyoudon'tmind,Mr.Newcliffe,the poundsfor the companysaidI wasio.oirrrt from you.That'sa hundred cartiidgesand five hundredfor me'" "Ch-eapenough.Hold on' I'll write you a check'" Footewhistled.Hedidn'tknowwhethertobemoreawedbythetran expressserviceor the vastsum it hadcost' Atlantic beganto iG piloi took the checkand shortlythereafterthe tea-kettle out handing was Newcliffe whistleagain.Fromanotherhugewoodencrate brand-newBrownings. ..Now let him Jomej' he said grimly. .,Don't worry .aboutwasting you seehim, blazeawaylike shots-there,sa full caseof clips.As soonas mad.Use it like a hoseif you haveto'" ..Somebodygo'"ur"Chris]'Benningtonsaid...Heshouldhavelesso girl"' too. Doris,go fnocf on his door like a good Newcliffesaid,"iS Dorisnoddedandwentupstairs."Nowthis studhere," gunwill fire one the the fire-controlbutton.you put it in this positionand
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shotandreload.Put it hereandyou haveto reloadit yourselflike anyrifle. Put it hereand it goesinto automaticoperation,firing everyshell in the clip, one after the other." .,Wecouldstand "Thunder!"Jamessaidadmiringly. off an army." "Wait a minute-there seemto be two missing." 'lThoseareall you unpacked,"Benningtonsaid. "Yes but there were two older modelsof my own. I never used 'em because it didn't seemright to hunt with sucha cannon.But I got'em out last night on accountof this troublel' ..I thought "oh," Benningtonsaidwith an air of suddenenlightenment. thatthingI hadlookedodd.Isleptwith onelastnight.Ithink Lundgrenhas another." "where is Lundgren?Doris shouldhavehad him up by now.Go see, Bennington,and get that gun." "Isn't therea lot of recoil?"Footeasked. "sure. Thesearereallymeantto operatefrom bipods.Hold the gun at your hip, not your shoulder-what'sthat?', "Bennington'svoice,"Footesaid,suddenlytense."somethingmust be wrongwith Doris."The four of them clatteredfor the stairs. TheyfoundDorisat Bennington's feetin front of Lundgren'sopendoor. Evidentlyshehadfaintedwithouta sound.Thecritic wasin the processof beingvery sick.On Lundgren'sbed lay a crimsonhorror. The throatwasrippedout andthe faceandall the soft partsof the body had beeneatenaway.The right leg had beengnawedin one placeall the way to the bone,which gleamedwhite and polishedin the reassuring sunlight.
v Footestoodin the living room by the piano in the full glareof all the electriclights.He hefted the B.A. R. and surveyedthe remainderof his companions, who werestandingin a puzzledgroupbeforehim. "No," he said,"I don't like that.I don't wantyou all bunchedtogether. Stringout in a line, in front of me, so I canseeeverybody." ,He grinnedbriefly."Got the dropon you,didn't I? Not a rifle in sight. of course,there'sthe big candlestick behindyou, Newcliffe,but I can shootquickerthan you can club me." His voicegrewugly.,,Ai,nd I will,if you make it necessary. so I would advise everybody-including the women-not to makeany suddenmoves." "what is this all about,paul?" Benningtondemandedangrily..As if thingsaren't badenough!"
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..You'llseedirectly.Now line up the wayI told you.Quick!'He moved 'And rememberwhat I saidaboutsuddenmoves.It the gun suggestively. m.y Uedaik outsidebut I didn't turn on all the lightsfor nothing." Quietlythe line formedandthe eyesthat lookedat Footewerenarrowed with suspicionof madness-orworse. .,Good.Now we cantalk comfortably. You see,after what happenedto Thatwaspartlyhis faultandpartlymine. chris I'm not takinganychances. But the godsallowno oneto err twicein.matterslike this.He paida ghastly pricefor his seconderror-a priceI don't intendto payor to seeanyone elseherepay." ,.wouldyouhonorus with an explanationof this error?"Newcliffesaid icily. i.yes.I don't blameyou for beingangrgTom,sinceI'm your guest.But you see['m forcedto treat you all alike for the moment.I was fond of Lundgren." Therewassilencefor a moment,then a thin indrawingof breathfrom "what do Bennington."You werefond-my Lord!" he whisperedraggedly. you mean?" ..I meanthat Lundgrenwas not killed by Jarmoskowskil'Footesaid "He waskilled by someoneelse.fuiother werewolf. coldlyanddeliberately. meat thismoment." before is standing Onewho gasp went uP. A concerted .,surprised?But it's true. The error for which chris paid so dearly, which I madetoo, wasthis-we forgotto examineeverybodyfor injuries after the encounterwith Jan. We forgot one of the cardinallaws of lycanthropy. .A man who survivesbeingbitten by a werewolfhimself becomesa werewolf.That'show the diseaseis passedon. The pinearinin the saliva stimulatesthe victim's own pinealglandand-" getsin the bloodstream, voice' "But nobodywasbitten, Paul,"Doris saidin a reasonable ..somebodywas,lightly.Noneof you but chris and myselfcouldknow aboutthe bite-infection.Evidentlysomebodygot a few small scratches' didn't think them worth mentioning,put iodine on them and forgot them-until it wastoo late." Therewereslowmovementsin the line-heads turning surreptitiously, eyesglancingnervouslyat personsto left and right. ..Oncethe attack occurred,"Foote said relentlesSly, "ChriS waSthe enemy.Iwisht logicalfirst victim.The expert,hencethe mostdangerous tr;d ttrouehtof this beforelunch.I might haveseenwhich oneof you was againstletting uninterestedin his lunch. In any event Chris'safeguards this room leave won't getting You you out. from keep in also Jarmoskowski everagain."
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He grittedhis teeth and broughthimselfbackinto control.'All right,,' he said."This is the showdown.Everybodyhold up both handsin ftain vigw." Almost instantlytherewasa raveningwolf in the room. only Foote,who couldseeat a glancethe orderof the peoplein the line, knewwhoit was.Thefrightful tragedyof it struckhim sucha blowthatthe gun droppednervelesslyfrom his hands.He wept convulsively.The monsterlungedfor his throatlike a reddishprojectile. Newcliffe'shanddartedback,graspedthe candlestick. He leaptforward in a swift, catlikemotion and broughtit downacrossthe werewol{"sside. Ribsburstwith a horriblesplinteringsound.The beastspun,snarlingwith agony.Newcliffehit it againacrossthe backbone.It fell, screaming, fangs slashingthe air. Three times,with concentrated viciousness, Newcliffestruck at its head.Then it cried out oncein an almostfamiliarvoice-and died. slowly the cellsof its bodygropedbacktowardtheir naturalpositions. The awful crawlingmetamorphosis wasnevercompleted.But the hairyhaunchedthing with the crushedskull which sprawledat Newcliffe'sfeet wasrecognizable. It hadbeenCarolineNewcliffe. Therewasa frozentableauof waxfiguresin the yellowlamplight.Tears coursedalongFoote'spalms,droppedfrom underthem,fell silentlyto the carpet.After a while he droppedhis hands.Bennington'sfacewas gray with illnessbut rigidlyexpressionless likea granitestatue.James'back was againstthe wall.He watchedthe anomalouscorpseasif waitingfor some new movement. As for Newcliffehe hadno expression at all. He merelystoodwherehe was,the bloodycandlestick heldlooselyin a limp hand. His eyeswerequite empty. After a moment Doris walked over to Newcliffe and touched his shouldercompassionately. The contactseemedto let somethingout of him. He shrankvisiblyinto himself,shoulders slumping,his wholebody witheringvisibly into a dry husk, The candlestickthumpedagainstthe floot rockedwildly on its base, toppledacrossthe body.As it struck, Foote'scigarettebutt, which had somehowremainedin it all day,tumbledout and rolledcrazilyalongthe carpet. "Tom,"Dorissaidsoftly."Comeawaynow.There'snothingyoucando.', "Bloodjnhe said emptily."She had a cut. On her hand.Handledthe scrapingsfrom the trap-my trap. I did it. Just a breadknifecut from makingcanapes. I did it:' "No you didn't, Tom. Let's get some rest." She took his hand. He
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shoes followedher obediently,stumblinga little as his blood-spattered scuffedoverthe thick rug, his breathexpellingfrom his lungswith a soft up the stairs. whisper.The two disappeared Benningtonboltedfor the kitchensink. Footesatdownon the pianobench,his wornfacetaut with driedtears, and pickedat the dustykeys.The lightly strucknotesarousedJames.He crossedthe roomand lookeddownat Foote. "You did well," the novelistsaid shakily."Don't condemnyourself, Paul." Footenodded.He felt-nothing. Nothingat all. "The body?" "Yes.I supposeso."He gotup from the bench.Togethertheycarriedthe tragiccorpseout throughthe houseto the greenhouse. "We shouldleaveher here,"Footesaidwith a faint return of his old irony. "Here's where the wolfsbanebloomed and started the whole business." Jamessaid."But I don'tthink it's wise.Tom "Poeticjustice,Isuppose," hasa toolshedat the other end that isn't steamheated.It shouldbe cold enough." Gently they placedthe bodyon the cementfloor,layingsomegunnysacksunderit. "In the morning,"Footesaid,"we canhavesomeonecome for her." "How about legal trouble?" Jamessaid frowning."Here's a woman whoseskullhasbeencrushedwith a blunt instrument-" "[ think I can get Lundgren'spriest to help us there," Foote said somberly."They havesomeauthorityto makedeathcertificatesin this state.Besides,James-is that a woman?Inarguablyit isn't Caroline." Jameslookedsidewiseat the hairy,contortedhaunches. "Yes.It'slegallyit's nothing.Iseeyour point." Togetherthey wentbackinto the house."Jarmoskowski?" Jamessaid. "Not tonight.We'reall too tired and sick.And we do seemto be safe enoughin here.Chrissawto that." WhateverJameshadto sayin replywaslost in the roarof an automatic rifle somewhereover their heads,exhaustingits shotsin a quick stream. After a momenttherewasanotherburst of ten. Footstepsechoed.Then Benningtoncamebouncingdownthe stairs. "Watchout tonight,"he panted."He's around.I sawhim comeout of the woodsin wolf form. I emptiedthe clip but missedand he went back again.I sprayedanotherten roundsaroundwhereI sawhim go in but I don't think I hit him," "Where wereyou shootingfrom?" "The top of the tower."His facewasvery grim."Went up for a lastlook
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around and there he was. I hope he comes tonight, I want to be the one who kills him." "How is Tom?" "Bad. Doesn't seem to know where he is or what he's doing. well, good night. Keep your eyes peeled." Jamesnodded and followed him upstairs.Foote remainedin the empty room a few minutes longer,looking thoughtfully at the splotch of blood on the pricelessPersiancarpet.Then he felt of his face and throat, looked at his hands,arms and legs,inside his shirt. Not so much as a scratch-Tom had seen to that. So hard not to hate these afflicted people,so impossibleto remember that lycanthropywasa diseaselike any other! Caroline,like the manin The Red Laugh,had beennoble-heartedand gentle and had wishedno one evil. YetMaybe God is on the side of the werewolves. The blasphemyof an exhaustedmind. Yet he could not put it from him. SupposeJarmoskowskishould conquerhis compulsionand lie out of sight until the seven days were over. Then he could disappear.It was a big country.Itwould not be necessary for him to kill all his victims-just those he actually neededfor food. But he could nip a god many. Every other one, say. And from wherever he lived the circle of lycanthropy would grow and widen and engulfMaybe God had decided that proper humans had made a mess of running the world, had decidedto give the noqferatu,theundead,a chance at it. Perhapsthe human race was on the threshold of that darknessinto which he had looked throughout last night. He ground his teeth and made an exasperatednoise. Shock and exhaustionwould drive him as crazyas Newcl-iffeif he kept this up. He went aroundthe room, making sure that all the windowswere tightly closedand the crucifixes in place,turning out the lights as he went. The garlicwas gettingrancid-it smelledlike mercaptan-but he was too tired to replaceit. He clicked out the last light, picked up the candlestickand went out into the hall. As he passedDoris'room, he noticed that the door was ajar.Inside, two voicesmurmured. Rememberingwhat he had heard beforehe stoppedto eavesdrop. It was yearslater that Foote found out exactly what had happenedat the very beginning.Doris, physicallyexhaustedby the hideous events of the day,emotionally drained by tending the childlike Newcliffe, feeding him from a spoon and seeing him into bed, had fallen asleep almost immediately.
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It wasa sleepdreamlessexceptfor a vague,dull undercurrentof despair. When the light tapping against the window-panesfinally reached her consciousnessshe had no idea how long she had slumbered. Shestruggledto a sitting position and forced her eyelidsup. Acrossthe room the moonlight, gleamingin patchesagainstthe rotting snow outside, glaredthrough the window.Silhouettedagainstit was a tall human figure. She could not see its face but there was no mistaking the red glint of the eyes.She clutched for the rifle and brought it awkwardlyinto position. Jarmoskowskidid not dodge.He moved his arms out a little way away from his body,palms forward in a gesturethat looked almost supplicating, and waited.Indecisivelyshe loweredthe gun again.Washe inviting death? As she loweredthe weaponshe sawthat the stud wasin the continuousfire position and carefully she shifted it to repeat.She was afraid of the recoil Newcliffe had mentioned,felt surer of her target if she could throw one shot at a time at it. Jarmoskowskitapped again and motioned with his finger. Reasoning that he would come in if he were able, she took time out to get into her housecoat.Then, holding her finger againstthe trigger, she went to the window.It was closedtightly and a crucifix, suspendedfrom a silk thread, hung exactlyin the center of it. Shecheckedit, and then openedone of the small panesdirectly aboveJarmoskowski'shead. "Hello, Dorisl'he said softly. "Hello." She was more uncertain than afraid. Was this actually happeningor just the recurrent nightmare? "What do you want? I should shoot you. Can you tell me why I shouldn't?" "Yes I can. OtherwiseI wouldn't have risked exposingmyself.That's a nasty-lookingweapon." "There are ten silver bullets in it." "I know it. I've seenBrowningsbefore.I would be a good target for you too, so I have no hope of escape-my nostrils are full of rosemary."He smiled ruefully. "And Lundgren and Caroline are dead and I am responsible.I deserveto die. That is why I am here." "You'll get your wish, Janl' she said. "You have some other reasOn,I know. I will back my wits againstyours. I want to ask you questions." tAsk." "You have your evening clothes on. Paul said they changedwith you. How is that possible?" "But a wolf has clothes," Jarmoskowskisaid. "He is not naked like a man. And surely Chris must have spokenof the effect of the pineal upon the cell radiogens.These little bodies act upon any organic matter, including wool or cotton.When I changemy clotheschangewith me.I can hardly say how, for it is in the blood, like musicianship.Either you can or
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you can't. But they change." His voice took on a darkly somber tone. "Lundgren was right throughout.This werewolferyis now nothing but a disease.It is not prosurvival. Long ago there must have been a number of mutations which brought the pineal gland into use. "None of them survived but the werewolvesand these are dying. Somedaythe pineal will come into better use and all men will be able to modify their forms without this terrible madnessas a penalty.For us, the lycanthropes,the failures,nothing is left. "It is not good for a man to wander from country to country, knowing that he is a monster to his fellow-men and cursedeternallyby his God-if he can claim a God. I went through Europe, playing the piano and giving pleasure,meeting people,making friends-and always,sooner or later, there were whisperings,and strangelooks and dawning horror. 'And whether was I hunted down for the beastI was or whether there was merely a vague gradually growing revulsion, they drove me out. Hatred, silver bullets, crucifixes-they are all the same in the end. "Sometimes,I could spend several months without incident in some one placeand my life would take on a veneerof normality.I could attend to my music and havepeopleabout me that I liked and be-human. Then the wolfsbanebloomed and the pollen freighted the air and when the moon shone down on that flower my blood surgedwith the thing I have within me. "And then I made apologiesto my friends and went north to Sweden, where Lundgren was and where spring was much later.I loved him and I think he missedthe truth about me until night before last. I was careful. "Once or twice I did notgoNorth and then the peoplewho had beenmy friends would be hammering silver behind my back and waiting for me in dark corners.After yearsof this few placesin Europewould haveme. With my reputation as a musician spreaddarker rumors. "Towns I had never visited closed their gates to me without a word. Concert halls were bookedup too many months in advancefor me to use them, inns and hotels were filled indefinitely,peoplewere too busy to talk to me, to listen to my playing, to write me any letters. "I have been in love. That-I cannot describe. 'And then I cameto this country.Here no one believesin the werewolf. I soughtscientific help-not from Lundgren,becauseI was afraid I should do him some harm. But here I thought someonewould know enough to deal with what I had become. "It was not so. The primitive hatred of my kind lies at the heart of the human as it lies at the heart of the dog. There was no help for me. "I am here to ask for an end to it:'
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Slow tears rolled over Doris'cheeks. The voice fadedawayindefinitely. It did not seem to end at all but rather to retreat into some limbo where men could not hear it. Jarmoskowskistood silently in the moonlight, his eyes burning bloodily,a somber sullen scarlet. Doris said, "Jan-Jan, I am sorry,I am so sorry.What can I do?" "Shoot." "I-can't!" "Please,Doris." The girl was crying uncontrollably."Jan, don't. I can't. You know I can't. Go away,pleasego away." Jarmoskowskisaid, "Then come with me, Doris. Open the window and come with me." "Where?" "Does it matter? You have denied me the death I ask.Would you deny me this last desperatelove, would you deny your own love, your own last and deepestdesire?It is too late now, too late for you to pretendrevulsion. Come with me." He held out his hands. "Saygoodbyel'hesaid."Goodbyeto theseself-righteoushumans.I will give you of my blood and we will rangethe world, wild and uncontrollable, the last of our race.They will remember us, I promise you." ttJan-
tt
"I am here. Come now." Like a somnambulist she swung the panes out. Jarmoskowskidid not move but looked first at heq then at the crucifix. Shelifted one end of the thread and let the little thing tinkle to the floor. 'After us there shall be no darkness comparable to our darkness," Jarmoskowskisaid. "Let them rest-let the world rest." He sprang into the room with so sudden, so feral a motion that he seemedhardly to havemoved at all. From the doorwaythe automaticrifle yammered with demoniac ferocity. The impact of the slugs hurled Jarmoskowskiback againstthe wall. Foote lowered the smoking muzzle and took one step into the room. "Too late, Jan," he said stonily. Doris wailed like a little girl awakenedfrom a dream. Jarmoskowski's lips moved but there was not enough left of his lungs.The effort to speak brought a bloody froth to his mouth. He stood for an instant,stretchedout a hand toward the girl. Then the fingers clenched convulsively and the long body folded. He smiled, put aside that last of all his purposesand died.
TheLoomof Darkness Jack Vance
Through the dim forest came Liane the wayfarer, passing along the shadowedgladeswith a prancinglight-footedgait.He whistled,he caroled, he was plainly in high spirits.Around his finger he twirled a bit of wrought bronze-a circlet graved with angular crabbed characters,now stained black. By excellent chance he had found it, banded around the root of an ancient yew. Hacking it free, he had seen the characterson the inner surface-rude forceful symbols,doubtlessthe cast of a powerful antique rune.. .. Best take it to a magicianand have it tested for sorcery. Liane made a wry mouth. There were objections to the course, Sometimesit seemedas if all living creaturesconspiredto exasperatehim. Only this morning, the spicemerchant-what a tumult he had madedying! How carelesslyhe had spewedblood on Liane's cockscombsandals!Stiil, thought Liane, every unpleasantnesscarried with it compensation.While digging the grave he had found the bronze ring. And Liane's spirits soared;he laughedin purejoy. He bounded,he leapt. His green capeflapped behind him, the red feather in his cap winked and blinked.... But still-Liane slowedhis step-he wasno whit closerto the 259
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mystery of the magic, if magic the ring possessed. Experiment, that was the word! He stopped where the ruby sunlight slanted down without hindrance from the high foliage, examined the ring, traced the glyphs with his fingernail. He peeredthrough. A faint film, a flicker? He held it at arm's length. It was clearlya coronet.He whipped off his cap,set the band on his brow,rolled his greatgoldeneyes,preenedhimself.. . . Odd.It slippeddown on his ears.It tipped acrosshis eyes.Darkness.Frantically Liane clawedit off.... A bronzering, a hand's-breadthin diameter.Queer. He tried again.It slipped down over his head, his shoulders.His head was in the darknessof a strangeseparatespace.Looking down, he sawthe level of the outside light dropping as he droppedthe ring. Slowly down. . . . Now it was around his ankles-and in sudden panic, Liane snatched the ring up over his body, emerged blinking into the maroon light of the forest. He saw a blue-white, green-white flicker againstthe foliage. It was a Twk-man, mounted on a dragon-fly,and light glinted from the dragon-fly's wings. Liane calledsharply,"Here, sir! Here, sir!" The TWk-manperchedhis mount on a twig. "Well, Liane, what do you wish?" o'Watchnow, and remember what you see."Liane pulled the ring over his head,droppedit to his feet,lifted it back.He lookedup to the Twk-man, who was chewing a leaf. "And what did you see?" "I sawLiane vanishfrom mortal sight-except for the red curled toesof his sandals.All else was as air." "Ha!" cried Liane. "Think of it! Have you ever seenthe like?" The Twk-man askedcarelessly,"Do you have salt? I would have salt." Liane cut his exultations short, eyed the Twk-man closely. "What news do you bring me?" "Three erbs killed Florejin the Dream-builder,and burst all his bubbles. The air abovethe manse was colored for many minutes with the flitting fragments." 'A gram." "Lord Kandive the Golden has built a barge of carven mo-wood ten lengths high, and it floats on the River Scaum for the Regatta, full of treasure." "Two grams." 'A golden witch named Lith has come to live on Thamber Meadow.She is quiet and very beautiful." "Three grams." "Enough," said the Twk-man, and leanedforward to watch while Liane
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weighed out the salt in a tiny balance.He packed it in small panniers hangingon eachsideof the ribbed thorax, then twitched the insectinto the air and flicked off through the forest vaults. Once more Liane tried his bronzering, and this time brought it entirely past his feet, steppedout of it and brought the ring up into the darkness besidehim. What a wonderful sanctuary!A hole whoseopening could be hidden inside the hole itself! Down with the ring to his feet, step through, bring it up his slender frame and over his shoulders,out into the forest with a small bronzering in his hand. Ho! and off to Thamber Meadow to see the beautiful golden witch. Her hut wasa simple affair of wovenreeds-a low dome with two round windows and a low door.He saw Lith at the pond bare-leggedamong the water shoots,catchingfrogsfor her supper.A white kirtle was gatheredup tight around her thighs; stock-still she stood and the dark water rippled rings awayfrom her slender knees. She was more beautiful than Liane could have imagined, as if one of Florejin's wastedbubbles had burst here on the water.Her skin was pale creamedstirred gold, her hair a denseqwetter gold. Her eyes were like Liane's own, great golden orbs, and hers were wide apart,tilted slightly. Liane strodeforward and planted himself on the bank. She looked up startled,her ripe mouth half-open. "Behold, golden witch, here is Liane. He has come to welcome you to Thamber; and he offers you his friendship,his love..." Lith bent,scoopeda handful of slime from the bank and flung it into his face. Shouting the most violent curses,Liane wiped his eyes free, but the door to the hut had slammed shut. Liane strode to the door and pounded it with his fist. "Open and show your witch's face, or I burn the hut!" The door opened,and the girl looked forth, smiling. "what now?" Liane entered the hut and lunged for the girl, but twenty thin shafts darted out, twenty points pricking his chest. He halted, eyebrowsraised, mouth twitching. "Down, steel,"saidLith. The bladessnappedfrom view."so easilycould I seek your vitality," said Lith, "had I willed." Liane frowned and rubbed his chin as if pondering."You understand," he said earnestly,"what a witless thing you do. Liane is feared by those who fear fear,lovedby thosewho love love.And you-" his eyesswam the goldenglory of her body- "you are ripe as a sweetfruit, you ire eager,you glisten and tremble with love. You pleaseLiane, and he will spend much warmnesson you.o' "No, no," said Lith, with a slow smile. ,,you are too hastv."
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Liane looked at her in surprise."Indeed?" "I am Lith;' said she. "I am what you say I am. I ferment, I burn, I seethe.Yet I may have no lover but him who has servedme. He must be brave,swift, cunning." "I am he," said Liane. He chewed at his lip. "It is not usually thus. I detest this indecision." He took a step forward. "Come, let us-'o She backed away."No, no. You forget. How have you served me, how have you gainedthe right to my love?" 'Absurdity!" stormed Liane. "Look at me! Note my perfect grace,the beauty of my form and feature,my greateyes,as goldenas your own, my manifest will and power.. . .It is you who should serve me. That is how I will have it." He sank upon a low divan. "Woman, give me wine." She shook her head. "In my small domed hut I cannot be forced. Perhapsoutside on Thamber Meadow-but in here, among my blue and red tassels,with twenty bladesof steel at my call, you must obey me. . . . So choose.Either ariSeand go, never to return, or else agreeto serve me on one small mission, ffid then have me and all my ardor." Liane sat straight and stiff. An odd creature,the golden witch. But, indeed,she was worth some exertion, and he would make her pay for her impudence. "Very well, then," he saidblandly."I will serveyou. What do you wish? Jewels?I can suffocateyou in pearls,blind you with diamonds.I havetwo emeraldsthe size of your fist, and they are greenoceans,where the gazeis trappedand wandersforeveramongverticalgreenprisms..." "No, no jewels-" "An enemy,perhaps.Ah, so simple. Liane will kill you ten men. Two 'And souls go thrilling up like steps forward,thrust-rftus!" He lunged. bubbles in a beakerof mead." "No. I want no killing." He sat back, frowning. "What, then?" She steppedto the back of the room and pulled at a drape. It swung aside,displayinga goldentapestry.The scenewas a valiey boundedby two steepmountains,a broadvalley where a placidriver ran, pasta quiet village and so into a groveof trees.Golden was the river, golden the mountains, goldenthe trees-golds so various,so rich, so subtlethat the effect waslike a many-coloredlandscape.But the tapestryhad been rudely hackedin half. Liane was entranced."Exquisite, exquisite. . ." Lith said,"It is the Magic Valley of Ariventa so depicted.The other half has been stolen from me, and its recoveryis the service I wish of you." "Where is the other half?" demandedLiane. "Who is the dastard?" Now shewatchedhim closely."Have you ever heardof Chun? Chun the Unavoidable?"
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Liane considered.'.No." "He stole the half to my tapestry,and hung it in a marble hall, and this hall is in the ruins to the north of Kaiinl' "Ha!" muttered Liane. "The hall is by the place of whispers, and is marked by a leaning column with a black medallion of a phoenix and a two-headed lizard." "I go," said Liane. He rose."one day to Kaiin, one day to steal, one day to return. Three days." Lith followed him to the door. "Beware of Chun the Unavoidable," she whispered. And Liane strodeaway whistling, the red feather bobbing in his green cap. Lith watched him, then turned and slowly approache--d golden the tapestry."Golden Ariventa," she whispered, ,.my heart cries and hurts with longing for you . . ." The Derna is a swifter, thinner river than the Scaum,its bosomy sister to the south.And where the Scaumwallowsthrough a broad dale,purple with horse-blossom,pockedwhite and gray with crimbling castles, the Derna has sheereda steep canyon,overhung by forestedbluffs. An ancientflint roadlong agofollowedthe courseof the Derna, but now the exaggerationof the meandering has cut into the pavement, so that Liane, treading the road to Kaiin, was occasionallyforced to leave the road and make a detour through banks of thorn and the tube-grass which whistled in the breeze. The red sun, drifting acrossthe universelike an old man creeping to his death-bed,hung low to the horizon when Liane breastedporpiriron Scar, looked acrosswhite-walled Kaiin and the blue bay of sanreali beyond. Directly below was the market-place,a medley of stalls selling fruits, slabs of pale meat, molluscs from the slime banks, dull flagons of wine. And the quiet people of Kaiin moved among the stalls,iuying their sustenance,carrying it loosely to their stone chimbers. Beyond the market'place rose a bank of ruined columns, like broken teeth-legs to the arena built two hundred feet from the grounJ by Mad King shin; beyond,in a grove of bay trees,the glassydome of the palace was visible, where Kandive the Golden.ruled-Kaiin and as much of Ascolais as one could see from a vantage on porphiron scar. The Derna' no longer a flow of clear water,pouredthrough a network of dank canals and subterranean tubes, and'finally seeped past rotting wharves into the Bay of Sanreale. A bed for the night, thought Liane; then to his businessin the morning. He leapt down the zig-zagsteps-back, forth,.back, forth-and came out into'the market-place.And now he put on a gravedemeanor. Liane the
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Wayfarerwas not unknown in Kaiin, and many were ill-minded enoughto work him harm. He moved sedatelyin the shadeof the PannoneWall, turned through a narro\r cobbled street, borderedby old wooden houses glowing the rich brown of old stump-waterin the rays of the setting sun, and so came to a small squareand the high stone face of the Magician'sInn. The host, a small fat man, sadof eye,with a small fat nosethe identical shapeof his body,was scrapingashesfrom the hearth.He straightenedhis back and hurried behind the counter of his little alcove. 'A chamber,well-aired,and a supper of mushrooms'wine Liane said, and oysters." The innkeeper bowed humbly. "Indeed, sir-and how will you pay?" Liane flung down a leather sack, taken this very morning' The innkeeper raised his eyebrowsin pleasureat the fragrance. "Th; ground buds of the spase-bush,brought from a far landi' said Liane. "Excellent, excellent.... Your chamber,Sir,and your supperat once." As Liane ate, severalother guestsof the house appearedand sat before the fire with wine, and the talk grew large,and dwelt on wizardsof the past and the great daYsof magic. ,.Great Phandaalknew a lore now forgotl' said one old man with hair dyed orange."He tied white and black strings to the legs of sparrowsand sint them veeringto his direction.And where they wovetheir magic wool great trees appeared,laden with flowers, fruits, nuts, or bulbs of rare liqurutr.It is saidthat thus he woveGreat Da Foreston the shoresof Sanra Water." .,Hal'said a dour man in a garmentof dark blue, brown and black, "this I can do." He brought forth a bit of string, flicked it, whirled it, spoke a quiet word, and the vitality of the pattern fused the string into a tongue of rld and yellow fire, whictr danced,curled, darted back and forth along the table till the dour man killed it with a gesture' ..And this I can dol'said a hoodedfigure in a black capesprinkled with silver circles. He brought forth a small tray, laid it on the table and sprinkled therein a pinctr of ashesfrom the hearth. He brought forth a whistle and blew a clear tone, and up from the tray came glittering motes, flashingthe prismaticcolorsred,blue, green,yellow.They floated up a foot and burst in coruscationsof brilliant colors, each a beautiful star-shaped pattern,and eachburst soundeda tiny repetition of the original tone-the clearest,purestsound in the world. The motes becamefewer,the magician glorious blew a different tone, and again the motes floated up to burst in last the At rnotes. of swarm time-another ornamentalspangles.Anothlr
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magicianreplacedhis whistle,wipedoff the tray,tuckedit insidehis cloak and lapsedbackto silence. Now the otherwizardssurgedforward,andsoonthe air abovethe table swarmedwith visions,quiveredwith spells.One showedthe groupnine new colorsof ineffablecharm and radiance;anothercauseda mouth to form on the landlord's foreheadand revile the crowd, much to the landlord'sdiscomfiture,sinceit was his orvnvoice.Another displayeda greenglassbottlefrom which the faceof a demonpeeredandgrimaced; anothera, ball of pure crystalwhich rolled back and forward to the commandof the sorcerer whoownedit, andwhoclaimedit to beanearring of the fabledmasterSankaferrin. Lianehadattentivelywatchedall, crowingin delightat the bottledimp, and trying to cozenthe obedientcrystalfrom its owner,without success. And Lianebecamepettish,complaining thatthe wortdwasfult of rockhearted men, but the sorcererwith the crystal ear,ringremained indifferent,andevenwhenLianespreadout twelvepacketsof rarespicehe refusedto part with his toy. Lianepleaded,"I wish only to pleasethe witch Lith." "Pleaseher with the spice,then." Lianesaidingenuously, "Indeed,shehasbut onewish,a bit of tapestry which I must stealfrom Chun the Unavoidable." And he lookedfrom faceto suddenlysilent face. "what causessuchimmediatesobriety?Ho, I"andlord,morewine!" The sorcererwith the earringsaid,"If the floor swamankle-deep with wine-the rich redwineof Thnvilkat-theleadenprint of thatnamewould still ride the air." "Ha," laughedLiane,"let onlya tasteof thatwinepassyourlips,andthe fumeswoulderaseall memory." "Seehis eyes,"camea whisper."Great and golden." 'And quickto see,"spoke Liane."And theselegs-quick to run,fleetas starlighton the waves.And this arm-quick to stabwith steel.And my magic-which will set me to a refugethat is out of all cognizance." He gulpedwinefroma beaker. "Now behold.Thisis magicfromantiquedays." He setthe bronzebandoverhis head,steppedthrough,broughtit up inside the darkness.When he deemedthat sufficient time had elapsed,he steppedthroughoncemore. The fire glowed,the landlordstoodin his alcove,Liane'swine wasat hand.But of the assembled magicians, therewasno trace. Liane looked about in puzzlement.'And where are my wizardly friends?" The landlordturnedhis head:"They tookto their chambers;the name you spokeweighedon their souls."
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And Liane drank his wine in frowning silence. Next morning he left the inn and picked a roundabout way to the Old Town-a gray wilderness of tumbled pillars, weathered blocks of sandstone, slumped pediments with crumbled inscriptions, flagged terracesovergrorvnwith rusty moss. Lizards,snakes,insects crawled the ruins; no other life did he see. Threadinga way through the rubble, he almost stumbled on a corpsethe body of a youth, one who staredat the sky with empty eye-sockets. Liane felt a presence.He leapt back, rapier half-bared.A stooped old 'And what man stoodwatchinghim. He spokein a feeble,quaveringvoice: will you have in the Old Town?" Liane replacedhis rapier."I seek the Place of Whispers.Perhapsyou will direct me." 'Another? The old man madea croakingsoundat the back of his throat. Another?When will it cease?..."He motionedto the corpse."This one came yesterdayseekingthe Placeof Whispers.He would stealfrom Chun the Unavoidable.See him now." He turned away."Come with me." He disappearedover a tumble of rock. Liane followed.The old man stood by another corpsewith eye-sockets bereft and bloody. "This one came four days ago, and he met Chun the Unavoidable....And over there behind the arch is still another,a great warrior in cloison armor.And there-and there-'o he pointed, pointed. 'And there-and there-like crushedflies." He turned his watery blue gaze back to Liane. "Return, young man' return-lest your body lie here in its greencloak to rot on the flagstones." Liane drew his rapier and flourished it. "I am Liane the Wayfarer;let them who offend me have fear.And where is the Placeof Whispers?" "If you must know," said the old man, "it is beyondthat broken obelisk. But you go to your peril." "I am Liane the Wayfarer.Peril goeswith me." The old man stoodlike a pieceof weatheredstatuaryas Liane strodeoff. And Liane askedhimself, supposethis old man were an agentof Chun, and at this minute were on his way to warn him? ... Best to take all precautions.He leapt up on a high entablatureand ran crouching back to where he had left the ancient. Here he came,muttering to himself,leaningon his staff.Liane dropped a block of granite as large as his head.A thud, a croak,a gasp-and Liane went his way. He strode past the broken obelisk, into a wide court-the Place of Whispers. Directly opposite was a long wide hall, marked by a leaning column with a big black medallion,the sign of a phoenix and a two-headed lizard.
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Liane merged himself with the shadowof a wall, and stood watching like a wolf, alert for any flicker of motion. All was quiet. The sunlight investedthe ruins with dreary splendor.To all sides, as far as the eye could reach, was broken stone, a wasteland leachedby a thousandrains, until now the senseof man had departedand the stone was one with the natural earth. The sun moved acrossthe dark-blue sky.Liane presentlystole from his vantage-pointand circled the hall. No sight nor sign did he see. He approachedthe building from the rear and pressedhis ear to the stone. It was dead, without vibration. Around the side-watching up, down, to all sides;a breachin the wall. Liane peeredinside.At the back hung half a golden tapestry.otherwise the hall was empry. Liane looked up, down, this side, that. There was nothing in sight. He continued around the hall. He came to another broken place.He looked within. To the rear hung the golden tapestry.Nothing else, to right or left, no sight or sound. Liane continued to the front of the hall and sought into the eavestdead as dust. He had a clear view of the room. Bare, barren, except for the bit of golden tapestry. Liane entered,striding with long soft steps.He halted in the middle of the floor. Light cameto him from all sidesexceptthe rear wall. There were a dozen openings from which to flee and no sound except the dull thudding of his heart. He took two stepsforward. The tapestrywas almost at his fingertips. He steppedforward and swiftly jerked the tapestrydown from the wall. And behind was Chun the Unavoidable. Liane screamed.He turned on paralyzedlegsand they were leaden,like legs in a dream which refused to run. Chun droppedout of the wall and advanced.Over his shiny black back he wore a robe of eyeballsthreadedon silk. Liane was running, fleetly now. He sprang,he soared.The tips of his toes scarcelytouched the ground.Out the hall, acrossthe square,into the wildernessof broken statuesand fallen columns.And behind came Chun, running like a dog. Liane spedalong the crestof a wall and spranga greatgap to a shattered fountain. Behind came Chun. Liane darted up a narrow alley,climbed over a pile of refuse,over a roof, down into a court. Behind came Chun. Liane sped down a wide avenue lined with a few stunted old cypress trees, and he heard Chun close at his heels. He turned into an archway, pulled his bronzering over his head,down to his feet.He steppedthrough,
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brought the ring up inside the darkness.Sanctuary.He was alone in a dark magic space,vanishedfrom earthly gazeand knowledge.Broodingsilence, d e a ds p a c e . . . He felt a stir behind him, a breathof air.At his elbow a voice said,"I am Chun the Unavoidable." Lith sat on her couch near the candles,weavinga cap from frogskins.The door to her hut was barred, the windows shuttered. Outside, Thamber Meadow dwelled in darkness. A scrapeat her door, a creak as the lock was tested.Lith becamerigid and stared at the door. A voice said, "Tonight, O Lith, tonight it is two long bright threadsfor you. Two becausethe eyeswere so great,so large,so golden..." Lith sat quiet. She waited an hour; then, creeping to the door, she listened.The senseof presencewas absent.A frog croakednearby. Sheeasedthe door ajar,found the threadsand closedthe door.Sheran to her golden tapestryand fitted the threadsinto the ravelledwarp. And she staredat the golden valley,sick with longing for Ariventa, and tears blurred out the peaceful river, the quiet golden forest. "The cloth slowly growswider . . . One day it will be done, and I will come home. . . ."
TheRagThing Donald A. Wotlheim
It would have been all right if spring had never come. During the winter nothing had happenedand nothing was likely to happen as long as the weather remained cold and Mrs. Larch kept the radiators going. In a *ay, though, it is quite possibleto hold Mrs. Larch to blame forirnerlthing that happened.Not that she had what people would call malicious intentions, but just that she was two things practicallyevery boarding-houselandlady is-thrifty and not too clean. Sheshouldn't havebeen in such a hurry to turn the heat off so early in March. March is a tricky month and she should have known that the first warm day is usually an isolatedphenomenon.But then you could always claim that she shouldn't have been so sloppy in her cleaning last November.Sheshouldn't have droppedthat rag behind the radiatorin the third-floor front room. As a matter of fact, one could well wonder what she was doing using such a rag anyway.Polishing furniture doesn't require a clean rag to start
DoneldA. Wollheim with, certainlynot the rag you stick into the furniture polish,thatosgoingto be greasyanyway-but she didn't have to use that particular rag. The one that had so much dried blood on it from the meat that had been lying on it in the kitchen. On top of that, it is probablethat she had spit into the filthy thing, too. Mrs. Larch was no prize package.Gross, dull, unkempt, widowed, and careless,she fitted into the house-one of innumerableother brownstone fronts in the lower sixties of New York. Housesthat in former days,fifty or sixty yearsago,were consideredthe height of fashion and the residencesof the well-to-do, now reduced to dingy rooming places for all manner of itinerants,lonely peoplewith no hope in life other than drearyjobs, or an occasionalyoung and confused person from the hinterland seeking fame and fortune in a city that rarely grants it. So it was not particularly odd that when she accidentally dropped the Iilthy old rag behind the radiator in the room on the third-floor front late in November,she had simply left it there and forgotten to pick it up. It gathereddust all winter, unnoticed.Skelty,who had the room, might have cleaned it out himself savethat he was always too tired for that. He worked at some indefinite factory all day and when he came home he was alwaystoo tired to do much more than readthe sports and comics pagesof the newspapersand then maybe stare at the streaky brown walls a bit before dragginghimself into bed to sleepthe dreamlesssleep of the weary. The radiator,a steam one oddly enough (for most of these housesused the older hot-air circulation), was in none too good condition. Installed many, many years ago by the house's last Victorian owner, it was given to knocks,leaks,and cantankerousaction.Along in Decemberit developeda slow drip, and drops of hot water would fall to seepslowly into the floor and leave the rag lying on a moist hot surface. Steam was constantly escapingfrom a bad valve that Mrs. Iarch would have repaired if it had blown off completely but, becausethe radiator alwaysmanagedto be hot, never did. BecauseMrs. l,arch feared drafts, the windows were rarely open in the winter, and the room would become oppressivelyhot at times when Skelty was away. It is hard to say what is the causeof chemical reactions.Somehold that all things are mechanicalin nature, others that life has a psychic side which cannot be duplicated in laboratories.The problem is one for metaphysicians; everyone knorvsthat some chemicalsare attracted to heat, others to light, and they may not necessarilybe alive at all. Tropism is the scientific term used,and if you want to believe that living matter is stuff with a great number of tropisms and dead matter is stuff with little or no tropisms, that's one way of looking at it. Heat and moisture and greasy chemical
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compoundswere the sole ingredientsof the birth of life in some ancient unrememberedswamp. Which is why it probablywould have been all right if spring had never come. BecauseMrs. Larch turned the radiatorsoff one day early in March. The warm hours werebut few.It grew cold with the darknessand by night it was back in the chill of February again.But Mrs. Larch had turned the heat off and, being lazy, decided not to turn it on again till the next morning, providedof coursethat it stayedcold the next day (which it did). Anyway Skelty was found dead in bed the next morning. Mrs. Larch knocked on his door when he failed to come down to breakfastand when he hadn't answered,she turned the knob and went in. He was lying in bed, blue and cold, and he had been smotheredin his sleep. There was quite a to-do about the whole businessbut nothing came of it. A few stupid detectives blundered around the room, asked silly questions,made a few notes, and then left the matter to the coroner and the morgue.Skeltywasa nobody,no one caredwhether he lived or died, he had no enemiesand no friends, there were no suspiciousvisitors, and he had probablysmotheredaccidentallyin the blankets.Of course the body was unusually cold when Mrs. Larch found it, as if the heat had been suckedout of him, but who noticesa thing like that? They alsodiscounted the greasesmudgeon the top sheet,the greasestainson the flooq and the slime on his face.Probablysomegreasehe might havebeenusing for some imaginedskin trouble,though Mrs. Larch had not heardof his Ooingso. In any case,no one really cared. Mrs. Larch wore black for a day and then advertisedin the papers.She ryade a perfunctory job of cleaning the room. Skelty's possessionswere taken awayby a drab sister-in-lawfrom Brooklyn who didn't seem to care much either, and Mrs. Larch was all ready to rent the room to someone else. The weatherremainedcold for the next ten daysand the heat was kept up in the pipes The new occupantof the room was a nervous young man from upstate who was trying to get a job in New york. He was a high-strungyoung man who entertainedany number of illusionsabout life and society.He thought that peopledid things for the love of it and he wanted to find a job where he could work for that motivation rather than the sort of thingj he might have done back home. He thought New York was different, *trirtr was a mistake. He smoked like fury which was something Mrs. Larch did not like becauseit meant asheson the floor and burned spotson her furniture (not that there weren't plenty atready),but there wasnothing Mrs. Larch would do about it becauseit would have meant exertion.
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After four days in New York, this young man, Gorman by name, was more nervousthan ever.He would lie in bed nights smoking cigaretteafter cigarettethinking and thinking and getting nowhere.Over and over he was facing the problem of resigning himself to a life of gray drab. It was a thought he had tried not to face and now that it was thrusting itself upon him, it was becoming intolerable. The next time a warm day came, Mrs. Larch left the radiators on becauseshewasnot going to be fooled twice. As a result,when the weather stayed warm, the rooms became insufferably hot becauseshe was still keeping the windows down. So that when she turned the heat off finally, the afternoon of the secondday,it was pretty tropical in the rooms. When'the March weather turned about suddenlyagain and became chilly about nine at night, Mrs. Larch was going to bed and figured that no one would complain and that it would be warm againthe next day.Which may or may not be true, it does not matter. Gorman got home about ten, openedthe window,got undressed,moved pack of cigarettesand an ashtray next to his bed on the floor, got into a bed, turned out the light and started to smoke. He staredat the ceiling,blowing smokeupwardsinto the darkenedroom trying to see its outlines in the dim light coming in from the street.When he finished one cigarette,he let his hand dangleout the side of the bed and picked up another cigarettefrom the pack on the floor, lit it from the butt in his mouth, and dropped the butt into the ashtrayon the floor. The rag under the radiatorwas getting cold, the room was getting cold, there wasone sourceof heat radiationin the room.That wasthe man in the bed. Skelty had proven a sourceof heat supply once. Heat attraction was chemical force that could not be denied. Strange forces began to accumulatein the long-transformedfibers of the rag. Gorman thought he heard somethingflap in the room but he paid it no attention. Things were always creaking in the house. Gorman heard a swishing noise and ascribedit to the mice. Gorman reacheddown for a cigarette,fumbled for it, found the pack, deftly extracted a smoke in the one-handed manner chain smokers becomeaccustomedto,lifted it to his mouth,lit it from the burning butt in his mouth, and reacheddown with the butt to crush it out againstthe tray. He pressedthe butt into somethingwet tike a used handkerchief,there was a suddenhiss,somethingcoiled and whipped about his wrist; Gorman gasped and drew his hand back fast. A flaming horror, twisting and writhing, was curled around it. Before Gorman could shriek, it had whipped itself from his hand and fastenedover his face, over the warm, heat-radiatingskin and the glowing flame of the cigarette. Mrs. Larch wasawakenedby the clangof fire engines.When the fire was
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put out, most of the third floor had been gutted. Gorman was an unrecognizablecharredmass. The fire departmentput the blazedown to Gorman's habit of smoking in bed.Mrs. Larchcollectedon the fire insuranceand boughta new house, selling the old one to a widow who wanted to start a boarding-house.
Sail On! Sail On! Philip Jos6Farmer
Friar Sparks sat wedged between the wall and the realizer. He was motionless except for his forefinger and his eyes.From time to time his finger tapped rapidly on the key upon the desk, ord now and then his irises,gray-blueas his native Irish sky,swiveled to look through the open door of the toldillain which he crouched,the little shantyon the poop deck. Visibility was low. Outside was dusk and a lantern by the raiting. Two sailorsleaned on it. Beyondthem bobbedthe bright lights and dark shapesof the Nifiaand the Pinta. And beyond them was the smooth horizon-brow of the Atlantic, edgedin black and blood by the red dome of the rising moon. The single carbon Iilament bulb above the monk's tonsure showed a face lost in fat-and in concentration. The luminiferous ether crackled and hissed tonight, but the phones clampedover his earscarried,along with them, the steadydots and dashes sent by the operator at the Las Palmasstation on the Grand Canary. 275
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"ZzissslSoyou areout of sherryalready. .., Pop!... Too bad.... Crackle God havemercy on your Zzz...May ...you hardenedold winebutt.... sins.... "Lots of gossip,news, et cetera.. . . I/isses/. . . Bend your ear insteadof your neck, impious one.. . . The Turks are said to be gathering.. . crackle . . . an army to march on Austria. It is rumored that the flying sausages, saidby so many to havebeenseenover the capitalsof the Christianworld, are of Turkish origin. The rumor goes they have been invented by a renegadeRogerianwho was convertedto the Muslim religion.. . . I say . . . zziss.. . to that. No one of us would do that. It is a falsity spreadby our enemiesin the Church to discreditus. But many peoplebelievethat.... "How close does the Admiral calculatehe is to Cipangu now? "Flash! Savonarolatoday denouncedthe Pope,the wealthy of Florence, Greek art and literature, and the experiments of the disciples of Saint Roger Bacon.... Zzz!... The man is sincerebut misguidedand dangerous.. . .I predicthe'll end up on the stakehe's alwaysprescribingfor us. . . . "Pop... . This will kill you. . . . Two lrish mercenariesby the name of Pat and Mike were walking down the street of Granada when a beautiful Saracenlady leaned out of a balcony and emptied a pot of . . . hiss!.. . and Pat looked up and . .. Crackle.. . . Good, hah? Brother Juan told that last night. . . . " P V . . . P V . . . A r e y o u c o m i n gi n ? . . . P V . . . P V . . . Y e s ,I k n o wi t ' s dangerous to bandy such jests about, but nobody is monitoring us tonight.... 2n.... I think they'renot, anyway...." And so the ether bent and warped with their messages.And presently Friar Sparkstappedout the PV that endedtheir talk-the "Pax vobiscum." Then he pulled the plug out that connectedhis earphonesto the set and, lifting them from his ears,clampedthem down forward over his templesin the regulation manner. After sidting bent-kneed from the toldilla, punishing his belly against the desk'shard edgeas he did so, he walked over to the railing. De Salcedo and de Torres were leaning there and talking in low tones. The big bulb above gleamed on the page's red-gold hair and on the interpreter's full jowls blackbeard.It alsobouncedpinkishly off the priest'ssmooth-shaven back, thrown His cowl, order. the of Rogerian and the light scarlet robe and wrenches pens, tiny papeq bottle, ink an served as a bag for scratch angelic manual of and a rule, a slide screwdrivers,a book on cryptography, principles. "Well, old rindl' said young de Salcedofamiliarly, "what do you hear from Las Palmas?" "Nothing now. Too much interference from that." He pointed to the moon riding the horizon ahead of them. "What an orb!" bellowed the
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priest."It's as big and red as my reverednose!" The two sailorslaughed,and de Salcedosaid,o'Butit will get smallerand paler as the night grows,Father.And your probosciswill, on the contrary, become larger and more sparkling in inverse proportion accordingto the squareof the ascent-" He stoppedand grinned, for the monk had suddenly dipped his nose, like a porpoise diving into the sea, raised it again, like the same animal jumping from a wave, and then once more plunged it into the heavy currents of their breath.Nose to nose,he faced them, his twinkling little eyesseemingto emit sparkslike the realizerin his toldilla. Again, porpoiselike,he sniffed and snuffed severaltimes, quite loudly. Then, satisfiedwith what he had gleanedfrom their breaths,he winked at them. He did not, however,mention his findings at once,preferringto sidle toward the subject. He said,"This FatherSparkson the Grand Canaryis so entertaining.He stimulates me with all sorts of philosophical notions, both valid and fantastic.For instance,tonight, just before we were cut off by that"-he gesturedat the hugebloodshoteyein the sky-o'he wasdiscussingwhat he called worlds of parallel time tracks, an idea originatedby Dysphagiusof Gotham. It's his idea there may be other worlds in coincident but not contacting universes,that God, being infinite and of unlimited creative talent and ability, the Master Alchemist, in other words, has possiblyperhaps necessarily-created a plurality of continua in which every probableevent has happened," "Huh?" grunted de Salcedo. "Exactly. Thus, Columbus was turned down by Queen Isabella,so this attempt to reach the Indies acrossthe Atlantic was never made. So we would not now be standinghere plunging ever deeperinto Oceanusin our three cockleshells,there would be no boosterbuoysstrung out betweenus and the Canaries,and Father Sparksat Las Palmasand I on the Santa Maria would not be carrying on our fascinating conversationsacrossthe ether. "Or, say,Roger Baconwas persecutedby the Church, insteadof being encouragedand giving rise to the order whose inventions have done so much to insure the monopoly of the Church on alchemy and its divinely inspired guidanceof that formerly paganand hellish practice." De Torres opened his mouth, but the priest silenced him with a magnificent and imperious gestureand continued. "Or, even more ridiculous, but thought-provoking,he speculatedjust this eveningon universeswith different physicallaws.One, in particular,I thought very droll. As you probably don't know, Angelo Angelei has proved,by dropping objectsfrom the LeaningTowerof Pisa,that different
Philtp JosdFarmer
weightsfall at different speeds.My delightful colleagueon the Grand is writinga satirewhichtakesplacein a universewhereAristotleis Can'ary no matter madeout to be a liar,whereall thingsdropwith equalvelocities, the ether We keep pass time. the to helps it but what their size.Siltystuff, busywith our little angels." said,"fJh,I don'twantto seemtoo curiousaboutthe secrets De Salcedo of your holy and crypticorder,Friar Sparks.But theselittle angelsyour machinerealizesintrigue me. Is it a sin to presumeto ask aboutthem?" The monk'sbull roarslid to a dovecooing."Whetherit's a sin or not a bottle depends.Let me illustrate,youngfellows.If you wereconcealing it with a share to of, say,very scarcesherryon you, andyou did not offer But if omission. noy ittitsty old gentleman,that would be a sin. A sin of humble, that devout' that pilgrim-weary, you wereto givethat desert-dry, andstimulatingdraught anddecrepitold soula long,soothing,refreshing, of lifegivingfluid, daughterof the vine,I wouldfind it in my heartto pray charity.And it of encompassing for you for that deedof loving-kindness, would pleaseme so much I might tell you a little of our realizer.Not enoughto hurt you,just enoughso you might gainmorerespectfor the intelligenceand glory of my order." De Salcedogrinned conspiratoriallyand passedthe monk the bottle he'dhiddenunderhisjacket.As the friar tilted it, andthe chug'chug'chug of vanishingsherrybecamelouder,the two sailorsglancedmeaningfullyat eachother.No wonderthe priest,reputedto besobrilliantin his branchof the alchemicalmysteries,hadyet beensentoff on this half-bakedvoyage that if he survived,well The Churchhadcalculated to devil-knew-where. no more. andgood.If he didn't,then he wouldsin The monk wipedhis lips on his sleeve,belchedloudlyasa horse,and said, "Gracias,boys.From my heart,Sodeeplyburied in this fat, I thank you.An old lrishman,dry asa camel'shoof,chokingto deathwith the dust of abstinence,thanksyou. You havesavedmy life." "Now,old "Thankratherthat magicnoseof yours,"repliedde Salcedo. rind, now that you're well greasedagain,would you mind explainingas much asyou areallowedaboutthat machineof yours?'o FriarSparkstook fifteenminutes.At the endof that time,his listeners askeda few permittedquestions. " . . . and you say you broadcaston a frequencyof eighteenhundred o'Whatdoes'k.c.'rnean?" k.c.?"the pageasked. ' K itands for the Frenchkilo, from a Greekword meaningthousand. 'little angels.'Angel comesfrom And cstandsfor the Hebrewcherubim,the the ether is that concept is our It messenger. meaning the Greek angelos, when we Thus, messengers. littte these these cherubim, crammedwith realize some to able we are machine, the key of our depress Friar Sparkses
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of the infinity of 'messengers'waiting for just such a demand for service. "so, eighteen hundred k.c. means that in a given unit of time one million, eight hundred thousand cherubim line up and hurl themselves acrossthe ether, the nose of one being brushed by the feathertipsof the cherub's wings ahead.The height of the wing crestsof eachlittle creature is even, so that if you were to draw an outline of the whole train, there would be nothing to distinguish one cherub from the next, the whole column forming that gradeof little angelsknown as C.W'
"c.w.?"
"Continuous wingheight.My machine is a C.W.realizer." Young de Salcedo said, "My mind reels. Such a concept! Such a revelation! It almost passescomprehension.Imagine, the aerial of your realizeris cut just so long, so that the evil cherubim surgingbackand forth on it demanda predeterminedand equalnumber of goodangelsto combat them. And this seductioncoil on the realizercrowds'bad'angelsinto the left-hand, the sinister,side.And when the bad little cherubim are crowded so closelyand numerouslythat they can't bear eachother's evil company, theyjump the sparkgapand speedaroundthe wire to the 'good'plate.And in this racing back and forth they call themselvesto the attention of the 'little messengerslthe yea-saying cherubim. And you, Friar Sparks,by manipulating your machine thus and so, and by lifting and lowering your ke5 you bring these invisible and friendly lines of carriers,your etheric and winged postmen,into reality.And you are able,thus, to communicate at great distanceswith your brothers of the order." "Great God!" said de Torres. It was not a vain oath but a pious exclamation of wonder. His eyes bulged; it was evident that he suddenlysaw that man was not alone,that on every side, piled on top of each other, flanked on every angle,stood a host. Black and white, they presenteda solid chessboardof the seemingly empty cosmos, black for the nay-sayers,white for the yea-sayers, maintainedby a Hand in delicatebalanceand subjectasthe fowls of the air and the fish of the seato exploitation by man. Yet de Torres,having seen such a vision as has made a saint of many a man, could only ask, "Perhaps you could tell me how many angelsmay stand on the point of a pin?" Obviously,de Torres would never wear a halo. He was destined,if he lived, to cover his bony headwith the mortarboardof a university teacher. De Salcedosnorted.o'I'll tell you. Philosophicallyspeaking,you may put as many angelson a pinhead as you want to. Actually speaking,you may put only as many as there is room for. Enough of that. I'm interested in facts, not fancies. Tell me, how could the moon's rising interrupt your reception of the cherubim sent by the Sparksat Las Palmas?"
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universal "Great Caesar,hotp woutd I know? Am I a repositoryof you is tell can I Mll knowledge?No, not M humbleandignorantfriar, it when that and that lastnigtttit roselike a bloodytumor on the horizon, long and in theirshort my little messengers wasup I dd to quit marshaling so that both of us quite overpowered, station-t"ti columns.The Canary gaveup. And the samething happenedtonight'" askedde Torres' "The moonsendsmessages?" But "Not in a codeI candecipher. it sends,yes'" "SantaMaria!" and de Salcedo, "there arepeopleon that mOOn, "Perhaps,"suggeSted they aresending." -ut.*" derisionthroughhis nose.Enormousas were his Friar sparks Artilleryof contemptlaiddowna nostrils,his derisionwasnot small-bore. barragethat wouldhavesilencedany but the strongestof souls' ,,Nlaybe-" de Torresspokein a low tone-"maybe, if the starSare windowsin heaven,asI've heardsaid,the angelsof the higherhierarchy, thebigones,arerealizing-uh-the smaller?And theyonlydo it whenthe phenomenon?" moonis up so we mayknowit is a celestial He crossedhimselfand lookedaroundthe vessel' "You need not fearl' said the monk gently."There is no Inquisitor leaning over your shoulder.Remember;I am the only priest on this expedition.Moreover,your conjecturehas nothing to do with dogma. How cana However,that'sunimportant.Here'swhatI don't understand: asthe one frequency the same have it Why does heavenlybodybroadcast? Why-" to? I'm restricted ..I could explainl' interruptedde Salcedowith all the brashness and are the Rogerians and Admiral that the youth. say "I could impatienceof is flat. but round is not the earth say I could *rong aboutthe earth'sshape. I could say the horizonexists,not becausewe live upon a globe,but the earthis curvedonly a little ways,like a greatlyflattened-out because hemisphere.Icouldalsosaythat the cherubimarecoming,not from Luna, but from a shipsuchasours,a vesselwhichis hangingin the voidoff the edgeof the earth." the othertwo. "What?" gasPed "Haven't you heardl' said de Salcedo,"that the King of Portugal Howdo secretlysentout a shipafterhe turneddownColumbus'proposal? predecessor' that he arefrom our we know he did not, ihat the messages becomes and the air in sailedoff the world'srim and is now suspended it followsthe moonaroundTerra-is, in fact,a exposedat night because much smallerandunseensatellite?" The monk'slaughterwokemanymen on the ship."I'll haveto tell the Laspalmasoperatoiyouttale.He canput it in thatnovelof his.Next you'll
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be telling me those messagesare from one of those fire-shootingsausages so many credulouslaymen havebeen seeingflying around.No, my deaide Salcedo,let's not be ridiculous. Even the ancient Greeks knew the earth was round. Every university in Europe teachesthat. And we Rogerians havemeasuredthe circumference.We know for sure that the Indies iie just acrossthe Atlantic. Just as we know for sure, through mathematics,ihat heavier-than-airmachinesare impossible.Our Friar Ripskulls, our mind doctors,have assuredus these flying creationsare masshallucinationsor else the tricks of hereticsor Turks who want to panic the populace. "That moon radiois no delusion,I'll grant you. what it is,I don't know. But it's not a Spanishor Portugueseship. What about its different code? Even if it camefrom Lisbon, that ship would still havea Rogerianoperator. And he would, accordingto our policy,be of a different nationality from the crew so he might the easierstay out of political embroilments.He wouldn't break our lawsby using a different code in order to communicate with Lisbon. we disciplesof saint Roger do not stoop to petty boundary intrigues. Moreover,that realizer would not be powerful enough to reach Europe, and must, therefore,be directed at us." "How can you be sure?" said de salcedo. "Distressing though the thought may be to you, a priest could be subverted.or a layman could learn your secretsand invent a code. I think that a Portugueseship is sending to another,a ship perhapsnot too distant from us." De Torresshiveredand crossedhimself again."Perhapsthe angelsare warning us of approachingdeath? perhaps?" "Perhaps?Then why don't they use our code?Angels would know it as well as I. No, there is no perhaps.The order does not permit perhaps.It experimentsand finds out; nor doesit passjudgment until it knows." "I doubt we'll ever know," said de salcedo gloomily. .,Columbus has promised the crew that if we come acrossno sign of land by evening tomorrow, we shall turn back. otherwise-" he drew a finger acrosshis throat- "kkk! Another day, and we'll be pointed east andgetting away from that evil and bloody-looking moon and its incornprehensible messages." "It would be a greatlossto the order and to the Church," sighedthe friar. "But I leave such things in the hands of God arid inspect only what He hands me to look at." With which pious statement Friar Sparkslifted the bottle to ascertain the liquid level. Having determinedin a scientific manner its existence,he next measuredits quantity and testedits quality by putting all of it in that best of all chemistry tubes, his enormous belly. Afterward, smackinghis lips and ignoring the pained and disappointed looks on the facesof the sailors,he went on to speakenthusiasticailyof the
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Philip Jost!Farmer
water screw and the engine which turned it, both of which had been built recentlyat the St.JonasColtegeat Genoa.If Isabella'sthree shipshad been equippld with those,he declared,they would not haveto dependupon the wind. However,so far,the fathershadforbiddenits extendeduse becauseit was fearedthe engine'sfumes might poisonthe air and the terrible speeds it madepossiblemight be fatal to the human body.After which he plunged into a tedious descriptionof the life of his patronsaint,the inventor of the who had been first cherubim realizerand receiver,Jonasof Carcassonne, martyred when he grabbeda wire he thought was insulated. The two sailorsfound excusesto walk off. The monk was a god fellow, but hagiographybored them. Besides,they wantedto talk of women.... If Columbus had not succeededin persuadinghis crews to sail one more day,events would have been different. At dawn the sailorswere very much cheeredby the sight of severallarge birds circling their ships.Land could not be far off; perhapsthese winged creaturescame from the coastof fabled Cipanguitself, the country whose houseswere roofed with gold. The birds swoopeddown. Closer,they were enormousand very strange. Their bodies were flattish and almost saucer-shapedand small in proportion to the wings, which had a spreadof at leastthirty feet. Nor did they have tegs.Only a few sailorssaw the significanceof that fact. These birds dwelt in the air and never restedupon land or sea. While they were meditating upon that, they hearda slight sound as of a man clearing his throat. So gentle and far off was the noise that nobody paid any attention to it, for each thought his neighbor had made it. A few minutes later, the sound had become louder and deeper,like a lute string being twanged. Everybody looked up. Headswere turned west. Even yet they did not understandthat the noise like a finger plucking a wire came from the line that held the earth together,and that the line was stretchedto its utmost, and that the violent finger of the seawas what had pluckedthe line. It was some time beforethey understood.They had run out of horizon. When they saw that, they were too late. The dawn had not only come up like thunder, it was thunder. And though the three shipsheeledover at onceand tried to sail close-hauledon the pott tack, the suddenly speeded-up and relentless current made beatinghopeless. Then it was the Rogerianwished for the Genoesescrewand the wood' burning engine that would have made them able to resist the terrible muscles of the chargingand bull like sea. Then it was that some men
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prayed, some raved, some tried to attack the Admiral, some jumped overboard,and some sank into a stupor. Only the fearlessColumbus and the courageousFriar Sparksstuck to their duties.All that day the fat monk crouched'wedgedin his little shanty, dot-dashingto his fellow on the Grand Canary.He ceasedonly when the moon roselike a huge red bubble from the throat of a dying giant.Then he listened intently all night and worked desperately,scribbling and swearing impiously and checking cipher books. when the dawn came up again in a roar and a rush, he ran from the toldilla,a piece of paper clutched in his hand. His eyeswere wild, and his lips were moving fast, but nobody could understandthat he had cracked the code.They could not hear him shouting, "It is the Portuguese!It is the Portuguese!" Their ears were too overwhelmed to hear a mere human voice. The throat clearing and the twanging of the string had been the noises preliminary to the concert itself. Now came the mighty overture; as compelling as the blast of Gabriel's horn was the topple of Oceanusinto space.
OneOrdinaryDay,with Peanuts Shirley Jackson
Mr. John Philip Johnson shut his front door behind him and came down his front stepsinto the bright morning with a feeling that all was well with the world on this best of all days,hnd wasn't the sun warm and good,and didn't his shoesfeel comfortable after the resoling,and he knew that he had undoubtedlychosenthe precisevery tie which belongedwith the day and the sun and his comfortablefeet, and, after all, wasn't the world just a wonderful place?In spite of the fact that he was a small man, and the tie wasperhapsa shadevivid, Mr. Johnsonirradiatedthis feeling of well-being as he came down the stepsand onto the dirty sidewalk,and he smiled at people who passedhim, and some of them even smiled back.He stopped at the newsstand on the corner and bought his paper, saying "Good morningn'with real conviction to the man who sold him the paperand the two or three other people who were lucky enough to be buying papers when Mr. Johnson skipped up. He rememberedto fill his pockets with candy and peanuts,and then he set out to get himself uptown. He stopped in a flower shop and bought a carnation for his buttonhole, and stopped
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small child in a almost immediately afterward to give the carnation to a Mr' Johnson and smiled, then carriage,who looklO ut him dumbly, and minute and a for Johnson Mr. smiled, and the child's mother looked at then smiled too. the When he had gone several blocks uptown' Mr' Johnson cut across follow not he did avenueand went-utonga side street,chosenat random; way in the sameroute every riorning, but preferredto pursue his eventful It business' wide detours, more like a puppy than a man intent upon was van happenedthis morning that halfway down the block a moving paiieO, and the furniture from an upstairs apartment stood half on the people loitered, ,iOrr".if, half on the steps, while an amused group of the chairs, examining the scratcheson the tables and the worn spots on and movers the and young child a to watch trying and a harassedwoman, endeavoring of impression gave clear the time, the furniture all at the same to shelter hir private life from the people staring at her belongings'Mr' Johnson stopped, and for a moment joined the crowd, ild then he came forward and, touching his hat civilly, said, "PerhapsI can keep an eye on your little boy for You?" The woman tuined and glared at him distrustfully, and Mr. Johnson ..We'll sit righi here on the steps."He beckonedto the little addedhastily, genial bog who hesitatedand then respondedagreeablyto Mr. Johnson's pocket and his peanuts from smile. Mr. Johnsonbrought out a handful of peanuts the on sat on the steps with the boy, who at first refused the strangers; from grounds that his mother did not allow him to accept food Mr. Johnsonsaid that probablyhis mother had not intended peanutsto be included, since elephantsat the circus ate them, and the boy considered, and then agreed solemnly. They sat on the steps cracking peanuts in a comradelyiashion, and Mr. Johnsonsaid, "So you're moving?" 'oYep,"said the boY. "Where you going?" "Vgrmont." "Nice place. Plenty of snow there. Maple qugar,too; you like maple sugar?" t'Surg.tt
"Plenty of maple sugar in Vermont. You going to live on a farm?" "Going to live with GrandPa." "GrandPa like Peanuts?" ttsure.tt
..Oughtto takehim somel'saidMr. Johnson,reachinginto his pocket. "Just you and MommYgoing?" ttYep.tt
..Tell you whatl' Mr.Johnsonsaid."You take somepeanutsto eat on the train."
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The boy's mother, after glancing at them frequentlx had seemingly decidedthat Mr. Johnsonwastrustworthy,becauseshe haddevotedherself wholeheartedlyto seeingthat the moversdid not-what mov€rsrarely do, but every housewifebelievesthey will-crack a leg from her goodtable,or set a kitchen chair down on a lamp. Most of the furniture was loadedby now, and she was deep in that nervous stagewhen she knew there was somethingshe had forgotten to pack-hidden awayin the back of a closet somewhere,or left at a neighbor's and forgotten, or on the clotheslineand was trying to remember under stresswhat it was. "This all, lady?" the chief mover said,completingher dismay. Uncertainly,she nodded. "Want to go on the truck with the furniture, sonny?" the mover asked the boy, and laughed.The boy laughed too and said to Mr. Johnson, "I guessI'll have a good time at Vermont." "Fine timej' said Mr. Johnson,and stood up. "Have one more peanut beforeyou goj'he said to the boy. The boy's mother said to Mr. Johnson,"Thank you so much; it was a great help to me." "Nothing at alll'said Mr. Johnsongallantly."Where in Vermont are you going?" The mother looked at the little boy accusingly,as though he had given away a secretof some importance,and said unwillingly, "Greenwich." "Lovely town," said Mr. Johnson.He took out a card,and wrote a name on the back. "Very goodfriend of mine lives in Greenwich,"he said."Call on him for anything you need. His wife makes the best doughnuts in townj'he addedsoberlyto the little boy. "Swell," said the little boy. "Goodbye," said Mr. Johnson. He went on, steppinghappilywith his new-shodfeet,feelingthe warm sun on his back and on the top of his head.Halfwaydown the block he met a stray dog and fed him a peanut. At the corner, where another wide avenue faced him, Mr. Johnson decidedto go on uptown again.Moving with comparativelaziness,he was passedon either sideby peoplehurrying and frowning,and peoplebrushed past him going the other way, clattering along to get somewherequickly. Mr. Johnsonstoppedon every corner and waited patiently for the light to change,and he steppedout of the way of anyonewho seemedto be in any particular hurry, but one young lady came too fast for him, and crashed wildly into him when he stoopedto pat a kitten which hadrun out onto the sidewalkfrom an apartmenthouseand wasnow unableto get backthrough the rushing feet. "Excuse me;' said the young lady, trying frantically to pick up Mr.
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Johnsonand hurry on at the sametime, "terribly sorry." The kitten, regardlessnow of danger,racedback to its home. "Perfectly be in all right," saidMi. Johnsbn,adjustinghimself carefully."You seemto a hurry." .,Of course I'm in a hurry," said the yoUnglady."Iom late." she was extremely crossand the frown betweenher eyesseemedwell late, on its way to becoming permanent. she had obviously awakened pretty, and look becauseshe had not spentany extra time in making herself lipstick her dresswas plain and unadornedwith collar or brooch,ffid her was noticeablycrooked.She tried to brush past Mr. Johnsonnbut, risking her suspiciousdispleasure,he took her arm and said, "Pleasewait'" .,Lookl'she said ominously,"I ran into you and your lawyercan seemy lawyer and I will gladly pay all damagesand all inconveniencessuffered theiefrom but pleasethis minute let me go becauseI am late." "Late for what?" said Mr. Johnson; he tried his winning smile on her but it did no more than keep her, he suspected,from knocking him down again. ..Latefor work," she said betweenher teeth. "Late for my employment. I have a job and if I am late I lose exactly so much an hour and I cannot really afford what your pleasantconversationis costing me.,be it everso pleasant." "I'll pay for it," Said Mr. Johnson.Now these were magic wordS,nOt ne.essuiily becausethey were true, or becauseshe seriouslyexpectedMr. Johnson to pay for anything, but becauseMr. Johnson'sflat stat€ment' obviously innocent of irony, could not be, coming from Mr. Johnson, anything but the statementof a responsibleand truthful and respectable man. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I said that since I am obviouslyresponsiblefor your being late I shall certainly pay for it." "Don't be silly,"shesaid,and for the first time the frown disappeared."I wouldn't expectyou to pay for anything-a few minutes agoI wasoffering o'it wasmy fault." to pay you. Anyway;'she added,almost smiling, "What happensif you don't go to work?" She stared."I don't get Paidl' "Preciselyl' said Mr. Johnson. "What do you mean, precisely?If I don't show up at the office exactly twenty minutes ago I lose a dollar and twenty centsan hour, or two centsa minuie on. . . ." She thought. " ... Almost a dime for the time I've spent talking to you." Mr. Johnsonlaughed,and finally she laughed,too' "You're late already"' he pointed out. "Will you give me another four cents worth?"
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"I don't understandwhy." "You'll see," Mr. Johnson promised.He led her over to the side of the walk, next to the buildings, and said, "Stand here," and went out into the rush of people going both ways. Selectingand considering,as one who must make a choice involving perhapswhole yearsof lives, he estimated the people going by. Once he almost movednand then at the last minute thought better of it and drew back.Finally, from half a block away,hesaw what he wanted,and moved out into the center of the traffic to intercept a young man, who was hurrying, and dressedas though he had awakened late, and frowning. "Oof," said the young man, becauseMr. Johnson had thought of no better way to intercept anyone than the one the young woman had unwittingly used upon him. "Where do you think you're going?" the young man demandedfrom the sidewalk. "I want to speakto you," said Mr. Johnson ominously. The young man got up nervously,dusting himself and eyeing Mr. Johnson.o'Whatfor?" he said."What'd I do?" "That's what bothers me most about people nowadays,"Mr. Johnson complainedbroadlyto the people passing."No matter whether they've done anything or not, they always figure someone'safter them. About what you're going to do," he told the young man. "Listen," saidthe young man, trying to brush pasthim, "I'm late,and I don't have any time to listen. Here's a dime, now get going." o'Thankyou;'said Mr. Johnson,pocketingthe dime. "Look," he said, "what happensif you stop running?" o'I'm late,"saidthe young man, still trying to get pastMr. Johnson,who was unexpectedlyclinging. "How much you make an hour?" Mr. Johnsondemanded. 'A communist,areyou?" saidthe youngman. "Now will you pleaselet me-" "Noi' said Mr. Johnsoninsistently,"how much?" o'Dollarfiftyi' said the young man. "And now will you-" "You like adventure?" The young man stared,and, staring,found himself caught and held by Mr. Johnson'sgenial smile; he almost smiled back and then repressedit and made an effort to tear away."I got to hurry]' he said. "Mystery? Like surprises?Unusual and exciting events?" "You sellingsomething?" "Sure," said Mr. Johnson."You want to take a chance?" The young man hesitated,looked longingly up the avenuetoward what might havebeen his destinationand then, when Mr. Johnsonsaid,"I'll pay for itj' with his own peculiarconvincing emphasis,turned and said,"Well,
ShirleyJackson okay.But I got to seeit first, what I'm buying." Mr. Johnson,breathinghard, led the young man over to the side where the girl was standing;she had been watchingwith interestMr. Johnson's capture of the young man and now, smiling timidly, she looked at Mr. Johnson as though preparedto be surprisedat nothing. Mr. Johnsonreachedinto his pocket and took out his wallet. "Here," he said,and handeda bill to the girl. "This about equalsyour day's pay:' "But no," she said,surprisedin spite of herself."I mean,l couldn't!' "Pleasedo not interrupt," Mr. Johnsontold her. 'And herel'he said to the young man, "this will take careof yot'The young man acceptedthe bill dazedly,but said, "Probably counterfeit," to the young woman out of the side of his mouth. "Now," Mr. Johnsonwent on, disregardingthe young man, "what is your name,miss?" "Kent," she said helplessly."Mildred Kentl' "Fine," said Mr. Johnson.'hnd you, sir?" 'Arthur Adams," said the young man stiffly. "splendid," said Mr. Johnson."Now, Miss Kent, I would like you to meet Mr. Adams.Mr. Adams,Miss Kent." Miss Kent stared,wet her lips nervously,madea gestureas though she rnight run, and said, "How do you do?" Mr. Adams straightenedhis shoulders,scowledat Mr. Johnson,madea gestureas though he might run, and said, ,.How do you do?" "Now this," said Mr. Johnson, taking several bills from his wallet, "should be enoughfor the day for both of you. I would suggest,peihaps, coney Island-although I personallyam not fond of the place-or perhaps a nice lunch somewhere,and dancing,or a matinee, or even a movie, although take care to choose a really good one; there are so many bad movies thesedays.You might," he said,struck with an inspiration,.,visit the Bronx Zoo,,or the Planetarium.Anywhere, as a matter of fact," he concluded,"that you would like to go. Have a nice time." As he started to move away Arthur Adams, breaking from his dumfoundedstare,said, o'Butsee here, mister, yov can'rdo this. whyhow do you know-l mean, we don't even know-I mean, how do you know we won't just take the money and not do what you said?" "You've taken the money,"Mr. Johnsonsaid."you don't haveto follow any of my suggestions.You may know something you prefer to do-, perhapsa museum,or something." "But supposeI just run awaywith it and leaveher here?" "I know you won't," saidMr. Johnsongently,"becauseyou remembered to ask me that. Goodbye," he added,and went on. As he steppedup the street,consciousof the sun on his headand his good shoes,he heardfrom somewherebehind him the young man saying,
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"Look, you know you don't haveto if you don't want toj' and the girl saying,"But unlessyou don't want to...." Mr. Johnsonsmiled to himself and then thought that he had better hurry along; when he wanted to he could move very quickly, and beforethe young woman had gotten around to saying,"Well, lwill if you willl'Mr. Johnsonwas severalblocks away and had already stopped twice, once to help a lady lift several large packagesinto a taxi and onceto hand a peanutto a seagull.By this time he was in an areaof large storesand many more peopleand he was buffeted constantly from either side by people hurrying and cross and late and sullen. Once he offered a peanut to a man who askedhim for a dime, and once he offered a peanut to a bus driver who had stoppedhis bus at an intersectionand had openedthe window next to his seatand put out his head as though longing for fresh air and the comparativequiet of the traffic. The man wanting a dime took the peanut becauseMr. Johnsonhad wrapped a dollar bill around it, but the bus driver took the peanut and askedironicall5 "You want a transfer,Jack?" On a busy corner Mr. Johnsonencounteredtwo young people-for one minute he thought they might be Mildred Kent and Arthur Adams-who were eagerlyscanninga newspaper,their backspressedagainsta storefront to avoidthe peoplepassing,their headsbent together.Mr. Johnson,whose curiosity was insatiable, leaned onto the storefront next to them and peeked over the man's shoulder; they were scanningthe 'Apartments Vacant" columns. Mr. Johnsonrememberedthe streetwhere the woman and her little boy were going to Vermont and he tapped the man on the shoulder and said amiably,"Try down on West Seventeen.About the middle of the block, peoplemoved out this morning." "Say, what do you-" said the man, and then, seeing Mr. Johnson clearly,"Well, thanks.Where did you say?" "West Seventeen,"said Mr. Johnson.'About the middle of the block." He smiled againand said, "Good luck." "Thanks," said the man. "Thanksl'said the girl, as they moved off. "Goodbye,"said Mr. Johnson. He lunched alone in a pleasantrestaurant,where the food was rich, and only Mr. Johnson'sexcellent digestion could encompasstwo of their pastriesfor dessert.He had whipped-cream-and-chocolate-and-rum-cake three cups of coffee,tipped the waiter largely,and went out into the street againinto the wonderful sunlight, his shoesstill comfortableand fresh on his feet. Outside he found a beggar staring into the windows of the restauranthe had left and, carefully looking through the money in his pocket,Mr. Johnsonapproachedthe beggarand pressedsome coins and a
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lunch plus couple of bills into his hand. "It's the price of the veal cutlet tipl' said Mr. Johnson."GoodbyeJ' park and fed After his lunch he rested; he walked into the nearest was readyto he time the by peanutsto the pigeons.It was late afternoon watched games and two checker start back downtolwn,and he had refereed with awakened and asleep a small boy and girl whose mother had fallen Johnson' Mr' saw surpriseunOftut *hich turned to amusementwhen she his He had given away almost all of his candy,and had fed all the rest of the late peanutslo the pigeons,and it was time to go home. Although afternoon run *uJ pleasant,and his shoeswere still entirely comfortable, he decidedto take a taxi downtown. He had a diflicult time catchinga taxi, becausehe gaveup the first three or four empty ones to people who seemed to need them more; finally, however,he stood alone on the corner and-almost like netting a frisky fish-he haileddesperatelyuntil he succeededin catchinga cabwhich had been proceedingwith haste uptown and seemedto draw in towards Mr. Johnsonagainstits own will. "Mister," the cab driver said as Mr. Johnsonclimbed in, "I figured you was an omen, like. I wasn't going to pick you up at a11." "Kind of youl' said Mr. Johnson ambiguously. "If I'd of let you go it would of cost me ten bucks," said the driver. "Really?" said Mr. Johnson. "Yeah," said the driver. "Guy just got out of the cab,he turned arOund and give me ten bucks,saidtake this and bet it in a hurry on a horsenamed Vulcan, right away." 'A fire sign on a Wednesday?" "Vulcan?" saidMr. Johnson,horrified. 'Anyway, I said to myself if I got no fare "What?" said the driver. between here and there I'd bet the ten, but if anyone looked like they needed the cab I'd take it as an omen and I'd take the ten home to the wife." "You were very right," said Mr. Johnson heartily."This is Wednesday, you would havelost your money.Monday,yes,or even Saturday.But never never never a fire sign on a Wednesday.Sundaywould have been good, now.tt
"Vulcan don't run on Sunday,"said the driver. "You wait till another day,"said Mr. Johnson."Down this street,please, driver. I'll get off on the next corner." "He told me Vulcan, though," said the driver' "I'll tell youl' said Mr. Johnson,hesitatingwith the door of the cab half open. "You take that ten dollars and I'll give you another ten dollars to go with it, and you go right aheadand bet that money on any Thursday on any horse that has a name indicating . . .let me see,Thursday. . . well, grain.Or any growing food."
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"Grain?" said the driver. "You mean a horse named, like, wheat or something?" "Certainlyl' said Mr. Johnson.o'or, as a matter of fact, to make it even easier,any horse whose name includes the letters, C, R, L. Perfectly
simple." 'oTallCorn?" saidthe driver,a light in his eye. named,like,ThllCorn?" 'Absolutely,"
mean a horse
said Mr. Johnson."Here's your money." "Thll Corn," said the driver. "Thank you, mister." "Goodbye,"said Mr. Johnson. He wason his own corner and went straightup to his apartment.He let himself in and called "Hello?" and Mrs. Johnson answeredfrom the kitchen, "Hello, dear,aren't you early?" "Took a taxi home," Mr. Johnsonsaid. rememberedthe cheesecake, too. What's for dinner?" Mrs. Johnson came out of the, kitchen and kissed him; she was a comfortablewoman,and smiling as Mr. Johnsonsmiled."Hard day?" she asked. "Not veryl'saidMr. Johnson,hanginghis coatin the closet."How about you?" "So-so,"shesaid.Shestoodin the kitchen doorwaywhile he settledinto his easychair and took off his goodshoesand took out the paperhe had bought that morning. "Here and there," she said. "I didn't do so badly,"Mr. Johnsonsaid. "Couple young people." "Fine," she said."I had a little nap this afternoon,took it easymost of the day.Went into a departmentstorethis morningandaccusedthe woman next to me of shoplifting,and had the store detectivepick her up. Sent three dogsto the pound-yoa know,the usual thing. Oh, and listen," she added,remembering. "What?" askedMr. Johnson. "Well," she said, "I got onto a bus and askedthe driver for a transfeq and when he helpedsomeoneelsefirst I saidthat he wasimpertinent,and quarreledwith him. And then I saidwhy wasn'the in the army,and I saidit loud enoughfor everyoneto hear,and I took his number and I turned in a complaint. Probablygot him fired." "Fine," said Mr. Johnson."But you do look tired.Want to changeover tomorrow?" "l wouldlike to," she said. "I could do with a changeJ' "Rightj'said Mr. Johnson."What's for dinner?" "Veal cutlet." "Had it for lunch." said Mr. Johnson.
That Hell-BoundTrain Robert Bloch
When Martin was a little boy,his Daddy was a RailroadMan. Daddy never rode the high iron, but he walked the tracks for the CB&e, and he was proud of his job. And every night when he got drunk, he sangthis old song about That Hell-Bound Ti,ain. Martin didn't quite remember any of the words,but he couldn't forget the way his Daddy sangthem out. And when Daddy made the mistake of getting drunk in the afternoon and got squeezedbetweena Pennsytankcar and an AT&SFgondola,Martin sort of wonderedwhy the Brotherhood didn't sing the song at his funeral. After that, things didn't go so good for Martin, but somehowhe always recalled Daddy's song. when Mom up and ran off with a traveling salesman from Keokuk (Daddy must have turned over in his grave, knowing she'd done such a thing, and with a passengeatoo!) Martin hummed the tune to himself every night in the Orphan Home. And after Martin himself ran away,he used to whistle the songsoftly at night in the jungles, after the other bindlestiffs were asleep. 295
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Martin r"'ason the roadfor four-five yearsbeforehe realizedhe wasn't gettinganyplace.Of coursehe'd tried his hand at a lot of things-picking iruit in Oregon,washing dishes in a Montana hash-house,stealing hubcapsin Denverand tiresin OklahomaCity-but by the time he'd put in six months on the chain-gangdown in Alabama he knew he had no future drifting around this way on his own. So he tried to get on the railroadlike his Daddy had and they told him that times were bad. But Martin couldn't keepawayfrom the railroads.Whereverhe traveled, he rode the rods; he'd rather hop a freight heading north in sub-zero weather than lift his thumb to hitch a ride with a Cadillac headed for Florida.Wheneverhe managedto get hold of a canof Sterno,he'd sit there under a nice warm culvert,think aboutthe old days,and often as not he'd hum the song about ThatHetl-BoundTrain.That was the train the drunks and the sinners rode-the gamblingmen and the grifters, the big-time and all the jolly crew.It would be reallyfine to spenders,the skirt-chasers, good company,but Martin didn't like to think of what take a trip in such happenedwhen that train finally pulled into the Depot Way Down Yonder. He didn't figure on spendingeternitystokingboilersin Hell, without even a CompanyUnion to protecthim. Still, it would be a lovely ride. If there was suclra thing as a Hell-BoundTrain. Which, of course,there wasn't. At leastMartin didn't thinktherewas,until that eveningwhen he found himself walking the tracks heading south, just outside of Appleton Junction.The night wascold and dark,.theway Novembernightsarein the Fox River Valley,and he knew he'd have to work his way down to New Orleansfor the winter,or maybeevenTexas.Somehowhe didn't much feel like going, even though he'd heard tell that a lot of those Texas automobileshad solid gold hub-caps. No sir,hejust wasn'tcut out for petty larceny.Itwasworsethan a sin-it was unprofitable,too. Bad enoughto do the Devil's work, but then to get suchmiserablepay on top of it! Maybehe'd better let the SalvationArmy convert him. Martin trudged along humming Daddy's song, waiting for a rattler to pull out of the Junction behind him. He'd have to catch it-there was nothing elsefor him to do. But the first train to come along came from the other direction, roaring towardshim along the track from the south. Martin peeredahead,but his eyescouldn't match his ears,and so far all he could recognizewas the sound.It wasa train, though; he felt the steel shudder and sing beneathhis feet. and And yet, how could it be? The nexf stationwas Neenah-Menasha, hours. for there there was nothing due out of
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The cloudswerethick overhead,and the field-mists rolled like a cold fog in a November midnight. Even so, Martin shoutdhavebeen able to seethe headlightas the train rushed on. But there was only the whistle, screaming out of the black throat of the night. Martin could recognizethe equipment of just about any locomotiveever built, but he'd never hearda whistle that soundedlike this one. It wasn't signalting;it was screaminglike a lost soul. He steppedto one side,for the train wasalmost on top of him now.And suddenly there it was, looming along the tracks and grinding to a stop in less time than he'd believed possible.The wheels hadn't been oiled, becausethey screamedtoo, screamedlike the damned.But the train slid to a halt and the screamsdied awayinto a seriesof low, groaningsounds,and Martin looked up and saw that this was a passengertrain. It was big and black, without a single light shining in the engine cab or any of the long string of cars; Martin couldn't read any lettering on the sides,but he was pretty sure this train didn't belong on the Northwestern Road. He was even more sure when he sawthe man clamberdown out of the forward car. There was something wrong about the way he walked, as though one of his feet dragged,and about the lantern he carried. The lantern was dark, and the man held it up to his mouth and blew, and instantly it glowed redly.You don't have to be a member of the Railway Brotherhood to know that this is a mighty peculiar way of lighting a lantern. As the figure approached,Martin recognized the conductor's cap perchedon his head,and this madehim feel a little better for a momentuntil he noticed that it was worn a bit too high, as though there might be something sticking up on the foreheadunderneathit. Still, Martin knew his manners,and when the man smiled at him, he said, "Good evening, Mr. Conductor." "Good evening,Martin." "How did you know my name?" The man shrugged."Holry did you know I was the Conductor?" "You are, aten't you?" "To you, yes. Although other people, in other walks of life, may recognizeme in different roles.For instance,you ought to seewhat I look like to the folks out in Hollywood." The man grinned. "I travel a great deal," he explained. "What brings you here?" Martin asked. "why, you ought to knorv the answer to that, Martin. I came because you needed me. Tonight, I suddenly realized you were backsliding. Thinking of joining the SalvationArmy, weren't you?" "Well-" Martin hesitated. "Don't be ashamed.To err is human, as somebody-or-otheronce said.
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point is,I felt you neededme' Reader'sDigest,wasn'tit? Never mind. The So I switched over and came your way'" "What for?" .,why, to offer you a ride, of course.Isn't it better to travel comfortably a Salvation Army by train than to march along the cold streets behind the eardrums'" on harder band? Hard on the feet, they tell me, and even .,I'rn not sure I'd careto ride your train, sir," Martin Said."Considering where I'm likelY to end uP." .Ah, yes.The oid .rgurnent." The Conductor sighed."I supposeyou'd prefer some sort of bargain,is that it?" "Exactlyl' Martin answered. ,,Well, i'm afraid I'm all through with that sort of thing. There's no you any shortageof prospectivepassengersany more. Why should I offer specialinducements?" "You must want me, or else you wOuldn't have bothered to go out of your way to find me." The conductor sighedagain."There you havea point. Pride was always you to the my besettingweaknJrr, I admit. And somehowI'd hate to lose hesitated' years." He these all you my own as competitionlafter thinking of ,,Yes,I'm preparedto deal with you on your own terms, if you insist'" "The terms?" Martin asked. "standard proposition.Anything you want'" '4h," said Martin. ,,But I warn you in advance,there'll be no tricks.I'll grantyou any wish you can name-but in return, you must promiseto ride the train when the time comes." "suppose it never comes?" "It will." ..SupposeI've got the kind of a wish that will keep me off forever?" "There is no such wish." "Don't be too sure." ,.Let me worry about that," the Conductor told him. "No matter what you have in mind, I warn you that I'll collect in the end. And there'll be no none of this last-minute hocus-p@us,either.No last-hour repentances' blondefrauleinsor fancy lawyersshowingup to get you off. I offer a clean deat.That is to say,you'll get what you want, and I'll get what I want'" "I've heard you irick people. They say you're worse than a used-car salesman." "Now, wait a minute-" ,.I apologizel' Martin said, hastily."But it ls supposedto be a fact that you can't be trusted." ,.I admit it. on the other hand, you seemto think you havefound a way out."
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'A sure-firepropositionl' "Sure-fire?very funny!" The man beganto chuckle,then halted.,,But we wastevaluabletime, Martin. Let's get down to cases.what do you want from me?" Martin took a deep breath. "I want to be able to stop Time." "Right now?" "No. Not yet. And not for everybody.Irealizethat would be impossible, of course.But I want to be able to stop Time for myself.Just once, in the future. Whenever I get to a point where I know I'm happy and contented, that's where I'd like to stop. So I can just keep on being happy forever." "That's quite a proposition,"the conductor mused. "I've got to admit I've never heardanythingjust like it before-and believeme,I've listened to some lulus in my day." He grinned at Martin. "you've really been thinking about this, haven't you?" "For years,"Martin admitted.Then he coughed."well, what do you say?" "It's not impossible,in terms of your own subjectivetime-sense,"the Conductor murmured. "Yes, I think it could be arranged." "But I mean reallyto stop. Nor for me just to imagineitl' "I understand.And it can be done." "Then you'll agree?" "Why not? I promisedyou, didn't I? Give me your hand." Martin hesitated."Will it hurt very much? I mean,I don't like the sight of blood, and-" "Nonsense! You've been listening to a lot of poppycock.we already havemadeour bargain,my boy.I merelyintend to put somethinginto your hand. The ways and means of fulfilling your wish. After all, there's no telling at just what moment you may decideto exercisethe agreement,and I can't drop everythingand come running. So it's better if you can regulate matters for yourself." "You're going to give me a Time-stopper?" "That's the general idea. As soon as I can decide what would be practical."The Conductor hesitated.'Ah, the very thing! Here, take my watch." He pulled it out of his vest-pocket;a railroadwatch in a sil'*er case.He openedthe back and made a delicateadjustment; Martin tried to seejust exactly what he was doing, but the fingers moved in a blinding blur. "There we are," the conductor smiled. "It's all set, now. when you finally decide where you'd like to call a halt, merely turn the stem in reverseand unwind the watch until it stops.When it stops,Time stops,for you. simple enough?" And the Conductor dropped the watch into Martin's hand.
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"That's all The young man closed his fingers tightly around the case' there is to it, eh?" .Absolutely.But remember-you can stop the watch only once' Soyou'd you choose to better make sure that you're satisfied with the moment your choice'" of certain very make prolong.I caution you in all fairness; it, I'll be about fair so you've been "I will." Martin grinned.'And since really doesn't It forgotten. you to have seem fair, too. There's one thing that myself' for Time stop I once matter whatmoment I choose.Because if I And get older' any to have never meansI stay where I am forever.I'll to have never I'll then die, never I don't get any older,I'll never die. And if take a ride on Your train." he The conductor turned away.His shouldersshook convulsively,and 'And you said / was worse than a used-car may have been crying. salesmanl'he gasped,in a strangledvoice. Then he wandered off into the fog, and the train-whistle gave an impatient shriek, and all at once it was moving swiftly down the track, rumbling out of sight in the darkness. Martin stood thire, blinking down at the silver watch in his hand. If it wasn't that he could actually see it and feel it there, and if he couldn't smell that peculiar odor,he might have thought he'd imagined the whole thing from start to finish-train, Conductor,bargain,and all. But he had the watch, and he could recognizethe scent left by the train as it departed,even though there aren't many locomotivesaroundthat use sulphur and brimstone as fuel. And he had no doubts about his bargain.That's what came of thinking things through to a logical conclusion.Somefools would have settled for wealth, or power,or Kim Novak. Daddy might have sold out for a fifth of whiskey. Martin knew that he'd made a better deal.Better? It was foolproof.All he neededto do now was choosehis moment. He put the watch in his pocketand startedback down the railroadtrack. He hadn't really had a destinationin mind before,but he did now. He was going to find a moment of happiness.. . . Now young Martin wasn't altogethera ninny. He realized perfectly well that happiness is a relative thing; there are conditions and degreesof contentmenqand they vary with one's lot in life. As a hobo, he was often satisfiedwith a warm handout,a double-lengthbench in the park, or a can of Sterno made in 195? (a vintage year). Many a time he had reacheda state of momentary bliss through such simple agencies,but he was aware that there were better things. Martin determined to seek them out. Within two dayshe was in the greatcity of Chicago.Quite naturally,he
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drifted over to West Madison Street,and there he took stepsto elevatehis role in life. He becamea city bum, a panhandter,a moocher.within a week he had risen to the point where happinesswasa meal in a regularone-arm luncheonjoint, a two-bit flop on a real army cot in a realflophouse,and a full fifth of muscatel. There was a night, after enjoying all three of these luxuries to the full, when Martin thought of unwinding his watch at the pinnacle of intoxication. But he also thought of the faces of the honest johns he'd braced for a handout today. Sure, they were squares,but they were prosperous.They wore good clothes,held goodjobs, drove nice cars.And for them, happinesswas even more ecstatic-they ate dinner in fine hotels, they slept on innerspring mattresses,they drank blended whiskey. Squaresor no, they had somethingthere.Martin fingeredhis watch, put asidethe temptationto hock it for anotherbottle of muscatel,and went to sleepdeterminedto get himself a job and improvehis happiness-quotient. When he awokehe had a hangover,but the determinationwas still with him. Before the month was out Martin was working for a general contractorover on the South Side,at one of the big rehabilitationprojects. He hatedthe grind, but the pay wasgood,and pretty soonhe got himself a one-room apartment out on Blue Island Avenue. He was accustomedto eatingin decentrestaurantsnow, and he bought himself a comfortablebed, and every Saturdaynight he went down to the corner tavern.It wasall very pleasant,butThe foreman liked his work and promisedhim a raisein a month. If he waited around,the raisewould mean that he could afford a secondhandcar. With a car,he could even start picking up a girl for a date now and then. Other fellows on the job did, and they seemedpretty happy. SoMartin kept on working, and the raisecamethrough and the car came through and pretty soon a couple of girls came through. The first time it happened,he wantedto unwind his watchimmediately. Until he got to thinking about what some of the older men always said. There was a guy named Charlie, for example,who worked alongsidehim on the hoist. "when you're young and don't know the score,maybe you get a kick out of running around with those pigs. But after a while, you want something better.A nice girl of your o\iln. That's the ticket." Martin felt he owedit to himself to find out. If he didn't like it better,he could alwaysgo back to what he had. Almost six months went by before Martin met Lillian Gillis. By that time he'd had another promotion and was working inside, in the office. They madehim go to night schoolto learn how to do simple bookkeeping, but it meant another fifteen bucks extra a week, and it was nicer working indoors.
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marry him' Martin And Lillian ltasa lot of fun. When shetold him she'd was sort of-well, she that Except was almost sure that the time was now weremarried' they until to wait she wasa nicegirl,and she saidthey'd have a little more had he until her of course,Martin couldn't expect to marry too' money savedup, and another raise would help, going to be That took ayear.Martinwaspatient,becausehe knew it was looked at and watch his out worth it. Every time he had any doubts,he took men other the of Most it. But he never showedit to Lillian, or anybodyelse. just a looked watch wore expensivewristwatchesand the old silver railroad little cheap. he'd have Martin smiled as he gazedat the stem. Just a few twists and have' ever something none of these other poor working slobs would Permanentsatisfaction,with his blushing brideit was Only getting married turned out to be just the beginning' Sure, if they wonderful, but Lillian told him how much better things would be could move into a new placeand fix it up. Martin wanteddecentfurniture, a TV set, a nice car. So he started taking night coursesand got a promotion to the front his son oflice. With the baby coming, he wanted to stick around and see got a little it until wait to have he'd he realized arrive. And when it iame, own. its personality of a develop older, started to walk and talk and About this time the company sent him out on the road as a troubleshooteron someof thoseotherjobs, and now he waseatingat those good hotels, living high on the hog a4d the expense-account'More than once he was temp-tedto unwind his watch. This was the good life. . . . of course,it would be even better if he just didn't have to work. Sooneror pile later,if he could cut in on one of the companydeals,he could make a and retire. Then everything would be ideal' It happened,but it took time. Martin's son was going to high school before he really got up there into the chips. Martin got a strong hunch that it was now or never,becausehe wasn't exactly a kid any more' But right about then he met sherry westcott, and she didn't seem to think he was middle-agedat all, in spite of the way he was losing hair and addingstomach.she taught him that a toupeewouldcoverthe bald spot and quite a lot a cummerbund could .ou.r the potgut. In fact, she taught him prepared and he so enjoyedlearning that he actually took out his watch and to unwind it. Unfortunately,he chose the very moment that the private detectives of broke down the door of the hotel room, and then there was along stretch he couldn't that action the divorce fighting busy so time when Martin was honestly say he was enjoying any given moment' When he made the final settlement with Lil he was broke again,and
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sherry didn't seem to think he was so young, after all. so he squaredhis shouldersand went back to work. He made his pile, eventually,but it took longer this time, and there wasn't much chance to have fun along the way.The fancy dames in the fancy cocktail loungesdidn't seem to interest him any more, and neither did the liquor. Besides,the Doc had warned him off that. But there were other pleasuresfor a rich man to investigate.Tiavel, for instance-and not riding the rods from one hick burg to another,either. Martin went around the world by plane and luxury liner. For a while it seemed as though he would find his moment after all, visiting the Taj Mahal by moonlight.Martin pulled out the batteredold watchcase,and got ready to unwind it. Nobody else was there to watch himAnd that's why he hesitated.Sure,this wasan enjoyablemoment, but he was alone.Lil and the kid were gone,Sherrywas gone,and somehowhe'd never had time to make any friends. Maybe if he found new congenial people, he'd have the ultimate happiness.That must be the answer-it wasn't just money or power or sex or seeing beautiful things. The real satisfactionlay in friendship. So on the boat tfip home, Martin tried to strike up a few acquaintances at the ship's bar.But all these peoplewere much younger,and Martin had nothing in common with them. Also they wanted to danceand drink, and Martin wasn't in condition to appreciatesuch pastimes.Nevertheless,he tried. Perhapsthat's why he had the little accidentthe day beforethey docked in San Francisco. "Little accident" was the ship's doctor's way of describingit, but Martin noticed he looked very gravewhen he told him to stayin bed, and he'd calledan ambulanceto meet the liner at the dock and take the patient right to the hospital. At the hospital, all the expensivetreatment and the expensivesmiles and the expensivewordsdidn't fool Martin any.He was an old man with a bad heart, and they thought he was going to die. But he could fool them. He still had the watch. He found it in his coat when he put on his clothes and sneakedout of the hospital. He didn't haveto die. He could cheatdeathwith a singlegesture-and he intended to do it as a free man, out there under a free sky. That was the real secretof happiness.He understoodit now. Not even friendship meant as much asfreedom.This wasthe bestthing of all-to be free of friends or family or the furies of the flesh. Martin walked slowly beside the embankment under the night sky. Come to think of it, he wasjust about back where he'd started,so many yearsago.But the moment wasgod, goodenoughto prolongforever.Once a bum, alwaysa bum.
RobertBloch
twistedsharplyand He smiledashe thoughtaboutit, andthenthe smile in his chest'The suddenly,tike the pain twistingsharplyand suddenly embankment' world began,o rpin and he felidown on the sideof the he knewwhat and conscious, still was he He couldn'tseeverywell,but it' Except was this Maybe one' bad a Anothir stroke,and hadhappened. what was See tO wait wouldn't He tt.t t, wouldn'fbe a fool any longer. aroundthe corner. his chanceto usehis powerandsavehis life. And he was Rightnow \ryas goinito do it. He couldstill move,nothingcould stophim. fumbling He gropedin his pocketand puiledout the old silverwatch, to ride have never he'd with the stem.A few twistsandie'd cheatdeath, that Hell-BoundTrain.He couldgo on forever' Forever. go foreverMartin hadneverreatlyconsideredthe wordbefore'To on old man' lying sick bvt how?Did he wantto go on forever,like this; a helplesslyherein the grass? very No. He couldn'tdo it. He wouldn'tdo it. And suddenlyhe wanted line he'd much to cry, becausehe knew that somewherealong the himself.And nowit wastoo late.His eyesdimmed,therewasa outsmarted roaringin his ears.... to Heiecognizedthe roaring,of course,andhe wasn'tat all surprised He embankment' the on there up the fog of seethe traincomerushingout wasn'tsurprisedwhenit stopped,either,or whenthe Conductorclimbed off and walkedslowlYtowardshim. The Conductorhadn'tchangeda bit. Evenhis grin wasstill the same. 'All aboard'" "Hello, Martinl' he said. ,.I knowl'Martin whispered. "But you'll haveto carryme' I can'twalk. I'm not evenreallytalkingany morenam I?" ,.yesyou are,"itre ConOuctor said."I canhearyou fine. And you can walk,tool' He leaneddownandplacedhis handon Martin'schest'There andthen,sureenough,Martincouldwalk wasa momentof icy numbness, afterall. to the He got up and followedthe Conductofalongthe slope,moving sideof the train. "In here?"he asked. to .,No,the nextcar,"the Conductormurmured."I guessyou're'entitled the tasted ride Pullman.Afd a[, you're quite a successfulman' You've of Youlveknownthe pleasures joys of wealthand positionand'prestige. and dining marriageand fathrtnooo. You've sampledthe delights of too,andyou traveledhigh' wideandhandsome' drinkinganddebauchery, -so let's not haveany last-minuterecriminations." ,All rightj' Martin sighed."I can'tblameyou for my mistakes'on the
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other hand, you can't take credit for what happened,either.I worked for everything I got. I did it all on my own. I didn't even need your watch.,' "so you didn't," the conductor said, smiling. "But would you mind giving it back to me now?" "Need it for the next sucker,eh?" Martin muttered. "Perhaps." Somethingabout the way he saidit madeMartin look up. He tried to see the Conductor's eyes, but the brim of his cap cast a shadow.So Martin looked down at the watch instead. "Tell me something,"he said,softly."If I give you the watch, what will you do with it?" "Why, throrvit into the ditchl' the Conductortold him. 'oThat'sall I'll do with it." And he held out his hand. "what if somebody comes along and finds it? And twists the stem backwards,and stopsTime?" "Nobody would do that," the conductor murmured. "Even if they knew." "You mean, it was all a trick? This is only an ordinary,cheap watch?" "I didn't say that," whisperedthe conductor. "I only said that no one has ever twisted the stem backwards.They've all been like you, Martinlooking aheadto find that perfecthappiness.Waiting for the moment that never comesl' The Conductor held out his hand again. Martin sighed and shook his head."You cheatedme after all." "You cheatedyourself,Martin. And now you're going to ride that HellBound Train." He pushed Martin up the stepsand into the car ahead.As he entered, the train beganto move and the whistle screamed.And Martin stood there in the swayingPullman, gazingdown the aisleat the other passengers. He could see them sitting there, and somehowit didn't seem strangeat all. Here they were; the drunks and the sinners,the gamblingmen and the grifters, .the big-time spenders,the skirt-chasers,and alt the jotly crew. They knew where they were going,of course,but they didn't seem to give a damn.The blinds weredrawn on the windows,yet it waslight inside,and they were all living it up-singing and passingthe bottte and roaring with laughter,throwing the dice and telling their jokes and braggingtheir big brags,just the way Daddy used to sing about them in the old song. "Mighty nice travelingcompanionsl'Martinsaid."why,I've neverseen such a pleasantbunch of people.I mean, they seem to be really enjoying themselves!" The conductor shrugged."I'm afraid things won't be quite so jazzy when we pull into that Depot Way Down Yonder."
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'oNow,beforeyou sit down' if For the third time, he held out his hand. you'll just give me that watch. A bargain'sa bargain-" your Martin smiled.'A bargain'sa bargainl'he echoed."I agreedto ride train if I could stop Tirne when I found the right moment of happiness. And I think ['m about as happy right here as I've ever been'" Very slowlg Martin took hold of the silver watch-stem. "No!" gaspedthe Conductor."No!" But the watch-stemturned. "Do you realizewhatyou've dOne?"the Conductoryelled. "Now we'll never reach the Depot! We'll just go on riding, all of us-forever!" ;'I Martin grinned. know;' he said. "But the fun is in the trip, not the you taught me that. And I'm tooking forward to a wonderful destination. trip. Look, maybe t ian even help. If you were to find me another one of those caps,now, and let me keep this watch-" And that's the way it finally worked out. wearing his cap and carrying his battered old silver watch, there's no happier person in or out of this world-now and forever-than Martin. Martin, the new Brakemanon That Hell-BoundTrain.
Nine Yardsof OtherCloth Manly WadeWeltman
High up that almighty steeprocky slopewith the sunjust sunk,I turned as I knelt by my little campfire. Looking down slope and down to where the river crawledlike a snakein the valley bottom, I sawher little black figure splashacrossthe shallow place I'd found an hour back. At noontime I'd looked from the mountain yonder acrossthe valley and I'd seenher then, too, on another height I'd left behind. And I'd thought of a song with my name in it: Onyonder hill therestandsa creoture, Whosheis I do not know . . Oh no, John,no, John,no! But I knew she was Evadare.I'd fled from before her pretty face as never I'd fled from any living thing, not from evil spell-throwersnor murderdoers,nor either from my country's enemieswhen I'd soldieredin foreign partsand seenbattle asthe Bible prophet-booktells it, confusednoisesand garments rolled in blood. Since dawn I'd run from Evadarelike a rabbit 307
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tried not from a fox, and still she followed,climbing now along the trail I'd was still she to leave,toward the smoke of the fire I'd built before I knew coming. No ietaway from her now, for night droppedon the world, and to climb where I hieher would be to fall from some steephidden place.I could wait to do, I which Wondering her. face and down head t"* or I could Hollow' Hosea's in other each on come we'd recollectedhow first hadn't I'd not rightly known how I'd wanderedthere-Hosea's Hollow. I would wornan or man good-sensed No meant to, ttrat was certain sure. out of to stay tried hotlow, lost a was mean to. Folks wishedHosea'sHollow it and not think about it. Not even the old Indians relishedto go there.When the white folks ran the Indians off, the Indians grinned over their shoulders as they went, given calling out how Kalu would give white men the samehard times he'd Indians. Kalu. The Indian word meansa bone.Why Kalu wasnamedthat nobody could rightly say,for nobody who saw him lived to tell what he looked to be. He cr*e from his placewhen he was mad or just hungry.Who he met he snatchedaway,to eat or worse than eat. The folks who'd stolen the Indians' country near about loaded their wagons to go the way they'd come.Then-and this was beforethe time of the oldestman I'd heardtell of it-young HoseaPalmer said he'd take Kalu's curse away. Fo[s hadn't wanted Hoseato try such.Hosea'sfather was a preacherhe beggedhim. So did Hosea's mother and so did a girl who'd dreamed to mariy Hosea.They said if Hosea went where Kalu denned, he'd not come back, but Hoseaallowed Kalu was the downright evil and couldn't prevail againsta pure heart.He went in the hollow,and true he didn't come but, but no more did Kalu, from that day on. Both vanished from folks' sight and knowledge,and folks named the placeHosea'sHollow, and nary path led there. Horv I myself had come to the hollou,, the first soul in long years as I reckoned,it wonderedme. What outside had been the broadopen light of the day wascloudy graylight here amongfunny-growingtrees.Somewhere I heard an owl hoof, not waiting for night. Likewise I half-heard music, and it came to me that was why I'd walked there without meaning to' Later,while I watchedEvadareclimb up trail to me, I recollectedhow,in Hosea's Hollow, I'd recollected hearing the sure enough music, two days before and forty'fiftY miles off. At Haynie's Fork, hunters had shot a hog that belongedto nobody,and butched it up white the lady-folks baked pones of corn bread and sliced up jugs of beady coleslaw,and from here and yonder came folks carrying
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white liquor and music instruments.I wasthere,too,I enjoyto aid at such doings.We ate and drank and had dancing,and the most skilled men gave us music. Obray Ramseypickedhis banjo and sang O whereisprettyPolly,O yonder she stands,with rings on thefingers of her lillt-whitehands,on to the last line that's near about the frighteningestlast line ary song had. Then they devilled me to play my silver-strung guitar and give them Vandy, Yandyand TheLinle Black Tiain.That led to tale-tellings, and one tale was of Hosea's Hollow and fifty different notions of what might could have gone with Hoseaand whatever bore the name of Kalu. Then more music, with ByardRay fiddling his possiblebest,the way we never thought to hear better. But a tall thin strangerwas there,with a chin like a skinny fist and sootycolored hair. When Byard Ray had done, the stranger took from a bag a shiny black fiddle.I offered to pick guitar to harmonywith him, but he said sharp, "No, I thank you." Alone he fiddled, and, gentlemen, he purely fiddled better than Byard Ray.When he'd done, I inquired him his name. "Shull Cobart," he replied me. "You're John, is that right? We'll meet again,it's possible,John." His smile was no way likeable as he walked off, while folks swore no living soul could {iddle ByardRay down without somespecialfiddle-secret. That had been two daysbefore,and here I wasin Hosea'sHollow, seeming to hear music that was some way like the music of Shull Cobart's black fiddle. The grayair shimmered,but not the leasthot or bright, there where owls hooted by day.I looked at a funny-growingtree, and such flowers as it had I'd not seenbefore.Might be they grew from the tree,might be from a vine scrabbledup. They were cup-shape,shiny black like new shoes-or like Shull Cobart'sshiny-blackfiddle, and I felt I could hear him still play,could see him still grin. Wasthat why I half-heardthe ghost of his music, why I'd come to these black-floweredtrees in the shimmery $ay air? Anyway,there was a trail, showing that something moved in Hosea'sHollow, between the trees so close-grownon eachside you wonderedcould you put a knife bladeamong them. I headedalong the trail, and the gray dancing shimmer seemedto slow me as I walked. That tune in my head; I swung my guitar around from where it hung with my soogin sack and blanket roll, and tweaked the music from the silver strings.The shimmer dulled ofl or at leastI moved faster,picking up my feet to my own playing, around a curve bunched with more black flowers. And there, under the trees to one side, was a grave. Yearsold it had to be, for vines and scrub grew on it. A wooden cross showedit was sure enougha grave.The straightstick wasas tall as my chin
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and as big around as my both handscould grab,and the crosspiecewasn't nailed or tied on, it grew on. I stopped. you've seen branihes grown to each other like that. Two sorts of wood, the straight-up piece darker than the crosspiece.But both pieces looked alive, though the ends had been cut or broken so long back the raw was gone and the splinters rubbed off. Little-bitty twigs sprouted, with broad Iight-gt".n leaveson the crosspieceand narrorvdark laurel-lookingones on tnJ straight pole. Roots reachedinto the grave,to sprout the cross.And letters were carved on, shaky and deep-dug and different sizes: PRay foR HosEA PALMeR So here was where Hosea Palmer had lain down the last time, and some friend had buried him with the word to pray for him. Standingalone in the unchanciness,Idid what the crossbade.In my heart I prayed,Let thegood man restas he's earnedthe right and when it's my time, O Lord, let me restOs I'v€ earned the right; and blessthe kind soul who made and marked a long homefor Hosea Palmer,amen. While alwaysmy hands moved to pick that inner-heardtune, slow and quiet like a hymn. Still picking, I strolled around another curve, and there before me was a cabin. I reckonedone main room with clay chinking, with a split-plank door on leather hinges and a window curtained inside with tanned hide. A shedroofed leanto was tacked to the left, and it and the main cabin had shake shinglespeggedon. The door opened,and I popped behind a tree as a girl came out. Small-made; yet you saw she was grown and you saw she was proud, though the color was fadedfrom her botton dresstill it was gray as a dove. Her bright, sun-coloredhair was tied behind her neck with a blue ribbon. She brought a rusty old axe with her, walking proud toward a skimpy woodpile,and on her feet were flat, homemadeshoeswith the hair still on the cowhide. The axe was wobble-handled, but there was strength in her little round arms.Shemade the axe chew the wood into piecesenoughfor an armful, carried the wood back into the cabin, and came out againwith an old hoe on her shoulder. From the dug well she drew the bucket-it wasold, too, with a couple of silver trickles leaking from it. She dipped a drink with a gourd dipper and loweredthe bucket again.Then she went to the clear patch past the cabin, and leaned on the hoe to look at the plants growing.
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There was shin-high corn, and what looked like cabbages.She studied them, and her face was lovely.I saw that she yearnedfor her little crop to grow into food for her. she beganto chop the ground up along a row, and I slid off down trail again,past the grave to where I heard *ulg hlking to itself. I found a way through the treesto the waterside.Layflat and took a big drink, and washedmy face and hands.I dropped my gear on a flat rock, then unlacedmy shoesand let the water wash my feei. Finally I cut a pole, tied on a string and hook and baited it with u sirup of smoie mear. Fishing was good. Gentlemen, fresh fish are pretty things, they show you the reason for the names they've earned-shiner, sunfish, rainbow trout. Not that I caught any such, but what I caught was all righi. when I had six I opened my knife to clean them, ano uuitt a fire propped a "ni They stone besideit to fry meat on and then a coupleof fish for supper. ate good,just as the sun went down acrossthe funny trees,and I wondered about the bright-haired girl, if she had a plenty to eat. Finally, in the last dim light, I took my handaxeand choppedas much dry wood as I could tote. I wrappedthe four other fish in leavis.I slung on my guitar,for I never walk off from that. Back I went along the trail to the cabin. Firelight dancedin the window as I sneakedthrough the dooryard, and bent to stack the wood by the threshold log and lay the fish on it. "What are you doing?" She'd ripped the door open, and she had the axe in her hand. I took a long jump away before she could swing that rusty blade. Shestood with feet apart and elbowssquare,to fill the door as much as her small self could. Her hair was down around her shoulders,and shone like gold fire in the tight from inside. "Oh;' she said,and let the axe sink. ..you're not-" "whom am I not?" I inquired her, trying hard to sound laughy. she leaned tired on the axe. "Not Shull cobart," she said. "No, ma'aml' I said."you can sayfor me that I'm not shull cobart, nor I wouldn't be. I saw him once, and I'm honest to tell you he doesn't suit me." I pointed at what I'd brought.q'I'm campedby the-branchyonder.Had more fish and wood than I needed,and figured you might fike them." I bowed to her. "Good nightJ' "wait." There wasa plea in that, and I waited. ,,what brought you here,
Mr.- "
"I'm named John. And I just roamedin here, without thought of why." "I'm wondered,Mr.-" "John," I named myself again. "I'm wonderedif you're the man I've heard tell of, named John, with a silver-strung guitar."
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..Whyl' I said, "I'd not be amazedif I had the only silver'strung guitar there is. Nouocy these days strings with silver but me." ",ThenI've heardyou calleda good man." Shelooked down at the wood o'You'vehad your supper?" she asked,soft' and the fish. "Yes, ma'am, I've had mY suPPer." She picked up a fish. "I've not eaten.If you-maybe you'd like some coffee-" "Coffee," I repeatedher. "I'd mightily relish a cup'" Shepickedupthe rest of the fish. "Corne in, Johnl'she bademe, and I gatheredthe wood in my arms and walked in after her. "My name's Evadare,"she told me. The inside of the cabin was what I might expect from the outside. Chinked walls, a stone fireplace with wood burning in it, a table homepeggedtogether,two stoolsmade of split chunks with tough branchesfor irgi. In a corner was a pallet bed, made up on the floor with two old patch quittt. A mirror was stuck to the wall-chinking-a woman purely has to h.ur a mirror. Evadare took a fire-splinter from the hearth and lighted a candlestuck on the table in its own tallow.I sawby the glow how pinky'soft her skin was, how young and pretty; and bigger,bluer eyesthan Evadare's you couldn't call for. At last she smiled,just a little hopeful smile. I laid more wood to the fire, found a skillet and a chunk of fat meat. I rolled two fish in cornmeal and commenced frying them. She poured coffee from a tin pot into two tin cups.Watching,I had it in mind that the bottom of the pot was as sooty black as Shull Cobart's hair. Finally I forked the fish on to an old crackedwhite plate for her.Sheate, and I saw she was hungry. Again she smiled that little small smile, and filled my cup again. "I'd not expected ary soul to come into Hosea's Hollow," she finally said. "You expectedShull Cobart," I told her to recollect."You said so." "He'd come if anybodywould, John." "He didn'1,"I said.'And I did. Do you careto talk about it?" She acted gtadto talk about it, once she started. She'dworked at weavingfor Shull Cobart,with maybe nine-ten others, in a little town off in the hills. He took the cloth to placeslike Asheville and sold at a high mark to the touristers that came there. Once or twice he made to couit Evadare,but she paid him no mind. But one day he went on a trip, and came again with the black fiddle. ,And he was differentl'she said."He'd been scaredand polite to folks before that. But the fiddle made him sdmebodyelse.He playedat dances and folks danced their highest and fastest,but they were scaredby his music, even when they flocked to it. He won prizesat fiddle'playing. He'd
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standby the shopdoor and play to us girls, and the cloth we wovewasmore cloth and better cloth-but it wasstrange.Funny feel and funny look to it." "Did the touristers still buy it?" I inquired her. "Yes, and payed more for it, but they seemedscaredwhile they were buying it. So I've heard tell from folks who saw.', 'And Shull Cobart made you run off." o'It was when he said he wanted me to light his darknessl, I saw what those words meant. An evil man speakingthem to a good girl, becausehis evil was hungry for good."what did you reply him?', "I said I wanted to be quiet and good,he wanted to be showy and scary. And he said that wasjust his reason,he wantedme for my goodnessto his scariness."She shivered,the way folks shiver when ice falls outside the window."I sworeto go where he'd not follow.Then he playedhis fiddle, it somehowmade to bind me hand and foot. I felt he'd tole me off with him then and there, but I pretended-" she looked sad and ashamedof pretending,even in peril. "I said I'd go with him next day.He was readyto wait. That night I ran off." 'And you came to Hosea'sHollow," I said."How did you make yourself able?" "I feared Kalu another sight less than I fear Shull Cobart," Evadare repliedme.'And I've not seenKalu-I've seennothing.I hearda coupleof things, though. once something knocked at the door at night." "What was it knocked, Evadare?" "I wasn't so foolish for the lack of sensethat I went to see."Sheshivered again,from her little toes up to her bright hair."I draggedup the quilt and spokethe strongestprayerI remember,the old-timey one about God gives His angelscharge over us by day and by night." Her blue eyes fluttered, remembering."Whatever knocked gaveone knock more and never again, that night or ary night since." I was'purelyreadyto talk of somethingelse."Who made this cabin for you?" I asked,looking around. "It washere when I came-empty. But I knew goodfolks had madeit, by the cross." I saw where her eyes went, to the inside of the half-shut door.A cross was cut there, putting me in mind of the graveby the trail. "It must have been Hosea Palmer'scabin. He's dead and buried now. Who buried him?" Sheshook her head."That wondersme, too. All I know is, a goodfriend did it years ago. sometimes,when I reckon maybe it's a sunday,I say a prayerby the graveand sing a hymn.It seemsbrighter when I sing,looking up to the sky."
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..Maybe I can guess the song you sing, Evadare'" And I touched the guitar again,and both of us sangit: Lights in the valleyoutshinethe sunLook awaYbeYondthe blue! pretty her voice, and how As we sang I kept thinking in my heart-how sweet the words in Evadare'smouth' fetchedin meal and she went on to tell me how shehoped to live. she'd picking wild greens'and ,.ft .iO not *u.tt rire, and she'd stretchedit by cabin' poked awayin there were some nuts here and there around the old of us had seena little handfuls titcettre work of squirrels; though neither and seedcorn' and squirrel in Hosea'sHollow. She had planted cabbages She was made up summer' deep by be worth eating reckonedthese notion that Shull "'ouiO some had titt stre in her mind to stay in Hosea'sHolloi back' Cobart didn't lie in wait for her coming .,He's waiting]' she felt sure."He taughedwhen I spokeof running off' to wondera thing while Saidhe,d know all I meant to do, all he nleded was pink tongue wet mindl'Her he ptayedhis fiddle and the answerwas in his ,,He had a song he played,said it had power-o' trei tips. jolly her,and againI touched "Was it maybethis one?" I asked,trying to the strings.I sangold words to the music I heard inside: My prettylittlepink, I oncedid think Thatyou andI wouldmarrY, But nowI've lostall hoPeofYou, And I've no timeto tarrY. I'll take mYsack uPonmYback, My nfle on mYshoulder, And I'tt beolf to the WesternStates Tbviewthe countryover. . . Again she shivered' "That'S the tune," she said, "but not the wOrds'" ,'They werelike somethingin a dream,while he playedand sangalong'and I felt I was trapped and tangled and webbed'" made up wordSlike "Like ,o*"ihing in a dream," I repeatedher, and another thing I'd heard once' to fit the samemusic: I dreamedlastnight of mYtrue love, Alt in my armsI hadher, And her locksof hair all longandfain Hung roundme like a shadow' ' '
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"That's not his song, either," said Evadare. "No, it isn't," a voice I'd heard before came to agreeher. In through the half-open door steppedShult Cobart,with his sooty hair and his grin, and his shiny black fiddle in his hand. "why don't you say me a welcome?" he askedEvadare,ffid cut his eyes acrossat me. "John, I counted on you being here, too." Quick I leanedmy guitar to the wall and got up. "Then you counted on trouble with me;' I said. "Lay asidethat fiddle so I won't break it when I break you." But it was to his chin, and the bow across."Hark before we fight," he said, and gentlemen,hush! how Shull Cobart could play. It wasthe s,ametune, fiddled beyondmy tongue'spowerto tell how wild and lovely.And the cabin that had had red-gold light from the fire and softgold light from Evadare'shair, it looked that quick to glow silver-pale,in jumping, throbbing sweepsas he played. once, a cotd clear dry winter night, I saw in the sky the Northern Lights; and the air in that cabin beat and throbbed and quivered the same way,but pale silver,I say,not warm red.And it cameto my mind, harking helpless,that the air turned colder all at once than that winter night when I'd watchedthe Northern Lights in the sky. I couldn't come at Shull Cobart. Somehow,to move at him was like moving neck-deepagainsta flooding river. I couldn't wear my way a foot closer.I sat on the stool again,and he strippedhis teeth at me, grinning like a dog abovea trapped rabbit. "I wish the best for you, John," he said through the music. "Look how I make you welcome and at rest here." I knew what way he wanted me to rest, the same way Hosea palmer restedout yonder.I knew it wouldn't help to get up again,so I took back my guitar and sat quiet. I looked him up and down. He wore a suit of dark cloth with a red stripe, a suit that looked worth money,and his shoeswere as shiny as his fiddle, ready to make manners before rich city folks. His mean dark eyes,closetogetherabovethat singing,spell-castingfiddle, read my thoughts inside me. "Yes, John, it's good cloth," he said. '.My own weaving." "I know how it was woven," Evadarebarely whispered, the first words she'd spokensince Shull came in. She'dmoved halfwayinto a corner.Scaredwhite-but she wasa prettier thing than I'd ever seen in my life. "Like me to weavefor you?" he inquired me, mocking; and then he sang a trifly few words to his tune:
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"Nine yardsj'I repeatedafter him. ..Wouldthat be enoughfine cloth for your suit?" he grinned acrossthe droning fiddle strings."iou're long and tall, a right much of a manobut; ,.Nobodyneedsnine yardsbut for one kind of suit," I kept on figuring. 'And that's no suit at all." .A shroud," said Evadare,barely making herself heard, and how shull Cobart laughedat her wide eyes and the fright in her voice! ..You reckon there'll be a grave for him here in Kalu's own place, i'Would Katu leave enough of John to be Evadare?" he gobbled at her. worth burying? I know about old BarebonesKalu'" ..He's not hereabouts,"Evadare half-beggedto be believed. "Never once he bothered me." ,.Maybe he's just sparedyou, hoping for somethingbetterl' said Shull. ..But he won't be of a mind to spareall of us that camehere making a fuss in his home place.That's why I toled John here." "You toled me?" I asked,and again he nodded' ..I playeda little tune so you'd comealone,John.I reckonedKalu would relistr,findingyou here.Being he's the sort he is, and I'm the sort I am, it's you he'd mute way with insteadof me. That lets me free to take Evadare away." .il'll not go with you," Evadaresaid, sharperand louder than I thought possiblefor her. "Won't you, though?" Shull laughed. His fiddle-music came up, and Evadaredrew herself tight and strong, as if she leanedback againstropeson her.The music took on wild-sounding notes to fit into itself. Evadare's hands made fists, her teeth bit together, her eyes shut tight. She took a step, or maybe she was dragged'Another step she took, another,toward Shull. I tried to get up, too, but I couldn't move asshe wasmoving.I hadto sit and watch, and I had the thought of that sayingabout how a snakedrawsa bird to his coil. I'd never believed such a thing till I saw Evadaremove, step by - step she didn't want to take, toward shull cobart. suddenly he stoppedplaying,and breathedhard,like a m1n who's been working in the fields. Evadarestood still and rocked on her feet. I took up a my musclesto make a jump, but shull pointed his fiddle-bow at me,like gun. ..Havesense!"he slung out. "You've both learnedI can make you go or
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stay,whichever I want, when I fiddle as I know how. Sit down, Evadare,and I'll silence my playing for the time. But make a foolish move, John, and I might play a note that would have the bonesout of your body without ary bit of help from Kalu." Bad man as he was, he told the truth, and both of us knew it. Evadaresat on the other stool, and I put my guitar acrossmy knees. Shull Cobart leaned againstthe door jamb, his fiddle low againsthis chest,and looked sure of himself. At that instant I was deadsure I'd never seena wickeder face, not among all the wicked facesof the wide world. "Know where I got this fiddle, you two?" he asked. "I can guess,"I said, "and it spoils my notion of how good a trader a certain old somebodyis. He didn't make much of a swap,that fiddle for your soul; for the soul was lost before you bargained." "It wasn't a trade,John." He pluckeda fiddle-string with his thumbnail. "Just a sort of little present betweenfriends." "I've heard the fiddle called the devil's instrument," said Evadare,back to her soft whisper; and once againShull Cobartlaughedat her,and then at me. "Folks havegot a sight to learn about fiddles. This fiddle will make you and me rich, Evadare.we'll go to the land's great cities, and I'll play the dollars out of folks' pockets and the hearts out of folks' bodies.They'll honor me, and they'll bow their facesin the dirt before your feet." "I'll not go with you;' she told him again. "No? Want me to play you right into my arms this minute? The only reasonI don't, Evadare-and my arms want you, and that's a fact-I'd have to put down my fiddle to hold you right." 'And I'd be on you and twist your neck around like the stem on a watch," I addedonto that. "You know I can do it, and so do I. Any moment it's liable to happen." As he'd picked his fiddle-string, I touched a silver string of my guitar, and it sang like a honeybee. "Don't do that any more,Johni'he snapped.'oYour guitarand my fiddle don't tune together.I'm a lone player." To his chin went that shiny black thing, and the music he made lay heavy on me. He sang: I'll weavenineyards of othercloth For John to haveand keep, He'll needit wherehe'sgoingto lie, Tbwarm him in his sleep.. . . "What are we waiting for?" I broke
"You might kill me somehow
with your fiddling,but you won't scareme."
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',Kalu will do the scaringl' he said as he stopped again. "Scare you purely to death. We're just a-waiting for him to come'" "Holv will we kno$r-" beganEvadare. ,.We'll know," said Shull, the way he'd promisea baby child something. ,.We'll hear him. Then I'll play John out of here to stand face to face with Kalu, if it's really a face Kalu has." I laughed myself, and heaven pardon me the lie I put into my laugh, trying to sound asif naught pesteredme. Shull frowned; he didn't like how my laugh hit his ear. ..Juslfor argument'ssake,"I saidto him, "holv do you explain what you say your music can do?" "I don't do any explaining.I just do the playing'" ..I've heardtelihow a fiddler can be skilled to where he playsa note and breaksa glasswindowl'I recollected."I've heardtell that he might possibly even make a house fall dou'n." "Dogs howl when fiddles play," said Evadare."From pain it makes'n' Shuli noddedat us both. "You folks are right. There'sbeen power-music tong before this. Ever hear of a man named Orpheus?" "He was an old-timey Greekl' I said. "He playedhis harp, and treesdancedfor him. He playedhis way down to the floor of hell, and back out again.Maybe I've got some of that po\+'er. A fiddle can sing extra sharp or extra sweet,and its sound's solid-like a knife or club or rope, if you can work it." I rememberedin my mind that sound goesin waveslike light, and can be measured; and a wave is power,whether of sound or light' waves can wash,like the wavesof the seathat strike down tall walls and strong men. Too bad, I decided,that educatedfolks couldn't use that black fiddle, to make its power good and useful. In devil-taught hands,it was the devil's instrument.Notiit r my silver-strungguitar,the way harps,certainharpsin a certain high place,are said to be strung with gold.... Shull listened.You could almost seehis earsstick up,like the earsof an animal. "something's out there," he said. I heard it, too. Not a step or a scramble,but a movement. "Kalu," said Evadare,her eyes the widest yet in the firelight. ..yes, it'r K"lu;' said Shull. "John, wouldn't it be kindlier to the lady if you met him outside?" "Much kindlierl' I agreedhim, and got up. "you know this isn't personal,John," Shull said,fiddle at his chin. "But Kalu's bound to have somebody.It won't be Evadare,becausesome way he's let her be. And it won't be me, with you here.You've got a reputation, John, for doing things againstwhat Kalu standsto represent.I figure he wants somethiig good, becausehe's got plenty of the strong evil'"
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"The way you think you've got to have Evadare,"I said. "That's it. You're in the line of what he wants to devour."He beganto play again."Come on, John." I was coming. I'd made up my mind. The weight of the music was on me, but not quite as deadeningand binding as before.Shull Cobart walked out, fiddling.I just winked at Evadare,asif I figured it would be all right. Then I walked out, too. The light wasgreeny-pale,though I sawno moon.Maybe the treeshid it, or the haze in the sky. "Where will you face him?" askedShull, almost polite above his soft playing. "There's a gravedown yonder-" I beganto say. "Yes, just the place.Come on." I followed after him on the trail. My left hand chordedmy guitar at the neck, my right-hand fingers found the strings. What was it Evadarehad told me? . . . I say a prayer by the graveand sing a hymn. It seemsbrighter whenI sing.... Then there could be two kinds of power-music. I began to pick the tune along with Shull, softer even than Evadare's whisper. He didn't hear; and, becauseI followed him like a calf to the slaughter-pen,he didn't guess. Around the bend was the grave,the green light paler around it. Shull stopped.All of a quick, I knew Kalu was in the trees over us. Somewhere up there, he made a heavinessin the branches. "Stand where you want to, John. I vow, you've playedthe man so far." I moved pasthim, closeto the cross,though there wasn't light enoughto see the name or the prayer. "Drop that guitar!" Shull howled at me. For I beganto play loud, and I sangto his tune, charrgrngthe rhythm for my own quick-made-upwords: I cameto wherethepilgrim lay, Thoughhe wasdeodand gone, And I couldhear his comradesay, He restsin peacealone"Hush up with that!" Shull Cobart stopped playing and ran at me. I ducked away and around the cross,and quick I sang the secondverse:
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Manly WadeWellmen Windsmaycomeand thundersroll rise, And stormytemPests But herehe sleepswith a restfulsoul And the tearswipedfromhis eYes-
"Come for him, Kalu!" Shull screamed. Kalu drop-leapedout of the branchesbetweenus. Gentlemen, don't ask me to saytoo much what Kalu was,Bones'yessomething like man-bones,but bigger and thicker, also something like bear-bones,or big ape-bonesfrom a foreign land. And a rotten light to them, so I sawfor a moment that the bonesweren't empty.Inside the ribs were caged puffy things, like guts and lungs and maybe a heart that skippedand wiggled.The skull had a snout like I can't saywhat,and in its eye-holesburned blue-greenfire. Out camethe arm-bones,and the finger' boneswere on Shull Cobart. I heardShull Cobartscreamone more time, and then Kalu had him,like a bultfrog with a minnow.And Kalu was back up in the branches.Standing by the grave,still tweakingmy strings,I heard the branchesrustle, and no more soundsafter that from Shull Cobart. After while, I walked to where the black fiddle lay.I stomped with my foot, heard it smash,and kicked the piecesaway. Walking back to the cabin seemedto take an hour.I stoppedat the door. "No!" moanedEvadare,and then shejust lookedat me. "John-but-" "That's twice you thought I was Shull Cobartl'I said. "Kalu - " "Kalu took him, not me." "But-" Shestoppedagain. "I figured the truth about Kalu and Hosea Palmer,walking out with 'All at once I knew why Kalu never pestered Shull," I beganto explain. you. You'll wonder why you didn't know it, too." "But-" she tried once more. "Thinkl' I bade her. "Who buried Hosea Palmer,with a cross and a prayer?What dear friend could he have,when he came in here alone? Who was left alive here when it was HoseaPalmer'stime to die?" Shejust shook her headfrom side to side. "It was Kalu," I said."Remember the story,all of it. HoseaPalmer said he knew how to stop Kalu's wickedness.Folks think HoseadestroyedKalu some way.But what he did was teach him the god part of things. They weren't enemies.They were friendsl' "Oh," she said."Then-" "Kalu buried HoseaPalmer,"I finished for her, "and cut his name and the prayer.Hosea must have taught him his letters. But how could Shull
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Cobartunderstandthat? It wasn't for us to know,even,till the last minute. And Kalu took the evil man, to punish him." I sat on the door-log,my arms around my guitar. "You can go home now, Evadare,"I said. "Shull Cobart won't vex you again,by word of mouth or by sight of his face." She'dbeen sitting all drawn up, assmall asshe could make herself.Now she managedto stand. "Where will you go, John?" "There's all the world for me to go through. I'll view the country over. Think me a kind thought once in a while when we're parted." "Parted?" shesaidafter me, and took a step,but not asif a web of music draggedher. "John. Let me come with you." I jumped up. "With me? You don't want to go with me, Evadare." "Let me come." Her hand touched my arm, trembling like a bird. "How could I do that, take you with me? I live hard." 'ol'venot lived soft, John." But she saidit soft and lovely,and it mademy heart ache with what I hadn't had time before to feel for her. "I don't have a home," I said. "Folks make you welcomeeverywhere.You're happy.Youhave enough of what you need.There'smusic whereveryou go. John,I want to hear the music and help the song." I wanted to try to laugh that thought away,but I couldn't laugh. "You don't know what you say.Listen, I'll go now.Back to my camp, and I'll be out of here before sunup. Evadare,God bless you wherever you go." "Don't you want me to go with you, John?" I couldn't dare reply her the truth of that. Make her a wandererof the earth,like me? I ran off. Shecalledmy nameonce,but I didn't stop.At my camp again, I sat by my died-out fire, wondering, then wishing, then driving the wish from me. In the black hour beforedawn,I got my stuff togetherand startedout of Hosea'sHollow.I came clear of it as the light rose,and mounted up a trail to a ridge above.Somethingmade me look back. Far down the trail I'd come, I saw her. She leaned on a stick, and she carried some kind of bundle-maybe her quilts, and what little food she had. She was following. "That fool-headedgirl," I said, all alone to myself, and I up and ran down the far side..It was hours until I crossedthe bottom below and mounted anotherridge beyond.On the ridge I'd left behind I saw Evadare still moving after me, her little shape barely bigger than a fly. Then I thought of that song I've told you before:
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Onyonderhill therestandso creature, Whosheis I do not know, I will ask her if she'll marry . - . Oh,no, John,no,John,no! But she didn't stand, she came on. And I knew who she was. And if I askedher to marry she wouldn't answerno. The rest of that day I fled from her, not stopping to eat, only to grab mouthfuls of water from streams.And in the dusky last end of the day I sat quiet and watchedher still coming,leaningon her stick for weariness,and knew I must go down trail to meet her. She was at the moment when she'd drop. She'd lost her ribbon, and the locks of her hair fell round her like a shadow.Her dresswas torn, her face was white-tired, and the rocks had cut her shoesto piecesand the blood seepedout of her torn feet. She couldn't even speak.She just saggedinto my arms when I held them out to her. I carried her to my camp. The spring trickled enough so I could wash her poor cut feet.I put down her quilt and my blanketfor her to sit on, with her back to a big rock. I mixed a pone of cornmealto bakeon a flat stone, and strunga few piecesof meat on a greentwig.I broughther water in my cuppedhand. "John," she managedat last to speakmy name. "Evadare," I said, and we both smiled at each other, and I sat down besideher. "I'll ceasefrom wandering,"I vowedto her. "I'll get a pieceof land and put up a cabin.I'll plant and hoe a crop for us-" "No such thing, John! I'm tired now-so tired-but I'll get over that. Let's just-view the countiy over." I pulled my guitar to me, and rememberedanotherverseto the old song that fitted Shull cobart's tune: And don'tyou think she'sa prettylittlepink, And don'tyou think she'sclever, And don'tyou thinkthatsheandI Couldmalcca matchforever?
TheMontavardeCamera Avram Davidson
Mr. Azel's shop was set in between a glazier's establishmentand a woolen draper's; three short steps led down to it. The shopfront was narrow; a strangerhurrying by would not even notice it, for the grimy brick walling of the glazier'swas part of a separatebuilding, and extendedfarther out. Three short stepsdown, and there was a little areawaybefore the door, and it was alwaysclean,somehow.The slatternwind blew bits of strawand paper scraps in circles up and down the street, leaving its discarded playthingsscatteredall about, but not in the areawayin front of the shop door. Just above the height of a man's eye there was a rod fastened to the inside of the door, and from it descended,in neat folds, a red velveteen curtain. The shop'swindow, to the door's left, was veiled in the sameway. In old-fashionedlettering the gold-leaffigures of the streetnumber stood alone on the glasspane. There wasno slot for letters,no name or sign,nothing displayedon door or window. The shop was a blank,.it made no impression on the eye, conveyed no messageto brain. If a few of the many people scurrying by noticed it at all, it was only to assumeit was empty.
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No cats took advantageof this quiet backwater to doze in the sun, althoughat leasttwo of them alwaysreclinedunder the projectingwindon' of the dt.prr. On this particularday the pair werejolted out of their calm by the running feet of Mr. Lucius Collins, who was chasinghis hat. It was a high-crownedbowler,a neat and altogetherproperhat, and as he chasedit indignantly Mr. Collins puffed and breathedthrough his mouth-a small, full, red-lippedmouth, grazedon either side by a pair of well-trimmed, sandy,mutton chop whiskers. OntrogrouslMr. Collins thought, his stout little legs pumping furiously. HumiliatiLlgl And no one to be blamed for it, eitheq not even the Government,or the Boers,or Mrs. Collins, she of the sniffles and rabbity face. ShambfutlThe gold seals on his watchchain jingled and clashed togetherand beat againstthe stomachit confined,and the wind carriedthe hat at a rapid clip along the street. Just as the wind had passedthe draper's, it abruptly abandonedthe object of its game,and the forsakenbowler fell with a thud in front of the n.*t shop. Ii rolled down the first, the second,and the third step, and leanedwearily againstthe door. Mr. Collins trotted awkwardly down the steps and knelt down to seize the hat.His headremainedwhere it was,asdid his handsand knees.About a foot of. uncurtained glass extended from the lower border of the red velveteento the wooden doorframe,and through this Mr. Lucius Collins looked. It almost seemedthat he gaped. Inside the shop,looking down at Mr. Collins'round and red facelwasa small, slendergentleman,who leanedagainsta showcaseasif he were (the thought flitted throughMr. Collins'mind) posingfor his photograph.The mild amusementevident on his thin featuresbrought to Mr. Collins anew the realizationthat his position was, at best, undignified' He took up his hat, arose,brushedthe errant bowler with his sleeve,dustedhis knees,ffid entered the shop. Somewherein the back a bell tinkled as he did so. A red rug coveredthe floor and muffled his footsteps.The place was small, but well furnished, in the solid style more fashionablein past days. Nothing was shabbyor worn, yet nothing was new. A gasjet with mantle projectedfrom a paneledwall whose dark wood had the gleam of much polishing, but the burner was not lit, although the shop was rather dark. Severalchairs upholsteredin leather were set at intervals aroundthe shop. There was no counter,and no shelves,and only the one showcase.^ltwas empty, and only a well-brushed Ascot top hat rested on it. Mr. Collins did not wish the slender little gentleman to receive the impressionthat he, Lucius, madea practiceof squattingdown and peering beneathcurtained shop windows. 'Are you the proprietOr?"he asked.The gentleman,still smiling, said
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that he was.It wasa dry smile,and its ownerwasa dry-lookingperson.His was a long nose set in a long face.His chin was cleft. The gentleman'sslender legs were clad in rather baggytrousers,but it was obvious that they were the aftermath of the period when baggy trouserswere the fashion, and were not the result of any carelessness in attire.The cloth wasof a designhalfwaybetweenplaid and checkered,and a pair of sharply pointed and very glossyshoeswere on his small feet. A graywaistcoat,crossedby a light gold watchchain,a rathershort frock coat, and a wing collar with a black cravat completed his dress.No particular period was stamped on his clothes, but one felt that in his primewheneverthat hadbeen-this slenderlittle gentlemanhadbeena dandy,in a dry, smiling sort of way. From his nose to his chin two deep lines were etched,and there were laughter wrinkles about the corners of his eyes.His hair was brown and rather sparse,cut in the conventionalfashion.Its only unusualfeaturewas that the little gentlemanhad on his forehead,after the manner of the late Lord Beaconsfield,a ringlet of the type commonly known as a "spit curl." And his nicely appointedlittle shop contained,as far as Mr. Collins could see,absolutelyno merchandiseat all. "The wind, you know, it-ah, blew my hat off and carried it away. Dropped it at your door, so to speak." Mr. Collins spoke awkwardly,awarethat the man seemedstill to be somewhatamused,and believedthat this was due to his own precipitate entry. In order to cover his embarrassmentand justify his continued presenceinside,he askedin a rush, "What is it exactlythat you sell here?" and waved his arm at the unstockedroom. "What is it you wish to buy?" the man asked. Mr. Collins flushed again,and gapedagain,and fumbled about for an answer. "why what I meant was: in what line are you? you have nothing displayedwhatsoever,you know Not a thing. How is one to know what sort of stock you have,if you don't put it about where it can be seen?o'As he spoke,Mr. Collins felt his self-possession returning, and went on with increasedconfidence to say: "Now, just for example, my own particular avocationis photography.But if you have nothing displayedto show you sell anything in that line, I daresayI would pass by here every day and never think to stop in." The proprietor'ssmile increasedslightly,and his eyebrowsarchedup to his curl. "But it so happens that I, too, am interested in photography,and althoughI haveno displayor signto beguileyou,,in you came.I do not care for advertising.Itis,I think, vulgar.My equipmentis not for your tuppeny-
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tintype customer,nor will I pander to his tastes'' ,lyour equipment?" Mr. Collins again surveyed the place. "Where is it?" A most unusualstudio-if studio it was-or shop,he thought; but he part was impressedby what he considereda commendable attitude on the to lower refused he that elevated so standard of the slendergentleman-a it by the most universally acceptedcustoms of commerce. ihr ptoprietor pointed to the most shadowycorner of the shop.There, in the semidarkneis between the showcaseand the wall, a large camera of archaicdesignstood upon a tripod. Mr. Collins approachedit with interest, and beganto examine it in the failing light. Made out of some unfamiliar type of hardwood, with its lens piece gleaming a richer gold than ordinary brass,the old camerawas in every respect a museum piece; yet, despite its age, it seemed to be in good *oiking order.Mr. Collins ran his hand over the smooth surface;as he did so, he ielt a rough spot on the back.It was evidently someone'sname, he discovered,burned or carvedinto the wood,but now impossibleto readin the thickening dusk. He turned to the proprietor. "It is rather dark back here." "Of course. I beg your pardon; I was forgetting. It is something remarkable,isn't it? There is no such workmanship nowadays.Years of effort that took, you know." As he spoke,he lit the jet and turned up the gas.The soft, yellow light of the flame filled the shop, hissing quietly to itself. More and more shops now had electric lights; this one, certainly, never would. Mr. Collins reverently bowed his head and peered at the writing. In a flourishing old-fashionedscript,someonelong agohad engravedthe name of GastonMontavarde.Mr. Collins looked up in amazement. "Montavarde's camera?Here?" .'Here, before you. Montavardeworked five yearson his experimental models beforehe madethe one you seenow.At that time he was still-so the bookstell you-the pupil of Daguerre.But to thosewho knew him, the pupil far excelledthe master;just as Daguerrehimself far excelledNiepce. if Montavardehad not diedjust ashe wasnearingmasteryof the technique he sought, his work would be world famous. As it is, appreciationof Montavarde's styte and importance is largely confined to the few-of whom I count myself one. You, sir, I am pleasedto note, are one of the others. One of thl few others." Here the slender gentleman gave a sliglrt bow. Mr. Collins was extremely flattered, not so much by the bow-all shopkeepersbowed-but by the implied compliment to his knowledge. In point of fact, he knew very little of Montavarde,his life, or his work. who does? He was familiar' as are all students of photography' with Montavarde'sstudy of a street scenein Parisduring the 1848 Revolution.
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Barricadesin theMorning,which showsa ruined embattlementand the still bodiesof its defenders,is perhapsthe first war photographever taken; it is usually,and wrongly,called a Daguerrotype.perhapsnot more than six or eight, altogether,of Montavarde'spicturesare known to the generalpublic, and all are famous for that peculiar luminous quality that seemsto come from some unknown sourcewithin the scene.Collins was also awarethat severalmore Montavardesin the possessionof collectorsof the esoteric and erotic could not be publishedor displayed.One of the most famous of these is the so-calledLa MesseNoire. The renegade priest of Lyons, Du val, who was in the habit of conducting the Black Mass of the Demonolaters,used for some yearsas his "altar'othe naked body of the famous courtesan,La Manchette.It was this scenethat Montavardewas reputedto havephotographed.Like many popular women of her type, La Manchettemight haveeventuallyretired to grow rosesand live to a greatage,had she not been murderedby one of her numerouslovers.Montavarde'sphotographsof the guillotine ( The Wdow) before and after the execution, had been banned by the French censor under Louis Napoleon as a matter of public policy. All this is a digression,of course.Theseasidesare mentionedbecause they were known to Mr. Lucius Collins, and largely explainedhis awe and reverenceon seeingthe-presumably-same camera which had photographedthesescenes. "How did you get this?" he asked,not troublingto suppressor conceal his eagerness. "For more than thirty years," explained the proprietor, "it was the property of a North American. He came to London, met with financial reversesand pawnedhis equipment.He did not know, one assumes,that it was the Montavarde camera. Nor did he redeem. I had little or no competitionat the auction.Later I heardhe had gone backto America,or done away with himsel{, some said; but no matter: the camerawas a bon marchd.I never expected to see it again. I sold it soon after, but the paymentswere not kept up, and so here it is." on hearing that the camera could be purchased,Mr. Collins beganto treat for its sale (though he knew he could really not afford to buy) and would not take no for an answer.In short, an agreementwas drawn up, wherebyhe was to pay a certain sum down, and somethingeachmonth for eight months. "Shall I make out the check in poundsor in guineas?"he asked. "Guineas,of course.I do not considermyselfa tradesmanl'Theslender gentlemansmiled and fingered his watchchainas Mr. Collins drew out his checkbook. "What name am I to write, sir? I do not-"
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,.My name, sir, is Azel. The initials, A. A. Ah, iust so' can y-oumanage good evening,Mr' Collins' You the cameraby yourself? Then I bid you a me to open the door'" Allow have made . r.r, acquisition,indeed. a four'wheeler,and spent the in Mr. Collins brought his purchasehome a wispy,weedylittle Collins, restof the eveninglustingand polishing.Mrs. the manner of the was figure, who woreier trair in what stre imagined agreedthat the She Princessof Wales-Mrs. Collins had a cold, as usual' pointed out that she camerawasin excellentcondition, but, with a snuffle, of the one as younger days, he had spent far too much money on it. In her photography Misses Wilkins, she had done quite a good bit of amateur much money' herself,but she had given it up becauseit cost far too her brother' the She repeatedher iemarks some eveningslater when ReverendWycliffeWilkins,madehisweeklycall' ..Mind you;' said Mr. Collins to his brother-in-law,"I don't know just plates,but I did the bestI what processthe inventor usedin developinghis only thing I've could, and I don't think it's half bad.Seehere'This is the street' done so far. one of those old Tudor housesin Great cumberland down torn got to be it's Pity plague house-sThey say it was one of the old to it'" wreckers the beat I'd ihought I to make way for that new road. ,,very neatly done, I'rn surel' said his brother-in-law."I don't know photographymyself. But evidently you haven't heard about much was out "bout this particular house. No? Happened yesterday.My cook in a collapsed house the marketing,andjust as she cameup to the corner, house the mean, I pile of dust. inoOOV worksmanship somewhere; there couldn't have been more than three hundred years old. Of course' no there's I suppose wasno one in it, but still, it gavethe cook quite a turn' its considering harm in your having this camera, but, as for me, indeed!I wouldn't have it in the house.Naked women' associations, your saving Presence,MarY." ,,oh, come now," said Mr. Collins. "Montavarde was an artist." can be no "Many artistshave been pious, decent people,Lucius' There agreement' compromisebetweengood and evil." Mrs. Collins snuffled her good humor his until more no said and mouth Mr. Collins pursedtrislittle tray. tea the with in coming was restoredby the maid's .,I suppor.,ih"n, Wycliffe, you wouldn't think of letting me take your picture." 'After the ,.well, I don't know why ever not;' Mrs. collins protested' to make someuse amOuntof money Lucius Spenton the camera'we ought it's convenient' whenever your likeness out of it, I think. Lucius will take Wycliffe?" jam gooseberry, or Raspberry He has a greatdeal of free time. gardenvicarage the in Mr. Collin, photographedhis brother-in-law clerical Both Gomm' Osias alone,and then with his curate,the Reverend
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gentlemenwere very activein the temperancemovement,and this addeda note of irony to the tragic eventsof the following day.It wasthe carriageof Stout,the brewer; there was no doubt about that. The horseshad shied at a scrapof paper.The witnesses(six of them) had describedseeingthe two clergymenstart acrossthe street,deep in conversation.They described how the carriagecame flying around the corner. "They never knew wot 'it 'em," the witnessesagreed.Mrs. Coltins said that was the only thing that comforted her. She said nothing, of course, about the estate(three thousandpoundsin six percentbonds),but she did inention the picture. "How bright it is, Lucius," she said.'Almost shining." After the funeral she felt free to talk about the financial affairs of her late brother,and until the estatewas closeto being settled,Mr. Collins had no time for photography.He did keep up the monthly payments on the camera,however,although he found them rather a drain. After all, it had not beenhisincomewhich hadjust beenincreased180poundsper annum. It was almost November before Mrs. Collins would consent to have a fire laid. The inheritanceof her brother'sshareof their patrimony had not changed her habits for what her husband, if no one else, would have consideredthe better.Although he still transferredthe sameamount each quarter from his personalaccount to the householdfunds, there was less and lessto show for it eachweek.Meat appearedon the table lessoften, and it was much more likely to be a piece of the neck than a cut off the joint. The tea grewdustier and the piecesof butter shrankin size,and more than once Mr. Collins had askedfor anotherbit of cakeat tea and been told (truthfully, as he learnedby prowling aroundthe kitchen late at night) that there wasn't another bit of cakein the house. (Perhapsit was his going to sleep on an empty-and hence,nervous,stomach-that causedthe odd dreams which began about this time: confused sceneshe could never remember,come daylight,and a voice-flat, resonant-repeating over and over, "The life is in the light . . . the life is in the light.") He had, of course,protested,and it had, of course,done him no good at all. Mrs. Collins, with a snuffle, spoke of increasedprices, the unsteady condition of World Affairs, and the necessityof Setting SomethingAside For the Future, because,she said, who knows? so, at any rate, here it was November,and a nice sea-coalfire in the grate, with Mr. Collins sitting by it in his favorite chair, reading the newspaper(therehad formerly beentwo' but Mrs. Collins had stoppedone of them in the interests of domestic economy). There were a number of interesting bits in the paper that evening, and occasionallyMr. Collins would readone of them aloud.Mrs. Collins wasunravelingsomewool with an eye toward reknitting it.
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"Dear me!" saidMr. Collins. "What is that,Lucius?" ,, ,IJnusualPronouncement Bythe Bishopof Lyons.'" He lookedoverat his wife."ShallI readit to You?" ttbo.tt
to warn all the His Grace the Bishop of Lyons had found it necessary recently been had that crimes of faithful against a most horrible series infamy and the of a sign was It prrprtr.t.o in the city and Seeof Lyons. of the past the course in times decadenceof the agethat not once but six in rectories and churches yeaf,consecratedwafers had been stolen from indicate only could in, bity and Seeof Lyons.The purposeof thesethefts There was little one thing, and it behoovedall of thl faithful, and so forth' that the doubt (wrote the Pariscorrespondentof Mr. collins'_1eys.nary.r) Mass, the Black bishop referredto the curious ceremonygenerallycalled and parts France; of which, it would appear,was still being performed in of elements not merely,as*igttt be assumed,amongthe more uneducated the population. "Dear me!" said Mr. Collins. .Ah, those French!" said Mrs. cotlins. o'wasn'tit Lyons-wasn't that man?" the place that this unpleasantperson came from? The camera ..Montavarde?" Mr. Collins looked up in surprise. "Perhaps' I don't know.What makesYou think so?" "Didn't poor Wycliffe say so on that last night he was here?" "Did he? I don't remember." "He must have.Else how could I know?" other This was a question which required no answer,but it aroused he and again, dream the had he questionsin Mr. Collins' mind. That night woman foreign a woman' a iecalledit very clearlyon awakening.There was was not her ... though how he knew she was foreign,he could not say'It gestures, too! wanton voice, for she never spoke, only gestured:horrid, her in had something Nor was it in her clothis, for she wore none.And she to him' it offered she hand,about the sizeof a florin, curiouslymarked,and it into When he went to take it, she snatchedit back,laughing,and thrust echoingher red, red mouth. And all the while the voice-inflectionless, is in the life"'lt repeatedover and again,"The light is in the tife . . - the light seemed,somehow,a familiar voice' of little The next darfound him at his bookdealer's,the establishment younger and Mr. Pettigew, the well-known antiquary, known among under There, enviousmembersof the tradeas "the well-known antiquity." demonolatry on could he as much as read Collins Mr. pretenseof browsing, butnas interesting, most was particular. It in Mass Black the ln g.n"rul, and of mention no the books all dated from the previous century,there was
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either Duval or Montavarde.Mr. Collins tipped his hat to the bookdealer(it was the same bowler) and left the shop. He boughtan lllustratedLondon Newsata tobacconist's,got a seaton top of the omnibus, and preparedto enjoy the ride home. It was a bright day despite the time of year,one of the brightest Guy Fawkes'Days that Mr. Collins could remember. The lllustrated,he noted, was showing more and more photographsas time went on, and fewer drawings.Progress,progress,thought Mr. Collins, looking with approvaland affectionat a picture of the Duke of York and his sons,the little princes,all in Highlandcostume.Then he turned the page, and saw something which almost causedhim to drop the paper.It was a picture of a dreadnought,but it was the style and not the subjectthat fixed his attention to the page. "The abovephotograph,"read the caption, "of the ill-fated American battleship, the U.S.S.Maine, was taken shortly before it left on its last voyage for Havana. Those familiar with photography will be at once attracted by the peculiar luminosity of the photograph, which is reminiscent of the work of the Frenchman,Montavarde.The Mair?ewas built at-" Mr. Collinsreadno further.He beganto think, beganto follow a train of thought alien to his mind. Shying away from any wild and outrageousfantasies,Mr. Collins beganto enumerateas best he could all the photographsknown to him to have been taken by the Montavarde camera. Borricadesin the Morning provednothing, and neither did The Mdol?,.no living personappearedin either.On the other hand,considerthe matterof La Manchette, the subject of Montavarde'spicture La MesseNoire;consider the old house in Great CumberlandStreet,and the ReverendsWilkins and Gomm. Consideralso the battleshipMaine. After consideringall this, Mr. Collinsfound himself at his stop.He went directli home, took the camerain his arms, and descendedwith it to the basement. Was there some quality in the camera which absorbedthe life of its subjects?Somemeanswherebythat life wastransmutedinto light, a light impressedupon the photograph,leavingthe subjectsto die? Mr. Collins took an ax and beganto destroythe camera.The wood was intenselyhard,and he removedhis coat beforefalling to work again.Try as he might, Mr. Collins could not dent the camera,box, brassor lens. He stopped at last, sweat pouring down his face, and heard his wife's voice calling to him. Whateverwas he doing? "I'm breakingup a box for kindling woodl'he shoutedback.And then. even as she warned him not to use too much wood, that the wood-had to last them another fortnight, that wood had goneup-even asshe chattered
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fire and away,Mr. Collins had anotheridea.He carriedthe cameraup to the of his the cost at kerosene in threw he coals, the thrust it in. He heapedon the bellows. eyebrows,and he Plied Half an hour's effort saw the camera not only unconsurned, but there, unscorched.He finally removedit from the fire in despair,and stood felt had he that doubts All to do. what hot and disheveled,not knowing the to as uncertain been had he earlier were now removed.Previously the at camera dreadful his significance of Montavarde's presencewith priest Duval. Ri-tesof Lucifer, at the foul ritual conductedby the renegade these had attended It was not mercly as a spectatorthat the cameraman the of receiving the blasphemouspaiodies.ihe spitting on the crucifix, ceremonial the blood, witch mar, the signing of the compactwith his own the stabbing of the ttot.n Host while awaiting the awful moment when own her priest oi priestessof the unholy sect dectaredmanifest in his or body the presenceof the Evil One-surely Montavardehad doneall these things, and not just seen them. Mr. Collins felt that he neededsome air.He put on his hat and coat and went down to the street.The breezecooled his hot face and calmed his thoughts. Several children came down the street toward him, lighting firecrackersand tossingthem into the air. "Remembenremember,the 5th of November Wasgunpowdentreason,andPlot" the children beganto chant as they came up to him. They werewheeling a tatterdemalionold bath chair,and in it was a scarecrowof a Guy Fawkes, clad in old clothes;just as Mr. Collins had done as a boy. "l seeno reasonwhygunpowdertreason Shouldeverbeforgot" grimy ended the traditional phrases,and then the outstretched,expectant paws,and a generalcry of "Remember the Guy, sir! Rememberthe Guy!" Mr. Collins distributed some money to the eagergroup' even though he could see that his wife, who had come down and was now looking out of the first floor window, was shakingher head at him and pursing her lips, pantomiming that he wasn't to give them a farthing. He looked awayand glancedat the GuY. Its torn trouserswere of a plaid design,its scuffed shoeswere sharply pointed.A greasygraywaistcoat,a raggedsort of frock coat,a droopingand Oitty wing collai and a battered Ascot top hat completed its dress.The costume ,."*rd unpleasantlyfamiliar to Mr. Collins, but he could not
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quite placeit. Just then a gust of wind blew off the old topper and revealed the Guy's head.It was made of one of those carvencoconutsthat visitors from southern countries sometimes bring back, and its carven features were a horrible parodyof the face of the slender gentlemanwho had sold the camera. The children went on their way whilb Mr. Collins remainedstanding,his mind a mazeof strangethoughts, and Mrs. Collins frowned down at him from the window. She seemed to be busy with something; her hands moved. It seemedto him that an age passedas he stood there, hand in pocket, thinking of the long-dead Montavarde. (How did he die? "Untimely" was the word invariablyused) who had purchased,at a price unknown and scarcelyto be guessedat, unsurpassableskill in building and using his camera.What should one do? One might place the camerain a large sack, or encaseit in concrete,and throw it in the Thames. or one might keep it hidden in a safe place that one knew of. He turned to his house and looked up at Mrs. Collins, there at the window.(What hadshebeen busiedwith?) It seemedto him that she had never lookedso much like a rabbit before,and it alsooccurredto him how much he disliked rabbitsand alwayshad, sincehe was a boy.That, after all, was not so very long ago. He was still a comparativelyyoung man. Many attractivewomen might still find him attractivetoo. Shouldhe submit,like some vegetable,while his wife nibbled,nibbled awayat him forever?No. The way had been shownhim; he had fought,but that sort of victory was plainly not to be his. So be it; he would follow rhe way which had been open to him since the moment he took the camera. And he would use it again,this time with full knowledge. He startedup the steps,and hadjust reachedthe top one when a searing pain stabbedhim in the chest,and the sun went out. His hat fell off as he dropped. It rolled down the first, the second, and the third step. Mrs. Collins beganto scream.It occurredto him, even in that moment of dark agony,how singularly unconvincing those screamssounded. For some reasonthe end did not come at once. "I'm not completelysatisfiedwith that likenessI took of you just before you werestrickenloMrs. Collins said."Of course,it wasthe first time I had useda camerasincewe weremarried.And the picture,evenwhile you look at it, seemsto be growing brighter." Logically, Mr. Collins thought; for at the same time he was growing weaker.Well, it did not matter. "Your affairs are inorder, aren't they,Lucius?" Her eyes,as she gazedat him, were bright, birdlike. A bird, of course, is not human. He made no reply."Yes, to be sure they are.I madecertain.Except for this unpleasant Mr. Azel askingme for money he claimsis still owing on the camera.Well,
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him. I shan't pay it. I have all I can do to keep myself.But I mean to show my He can havehis old cameraback,and much good may it do him' I took the mother's ring and I scratched the nasty lens up completely with diamond." you Her voice was growing weakernow. "It's a tradition in our family, know. It's an old diamond, an heirloom; it has been in our family ever so long, and they saythat it was once set in a jeweled rnonstrancethat stood upon the high aliar at Canterbury before the days of good King Harry. "Thot will teach that Mr. A. A. Azel a good lesson'"
Man Overboard John Collier
Glenway Morgan Abbott had the sort of face that is associatedwith New England by those who like New England.It was so bony,so toothly even, so modest,so extremelyserious,andso nearly flinchingly unflinching, that one hardly noticed that he was actually a very good-lookingman. He also had the yacht Zenobia,which was handsomeenough to take one's breathawayat the very first glance;it showedits seriousnessonly on a closerinspection.Oncein a very greatwhile,I usedto go on a long cruise with Glenway.I was his best,and his only intimate, friend. Those who have seen the Zenobio,or seen even its picture in books on sailing,may be impolite enough to wonder how I came to be so specially frierrdly with the owner of a three-mastedschooner which is certainly among the dozen,perhapsamong the half-d ozen,mostfamous of the gr..t yachts of the world. Suchpeopleshould realizethat, though I may lack wealthand graceand charm, I do so in a special and superior way. Moreover,in spite of the glorious Zenobiaand the impressiveassociationof his name, Glenway's way of life was far from being sophisticatedor luxurious. His income, 335
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pay for her enormous though still very large, was only large enough to get a pieceof research to wanted he When upfeln and her numlrous crew. done, he had to diP into his capital. star' The fact is, Glenway had at one time been married, and to a film had at he enough, wasn't this if As and in highly romantic circumstances. beauty whose Vyborg, question Thora was once got divorced.The star in All this and pirsonality are among the legends,or the myths, of our timefrom Glenway' not though happenedbeforeI met him, but I had gathered, only that the divorce had been distinguishedby a settlement such as can most the and result from the cruelest heartbreak,the bitterest injury; prominent efficient lawyers on the one side, and honest eyes and rather front teeth on the other. Therefore if the word yacht suggestsmusic, ladies, awnings, whitejacketed stewards,caviar, and champagne'the suggestionis altogether no misleading.The only music was the wind in the rigging; there were tadies; thi solitary iteward wore no jacket, ffid the crew wore no shirts either.They were all nativesof different parts of the Pacificwith different' complexions and different tongues.The tanguageused on board was sort very of suU-basicEnglish, adequatefor work, expressivein song,but not or a American an had have might suitable for conversation.Glenway not. he did British captain or mate; however, Anyway,every man on board knew his job. It was a pity that the cook's job was all too oft"n only the opening of cans of frankfurters or baked b".nr. This was not so much due to New English frugality as to that gastronomicalabsent-mindednesswhich is so often found linked with honesty,teeth, and devotion to a cause. great Glenway wasdevotedto a cause,and so was the Zenobia.All these it, for used yachts are, of course,capableof oceancruising; this one was as and for nothing else at all. she was used and hard-used,and, though clean as a pin, rhe *.s by no means as shiny. on the horizon, she looked like a cloud; at her mooring like a swan to the poeticallyminded, or to the materialistic,like a floating palace.But as soon as you steppedaboardshe had more the appearance-ofsomething sent out by an oceanographical institute. All manner of oddly shaped nets and trawls and scoopswere hung, or spread,or sto\red around her deck. On either side of the foremast there were two objectson pedestals,shoulder-high,and made of that ugly' gray,rust-resistini alloy which was used everywhere on this boat in place had 6f tt.5 or chromium. These objects were not ventilators. They you'd it, call whatever or cowled, or hooded were rotating tops; thesetops tops the of you one turned If spray. salty the against and closelyshuttered toward you, and slid ofen the shutter,and looked inside, you would find yoursef being looked back at, quietty, by the darkly gleaming eye of a movie camera.
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Up in the bow there was a bulky object lashed down under quickly removablecanvas.This was a searchlight.Long chests,seatedhigh, almost as high as the low gunwale into which they were built, contained rockets and flares. Glenway was hoping to photograph something which he believedmight be nocturnalin its habits.He thought that otherwise,being a very large, noticeablecreature,and being a reptile, and breathing air, it would have been seen more often by daylieht. Glenway,in a word, was looking for the seaserpent.As he detestedthe sensationalnewspaperstories and the tiresomejokes associatedwith the term, he preferred to think of it as a large marine saurian.For short, we called it, not inaptly, 17. Peopleall over the Pacificknew of Glenway's quest.They were,though tactful about it, rather too obviouslyso. Somethingabout Glenway caused them to refrain from guffaws; but they put on leaky masks of politeness over their grins, or, if they took the matter seriously,they seriouslysought to reclaim him from his folly. Either way,they madeit all too clear that they thought him a crank and perhapsa zany becausehe believed in such a creature.For this reason he avoided ports as far as possible,and when taking in suppliesor dockedfor overhaulhe avoidedthe societyof his kind. Now it so happensthat, though I am of skepticalnature in most matters,I am stronglyinclined to suspenddisbelief when it comesto a large marine saurian.Without at leastthe possibilityof such a creature,it seemsto me that the world would be a poor and a narrow place.Glenway perceivedthis at our very first meeting,and it was the reasonfor at leastthe beginningof our friendship. I was forced to tell him I thought the chanceswere a million to one againsthim ever seeing his quarry,and I thought he was crazyto wastehis time and his lovely money on hunting for it. This didn't worry him in the least. "I shall find it sooner or later," said he, when first we debated the question, "becauseI know where to look." His theory was a simple one, and madesenseup to a point. If you know how an animal is constructedyou can deducea greatdeal asto how it lives, and especiallyas to what it lives on. When you know what it eats, and where that particularfood abounds,you havealreadya very good clue asto where to look for it. Glenway had taken all the best authenticatedreports, and he had an outline drawn up from each of them. Almost all these reports, from whatever corner of the world they may come, describe more or less the same sort of creature,so he had no trouble in getting a compositepicture made by an expert hand.This, of course,showeda reptile of the plesiosaur type, but very much larger than any of the fossil plesiosaurs,being only a few inches under eighty feet in length. But here there was a snag.
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on the length of Glenway had every reasonto know what eachextra foot that an eighty-foot a yacht adds to its maintenance bills, and he knew to calculatewhat hard not was proposition. It practicable plesiosauris not a fish could pass a large how or its bite, of its weight would br, o, the size just picking up fish of down its narrow gullet. "It would spendmore energy gain by eating them' would it that size one byinei' said Glenway, "than so forth are mostly and Also, schools of herrings, mackerel, haddock, them by day and by after found in coastalwaters,and fishermen havebeen has to show creature night ever since fishermen existed.An air-breathing it would be as that sort itr-"rf on the sufacefairty often; if it followed fish of because extinct, famitiar to us asthe barking shark.And finally, it would be threshers, or with thosejaws it couldn't defend itsetf againstkitler whales, and certainly not againstthe big sharks of the late Pleistocene." .oGlenway,if atl this is correct, you've slain your own goddamn Jabberwock." .,I was afraid I had," said he. "It depressedthe hell out of me' But one in bad day it struck me that people who see something very surprising, most surprising the to exaggerate tend naturally will visiuitity and so forth, neck aspectof *hut.ver it is they see.Thus an astonishinglylong, snaky so and smalleq head a small is, actually it than will look longer and snakier of Institute Fred's uncle young from chaps forth. So I had a couple of running Industrial Psychologydo a seriesof tests.They found a deviation for, and it I wanted what them told percent. I Then up to about twenty-five me handed got He this." We askedthem to modify this outline accordingly. seen." actually was a secondsheet."ws can take it this is what .,Vlhy, this damned thing's only sixty feet long!" said I rather ..It seemsto me you're correcting eye-witnessreports on discontintedly. pure speculation." ' ,,N;,I'm notl'said he. "I double-checked it.I hired a reptileman and an to a ichthyologist,and I asked them to work out what the nearestthing proposition in practical sixty-ioot plesiosaurwould be like if it were to be a three or terms of food, energy,defense,and all that.They cameup with two pulled out a third alternatives;the on. tft.t interestedme was this." He ..If you put this on top of the psychologists'version," said he, outline. ..you'll see they correspondin everything essential." .All the ,"-L, if I'm goingto believein a largemarinesaurian,I'drather have an eightY-footer." ,.This one weighsmore than an eighty-footer,"said Glenway,"and he's probablyten timJs as powerful. Thosejaws have a bite of over three feet' to make This fellow could r*.ilo* a barracudaat a gulp. He might have sort of any albacore, tuna, of schools follow porpoise. He'll two snapsat a course'" of pounds. cod, Not fifty and to a hundred fish ranling from iifty 'And why not cod?"
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"Fishermen. He'dhavebeenseen." "oh!" "So evidently he doesn't follow cod." 'And evidently you can sweata positive out of a couple of demolished negatives.Even so, it may make some sort of sense." Glenway acceptedthis, which at leastwas better than he got from other people.He eagerlyshowedme innumerable charts he had drawn up, and had amended by his own observation. These showed the seasonal movements of deep-sea fish in the east Pacific, and where these movementsweren't known he had what data there was on the smaller fish that the larger onespreyedon. He went on down through the food chains, and down to plankton drifts and current temperaturesand so forth, and with all these,modified by all sorts of other factors,he had marked out a great oval, with dates put in here and there, which tilted through those immensesolitudesof oceanwhich stretchfrom the coastof Chile up to the Aleutians. This washis beat,and two or three times I sailedit with him. There were almost no islands,almost no shipping lanes.I usedto take a regularspell in the crow's nest; two hours in the morning and two more in the late afternoon. You can't sit day after day looking for something without an admission,deep in your mind, of the possibilityof seeingit. Anyway,I was extremely fond of Glenway,and it would have given me great pleasureto havebeen the one who sighted this saurian for him somewherefar out on the flat greenor the rolling blue. The very wish lent a sinewy twist to every waterloggedpalm trunk that drifted acrossour bows, and every distant dolphin leap offered the arc of a black, wet, and leathery neck. At the first sight of such things, my hand, more wishful even than my thoughts,would move towardsthp red button on the rait of the crow'snest. This,like another in the bow,and a third by the wheel, wasconnectedwith a loud buzzet in Glenway's cabin. However, the buzzer remained silent; the immense horizon, day after day,was empty. Glenway was an excellent navigator.One morning when I was aloft he called up to ask if I could seeanything ahead.I totd him there was nothing, but I had no soonerraisedmy glassesagainthan I discerneda thickening,a long hump gathering itself in the in{initely faint pencil line that marked the juncture of sky and sea."There's something.It's land! Land ahead!" o'That's Paumoy." He had not bothered to mention that he was going to touch at Paumoy, the main island of an isolated group northeast of the Marquesas.I had heard of the place; there were eight or ten Americansthere, and someone had said that since the war they almost never got their mail. Glenway's boat took him within fifty miles of the island, and he now told me he had
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ashe wasto crudejokesabout Sensitive agreedto touchthereashe passed. tlie seaserpent,he was still a New Englander,and he felt that people shouldhavetheir mail. The island,s we drewnearer,revealeditself asseveralmiles of whalecoconutpalms back,coveredwith that hot froth of greenwhich suggests took up the and andboredom.I put downthe light binocularsI wasusing telescope,which had a much greaterrange.I could seethe harbor,the white bungalowsspacedout aroundit, and I could evenseethe people quite clearly.Beforelong I sawa man catchsightof the yacht.He stared under his irand,and wavedand pointed; anotherman came out of a I sawthe two of them go off at a run to bungalowwith a pair of glasses. jeep jeep crawledoff roundthe harbor,stopped The *.s it.oding. wherea got someonegot in. The jeep moved out, someone at anotherbungalow; into a grove,cameout on the otherside,andwent off again,disappeared toilin! up a little threadliketrackuntil it went out of sightoverthe ridge. gylhis time otherpeopleon the shorelevelhadturnedout to lookat us. TheVhadplentyof timeto do so,for the breezefell off almostto nothingas we itood in towardsthe island.It was alreadylate afternoonwhen the Zenobia,witheverysailset,floatedassoftlyasandnormousthistledownto her anchoragein the harborof Paumoy. dumpln'I said."Whatdo theydo here?Copra?" "Whata dreary-looking .,That,and shell.One fellow dries a sort of sea-slugand sells it to Chinesedealersall over the world. There was a Gauguin from San but he didn't stayvery long." Francisco, they'dcut eachother'sthroatsout of sheerboredom." think "you'd pokereverynight of their lives,and I guessthey've play they "Well, of not gettingon eachother'Snerves." technique developeda ,.Thiy must needit." Thereseemedto be nothingon the islandbut all of coconutpalms,which I don't like, and the blisteringbungalows, I What house. mail order the same prefabricated by whichmighthavebeen flowers vari-colored of be banks to greater distance had taken ftorn a as heapsof tin cans,some werenow recognizable besidethe bungalows, rusty,somewith their labelsstill on. gut t had no more time to look about me; we wereon the quay,and sun helmets,and the beinggreetedby men in shortsand old-fashioned greetingwasheartY. "Now liStento mel' saidVictOrBrewer,"we'vegot two new guyshere who'vebeenin Java.We'vehad them workinglike dogsever sincewe guys Soyou'vegotto stayto dinner.Or_those sightedyou,fixinga rikstafel. who fellows of a couple going insult to aregoin! to betruit.Hell,you'renot areitaving over a hot stove,fixing you a dinner'" Glenwaywantednothingbut to pick up the outgoingmail bagandbe
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gone.On the other hand he hated the idea of hurting anyone.He looked at me as if in the faint hope that I might step in and do it for him. It was at such moments, very rare with Glenway, that I felt Fitzgerald was right about the rich being different, or half-right, or a quarter right, and the thought of this, and the thought of the rikstafel, prevented me from obliging him. Instead, I pointed out there'd probably be no wind till nightfall, so we'd be losing hardly any time. Glenway at once surrendered, and we settled down to drinks and chat. Listening to the chat, I remembered Glenway's remark about the techniqueof not gettingon eachother'snerves.It seemedto me that this technique was being exercised,and especiallyfor Glenway's benefit. At the end of almost every remark our hosts made I felt myself dropping in the air pocket of a pulled punch; I experiencedthat disconcertingabsence of impact which is the concomitantof velvet paws.It was clear they knew what Glenway was after, and they even referred to it, but with such collectivetact that if one of them seemedlikely to dwell on it for more than a few seconds he would be steam-rollered out of the conversation, generallyby Mr. Brewer.It was he who asked,very casuallgwhen we had beensitting sometime at dinner,if Glenwaywassailingthe samecourseas usual; if he was going to pass,give or take a hundred miles, the northern extremity of Japan. Glenway having replied that he alwaysfollowedthe samecourse: "You know," said Vic Brewer,lettingthe wordsfall as casuallyas one lets fall the poker chips when the handsare high and the stakesare higher."You know, you could do the hell of a good turn to a guy.If you felt like it, that is." "What sort of a turn?" askedGlenway.'And which guy?" "You don't knorv him," said the man on Brewer's left. "He's a fellow called Geisecker.He's Charlie's brother-in-law'sbrother-in-law,if you can work that one out." "He droppedin here to sayhello," said the next man. "He came on the copra boat and he didn't know the mailboat doesn't call any more. So he's stuck." "The point is, this poor guy is going to be in big trouble if he doesn't get to Tokyo in the next few weeks." "When you get up in thoselatitudesyou're certain to sight some boat or other bound for Japan." 'Any little tramp; a crab lisher or anything. He'll be tickled to death." They spoke one after another all the way round the table, and, rememberingthat Glenway had saidthey playedpoker everynight of their lives, I was irresistibly reminded of the processof doubling up. "We hate to seehim goj'said Brewer,collecting the whole matter into his hands with the genial authority of the dealer. "He's wonderful
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But it's almostlife or deathfor him, poorfellow! BobGeisecker. company, you tike-if thatbthe obstacle." Looi, tri;tt payfor his passage-anything "It isn't thatl' saidGlenway."But I haven'tseenhim yet." "He's over on the other side of the islandl' saidBrewer."He went off with JohnnyRayin thejeeplessthanhalf an hourbeforewe sightedyou." "That'sfunny,"saidI, thinkingof whatI'd seenthroughthe telescope. "Damned funny," said Brewer,"if going off to give Johnny a hand he added, And turningto Glenway, makeshim misshischanceof passage." glad him." to help you'd been have "[f you'd only seenold BobI know been the wind's time. But in he's back "I'll takehiml' saidGlenway,"if '." failingus, andwe'rebehindschedule,and. "Fair enough,"saidBrewer."If he'sbackin time you'll takehim. If he isn't,that'shis hardluck.Morerice?Morechicken?Moreshrimp?Boy,fill up that glassfor Mr. Abbott." The dinnerwent on and on, and not anotherwordwassaidaboutMr. At last the heavyfrondageabovethe tabledrew a deepbreath Geisecker. andbeganto live andmove.The wind wasup, andGlenwaysaidwe could and I wait no longer.We all walkedtogetherdown to the quay.Glenway werejust steppinginto the dinghywhen someonepointed,and looking back,aspeoplewererightlywarnednot to do in the old stories,we saw,like a moonrise,the glowof headlightsin the sky.Thejeep wascomingup on the far sideof the ridge."That'sBob,"saidBrewer."But don't wait.We'll gethim packedup in no time,andbringhim out in the launchbeforeyou canup anchor." Sure enough,just as we were readyto move out, the launch came alongsidewith Mr. Bob Geiseckerand his bags.The latter had piecesof pajamashanging out at their sides like the tonguesof panting dogs His face,ashe cameup the Geiseckerhimselfseemeda little breathless. stepsinto the light hangingabove,hadsomethingstrangeaboutit. At first I of a man who thoughtit wasjust the flusteredand confusedexpression the factthat, it was hadto packandgetoff in sucha hurry; thenI thought after weeksand months under an equatorialsun, this considerableface still peeledandglowedasif freshfrom a weekendat AtlanticCity.Finall$ still unsatisfied,I thought of that massive,opulently curved, widemouthedinstrumentwhich is includedin everybrassband,and which, whenit is not playingat full blast,looksasif it oughtto be, or at leastis this instrument,but he was aboutto be.Mr. Geiseckergreatlyresembled very silent,ffid it wasthis that wasstrange. There was a quick introduction,a brief welcomefrom Glenway,who wasbusy,an uncertainmumbleof thanksfrom our guest,ffid a veryhasty farewellfrom Brewer.Glenwayhad to give all his attentionto taking the on deck,staringafterthe launch, stoodneglected yachtout,andGeisecker
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his mouth open,looking somethingworsethan lost.I took him down to his cabin, told him we breakfastedat seven, ffid asked him if there was anything he wantedbeforeturning in. He seemedonly vaguelyawarethat I was talking to him. "Those guys;' said he, speakinglike a man in a stateof shock, "I kept them in stitches.In stitches-all the time!" "Good night," I said. "I'll see you in the morning." Next morning Geiseckerjoined us at breakfast.He acknowledgedour greetingsoberly,sat down, and looked at his plate,Glenway apologizedfor having been so much occupiedovernight and beganto discusswhere and when we might hope to encounter a boat headedfor Tokyo or Yokohama. Geiseckerlifted a faceon which dawningenlightenmentmademe think of the rapid changefrom the blue-grayhush of the tropic night to the full glare and blare of tropic day; light, warmth, life, and laughter all came flooding in faster than one would think believableor even desirable. "I knew it all the time!" saidhe exultantly."only I just didn't happento think of it. I knew it was a gag.When thoseguys hustled me aboardthis luggerI got the ideathey were-you know-giving me the brush-off.They just about had me fooled.Now I get it. Anything for a laugh! They sworeto me last night you were headingfor Lima, Peru." "They told me very definitely,"saidGlenway,staring,"that it wasof the greatestimportancethat.you should get to Tokyo.". Geisecker slappedhis plump and crimson thigh with startling effect. "Those guys," said he, "they'd ship a fellow to the moon on one of these goddamn spaceshipsif they could get a laugh out of it. And that's what they've done to me! Tokyo'swhere I camefrom. Lima, Peru is where I was going to move on to. That'swhy they kept me all day over on the other side of the island.So I shouldn't hear which way you were going." "'We're short of time," said Glenway,"but I'll put about and take you back to Paumoyif you want me to." "Not on your life," said Geisecker. "It's a good gag and I'll be goddamnedif I spoil it. All I'm doing is just going aroundthe world saying hello to people,and to tell you the truth there'sa little kimono lady back in Tokyo I shan't mind sayinghello to once again."With that he obliged us with a few bars from Madame Buuerfly. "Glenway," said I, "it's just on eight. I think I'll be getting up aloft." 'Aloft?" cried Geisecker."That soundslike the real saltwater stuff.I've never been on one of thesewindjammersbefore.You've got to give me the dope on marlinspikes, splicing the main brace and all the rest of the nonsense.I tell you, boys,I'm going to learn to be a sailor.Now what's all this about going up aloft?" "I'm just going to the crow's nest for a couple of hours."
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,'What for? Looking for something?" Even as he askedthe questionhe turned, first on me und then on Glenwag a face which now resembleda putting thespianas well asa porcineham, it so overactedthe simple feat of two and two together.Fixing his eyes on Glenway,he slowly raised and joint of this finger extendedan index finger of greatsubstance.The lower and of a ruddy serviceable and strong was adornedwith cu.uing hairs,very about a foot stopped finger The sun. gold which glinted in the morning potent it seemedto that quality was so short of Glenway's ribs, but its my own. it in make itself felt here. In fact, I even felt 'Abbott!" cried Geisecker triumphantly. "Now that shows you how miffed I was last night when I thoug;ht those guys had given me the brush-it didn't ring any sort of a bell. Glenway Morgan Abbstt! Christ, I've heardabout you, pai. Those birds told me all sorts of yarns. You'rethe guy who goesaround looking for the seaserpent!" At this-point he becameawareof Glenway'sregard,which was,for one naked moment at least, quite deadly.Geiseckerdrew back a little. "But maybe,"said he, "maybe they were pulling my leg. I ought to have seenit right away.A fellow with your educationwouldn't fall for that cheesyold bit of hokum." By this time Glenway had recoveredhimself, which is to saythat he was on.r more subject to his customary inhibitions and compulsions.These forbadehim to be discourteousto a guest; and forcedhim to bear witness like a zealotin favor of his largemarine saurian."Perhaps,"said he, after a painful swallow or two, "you haven't consideredthe evidence." He went on to summarize the affidavits of numbers of worthy citizens, all describingwhat was obviouslythe samesort of creature,seenat widely dispersedtimes and places.He stressedespeciallythe sworn evidenceof navalofficers and seacaptains,and crownedthe list with a referenceto the reptile clearly seenby the beardedand impeccablegentlemenin chargeof Queen Victoria's own yacht, the Osborne. Geisecker,who had been listening with a widening smile, here heartily slappedGlenway on the back. "You know what it is they saw, brother? They saw the old girl herself, flopped overboardfor a dip. What do you say' Uoyit" said he, addressingthe question to me and to the man who was clearingthe table. "That's about the size of it, believe you me! Splashme, Albert! " He accompaniedthis last sentencewith a flapping mimicry of regal and natatorygambols,which, consideringhe wasneither on a throne nor in the water, seemed to me to show talent. Glenway, like the august personage represented, wa5 not amused. There was such a contest between displeasureand hospitality visible on his faOethat it looked fior a moment liki a wrestling match seen on television, only, of course, the pain was genuine.
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This, and the thought that I had rather let him down over the dinner on Paumoy,moved me to an unwonted self-sacrifice.,,Glenway,"said I, ,,you take my spell in the crow's nest, and I'll take the wheel this morningi' Glenway, being one of nature's martyrs, refused this handsomeoffer, and electedto stay down in the arena.As I went aloft I realizedhow those patricians must have felt, who, though inclined to early christian sympathies, were nevertheless pressured into taking a box in the Colosseumon a gala night in Nero's Rome. Every now and then I heard a roar below me, and it was not merely that of a lion; it was that of Geisecker'slaughter.Before long I saw Glenway come forward, and pretend to busy himself with the little nets that *"re used for taking up plankton and algae.In a very few minutes Geisecker came after him, smiling, and spoke with jovial camaraderieto the two sailors who were spreading the nets. These men looked uneasily at Glenway before they laughed; it was sufficiently obvious that the jests were concernedwith the seaserpent.Glenway then droppedhis work and went aft, and below.Geiseckerwent bellowing along the deck and, getting no response,he went down after Glenway.There was a period of calm; deceptivecalm, which is calmer than the other sort. Then Glenway burst up out of the forward hatch and looked around him as if for refuge.But there is no refugeon a yacht, not even on a yacht like the Zenobra.I realized that he must have slipped through the pantry,into the galley,and thence into the men's quarters,leavingGeiseckerditched in the saloon.Geisecker was,of all men, the leastlikely to remain ditched more than three minutes. At the expiration of that time I leanedfar out and looked back,and sawhis mighty, sweatingtorso emerge from the companionway. There are certain big fat men who, when they joke with you, seem almost to enfold you in a physical embrace.This causedme to wish we were farther from the equator,but it did not prevent me going down to try to run a little interferencefor Glenway. I soon found that it wasnext door to impossibleto draw Geiseckeraway from Glenway.There are certain people who, if they becomedimly ut"url they are offensive to another,will fasten on that unfortunate with all the persistenceof a cat which seeksout the one cat-haterin a crowdedroom. They can't believeit; they think you really love them; they are tickled and fascinatedand awesomelythrilled by the fantastic improbability of your dislike. They'll pluck at your attention and finger your very fleih foi ttre unbelievablespectacleof your recoil, and they'll pressyet closer for the marvel of your shudder, for all the world as if recoil and shudder were rapturous spasms induced by some novel form of lovemaking, to be evoked in wonder and in triumph again and again and again "Good old Glen!" said Geisecker,one afternoon when Glenway had
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refuge jumped up with what I can call a muttered exclamation,and sought You ribbing' of a bit takes he way in his cabin. "I love that guy.I love the just loves he underneath that tell know-straight, deadpan,and yet you can it:'
,.Not on that subject,"I said."He detestsit. And so do I' It's making him miserable.It's driving him just about crazy!' ,Ah, don't give me that baloney!" said he with a goodhumoredflap of what I said about my his hand.Geiseckerwas not in the reastinterestedin had, unconsciouslyof own reaction.Sensitiveto nothing else on earth, he of the feeling he course, better than a dog's nott for the exact nature offended by his inspired.This keen sensetold thim that I am of a type not on behalf of sort of humor, and that my mounting anger was entirely and as flavorless Glenway.To him, therefore,it *.t vicaiious, secondhand, he had no itch to as a duenna's kiss. It gave him no sort of thrill, and increaseit. I felt quite rejected. I said,"If I went down to seeif I could be more effectivewith Glenway' all' he's After monster' this you'd enjoy you had the leastsenseof humor, to be thought a species to belongs the sort of thin; you're looking for. He extinct." "I wish to God he was," said Glenway' ..He may not come from the Pleistocene,but he's at least a survival a specimen of from the Joke gooL Age. He's a human coelacanth'He's to turn your ought You comic Picture PostcardMan.He's a living Babbitt. all up." it camerason him. People'll think you're making sentencegot It was like trying to skip and run over soft sand.Each new At last I off to a worse start and sank deeper into Glenway's depression' other' just each at looking was altogether boggeddown, and we sat there stridulation Then,like the lastiiump, there arosean urgent,heart-stopping out of his in the buzzer box on the wall over the bed' Glenway was so companion depression,out of his chair, into the doorway,and up the left been have quickty that one felt certain intervening movementsmust the seaserpent or out. t iollowed as fast as I could; after all, it was either and in either caseI thought I'd better be there' Geisecker, -i;; with laughter, Geisecker.He was standingby the wheel, hooting on the Flukes blows! she "Thar shouting. pointing out over the ocean, starboardbow!" that it can be Then the laughter doubled him up completely.I noticed that' even also noticed I face' purple the in getting true about p"oit" of him' more be to seemed there bigger; doubled up, Geiseckerseemed than at anY other times. He seemed to be Sadderstill, there seemed to be less of Glenway. grayer column of tissue shrunken and concentrated into a narrower and
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than wasnatural.I had time to think, "He'll be driven completelyout of his mind if this continuesl' and then he turned and went down the companion out of sight. I went over to Geisecker,wonderingon the way what sort of wordscould possiblypiercehis thick hide. "JesusChrist!" said he. "I knew it was true. When those boys on Paumoytold me, I knew it was true, but I just felt I had to check up on it." "What the hell are you talking about?" I asked. 'About old Glen and Thora vyborg," replied Geisecker,still gasping with mirth. "Don't you know about Glen and rhora vyborg?" I knew they had been married. I vaguelyrememberedsomething about a dramatic love-at-first-sightencounter in Honolulu. I had some sort of a picture in my mind of the more-than-famousfilm star; of her unfathomable personality,her unknowable beauty,and the fact that she talked to no one and traveled with no one and dined with no one except her Svengali,her cunent director,and her publicity man. I had a fairly clear idea of what these types were like, and I could imagine that Glenway, younger then, tall, angular,alreadydedicated,with the oceanbehind him, winged with sail and haloedwith sun and money,must haveseemedto offer her a part in a rather better production. I remembered,too, that the marriage had been extremely short-lived. Someonehad said somethingabout them sailing awaywith the sunsetand returning with the dawn. No statement had been made by either party. There had been rumors, as there always are, but these were weak, uncertain; they had been drowned in a flood of better-authenticated adulterieslong before I ever knew Glenway.Now it seemedthat some of them had been washedashore,horribly disfigured, swollen and salty,on the ultimate beachesof Paumoy. "You know what the boysthere told me?" said Geisecker,watching me closely."Seemsthey got married in no time flat and startedout on this very sameboat,on a big, frontpagehoneymoon.Believeit or not, the very first night out-round about eleveno'clock,if you get what I mean,pal-some fellow on deck seessomething or other, maybe porpoisesor kelp or any damn thing you like, and he gets the idea it's the old brontosaurusin person.So he pressesthe buzzer,and Glen comes rushing up on deck in ten secondsflat. Don't ask me any questions,pal; all I know is that first thing next morning the lugger was turned right around,and it's full steam aheadback to Honolulu, and Reno, and points in oppositedirections." I realized at once that this was true, and had a certain beauty.However, that was for my private contemplation and had nothing to do with Geisecker.He was regarding me with a sort of arrestedgloat, his eyes triumphant and his nose tilted up ready to join in the expected peal of
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and he heard' a laughter."Geiseckeri'I said,and for the first time I heard, not goingto note of direct and peisonaltratredin my voice,"Geisecker,I'm going to stay you're discussthe whys and whereforesobut from now on on chair you can have a right awayfrom Glenway.You can come on deck; '" inch " the port ,id, thrre, between the masts.But if you step one ..Hold it!" said Geisecker."who's talking? The owner? skipper? First hear what old mate? Or what the hell elsedo you think you are?I'd like to Glen's got to say." of wrath has I am no good at all at a row. when my first damp squib and weariness immense an by exploded I am ul,,uyt overwhelmed go on' power to the nor will the neither blankness.At that moment I had decide never I could assistance. my But Geisecker obligingly came to victim' or a whether he was u1"Oitt, avid for the discomfort of his it whichever distiked. being masochist,indecently eagerfor the wound of passed tongue his actually he was,he watched me witli his little eyes,and ,Anyway;' said he, "I'm going down to ask him if there's any over his lips. truth in that Yarn." The lip-lici
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"I've fixed him. I can't believe it, but I havel' "How?" said Glenway. when I had told him, he said, 'oHewon't stay fixed, not by that sort of thing." I said,"You think so becauseI've relatedit with a twinkle. When I spoke to Geiseckermy voice was cold and dead,like steel, and I let my eyelids droop a little. Like this." "He certainly won't stay fixed," said Glenway. "In that casehis belly will be cut openi'said I. "Becauseto Hill Wiggam, who is sitting right out there in the passage,this is his moment of fulfillment. Or it will be if Geiseckertries to get pasthim. It's a caseof a man suddenly finding his vocation." "I don't want Wiggam getting into troublel' said Glenway. "Nor," said I, "does Geisecker."With that I went up and did my afternoonspell in the crow'snest,and later I had a drink with Geisecker,to whom I said as little as possible,not knowing what to saynor how to sayit. I then dined with Glenway, in his cabin, and then had a smoke with Geiseckeron the port deck, and at about ten o'clock, I went to spend the last hour of the evening with Glenway,who was still extremely tense. "What's the night like?" he asked. I said, "It's the most wonderful night of the whole cruise.The moon's just on full, and someone'slet it down on an invisiblewire, and you cansee the curve of the starsgoing up behind it. The wind's light, but there'sa hell of a big swell rolling in from somewhere.She'sstill got everything on but her balloonjib, and she'sriding it like a steeplechaser. Why don't you go up and take the wheel for a bit?" "Where's Geisecker?" askedGlenway. 'Amidships, on the port side,fencedin invisibly by threats,"I said with some pride. "I'll stay down herel'said Glenway. "Glenwayj'said I, "you're making altogethertoo much of this. The fact is, you've led a shelteredlife; people like Geiseckerhave alwaystreated you with far too much respect.It sets you apart, and I find it rather offensive.Rememberwhat Fitzgeraldsaid about the rich. He said you are different. Think of that! It's almost worse than being the same." o'You forget what Hemingway said," replied Glenway, who perhaps found little attraction in either alternative. "The Hemingwayrebuttal," saidI, "provesonly what it was intended to prove.That is, that Hemingway is a fine, upstanding,independentcitizen, and probablywith a magnificent growth of hair on his chest.All the same, Fitzgerald had a point. Just becauseyour iniquitous old grandfather happenedto build a few railways-"
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..First of all," interrupted Glenway,"it was not my grandfatherbut my great grandfather.What's more-" to And at that moment, just as I was exulting in having induced him the out, neck unclench his hands,ffid look out of his eyes,and stick his buzzer soundeiJagain.I had forgotten to have it disconnected' what was quite pathetic was that Glenway couldn't control an instinctive movemenf towards leaping off the bed. He arched up like a tetanus victim, and then collapsedas flat as an empty sack.The buzzer went on. I had a panicky feeling that he might arch up again at any moment. I lost my head and picked up a stool that stood in front of the dressingtable and pounded that rattlesnakebox into silence' The iitence, once achieved,seemeddeep and complete. This was an illusion; we soon noticed that there were all sorts of noiseshere and there in the large emptinessleft by the death of the outrageousbuzzer.We could hear the patter of running feet on deck, and voices, and especially Geisecker'svoice, spouting largejets of urgent sound. I openedthe door and the words came rushing in. "Glen! Glen! Come quick!" up, - for God's sake!Can't you hear me? Come "My God!" I said. "Maybe they are cutting his belly open." with that,I ran up. Geiseckerwas at the headof the companionway.He turned his head briefly to send another shout down the stairs; then he turned it back againto stareout over the sea.I bargedinto him. He blindly pointed. clutched at my arm and draggedme to the side of the boat, and I sawsomethingalreadydisappearinginto the greatsmooth side of one of the enormous waves.It was black, wet, shining, and very large' These words can be applied to a whale or a whale-shark,and maybe to two or three other things. I can summon up with absolute precision the way Geisecker's face was turning as I came up the companionway; I can remember exactly how his shout went on a little after he had turned his headback to lookover the seaagain.But I haven't the sameperfectmental photographof what I saw disappearinginto the wave.To the very best of my recoliectionI saw the hinder half of an enormousback and, following on a curve, already.halflost in the black and moon-glitter,a monstroustail. The men who had run up were standing three or four paces away.I looked at them, and they nodded. As they did so I heard Glenway's voice speakingto the men. "You sawit?" He had come up after all, and had seen my look and their responseas he came toward us. One of them said, "Yes, go uut tre shoutl' pointing to Geisecker."He shout, shout, shout, and it under." Glenway steppedtowardsGeisecker,thus turning his back on the men. I They couldn't sie his face, but I could see it, and so could Geisecker. backwards, stepped donit think Glenway even raisedhis hand. Geisecker
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which brought him, at what I would have thought a very slight and harmlessangle,againstthe low gunwale.His big, fat heavy torso went on and over; his feet went up, and he was gone. He was overboard. I don't rememberputting my hand on the life belt, but I can remember flinging it, skimming it almostparallelwith the side of the boat,and feeling sure it hit the water within a very few feet of Geisecker.Then the boat, whosesix knots or so had beenlike nothing at all a moment earlier,seemed to be racing aheadfaster than any boat had ever gone before. Glenway shouted; the helmsman put the helm over and spilled the wind out of her sails.There was alwaysa boat readyto be loweredat record speed.Two men wereat the oars,Glenway took the tiller, and I stood in the bows looking out for Geisecker,who could be no more than two or three hundred yards away. The night was clear beyond all description. The enormous, smooth swells gleamed and flashed under the moon. The yacht, when we had drawn away from it, stood up like a snowy alp on the water,and when, at the top of each swell, the men lifted their oars for a moment, it was a moment of unbelievable silence, as if some tremendous creature was holding its breath. Then I saw Geisecker.We were lifted high on one of the great glassy hills of sea,and he was beginning to slide down the slope of another.He had the life belt. I couldn't see his real featuresat that distance,but the white moonlight gavehim such great hollow black eyes,and made such a crater of his open mouth, that I got the picture of a clown in comic distress. Then he went down, and we went down, and two or three ridges twenty feet high humped themselvesbetweenus. I said,"He's aheadof us; a couple of hundred feet.You'll seehim from the top of the next one." But we didn't. I began to wonder if a man and a life belt rise and fall faster or slower on a rolling sea than does a fourteen-foot boat. Before I could work out an answerwe had gone up and down againand had arrived at a spot which was extremelycloseto where I hao seenhim. "You misjudged the distance," said Glenway after perhaps half a pvzzled minute. "I must have.Anyway,he's got the lifebuoy.He'll be all right. Let's row around in a circle." One of the men put out a bailing can as a marker.The giant swellswere so smooth that, ballastedwith a couple of inches of water,the can floated up and down without shipping another drop. We went round it on a hundred-foot radius and then at a hundred and fifty feet. Geiseckerwas not to be seen.And we could see,at one time or another,every squarefoot of water where he could possiblybe.
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'A "He's sunk!" saidGlenway. cramp . . . a shark' ' '" ..No shark would have taken the life bett down. It'd be floating right here. We'd see it." The words were scarcelyout of my mouth when we saw it. It breached up, right out of the water-it must have come up from God knows how many fathoms-and it fell back with a splashjust a boat's length aheadof us. Next moment it was beside our bow and I reachedout and lifted it aboard.I turned, holding it in my hands,and showedit to Glenway.It was easierthan speaking,and not so silly.We both knew perfectlywell that no known creature, except possibly a sperm whale, could have taken Geiseckerand the life belt down to that sort of depth. And we knew that what I had seen,and what the men had seen,was not a sperm whale' We rowedaroundin circlesfor a little longer,and then we pulled back to the yacht.When we were aboardagain,I said to Glenway,"You didn't as much as touch him. You didn't even mean to touch him. You didn't even raiseyour hand." .And some of the men were watching," said Glenway with the utmost calm. "They can testify to that." If not the railway tycoon, his great grandfather,it might certainly have been his grandfather,the banker, speaking. He saw my surprise, and smiled."From the most scrupulouslegalpoint of viewl' he said,"it was a pure accident.And we'll make a report accordingly.Of course,I killed the man.tt
"Now wait a minute," said I. "Excuseme;'said he. We werenearthe wheel.He took it from the man who was steering,and said something to him, and the man ran forward calling to the restof the crew who werestill on deck.Next minute the helm went up, the boomsswung over,the sailsbellied out on the other side,and the great boat wasjibbed and sweepinground on to a new course. "Where are we headingnow?" said I to Glenway. "Due east,"said he. "To San Francisco." "To makethe report?Can't you... ?" "To put the boat uP for sale." I said, "Glenway, you're upset. You've got to see this business in proportion." ' He said,o,Hewasaliveand enjoyinghimsell and now he's dead.I didn't like him; I detestedhim, but that's got nothing to do with it." I said, "Don't be completely psychologicallyilliterate. It's got every' thing in the world to do with it. You hated his guts, a little to_ointensely, perhaps,but very understandably.You wished he was dead.In fact, you more or lesssaidso.Now you've got guilt feelings;you're going to take the blame for it. Glenway,you're an obsessivetype; you're a Puritan, a New
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Englander,any early Christian. Be reasonable.Be moderate." '"and you knocked a "Supposeyou were driving a car," said Glenway, man down and killed him?" . "I'd be very sorry,but I think I'd go on driving." "If you werea speeddemon, and it wasbecauseof that? Or a drunk? Or if you were mentally unfit to handle a cat?" "Well..."Isaid. But Glenway wasn't listening. He beckoned the man who had been steering,and turned the wheel over to him. He gavehim the course and told him who was to relieve him in each watch.Then he turned awayand He walked like a man walking walked forward.He walked like a passenger. on a street.He waswalking awayfrom his mania,and in the very hour of its justification. I followed him, eagerto bring him back to himself, but he walked away from me too. I said to him considerably later, "I've found out something very interesting,talking to the men. Shalltr tell you?" "Pleasedo," said he. I said, "I thought they rather liked Geiseckerbecausehe made them laugh. But they didn't. Not a bit. Are you listening?" "Of course,"said he as politely as a bankerwho has alreadydecidednot to make a loan. I said, "They hated him almost as much as you did, and for the same reason,for making fun of it. They believedin it, all the time. They've all got different names for it, according to where they come from. Almost every man's got an uncle who's seenit, or a wife's grandfather,or someone.And it's quite clear it's the samesort of beast." Glenway said,"I've decidedI'm going to buy a farm or a ranch as far from the ocean as I can get. I'll breed cattle or hybridize corn or something." I said, "You've been over seven years on this boat with these men, or most of them. Did you know they believedin it?" "No," he said. "Or I might go in for soil biology.There's still a tremendousamount to be discoveredin that field." This made me feel very sick. I felt Glenway was indeed different; different from me, different from himself.The beautiful Zenobiahadto be sold, the crew disbandedand the large marine saurian left to dwindle into a figure on an old map, distant and disregardedin its watery solitude. As for myself, all my friendship with Glenway had been aboardthe boat; I was part of it; I was one of thesethings.I had been nothing but the accomplice of his obsession,and now he was,in a way I didn't like, cured.I felt that I too was up for sale, and we talked amiably and politely and quite
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meaninglesslyall the way back to SanFrancisco,and there we saidgood-by to each other and promisedto write. We didn't write in over three years.One can't write to the ghost of a bankegnor expect a letter from one. But this summer,when I was in New York, I got home one night and found a letter awaiting me. The postmark was Gregory,South Dakota,which is about as far from either oceanas you can get. He was there; he wonderedif I knew those parts; he wonderedif I was likely to be free; there weresomeinterestingthings to talk about.The lines were extremelyfew but there was all the more spaceto readbetweenthem. I took up the telephone. It was nearly midnight, but of course it was two hours earlier in South Dakota.All the sameGlenwaywas a very long time coming to the phone. "I hope I didn't get you out of bedl' I told him. "Heavens no!" said he. "I was on the roof. We get wonderful nights here; as clear as Arizona." I rememberedthat clear night in the Pacific,and the flash and glitter of the enormousglassywaves,and the silence,and the boat rising and falling so high and so low, and the yacht like a hill of snow in the distance,and the little bailing can visible at over a hundred feet.I said,"I'd like to come out right away." "I rather hoped you would," said Glenway,and beganto tell me about planesand trains. I askedhim. if there was anything he wanted from New York. "There most certainly is," Said he. "There's a man Called Emil Schroeder;you'll find his addressin the book; he's out in Brooklyn; he's the best lens grinder that ever got out of Germany,and he's got a package for me that I don't want sent through the mail becauseit's fragile." "What is it?" I asked.1A microscope?Did you go in for soil biology after all?" "Well, I did for a time," said Glenway."But this is somethingdifferent. It's lensesfor a binoculartelescopea fellow'sdesignedfor me. You see,a single eyepieceis no good for following anything that movesat all fast.But this binocular thing will be perfect.I can use it on the roof, or I can set it in a mounting I've had built into the plane." "Glenway,do you mind telling me what the hell you're talking about?o' "Haven't you read the government report on unidentified flying objects?. . . Hello! Are you there?" "Yes,I'm here,Glenway.And yOu'rethere.You'rethere,sureenough!o' "Listen, if you haven't readthat report,do pleaseget hold of it first thing tomorrow,and readit on the way out here.I don't want to hear you talking like that unfortunate Geisecker.Will you read it?" '.All right, Glenway,I will. I most certainlywill."
My DearEmily JoannaRuss
San Francisco,188I am so lookingforward to seeingmy dear Emily at last, now she is grown,a woman,althoughI'm sureI will hardly recognizeher. Shemust not be proud (as if she could be!) but will rememberherfriends, I know, and havepatiencewith her dear Will who cannothelp but rememberthe girl she was,and\he sweetinfluenceshehad in her old home.I talkedto your father aboutyou everyday, dear and he longsto seeyou as I do. Think! a learnedlady in our circle!But I knowyou havenot chonged.. . Emily came home from school in April with her bosom friend Charlotte. They had loved each other in school, but they didn't speak much on the train. While Emily read Mr. Emerson's poems, Charlotte examined the scenerythrough opera-glasses. She expressedher wish to see "savages." "That's foolishl' saysEmily promptly. "If we were carriedoff," saysCharlotte,"I don't think you would notice it in time to disapprove." "That's very foolish," says Emily, touching her round lace collar with
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one hand. She looks uP from Mr. Emersonto stare Charlotte out of younglady.It has morallY'and matter-of-course countenance, ProperlY, alwaysbeenher stYle. "The New Englandlookj' Charlottesnapsresentfully.Shemakesher slap shut. opera-glasses "I should like to be carriedoffl'she pfoposes;"but then I don't havean engagementto look forward to. A delicate affair'" i'iou mustn't make funl' saysEmily. Mr. Emerson drops into her lap. She staresunseeingat Charlotte's opera-glasses. "Why do they close?" she askshelplessly. "I beg your pardon?" blankly,from Charlotte. "Nothing. You're much nicer than I am," saysEmily' ..Lookl' utges Charlotte kindly, pressingthe toy into her friend's hand. "For savages?" charlotte nods, Emily pushes the spring that will open the little machine, and a moment later drops them into her lap where they fall on Mr. Emerson. There is a cut acrossone of her fingers and a blue pinch darkening the other. .,They hurt me," she sayswithout expression,and asCharlottetakesthe glassesup quickly,Emily looks with curious sadpassivityat the blood from her little wound, which has bled an incongruous passionatedrop on Mr. Emerson'scloth6ound poems.To her friend's surprise (and her own, too) she begins to cry, heavily,silently,and totally without reason. He wakes up slowly, mistily, dizzily,with a vague memory of having fallen asleepon plush. He is intensely miserable,bound down to his bed with hoops of iteel, and the memory adds nauseato his misery, solidifying tickiishly around his bare hands and the back of his neck as he drifts towardswakefulness.His stomachturns over with the dry brushy filthiness of it. With the caution of the chronicaltyitl, he opens his eyelids,careful not to move, careful even to keep from focusinghis gazeuntil-he thinks to himself-his bed stops holding him with the force of Hell and this intensemiserablesicknessgoesdown, settles.... Darkness.No breath.A buried,deadand glimmer -buried, of light, a stone wall. He thinks: I'm deadand deadand- With infinite care he attempts to breathe,sure that this will be easy;he'll be patient,discreet,sensible,he won't do it all at time it OnCg-
.
He gagS.Spasmodically,he guips, cries out, and gags again, springing convuliively to his knees and throwing himself over the lov" wall by his bed,laboringas if he were breathingsand.He startsto sweat.His heartbeat comesback,then pulse,then seeing,hearing,swallowing.... High in the wall a window glimmers, a star is out, the sky is pale evening blue'
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Trembling with nausea,he risesto his feet, swaysa little in the gloom, then puts out one arm and steadieshimself againstthe stone wall. He seesthe window, seesthe door aheadof him. In his tearing eyesthe star suddenly blazesand lengthenslike a knife; his headis whirling, his heart painful asa man's; he throws his hands over his face,longing for life and strength to come back, the overwhelming flow of force that will crest at sunrise, leaving him ragingat the world and readyto kill anyone,utterly proud and contemptuous,driven to sleepasthe last resortof a balkedassassin. But it's difficult to stand, difficult to breathe: I wish I weredeadand buried, dead and buried,deadand buried- But there! he whispersto himself like a charm, There,it's going, it's goingaway.He smiles slyly round at his companionable, merciful stone walls. with an involuntarily silent, gliding gait he moves torvardsthe door, opens the iron gate, and goes outside. Life is coming back. The trees are black againstthe sky, which yet holds some light; far awayin the W0st lie the radiant memoriesof a vanishedsun. An alwaysvanishedsun. 'Alive!" he cries, in triumph. It is-as usual-his first word of the day. Dear EmitS sweet Emilx met Martin Guevara three days after she arived home. She had been shown the plants in the gardenand the houseplants in stands and had praised them; she had been shown the sunpictures and praised them; she had fingered antimacassars,promised to knit, exclaimed at gaslights,and passedtwo evenings at home, doing nothing. Then in the hall that led to the pantry SweetWill had taken her hand and she had droppedher eyesbecauseyou weresupposedto and that was her style. Charlotte (who slept in the same room as her friend) embracedher at bedtime, wept over the handtaking,and then Emily said to her dear,dear friend (without thinking): "Sweet William." Charlotte laughed. "It's not a joke!" "It's so funny." "I love Will dearly." She wondered if God would strike her dead for a hypocrite. Charlotte was looking at her oddly,and smiling. "You mustn't be full of levity," said Emily, peeved.It was then that sweet william came in and told them of tomorrow's garden-party,which was to be composedof her father's congregation.They werelucky,he said, to haveacquaintancesof such position and character.Charlotteslippedout on purpose,and will, seeing they were alone, atempted to take Emily's hand again. "Leave me alone!" Emily said angrily.He stared. "I said leaveme alone!" And she gavehim such a look of angry pride that, in fact, he did.
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cherry-redsofa, Emily seesGuevaraacrossthe parlorby the abominable undistinguished, is slight, he In repose talkinganimatedlyand carelessly. this.His andplain,but no onewill everseehim in repose;Emily.realizes you (she if only slap thinks) strategyis neverto rest,to bewilder,he would and way the to coniuseyou, and when he can't he's alwaysout of is m.king onelookridiculous.Sheknowsnobodyand bored;she attacking, startsfor the door to the garden. At the doorhis handclosesoverherwrist;he hassomehowgottenthere aheadof her. "The ladyof the housel'he says. "I'm backfrom school." 'And you'velearned-?" "Let me go,please." Shesays: "Never."He dropsher handand standsin the doorway. "I want to go outside." "Never.tt
"I'll call my father." ..Do." She tries and can't talk; I wouldn't bothenshe thinks to herself, plainness loftily. Shegoesout into the gardenwith him. Under the treeshis vanisheslike smoke. "You want lemonade,"he says. .,I'm not going to talk to you," she responds."I'll talk to Will. Yes! I'll make him-" ,.In trouble," saysMr. Guevara, returning silently with lemonadein a glasscup. "No thank you." "She wants to get away,"saysMartin Guevara' "I know'" ..If I had your irick of walking like a cat," she says,"I could get out of anything." "l can get out of anythingi' saysthe gentleman,handingEmily her a difficulty. I can even get you out of punch, "out of an engagement, anything." o'You
EmilYsuddenly. "I loatheyou;'whispers ugly."
walk like a cat.You're
"Not out here," he remarks. ..Who has to be afraid of lights?" cries Emily energetically.He stands away from the paper lanterns strung between the trees, handsome, comfortable and collected,watching Emily's cut-glasscup shake in her hand. "I can't movel'she saysmiserably. "Try." She takes a step towards him. "See; you can'" 'oBut I wanted to go away!" With sudden hysteria she flingS the
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lemonade (cup and all) into his face, but he is no longer there. "what are you doing at a church supper,you hypocrite!" she shouts tearfully at the vacancy. SweetWilliam has to lead her in to bed. "You thought better of it," remarks Martin, head framed in an evening window, sounds of footstepsoutside,ladies' heels clicking in the streets. "I don't know you;'she saysmiserably,,,I just don't." Hi takesher light shawl, a pattern in India cashmere. "That will come," he says,smiling. He sits again,takesher hand, and squeezesthe skin on the wrist. 'ol-et me go, please?"she saystike a child. "I don't know." "You talk like the smart young gentlemen at Andover; they were all fools." "Perhaps you overawedthem." He leans forward and puts his hand around the back of her neck for a moment. ,,come on, dear." "What are you talking about!" Emily cries. "San Franciscois a lovely city. I had ancestorshere three hundred years ago." "Don't think that becauseI came here_" "she doesn't," he whispers,graspingher shoulder,,.shedoesn't know a thing." "Goddamn you!" He blinks and sits back.Emily is weeping.The confusionof the rooman over-stuffed,over-drapedhotel room-has gotten on her nerves. she snatchesfor her shawl,which is still in his gr.sp, but he holds it out of her reach,darting his handsome,unnaturally young face from side to side as she tries to reach round him. She falis-.r.oJr his lap and lies there, breathlesswith terror. "You're cold," she whispers,horrified, ,.you,re cold as a corpse." The shawl descendslightly over her headand shoulders.His frozen hands help her to her feet.He is delighted;he bareshis teeth in a smile. "I thinki'he says,tastingit, "that I'm going to visit your family." "But you don't-" shestumbles-"you don;twant to...sleep with me. I know it." "I can be a suitor like anyone else," he says. That night Emily tells it all to charlotte, who, afraid of the rou6, sraysup and readsa French novel as the light drains from the windows and the true black dark takesits place.It is almostdawn and Charlottehas beendozing, when Emily shakesher friend awake,kneeling by the bed with innocent blue eyesreflecting the dying night.
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"I had a terrible dream," she complains' "Hmmmm?" ,.I dreamedl' says Emily tiredly. "I had a nightmare.I dreamed I was a thing, I walking by the beachand I decidedto go swimming and then a ' ' ' don't know . . . it took me by the neck." "Is that all?" saysCharlotte peevishly' ,,I,m sickl' saysEmily with childish satisfaction.She pushesCharlotte again over in the bed and climbs in with her."I won't haveto seethat man if I'm sick." "Pooh, why not?" mumbles Charlotte' "BecauseI'll have to stay home." "He'll visit you." "William won't let him." ..Sick?" sayscharlotte then, suddenlywaking up. Shemovesawayfrom her friend, for she has read more bad fiction than Emily and less moral poetry. ' ..Ves,I feel awfull' saysEmily simply, resting her head on her knees. of She pulis awayin tired irritation when her friend reachesfor the collar jumps bed. of out and looks her nightdress.charlotte .,of,;'says charlotte. "oh-goodness-oh-" holding out her hands. you?" with "What on earth'sthe matter "He's-" whispersCharlottein horror,"he's-" In the dim light her hands are black with blood' ..you,ve come," he says.He is lying on his hotel sofa,readinga newspaper' his feet over one arm and a hand trailing on the rug. "Yes," she answers,trembling with resolution' "I never thought this place would have such a good use. But I never know when I'll manageto pick up money-" With a blow of her hand,she makesa fountain of the newspaper;he lies on the sofa,mildlY amused. ..Nobodyknows I came," she saysrapidly."But I'm going to finish you off. I know how." She hunts feverishly in her bag' "I wouldn'tl'he remarks quietly. .Ah!" Hauling out her babi cross(silver), she confrontshim with it like Joan of Arc. He is still amused,still mildly surprised. ,.In your hands?" he saysdelicately.Her fingers are loosening,her face pitiful. ^ ..My dear,the significanceis in the feeling, the faith, not the symbol. in your You uie that the way you would use a hypodermic needle' Now father's hands-" ..I droppeditl'she saysin a little voice.He picksit up and handsit to her.
MY DEAR EMILY "You can touch-"
ttI
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can.tt
"Oh my God!" shecriesin despair. "My dear."He putsonearmaroundher,holdingher againsthim, a very strongman for shepushesfranticallyto free herself."How many times have / said that! But you'll learn. Do I sound like the silly boys at Andover?"Emily'seyesarefixed andher throatcontracts;he forcesher headbetweenher knees."The wayyou go on,you'dthink I wasbadluck." trl-I-
tt
'And you without the plentiful lack of brains that characterizesyour friend. She'll be somebody'sshort work and I think I know whose." Emily turns white again. "I'll send her around to you afterwards.Good God! What do you think will happento her?" "She'll die," saysEmily clearly.He graspsher by the shoulders. 'Ah!" he sayswith immense satisfaction.'And after that? Who lives forever after that? Did you know that?" "Yes, people like you don't die," whispers Emily. "But you're not people- " "No," he saysintently, "no.'We're not." He standsEmily on her feet. "We're a passion!"Smilingtriumphantlg he puts his handson eachsideof her head,flattening the pretty curls, digging his fingers into the hair, in a grip Emily can no more break than she could break a vise. "We're passion,"he whispers,amused."Life is passion.Desire makes life." 'Ah, let me go," saysEmily. He smiles ecstaticallyat the sick girl. "Desire," he says dreamily, "lives; that lives when nothing else does, and we're desire made purely, desire walking the Earth. Can a dead man walk? Ah! If you want, want, want . . ." He throwshis arms aroundher,pressingher headto his chestand nearly suffocatingher, ruining her elaboratecoiffure and cfushing her lace at her throat. Emily breathesin the deadnessabout him, the queer absenceof odor, or heat, or presence;her mouth is pressedagainstthe cloth of his fashionablesuit, expensivestuff, a good dollar a yard, gotten by-what? But his hands are strong enough to get anything. "You see,"he saysgently,"I enjoy someonewith intelligence,even with morals; it addsa certain- And besides-" here he releasesh'erand holds her face up to his- "we like souls that come to us; these visits to the bedrooms of unconscious citizens are rather like frequenting a public brothel." "I abhor youl' managesEmily. He laughs.He's delighted.
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"YeS, yes, dear;' he sayS,"but dOn't imagine we're callOusparaSites. Followers of the Marquis de Sade,perhaps-you see Frisco has evening hours for its bookstores!-but sensitivesouls,really,and apt to long for a little consciouspartnership."Emily shuts her eyes. "I said," he goes on, with a touch of hardness,"that I am a genuineseducer.I flatter myself that I'm not an animal." "You're a monsterl' says Emily, with utter conviction. Keeping one hand on her shoulder,he stepsback a pace. "Go." Shestands,unableto believeher luck, then makeswhat seemsto her a rush for the door; it carries her into his arms. "You see?" He's pleased;he's proveda point. "I can't," she says,with wide eyesand wrinkled forehead... "You will." He reachesfor her and she faints. Down in the dark where love and some other things make their hidingplace, Emily drifts aimlessly,quite alone, quite cold, like a dead woman without a passionin her soul to make her come back to life. Sheopensher eyesand finds herself looking at his face in the dark, as if the man carriedhis own light with him. "I'll die," she sayssoftly. "Not for a while," he drawls,sleek and content. "You've killed me." "I've loved." "Love!" "Say 'taken' then, if you insist." "I do! I do!" she cried bitterly. "You decidedto faint." "Oh the hell with you!" she shouts. "Good girl!" And as she collapses,weeping hysterically,"Now, no\r, come here, dear ..." nuzzling her abusedlittle neck. He kissesit in the tenderestfashion with an exaggerated,mocking sigh; she twists away,but is pulled closerand ashis lips open over the teeth of inhuman, deaddesire, his victim finds-to her surprise-that there is no pain.Shebracesherself and then, unexpectedly,shivers from head to foot. "Stop it!" she whispers,horrified. "Stop it! Stop it!" But a vampire who has found a soul-mate (even a temporary one) will be immoderate.There's no stopping them. Charlotte's books have not preparedher for this. "You're to stay in the house, my dear,becauseyou're ill." "I'm not," Emily says,pulling the sheet up to her chiit. "Of courseyou are." The Reverendbeamsat her, under the portrait of
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Emily's dead mother which hangs in Emily's bedroom."you've had a severechill." "But I have to get out!" says Emily, sitting up. "BecauseI have an appointment,you see." "Not nowl' saysthe Reverend. "But I can't have a severechill in the summer!" "You look so like your motheri'says the Reverend,musing.After he has gone away,Charlotte comes in. o'I have to stay in the damned bed," saysEmily forcefully,wiggling her toesunder the sheet.Charlotte,who hasbeencarryinga tray with tea and a posy on it, drops it on the washstand. "Why, Emily!" o'I have to stay in the damned bed the whole damned dayj' Emily adds. o'Dear,why do you use those words?" o'Because the whole world's damned!" After the duties of his employmentwere completedat six o'clock on a Wednesday,William came to the house with a doctor and introduced him to the Reverendand Emily's bosom friend. The streetlamps would not be lit for an hour but the sun wasjust down and the little partycongregated in the gardenunder remainsof Japanesepaperlanterns.No one ever worried that these might set themselveson fire. Lucy brought tea-they were one of the few civilized circlesin Frisco-and over the tea, in the darkening garden,to the accompanimentof sugar-tongsand plopping cream (very musical) they talked. "Do you thinkl' says the Reverend,very worried, "that it might be consumption?" "Perhapsthe lungs are affected,"saysthe doctor. "She'salwaysbeensucha robustgirl." This is William, putting down the teapotwhich hasa knitted tube aboutthe handle,for insulation.Charlotte is stirring her tea with a spoon. "It's very strange,"saysthe doctor serenely,and he repeats"it's very strange" asshadowsadvancein the garden."But young ladies,you knowespeciallyat twenty-young ladies often take strange ideas into their heads;they do, they often do; they droop; they worry." His eyesare mild, his back sags, he hears the pleasant gurgle of more tea. A quiet consultation,good people, good solid people, a little illness, nothing serious'oNo," says Charlotte. Nobody hears her. "I knew a young lady once-" ventures the doctor mildly. 'oNo," says Charlotte, more lotrdly. Everyone turns to her, and Lucy, taking the opportunity,insinuatesa plate of small-sizedmuffins in front of Charlotte.
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"I cantell you all aboutit," muttersCharlotte,glancingup from under "But you'll laugh." her eyebro\ils. "Now,,dear-" saysthe Reverend. "Now,miss-" saysthe doctor. 'As a friend-" saysWilliam. Charlottebeginsto sob. "Oh;'she says,"I'll-I'll tell you aboutit." Emily meets Mr. Guevaraat the Mansion House at seven' having of health(throughself-denial)and a goodsolid an appearance recovered Shestands recordof spendingthe eveningsat home(throughself-control). her backrigid as a stick,drawingon at the hotel'swrought-irongateway, out of the blue eveningshadowsand white gloves.Martin materializes takesher arm. "I shalllike living foreverl'saysEmily,thoughtfully. "God deliverme from Puritans,"saysMr. Guevara. "What?" "You'rea lady.You'll swallowme up." with a glint of teeth. "I'll do anythingI please,"remarksEmily severely, '.Ah:' "You don't caretwo pins for "I will." They walk throughthe gateway. me.tt
"Unfortunately," sayshe, bowing. "It's not unfortunate as long as I carefor me," saysEmily, smiling with great energy."Damn them all." "You proper girls would overturn the world." Along they walk in the evening, in quiet, respectablerustle of clothes.Halfway to the restaurant she stops and saysbreathlessly: "Let's go-somewhere else!" "My dear,you'll ruin your health!" "You know better.Three weeks ago I was sick as a dog and much you cared; I haven't slept for days and I'm fine." "You look fine." 'Ah! You mean I'm beginning to look dead,like you." Shetightens her hold on his arm, to bring him closer. "Dead?" sayshe, slipping his arm around her. "Fixed. Bright-eyed.Always at the sameheat and not a moment's rest." "It agreeswith you." "I adoreyou," she says. When Emily gets home, there's a reckoning.The Reverendstandsin the doorway and sad William, too, but not Charlotte, for she is on the parlor sofa,having had hysterics.
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"Dear Emily," saysthe Reverend."'we don't know how to tell you this-" "Why, Daddy, what?" exclaims Emily, making wide-eyesat him. "Your little friend told us-" "Has somethinghappenedto charlotte?" cries Emily.',oh tell me, tell me, what happenedto Charlotte?" And before they can stop her she has flown into the parlor and is kneeling besideher friend, wondering if she darespinch her under cover of her shawl.William, quick as a flash, kneels on one side of her and Daddy on the other. "Dear Emily!" cries William with fervor. "Oh sweetheart!" saysCharlotte, reachingdown and putting her arms around her friend. "You're well!" shouts Emily, sobbing over charlotte's hand and thinking perhapsto bite her. But the Reverend'sarms lift her up. "My dearj' sayshe, "you came home unaccompanied.you were not at the Society." "But," says Emily, smiling dazzlingly,"two of the girls took all my hospital sewing to their house becausewe must finish it right away and I havenot-" "You have been lying to us," the Reverend says. Now,thinks Emily, Sweet Wlliam will cover hisface. Charlotte sobs. "She can't help it," saysCharlotte brokenly."It's the spell." "Why,I think everyone'sgoneout of their minds," saysEmily, frowning. SweetWilliam takesher from Daddy,leadingher away from Charlotte. "weren't you with a gentlemantonight?" saysSweetwill firmly. Emily backs away. "For shame!" "She doesn't remember it," explains Charlotte; "it's part of his spell." "I think you ought to get a doctor for her," observesEmily. "You were with a gentlemannamed Guevara," sayswill, showing less tendernessthan Emily expects."weren't you? well-weren't you?" "Bad cessto you if I was!" snapsEmily, surprisedat herself.The other three gasp.'oI won't be questioned,"she goes on, "and I won't be spied upon. And I think you'd better take some of Charlotte'sbooks awayfrom her; she's getting downright silly." "You have too much color," sayswitl, catching her hands. "you're ill but you don't sleep.You stay awakeall night. You don't eat. But look at you!" "I don't understand you. Do you want me to be ugly?" says Emily, trying to be pitiful. Will softens; she seeshim do it. "My dear Emily," he says."My dear girl-we're afraid for you." "Me?" saysEmily, enjoying herself. "'We'd better put you to bed," saysthe Reverendkindly.
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"You're so kind," whispers Emily, blinking as if she held back tears. "That's a good girll' says Will, approving. "We know you don't understand.But we'll take care of you, Em." "Will you?" "Yes, dear.You've been near very gravedanger,but luckily we found Out in time, and we found out what to do; we'll make you well, we'll keep you safe,we'll-" "Not with that you won't," says Emily suddeqly,rooting herself to the spot,for what William takesout of his vest pocket (wherehe usually keeps his watch) is a broad-leaved,prickle-faceddock called wolfsbane;it must distressany vampire of senseto be so enslavedto pure superstition.But enslavedthey are, nonetheless. "Oh, no!" saysEmily swiftly. "That's silly, perfectly silly!" "Common sensemust give way in such a crisisl'remarks the Reverend gravely. ' "You bastard!" shouts Emily, turning red, attemptingto tear the charm out of her fianc6's hand and jump up and down on it. But the Reverend holds one arm and Charlotte the other and between them they pry her fingers apart and William puts his propertygently in his vest pocket again. "She's far gone," says the Reverend fearfully, at his angry daughter. Emily is scowling,Charlotte stroking her hair. "Ssssh"saysWill with greatseriousness."We must get her to bed," and betweenthem they half-carry Emily up the stairs and put her, dressedas she is, in the big double bed with the plush headboardthat she has shared so fdr with Charlotte.Daddyand fiance confer in the room acrossthe long, low rambling hall, and Charlotte sits by her rebellious friend's bed and attempts to hold her hand. "I won't permit it; you're a damned fool!" saysEmily. "Oh, Emmy!" "Bosh." "It's true!" "Is it?" With extraordinaryswiftness,Emily turns round in the bed and rises to her knees."Do you know anything about it?" "I know it's horrid, I-" "Silly!" Playfully Emily puts her hands on Charlotte's shoulders.Her eyes are narrowed,her nostrils widened to breathe; she parts her lips a little and looks archly at her friend. "You don't know anything about it," she saysinsinuatingly. "I'll call your father," saysCharlotte quickly. Emily throws an arm around her friend's neck. "Not yet! Dear Charlotte!" "We'll saveyouj'says Charlotte doubtfully.
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"SweetCharrie;you'remy friend,aren'tyou?" Charlottebeginsto sobagain. "Give me thoseawful things,thoseleaves." "Why, Emily,I couldn't!" "But he'll comefor me and I haveto protectmyself,don't I?" "I'll call your father,"saysCharlottefirmly. "No, l'm afraid."Emily wrinklesher foreheadsadly. "Well-" "sometimesI-I-" falters Emily. "I can't move or run awayand everythinglooksso-so strangeandhorrible-" "Oh, here!" Coveringher facewith onehand,Charlotteholdsout her preciousdock leavesin the other. "Dearn dear!Oh,sweet!Oh thankyou!Don'tbeafraid.He isn'tafteryou." "I hopenot," saysthe bosomfriend. "Oh no, he told me. It's me he's after." "How awful,"saysCharlotte,sincerely. "Yes,"saysEmily."Look."And shepullsdownthe collarof herdressto showthe uglymatks,whitedotsunnaturallyhealedup,like the pockmarks of a drug addict. "Don't!" chokesCharlotte. Emily srnilesmournfully."we reallyoughtto put the lightsout," she says. "Out!t' "Yes, you can see him better that way. If the lights are on, he could sneak in without being seen; he doesn't mind lights, you know." "I don't know, dear-" "I do." (Emily is dropping the dock leavesinto the washstand,under cover of her skirt.) "f'm afraid. Please." "Well-" "oh, you must!" And leaping to her feet, she turns down the gas to a dim glow; Charlotte's face fades into the obscurity of the deepening shadows. o'So.The lights are out," saysEmily quietly. "I'll ask Will-" Charlottebegins. . . "No, dear.tt "But, Emily-" "He's coming, dear." "You mean Will is coming." "No, not Will:' "Emily, you're &-" "I'm a sneak,'osaysEmily, chuckling. "sssssh!" And, while her friend sits paralyzed,oneof the windows swingsopen in the night breeze,a lead-
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paned window that opens on a hinge, for the Reverend is fond of culture and old architecture.Charlotte lets out a little noise in her throat; and then-with the smashof a pistol shot-the gaslightshattersand the flame goesout. Gas hissesinto the air, quietly, insinuatingly,as if explaining the i.me thing over and over.Charlotte screarnswith her whole heart. In the dark a hand clamps like a vise on Emily's wrist. A moment passes. "Charlotte?" she whisPers. "Dead," saysGuevara. Emily has spent most of the day asleepin the rubble, with his coat rolled under her headwhere he threw it the moment beforesunrise,the moment before he staggeredto his place and plunged into sleep.She has watched the dawn come up behind the rusty barredgate,and then drifted into sleep herself with his face beforeher closedeyes-his face burning with a rigid, constricted,unwasting vitality. Now she wakes aching and bruised, with ,the sun of late afternoon in her face. Sitting againstthe stone wall, she sneezestwice and tries, ineffectually,to shakethe dust from her silk skirt. Oh, how-she thinks vaguely-how messy.She gets to her feet. There's somethingI have to do. The iron gate swings open at a touch. Treesand gravestonestilted everywhich way. llhot did he sayTNothing woulddisturb it but a Historical Society. Having tidied herself asbest she can,with his coat over her arm and the addressof his tailor in her pocket,she trudges among the erupted stones, which tilt crazily to all sides as if in an earthquake.Blood (Charlotte's, whom she does not think about) has spreadthinly on to her hair and the hem of her dress,but her hair is done up with fine feeling, despite the absenceof a mirror, and her dressis dark gray; the spot looks like a spot of dust.Shefolds the coat into a neat packageand usesit to wipe the dust off her shoes,then lightens her step pastthe cemeteryentrance,trying to look healthy and respectable.She achesall over from sleepingon the ground. Once in town and having ascertainedfrom a shop window that she will passmuster in a crowd,Emily trudgesup hills and down hills to the tailor, fhe evidenceover her arm. Shestopsat other windows,to look or to admire herself; thinks smugly of her improved coloring; shifts the parcel on her arm to show off her waist. In one window there is a display of religious objects-beads and crosses,books with fringed gilt bookmarks,a colored chromo of Madonna and Child. In this window Emily admiresherself. "It's Emilg dear!" appearsin the window beside her, with Constantia,Mrs. A Mrs. Ltwelve-year-oldoffspring. L-'s noticing no "Why, dear,whatever happenedto you?" saysMrs. L-, hat, no gloves,and no veil.
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"Nothing; whateverhappenedto you?" saysEmily cockily.constantia's eyesgrow wide with astonishmentat the fine, free audacityof it. "Why, you look as if you'd been-" "Picnicking,"saysEmily, promptly."one of the gentlemenspilledbeer on his coat." And she's in the shop now and hanging over the counter, flushed, counting the coral and amber beadsstrung around a crucifix. Mrs. Lknocks doubtfully on the window-glass. Emily wavesand smiles. your father_form Mrs. L_'s lips in the glass. Emily nods and wavescheerfully. They do go away,finally. 'A fine gentleman," saysthe tailor earnestly,"a very fine man." He lisps a little. "oh very fine," agreesEmily, sitting on a stool and kicking the rungs with her feet. "Monstrous fine." "But very careless,"saysthe tailor fretfully, pulling Martin's coat nearer the window so he can see it, for the shop is a hole-in-the-wall and dark. "He shouldn't send a lady to this part of the town." "I was a lady once," saysEmily. t'Mmmmm." "It's fruit stains-something awful, don't you think?" "I cannot have this ready by tonight," looking up. "Well, you must, that's all," saysEmily calmly."You alwayshaveand he hasa lot of confidencein you, you know.He'd be awfully angry if he found out.t' "Found out?" sharply. "That you can't have it ready by tonight." The tailor ponders. "I'll positivelystayin the shopwhile you work," saysEmily flatteringly. "why, Reverend,I sawher on King Streetas dirty as a gypsy,with her hair loose and the wildest eyes and I triedto talk to het but she dashedinto a shop-" The sun goesdown in a broad belt of gold, goesdown over the ocean,over the hills and the beaches,makes shadowslengthen in the street near the quays where a lisping tailor smooths and alters, working againstthe sun (and very uncomfortablehe is, too), watchedby a pair of unwinking eyes that glitter a little in the dusk inside the stuffy shop. 0 tnin* I've changed, meditatesEmily.) He finishes, finally, with relief, and sits with an oufl handing her the
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coat,the new and beautiful coat that will be worn as soon as the eccentric gentleman comes out to take the evening air. The eccentric gentleman, saysEmily incautiously,will do so in an hour by the Mansion House when the last traces of light have faded from the sky. "Then, my dear Miss," saysthe tailor unctuously,"I think a little matter of pay-" "You don't thinkl' says Emily softly, "or you wouldn't have gotten yourself into such a mess as to be this eccentric gentleman'stailor." And out she goes. Now nobody can see the stains on Emily's skirt or in her hair; street lamps are being lit, there are no more carriages,and the number of people in the streetsgrows-San Franciscomaking the most of the short summer nights. It is perhapsfifteen minutes back to the fashionablepart of the town where Emily's hatless,shawllessstatewill be lootcedon with disdain; here nobody notices. Emily dawdles through the streets, fingering her throat, yawning, looking at the sky,thinking: 1 love,I love,I loveShehas fastedfor the day but she feels fine; she feelsbusy,busy inside as if the life inside her is flowering and bestirring itsell populatedas the streets.She remembersyou foul I loveyou. I hateyou. Youenchantment,you degradingnecessity, and fiilthy life, you promiseof endlesslove ond endlesstime . . . What words to say with Charlotte sleepingin the same room, no, the same bed, with her hands folded under her face! Innocent sweetheart, whose state must now be rather different. Up the hills she goes,where the view becomeswider and wider, and the lights spreadout like sparkleson a cake, out of the section which is too dangerous,too low, and too furtive to bother with a lady (or is it something in her eyes?), into the broaderbystreetswhere shore-leavesailors try to make her acquaintanceby falling into step and seizing her elhow; she snakesawaywith unboundedstrength,darts into shadows,laughsin their faces:"I've got what I want!" "Not like me!" "Better!" This is the BarbaryCoast,only beginningto becomea tourist attraction; there are barkers outside the restaurantsadvertising pretty waiter girls, dance halls, spangledposters twice the height of a man, crowds upon crowdsof people,one or two guideswith tickets in their hats, and Emilywho keepsto the shadows.She nearly chokeswith laughter: Whatafield of ripe whearlOne of the barkers hoists her by the waist onto his platform. "Do you see this little lady? Do you see this-" "Let me go, Goddamn you!" she cries indignantly. "This angry little lady-" pushingher chin with one sun-burnedhand
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to make her face the crowd."This-" But here Emily hurts him, slashing his palm with her teeth, quite pleasedwith herself,but surprised,too, for the man was holding his hand cupped and the whole thing seemedto happen of itself. She escapesinstantly into the crowd and continues up through the Coast,through the old Tenderloin,drunk with self-confidence, slipping like a shadowthrough the now genteelstreetsand arriving at the Mansion House gate having seenno family spiesand convincedthat none has seen her. But nobody is there. Ten by the clock, and no one is there, either; elevenby the clock and still no one. Whydidn't I leavethislife whenI had the chance!Onlyone thing consolesEmily, that by some alchemyor nearnessto the stateshe longs for, no one bothers or questionsher and even the policemenpassher by as if in her little corner of the gate there is nothing but a shadow.Midnight and no one, half-past and she dozes; perhapsthree hours later, perhaps four, she is startled awakeby the sound of footsteps.Shewakes: nothing. She sleepsagain and in her dream hears them for the secondtime, then she wakesto find herself looking into the face of a lady who wearsa veil. "What!" Emily's startledwhisper. The lady gesturesvaguely,as if trying to speak. "What is it?" "Don't-" and the ladyspeakswith feelingbut, it seems,with difficulty also-"don't go home." "Home?" echoesEmily, stupefied,and the strangernods,saying: "In danger." "Who?" Emily is horrified. "He's in danger."Behind her veil her face seemsalmost to emit a faint light of its own. "You're one of them," saysEmily.'Aren't you?'oand when the woman nods,addsdesperately, "Then you must savehim!" The lady smiles pitifully; that much of her face can be seenas the light breezeplayswith her net veil. "But you must!" exclaimsEmily."You know how; I don't; you'vegot to!" "I don't dare," very softly. Then the veiled woman turns to go, but Emily-quite hystericalnow-seizes her hand, saying: "Who are you? Who are you?" The lady gesturesvaguely and shakesher head. "Who are you!" repeatsEmily with more energy."You tell me, do you hear?" Sombrelythe lady raisesher veil and staresat her friend with a tragic, dignified, pitiful gaze.In the darknessher face burns with unnatural and beautiful color. It is Charlotte.
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glassyandghostly.Slowly,shapes Dawncomeswith a pellucidquickening, emergefrom darknessand the blue poursbackinto the world-twilight and the naturalorderreversed.Destruction,which is turned backwards simple,logical,andeasy,finds a kind of mockingparodyin the morning's creation.Light hasno businesscomingback,but light does. Emily reachesthe cemeteryjust asthe caldronin the eastoverflows,just asthe birds(idiotslshethinks)begina tentativecheepingandchirping.She sitsat the gatefor a minuteto regainher strength,for the night'swalking In front of her the stoneslie on graves, and worry havetried her severely. real, waiting for the risingof the sun to finish hard and completely almost of them. Emily rises and make masterpieces them off and complete ground risesto its topmost the as trudgesup the hill, slowerand slower years peaceful Guevarasfertilizethe grass of swell,wherethreehundred and do their bestto discreditthe one wild shootthat lives on, the only memberof the family.Weepinga little to herself,Emily lags disrespectful up the hill, raisingher skirtsto keepthem off the weeds,andmurderously hatingin her heartthe increasing light andthe happiercelebratingof the birds.Sheroundsthe last hillock of groundand raisesher eyesto the Guevaras'eternalmansion,expectingto seenobodyagain.Thereis the cornerof the building,the low iron gateIn front of it standsMartin Guevarabetweenher father and Sweet SweetWill, captivedby botharms,his facepaleandbeautifulbetweentwo goldcrosses that arejust beginningto sparklein the light of day. "We are caughtl'saysGuevara,seeingher,directingat her his fixed, whitesmile. "You let him go,"saysEmily-very reasonably. "You'resafe,my Emily!" criesSweetWill. to the "Let him go!" Sherunsto them,stops,looksat them,perplexed bottomof her soul. "Let him go,"shesays."Let him go, let him go!" Betweenthe two bitsof jewelry,Emily'slife andhopeandonly pleasure smilespainfullyat her,the color drainedout of his face,desperate eyes fixed on the east. "You don't understandj'saysEmily, inventing."He isn't dangerous now.If you let him go, he'll run insideandthen you cancomebackany time duringthe dayand finish him off. I'm sick.You-" Thewordsdie in her throat.All aroundthem,from everytreeandhedge, from boughsthat haveshelteredthe graveyardfor a hundredyears,the birdsbegintheir morningnoise.A greathallelujahrises;afterall, the birds havenothing to worry about.Numb, with legs like sticks,Emily sees sunlighttouch the top of the stonemausoleum,sunlightslide down its face,sunlightreachthe levelof a standingman-
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"I adoreyou;' saysMartin to her.with the slow bendingover of a drowningman,he doublesup,like a manstuckwith a knifein a dream;he doublesup, fallsAnd Emily screams;whata scream!asif her soulwerebeinghaledout throughher throat;andsheis runningdownthe othersideof the little hill to regionsasyet untouchedby the sun,cryinginwardly:I needhelp!help! help!- Sheknowswhereshecanget it. Threehundredfeetdownthe hill in a valley,a woodedprotectedvalleysunk belowthe touchof the rising sun,theresherunsthroughthe trees,pastthe fencethat separates the old graveyardfrom the new, expensive,polishedgranite-Charlotteis her friend,shelovesher: Charlottein her new homewill makeroomfor her.
Descending ThomasM. Disch
Catsup,mustard,pickle relish,mayonnaise, two kinds of saladdressing, bacongrease, anda lemon.Oh yes,two traysof ice cubes.In the cupboard it wasn'tmuchbetter:jars andboxesof spice,flour,sugar,salt-and a box of raisins! An emptybox of raisins. Not even any coffee.Not even tea, which he hated.Nothing in the mailboxbut a bill from Underwood's:Unlesswereceivethearuearsonyour $4.75 in changejingled in his coat pocket-the plunder of the Chianti bottle he had promised himself never to break open. He was sparedthe unpleasantnessof having to sell his books. They had all been sold. The letter to Graham had gone out a week ago.If his brother intended to send something this time, it would have come by now. -I should be desperate,he thought-Perhaps I am. He might have looked in the Times.But, no, that was too depressingapplyingfor jobs at $50 a week and being turned down. Not that he blamed them; he wouldn't havehired himself himself.He had been a grasshopper for years.The ants were on to his tricks. 375
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He shavedwithout soapand brushedhis shoesto a high polish.He whitenedthe sepulchreof his unwashedtorsowith a fresh,starchedshirt tie from the rack.He beganto feel excitedand and chosehis somberest icily calm. statuesquely, it, characteristically, by appearing expressed Mrs. Beale, the stairwayto the first floor,he encountered Descending to sweepthe well-swept who was.pretending floor of the entrance. "Good afternoon-or I s'poseit's goodmorningfor you, eh?" "Good afternoon,Mrs. Beale." "Your lettercome?" "Not yet." "The first of the month isn't far off." "Yesindeed,Mrs. Beale." At the subwaystationhe considered a momentbeforeansweringthe attendant:Onetokenor two?Two,he decided.After all, he hadno choice, but to returnto his apartment. The first of the monthwasstill a longway off. -If JeanValjeanhadhada chargeaccount,he wouldhavenevergoneto prison. Havingthus cheeredhimself,he settleddownto enjoythe adsin the subwaycar.Smoke.Tiy.Eat.Live.See.Drink. Use.Buy.Hethoughtof Alice with her mushrooms:Eat me. At 34th Streethe got off and enteredUnderwood'sDepartmentStore directlyfrom the train platform.On the mainfloor he stoppedat the cigar standand boughta cartonof cigarettes. "Cashor charge?o' "Charge."He handedthe clerk the laminatedplasticcard.The charge wasrung up. judiciously. wason 5.He madehis selection Fancygroceries A jar of instant and a 2-poundcan of drip-groundcoffee,a large tin of cornedbeel packagedsoupsand boxesof pancakemix and condensedmilk. Jam, peanutbutter,andhoney.Sixcansof tunafish.Then,he indulgedhimself in perishables:English cookies,and Edam cheese,a small fiozen pheasant-evenfruitcake.He neverateso well aswhenhe wasbroke.He couldn'taffordto. "$14.87." This time afterringingup his charge,the clerkcheckedthe numberon his card againsther list of closedor doubtful accounts.She smiled apologetically andhandedthe cardback. "Sorrg but we haveto check." "I understand." Thebagof groceries weigheda goodtwentypounds.Carryingit with the
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exquisite casualnessof a burglar passingbeforea policemanwith his loot, he took the escalatorto the bookshop on 8. His choice of books was determined by the same principle as his choice of groceries.First, the staples: two victorian novels he had never read, vanity Fair and Middlemarch;the Sayers'translation of Dante, and a two-volume anthology of German playsnone of which he had readand few he had even heard of. Then the perishables:a sensationalnovel that had reachedthe best seller list via the SupremeCourt, and two mysteries. He had begun to feel giddy with self-indulgence.He reachedinto his jacket pocket for a coin. -Heads a new suit; tails the Sky Room. Thils. The Sky Room on 15 was empty of all but a few women chatting over coffee and cakes.He was able to get a seat by a window.He orderedfrom the d la Carte side of the menu and linished his meal with Espressoand baklava.He handed the waitresshis credit card and tipped her fifty cents. Dawdling over his secondcup of coffee, he began VanityFair. Rather to his surprise,he found himself enjoying it. The waitressreturned with his card and a receipt for the meal. Sincethe Sky Room was on the top floor of Underwood'sthere was only one escalatorto takenow-Descending. Riding down, he continued to read vanity Fair. He could read anywhere-in restaurants,on subways,even walking down the street.At eachlanding he madehis way from the foot of one escalatorto the headof the next without lifting his eyesfrom the book. When he cameto the BargainBasement,he would be only a few stepsfrom the subwayturnstile. He was halfway through Chapter VI (on page55, to be exact) when he beganto feel something amiss. -How long does this damn thing take to reach the basement? He stopped at the next landing, but there was no sign to indicate on what floor he was nor any door by which he might re-enter the store. Deducingfrom this that he was betweenfloors, he took the escalatordown one more flight only to find the same perplexing absenceof landmarks. There was, however,a water fountain, and he stoppedto take a drink. -I must have gone to a sub-basement.But this was not too likely after all. Escalatorswere seldom provided for janitors and stockboys. He waited on the landing watching the steps of the escalatorsslowly descendtoward him and, at the end of their journey, telescopein upon themselvesand disappear.He waited a long while, and no one else came down the moving steps. -Perhaps the storehas closed.Having no wristwatch and having rather lost track of the time, he had no way of knowing. At last,he reasonedthat
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he had become so engrossedin the Thackeraynovel that he had simply stoppedon one of the upper landings-say, on 8-to finish a chapter and had readon to page55 without realizingthat he was making no progresson the escalators. When he read,he could forget everything else. He must, therefore, still be somewhere above the main floor' The absenceof exits, though disconcerting,could be explainedby some quirk on the of the floor plan. The absenceof signs was merely a carelessness part of the management. He tucked VanityFairintohis shoppingbagand steppedonto the grilled lip of the down-goingescalator-not, it must be admitted,without a certain degreeof reluctance.At eachlanding,he marked his progressby a number spoken aloud. By eishthe was uneasy; by Jifteenhe was desperate. It was,of course,possiblethat he had to descendtwo flights of stairsfor every floor of the department store. With this possibility in mind, he counted off fifteen more landings. -No. Dazedly and as though to deny the reality of this seemingly interminablestairwell,he continuedhis descent.When he stoppedagainat the forty-fifth landing, he was trembling. He was afraid. He rested the shopping bag on the bare concretefloor of the landing, realizing that his arm had gone quite sore from supporting the twenty pounds and more of groceriesand books. He discounted the enticing possibilitythat "it wasall a dream,"for the dream-worldis the reality of the dreamer,to which he could not weakly surrender,no more than one could surrenderto the realitiesof life. Besides,he was not dreaming; of that he was quite sure. He checkedhis pulse.It was fast-say, eighty a minute. He rode down two more flights, counting his pulse. Eighty almost exactly.Two flights took only one minute. He could read approximatelyone page a minute, a little less on an escalator.Supposehe had spent one hour on the escalatorswhile he had read:sixty minutes-one hundred and twenty floors. Plus forty'seven that he had counted. One hundred sixty-seven.The Sky Room was on 15. 1 6 7- 1 5 : 1 5 2 . He was in the one-hundred-fifty-second sub-basement.That was impossible. The appropriateresponseto an impossiblesituation was to deal with it as though it were commonplace-like Alice in Wonderland. Ergo, he would return to underwood's the sameway he had (apparently)left it' He would watk up one hundred fifty-two flights of down-going escalators.
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Thkingthe stepsthree at a time and running, it wasalmostlike going up a regular staircase.But after ascendingthe secondescalatorin this manner, he found himself alreadyout of breath. There was no hurry. He would not allow himself to be overtaken bv panic. No. He picked up the bag of groceriesand bookshe had left on that landing, waiting for his breath to return, and darted up a third and fourth flight. While he restedon the landing,he tried to count the stepsbetweenfloors, but this count differeddependingon whetherhe countedwith the current or againstit, down or up. The averagewas roughlyeighteensteps,and the stepsappearedto be eight or nine inchesdeep.Eachflight was,therefore, about twelve feet. It was one-third of a mile, as the plumb drops,to Underwood'smain floor. Dashing up the ninth escalator,the bag of groceriesbroke open at the bottom, where the thawing pheasanthad dampenedthe paper.Groceries and bookstumbled onto the steps,somerolling of their own accordto the landing below, others being transported there by the moving stairs and forming a neat little pile. Only the jam jar had been broken. He stackedthe groceriesin the corner of the landing,except for the half-thawed pheasant,which he stuffed into his coat pocket,anticipating that his ascentwould take him well past his dinner hour. Physical exertion had dulled his finer feelings-to be precise,his capacityfor fear.Like a cross-countryrunner in his last laps,he thought single-mindedlyof the task at hand and madeno effort to understandwhat he had in any casealreadydecidedwas not to be understood.He mounted one flight, rested,mounted and restedagain.Each mount was wearier; eachrest longer.He stoppedcounting the landingsafter the twenty-eighth, and sometime after that-how long he had no idea-his legsgaveout and he collapsedto the concrete floor of the landing. His calves were hard achingknotsof muscle;his thighsquiverederratically.He tried to do kneebends and fell backward. Despite his recent dinner (assumingthat it had been recent), he was hungry and he devoured the entire pheasant,completely thawed now, without being able to tell if it were raw or had been pre-cooked. -This is what it's like to be a cannibal,he thought as he fell asleep. Sleeping,he dreamedhe was falling down a bottomlesspit. Waking, he discoverednothing had changed,except the dull ache in his legs,which had becomea sharppain. overhead, a single strip of fluorescent lighting snaked down the
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have stairwell. The mechanical purr of the escalators seemed to heightenedto the roar of a Niagara,and their rate of descentseemedto have increasedProportionatelY. Fever,he decided.He stood up stiffly and flexed some of the soreness from his muscles. Halfway up the third escalatoghis legs gave way under him' He attempted the climb againand succeeded.He collapsedagainon the next flight. Lyins on the landing where the escalatorhad deposited him, he realizedthat his hunger had returned.He also neededto have water-and to let it. The latter necessity he could easily-and without false modestysatisfy. Also he remembered the water fountain he had drunk from yesterdayand he found another three floors below. -It's so much easiergoing down. His grocerieswere down there. To go after them now, he would erase whatever progresshe had made in his ascent.PerhapsUnderwood'smain floor was only a few more flights up.Or a hundred. There was no way to know. Becausehe washungry and becausehe wastired and becausethe futility of mounting endless flights of descending escalatorswas, as he no\t consideredit, a labor of Sisyphus,hq returned, descended,gavein. At first, he allowedthe escalatorto take him along at its own mild pace, but he soon grew impatient of this. He found that the exerciseof running down the stepsthree at a time was not so exhaustingas running up.It was refreshing,almost.And, by swimming with the current insteadof against it, his progress,if such it can be called,wasappreciable.Inonly minuteshe was back at his cacheof groceries. After eating half the fruitcake and a little cheese,he fashionedhis coat into a sort of a sling for the groceries,knotting the sleevestogether and buttoning it closed.With one hand at the collar and the other about the hem, he could carry all his food with him. He looked up the descendingstaircasewith a scornful smile, for he had decided with the wisdom of failure to abandon thot venture. If the stairs wished to take him down, then down, giddily' he would go. Then, down he did go, down dizzily,down,down and always,it seemed, faster,spinning about lightly on his heelsat eachlanding so that there was hardly any breakin the wild speedof his descent.He whoopedand halooed and taughed to hear his whoopings echo in the narrow, low-vaulted corridors,following him as though they could not keep up his pace. Down, ever deeperdown. Twice he slippedat the landingsand once he missedhis footing in midleap on the escalator,hurtled forward, letting go of the sling of groceries
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and falling, hands stretched out to cushion him, onto the steps, which, imperturbably,continued their descent. He must have been unconsciousthen, for he woke up in a pile of grocerieswith a split cheekand a splittingheadache. The telescopingsteps of the escalatorgently grazedhis heels. He knew then his first moment of terror-a premonition that there was no end to his descent,but this feeling gaveway quickly to a laughing fit. "I'm going to hell!" he shouted,though he could not drown with his voice the steadypurr of the escalators."This is the way to hell. Abandon hope all ye who enter here." -If only I were, he reflected- If that were the case, it would make sense.Not quite orthodox sense,but some sense,a little. Sanity,however,was so integral to his characterthat neither hysterianor horror could long have their way with him. He gatheredup his groceries again,relieved to find that only the jar of instant coffee had been broken this time. After reflection he also discardedthe can of drip-ground coffee, for which he could conceiveno use-under the presentcircumstances. And he would allow himsell for the sakeof sanity,to conceiveof no other circumstancesthan those. He begana more deliberatedescent.He returned to VanityFain readingit as he paced down the down-going steps.He did not let himself consider the extent of the abyss into which he was plunging, and the vicarious excitement of the novel helped him keep his thoughts from his own situation.At page235,he lunched (that is, he took his secondmeal of the day) on the remainder of the cheeseand fruitcake; at 523 he rested and dined on the English cookies dipped in peanut butter. -Perhaps I had better ration my food. If he could regardthis absurddilemma merely asa strugglefor survival, another chapter in his own Robinson Crusoe story, he might get to the bottom of this mechanizedvortex alive and sane.He thought proudly that many peoplein his position could not haveadjusted,would havegone mad. Of coursenhe wasdescending... But he was still sane. He had chosen his course and now he was following it. There was no night in the stairwell,and scarcelyany shadows.He slept when his legs could no longer bear his weight and his eyes were tearful from reading.Sleeping,he dreamedthat he was continuing his descenton the escalators.Waking, his hand resting on the rubber railing that moved along at the same rate as the steps,he discoveredthis to be the case. Somnambulistically,he had ridden the escalatorsfurther down into this mild, interminable hell, leaving behind his bundle of food and even the still-unfinished Thackeraynovel.
ThomesM. Dlsch
he began,for the first time,to cry.Without Stumblingup the escalators, to the novel,therewasnothing thinkof but this,this... -How far? How long did I sleep? His legs,whichhadonly beenslightlyweariedby his descent,gaveout twentyflightsup. His spirit gaveout soonafter.Againhe turnedaround, allowedhimselfto be sweptup by current-or, moreexactly,sweptdown. seemedto be travelingmorerapidly,the pitchof the steps The escalator But he no longertrustedthe evidenceof his to be more pronounced. senses. -I am,perhaps, insane-or sickfromhunger.Yet,I wouldhaverun out Thiswill bringthe crisisto a head.Optimism,that'sthe of foodeventually. spirit! of his he occupiedhimselfwith a closeranalysis Continuinghisdescent, not undertakenwith anyhopeof betteringhis conditionbut environment, Thewallsandceilingswerehard,smooth, onlyfor lackof otherdiversions. stepswerea dull nickelcolor,the treadsbeing andoff-white.The escalator somewhatshinier,the crevicesdarker.Did that meanthat the treadswere polishedfromuse?Or weretheydesigned in thatfashion?The treadswere half an inch wide and spacedapartfrom eachother by the samewidth. Theyprojectedslightlyoverthe edgeof eachstep,resemblingsomewhat the head of a barber'sshears.Wheneverhe stoppedat a landing,his of the steps, attentionwouldbecomefixedon the illusory"disappearance" groove, into the grilled tread in as they sankflush to the floor and slid, baseplate. kss and lesswould he run, or even walk, down the stairs,content merelyto ridehis chosenstepfromtop to bottomof eachflight and,at the landing,step (left foot,right, andleft again)onto the escalatorthat would transporthim to the floor below.The stairwellnow hadtunneled,by his milesbeneaththe departmentstore-so manymilesthat he calculations, wonderingif himselfuponhis unsoughtadventure, beganto congratulate he hadestablished somesortof record.Justso,a criminalwill standin awe and be most proud of his vilest crime, which he of his own baseness believesunparalleled. In the daysthat followed,when his only nourishmentwasthe water from the fountainsprovidedat everytenthlanding,he thoughtfrequently of food,preparingimaginarymealsfrom the storeof grocerieshe hadleft of the honey,the richnessof the soup behind,savoringthe idealsweetness whichhe wouldprepareby soakingthe powderin the emptiedcookietin, lickingthe film of gelatinlining the openedcanof cornedbeef.Whenhe for he thoughtof the six cansof tunalish, his anxietybecameintolerable, had (would havehad) no way to open them. Merely to stampon them wouldnot beenough.What,then?He turnedthe questionoverandoverin
DESCENDING his head,like a squirrel spinning the wheel in its cage,to no avail. Then a curious thing happened.He quickened again the speedof his descent,faster now than when first he had done this, eagerlg headlong, absolutely heedless.The several landings seemed to flash by like a montageof Flight, eachscarcelyperceivedbeforethe next was beforehim. A demonic, pointlessrace-and why? He was running, so he thought, toward his store of groceries,either believing that they had been left below or thinking that he was running up. Clearly,he was delirious. It did not last.His weakenedbody could not maintain the frantic pace, and he awoke from his delirium confused and utterly spent.Now began another, tnore rational delirium, a madnessfired by logic. Lying on the landing, rubbing a torn muscle in his ankle, he speculatedon the nature, origin and purposeof theescalators.Reasonedthought wasof no more use to him, however,than unreasoningaction.Ingenuitywas helplessto solvea riddle that had no answer,which was its own reason,self-containedand whole. He-not the escalators-neededan answer. Perhapshis most interesting theory was the notion that these escalators were a kind of exercisewheel, like those found in a squirrel cage,from which, becauseit was a closed system, there could be no escape.This theory required some minor alterationsin his conceptionof the physical universe, which had always appearedhighly Euclidean to him before, a universe in which his descentseeminglyalong a plumb-line was, in fact, describinga loop. This theory cheeredhim, for he might hope,coming full circle, to return to his store of groceriesagain, if not to Underwood's. Perhapsin his abstractedstaie he had passedone or the other already severaltimes without observing. There was another, and related, theory concerning the measurestaken by Underwood'sCredit Department againstdelinquent accounts.This was mere paranoia. -Theories! I don't need theories.I must get on with it. So, favoring his god leg, he continued his descent, although his speculationsdid not immediately cease.They became,if anything, more metaphysical. They became vague. Eventually, he could regard the escalatorsas being entirely matter-of-fact,requiring no more explanation than, by their sheer existence,they offered him. He discoveredthat he was losing weight. Being so long without food (by the evidence of his beard, he estimated that more than a week had gone by), this was only to be expected.Yet, there wasanother possibilitythat he could not exclude: that he was approachingthe center of the earth where, as he understood, all things were weightless. -Now that,he thought, is something worth striving for.
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He had discovereda goal.On the other hand, he was dying, a processhe did not give all the attention it deserved. Unwilling to admit this eventualityand yet not so foolish asto admit any other,he side-steppedthe issue by pretendingto hope. -Maybe someonewill rescueme, he hoped. But his hope was as mechanicalas the escalatorshe rode-and tended, in much the same way,to sink. Waking and sleepingwere no longer distinct statesof which he could Say: "NOw I am Sleeping,"or "NO\ryI am awake."SometimeShe wOuld discover himself descendingand be unable to tell whether he had been waked from sleep or roused from inattention. He hallucinated. A woman,loadedwith packagesfrom Underwood'sand wearinga trim, pillbox-style hat, came down the escalatortoward him, turned around on the landing, high heels clicking smartly, and rode away without even nodding to him. More and more, when he awokeor was rousedfrom his stupor,he found himsell instead of hurrying to his goal, lying on a landing, weak, dazed, and beyond hunger.Then he would crawl to the down-goingescalatorand pull himself onto one of the steps, which he would ride to the bottom, sprawledhead foremost,hands and'shouldersbracedagainstthe treadsto keep from skittering bumpily down. -At the bottom, he thought-at the bottom . . . I will . .. when I get t h e r e. . . From the bottom, which he conceivedof as the center of the earth, there woulo be literally nowhere to go but up. Probably another chain of escalators,ascending escalators,but preferably by an elevator. It was important to believe ln a bottom. Thought was becoming as difficult, as demandingand painful, as once his struggle to ascendhad been. His perceptionswere fuzzy.He did not know what was real and what imaginary.He thought he was eating and discoveredhe was gnawingat his hands. He thought he had come to the bottom. It was a large high-ceilinged But there was a chain room. Signspointed to another escalator:Ascending. acrossit and a small typed announcement. "Out of order. Please bear with us while the escalatorsare being repaired.Thank you. The Management." He laughedweakly. He devised a way to open the tuna fish cans. He would slip the can sidewaysbeneath the projecting treadsof the escalatoqjust at the point where the stepswere sinking flush to the floor. Either the escalatorwould
DESCENDING split the can open or the can would jam the escalator.Perhapsif one escalatorwere jammed the whole chain of them would stop. He should havethought of that before,but he was,nevertheless,quite pleasedto have thought of it at all. -I might haveescaped. His body seemedto weigh so little now.He must havecome hundredsof miles. Thousands. Again, he descended. Then, he was lying at the foot of the escalator.His head rested on the cold metal of the baseplateand he was looking at his hand, the fingers of which were pressedinto the creviced grille. One after another,in perfect order,the stepsof the escalatorslippedinto thesecrevices,treadin groove, rasping at his fingertips, occasionallytearing away a sliver of his flesh. That was the last thing he remembered.
FourGhostsin Hamlet Fritz Leiber
Actors are a superstitiouslot, probablybecausechanceplays a big part in the successof a productionof a companyor merely an actor-and because we're still a little closerthan other peopleto the gypsiesin the way we live and think. For instance,it's bad luck to have peacockfeatherson stageor saythe last line of a play at rehearsalsor whistle in the dressingroom (the one nearestthe door getsfired) or sing God Savethe Sovereignon a railway train. (A Canadiancompany got wrecked that way.) Shakespearean actorsare no exceptions.They simply travel a few extra superstitions,such as the one which forbids reciting the lines of the Three Witches, or anything from Macbeth,for that matter, except at performances,rehearsals,and on other legitimate occasions.This might be a good rule for outsiderstoo-then there wouldn't be the endlessflood of books with titles taken from the text of Macbeth-you know, Brief Candle, Tbmorrowand Tbmorrow The Sound and the Fury A Poor Player,All Our and those are all just from one brief soliloquy. Yesterdays, And our company,the Governor'scompany,hasa rule againstthe Ghost in Hamlel dropping his greenishcheeseclothveil over his helmet-framed
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face until the very moment he makeseachof his entrances.Hamlet's dead father mustn't stand veiled in the darknessof the wings. This last superstition commemoratessomething which happenednot too long ago,an actualghoststory.SometimesI think it's the greatestghost story in the world-though certainlynot from my way of telling it, which is gossipyand poor, but from the wonder blazing at its core. It's not only a true tale of the supernatural,but also very much a story about people,for after all-and beforeeverythingelse-ghosts are people. The ghostly part of the story lirst showed itself in the tritest way imaginable:three of our actresses(meaning practicallyall the ladiesin a company)took to having sessionswith a Ouija boardin the Shakespearean hour beforecurtain time and sometimeseven during a performancewhen they had long offstage waits, and they becameso wrapped up in it and conceitedabout it and they squeakedso excitedly at the revelationswhich the planchette spelled out-and three or four times almost missed entrances becauseof it-that if the Governor weren't such a tolerant commander-in-chief,he would haveforbidden them to bring the boardto the theater.I'm sure he was tempted to and might have,except that Props pointed out to him that our three ladies probably wouldnot enjoy Ouija sessionsone bit in the privacy of a hotel room, that much of the fun in operating a Ouija board is in having a half-exasperated,half-intrigued floating audience,and that when all's done the basicbusinessof all ladiesis glamour,whether of personalcharm or of actualwitchcraft, since the word meansboth. Props-that is, our property man, Billy Simpson-was fascinatedby their obsession,ashe is by any new thing that comesalong,and might very well have broken our Shakespearean taboo by quoting the Three Witches about them, except that Propshasno flair for Shakespearean speechat all, no dramaticability whatsoever,in fact he's the one personin our company who never acts even a bit part or carriesa mute spearon stage,though he has other talents which make up for this deficiency-he can throw together a papier-mdch6bust of Pompey in two hours, or turn out a wooden prop daggerall silvery-bladedand hilt-gilded, or fix a zipper,and that's not all. As for myself, I was very irked at the ridiculous alphabetboard,since it seemedto occupymost of Monica Singleton'ssparetime and satisfyall her hunger for thrills. I'd been trying to promote a romancewith her-a long touring season becomes deadly and cold without some sort of hearttickle-and for a while I'd made progress.But after Ouiia came along, I becamea ridiculous Guildenstern mooning after an unattainableunseeing Ophelia-which were the parts I and she actually played in Hamlet. I cursedthe idiot boardwith its childish corner-picturesof grinning suns
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and smirking moons and windblown spirits,and I further alienatedMonica by asking her why wasn't it called a Nenein or No-No board (Ninny board!) instead of a Yes-Yes board? was that, I inquired, becauseall spiritualistsare forever accentuatingthe positive and behavinglike a pack of fawning yes-men?-yes, we're here; yes,we're your uncle Harry; yes, we're happy on this plane; yes,we havea doctor amongus who'll diagnose that pain in your chest; and so on. Monica wouldn't speak to me for a week after that. I would have been even more depressedexcept that Propspointed out to me that no flesh-and-bloodman can compete with ghosts in a girl's affections, since ghosts being imaginary have all the charms and perfectionsa girl can dreamof, but that all girls eventuallytire of ghosts,or if tlreir minds don't, their bodiesdo. This eventuallydid happen,thank goodness,in the caseof myself and Monica, though not until we'd had a grisly,mind-wrenchingexperience-a night of terrorsbeforethe nights of love. So Ouija flourished and the Governor and the rest of us put up with it one way or another,until there came that three-night-standin Wolverton, when its dismal uncannyold theatertempted our three Ouija-womento ask the board who was the ghost haunting the spooky place and the swoopingplanchettespelledout the name S-H-A-K-E-S-P-E-A-R-E .... But I am getting aheadof my story.I haven't introduced our company except for Monica, Props,and the Governor-and I haven't identified the last of those three. We call Gilbert Usher the Governor out of sheerrespectand affection. He's about the last of the old actor-managers.He hasn't the name of Gielgud or Olivier or Evans or Richardson,but he's spent most of a lifetime keeping Shakespearealive, spreading that magical a-religious gospel in the more remote counties and the Dominions and the United States,likeBensononcedid. Our other actorsaren't namesat all-I refuse to tell you mine!-but with the exceptionof myselfthey're goodtroupers, or if they don't becomethat the first season,they drop out. Gruelingly long seasons,much uncomfortabletraveling,and small profits are our destiny. This particular seasonhad got to that familiar point where the playsare playing smoothly and everyone's a bit tireder than he realizesand the restlessness sets in. Robert Dennis, our juvenile, was writing a novel of theatrical life (he said) mornings at the hotel-up at seven to slave at it, our Robert claimed.Poor old Guthrie Boyd had startedto drink again,and drink quite too much, after an abstemious two months which had astonishedeveryone. Francis Farley Scott,our leadingman, had startedto drop hints that he was going to organizea Shakespearean repertorycompanyof his own next
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year and he began to have conspiratorial conversationswith Gertrude Grainger, our leading lady, and to draw us furtively aside one by one to make us hypothetical offers, no exact salary named. F.F, is as old as the Governor-who is our star,of course-and he has no talents at all except for self-infatuation and a somewhat grandioseyet impressivefashion of acting.He's portly like an operatenor and quite bald and he travelswith an assortmentof thirty toupees,ranging from red to black shot with silver, which he alternateswith shamelessabandon-they're for wear offstage, not on. It doesn't matter to him that the company knows all about his multi-colored artificial toppings,for we're part of his world of illusion, and he's firmly convinced that the stage-strucklocal ladies he squires about never notice, or at any rate mind the deception.He once gaveme a lecture on the subtletiesof suiting the color of your hair to the lady you're trying to fascinate-her own age,hair color, and so on. Every year F,F, plots to start a company of his own-it's a regular midseasonroutine with him-and every year it comesto nothing, for he's aslazyand impracticalashe is vain.Yet F,F.believeshe could play any part or all of them at once in a pinch; perhapsthe only F.F.Scott in Shakespeare Companywhich would really satisfyhim would be one in which he would monologue; in fact, the one respectin be the only actor-a Shakespearean which E,E,is not lazy is in his eagernessto double asmany partsaspossible in any single play. F.R's yearly plots never bother the Governor a bit-he keeps waiting wistfully for F,F. to fix him with an hypnotic eye and in a hoarsewhisper ask him to join the Scott company. And I of course was hoping that now at last Monica Singleton would stop trying to be the most exquisite ingenue that ever came tripping Shakespeare'sway (rehearsing her parts even in her sleep, I guessed, though I was miles from being in a position to know that for certain) and begin to take note and not just advantageof my devoted attentions. But then old Sybil Jameson bought the Ouija board and Gertrude Grainger dragoonedan unwilling Monica into placingher fingertips on the planchette along with theirs 'Just for a lark." Next day Gertrude announcedto severalof us in a hushed voice that Monica had the most amazing undeveloped mediumistic talent she'd ever encountered, ffid from then on the girl was a Ouija-addict. Poor tight-drawn Monica, I suppose she had to explode out of her self-imposed Shakespearean disciplinesomehow,and it wasjust too badit had to be the boardinsteadof me. Though come to think of it,I shouldn't have felt quite so resentful of the board,for she might have explodedwith Robert Dennis, which would have been infinitely worse, thouglr we were never quite sure of Robert's sex. For that matter I wasn't sure of Gertrude's and suffered agoniesof
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uncertainjealousywhen shecapturedmy beloved.Iwasobsessed with the vision of Gertrude's bold knees pressingMonica's under the Ouija board, though with sybil's bony ones for chaperones,fortunately. FrancisFarleyScott,who wasjealous too becausethis new toy had taken Gertrude's mind off their annual plottings, said rather spitefully that Monica must be one of those grabby girls who have to take command of whateverthey get their fingers on, whetherit's a man or a planchette,but Props told me he'd bet anything that Gertrude and Sybil had "followed" Monica's first random finger movements like the skillfulest dancers guiding a partner while seeming to yield, in order to coax her into the businessand make sure of their third. Sometimes I thought that F,E was right and sometimes props and sometimes I thought that Monica had a genuine supernaturaltalent, though I don't ordinarily believe in such things, and that last really frightened me, for such a personmight give up live men for ghostsforever. Shewas such a sensitive,subtle,wraith-cheekedgirl and she could get so keyedup and when shetouchedthe planchetteher eyesgot such an empty look, as if her mind had traveleddown into her fingertips or out to the ends of time and space.And once the three of them gaveme a characterreading from the board which embarrassedme with its accuracy.The same thing happened to several other people in the company.of course, as props pointed out, actors can be pretty good characteranalystswhenever they stop being egomaniacs. After reading charactersand foretelling the future for several weeks, our Three Weird Sistersgot interestedin reincarnationand began asking the board and then telling us what famous or infamous people we'd been in past lives. Gertrude Grainger had been Queen Boadicea,I wasn't surprised to hear.Sybil Jamesonhad been Cassandra.While Monica was once mad Queen Joanna of Castile and more recently a prize hysterical patient of Janet at the Salpetriere-touches which irritated and frightened me more than they should have. Billy Simpson-Props-had been an Egyptian silversmith under Queen Hatshepsut and later a servant of SamuelPepys;he heard this with a delightedchuckle.Guthrie Boyd had been the Emperor Claudius and Robert Dennis had been Caligula. For some reason I had been both John Wilkes Booth and Lambert Simnel, which irritated me considerably,for I sawno romancebut only neurosisin assassinatingan American president and dying in a buring barn, or impersonating the Earl of Warwick, pretending unsuccessfully to the British throne,beingpardonedfor it-of all things!-and spendingthe rest of my life as a scullion in the kitchen of Henry VII and his son. The fact that both Booth and Simnel had been actors of a sort-a poor sortnaturally irritated me the more. Only much later did Monica confessto me
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that the board had probably made those decisionsbecauseI had had such a "tragic, dangerous,defeated look"-a revelation which surprised and flattered me. Francis Farley Scott was flattered too, to hear he'd once been Henry VIII-he fanciedall thosewives and he wore his goldenblond toupeeafter the show that night-until Gertrude and Sybiland Monica announcedthat the Governor was a reincarnation of no less than William Shakespeare himself. That made F,F. so jealous that he instantly sat down at the prop table, grabbed up a quill P€o, and did an impromptu rendering of composingHamlet's "To be or not to be" soliloquy.It was an Shakespeare effective performance,though with considerablymore frowning and eyerolling and trying of lines for sound that I imagine Willy S. himself used originally,and when F,F finished, even the Governor'who'd been standing unobservedin the shadowsbesideProps,applaudedwith the latter. He Governor kidded the pants off the idea of himself as Shakespeare. world-famous to as a be it ought reincarnated were ever saidthat if Willy S. dramatistwho was secretlyin his sparetime the world's greatestscientist and philosopher and left clues to his identity in his mathematical equations-that way he'd get his own back at Bacon,rather the Baconians. Yet I suppose if you had to pick someone for a reincarnation of Gilbert Usher wouldn't be a bad choice.Insofar as a star and Shakespeare, director ever can be, the Governor is gentle and self-effacing-as himself must havebeen,or elsethere would never havearisen Shakespeare that ridiculous Bacon-Oxford-Marlowe-Elizabeth-take-your-pick-whocontroversy.And the Governor has a sweet melancholy wrote-Shakespeare about him, though he's handsomer and despite his years more athletic than one imagines Shakespearebeing. And he's generous to a fault, especiallywhere old actors who've done brave fine things in the past are concerned. This seasonhis mistakein that last direction had been in hiring Guthrie Boyd to play some of the more difficult older leading roles, including a couple F.F. usually handles:Brutus, Othello, and besidesthose Duncan in Macbeth,Kent in King Lear,,and the Ghost in Hamlet. Guthrie was a bellowing hard-drinking bear of an actor,who'd been a star in Australia and successfullysmuggled some of his Shakespearean reputationwest-he learnedto moderatehis bellowing,while his emotions were alwayssimple and sincere,though explosive-and linally even spent some years in Hotlywood. But there his drinking caught up with him, probably becauseof the stupid film parts he got, and he failed six times over.His wife divorcedhim. His chitdren cut themselvesoff. He married a starlet and she divorced him. He dropped out of sight. Then after several years the Governor ran into him. He'd been
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rusticating in Canadawith a stubborn teetotal admirer. He was only a shadow of his former self, but there was some substanceto the shadow -and he wasn't drinking. The Governordecidedto take a chanceon himalthough the company manager Harry Grossman wab dead set against it -and during rehearsalsand the first month or so of performancesit was wonderful to see how old Guthrie Boyd came back, exactly as if Shakespearewere a restorativemedicine. . It may be stuffy or sentimental of me to say so, but you know, I think good for people. I don't know of an actor, except myself, Shakespeare's whose character hasn't been strengthenedand his vision widened and charity quickened by working in the plays.I've heard that before Gilbert Usher becamea Shakespearean, he was a more ruthlessly ambitious and critical man, not without malice, but the plays mellowed him, as they've mellowed Props'sphilosophy and given him a zest for life. Becauseof his contactwith Shakespeare, Robert Dennis is a lessstrident and pettishswish (if he is one),,GertrudeGrainger'soutburstsof cold rage have an undercurrent of queenly make-believe,and even Francis Farley Scott's grubby little seductionsare probably kinder and less insultingly illusionary. In fact I sometimesthink that what civilized serenitythe British people possess,and small but real ability to smile at themselves,is chiefly due to their good luck in having had William Shakespeareborn one of their company. But I was telling how Guthrie Boyd performed very capablythose first weeks, against the expectationsof most of us, so that we almost quit holding our breaths-or sniffing at his. His Brutus was workmanlike, his Kent quite fine-that bluff rough honest part suited him well-and he regularlygot admiring noticesfor his Ghost in Hamler.I think his yearsof living death as a drinking alcoholic had given him an understandingof loneliness and frozen abilities and despair that he put to good useprobably unconsciously-in interpreting that small role. He wasreally a most impressivefigure in the part, evenjust visually.The Ghost's basiccostumeis simple enough-a big all-enveiopingcloak that brushes the groundcloth, a big dull helmet with the tiniest battery light inside its peak to throw a faint green glow on the Ghost's features,and over the helmet a veil of greenish cheesecloththat registers as mist to the audience.He wears a suit of stagearmor under the cloak, but that's not important and at a pinch he can do without it, for his cloak can cover his entire body. The Ghost doesn't switch on his helmet-light until he makes his entrance,for fear of it being glimpsed by an edge of the audience,and nowadaysbecauseof that superstitionor rule I told you about,he doesn't
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drop the cheeseclothveil until the last second either, but when Guthrie Boyd was playing the part that rule didn't exist and I have a vivid recollectionof him standing in the wings, waiting to go on, a big bearish inscrutablefigure about assolid and un-supernaturalasa bushy seven-foot evergreen covered by a gray tarpaulin. But then when Guthrie would switch on the tiny light and stride smoothly and silently on stageand his hollow distant tormented voice boom out, there'd be a terrific shivery thrill, even for us backstage,as if we were listening to wordsthat really had traveledacrossblack windy infinite gulfs from the Afterworld or the Other Side. At any rate Guthrie was a greatGhost, and adequateor a bit better than that in most of his other parts- for those first nondrinking weeks.He seemedvery cheerful on the whole, modestlybuoyedup by his comeback, though sometimessomething empty and dead would starefor a moment out of his eyes-the old drinking alcoholic wondering what all this fatiguing sober nonsensewas about.He was especiallylooking forward to our three-night-standat Wolverton,although that was still two months in the future then. The reasonwas that both his children-married and with families now, of course-lived and worked at Wolverton and I'm sure he set great store on proving to them in person his rehabilitation,figuring it would lead to a reconciliationand so on. But then came his first performance as Othello. (The Governor, although the star,alwaysplayed lago-an equal role, though not the title one.) Guthrie was almost too old for Othello, of course,and besidesthat, his health wasn't good-the drinking years had taken their toll of his stamina and the work of rehearsalsand of first nights in eight different plays after yearsawayfrom the theater had exhaustedhim. But somehow the old volcano inside him got seethingagain and he gavea magnificent performance.Next morning the papersraved about him and one review rated him even better than the Governor. That did it, unfortunately.The glory of his triumph was too much for him. The next night- Othetto again-he was drunk as a skunk. He rememberedmost of his lines-though the Governor-hadto throw him about every sixth one out of the side of his mouth-but he weavedand wobbled,he plankeda big hand on the shoulderof every other characterhe addressedto keep from falling over, and he even forgot to put in his false teeth the first two acts,so that his voice wasmushy.To cap that, he started really to strangle Gertrude Grainger in the last scene,until that rather brawny Desdemona,unseenby the audience,gavehim a knee in the gut; then, after stabbinghimself, he flung the prop daggerhigh in the flies so that it came down with two lazy twists and piercingthe groundclothburied its blunt point deep in the soft wood of the stagefloor not three feet from
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Monica,who playsIago'swife Emilia and so waslying deadon the stageat that point in the drama,murderedby her villainoushusband-and might have been dead for real if the dagger had followed a slightly different trajectory. Sincea third performanceof Othellowas billed for the following night, the Governor had no choice but to replaceGuthrie with Francis Farley Scott,who did a goodjob (for him) of coveringup his satisfactionat getting his old role back.EE, alwaysa plushyand lascivious-eyed Moor, alsodid a good job with the part, coming in that way without even a brush-up rehearsal,so that one critic, catchingthe first and third shows,marveled how we could change big roles at will, thinking we'd done it solely to demonstrateour virtuosity. Of coursethe Governorreadthe riot act to Guthrie and carriedhim off to a doctor,who without being promptedthrew a big scareinto him about his drinking and his heart,so that he just might have recoveredfrom his lapse,exceptthat two nightslater we did JuliusCaesarandGuthrie, instead of beingsatisfiedwith beingworkmanlike,decidedto recouphimself with a really rousing performance.So he bellow.edand groanedand buggedhis eyes as I supposehe had done in his palmiest Australian days. His optimisticself-satisfaction betweensceneswasfrighteningto behold.Not too terrible a performance,truly, but the critics all pannedhim and one of them said,"Guthrie BoydplayedBrutus-a bunch of vocalcordswrapped up in a toga." That tied up the packageand knotted it tight. ThereafterGuthrie was medium pie-eyedfrom morning to night-and often more than medium. The Governorhadto yank him out of Brutustoo (E F againreplacing),but being the Governor he didn't sack him. He put him into a couple of bit parts-Montano and the Soothsayer-in Otheltoand Caesarand let him keep on at the others and he gave me and Joe Rubensand sometimes Propsthe job of keepingan eye on the poor old sot and makingsurehe got to the theaterby the half hour and if possiblenot too plastered.Often he playedthe Ghost or the Dogeof Venicein his streetclothesunder cloakor scarletrobe,but he playedthem. And many werethe nightsJoeand I made the rounds of half the local bars before we corraled him. The Governor sometimesrefersto JoeRubensand me in mild derisionas "the American element" in his company,but just the samehe dependson us quite a bit; and I certainlydon't mind being one of his trouble-shooters-it's a joy to servehim. All this may seemto contradictmy statementabout our getting to the point, about this time, where the plays were playing smoothly and the monotonysettingin. But it doesn'treally.There'salwayssomethinggoing wrongin a theatricalcompany-anythingersewould be abnormal;just as
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until somebody'sdroppeda plateor sayno partyis a success the Samoans woman. wrong the tickled a drink or spilled onceGuthriehadgotOthelloandBrutusoff hisneck,he didn't Besides, whether do too badly.The little partsandevenKent he couldplaypassably Merchant in The the Doge and instanceo drunk or sober.King Duncan,for the actoralwayshasa coupleof attendants areeasyto playdrunkbecause guide his stepsif he weavesandevenhold to eithersideof him, who can canturn out to beaneffectivedramatictouch, him up if necessary-which registeringasthe infirmity of extremeage. And somehow Guthrie continued to give that same masterful noticesfor it. In fact Sybil performance as the Ghostand get occasional Jamesoninsistedhe was a shadebetter in the Ghost now that he was invariablydrunk;whichcouldhavebeentrue.And he still talkedaboutthe three-night-standcoming up in Wolverton,though now as often with gloomyapprehension aswith proudfatherlyanticipation. eventuallycame.We arrivedat Wolverton Well,the three-night-stand the surpriseof most of us, but especially To evening. non-playing a on werethereat the stationto welcomehim daughter his and son Guthrie, all their kidsandnumerousin-lawsanda and spouses respective with their greatgaggleof friends.Their criesof greetingwhentheyspottedhim were cheerandI lookedaroundfor a brassbandto strikeup. almostanorganized who knewthem,hadbeensending I foundout laterthat SybilJameson, so that they wereeageras weaselsto be them all his favorablenoticesn reconciledwith him andshowhim off asblatanttyaspossible. andrealizedthe Whenhe sawhis childrens'andgrandchildrens'faces like the sun, got face and beamed crieswerefor him,old Guthrie redin the for an triumph in him off and they closedin aroundhim and carried eveningof celebrations. Nexi day I heardfrom Sybil,whom they'd carriedoff with him, that everythinghad gone beautifully.He'd drunk like a fish, but kept marvellouscontrol,sothat no onebut shenotice4andthe warmthof the reconciliationof Guthrie to everyone,completestrangersincluded,had chap,had beenwonderfulto behold.Guthrie'sson-in-law,a pugnacious got angrywhen he'd heardGuthriewasn'tto playBrutusthe third night, and he declaredthat Gilbert Ushermust be jealousof his magnificent father-in-law.Everythingwas forgiven twenty times over.They'd even aspeople tried to put old Sybilto bedwith Guthrie,figuringromantically, All this wasveryfine, and will aboutactors,that shemustbe his mistress. too in a fashion,yet I Sybil for and for Guthrie, of coursewonderful two monthsof uninterafter bash, nightlong supposethe unconstrained just the worst thing about was drunkenness, rupie6 semi-controlled laboringheart. and body sodden boy's the old to couldhavedone .t yUoOy
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Meanwhile on that first evening I accompaniedJoe Rubensand Props to the thetter we were playing at Wolverton to make sure the scenerygot stackedright and the costume trunks were all safely arrived and stowed. Joe is our stagemanagerbesidesdoing rough or Hebraicparts like Caliban and Tubal-he was a professionalboxer in his youth and got his nose smashedcrooked.Once I startedto take boxing lessonsfrom him, figuring an actor should know everything,but during the third lessonI walked into a gentle right crossand although it didn't exactly stun me there were bells ringing faintly in my headfor six hours afterwardsand I lived in a world of faery and that was the end of my fistic career.Joe is actually a most versatile actor-for instance,he understudiesthe Governor in Macbeth, Lear,Iago,and of courseShylock-though his brutal moon-faceis against him, especiallywhen his make-updoesn'tincludea beard.But he doteson being genial and in the Stateshe often getsajob by day playing SantaClaus in big department storesduring the month before Christmas. The Monarch wasa cavernousold place,very grimy backstage,but with a great warren of dirty little dressingrooms and even a property room shapedlike an L stageleft. Its empty shelveswere thick with dust. There hadn't been a show in the Monarch for over a year,I sawfrom the yellowing sheets thumbtacked to the callboard as I tore them off and replacedthem with a simpleblack-crayoned HAMLET: ToNrcHTAT8:30. Then I noticed, by the cold inadequateworking lights, a couple of tiny dark shapesdroppingdown from the flies and gliding aroundin wide swift circles-out into the house too, since the curtain was up. Bats,I realized with a little start-the Monarch was really halfway through the lich gate. The bats would fit very nicely with Macbeth,I told myself,but not so well with TheMerchantof Venice,while with Hamlet they should neither help nor hinder, provided they didn't descend in nightfighter squadrons;it would be nice if they stuck to the Ghost scenes. I'm sure the Governor had decidedwe'd open at Wolvertonwith Hamlet so that Guthrie would have the best chanceof being a hit in his children's home city. Billy Simpson,shoving his propertiestable into placejust in front of the dismal L of the prop room, observedcheerfully, "It's a proper haunted house.The girls'll find some rare ghostshere, I'll wager,if they work their board." Which turned out to be far truer than he realizedat the time-I think. "Bruce!" Joe Rubenscalledto me. "We better buy a coupleof rat traps and set them out. There's something scuttling back of the drops." But when I enteredthe Monarch next night, well beforethe hour, by the creaky thick metal stagedoor, the place had been swept and tidied a bit. with the groundcloth down and the Hamlet set up, it didn't look too
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terrible, even though the curtain was still unlowered,dimly showing the houseand its curvesof empty seatsand the two faint greenexit lights with no one but myself to look at them. There was a little pool of light around the callboardstage right, and another glow the other side of the stagebeyond the wings, and lines of light showing around the edgesof the door of the seconddressingroom, next to the star's. I started acrossthe dark stage,sliding my shoessoftly so as not to trip over a cable or stage-screwand brace, and right away I got the magic electric feeling I often do in an empty theaterthe night of a show.Only this time there was something additional, something that started a shiver crawling down my neck. It wasn't, I think, the thought of the bats which might now be swoopingaround me unseen,skirling their inaudibly shrill trumpet calls, or even of the rats which might be watching sequin'eyed from behind trunks and flats, although not an hour ago Joe had told me that the traps he'd actually procured and set last night had been empty today. characterswere invisibly there No, it was more as if all of Shakespeare's aroundme-all the infinite possibilitiesof the theater.I imaginedRosalind and Falstaffand Prosperostandingarm-in-arm watchingme with different smiles. And Caliban grinning down from where he silently swung in the flies. And side by side, but unsmiling and not arm-in-arm: Macbeth and Iago and Dick the Three Eyes-Richard III. And all the rest of myriad-minded good-evil crew. Shakespeare's passed through the wings oppositeand there in the secondpool of light I Billy Simpsonsat behind his table with the propertiesfor Hamletsetout on it: the skulls, the foils, the lantern, the purses,the parchmenty letters, Ophelia'sflowers,and all the rest.It wasodd Propshavingeverythingready quite so early and a bit odd too that he should be alone,for Propshas the un-actorish habit of making friends with all sorts of locals, such as policemen and porters and flower women and neysboys and shopkeepers and tramps who claim they're indigent actors, and even inviting them backstagewith him-a fracture of rules which the Governor allotussince Propsis such a sensiblechap. He has a great liking for people,especially low people,Props has, and for all the humble details of life. He'd make a god writer, I'd think, except for his utter lack of dramatic flair and storyskill-a sort of prosinessthat goeswith his profession. And now he was sitting at his table,his stoopedshouldersalmost inside the doorlessentry to the empty-shelfedprop room-no point in using it for a three-night-stand-and he was gazing at me quizzically.He has a big forehead-the light was on that-and a tapering chin-that was in shadow-and rather largeeyes,which were betwixt the light and the dark.
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Sitting there like that, he seemedto me for a moment (mostly becauseof the outspreadprops,I guess)like the midnight Master of the Showin The Rubaiyatround whom all the rest of us move like shadowshapes. Usually he has a quick greeting for anyone,but tonight he was silent, and that addedto the illusion. "Props," I said, "this theater's got a supernaturalsmell." His expressiondidn't changeat that, but he solemnly sniffed the air in severallittle whiffles adding up to one big inhalation, and as he did so he threw his headback,bringing his weakishchin into the light and shattering the illusion. "Dusti'he saidafter a moment. "Dust and old plush and scenerywaterpaint and sweatand drains and gelatin and greasepaintand powder and a breathof whisky.But the supernatural. . . no, I can't smell that. Unless. . ." And he sniffed again,but shook his head. I chuckled at his materialism-although that touch about whisky did seem fanciful, since I hadn't been drinking and props never does and Guthrie Boyd was nowherein evidence.Propshas a mind like a notebook for sensory details-and for the minutiae of human habits too. It was Props,for instance,who told me about the actual notebookin which John McCarthy (who would be playing Fortinbras and the Player King in a couple of hours) jots down the exactnumber of hours he sleepseachnight and keepstotting them up, so he knows when he'll have to start sleeping extra hours to averagethe full nine he thinks he must get each night to keep from dying. It wasalso Propswho pointed out to me that F,E is much more careless gumming his offstagetoupeesto his headthan his theaterwigs-a studied carelessness, like that in tying a bowtie, he assuredme; it indicated, he said, a touch of contempt for the whole offstageworld. Propsisn't onlya detail-worm,but it's perhapsbecausehe is one that he has sympathyfor all human hopesand frailties, even the most trivial, like my selfish infatuation with Monica. Now I said to him, "I didn't mean an actual smell, Billy. But back there just now I got the feeling anything might happen tonight." He nodded slowly and solemnly. with anyone but props I'd have wonderedif he weren't a little drunk. Then he said, "You were on a stage. You know, the science-fictionwriters are missing a bet there. We,ve got time machines right now. Theaters. Theaters are time machines and spaceshipstoo. They take people on trips through the future and the past and the elsewhereand the might-have-been-yes, and if it's done well enough, give them glimpsesof Heavenand Hell." I nodded back at him. Suchgrotesquefanciesare the closestPropsever comes to escapingfrom prosiness.
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I said, "Well, let's hope Guthrie gets aboardthe spaceshipbefore the curtain up-jets.Tonight we're dependingon his children having the sense to deliver him here intact.Which from what Sybil saysabout them is not to be taken for granted." Props stared at me owlishly and slowly shook his head. "Guthrie got here about ten minutes ago;'he said,"and looking no drunker than usual." "That's a relief," I told him, meaning it. "The girls are having a Ouija session," he went on, as if he were determined to accountfor all of us from moment to moment. "They smelt the supernaturalhere,just as you did, and they're asking the board to name the culprit." Then he stoopedso that he looked almost hunchbackedand he felt for something under the table. I nodded. I'd guessedthe Ouija part from the lines of light showing around the door of Gertrude Grainger's dressingroom. Propsstraightenedup and he had a pint bottle of whisky in his hand. I don't think a loadedrevolver would have dumbfounded me as much. He unscrewedthe top. "There's the Governor coming in," he said tranquilly,hearing the'stage door creak and evidently some footsteps my own ears missed. "That's seven of us in the theater before the hour." He took a big slow swallow of whisky and recappedthe bottle, as naturally as if it were a nightly action. I goggledat him without comment. What he was doing was simply unheard of-for Billy Simpson. At that moment there was a sharpscreamand a clatter of thin wood and something twangy and metallic falling and a scurry of footsteps.Our previous words must have cocked a trigger in me, for I was at Gertrude Grainger'sdressing-roomdoor asfast as I could sprint-no worry this time about tripping over cablesor bracesin the dark. I yanked the door open and there by the bright light of the bulbs framing the mirror were Gertrude and Sybil sitting closetogether with the Ouija board face down on the floor in front of them along with a flimsy wire-backed chair, overturned. While pressing back into Gertrude's costumes hanging on the rack acrossthe little room, almost as if she wanted to hide behind them like bedclothes,was Monica, pale and staringeyed. She didn't seem to recognizeme. The dark-greenheavily brocaded costume Gertrude wearsas the Queen in Hamlet,into which Monica was chiefly pressing herself, accentuatedher pallor. All three of them were in their streetclothes. I went to Monica and put an arm around her and gripped her hand. It was cold as ice. She was standing rigidly. While I was doing that Gertrude stood up and explained in rather haughtytoneswhat I told you earlier: about them askingthe boardwho the
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ghost was haunting the Monarch tonight and the planchettespelling out S-H-A-K-E-S-P.E-A.R.E. . : "I don't know why it startled you so, dear,"she endedcrossly,speaking to Monica. "It's very natural his spirit should attend performancesof his plays." I felt the slim body I claspedrelax a little. That relieved me. I was selfishly pleasedat having got an arm around it, even under such public and unamorouscircumstances,while at the same time my silly mind was thinking that if Props had been lying to me about Guthrie Boyd having come in no more drunken than usual (this new Propswho drank straight whisky in the theater could lie too, I supposed) why then we could certainly use William Shakespeare tonight, since the Ghostin Hamlel is the one part in all his plays Shakespeare himself is supposedto have acted on the stage. "I don't know why myself now," Monica suddenly answered from besideme, shakingher headas if to clearit. Shebecameawareof me at last, started to pull away,then let my arm stay around her. The next voice that spoke was the Governor's.He was standingin the doorway,smiling faintly, with Props peering around his shoulder.Props would be as tall as the Governor if he ever straightenedup, but his stoop takes almost a foot off his height. The Governor saidsoftly,a comic light in his eyes,"I think we should be playsto life, without trying for their author. content to bring Shakespeare's It's hard enough on the nervesjust to act Shakespeare." He steppedforward with one of his swift, naturally gracefulmovements apd kneeling on one knee he picked up the fallen board and planchette. 'At all eventsI'll take thesein chargefor tonight. Feelingbetter now, Miss Singleton?" he askedas he straightenedand steppedback. "Yes, quite all rightj'she answeredflusteredly,disengagingmy arm and pulling away from me rather too quickly. He nodded.Gertrude Grainger was staring at him coldly,as if about to say something scathing,but she didn't. Sybil Jamesonwas looking at the floor. She seemed embarrassed,yet puzzled too. I followed the Governor out of the dressingroom and told him, in case Props hadn't, about Guthrie Boyd coming to the theater early. My momentary doubt of Props's honesty seemed plain silly to me now, although his taking that drink remainedan astonishingriddle. Propsconfirmed me about Guthrie coming in, though his manner wasa touch abstracted. The Governor nodded his thanks for the news, then twitched a nostril and frowned.I was sure he'd caughta whiff of alcohol and didn't know to which of us two to attribute it-or perhapseven to one of the ladies,or to
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an earlier passageof Guthrie this way. He said to me, "Would you come into my dressing room for a bit, Bruce?" I followed him, thinking he'd picked me for the drinker and wondering how to answer-best perhapssimply silently acceptthe fatherly lecturebut when he'd turned on the lights and I'd shut the door,his first question was, "You're attractedto Miss Singleton,aren't you, Bruce?" When I nodded abruptly,swallowingmy morsel of surprise,he went on softly but emphatically,"Then why don't you quit hovering and playing Galahad and really go after her? Ordinarily I must appear to frown on affairsin the company,but in this caseit would be the bestway I know of to break up those Ouija sessions,which are obviouslyharming the girl." I managedto grin and tell him I'd be happy to obey his instructionsand do it entirely on my own initiative too. He grinned back and started to toss the Ouija board on his couch, but instead put it and the planchette carefully down on the end of his long dressingtable and put a secondquestion to me. "What do you think of some of this stuff they're getting over the board, Bruce?" I said, "Well, that last one gave me a shiver, all right-I suppose because..." and I told him about sensingthe presenceof Shakespeare's ' characters in the dark. I finished, "But of course the whole idea is nonsensej' and I grinned. He didn't grin back. I continued impulsivelg "There was one idea they had a few weeksback that impressedme, though it didn't seemto impressyou. I hopeyou won't think I'm trying to butter you up, Mr. Usher.I mean the idea of you being a reincarnationof William Shakespeare." He laughed delightedly and said, "Clearly you don't yet know the difference betweena player and a playwright, Bruce.Shakespeare striding about romantically with head thrown back?-and twirling a sword and shapinghis body and voice to every feeling handedhim? Oh no! I'll grant he might haveplayedthe Ghost-it's a part within the scopeof an average writer's talents,requiring nothing more than that he stand still and sound off sepulchrally." He pausedand smiled and went on. "No, there's only one personin this companywho might be Shakespeare come again,and that's Billy Simpson. Yes,I mean Props.He's a greatlistener and he knowshow to put himself in touch with everyoneand then he's got that rat-trap mind for every hue and scent and sound of life, inside or out the mind. And he's very analytic.Oh, I know he's got no poetic talent,but surely Shakespeare wouldn't havethat in everyreincarnation.I'd think he'd need about a dozen lives in which to
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gathermaterialfor every one in which he gaveit dramaticform. Don't you find somethingvery poignantin the idea of a mute inglorious Shakespeare spending whole humble lifetimes collecting the necessarystuff for one great dramatic burst? Think about it some day." I wasdoing that alreadyand finding it a fascinatingfantasy.It crystalized so perfectly the feeling I'd got seeingBilly Simpsonbehind his property table.And then Propsdid havea high-foreheadedpoet-schoolmaster's face like that given Shakespeare in the posthumousengravingsand woodcuts and portraits. Why, even their initials were the same. It made me feel strange. Then the Governor put his third question to me. "He's drinking tonight, isn't he? I mean Props,not Guthriel' I didn't say anything,but my face must haveansweredfor me-at least to such a student of expressionsas the Governor-for he smiled and said, "You needn't worry.I wouldn't be angry with him. In fact, the only other time I know of that Propsdrank spirits by himself in the theater,I had a great deal to thank him for." His lean face grew thoqghtful. "It was long beforeyour time, in fact it was the {irst seasonI took out a companyof my own.I had barelyenoughmoneyto paythe printer for the three-sheets and get the first-night curtain up. After that it was touch and go for months. Then in mid-seasonwe had a run of bad luck-a two-night heavy fog in one city, an influenza scare in another, Harvey Wilkins' Shakespearean troupe two weeks aheadof us in a third. And when in the next town we played it turned out the advancesale was very light-because my name was unknown there and the theater was an unpopular one-I realizedI'd have to pay off the company while there was still money enough to get them home, if not the scenery. "That night I caughtPropsswigging,but I hadn't the heart to chide him for it-in fact I don't think I'd have blamed anyone, except perhaps myself,for getting drunk that night. But then during the performancethe actorsand even the union stagehandswe travel with begancoming to my dressingroom by ones and twos and telling me they'd be happy to work without salaryfor another three weeks,if I thought that might give us a chanceof recouping.Well, of courseI grabbedat their offers and we got a spell of brisk pleasantweather and we hit a couple of placesstarved for Shakespearen and things worked out, even to paying all the back salary owed before the seasonwas ended. "Later on I discoveredit was Propswho had put them all up to doing it." Gilbert Usher looked up at me and one of his eyeswas wet and his lips were working just a little. "I couldn't have done it myself," he said, .,for I wasn't a popular man with my companythat first season-I'd been riding everyonemuch too hard and with nastysarcasms-and I hadn't yet learned
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how to ask anyonefor help when I really neededit. But Billy Simpsondid what I couldn't, though he had to nerve himself for it with spirits. He's quick enough with his tongue in ordinary circumstances'as you know, particularly when he's being the friendly listener, but apparently when something very special is required of him, he must drink himself to the properpitch. I'm wondering..." His voice trailed off and then he straightenedup before his mirror and startedto unknot his tie and he saidto me briskly,"Better get dressednow, Bruce.And then look in on Guthrie, will you?" My mind was churning some rather strangethoughtsas I hurried up the iron stairs to the dressingroom I sharedwith Robert Dennis. I got on my Guildenstern make-up and costume,finishing just as Robert arrived; as Laertes,Robert makesa late entranceand so needn't hurry to the theater on Hamlet nights. Also, although we don't make a point of it, he and I spend as little time together in the dressingroom as we can. Before going down I looked into Guthrie Boyd's. He wasn't there, but the lights were on and the essentialsof the Ghost's costume weren't in sight-impossible to miss that big helmet!-so I assumedhe'd gonedown aheadof me. It was almost the half hour.The house lights were on, the curtain down, more stagelights on too, and quite a few of us about.I noticed that Props wasback in the chair behind his table and not looking particularlydifferent from any other night-perhaps the drink had been a once-only aberration and not some symptom of a crisis in the company. I didn't make a point of hunting for Guthrie. When he gets costumed early he generallystandsback in a dark corner somewhere,wanting to be alone-perchanceto sip, aye,there'sthe rub!-or visits with Sybil in her dressingroom. I spottedMonica sitting on a trunk by the switchboard,where backstage was brightest lit at the moment. She looked etherealyet springlike in her blonde Ophelia wig and first costume, a pale green one. Recalling my happy promise to the Governor, I bounced up beside her and asked her straight out about the Ouija business,pleasedto have something to the point besidesthe plays to talk with her about-and really not worrying as much about her nerves as I supposeI should have. Shewasin a very odd mood, both agitatedand abstracted,her gazegoing back and forth between distant and near and very distant. My questions didn't disturb her at all, in fact I got the feeling she welcomed them, yet she genuinely didn't seem able to tell me much about why she'd been so frightened at the last name the board had spelled.She told me that she actually did get into a sort of dream statewhen she worked the board and that she'd screamedbefore she'd quite comprehendedwhat had shocked
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her so; then her mind had blackedout for a few seconds,she thought. "one thing though, Bruce," she said."I'm not going to work the board any more, at least when the three of us are alone like that." "That soundslike a wise idea," I agreed,trying not to let the extreme heartinessof my agreementshow through. Shestoppedpeeringaroundasif for somefigureto appearthat wasn'tin the play and didn't belong backstage,and she laid her hand on mine and said,"Thanks for coming so quickly when I went idiot and screamedl' I wasaboutto improvethis opportunityby telling her that the reasonI'd come so quickly was that she was so much in my mind, but just then Joe Rubenscame hurrying up with the Governor behind him in his Hamlet blackto tell me that neitherGuthrie Boydnor his Ghost costumewasto be found anywherein the theater. What's more, Joe had got the phone numbers of Guthrie's son and daughterfrom Sybil and rung them up. The one phone hadn't answered, while on the other a female voice-presumably a maid's-had informed him that everyonehad gone to see Guthrie Boyd in Hamlet. Joewasalreadywearinghis cumbrouschain-mailarmorfor Marcelluswoven cord silvered-so I knew I was elected.I ran upstairsand in the spaceof time it took RobertDennisto guessmy missionand adviseme to try the dingiestbarsfirst and havea drink or two myselfin them,I'd put on my hat, overcoat,and wristwatchand left him. So garbedand as usual nervous about peoplelooking at my ankles,I salliedforth to comb the nearbybarsof Wolverton.I consoledmyself with the thought that if I found Hamlet's father's ghost drinking his way through them, no one would ever sparea glancefor my own costume. Almost on the stroke of curtain I returned,no longer giving a damn what anyonethoughtaboutmy ankles.Ihadn'tfound Guthrie or spokento a soul who'd seena largemale imbiber-most likely of Irish whisky-in great-cloak and antique armor, with perhaps some ghostly green light cascadingdown his face. Beyondthe curtain the overturewas fading to its sinister closeand the backstagelights were all down, but there was an angry hushed-voice disputegoing on stageleft, where the Ghost makesall his entrancesand exits.Skippingacrossthe dim stagein front of the blue-lit battlementsof Elsinore-I still in my hat and overcoat-I found the Governor and Joe Rubensand with them John McCarthy all readyto go on as the Ghost in his Fortinbras ar.morwith a dark cloak and some green gauzeover it. But alongsidethem was FrancisFarleyScottin a very similar get-upno armor, but a big enough cloak to hide his King costume and a rather more impressivehelmet than John's. They were all very dim in the midnight glow leaking back from the
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dimmed-down blue floods.The five of us were the only peopleI could see on this side of the stage. F. F was arguing vehemently that he must be allowed to double the Ghost with King Claudiusbecausehe knew the part better than John and because-this was the important thing-he could imitate Guthrie's voice perfectly enough to deceivehis children and perhapssavetheir illusions about him. Sybil had lookedthrough the curtain hole and seenthem and all of their yesterdaycrowd, with new recruits besides,occupying all of the second, third, and fourth rows center, chattering with excitement and beaming with anticipation.Harry Grossmanhad confirmed this from the front of the house. I could tell that the Governor was vastly irked at F, F, and at the same time touched by the last part of his argument. It was exactly the sort of sentimental heroic rationalizationwith which F. F cloaked his insatiable yearningsfor personalglory.Very likely he believed it himself. John McCarthy was simply readyto do what the Governor askedhim. He's an actor untroubled by inward urgencies-except things like keeping a recordof the hours he sleepsand each penny he spends-though with a natural facility for portrayingon stageemotionswhich he doesn't feel one iota. The Governor shut up E, F, with a gestureand got ready to make his decision,but just then I sawthat there wasa sixth personon this side of the stage. Standingin the secondwings beyond our group was a dark figure like a tarpaulinedChristmastree toppedby a big helmet of unmistakablegeneral shapedespite its veiling. I grabbedthe Governor's arm and pointed at it silently. He smothered a large curse and strode up to it and rasped, "Guthrie, you old Son of a B! Can you go on?" The figure gave an affirmative grunt. Joe Rubensgrimacedat me as if to say "Show business!"and grabbeda spearfrom the prop table and hurried back acrossthe stagefor his entrance as Marcellusjust before the curtain lifted and the first nervous, superbly atmosphericlines of the play rang out,loud at first, but then going low with unspokenapprehension. "Who's there?' "Nay, answerme; stand, and unfold yourself." "Long live the king!" "Bernardo?" ttHg.tt
"You comemost carefullyupon your hour." "'Tis now strucktwelve;get theeto bed,Francisco." "For this relief much thanks;'tis bitter cold and I am sick at heart."
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"Have you had quiet guard?" "Not a mouse stirring." with a resignedshrug, John McCarthy simply sat down. E F. did the same,though ftrsgesturewasclench-fistedand exasperated. For a moment it seemedto me very comic that two Ghosts in Hamlet should be sitting in the wings,watchinga third perform.I unbuttoned my overcoatand slung it over my left arm. The Ghost's first two appearancesare entirely silent ones. He merely goes on stage, shows himself to the soldiers, and comes off again. Neverthelessthere wasa determinedlittle ripple of handclappingfrom the audience-the second, third, and fourth rows center greeting their patriarchalhero, it seemedlikely. Guthrie didn't fall down at any rate and he walked reasonablystraight-an achievementperhapsrating applause,if anyone out there knew the degreeof intoxication Guthrie was probably burdenedwith at this moment-a cask-belliedOld Man of the Seaon his back. The only thing out of normal was that he had forgot to turn on the little greenlight in the peak of his helmet-an omissionwhich hardly mattered, certainlynot on his first appearance.Ihurried up to him when he cameoff and told him about it in a whisper ashe moved off towarda dark backstage corner.I got in reply,through the inscrutablegreen veil, an exhalation of whisky and three affirmative grunts: one, that he knew it; two, that the light was working; three, that he'd remember to turn it on next time. Then the scenehad endedand I dartedacrossthe stageas they changed to the room-of-stateset. I wanted to get rid of my overcoat.Joe Rubens grabbedme and told me about Guthrie's greenlight not being on and I told him that was all taken care of. "Whefe the hell was he all the time we were hunting for him?" Joe askedme. "I don't know," I answered. By that time the second scene was playing, with R R, his Ghostcoveringsshed, playing the King as well as he alwaysdoes (it's about his best part) and Gertrude Grainger looking very regal beside him as the Queen, her namesake,while there was another flurry of applause,more scattered this time, for the Governor in his black doublet and tights beginning about his seven hundredth performance of Shakespeare's longest and meatiestrole. Monica was still sitting on the trunk by the switchboard,looking paler than ever under her make-up, it seemedto me, and I folded my overcoat and silently persuadedher to use it as a cushion.I sat besideher and she took my hand and we watched the play from the wings. After a while I whispered to her, giving her hand a little squeeze, "Feeling better now?o'
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Sheshook her head.Then leaningtowardme, her mouth closeto my ear, she whispered rapidly and unevenly,as if she just had to tell someone., "Bruce,I'm frightened.There's somethingin the theater.I don't think that was Guthrie playing the Ghost." I whisperedback, "Sure it was. I talked with him." "Did you see his face?" she asked. "No, but I smelledhis breath;'I told her and explainedto her abouthim forgetting to turn on the green light. I continued, "Francis and John were both readyto go on as the Ghost, though, until Guthrie turned up. Maybe you glimpsed one of them before the play started and that gave you the idea that it was Guthrie." Sybil Jamesonin her Player costume looked around at me warningly.I was letting my whispering get too loud. Monica put her mouth so close that her lips for an instant brushed my ear and she mouse-whispered,"I don't mean another personplaying the Ghost-not that exactly.Bruce, there's somethingin the theater." 'And buck "You've got to forget that Ouija nonsense;'I told her sharply. up now," I added,for the curtain hadjust gone down on SceneTwo and it was time for her to get on stagefor her scenewith Laertesand Polonius. I waited until she was launched into it, speaking her lines brightly enough,and then I carefully crossedthe stagebehind the backdrop.I was sure there wasno more than nervesand imaginationto her notions,though they'd raisedshiverson me, but just the sameI wanted to speakto Guthrie again and see his face. When I'd completed my slow trip (you have to move rather slowly,so the drop won't ripple or bulge), I was dumbfounded to find myself witnessingthe identical backstagescenethat had been going on when I'd got back from my tour of the bars.Only now there was a lot more light becausethe scenebeing playedon stagewas a bright one. And Propswas there behind his table, watching everything like the spectatorhe basically is. But beyond him were Francis Farley ftott and John McCarthy in their improvisedGhost costumesagain,and the Governor and Joe with them, and all of them carryingon that furious lip-reader'sargument,now doubly hushed. I didn't have to wait to get close to them to know that Guthrie must have disappearedagain.As I made my way toward them, watching their silent antics,my silly mind becamealmost hystericalwith the thought that Guthrie had at last discoveredthat invisible hole every genuine alcoholic wisheshe had, into which he could decorouslydisappearand drink during the times between his absolutenecessaryappearancesin the real world. As I nearedthem, Donald Fryer (our Horatio) came from behind me, having made the trip behind the backdropfaster than I had, to tell the
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Governor in hushed gaspsthat Guthrie wasn't in any of the dressingrooms or anywhereelse stageright. Just at that rnoment the bright sceneended,the curtain camedown, the drapesbeforewhich Ophelia and the others had been ptayingswung back to revealagainthe battlementsof Elsinore,and the lighting shifted back to the midnight blue of the first scene,so that for the moment it was hard to see at,all. I heard the Governor say decisively,,,you play the Ghost," his voice receding as he and Joe and Don hurried acrossthe stageto be in placefor their properentrance.Secondslater there came the dull soft hiss of the main curtain openingand I heardthe Governor'staut resonantvoice saying, "The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold," and Don respondingas Horatio with, "It is a nipping and an eagerair." By that time I could seeagainwell enough-see FrancisFarleyScottand John McCarthy moving side by side toward the back wing through which the Ghost enters.They were still arguingin whispers.The explanationwas clearenough:eachthought the Governor had pointed at him in the sudden darkness-or possibly in E Fls casewas pretendinghe so thought. For a moment the comic side of my mind, grown a bit hystericalby now, almost collapsedme with the thought of twin Ghosts entering the stageside by side.Then once again,history still repeatingitself,I sawbeyondthem that other bulkier figure with the unmistakableshroudedhelmet. They musr have seen it too for they stopped deadjust before my hands touched a shoulder of each of them. I circled quickly past them and reachedout my hands to put them lightly on the third figure's shoulders,intending to whisper,"Guthrie, are you okay?" It was a very stupid thing for one actor to do to another-startling him just beforehis entrance-but I was made thoughtlessby the memory of Monica's fears and by the rather frantic riddle of where Guthrie could possiblyhave been hiding. But just then Horatio gasped,"Look, my lord, it comes," and Guthrie moved out of my light grasponto the stagewithout so much as turning his head-and leaving me shaking becausewhere I'd touched the rough buckram-braced fabric of the Ghost's cloak I'd felt only a kind of insubstantialitybeneathinsteadof Guthrie's broadshoulders. I quickly told myself that was becauseGuthrie's cloak had stood out from his shoulders and his back as he had moved. I had to tell myself something like that. I turned around. John McCarthy and E F, were standingin front of the dark prop table and by now my nerveswere in such a state that their paired forms gave me another start. But I tiptoed after them into the downstagewings and watched the scenefrom there. The Governor was still on his knees with his sword held hitt up like a cro$ doing the long speech that begins, 'Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" And of coursethe Ghost had his cloak drawn around him so
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you couldn't seewhat wasunder it-and the tittle greenlight still wasn't lit in his helmet. Tonight the absenceof that theatric touch madehim a more frightening figure-certainly to me, who wanted so much to seeGuthrie's raiaged olo r..r and be reassuredby it. Though there was still enough ,oridy left in the ragged edges of my thoughts that I could imagine Guthrie's pugnaciousJon-in-law whispering angrily to those around him that Gilbert Usher was so jealous of his great father'in-law that he wouldn't let him show his face on the stage. Then came the transition to the following scenewhere the Ghost has led Hamlet off alonewith him-just a five-secondcompletedarkeningof the stagewhile a scrim is dropped-and at last the Ghost spokethose first lines of "Mark me" and "My hour is almost come' When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames Must render up myself." If any of us had any worries about the Ghost blowing up on his lines or slurring them drunkenly, they were taken care of now. Those lines were deliverld with the greatestauthority and effect. And I was almost certain that it was Guthrie's rightful voice-at least I was at first-but doing an even betterjob than the good one he had alwaysdone of getting the effect of distanceand otherworldlinessand hopelessalienation from all life on Earth. The theater becameas silent as death, yet at the sametime I could imagine the soft pounding of a thousand hearts, thousands of shivers crawling-and I knew that Francis Farley Scott, whose shoulder was pressedagainstmine, was trembling. Each word the Ghost spokewas like a ghost itsell mounting the air and hanging poised for an impossible extra instant before it faded towards eternity. Those greatlines came: "I am thy father's spirit; Doomed for a certain term to walk the night . .." and just at that moment the idea came to me that Guthrie Boyd might be dead, that he might have died and be lying unnoticed somewherebetween his children's home and the theater-no matter what Propshad said or the rest of us had seen-and that his ghost might have come to give a last performance.And on the heels of that shivery impossibility came the thought that similar and perhaps even eerier ideas must be frightening Monica. I knew I had to go to her. So while the Ghost's words swooped and soared in the darkmarvellous black-plumed birds-I again made that nervous crossbehind the backdrop. Everyone stageright was standingas frozen and absorbed-motionless loomings-as I'd left John and F,F. I spottedMonica at once.She'd moved forward from the switchboardand was standing,croucheda little, by the big floodtight that throws some dimmed blue on the backdrop and across the backof the stage.Iwent to her just asthe Ghost wasbeginninghis exit
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stageleft, moving backwardalong the edgeof the light from the flood, but not quite in it, and reciting more lonelily and eerily than I'd ever heard them before those memorablelast lines: "Fare theewellat once! "The glow-wormshowsthe matin to be near, 'And 'gins to pale hisunelfectualJire; 'Adieu, adieu!Hamlet, rememberme." One secondpassed,then another,and then there'cametwo unexpected bursts of sound at the same identical instant: Monica screamedand a thunderousapplausestartedout front, touched off by Guthrie's people,of course,but this time swiftly spreadingto all the rest of the audience. I imagineit wasthe biggesthand the Ghost ever got in the history of the theater.In fact, I never heard of him getting a hand before.It certainly was a most inappropriate place to clap, however much the performance deservedit. It broke the atmosphereand the thread of the scene. Also, it drownedout Monica's scream,so that only I and a few of those behind me heard it. At first I thought I'd madeher scream,by touching her asI had Guthrie, suddenly,like an idiot, from behind. But instead of dodging away she turned and clung to me, and kept clinging too even after I'd drawn her back and Gertrude Grainger and Sybil Jamesonhad closed in to comfort her and hush her gaspingsobs and try to draw her awayfrom me. By this time the applausewas through and Governor and Don and Joe were taking up the broken scene and knitting together its finish as best they could, while the floods came up little by little, changing to rosy,to indicate dawn breakingover Elsinore. Then Monica masteredherself and told us in quick whisperswhat had made her scream.The Ghost, she said,had moved for a moment into the edge of the blue floodlight, and she had seen for a moment through his veil, and what she had seen had been a face like Shakespeare's. Just that and no more. Except that at the moment when she told us-later she becamelesscertain-she was sure it was Shakespeare himself and no one else. I discoveredthat when you hear somethinglike that you don't exclaim or get outwardlyexcited.Or even inwardly,exactly.It rather shuts you up.I know I felt at the same time extreme awe and a renewedirritation at the Ouiia board.I was deeply moved,yet at the sametime pettishly irked, as if some vast adult creaturehad disorderedthe toy world of my universe. It seemedto hit Sybiland even Gertrude the sameway.For the moment we were shy about the whole thing, and so, in her way,wasMonica, and so
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were the few others who had overheardin part or all what Monica had said. I knew we were going to crossthe stagein a few more secondswhen the curtain camedown on that scene,ending the first act,and stagelightscame up. At leastI knew that I was going across.Yet I wasn't looking forward to it.
When the curtain did come down-with another round of applause from out front-and we startedacross,Monica besideme with my arm still tight around her, there came a choked-off male cry of horror from aheadto sliock and hurry us. I think about a dozen of us got stageleft about the sametime, including of coursethe Governor and the otherswho had been on stage. F.F.and Propswerestandinginside the doorwayto the empty prop room and looking down into the hidden part of the L. Even from the side, they both looked pretty sick. Then F.F,knelt down and almostwent out of view, while Props hunched over him with his natural stoop. As we craned around Props for a look-myself among the first, just beside the Governor,we saw something that told us right away that this Ghost wasn't ever going to be able to answer that curtain call they were still fitfully clappingfor out front, although the houselights must be up by now for the first intermission. Guthrie Boydwaslying on his back in this streetclothes.His facelooked gray,the eyesstaringstraight up. While swirled besidehim lay the Ghost's cloak and veil and the helmet and an empty fifth of whisky. Betweenthe two conflicting shocksof Monica's revelationand the body in the prop room, my mind was in a uselessstate.And from her helpless incredulousexpressionI knew Monica felt the same.I tried to put things together and they wouldn't fit anywhere. E E,looked up at us over his shoulder."He's not breathing,"he said. "I think he's gone."Just the samehe startedloosing Boyd'stie and shirt and pillowing his head on the cloak. He handed the whisky bottle back to us through severalhands and Joe Rubens got rid of it. The Governor sent out front for a doctor and within two minutes Harry Grossman was bringing us one from the audience who'd left his seat number and bag at the box office. He was a small man-Guthrie would have made two of him-and a bit awestruck,I could see,though holding himself with greaterprofessionaldignity becaus,rof that, as we made way for him and then crowdedin behind. He confirmed F.E's diagnosisby standingup quickly after kneeling only for a few secondswhere F.R had. Then he said hurriedly to the Governor, as if the words were being surprised out of him againsthis professional caution, "Mr. Usher, if I hadn't heard this man giving that great performancejust now, I'd think he'd been dead for an hour or more."
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He spokelow and not all of us heard him, but I did and so did Monica, and there was Shock Three to go along with the other two, raising in my mind for an instant the grisly pricture of Guthrie Boyd's spirit, or some other entity, willing his deadbody to go through with the last performance. Once again I unsuccessfullytried to fumble together the parts of this night's mystery. The little doctor looked around at us slowly and puzzledly.He said, "I take it he just wore the cloak over his streetclothes?" He paused.Then, "He did play the Ghost?" he askedus. The Governor and severalothers nodded,but some of us didn't at once and I think E,F, gavehim a rather peculiar look, for the doctor clearedhis throat and said, "I'll have to examine this man as quickly as possiblein a better placeand light. Is there-?" The Governorsuggestedthe couch in his dressing room and the doctor designated Joe Rubens and John McCarthy and Francis Farley Scott to carry the body.He passedover the Governor,perhapsout of awe,but Hamlet helpedjust the same,his black garb most fitting. It wasodd the doctorpickedthe older men-I think he did it for dignity. And it was odder still that he should havepickedtwo ghoststo help carry a third, though he couldn't have known that. As the designatedones moved forward, the doctor said, "Pleasestand back, the rest of you." It wasthen that the very little thing happenedwhich madeall the pieces of this night's mysteryfall into place-for me, that is, and for Monica too, judging from the way her hand trembled in and then tightened around mine. We'd beengiven the key to what had happened.I won't tell you what it was until I've knit togetherthe ends of this story. The secondact was delayedperhapsa minute, but after that we kept to schedule,giving a better performancethan usual-I never knew the GraveyardSceneto carry so-much feeling or the bit with Yorick's skull to be so poignant. Just before I made my own first entrance,Joe Rubenssnatchedoff my street hat-I'd had it on all this while-and I playedall of Guildenstern wearing a wristwatch, though I don't imagine anyone noticed. F,F.playedthe Ghost asan off-stagevoicewhen he makeshis final brief appearancein the ClosetScene.He usedGuthrie's voice to do it, imitating him very well. It struck me afterwardsas ghoulish-but right. Well before the play ended, the doctor had decided he could say that Guthrie had died of a heart seizure,not mentioning the alcoholism.The minute the curtain came down on the last act, Harry Grossmaninformed Guthrie's son and daughterand brought them backstage.They were much moved,though hardly deeplysmitten, seeingthey'd beenout of touch with
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the old boy for a decade.However, they quickly saw it was a Grand and Solemn Occasion and behaved accordingly,especially Guthrie's pug' naciousson-in-law. Next morning the two Wolverton papers had headlinesabout it and Guthrie got his biggestnotices ever in the Ghost. The strangenessof the event carried the item around the world-a six-line filler, capturing the mind for a second or two, about how a once-famous actor had died immediately after giving a performanceas the Ghost in Hamler,though in some versions,of course,it becameHamlet's Ghost. The funeral came on the afternoon of the third day,just beforeour last performancein Wolverton, and the whole company attended along with Guthrie's children's crowd and many other Wolvertonians.Old Sybil broke down and sobbed. Yet to be a bit callous,it wasa neat thing that Guthrie died where he did, for it savedus the trouble of having to send for relativesand probablytake care of the funeral ourselves.And it did give old Guthrie a grand finish, with everyone outside the company thinking him a hero-martyr to the motto The ShowMust Go On. And of coursewe knew too that in a deeper sensehe'd really been that. We shifted around in our parts and doubled some to fill the little gaps Guthrie had left in the plays, so that the Governor didn't have to hire another actor at once. For me, and I think for Monica, the rest of the season was very sweet. Gertrude and Sybil carried on with the Ouija sessionsalone. And now I must tell you about the very little thing which gavemyself and Monica a satisfyingsolution to the mystery of what had happenedthat night. You'll have realized that it involved Props. Afterwards I asked him straight out about it and he shyly told me that he really couldn't help me there. He'd had this unaccountabledevilish compulsion to get drunk and his mind had blankedout entirely from well beforethe performanceuntil he found himself standingwith F.F. over Guthrie's body at the end of the first act.He didn't rememberthe Ouija-scareor a word of what he'd saidto me about theatersand time machines-or so he alwaysinsisted. E,F told us that after the Ghost's last exit he'd seenhim-very vaguely in the dimness-lurch acrossbackstageinto the empty prop room and that he and Propshad found Guthrie lying there at the end of the scene.I think the queer look F.E-the old reality-fuddlingrogue!-gave the doctor was to hint to him that hehadplayedthe Ghost,though that wasn't somethingI could ask him about. But the very little thing- When they were picking up Guthrie's body and the doctor told the rest of us to stand back,Propsturned as he obeyed
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and straightenedhis shouldersand looked directly at Monica and myself, or rather a little over our heads.He appearedcompassionateyet smilingly sereneas alwaysand for a moment transfigured,as if he were the eternal observer of the stageof life and this little tragedy were only part of an infinitely vaster,endlesslyinteresting pattern. I realizedat that instant that Props could have done it, that he'd very effectively guarded the doorway to the empty prop room during our searches,that the Ghost's costume could be put oR or off in seconds (though Prop'sshoulderswouldn't fill the cloak like Guthrie's), and that I'd never once before or during the play seen him and the Ghost at the sametime. Yes,Guthrie had arriveda few minutesbeforeme ... and died ... and Props,nervedto it by drink, had coveredfor him. lVhile Monica, as she told me later, knew at once that here was the great-browedface she'd glimpsed for a moment through the greenish EAUZ9.
Clearly there had been four ghosts in Hamlet that night-John McCarthy, Francis Farley Scott, Guthrie Boyd, and the fourth who had really playedthe role. Mentally blackedout or not, knowing the lines from the many times he'd listened to Hamlet performed in this life, or from buried memories of times he'd taken the role in the days of Queen Elizabeththe First,Billy (or Willy) Simpson,or simply Willy S.,had played the Ghost, a good trouper respondingautomaticallyto an emergency.
Divine Madness Roger Zelazny
like stand them makes and stars ". . .I is this ?hearerswounded-wonder wanderingthe conjuressorrowof phrase Whose. . ." He blew smoke through the cigaretteand it grew longer. He glanced at the clock and realized that its hands were moving backwards. The clock told him that it was 10:33,goingon 10:32in the P.M. Then came the thing like despair,for he knew there was not a thing he could do about it. He was trapped,moving in reversethrough the sequence of actions past.Somehow,he had missed the warning. Usually,there was a prism-effect, a flash of pink static, a drowsiness, then a moment of heightenedperception... He turned the pages,from left to right, his eyesretracingtheir path back along the lines. " ?emphasisan such bearsSrief whosehe is What" Helpless,there behind his eyes,he watched his body perform. The cigarettehad reachedits full length.He clickedon the lighteEwhich 4t7
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suckedaway its glowing point, and then he shook the cigaretteback into the pack. He yawned in reverse:first an exhalation,then an inhalation. It wasn't real-the doctor had told him. It was grief and epilepsy, meeting to form an unusual syndrome. He'd alreadyhad the seizure.The Dilantin wasn't helping.This was a post-traumaticlocomotorhallucination,elicitedby anxiety,precipitatedby the attack. But he did not believeit, could not believeit-not after twenty minutes had goneby,in the other direction-not after he had placedthe book upon the readingstand, stood, walked backwafd acrossthe room to his closet, hung up his robe, redressedhimself in the same shirt and slackshe had worn all dag backed over to the bar and regurgitateda Martini, sip by cooling sip, until the glasswas filled to the brim and not a drop spilled. There was an impending taste of olive, and then everything was changedagain. The second-handwas sweepingaround his wristwatch in the proper direction The time was 10:07. He felt free to move as he wished. He redrankhis Martini. Now, if he would be true to the pattern, he would changeinto his robe and try to read.Instead,he mixed anotherdrink. Now the sequencewould not occur. Now the things would not happenashe thought they hadhappened,and un-happgned. Now everything was different. All of which went to prove it had been an hallucination. Even the notion that it had taken twenty-six minutes eachway waslan attempted rationalization. Nothing had happened. . . . Shouldn'tbe drinking, he decided.It might bring on a seizure. He laughed. Crazy,though, the whole thing . .. Remembering,he drank. In the morning he skipped breakfast,as usual, noted that it would soon stop being morning, took two aspirins,a lukewarm shower,a cup of coffee, and a walk. The park, the fountain, the children with their boats, the grass,the pond, he hated them; and the morning, and the sunlight, and the blue moats around the towering clouds.
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Hating, he sat there. And remembering. If he was on the verge of a crackup, he decided, then the thing he wanted most wasto plunge aheadinto it, not to totter halfwayout, halfway in. He rememberedwhy. But it was clear,so clear,the morning, and everythingcrisp and distinct and burning with the green fires of spring, there in the sign of the Ram, April. He watchedthe winds pile up the remainsof winter againstthe far gray fence,and he sawthem push the boatsacrossthe pond, to come to rest in shallow mud the children tracked. The fountain jetted its cold umbrella above the green-tingedcopper dolphins. The sun ignited it whenever he moved his head. The wind rumpled it. Clusteredon the concrete,birds peckedat part of a candy bar stuck to a red wrapper. Kites swayedon their tails, nosed downward,roseagain,as youngsters tugged at invisible strings. Telephone lines were tangled with wooden frames and torn paper,like broken G clefs and smearedglissandos. He hated the telephonelines, the kites, the children, the birds. Most of all, though, he hated himself. How does a man undo that which has been done? He doesn't.There is no way under the sun. He may suffer,remember,repent,curse,or forget. Nothing else.The pst, in this sense,is inevitable. A woman walkedpast.He did not look up in time to seeher face,but the dusky blonde fall of her hair to her collar and the swell of her sure,sheernetted legs below the black hem of her coat and abovethe matching click of her heelsheigh-ho,stoppedhis breathbehind his stomachand snared his eyesin the wizard-weftof her walking and her postureand some more, like a rhyme to the last of his thoughts. He half-rosefrom the bench when the pink static struck hi,seyeballs,and the fountain becamea volcano spouting rainbows. The world was frozen and servedup to him under glass. . . . The woman passedback before him and he looked down too soon to see her face. The hell was beginning once more, he realized,as the backward-flying birds passedbefore. He gavehimself to it. Let it keep him until he broke, until he was all used up and there was nothing left. He waited, there on the bench, watching the slithey toves be brillig, as the fountain sucked its waters back within itself, drawing them up in a
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great arc above the unmoving dolphins, and the boats raced backward acrossthe pond, and the fencedivesteditself of strayscrapsof paper,asthe birds replacedthe candy bar within the red wrapper,bit by crunchy bit. His thoughts only were inviolate, his body belongedto the retreating tide. Eventually,he rose and strolled backwardsout of the park. On the street a boy backedpast him, unwhistling snatchesof a popular song. He backedup the stairs to his apartment,his hangovergrowing worse again,undrank his coffee, unshowered,unswallowedhis aspirins,and got into bed, feeling awful. Let this be it, he decided. A faintly remembered nightmare ran in reversethrough his mind, giving it an undeservedhappy ending. It was dark when he awakened. He was very drunk. He backedover to the bar and beganspitting out his drinks, one by one into the same glasshe had used the night before,and pouring them from the glassback into the bottles again.Separatingthe gin and vermouth was no trick at all. The proper liquids leapt into the air as he held the uncorked bottles abovethe bar. And he grew less and less drunk as this went on. Then he stood before an early Martini and it was 10:07 in th6 P.M. There, within the hallucination,he wonderedabout another hallucination. Would time loop-the-loop,forward and then backwardagain,through his previousseizure? No. It was as though it had not happened,had never been. He continued on back through the evening, undoing things. He raisedthe telephone,said "good-bye,"untold Murray that he would not be coming to work again tomorrow,listened a moment, recradledthe phone and looked at it as it rang. The sun cameup in the west and peoplewerebackingtheir carsto work. He readthe weatherreport and the headlines,folded the evening paper and placedit out in the hall. It was the longestseizurehe had ever had,but he did not really care.He settledhimself down within it and watchedasthe day unwound itself back to morning. His hangoverreturned as the day grew smaller,and it was terrible when he got into bed again. When he awakenedthe previous evening the drunkennesswas high
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upon him. Two of the bottles he refilled, recorked,resealed.He knew he would take them to the liquor store soon and get his money back. As he sat there that day,his mouth uncursing and undrinking and his eyesunreading,he knew that new carswere being shippedback to Detroit and disassembled,that corpseswere awakeninginto their death-throes, and that priests the world over were sayingblack mass,unknowing. He wantedto chuckle but he could not tell his mouth to do it. He unsmoked two and a half packsof cigarettes. Then came another hangoverand he went to bed. Later,the sun set in the east. Time's winged chariot fled before him as he opened the door and said "good-bye" to his comfortersand they camein and sat down and told him not to grieve overmuch. And he wept without tears as he realizedwhat was to come. Despitehis madness,he hurt. ... Hurt, as the daysrolled backward. . . . Backward,inexorably. ... Inexorably,until he knew the time was near at hand. He gnashedthe teeth of his mind. Great was his grief and his hate and his love. He was wearing his black suit and undrinking drink after drink, while somewherethe men were scrapingthe clay back onto the shovelswhich would be used to undig the grave. He backedhis car to the funeral parlor,parkedit, and climbed into the limousine. They backedall the way to the graveyard. He stood among his friends and listened to the preacher. "dust to dust; ashesto Ashes," the man said,which is pretty much the same whichever way you say it. The casketwas taken back to the hearseand returned to the funeral parlor. He sat through the serviceand went home and unshavedand unbrushed his teeth and went to bed. He awakenedand dressedagain in black and returned to the parlor. The flowers were all back in place. Solemn-facedfriends unsigned the Sympathy Book and unshook his hand. Then they went inside to sit awhile and stare at the closed casket. Then they left, until he was alone with the funeral director. Then he was alone with himself. The tears ran up his cheeks.
Roger Zelrl,n!
His suit and shirt were crisp and unwrinkled again. He backed home, undressed,uncombed his hair. The day collapsed aroundhim into morning, and he returned to bed to unsleepanothernight. The previous evening, when he awakened,he realized where he was headed. TWice,he exerted all of his will power in an attempt to interrupt the sequenceof events.He failed. He wanted to die. If he had killed himself that day, he would not be headedback toward it now. There were tears within his mind as he realizedthe past which lay less than twenty-four hours bqfore him. The past stalked him that day as he unnegotiatedthe purchaseof the casket,the vault, the accessories. Then he headedhome into the biggesthangoverof all and slept until he was awakenedto undrink drink after drink and then return to the morgue and come back in time to hang up the telephone on that call, that call which had cometo break... . . . The silence of his anger with its ringing. She was dead. She was lying somewherein the fragmentsof her car on Interstate 90 now. As he paced,unsmoking, he knew she was lying there bleeding. . . . Then dying, after that crash at 80 miles an hour. ...Then alive? Then re-formed, along with the car,and alive again,arisen?Even now backing home at a terrible speed, to re-slam the door on their final argument?To unscreamat him and to be unscreamedat? He cried out within his mind. He wrung the hands of his spirit. It couldn't stop at this point. No. Not now. All his grief and his love and his self-hatehad brought him backthis far, this near to the moment . .. It couldn'tend now. After a time, he moved to the living room, his legs pacing, his lips cursing, himself waiting. The door slammed open. She staredin at him, her mascarasmeared,tears upon her cheeks. "lhell to go Then," he said. "lgoing I'm," she said. She steppedback inside, closedthe door. She hung her coat hurriedly in the hall closet.
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".it aboutfeel you way the that'sIf," he said,shrugging. "lyourselfbut anybodyaboutcaredon't you," shesaid. "lchild a like behavingYou're,"he said. "lsorry you'resayleastat couldYou" Her eyesflashedlike emeraldsthroughthe pink static,and she was lovelyand aliveagain.In his mind he wasdancing. The changecame. "You couldat leastsayyou'resorry!" "I am,"he said,takingher handin a gripthatshecouldnot break."How much,you'll neverknow." "Comehere,"andshedid.
NarrowYalley R. A. Lafferty
In the year 1893,land allotments in severaltywere madeto the remaining eight hundred and twenty-one PawneeIndians. Each would receive one hundred and sixty acresof land and no more, and thereafter the Pawnees would be expectedto pay taxeson their land, the sameas the White-Eyes did. "Kitkehahke!" clarence Big-saddle cussed. "you can't kick a dog around proper on a hundred and sixty acres.And I sure am not hear before about this pay taxes on land." ClarenceBig-Saddleselecteda nice greenvally for his allotment. It was one of the half dozen plots he had always regardedas his own. He sodded around the summer lodge that he had there and made it an all-season home. But he sure didn't intend to pay taxes on it. So he burned leavesand bark and made a speech: "That my valley be alwayswide and flourish and greenand such stuff as that!" he oratedin Pawneechant style. "But that it be narrowif an intruder come." 4zs
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He didn't have any balsambark to burn. He threw on a little cedarbark instead.He didn't have any elder leaves.He used a handful of jack'oak leaves.And he forgot the word. How you going to work it if you forget the word? "Petahauerat!"he howled out with the confidencehe hopedwould fool the fates. "That's the samelong of a wordl'he saidin a low asideto himself.But he was doubtful. "What am I, a White Man, a burr-tailedjack, a new kind of nut to think it will work?" he asked."I haveto laughat me. Oh well,we sgg."
He threw the rest of the bark and the leaveson the fire, and he hollered the wrong word out again. And he was answeredby a dazzlingsheet of summer lightning. swore."It worked.I didn't think it would." "Skidi!" ClarenceBig-Saddle ClarenceBig-Saddlelived on his land for many years,and he paid no taxes.Intruders were unable to come down to his place.The land was sold for taxesthree times, but nobodyever camedown to claim it. Finally,it was carried as open land on the books.Homesteadersfiled on it severaltimes, but none of them fulfilled the qualification of living on the land. Half a century went by. ClarenceBig-Saddlecalled his son. "I've had it, boy,"he said."I think I'll just go in the houseand die." "Okay, Dad," the son ClarenceLittle-Saddlesaid."I'm going in to town to shoot a few gamesof pool with the boys.I'll bury you when I get back this evening." Sothe son ClarenceLittle-saddleinherited.He alsolived on the land for many yearswithout payingtaxes. There wasa disturbancein the courthouseone day.The placeseemedto be invadedin force,but actuallythere were but one man, one woman,and five children. "I'm Robert Rampart,"said the man, "and we want the Land Officel' "I'm Robert Rampart Junior," said a nine-year-old gangler,"and we want it pretty blamedquick." "I don't think we haveanythinglike thatl'the girl at the desksaid."Isn't that somethingthey had a long time ago?" "Ignorance is no excuse for inefficiency, my dear," said Mary Mabel Rampart, an eight-year-oldwho could easily pass for eight and a half. 'After I make my report, I wonder who will be sitting at your desk tomorrow." "You peopleare either in the wrong stateor the wrong century,"the girl said. "The HomesteadAct still obtains,"Robert Rampartinsisted."There is one tract of land carried as open in this county.I want to file on it."
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Cecilia Rampart answeredthe knowing wink of a beefy man at the distantdesk."Hi;'she breathedas she slinkedover.o'I'm CeciliaRampart, but my stagename is Cecilia San Juan. Do you think that seven is toc young to play ingenueroles?" "Not for you," the man said. "Tell your folks to come over here." "Do you know where the Land Office is?" Ceciliaasked. "Sure. It's the fourth left-hand drawer of my desk.The smallestoffice we got in the whole courthouse.We don't use it much any more." The Rampartsgatheredaround.The beefy man startedto make out the papers. "This is the land description,"RobertRampartbegan."Why, you'vegot it down already.How did you know?" "I've been aroundhere a long time," the man answered. They did the paperwork, and Robert Rampartfiled on the land. "You won't be able to come onto the land itsell though,"the man said. "why won't I?" Rampart demanded. "Isn't the land description accurate? " "oh, I supposeso. But nobody'sever been able to get to the land. It's become a sort of joke." "well, I intend to get to the bottom of that joke," Rampartinsisted."I will opcupythe land, or I will find out why not." "I'm not sure about that," the beefyman said."The last man to file on the land, about a dozenyearsago,wasn't ableto occupythe land. And he wasn'tableto saywhy he couldn't.It's kind of interesting,the look on their facesafter they try it for a day or two, and then give it upl' The Rampartsleft the courthouse,loadedinto their camper,and drove out to find their land. They stoppedat the house of a cattle and wheat farmer named Charley Dublin. Dublin met them with a grin which indicatedhe'd been tipped off. "Come alongif you want to, folks," Dublin said."The easiestway is on foot acrossmy short pasturehere. Your land's directly west of mine." They walked the short distanceto the border. "My name is Tom Rampart, Mr. Dublin." six-year-old rom made conversationasthey walked."But my nameis reallyRamires,and not Tom. I am the issue of an indiscretionof my mother in Mexico severalyears ago.t' "The boy is a kidder, Mr. Dublin," said the motheE Nina Rampart, defendingherself."I haveneverbeenin Mexico,but sometimesI havethe urge to disappearthere forever." 'Ay yes, Mrs. Rampart.And what is the name of the youngestbo.y, here?" CharleyDublin asked. "Fatty," said Fatty Rampart.
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"But surelythat is not your givenname?" 'Audifax," saidfive-year-oldFatty.
'Ah well, Audifax, Fatty,are you a kidder too?" "He's gettingbetterat it, Mr. Dublin," Mary Mabel said."He wasa twin till last week. His twin was named Skinny.Mama left Skinny unguarded while she was out tippling,and there were wild dogsin the neighborhood. When Mama got back, do you know what was left of Skinny? Two neck bones and an ankle bone. That was all." "Poor Skinny,"Dublin said. "Well, Rampart,this is the fence and the end of my land.Yours is just beyond." "Is that ditch on my land?" Rampartasked. "That ditch ls your land." "I'll have it filled in. It's a dangerousdeep cut even if it is narrow.And the other fence looks like a good oneoand I sure havea pretty plot of land beyond it." "No, Rampart, the land beyond the second fence belongsto Holister Hyde," Charley Dublin said. "That secondfence is the endof your land." "Now, just wait a minute, Dublin! There'ssomethingwrong here.My land is one hundredand sixty acres,which would be a half mile on a side. Where'smy half-mile width?" "Between the two fences." "That's not eight feet." "Doesn't look like it, doesit, Rampart?Tell you what-there's plenty of throwing-sizedrocks around.Try to throw one acrossit." "I'm not interestedin any such boys' gamesl' Rampart exploded."I want my landl' But the Rampartchildren wereinterestedin such games.They got with it with those throwing rocks. They winged them out over the little gully. The stonesactedfunny.They hung in the air,as it were,and diminished in size.And they were small as pebbleswhen they droppeddown, down into the gully. None of them could throw a stone acrgssthat ditch, and they were throwing kids. "You and your neighborhaveconspiredto fenceopen land for your own usel' Rampartcharged. "No such thing, Ramparti' Dublin said cheerfully."My land checks perfectly.So does Hyde's. So does yours, if we knew how to check it. It's iikr on" of thosetrick topologicaldrawings.It really is half a mile from here to there,but the eyegetslost somewhere.It'syour land.Crawlthroughthe fence and figure it out." Rampart crawled through the fence, and drew himself up to jump the gully.Then he hesitated.He got a glimpse of just how deep that gully was. Still, it wasn't five feet across.
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There was a heavy fence post on the ground, designedfor use as a corner post.Rampartup-endedit with some effort. Then he shovedit to fall and bridgethe gully.But it fell short, and it shouldn't have.An eightfoot post should bridge a five-foot gully. The post fell into the gully, and rolled and rolled and rolled. It spun as though it were rolling outward, but it made no progressexcept vertically. The post came to rest on a ledge of the gully, so closethat Rampart could almost reachout and touch it, but it now appearedno bigger than a match stick. "There is somethingwrong with that fence post,or with the world, or with my eyes,"Robert Rampartsaid."I wish I felt dizzyso I could blame it on that." "There's a little game that I sometimesplay with my neighbor Hyde when we're both out," Dublin said."I've a heavyrifle and I train it on the middle of his forehead as he stands on the other side of the ditch apparentlyeight feet away.I fire it off then (I'm a good shot), and I hear it. whine across.It'd kill him deadif things wereas they seem.But Hyde'sin no danger.The shot alwaysbangsinto that little scuff of rocksand boulders aboutthirty feet belowhim.I canseeit kick up the rock dust there,and the soundof it rattlinginto thoselittle boulderscomesbackto me in abouttwo and a half seconds." A bull-bat (poor peoplecall it the night-hawk)raveledaroundin the air and zoomedout over the narrow ditch, but it did not reachthe other side. The bird dropped below ground level and could be seen against the backgroundof the other side of the ditch. It grew smaller and hazier as though at a distanceof three or four hundred yards.The white bars on its wings could no longer be discerned; then the bird itself could hardly be discerned; but it was far short of the other side of the five-foot ditch. A man identified by Charley Dublin asthe neighbor Hollister Hyde had appearedon the other side of the little ditch. Hyde grinned and waved.He shoutedsomething,but could not be heard. "Hyde and I both readmouthsj'Dublin said, "so we can talk acrossthe ditch easy enough. Which kid wants to play chicken? Hyde will barrel a good-sized rock right at your head, and if you duck or flinch you're chicken." "Me! Me!" Audifax Rampartchallenged.And Hyde,a big man with big hands, did barrel a fearsomejagged rock right at the head of the boy.Ii would have killed him if things had been as they appeared.But the rock diminished to nothing and disappearedinto the ditch. Here was a phenomenon:things seemedreal-sizedon either side of the ditch, but they diminished coming out over the ditch either way. "Everybody game for it?" Robert Rampart Junior asked.
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"We won't get down there by standing here," Mary Mabel said. "Nothing wenchered,nothing gained,"said Cecilia."I got that from an ad for a sex comedy." Then the five Rampartkids ran down into the gully.Ran downis right. It was almost as if they ran down the vertical face of a cliff. They couldn't do that. The gully was no wider than the stride of the biggestkids. But the gully diminished those children, it ate them alive. They were doll-sized. They were acorn-sized.They were running for minute after minute across a ditch that was only five feet across.They were going, deeper in it, and getting smaller.Robert Rampart was roaring his alarm, and his wife Nina was screaming.Then she stopped."What am I carryingon so loud about?" she askedherself."It looks like fun. I'll do it too." Sheplunged into the gully, diminished in size as the children had done, and ran at a paceto carry her a hundred yardsawayacrossa gully only five feet wide. That Robert Rampart stirred things up for a while then. He got the sheriff there, and the highway patrolmen.A ditch had stolen his wife and five children, he said,and maybekilled them. And if anybodylaughs,there may be another killing. He got the colonel of the State National Guard there, and a command post set up. He got a couple of airplane pilots. Robert Rampart had one quality: when he hollered, people came. He got the newsmenout from T-Town, and the eminent scientists,Dr. Velikof Vonk, Arpad Arkabaranan,and Willy McGilly. That bunch turns up everytime you get on a goodone.Theyjust happento be in that part of the country where something interesting is going on. They attackedthe thing from all four sidesand the top, and by inner and outer theory.If a thing measureshalf a mile on eachside,and the sidesare straight,there just has to be something in the middle of it. They took picturesfrom the air, and they turned out perfect.They provedthat Robert Ramparthad the prettiesthundred and sixty acresin the country,the larger part of it being a lush greenvalley,and all of it bei.nghalf a mile on a side, and situatedjust where it should be. They took ground-levelphotos then, and it showeda beautiful half-mile stretch of land betweenthe boundaries of CharleyDublin and Hollister Hyde. But a man isn't a camera.None of them could see that beautiful spreadwith the eyes in their heads.Where was it? Down in the valley itself everythingwasnormal. It really washalf a mile wide and no more than eighty feet deep with a very gentle slope,It was warm and sweet,and beautiful with grassand grain. Nina and the kids loved it, and they rushed to see what squatter had built that little houseon their land.A house,or a shack.Ithadneverknown paint, but paint would have spoiled it. It was built of split timbers dressed
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near smooth with ax and draw knife, chinkedwith white clay,and sodded up to about half its height.And there was an interloperstandingby the little lodge. "Here, here what are you doing on our land?" Robert RampartJunior demandedof the man. "Now you just shamble off again wherever you came from. I'll bet you're a thief too, and thosecattle are stolen." "Only the black-and-whitecalf,"ClarenceLittle-saddlesaid."I couldn't resisthim, but the rest are mine. I guessI'll just stay aroundand seethat you folks get settledall right." "Is there any wild Indians aroundhere?" Fatty Rampart'asked. "No, not really.I go on a bender about every three months and get a little bit wild, and there'sa couple Osageboysfrom Gray Horse that get noisy sometimes,but that's about all," ClarenceLittle-Saddlesaid. "You certainlydon't intend to palm yourself off on us as an Indian," Mary Mabel challenged."You'll find us a little too knowledgeable for that." "Little girl, you might aswell tell this cow there'sno room for her to be a cow since you're so knowledgeable.She thinks she's a short-horn cow namedSweetVirginia.I think I'm a PawneeIndian namedClarence.Break it to us real gentle if we're not." "lf you're an Indian where'syour war bonnet?There'snot a featheron you anywhere." "How you be sure?There'sa story that we got feathersinsteadof hair on- Aw, I can't tell a joke like that to a little girl! How come you're not wearing the Iron Crown of Lombardy if you're a white girl? How you expect me to believeyou're a little white girl and your folks came from Europe a couple hundred yearsago if you don't wear it? There are six hundred tribes, and only one of them, the oglala Sioux, had the war bonnet,and only the big leaders,nevermore than two or threealiveat one time, wore it." "Your analogyis a little strained,"Mary Mabel said."Those Indianswe saw in Florida and the ones at Atlantic City had war bonnets,and they couldn't very well havebeenthe kind of Siouxyou said.And just lastnight on the TV in the motel, thoseMassachusetts Indiansput a war bonneton the Presidentand calledhim the Great White Father.You mean to tell me that they were all phonies?Hey,who's laughingat who here?" "If you're an Indian where's your bow and arrow?" Tom Rampart interrupted."I bet you can't even shoot one." "You're sure right there,"Clarence admitted."I never shot one of those thingsbut once in my life. They usedto havean archeryrangein Boulder Parkover in T-Town,and you could rent the things and shootat targetstied to hay bales.Hey, I barkedmy whole forearm and nearly broke my thumb when the bow-stringthwackedhome. I couldn't shoot that thing at all. I
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don't see how anybodyever could shoot one of them." "Okay, kids," Nina Rampart called to her brood. "Let's start pitching thisjunk out of the shackso we canmove in. Is thereany way we can drive our camperdown here,Clarence?" "Sure,there's a pretty good dirt road,and it's a lot wider than it looks from the top. I got a bunch of green bills in an old night charley in the shack.Let me get them, and I'll clear out for a while. The shack hasn't been cleanedout for sevenyears,since the last time this happened.I'll show you the road to the top, and you can bring your car down it." "Hey, you old Indian, you lied!" Cecilia Rampart shrilled from the doorwayof the shack."You dohavea war bonnet.Can I have it?" "I didn't mean to lie, I forgot about that thing," ClarenceLittle-Saddle said. "My son ClarenceBarebacksent that to me from Japanfor a joke a long time ago.Sure,you can have it." All the children were assignedtaskscarryingthe junk out of the shack and settingfire to it. Nina Rampartand ClarenceLittle-Saddleambledup to the rim of the valley by the vehicle roadthat waswider than it looked from the top. "Nina, you're back! I thought you were gone foreveri' Robert Rampart jittered at seeingher again."What-where are the children?" "Why, I left them down in the valley,Robert.That is, ah, down in that little ditch right there.Now you'vegot me worriedagain.I'm goingto drive the camperdown there and unload it. You'd better go on down and lend a hand too, Robert, and quit talking to all these funny-looking men here." And Nina went back to Dublin's placefor the camper. "It would be easierfor a camel to go through the eye of a needlethan for that intrepid woman to drive a car down into that narrow ditch;' the eminent scientist Dr. Velikof Vonk said. "You know how that camel does it?" ClarenceLittle-saddle offered, appearingall of a suddenfrom nowhere."He just closesone of his own eyesand flops back his earsand plungesright through. A camel is mighty narrowwhen he closesone eye and flops backhis ears.Besides,they use a big-eyedneedlein the act." "Where'd this crazy man come from?" Robert Rampart demanded, jumping three feet in the air. "Things are coming out of the ground now.I want my land! I want my children! I want my wife! Whoops, here she comesdriving it. Nina, you can't drive a loadedcamperinto a ditch like that! You'll be killed or collapsed!" Nina Rampart drove the loadedcamper into the little ditch at a pretty good rate of speed.The best of belief is that shejust closedone eye and plungedright through.The car diminishedand dropped,and it wassmaller itr.n . toy car.But it raised a pretty good cloud of dust as it bumped for
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severalhundred yards acrossa ditch that was only five feet wide. "Rampart, it's akin to the phenomenonknown as looming, only in reverse," the eminent scientist Arpad Arkabaranan explained as he attemptedto throw a rock acrossthe narrow ditch. The rock rosevery high in the aiq seemedto hang at its apex while it diminishedto the size of a grain of sand,and then fell into the ditch not six inchesof the way across. There isn't anybodygoing to throw acrossa half-mile valley even if it looks five feet. "Look at a rising moon sometimes, Rampart.It appearsvery large, as though covering a great sector of the horizon, but it only covers one-half of a degree.It is hard to believethat you could set sevenhundred and twenty of such large moons side by side around the horizon, or that it would take one hundred and eighty of the big things to reach from the horizonto a point overhead.Itis alsohard to believethat your valleyis five hundred times as wide as it appears,but it has been surveyed,and it is." "I want my land. I want my children. I want my wife," Robert chanted dully. "Damn, I let her get awayagain." o'I'll tell you, Rampy," ClarenceLittle-saddlesquaredon him, "a man that lets his wife get awaytwice doesn't deserveto keep her.I give you till nightfall; then you forfeit. I've taken a liking to the brood. One of us is going to be down there tonight." After a while a bunch of them were off in that little tavern on the road betweenClevelandand Osage.It was only a half a mile away.If the valley had run in the other direction, it would have been only six feet away. "It is a psychic nexus in the form of an elongateddome," said the eminent scientistVelikof Vonk. "It is maintainedsubconsciouslyby the cgncatenationof at least two minds, the strongerof them belonging to a man dead for many years.It has apparentlyexisted for a little less than a hundred years, and in another hundred years it will be considerably weakened.We know from our checkingout fol! talesof Europe as well as Cambodiathat these ensorceledareasseldom survive for more than two hundred and fifty years.The personwho first set such a thing in being will usuallyloseinterestin it, and in all worldly things,within a hundredyears of his own death.This is a simple thanato-psychiclimitation. As a shortterm device,the thing has been used severaltimes as a military tactic. "This psychicnexus,as long asit maintainsitself, causesgroup illusion, but it is really a simple thing. It doesn't fool birds or rabbits or cattle or cameras,only humans. There is nothing meteorologicalabout it. It is strictly psychological. I'm gladI wasableto give a scientificexplanationto it or it'would have worried me." "It is continental fault coinciding with a noospheric fault," said the eminent scientist Arpad Arkabaranan."The valley really is half a mile wide, and at the sametime it really is only five feet wide. If we measured
R. A. Lafferty
correctly, we would get these dual measurements.Of course it is meteorological!Everything including dreamsis meteorological.It is the animalsand cameraswhich are fooled,as lacking a true dimension; it is only humans who see the true duality. The phenomenon should be common along the whole continentalfault where the earth gainsor loses half a mile that hasto go somewhere.Likely it extendsthroughthe whole sweepof the CrossTimbers.Many of thosetreesappeartwice, and many do not appearat all. A man in the properstateof mind couldfarm that land or raisecattleon it, but it doesn'treallyexist.Thereis a clearparallelin the sectorin the BlackForestof Germanywhich exists,or Luftspiegelungthal doesnot exist, accordingto the circumstancesand to the attitude of the beholder.Then we have the case of Mad Mountain in Morgan County, which isn't there all the time, and alsothe Little Lobo Mirage Tennessee, southof Presidio,Texas,from which twentythousandbarrelsof waterwere periodbeforethe miragerevertedto a pumpedin one two-and-a-half-year give glad to was able a scientificexplanationto this or it I miragestatus.I'm would have worried me." "I just don't understandhow he worked it," saidthe eminent scientist 'Petahauerat.' Willy McGilly. "Cedar bark,jack-oak leaves,and the word The thing's impossible!When I was a boy and we wanted to make a hideout, we used bark from the skunk-sprucetree, the leavesof a box'Boadicea.'All three elements are wrong here. I elder, and the word was cannot find a scientific explanationfor it, and it does worry me." They went back to Narrow Valley.Robert Rampart was still chanting dully: "I want my land. I want my children.I want my wife." Nina Rampartcame chuggingup out of the narro\ilditch in the camper and emergedthrough that little gate a few yardsdown the fence row. 'A "supper'sreadyand we're tired of waitingfor you, Robert,"she said. fine homesteaderyou are! Afraid to come onto your own land! Come along now; I'm tired of waiting for you." "I want my land! I want my children!I want my wife!" RobertRampart still chanted."Oh, there you are,Nina. You stayhere this time. I want my land! I want my children! I want an answerto this terrible thing!" "It is time we decidedwho wearsthe pants in this family," Nina said stoutly.She picked up her husband,slung him over her shoulder,carried him to the camperand dumped him in, slammed (as it seemed)a dozen doors at once, and drove furiously into the Narrow Valley,which already seemedwider. Why,the placewasgettingnormalerand normalerby the minute! Pretty soon it looked almost as wide as it was supposedto be. The psychicnexus in the form of an elongateddome had collapsed.The continentalfault that coincided with the noospheric fault had faced facts and decided to
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of their homestead, conform.The Rampartswere in effectivepossession place normal as any anywhere. and Narrow Valley was as "I havelost my land," ClarenceLittle-Saddlemoaned."It was the land and I meant it to be the land of my son of my father ClarenceBig-Saddle, ClarenceBareback.Itlookedso narrowthat peopledid not noticehow wide it was,and peopledid not try to enter it. Now I havelost itl' ClarenceLittle-Saddleand the eminent scientistWilly McGilly were standingon the edgeof Narrow Valley,which now appearedits true halfmile extent.The moon wasjust rising,so big that it filled a third of the sky. Who would haveimaginedthat it would take a hundredand eight of such monstrousthings to reachfrom the horizon to a point overhead,and yet you could sight it with sightersand figure it so. "I hada little bear-catby the tail and I let go," Clarencegroaned."I hada fine valley for free, and I havelost it. I am like that hard-luckguy in the funny-paperor Job in the Bible. Destitution is my lot." Willy McGilly looked around furtively. They were alone on the edgeof the half-mile-widevalley. "Let's give it a boostershotl'Willy McGilly said. Hey, those two got with it! They starteda snappingfire and beganto throw the stuff onto it. Bark from the dog-elmtree-how do you know it won't work? It wasworking! Alreadythe other side of the valley seemeda hundred yardscloser,and there were alarmednoisescoming up from the peoplein the valley. Leavesfrom a black locust tree-and the valley narrowedstill more! There was,moreover,terrified screamingof both children and big people from the depths of Narrow Valley,and the happy voice of Mary Mabel Rampartchanting"Earthquake!Earthquake!" "That my valley be alwayswide and flourish and such stuff, and green with money and grass!" ClarenceLittle-Saddleorated in Pawneechant style, "but that it be narrow if intruders come,smashthem like bugs!" People,that valley wasn't over a hundred feet wide, now, and the screamingof the peoplein the bottom of the valleyhad beenjoined by the hystericalcoughingof the campercar startingup. Willy and Clarencethrew everythingthat was left on the fire. But the word? The word? Who remembersthe word? "Corsicanatexas!"ClarenceLittle-saddlehowled out with confidence he hoped would fool the fates. He was answerednot only by a dazzlingsheetof summer lightning, but also by thunder and raindrops. "Chahiksi!" ClarenceLittle-Saddleswore."It worked.I didn't think it would. It will be all right now. I can use the rain.
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The valley was again a ditch only five feet wide. The campercar struggledout of Narrow Valley through the little gate.It was smashedflat as a sheetof paper,and the screamingkids and peoplein it had only one dimension. "It's closingin! It's closingin!" Robert Rampartroared,and he was no thicker than if he had been made out of cardboard. "We're smashedlike bugsf'the Rampartboysintoned."We're thin like paper." "Mort, ruine, ecrasemenf/ " spoke-actedCecilia Rampart like the great tragedienneshe was. "Help! Help!" Nina Rampart croaked,but she winked at Willy and Clarenceas they rolled by. "This homesteadingjag alwaysdid leaveme a little flat." "Don't throw those paper dolls away.They might be the Ramparts," Mary Mabel called. The campercar coughedagainand bumped along on level ground.This couldn't last forever.The car was widening out as it bumped along. "Did we overdoit, Clarence?"Willy McGilly asked."What did one flatlander say to the other?" "Dimension of us never got around," Clarencesaid. "No, I don't think we overdid it, Willy. That car must be eighteen inches wide already,and they all ought to be normal by the time they reachthe main road.The next time I do it, I think I'll throw wood-grain plastic on the fire to see who's kidding who."
Timothy Keith Roberts
Anita was bored; and when she was bored odd things were liable to happen. Granny Thompson, who studied her granddaughterfar more closely than she would have caredto admit, had been noticing a brooding look in her eyesfor some days.Shecastabout for choresthat would keep her mind off more exotic mischief for a time. "There's the 'en run" intoned the old lady."That wants a good gooin'-uvver fer a start. 'Arf the postsorl of a tip, 'oles everywheer....An' the path up ter the you-knowwot. Nearly wenton that yisdey.Placegooin' orl of 'eap,an' yer sits there moanin'. . .:' Anita sneered."Chickenruns.Pathsup to you-know-whats.Iwant to do something interesting, Gran. Like working a brand-newspell. Can't we-" 'oNowe kentf'snapped the old lady irritably."Spells,spells,kent think o'nothink but spells.Youwantster look a bit lively,my gel.Goo on out an' earn yer kep, sit there chopsin'.... Goo on, git summat done.Git some o' that fat orf yer... ." Anita hissedfuriously.She was very proud of her figure. "Mackle up that there chair-backin the wosh'ouse,o'snarled Granny, warming to her theme. "Tek the truck down to ole Goody's placean'git them line propswot's bin cut an' waitin' arf a month. Git rid of orl that 437
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muck an' jollop yer chuckeddown by the copper'ole a week larst Tbosdey. Git the threeo'clockinter Ket'rin', savemy legsferea change.'ole 'eapo' stuff we'rerun out on. ..." "Oh pleaseGran, not today...." Granny Thompsonsofteneda little. Shedidn't like goingto Kettering either."Well goo on uvver to Aggie Everett'sthen an' git a couple of 'andfuls o ' f l o u r . . . a n ' w a t c hs h ed u n t p u t n o c h i b l i n so ' n u t h i n ki n w i r hi t . Aggie'ssenseo'wot'sfunnyent the sameasanybodynormai.. . . An'rvhen yer gitsbackyer kin gooup an'git orl thatbirdsnest muck out o' the thack. I ent avin'thatgameagin,wadn'tthe samefer a monthlarsttime i wentup t h a t t h e r el a d d e r . . . I ' Anita fled, partlyto escapeher Granny'sinventiveness, partlybecause there was some truth in the crack about her weight"In the winter she seemedto storefat like a dormouse,therewasno answerto it; she'dtrieda summer dresson only a day beforeand there had beentoo much Anita nearly everywhere.She decidedto rnake a start on the chicken run. Levitationand spellraisingwere all very well in their way but there was somethingpeculiarlysatisfyingonce in a while in taking ordinarywood and nailsand a perfectlynormalhammerand lashingaboutas vigorously as possible. Sherapidlytired of the job though.l'he rollsof wire netting wererecalcitrant, possessed of a seeminglyinfinitenumberof hooksand snags that all but defied unravelment:once undone, they buried gleefullyin her palms.And the groundwassoakedandnastyso themselves thatwormsspurtedout whenevershetriedto drivea post.Anitaleanedon the somewhatdisheveledend frame of the run and yawned.She probed the mind of the nearestof its occupantsand got backthe usualmoronic burblingabout the next feeding-time.Hens are easilythe most boringof companions. Anita snorted,pushedbackher hair,wiped her hot faceand decidedto go to Aggie'sfor the flour. Sheknew her Grannystill had a goodstockof practicallyeverythingin the larderand that the errandwasonly an excuse to get her out from underfootfor a while,but that didn't matter.Shecoulcl take the long path round the far side of Foxhanger;perhapsthe wood creatureswere waking up by now. Shewalkedbetweenthe trees,well muffled in jeans,bootsand donkey jacket.As she movedshe scuffedirritablyat twigs and leaves.Shehated this time of the yearwith a peculiarloathing.Februaryis a pointlesssortof month: neitherhot nor cold,neitherwinter nor spring.No animals.no birds,the sky a dull.,uniform gray....Anita hung her headand frowned.If only things would get a move on... . There were creaturesin old tree stumpsand deepin the groundbut the few she w'asableto contactwere dozyand grumpy and madeit quite clearthey wantedto be left alonefor
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another six weeks, longer if possible.Anita decided she would like to hibernate, curled paws over nose in some brown crackling lair of leaves. Another year she really must try it; at leastshe might wake up feeling like doing something. If she had expected any comfort from Aggie Everett she was disappointed.The old lady was morose;she had recentlydevelopeda head cold, and treatedherselfwith a variety of ancientremediesand felt as she put it "wuss in consiquence."Shewas wearinga muffler knotted several times round her thin neck; her face was pale and even more scrinchedlooking than usual while her nose,alwaysa delicatemember,glowedlike a stoplight.She confided to Anita that things "orl wanted a good shove, like"; her nephewswould be coming down for the spring equinox and there were greatplansfor festivitiesbut until then the Witches' Calendar was empty. The boys were away making cardboard boxes in far-off Northamptom and there was nothing to do, nothing to do at all. . . . On the way backAnita took a shortcutacrosspart of the Johnsons'land and saw Timothy on the horizon. Lacking anything better to do, she detouredso as to passcloseby where he stood.Shecouldn't help noticing that Timothy looked as depressedas she felt. He had been made the previousspring to keepthe birds off the new crops,so he wasnearly a year old; and for nine months now he had had nothing to do but stand and be rainedon and blown about by the wind and starsat the crown of Foxhanger wood away acrossthe fields. Anita nodded mechanicallyas she trudged past.'Afternoon, Timothy . . ." But it seemedhe wastoo tired even to flap a raggedsleeveat her. She walked on. Twenty yardsawayshe stopped,struck by a thought. Shestoodstill for a moment, weighing possibilitiesand feeling excited for the first time in weeks.Then she went back, steppingawkwardlyon the chunky soil. She set the flour down, put her handson her hips and lookedat Timothy with her head on one side and her eyesnarrowedappraisingly. His face was badly weathered,of course,but that was unimportant; if anything, it tended to give him character.Shewalked up to him, brushed the laps of his coat and tilted his old floppy hat to a more rakish angle.She made motions as if parting his wild straw hair. Timothy watched her enigmaticallyfrom his almond-shapedslits of eyes.He was a very well built scarecrow;the Johnson boys had put him together one weekend when they were home from College and Anita, who loved dolls and effigies,hadwatchedthe processwith delight.Sheproddedand pattedhim, making sure: his baling-wire tendons had not rotted from exposure. Timothy was still in good order; and althoughhe wasactuallyheld up by a thick stakedriven into the ground he had legsof his own, which wasa great advantage.Anita walked round him, examining him with the air of a
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connoisseur. Thereweregreatpossibilities in Timothy. Shemovedback a few paces.Her boredomwasforgottennow; she saw the chanceof'a brandnew and very intelestingspell.Shesquattedon her heels,foldedher armsandrockedslightlyto aidconcentration. Aroundher, winter-brownfieldsand empty sky waitedsilently;therewasno breathof wind. Anita openedher eyes,and ran throughthe incantationquickly to makesureshe had it firmly set in her mind. Then she waveda hand and beganto mutter rapidly. A strangething happened.Althoughthe day remainedstill, somerhing like a breezemovedacrossthe groundto Timothy.Hadtherebeengrassit might have waved; but there was no grass,and the soil twinkled and shiftedand wasstill again.The wind touchedthe scarecrow and it seemed his shouldersstiffened,his headcameup a trifle. One of his outstretched arms waved; a wisp of straw droppedfrom his cuff and floated to the ground.The stakecreakedfaintly to itself. Anita wasvastlypleased. Shestoodanddid a littlejig; then shelooked aroundcarefully.For a moment she was temptedto finish the job on the spot and activateTimothy; but the Johnsonfarmhousewas in sight and that talk and walk and singmaybeand dance.arebestnot seen scarecrows by ordinaryfolk. Anita scurriedoff with her headfull of plans.Twenty yardsawaysheremembered the flour andwent backfor it. Timothy stirred impatientlyon his post and a wind that was not a wind riffled the ragged tailsof his coat."Sorry,"calledAnita. "l'll comebacktonight,we can talk then.Besides,I'd betterlook up the restof the trick,just to be sure."She skippedaway,not turning back again,,and Timothy might or might not havewaved... . The sky was deep gray when she returned,and the swell of land on which the scarecrow stoodlookeddark and roughasa dog'sback.Timothy wassilhouettedagainstthe lastof the light,a blackdrunkenshapelooking biggerthan he reallywas.Anita breathedwordsover him, made passes; then she undid the wire and cord that held him to his stakeand Timothy slid down and stooda little uncertainlyon his curiousfeet.Anita held his arm in casehe tumbledand brokehimselfapart."How do you feel?" she asked. "Stiff," said Timothy.His voice had a musty,earthy sort of quality and when he openedhis mouth therewasan old smellof dry soil and libraries. Anita walkedslowlywith him acrossthe furrows;for a time he totteredand reeledlike an old man or a sick one,,then he beganto get more assurance and strodeout rapidly.At first his noselessround face looked odd in the twilight but Anita soongot usedto it. After all, Timothy wasa personality, and personalities handsome. Shecrossed do not needto be conventionally jolting besideher,headedfor the coverof the the field with the scarecrow nearesttrees.
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Shefound Timothy's mihd was as empty as a thing could be; but that was part of his charm, becauseAnita could stock it with whatevershe wantedhim to know.At first the learning processwasdifficult becauseone question had a knack of leading to a dozen others and often the simplest things are hardestto explain.Thus: "What's night?" "Night is now.When it's dark." "What's dark?" "When there isn't any light." "What's light?" "8r.... Light is when you can see Foxhangeracrossthe fields. Dark is when you can't." "What's 'see'.. . . ?" Anita wason firmer groundwhen it cameto the questionof scarecrows. "What's a scarecrow?" 'A thing they put in a field when there are crops.The birds don't come becausethey think it's a man." "I was in a field. Am I a scarecrow?" "No, you're not. well, maybe once on a time, but not any more, I changedyou." iAm I a man?" "You will be. . . ." And Anita leanedon the arm of the giant and felt the firmness of his wooden bones,and was very proud. Timothy was back in his placeby first light and Anita spent sometime scuffing out tracks.When the scarecrowwalked he had a way of plonking his feet down very hard so they sank deeplyinto the ground.If old Johnson sawthe marks he might take it into his headto wait up and seewhat queer animal was on the prowl, and Anita hated the thought of Timothy being partedby a chargefrom a twelve bore.Shewas only just beginningto find out how interestinghe could be. During the following weeks Granny Thompson had little cause for complaint.she rarely saw her granddaughter;in the daytime Anita was usually mugging up fresh spellwork,or trying with the aid of a hugely battered Britannica to solve some of the more brilliant of Timothy;s probings;and at night she was invariably and mysteriouslyabsent.Her grannyfinally raisedthe questionof theseabsences. "Gallivantin'!" snorted the elder Thompson..,yore got summat on, r knows that. The questioniss wot?" "But Gran, I don't know what you mean.. . ." "Kep me up 'arf the night larstnight," pronouncedGranny.,.I could'ear yer,gooin'on. chelp chelp chelp,ev'ry night alike,but I kent 'ear nothing answer... ."And then with a suddenlygimlet-likeexpression,,.yore got a blokeagin my gel, that's wot. . . ."
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"Really, Gran," said Anita primly. "The very idea.. . ." 'Anita, what'sa witch?" "I've told you a dozen times, Timothy. A witch is somebodylike me or Gran, or Aggie Everett I suppose.We can . . . talk to all sortsof people.Like yourself.Normal folk can't." "Why can't other peopletalk to me?" "Well, the ... it's hard to explain.It doesn'tmatter anyway;you've got me. I talk to you. I made you." "Yes,Anita...." "I've got a new dress,"said Anita, pirouetting.Timothy stood stiffly by 'An' new shoes. . . but I'm not wearing them the gate and watched her. tonight becauseI don't want the dampto spoil them.I've got all new things becauseit's spring." She held her hand out to Timothy and felt the brittle strength in him as he helped her over the gate' He had a sort of clumsy courtesythat was all his own. 'Anita, what's spring?" Anita was exasperated."It's when ... ah, the birds come back from Africa, don't ask me where'sAfrica becauseI shan't tell you . . . and there's nice scentsin the air at night and the leavescome on the treesand you get new clothes and you can go out and everything feels different. I like spring." "What's'like'?" Anita stopped,puzzled."Well, it's ... I don't know. It's a feeling you have about people.I like you, for instance.Becauseyou're gentle and you think about the things I think about." Overheada bat circled and dipped and the eveninglight showedredly through his wings and for a moment he almost spoketo Anita; then he saw the gauntnesswalking with her along the path and spun back up into the sky. "I shall have to teach you about likingl' said Anita. "There's still so many things you don't know.?'She pelte-dultrasonicsafter the noctule but if he was still in range he didn't answer."Come on, Timothy," she said. "I think we'll go to Deadman's Copseand see if the badgersare out yet." "spellsl' said Anita. "Marjoram and wormsbtood and quicksilver and cinnabar.Mandrakesand tar and honey.Divination by sieve and shears. Can you remember all that?" "Yes, Anita." "You've got a very good brain, Timothy; you remember practically everything now. You've got most of the standardmanual word for word, and I only readit through to you once.You really could be very useful.. . I think you're developing what they call a BalancedPersonality.Though
TIMOTHY there'sso much to put in, I still keeprememberingbits I haven'tdone.... Would you like to learn poetry?" "What's poetry?" Anita fumed momentarily,then startedto laugh."I'm tired of defining things; it getsharderall the time. We shalljust haveto do some,that's all; I'll bring a book tomorrow."And the day after she broughtthe book; it was one of her treasures,heavy and old and bound with leather.She opened Timothy's mind till he could readShakespeare betterthan a man,then they went to DrawbackHill to get a dramaticsettingand Anita found Timothy's withered lips werejust right for the ringing utterancesof the old mad Lear. Next night they did a piece of Tbmpesr, choosingfor it the ghostly localeof Deadman'sCopse.Anita readAriel, althoughasshe pointedout she wasa little too well-developedfor the part. Timothy made a fine Prosperoithe cursingboomedout in greatstylealthoughthe bit aboutpeggingpeoplein oaks was if anything rather too realistic.When Timothy spoke the words Anita could seequite clearlyhow badit would be to get mixed up with the knotty entrails of a tree as big as that. The next day it rained, making the ground soggy and heavy. Mud coveredAnita's ankles before she was halfway acrossthe field. Timothy looked a little sullen and there was a pungent, rotting smell about his clothing that she found alarming."It's no goodj' she said,.,we shalljust haveto get you under cover.Ihatethe ideaof you standingout all the time; I don't expectyou mind, thoughl' 'Anita, what's'mind'? " By mid-April Anita would normally have been busying herself about a hundred and one things connected with the field creaturesand their affairs,but she was still mainly preoccupiedwith rimothy. somehowshe had stoppedthinking of him as a scarecrow;the thing she had woken up was beginning to work by itself now and often when she came to release him he would bubblewith notionsof his own that had come to him in the gray time before the sun drained away his power.He askedher how she knew the bats called each other and why she was alwayssure when the weasel was too close for comfort; so she gave him a sixth sense,and portions of the seventh, eighth and ninth for good measure.Then she could leave him standing on watch in his field and scurry off on her own businessand Timothy would tattle and wheezeout the night's news when next he sawher.He found out where the fieldmice werebuilding, and how the hedgepigswere faring on their rounds; then one of the hares under Drawbackwas taken by a lurcher and Timothy heard the screamand told Anita stiffly, making the death seem like a lab report; and Anita angrily gavehim emotionsand after that the tearswould squeezefrom somewhere and roll down his football face whenever he thought about killing.
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A week later Anita came home with the dawn to find her Granny waitingfor her."Thisl'said the old ladywithout preamble,"'as gottastop!' Anita flung herself down in one of the big armchairs and yawned. "Wha',Gran...." "Gallivantin' " saidGranny Thompsonsternly."Muckin'about wi'that gret thing uvver at the Johnsonses.Ugghhh. . . , Giz me the creepsit does straight.. . . Gret mucky thing orl straw an'stuff, setsyer teeth on edgeter think on it...." Shecrossedto one of the little windowsand openedit. A breezemoved cold and sweet,ruffling Anita's hair.The room was shadowy but the sky outsidewas bright; somewherea bird startedto sing,all on his own. "Gallivantin'!" said Granny again,as if to clinch matters. Anita was nearly asleep;she'd used a lot of power that night and she was very tired. She said dreamily,"He'S not a thing, Gran. He's Timothy. He's very sweet.I invented him, he knows about everything...." Then a little more sharply,"Gran!How did you kno\ry-" Granny Thompson sniffed. "I knows wot I knows. . . . There's waysan' means,my gel.... SomeaSeven you dunt know,artful though yer might bg...." Anita had a vision of something skulking in hedgerows,pouring itself acrossopen ground like spilledjam. A very particular vision this, it lashed its tail and spat.She said reproachfully"You didn't play fair. You used a Familiar...." Granny lookedvirtuous."I ent sayin' I did,an'there agin I ent sayin'I didn't... ." "It wasVOrtigern,"said Anita, pouting. "It must havebeen.None of the otherswould peachon me. But him.. .l' 'ow I knows]'saidGranny Thompsonsternly."Or 'oo tole "Never mind me.The thing is, yoregone fur enough.Anymore an'I wunt be risponsible, straightI wunt...." "But Gran, he's nice, And . . . well, I'm sorry for him. I don't like to think of him being left on his own now.It would be . . . well, like somebody . jus' leave dying almost.He's too clever now, can't just. . . eeeooohhh.. him like that.. . ." "Clever," muttered Granny,looking at the wall and not seeingit. "That ent no call for pity... . You saveyer pity fer the next world me gel, there ent 'ere.. .. Brains,pah.Strawan' dirt an' muck orf the fields, no placefer it 'im, samewith 'em orl. You'll learn...." that's brains.Samewith But the homily was lost on Anita; she had incontinently fallen asleep. Shedreamedof Timothy that morning, woke and slept againto seeif he would come back.He did; he wasstandingfar awayin his field and waving his arms to her and calling but his voice was so thick and distant she couldn't hear the words. But he wanted something, that was plain; and
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Anita woke and blinked, thought she knew what it was, and forgot again. She rubbed her eyes,saw the sunlight, felt the warmth of the air. It was lunchtime, and the day was as hot as June. The fields were dark and rough and a full moon was rising. Anita crossed the open ground behind Foxhanger.A hunting bird called,closeand low; shestoppedand sawdistantwoodshumpedon their hills,lookinglike palls of smokein the moonhaze.Timothy waswaiting for her,a tiny specka long way off in the night. When she reachedhim he looked gaunterthan ever; his fingers stuck out in bundlesfrom his sleeve,and his hat wasaskew.The night wind stirredhis coat,moonlight oozedthrough the tattersand rags. Anita felt a queer stirring inside her; but she releasedhim as usual and Timothy wriggledfrom the stakeand droppedawkwardlyto the ground.He said, "It's a lovely night, Anita." He took an experimental step or two. 'After you'd gone this morning my leg broke; but I mended it with wire and it's all right again now." Anita nodded, her mind on other things. "Good," she said."Good, Timothy, that's fine...." In February the ground had been bare and red-brownt now the harshnesswas lost under a new greenhair.That wasthe corn Timothy had been madeto protect.Shetook his arm. "Timothyf'she said."Let's walk. I'm afraid I've got an awful lot to say." They pacedthe field, on the path that wasbeatenhard where the tractor came each day; and Anita told Timothy about the world. Everything she knew,aboutpeopledying,and living, and hoping; and how all things,even good things, get old and dirty and worn-out, and the winds blow through them, and the rain washesthem away.As it has alwaysbeen, as it will be forever until the sun is cold. "Timothy," she said gently,"one day . . . even my greatPrincewill be dust.It will be as though He had never been.He, and all the peopleof His house.Nobodyknowswhy; nobodyever will. It's just the way things are." Timothy jolted gravelyalongside;Anita held his thin arm and although he had no real face she could tell by his expressionthat he understood what she was saying."Timothyj' she said."I've got to go away...." She swallowed."It's right what Gran says.you're old now and nearly finished and there are so many things to do. I haven't been fair, Timothy. You'vejust been a . . . well, a sort of toy.You know ... I wasn't ever really interestedin you. You werejust somethingI made when I was bored.you sort of grew on me." "Yes,Anita...." They turned at the farthest end of their walk.The air waswine-warm on her face and arms and Timothy smelled faintly of old brassspoonsand
Keith Roberts
what he wasthinking aboutit wasimpossibleto say."It's springnow,"said Anita. "It's the time you put on a new dressand do your hair and find someonenice you can drive with or talk with or just walk alongwith and watch the night comingand the owls and the stars.They'rethe thingsthat have to be done becausethey start right deep down inside you, in the blood. It's the same with animalsnearly,they wake up and everything's freshand green,and it's as if winter wasthe night and summeris one great l o n gd a y . . . . " They had reached Timothy's stake. In the west the sky was still turquoise; an owl dropped down against the light like a black flake of somethingburned. Anita proppedTimothy againsthis post. He seemed stiffer alreadyand more lifeless somehow.She put his hat right; it was alwaysflopping down. As she reachedup she saw somethingshine silver on his wizened-turnipface.She was startled,'untilshe rememberedshe had given him feelings.Timothy was crying. Shehuggedhim then, not knowingwhat to do. Shefelt the hardnessof him and the cracklingdryness,the knobsand anglesof his bits-and-pieces body."Oh, Timothy,"she said."Timothy I'm sorry,but I just can't go with you any more. There won't be any spells for you after this, I've taken the poweroff. . . ." Shesteppedback,not looking at him. "I'll go now," she said. "This way'sbest,honestly.Iwon't tie you backonto your stick or anything, you canjust standhere awhileand watch the batsand the owl. And in the morning you'll just sort of fade away; it won't hurt or anything...." She startedto walk off down the slope,feelingthe bladesof new corn touch her calves."Goodbye,Timothyl' she called. Somethingiron-hard snaggedat her. She fell, rolled over horrified and tried to get up. Her ankles were caught; she wriggled and the night vanished,shut awayby rough cloth that smelled of earth. "Love," croaked Timothy."Please,Anita,love...I'And shefelt his twiggyfingersmoveup and close over her breasts. Sheloopedlike a caterpillarcaughtby the tail and her fists hit Timothy squarely,bang-bang.Dust flew, and the seedsof grass;then Anita was up and running down the hill, stumblingover the roughground,and Timothy was closebehind her,a flapping patch of darknesswith his musty old head bobbing and his arms reachingout. His voice floated to her through the n i g h t . ' A n i t a. . . l o v e . . . l ' Shereachedthe bottom of the field tousled and too shockedto defend herself at all, cut acrossthe Johnsons'stackyardwith Timothy still hard on her heels. A dog volleyed barks, subsidedwhimpering as he caught the strangescenton the air.Back up the hill, a doubling acrossHome Paddock; a horse bolted in terror as old cloth flapped at his eyes.Near the hedge Timothy gainedonce more, but he lost time climbing the gate.Anita spun
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round fifty yards away."Timothy, go back! Timothy,no!" He cameon again;shetook threedeepbreaths,liftedher arm and flung something at him that crackled and fizzed and knocked a great lump of waddingfrom his shoulder.One arm flopped down uselesslybut the rest of him still thumpedtowardsher.Anita wasangrynow; her facewaswhite in moonlightand therewasa little burningspoton eachcheekand her mouth was compressedtill her lips were hardly visible at all. "scarecrow!"she shouted."Old dirty thing madeof straw!Spiders'home!" She'd had time to aim; her next shot took Timothy full in the chest and bowled him backwards.He got up and came on again although he was much slower. Anita waited for him on the little bridge over the Fynebrook.Shestood panting'andpushingthe hair out of her eyeswith eachhand in turn and the rage was white.hot now and choking her. Around her' brightnesses fizzedand sparkled;as Timothy camewithin rangeshe hit him againand again,arms and legs and head.Piecesflew from him and bounced across thregrass.He reachedthe bridgebut he wasonly a matchstickman now,his thin limbs glinting under tattersof cloth. Anita took a breathand held it, shut her eyesthen openedthem very wide, madea circle with her hands, thrust fire at Timothy.His woodenspine broke with a greatsound; what was left of him folded in the middle, tumbled againstthe handrail of the bridge. He fell feet over head into the stream. The current seized him, whirling him off; he fetched up twenty yardsawayand lay quiet, humped in a reedbedlike a heap of brokenumbrellas. Anita moved forward one foot at a time, ready to bolt again or throw more magic; but therewasno need.Timothy wasfinished; he stayedstill, the watei rippling through his clothes.A little bright beetle shot from somewhereinto his coatsleeve,came out at the elbow and sculled away down the stream.Timothy's face was pressedinto mud so he could see nothing, but his voice still whispered in Anita's mind. "Please please.. . ." She ran again, faster than ever. Along beside the brook, acrossthe meadow,through Foxhanger,up the gardenpath.Sheburst into the kitchen of the cottage,spinning Granny Thompsoncompletelyround. Took the stairsthree at a time and bangedher bedroomdoor shut behind her.She flung hersetf on the bed and sobbedand wrappedblanketsaround her ru6; but all night long,until the lastof the powerran down,shecould hear Timothy thinking otd motdy thoughts about rooks and winds, and worms in the thick red ground.
ThroughxGlass-Darkly Zenna Henderson
I finally got so frightened that I decidedto go to Dr. Barstowand have my eyeschecked. Dr. Barstowhas been my eye doctor for years-all the way from when a monkey bit and broke one lens of my first glasses,up to the current encouragingme through getting usedto bifocals.Although I still take them off to thread a needleand put them back on to seeacrossthe room, I take his word for it that somedayI'll hardly notice the vast no-vision slash acrossthe middle of everywhereI look. But it wasn't the bifocalsthat took me to Dr. Barstow.And he knew it. He didn't know that the real reasonI went to him was the cactusI saw in my front room. And I could have adjustedto a cactus-even in the front room, but not to the roadrunnerdarting from my fireplaceto my hall door and disappearingwith the last, limp two inches of a swallowed snake flapping from his smirking beak. So Dr. Barstow finished his most thorough investigation of my eyes. Then he sat straddlinghis little stool and looked at me mildly. "It takes time," he said, "to make the adjustment.Somepeopletake longer-" "It's not that, Doctor,"I saidmiserably,"even though I could smashthe
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Well, there was no helping it. things happily some times.No, it's-it's-" I'd come purposelyto tell him. "It's what I see.It's that cactusin my front 'And right now I'm seeinga rooml' His eyesflicked up quickly to mine. prickly pear cactus with fruit on it where your desk is." I swallowed rackinglyand he looked at his desk. For a moment he twiddled with whatever ophthalmologiststwiddle with and then he said,"Have you had a physicalcheck-uprecently?" His eyeswere a little amused. "Yes," I replied."For exactlythis reason.And I truly don't think I'm going maci."I pausedand mentally rappeda few spotsthat might havegone soft, but they rang reassuringlysound."Unless I'm just starting and this is one of the symptoms." "So it's all visuall' he said,briskly. "So far," I said, feeling a flood of relief that he was listening without laughter. It had been frightening, being alone. How can you tell your husband casually that he is relaxing into a cholla cactus with his newspaper?Even a husbandlike Peter.'All visual except sometimesI think I hear the wind through the cactus." Dr. Barstowblinked. "You say there's a cactuswhere my desk is?" I checked."Yes, a prickly pear.But your desk is there,too. It's-it's-" " he suggested. "Superimposed? "Yesl' I said,checkingagain.'And if you sat down there, it'd be your desk,but-but there'sthe cactus-" I spreadmy handshelplessly,"With a blue tarantula hawk flying around over it." "Tarantulahawk?" he asked. "Yes, you know, thosewaspylooking things.Someare bright blue and some are orangy-" "Then you see movement,too," he said. "Oh yes," I smiled feebly.Now that I was discussingit, it wasn't even remotely a funny story any more. I hadn't realizedhow frightened I had been. To go blind! Or mad! "That's one reasonI askedfor an emergency appointment.Things beganto move. Saturdayit was a horny toad on the mantel, which is a ledge along a sand wash. But yesterdayit was a roadrunner with a snake in his beak, coming out of the fireplace. The hearth is a clump of chaparral." "Where is the wasp now?" askedDr. Barstow. I checkedbriefly. "It's gone." And I sat and looked at him forlornly. He twiddled some more and seemedto be readinghis diploma on the wall behind me. I noticed the thin line acrosshis glassesthat signaled bifocalsand I wonderedabsentlyhow long it had taken him to get used to them. "Did you know that everytime you look at your-um-cactus, you look
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away from where you say it is?" he finally asked. 'Away from it!" I exclaimed."But-" "How many fruits on the prickly pear?" he asked. I checked."Four greenonesand a withered-" "Don't turn your head," he said. "Now what do you see in front of you?" My eyes swam through a change of focus. "You, holding up three fingers," I said. 'And yet the cactusis wheremy deskis andI'm almostat right anglesto it." He put down his three fingers."Every time you've checkedthe cactus, you've looked at me, and that's completely awayfrom where you say." "But what-" I felt tearsstartingand I turned away,ashamed. "Now turn your headandlook directlyat my desk,"he said."Do you see the cactusnow?" "No," my voicejerked forlornly. "Just the desk." "Keep your eyes on the desk," he said. "Don't move your head.Now check my position." I did-and then I did cry-big sniffy tears."You're sitting on a rock under a mesquitetree!" I choked,pulling my glassesoff blindly. He handedme a tissue.And another when that becamesodden.And a third to wipe thoseblastedbifocals. "Does having the glassesoff make a differencein what you see?" he asked. "No," I sniffed. "Only I can see better with them." And I laughed shakily,rememberingthe old joke about spots-before-the-eyes. "Well, Mrs. Jessyminl' he said. "There's nothing in the condition of your eyes to account for what you're seeing. And -this-um-visual manifestationis apparentlynot in your direct vision, but in your peripheral vision." "You mean my around-the-edges sight?" I asked. "Yes," he said."Incidentally you haveexcellentperipheralvision. Much better than most people-" "Of my advancedage!" I finished,mock bitterly."Thesedern bifocals!" "But bifocalsaren't necessarilya sign of age-" "I know, I know]' I said, "Only of getting old." We had automatically dropped into our usual bifocal speech pattern while our minds busied themselveselsewhere. "Does this thing bother you when you drive?" he asked. I wasstartled.what if they took my license!"No," I hastened."Most of the time I don't even notice it. Then sometimesI catch a glimpse of something interesting and then's when I focus in on it. But it's all voluntary-so far. Payingattention to it, I mean."
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"And you focusin as long as you look awayfrom it." Dr. Barstowsmiled. 'As a matter of fact,some things can be seenmore sharplyin peripheral vision than by looking directly at them. But I'm at a loss to explain your cactus.That soundslike hallucination-" "Well," I twisted the tissue in my fingers. "I have a sort of idea. I mean-where our houseis-it's in a new housingdevelopment-it wasall desertnot too long ago.I've-well-I've wonderedif maybeI was seeing the same place,only before.I mean, when it was still desert."I tried a smile, but Dr. Barstowdidn't notice. "Hmmm," he said,looking absentlyagainat his diploma."That would certainlyput cactusalmostanywhereyou looked,in Tucson,"he said."But how long ago are you seeine?This office building is fifteen yearsold." "I-I dont know," I faltered."I haven't thought it out that far." Dr. Barstowlookedat me and smiled his infrequent,wide smile. "Well, there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with you," he said. "If I were havingan experienceas interestingasthe one you're having,I'd just enjoy it.I'd start a little researchinto it. Or at leaststartcompilinga few statistics. How long agoareyou seeing?Is it the sametime periodeverytime? What elsecan you see?People?Big animals?Enjoy it while you can.It arrived out of nowhere,and it might go back to the sameplace."He stood up. So did I. "Then I don't haveto worry-" "Not about your eyes,anywayl' he assuredme. "Keep me posted if anythingnew develops."I turned to the door.His voice pausedme there. "By the way,if Tucsonwerewiped out, eventuallythe cactuswould come back.Are you seeingago ot to come?" We lookedat eachother levelly a moment, then we both smiled and I left. Of course I told Peter, passing on the latest greetingsfrom our old friend. And Peter,after a few sharp, anxious questionsto be sure that I wasn't concealingfrom him some Monstrous Doom, accepted.my odd affliction with his usualslight grin and glint of interest.He has long since realizedthat I don't see quite eye-to-eyewith the usual maturing-intobifocalsgroups. SinceI didn't haveto worry about it anymore,I mostly ignored my side vision. However,there were a few more 'sharpenings'in the days that followed. Oncein a Baylesssupermarketon doublestampday,I causeda two-aisle jam of shopping carts becauseI became so engrossedin one of my peripheralpictures.There I stoodat a strategicjunction, staringfixedly at a stack of tuna canswhile the rising murmur of voicesand the muted clishclishof colli{ing carts faded away. There weie people this time, two women and an assortmentof small
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nearly naked children whose runnings and playingstook them in and out of my range of vision like circling, romping puppies. It was a group of Indians. The women were intent on their work. They had a very long slendersahuarorib and were busy harvestingthe fruit from the top of an enormouslytall sahuarocactus,rignt in the middle of cannedtomatoes. One woman was dislodgingthe reddish egg-shapedfruit from the top of the cactuswith the stick,and the other wasgatheringit up from the ground into a basket,using a tong like arrangementof sticks to avoidthe thorns that cover the fruit. I was watching,fascinated,when suddenlyI heard!There was a soft, singingvoicein my mind, and my mind knew it wasthe womanwho knelt in the sandy dust and lifted the thorny fruit. "Good,good,good!softlyshesang. "Foodfor now.Foodfor later. Singgood,singgood, Singpraise,singpraise!" "Lady,are you all right?" An anxioushand on my elbow brought me back to Baylessand the traffic jam. I blinked and drew a deep breath. The managerrepeated,'Areyou all right?" He had efficiently rerouted the various carts and they were moving away from me now, with eyes looking back,curious,avid, or concerned. "Oh,I'm so sorry,"I said,clutchingthe handleof my shoppingcart...II suddenly rememberedsomethingand forgot where I was."I smiled into the manager'sanxiousface.((I'm all right, thank you. I'm sorry I caused trouble." "No trouble," he answeredmy smile a little tentatively."You're sure-" "oh, certainly," I hastened."Thank you for your kindness." And I moved awaybriskly to look for the pizzamix that was on sale. Up and down the aislesthrough the towering forest of food I hurried, echoingin my mind, as I contrastedthe little lifting sticksand my chromebright cartGood,good Foodfor now, Foodfor later. Singpraise! Singpraise! Severaldays later I stood in one of those goldfish-bowltelephone booths on a servicestation corner and listened to the purr as Dr. Barstow'soffice phone rang. Finally his secretary,Miss Kieth, answeredbrisklS and he eventually came on the line, probablybetweeneyelashes.
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"I'm downtown," I said hastily after identifying myself."I know you're busy,but-but-how long have your peoplebeen in Tucson?" There was a slight digestive pauseand then he said slowly, "My folks came out here pefore the turn of the century." "What-what did they do? I mean,to earna living? What I meanis,I'm seeingagain, right now. There's a big sign over a store, Jas. R. BeRsrow And if "/cs.meansJames,well, that's ANDSoNSGENERALMERcHANDISE. you-" I wiped a tissue acrossmy oozing foreheadand grimaced at the grime. Dr. Barstowbroke the breathingsilence. "That was my greatgrandfather.At leasthe's the one long enough ago with the right name.Can you still see the place?" His voice quickened. "Yes,"I said,concentratingon the telephonemouthpiece.'ol'mdying to go in it and see all that General Merchandise.But I don't think I can go in-not yet. What I wantedto know is, whenis the store?" After a minute he asked,"Does it havea porch over the sidewalk?" I staredstudiouslyat the dial of the phone."Yes," I said,"with peeled pine porch posts"-I dabbledmy lips-"holding up the roof." 'olden "Then it's after 1897;' he said. "That was one of our favorite days'stories-the one aboutthe storeburning down.And the.magnificent one that arosefrom the ashes.It boasteda porch." "Then that's when I'm seeing!" I cried. 'Around the turn of the century!" "If," came his voice cautiously,"if all your seeingis in the sameperiod of time." "Somedayl'Isaiddeterminedlyafter a slightpause,"somedayI'm going get to a flat oyes'or'no'from you aboutsomething!" 'And won't that be dull?" I heardhim chuckle as he hung up. I walked over to the store on the next scramble WALK signal at the corner.The concreteclickedunder my hurried feet,but, when I steppedup to the far sidewalk,my feet rang hollowly on a woodenporch floor. Hastily, lest a change should come, I hurried acrossuneven planks to the door. I grabbedthe handle.Then I paused,taking a deep breathof a general-store smell that was instantlyrecognizable-I could smell now! "Oh!" I thought,the pit of my stomachcold with excitement."To seeall the things we keepin museumsand collectionsnow! Just walk in and-" Then I heard Peter,vigorouslyand decisively,"Don't you dare take one stepinto this- !" Caughtin midstep,I turned my full gazeon the handleI held.Jarringly, I thumped down severalinches to the sidewalk.I removedmy hand from wherb it was pressedagainsta dusty,empty store window.Automatically I read the sign propped against the stained saggingback of the display window- You'll wonderwherethe yellow went-
THROUGH A GLASS-DARKLY
The week following came an odd sort of day.It had rained in the nighttorrentsof rain that madeevery upside-downdrainagestreetin Tucsonrun curb to curb. The thirsty earthdrank and drank and couldn't keepup with the heavy fall, so now the runoff was making Rillito Creek roar softly to itself as it becameagain,briefly, a running stream.The dust had been beautifullysettled.An autumn-likesky coverof heavygraycloudshid the sun. Peterand I decidedthis wasthe time for us to relearnthe art of bicycling and to do somethingabout my black belt that never lied when it pinched me the news that I was increasingaroundthe middle. It was alsotime for Peterto stop being critical of the Laundromatfor shrinking his pants.So, on this cool, moisty morning we resurrected the bikes from the accumulationin the garage.We stackedthem awkwardlyin the car trunk and drove acrossthe Rillito, stopping briefly at the bridge to join others who stood around enjoyingthe unusual sight of Water-in-a-River!Then we went on up through the mushrooming foothills land developments, until we finally arrived at a narrow,two-rutted, sandyroadthat looped out of sight around the low hills and abrupt arroyos.We parkedthe car and got the bikes out. It was a wonderful day,fragrant with wet greasewood-after-a-rain. The breezewasblowing,cool enoughfor sleevesto feel good.It wasa dustless, delightful breeze. "I love dayslike this," I said,as I wobbledawayfrom the car on my bike. I made ten feet before I fell. "I get so lonesomefor rainl' Peter patiently untangled me from the bike, flexed my arms to see if they werebroken,flexed my neck to kissthe end of my nose,then tried to steadymy bike with both handsand,at the sametime, help me get backon. "I get so tired of sun, sun, sun-" "You talk like a native," said Peter,making nice straight tracks in the damp sand of the road. "So I am;'I said,my tracksscallopingbackand forth acro$shis as I tried to follow him. "It's only you fotched-on-furrinersthat {ind perpetualsun so delightful." I fell again,this time contriving to havethe bike fall one way and me the other with the pedalsand my feet twined together. Peter was extricatingme, muttering somethingabout a donkey being better for me since it's bracedat all four corners,when I saw it-on the next loop of the road where it topped the rise aboveus. "Peterl'I saidsoftly,staringat him, "I can seea horsepulling a buggyon the road over there.There's anotherand anotherand a hay wagon-looking vehicle. Peter,it's a processionof some sortl' Peterstraightenedmy legs and sat down on the ground near me. ..Go
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on," he said, taking my hands. "There's somethingon the hay wagon,"I said."It looks-it's a coffin, Peter!" The back of my neck chilled. 'A coffin?" Peterwas startled,too. "They're going down the other side of the hill now. There are three buggiesand the wagon.They're gone-" "Come on," said Peteqgetting up and lifting the bikes, "let's follow them." "Follow them?" I grabbedmy bike and tried to rememberwhich sideto mount from-or does that only matter for horses?"Did you see them, too?" "No," he said,flinging himself up onto the bike seat."But you did. Let's see if yotJcan follow them." And behold! I could ride my bike! All sorts of muscular memories awokeand I forgot the problemsof aiming and balancing,and I whizzedslowly-through the sandat the bottom of a rise, as I followedPeter. "I don't see them!" I called to Peter'sbobbingback. "I guessthey're gone." 'Are you looking over there?" he calledback. "Of courseI am!" I cried. "Oh!" I murmured."Oh, of course."And I looked out over the valley.I noticed one slendercolumn of smoke rising from Davis-Monthan Air Basebefore my peripheral vision took over. "Peter,"I said,"it is a coffin. I'm right by the wagon.Don't go so fast. You're leavingus behind." Peterdroppedback to ride besideme. "Go on," he said."What kind of buggiesare they?" I staredout over the valley again,and my bike backedup over a granite knob in the sandand I fell. Peter swung back toward me as I scrambledto my feet. "Leave the bikes," I said.'"Let's walk. They're going slow enough-" A fine rain had begun.With it came the soft senseof stillnessI love so about the rain. Besideme, within my vision, moved the last buggyof the procession,also through a fine rain that was not even heavy enough to make a sound on its faded black top, but its color beganto darken and to shine. There were two peoplein the buggy,one man driving the single horse, the other man, thin, wrinkled, smelling of musty old age and camphor, huddled in his heavy overcoat,under a laprobe.A fine tremor stirred his knotted hands and his toothlessmouth grinned a little to show the pink smoothnessof his lower gums. I lengthened my stride to keep up with the slow moving procession, hearing the gritty grind of the metal tires through the sand.I put out my
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hand to rest it on the side of the buggy,but drew it back again, afraid I might feel something. Then I sensed the insistent seep of a voice, soundless,inside my mind. Seventeentrips to the cemetery-and back again! That'smore than anyone elsearoundherecan say.I'll seethemall undergroundyet! There-and back! I go thereand comeback. Theyall stay! The rain washeavier.Icould feel its gnatlikeinsistenceagainstmy face. The road was swinging around the baseof a long, low hill now. So thisis whatshecame/o. Another thought began.She wasa pretty little thing. Thoughttsure someyoungfelle, orouri here would have,pik 7o, hrr. Theysayshe wasbad. Shippedher backfrom the city to bury her. Womensure had a lit about burying her with their honoreddead.Honoreddead! Honored becausethey are dead. Every evil in the book safetyundergroundhere in the graveyard.Hope Papa'shaving a good time. sure likesfunerals. I reeled away from the buggy.I had walked full tilt into a fence post. Peter grabbedme before I fell. "well?" he asked,pushinga limp wet strandof my hair off my forehead. "I'm okay," I said. "Peter, is there a cemetery around here anywhere? You've hunted these foothills often enough to know." 'A cemetery?" Peter'seyesnarrowed."well, there are a few gravesin a fence corner around here somg place.Come on!" we abandonedthe road and started acrosscountry. As we trudged up one hill and scurried down another,treadingour way through cactus and mesquite,I told Peter what I'd seen and heard. "There!" Peter gesturedto the left and we plunged down into a sand washthat walkedfirmly becausethe night rain had packedthe sandand up the other steepside and topped out onto a small flat. Half a dozen forlorn sunken mounds lay in the corner of two barbed-wirefencesmeeting.Gray, wordlessslabsof weatheredwood splinteredat the headsof two of them. Small rocks half outlined another. I looked up at the toweringSantaCatalinasand sawPeter."Move, Peter," I said. "You're standing on a grave.There are dozensof them." "Where can I stand?" Peterasked. "In the fence corner,"I said. "There's no fence there-only a big rock. Here they come." I moved over to where the processionwas coming through the barbedwire fence.I stood there, hearing the wavesof voicesbreaking over me. The first buggyBad-bad! Rouged,evenin her cffin. I shouldhave wipedit off the way I startedto. Disgraceful! Why did she have to humiliateme like thisby coming back? They've got places in the city for people like her. She was dead to respectabilitya long time ago. Why did she comeback?
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The woman pinchedher lips togethermore tightly behind the black veil and thought passionately,Punishher! Punishher! The wagesof sin! The next buggywas passingme now.Poorchild-oh, poor child-to come back so unwonted.Please,God, cleanseher of all her sinsThere were two women and a man in this buggy. Goodrain. Neededit. Oughtabe homegettingthingsdone,not troiling arter a fancy woman.Goodrain for thistime of year. The metal tires gritted past me. They'll be bringingme out herenext. I'm dying! I'm dying! I know.I know. Mama died of the samething. I'm afraid to tell. All they could do wouldbe to tell me I'll be the next one to comeout here.I'm afraid! I'm afraid! I'm crying for myself,not her! A womanalonewasdriving the next buggy-a smart,shiny vehicle.She was easilycontrollingthe restlesshorse. At least she has had someonelove hen whetherit was good or bad. How many wantedher and had her doesn'tmatternow.Someonecaredabout what she did and liked the way she looked.Someonelovedher. By now the men hadgot out of the buggies-all exceptthe old one-and I heard the grating sound as they draggedthe coffin from the hayrack.It thumped to an awkward angle against the mound of desert dirt, rocks, caliche and the thin sandy soil of the hillside. It was seizedand lowered quickly and ungently to the bottom of the grave.The men got shovelsfrom their vehicles.They took off their coats,hitched their sleevegartershigher and beganto fill in the grave. "Isn't anyone going to pray?" The shocked cry came from the one woman."Isn't anyonegoing to pray?" There was a short, uneasypause. "Preacher's prayed over her alreadyl' said one of the men. "For her kind, that's enough." The woman stumbled to the half-filled grave and fell to her knees. Maybe I was the only one who heard he.r. "She lovedmuch-forgive her much." Peterand I sat warming our handsby cradlingour coffeemugs in them. We were in a little hamburgerjoint halfway back home. Outside the rain purred down, seething on the blacktop road, thrumming insistently on metal somewhereout back.We sat,eachbusy with his own thoughts,ffid watchedthe rain furrow the sandyshoulderof the road.lt wasan unusual rain for this time of year. "Well." My voice lifted Peter'seyesfrom his coffee.He lifted one brow inquiringly. "I have Tlold All;' I went on. "What is your considered opinion?"
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"Interesting," he said. "Not everyone'saberrant wife has such interestingaberrations." "No, I mean,"I carefullybalancedthe tinny spoonon my forefinger, "what-why- " "Let's not try to explainanythingl'saidPeter."In the first place,I know I can't and I don't think you can either. Let's enjoy, as Dr. Barstow suggested." "where do you supposethey shipped Gayla home from?" I asked. "Gayla?" said Peter."where did you get that name?Did someonecall her by it?" I felt goosebumps run down my arms to the elbows.,,No," I said, thinking back over the recent events. "No one mentioned any names, but-but her name is-was-is Gayla!" We eyed one another and I plunged back into words. "Maybe from Phoenix," I said."It wasrather fleshpotty in the old days." "or Tombstone,maybe?" suggestedpeter."It was even more so." "Did rombstone have a railway?" I asked,lifting my cup. ,,I don't remember seeinga depot there even nowadays.I think Benson would be the closest." "Maybe it wasn't by rail," said peter. "Maybe freight. you know, those big wagons." "It was by rail," I said, grimacing at the taste of cold coffee. peter laughed."Well," I said, "I don't like cold coffee." "It wasn't that," said Peter."You're sure her name is Gayla and that she camehome by rail, but you can't rememberwhether or not Tombstonehas a depot and we were through there last week!" o'Peter," I saidthrough the pluming steamof a fresh cup of coffee.',That bringsup somethinginteresting.This-this thingisprogressive. First I only sawstill things. Then moving things. Then people.Then I heard thoughts. TicdayI heard two peopletalk out loud. And now I know something about them that I didn't see or hear.How far do you suppose-,' Peter grabbed both my hands, sloshing coffee over our tight fingers. "Don't you dare!" he said tensely, "Don't you dare take one step into whateverthis is! Look if you want to and listen when you can, but stay out of it!" My jaw dropped."Peter!" My breathwasn't working very well. ,,peter, that's what you saidwhen I wasgoing to go into that store.Peter,how could I hear then what you didn't say until now? or are you just saying again what you said then-Peter!" Petermoppedmy handsand his. "You didn't tell me that part about the store." so I did. And it shook him, too. peter suddenly grinned and said, "whenever I said it, it's worth repeating.stayout of thG!" His grin died
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Zenna Henderson
and his hands tightened on mine. His eyeswere troubled. "Let's go home," I said, tears suddenly biting the back of my eyes."I don't call this enjoying." As we left the cafe,I said, "Peter,do you think that if we went back up there we could pick up the processionagain and follow it again-" "No," he said. "Not unless we could duplicate everything-time, temperature,humidity,mental state-maybe eventhe color of lipstick you had on once today."He grinned at me. "You look a little bedraggled." " Look bedraggled?"I easedmyself into the car."How do you supposeI feel? And the bicycling hasn't helped matters much, either. I think I sprainedsomething." Later that week I was trying to find an addressin a new subdivision of curved streets, cul-de-sacstoo narrow to turn in, and invisible house numbers.Finally I even forgot the name of the stravenueI waslooking for. I pulled up to park along a school fence on Fort Lowell Road. I was rummaging in my purse,trying to find the paperI had written the address on, when I stoppedin mid-rummage. From the corner of my eye I could seethe schoolgrounds-hard packed adobearound a swing and teeter-totter,and the front door of a tiny, oneroomed schoolhouse.The children were outside for a ghostly recess.I heard no sound. I studiously kept my eyes on the city map spreadout on the steeringwheel as I counted twelve children, though one hyper-active little boy might havebeen number one, nine and twelve,he moved so fast. I was parked next to a three-strand, barbed-wire fence lined by chaparralmore than head-highin places.It formed a rough hedgearound the school grounds. Right by my car was a break in the brush through which I could see the school. Clouds were stacking above the school in tumbled blue and white. Over the Catalinasa silent lightning flicked and flicked again.With the squealof the children spatteredby a brief gust of raindrops,the audio of the scenebeganto function. The clang of a handbell caught all the children in mid-stride and then pulled them, running, toward the schoolhouse.I smiled and went back to comparingthe map that stubbornly insistedthat the east-weststravenueI sought was a north-south calle, with the addresson the paper. A side movement brought the playgroundback into my periphery.A solid chunk of a child was trudging acrossthe playground,exasperation implicit in the danglingjerk of her arms as she plodded,her nondescript skirts catching her shins and flapping gracelesslybehind her. She was headedstraightfor me and I wonderedruefully if I wasgoing to get walked through, body,bones,and car.Then the barbed-wirefence and the clumps of brush focusedin. Gayla-I knew her as I would a long-time acquaintance-was crouched
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under a bush on ground that had been worn floor-hard and smooth by small bodies.She was hidden from the school by the bushes but sat, leaning forearms-careful of the barbs-on the secondstrand of wire that saggedwith repetitions of such scenes.She was looking, dreamy-faced, through me and beyond me. "Make my own way;' she murmured. "Doesn't that sound lovely! A highway.Make my own way along the highway,awa%away-" 'oGayla!" The plodding girl had reachedthe bushes.o.Thebell rang a long time ago!Miss Pederson'sawful mad at you.This is the third time this week she'shad to sendfor you! And it's goingto rain-" The girl dropped to all fours and scrambledby one of the well-worn paths into the tiny roomlikeenclosurewith Gayla."You betterwatch out!" Shesnatchedher wadded skirts from under her knees. "Next thing you know she'll be telling your Aunt Faith on you." 'Aunt Faith-" Gaylastirredand straightened. With both handssheput back the dark curling of her front hair. "Know what she said this morning, vera? This is my last year in school.She said I'm getting old enough to make my own way-" She savoredthe words. "oh, Gayla!" Vera sank back againsther heels."Isn't she going to let you finish with me? only anotheryear and then we'll be fourteen-" "No. I've been a burden long enough,she said,taking food out of her own children'smouths.No-" Her eyesdreamedthroughme again..,I'm going to make my own way.To the city. I'm going to find a job there-" "The City!" Vera laughedshortly."Silly! As if your Aunt would let you go! And what kind of job do you think you could find, being so young?" "Ben collins is looking for a girl again.I'll bet your Aunt Faith-" "Ben Collins!" Gayla's startled face swung about to look at vera. "What's the matter with Ruth?" "She's going to live with her uncle in Central.She'drather milk cows and chop cotton than tend that Collinsbunch.You think sleepingfour to a bpd is crowded.At leastthere'sroom for two at eachend.At Collins'you ll sleepfive to a bed-cross-wise. "Come on,Gayla! Miss Pederson'sthrowing a fit-" She beganto back out of the playhouse. "If Aunt Faith tries to make me go there, I'll run away."Gayla was following slowly,the two girls face to face on handsand knees..And don't you go telling,either,vera.I'll run awayto the city and get rich and when I come back,she'll be sorry she was so mean.But I'll forgive her and give her a magnific.entgift and she'll cry and beg my-" "Your Aunt Faith cry!" Vera snickered. "Not that I believe for one minute that you'll ever run away,but if you do, don't ever come back.you know your Aunt Faith better than that!"
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The two girls emergedfrom the bushesand stood erect.Vera towed the reluctant Gayla toward the schoolhouse.Gayla looked wistfully back over her shoulderat the dusty roadleadingawayfrom the school.Make my own way.l heardthe thought trail behind her like a banner.Seekmyfortune,and someonewho'll loveme. Someonewho'll want me. Lightning stabbedout of the darkeningsky.A suddenswirling wind and an icy spateof stingingraindropsthat camewith the thunder jolting across the hills, sent the two girls racing for the schoolhouseandMy windshield was speckling with rain. I blinked down at my street map.There was my stravenue,right under my thumb, neither north'andbut sidling off widdershinsacrossthe subdivision. south nor east-and-west, I started my car and looked for a moment at the high cyclone fence that now enclosedthe huge sprawlof the modern school."Her own way! Wasit her way-" I supposeI could have startedall sorts of scholarlyresearchto find out who Gayla was, but I didn't, mostly because I knew it would be unproductive.Even in my birthtime, a birth registrationwas not required around here. Neither were death certificatesor burial permits. It was not only possible,but very commonplacein those daysto be one whosename was "writ in water."And an awful lot of water had been writ in since the turn of the century-if so shelived then.Then, too,I didn't careto makea cbld black and white businessof this seeing business.I agreedwith Dr. Barstow.I preferredto enjoy.I'd rather have Gayla and girl friend swept awayfrom me diagonallyacrossa windy playgroundunder a thunder-heavy sky. Well, in the daysthat followed,a cactuswren built a nest roughly where the upper right corner of Peter's easychair came, and for a while I couldn't help laughingevery time I sawher tiny headpeeringsolemnly over Peter's ear as she earnestlysat and sat. "But no worms," said Peter firmly. "She'd better not dribble worms on me and my chair when her fine-featheredinfants arrive." "I imagine worms would be the least of your worry as far as dribbling goes,"I said. "Baby birds are so messy!" OccasionallyI wonderedabout Gayla, my imaginationtrying to bridge the gapbetweenmakingmy ownwayandthe personover whom no one had cared to pray.Had she become a full-fledged ftarlet Woman with all the sinful luxury associatedwith the primrosepath, or had she slippedonce or beenbetrayedby someBen Collins? Too often a community will, well, play down the moral questionif the sin is large-and profitable-enough, but a small sin is never let to die. Maybe it's becauseso few of us have the capacityto sin in the grand manner,but we all can sin sordidly.And we can't forgive people for being as weak as we are.
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You understand, of course,that any numberof ordinarythingswere happening duringthis time.Theseperipheral wanderings werea little like recurringheadaches. Theyclaimedmy wholeattentionwhiletheywerein progress, but werespeedilyset asidewhentheywereover. Well,Fallcameandwith it, the huntingseason. Peterdecidedto try for his deerin the rapidlydiminishingwildsof the foothillsof the catalinas. He wentout onesaturdayto look the groundoverandcamebackfit to be tied. "Two new fences!" he roared."One of them straightacrossFlecha cayendowashandthe otherrunningright alongthe top of the hills above Fool's Pass!And that's not all. A road!They've 'dozedout a road!you know that little flat wherewe like to picnic?Well, the roadgoesright throughit!" "Not wherewe wait for the lightsin townto comeon!" I cried. 'And now they'll use those samelights to sell thosequartermillion dollarhouseswith hugepicturewindowsthatlookout overthe valleyand havegoodheavycurtainsto pull acrossassoonasthe sun goesdown-" so,in theweekfollowing,Peterfoundanotherwayinto the catalinas. It involveda lot of roughmileageanda going-away beforea returning-tothe areahe wantedto hunt. we went out one early morning armed with enthusiasm, thirty-ought-sixes and huntinglicenses,but we walkedthe hills overall dayanddidn't get a glimpseof a deeqlet alonea shot. we camebackthatevening,exhausted, to theflat wherewehadleft the car.we hadplanned, in caseof just suchluck,to spendthenightunderthe starsandstartout againthe next day,so we unloaded. we built our campfireof splintered, warpedoddsandendsof lumberwe salvaged from the remnantsof a shackthat sagged andmeltedto ruin in the middleof a little flat.we ateour supperand wererelaxingagainsta sun-warmed boulderin the flickerof a firelightwhenthe first raindrops fell and hissedin the fire. "Rain?" Peterheld out his handincredulously. The sunsethad been almostcloudless. "Rain," I said resignedly, havingbeenwhackedon my dusty bifocals with two big drops. "I might haveknown,"saidPetermorosely."I suspectedall afternoon thatyourmutteringandscrambling wassomesortof incantation. butdid it haveto be a rain dance?" "It wasn't,"I retorted."It wasa hole in my left sockand I havethe blisterto proveit." "well,let's getthetarpout,"saidPeter." 's probably just a sprinkle,but we might as well havesomethingoverhead." we busiedourselves arranging our sleepingbagsandstretching the tarp
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overthem.I pouredwhat wasleft of the coffeeinto the thermosand put the restof the food backinto the chuck box. But it wasn'ta sprinkle.The thrum on the tarpoverus got louderand louder.Muffled thunderfollowedthe flashof lightning.Rain wasa solid curtainbetweenus and the edgeof our flat. I felt a flutter of alarmasthe noiseincreasedsteadily.And increasedagain. Peterduckedhis drippingheadback "Boy! This is a gulley-washer!" into the shelterafter a moment'sglanceout in the downpour."The bottom'sdroppedout of something!" "I thinkit's ourcampfloorl'I said."I just put my handup to thewristin runningwater!" Wescrambledaroundbundlingthingsbackinto the car.My uneasiness wasincreased by the stingingforceof the rainon my headandshouldersas we scrambled, andby the wadingwe hadto do to getinto the car.Ihuddled in the front seat,pluckingat the tight,wet knot of my soakedscarfasPeter slitheredoff in the darknessto the edgeof the flat andsloshedbacka little quickerthan he hadgone.Raincameinto the car with him. "The run-off"shere alreadyl'he said."We're marooned-on a desert island.Listento the roar!" Aboveandunderlyingthe roarof the rain on the carroof,I couldheara deepertone-a shaking,frighteningroarof narrowsandwashestrying to channeloff a cloudburst. 'Are wesafehere?Is thishigh "Oh, Peter!"My handshookon hisarm. enough?"Rainwassomethingour areaprayedfor,but oftenwhenit came, it did so in suchhugepunishingamountsin sucha shorttime that it was terrifying.And sometimesthe SearchAnd Rescueunits retrievedbodies not alwayssurewhetherthey haddied of thirst or were far downstream, drowned. "I think we'reokay,"Petersaid."I doubt if the wholeflat would cave into the washes,but I think I'd bettermovethe car morenearlyinto the middle,just in case." "Don't get too closeto that old shack,"I warned,peeringthrougha windshieldthe wiperscouldn'tclear."We don't wantto pick up a nail." "The placewasmostly 'dobe,anyway,"saidPeter,easingthe car to a stopandsettingthe handbrake."This storm'llprobablyfinishmeltingit down," We finally managedto make ourselvesa little foreshortenedly comfortablein the carfor the night.Peterhadthe backseatandI hadthe front. I lay warm and dry in my flannel gown-Peter despairedof ever makingme a genuinecamper,A nightgownT-myheadproppedon the arm rest.Pullingup the blanket,I let the drummingroarof the rain washme wavesinto sleep' pastmy prayersin steadilydeepening
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The light wokeme.Struggling,Ifreedoneelbowfrom the cocoonof my blanketand lifted myself,gaspinga little from a stiff neck.I was lost. I couldn'tsquarethelightwith anylightin our housenor thestiff neckwith my downpillow nor the roararoundme with anyfamiliarhomenoise.For a moment I was floating in a directionless,timelesswarm bath of Not Being.Then I pulledmyselfup a little higherandsuddenlythe carandall the circumstances werebackand I blinkedsleepilyat the light. Thelight?I satup and fumbledfor the shoewhere['d left my glasses. Whatwasa light doingon this flat? And so closethat it lilled the wholeof my window?I wipedmy glasseson a fold of my gownand put them on. Thewidemyopicflareof a light concentrated thento a glow,softeqbut still close.I rolledthe car windowdownand leanedmy armson the frame. The room wassmall.The floor wasdirt, beatenhardby use.Rainwas roaringon a tin roof andit hadcomein underthe unpaintedwoodendoo4 darkeningthe sill andcurlingin a faintlysilverwetness alongonewall.A steadydrippingleakfrom the ceilinglessroof haddug a little craterin the floor in one cornerand eachheavydrop explodedmuddily in its center. Steamplumedup from the spoutof a granite-ware teakettleon the small cast-ironstovethat glowedfaintly pink throughits smallisinglasswindow on the front.The light wason the table.It wasa kerosenelamp,its flame, turnedtoo high, wasyellowandjagged,occasionally smokingthe sideof the glasschimney.It wasso closeto me that the faint flare of light was enoughto makeshadowythe room beyondthe table. "It's that peripheralthing again,"I thoughtandlookedstraightat the lamp.Butit didn'tfadeout!Thecardid instead!I blinked,astonished. This wasn'tperipheral-it waswholesight!I lookeddownat my foldedarms. My sleevesweremuddyfrom a dampadobewindowsill. Movementcaughtmy attention-movementand sound.I focusedon the dim interior of the room.Therewasan iron bedstead in the far corner. And someonewasin it-in pain.And someonewasby it-in fear and distress. "It hurts!It hurts!" thejerky whisperwassexless andageless because of pain."Where'sJim?" "I told you. He went to seeif he could get help. MaybeGramma Nearing or even a doctor."The voice was patient."He can't get back because of the storm.Listento it?" Wethreelistenedto the roarof the floodedwashes, the drum of the rain and,faintly,the plashof the leakingroof. "I wish he was-" The voicelost its wordsand becamea smothered. exhausted cry of pain. I closedmy eyes-and lost the soundalongwith the sight.I openedmy eyeshastily.The roomwasstill there,but the dampness by the doorwasa
Zenns Henderson
puddlenow,swellingslowlyin the lamplight.The leakin the cornerwasa steadytrickle that hadoverrunits craterandbecomea little dust-covered snakethat wanderedaround,seekingthe lowestspoton the floor. The personon the bedcriedout again,and,tangledin the cry,camethe unmistakablethin wail of the new-born.A baby!I hitchedmyselfhigher on my foldedarms.My involuntaryblinkingasI did so movedtime again in the smallroom.I peeredinto the palelight. A womanwas busy with the baby on the table.As she worked,she glancedanxiouslyandfrequentlyoverat the bedcorner.Shehad reached for some baby clotheswhen a sound and movementfrom the corner snatchedher awayfrom the tableso hastilythat the cornerof the blanket aroundthe babywasflipped back,leavingthe tiny chestuncovered.The baby'sfaceturned blindly and its mouth openedin a soundlesscry.The soft lamplightran acrossits wet,dark hair as the headturned. "It won't stop!" I don't knowwhetherI caughtthe pantingwordsor the thought."I can'tstopthe blood!Jim! Get here!God helpme!" I tried to seepastthe flair of light but could only sensemovement.If only I could-but what could I do? I snatchedmy attentionbackto the baby.Its mouth wasopeningandclosingin little gaspingmotions.Its little chestwaslaboringbut it wasn'tbreathing! "Come back!" I cried-silently?-aloud?"Come back! Quick! The baby'sdying!" The vaguefiguremovingbeyondthe light paidno attention.Iheardher again,desperately, to do? [ can't-" "Vesta!Whatam I supposed The babywasgaspingstill, its faceshadowing overwith a slateyblue.I reached. The tablewasbeyondmy fingertips.I pulledmyselfforwardover the sill until the warpedboardof the wideframingcut acrossmy stomach. My handhoveredoverthe baby. far,far behindme, I heardPetercry out sleepilyandfelt a Somewhere, handfulof my flannelgowngatheredup andpulled.But I pulledtoo, and, surgingforward,wide-eyed,afraidto blink and thus changetime again,I finally touchedthe thin little subsidingchest. My reachwas awkward.The fingers of my one hand were reaching beyondtheir ability,the other was trying to keep me balancedon the windowsill asI reached.But I felt the soft,coldskin,the thin hushof the turned backblanket,the fragilebabybodyundermy palm. I begana sort of one-handedrespirationattempt.Two handswould probablyhavecrushedthe tiny rib cage.Compress-release-compressrelease.I felt sweatbreakout alongmy hairlineand upperlip. It wasn't working.Peter'stug on me wasmore insistent.My breathcut off as the collarof my go$,nwaspulledtightly backward. "Peter!" I chokedvoicelessly. "Let me go!" I scrambledthroughthe
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window,fighting every inch of the way againstthe backwardtug, and me across reachedfor the child.Therewasa suddenreleasethat staggered the table.Or overthe table?My physicalorientationwaslost. I bentoverthe child,tilting its smallquietfaceup andback.In a split secondI reviewedeverythingI hadheardor readaboutmouth-to-mouth resuscitation andthen sentmy ferventpetitionaryprayerinto the lungsof the child with the first breath. I hadnevertried this before,but I breathed-nottoo hard!It's a babyand pausedand breathedand pausedand breathed,losingmyself in the rhythm,losingmy sightin a too-closeblur,afraidto closemy eyes. ThentherewasmovementtBreathe. And a Easpt. Breathe. And a turning! thin wail that lifted Breathe. And a strengthened and and filled the room. My eyesachedwith keepingthemwideandI wasgaspingBlessedly the roomswamgrayly.I thought,Peter!Oh,Peter!Arrdfelta smalltwitch at the hem of my gown.And felt the flanneltug mebackto awareness. Therewas a movementbeyondthe lamp. "My baby."The voicewashardlyaudible."Hattie,let me seemy baby beforeI diel' "Vesta!"Hattie'svoicewassharpwith anxiety."Don't talkaboutdying! And I can't leaveyou now.Not evento-" "I wantto seemy babyj'thefaint voicepersisted. "Hattie,please-" I lookeddownat the still wailingchild,its face,reddeningwith life, its clenchedfists blindly beatingthe air.Then I waswith the babynearthe bed.The youngfacein the shadowsbelowwas a vaguewhite blur. The babyfit into the thin curveof the youngshoulder. "I can't see!" The palesufferingfacefrettedin the shadows of the bed corner."It's too dark." Hattiewhirledfrom the emptytable,the lampshehadjust lifted tilting heavyblacksmokeagainstonesideof the chimney,slantingheavilyin her hands.Sherightedit, her eyesterrified,andlookedquicklybackoverher shoulder. Herface,steadied by thedetermined setof hermouth,waswhite asshebroughtthe lampto the bed,her freehandcurvingaroundthe top of the chimneyto cut the draft.Sheheld the lamp high aboveVesta. Vestaweakly brought herself up to one elbow abovethe baby and peereddown at the crumpledfaoeand the smudgeof dark hair. 'A girli' shesmiledsoftly."Nameher Gayla,Hattie.It's a happyname. Maybeshewill be-" Her facewhitenedand she slid slowlydown from her elbow."Oh,I wish,"shewhispered. "I wishI couldseeher grownup!" The soundof the rain filled the silencethat followed,andthe tug on my own gown was no longera tug, it was an insistence,an imperative.My gownwasstrainingbackso that I felt asif I werea figureheadon a ship.I movedinvoluntarilybackward.
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"Who came?"Vesta'sfadingvoicewasdrowsy. "There'snobodyherebut me." Hattie'svoicejerked. "I thoughtsomeonecame."Now she wasfadingand the whole room wasstirringlike a bowlfull of smokeand I wasbeingdrawnbackthrough it, hearingHattie's,"There'snobodyherebut me-" The soundof the baby'scry cut throughthe rain-sound,the swirling smokeand Hattie'svoice.I heardVesta'stendercrooning,"There,there, Gayla,there,there." Then I faded-and could finally close my eyes. I faded into an intolerablestretchingfrom adobewindowsill to car window,a stretching fromThento Now,a stretchingacrossimpossibility. I felt pulledout sothin andtight that it seemedto me the suddenrushof raindropsthrummedon me as on the tightenedstringsof someinstrument.I think I cried out. Then therewasa terrific tug anda feelingof comingunstuckand then I wasfacedown,halfwayout of the car window,rain partingmy hair with wet insistenthands,hearingPeter'sangry,frightenedvoice, "Not even senseenoughto comein out of the rain!" It took quite a while to convincePeterthat I wasall there.And quite a time to getmy wethair dried.And to believethat therewereno mud stains on the sleevesof my gown.And anevenlonger,disjointedtime tcifill Peter in on what hadhappened. He didn't havemuchto sayaboutwhathappened fromhis point of view. "Blessthe honestflannel!" He mutteredashe wrappedme in a scratchy blanketandthe warmthof his arms."I wassureit wasgoingto tearbefore I couldgetyouback.Iheldon like grim deathwith thatflannelstretching likea rubberbandoutthewindowandinto thedark-into nothing!ThereI was,like hangingonto a kite string!A flannelone! Or a fishingline! A flannelone!Wonderingwhatwouldhappenif I hadlet go?If I'd hadto let go!" We comfortedeachother for the unanswerable terror of the question. And I told him all of it againand togetherwe lookedonce more at the memory of the white, young face floating in the darkness.And the reddeningsmallface,toppedby its smudgeof black,floatingin the yellow flood of lamp light. Then I startedup, crying,"Oh Peter,what did I saveher for?" "Becauseyou couldn't let her die," he said,pulling me back. "I don't meanwhy did I saveher.I meanfor what did I saveher? For makingher own way?For that'senoughfor her kind? For whatdid I save her?" I felt sorrcwflood overme. Peter took my shouldersand shook me. "Now, look here," he said sternly."What makesyou think you hadanythingto do with whethershe lived or died?You may havebeenan instrument.On the other hand,you
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mayhavejust wantedso badlyto help that you thoughtyou did. Don't go appointingyourselfjudge andjury over the worth of anyone'slife. You only know the little bit that touchedyou.And for all you know,that little bit is all hallucination." I caughtmy breathin a hiccoughysobandblinkedin the dark."Do you think it's all hallucination?"I askedquietly. Petertuckedme backinto the curveof his shoulder."I don't knowwhat I thinkl'he said."I'm just the observer. And mostlikelythat'sall youare. Let'swait until morningbeforewe decide. "Go to sleep.We havehunting to do in the morning,too." "[n all this rain andmud?" I protested. "Wait till morningi'he repeated. breathcameandwentovermy head,Ilay Longafterhis steadysleeping and listenedto the intermittentrain on the roof-and thought. Finally the tight knot insideme dissolvedand I relaxedagainstPeter. NowthatI hadseenGaylaborn,I couldlet her bedead.Or I couldkeep her foreverthe dreamingchild in the playhouseon the schoolgrounds. Why I had becomeinvolvedin her life, I didn't needto know any more thanI neededto knowwhy I walkedthroughthe wrongdooronetime and met Peter.Ituckedmy handagainstmy cheek,then rouseda little. Where weremy glasses? I gropedon the car floor.My shoe.Yes,the glasses werethere,whereI alwaysput themwhenwe'recamping.Ileanedagainandslept.
Jeffty Is Five Harlan Ellison
When I was five yearsold, there was a little kid I playedwith: Jeffty.His real name was Jeff Kinzer,and everyonewho playedwith him calledhim Jeffty. We were five years old together, and we had good times playing together. When I was five, a Clark Bar was as fat aroundas the gripping end of a Louisville Slugger,and pretty nearly six inches long, and they used real chocolateto coat it, and it crunched very nicely when you bit into the center,and the paperit camewrappedin smelledfreshand goodwhen you peeledoff one end to hold the bar so it wouldn't melt _ontoyour fingers. Today,a Clark Bar is as thin as a credit card, they use something artificial and awful-tasting instead of pure chocolate,the thing is soft and soggy,it costs fifteen or twenty cents instead of a decent, conect nickel, and they wrap it so you think it's the samesizeit wastwenty yearsago,only it isn't; it's slim and ugly and nasty tasting and not worth a penny, much less fifteen or twenty cents.
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When I was that age,five yearsold, I was sent awayto my Aunt Patricia'shomein Buffalo,New York,for two years.My fatherwasgoing through"badtimes" andAunt Patriciawasverybeautiful,andhadmarried a stockbroker. They took careof me for two years.When I wasseven,I camebackhomeand went to find Jeffty,so we could play together. I wasseven.Jefftywasstill five.I didn't noticeanydifference.Ididn't know:I wasonly seven. WhenI wassevenyearsold,I usedto lie on my stomachin frontof our Atwater-Kentradioandlistento swellstuff.I hadtied the groundwire to the radiator,andI wouldlie therewith my coloringbooksandmy Crayolas (whentherewereonlysixteencolorsin thebigbox),andlistento theNBC red network:JackBennyon the Jell-OProgram,Amos 'n' Andy,Edgar Bergenand CharlieMcCarthyon the Chaseand SanbornProgram,One Man's Family,First Nighter; the NBC blue network:Easy Aces,the JergensProgramwith WalterWinchell,Information Please, DeathValley Days;and best of all, the Mutual networkwith The GreenHornet,The LoneRanger,The ShadowandQuiet Please.Today,Iturn on my car radio and go from one end of the dial to the other and all I get is 100strings their kinky orchestras, banalhousewives and insipidtruckersdiscussing sex lives with arroganttalk shorvhosts,country and westerndrivel and rockmusicso loud it hurtsmy ears. When I was ten, my grandfatherdied of old age and I was "a troublesome kid," and they sentme off to militaryschool,so I couldbe hand." in "taken I camebackwhenI wasfourteen.Jefftywasstill five. WhenI wasfourteenyearsold, I usedto go to the movieson Saturday afternoonsand a matineewasten centsand they usedreal butter on the popcornandI couldalwaysbe sureof seeinga westernlike LashLaRue,or Wild Bill Elliott as Red Ryderwith BobbyBlakeas Little Beaver,or Roy Rogers,or JohnnyMackBrown;a scarypicturelike Houseof Horrorswith or TheMumny, or I RondoHatton as the Strangler,or The Cat People, Marrieda WitchvtithFredricMarchandVeronicaLake;plusan episodeof a greatseriallike The Shadowwith Victor Jory,or Dick Tracyor Flash Movietone Gordon;and threecartoons;a JamesFitzpatrickTravel-Thlk; News;a singalong and,if I stayedon till evening,Bingoor Keeno;andfipe dishes.Today,I go to moviesand seeClint Eastwoodblowing people's headsapartlike ripe cantaloupes. At eighteen,Iwentto college.Jefftywasstill five.I camebackduring the summers,to work at my Uncle Joe'sjewelry store.Jeffty hadn't changed. Now I knewtherewassomethingdifferentabouthim, something wrong,somethingweird.Jeffty wasstill five yearsold, not a day older. At twenty-two,I came home for keeps.To open a Sony television
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franchisein town, the first one. I sawJeffty from time to time. He was five. Things are better in a lot of ways.Peopledon't die from some of the old diseasesany more. Carsgo faster and get you there more quickly on better roads.Shirts are softer and silkier. We have paperbackbooks even though they cost as much as a good hardcoverused to. When I'm running short in the bank I can live off credit cards till things even out. But I still think we've lost a lot of good stuff. Did you know you can't buy linoleum any more, only vinyl floor covering?There's no such thing as oilcloth any more; you'll never again smell that special, sweet smell from your grandmother'skitchen. Furniture isn't madeto last thirty yearsor longer, becausethey took a survey and found that young homemakerslike to throw their furniture out and bring in all new, color-codedborax every sevenyears.Recordsdon't feel right; they're not thick and solid like old ones,they'rethin and you can bend them . . . that doesn'tseemright to me. Restaurantsdon't servecreamin pitchersany more,just that artificial glop in little plastictubs, and one is never enoughto get coffeethe right color. You can make a dent in a car fender with only a sneaker.Everywhere you go, all the townslook the samewith BurgerKings and McDonald'sand 7Elevens and Thco Bells and motels and shopping centers.Things may be better, but why do I keep thinking about the past? What I mean by five years old is not that Jeffty was retarded.I don't think that's what it was. Smart as a whip for live years old; very bright, quick, cute, a funny kid. But he was three feet tall, small for his age,and perfectly formed: no big head,no strangejaw, none of that. A nice, normal-lookingfive-year-old kid. Except that he was the sameage as I was: twenty-two. When he spokeit was with the squeaking,sopranovoiceof a five-yearold; when he walkedit waswith the little hopsand shufflesof a five-yearold; when he talkedto you it wasaboutthe concernsof a five-year-old. . . comic books,playing soldier,using a clothespinto attach a stiff piece of cardboardto the front fork of his bike so the sound it made when the spokeshit was like a motorboat,askingquestionslike whydoesthat thingdo that like that,how high is up, how old is old, why is grassgreen,what's an elephantlook like? At twenty-two,he was five. Jeffty's parentswere a sadpair. BecauseI was still a friend of Jeffty's, still let him hang around with me, sometimes took him to the county fair or miniature golf or the movies,I wound up spendingtime with them-Not that I much caredfor them, becausethey were so awfully depressing.But then,I supposeone couldn't expect much more from the poor devils. They had an alien thing in their home,a child who had grown no older than five in twenty-two years, who provided the treasure of that special childlike
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stateindefinitely,but who alsodeniedthemthejoys of watchingthe child growinto a normaladult. Five is a wonderfultime of life for a little kid . . . or it canbe,if the child is relativelyfreeof the monstrousbeastliness otherchildrenindulgein. It is a time when the eyesarewide openandthe patternsarenot yet set; a time when one hasnot yet beenhammeredinto acceptingeverythingas immutableandhopeless; a time whenthe handscannot do enough,the mind can not learn enough,the world is infinite and cororfuland filled with mysteries.Five is a specialtime beforethey take the questing, quixoticsoulof theyoungdreamerandthrustit into dreary unquenchable, schoolroomboxes.A time beforethey takethe tremblinghandsthat want to hold everything,touch everything,figure everythingout, and make them lie still on desktops. A time beforepeoplebeginsaying"act your age"and "growup" or "you'rebehavinglike a baby."It is a time whena childwhoactsadolescent is still cuteandresponsive pet.A andeveryone's time of delight,of wonder,of innocence. Jefftyhadbeenstuckin that time,just five,just so. Butfor his parentsit wasanongoingnightmarefromwhichno one-not socialworkers,not priests,not child psychologists, not teachers,not friends,not medicalwizards,not psychiatrists, no one-could slapor shake themawake.For seventeen yearstheir sorrowhadgrownthroughstagesof parentaldotageto concern,fromconcernto worry,from worryto fear,from fear to confusion,from confusionto anger,from angerto dislike,from disliketo nakedhatred,andfinally,from deepestloathingandrevulsionto a stolid,depressive acceptance. JohnKinzerwasa shift foremanat the BalderTool& Die plant.He was a thirty-year man.Toeveryone but themanlivingit, hiswasa spectacularly uneventfullife.In no waywasheremarkable . . . savethathehadfathered a twenty-two-year-old fi ve-year,old. JohnKinzerwasa smallman;soft,with no sharpangles;with paleeyes that never seemedto hold mine for longer than a few seconds.He continuallyshiftedin his chairduringconversations, andseemedto see thingsin the uppercornersof the room,thingsno oneelsecouldsee. . . or wantedto see.Isuppose the wordthatbestsuitedhim washaunted.What his life hadbecome.. . well,haunted suitedhim. LeonaKinzertriedvaliantlyto compensate. No matterwhathourof the dayI visited,shealwaystried to foistfoodon me.And whenJeffty wasin the houseshewasalwaysat himabouteating:"Honey,wouldyou like an orange?A nice orange?Or a tangerine?I havetangerines. I could peela tangerinefor you."But therewasclearlysuchfearin her,fearof her own child, that the offersof sustenance alwayshada faintly ominoustone. LeonaKinzer had beena tall woman,but the yearshad bent her.She
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wall or storage seemedalwaysto be seekingsomeareaof wallpapered niche into which she could fade,adoptsomechintz or rose'patterned protectivecolorationandhideforeverin plainsightof the child'sbig brown eyes,passher a hundredtimes a day and neverrealizeshe was there, holdingher breath,invisible.Shealwayshad an aprontied aroundher waist,and her handswerered from cleaning.As if by maintainingthe she could pay off her imaginedsin: having environmentimmaculately givenbirth to this strangecreature. Neitherof themwatchedtelevisionverymuch.The housewasusually deadsilent,not eventhe sibilantwhisperingof waterin the pipes,the Awfully creakingof timberssettling,the hummingof the refrigerator. that house. silent,as if time itselfhadtakena detouraround of gentle As for Jeffty,he wasinoffensive.He lived in that atmosphere dreadand dulled loathing,and if he understoodit, he neverremarkedin anyway.He played,asa childplays,andseemedhappy.But he musthave just how alien he was in their sensed,in the way of a five-year-old, presence. Alien. No, that wasn'tright.He wastoohuman,if anything.But out of phase,out of syncwith the worldaroundhim, andresonating to a different vibrationthanhis parents, Godknows.Nor wouldotherchildrenplaywith him. As they grew past him, they found him at first childish,then uninteresting,then simply frighteningas their perceptionsof aging becameclearandthey couldseehe wasnot affectedby time asthey were. Even the little ones, his own age, who might wander into the quicklycameto shy awayfrom him like a dogin the street neighborhood, when a car backfires. Thus,I remainedhis only friend.A friendof manyyears.Five years. Twenty-twoyears.I liked him; more than I can say.And never knew exactlywhy.But I did,withoutreserve. wespenttime together,IfoundI wasalso-politesocietyBut because time with John and LeonaKinzer.Dinner,Saturdayafternoons spending sometimes, an hour or so whenI'd bringJefftybackfrom a movie.They grateful: were choreof slavishlyso.It relievedthem of the embarrassing goingout with him, of havingto pretendbeforethe worldthat theywere lovingparentswith a perfectlynormal,happy,attractivechild.And their gratitudeextendedto hostingme. Hideous,every moment of their depression, hideous. I felt sorryfor the poordevils,but I despised themfor their inabilityto loveJeffty,who waseminentlylovable. I neverlet on,of course,evenduringtheevenings in theircompanythat wereawkwardbeyondbelief. We would sit there in the darkening room-always dark or
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darkening,asif keptin shadowto hold backwhatthe light might revealto the world outsidethroughthe brighteyesof the house-we wouldsit and silentlystareat one another.They neverknew what to sayto me. "So how arethingsdownat the plant?"I'd sayto JohnKinzer. He wouldshrug.Neitherconversation nor life suitedhim with anyease or grace."Fine,just fine," he wouldsay,finally. And we wouldsit in silenceagain. "Wouldyou like a nicepieceof coffeecake?"Leonawouldsay."I made it freshjust this morning."Or deep-dishgreenapplepie. Or milk and tollhousecookies.Or a brownbetty pudding. "No, rlo, thank you, Mrs. Kinzer; Jeffty and I grabbeda couple of cheeseburgers on the wayhomeJ'And again,silence. Then,when the stillnessandthe awkwardness becametoo much even for them (andwho knew how long that total silencereignedwhen they werealone,with that thing they never talkedaboutany more, hanging betweenthem),LeonaKinzerwouldsay,"I think he'sasleep." JohnKinzerwouldsay,o'Idon't hearthe radioplaying." Justso,it wouldgoon likethat,until I couldpolitelyfind excuseto bolt awayon someflimsy pretext.Yes,that wasthe wayit wouldgo on, every time,just the same. . . exceptonce. "I don't know what to do any more," Leona said. She begancrying. "There'sno change,not onedayof peace." Her husbandmanaged to draghimselfout of the old easychairandwent to her.He bent andtried to sootheher,but it wasclearfrom the graceless way in which he touchedher grayinghair that the ability to be hadbeenstuntedin him. "Shhh,Leona,it's all right.Shhh:' compassionate But shecontinuedcrying.Her handsscrapedgentlyat the antimacassars on the armsof the chair. Then shesaid,"SometimesI wish he hadbeenstillborn." shadows Johnlooxedup into the cornersof the room.For the nameless that werealwayswatchinghim? Wasit God he was seekingin those urging spaces? "You don't meanthat,"he saidto her,softly,pathetically, her with bodytensionandtremblingin his voiceto recantbeforeGod took noticeof the terriblethought.But shemeantit; shemeantit verymuch. I managedto getawayquicklythat evening.Theydidn't wantwitnesses to their shame.I wasgladto go. And for a weekI stayedaway.From them,from Jeffty,from their street, evenfrom that end of town. poker I had my own life. The store,accounts, suppliers'conferences, my own parents, with friends,prettywomenI tookto well-litrestaurants,
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puttinganti-freeze in the car,complaining to the laundryabouttoo much starchin the collarsandcuffs,workingout at the gym,taxes,catchingJan or David (whicheverone it was)stealingfrom the cashregister.Ihadmy own life. But not eventhoteveningcould keepme from Jeffty.He calledme at thestoreandaskedme to takehim to therodeo.Wechummedit up asbest a twenty-two-year-old with otherinterestscould...with a five-year-old. I neverdwelledon whatboundus together;I alwaysthoughtit wassimply the years.That,and affectionfor a kid who could havebeenthe little brotherI neverhad.(ExceptI rememberedwhen we hadplayedtogether, whenwe hadbothbeenthe sameage;I remembered thatperiod,andJeffty wasstill the same.) And then, one Saturdayafternoon,I cameto take him to a double feature,and things I should havenoticedso many times before,I first beganto noticeonly that afternoon. I camewalkingup to theKinzerhouse,expecting Jefftyto besittingon the front porch steps,or in the porch glider,waiting for me. But he was nowherein sight. Going inside,into that darknessand silence,in the midst of May sunshine,wasunthinkable.I stoodon the front walk for a few moments, then cuppedmy handsaroundmy mouth andyelled,.,Jeffty?Hey,Jeffty, comeon out, let's go.We'll be late." His voicecamefaintly,asif from underthe ground. "Here I am, Donny." I couldhearhim,but I couldn'tseehim.It wasJeffty,no questionabout it: asDonaldH. Horton,PresidentandSoleOwnerof The HortonTV & soundcenter,no onebut Jeffty calledme Donny.He hadnevercalledme anythingelse. (Actually, it isn'ta lie.l am,asfar asthepublicis concerned, SoleOwner of the center.The partnership with my Aunt patriciais only to repaythe loan she mademe, to supplementthe moneyI cameinto when I was twenty'one,leftto me when I wasten by my grandfather. It wasn'ta very big loan,only eighteenthousand,but I askedher to be a silentparrner, becauseof when shehad takencareof me asa child.) "Whereareyou,Jeffty?" "Under the porchin my secretplace." I walkedaroundthe side of the porch,and stoopeddown and pulled awaythe wickergrating.Backin there,on the presseddirt, Jeffty hadbuilt himselfa secretplace.He hadcomicsin orangecrates,he hada little table and somepillows,it waslit by big fat candles,and we usedto hide there whenwe wereboth... five.
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"What'cha up to?" I asked,crawling in and pulling the grate closed behind me. [t was cool under the porch, and the dirt smelled comfortable, the candles smelled clubby and familiar. Any kid would feel at home in such a secretplace:there's never been a kid who didn't spendthe happiest, most productive, most deliciously mysterious times of his life in such a secretplace. "Playin'," he said.He washolding somethinggoldenand round.It filled the palm of his little hand. "You forget we were going to the movies?" "Nope. I wasjust waitin' for you here." "Your mom and dad home?" "Momma." I understoodwhy he was waiting under the porch.I didn't push it any further. "What've you got there?" "Captain Midnight SecretDecoder Badge,"he said,showing it to me on his flattened palm. I realizedI was looking at it without comprehendingwhat it.was for a long time.Then it dawnedon me what a miracleJeffty had in his hand.A miracle that simply could nol exist. "Jeffty;' I said softly,with wonder in my voice, "where'd you get that?" "Came in the mail today.I sent awayfor it." "It must have cost a lgt of money." "Not so much. Ten cents an' two inner wax seals from two jars of Ovaltine." "May I see it?" My voice was trembling, and so was the hand I extended.He gaveit to me and I held the miraclein the palm of my hand. It was wonderful. You remember.CaptainMidnight went on the radio nationwide in 1940. It was sponsoredby Ovaltine. And every year they issueda SecretSquadron Decoder Badge.And every day at the end of the program,they would give you a clue to the next day's installmentin a code that only kids with the official badge could decipher. They stopped making those wonderful Decoder Badgesin 1949. I remember the one I had in 1945: it was beautiful. It had a magnifying glassin the center of the code dial. Captain Midnightwent off the air in 1950,and though I understand it was a shortlived television series in the mid-fifties, and though they issued Decoder Badgesin 1955 and 1955,as far as the real badgeswere concerned,they never made one after 1949. The Captain Midnight Code-O-GraphI held in my hand, the one Jeffty said he had gotten in the mail for ten cents (ten cents!!!) and two Ovaltine labels,was brand new, shiny gold metal, not a dent or a spot of rust on it like the old ones you can find at exorbitant pricesin collectibleshoppes
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from time to time . . . it was a newDecoder.And the date on it was thisyear. But CaptainMidnight no longer existed. Nothing like it existed on the radio.['d listenedto the one or two weak imitations of old-time radio the networkswerecurrently airing,and the storiesweredull, the sound effects bland,the whole feeling of it wrong,out of date,cornball.Yet I held a new Code-O-Graph. "Jeffty, tell me about this," I said. "Tell you what, Donny? It's my new Capt'n Midnight SecretDecoder Badge.I use it to figger out what's gonna happen tomorrow." "Tomorrow how?" "On the program." "llhat program?!" He stared at me as if I was being purposely stupid. "On Capt'n Midnightl Boy!" I was being dumb. I still couldn't get it straight.It wasright there,right out in the open,and I still didn't know what was happening."You mean one of those records they madeof the old-time radioprograms?Is that what you mean,Jeffty?" "What records?"he asked.He didn't know what lmeant. We stared at each other, there under the porch. And then I said, very slowly, almost afraid of the answer, "Jeffty, how do you hear Captain Midnight?" "Every day.On the radio.On my radio.Every day at five-thirtyJ' News. Music, dumb music, and news. That's what was on the radio every day at 5:30. Not CaptainMidnight.The SecretSquadronhadn't been on the air in twenty years 'oCanwe hear it tonight?" I asked. "Boy!" he said.I wasbeingdumb. I knew it from the way he saidit; but I didn't know wfty. Then it dawned on me: this was Saturday.Captain Midnight was on Monday through Friday. Not on Saturdayor Sunday. "We goin'to the movies?" He had to repeathimself twice. My mind wassomewhereelse.Nothing definite. No conclusions. No wild assumptions leapt to. Just off somewheretrying to figure it out, and concluding-as yon would have concluded,as anyone would have concluded rather than acceptingthe truth, the impossibleand wonderful truth-just finally concluding there was a simple explanation I didn't yet perceive.Something mundane and dull, like the passageof time that steals all good, old things from us, packratring trinkets and plastic in exchange.And all in the name of Progress. "We goin'to the movies, Donny?" "You bet your boots we.are,kiddo," I said.And I smiled. And I handed him the Code-O-Graph.And he put it in his side pants pocket.And we
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Harlan Elllson.
crawledout from under the porch.And we went to the movies.And neitherof us saidanythingaboutCaptainMidnightall the restof that day. And therewasn'ta ten-minutestretch,all the restof that day,that I didn't think aboutit. It wasinventoryall that next week.I didn't seeJeffty till late Thursday.I confessI left the storein the handsof JanandDavid,told themI hadsome errandsto run, and left early.At 4:00.I got to the Kinzers'right around anddistant."Is Jeffty the door,lookingexhausted 4:45.Leonaanswered around?"Shesaidhe wasupstairsin his room. .. . . .listeningto the radio. I climbedthe stairstwo at a time. illogicalleap.Had the All right, I had finally madethat impossible, stretchof belief involvedanyonebut Jeffty,adult or child, I would have reasonedout more explicableanswers.But it wasJeffty,clearlyanother kind of vesselof life, and what he might experienceshould not be expectedto fit into the orderedscheme. I admit it: I wantedto hearwhat I heard. the program. Evenwith the doorclosed,Irecogirized "Therehegoes,Tbnnessee! Gethim!" There was the heavyreport of a squirrel-rifleshot and the keening andthenthe samevoiceyelledtriumphantwhineof the slugricocheting, center!" Ly,"Gothim! D-e-a-a-a-a-d kilohertz, Company,790 He waslisteningto the AmericanBroadcasting programs from favorite most Jed,oneof my andhe washearingTbnnessee years, it because the forties,a westernadventureI hadnot heardin twenty hadnot existedfor twentyyears. I satdownon the top stepof the stairs,therein the upstairshall of the Kinzer home, and I listenedto the show.It wasn't a rerun of an old program;I kneweveryoneof themby heart,hadnevermissedan episode. Further evidencethat this wasa new installment:therewereoccasional referencesduring the integratedcommercialsto current cultural and thathadnot existedin common andphrases developments, technological the of tattoos,Thnzania, usagein ihe forties:aerosolspraycans,laserasing word "uptight." I couldn't ignoreit. Jeffty waslisteningto a newsegmentof Tbnnessee Jed. I randownstairsandout the front doorto my car.Leonamusthavebeen in thekitchen.Iturnedthekeyandpunchedon theradioandspunthedial to 790kilohertz.The ABC station.Rockmusic. I sattherefor a few moments,then ran the dial slowlyfrom one endto Jed. And it was a the other. Music, news, talk shows.No Tbnnessee
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Blaupunkt,the best radio I could get. I wasn't missing some perimeter station.It simply was not there! After a few moments I turned off the radio and the ignition and went back upstairsquietly.I sat down on the top step and listenedto the entire program. It was wonderful. Exciting, imaginative,filled with everything I rememberedas being most innovative about radio drama. But it was modern. It wasn't an antique,rebroadcast to assuagethe needof that dwindling listenershipwho longedfor the old days.It was a new show,with all the old voices,but still young and bright. Even the commercialswere for currently available products,but they weren't as loud or as insulting as the screameradsone heard on radio these days. And when Tbnnessee Jed went off at 5:00, I heard Jeffty spin the dial on his radio till I heard the familiar voice of the announcer Glenn Riggs proclaim, "PresentingHop Harrigan! America'sace of the airwaves!"There wasthe soundof an airplanein flight. It wasa prop plane,nota jet! Not the sound kids today have grown up with, but the sound /grew up with, the real sound of an airplane,the growling, revving, throaty sound of the kind of airplanesG-8 and His Battle Acesflew, the kind CaptainMidnight flew, the kind Hop Harrigan flew. And then I heard Hop say, "CX-4 calling controltower.CX-4 callingcontroltower|Standingby!" Apause,then, "Okay, this is Hop Harrigan... comingin!" And Jeffty, who had the same problem all of us kids had had in the forties with programmingthat pitted equalfavoritesagainstone another on different stations,having paid his respectsto Hop Harrigan and Tank Tinker,spun the dial and went back to ABC, where I heardthe strokeof a gong,the wild cacophonyof nonsenseChinesechatter,and the announcer yelled, "T!e-e-e-rryand the Pirates!" I sat there on the top step and listened to Terry and Connie and Flip Corkin and, so help me God, Agnes Mooreheadas the Dragon Lady,all of them in a new adventurethat took place in a Red China that had not existed in the daysof Milton Caniff's 1937version of the Orient, with river piratesand Chiang Kai-shek and warlordsand the naive Imperialism of American gunboatdiplomacy. Sat, and listened to the whole show, and sat even longer to hear Supermanand part of Jack Armstrong,the All-American Boy and part of CaptainMidnight,and John Kinzer came home and neither he nor Leona came upstairs to find out what had happenedto me, or where Jeffty was, and sat longer,and found I had startedcrying, and could not stop,just sat there with tears running down my face, into the corners of my mouth, sitting and crying until Jeffty heard me and opened his door and saw me and came out and looked at me in childish confusion as I heard the station
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breakfor the Mutual Networkand they beganthe thememusic of Tom Mrx, "When lt's Round-upTime in Texasandthe Bloom[s on the Sagei' andJefftytouchedmy shoulderandsmiledat me,with his mouthandhis bigbrowneyes,andsaid,"Hi, Donny.Wannacomein an'listento theradio with me?" space,in whicheachthinghas of an absolute Humedeniedthe existence place; the of one singletime, in which all existence its Borgesdenies eventsarelinked. Jeffty receivedradioprogramsfrom a placethat could not, in logic,in by Einstein, universeasconceived the naturalschemeof the space-time premiums got thatno mail-order He exist.But that wasn'tall he received. for defunct that had been He readcomic books one wasmanufacturing. twenty dead for who had been threedecades. He sawmovieswith actors of the years.He wasthe receivingterminalfor endlessjoys andpleasures pastthat the world had droppedalongthe way.On its headlongsuicidal of flight towardNew Tomorrows,the world had razedits treasurehouse had poured concrete over its playgrounds,had simple happinesses, abandonedits elfin stragglers,and all of it was being impossibly, miraculouslyshuntedback into the presentthrough Jeffty. Revivified, Jeffty wasthe updated,the traditionsmaintainedbut contemporaneous. unbiddingAladdinwhosevery natureformedthe magiclampnessof his reality. And he took me into his worldwith him. he trustedme. Because Wehadbreakfastof QuakerPuffedWheatSparkiesandwarmOvaltine we drankout of /hrsyear'sLittle OrphanAnnie Shake-UpMugs'Wewent elsewasseeinga comedystarringGoldie to themoviesandwhileeveryone and I wereenjoyingHumphreyBogartas and Ryan O'Neal, Jeffty Hawn of the professional Huston'sbrilliantadaptation in thief Parker John the Tlacy, was Spencer feature second novel Slayground.The DonaldWestlake film of Val Lewton'produced the in CaroleLombardand Laird Cregar theAnts. LeinengenVersus andboughtthe current Twicea monthwewentdownto the newsstand Jeffty andI sat pulp issuesof TheShadow, DocSavageandStartlingStories. particularly liked the He togetherand I readto him from the magazines. the new and of Achilles, new short novelby Henry Kuttner, TheDreams particle in the subatomic StanleyG. Weinbaumseriesof shortstoriesset of the installment the first we enjoyed universeof Redurna.In September in ONES' new RobertE. HowardConannovel,ISLE OF THE BLACK Edgar Rice by WeirdTales; andin Augustwe wereonlymildly disappointed Burroughs'sfourth novellain the JupiterseriesfeaturingJohn Carterof
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Barsoom-"Corsairsof Jupiter."But the editorof ArgosyAII-StoryWeekly promisedtherewouldbe two morestoriesin the series.andit wassuchan unexpected revelationfor Jeffty and me that it dimmedour disappointment at the lessenedqualityof the currentstory. We readcomicstogether,and Jeffty and I both decided-separately, beforewe cametogetherto discussit-that our favoritecharacters were Doll Man,AirboyandThe Heap.Wealsoadoredthe GeorgeCarlsonstrips particularlythe Pie-FacePrinceof Old Pretzleburg in JingleJangleComics, stories,which we readtogetherand laughedover,even though I had to explainsomeof the esotericpunsto Jeffty,whowastoo youngto havethat kind of subtlewit. Howto explainit? I can't.Ihadenoughphysicsin collegeto makesome offhandguesses,but I'm more likely wrongthan right. The lawsof the conservationof energyoccasionally break.Theseare lawsthat physicists call "weaklyviolated."PerhapsJeffty wasa catalystfor the weakviolation of conservation lawswe'reonlynowbeginning to realizeexist.Itrieddoing somereadingin the area-muon decayof the "forbidden" kind: gamma decaythat doesn'tincludethe muon neutrinoamongits products-but nothing I encountered,not even the latest readingsfrom the Swiss Institute for Nuclear Researchnear Zurich gaveme an insight. I was thrownbackon a vagueacceptance of the philosophythat the realname for "science"is magic. No explanations, but enormousgoodtimes. The happiesttime of my life. I had the "real" world, the world of my storeand my friendsand my family,the worldof profit&loss,of taxesandeveningswith youngwomen who talkedaboutgoingshoppingor the united Nations,of the risingcost of coffeeandmicrowave ovens.And I hadJeffty'sworld,in whichI existed onlywhenI waswith him.Thethingsof thepasthe knewasfreshandnew, I couldexperience onlywhenin hiscompany. And themembrane between thetwoworldsgreweverthinner,moreluminousandtransparent.I hadthe bestof both worlds.And knew,somehow,that I couldcarrynothingfrom one to the other. Forgettingfor just a moment,betrayingJeffty by forgetting,broughtan end to it all. Enjoyingmyself so much, I grew carelessand failed to considerhow fragile the relationshipbetweenJeffty's world and my world really was. Thereis a reasonwhy the presentbegrudgesthe existenceof the past.I never really understood.Nowherein the beastbooks,wheresurvival is shownin battlesbetweenclawand fang,tentacleand poisonsac,is there recognitionof the ferocitythe presentalwaysbringsto bearon the past. Nowhereis therea detailedstatementof how the presentlies in wait for
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llarlen Elllson
What-Was,rvaitingfor it to becomeNow-This-Momentso it can shredit with its mercilessjaws. Who couldknowsucha thing... at anyage. . .andcertainlynot at my age. . .who could understandsucha thing? I'm tryingto exculpatemyself.Ican't.It wasmy fault. It wasanotherSaturdayafternoon. "What'splayingtoday?"I askedhim, in the car,on the waydowntown. He lookedup at me from the othersideof the front seatandsmiledone of his best smiles."Ken Maynardin ButlwhipJusticean' TheDemotished Manl'He keptsmiling,asif he'dreallyput oneoveron me.I lookedat him with disbelief. "You're kidding!" I said,delighted."Bester'sTHE DEMOLISHED MAN?" He noddedhis head,delightedat my beingdelighted.He knewit wasone of my favoritebooks."Oh, that'ssuper!" "Superduperi he said. "Who'sin it?" "FranchotTone,EvelynKeyes,Lionel BarrymoreandElishaCook,Jr." He wasmuch moreknowledgeable aboutmovieactorsthan I'd everbeen. He couldnamethe characteractorsin anymoviehe'd everseen.Eventhe crowdscenes. "And cartoons?"I asked. 'em: a LittleLulu,a DonaldDtckand a EugsBunny.lrn'a kte "Threeof a Lew Lehr Monlceysis da C-r-r-r-aziestPeoplesl' SmithSpecialtyaurr' "Oh boy!" I said.Iwasgrinningfrom earto ear.And thenI lookeddown andsawthe padof purchaseorderformson the seat.I'd forgottento dropit off at the store. "Gotta stopby the Center,"I said."Gotta dropoff something.It'll only takea minute." "Okayl'Jefftysaid."But we won't be late,will we?" "Not on your tintype,kiddo,"I said. When I pulledinto the parkinglot behindthe Center,he decidedto come in with me and we'd walk overto the theater.It'snot a largetown.There areonly two moviehouses,the Utopiaandthe Lyric.Weweregoingto the Utopiaand it wasonly threeblocksfrom the Center. I walkedinto the storewith the padof forms,andit wasbedlam.David andJanwerehandlingtwo customerseach,andtherewerepeoplestanding aroundwaitingto be helped.Janturneda look on me and her facewasa horror-maskof pleading.David was running from the stockroomto the shonroomand all he could munnur ashe whippedpastwas"Help!" and then he wasgone.
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down,"listen,givemea fewminutes.Janand "Jeffty;'I said,crouching Davidarein troublewith all thesepeople.Wewon'tbe late,I promise. Just let me get rid of a coupleof thesecustomers." He lookednervous,but noddedokay. I motionedto a chairandsaid,"Justsit downfor a whileandI'll beright with you." He went to the chair,goodas you please,though he knew what was happening, andhe satdown. I startedtakingcareof peoplewho wantedcolortelevisionsets.This was the first really substantialbatch of units we'd gotten in-color pricedand this wasSony's televisionwasonly now becomingreasonably first promotion-andit wasbonanza timefor me.I couldseepayingoff the loan and being out in front for the first time with the Center.It was business. In my world,goodbusinesscomesfirst. Jeffty sat thereand staredat the wall. Let me tell you aboutthe wall. Stanchionandbracketdesignshadbeenriggedfrom the floor to within twofeetof the ceiling.Televisionsetshadbeenstackedartfullyon the wall. Thirty-threetelevisionsets.All playingat the sametime.Blackandwhite, color,little ones,big ones,all goingat the sametime. Jeffty sat and watched thirty-three television sets, on a Saturday afternoon.We canpick up a total of thirteenchannelsincludingthe UHF educationalstations.Golf wason onechannel;baseballwason a second: celebrity bowling was on a third; the fourth channelwas a religious seminar;a teen-agedanceshowwason the fifth; the sixth wasa rerunof a situationcomedy;the seventhwasa rerun of a policeshow;eighthwasa natureprogramshowinga man flycastingendlessly;ninth wasnewsand conversation;tenth was a stock car race; eleventhwas a man doing logarithmson a blackboard;twelfthwasa womanin a leotarddoingsittingup exercises;andon the thirteenthchannelwasa badlyanimatedcartoon showin spanish.All but six of theshowswererepeatedon threesets.Jeffty satandwatchedthat wall of televisionon a saturdayafternoonwhile I sold as fast and as hardas I could,to pay backmy Aunt Patribiaand stayin touchwith my world.It wasbusiness. I shouldhaveknownbetter.I shouldhaveunderstoodaboutthe present andthe wayit killsthe past.But I wassellingwith bothhands.And whenI finally glancedover at Jeffty,half an hour later,he lookedlike another child. He wassweating.That terriblefeversweatwhenyou havestomachflu. He waspale,aspastyandpaleasa worm,andhis little handsweregripping the armsof the chairso tightlyI coul{ seehis knucklesin bold relief.t dashedoverto him, excusingmyselffrom the middle-aged couplelooking
4E6
Harlan Ellison
model. at the new 21" Mediterranean "Jeffty!" He lookedat me,but his eyesdidn't track.He wasin absoluteterror.I pulledhim out of the chairandstartedtowardthe front doorwith him, but man the customersI'd desertedyelledat me, "Hey!" The middle-aged said,"You wannasellme this thing or don't you?" I lookedfrom him to Jeffty andbackagain.Jeffty waslike a zombie.He hadcomewhereI'd pulledhim. His legswererubberyandhis feetdragged. The pastbeingeatenby the present,the soundof somethingin pain. I clawedsomemoneyout of my pantspocketandjammedit into Jeffty's hand."Kiddo...listento me...get out of here right now!" He still couldn'tfocusproperly."Jeffty,"l Jaidastightly asI could, "listento met" The middle-aged customerandhis wife werewalkingtowardus."Listen, kiddo,getout of hereright this minute.Walkoverto the Utopiaandbuy the tickets.I'll be right behindyou." The middle-agedman and his wife were almoston us. I shovedJeffty throughthe door and watchedhim hiswits,turn stumbleawayin thewrongdirection,thenstopasif gathering andgo backpastthe front of the Centerandin the directionof the Utopia. up andfacingthem,"yes,ma'am,that is one "Yes,sir,"I said,straightening terrific set with somesensdtionalfeatures!If you'll just step back here w i t hm e . . . " Therewasa terriblesoundof somethinghurting,but I couldn'ttell from whichchannel,or from whichset,it wascoming. Most of it I learnedlater,from the girl in the ticket booth,andfrom some peopleI knewwhocameto meto tell mewhathadhappened. BythetimeI got to the Utopia,nearlytwentyminuteslater,Jeffty wasalreadybeatento a pulp and hadbeentakento the manager'soffice. "Did you seea verylittle boy,aboutfive yearsold,with big browneyes and straightbrownhair . . . he waswaitingfor me?" "Oh,I think that'sthe little boythosekids beatup?" "What!?! ll/hereis he?" "They took him to the manager'soffice.No one knew who he wasor whereto find his parents-" A younggirl wearingan usher'suniformwaskneelingdownbesidethe couch,placinga wet papertowelon his face. I took the towelawayfrom her and orderedher out of the office.She lookedinsultedandsnortedsomethingrude,but sheleft.I saton the edge without of the couchandtried to swabawaythe bloodfrom the lacerations openingthe woundswhere the blood had caked.Both his eyes were swollenshut.His mouth wasrippedbadly.His hair wasmattedwith dried blood.
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He had beenstandingin line behindtwo kids in their teens.They startedsellingticketsat 12:30and the showstartedat 1:00.The doors weren'topenedtill 12:45.He hadbeenwaiting,andthekidsin frontof him hadhada portableradio.They werelisteningto the ball game.Jeffty had wantedto hearsomeprogram,God knowswhatit might havebeen,Grand CentrolStation,Let'sPretend,TheLandof theLost,God only knowswhich oneit mighthavebeen. He had askedif he could borrowtheir radioto hearthe programfor a minute,andit hadbeena commercialbreakor something,andthe kidshad givenhim the radio,probablyout of somemaliciouskind of courtesythat wouldpermit them to takeoffenseand rag the little boy.He hadchanged the station. . . andthey'dbeenunableto getit to gobackto the ballgame. a program It waslockedinto the past,on a stationthat wasbroadcasting that didn't exist for anyonebut Jeffty. Theyhadbeatenhim badly... as everyonewatched. And then they had run away. I hadleft him alone,left him to fight off the presentwithout sufficient console him for the saleof a 21" Mediterranean weaponry. I hadbetrayed pulped moaned something meat.He television,and now his face was inaudibleand sobbedsoftly. "Shhh,it's okay,kiddo,it's Donny.I'm here.I'll get you home,it'll be okay." I shouldhavetakenhim straightto the hospital.I don't know why I didn't.I shouldhave.Ishouldhavedonethat. WhenI carriedhim throughthe door,JohnandLeonaKinzerjust staredat me. They didn't moveto take him from my arms.One of his handswas hangingdown.He wasconscious, but just barely.Theystared,therein the afternoonin the present.I lookedat them.'A semi-darkness of a Saturday coupleof kids beathim up at the theater."I raisedhim a few inchesin my armsandextendedhim. Theystaredat me, at both of us,with nothingin their eyes,without movement."JesusChristj' I shouted,"he's been beaten!He'syourson!Don't youevenwantto touchhim? Whatthe hell kind of peopleareyou?!" ThenLeonamovedtowardme veryslowly.Shestoodin front of us for a few seconds, andtherewasa leadenstoicismin her facethatwasterribleto see.It said,I havebeenin thisplacebefore,manytimes,andI cannotbearto be in it again;but I am herenow. SoI gavehim to her.God help me,I gavehim overto her. And shetook him upstairsto batheawayhis bloodand his pain. placesin the dim living roomof JohnKinzerandI stoodin our separate their home,and we staredat eachother.He hadnothingto sayto me.
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Harlen Ellison
I shovedpasthim andfell into a chair.Iwasshaking. I heardthe bathwaterrunningupstairs. After whatseemeda verylongtime Leonacamedownstairs, wipingher handson her apron.Shesatdownon the sofaandaftera momentJohnsat down besideher.I heardthe soundof rock musicfrom upstairs. "Would you like a pieceof nice poundcake?"Leonasaid. I didn't answer.I waslisteningto the soundof the music.Rockmusic. On the radio.Therewasa tablelamp on the end tablebesidethe sofa.It casta dim andfutile light in the shadowed living room.Roc&musicfromthe present,on a radioupstairs? I startedto saysomething,and then knew. . . O h ,G o d. . . n o ! I jumped up just as the soundof hideouscracklingblottedout the music,andthe tablelampdimmedanddimmedandflickered.Iscreamed something,I don't know what it was,and ran for the stairs. Jeffty'sparentsdid not move.Theysattherewith their handsfolded,in that placethey had beenfor so manyyears. I fell twice rushingup the stairs. Thereisn't much on televisionthat canhold my interest.I boughtan old cathedral-shaped Philcoradioin a second-hand store,andI replacedall the burnt-outpartswith the originaltubesfrom old radiosI couldcannibalize that still worked.I don't usetransistors or printedcircuits.Theywouldn't work. I've sat in front of that set for hourssometimes,running the dial backandforth asslowlyasyou canimagine,so slowlyit doesn'tlook asif it's movingat all sometimes. But I can't find CaptainMidnightor TheLandof theLostor TheShadow or Quiet,Please. Soshe did love him, still, a little bit, evenafter all thoseyears.I can't hatethem: they only wantedto live in the presentworld again.That isn't sucha terriblething. It's a goodworld,all thingsconsidered. It's much betterthan it u$edto anymore.They be,in a lot of ways.Peopledon't die from the old diseases die from new ones,but that's Progress, isnl it? Isn't it? Tell me. Somebodypleasetell me.
Within the Wallsof Tyre Michael Bishop
As she easedher Nova into the lane permittingaccessto the perimeter highway,Marilyn Odaureflectedthat the hardesttime of yearfor her was the christmasseason. FromlateNovemberto well into Januaryher nerves wereinvariablyas taut as harp strings.The traffic on the expresswaylane-jumping vansandpickups,sleeksportscars,tailgatingsemis,andall the blurred,indistinguishable others-wasno help,either.Even though she could seeher handson the wheel,tremblinginside beige,leathertooledgloves,her Novaseemedhardlyto be underher control;instead,it wasa pieceof machinerygivenall its impetusanddirectionby an invisible slot in the concretebeneathit. Her illusionof controlwasexactlythat-an illusion. Lookingquickly over her left shoulder,Marilyn Odauhad to laughat herselfas she yankedthe automobilearounda beardedyoungman on a motorcycle.If your car'sin someoneelse'scontrol,why is it so damnhard to steer? Nerves;balkyYuletidenerves. Marilyn Odauwasfifty-five; shehad lived in this city-her city-ever sinceleavingGreenvilleduringthe first daysof world war II to beginher 4t9
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Tenminutesago,before ownlife andto takeajob clerkingat Satterwhite's. passed perimeter the heartof the through highway, had she reachingthe great, gray backside of Satterwhite's cracking city and driven beneaththe (whichwasnowa temporarywarehouse firm for an electronics locatedin a suburbanindustrialcomplex).Like the heart of the city itself,Satter' tubes, its pneumaticmessage white'swasdead-its greatsilverescalators, as surely mezzanines its elevatorbell tones,and its perfume-scented thingsof the pastas ... well,asTojo,TarawaAtoll, and a youngmarine namedJordanBurk.Thatwaswhy,particularlyat this time of year,Marilyn neverglancedat the old departmentstoreasshedrovebeneathit on her wayto Summerstone. For the past two yearsshe had been the managerof the Creighton's Corner Boutique at SummerstoneMall, the largest self-contained hadbeen area.Business shoppingfacilityin the five-countymetropolitan shifting steadily,for well overa decade,from downtownto suburbanand centers.And whena positionhadopenedup commercial evenquasi-rural for her at the new tri-level meccabewilderinglydubbedSummerstone, Marilyn hadshiftedtoo, movingfrom Creighton'soriginalfranchisenear monolith sixteen shopin an acre-square CapitolSquareto a second-level hangarthana a like starship more building the northwest-a milesto city's shoppingcenter. Therewereto$'n sheoughtalsoto shift residences. Soon,shesupposed, just asersatz'elegant names afterall,with housescloserto Summerstone, asthat of the Brookmistcomplexin which shenowlived: ChateauRoyale, Tivoli, SmokeGlade,EdenManor,SussexWood.. . There,she Springhaven, told herself,glancingsidelongat the MatterhornHeightscomplexnestled chalets belowthe highwayto her left, its cheesebox-and-cardboard-shingle distortedby a teepeeof glaringwindow paneson a glasstruck cruising abreastof her. Living at MatterhornHeightswouldhaveput Marilyn fifteen minutes closerto herjob, but it wouldhavemeantenduringa gaudierlapseof taste thanshehadoptedfor at Brookmist.Thereweredegreesof artificiality'she knew,andeachpersonfoundhis ownlevel.. . Aboveher,a greenandwhite exits.Surprised highwaysignindicatedthe WillowglenandSummerstone she wrestledthe Nova into an offas-alwaysby its suddenappearance, ramp lane and heardbehindher the inevitableblaringof horns. shehad Packit in, shetold the driveron her bumper-an expression at the boutique.Packit in, learnedfrom JaneSidney,oneof her employees laddie. Intent on the traffic light at the end of the off-ramp,conscioustoo of the wetnessunder the arms of her pantsuitjacket,Marilyn managedto giggleat the incongruousfeel of thesewords.In her rearviewmirror she
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could see the angry featuresof a modishly long-hairedyoung man squintingat her overthe hoodof a Le Mans-and it wasimpossibleto imagineherself confrontinghim, outsidetheir automobiles, with the imperative,"Packit in, laddie!"Absolutelyimpossible. All shecoulddo wasgiggleat the thoughtandjab nervouslyat her clutchandbrakepedals. Morningtraffic-Christmastraffic-was bearable onlyif youremembered that impatience wasa self-punishing sin. At 8:50 she reachedSummerstone and found a parkingplacenear a batteryof army-greentrash bins. A security-guard was passingin mall employeesthrougha second-tierentrancenearMontgomery-Ward's; and when Marilynshowedhim her ID card,he saidalmostby way of ritual o'Havea goodday,Miss shibboleth, Odaul'Then,with a hostof peopleto whom sheneverspoke,shewason the enclosedpromenade of machined woodenbeamsand opencarpetedshops.As always,the hour could have beenhigh noon or twelvemidnight-there wasno wayto tell. The season wasidentifiableonlybecause of the wintermerchandise on displayandthe christmasdecorations suspended overhead or twininglike tinfoil helixes through the central shaft of the mall. The smells of ammonia, confectionarygoods,and perfumescommingledpiquantly,even at this earlyhour,but Marilyn scarcelynoticed. ManagingCreighton'sCornerhad becomeher life, the enterprisefor whichshelived; andbecause summerstone containedcreighton'scorner, shewent into it dailywith lessphilosophical scrutinythan a coalminer giveshis mine.Suchspeculation, Marilynknewfrom thirty-fiveyearson her own, was worsethan useless-it imprisonedyou in doubts and misapprehensions largelyof your ou,ndevising.Shewasgladto be but a few short stepsfrom creighton's,glad to feel her funk disintegrating beneaththe prospectof an efficientdayat work.... "Good morning, Ms. Odau," Jane Sidney said as she entered Creighton's. "Good morning.You look nice today." The girl waswearinga greenand goldjersey,a kind of gauchoskirt of imitation leather,and suedeboots.Her hair wasnot much longerthan a militarycadet's. shealwayspronounced "Ms." asa mutedbuzz-eitherout of feministconvictionor, more likely,her fear that "Miss" would betray her more-than-middle-aged superioras unmarried... as if that werea shamefulthing in oneof Marilyn'sgeneration. only cissycampbellof the threegirls who workedin the boutiquecouldaddressher as "Miss odau" withoutlookingflustered.or maybeMarilynimaginedthis.shedidn't try to plumb the personalfeelingsof her employees, and they in turn didn't try to cast her in the role of a mother confessor.They liked her well enough,though.Everyonegot along.
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"I'm workingfor Cissyuntil three,Ms.Odau.We'vetradedshifts.Isthat all right?" Janefollowedher towardher office. "Of courseit is.WhataboutTerri?" mirrors; thereweremirrorsoverhead. The wallsweremercury-colored jerseys, erotically tailored jumpsuits, and Racks of swirl-patterned flamboyantscarveswere reiteratedaroundthem like the refrain of a toothpasteor colajingle.Macram6basketswith plasticflowersand exotic bath soapshung from the ceiling.Black-lightand pop-artposterswent in and out on the walls,eventhoughthey nevermoved-and lookingup at duringthe austeredays oneof them,Marilynhada visionof Satterwhite's of 1942-43,whenthe war hadbegunto put moneyin people'spocketsfor the first time sincethe twentiesbut it was unpatrioticto spendit. She the Officeof PriceAdministrationandration-stampbooklets. remembered you couldn't havemore than two pairsof Becauseof leathershortages, shoesayear.... Janewaslookingat her fixedlY. "I'm sorry,Jane.I didn't hearyou." "I saidTerri'll behereat twelve,but shewantsto workall daytomorrow at City College,andshe too,if that'sokay.Therearen'tanyTuesdayclasses final examscomeup." before get as she can hours in alt many wantsto to the boutique' new relatively Terri wasstill "Of course,that'sfine. Won't you be heretoo?" "Yes,ma'am.In the afternoon." "Okag good... . I've got someorderforms to look overand a letter or two to write."Sheexcusedherselfandwentbehinda tie'dyedcurtaininto an office as plain and practicalas Creighton'sdecorwaspeacockishand orgiastic.She sat down to a small metal filing cabinetwith an audible moan-a moan at oddswith the satisfactionshe felt in gettingdown to work.Whatwaswrongwith her?Sheknew,sheknew,dearGod wasn'tshe perfectlyaware.. .. Marilyn pulled her glovesoff. As her fingerswent to the onion-skin order forms and bills of lading in her files, she was surprisedby the deepoxbloodcolor of her nails.Why? Shehadworn this polishfor a week,sincewell beforeThanksgiving.... The answerof coursewasMaggieHood.During the war Marilyn and Maggie had roomed together in a clapboardhouse not far from a housewith two poplarsin the smallfront yardbut not a Satterwhite's. singlebladeof grass.Maggiehad workedfor the telephonecompany(an irony, since they had no phone in their house),and she alwayswore oxbioodnail polish.Severalmonths beforethe Axis surrender,Maggie official andmovedto Mobile.The little marrieda 4-F telephone-company houseon GreenbriarStreetwastorn downduringthe mid'fifties to make way for an office building.MaggieHood and oxbloodnail polish-
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Recollectionsthat skirted the heart of the matter,Marilyn knew.She shookthem off and got down to business. Tastefulrock was playing in the boutique,somethingfrom Stevie Wonder'sSongs in theKeyof Life-Janehadflippedthe musicon.Through it, Marilyncouldhearthe morningherdspassingalongthe concourses and interior bridgesof summerstone. sometimesit seemedthat half the population of the statewasout there.Twicethepreviouschristmasseason the structuralvibrationshad becomeso worrisomethat security-guards wereorderedto keepnew shoppersout until enoughpeoplehad left to avert the dangerof collapse.That was the rumor,anyway,and Marilyn almost believedit. summerstone'sseveralowners,on the other hand, claimedthat the doorshadbeenlockedsimplyto minimizecrowding. But how manytimes did sanebusinesspeopleturn awaycustomerssolelyto "minimize crowding"? Marilyn helpedJanewait on shoppersuntil noon.Then Terri Bready arrived,and she went back to her office. Insteadof eatingshe checked outstandingaccountsand soughtto squareawayrecords.she kept her mind whollyoccupiedwith the minutiaeof runningher businessfor its semi-retiredowners,charlie andAgnescreighton.It didn't botherher at all that they wereten yearsyoungerthan she,absenteelandlordswith a condominiumapartmenton the Gulf Coast.Shedid a goodjob for them, workingeveningsas well as lunch hours,and the creightonsweresmart enoughto realizeherworth.Theytrustedhercompletely andpaidherwelt. At one o'clockrerri BreadysteppedthroughMarilyn'scurtainand made an apologeticnoisein her throat. "Hey,Terri.Whatis it?" "There'sa salesman outherewho?dliketo seeyou."Bendinga business card betweenher thumb and forefinger,the girl gavean odd baritone chuckle.Thwny-haired and lean,she was a freshmandramamajor who madethe mostfashionable clotheslook like off-the-racksfrom a salvation Army outlet. But she was sweet-so sweet that Marilyn had been embarrassed to hearher discussingwith cissy campbellthe boyshewas living with. "Is he someonewe regularlybuy from, Terri?" "I don't know.I don't know who we buy from." "Is that his card?" "Yeah,it is." "Why don't you let me seeit, then?" "Oh. Okay.Sorry,Ms. Odau.Here." Trying to hand it over,the girl poppedthe cardout of her fingers;it struckMarilyn'schestandfluttered into her lap."Sorryagain.sheesh,Ireallyam."Terrichuckledher baritone
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Michael Bishop
chuckleand Marilyn,smiling briefly,retrievedthe card. It said: NicholasAnson / ProductsConsultant& SalesRepresentative I Latter-DayNoveltiesI LosAngeles,California.Also on the card weretwo telephonenumbersand a zip code. TerriBreadywether lipswith her tongue."He's a hunk,Ms.Odau,I'm not kiddingyou-he's as prettyasa nakedSwede." "Is that right?How old?" "Oh, he'stoo old for me.He'sgot to be in his thirtiesat least." "Decrepit,dear." "Oh, he's not decrepit,any.But I'm out of the market.You know" "Off the auctionblock?" "Yes,ma'am.Yeah.?' "What's he selling? We don't often work through independent don't,that is-and I've neverheardof this firm." dealers-theCreightons "Janesaysshethinkshe'sbeenhitting the storesup anddownthe mall for the last coupleof days.Don't know what he's pushing.He's got a samplescase,though-and reallythe mostincrediblekiss-meeyes." "If he'sbeenheretwo days,I'm surprisedhe hasn'talreadysoldthose." "Do you wantme to sendhim back?He'stoo politeto burstin. He's beencallingJaneand me Ms. Sidneyand Ms. Bready,likethat." almosta fear. "Don't sendhim backyet."Marilynhada premonition, "Let me takea look at him first." Terri Breadybarkeda laughand had to coverher mouth. "Hey, Ms. Odau,Iwouldn'ttalk him up like RobertRedfordandthensendyou a bald frog.I mean,why wouldI?" "Go on, Terri.I'll talk to him in a coupleof minutes." "Yeah.Okay."The girl was quickly gone,and at the curtain'sedge Marilyn lookedout. Janewas waiting on a heavy-setwomanin a firepantsuit,andjust insidetheboutique's openthresholdtheman engine-red work namedNicholasAnsonwaswatchingthe crowdsandcounter-crowds througheachother like grim armies. Anson'shair wasmodishlylong,andhe remindedMarilyn a bit of the the sunhad manwho hadgrimacedat her on the off-ramp.Then,however, beenrichochetingoff windshields,grilles,and hoodornaments,and any real identificationof the man in the Le Mans with this composedsales wasimpossible,if not downrightpointless.A personin an representative wasnot the samepersonyoumet on commonground....Now automobile this Ansonfellow,and he wasturning towardthe Terri wasapproaching girl. Marilyn Odaufelt her fingerstighten on the curtain.Alreadyshe had takenin the man'snavy-blueleisurejacketand,beneathit, his silky shirt the color and patternof a cumulus-filledsky.Alreadyshehad notedthe
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49s
lengthandthesun-flecked qualityof blondness of his hair,the etched-out his profile.... But when he turned,the only thing apparentto her was Anson'sresemblance to a deadmarinenamedJordanBurk, eventhough he wasolderthanJordanhadlived to be.Tenor twelveyearsolder,at the very least.JordanBurk had died at twenty-fourtakingan amphibious tractor ashoreat Betio, a tiny island near ThrawaAtoll in the Gilbert Islands.NicholasAnson,howeveqhad crow's-feet at the cornersof his eyesand glints of silver in his sideburns.Thesethings didn't matter much-the resemblance wasstill a heart-breaking one,andMarilynfound that shewasstaringat Ansonlike a star-struckteenager. shelet the curtain fall. This hashappened before,shetold herself.In a worldof four billion people,overa periodof thirty-fiveyears,it isn't surprisingthat you should encountertwo or moreyoungmen who look like eachother.For God's sake,Odau,don't go to piecesover the sight of still anotherman who remindsyouof Jordan-astrangerfromLosAngeleswhoin just a couple of yearsis goingto be old enoughto be thefatherof your forever-twentyfour Jordandarling. It's the season,Marilynprotested, answering her relentlessly rational self.It'sespecially cruelthat this shouldhappennow. It happens all thetime.You'rejust moresusceptible at this time of year. odau, you haven't outgrownwhat amountsto a basicallychildish syndrome,and it's beginningto look as if you neverwill. old enoughin just a coupleof yearsto be Jordan'sfather?He's old enoughright now to be Jordan'sandmy child.Oarchild. Marilyn could feel tears welling up from some ancient spring; susceptible,she had an unexpectedmental glimpseof the upstairs bedroomin her Brookmisttownhouse,the bedroomnext to hers. the bedroomshe had madea sort of shrine.In its corner.a white wicker bassinetThat'senough,Odau! "That'senough!"shesaidaloud,clenchinga fist at her throat. The curtaindrewback,andshewasagainfaceto facewith rerri Breadv. "I'm sorry,Ms. Odau.Youtalkin'to me?" "No, Terri.To myself." "He's a neatfella,really.sayshe playeddrumsfor a rockbandin HaightAshburyonceupona time.sayshe wasoneof the originalhippies.He,s beenstraightsinceNixon resigned,he says-his faith was iistoreo-. whyn't you talk to him, Ms.odau?Evenif youdon't placean orderwith him, he'san interesting personto talk to. Really.He sayshe'sheardgood thingsaboutyoufrom the othermanagers on the mall.He thinksour place is just the sort of placeto handleone of his products."
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"I bethe does.Youcertainlygota lot out of him in the shorttime he's beenhere." "Yeah.All my doing,too.I thoughtmaybe,beingfrom Los Angeles,he knew somebodyin Hollywood.Isortatold him I wasa dramamajor.You know...Let me sendhim back,okay?" 'All right.Sendhim back." Marilyn satdownat her desk.Almost immediatelyNicholasAnsoncame through the curtain with his samplescase.They exchangedpolite greetings,and shewasstruckagainby his resemblance to Jordan.Seeing him at closerangedidn't dispelthe illusionof an olderJordanBurk,but intensifiedit. This was the reverseof the way it usuallyhappened,and whenhe put his caseon her desk,shehadto resista realurgeto reachout and touch his hand. No wonder'lbrri hadbeensnowed.Anson'spresence wasa matureand amiableone,faintlysexualin its undertones. Haight-Ashbury? No, that was wrong.Marilyn couldn't imaginethis man amongJesusfreaksand flowerchildren,beggingsmallchange,the anklesof his grubbybluejeans frayedabovea pair of falling-to-pieces sandals.Altogetherwrong.Thank he found God, had his calling.He seemedborn to movegracefullyamong boutiquesand front-line departmentstores,making recommendations, givingof his smile.Wasit possiblethat he hadonceturnedhis gauntyoung face upwardto the beaconof h strobeand howledhis heart out to the rhythmsof his own acid drumming?Probably.A greatmany thingshad changed sincethe sixties.... "You're quite far afield," Marilyn said,to be sayingsomething."I've neverheardof Latter-Day-Novelties." "It's a consortiumof independentbusinesspeopleandmanufacturers," Ansonresponded. "We're trying to expandour markets,go nation-wide. I'm not reallyusedto actingas-what doesit sayon my card?-a sales representative. My first job-my reallove-is beinga productsconsultant. If your companyis a noveltiescompany,it hasto havenovelties,products that arenew andappealingandunusual.Priorto comingEaston this trip, wasmakingproductsuggestions. Thatseemsto my principalresponsibility be my forte, and that'swhat I reallylike to do." too." "Well,I think you'll be an ableenoughsalesrepresentative "Thank you, Miss Odau.Still, I alwaysfeel a little hesitationopening this caseand going to bat for what it contains.There'san elementof egotismin goingout and pushingyour own brain-childrenon the world." "There'san elementof egotismin almosteveryhuman enterprise.I don't think you needto worry." "I supposenot."
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"Why don't you showme what you have?" 'ol'veonly broughtyou a NicholasAnsonundid the catcheson his case. in celebrity singleproduct.Itwasmyjudgmentyouwouldn'tbeinterested paperweights-prcducts of that nature.HaveI T-shirts,cartoon-character judgedfairly,MissOdau?" "We've sold noveltyT-shirtsandjerseys,Mr. Anson,but the others soundlike gift-shopgimcracksand we don't ordinarilystockthat sort of toiletries,a few handicraftor decoratoritemsif thing.Clothing,cosmetics, they correlatewell with the Creightons'imageof their franchise." "Okay."Ansonremoveda glossycardboardpackagefrom his caseand handedit acrossthe deskto Marilyn.The kit wasblue andwhite,with two Elegantlonghandlettering on the triangularwindowsin the cardboard. package Throughoneof the triangular spelledout the wordsLiquidSheers. liquid,a smallfoil windowsshecouldseea bottleof mahQgany-colored brushwith a grip on its back;throughthe other tray,anda short-bristled windowwasvisiblean arrayof coloredpencils. "'Liquid Sheers?"' "Yes,ma'am.The ideastruckme only abouta monthago,I drewup a andthe Latter-Dayconsortiumrushedthe concept marketingprospectus, into productionso quicklythat the product'salreadysellingquite well in a number of West Coastboutiques.Speedis one of the keynotesof our company'searly success.By cutting down the elapsedtime between and actualmanufactureof the product,we'vebeen concept-visualization . . If you like ableto stayaheadof most of our Californiacompetitors.. good you in a supply." Liquid Sheers,we havethe meansto keep on thekit. Herattentionrefusedto Marilynwasreadingtheinstructions stay fixed on the wordsand they kept slippingawayfrom her. Anson's matter-of-factmonologueabouthis company'sbusinesspracticesdidn't help her concentration. Shegaveup and set the packagedown. "But what are?TheseLiquid Sheers?" "They're a novelsubstitute-a decoratorsubstitute-for pantyhoseor nylons,Miss Odau.A womanmixesa smallamountof the Liquid Sheer solutionwith waterandrubsor paintsit on her legs.The pencilscanbe usedto draw on seamsor color in someof the applicatordesignswe've includedwith the kit-butterflies,flowers,that sortof thing.Placement's up to the individual.... We have kits for dark- as well as lightcomplexioned women,and the applicationprocesstakesmuch less time havetold thanyou might expect.It's fun too,someof our products-testers us. Severalboutiqueshave even reported increasedsales of shorts, abbreviatedskirts, and short culotte outfits once they beganstocking Liquid Sheers. This,I oughtto add,right hereat the beginningof winter." Ansonstopped,his spieldutifullycompletedandhis smileexpectant.
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"They're bottledstockingsi'Marilyn said. "Yes,ma'am.I supposeyou could phraseit that way." "We sold somethingvery like this at Satterwhite'sduring the war]' Marilyn went on, careful not to look at Anson. "Without the design doodadsand the differentcoloredpencils,at any rate.Womenpaintedon their stockingsand set the seamswith mascarapencils." Ansonlaughed."To tell youthe truth, MissOdau,that'swhereI gotpart of my originalidea.I rummageold mail-ordercatalogues andthe adsin old magazines. Of course,Liquid Sheersalso derivea little from the bodypaintingfad of the sixties-but in our advertisingwe plan to lay heavy stresson their affinity to the WorldWar era." "Why?" "Nostalgia sells. Girls who don't know World War II from the Peloponnesian War-girls who'vewornseamless stockings all theirlives,if they'veworn stockingsat all-are paintingon Liquid Sheersand setting grease-pencil seamsbecause they'veseenLaurenBacallandAnn Sheridan in Bogartfilm revivalsandit makesthemfeelvaguelyheroic.It'samazing, MissOdau.In the lastfew yearswe'vehadsalesandentertainmentbooms featuringnostalgiafor the twenties,the thirties,the fifties,andthe sixties. The forties-if you exceptBogart-havebeenprettymuch bypassed, and Liquid Sheerspurposelyplay to that era while recallingsomeof the artdecocreations of the Beatlesperiodtoo." Marilyn met Anson'sgazeandrefusedto fall backfrom it. "Maybethe fortieshavebeen'prettymuch bypassed'because it's hardto recallWorld War II with unfetteredjoy." "I don't reallybuy that,"Ansonreplied,earnestandundismayed. "The twentiesgaveus HardingandCoolidge,the thirtiesthe GreatDepression, the fifties the Cold War,and the sixtiesVietnam.There'sno accounting what peoplearegoingto rememberwith fondness-but I canassureyou that Liquid Sheersaredoingwell in California." Marilyn pushedher chair backon its coasters and stoodup. "[ sold bottledstockings,Mr. Anson.I paintedthem on my legs.Youcouldn'tpay me to use a product like that again-even with colored pencils and butterfliesthrownin gratis." Seeminglyout of deferenceto her Anson also stood."Oh, no, Miss girls Odau-I wouldn'texpectyouto.Thisis a productaimedat adolescent youngwomen.We fully realizeit's a fad product.We and post-adolescent expectboomingsalesfor a yearandthen a rapidtaperingoff. But it won't matter-our overheadon Liquid Sheersis low and when saleshave bottomed out we'll drop 'em and move on to somethingelse. You understand the transience.of itemslike thisl' "Mr. Anson,do youknowwhy bottledstockingsexistedat all duringthe SecondWorldWar?"
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"Yes,ma'am.Therewasa nylon shortage." "The nylon went into the war effort-parachutes,I don't know what 'All I know is that you else."Sheshookher head,trying to remember. didn't seethem as oftenas you'dbeenusedto. Theywerean important commodityon the domesticblackmarket,just like alcoholand gasoline and shoes." Anson's smile was sympathetic,but he seemedto know he was defeated."I guessyou'renot interestedin Liquid Sheers?" "I don't seehow I could havethem on my shelves,Mr. Anson." He reachedacrossher desk,pickedup the kit he had given her,and droppedit in his samplescase.Whenhe snappedits lid down,the reports of the catcheswerelike distantgunshots."Maybe you'll let me try you with somethingelse,anothertime." "You don't haveanythingelsewith you?" "To tell you the truth, I wasso certainyou'd like theseI didn't bring anotherproductalong.I'veplacedLiquid Sheerswith anotherboutiqueon the first level,though,andsolda few thingsto gift andnoveltystores.Not a completeloss,this trip." He pausedat the curtain."Nice doingbusiness with you, Miss Odau." "I'll walk you to the front." Togethertheystrolledthroughan aislewayof clothesracksand toiletry shelvesover a mulberry carpet.Jane and Terri were busy with customers....Why am I beingso solicitous?Marilynaskedherself.Anson didn't look a bit brokenby her refusal,and Liquid Sheersweredefinitely offensiveto her-she wantednothingto do with them.Still,anyrejection wasan intimationof failure,andMarilyn knewhow this youngmanmust feel.It wasa shameher visitorwouldhaveto plungehimselfbackinto the mall'smotivelesslysurgingbodieson a note,howeversmall,of defeat.He wouldbe lost to her,borneto oblivionon the tide.... "I'm sorry,Jordanl'she said."Pleasedo try us againwith something else." The man besideher flinched and cockedhis head."You called me Jordan,Miss Odau." Marilyncoveredthe lowerportionof her facewith her hand.Shespread her fingersandspokethroughthem."Forgiveme."Shedroppedher hand. 'Actually,I'msurprisedit didn't happenbeforenow.Youlook verymuch like someoneI onceknew.The resemblance is uncannv." "You did sayJordan,didn't you?" "Yes,I guessI did-that washis name." '4h." Ansonseemedon the vergeof somefurther commentbut all he came out with was, "Goodbye, Miss Odau. Hope you have a good Christmasseason," afterwhichhe sethimselfadriftanddisappeared in the crowd.
Mlcheel Bishop
The tinfoil decorations in the mall'scentralshaftwerelike columnsof a strangescarletcoral,andMarilyn studiedthem intently until Terri Bready spokeher name and returnedher to the present.She didn't leavethe boutiqueuntil ten that evening. Tuesday, ten minutesbeforenoon. He worethe samenavy-blueleisurejacket,with an openeollarshirt of gentlebeigeand bold indigo.He carriedno samplescase,and speaking with Cissy Campbelland then Terri, he seemedfrom the vantageof Marilyn's office, her curtain partially drawn back, less certain of his ground.Marilyn knew a similar uncertainty-Anson'spresenceseemed ominous,a challenge.She put a hand to her hair, then rose and went throughthe shopto meethim. "You didn't bring me somethingelseto look at, did you?" "No; no, I didn'f' He revealedhis empty hands."I didn't come on businessat all . . . unless.. ." He let his voice trail away."You haven't changedyour mind aboutLiquid Sheers,haveyou?" This surprisedher.Marilyn could hearthe stiffnessin her voice."I'm afraidI haven't." Anson waveda hand."Pleaseforget that. I shouldn'thavebroughtit up-because I didn't come on business."He raisedhis palm, like a Boy Scoutpledginghis honor."I washopingyou'd havelunch with me." "Why?" "Becauseyou seem simpdtico-that'sthe Spanishword for the quality you have. And it would be nice to sit down and talk with someone congenialaboutsomethingother than Latter-DayNovelties.['ve beenon the roada week." Out of the corner of her eye she could seeTeni Breadystrainingto interprether responseto this proposal.CissyCampbell,Marilyn's black clerk, had stoppedracking a new supply of puff-sleevedblouses,and Marilynhada glimpseof orangeeyelinerandiridescentlipstick-the girl's facewasthat of an alert and self-confidentpanther. "I don't usuallyeatlunch, Mr. Anson." "Make an exceptiontoday.Not a wordaboutbusiness,Ipromiseyou." "Go with himl'Terri urgedfrom the cashcomputer."Cissyand I can takecareof thingshere,Ms. Odau."Then shechuckled. "Excellentadvicej'Ansonsaid."If I wereyou, I'd takeif' and "Okay,"Marilyn agreed."So long as we don't leaveSummerstone don't staygonetoo long.Let me get my bag." Inevitably,they endedup at the McDonald'sdownstairs-yellowand contactpaper, orangewall paneling,trashbinscoveredwith wood-grained rowsof peoplesix and sevendeepat the shiny metal counters.Marilyn
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founda two-persontableandeasedherselfintooneofthe attached,scoopshapedplasticchairs.It took Ansonalmostfifteen minutesto return with two cheeseburgers and a coupleof softdrinks,which he nearly spilled squeezinghis way out of the crowdto their tiny table. "ThankGod for plastictops.Is it alwayslike this?" "Worseat Christmas.Aren't thereany McDonaldsin Los Angeles?" "Nothing but. But it's three whole weekstill Christmas.Have these peopleno piety?" ttNone.tt
"It's the samein Los Angeles." They ate.While they wereeating,Anson askedthat she use his first name and she in turn felt obligatedto tell him hers.Now they were MarilynandNicholas,motherandsonon anoutingto McDonald's.Except that his attention to her wasn't filial-it was warm and direct, with a wooer'sdeliberatelyrestrainedurgency.His mannerremindedher againof JordanBurk,andat onepointsherealizedthat shehadheardnothingat all he'd saidfor the last severalminutes.Listento this man,shecautioned herself.Comebackto the hereand now.After that,shemanagedbetter. He told her that he'dbeenbornin the East,raisedsinglehandedly by his motheruntil her remarriagein the lateforties,and,afterhis new family's removalto Encino,educatedentirelyon the WestCoast.He told her of his abortivecareeras a rock drurnmer,his early resistanceto the war in Southeast Asia,andhis difficultieswith the UnitedStatesmilitary. "I hadno directionat all until my thirty-secondbirthday,Marilyn.Then I discovered wheremy talentlay andI haven'tlookedbacksince.Itell you, if I hadthe sixtiesto do overagain-well,I'd gladlydo them.I'd finagle myselfa placein an Army reserveunit, bea weekendsoldier,andget right downto products-consulting on a full-timebasis.If I'd donethatin '65 I'd probablybe retiredby now." "You haveplentyof time. You'restill young." "I've just turnedthirty-six." "You look less." "But not much.Thanksanyway,though-it's nice to hear." "Did you fight in Vietnam?"Marilynaskedon impulse. "l wenttherein '68.I don'tthink youcouldsayI fought.I wasoneof the oldestenlistedmenin my unit,with a historyof anti-waractivityanddraftcardburning.I'm goingto tell you something,though-once I got home and turned myself around,I wept when Saigonfell. That's the truth-I wept.Saigonwassomecity,if you lookedat it right." Mentallycountingback,Marilyn realizedthat Nicholaswas the right agBto be her andJordan'schild.Exactly.InearlyDecember, 1942,sheand Jordanhad madetheir last farewellsin the little houseon Greenbriar
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Street....Sheattachedno shameto this memory,hadno regretsaboutit. The shamehad come twenty-sixyearslater-the sameyear,strangely enough,that NicholasAnson was reluctantlypulling a tour of duty in in her upstairsshrinewasa perpetual Vietnam.The whitewickerbassinet andyetshecouldnot reminderof this shame,of her secretmonstrousness, disposeof the evidencebrandingher a freak,if only to herself,for the simplereasonthat she lovedit. Shelovedit becauseshe had onceloved down.Therewasno wayJordanBurk.. .. Marilynput her cheeseburger no wayat all-that shewasgongto be ableto finish eating. 'Are you all right?" "I needto getbackto the boutique." "Let me takeyou out to dinnerthis evening.Youcanhardlycall this a I'd like to takeyou somewherenice. relaxedand unhurriedget-together. I'd like to buy you a snifter of brandyand a nice rarecut of prime rib." "Why?" "You usethat wordlike a stiletto,Marilyn.Why not?" "BecauseI don't go out. My work keepsme busy.And there's a me.I don't knowwhetheryour in our agesthat embarrasses discrepancy innocentlysocial,or.... Go ahead,then-laugh." motivesarecommercial, squeezingthe Shewaswaddingup the wrapperfrom her cheeseburger, papertighterandtighter,andshecouldtell that her facewascrimsoning. "I'm not laughing,"Nicholassaid."I don't either-know what my or unnatural:' motivesare,I mean.Exceptthat they'renot blameworthy plastic chairand "I'd bettergo."Sheeasedherselfout of the underslung drapedher bagoverher shoulder. andappeal. "WhencanI seeyou?" His eyeswerefull of remonstrance "The companywants me here another week or so-problems with a And I don't knowanyonein this city.I'm living out of a suitcase' delivery. I've neverin my life beenmarried,if that'sworryingyou." "MaybeI shouldworry becauseyou haven't." Nicholassmiledat her,a self-effacingcharmer'ssmile."When?" "Wednesdaysand Sundaysare the only nights I don't work' And tomorrow'sWednesday." "What time?" "Call me.Or comeby the boutique. "I don't know,"shesaiddistractedly. Or don't.Whateveryou want." into theaislebesidetheirtableandquicklyworkedherway Shestepped throughthe crowdto the capsule-liftoutsideMcDonald's.Her thoughts werejumbled,and she hopedfeebly-willing the hope-that Nicholas Ansonwouldsimplydisappearfrom her life.
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The next morning,beforeany customershad beenadmittedto the mall, Marilynodau wentdownto summerstone's first levelandwalkedpastthe boutiquewhoseownerhadelectedto sellNicholas'Liquid sheers. Thekits wereon displayin two colorfulpyramidsjust insidethe shop'sentrance. Thatafternoona leggy,dark-hairedgirl cameinto creighton'scorner to browse,and when she let her fur-trimmedcoat fall openMarilyn sawa smallmagentaroseaboveher right knee.The girl's winter tan had been rubbedor brushedon, andthereweremagentaseamsgoingup the backs of her legs.Marilyn didn't like the effect,but sheunderstoodthat others might not find it unattractive. At six o'clock NicholasAnson showedup in sportsclothesand an expensivedeerskincoat.Janesidneyandcissycampbellleft, andMarilyn hada mall attendantdrawthe shop'smovablegratingacrossits entrance. Despitethe earlywednesdayclosingtime, peoplewerestill miling about as shopkeepers transactedlast-minutebusinessor soughtto shoo away their last heel-dragging customers.This wasthe last wednesdayevening beforeChristmasthat Summerstone wouldbe closed. Marilyn beganwalking,andNicholasfell in besideher like an assigned escortat a militaryball."Did you think I wasn'tcoming?" "I didn't know.Whatnow?" "Dinner.tt "I'd like to go homefirst. To freshenup." "I'll drive you." "I havea car," "Lock it andlet it sit. This placeis aboutaswell guardedasFort Knox. I've renteda car from the serviceat the airport." Marilyn didn't want to seeNicholasAnson'srentarcar."Let yorrs sit. Youcandriveme homein mine."He startedto protest.,.It's eitherthat or an earlygoodbye.I worry aboutmy car." so he droveher to Brookmistin her '68 Nova.The perimeterhighway wasyellow-greyunderits ghostlylampsand the traffic wasbewilderingly swift. Twilight had alreadyedged over into evening-a drear winter evening.TheNova'sgearsrattledevenwhenNicholaswasn'ttouchingthe stickon the steeringcolumn. "I'm surprisedyou don't havea newercar.surelyyou canaffordone." "I could,Isuppose, but I likethisone.It's easyon gas,andduringtheoil embargoI felt quitesmart....What'sthe matterwith it?" "Nothing.It's just that I'd imaginedyou in a biggeror a sportierone.I shouldn'thavesaidanything."He bangedhis templewith the heel of his right hand."I'm sorry,Marilyn." "Don't apologize. Janesidneyaskedme the samething oneday.I told her that my parentsweredirt-poorduring,theDepression andthat assoon
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asI wasableto sockanymoneyawayfor them,that'swhatI did.[t's a habit I haven'tbeenableto break-even today,with my familydeadandno real financialworries." andthe Theyrodein silencebeneaththe haloedlampson the overpass grey shadow of Satterwhite's. looming 'A girl cameinto the boutiquethis afternoonwearingLiquid Sheers," Marilyn said."It doesseemyour product'sselling." mirthlessly. "Just rememberthat / "Hooo,"Nicholasreplied,laughing didn't bringthat up, okay?" and drovedownseveralelm-linedresidential They left the expressway streets.The Brookmistcomplex of townhousescame into the Nova's imageemergingfrom a washof chemicals, headlightslike a photographic everythinggauzyand indistinctat first. Marilyn directedNicholasto the communitycarportagainsta brick wall behindone of the rowsof houses, in the coldto a tall andhe parkedthe car.Theywalkedhunch-shouldered redwoodfenceenclosinga concretepatio not much biggerthan a phone booth.Marilynpushedthe gateaside,letthe latchfall behindthem,and put her keyinto the lock on the kitchendoor.TWoor threeflowerpotswith plantsin themsaton a peelingwindowsillbeside drooping,unrecognizable the door. "I supposeyou think t could afforda nicer placeto live, too." "No, but you do giveyourselfa longdriveto work." "This placeis paidfor,Nicholas.It's mine." She left him sitting under a table lamp with severalold copiesof front of him on her stoneworkcoffeetable McCall'sandCosmopolitanin Shecamebackdownwearinga longclothes. andwentupstairsto change jumpsuit peach-colored sweateranda singlepolished' with a sleevedblack kicked on, and the downstairs pendant had heat at her throat.The stone wascozilywarm. Nicholasstoodup. "You'vesetthingsup so that I'm goingto haveto driveyourcarandyou'fegoingto haveto navigate.Ihopeyou'lllet mebuy the gas." "Why couldn'tI drive andyoujust sit backandenjoythe ride?" Her and mild disdain.For a products voicewas tight again,with uneasiness consultantNicholasdidn't seemquite asimaginativeas he ought.Liquid Sheerswerea rip-off of an ideaborn out of necessityduringWorldWarIl, and the "novelties"he'd mentiOnedin his spielon Mondaywerefor the He mostpart variationson the standardfareof gift shopsandbookstores' and wasn'tevenableto envisionher doingthe driving while he relaxed playedthe roleof a passenger. And hewastheonewho'dcometo maturity during the sixties, that fabled decade of egalitarianupheaval and . socialawareness... heightened
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"The realpoint,Marilyn,is that I wantedto do somethingfor you.But you'vetakenthe eveningout of my hands." All right,shecouldseethat.Sherelented."Nicholas,I'mnot tryingto this-this date,if that'swhatit is. I wassurprisedthatyou stage-manage cameby the shop.Iwasn'tready. And I'm not readyto go out this evening, either-I'm coldandI'm tired.I havea pairof steaksanda bottleof cold duck in the refrigerator,and enoughfixings for a salad.Let me make dinner." "A pairof steaks?" "There'sa grocerystoreoff the perimeterhighwaythatstaysopennight andday.I stoppedtherelastnight afterwork." "But you didn't think I'd comeby today?" "No. Not really.And despitebuyingthe steaks,I'm not sureI really wantedyouto.I knowthatsoundsbackwards somehow, but it's the truth." Nicholasignoredthis. "But you'll haveto cook.I wantedto spareyou that.I wantedto do something /or you." "Spareme anothertrip downthe highwayin my car and the agonyof waitingfor servicein oneof this city'ssnootynight spots." He gavein, andshefelt kindliertowardhim. Theyateat the coffeetable in the living room,sittingon the floor in their stockingfeetandlisteningto an FM radiostation.They talkedcursorilyaboutsportsand politicsand movies,whichneitherof themwasparticularly interested in anymore;and then,because theyhadbothstakedtheirlivesto it, Marilynliftedthetaboo that Nicholashad promisedto observeand they talked business.They didn't talk aboutLiquidsheersor profitmarginsor tax shelters,theytalked aboutthe involvementof their feelingswith whattheyweredoingandthe senseof satisfaction that theyderivedfrom their work.That wascommon ground,andthe eveningpassed-asJaneSidneymighthaveput it-,,like sixty." Theywerefinishingthebottleof ColdDuck.Nicholasshiftedpositions, catchinghis kneeswith his right arm androckingbacka little. "Marilyn?" t'Mmm?" "You wouldneverhavelet me drive you overhereif I hadn'treminded you of this fellowyou onceknew,wouldyou?This fellownamedJordan? Tell me the truth. No bet-hedging." Her uneasiness returned."[ don't know" "Yes,youdo.Youranswerwon'thurt my feelings. I'd like to think that nowthatyouknowmea little bettermy resemblance to thispersondoesn't matteranymore-thatyou like me for myself."He waited. "Okay,then.You'reright." "I'm right," he echoedher dubiously.
Michael Bishop
let you bring me home if you hadn't looked like "I wouldn't have lr rv thatt I know you a little better it doesn't make any Jordan.But now difference." Not much, Marilyn told herself.At leastI've stoppedputting you in a marineuniformandtrimmingbackthe hair overyour ears..'. Shefelt a quiet tendernessfor both men, the deadJordanand the boyishNicholas Ansonwho in manywaysseemedyoungerthanJordaneverhad..' . That's because Jordanwasalmostthreeyearsolderthanyou,Odau,andNicholas is almosttwenty yearsyounger.Think a little. The young man who resembledJordanBurk drainedhis glassand hoistedhimself nimbly off the floor. "['m stayingat the HolidayInn nearthe airporti'hesaid."Let me calla cabso you won't haveto get out again." "Cabs aren't very good about answeringnight calls anymore.The driversareafraidto come." "I hatefor you to haveto drive me, Marilyn'" His look wasexpectant, and shehatedto disappointhim. "Why don't youjust spendthe night here?"shesaid' They went upstairstogether,and shewascarefulto closethe door to the bedroomcontainingthe wicker bassinetbeforefollowinghim into her own. They undressedin the greenishlight sifting through her curtains from the arclampin the elm trees,Her heartraced.Thenhis bodycovered its beating,and afterwardsshelay staringwide-eyedand bemusedat her acousticceilingpanelsashe sleptbesideherwith a handon her hip.Then shefell asleeptoo, andwokewhenher sleepingmind notedthat his hand wasgone,and sat up to discoverthat Nicholaswasno longerthere.The wind in the leaflesselmswasmakinga noiselike angrysurf. "Nick!" shecalled. He didn't answer. Sheswungher feet to the carpet,put on her gown,and found him standingin a pair of plaidboxershortsbesidethe wickerbassinet.He had put on a desf hmp, and its glow madea pool of light that containedand illuminatedeverythingin that cornerof the room.Therewasno doubtthat there,evenif he didn't the proof of her monstrousness he haddiscovered know what it meant. Insteadof screamingor flying at him like a drunkendoxg shesankto the floor in the billow of her dressinggown,shamefullyconsciousof her by it.If to beshocked restraintandtoowellsatisfiedby Nicholas'snooping Or come. him let have shehadn'twantedthis to happen,shewouldnever murdered have would shewouldhavelockedthe doorto her shrine.Or she Nicholasin the numb sleepof his fulfillment.Any numberof things.But this waswhat shehadwanted.
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Confessionand surcease. "I waslookingfor the bathrooml'Nicholas said."I didn't knowwhere the upstairsbathroomwas.But whenI sawthe babybed . .. well,I didn't know why you'd havea babybed and-" He brokeoff. "Don't explain,Nicholas."Shegavehim an up-from-underlook and wonderedwhat her own appearance must suggest. Age,promiscuousness, dissolution? Yougrewold,that you couldn'tstop.But the others. . . those werelies.Shewantedconfession andsurcease, that wasall, andhe wastoo intent on the bassinetto escapegivingthem to her,too intent to seehow downrightold shecouldlook at two in the morning.Consumedby years. consumedby that which life itself is nourishedby.Justone of a worrdof consumergoods. Nicholaslifted somethingfrom the bassinet. He heldit in the palmof onehand."Whatis this?"he asked."Marilyn...?" "Lithopedion,"shesaidnumbly."The medicalterm is lithopedion.And lithopedionis the wordI usewhenI want to put myselfat a distancefrom it. with youhere,that'swhatI think I wantto do-put myselfat a distance from it.I don't know.Do you understand?" He staredat her blankly. "It meansstonechild, Nicholas.I wasdeliveredof it during the first weekof December, 1968.A petrifiedfetus." "'Deliveredof it'?" "That's wrong.I don't know why I saidthat.It wasremovedsurgically, cut from my abdominalcavity.Lithopedion."Finally she beganto cry. "Bring him to me." The unfamiliarman acrossfrom her didnl move.He held the stone child questioningly on his nakedpalm. "Damn it, Nicholas,Iaskedyou to bringhim to me! He'smine! Bring him here!" she put a fist to oneof her eyesand drewit awayto find blackmakeup on the back of her hand. Anson broughther the lithopedion,and she cradledit againstthe flimsy bodiceof her dressinggown.A male child. calcified,with a tiny handto thesideof its faceandits eyesforevershut;a fossilbeforeit hadever reallybegunto live. "This is Jordan'sson,"Marilyn told Anson,who wasstill standingover her."Jordan'sand mine." "But how could that be?.He died during the pacificcampaign." Marilyntook no noticeof eitherthe disbeliefin Anson'suoiceor his unaccountable knowledgeof the circumstances of Jordan'sdeath.,.we had a honeymoonin the house on Greenbriarwhile Maggie was off for christmas,"shesaid,cradlingher son."Then Jordanhadto return to his Division. In late March of '43 I collapsedwhile I was clerking at
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I wasstrickenwith terriblecrampsand I collapsed.Maggie Satterwhite's. droveme hometo Greenville,andI wastreatedfor intestinalflu. That was the diagnosisof a local doctor.I was in a comafor a while. I had to be forcibly fed. But after a while I got well again,and the managerof the let me havemyjob back.Icameback at Satterwhite's notionsdepartment to the city." 'And twenty-fiveyearslater you had your baby?" Even the nastinessthat Anson imparted to this questionfailed to The fetusgrewnot in my dismayher."Yes.It wasan ectopicpregnancy. womb,you see,but in the right Fallopiantube-where there isn't much roomfor it to grow.Ididn't know,I didn't suspectanything.Therewereno siglts." at Satterwhite's?" "Until you collapsed "Dr. Rule saysthat was the fetus bursting the Fallopiantube and cavity.Ididn'tknow.Iwastwentyyearsold.It into the abdominal escaping put me to bed.I hada terribletime' I almost they flu, and as wasdiagnosed just year, Thanksgiving,Jordanwas killed at the before in died. Later that I had died beforehim." I wished Tarawa,and saidbitterly. his Anson to see son," "He neverlived frightenedby them. But in still doctors. I'm "No. I wasfrightenedof andwhenI began 1965I wentto workfor the Creightonsat CapitolSquare, years they mademe go to pains later, in my sidea coupleof havingsevere job if I didn't go." Marilyn Dr. Rule.They told me I'd haveto give up my broughta fold of her nightgownaroundthe calcifiedinfant in her arms. whatwaswrong.He deliveredmy baby'A lithopedion,he "He discovered said.. . . Do you knowthat there'vebeenonly a few hundredof them in all recordedhistory?Thatmakesmea freak,allmy loveat the beckandcallof a father and son who'll never be able to hear me." Marilyn's shoulders beganto heaveandher mouth fell slackto let the soundsof her grief work clear.'A freak,"sherepeated,sobbing. "No more a freakthan that thing's father." ShecaughtAnson'stoneandturnedher eyesup to seehis facethrough a blur of tears. 'oltsfather wasJordanBurkl' Anson told her."My father wasJordan Burk.He evenwentsofar asto marrymymother,MissOdau.Butwhenhe shewaspregnant,he desertedher to enlistin a Divisionbound discovered for combat.But he cameherefirst andfoundanotherprettypieceto slip it to beforehe left. You." "Nol' Marilyn said,her sobssuddenlystilled. "Yes.My motherfoundBurk in this city andaskedhim to comebackto love for anotherwomanand refused..I her.He pleadedhis overmastering wasno enticementat all-I wasanargumentfor remainingwith you.Once
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during her futile visit here Burk took my motherinto Satterwhite'sby a side-streetentrance and pointed you out to her from one of the mezzanines. The 'otherwoman'wasprettierthanshewas,my mothersaid. Shegaveup andreturnedhome.ShepermittedBurk to divorceher without alimonywhilehe wasin the Pacific.Don't askme why.Idon'tknow.Later my mothermarrieda mannamedSamuelAnsonandwe movedwith him to California. ,. . Thatthing in yourarms,MissOdau,is my half-brother." It wasimpossibleto cry now.Marilyncouldhearher voicegrowingshrill andaccusative. "That'swhy you askedme to lunch yesterday, isn't it? And why you askedme to dinnerthis evening.A chancefor revenge.A chance to,defile a memoryyou could haveeasilyleft untouched."Sheslapped Anson acrossthe thigh, harmlessly."I didn't know anythingaboutyour motheror you! I neversuspected and I wasn'tresponsible! I'm not that kind of freak!Why haveyou setout to destroybothme andoneof the few thingsin my life I've truly beenableto cherish?Why do you turn on me with a nasty'truth'that doesn'thaveany significance for me and never can?What kind of vindictivejackal areyou?" Ansonlookedbewildered. He droppedontohis kneesin front of her and tried to grip her shoulders.Sheshookhis handsaway. "Marilyn,I'm sorry.Iaskedyouto lunchbecause youcalledme Jordan, just like you let me drive you homebecauseI resembledhim." "'Marilyn?'What happened to 'MissOdau'?" "Never mind that."He tried to grip her shouldersagain,andsheshook him off. "[s my crimegreaterthanyours?If I've spoiledyourmemoryof the manwhofatheredme,it's because of the bitterness I've carriedagainst him for aslongasI canremember. My intentionwasn'tto hurt you.The 'other woman'that my motheralwaysusedto talk about,even after she marriedAnson,hasalwaysbeenan abstractto me. Revengewasn't my motive.Curiosity,maybe.But not revenge.Pleasebelieveme." "You haveno imagination,Nicholas." He lookedat her searchingly. "What doesthat mean?" "It meansthat if you'donly.. . . Why shouldI explainthis to you?I want you to get dressedandtakemy car anddrive backto your motel.you can dropit off at summerstone tomorrowwhenyoucometo getyourrentalcar. Give the keysto one of the girls,I don't want to seeyou." "Out into the cold,huh?" "Pleasego,Nicholas.I might resortto screaming if you don't." He rose,went into the other room,and a few minuteslater descended the carpetedstairswithout sayinga word.Marilyn heardthe flaring of her Nova'sengineand a faint grindingof gears.After thai, sheheardnothing but the wind in the skeletalelm trees. without risingfrom the floor in her secondupstairsbedroom,shesang
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a lullabyto the fossilchild in her arms."Dapplesandgraysi'shecrooned. ..." "Pintosandbays,/ All the prettylittle horses. It was almost seven o'clock of the following evening before Anson returnedher key caseto CissyCampbellat the cashcomputerup front. Marilyndidn't hearhim or seehim, andshewashappythat shehadbeen in her officewhenhe at lastcameby.The episodewasover.Shehopedthat she neversawAnsonagain,evenif he wastruly Jordan'sson-and she believedthat Ansonunderstoodher wishes. Four hourslater she pulled into the carportat Brookmistand crossed the parkinglot to hersmallpatio.The redwoodgatewasstandingopen.She pulledit shutbehindher andsetits latch.Then,inside,shefelt brieflyon the vergeof swooningbecausetherewasan odor in the air like that of a man'scologne,a fragranceAnsonhadworn.For a momentsheconsidered If Anson was running back onto the patio and shoutingfor assistance. go She'd be a fool there alone. upstairswaitingfor her,she'dbe a fool to up like Anson? to go up thereat all. Who couldreadthe mind of an enigma you, here herself. He's been Marilyn told He'snot up therewaitingfor and gone. But why? Your baby,Marilyn-see to your baby.Who knowswhat Ansonmight havedonefor spite?Who knowswhat sick destructionhe might have"Oh, God!" Marilyncriedaloud.Sheranup the stairsunmindfulof the intensifyingsmell of cologneand threw the door to her secondbedroom open.The wickerbassinetwasnot in its cornerbut in the verycenterof the room.Sheran to it and clutchedits side,very nearlytipping it over. Unharmed,her and Jordan'stiny child lay on the satinbolstershehad madefor him. Marilynstoodoverthe babytryingto catchher breath.Then shemoved his bed back into the cornerwhereit belonged.Not until the following enoughfor her to morningwasthe smellof that muskycolognedissipated shehad Because her house. in been forgetthat Anson-or someone-had her into drifted had the odor that rationalized no evidenceof theft, she to next townhouse the from system apartmentthrough the ventilation hers. The fact that the bassinethadbeenmovedsheconvenientlyput out of her mind. at Creighton'sCornerBoutiquewasbrisk,and Business Twoweekspassed. if Marilynthoughtof NicholasAnsonat all, it wasto consoleherselfwith the thoughtthat by nowhe wasbackinlos Angeles.A continentaway.But on the last weekendbeforeChristmas,JaneSidneytold Marilyn that she
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thought she had seen Anson going through the center of one of Summerstone'slargestdepartment storescarrying his samplescase.He looked tan and happy,Jane said.
"Good.But if he showsup here,I'm not in. If I'm waitingon a customer and he comesby, you or Terri will have to take over for me. Do you understand?" ttYes,
matam.t'
But later that afternoonthe telephonein her office rang,and when she answeredit, the voice coming through the receiverwas Anson's. "Don't hang up, Miss Odau.I knew you wouldn't seeme in person,so I've been reducedto telephoning." "What do you want?" "Thkea walk down the mall towardDavner's.Thkea walk down the mall and meet me there." "Why should I do that? I thought that's why you phoned." Anson hung up. You can wait forever, then, she told him. The phone didn't ring again, and she busiedherselfwith the onion-skinorder forms and bills of lading. It was hard to pay attention to them, though. At last she got up and told Janeshe was goingto stroll down the mall to stretch her legs. The crowd was shoulder to shoulder.She saw old people being pushed along in wheelchairs and, as if they were dogs or monkeys, small children in leatherharnesses. There were girls whose legs had been paintedwith Liquid Sheers,and youngmen in Russianhatsand low-heeled shoeswho made no secretof their appreciationof these girls' legs.The bencheslining the shaft at the centerof the promenadewere all occupied, and the peoplesitting on them looked fatiguedand irritable. A hundred or so yards aheadof her, in front of the jewelry store called Davner's,there was a SantaClausand a live reindeer. She kept walking. An odd displaycaughtMarilyn's eye.Shedid a double-t'akeand halted amid the traffic surging in both directionsaround her. "Hey," a man said. He shoved past. The shop window to her right was lined with eight or ten chalk-white effigies not much longer than her hand. They were eyeless.A small tight playedon them like the revolvingblue strobeon a policevehicle.A sign in the window said Stone Childrenfor Christmas,from Latter-Day Novelties. Marilyn put a hand to her mouth and made a gaggingsound that no one else on the mall paid any mind. She spun around. It seemed that Summerstoneitself was swaying under her. Across from the gift shop, on one of the display casesof the bookstorelocated there, were a dozen more of these minute statuettes.Tiny fingers,tiny feet, tiny eyelessfaces.She
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lookeddown the collapsingmall and sawstill anotherwindowdisplaying replicasof her and Jordan'sbaby.And in the windowsthat they weren't displayed,they wereendlesslyreflected. Tiny fingers,tiny feet,tiny eyelessfaces. 'Anson!" Marilynshoutedhoarsely, tryingto find somethingto hangon .Anson, you! sherushedon the gift-shop damnyoul" God damn God to. whatelseto do,she not knowing fists. Then, her it with windowandbroke polish-and held them nail worn oxblood their withdrewher hands-with fell backfrom the crowd and screamed, woman A bleedingaboveher head. her aghast. only threeor four storesawaynow,NicholasAnson In front of Davner'S, wasstrokingthe headof the live reindeer.Whenhe sawMarilyn,he gave her a friendly boyishsmile.
