New Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos

Nothing actually vanished, nothing was gone, but I had the feeling that I was in two places at once suspended in some vast abyss of emptiness wider than the universe of stars, and still on the beach beneath the wreckage, with Helen Rathbourne, John, and Susan all looking at me in alarm.

They were staring in alarm because I was moving, I felt, in some strange, almost unnatural way, as men and women were not supposed to move. Like some mindless automaton perhaps, a robot shape with no way of preserving its balance because its cybernetic brain had exploded into fragments and it could only stagger about in the grip of an utter mindlessness that was about to cause it to go crashing to the sand.

Then my perceptions steadied a little, and when I looked down over myself I saw that no change had taken place in my physical body at least. But I had swung about and was walking towards the surf line.

Nearer and nearer I came to it, and suddenly I was not alone. John had got to his feet, and both children were pursuing me across the sand. Their mother was following them, frantic with concern, but unable to catch up with them because they were running so fast to join me before I started wading out into the waves that were cresting into foam a few feet from shore.

The instant they reached my side, my hand went out towards Susan and her small trembling fingers crept between mine. I could not give John my other hand, but he was not in need of support. He had become his sturdy young self again and was striding along very rapidly at my side. The water was swirling about my ankles, and Susan was stumbling a little because it had risen to her knees when I spoke the words that had not even formed in my mind, in a voice that I did not recognize as my own: 'The Deep Ones await their followers, and we must not fail to be present at the Great Awakening. It is written that all shall arise and join. We who carry the emblem and those who have looked upon it. From the ends of the earth the summons, the call has come and we must not delay.

'In watery R'lyeh Great Cthulhu is stirring. ShubNiggurath! Yog-Sothoth! I~~! The Goat with a Thousand Young!'

'He will be all right now,' the young resident physician was saying. 'I am sure he will be all right. It was your son who deserves all of the credit by prying that lost amulet from his hand just as he was about to go under, after lifting your daughter above the waves.'

I could hear the voices clearly, although my head was still in a whirl. The crisp white hospital sheets had been so stiffly starched that they cut into the flesh of my throat when I tried to raise my head.

So I gave up trying, and went on listening instead.

'It's strange,' came in a voice I would have recognized if nothing had been left of me but a hollow shell, on the darkest of days, 'how quickly the children can become attached to a total stranger.

Susan risked her life to save him, and so did my son. When he took that hideous thing from my son's hand and I saw it, I thought I was going to faint. I can't begin to tell you how unnerving it was.'

'He didn't know about -'

'How it came to be there? Apparently not. He just arrived at the inn this morning. Since it happened two weeks ago everyone had stopped talking about it. It was so horrible a thing that it doesn't surprise me in the least.'

'The man was a member of an esoteric cult, I understand. A half-crazed, uncouth fellow with a waistlength beard. There were eight or ten of them roaming about here at one time, but now they have all disappeared. After what happened, it's not in the least surprising, as you say.'

'I can't bear to think about it, even now. His body was dismembered, and horribly mangled. One of his legs was missing. He was found right where my son picked up the amulet, so it must have belonged to him. Of course everyone has a ready explanation for such horrors. Sheriff Wilcox believes that where the channel widens out by that demolished breakwater there is sufficient depth of water to provide a kind of swimming

pool for a shark. And if he had stumbled and fallen -' 'Do you think he did?'

'You either have to believe that, or that he went down deliberately into the water. Are you familiar with the writings of H. P. Lovecraft? He was a genius, of a sort. He resided in Providence until his death in 1937.'

'Yes, I've read a few of his stories.'

'Those bearded, uncouth cult members you mention must have read them all. Perhaps that's why they've disappeared. Perhaps they made the mistake of taking Lovecraft's stories a little too seriously.'

'You can't really believe that.'

'I don't quite know what I believe. Just suppose Lovecraft didn't put everything he knew or suspected into his stories. That would have left a quite wide margin for future exploration.'

'Ah, yes,' the resident physician said. 'That's what he claimed before I gave him that second seconal injection. I'm sure he'll feel quite differently about all of this when he wakes up.'

'I hope he doesn't feel differently about Susan's heroic, close to sacrificial act. Love for a total stranger.

It's curious, but do you know - I can understand just why Susan felt that way about him.'

It was what I'd been waiting to hear. I closed my eyes and started humming softly to myself, waiting for the second seconal to work.

But when it drew me down, the seconal felt like water. Something like a shrivelled face came floating up from immeasurable distances, and I remembered my own words: 'It is written that all shall arise and join - we who carry the emblem and those who have looked upon it...'

Shaft Number 247 by BASIL COPPER

The process of delving into the black abyss is to me the keenest form of fascination.

- H. P. LOVECRAFT

Driscoll looked at the dial refiectively. The Control Room was silent except for the distant thumping of the dynamos. The dim lights gleamed reassuringly on the familiar faces of the instruments and on the curved metal of the roof, its massive nuts and bolts and girders holding back the tremendous weight of the earth above their heads. The green luminous digits of the triangular clock on the bulkhead pointed to midnight.

It was the quietest part of the Watch. Driscoll shifted to a more comfortable position in his padded swivel armchair. He was a big man, whose hair was going a little white at the edges, but his features were still hard and firm, unblurred by time, though he must have been past fifty.

He glanced across at Wainewright at the other side; he had the earphones clamped over his head and was turning one of his calibrating instruments anxiously. Driscoll smiled inwardly. But then Wainewright always had been the worrying type. He could not have been more than twenty-nine, yet he looked older than Driscoll with his lean, strained features, his straggly moustache, and the hair that was already thinning and receding.

Driscoll's gaze rested just a fraction on his colleague, drifted on to bring into focus a bank of instruments with large easy-read dials on the far bulkhead, and finally came to rest on the red-painted lettering of the alarm board situated to his front and in a commanding position. The repeater screen below contained fortyfive flickering blue images, which showed the state of the alarm boards in the farthest corners of the complex for which Driscoll, as Captain of the Watch, was responsible; All was normal. But then it always was. Driscoll shrugged and turned his attention to the desk in front of him. He filled in the log with a luminous radionic pencil. Still two hours to go. But he had to admit that he liked the night duty better than the day. The word 'enjoy' was frowned on nowadays, but the word was appropriate to Driscoll's state; he actually enjoyed this Watch. It was quiet, almost private, and that was a decreasing quality in life.

His musings were interrupted by a sharp, sibilant exclamation from Wainewright.

'Some activity in Shaft 639? he reported, swivelling to look at the Captain of the Watch with watery blue eyes.

Driscoll shook his head, a thin smile on his lips. 'It's nothing. Some water in the shaft, probably.'

Wainewright tightened his mouth. 'Perhaps... Even so, it ought to be reported.'

Driscoll stiflened on the seat and looked at the thin man; the other was the first to drop his eyes.

'You have reported it,' he said gently. 'And I say it is water in the shaft.'

He snapped on the log entries, read them off the illuminated repeater on the bulkhead.

'There have been seventeen similar reports in the past year. Water each time.'

Wainewright hunched over his instruments; his shoulders heaved as though he had difficulty in repressing his emotions. Driscoll looked at him sharply. It might be time to make a report on Wainewright. He would wait a little longer. No sense in being too precipitate.

'Shaft clear,' Wainewright mumbled presently.

He went on making a play of checking instruments, throwing switches, examining dials, avoiding Driscoll's eye.

Driscoll sat back in his chair again. He looked at the domed metal roof spreading its protective shell over them; its rivets and studs winking and throwing back the lights from the instrument dials and the shaded lamps. He mentally reviewed Wainewright's case, sifting and evaluating the facts as he knew them.

The man was beginning to show signs of psychotic disturbance. Driscoll could well understand this.

They did not know what was out there, that was the trouble. He had over forty miles of galleries and communicating tunnels alone in the section under his own command, for example. But still, that did not excuse him. They had to proceed on empirical methods. He yawned slightly, looked again at the time.

He thought of his relief without either expectation or regret; he was quite without emotion, unlike Wainewright. Unlike Wainewright again, well suited to his exacting task. He would not be Captain of the Watch otherwise. Even when he was relieved he would not seek his bunk. He would descend to the canteen for coffee and food before joining Karlson for a brief session of chess.

He frowned. He had just thought of Deems again. He thrust the image of Deems from his mind. It flickered momentarily, then disappeared. It was no good; it had been two years now, but it still came back occasionally. He remembered, too, that he had been Wainewright's particular friend; that probably explained his jumpiness lately. Nevertheless, he would need watching.

He pursed his lips and bent forward, watching the bright green )~encil of tracery on the tube in front of him. He pressed the voice button, and Hort's cavernous voice filled the Control Room.'Condition Normal, I hope!'

There was a jovial edge to his query; the pronouncement was intended to be a joke, and Driscoll permitted himself a smile of about three millimeters in width. That would satisfy Hort, who was not really a humorous man. There was no point in knocking himself out for someone so devoid of the absurd in his makeup.

'Nothing to report,' he called back in the same voice. Hort nodded. Driscoll could see his multi-imaged form flickering greenly at the corner of his vision, but he did not look directly at it. He knew that annoyed Hort, and it pleased him to make these small gestures of independence.

'I'd like to see you when you come off Watch,' Hort went on.

He had a slightly sardonic look on his thin face now. Driscoll nodded.

'I'll be there,' he said laconically.

He waved a perfunctory hand, and the vision on the tube wavered and died, a tiny rain of green sparks remaining against the blackness before dying out.

He was aware of Wainewright's troubled eyes seeking his own; he ignored the other man and concentrated instead on a printout which was just coming through. It was a routine check, he soon saw and he leaned back, his sharp eyes sweeping across the serried ranks of instruments, his ears alert for even the slightest aberration in the smooth chatter of the machinery.

He wondered idly what Hort might want with him. Probably nothing of real importance, but it was best to be prepared; he pressed the repeater valve on the desk in front of him, instantly memorizing the latest data that was being constantly fed in by a wide stream of instruments. There were only three sets of numbers of any importance; he scratched these on to his pad and kept it ready at his elbow.

There would be nothing else of note in the Watch now, short of an unforeseen emergency. He momentarily closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair, lightly resting his fingertips on the smooth polished metal of the desk. He savoured the moment, which lasted only for a few seconds. Then he opened his eyes again, refreshed and wide-awake. A faint humming vibration filled all the galleries and corridors adjacent to the Control Room. The vents were open for the moment; all was as it should be.

The rest of the Watch passed almost too quickly; Wainewright was already being relieved by Krampf, Driscoll noted. The bulkhead clock indicated nine minutes to the hour. But then Krampf always was more zealous than most of the personnel here. Driscoll really knew little about him. He glanced incuriously at the man now, dapper and self-confident, his dark hair bent over the panel opposite, listening to Wainewright's handing-over report. Then he had adjusted the headphones and was sliding into the padded seat.

Wainewright waited almost helplessly for a moment, and then went hurriedly down the metal staircase.

Krampf's eyes rested on Driscoll and his lips curved in a smile; he gave the Captain of the Watch a jaunty thumbs-up signal. Driscoll felt vaguely irritated.

There was something about Krampf he did not quite understand. He had none of the anxiety to please that Wainewright displayed; indeed he exuded a disconcerting air of suppressed energy and egotistical drive.

Still, it was none of his business; he only saw Krampf for a very few minutes when they were changing over Watches. Three or four minutes in a week, perhaps, for sometimes their duties failed to overlap. His own relief was at his elbow now and Driscoll got up, almost reluctant to vacate the seat. He handed over with a few smooth phrases and went down the staircase in the wake of Wainewright.

There was no one in the canteen but Karlson. A plump, balding man, he nodded shyly as Driscoll came up. He rose and made room for him on the smooth plastic bench. Soft music was drifting from louvres in the ceiling. Karlson had already set up the board and had made his opening move. It was his turn to start.

Driscoll glanced briefly at the problem and then crossed over to study the menu on the screen.

He put his token in the tray and drew out the hot coffee and the thin wheaten biscuits with honey that he liked so well. He did not eat very much when he came off Watch at this time as it impaired his digestion and interfered with his sleep. He went back to the table in the corner where he and Karlson always sat and sipped the hot, strong coffee slowly, his eyes seemingly inattentive but all the time studying the board and Karlson's concentrated face.

But it was obvious that his attention was waning. He fidgeted for a moment and then turned away from the board, his eyes fixed on the table before him. Karlson looked at him quickly, a sympathetic smile aready flowering at the corners of his mouth.'Tired?'

Driscoll shook his head.

'No more than usual. It is not that, no.'

He folded firm, capable hands round the rim of his beaker and stared into the steaming black surface of his coffee as though ,the answer to his unspoken question lay there.

When it is something which happened on Watch?' Karlson's eyes were alert, questioning now.

Driscoll knew he had to be very careful in his choice of words. Karlson was a particular friend, but the system had to come first, whatever else happened. He sipped the coffee slowly, playing for time.

Karlson watched him without impatience, a sort of majestic contentment on his outwardly banal placid face. Yet there was a wary and unusual brain beneath the banal exterior. Driscoll had ample evidence of that.

Then Karlson's face relaxed. He smiled slowly. 'Not Wainewright again. And his shaft noises?'

Driscoll's surprise showed on his face. 'So you know about it?' Karlson nodded.

'It's no secret. We have our eye on things. He was on Watch with Collins three weeks ago, when you were indisposed.'

Driscoll cast his mind back, failed to remember anything of significance. He avoided Karlson's eye, looked instead at the gleaming metal dome of the roof that stretched above them. Wherever one went in the miles of corridors, there was nothing but the smooth unbroken monotony.

'Your loyalty does you credit,' Karlson said drily. 'But it is not really necessary in this case.

Wainewright's nerve was never strong. And he has certainly not been the same since Deems went...'

He broke off suddenly and leaned forward at the table. His sharp, attentive attitude made him look almost as if he were listening for something. Something beyond the roof. Which was absurd, under the circumstances. Driscoll allowed himself a thin smile at the thought. He took up Karlson as though his friend had not hesitated.

'Out There,' he finished bluntly.

Karlson looked momentarily startled; his bland facade abruptly cracked. He drummed with thick spatulate fingers on the table. He looked almost angry, Driscoll thought.

But his voice was calm and measured when he spoke.

'We do not mention that,' he said gently. 'But since you have seen fit to raise it - yes.'

Driscoll picked up one of his special biscuits and took a fastidious bite.

'I have kept a close watch on Wainewright,' he said, more stiffly than he had intended. 'If there had been the slightest doubt in my mind...'

His companion interrupted him by laying a hand on his arm.

There was no criticism intended,' he said gently. 'As I said, we are all aware of Wainewright's problems. They are being monitored at higher level. Long before any danger point we shall take him out.'

Karlson focused his gaze back on the game before them.

'It does not seem as though we shall get any further tonight. With your permission...'

Driscoll nodded. Karlson animated the lever. Board and men sank back into the surface of the table with a barely audible whine. Karlson folded his hands on the spot where the board had stood.

Wainewright reported five occurrences in the one Watch,' he said bluntly. 'In various shafts.'

Driscoll licked his lips. He said nothing, merely bending his head politely as he waited for Karlson to go on.

'It was unprecedented,' Karlson continued. 'It could not be overlooked. So Collins reported it to me direct. Wainewright has been under close surveillance ever since.'

He looked at Driscoll reproachfully.

'You have not reported anything yourself.'

Driscoll flushed. He bit his lips.

'Is that why Hort wants to see me?'

Karlson spread his hands wide in a gesture of apology.

'I do not know,' he said simply. 'Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it would be wise to go carefully.'

He smiled then. A full-mouthed, sincere smile. Thank you,' Driscoll said. There is nothing, really.

Wainewright is fidgety, it is true. And he was dubious about Shaft Number 639 tonight. That is all.'

Karlson let his breath out in a sigh of relief.

'That is good. Nevertheless, I should let Hort know.' He got up suddenly, as though summoned by an inaudible alarm bell. He looked down at Driscoll thoughtfully.

'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'But let Hort know.' He went out quietly and unhurriedly, leaving Driscoll to his coffee and biscuits and the insect humming of the hidden machinery.

Hort was a tall, thin, ascetic man with a bald head and hooded grey eyes. He wore a blue tunic zipped up to the neck and the scarlet badge denoting his rank of Gallery Master. He was in his early sixties, but despite his years there was a dynamic athleticism in his wiry frame that many people found unnerving. Driscoll did not find it so, but there was a faint core of wariness within him as he came up the spiral glass staircase leading to Hort's office.

He could see Hort through the armoured glass wall that separated his quarters from the other administration units. Driscoll slid the door back and went in. Hort sat down at his semicircular desk with its battery of winking lights and motioned Driscoll to take a seat on the divan in front of him.

Driscoll sank down' cautiously, as though afraid the cushions would not bear his weight. Hort's eyes looked slightly amused as he stared for a moment without speaking. Then he made a pretence of examining his fingernails and came to the point.

'I expect you've guessed why I've asked you to come here?'

Driscoll nodded curtly.

'Wainewright?'

Despite himself he thought his voice had a defensive quality in it which he had not intended.'Exactly.'

Hort sat back in his padded chair and went through the nail-examining charade again.

'I won't conceal from you, Driscoll, that we're worried. Especially after the other business.'

His eyes had grown serious, and he looked searchingly at the Captain of the Watch. 'Deems?'

Driscoll said. Hort nodded.

'Exactly. We have to be so careful. You understand almost better than I the implications of such a situation. We must avoid any leakage...'

He broke off, avoided Driscoll's eyes, and focused his own gaze on his fingernails again.

'It is difficult to put delicately, Driscoll. But we have to avoid also the arousing of any uneasiness among the personnel...'

Driscoll put on his blank-faced look.

'I'm afraid ! don't quite follow you. Wainewright has reported certain disturbances in several of the main shafts. There have been a number of such incidents over the past year or so. I fail to see why that should be considered anything abnormal.'

Encouraged by Hort's silence and his relaxed manner as he sat staring at his nails, he went on.

'Obviously, Wainewright is disturbed. But I have been keeping him under close observation. And I understand the Captains of other Watches have done the same when the circumstances arose.'

Hort wagged his head gravely, as though in agreement with every word Driscoll had spoken.

'I am glad to hear it,' he said mildly. 'But there is something more than that. There must be no repetition - '

He broke off, the points of his fingers trembling on the desk. Driscoll realized that he had been applying pressure to the desk top all the while he had been speaking. Hort turned his head to Driscoll with an effort.

'There must be no repetition,' he said with calm finality. 'That is all, unless you have anything further to add.'

The matter was perfectly clear in Driscoll's mind; he did not like Hort and the other man knew it, but he respected his abilities. He would not have held his present position if he had not been immensely able. And it was one of his duties to prevent problems arising. Driscoll realized for the first time what a shock Deems must have given the Administration.

He got up slowly, expecting dismissal. But Hort's mind had apparently gone on to other things. He chatted amiably of various trivialities before the interview came to an end.

Driscoll turned back when he reached the staircase. Hort was still standing by the desk as he had left him, as though lost in thought. Then, aware that Driscoll could see him through the armoured glass wall, he sat down again at his desk.

Driscoll walked back down the stairs; he gained the sloping metal corridor that led to his own quarters. Long after he sought his bunk his mind was absorbed with unaccustomed thoughts. He heard the soft burring of the alarm bell for the next Watch before sleep found him.

Driscoll slid back the door of Central Records and went over the shining parquet to the main desk.

He was off Watch today and he often spent some time here, researching his particular projects.

Today he went to the Historical Section and scratched his notation on a pad in front of the request screen. It was quiet in the library today; only about two dozen people were spread out at the metal desks beyond the transparent screen. Light shimmered evenly on their bowed heads, and the faint humming of the machinery filled the air.

A soft breeze was coming through the vents; the scent was jasmine today, Driscoll noted. Driscoll liked Jasmine Day above all others. It was a pity it only came around about once every two months.

The speaker was quietly braying into his ear.

'Your request has been programmed. Desk number 64.'

The door slid back automatically as Driscoll walked over; it was warmer in the Historical Section, and he unbuttoned the top layers of his clothing. He went down the aisles to where the number 64

glowed on the identification tag and sank into the padded chair. He had asked for the records of the entire year. It would not do to be too specific. And somehow he felt it might be dangerous. He did not quite know why.

He looked listlessly as the image of the first page of the log appeared, greatly enlarged, on the brightly lit screen in front of him. He pressed the button, displacing the entry, working quietly through, pretending to take notes. He spent more than an hour on this stage. He felt his palms slightly sweating as he neared the relevant dates.

He selected an entry that came in the middle of the period that interested him, as though at random.

He immediately knew there was something wrong. The familiar bleeping noise began and the crimson light commenced winking. The screen went blank and the recorded voice bleated: 'The information you require is in the Restricted Section. To consult the entry you require verified permission of Authority.'

Driscoll sighed. He pressed the neutral button, and the screen came up with the bland entries of the log for the last date before the restricted peried. Driscoll did not try any further dates. He knew the response would be the same. If he tried three successive entries in the Restricted Section it would bring the curator to the desk in person to inquire about his interest in the information. He could not risk that.

He sat back at the desk and consulted the notes on his pad. There was only one other thing to do. He would have to talk to Wainewright. Even then there might be difficulties. Driscoll had become interested in the problem. When he was interested in something he never let go. If Hort had not asked to see him; if there had not been some subtle expression on Karlson's face; if Wainewright's own features had not borne some furtive evidence of secret shock...

Driscoll drummed with his capable fingers on the desk surface in the glutinous silence while the muted background hum that was almost inaudible to its hearers lapped the library in its almost apian Susurrus.

He was irritated with himself; something had occurred to cause ripples on the smooth and placidly ordered surface of his life. He did not like that. He sat there frowningly for another ten minutes or so, silently wrestling with the problem. Then he rose and abruptly quitted the Historical Section.

The long armoured glass doors slid to quietly behind him, leaving the earnest questers after knowledge to their hermetic silence.

Driscoll waited until after lunch. There was no difficulty. There was nothing against his visiting Wainewright. It was unusual, perhaps. Driscoll knew that television cameras scanned all public places and main thoroughfares. There was really no reason for secrecy, but he preferred to be more discreet. So he walked out as though for the exercise and caught a car on an obscure junction where it was unlikely he would be seen.

He had to change twice, but he felt justified in the procedure. Wainewright lived in Gallery 4,034, and Driscoll was not quite sure of the exact location of his apartment. In the event it took him more than an hour, and during that time Driscoll evolved his story. He did not quite know how to approach Wainewright; that there was something about Deems's death which had profoundly shocked him was obvious. To one of Driscoll's fibre such things were a little unusual, but nothing to upset the stolid norm of everyday living.

Yet Deems's departure had evidently upset the authorities more than they had cared to admit; Karlson's guarded attitude had not really deceived Driscoll. He had half suspected that Hort had asked him to make inquiries, and his own interview with Hort had crystallized his suspicions.

Driscoll's mind was still full of half-formulated impulses when he slid back the folding door of the car at Station 68 and walked up the tiled concourse in the direction of Gallery 4,034.

He soon located Wainewright's apartment and ascended to the third stage where it was situated.

Wainewright's lean, strained features revealed their frank astonishment as he slid back the door to answer Driscoll's summons. His watery blue eyes looked up at Driscoll half-defiantly, half-defensively.

'I am sorry,' said Driscoll almost hesitantly. 'If it is not convenient...'

'No, of course not,' Wainewright stammered.

He drew back, his left hand making an expressive gesture.

'Come in, come in, please. I am quite alone.' Driscoll stepped past his host and stood lost in thought in the radiance of the dim overhead light. He waited until Wainewright had closed the door.

'Forgive my apparent confusion,' Wainewright went on, leading the way into the circular living room where soft music oozed from hidden louvres. He went over to the switch and killed the recital.

He waved Driscoll to a divan opposite him and sank into a steel-backed chair facing his guest.

'You see,' Wainewright went on, 'your visit is most unusual so that I was naturally surprised. I hope there is nothing wrong...'

Driscoll shook his head; he spoke some anodyne words, allaying the other's fears.

'It is nothing, really, yet I felt I would like to come

for an hour. If you can spare the time...' 'Certainly, certainly.'

Wainewright had recovered his poise now.

'May I offer you some refreshment? I am partial to tea.'

Driscoll smiled thinly; there was something a little old-maidish about Wainewright. He supposed it came from living alone as he did.

'Only if you are making something. It is nothing of real importance that I wished to discuss. It will keep.'

Wainewright got up, obviously relieved. While he busied himself making the tea, Driscoll sat with his heavy hands folded in his lap, quite at ease, his lids drooping over his eyes as though half-asleep. But he missed nothing that went on in the small world in which he found himself. It was not easy to shake off the habits of a lifetime.

Wainewright reappeared at last, with mumbled apologies. Driscoll was silent until after he had poured the tea. He sat watching the liquid descend in a steaming amber arc into the burnished metal cup. He made polite small talk until the ceremony was over. His host sat back on the chair opposite and regarded him warily. Caution and confusion struggled somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

'I was surprised at your visit,' he said. 'I will not conceal it. I wondered if there was something wrong at Control. My records are quite in order...'

He broke off for a second. Then, reassured by Driscoll's expression, he continued.

'Of course, I know there have been complaints. It was perhaps inevitable. But I have not been sleeping at all well lately.'

'It was about that I wanted to talk to you,' said Driscoll quickly, feeling his way clear. 'It is obvious there was something on your mind. It is the private sector, you understand, This has nothing to do with Control.'

He waited to see what effect his words were having on Wainewright. The thin man sat in an immobile posture, his watery blue eyes blinking rapidly. Only the restless clenching and unclenching of his hands revealed his inner tension; it was almost as though his naked nerve-ends were exposed to Driscoll's probing gaze. The visitor knew his man. He abruptly changed the subject.

'Excellent tea,' he said cheerfully, extending his cup for a refill. 'Where do you get such quality these days?'

Wainewright's apprehensive face flushed with pleasure.

'I blend it myself,' he answered. 'It is something of a lost art.'

Driscoll agreed, making a mental note regarding his inmost thoughts on Wainewright. His sleepy eyes went on probing the apartment.

'It was your reports of movements in the shafts,' he went on gently. 'The subject interests me. And after what happened...'

He broke off abruptly, leaving the sentence hanging awkwardly in the air. For a moment he thought he had overplayed his hand. Wainewright bit his lip. His fingers shook perceptibly, so much so that he set down his teacup on the tray. He put both hands together in front of him, as though to control their shaking.

'Did Hort ask you to come?' Wainewright said heavily.

There was a sort of sullen defiance on his rather weak face. The blue eyes looked baffled and defeated. Driscoll felt a sudden flash of pity for him. He shook his head.

'I was speaking the truth,' he said simply. 'This is entirely private. I wanted to help if I could...'

Again he broke off the sentence, let it hang in the air. The echoes of his voice seemed to go on reverberating round the apartment long after their natural resonance should have died away. There was an odd, dead silence between the two.

Wainewright sat, his body awkwardly constricted, his hands together in his lap, slightly leaning forward as though listening for something that could not be heard by anyone else. Driscoll had often noted it when they were on night Watch together. They still kept Earth Time, even though there was nothing but artificial light now. They had long adapted to it.

Driscoll had noted that Wainewright seemed more apprehensive on night duties. Curious that it should be so. He gave his host a reassuring smile, moved on the divan slightly, and then picked up his teacup again. Normality seemed to flow back into the room.

'There is much I could say,' Wainewright said heavily. 'You see, after Deems went...'

He swallowed and broke off. To Driscoll it seemed as though there were some sort of mute appeal in his eyes.

'It was Deems I really wanted to speak about,' Driscoll prompted him. 'And whatever you imagine is in the shafts.'

A shudder seemed to pass through Wainewright's thin form. His attitude was more than ever one of someone listening intently for something to happen. The notion was absurd, but Driscoll could not dismiss it from his mind.

'In the shafts?' Wainewright repeated dully. Driscoll nodded encouragingly. 'Out There.'

Wainewright stirred on the chair with a visible effort. Then he made a convulsive movement and raised his cup to his lips. He drank as though he were thirsty, taking great gulps, his eyes tightly closed as if to erase the memory of something from his sight. Though Driscoll might have mistaken his motives; it might merely have been the effect of the hot steam against his eyelids.

'Deems was a very good friend of yours, wasn't he?' Driscoll said gently.

The eyelids had opened. The watery blue eyes regarded him intently.

'The best. There is no one now.'

His voice was so low the words were almost inaudible. Driscoll was more sure of his ground. He leaned forward across the tea-things.

'I tried to check on the log entries regarding Deems this afternoon. They were not available in Central Records.'

Wainewright's face had gone white. He visibly trembled. He shook his head.

That was extremely unwise. Though I am surprised that you are so interested.'

His face changed as he was speaking. Some of the tension drained out of it. He looked at Driscoll steadily.

'Does this mean that you understand? That you might even believe me?'

Driscoll knew all was well now. He leaned back easily on the divan.

'Let us just say I have an open mind. And I shall be extremely discreet.'

Driscoll smiled at Wainewright. He had a frank, open face, and the confidence he exuded seemed to extend to his companion. Wainewright's features seemed more relaxed, and the haunting tightness round the eyes and temples was momentarily eased. He looked steadily at Driscoll.

'You want to know about Deems?'

Driscoll nodded.

'If it will help me to an understanding of what troubles you, yes.'

He knew at once he had said the right thing; Wainewright seemed visibly moved. He half got up, as though he would come over to his guest's side, then he sank back into his seat again.

'You may not understand,' he said.

'I do not understand now,' Driscoll said. 'When I have learned what troubles you I surely cannot know less.'

Wainewright nodded slowly. Sitting there stiffly, blinking his eyes, he seemed to Driscoll like something left over from an earlier age; an age when gentleness and learned pursuits had value, and when purifying winds blew across the surface of the earth. But there was no indication of his thoughts as he sat with his steady gaze surveying Wainewright calmly. The latter restlessly knotted and unknotted his fingers.

'Deems was my friend,' he said. 'My only real friend. His going was a dreadful shock.'

'I can understand that,' Driscoll said gently. 'I want to help.'

Wainewright shifted on his seat. His eyes looked vague and half-frightened.

'If only I could believe that...'

Driscoll showed a faint flicker of impatience. He cupped his big hands round his right kneecap and rocked himself to and fro.

'You have ample proof of it,' he pointed out. 'My very presence here. You know we are not supposed to meet off Watch.'

The point struck home; Wainewright narrowed his eyes and flinched back slightly, as though his companion had struck him. He made up his mind. He started to talk, breathing heavily between sentences, as though he were running.

'Deems knew,' he said. 'He was always talking about it. On Watch as well as off. He knew there was something.'

'Out There?' Driscoll prompted.

Wainewright nodded. He swallowed once or twice but realized he had to go on; he had committed himself, and it was too late to turn back.

'It started with Shaft Number 247. You didn't know that, did you?'

Driscoll stared at him. He shook his head. Wainewright smiled thinly.

'It was a well-kept secret. It's right on the edge of our section. It's a strange place. No one wants to say anything about it. The lighting system is always going there, so that the tunnels are often in semidarkness. There have been odd noises and movements in the shafts. Water has come through in one or two places, and some of the valves are rusting.'

Driscoll looked at Wainewright incredulously. He licked his lips, but there was the stamp of sincerity in the look he returned.

'It's perfectly true,' he said. 'Only none of the official reports refer to it. Special teams attend to it, and no formal records are kept.'

Driscoll stared at his companion in silence for a long moment.

'I take it you know what you're saying?'

Wainewright nodded. He kept his watery eyes fixed on the other.

'This thing has been with me for a long time. I know exactly what I'm saying. And I am choosing my words with care.'

Driscoll kept his bleak gaze fully ahead of him, not seeing Wainewright for the moment. His brain was heavy with dark thoughts.'Go on.'

Wainewright made a pathetic little flourishing movement with his hands.

'Did you know, for instance, that there have been breaks in the tunnel? Water in the shafts and, as I said, rust on the valves?'

'I find that difficult to believe.'

His voice sounded a little unsteady, even to himself. Wainewright permitted himself a shy, hesitant smile.

He stirred uneasily, his eyes searching Driscoll's face. 'You will not find it in the records. But he knew.' Driscoll's senses must have been a little dulled this afternoon. He looked blankly at Wainewright, the bland, smooth lighting of the room beating down on them, turning their figures to a pale butter yellow.

'Deems, of course,' Wainewright went on, as though a flood of emotion had been released from him.

'He was determined to know. He confided in me. The thing had been on his mind for some time. He was convinced there was something in the shafts. And Shaft Number 247 was the obvious...'

'Why obvious?' Driscoll interrupted.

Wainewright passed a bluish tongue across dry lips. 'Surely you must know that. It is the largest. It was the inspection tunnel years ago. When people went Out There to check on conditions.'

Driscoll was slightly irritated with himself; he put his hands round his kneecap again and rocked to and fro. Of course; he remembered now. He smiled confidently at his companion.

'The shaft with the inspection capsule? Is it still there?'

Wainewright shook his head.

'The authorities had it taken out. But the chamber still exists. And it would be no great thing to undo the bolts of the hatch.'

Driscoll was startled; he sat, his strong face immobile as he stared at Wainewright.

'Why would anyone want to do that?' Wainewright shrugged.

'Why would Deems want to go there? To find out. To increase the sum of human knowledge, of course. The movement in the shafts...'

Despite himself a slight chill had spread over Driscoll. He looked at the indicator on the bulkhead near where he sat, wondering if the temperature of the chamber had been altered. But it was quite normal.

His tone of voice was absolutely level when he spoke. 'What do you think is there, Wainewright?'

The watery blue eyes had a strange filmy expression in them.

'There is something... animate, shall we say. Something that wants to get in touch with us. Why should Shaft Number 247 leak, for example? The situation is almost unprecedented.'

Driscoll leaned forward, his eyes intent on the other's face.

'Why does Shaft Number 247 leak?'

Wainewright licked his lips again, and his eyes were dark and haunted as he stared back.

'Because something is turning the bolts from the other side,' he said simply.

'I think you had better tell me how Deems died,' said Driscoll quietly.

There was a sulphurous silence in the room now. Wainewright's eyes were like pale blue holes in the blankness of his face. He gestured towards the teapot. Driscoll declined with a brief shake of his head. He had to hold his impatience in check.'Deems?'

Wainewright passed his tongue over his lips again. 'He knew about Shaft 247, you see. He had found how to open it. There was a temporary fault on the circuits in that section. He went there unknown to the authorities. The place had a fascination for him.'

He paused again and looked at Driscoll. There was an imploring look on his face as though he were asking his companion for help he knew the latter was unable to give.

'How do you kr~ow this?'

'Deems was my best friend. It emerged over a long period. He had made up his mind, you see.'

Wainewright's eyes were closed now as though he

could no longer bear to look at Driscoll.'You mean to go Out There?'

Driscoll's voice was unsteady. Wainewright opened his eyes. For once they were sharp and unwavering. He nodded.

'He found life intolerable here. He could not adjust. And he had to discover what lay Outside. He made his plans carefully. But even I did not entirely realize his determination.'

Driscoll sat on in heavy silence. He was aware that it was dangerous to listen to Wainewright; that he had now become his confidant. That would be knowledge difficult to live with. He was becoming confused, which was a completely unknown quantity with him hitherto. Yet he had to find out more about Deems.

None of this showed on his face, which expressed only polite interest as he waited for his companion to continue. But Wainewright seemed to have become aware of the enormity of his conduct. For one did not talk like this, especially to persons of Driscoll's rank and calibre. Yet Wainewright was encouraged by the other's silence; by the calm, intent look on his face. He stirred on the chair opposite and then went on without hesitation, as though he had finally made up his mind.

'Deems came to see me before he went Out,' he said. 'He was more than usually agitated that night.

He called here just as you have called today, which was an equally extraordinary circumstance.'

'Did he tell you what he was going to do?' Wainewright shook his head.

'Hints only. But he was tremendously disturbed. More than I had ever seen before. He had studied the phenomena, you see. And it was fi~y conviction that he knew what was moving in the shafts Out There.' Wainewright cleared his throat nervously.

'He talked about wanting to be free. He was convinced contact was being made for some purpose.

That there was a benevolence... a peace...'

He fell silent for long moments. Driscoll felt the whole weight of the roof covering the miles of tunnels and galleries on his shoulders, pressing him downward into the black bowels of the earth. It was a feeling completely alien to him and he did not like it.

'What happened that night? When the alarm bells rang?'

'I relieved Deems,' Wainewright went on. 'He appeared quite normal. We exchanged no formal word.

We just looked at one another. I did not remember that look until afterward. Then he went off, to seek his bunk I thought. The alarm bells rang about half an hour later. Collins was in charge that night. He did not give me formal permission to leave, but he must have noticed something in my expression for he nodded as I got up.

'I ran down the corridors. I knew exactly where to go. There was no lighting in the section housing Shaft Number 247. And I knew it would take the emergency squad more than twenty minutes to reach the area. I had no fear. But I think also I knew what I would find.'

He swallowed, a thin glaze of sweat on his face; then, as Driscoll ventured no comment, he hurried on.

'I had a torch with me. There was a lot of water in the tunnel. The cover of the shaft was open. Or rather it was unlatched. I shone the light in the inspection chamber. There was a note at the bottom, addressed to me. And a grey viscous material that had been crushed in the edge of the metal doors.

It looked like primitive embryonic fingers.'

Wainewright stopped and shuddered. He seemed to fight for breath and then turned and gulped mouthfuls of hot strong tea. Driscoll sat immobile, but his big hands were locked together; his knuckles showed white.

'What was in the note?'

"This is the first. There will be many others. Come Outside. There is a shining peace, a brightness, a freedom . . ."

The writing was spidery, as though it had been cut off suddenly.'

Wainewright looked pale, his eyes haunted by forbidden knowledge.

'It was then that I knew Deems had not written it.'

Driscoll slept badly that night. Wainewright's words and the image of his tense, strained form kept coming back to him. Finally Driscoll got up, put on the lights, and sat staring at the full-scale chart of the gallery system covered by his section. He could not recall such a night, which was disturbing in itself. He decided to tell no one of his interview with Wainewright; it could do no good, and he knew Wainewright himself would say nothing.

The authorities must have realized that Wainewright had been at the shaft. Driscoll knew, although he had not specifically asked, that Wainewright must have disposed of the note and the material in the inspection chamber, but even so there would have been suspicion. Which was no doubt .why Hort and Karlson were so interested; and why there was an embargo on the official reports of the incident.

The cameras would have noted in which direction Wainewright was hurrying, even if the area surrounding the shaft had been in darkness; and in any case Collins would immediately have switched to infrared. No, there must be some other reason why no action had been taken over Wainewright. But it had been decidedly dangerous, Driscoll's visit to his apartment; he would have to be especially careful, particularly if he went there again.

Driscoll was surprising himself by the convolution of his thoughts this evening; he wondered what report Collins himself had made of Wainewright's absence from Control on that occasion, and what log entries related to it. He would carry out his own check, though he had no doubt that Hort would have skilfully covered up the situation.

He stared at the blueprint of the tunnels, noting exactly what junctions would make the best approach. His heart was beating slightly faster than normal as he returned the document to its case.

He went back to bed and this time slept better.

But his doubts returned on the following day. He had an earlier Watch that evening and he had no opportunity of seeing Collins. It would be unwise to make verbal inquiries in any case. And it was certain that he would again draw a blank if he returned to Central Records.

Driscoll thought long about his interview with Wainewright and particularly his last few words; the implications were distinctly disturbing. He liked neither the message nor the somewhat imprecise description of what Wainewright had seen in the inspection chamber. If he had read Wainewright aright, the material had disappeared - 'dissolved' was Wainewright's term - before the emergency squad had arrived. And though he had not told Driscoll so, he had doubtless removed the note.

So that the official records, whatever they were, would not tell the complete story as Driscoll had it from Wainewright. But the authorities were undoubtedly right to have their suspicions of Wainewright; Driscoll himself would have to be careful, extremely careful.

The Captain of the Watch looked round the crowded restaurant. He was having lunch and had studiously avoided the glances of recognition from various acquaintances in the big room with its subdued lighting.

However, as he was about to leave he suddenly noticed Karlson near the entrance. He had evidently finished his meal and was on his way out. He gave Driscoll an enigmatic look, and the latter could not be sure that he had seen and recognized him. Yet something vague and disquieting remained in his mind. There was another man with Karlson.

Driscoll only glimpsed his back before the sliding doors cut him off, but it looked extraordinarily like Hort. Supposing that the Gallery Master and Karlson had been discussing him? Or, worse still, spying on him? Driscoll almost laughed aloud. Yet the supposition was not so fanciful as it might appear on the surface. Driscoll's smile died on his lips. He wore a thoughtful expression as he went to prepare for his Watch.

Normally Driscoll enjoyed his periods of duty; he was like all those who were able to wield power and accept responsibility and yet find it sit lightly on their shoulders. For all the shining instruments, the humming machinery, the routine purpose in the mechanics, and the meticulous attention to detail of those on Watch, there was yet an awesome responsibility for one who sat in Driscoll's chair.

One momentary lapse of attention, and the result could be chaos within the streamlined galleries, the miles of tunnels, and the sleeping city beyond. Driscoll had not faltered through long years, and yet on this occasion he found his well-ordered mind wandering; his thoughts troubled as he mused again on Wainewright and the indiscreet revelations he had made.

But the training and self-discipline that had brought him to this pitch of well-ordered perfection carried on mechanically, and for four hours, as he noted and evaluated, coordinated the routines of personnel miles apart along the galleries, scanned the dials and vision tubes, and smoothly manipulated the switches and levers that motivated the electronics of this subterranean complexity, a residue of his mind was still engaged in sombre and deep-seated self-searching.

It was near the end of the Watch when it happened; indeed, Driscoll had already handed over to his relief and was standing engaged in small talk on the details, when the alarm bells began to bleep and a flurry of activity animated the Control Room. He already knew before a glance confirmed it that the abnormality emanated from Shaft Number 247, and he had slipped silently out of Control before those bent over the desks and instrument panels were aware that he had gone.

He ran down the gallery as unobtrusively as possible, though he realized that his image was being transmitted through the mounted cameras in each gallery and corridor back to Central Control.

Ostensibly, he was making for his own quarters, but he diverged at right angles to bring himself into line with the section that interested him. He knew that if he hurried he would be first on the scene.

He hardly understood why he was running at such speed; the situation was abnormal of course, but there was some inner compulsion beyond that; something within himself that impelled him onward, despite the cautious core of reserve that advised against. Incredibly, Wainewright had been correct: the illumination of the approach tunnel was out.

Driscoll ran quickly back to his cabin, returned with a pocket-torch, and retraced his steps. Whether or not he could still be seen by the cameras he did not know; neither, at this precise moment in time, did he care. He only knew that the overpowering curiosity over Shaft Number 247 which Wainewright had aroused in him had to be satisfied. He was in darkness now, the beam of the torch dancing luminescent and elongated across the shining metal surface and massive studs of the gallery.

The burning of the alarm went on; Driscoll knew that it would continue until the trouble had been put right. That was an invariable rule with the repeater system. He could imagine Hort's figure hunched over the screen as he manipulated switches to give his orders. Driscoll pounded forward, grimly aware that he would have only ten minutes in which to satisfy himself of the accuracy of Wainewright's statements. But ten minutes should be enough.

He paused at a right-angle junction in the gallery, gained his bearings. He was astonished to hear a slopping noise as he ran down towards the main shafts. He played his torch on the floor of the tunnel, saw the beam reflected back from the creeping tide of water. He was running through the thin trickle now, heedless of the splashing. The gallery had an acrid salt smell, like that of the tang of the sea as Driscoll had smelled it when screened in ancient actuality material.

But he had no time for analysis. He noticed that the cameras in the roof of the tunnel here were all out of action; the dim glow of the red emergency lights made his hands and the torch beam look like blood. There was only a hundred yards to go now. Driscoll knew that he would be first. No one else could possibly catch up with him, and there was no sign of anyone following behind.

Not that anyone would come on foot; and the rubbertyred trolleys of the emergency squad made only a faint whispering sound. But he would be able to hear their sirens from a long way off.

Almost there now. Driscoll shone the torch on to the roof fittings; strange that the lighting had failed here and only here. It could not be due to the water. The pumps were working normally, which made it doubly strange.

There must be seepage from one of the shafts. Even as he ran forward the last few yards, Driscoll knew in his inmost soul that the leakage was almost certainly from Shaft Number 247. Not only Wainewright's story but all his inquiries had prepared him for that. There was a strange stench in his nostrils now; one that was vaguely repellent but at the same time familiar.

Driscoll stumbled on something slimy and almost fell. He swore and recovered himself, but he was badly shaken just the same. The torch beam trembled as he waved it wildly across the floor. Dark rivulets of water flowed across the tiling; curiously, there were many dry patches, which told Driscoll immediately that there were a number of shafts involved.

He was almost there now. His footsteps echoed monstrously back from the ceiling. He was no longer conscious of the water slopping over his feet. Driscoll was only vaguely aware of why he had come here. But there was a strong compulsion at the back of his mind; he had to come. And he knew it had something to do with Wainewright.

He stumbled again and almost fell. He put out his hand to the shafting and supported himself. He saw without surprise the black-painted letters as his torch danced across them: SHAFT NO. 247.

There was a strange odour now; something that he had not smelled before. He could not place it and paused hesitant]y, the torch in his suddenly nervous hand trembling across the arched metal ceiling of the tunnel. There was dampness, of course; that was something to be expected with the water underfoot. But there was something else, something almost obscene. An animal smell, pungent and rotting to the nostrils; reptilian, if you like.

Driscoll had once visited the zoological gardens long ago, where the few remaining specimens were kept. The aquarium had particularly fascinated him. There was something of that now. The great saurians, some almost a hundred years old, sleeping caked in their beds of mud; glazed green eyes immobile for hours on end. The torch wavered again, and Driscoll sharply snapped his mind back to the present.

He moved cautiously, deliberately blocking out the heavy miasma as he splashed the last yard to the shaft. It was enormous; he couldn't quite remember its original purpose though it was primarily to do with inspection. Wainewright had been correct about one thing. There was rust on the casing and the bolts. He touched the cold metal with a tentative forefinger, saw it come away red in the light of the torch.

The inspection-chamber hatch was ajar. Driscoll soon saw why. There was something protruding from it. Something grey and rubbery from which the stench emanated. Driscoll did not like to touch it. Instead, he worked the hatch pivot with his torch. The thing that was jammed in the gap moved as the aperture grew. It looked like an embryonic hand with tiny fingers. Driscoll was startled; his hand slipped on the torch, the metal slid back with a harsh rumble, disturbing in the gloom of the tunnel, and the mass fell with a slopping splash into the water, where it was presumably carried away. Driscoll felt relieved.

The inspection chamber was empty as he had hoped. The door that connected with the Outside was firmly closed and latched. Driscoll bent his head and listened intently. He could hear nothing but the sound of running water. It was absurd really. He did not know what he expected to hear.

But there was another odour; something like a musky perfume that made his head swim. Driscoll knew what had fascinated Wainewright and his friend Deems before him. The heady odour had something in it that reached back deep into his roots. He saw green fields; a blue sky; corn waving in the breeze. This was not something on the vision tube, but an atavistic memory of reality.

Driscoll staggered and reached out a hand to save himself; he saw the message pad then, lying in the bottom of the chamber. He knew before he picked it up that it was Wainewright's. It bore his own name he saw without surprise. It merely repeated in block capitals: FREEDOM! And underneath, in smaller letters: UNTIL WE MEET OUTSIDE. A scribbled W ended the message.

Driscoll stood and an overwhelming sadness enveloped him; a sadness that was dispelled only by the faint wail of the emergency-squad siren. He took the message pad with him as he went splashing back up the tunnel.

Driscoll was suspended, of course. Someone must have seen him before he regained his quarters, or perhaps the cameras had been working before the lights came on. Hort did not ask to see him; there was merely the dreaded green chit with the official stamp slipped beneath his door as he slept.

There would be an official hearing in a week's time.

Driscoll did not wait for the hearing. Something had happened to him. He was hardly conscious of it himself. Nothing seemed to have changed, yet everything had subtly altered. There were no more chess games with Karlson. Nothing was said, but Karlson was never in evidence when Driscoll took his meals. Strangely enough, Krampf, the only person in Central Control who secretly irritated Driscoll, seemed sympathetic at this time of crisis.

Twice Driscoll had met him in the corridors, and it seemed to him that there was a strange secret compassion in his eyes. But he dare not speak to Driscoll; no one dare while he was awaiting the hearing. Similarly, he was no longer welcome in Records, and Driscoll felt he would be under surveillance if he went out. He was no longer trusted; that was the brutal truth. And a person who was no longer trusted here was a nonperson.

He kept his cabin; he could use the restaurant facilities and watch the vision tube. In effect he was limited to eating, sleeping, and passing his time as best he might. No messages came for him; there was no communication from above apart from the green chit; and Hort certainly had no wish to see him. That might prejudice the proceedings.

Driscoll thought about it for three days and three nights; then he made up his mind. It was night as time was measured here, and there would be few people on duty. Driscoll packed a few things; he carried with him a hammer, a wrench, and heavy-duty wire cutters with insulated handles, together with a food supply for three weeks. At the intersection of the first corridor he smashed the camera lens there. He went purposefully down the passages, smashing every installation he could find.

Within a minute the alarm was reverberating along the corridors. Driscoll did not care. He was running strongly now, every sense alert.

He was smashing light fixtures too; he was surprised how easily they broke. No one had ever done this before. It was absurdly easy. At the time he hoped that the tunnel section was not guarded; there could be no turning back now. He found his way with difficulty. He must have fused something at the last light installation he smashed, for all these corridors were plunged into darkness.

The small cone of his torch wavered ahead, steadying on the smooth metal surface of the tunnel walls, the heavy bolts and rivets overhead. Here was the place; there was no one about. Water dripped somewhere' up ahead as Driscoll splashed unhesitatingly through the puddles. The strange nostalgic stench was in his nostrils. He adjusted the pack on his back and set off at a staggering run over the last quarter of a mile. His heart was beating a little more unsteadily than he would have liked. Still there was no siren of the emergency squad.

The shafting was in front of him. Driscoll could almost taste the stench in his nostrils. It was not oppressive. On the contrary. He breathed deeply. It brought back things he had forgotten ever existed. Sunlight; wavering corn; clouds moving across a blue sky;~a woman's smile; a child tottering towards an old woman in a white dress.

He stood before Shaft Number 247, noting its massive strength and immense size. Quite without surprise he saw that the hatch of the inspection chamber was half-open. It slid easily beneath his touch. Dance music was reverberating from somewhere; a girl in a bathing suit plunged into blue water, droplets of spray raining downward; there were flowers and with them the fragrant perfume that had been lost for so many decades.

The girl was smiling again. A grave grey-eyed girl, with tawny-gold hair. Driscoll stepped into the inspection chamber. It was cold and he instinctively shrank at the dampness which settled on his face and clothing. A hurdy-gurdy was playing, and he could smell roast chestnuts. A child bounded past on a scooter, his feet making a click-clacking noise on the setts of the paving. There was the distinctive impact of a cricket ball connecting with a ball on a summer afternoon. Driscoll nodded at the ripple of applause.

He could see the point now. Everything down here was negative. He had to know. He thought of Krampf, Deems, and Wainewright; of Hort and Karlson. He had no real friends; hitherto, the only reality was the tunnels burrowing beneath the earth and the remorselessly efficient humming of the machinery.

It did not seem to be enough. Driscoll set his teeth. Perspiration was streaming down his face as he reached out to the interior hatch of the inspection chamber of Shaft Number 247. A child lifted her head and put her arms round Driscoll's neck. He was smiling as he began to turn the bolts.

Black Man With a Horn by T. E. D. KLEIN

The Black [words obscured by postmark] was fascinating - I must get a snap shot of him.

H. P. LOVECRAFT, rOSTC~,RO TO r. HOFFMANN PRICE, 7/23/1934

There is something inherently comforting about the first-person past tense. It conjures up visions of some deskbound narrator puffing contemplatively upon a pipe amid the safety of his study, lost in tranquil recollection, seasoned but essentially unscathed by whatever experience he's about to relate.

It's a tense that says, 'I am here to tell the tale. I lived through it.'

The description, in my own case, is perfectly accurate - as far as it goes. I am indeed seated in a kind of study: a small den, actually, but lined with bookshelves on one side, below a view of Manhattan painted many years ago, from memory, by my sister. My desk is a folding bridge table that once belonged to her. Before me the electric typewriter, though somewhat precariously supperted, hums soothingly, and from the window behind me comes the familiar drone of the old air conditioner, waging its lonely battle against the tropic night. Beyond it, in the darkness outside, the small night-noises are doubtless just as reassuring; wind in the palm trees, the mindless chant of crickets, the muffled chatter of a neighbour's TV, an occasional car bound for the highway, shifting gears as it speeds past the house...

House, in truth, may be too grand a word; the place is a green stucco bungalow just a single story tall, third in a row of nine set several hundred yards from the highway. Its only distinguishing features are the sundial in the front yard, brought here from my sister's former home, and the jagged little picket fence, now rather overgrown with weeds, which she had erected despite the protests of neighbours.

It's hardly the most romantic of settings, but under normal circumstances it might make an adequate background for meditations in the past tense. 'I'm still here,' the writer says, adjusting to the tone. (I've even stuck the requisite pipe in mouth, stuffed with a plug of latakia.) 'It's over now,'

he says. 'I lived through it.'

A comforting premise, perhapsú Only, in this case, it doesn't happen to be true. Whether the experience is really 'over now' no one can say; and if, as I suspect, the final chapter has yet to be enacted, then the notion of my 'living through it' will seem a pathetic conceit.

Yet ! can't say I find the thought of my own death particularly disturbing. I get so tired, sometimes, of this little room, with its cheap wicker furniture, the dull outdated books, the night pressing in from outside ú.. And of that sundial out there in the yard, with its idiotic message. 'Grow old along with me...'

I have done so, and my life seems hardly to have mattered in the scheme of things. Surely its end cannot matter much either.

Ah, Howard, you would have understood.

That, boy, was what I call a travel-experience! – H.P LOVECRAFT, 3/12/1930

If, while I set it down, this tale acquires an ending, it promises to be an unhappy one. But the beginning is nothing of the kind; you may find it rather humorous, in fact - full of comic pratfalls, wet trouser cuffs, and a dropped vomit-bag.

'I steeled myself to endure it,' the old lady to my right was saying. 'I don't mind telling you I was exceedingly frightened. I held on to the arms of the seat and just gritted my teeth. And then, you know, right after the captain warned us about that turbulence, when the tail lifted and fell, flip-flop, flip-flop, well -' she flashed her dentures at me and patted my wrist, ' - I don't mind telling you, there was simply nothing for it but to heave.'

Where had the old girl picked up such expressions? And was she trying to pick me up as well?

Her hand clamped wetly round my wrist. 'I do hope you'll let me pay for the dry cleaning.'

'Madam,' I said, 'think nothing of it. The suit was already stained.'

'Such a nice man!' She cocked her head coyly at me, still gripping my wrist. Though their whites had long since turned the colour of old piano keys, her eyes were not unattractive. But her breath repelled me. Slipping my paperback into a pocket, I rang for the stewardess.

The earlier mishap had occurred several hours before. In clambering aboard the plane at Heathrow, surrounded by what appeared to be an aboriginal rugby club (all dressed alike, navy blazers with bone buttons), I'd been shoved from behind and had stumbled against a black cardboard hatbox in which some Chinaman was storing his dinner; it was jutting into the aisle near the first-class seats. Something inside sloshed over my ankles - duck sauce, soup perhaps and left a sticky yellow puddle on the floor. I turned in time to see a tall, beefy Caucasian with an Air Malay bag and a beard so thick and black he looked like some heavy from the silent era. His manner was equally suited to the role, for after shouldering me aside (with shoulders broad as my valises), he pushed his way down the crowded passage, head bobbing near the ceiling like a gas balloon, and suddenly disappeared from sight at the rear of the plane. In his wake I caught the smell of treacle, and was instantly reminded of my childhood: birthday hats, Callard and Bowser gift packs, and after-dinner bellyaches.

'So very sorry.' A bloated little Charlie Chan looked fearfully at this departing apparition, then doubled over to scoop his dinner beneath the seat, fiddling with the ribbon.

'Think nothing of it,' I said.

I was feeling kindly towards everyone that day. Flying was still a novelty. My friend Howard, of course (as I'd reminded audiences earlier in the week), used to say he'd 'hate to see a~roplanes come into common commercial use, since they merely add to the goddam useless speeding up of an already overspeeded life.' He had dismissed them as 'devices for the amusement of a gentleman'-

but then, he'd only been up once, in the twenties, and for only as long as $3.50 would bring. What could he have known of whistling engines, the wicked joys of dining at thirty thousand feet, the chance to look out a window and find that the earth is, after all, quite round? All this he had missed; he was dead and therefore to be pitied.

Yet even in de. ath he had triumphed over me...

It gave me something to think about as the stewardess helped me to my feet, clucking in professional concern at the mess on my lap - though more likely she was thinking of the wiping up that awaited her once I'd vacated the seat. 'Why do they make those bags so slippery?' my elderly neighbour asked plaintively. 'And all over this nice man's suit. You really should do something about it.' The plane dropped and settled; she rolled her yellowing eyes. 'It could happen again.'

The stewardess steered me down the aisle towards a restroom at the middle of the plane. To my left a cadaverous young woman wrinkled her nose and smiled at the man next to her. I attempted to disguise my defeat by looking bitter - 'Someone else has done this deed!' - but doubt I succeeded.

The stewardess's arm supporting mine was superfluous but comfortable; I leaned on her more heavily with each step. There are, as I'd long suspected, precious few advantages in being seventy-six and looking it - yet among them is this: though one is excused from the frustration of flirting with a stewardess, one gets to lean on her arm. I turned toward her to say something funny, but paused; her face was blank as a clock's.

'I'll wait out here for you,' she said, and pulled open the smooth white door.

q~hat will hardly be necessary.' I straightened up. 'But could you - do you think you might find me another seat? I have nothing against that lady, you understand, but I don't want to see any more of her lunch.'

Inside the restroom the whine of the engines seemed louder, as if the pink plastic walls were all that separated me from the jet stream and its arctic winds. Occasionally the air we passed through must have grown choppy, for the plane rattled and heaved like a sled over rough ice. If I opened the john I half expected to see the earth miles below us, a frozen grey Atlantic fanged with icebergs.

England was already a thousand miles away.

With one hand on the door handle for support, I wiped off my trousers with a perfumed paper towel from a foil envelope, and stuffed several more into my pocket. My cuffs still bore a residue of Chinese goo. This, it seemed, was the source of the treacle smell; I dabbed ineffectually at it.

Surveying myself in the mirror - a bald, harmless-looking old baggage with stooped shoulders and a damp suit (so different from the self-confident young fellow in the photo captioned 'HPL and disciple') - I slid open the bolt and emerged, a medley of scents. The stewardess had found an empty seat for me at the back of the plane.

It was only as I made to sit down that I noticed who occupied the adjoining seat: he was leaning away from me, asleep with his head resting against the window, but I recognized the beard.

'Uh, stewardess - ?' I turned, but saw only her uniformed back retreating up the aisle. After a moment's uncertainty I inched myself into the seat, making as little noise as possible. I had, I reminded myself, every right to be here.

Adjusting the recliner position (to the annoyance of the black behind me), I settled back and reached for the paperback in my pocket. They'd finally got round to reprinting one of my earlier tales, and already I'd found four typos. But then, what could one expect? The front cover, with its crude cartoon skull, said it all: 'Goosepimples: Thirteen Cosmic Chillers in the Lovecraft Tradition.'

So this is what I was reduced to - a lifetime's work shrugged off by some blurb-writer as 'worthy of the Master himself,' the creations of my brain dismissed as mere pastiche. And the tales themselves, once singled out for such elaborate praise, were now simply - as if this were commendation enough - 'Lovecraftian.' Ah, Howard, your triumph was complete the moment your name became an adjective.

I'd suspected it for years, of course, but only with the past week's conference had I been forced to acknowledge the fact: that what mattered to the present generation was not my own body of work, but rather my association with Lovecraft. And even this was demeaned: after years of friendship and support, to be labelled - simply because I'd been younger - a mere 'disciple.' It seemed too cruel a joke.

Every joke must have a punchline. This one's was still in my pocket, printed in italics on the folded yellow conference schedule. I didn't need to look at it again: there I was, characterized for all time as 'a member of the Lovecraft circle, New York educator, and author of the celebrated collection Beyond the Garve.'

That was it, the crowning indignity: to be immortalized by a misprint! You'd have appreciated this, Howard. I can almost hear you chuckling from - where else? - beyond the garve...

Meanwhile, from the seat next to me came the rasping sounds of a constricted throat; my neighbour must have been caught in a dream. I put down my book and studied him. He looked older than he had at first - perhaps sixty or more. His hands were roughened, powerful looking; on one of them was a ring with a curious silver cross. The glistening black beard that covered the lower half of his face was so thick as to be nearly opaque; its very darkness seemed unnatural, for above it the hair was streaked with grey.

I looked more closely, to where beard joined face. Was that a bit of gauze I saw, below the hair?

My heart gave a little jump. Leaning forward for a closer look, I peered at the skin to the side of his nose; though burned from long exposure to the sun, it had an odd pallor. My gaze continued upward, along the weathered cheeks towards the dark hollow of his eyes. They opened.

For a moment they stared into mine without apparent comprehension, glassy and bloodshot. In the next instant they were bulging from his head and quivering like hooked fish. His lips opened, and a tiny voice croaked, 'Not here.'

We sat in silence, neither of us moving. I was too surprised, too embarrassed, to answer. In the window beyond his head the sky looked bright and clear, but I could feel the plane buffeted by unseen blasts, its wingtips bouncing furiously.

'Don't do it to me here,' he whispered at last, shrinking back into his seat.

Was the man a lunatic? Dangerous, perhaps? Somewhat in my future I saw spinning headlines:

'Jetliner Terrorized ... Retired NYC Teacher Victim ...' My uncertainty must have shown, for I saw him lick his lips and glance past my head. Hope, and a trace of cunning, swept his face. He grinned up at me. 'Sorry, nothing to worry about. Whew! Must have been having a nightmare.' Like an athlete after a particularly tough race he shook his massive head, already regaining command of the situation. His voice had a hint of Tennessee drawl. 'Boy' - he gave what should have been a hearty laugh - 'I'd better lay off the Kickapoo juice!'

I smiled to put him at his ease, though there was nothing about him to suggest that he'd been drinking. 'That's an expression I haven't heard in years.'

'Oh, yeah?' he said, with little interest. 'Well, I've been away.' His fingers drummed nervously impatiently? - on the arm of his chair.

'Malaya?'

He sat up, and the colour left his face. 'How did you know?'

I nodded towards the green flight-bag at his feet. 'I saw you carrying that when you came aboard.

You, uh - you seemed to be in a little bit of a hurry, to say the least. In fact, I'm afraid you almost knocked me down.'

'Hey.' His voice was controlled now, his gaze level and assured. 'Hey, I'm really sorry about that, old fella. The fact is, I thought someone might be following me.'

Oddly enough, I believed him; he looked sincere - or as sincere as anyone can be behind a phony black beard. 'You're in disguise, aren't you?' I asked.

'You mean the whiskers? They're just something I picked up in Singapore. Shucks, I knew they wouldn't fool anyone for long, at least not a friend. But an enemy, well ... maybe.' He made no move to take them off.

'You're - let me guess - you're in the service, right?' The foreign service, I meant; frankly, I took him for an ageing spy.

'In the service?' He looked significantly to the left and right, then dropped his voice. 'Well, yeah, you might say that. In H/s service.' He pointed towards the roof of the plane.'You mean - ?'

He nodded. 'I'm a missionary. Or was until yesterday.'

Missionaries are infernal nuisances who ought to be kept at home. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 9/12/1925

Have you ever seen a man in fear of his life? I had, though not since my early twenties. After a summer of idleness I'd at last found temporary employment in the office of what turned out to be a rather shady businessman - I suppose today you'd call him a small-time racketeer - who, having somehow offended 'the mob,' was convinced he'd be dead by Christmas. He had been wrong, though; he'd been able to enjoy that and many other Christmases with his family, and it wasn't till years later that he was found in his bathtub, face down in six inches of water. I don't remember much about him, except how hard it had been to engage him in conversation; he never seemed to be listening.

Yet talking with the man who sat next to me on the plane was all too easy; he had nothing of the other's distracted air, the vague replies and preoccupied gaze. On the contrary, he was alert and highly interested in all that was said to him. Except for his initial panic, in fact, there was little to suggest he was a hunted man.

Yet so he claimed to be. Later events would, of course, settle all such questions, but at the time I had no way to judge if he was telling the truth, or if his story was phony as his beard.

If I believed him, it was almost entirely due to his manner, not the substance of what he said. No, he didn't claim to have made off with the Eye of Klesh; he was more original than that. Nor had he violated some witch doctor's only daughter. But some of the things he told me about the region in which he'd worked - a state called Negri Sembilan, south of Kuala Lumpur seemed frankly incredible: houses invaded by trees, government-built roads that simply disappeared, a nearby colleague returning from a ten-day vacation to find his lawn overgrown with ropy things they'd had to burn twice to destroy. He claimed there were tiny red spiders that jumped as high as a man's shoulder 'there was a girl in the village gone half-deaf because one of the nasty little things crawled in her ear and swelled so big it plugged up the hole' - and places where mosquitoes were so thick they suffocated cattle. He described a land of steaming mangrove swamps and rubber plantations as large as feudal kingdoms, a land so humid that wallpaper bubbled on the hot nights and bibles sprouted mildew.

As we sat together on the plane, sealed within an air-cooled world of plastic and pastel, none of these things seemed possible; with the frozen blue of the sky just beyond my reach, the stewardesses walking briskly past me in their blue-and-gold uniforms, the passengers to my left sipping Cokes or sleeping or leating through In-Flite, I found myself believing less than half of what he said, attributing the rest to sheer exaggeration and a Southern regard for tall tales. Only when I'd been home a week and paid a visit to my niece in Brooklyn did I revise my estimate upward, for glancing through her son's geography test I came upon this passage: 'Along the

[Malayan] peninsula, insects swarm in abundance; probably more varieties exist here than anywhere else on earth. There is some good hardwood timber, and camphor and ebony trees are found in profusion. Many orchid varieties thrive, some of extraordinary size.' The book alluded to the area's 'rich mixture of races and languages,' its 'extreme humidity' and 'colourful native fauna,'

and added: 'Its jungles are so impenetrable that even the wild beasts must keep to well-worn paths.'

But perhaps the strangest aspect of this region was that, despite its dangers and discomforts, my companion claimed to have loved it. 'They've got a mountain in the centre of the peninsula - ' He mentioned an unpronounceable name and shook his head. 'Most beautiful thing you ever saw. And there's some really pretty country down along the coast, you'd swear it was some kind of South Sea island. Comfortable, too. Oh, it's damp all right, especially in the interior where the new mission was supposed to be - but the temperature never even hits a hundred. Try saying that for New York City.'

I nodded. 'Remarkable.'

'And the people,' he went on, 'why, I believe they're just the friendliest people on earth. You know, I'd heard a lot of bad things about the Moslems - that's what most of them are, part of the Sunni sect - but I'm telling you, they treated us with real neighbourliness ú.. just so long as we made the teachings available, so to speak, and didn't interfere with their affairs. And we didn't. We didn't have to. What we provided, you see, was a hospital - well, a clinic, at least, two RNs and a doctor who came twice a month - and a small library with books and films. And not just theology, either.

All subjects. We were right outside the village, they'd have to pass us on their way to the river, and when they thought none of the lontoks were looking

they'd just come in and look around.''None of the what?'

'Priests, sort of. There were a lot of them. But they didn't interfere with us, we didn't interfere with them. ! don't know that we made all that many converts, actually, but I've got nothing bad to say about those people.'

He paused, rubbing his eyes; he suddenly looked his age. 'Things were going fine,' he said. 'And then they told me to establish a second mission, further in the interior.'

He stopped once more, as if weighing whether to continue. A squat little Chinese woman was plodding slowly up the aisle, holding on to the chairs on each side for balance. I felt her hand brush past my ear as she went by. My companion watched her with a certain unease, waiting till she'd passed. When he spoke again his voice had thickened noticeably.

'I've been all over the world - a lot of places Americans can't even go to these days - and I've always felt that, wherever I was, God was surely watching. But once I started getting up into those hills, well...' He shook his head. 'I was pretty much on my own, you see. They were going to send most of the staff out later, after I'd got set up. All I had with me was one of our grounds keepers, two bearers, and a guide who doubled as interpreter. Locals, all of them.' He frowned. 'The grounds keeper, at least, was a Christian.''You needed an interpreter?'

The question seemed to distract him. 'For the new mission, yes. My Malay stood me well enough in the lowlands, but in the interior they used dozens of local dialects. I would have been lost up there. Where I was going they spoke something which our people back in the village called agon di-gatuan - "the Old Language." I never really got to understand much of it.' He stared down at his hands. 'I wasn't there long enough.'

Trouble with the natives, I suppose.'

He didn't answer right away. Finally he nodded. 'I truly believe they must be the nastiest people who ever lived,' he said with great deliberation. 'I sometimes wonder how God could have created them.' He stared out the window, at the hills of cloud below us. ~hey called themselves the Chauchas, near as I could make out. Some French colonial influence, maybe, but they looked Asiatic to me, with just a touch of black. Little people. Harmless looking.' He gave a small shudder.

'But they were nothing like what they seemed. You couldn't get to the bottom of them. They'd been living way up in those hills I don't know how many centuries, and whatever it is they were doing, they weren't going to let a stranger in on it. They called themselves Moslems, just like the lowlanders, but I'm sure there must have been a few bush-gods mixed in. I thought they were primitive, at first, I mean, some of their rituals - you wouldn't believe it. But now ! think they weren't primitive at all. They just kept those rituals because they enjoyed them!' He tried to smile; it just accentuated the lines of his face.

'Oh, they seemed friendly enough in the beginning,' he said. 'You could approach them, do a bit of trading, watch them breed their animals. You could even talk to them about Salvation. And they'd just keep smiling, smiling all the time. As if they really liked you.'

I could hear the disappointment in his voice, and something else.

'You know,' he confided, suddenly leaning closer, 'down in the lowlands, in the pastures, there's an animal, a kind of snail, the Malays kill on sight. A little yellow thing, but it scares them silly: they believe that if it passes over the shadow of their cattle, it'll suck out the cattle's life-force. They used to call it a

"Chaucha snail." Now I know why.''Why?' I asked.

He looked around the plane, and seemed to sigh. 'You understand, at this stage we were still living in tents. We had yet to build anything. Well, the weather got bad, the mosquitoes got worse, and after the grounds keeper disappeared the others took off. I think the guide persuaded them to go. Of course, this let me-'

Wait. You say your grounds keeper disappeared?'

'Yes, before the first week was out. It was late afternoon. We'd been pacing out one of the fields less than a hundred yards from the tents, and I was pushing through the long grass thinking he was behind me, and I turned around and he wasn't.'

He was speaking all in a rush now. I had visions out of 1940s movies, frightened natives sneaking off with the supplies, and I wondered how much of this was true.

'So with the others gone, too,' he said, 'I had no way of communicating with the Chauchas, except through a kind of pidgin language, a mixture of Malay and their tongue. But I knew what was going on. All that week they kept laughing about something. Openly. And I got the impression that they were somehow responsible. I mean, for the man's disappearance. You understand? He'd been the one I trusted.' His expression was pained. 'A week later, when they showed him to me, he was still alive. But he couldn't speak. I think they wanted it that way. You see, they'd - they'd grown something in him.' He shuddered.

Just as that moment, from directly behind us came an inhumanly high-pitched caterwauling that pierced the air like a siren, rising above the whine of the engines. It came with heart-stopping suddenness, and we both went rigid. I saw my companion's mouth gape as if to echo the scream. So much for the past; we'd become two old men gone all white and clutching at themselves. It was really quite comical. A full minute must have passed before I could bring myself to turn around.

By this time the stewardess had arrived and was dabbing at the place where the man behind me, dozing, had dropped his cigarette on his lap. The surrounding passengers, whites especially, were casting angry glances at him, and I thought I smelled burnt flesh. He was at last helped to his feet by the stewardess and one of his teammates, the latter chuckling uneasily.

Minor as it was, the accident had derailed our conversation and unnerved my companion; it was as if he'd retreated into his beard. He would talk no further, except to ask me ordinary and rather trivial questions about food prices and accommodations. He said he was bound for Florida, looking forward to a summer of, as he put it, 'R and R,' apparently financed by his sect. I asked him, a bit forlornly, what had happened in the end to the grounds keeper; he said that he had died. Drinks were served; the North American continent swung towards us from the south, first a finger of ice, soon a jagged line of green. I found myself giving the man my sister's address - Indian Creek was just outside Miami, where he'd be staying - and immediately regretted doing so. What did I know of him, after all? He told me his name was Ambrose Mortimer. 'It means "Dead Sea,"' he said. 'From the Crusades.'

When I persisted in bringing up the subject of the mission, he waved me off. 'I can't call myself a missionary anymore,' he said. 'Yesterday, when I left the country, I gave up that right.' He attempted a smile. 'Honest, I'm just a civilian now.'

'What makes you think they're after you?' I asked. The smile vanished. 'I'm not so sure they are,' he said, not very convincingly. 'I may just be getting paranoid in my old age. But I could swear that in New Delhi, and again at Heathrow, I heard someone singing - singing a certain song. Once it was in the men's room, on the other side of a partition; once it was behind me on line. And it was a song I recognized. It's in the Old Language.' He shrugged. 'I don't even know what the words mean.'

'Why would anyone be singing? I mean, if they were following you?'

'That's just it. I don't know.' He shook his head. 'But

I think - I think it's part of the ritual.''What sort of ritual?'

'I don't know,' he said again. He looked quite pained, and I resolved to bring this inquisition to an end. The ventilators had not yet dissipated the smell of charred cloth and flesh.

'But you'd heard the song before,' I said. 'You told me you recognized it.'

'Yeah.' He turned away and stared at the approaching clouds. We were passing over Maine.

Suddenly the earth seemed a very small place. 'I'd heard some of the Chaucha women singing it,' he said at last. 'It was a sort of farming song. It's supposed to make things grow.'

Ahead of us loomed the saffron yellow smog that covers Manhattan like a dome. The 'No Smoking' light winked silently on the console above us.

'I was hoping I wouldn't have to change planes,' my companion said presently. 'But the Miami flight doesn't leave for an hour and a half. I guess I'll get off and walk around a bit, stretch my legs.

I wonder how long customs'11 take.' He seemed to be talking more to himself than to me. Once more I regretted my impulsiveness in giving him Maude's address. I was half tempted to make up some contagious disease for her, or a jealous husband. But then, quite likely he'd never call on her anyway; he hadn't even bothered to write down the name. And if he did pay a call - well, I told myself, perhaps he'd unwind when he realized he was safe among friends. He might even turn out to be good company; after all, he and my sister were practically the same age.

As the plane gave up the struggle and sank deeper into the warm encircling air, passengers shut books and magazines, organized their belongings, made last hurried forays to the bathroom to pat cold water on their faces. I wiped my spectacles and smoothed back what remained of my hair. My companion was staring out the window, the green Air Malay bag in his lap, his hands folded on it as if in prayer. We were already becoming strangers.

'Please return seat backs to the upright position,' ordered a disembodied voice. Out beyond the window, past the head now turned completely away from me, the ground rose to meet us and we bumped along the pavement, jets roaring in reverse. Already stewardesses were rushing up and down the aisles pulling coats and jackets from the overhead bins; executive types, ignoring instructions, were scrambling to their feet and thrashing into raincoats. Outside I could see uniformed figures moving back and forth in what promised to be a warm grey drizzle. 'Well,' I said lamely, 'we made it.' I got to my feet.

He turned and flashed me a sickly grin. 'Good-bye,' he said. 'This really has been a pleasure.' He reached for my hand.

'And do try to relax and enjoy yourself in Miami,' I said, looking for a break in the crowd that shuffled past me down the aisle. 'That's the important thing just to relax.'

'I know that.' He nodded gravely. 'I know that. God bless you.' I found my slot and slipped into line. From behind me he added, 'And I won't forget to look up your sister.' My heart sank, but as I moved towards the door I turned to shout a last farewell. The old lady with the eyes was two people in front of me, but she didn't so much as smile.

One trouble with last farewells is that they occasionally prove redundant. Some forty minutes later, having passed like a morsel of food through a series of white plastic tubes, corridors, and customs lines, ! found myself in one of the airport gift shops, whiling away the hour till my niece came to collect me; and there, once again, I saw the missionary.

He did not see me. He was standing before one of the racks of paperbacks - the so-called

'Classics' section, haunt of the public domain - and with a preoccupied air he was glancing up and down the rows, barely pausing long enough to read the titles. Like me, he was obviously just killing time.

For some reason - call it embarrassment, a certain reluctance to spoil what had been a successful goodbye - I refrained from hailing him. Instead, stepping back into the rear aisle, I took refuge behind a rack of gothics, which ! pretended to study while in fact studying him.

Moments later he looked up from the books and ambled over to a bin of cellophane-wrapped records, idly pressing the beard back into place below his right sideburn. Without warning he turned and surveyed the store; I ducked my head towards the gothics and enjoyed a vision normally reserved for the multifaceted eyes of an insect: women, dozens of them, fleeing an equal number of tiny mansions.

At last, with a shrug of his huge shoulders, he began flipping through the albums in the bin, snapping each one forward in an impatient staccato. Soon, the assortment scanned, he moved to the bin on the left and started on that.

Suddenly he gave a little cry, and I saw him shrink back. He stood immobile for a moment, staring down at something in the bin; then he whirled and walked quickly from the store, pushing past a family about to enter.

'Late for his plane,' I said to the astonished salesgirl, and strolled over to the albums. One of them lay faceup in the pile - a jazz record featuring John Coltrane on saxophone. Confused, I turned to look for my erstwhile companion, but he had vanished in the crowd hurrying past the doorway.

Something about the album had apparently set him off; I studied it more carefully. Coltrane stood silhouetted against a tropical sunset, his features obscured, head tilted back, saxophone blaring silently beneath the crimson sky. The pose was dramatic but trite, and I could see in it no special significance: it looked like any other black man with a horn.

New York eclipses all other cities in the spontaneous cordiality and generosity of its inhabitants - at least, such inhabitants as I have encountered. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 9/29/1922

How quickly you changed your mind! You arrived to find a gold Dunsanian city of arches and domes and fantastic spires... or so you told us. Yet when you fled two years later you could see only

'alien hordes.'

What was it that so spoiled the dream? Was it that impossible marriage? Those foreign faces on the subway? Or was it merely the theft of your new summer suit? I believed then, Howard, and I believe it still, that the nightmare was all your own; though you returned to New England like a man re-emerging into sunlight, there was, I assure you, a very good life to be found amid the shade. I remained - and survived.

I almost wish I were back there now, instead of in this ugly little bungalow, with its air conditioner and its rotting wicker furniture and the humid night dripping down its windows.

I almost wish I were back on the steps of the natural history museum where, that momentous August afternoon, I stood perspiring in the shadow of Teddy Roosevelt's horse, watching matrons stroll past Central Park with dogs or children in tow and fanning myself ineffectually with the postcard I'd just received from Maude. I was waiting for my niece to drive by and leave off her son, whom I planned to take round the museum; he'd wanted to see the life-size mockup of the blue whale and, just upstairs, the dinosaurs...

I remember that Ellen and her boy were more than twenty minutes late. I remember too, Howard, that I was thinking of you that afternoon, and with some amusement: much as you disliked New York in the twenties, you'd have reeled in horror at what it's become today. Even from the steps of the museum I could see a curb piled high with refuse and a park whose length you might have walked without once hearing English spoken; dark skins crowded out the white, and mambo music echoed from across the street.

I remember all these things because, as it turned out, this was a special day: the day I saw, for the second time, the black man and his baleful horn.

My niece arrived late, as usual; she had for me the usual apology and the usual argument. 'How can you still live over here?' she asked, depositing Terry on the sidewalk. 'I mean, just look at those people.' She nodded towards a park bench around which blacks and Latins congregated like figures in a group portrait.

'Brooklyn is so much better?' I countered, as tradition dictated. 'Of course,' she said. 'In the Heights, anyway, I don't understand it - why this pathological hatred of moving? You might at least try the East Side. You can certainly afford it.' Terry watched us impassively, lounging against the fender. ! think he sided with me over his mother, but he was too wise to show it.

'Ellen,' I said, 'let's face it. I'm just too old to start hanging around single bars. Over on the East Side they read nothing but best-sellers, and they hate anyone past sixty. I'm better off where I grew up - at least I know where the cheap restaurants are.' It was, in fact, a thorny problem: forced to choose between whites whom I despised and blacks whom I feared, I somehow preferred the fear.

To mollify Ellen I read aloud her mother's postcard. It was the prestamped kind that bore no picture. 'I'm still getting used to the cane,' Maude had written, her penmanship as flawless as when she'd won the school medallion. 'Livia has gone back to Vermont for the summer, so the card games are suspended & I'm hard into Pearl Buck. Your friend Rev. Mortimer dropped by & we had a nice chat. What amusing stories! Thanks again for the subscription to McCall's; I'll send Ellen my old copies. Look forward to seeing you all after the hurricane season.'

Terry was eager to confront the dinosaurs; he was, in fact, getting a little old for me to superintend, and was halfway up the steps before I'd arranged with Ellen where to meet us afterward. With school out the museum was almost as crowded as on weekends, the halls' echo turning shouts and laughter into animal cries. We oriented ourselves on the floor plan in the main lobby - •ov ARE HERE read a large green dot, below which someone had scrawled 'Too bad for you' and trooped towards the Hall of Reptiles, Terry impatiently leading the way. 'I saw that in school.' He pointed towards a redwood diorama. ~hat too' - the Grand Canyon. He was, I believe, about to enter seventh grade, and until now had been little given to talk; he looked younger than the other children.

We passed toucans and marmosets and the new Urban Ecology wing ('concrete and cockroaches,'

sneered Terry), and duly stood before the brontosaurus, something of a disappointment: 'I forgot it was just the skeleton,' he said. Behind us a group of black boys giggled and moved towards us; I hurried' my nephew past the assembled bones and through the most crowded doorway, dedicated, ironically, to Man in Africa. ørhis is the boring part,' said Terry, unmoved by masks and spears. The pace was beginning to tire me. We passed through another doorway - Man in Asia - and moved quickly past the Chinese statuary. 'I saw that in school.' He nodded at a stumpy figure in a glass case, wrapped in ceremonial robos. Something about it was familiar to me, too; I paused to stare at it. The outer robe, slightly tattered, was spun of some shiny green material and displayed tall, twisted-looking trees on one side, a kind of stylized river on the other. Across the front ran five yellow-brown shapes in loincloth and headdress, presumably fleeing towards the robo's frayed edges; behind them stood a larger one, all black. In its mouth was a pendulous horn. The figure was crudely woven - little more than a stick figure, in fact - but it bore an unsettling resemblance, in both pose and proportion, to the one on the album cover.

Terry returned to my side, curious to see what I'd found. ~ribal garment,' he read, peering at the white plastic notice below the case. 'Malay Peninsula, Federation of Malaysia, early nineteenth century.' He fell silent.

'Is that all it says?'

'Yep. They don't even have which tribe it's from.' He reflected a moment. 'Not that I really care.'

'Well, I do,' I said. 'I wonder who'd know.' Obviously I'd have to seek advice at the information counter in the main lobby downstairs. Terry ran on ahead, while I followed even more slowly than before; the thought of a mystery evidently appealed to him, even one so tenuous and unexciting as this.

A bored-looking young college girl listened to the beginning of my query and handed me a pamphlet from below the counter. 'You can't see anyone till September,' she said, already beginning to turn away. ~hey're all on vacation.'

I squinted at the tiny print on the first page: 'Asia, our largest continent, has justly been called the cradle of civilization, but it may also be a birthplace of man himself.' Obviously the pamphlet had been written before the current campaigns against sexism. I checked the date on the back: 'Winter 1958.' This would be of no help. Yet on page four my eye fell on the reference I sought: The model next to it wears a green silk ceremonial robe from Negri Sembilan, most rugged of the Malayan provinces. Note central motif of native man blowing ceremonial horn, and the graceful curve of his instrument; the figure is believed to be a representation of 'Death's Herald,' possibly warning villagers of approaching calamityú Gift of an anonymous donor, the robe is probably Tcho-tcho in origin, and dates from the early 19th century.

'What's the matter, uncle? Are you sick?' Terry gripped my shoulder and stared up at me, looking worried; my behaviour had obviously confirmed his worst fears about old people. 'What's it say in there?'

I gave him the pamphlet and staggered to a bench near the wall. I wanted time to think. The Tcho-Tcho People, I knew, had figured in a number of tales by Lovecraft and his disciples - Howard himself had called them 'the wholly abominable Tcho-Tchos' - but I couldn't remember much about them except that they were said to worship one of his imaginary deities. For some reason I associated them with Burma...

But whatever their attributes, I'd been certain of one thing: the Tcho-Tchos were completely fictitious.

Obviously I'd been wrong. Barring the unlikely possibility that the pamphlet itself was a hoax, I was forced to conclude that the malign beings of the stories were in fact based upon an actual race inhabiting the Southeast Asian subcontinent - a race whose name the missionary had mistranslated as 'the Chauchas.'

It was a rather troublesome discovery. I had hoped to turn some of Mortimer's recollections, authentic or not, into fiction; he'd unwittingly given me the material for three or four good plots.

Yet I'd now discovered that my friend Howard had beaten me to it, and that I was put in the uncomfortable position of living out another man's horror stories.

Epistolary expression is with me largely replacing conversation. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 12/23/1917

I hadn't expected my second encounter with the black horn-player. A month later I got an even bigger surprise: I saw the missionary again.

Or at any rate, his picture. It was in a clipping my sister had sent me from the Miami Herald, over which she had written in ballpoint pen, 'Just saw this in the paper- how awfull'

I didn't recognize the face; the photo was obviously an old one, the reproduction poor, and the man was clean-shaven. But the words below it told me it was him.

CLERGYMAN MISSING IN STORM

(Wed.) The Rev. Ambrose B. Mortimer, 56, a lay pastor of the Church of Christ, Knoxville, Tenn., has been reported missing in the wake of Monday's hurricane. Spokesmen for the order say Mortimer had recently retired after serving nineteen years as a missionary, most recently in Malaysia. After moving to Miami in July, he had been a resident of 311 Pompano Canal Road.

Here the piece ended, with an abruptness that seemed all too appropriate to its subject. Whether Ambrose Mortimer still lived I didn't know, but I felt certain now that, having fled one peninsula, he had strayed on to another just as dangerous, a finger thrust into the void. And the void had swallowed him up.

So, anyway, ran my thoughts. I have often been prey to depressions of a similar nature, and subscribe to a fatalistic philosophy I'd shared with my friend Howard: a philosophy one of his less sympathetic biographers has dubbed 'futilitarianism.'

Yet pessimistic as I was, I was not about to let the matter rest. Mortimer may well have been lost in the storm; he may even have set off somewhere on his own. But if, in fact, some lunatic religious sect had done away with him for having pried too closely into its affairs, there were things I could do about it. I wrote to the Miami police that very day.

'Gentlemen,' I began. 'Having learned of the recent disappearance of the Reverend Ambrose Mortimer, I think I can provide information which may prove of use to investigators.'

There is no need to quote the rest of the letter here. Suffice it to say that I recounted my conversation with the missing man, emphasizing the fears he'd expressed for his life: pursuit and

'ritual murder' at the hands of a Malayan tribe called the Tcho-Tcho. The letter was, in short, a rather elaborate way of crying 'foul play.' I sent it care of my sister, asking that she forward it to the correct address.

The police department's reply came with unexpected speed. As with all such correspondence, it was more curt then courteous. 'Dear Sir,' wrote a Detective Sergeant A. Linahan; 'In the matter of Rev. Mortimer we had already been apprised of the threats on his life. To date a preliminary search of the Pompano Canal has produced no findings, but dredging operations are expected to continue as part of our routine investigation. Thanking you for your concern -'

Below his signature, however, the sergeant had added a short postscript in his own hand. Its tone was somewhat more personal; perhaps typewriters intimidated him. 'You may be interested to know,' it said, 'that we've recently learned a man carrying a Malaysian passport occupied rooms at a North Miami hotel for most of the summer, but checked out two weeks before your friend disappeared. I'm not at liberty to say more, but please be assured we are tracking down several leads at the moment. Our investigators are working full-time on the matter, and we hope to bring it to a speedy conclusion.'

Linahan's letter arrived on September twenty-first. Before the week was out I had one from my sister, along with another clipping from the Herald; and since, like some old Victorian novel, this chapter seems to have taken an epistolary form, I will end it with extracts from these two items.

The newspaper story was headed WANTED FOR QUEST~ON~NG. Like the Mortimer piece, it was little more than a photo with an extended caption:

(Thurs.) A Malaysian citizen is being sought for questioning in connection with the disappearance of an American clergyman, Miami police say. Records indicate that the Malaysian, Mr D. A. Djaktu-tchow, had occupied furnished rooms at the Barkleigh Hotella, 2401 Culebra Ave., possibly with an unnamed companion. He is believed still in the greater Miami area, but since August 22 his movements cannot be traced. State Dept. officials report Djaktu-tchow's visa expired August 31; charges are pending.

The clergyman, Rev. Ambrose B. Mortimer, has been missing since September 6.

The photo above the article was evidently a recent one, no doubt reproduced from the visa in question. I recognized the smiling moon-wide face, although it took me a moment to place him as the man whose dinner I'd stumbled over on the plane. Without the moustache, he looked less like Charlie Chan.

The accompanying letter filled in a few details. 'I called up the Herald,' my sister wrote, 'but they couldn't tell me any more than was in the article. Just the same, finding that out took me half an hour, since the stupid woman at the switchboard kept putting me through to the wrong person. I guess you're right anything that prints colour pictures on page one shouldn't call itself a newspaper.

'This afternoon I called up the police department, but they weren't very helpful either. I suppose you just can't expect to find out much over the phone, though I still rely on it. Finally I got an Officer Linahan, who told me he's just replied to that letter of yours. Have you heard from him yet?

The man was very evasive. He was trying to be nice, but I could tell he was impatient to get off. He did give me the full name of the man they're looking for - Djaktu Abdul Djaktutchow, isn't that marvellous? - and he told me they have some more material on him which they can't release right now. I argued and pleaded (you know how persuasive I can be!) and finally, because I claimed I'd been a close friend of Rev. Mortimer's, I wheedled something out of him which he swore he'd deny if I told anyone but you. Apparently the poor man must have been deathly ill, maybe even tubercular - I intended to get a patch test next week, just to play safe, and I recommend that you get one too - because it seems that, in the reverend's bedroom, they found something very odd: pieces of lung tissue. Human lung tissue.'

I, too, was a detective in youth. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 2/17/1931

Do amateur detectives still exist? I mean, outside the novels? I doubt it. Who, af~er all, has the time for such games today? Not I, unfortunately; though for more than a decade I'd been nominally retired, my days were quite full with the unromantic activities that occupy everyone this side of the paperbacks: letters, luncheon dates, visits to my niece and to my doctor; books (not enough) and television (too much) and perhaps a Golden Agers' matinee (though I have largely stopped going to films, finding myself increasingly out of sympathy with their heroes). I also spent Halloween week in Atlantic City, and most of another attempting to interest a rather overpolite young publisher in reprinting some of my early work.

All this, of course, is intended as a sort of apologia for my having put off further inquiries into poor Mortimer's case till mid-November. The truth is, the matter almost slipped my mind; only in novels do people not have better things to do.

It was Maude who reawakened my interest. She had been avidly scanning the papers - in vain -

for further reports on the man's disappearance; I believe she had even phoned Sergeant Linahan a second time, but had learned nothing new. Now she wrote me with a tiny fragment of information, heard at thirdhand: one of her bridge partners had had it on the authority of 'a friend in the police force' that the search for Mr Djaktu was being widened to include his presumed companion - 'a Negro child,' or so my sister reported. Although there was every possibility that this information was false, or that it concerned an entirely different case, I could tell she regarded it as very sinister indeed.

Perhaps that was why the following afternoon found me struggling once more up the steps of the natural history museum - as much to satisfy Maude as myself. Her allusion to a Negro, coming after the curious discovery in Mortimer's bedroom, had recalled to mind the figure on the Malayan robe, and I had been troubled all night by the fantasy of a black man - a man much like the beggar I'd just seen huddled against Roosevelt's statue - coughing his lungs out into a sort of twisted horn.

I had encountered few other people on the streets that afternoon, as it was unseasonably cold for a city that's often mild till January; I wore a muffler, and my grey tweed overcoat flapped round my heels. Inside, however, the place like all American buildings was overheated; I was soon the same as I made my way up the demoralizingly long staircase to the second floor.

The corridors were silent and empty, but for the morose figure of a guard seated before one of the alcoves, head down as if in mourning, and, from above me, the hiss of the steam radiators near the marble ceiling. Slowly, and rather enjoying the sense of privilege that comes from having a museum to oneself, I retraced my earlier route past the immense skeletons of dinosaurs (These great creatures once trod the earth where you now walk') and down to the Hall of Primitive Man, where two Puerto Rican youths, obviously playing hooky, stood by the African wing gazing worshipfully at a Masai warrior in full battle gear. In the section devoted to Asia I paused to get my bearings, looking in vain for the squat figure in the robe. The glass case was empty. Over its plaque was taped a printed notice: 'Temporarily removed for restoration.'

This was no doubt the first time in forty years that the display had been taken down, and of course I'd picked just this occasion to look for it. So much for luck. I headed for the nearest staircase, at the far end of the wing. From behind me the clank of metal echoed down the hall, followed by the angry voice of the guard. Perhaps that Masai spear had proved too great a temptation.

In the main lobby I was issued a written pass to enter the north wing, where the staff offices were located. 'You want the workrooms on basement level,' said the woman at the information counter; the summer's bored coed had become a friendly old lady who eyed me with some interest. 'Just ask the guard at the bottom of the stairs, past the cafeteria. I do hope you find what you're looking for.'

Carefully keeping the pink slip she'd handed me visible for anyone who might demand it, I descended. As I turned on to the stairwell I was confronted with a kind of vision: a blonde, Scandinavian-looking family were coming up the stairs towards me, the four upturned faces almost interchangeable, parents and two little girls with the pursed lips and timidly hopeful eyes of the tourist, while just behind them, apparently unheard, capered a grinning black youth, practically walking on the father's heels. In my present state of mind the scene appeared particularly disturbing -

the boy's expression was certainly one of mockery - and I wondered if the guard who stood before the cafeteria had noticed. If he had, however, he gave no sign; he glanced without curiosity at my pass and pointed towards a fire door at the end of the hall.

The offices in the lower level were surprisingly shabby - the walls here were not marble but faded green plaster - and the entire corridor had a ~uried' feeling to it, no doubt because the only outside light came from ground-level window gratings high overhead. I had been told to ask for one of the research associates, a Mr Richmond; his office was part of a suite broken up by pegboard dividers. The door was open, and he got up from his desk as soon as I entered; I suspect that, in view of my age and grey tweed overcoat, he may have taken me for someone important.

A plump young man with sandy-coloured beard, he looked like an out-of-shape surfer, but his sunniness dissolved when I mentioned my interest in the green silk robe. 'And I suppose you're the man who complained about it upstairs, am I right?'I assured him that I was not.

'Well, someone sure did,' he said, still eyeing me resentfully; on the wall behind him an Indian warmask did the same. 'Some damn tourist, maybe, in town for a day and out to make trouble.

Threatened to call the Malaysian Embassy. If you put up a fuss those people upstairs get scared it'll wind up in the Times.'

I understood his allusion; the previous year the museum had gained considerable notoriety for having conducted some really appalling- and, to my mind, quite pointless - experiments on cats.

Most of the public had, until then, been unaware that the building housed several working laboratories.

'Anyway,' he continued, 'the robe's down in the shop, and we're stuck with patching up the damn thing. It'll probably be down there for the next six months before we get to it. We're so understaffed right now it isn't funny.' He glanced at his watch. 'Come on, I'll show you. Then I've got to go upstairs.'

I followed him down a narrow corridor that branched off to either side. At one point he said, 'On your right, the infamous zoology lab.' I kept my eyes straight ahead. As we passed the next doorway I smelled a familiar odour. 'It makes me think of treacle,' I said.

'You're not so far wrong.' He spoke without looking back. The stuff's mostly molasses. Pure nutrient. They use it for growing microorganisms.'

I hurried to keep up with him. 'And for other things?' He shrugged. 'I don't know, mister. It's not my field.' We came to a door barred by a black wire grille. 'Here's one of the shops,' he said, fitting a key into the lock. The door swung open on a long unlit room smelling of wood shavings and glue.

'You sit down over here,' he said, leading me to a small anteroom and switching on the light. 'I'll be back in a second.' I stared at the object closest to me, a large ebony chest, ornately carved. Its hinges had been removed. Richmond returned with the robe draped over his arm. 'See?' he said, dangling it before me. 'It's really not in such bad condition, is it?' I realized he still thought of me as the man who'd complained.

On the field of rippling green fled the small brown shapes, still pursued by some unseen doom. In the centre stood the black man, black horn to his lips, man and horn a single line of unbroken black.

'Are the Tcho-Tchos a superstitious people?' I asked. 'They were,' he said pointedly. 'Superstitious and not very pleasant. They're extinct as dinosaurs now. Supposedly wiped out by the Japanese or something.'

'That's rather odd,' I said. 'A friend of mine claims to have met up with them earlier this year.'

Richmond was smoothing out the robe; the branches of the snake-trees snapped futilely at the brown shapes. 'I suppose it's possible,' he said, after a pause. 'But I haven't read anything about them since grad school. They're certainly not listed in the textbooks anymore. I've looked, and there's nothing on them. This robe's over a hundred years old.'

I pointed to the figure in the centre. 'What can you tell me about this fellow?'

'Death's Herald,' he said, as if it were a quiz. 'At least that's what the literature says. Supposed to warn of some approaching calamity.'

I nodded without looking up; he was merely repeating what I'd read in the pamphlet. 'But isn't it strange,' I said, 'that these others are in such a panic? See? They aren't even waiting around to listen.'

'Would you?' He snorted impatiently.

'But if the black one's just a messenger of some sort, why's he so much bigger than the others?'

Richmond began folding the cloth. 'Look, mister,' he said, '! don't pretend to be an expert on every tribe in Asia. But if a character's important, they'd sometimes make him larger. Anyway, that's what the Mayans did. But listen, I've really got to get this put away now. I've got a meeting to go to.'

While he was gone I sat thinking about what I'd just seen. The small brown shapes, crude as they were, had expressed a terror no mere messenger could inspire. And that great black figure standing triumphant in the centre, horn twisting from its mouth - that was no messenger either, I was sure of it. That was no Death's Herald. That was Death itself.

I returned to my apartment just in time to hear the telephone ringing, but by the time I'd let myself in it had stopped. I sat down in the living room with a mug of coffee and a book which had lain untouched on the shelf for the last thirty years: Jungle Ways, by that old humbug, William Seabrook. I'd met him back in the twenties and had found him likable enough, if rather untrustworthy. His book described dozens of unlikely characters, including 'a cannibal chief who had got himself jailed and famous because he had eaten his young wife, a handsome, lazy wench called Blito, along with a dozen of her girl friends,' but I discovered no mention of a black horn-player.

I had just finished my coffee when the phone rang again. It was my sister.

'I just wanted to let you know that there's another man missing,' she said breathlessly; I couldn't tell if she was frightened or merely excited. 'A busboy at the San Marino. Remember? I took you there.'

The San Marino was an inexpensive little luncheonette on Indian Creek, several blocks from my sister's house. She and her friends ate there several times a week.

'It happened last night,' she went on. 'I just heard about it at my card game. They say he went outside with a bucket of fish heads to dump in the creek, and he never came back.'

That's very interesting, but ...' I thought for a moment; it was highly unusual for her to call me like this. 'But really, Maude, couldn't he have simply run off? I mean, what makes you think there's any connection -'

'Because I took Ambrose there, too!' she cried. Three or four times. That was where we used to meet.'

Apparently Maude had been considerably better acquainted with the Reverend Mortimer than her letters would have led one to believe. But I wasn't interested in pursuing that line right now. 'This busboy,' I asked, 'was he someone you knew?'

'Of course,' she said. 'I know everyone in there. His name was Carlos. A quiet boy, very courteous. I'm sure he must have waited on us dozens of times.'

I had seldom heard my sister so upset, but for the present there seemed no way of calming her fears. Before hanging up she made me promise to move up the month's visit I'd expected to pay her over Christmas; I assured her I would try to make it down for Thanksgiving, then only a week away, if I could find a flight that wasn't filled.

'Do try,' she said - and, were this a tale from the old pulps, she would have added: 'If anyone can get to the bottom of this, you can.' In truth, however, both Maude and I were aware that I had just celebrated my seventy-seventh birthday and that, of the two of us, I was by far the more timid; so that what she actually said was, 'Looking after you will help take my mind off things.'

I couldn't live a week without a private library. – H.P LOVECRAFT, 2/25/1929

That's what ! thought, too, until recently. After a lifetime of collecting I'd acquired thousands upon thousands of volumes, never parting with a one; it was this cumbersome private library, in fact, that helped keep me anchored to the same West Side apartment for nearly half a century.

Yet here I sit, with no company save a few gardening manuals and a shelf of antiquated best-sellers - nothing to dream on, nothing I'd want to hold in my hand. Still, I've survived here a week, a month, almost a season. The truth is, Howard, you'd be surprised what you can live without. As for the books I've left in Manhattan, I just hope someone takes care of them when I'm gone.

But I was by no means so resigned that November when, having successfully reserved seats on an earlier flight, I found myself with less than a week in New York. I spent all my remaining time in the library the public one on Forty-second Street, with the lions in front and with no book of mine on its shelves. Its two reading rooms were the haunt of men my age and older, retired men with days to fill, poor men just warming their bones; some leafed through newspapers, other dozed in their seats. None of them, I'm sure, shared my sense of urgency: there were things I hoped to find out before I left, things for which Miami would be useless.

I was no stranger to this building. Long ago, during one of Howard's visits, I had undertaken some genealogical researches here in the hope of finding ancestors more impressive than his, and as a young man I had occasionally attempted to support myself, like the denizens of Gissing's New Grub Street, by writing articles compiled from the work of others. But by now I was out of practice: how, after all, does one find references Go an obscure Southeast Asian tribal myth without reading everything published on that part of the world?

Initially that's exactly what I tried; I looked through every book I could find with 'Malaya' in its title. I read about rainbow gods and phallic altars and something called 'the tatai,' a sort of unwanted companion; I came across wedding rites and The Death of Thorns and a certain cave inhabited by millions of snails. But I found no mention of the Tcho-Tcho, and nothing on their gods.

This in itself was surprising. We are living in a day when there are no more secrets, when my twelve-yearold nephew can buy his own grimoire and books with titles like The Encyclopaedia of Ancient and Forbidden Knowledge are remaindered at every discount store. Though my friends from the twenties would have hated to admit it, the notion of stumbling across some mouldering old q)lack book' in the attic of a deserted house - some lexicon of spells and chants and hidden lore - is merely a quaint fantasy. If the Necronomicon actually existed, it would be out in Bantam paperback with a preface by Lin Carter.

It's appropriate, then, that when I finally came upon a reference to what I sought, it was in that most unromantic of forms, a mimeographed film-script.

øPranscript' would perhaps be closer to the truth, for it was based upon a film shot in 1937 and that was now presumably crumbling in some forgotten vault. I discovered the item inside one of those brown cardbeard packets, held together with ribbons, which libraries use to protect books whose bindings have worn away. The book itself, Malay Memories, by a Reverend Morton, had proved a disappointment despite the author's rather suggestive name. The transcript lay beneath it, apparently slipped there by mistake, but though it appeared unpromising - only ninety-six pages long, badly typed, and held together by a single rusty staple - it more than repaid the reading. There was no title page, nor do I think there'd ever been one; the first page simply identified the film as

'Documentary - Malaya Today,' and noted that it had been financed, in part, by a US government grant. The filmmaker or makers were not listed.

I soon saw why the government may have been willing to lend the venture some support, for there were a great many scenes in which the proprietors of rubber plantations expressed the sort of opinions Americans might want to hear. To an unidentified interviewer's query, 'What other signs of prosperity do you see around you?' a planter named Mr Pierce had obligingly replied, 'Why, look at the living standard better schools for the natives and a new lorry for me. It's from Detroit, you know. May even have my own rubber in it.'

INT: PIERCE:

And how about the Japanese? Are they one of today's better markets?

Oh, see, they buy our crop all right, but we don't really trust 'em, understand? (Smiles) We don't like

'em half so much as the Yanks.

The final section of the transcript was considerably more interesting, however; it recorded a number of brief scenes that must never have appeared in the finished film. I quote one of them in its entirety:

PLAYROOM, CHURCH SCHOOL - LATE AFTERNOON

(DELETED)

INT: This Malay youth has sketched a picture of a demon he calls Shoo Goron. (To Boy) I wonder if you can tell me something about the instrument he's blowing out of. It looks like the Jewish BOY:

INT:

BOY:

shofar, or ram's horn. (Again to Boy) That's all right. No need to be frightened.

He no blow out. Blow in.

I see - he draws air in through the horn, is that right?

No horn. Is no horn. (Weeps) Is him.

Miami did not produce much of an impression... – H.P LOVECRAFT, 7/19/1931

Waiting in the airport lounge with Ellen and her boy, my bags already checked and my seat number assigned, I fell prey to the sort of anxiety that had made me miserable in youth: it was a sense that time was running out; and what caused it now, I think, was the hour that remained before my flight was due to leave. It was too long a time to sit making small talk with Terry, whose mind was patently on other things; yet it was too short to accomplish the task which I'd suddenly realized had been left undone.

But perhaps my nephew would serve. Terry,' I said, 'how'd you like to do me a favour?' He looked up eagerly; I suppose children his age love to be of use. 'Remember the building we passed on the way here?

The International Arrivals building?''Sure,' he said. 'Right next door.'

'Yes, but it's a lot farther away than it looks. Do you think you'd be able to get there and back in the next hour and find something out for me?'

'Sure.' He was already out of his seat.

'It just occurs to me that there's an Air Malay reservations desk in that building, and I wonder if you could ask someone there -'

My niece interrupted me. 'Oh, no he won't,' she said firmly. 'First of all, I won't have him running across that highway on some silly errand - ' she ignored her son's protests, ' - and secondly, I don't want him involved in this game you've got going with Mother.'

The upshot of it was that Ellen went herself, leaving Terry and me to our small talk. She took with her a slip of paper upon which I'd written 'Shoo Goron,' a name she regarded with sour scepticism. I wasn't sure she would return before my departure (Terry, I could see, was growing increasingly uneasy), but she was back before the second boarding call.

'She says you spelled it wrong,' Ellen announced. 'Who's she?'

'Just one of the flight attendants,' said Ellen. 'A young girl, in her early twenties. None of the others were Malayan. At first she didn't recognize the name, until she read it out loud a few times.

Apparently it's some kind of fish, am I right? Like a suckerfish, only bigger. Anyway, that's what she said. Her mother used to scare her with it when she was bad.'

Obviously Ellen - or, more likely, the other woman had misunderstood. 'Sort of a bogeyman figure?' I asked. 'Well, I suppose that's possible. But a fish, you say?'

Ellen nodded. 'I don't think she knew that much about it, though. She acted a little embarrassed, in fact. Like I'd asked her something dirty.' From across the room a loudspeaker issued the final call for passengers. Ellen helped me to my feet, still talking. 'She said she was just a Malay, from somewhere on the coast - Malacca? I forget - and that it's a shame i didn't drop by three or four months ago, because her summer replacement was part Chocha - Chocha? something like that.'

The line was growing shorter now. I wished the two of them a safe Thanksgiving and shuffled towards the plane.

Below me the clouds had formed a landscape of rolling hills. I could see every ridge, every washed-out shrub, and in the darker places, the eyes of animals.

Some of the valleys were split by jagged black lines that looked like rivers seen on a map. The water, at least, was real enough: here the cloudbank had cracked and parted, revealing the dark sea beneath.

Throughout the ride I'd been conscious of lost opportunity, a sense that my destination offered a kind of final chance. With Howard gone these forty years I still lived out my life in his shadow; certainly his tales had overshadowed my own. Now I found myself trapped within one of them.

Here, miles above the earth, I felt great gods warring; below, the war was already lost.

The very passengers around me seemed participants in a masque: the oily little steward who smelled of something odd; the child who stared and wouldn't look away; the man asleep beside me, mouth slack, who'd chuckled and handed me a page ripped from his 'inflight' magazine: NOVEMBER PUZZLE PAGE, with an eye staring in astonishment from a swarm of dots. 'Connect the dots and see what you'll be least thankful for this Thanksgiving!' Below it, half buried amid

'B'nai B'rith to Host Song Fest' and advertisements for beach clubs, a bit of local colour found me in a susceptible mood:

Have Fins, Will Travel

(Courtesy Miami Herald) If your hubby comes home and swears he's just seen a school of fish walk across the yard, don't sniff his breath for booze. He may be telling the truth! According to U.

of Miami zoologists, catfish will be migrating in record numbers this fall and South Florida residents can expect to see hundreds of the whiskered critters crawling overland, miles from water.

Though usually no bigger than your pussycat, most breeds can survive without...

Here the piece came to a ragged end where my companion had torn it from the magazine. He stirred in his sleep, lips moving; I turned and put my head against the window, where the limb of Florida was swinging into view, veined with dozens of canals. The plane shuddered and slid towards it.

Maude was already at the gate, a black porter beside her with an empty cart. While we waited by a hatchway in the basement for my luggage to be disgorged, she told me the sequel to the San Marino incident: the boy's body found washed up on a distant beach, lungs in mouth and throat. 'Inside out,'

she said. 'Can you imagine? It's been on the radio all morning. With tapes of some ghastly doctor talking about smoker's cough and the way people drown. I couldn't even listen after a while.' The porter heaved my bags on to the cart and we followed him to the taxi stand, Maude using her cane to gesticulate. If I hadn't seen how aged she'd become I'd have thought the excitement was agreeing with her.

We had the driver make a detour westward along Pompano Canal Road, where we paused at number 311, one of nine shabby green cabins that formed a court round a small and very dirty wading pool; in a cement pot beside the pool dropped a solitary half-dead palm, as if in some travesty of an oasis. This, then, had been Ambrose Mortimer's final home. My sister was very silent, and I believed her when she said she'd never been here before. Across the street glistened the oily waters of the canal.

The taxi turned east. We passed interminable rows of hotels, motels, condominiums, shopping centres as big as Central Park, souvenir shops with billboards bigger than themselves, baskets of seashells and wriggly plastic auto toys out front. Men and women our age and younger sat on canvas beach chairs in their yards, blinking at the traffic. The sexes had merged; some of the older women were nearly as bald as I was, and men wore clothes the colour of coral, lime, and peach.

They walked very slowly as they crossed the street or moved along the sidewalk; cars moved almost as slowly, and it was forty minutes before we reached Maude's house, with its pastel orange shutters and the retired druggist and his wife living upstairs. Here, too, a kind of languor was upon the block, one into which I knew, with just a memory of regret, I would soon be settling. Life was slowing to a halt, and once the taxi had roared away the only things that stirred were the geraniums in Maude's window box, trembling slightly in a breeze I couldn't even feel.

A dry spell. Mornings in my sister's air-conditioned parlour, luncheons with her friends in air-conditioned coffee shops. Inadvertent afternoon naps, from which I'd waken with headaches.

Evening walks, to watch the sunsets, the fireflies, the TV screens flashing behind neighbours'

blinds. By night, a few faint cloudy stars; by day, tiny lizards skittering over the hot pavement, or boldly sunning themselves on the flagstones. The smell of oil paints in my sister's closet, and the insistent buzz of mosquitoes in her garden. Her sundial, a gift from Ellen, with Terry's message painted on the rim. Lunch at the San Marino and a brief, halfhearted look at the dock in back, now something of a tourist attraction. An afternoon at a branch library in Hialeah, searching through its shelves of travel books, an old man dozing at the table across from me, a child laboriously copying her school report from the encyclopedia. Thanksgiving dinner, with its half-hour's phone call to Ellen and the boy and the prospect of turkey for the rest of the week. More friends to visit, and another day at the library.

Later, driven by boredom and the ghost of an impulse, I phoned the Barkleigh Hotella in North Miami and booked a room there for two nights. I don't remember the days I settled for, because that sort of thing no longer had much meaning, but I know it was for midweek; ~ve're deep in the season,' the proprietress informed me, and the hotel would be filled each weekend till long past New Year's.