The Purple Pterodactyls

United Imp

There is nothing like a brush with the unknown to knock the self-conceit out of one.

I had just been promoted to vice-president of the Harrison Trust Company and was feeling pretty pleased with myself. Looking back, I suspect that my promotion owed less to my financial expertise than to the fact that, in my late thirties, my hair had turned prematurely gray. This gave me the sober, reliable look that people approve in their bankers. So, when the then vice-president retired, Esau Drexel moved me into that slot.

At first, Denise fussed about my hair, saying she did not want to seem married to an old man just yet. I tried some dye but found it more trouble than it was worth; you have to repeat the treatment every week or two. So I put on my stubborn face and refused to dye any more. Denise complained of my hair for years; but, when I got promoted, the salary reconciled her. She takes the realistic French view of money.

I had not been long at this job when Drexel called me into the president's office.

"Willy," he said, "here's a puzzle. Fellow in Atlanta wants to borrow five hundred grand. Claims he has enough commercial orders to support the loan; but I can't find him in Dun and Bradstreet, or anywhere. Besides, what does he want to come to us for? There are plenty of banks in Georgia."

"Maybe they've all turned him down," I said. "What's his line?"

Drexel tossed a letter across his desk. The letterhead said UNITED IMP, with a Post Office box number in Atlanta. A sheaf of photostats of orders for the company's products was stapled to the letter.

The letter explained that the company manufactured wrought-iron grill work. They had been swamped with orders; hence they needed the loan to expand. The letter went on:

You are doubtless aware of the current vogue for nostalgic restoration. All over the South, decrepit mansions are being refurbished as tourist attractions. In many of these houses, the original grillwork has rusted away and must be replaced. Since we command the services of a labor force, on one hand highly skilled and on the other not unionized, we hope to capture a substantial part of the market for our products.

"Of course," said Drexel, "we don't want to get involved in a fight with the goddam unions. If that man in the White house—but never mind; what's done is done. What do you think, Willy?"

I frowned at the letter. "I see some funny things here. What does 'United Imp' mean? What's the 'Imp'?"

"Imperial? Imports? Or maybe impostors?"

"Perhaps it doesn't stand for anything. There's no period after the p."

"You mean 'imp' as in gnomes or elves?"

"Or kobolds or knockers. Then, look how the man signs his name: 'Colin Owens, Magiarch.' "

"Some kind of cult leader, I suppose." Drexel buzzed his secretary. "Miss Carnero, please get your dictionary."

The dictionary did not list "magiarch," but the meaning was plain. Drexel said:

"If he's one of these fakers, telling his suckers they're reincarnations of George Washington, or promising to make supermen of them in one easy lesson, no wonder the Georgia banks turned him down. I think we'd better give him the brush-off."

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "A man can be a nut in one way and a shrewd businessman in another. We ought at least to look into his proposition. Besides, business has been slow around here, and we've got too much cash lying idle. We could charge him the prime plus one-half."

"Prime plus two, more like. But at such a high-risk rate, we'd have to send someone to Atlanta to watch him."

"Well, let's say prime plus one or one and a half."

"It won't be any rate at all unless we know more about the fellow. Tell you what, Willy: You fly down to Atlanta and look over his plant. How soon can you go?"

"Early next week, I guess."

"Fine. I'll write this Colin Owens, telling him you're coming. Think you can handle the job?"

"Oh, sure. Don't worry about me, boss." Famous last words.

At the Hartsfield Airport, two men met me. Colin Owens turned out to be small, slight, and elderly, with silver hair and an English accent. His blue eyes beamed benignly through steel-rimmed spectacles as he introduced his assistant, Forrest Bellamy. This was a tall, lean, dark man in his thirties, with Southern Mountain twang. While Bellamy was polite enough, there was something uncomfortably tense about him.

"I am delighted you've come, Mr. Newbury," said Owens. "Have you been in Atlanta before?"

"No; this is my first visit."

"Then we shall be pleased to show you the sights of the new queen of the South."

"Where are you putting me?"

"We have reserved a good motel room in Decatur. That's on the side of town near our plant."

"Fine. When can I see your plant?"

"There's no hurry about that. First, we shall give you a general orientation tour. Take Mr. Newbury's bag, Forrest."

I was not so naive as to expect an Atlanta of Southern belles in crinolines and parasols. I was, however, surprised by its bustling, up-to-date air, with skyscrapers and freeways sprouting here and there. As I was being whirled through the Memorial Arts Center, the Cyclorama, and other sights, I kept trying to pin down my hosts on their operations.

"Why," I asked, "did you come to us, instead of to a local bank?" Owens and I were sitting in back while Bellamy drove.

"I thought you might ask that," said Owens. After a pause, he answered: "I might as well confess that we tried the local sources but were refused—not, however, for reasons germane to our finances."

"How do you mean?"

"Well—ah—"

"What he means," said Bellamy, "is, we reckon like there's a certain prejudice against us, irregardless of how sound the business is."

"How so?"

"Well, for one thing, Mr. Owens ain't a Georgian. He's not even a native-born American, but a naturalized Englishman."

"Excuse me, Forrest," said Owens. "I am a Briton but not an Englishman. I am Welsh." He turned to me. "I never can get Americans to make the distinction. Go on, Forrest."

"For another, United Imp is, in a kind of a way, a sideline with us. Some folks are ignorant about our main business, so they get funny ideas."

"And what's your main business, if I may ask?"

Owens's faded blue eyes took on a faraway look. "Merely endeavoring to dissuade our fellow men from inflicting needless 'wounds and sore defeat' upon one another, by the application of the ancient wisdom."

"You mean you head a religious sect or cult?"

"What's in a name? The Anthropophili are a benevolent society devoted to the pursuit of truth, peace, and beauty ..."

Owens gripped my forearm, while his guileless blue eyes stared into mine as he launched into a sermon—lofty, earnest, and cloudy. It did not greatly differ from what you can hear every week in a church or a temple—or for that matter at a Vedanta meeting. He spangled his talk with tags from Aeschylus, Shakespeare, and Milton.

My reaction to Owens's preaching was mixed. On one hand, I rather liked this learned old occultist. On the other, I shuddered at the thought of entrusting our depositors' money to him. Still, I tried to view his project objectively.

When we were fifteen miles or so east of Atlanta, Bellamy turned his head to say: "Here's Stone Mountain." On the plain ahead, a huge granite dome loomed up for nearly a thousand feet, like the half-buried skull of some mythical monster. "We got time to take him up before dinner, Master?"

Owens looked at his watch. "I fear not, Forrest. 'The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth.' Continue on to the Oecus; Maggie can be quite difficult if we are late for meals."

Bellamy made a couple of turns and drew up in a small graveled parking lot, near a large house shaded by longleaf pines.

The Oecus was a rambling structure, which seemed to have been built by a committee, each member of which had designed one part to suit himself, without reference to his colleagues' plans. No two rooms appeared to be set on the same level. There were spiral stairs in odd places, decorative mosaics of colored glass set in cement, and a couple of amateurish mural paintings of winged beings flapping around a cloudy sky. Sounds of hammering came from one end of the building, and I glimpsed a small group of young men and women in work clothes, nailing and plastering.

"What's the origin of this house?" I asked.

Owens explained: "It was built before the First World War by an eccentric architect. The property was subsequently abandoned and had fallen into disrepair before the Anthropophili obtained the title and restored the building. As you see, the repairs are not quite complete. Would you like a drink before dinner?"

"Why, yes indeed," I said.

Owen disappeared and returned with three small glasses arid a bottle of sherry. "Ordinarily we do not indulge in alcoholic beverages in the Anthropophili, but we make exceptions for eminent visitors. 'Moderation is the noblest gift of heaven'."

He poured me, Bellamy, and himself each a thimbleful. It was good stuff as far as it went. While we sipped, Owens talked a monologue about the ideals of his organization. I was ready for a second when the dinner gong sounded and Owens put his bottle away.

There were about thirty members of the cult at the long table. The members, including those who had been working on the house, were mostly young and casually dressed. Several were black. Since this was in the early days of civil rights agitation in the South, I wondered if the racial integration of Owens's cult had barred him from local financing. That subject, however, never came up.

The food was plain but excellent. The conversation was mostly over my head, dealing with local politics and personalities: When dinner was over, Owens said:

"Mr. Newbury, I should like to show you our products."

He led me to one end of the house, down steps, and into a storage room. There were heaps of wrought-iron grilles, railings, gates, wall brackets, planters, outdoor furniture, and other examples of the modern blacksmith's art. While I am no judge of such matters, these artifacts seemed well-made.

"It's a matter of price," said Owens. "With the unusual personnel of my crew, I can undersell any other maker of such products. If I can expand, there won't be the slightest difficulty about repaying the loan, with a handsome profit to our organization. This profit-will be used to further the aims of our movement."

"Do you use the members of your society as workers?"

"Oh, dear, no! They are seekers of truth, fully occupied with our crusade to bring peace and prosperity to the world. My workers are persons of quite a different sort."

He steered me gently to the door. Then he and Bellamy whisked me off to my motel.

"We'll see you first thing in the morning," said Bellamy. "What time do y'all like to get up?"

In the morning, they drove me to Stone Mountain. We parked and took one of the new cable cars to the top. The car soared up over the colossal statues of Davis, Lee, and Jackson on horseback, which were carved in the west face. I understand that the sculptors meant, when the project began, to add a mile-long parade of Confederate soldiers as well. They ran out of money, however, before the project got that far.

Holding a stanchion in the crowded cable car, Bellamy said: "Every year, some young numbskull tries to show off to his girl by climbing all the way down one of the steep sides. Then he gets to where it's too steep to hold on, and that's the end of him."

On top, we strolled about admiring the view. Bellamy told me of their further plans for my entertainment—the river-boat ride, the restored ante-bellum plantation—until I said:

"I certainly appreciate your hospitality, gentlemen. But, before we do business, I simply must see your plant and these extraordinary workers."

Owens said: "Well—ah—you saw the quality of our ironwork last night. I can show you lists of the prevailing prices for such products and what we sell ours for. I can explain our system of advertising and distribution—"

"Please. I am merely a trustee for our depositors' money; I have to know what I'm putting it into. So I must see your facilities with my own eyes."

Owens coughed. "There are—ah—some practical difficulties to that. You see, sir, there is some question of the title to the site of our factory. If the precise location should become generally known, it might cause us great inconvenience. We might have to relocate. Furthermore, our personnel are averse to letting outsiders see them at their tasks."

I shook my head. "Sorry, fellows. No factory tour, no money."

Owens and Bellamy exchanged looks. Bellamy scowled, glared, and took a step towards me, as if his temper were about to explode in violence. A slight movement from Owens caused Bellamy to step back and make his face blank. Owens said:

"Put your ear down against the granite, Mr. Newbury, and tell me what you hear."

The prospect did not look promising for my pants; but, I thought, I could bill the bank for a new pair. I got down and put my ear to the elephant-gray rock. A couple of other tourists, fifty feet away, stared at me.

"I hear a faint rumble," I said. "A vibration almost below the lower limit of audibility. I suppose it's the machinery that runs the cable cars."

Owens shook his head. "We are too far from that machinery, as you can ascertain by repeating the test in other parts of the rock."

"What then?" I said, getting up and dusting off my clothes.

"Are you familiar with the lines from Spenser:

" 'Fraid not," I said. "The Faerie Queene is one of those things I'm always promising myself to read but never getting around to. What's the point?"

"The story, as Spenser tells it, is that Merlin once summoned up a host of spirits and compelled them to set about prefabricating a brazen wall for his native city of Carmarthen. Then he went off and got himself entombed by Vivien, or whatever her name was. But nobody told the poor devils to stop, so they are still at work. Or at least, they were before I got in touch with them."

"Yes?" I said. "You mean you've got Spenser's spirits hammering out wrought-iron grilles in a cave beneath Stone Mountain?"

"Quite. Some might question the propriety of the term 'spirits' for my workers, who are very solid, substantial creatures."

"You mean gnomes or dwarves?"

"They are called by various names. I shan't try to explain how I secured their service, because that would take us into the complexities of magical theory."

"But how did you get them to this country? Did you smuggle them aboard a ship, or did they tunnel under the Atlantic?"

Owens smiled. "Such beings have their own resources, their own—ah—mysterious ways."

"If the demons of Carmarthen were brass workers, did they have to learn how to handle iron?"

"Be assured, they can handle any metal. Now, since you insist, we shall descend the mountain and visit our manufactory—at least, to the extent that it is safe to show it to you."

We drove back to the Oecus. Owens and Bellamy took me around the house to the rear. Here I found a curious structure: a large sunken area bounded by stone walls, which rose to waist height above the outer ground surface but extended down fifteen or twenty feet below ground level on the inner side. It was as if someone had begun to build a big house but had gotten no further than the cellar. A couple of honeylocust trees shaded the area with their feathery leaves.

A ramp between two curving stone walls provided access to the lower level. There were also a couple of other down-sloping passageways, but these came to blind ends. The thing conveyed the impression of being the product of a very strange mind.

In the middle of the lower level was another, narrower depression, perhaps six feet deep, ten wide, and thirty long, and brick-paved. Owens and Bellamy led me down steps to this sub-basement. At one end, I saw a heavy iron door, which Owens unlocked and opened with a screech of hinges.

"Watch your head," he said.

I ducked under the lintel and followed the little magus, while Bellamy brought up the rear. The down-sloping tunnel was lined with planks and dimly lit by an occasional electric light bulb. We hiked for some minutes in silence. The planks gave way to solid granite, and the passageway became level. Owens paused to indicate a series of side chambers.

"Storage for our products," he said.

A glimpse showed piles of wrought-iron artifacts, like those I had seen in the Oecus. We plodded on.

Early in the descent, I had become aware of a sound like the rumble I had heard atop Stone Mountain. As we went onward, the sound waxed louder.

We came to a dimly-lit vestibule, containing stacks of wrought-iron objects and several chairs. The noise was now so loud that we had to raise our voices. I could feel the vibration through the soles of my shoes.

There was a great metallic banging and clanging, mixed with guttural shouts. The speech was too much mingled with the clangor to make anything of. I could not even guess the language.

"This is as far as we shall go," said Owens. "As I have explained, our workers are extremely shy. They allow nobody but Forrest and me into their workshop. In any event, you can now report that we do have a production work force, can't you?"

"I guess so," I said. "If you don't mind, I'd like to get the hell out of here." I was finding the noise and the confinement oppressive.

"Surely," said Owens.

We hiked back up the long slope in silence. When to my relief we reached the surface, it was lunch time. I ate one of the Oecus's simple but sumptuous meals and spent the afternoon with Owens, going over his books and learning the economics of the wrought-iron business.

They invited me to dinner, but I begged off. I had to get back to the motel to organize my thoughts, write up my notes, and telephone Drexel.

When I called Esau Drexel that evening, I told my story, saying: "I still don't know what he's got in that cave, but it must be something. I can't imagine that all that wrought-iron stuff and correspondence that he showed me is some elaborate charade. His business seems to be thriving."

"Then why is he so hell-bent to expand? Why can't he be satisfied with his current profits?"

"He's an idealist who wants to save the world from blowing itself up. Maybe he's got something there. He figures to earn enough from this expansion, while the vogue lasts, to make his Anthropophili a force in world public opinion."

"As if any dictator ever cared a hoot for world public opinion! You didn't see these gnomes or whatever the hell they're supposed to be?"

"No, but I heard them. Nearly busted my eardrums. I'd say to go ahead with the loan."

"Willy," growled my boss, "you've got a thing or two to learn about the lengths to which people will go to get their hands on the other guy's money. How do you know all that racket wasn't a recording, played over a loudspeaker?"

"Unh," I said. "I hadn't thought of that. Maybe you're just being too suspicious."

"Any time somebody wants to borrow half a million bucks on the pretext that he has spooks or fairies working for him, you're damned right I'm suspicious. What's the name of Owens's cult again?"

"The Anthropophili."

"Doesn't that mean 'man-eaters' or 'cannibals'?"

"No; you're thinking of 'Anthropophagi.' I think this name means 'lovers of man.'"

"Maybe they love man the way I love a good steak. Now, you go back and tell 'em: if you don't see their alleged gnomes, it's no deal."

"They say their workers—whatever they are—are touchy about letting people see them."

"That's their problem. You do as I say."

Next morning, when Owens and Bellamy came to the motel, I delivered Drexel's ultimatum. Again, Bellamy seemed about to burst with suppressed rage. Owens soothed him:

"Never mind, Forrest. 'Even the gods cannot strive against necessity.'" To me he said: "You understand, Mr. Newbury, that there may be certain—ah—difficulties in dealing with these beings? There might even be some risk."

"I'm not worried," I said.

Overnight, I had become half converted to Drexel's suggestions that the noise was from a recording. In any case, I was ninety-eight per cent certain that the workers, if any, would prove to be ordinary mortal men.

Back at the Oecus, Owens again unlocked the iron door in the pit. Down we went.

As we descended, I noticed a difference. The metallic clangor, instead of starting faintly as we entered the tunnel and slowly rising to an earsplitting din, was missing. There was a faint susurration, which grew to the sound of a multitude of bass voices, all talking at once. But this time, there was no anvil chorus.

My companions noticed it, too. Owens and Bellamy stopped to confer in low tones.

"Are they taking a coffee break?" I asked.

"Dunno," said Bellamy. "They sure ain't doing what they're supposed to."

"Some emergency must have arisen," said Owens.

"Perhaps an accident. We shall know when we get there."

We entered the vestibule. The noise was loud, although nothing compared to the previous uproar. Owens said:

"You and I shall wait here, Mr. Newbury, while Forrest goes ahead to make the arrangements."

"You mean to get these trolls' permission to bring me in?"

"Quite. Sit down and relax; this may require some time."

Owens and I sat. Bellamy disappeared into a passage at the far end of the chamber. This passage was angled so that one could not, from the vestibule, look into the working space beyond.

The rumble of voices died to near-silence. I heard Forrest Bellamy's voice, too muffled to tell what he was saying. Then the bass voices rose again. I still could not identify the language.

Owens and I sat and sat. Owens spoke of his ideals and his grandiose plans for the Anthropophili. At last he took out his watch.

"There must be more difficulty than I anticipated," he said. "I'll give Forrest another quarter-hour."

We sat for fifteen minutes more. Then, with another look at his watch, Owens rose.

"I shall have to take a look myself," he said. "Please remain where you are, Mr. Newbury. You must not attempt to follow me without instructions. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said.

Owens disappeared into the same passage that had swallowed Bellamy. The vocal noises died down briefly and then rose again.

I waited another quarter-hour. The temptation to sneak a look into the cave was strong, but I withstood it. I have the normal quota of curiosity and perhaps a bit more; but with a wife and three children at home, I did not care to let curiosity kill this particular cat.

Then the noises rose sharply. I thought I recognized the sound of an angry mob.

Colin Owens popped out of the passageway. His hair was awry, he had lost his glasses, he bled from a scratch on his face, and his coat lacked one sleeve.

"Run for your life!" he cried as he scampered past me.

I leaped from the chair and caught up with him in a few strides. Being much bigger than he, twenty years his junior, and in good physical trim for a man of my middling years, I could have left him far behind. Instead, I grabbed his arm and boosted him along. Even so, he had to stop now and then to catch his breath.

Behind us, the sound of voices mingled with the slap and tramp of many feet, running through the tunnel.

"Keep on!" gasped Owens. "They'll pound us—sledge hammers—"

I doubled my efforts to manhandle the little man along. The next time he stopped for breath, he gasped: "That idiot—should have gone in sooner myself—serves him bloody right ..."

Then the lights went out. Owens uttered a shrill cry: "Oh, my God!"

"Put your hand out and feel the wall," I said. "Pick up your feet!"

The footsteps and the rumbling cries intensified. I could see nothing. When we came to the place where the passage sloped up, I stumbled and almost fell. I thought: this is it. With a desperate effort, I got my feet under me again and ran on.

Brushing the wall, we jogged up the slope, while the sounds of pursuit came ever louder. Something whirled through the air behind us, to strike the stony wall and rebound to the floor with a clatter. While I could not see the missile, a thrown sledge hammer would have made such a sound.

"I'm—I'm done," wheezed Owens. "Go on, Mr. Newbury. Save yourself."

"Nonsense!" I said. I scooped up Owens and carried him like a child. Luckily he did not weight much over a hundred.

In my imagination, I could almost feel the breath of our pursuers. Any minute, I expected a hammer to come down-on my skull.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, a little dot of gray appeared ahead. I recognized it as a bend in the tunnel, near the exit. The short leg between the door and this bend was lit by the sunlight outside.

The gray spot grew larger and took rectangular shape. Then we were around the bend and through the door, blinking in the sunshine. I put Owens down and collapsed on the bricks. Owens shut the door, locked it, and stood over me.

"It's all right," he said. "They are allergic to sunlight and hate to expose themselves to it. You saved my life."

When I got my breath back and my racing heart slowed down, I asked: "What happened?"

"Forrest came in on a union organization meeting. He got into an argument with the would-be leader, and he has— had—a violent temper. He was foolish enough to strike the— the organizer. My workers, also, are rather short-tempered, and the next I knew, they were all over him with hammers and other implements. When I saw his brains spattered, I jolly well ran for it."

"What now? Whom do you notify?"

"I shall take care of that, never fear. Your business is finished here, Mr. Newbury. Obviously, my great dream will have to await a more propitious occasion. Let me drive you back to the motel."

Although usually loquacious, Owens was silent on the return trip. While I was curious about his plans, he answered my questions evasively until I stopped asking.

That evening, I reported to Drexel. Next day, I heard nothing from the Oecus. Their telephone did not answer. I finally made an airplane reservation and called a taxi. On a whim, I told the driver to detour to the Oecus on the way to the airport.

The house had overnight become a deserted ruin. Of Colin Owens and his followers there was no sign. The place looked as if a gang of vandals had gone through it with crowbars and hammers.

Every window was broken. Furniture was thrown about and smashed. Wall fittings had been ripped out and floor boards pried up. Some of the plaster had been battered from the walls. Rugs had been ripped or fouled. Such a wreck was the building that it was dangerous even to walk about it, for fear of falling through the floor or having something collapse on one.

I went out back and looked into the pit. The iron door had been broken open and torn from its hinges. It lay on the bricks, crumpled like a piece of tinfoil.

I remembered Owens's saying that his workers avoided sunlight, but that would not have stopped them from coming out at night to raid the Oecus. Whether they had caught any members of the Anthropophili, I could not tell. I saw no bloodstains in the ruin, but there was nobody about to answer questions. Could the cult members have inflicted this destruction themselves, before abandoning their headquarters?

I even wondered if the whole thing had been a hallucination or a dream. But there had been nothing imaginary about the application for his loan, with supporting documents, which Owens had sent in, or about my visit to Atlanta. The only way to straighten things out would have been to invade the tunnel again, but I was neither brave nor determined enough to embark upon such an adventure. Besides, I had a 'plane to catch.

I suppose I ought to have reported to the State Police. But I could not imagine explaining to a trooper that I had been chased through a tunnel under Stone Mountain by a mob of infuriated gnomes.

Besides, there was the bank's reputation to consider. Nobody wants to leave his money with an institution run by hallucines. Although my inaction has nipped my conscience since, it is one of the things one must learn to live with, along with the memory of the other follies and blunders of a normally active life.

When I reported back to Esau Drexel, he said: "Well, Willy, you know I'm no goddam pink liberal. But I've got to admit that labor unions are here to stay. Even the elves, gnomes, and other hobgoblins have 'em!"