Metamorphosis
Franz Kafka

Translated by David Wyllie

I

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked.

"What's happened to me?" he thought. It wasn't a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table - Samsa was a travelling salesman - and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.

Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. "How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense", he thought, but that was something he was unable to do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present state couldn't get into that position. However hard he threw himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was. He must have tried it a hundred times, shut his eyes so that he wouldn't have to look at the floundering legs, and only stopped when he began to feel a mild, dull pain there that he had never felt before.

"Oh, God", he thought, "what a strenuous career it is that I've chosen! Travelling day in and day out. Doing business like this takes much more effort than doing your own business at home, and on top of that there's the curse of travelling, worries about making train connections, bad and irregular food, contact with different people all the time so that you can never get to know anyone or become friendly with them. It can all go to Hell!" He felt a slight itch up on his belly; pushed himself slowly up on his back towards the headboard so that he could lift his head better; found where the itch was, and saw that it was covered with lots of little white spots which he didn't know what to make of; and when he tried to feel the place with one of his legs he drew it quickly back because as soon as he touched it he was overcome by a cold shudder.

He slid back into his former position. "Getting up early all the time", he thought, "it makes you stupid. You've got to get enough sleep. Other travelling salesmen live a life of luxury. For instance, whenever I go back to the guest house during the morning to copy out the contract, these gentlemen are always still sitting there eating their breakfasts. I ought to just try that with my boss; I'd get kicked out on the spot. But who knows, maybe that would be the best thing for me. If I didn't have my parents to think about I'd have given in my notice a long time ago, I'd have gone up to the boss and told him just what I think, tell him everything I would, let him know just what I feel. He'd fall right off his desk! And it's a funny sort of business to be sitting up there at your desk, talking down at your subordinates from up there, especially when you have to go right up close because the boss is hard of hearing. Well, there's still some hope; once I've got the money together to pay off my parents' debt to him - another five or six years I suppose - that's definitely what I'll do. That's when I'll make the big change. First of all though, I've got to get up, my train leaves at five."

And he looked over at the alarm clock, ticking on the chest of drawers. "God in Heaven!" he thought. It was half past six and the hands were quietly moving forwards, it was even later than half past, more like quarter to seven. Had the alarm clock not rung? He could see from the bed that it had been set for four o'clock as it should have been; it certainly must have rung. Yes, but was it possible to quietly sleep through that furniture-rattling noise? True, he had not slept peacefully, but probably all the more deeply because of that. What should he do now? The next train went at seven; if he were to catch that he would have to rush like mad and the collection of samples was still not packed, and he did not at all feel particularly fresh and lively. And even if he did catch the train he would not avoid his boss's anger as the office assistant would have been there to see the five o'clock train go, he would have put in his report about Gregor's not being there a long time ago. The office assistant was the boss's man, spineless, and with no understanding. What about if he reported sick? But that would be extremely strained and suspicious as in fifteen years of service Gregor had never once yet been ill. His boss would certainly come round with the doctor from the medical insurance company, accuse his parents of having a lazy son, and accept the doctor's recommendation not to make any claim as the doctor believed that no-one was ever ill but that many were workshy. And what's more, would he have been entirely wrong in this case? Gregor did in fact, apart from excessive sleepiness after sleeping for so long, feel completely well and even felt much hungrier than usual.

He was still hurriedly thinking all this through, unable to decide to get out of the bed, when the clock struck quarter to seven. There was a cautious knock at the door near his head. "Gregor", somebody called - it was his mother - "it's quarter to seven. Didn't you want to go somewhere?" That gentle voice! Gregor was shocked when he heard his own voice answering, it could hardly be recognised as the voice he had had before. As if from deep inside him, there was a painful and uncontrollable squeaking mixed in with it, the words could be made out at first but then there was a sort of echo which made them unclear, leaving the hearer unsure whether he had heard properly or not. Gregor had wanted to give a full answer and explain everything, but in the circumstances contented himself with saying: "Yes, mother, yes, thank-you, I'm getting up now." The change in Gregor's voice probably could not be noticed outside through the wooden door, as his mother was satisfied with this explanation and shuffled away. But this short conversation made the other members of the family aware that Gregor, against their expectations was still at home, and soon his father came knocking at one of the side doors, gently, but with his fist. "Gregor, Gregor", he called, "what's wrong?" And after a short while he called again with a warning deepness in his voice: "Gregor! Gregor!" At the other side door his sister came plaintively: "Gregor? Aren't you well? Do you need anything?" Gregor answered to both sides: "I'm ready, now", making an effort to remove all the strangeness from his voice by enunciating very carefully and putting long pauses between each, individual word. His father went back to his breakfast, but his sister whispered: "Gregor, open the door, I beg of you." Gregor, however, had no thought of opening the door, and instead congratulated himself for his cautious habit, acquired from his travelling, of locking all doors at night even when he was at home.

The first thing he wanted to do was to get up in peace without being disturbed, to get dressed, and most of all to have his breakfast. Only then would he consider what to do next, as he was well aware that he would not bring his thoughts to any sensible conclusions by lying in bed. He remembered that he had often felt a slight pain in bed, perhaps caused by lying awkwardly, but that had always turned out to be pure imagination and he wondered how his imaginings would slowly resolve themselves today. He did not have the slightest doubt that the change in his voice was nothing more than the first sign of a serious cold, which was an occupational hazard for travelling salesmen.

It was a simple matter to throw off the covers; he only had to blow himself up a little and they fell off by themselves. But it became difficult after that, especially as he was so exceptionally broad. He would have used his arms and his hands to push himself up; but instead of them he only had all those little legs continuously moving in different directions, and which he was moreover unable to control. If he wanted to bend one of them, then that was the first one that would stretch itself out; and if he finally managed to do what he wanted with that leg, all the others seemed to be set free and would move about painfully. "This is something that can't be done in bed", Gregor said to himself, "so don't keep trying to do it".

The first thing he wanted to do was get the lower part of his body out of the bed, but he had never seen this lower part, and could not imagine what it looked like; it turned out to be too hard to move; it went so slowly; and finally, almost in a frenzy, when he carelessly shoved himself forwards with all the force he could gather, he chose the wrong direction, hit hard against the lower bedpost, and learned from the burning pain he felt that the lower part of his body might well, at present, be the most sensitive.

So then he tried to get the top part of his body out of the bed first, carefully turning his head to the side. This he managed quite easily, and despite its breadth and its weight, the bulk of his body eventually followed slowly in the direction of the head. But when he had at last got his head out of the bed and into the fresh air it occurred to him that if he let himself fall it would be a miracle if his head were not injured, so he became afraid to carry on pushing himself forward the same way. And he could not knock himself out now at any price; better to stay in bed than lose consciousness.

It took just as much effort to get back to where he had been earlier, but when he lay there sighing, and was once more watching his legs as they struggled against each other even harder than before, if that was possible, he could think of no way of bringing peace and order to this chaos. He told himself once more that it was not possible for him to stay in bed and that the most sensible thing to do would be to get free of it in whatever way he could at whatever sacrifice. At the same time, though, he did not forget to remind himself that calm consideration was much better than rushing to desperate conclusions. At times like this he would direct his eyes to the window and look out as clearly as he could, but unfortunately, even the other side of the narrow street was enveloped in morning fog and the view had little confidence or cheer to offer him. "Seven o'clock, already", he said to himself when the clock struck again, "seven o'clock, and there's still a fog like this." And he lay there quietly a while longer, breathing lightly as if he perhaps expected the total stillness to bring things back to their real and natural state.

But then he said to himself: "Before it strikes quarter past seven I'll definitely have to have got properly out of bed. And by then somebody will have come round from work to ask what's happened to me as well, as they open up at work before seven o'clock." And so he set himself to the task of swinging the entire length of his body out of the bed all at the same time. If he succeeded in falling out of bed in this way and kept his head raised as he did so he could probably avoid injuring it. His back seemed to be quite hard, and probably nothing would happen to it falling onto the carpet. His main concern was for the loud noise he was bound to make, and which even through all the doors would probably raise concern if not alarm. But it was something that had to be risked.

When Gregor was already sticking half way out of the bed - the new method was more of a game than an effort, all he had to do was rock back and forth - it occurred to him how simple everything would be if somebody came to help him. Two strong people - he had his father and the maid in mind - would have been more than enough; they would only have to push their arms under the dome of his back, peel him away from the bed, bend down with the load and then be patient and careful as he swang over onto the floor, where, hopefully, the little legs would find a use. Should he really call for help though, even apart from the fact that all the doors were locked? Despite all the difficulty he was in, he could not suppress a smile at this thought.

After a while he had already moved so far across that it would have been hard for him to keep his balance if he rocked too hard. The time was now ten past seven and he would have to make a final decision very soon. Then there was a ring at the door of the flat. "That'll be someone from work", he said to himself, and froze very still, although his little legs only became all the more lively as they danced around. For a moment everything remained quiet. "They're not opening the door", Gregor said to himself, caught in some nonsensical hope. But then of course, the maid's firm steps went to the door as ever and opened it. Gregor only needed to hear the visitor's first words of greeting and he knew who it was - the chief clerk himself. Why did Gregor have to be the only one condemned to work for a company where they immediately became highly suspicious at the slightest shortcoming? Were all employees, every one of them, louts, was there not one of them who was faithful and devoted who would go so mad with pangs of conscience that he couldn't get out of bed if he didn't spend at least a couple of hours in the morning on company business? Was it really not enough to let one of the trainees make enquiries - assuming enquiries were even necessary - did the chief clerk have to come himself, and did they have to show the whole, innocent family that this was so suspicious that only the chief clerk could be trusted to have the wisdom to investigate it? And more because these thoughts had made him upset than through any proper decision, he swang himself with all his force out of the bed. There was a loud thump, but it wasn't really a loud noise. His fall was softened a little by the carpet, and Gregor's back was also more elastic than he had thought, which made the sound muffled and not too noticeable. He had not held his head carefully enough, though, and hit it as he fell; annoyed and in pain, he turned it and rubbed it against the carpet.

"Something's fallen down in there", said the chief clerk in the room on the left. Gregor tried to imagine whether something of the sort that had happened to him today could ever happen to the chief clerk too; you had to concede that it was possible. But as if in gruff reply to this question, the chief clerk's firm footsteps in his highly polished boots could now be heard in the adjoining room. From the room on his right, Gregor's sister whispered to him to let him know: "Gregor, the chief clerk is here." "Yes, I know", said Gregor to himself; but without daring to raise his voice loud enough for his sister to hear him.

"Gregor", said his father now from the room to his left, "the chief clerk has come round and wants to know why you didn't leave on the early train. We don't know what to say to him. And anyway, he wants to speak to you personally. So please open up this door. I'm sure he'll be good enough to forgive the untidiness of your room." Then the chief clerk called "Good morning, Mr. Samsa". "He isn't well", said his mother to the chief clerk, while his father continued to speak through the door. "He isn't well, please believe me. Why else would Gregor have missed a train! The lad only ever thinks about the business. It nearly makes me cross the way he never goes out in the evenings; he's been in town for a week now but stayed home every evening. He sits with us in the kitchen and just reads the paper or studies train timetables. His idea of relaxation is working with his fretsaw. He's made a little frame, for instance, it only took him two or three evenings, you'll be amazed how nice it is; it's hanging up in his room; you'll see it as soon as Gregor opens the door. Anyway, I'm glad you're here; we wouldn't have been able to get Gregor to open the door by ourselves; he's so stubborn; and I'm sure he isn't well, he said this morning that he is, but he isn't." "I'll be there in a moment", said Gregor slowly and thoughtfully, but without moving so that he would not miss any word of the conversation. "Well I can't think of any other way of explaining it, Mrs. Samsa", said the chief clerk, "I hope it's nothing serious. But on the other hand, I must say that if we people in commerce ever become slightly unwell then, fortunately or unfortunately as you like, we simply have to overcome it because of business considerations." "Can the chief clerk come in to see you now then?", asked his father impatiently, knocking at the door again. "No", said Gregor. In the room on his right there followed a painful silence; in the room on his left his sister began to cry.

So why did his sister not go and join the others? She had probably only just got up and had not even begun to get dressed. And why was she crying? Was it because he had not got up, and had not let the chief clerk in, because he was in danger of losing his job and if that happened his boss would once more pursue their parents with the same demands as before? There was no need to worry about things like that yet. Gregor was still there and had not the slightest intention of abandoning his family. For the time being he just lay there on the carpet, and no-one who knew the condition he was in would seriously have expected him to let the chief clerk in. It was only a minor discourtesy, and a suitable excuse could easily be found for it later on, it was not something for which Gregor could be sacked on the spot. And it seemed to Gregor much more sensible to leave him now in peace instead of disturbing him with talking at him and crying. But the others didn't know what was happening, they were worried, that would excuse their behaviour.

The chief clerk now raised his voice, "Mr. Samsa", he called to him, "what is wrong? You barricade yourself in your room, give us no more than yes or no for an answer, you are causing serious and unnecessary concern to your parents and you fail - and I mention this just by the way - you fail to carry out your business duties in a way that is quite unheard of. I'm speaking here on behalf of your parents and of your employer, and really must request a clear and immediate explanation. I am astonished, quite astonished. I thought I knew you as a calm and sensible person, and now you suddenly seem to be showing off with peculiar whims. This morning, your employer did suggest a possible reason for your failure to appear, it's true - it had to do with the money that was recently entrusted to you - but I came near to giving him my word of honour that that could not be the right explanation. But now that I see your incomprehensible stubbornness I no longer feel any wish whatsoever to intercede on your behalf. And nor is your position all that secure. I had originally intended to say all this to you in private, but since you cause me to waste my time here for no good reason I don't see why your parents should not also learn of it. Your turnover has been very unsatisfactory of late; I grant you that it's not the time of year to do especially good business, we recognise that; but there simply is no time of year to do no business at all, Mr. Samsa, we cannot allow there to be."

"But Sir", called Gregor, beside himself and forgetting all else in the excitement, "I'll open up immediately, just a moment. I'm slightly unwell, an attack of dizziness, I haven't been able to get up. I'm still in bed now. I'm quite fresh again now, though. I'm just getting out of bed. Just a moment. Be patient! It's not quite as easy as I'd thought. I'm quite alright now, though. It's shocking, what can suddenly happen to a person! I was quite alright last night, my parents know about it, perhaps better than me, I had a small symptom of it last night already. They must have noticed it. I don't know why I didn't let you know at work! But you always think you can get over an illness without staying at home. Please, don't make my parents suffer! There's no basis for any of the accusations you're making; nobody's ever said a word to me about any of these things. Maybe you haven't read the latest contracts I sent in. I'll set off with the eight o'clock train, as well, these few hours of rest have given me strength. You don't need to wait, sir; I'll be in the office soon after you, and please be so good as to tell that to the boss and recommend me to him!"

And while Gregor gushed out these words, hardly knowing what he was saying, he made his way over to the chest of drawers - this was easily done, probably because of the practise he had already had in bed - where he now tried to get himself upright. He really did want to open the door, really did want to let them see him and to speak with the chief clerk; the others were being so insistent, and he was curious to learn what they would say when they caught sight of him. If they were shocked then it would no longer be Gregor's responsibility and he could rest. If, however, they took everything calmly he would still have no reason to be upset, and if he hurried he really could be at the station for eight o'clock. The first few times he tried to climb up on the smooth chest of drawers he just slid down again, but he finally gave himself one last swing and stood there upright; the lower part of his body was in serious pain but he no longer gave any attention to it. Now he let himself fall against the back of a nearby chair and held tightly to the edges of it with his little legs. By now he had also calmed down, and kept quiet so that he could listen to what the chief clerk was saying.

"Did you understand a word of all that?" the chief clerk asked his parents, "surely he's not trying to make fools of us". "Oh, God!" called his mother, who was already in tears, "he could be seriously ill and we're making him suffer. Grete! Grete!" she then cried. "Mother?" his sister called from the other side. They communicated across Gregor's room. "You'll have to go for the doctor straight away. Gregor is ill. Quick, get the doctor. Did you hear the way Gregor spoke just now?" "That was the voice of an animal", said the chief clerk, with a calmness that was in contrast with his mother's screams. "Anna! Anna!" his father called into the kitchen through the entrance hall, clapping his hands, "get a locksmith here, now!" And the two girls, their skirts swishing, immediately ran out through the hall, wrenching open the front door of the flat as they went. How had his sister managed to get dressed so quickly? There was no sound of the door banging shut again; they must have left it open; people often do in homes where something awful has happened.

Gregor, in contrast, had become much calmer. So they couldn't understand his words any more, although they seemed clear enough to him, clearer than before - perhaps his ears had become used to the sound. They had realised, though, that there was something wrong with him, and were ready to help. The first response to his situation had been confident and wise, and that made him feel better. He felt that he had been drawn back in among people, and from the doctor and the locksmith he expected great and surprising achievements - although he did not really distinguish one from the other. Whatever was said next would be crucial, so, in order to make his voice as clear as possible, he coughed a little, but taking care to do this not too loudly as even this might well sound different from the way that a human coughs and he was no longer sure he could judge this for himself. Meanwhile, it had become very quiet in the next room. Perhaps his parents were sat at the table whispering with the chief clerk, or perhaps they were all pressed against the door and listening.

Gregor slowly pushed his way over to the door with the chair. Once there he let go of it and threw himself onto the door, holding himself upright against it using the adhesive on the tips of his legs. He rested there a little while to recover from the effort involved and then set himself to the task of turning the key in the lock with his mouth. He seemed, unfortunately, to have no proper teeth - how was he, then, to grasp the key? - but the lack of teeth was, of course, made up for with a very strong jaw; using the jaw, he really was able to start the key turning, ignoring the fact that he must have been causing some kind of damage as a brown fluid came from his mouth, flowed over the key and dripped onto the floor. "Listen", said the chief clerk in the next room, "he's turning the key." Gregor was greatly encouraged by this; but they all should have been calling to him, his father and his mother too: "Well done, Gregor", they should have cried, "keep at it, keep hold of the lock!" And with the idea that they were all excitedly following his efforts, he bit on the key with all his strength, paying no attention to the pain he was causing himself. As the key turned round he turned around the lock with it, only holding himself upright with his mouth, and hung onto the key or pushed it down again with the whole weight of his body as needed. The clear sound of the lock as it snapped back was Gregor's sign that he could break his concentration, and as he regained his breath he said to himself: "So, I didn't need the locksmith after all". Then he lay his head on the handle of the door to open it completely.

Because he had to open the door in this way, it was already wide open before he could be seen. He had first to slowly turn himself around one of the double doors, and he had to do it very carefully if he did not want to fall flat on his back before entering the room. He was still occupied with this difficult movement, unable to pay attention to anything else, when he heard the chief clerk exclaim a loud "Oh!", which sounded like the soughing of the wind. Now he also saw him - he was the nearest to the door - his hand pressed against his open mouth and slowly retreating as if driven by a steady and invisible force. Gregor's mother, her hair still dishevelled from bed despite the chief clerk's being there, looked at his father. Then she unfolded her arms, took two steps forward towards Gregor and sank down onto the floor into her skirts that spread themselves out around her as her head disappeared down onto her breast. His father looked hostile, and clenched his fists as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room. Then he looked uncertainly round the living room, covered his eyes with his hands and wept so that his powerful chest shook.

So Gregor did not go into the room, but leant against the inside of the other door which was still held bolted in place. In this way only half of his body could be seen, along with his head above it which he leant over to one side as he peered out at the others. Meanwhile the day had become much lighter; part of the endless, grey-black building on the other side of the street - which was a hospital - could be seen quite clearly with the austere and regular line of windows piercing its façade; the rain was still falling, now throwing down large, individual droplets which hit the ground one at a time. The washing up from breakfast lay on the table; there was so much of it because, for Gregor's father, breakfast was the most important meal of the day and he would stretch it out for several hours as he sat reading a number of different newspapers. On the wall exactly opposite there was photograph of Gregor when he was a lieutenant in the army, his sword in his hand and a carefree smile on his face as he called forth respect for his uniform and bearing. The door to the entrance hall was open and as the front door of the flat was also open he could see onto the landing and the stairs where they began their way down below.

"Now, then", said Gregor, well aware that he was the only one to have kept calm, "I'll get dressed straight away now, pack up my samples and set off. Will you please just let me leave? You can see", he said to the chief clerk, "that I'm not stubborn and I like to do my job; being a commercial traveller is arduous but without travelling I couldn't earn my living. So where are you going, in to the office? Yes? Will you report everything accurately, then? It's quite possible for someone to be temporarily unable to work, but that's just the right time to remember what's been achieved in the past and consider that later on, once the difficulty has been removed, he will certainly work with all the more diligence and concentration. You're well aware that I'm seriously in debt to our employer as well as having to look after my parents and my sister, so that I'm trapped in a difficult situation, but I will work my way out of it again. Please don't make things any harder for me than they are already, and don't take sides against me at the office. I know that nobody likes the travellers. They think we earn an enormous wage as well as having a soft time of it. That's just prejudice but they have no particular reason to think better of it. But you, sir, you have a better overview than the rest of the staff, in fact, if I can say this in confidence, a better overview than the boss himself - it's very easy for a businessman like him to make mistakes about his employees and judge them more harshly than he should. And you're also well aware that we travellers spend almost the whole year away from the office, so that we can very easily fall victim to gossip and chance and groundless complaints, and it's almost impossible to defend yourself from that sort of thing, we don't usually even hear about them, or if at all it's when we arrive back home exhausted from a trip, and that's when we feel the harmful effects of what's been going on without even knowing what caused them. Please, don't go away, at least first say something to show that you grant that I'm at least partly right!"

But the chief clerk had turned away as soon as Gregor had started to speak, and, with protruding lips, only stared back at him over his trembling shoulders as he left. He did not keep still for a moment while Gregor was speaking, but moved steadily towards the door without taking his eyes off him. He moved very gradually, as if there had been some secret prohibition on leaving the room. It was only when he had reached the entrance hall that he made a sudden movement, drew his foot from the living room, and rushed forward in a panic. In the hall, he stretched his right hand far out towards the stairway as if out there, there were some supernatural force waiting to save him.

Gregor realised that it was out of the question to let the chief clerk go away in this mood if his position in the firm was not to be put into extreme danger. That was something his parents did not understand very well; over the years, they had become convinced that this job would provide for Gregor for his entire life, and besides, they had so much to worry about at present that they had lost sight of any thought for the future. Gregor, though, did think about the future. The chief clerk had to be held back, calmed down, convinced and finally won over; the future of Gregor and his family depended on it! If only his sister were here! She was clever; she was already in tears while Gregor was still lying peacefully on his back. And the chief clerk was a lover of women, surely she could persuade him; she would close the front door in the entrance hall and talk him out of his shocked state. But his sister was not there, Gregor would have to do the job himself. And without considering that he still was not familiar with how well he could move about in his present state, or that his speech still might not - or probably would not - be understood, he let go of the door; pushed himself through the opening; tried to reach the chief clerk on the landing who, ridiculously, was holding on to the banister with both hands; but Gregor fell immediately over and, with a little scream as he sought something to hold onto, landed on his numerous little legs. Hardly had that happened than, for the first time that day, he began to feel alright with his body; the little legs had the solid ground under them; to his pleasure, they did exactly as he told them; they were even making the effort to carry him where he wanted to go; and he was soon believing that all his sorrows would soon be finally at an end. He held back the urge to move but swayed from side to side as he crouched there on the floor. His mother was not far away in front of him and seemed, at first, quite engrossed in herself, but then she suddenly jumped up with her arms outstretched and her fingers spread shouting: "Help, for pity's sake, Help!" The way she held her head suggested she wanted to see Gregor better, but the unthinking way she was hurrying backwards showed that she did not; she had forgotten that the table was behind her with all the breakfast things on it; when she reached the table she sat quickly down on it without knowing what she was doing; without even seeming to notice that the coffee pot had been knocked over and a gush of coffee was pouring down onto the carpet.

"Mother, mother", said Gregor gently, looking up at her. He had completely forgotten the chief clerk for the moment, but could not help himself snapping in the air with his jaws at the sight of the flow of coffee. That set his mother screaming anew, she fled from the table and into the arms of his father as he rushed towards her. Gregor, though, had no time to spare for his parents now; the chief clerk had already reached the stairs; with his chin on the banister, he looked back for the last time. Gregor made a run for him; he wanted to be sure of reaching him; the chief clerk must have expected something, as he leapt down several steps at once and disappeared; his shouts resounding all around the staircase. The flight of the chief clerk seemed, unfortunately, to put Gregor's father into a panic as well. Until then he had been relatively self controlled, but now, instead of running after the chief clerk himself, or at least not impeding Gregor as he ran after him, Gregor's father seized the chief clerk's stick in his right hand (the chief clerk had left it behind on a chair, along with his hat and overcoat), picked up a large newspaper from the table with his left, and used them to drive Gregor back into his room, stamping his foot at him as he went. Gregor's appeals to his father were of no help, his appeals were simply not understood, however much he humbly turned his head his father merely stamped his foot all the harder. Across the room, despite the chilly weather, Gregor's mother had pulled open a window, leant far out of it and pressed her hands to her face. A strong draught of air flew in from the street towards the stairway, the curtains flew up, the newspapers on the table fluttered and some of them were blown onto the floor. Nothing would stop Gregor's father as he drove him back, making hissing noises at him like a wild man. Gregor had never had any practice in moving backwards and was only able to go very slowly. If Gregor had only been allowed to turn round he would have been back in his room straight away, but he was afraid that if he took the time to do that his father would become impatient, and there was the threat of a lethal blow to his back or head from the stick in his father's hand any moment. Eventually, though, Gregor realised that he had no choice as he saw, to his disgust, that he was quite incapable of going backwards in a straight line; so he began, as quickly as possible and with frequent anxious glances at his father, to turn himself round. It went very slowly, but perhaps his father was able to see his good intentions as he did nothing to hinder him, in fact now and then he used the tip of his stick to give directions from a distance as to which way to turn. If only his father would stop that unbearable hissing! It was making Gregor quite confused. When he had nearly finished turning round, still listening to that hissing, he made a mistake and turned himself back a little the way he had just come. He was pleased when he finally had his head in front of the doorway, but then saw that it was too narrow, and his body was too broad to get through it without further difficulty. In his present mood, it obviously did not occur to his father to open the other of the double doors so that Gregor would have enough space to get through. He was merely fixed on the idea that Gregor should be got back into his room as quickly as possible. Nor would he ever have allowed Gregor the time to get himself upright as preparation for getting through the doorway. What he did, making more noise than ever, was to drive Gregor forwards all the harder as if there had been nothing in the way; it sounded to Gregor as if there was now more than one father behind him; it was not a pleasant experience, and Gregor pushed himself into the doorway without regard for what might happen. One side of his body lifted itself, he lay at an angle in the doorway, one flank scraped on the white door and was painfully injured, leaving vile brown flecks on it, soon he was stuck fast and would not have been able to move at all by himself, the little legs along one side hung quivering in the air while those on the other side were pressed painfully against the ground. Then his father gave him a hefty shove from behind which released him from where he was held and sent him flying, and heavily bleeding, deep into his room. The door was slammed shut with the stick, then, finally, all was quiet.

II

It was not until it was getting dark that evening that Gregor awoke from his deep and coma-like sleep. He would have woken soon afterwards anyway even if he hadn't been disturbed, as he had had enough sleep and felt fully rested. But he had the impression that some hurried steps and the sound of the door leading into the front room being carefully shut had woken him. The light from the electric street lamps shone palely here and there onto the ceiling and tops of the furniture, but down below, where Gregor was, it was dark. He pushed himself over to the door, feeling his way clumsily with his antennae - of which he was now beginning to learn the value - in order to see what had been happening there. The whole of his left side seemed like one, painfully stretched scar, and he limped badly on his two rows of legs. One of the legs had been badly injured in the events of that morning - it was nearly a miracle that only one of them had been - and dragged along lifelessly.

It was only when he had reached the door that he realised what it actually was that had drawn him over to it; it was the smell of something to eat. By the door there was a dish filled with sweetened milk with little pieces of white bread floating in it. He was so pleased he almost laughed, as he was even hungrier than he had been that morning, and immediately dipped his head into the milk, nearly covering his eyes with it. But he soon drew his head back again in disappointment; not only did the pain in his tender left side make it difficult to eat the food - he was only able to eat if his whole body worked together as a snuffling whole - but the milk did not taste at all nice. Milk like this was normally his favourite drink, and his sister had certainly left it there for him because of that, but he turned, almost against his own will, away from the dish and crawled back into the centre of the room.

Through the crack in the door, Gregor could see that the gas had been lit in the living room. His father at this time would normally be sat with his evening paper, reading it out in a loud voice to Gregor's mother, and sometimes to his sister, but there was now not a sound to be heard. Gregor's sister would often write and tell him about this reading, but maybe his father had lost the habit in recent times. It was so quiet all around too, even though there must have been somebody in the flat. "What a quiet life it is the family lead", said Gregor to himself, and, gazing into the darkness, felt a great pride that he was able to provide a life like that in such a nice home for his sister and parents. But what now, if all this peace and wealth and comfort should come to a horrible and frightening end? That was something that Gregor did not want to think about too much, so he started to move about, crawling up and down the room.

Once during that long evening, the door on one side of the room was opened very slightly and hurriedly closed again; later on the door on the other side did the same; it seemed that someone needed to enter the room but thought better of it. Gregor went and waited immediately by the door, resolved either to bring the timorous visitor into the room in some way or at least to find out who it was; but the door was opened no more that night and Gregor waited in vain. The previous morning while the doors were locked everyone had wanted to get in there to him, but now, now that he had opened up one of the doors and the other had clearly been unlocked some time during the day, no-one came, and the keys were in the other sides.

It was not until late at night that the gaslight in the living room was put out, and now it was easy to see that his parents and sister had stayed awake all that time, as they all could be distinctly heard as they went away together on tip-toe. It was clear that no-one would come into Gregor's room any more until morning; that gave him plenty of time to think undisturbed about how he would have to re-arrange his life. For some reason, the tall, empty room where he was forced to remain made him feel uneasy as he lay there flat on the floor, even though he had been living in it for five years. Hardly aware of what he was doing other than a slight feeling of shame, he hurried under the couch. It pressed down on his back a little, and he was no longer able to lift his head, but he nonetheless felt immediately at ease and his only regret was that his body was too broad to get it all underneath.

He spent the whole night there. Some of the time he passed in a light sleep, although he frequently woke from it in alarm because of his hunger, and some of the time was spent in worries and vague hopes which, however, always led to the same conclusion: for the time being he must remain calm, he must show patience and the greatest consideration so that his family could bear the unpleasantness that he, in his present condition, was forced to impose on them.

Gregor soon had the opportunity to test the strength of his decisions, as early the next morning, almost before the night had ended, his sister, nearly fully dressed, opened the door from the front room and looked anxiously in. She did not see him straight away, but when she did notice him under the couch - he had to be somewhere, for God's sake, he couldn't have flown away - she was so shocked that she lost control of herself and slammed the door shut again from outside. But she seemed to regret her behaviour, as she opened the door again straight away and came in on tip-toe as if entering the room of someone seriously ill or even of a stranger. Gregor had pushed his head forward, right to the edge of the couch, and watched her. Would she notice that he had left the milk as it was, realise that it was not from any lack of hunger and bring him in some other food that was more suitable? If she didn't do it herself he would rather go hungry than draw her attention to it, although he did feel a terrible urge to rush forward from under the couch, throw himself at his sister's feet and beg her for something good to eat. However, his sister noticed the full dish immediately and looked at it and the few drops of milk splashed around it with some surprise. She immediately picked it up - using a rag, not her bare hands - and carried it out. Gregor was extremely curious as to what she would bring in its place, imagining the wildest possibilities, but he never could have guessed what his sister, in her goodness, actually did bring. In order to test his taste, she brought him a whole selection of things, all spread out on an old newspaper. There were old, half-rotten vegetables; bones from the evening meal, covered in white sauce that had gone hard; a few raisins and almonds; some cheese that Gregor had declared inedible two days before; a dry roll and some bread spread with butter and salt. As well as all that she had poured some water into the dish, which had probably been permanently set aside for Gregor's use, and placed it beside them. Then, out of consideration for Gregor's feelings, as she knew that he would not eat in front of her, she hurried out again and even turned the key in the lock so that Gregor would know he could make things as comfortable for himself as he liked. Gregor's little legs whirred, at last he could eat. What's more, his injuries must already have completely healed as he found no difficulty in moving. This amazed him, as more than a month earlier he had cut his finger slightly with a knife, he thought of how his finger had still hurt the day before yesterday. "Am I less sensitive than I used to be, then?", he thought, and was already sucking greedily at the cheese which had immediately, almost compellingly, attracted him much more than the other foods on the newspaper. Quickly one after another, his eyes watering with pleasure, he consumed the cheese, the vegetables and the sauce; the fresh foods, on the other hand, he didn't like at all, and even dragged the things he did want to eat a little way away from them because he couldn't stand the smell. Long after he had finished eating and lay lethargic in the same place, his sister slowly turned the key in the lock as a sign to him that he should withdraw. He was immediately startled, although he had been half asleep, and he hurried back under the couch. But he needed great self-control to stay there even for the short time that his sister was in the room, as eating so much food had rounded out his body a little and he could hardly breathe in that narrow space. Half suffocating, he watched with bulging eyes as his sister unselfconsciously took a broom and swept up the left-overs, mixing them in with the food he had not even touched at all as if it could not be used any more. She quickly dropped it all into a bin, closed it with its wooden lid, and carried everything out. She had hardly turned her back before Gregor came out again from under the couch and stretched himself.

This was how Gregor received his food each day now, once in the morning while his parents and the maid were still asleep, and the second time after everyone had eaten their meal at midday as his parents would sleep for a little while then as well, and Gregor's sister would send the maid away on some errand. Gregor's father and mother certainly did not want him to starve either, but perhaps it would have been more than they could stand to have any more experience of his feeding than being told about it, and perhaps his sister wanted to spare them what distress she could as they were indeed suffering enough.

It was impossible for Gregor to find out what they had told the doctor and the locksmith that first morning to get them out of the flat. As nobody could understand him, nobody, not even his sister, thought that he could understand them, so he had to be content to hear his sister's sighs and appeals to the saints as she moved about his room. It was only later, when she had become a little more used to everything - there was, of course, no question of her ever becoming fully used to the situation - that Gregor would sometimes catch a friendly comment, or at least a comment that could be construed as friendly. "He's enjoyed his dinner today", she might say when he had diligently cleared away all the food left for him, or if he left most of it, which slowly became more and more frequent, she would often say, sadly, "now everything's just been left there again".

Although Gregor wasn't able to hear any news directly he did listen to much of what was said in the next rooms, and whenever he heard anyone speaking he would scurry straight to the appropriate door and press his whole body against it. There was seldom any conversation, especially at first, that was not about him in some way, even if only in secret. For two whole days, all the talk at every mealtime was about what they should do now; but even between meals they spoke about the same subject as there were always at least two members of the family at home - nobody wanted to be at home by themselves and it was out of the question to leave the flat entirely empty. And on the very first day the maid had fallen to her knees and begged Gregor's mother to let her go without delay. It was not very clear how much she knew of what had happened but she left within a quarter of an hour, tearfully thanking Gregor's mother for her dismissal as if she had done her an enormous service. She even swore emphatically not to tell anyone the slightest about what had happened, even though no-one had asked that of her.

Now Gregor's sister also had to help his mother with the cooking; although that was not so much bother as no-one ate very much. Gregor often heard how one of them would unsuccessfully urge another to eat, and receive no more answer than "no thanks, I've had enough" or something similar. No-one drank very much either. His sister would sometimes ask his father whether he would like a beer, hoping for the chance to go and fetch it herself. When his father then said nothing she would add, so that he would not feel selfish, that she could send the housekeeper for it, but then his father would close the matter with a big, loud "No", and no more would be said.

Even before the first day had come to an end, his father had explained to Gregor's mother and sister what their finances and prospects were. Now and then he stood up from the table and took some receipt or document from the little cash box he had saved from his business when it had collapsed five years earlier. Gregor heard how he opened the complicated lock and then closed it again after he had taken the item he wanted. What he heard his father say was some of the first good news that Gregor heard since he had first been incarcerated in his room. He had thought that nothing at all remained from his father's business, at least he had never told him anything different, and Gregor had never asked him about it anyway. Their business misfortune had reduced the family to a state of total despair, and Gregor's only concern at that time had been to arrange things so that they could all forget about it as quickly as possible. So then he started working especially hard, with a fiery vigour that raised him from a junior salesman to a travelling representative almost overnight, bringing with it the chance to earn money in quite different ways. Gregor converted his success at work straight into cash that he could lay on the table at home for the benefit of his astonished and delighted family. They had been good times and they had never come again, at least not with the same splendour, even though Gregor had later earned so much that he was in a position to bear the costs of the whole family, and did bear them. They had even got used to it, both Gregor and the family, they took the money with gratitude and he was glad to provide it, although there was no longer much warm affection given in return. Gregor only remained close to his sister now. Unlike him, she was very fond of music and a gifted and expressive violinist, it was his secret plan to send her to the conservatory next year even though it would cause great expense that would have to be made up for in some other way. During Gregor's short periods in town, conversation with his sister would often turn to the conservatory but it was only ever mentioned as a lovely dream that could never be realised. Their parents did not like to hear this innocent talk, but Gregor thought about it quite hard and decided he would let them know what he planned with a grand announcement of it on Christmas day.

That was the sort of totally pointless thing that went through his mind in his present state, pressed upright against the door and listening. There were times when he simply became too tired to continue listening, when his head would fall wearily against the door and he would pull it up again with a start, as even the slightest noise he caused would be heard next door and they would all go silent. "What's that he's doing now", his father would say after a while, clearly having gone over to the door, and only then would the interrupted conversation slowly be taken up again.

When explaining things, his father repeated himself several times, partly because it was a long time since he had been occupied with these matters himself and partly because Gregor's mother did not understand everything the first time. From these repeated explanations Gregor learned, to his pleasure, that despite all their misfortunes there was still some money available from the old days. It was not a lot, but it had not been touched in the meantime and some interest had accumulated. Besides that, they had not been using up all the money that Gregor had been bringing home every month, keeping only a little for himself, so that that, too, had been accumulating. Behind the door, Gregor nodded with enthusiasm in his pleasure at this unexpected thrift and caution. He could actually have used this surplus money to reduce his father's debt to his boss, and the day when he could have freed himself from that job would have come much closer, but now it was certainly better the way his father had done things.

This money, however, was certainly not enough to enable the family to live off the interest; it was enough to maintain them for, perhaps, one or two years, no more. That's to say, it was money that should not really be touched but set aside for emergencies; money to live on had to be earned. His father was healthy but old, and lacking in self confidence. During the five years that he had not been working - the first holiday in a life that had been full of strain and no success - he had put on a lot of weight and become very slow and clumsy. Would Gregor's elderly mother now have to go and earn money? She suffered from asthma and it was a strain for her just to move about the home, every other day would be spent struggling for breath on the sofa by the open window. Would his sister have to go and earn money? She was still a child of seventeen, her life up till then had been very enviable, consisting of wearing nice clothes, sleeping late, helping out in the business, joining in with a few modest pleasures and most of all playing the violin. Whenever they began to talk of the need to earn money, Gregor would always first let go of the door and then throw himself onto the cool, leather sofa next to it, as he became quite hot with shame and regret.

He would often lie there the whole night through, not sleeping a wink but scratching at the leather for hours on end. Or he might go to all the effort of pushing a chair to the window, climbing up onto the sill and, propped up in the chair, leaning on the window to stare out of it. He had used to feel a great sense of freedom from doing this, but doing it now was obviously something more remembered than experienced, as what he actually saw in this way was becoming less distinct every day, even things that were quite near; he had used to curse the ever-present view of the hospital across the street, but now he could not see it at all, and if he had not known that he lived in Charlottenstrasse, which was a quiet street despite being in the middle of the city, he could have thought that he was looking out the window at a barren waste where the grey sky and the grey earth mingled inseparably. His observant sister only needed to notice the chair twice before she would always push it back to its exact position by the window after she had tidied up the room, and even left the inner pane of the window open from then on.

If Gregor had only been able to speak to his sister and thank her for all that she had to do for him it would have been easier for him to bear it; but as it was it caused him pain. His sister, naturally, tried as far as possible to pretend there was nothing burdensome about it, and the longer it went on, of course, the better she was able to do so, but as time went by Gregor was also able to see through it all so much better. It had even become very unpleasant for him, now, whenever she entered the room. No sooner had she come in than she would quickly close the door as a precaution so that no-one would have to suffer the view into Gregor's room, then she would go straight to the window and pull it hurriedly open almost as if she were suffocating. Even if it was cold, she would stay at the window breathing deeply for a little while. She would alarm Gregor twice a day with this running about and noise making; he would stay under the couch shivering the whole while, knowing full well that she would certainly have liked to spare him this ordeal, but it was impossible for her to be in the same room with him with the windows closed.

One day, about a month after Gregor's transformation when his sister no longer had any particular reason to be shocked at his appearance, she came into the room a little earlier than usual and found him still staring out the window, motionless, and just where he would be most horrible. In itself, his sister's not coming into the room would have been no surprise for Gregor as it would have been difficult for her to immediately open the window while he was still there, but not only did she not come in, she went straight back and closed the door behind her, a stranger would have thought he had threatened her and tried to bite her. Gregor went straight to hide himself under the couch, of course, but he had to wait until midday before his sister came back and she seemed much more uneasy than usual. It made him realise that she still found his appearance unbearable and would continue to do so, she probably even had to overcome the urge to flee when she saw the little bit of him that protruded from under the couch. One day, in order to spare her even this sight, he spent four hours carrying the bedsheet over to the couch on his back and arranged it so that he was completely covered and his sister would not be able to see him even if she bent down. If she did not think this sheet was necessary then all she had to do was take it off again, as it was clear enough that it was no pleasure for Gregor to cut himself off so completely. She left the sheet where it was. Gregor even thought he glimpsed a look of gratitude one time when he carefully looked out from under the sheet to see how his sister liked the new arrangement.

For the first fourteen days, Gregor's parents could not bring themselves to come into the room to see him. He would often hear them say how they appreciated all the new work his sister was doing even though, before, they had seen her as a girl who was somewhat useless and frequently been annoyed with her. But now the two of them, father and mother, would often both wait outside the door of Gregor's room while his sister tidied up in there, and as soon as she went out again she would have to tell them exactly how everything looked, what Gregor had eaten, how he had behaved this time and whether, perhaps, any slight improvement could be seen. His mother also wanted to go in and visit Gregor relatively soon but his father and sister at first persuaded her against it. Gregor listened very closely to all this, and approved fully. Later, though, she had to be held back by force, which made her call out: "Let me go and see Gregor, he is my unfortunate son! Can't you understand I have to see him?", and Gregor would think to himself that maybe it would be better if his mother came in, not every day of course, but one day a week, perhaps; she could understand everything much better than his sister who, for all her courage, was still just a child after all, and really might not have had an adult's appreciation of the burdensome job she had taken on.

Gregor's wish to see his mother was soon realised. Out of consideration for his parents, Gregor wanted to avoid being seen at the window during the day, the few square meters of the floor did not give him much room to crawl about, it was hard to just lie quietly through the night, his food soon stopped giving him any pleasure at all, and so, to entertain himself, he got into the habit of crawling up and down the walls and ceiling. He was especially fond of hanging from the ceiling; it was quite different from lying on the floor; he could breathe more freely; his body had a light swing to it; and up there, relaxed and almost happy, it might happen that he would surprise even himself by letting go of the ceiling and landing on the floor with a crash. But now, of course, he had far better control of his body than before and, even with a fall as great as that, caused himself no damage. Very soon his sister noticed Gregor's new way of entertaining himself - he had, after all, left traces of the adhesive from his feet as he crawled about - and got it into her head to make it as easy as possible for him by removing the furniture that got in his way, especially the chest of drawers and the desk. Now, this was not something that she would be able to do by herself; she did not dare to ask for help from her father; the sixteen year old maid had carried on bravely since the cook had left but she certainly would not have helped in this, she had even asked to be allowed to keep the kitchen locked at all times and never to have to open the door unless it was especially important; so his sister had no choice but to choose some time when Gregor's father was not there and fetch his mother to help her. As she approached the room, Gregor could hear his mother express her joy, but once at the door she went silent. First, of course, his sister came in and looked round to see that everything in the room was alright; and only then did she let her mother enter. Gregor had hurriedly pulled the sheet down lower over the couch and put more folds into it so that everything really looked as if it had just been thrown down by chance. Gregor also refrained, this time, from spying out from under the sheet; he gave up the chance to see his mother until later and was simply glad that she had come. "You can come in, he can't be seen", said his sister, obviously leading her in by the hand. The old chest of drawers was too heavy for a pair of feeble women to be heaving about, but Gregor listened as they pushed it from its place, his sister always taking on the heaviest part of the work for herself and ignoring her mother's warnings that she would strain herself. This lasted a very long time. After labouring at it for fifteen minutes or more his mother said it would be better to leave the chest where it was, for one thing it was too heavy for them to get the job finished before Gregor's father got home and leaving it in the middle of the room it would be in his way even more, and for another thing it wasn't even sure that taking the furniture away would really be any help to him. She thought just the opposite; the sight of the bare walls saddened her right to her heart; and why wouldn't Gregor feel the same way about it, he'd been used to this furniture in his room for a long time and it would make him feel abandoned to be in an empty room like that. Then, quietly, almost whispering as if wanting Gregor (whose whereabouts she did not know) to hear not even the tone of her voice, as she was convinced that he did not understand her words, she added "and by taking the furniture away, won't it seem like we're showing that we've given up all hope of improvement and we're abandoning him to cope for himself? I think it'd be best to leave the room exactly the way it was before so that when Gregor comes back to us again he'll find everything unchanged and he'll be able to forget the time in between all the easier".

Hearing these words from his mother made Gregor realise that the lack of any direct human communication, along with the monotonous life led by the family during these two months, must have made him confused - he could think of no other way of explaining to himself why he had seriously wanted his room emptied out. Had he really wanted to transform his room into a cave, a warm room fitted out with the nice furniture he had inherited? That would have let him crawl around unimpeded in any direction, but it would also have let him quickly forget his past when he had still been human. He had come very close to forgetting, and it had only been the voice of his mother, unheard for so long, that had shaken him out of it. Nothing should be removed; everything had to stay; he could not do without the good influence the furniture had on his condition; and if the furniture made it difficult for him to crawl about mindlessly that was not a loss but a great advantage.

His sister, unfortunately, did not agree; she had become used to the idea, not without reason, that she was Gregor's spokesman to his parents about the things that concerned him. This meant that his mother's advice now was sufficient reason for her to insist on removing not only the chest of drawers and the desk, as she had thought at first, but all the furniture apart from the all-important couch. It was more than childish perversity, of course, or the unexpected confidence she had recently acquired, that made her insist; she had indeed noticed that Gregor needed a lot of room to crawl about in, whereas the furniture, as far as anyone could see, was of no use to him at all. Girls of that age, though, do become enthusiastic about things and feel they must get their way whenever they can. Perhaps this was what tempted Grete to make Gregor's situation seem even more shocking than it was so that she could do even more for him. Grete would probably be the only one who would dare enter a room dominated by Gregor crawling about the bare walls by himself.

So she refused to let her mother dissuade her. Gregor's mother already looked uneasy in his room, she soon stopped speaking and helped Gregor's sister to get the chest of drawers out with what strength she had. The chest of drawers was something that Gregor could do without if he had to, but the writing desk had to stay. Hardly had the two women pushed the chest of drawers, groaning, out of the room than Gregor poked his head out from under the couch to see what he could do about it. He meant to be as careful and considerate as he could, but, unfortunately, it was his mother who came back first while Grete in the next room had her arms round the chest, pushing and pulling at it from side to side by herself without, of course, moving it an inch. His mother was not used to the sight of Gregor, he might have made her ill, so Gregor hurried backwards to the far end of the couch. In his startlement, though, he was not able to prevent the sheet at its front from moving a little. It was enough to attract his mother's attention. She stood very still, remained there a moment, and then went back out to Grete.

Gregor kept trying to assure himself that nothing unusual was happening, it was just a few pieces of furniture being moved after all, but he soon had to admit that the women going to and fro, their little calls to each other, the scraping of the furniture on the floor, all these things made him feel as if he were being assailed from all sides. With his head and legs pulled in against him and his body pressed to the floor, he was forced to admit to himself that he could not stand all of this much longer. They were emptying his room out; taking away everything that was dear to him; they had already taken out the chest containing his fretsaw and other tools; now they threatened to remove the writing desk with its place clearly worn into the floor, the desk where he had done his homework as a business trainee, at high school, even while he had been at infant school - he really could not wait any longer to see whether the two women's intentions were good. He had nearly forgotten they were there anyway, as they were now too tired to say anything while they worked and he could only hear their feet as they stepped heavily on the floor.

So, while the women were leant against the desk in the other room catching their breath, he sallied out, changed direction four times not knowing what he should save first before his attention was suddenly caught by the picture on the wall - which was already denuded of everything else that had been on it - of the lady dressed in copious fur. He hurried up onto the picture and pressed himself against its glass, it held him firmly and felt good on his hot belly. This picture at least, now totally covered by Gregor, would certainly be taken away by no-one. He turned his head to face the door into the living room so that he could watch the women when they came back.

They had not allowed themselves a long rest and came back quite soon; Grete had put her arm around her mother and was nearly carrying her. "What shall we take now, then?", said Grete and looked around. Her eyes met those of Gregor on the wall. Perhaps only because her mother was there, she remained calm, bent her face to her so that she would not look round and said, albeit hurriedly and with a tremor in her voice: "Come on, let's go back in the living room for a while?" Gregor could see what Grete had in mind, she wanted to take her mother somewhere safe and then chase him down from the wall. Well, she could certainly try it! He sat unyielding on his picture. He would rather jump at Grete's face.

But Grete's words had made her mother quite worried, she stepped to one side, saw the enormous brown patch against the flowers of the wallpaper, and before she even realised it was Gregor that she saw screamed: "Oh God, oh God!" Arms outstretched, she fell onto the couch as if she had given up everything and stayed there immobile. "Gregor!" shouted his sister, glowering at him and shaking her fist. That was the first word she had spoken to him directly since his transformation. She ran into the other room to fetch some kind of smelling salts to bring her mother out of her faint; Gregor wanted to help too - he could save his picture later, although he stuck fast to the glass and had to pull himself off by force; then he, too, ran into the next room as if he could advise his sister like in the old days; but he had to just stand behind her doing nothing; she was looking into various bottles, he startled her when she turned round; a bottle fell to the ground and broke; a splinter cut Gregor's face, some kind of caustic medicine splashed all over him; now, without delaying any longer, Grete took hold of all the bottles she could and ran with them in to her mother; she slammed the door shut with her foot. So now Gregor was shut out from his mother, who, because of him, might be near to death; he could not open the door if he did not want to chase his sister away, and she had to stay with his mother; there was nothing for him to do but wait; and, oppressed with anxiety and self-reproach, he began to crawl about, he crawled over everything, walls, furniture, ceiling, and finally in his confusion as the whole room began to spin around him he fell down into the middle of the dinner table.

He lay there for a while, numb and immobile, all around him it was quiet, maybe that was a good sign. Then there was someone at the door. The maid, of course, had locked herself in her kitchen so that Grete would have to go and answer it. His father had arrived home. "What's happened?" were his first words; Grete's appearance must have made everything clear to him. She answered him with subdued voice, and openly pressed her face into his chest: "Mother's fainted, but she's better now. Gregor got out." "Just as I expected", said his father, "just as I always said, but you women wouldn't listen, would you." It was clear to Gregor that Grete had not said enough and that his father took it to mean that something bad had happened, that he was responsible for some act of violence. That meant Gregor would now have to try to calm his father, as he did not have the time to explain things to him even if that had been possible. So he fled to the door of his room and pressed himself against it so that his father, when he came in from the hall, could see straight away that Gregor had the best intentions and would go back into his room without delay, that it would not be necessary to drive him back but that they had only to open the door and he would disappear.

His father, though, was not in the mood to notice subtleties like that; "Ah!", he shouted as he came in, sounding as if he were both angry and glad at the same time. Gregor drew his head back from the door and lifted it towards his father. He really had not imagined his father the way he stood there now; of late, with his new habit of crawling about, he had neglected to pay attention to what was going on the rest of the flat the way he had done before. He really ought to have expected things to have changed, but still, still, was that really his father? The same tired man as used to be laying there entombed in his bed when Gregor came back from his business trips, who would receive him sitting in the armchair in his nightgown when he came back in the evenings; who was hardly even able to stand up but, as a sign of his pleasure, would just raise his arms and who, on the couple of times a year when they went for a walk together on a Sunday or public holiday wrapped up tightly in his overcoat between Gregor and his mother, would always labour his way forward a little more slowly than them, who were already walking slowly for his sake; who would place his stick down carefully and, if he wanted to say something would invariably stop and gather his companions around him. He was standing up straight enough now; dressed in a smart blue uniform with gold buttons, the sort worn by the employees at the banking institute; above the high, stiff collar of the coat his strong double-chin emerged; under the bushy eyebrows, his piercing, dark eyes looked out fresh and alert; his normally unkempt white hair was combed down painfully close to his scalp. He took his cap, with its gold monogram from, probably, some bank, and threw it in an arc right across the room onto the sofa, put his hands in his trouser pockets, pushing back the bottom of his long uniform coat, and, with look of determination, walked towards Gregor. He probably did not even know himself what he had in mind, but nonetheless lifted his feet unusually high. Gregor was amazed at the enormous size of the soles of his boots, but wasted no time with that - he knew full well, right from the first day of his new life, that his father thought it necessary to always be extremely strict with him. And so he ran up to his father, stopped when his father stopped, scurried forwards again when he moved, even slightly. In this way they went round the room several times without anything decisive happening, without even giving the impression of a chase as everything went so slowly. Gregor remained all this time on the floor, largely because he feared his father might see it as especially provoking if he fled onto the wall or ceiling. Whatever he did, Gregor had to admit that he certainly would not be able to keep up this running about for long, as for each step his father took he had to carry out countless movements. He became noticeably short of breath, even in his earlier life his lungs had not been very reliable. Now, as he lurched about in his efforts to muster all the strength he could for running he could hardly keep his eyes open; his thoughts became too slow for him to think of any other way of saving himself than running; he almost forgot that the walls were there for him to use although, here, they were concealed behind carefully carved furniture full of notches and protrusions - then, right beside him, lightly tossed, something flew down and rolled in front of him. It was an apple; then another one immediately flew at him; Gregor froze in shock; there was no longer any point in running as his father had decided to bombard him. He had filled his pockets with fruit from the bowl on the sideboard and now, without even taking the time for careful aim, threw one apple after another. These little, red apples rolled about on the floor, knocking into each other as if they had electric motors. An apple thrown without much force glanced against Gregor's back and slid off without doing any harm. Another one however, immediately following it, hit squarely and lodged in his back; Gregor wanted to drag himself away, as if he could remove the surprising, the incredible pain by changing his position; but he felt as if nailed to the spot and spread himself out, all his senses in confusion. The last thing he saw was the door of his room being pulled open, his sister was screaming, his mother ran out in front of her in her blouse (as his sister had taken off some of her clothes after she had fainted to make it easier for her to breathe), she ran to his father, her skirts unfastened and sliding one after another to the ground, stumbling over the skirts she pushed herself to his father, her arms around him, uniting herself with him totally - now Gregor lost his ability to see anything - her hands behind his father's head begging him to spare Gregor's life.

III

No-one dared to remove the apple lodged in Gregor's flesh, so it remained there as a visible reminder of his injury. He had suffered it there for more than a month, and his condition seemed serious enough to remind even his father that Gregor, despite his current sad and revolting form, was a family member who could not be treated as an enemy. On the contrary, as a family there was a duty to swallow any revulsion for him and to be patient, just to be patient.

Because of his injuries, Gregor had lost much of his mobility - probably permanently. He had been reduced to the condition of an ancient invalid and it took him long, long minutes to crawl across his room - crawling over the ceiling was out of the question - but this deterioration in his condition was fully (in his opinion) made up for by the door to the living room being left open every evening. He got into the habit of closely watching it for one or two hours before it was opened and then, lying in the darkness of his room where he could not be seen from the living room, he could watch the family in the light of the dinner table and listen to their conversation - with everyone's permission, in a way, and thus quite differently from before.

They no longer held the lively conversations of earlier times, of course, the ones that Gregor always thought about with longing when he was tired and getting into the damp bed in some small hotel room. All of them were usually very quiet nowadays. Soon after dinner, his father would go to sleep in his chair; his mother and sister would urge each other to be quiet; his mother, bent deeply under the lamp, would sew fancy underwear for a fashion shop; his sister, who had taken a sales job, learned shorthand and French in the evenings so that she might be able to get a better position later on. Sometimes his father would wake up and say to Gregor's mother "you're doing so much sewing again today!", as if he did not know that he had been dozing - and then he would go back to sleep again while mother and sister would exchange a tired grin.

With a kind of stubbornness, Gregor's father refused to take his uniform off even at home; while his nightgown hung unused on its peg Gregor's father would slumber where he was, fully dressed, as if always ready to serve and expecting to hear the voice of his superior even here. The uniform had not been new to start with, but as a result of this it slowly became even shabbier despite the efforts of Gregor's mother and sister to look after it. Gregor would often spend the whole evening looking at all the stains on this coat, with its gold buttons always kept polished and shiny, while the old man in it would sleep, highly uncomfortable but peaceful.

As soon as it struck ten, Gregor's mother would speak gently to his father to wake him and try to persuade him to go to bed, as he couldn't sleep properly where he was and he really had to get his sleep if he was to be up at six to get to work. But since he had been in work he had become more obstinate and would always insist on staying longer at the table, even though he regularly fell asleep and it was then harder than ever to persuade him to exchange the chair for his bed. Then, however much mother and sister would importune him with little reproaches and warnings he would keep slowly shaking his head for a quarter of an hour with his eyes closed and refusing to get up. Gregor's mother would tug at his sleeve, whisper endearments into his ear, Gregor's sister would leave her work to help her mother, but nothing would have any effect on him. He would just sink deeper into his chair. Only when the two women took him under the arms he would abruptly open his eyes, look at them one after the other and say: "What a life! This is what peace I get in my old age!" And supported by the two women he would lift himself up carefully as if he were carrying the greatest load himself, let the women take him to the door, send them off and carry on by himself while Gregor's mother would throw down her needle and his sister her pen so that they could run after his father and continue being of help to him.

Who, in this tired and overworked family, would have had time to give more attention to Gregor than was absolutely necessary? The household budget became even smaller; so now the maid was dismissed; an enormous, thick-boned charwoman with white hair that flapped around her head came every morning and evening to do the heaviest work; everything else was looked after by Gregor's mother on top of the large amount of sewing work she did. Gregor even learned, listening to the evening conversation about what price they had hoped for, that several items of jewellery belonging to the family had been sold, even though both mother and sister had been very fond of wearing them at functions and celebrations. But the loudest complaint was that although the flat was much too big for their present circumstances, they could not move out of it, there was no imaginable way of transferring Gregor to the new address. He could see quite well, though, that there were more reasons than consideration for him that made it difficult for them to move, it would have been quite easy to transport him in any suitable crate with a few air holes in it; the main thing holding the family back from their decision to move was much more to do with their total despair, and the thought that they had been struck with a misfortune unlike anything experienced by anyone else they knew or were related to. They carried out absolutely everything that the world expects from poor people, Gregor's father brought bank employees their breakfast, his mother sacrificed herself by washing clothes for strangers, his sister ran back and forth behind her desk at the behest of the customers, but they just did not have the strength to do any more. And the injury in Gregor's back began to hurt as much as when it was new. After they had come back from taking his father to bed Gregor's mother and sister would now leave their work where it was and sit close together, cheek to cheek; his mother would point to Gregor's room and say "Close that door, Grete", and then, when he was in the dark again, they would sit in the next room and their tears would mingle, or they would simply sit there staring dry-eyed at the table.

Gregor hardly slept at all, either night or day. Sometimes he would think of taking over the family's affairs, just like before, the next time the door was opened; he had long forgotten about his boss and the chief clerk, but they would appear again in his thoughts, the salesmen and the apprentices, that stupid teaboy, two or three friends from other businesses, one of the chambermaids from a provincial hotel, a tender memory that appeared and disappeared again, a cashier from a hat shop for whom his attention had been serious but too slow, - all of them appeared to him, mixed together with strangers and others he had forgotten, but instead of helping him and his family they were all of them inaccessible, and he was glad when they disappeared. Other times he was not at all in the mood to look after his family, he was filled with simple rage about the lack of attention he was shown, and although he could think of nothing he would have wanted, he made plans of how he could get into the pantry where he could take all the things he was entitled to, even if he was not hungry. Gregor's sister no longer thought about how she could please him but would hurriedly push some food or other into his room with her foot before she rushed out to work in the morning and at midday, and in the evening she would sweep it away again with the broom, indifferent as to whether it had been eaten or - more often than not - had been left totally untouched. She still cleared up the room in the evening, but now she could not have been any quicker about it. Smears of dirt were left on the walls, here and there were little balls of dust and filth. At first, Gregor went into one of the worst of these places when his sister arrived as a reproach to her, but he could have stayed there for weeks without his sister doing anything about it; she could see the dirt as well as he could but she had simply decided to leave him to it. At the same time she became touchy in a way that was quite new for her and which everyone in the family understood - cleaning up Gregor's room was for her and her alone. Gregor's mother did once thoroughly clean his room, and needed to use several bucketfuls of water to do it - although that much dampness also made Gregor ill and he lay flat on the couch, bitter and immobile. But his mother was to be punished still more for what she had done, as hardly had his sister arrived home in the evening than she noticed the change in Gregor's room and, highly aggrieved, ran back into the living room where, despite her mothers raised and imploring hands, she broke into convulsive tears. Her father, of course, was startled out of his chair and the two parents looked on astonished and helpless; then they, too, became agitated; Gregor's father, standing to the right of his mother, accused her of not leaving the cleaning of Gregor's room to his sister; from her left, Gregor's sister screamed at her that she was never to clean Gregor's room again; while his mother tried to draw his father, who was beside himself with anger, into the bedroom; his sister, quaking with tears, thumped on the table with her small fists; and Gregor hissed in anger that no-one had even thought of closing the door to save him the sight of this and all its noise.

Gregor's sister was exhausted from going out to work, and looking after Gregor as she had done before was even more work for her, but even so his mother ought certainly not to have taken her place. Gregor, on the other hand, ought not to be neglected. Now, though, the charwoman was here. This elderly widow, with a robust bone structure that made her able to withstand the hardest of things in her long life, wasn't really repelled by Gregor. Just by chance one day, rather than any real curiosity, she opened the door to Gregor's room and found herself face to face with him. He was taken totally by surprise, no-one was chasing him but he began to rush to and fro while she just stood there in amazement with her hands crossed in front of her. From then on she never failed to open the door slightly every evening and morning and look briefly in on him. At first she would call to him as she did so with words that she probably considered friendly, such as "come on then, you old dung-beetle!", or "look at the old dung-beetle there!" Gregor never responded to being spoken to in that way, but just remained where he was without moving as if the door had never even been opened. If only they had told this charwoman to clean up his room every day instead of letting her disturb him for no reason whenever she felt like it! One day, early in the morning while a heavy rain struck the windowpanes, perhaps indicating that spring was coming, she began to speak to him in that way once again. Gregor was so resentful of it that he started to move toward her, he was slow and infirm, but it was like a kind of attack. Instead of being afraid, the charwoman just lifted up one of the chairs from near the door and stood there with her mouth open, clearly intending not to close her mouth until the chair in her hand had been slammed down into Gregor's back. "Aren't you coming any closer, then?", she asked when Gregor turned round again, and she calmly put the chair back in the corner.

Gregor had almost entirely stopped eating. Only if he happened to find himself next to the food that had been prepared for him he might take some of it into his mouth to play with it, leave it there a few hours and then, more often than not, spit it out again. At first he thought it was distress at the state of his room that stopped him eating, but he had soon got used to the changes made there. They had got into the habit of putting things into this room that they had no room for anywhere else, and there were now many such things as one of the rooms in the flat had been rented out to three gentlemen. These earnest gentlemen - all three of them had full beards, as Gregor learned peering through the crack in the door one day - were painfully insistent on things' being tidy. This meant not only in their own room but, since they had taken a room in this establishment, in the entire flat and especially in the kitchen. Unnecessary clutter was something they could not tolerate, especially if it was dirty. They had moreover brought most of their own furnishings and equipment with them. For this reason, many things had become superfluous which, although they could not be sold, the family did not wish to discard. All these things found their way into Gregor's room. The dustbins from the kitchen found their way in there too. The charwoman was always in a hurry, and anything she couldn't use for the time being she would just chuck in there. He, fortunately, would usually see no more than the object and the hand that held it. The woman most likely meant to fetch the things back out again when she had time and the opportunity, or to throw everything out in one go, but what actually happened was that they were left where they landed when they had first been thrown unless Gregor made his way through the junk and moved it somewhere else. At first he moved it because, with no other room free where he could crawl about, he was forced to, but later on he came to enjoy it although moving about in that way left him sad and tired to death, and he would remain immobile for hours afterwards.

The gentlemen who rented the room would sometimes take their evening meal at home in the living room that was used by everyone, and so the door to this room was often kept closed in the evening. But Gregor found it easy to give up having the door open, he had, after all, often failed to make use of it when it was open and, without the family having noticed it, lain in his room in its darkest corner. One time, though, the charwoman left the door to the living room slightly open, and it remained open when the gentlemen who rented the room came in in the evening and the light was put on. They sat up at the table where, formerly, Gregor had taken his meals with his father and mother, they unfolded the serviettes and picked up their knives and forks. Gregor's mother immediately appeared in the doorway with a dish of meat and soon behind her came his sister with a dish piled high with potatoes. The food was steaming, and filled the room with its smell. The gentlemen bent over the dishes set in front of them as if they wanted to test the food before eating it, and the gentleman in the middle, who seemed to count as an authority for the other two, did indeed cut off a piece of meat while it was still in its dish, clearly wishing to establish whether it was sufficiently cooked or whether it should be sent back to the kitchen. It was to his satisfaction, and Gregor's mother and sister, who had been looking on anxiously, began to breathe again and smiled.

The family themselves ate in the kitchen. Nonetheless, Gregor's father came into the living room before he went into the kitchen, bowed once with his cap in his hand and did his round of the table. The gentlemen stood as one, and mumbled something into their beards. Then, once they were alone, they ate in near perfect silence. It seemed remarkable to Gregor that above all the various noises of eating their chewing teeth could still be heard, as if they had wanted to show Gregor that you need teeth in order to eat and it was not possible to perform anything with jaws that are toothless however nice they might be. "I'd like to eat something", said Gregor anxiously, "but not anything like they're eating. They do feed themselves. And here I am, dying!"

Throughout all this time, Gregor could not remember having heard the violin being played, but this evening it began to be heard from the kitchen. The three gentlemen had already finished their meal, the one in the middle had produced a newspaper, given a page to each of the others, and now they leant back in their chairs reading them and smoking. When the violin began playing they became attentive, stood up and went on tip-toe over to the door of the hallway where they stood pressed against each other. Someone must have heard them in the kitchen, as Gregor's father called out: "Is the playing perhaps unpleasant for the gentlemen? We can stop it straight away." "On the contrary", said the middle gentleman, "would the young lady not like to come in and play for us here in the room, where it is, after all, much more cosy and comfortable?" "Oh yes, we'd love to", called back Gregor's father as if he had been the violin player himself. The gentlemen stepped back into the room and waited. Gregor's father soon appeared with the music stand, his mother with the music and his sister with the violin. She calmly prepared everything for her to begin playing; his parents, who had never rented a room out before and therefore showed an exaggerated courtesy towards the three gentlemen, did not even dare to sit on their own chairs; his father leant against the door with his right hand pushed in between two buttons on his uniform coat; his mother, though, was offered a seat by one of the gentlemen and sat - leaving the chair where the gentleman happened to have placed it - out of the way in a corner.

His sister began to play; father and mother paid close attention, one on each side, to the movements of her hands. Drawn in by the playing, Gregor had dared to come forward a little and already had his head in the living room. Before, he had taken great pride in how considerate he was but now it hardly occurred to him that he had become so thoughtless about the others. What's more, there was now all the more reason to keep himself hidden as he was covered in the dust that lay everywhere in his room and flew up at the slightest movement; he carried threads, hairs, and remains of food about on his back and sides; he was much too indifferent to everything now to lay on his back and wipe himself on the carpet like he had used to do several times a day. And despite this condition, he was not too shy to move forward a little onto the immaculate floor of the living room.

No-one noticed him, though. The family was totally preoccupied with the violin playing; at first, the three gentlemen had put their hands in their pockets and come up far too close behind the music stand to look at all the notes being played, and they must have disturbed Gregor's sister, but soon, in contrast with the family, they withdrew back to the window with their heads sunk and talking to each other at half volume, and they stayed by the window while Gregor's father observed them anxiously. It really now seemed very obvious that they had expected to hear some beautiful or entertaining violin playing but had been disappointed, that they had had enough of the whole performance and it was only now out of politeness that they allowed their peace to be disturbed. It was especially unnerving, the way they all blew the smoke from their cigarettes upwards from their mouth and noses. Yet Gregor's sister was playing so beautifully. Her face was leant to one side, following the lines of music with a careful and melancholy expression. Gregor crawled a little further forward, keeping his head close to the ground so that he could meet her eyes if the chance came. Was he an animal if music could captivate him so? It seemed to him that he was being shown the way to the unknown nourishment he had been yearning for. He was determined to make his way forward to his sister and tug at her skirt to show her she might come into his room with her violin, as no-one appreciated her playing here as much as he would. He never wanted to let her out of his room, not while he lived, anyway; his shocking appearance should, for once, be of some use to him; he wanted to be at every door of his room at once to hiss and spit at the attackers; his sister should not be forced to stay with him, though, but stay of her own free will; she would sit beside him on the couch with her ear bent down to him while he told her how he had always intended to send her to the conservatory, how he would have told everyone about it last Christmas - had Christmas really come and gone already? - if this misfortune hadn't got in the way, and refuse to let anyone dissuade him from it. On hearing all this, his sister would break out in tears of emotion, and Gregor would climb up to her shoulder and kiss her neck, which, since she had been going out to work, she had kept free without any necklace or collar.

"Mr. Samsa!", shouted the middle gentleman to Gregor's father, pointing, without wasting any more words, with his forefinger at Gregor as he slowly moved forward. The violin went silent, the middle of the three gentlemen first smiled at his two friends, shaking his head, and then looked back at Gregor. His father seemed to think it more important to calm the three gentlemen before driving Gregor out, even though they were not at all upset and seemed to think Gregor was more entertaining than the violin playing had been. He rushed up to them with his arms spread out and attempted to drive them back into their room at the same time as trying to block their view of Gregor with his body. Now they did become a little annoyed, and it was not clear whether it was his father's behaviour that annoyed them or the dawning realisation that they had had a neighbour like Gregor in the next room without knowing it. They asked Gregor's father for explanations, raised their arms like he had, tugged excitedly at their beards and moved back towards their room only very slowly. Meanwhile Gregor's sister had overcome the despair she had fallen into when her playing was suddenly interrupted. She had let her hands drop and let violin and bow hang limply for a while but continued to look at the music as if still playing, but then she suddenly pulled herself together, lay the instrument on her mother's lap who still sat laboriously struggling for breath where she was, and ran into the next room which, under pressure from her father, the three gentlemen were more quickly moving toward. Under his sister's experienced hand, the pillows and covers on the beds flew up and were put into order and she had already finished making the beds and slipped out again before the three gentlemen had reached the room. Gregor's father seemed so obsessed with what he was doing that he forgot all the respect he owed to his tenants. He urged them and pressed them until, when he was already at the door of the room, the middle of the three gentlemen shouted like thunder and stamped his foot and thereby brought Gregor's father to a halt. "I declare here and now", he said, raising his hand and glancing at Gregor's mother and sister to gain their attention too, "that with regard to the repugnant conditions that prevail in this flat and with this family" - here he looked briefly but decisively at the floor - "I give immediate notice on my room. For the days that I have been living here I will, of course, pay nothing at all, on the contrary I will consider whether to proceed with some kind of action for damages from you, and believe me it would be very easy to set out the grounds for such an action." He was silent and looked straight ahead as if waiting for something. And indeed, his two friends joined in with the words: "And we also give immediate notice." With that, he took hold of the door handle and slammed the door.

Gregor's father staggered back to his seat, feeling his way with his hands, and fell into it; it looked as if he was stretching himself out for his usual evening nap but from the uncontrolled way his head kept nodding it could be seen that he was not sleeping at all. Throughout all this, Gregor had lain still where the three gentlemen had first seen him. His disappointment at the failure of his plan, and perhaps also because he was weak from hunger, made it impossible for him to move. He was sure that everyone would turn on him any moment, and he waited. He was not even startled out of this state when the violin on his mother's lap fell from her trembling fingers and landed loudly on the floor.

"Father, Mother", said his sister, hitting the table with her hand as introduction, "we can't carry on like this. Maybe you can't see it, but I can. I don't want to call this monster my brother, all I can say is: we have to try and get rid of it. We've done all that's humanly possible to look after it and be patient, I don't think anyone could accuse us of doing anything wrong."

"She's absolutely right", said Gregor's father to himself. His mother, who still had not had time to catch her breath, began to cough dully, her hand held out in front of her and a deranged expression in her eyes.

Gregor's sister rushed to his mother and put her hand on her forehead. Her words seemed to give Gregor's father some more definite ideas. He sat upright, played with his uniform cap between the plates left by the three gentlemen after their meal, and occasionally looked down at Gregor as he lay there immobile.

"We have to try and get rid of it", said Gregor's sister, now speaking only to her father, as her mother was too occupied with coughing to listen, "it'll be the death of both of you, I can see it coming. We can't all work as hard as we have to and then come home to be tortured like this, we can't endure it. I can't endure it any more." And she broke out so heavily in tears that they flowed down the face of her mother, and she wiped them away with mechanical hand movements.

"My child", said her father with sympathy and obvious understanding, "what are we to do?"

His sister just shrugged her shoulders as a sign of the helplessness and tears that had taken hold of her, displacing her earlier certainty.

"If he could just understand us", said his father almost as a question; his sister shook her hand vigorously through her tears as a sign that of that there was no question.

"If he could just understand us", repeated Gregor's father, closing his eyes in acceptance of his sister's certainty that that was quite impossible, "then perhaps we could come to some kind of arrangement with him. But as it is ..."

"It's got to go", shouted his sister, "that's the only way, Father. You've got to get rid of the idea that that's Gregor. We've only harmed ourselves by believing it for so long. How can that be Gregor? If it were Gregor he would have seen long ago that it's not possible for human beings to live with an animal like that and he would have gone of his own free will. We wouldn't have a brother any more, then, but we could carry on with our lives and remember him with respect. As it is this animal is persecuting us, it's driven out our tenants, it obviously wants to take over the whole flat and force us to sleep on the streets. Father, look, just look", she suddenly screamed, "he's starting again!" In her alarm, which was totally beyond Gregor's comprehension, his sister even abandoned his mother as she pushed herself vigorously out of her chair as if more willing to sacrifice her own mother than stay anywhere near Gregor. She rushed over to behind her father, who had become excited merely because she was and stood up half raising his hands in front of Gregor's sister as if to protect her.

But Gregor had had no intention of frightening anyone, least of all his sister. All he had done was begin to turn round so that he could go back into his room, although that was in itself quite startling as his pain-wracked condition meant that turning round required a great deal of effort and he was using his head to help himself do it, repeatedly raising it and striking it against the floor. He stopped and looked round. They seemed to have realised his good intention and had only been alarmed briefly. Now they all looked at him in unhappy silence. His mother lay in her chair with her legs stretched out and pressed against each other, her eyes nearly closed with exhaustion; his sister sat next to his father with her arms around his neck.

"Maybe now they'll let me turn round", thought Gregor and went back to work. He could not help panting loudly with the effort and had sometimes to stop and take a rest. No-one was making him rush any more, everything was left up to him. As soon as he had finally finished turning round he began to move straight ahead. He was amazed at the great distance that separated him from his room, and could not understand how he had covered that distance in his weak state a little while before and almost without noticing it. He concentrated on crawling as fast as he could and hardly noticed that there was not a word, not any cry, from his family to distract him. He did not turn his head until he had reached the doorway. He did not turn it all the way round as he felt his neck becoming stiff, but it was nonetheless enough to see that nothing behind him had changed, only his sister had stood up. With his last glance he saw that his mother had now fallen completely asleep.

He was hardly inside his room before the door was hurriedly shut, bolted and locked. The sudden noise behind Gregor so startled him that his little legs collapsed under him. It was his sister who had been in so much of a rush. She had been standing there waiting and sprung forward lightly, Gregor had not heard her coming at all, and as she turned the key in the lock she said loudly to her parents "At last!".

"What now, then?", Gregor asked himself as he looked round in the darkness. He soon made the discovery that he could no longer move at all. This was no surprise to him, it seemed rather that being able to actually move around on those spindly little legs until then was unnatural. He also felt relatively comfortable. It is true that his entire body was aching, but the pain seemed to be slowly getting weaker and weaker and would finally disappear altogether. He could already hardly feel the decayed apple in his back or the inflamed area around it, which was entirely covered in white dust. He thought back of his family with emotion and love. If it was possible, he felt that he must go away even more strongly than his sister. He remained in this state of empty and peaceful rumination until he heard the clock tower strike three in the morning. He watched as it slowly began to get light everywhere outside the window too. Then, without his willing it, his head sank down completely, and his last breath flowed weakly from his nostrils.

When the cleaner came in early in the morning - they'd often asked her not to keep slamming the doors but with her strength and in her hurry she still did, so that everyone in the flat knew when she'd arrived and from then on it was impossible to sleep in peace - she made her usual brief look in on Gregor and at first found nothing special. She thought he was laying there so still on purpose, playing the martyr; she attributed all possible understanding to him. She happened to be holding the long broom in her hand, so she tried to tickle Gregor with it from the doorway. When she had no success with that she tried to make a nuisance of herself and poked at him a little, and only when she found she could shove him across the floor with no resistance at all did she start to pay attention. She soon realised what had really happened, opened her eyes wide, whistled to herself, but did not waste time to yank open the bedroom doors and shout loudly into the darkness of the bedrooms: "Come and 'ave a look at this, it's dead, just lying there, stone dead!"

Mr. and Mrs. Samsa sat upright there in their marriage bed and had to make an effort to get over the shock caused by the cleaner before they could grasp what she was saying. But then, each from his own side, they hurried out of bed. Mr. Samsa threw the blanket over his shoulders, Mrs. Samsa just came out in her nightdress; and that is how they went into Gregor's room. On the way they opened the door to the living room where Grete had been sleeping since the three gentlemen had moved in; she was fully dressed as if she had never been asleep, and the paleness of her face seemed to confirm this. "Dead?", asked Mrs. Samsa, looking at the charwoman enquiringly, even though she could have checked for herself and could have known it even without checking. "That's what I said", replied the cleaner, and to prove it she gave Gregor's body another shove with the broom, sending it sideways across the floor. Mrs. Samsa made a movement as if she wanted to hold back the broom, but did not complete it. "Now then", said Mr. Samsa, "let's give thanks to God for that". He crossed himself, and the three women followed his example. Grete, who had not taken her eyes from the corpse, said: "Just look how thin he was. He didn't eat anything for so long. The food came out again just the same as when it went in". Gregor's body was indeed completely dried up and flat, they had not seen it until then, but now he was not lifted up on his little legs, nor did he do anything to make them look away.

"Grete, come with us in here for a little while", said Mrs. Samsa with a pained smile, and Grete followed her parents into the bedroom but not without looking back at the body. The cleaner shut the door and opened the window wide. Although it was still early in the morning the fresh air had something of warmth mixed in with it. It was already the end of March, after all.

The three gentlemen stepped out of their room and looked round in amazement for their breakfasts; they had been forgotten about. "Where is our breakfast?", the middle gentleman asked the cleaner irritably. She just put her finger on her lips and made a quick and silent sign to the men that they might like to come into Gregor's room. They did so, and stood around Gregor's corpse with their hands in the pockets of their well-worn coats. It was now quite light in the room.

Then the door of the bedroom opened and Mr. Samsa appeared in his uniform with his wife on one arm and his daughter on the other. All of them had been crying a little; Grete now and then pressed her face against her father's arm.

"Leave my home. Now!", said Mr. Samsa, indicating the door and without letting the women from him. "What do you mean?", asked the middle of the three gentlemen somewhat disconcerted, and he smiled sweetly. The other two held their hands behind their backs and continually rubbed them together in gleeful anticipation of a loud quarrel which could only end in their favour. "I mean just what I said", answered Mr. Samsa, and, with his two companions, went in a straight line towards the man. At first, he stood there still, looking at the ground as if the contents of his head were rearranging themselves into new positions. "Alright, we'll go then", he said, and looked up at Mr. Samsa as if he had been suddenly overcome with humility and wanted permission again from Mr. Samsa for his decision. Mr. Samsa merely opened his eyes wide and briefly nodded to him several times. At that, and without delay, the man actually did take long strides into the front hallway; his two friends had stopped rubbing their hands some time before and had been listening to what was being said. Now they jumped off after their friend as if taken with a sudden fear that Mr. Samsa might go into the hallway in front of them and break the connection with their leader. Once there, all three took their hats from the stand, took their sticks from the holder, bowed without a word and left the premises. Mr. Samsa and the two women followed them out onto the landing; but they had had no reason to mistrust the men's intentions and as they leaned over the landing they saw how the three gentlemen made slow but steady progress down the many steps. As they turned the corner on each floor they disappeared and would reappear a few moments later; the further down they went, the more that the Samsa family lost interest in them; when a butcher's boy, proud of posture with his tray on his head, passed them on his way up and came nearer than they were, Mr. Samsa and the women came away from the landing and went, as if relieved, back into the flat.

They decided the best way to make use of that day was for relaxation and to go for a walk; not only had they earned a break from work but they were in serious need of it. So they sat at the table and wrote three letters of excusal, Mr. Samsa to his employers, Mrs. Samsa to her contractor and Grete to her principal. The cleaner came in while they were writing to tell them she was going, she'd finished her work for that morning. The three of them at first just nodded without looking up from what they were writing, and it was only when the cleaner still did not seem to want to leave that they looked up in irritation. "Well?", asked Mr. Samsa. The charwoman stood in the doorway with a smile on her face as if she had some tremendous good news to report, but would only do it if she was clearly asked to. The almost vertical little ostrich feather on her hat, which had been a source of irritation to Mr. Samsa all the time she had been working for them, swayed gently in all directions. "What is it you want then?", asked Mrs. Samsa, whom the cleaner had the most respect for. "Yes", she answered, and broke into a friendly laugh that made her unable to speak straight away, "well then, that thing in there, you needn't worry about how you're going to get rid of it. That's all been sorted out." Mrs. Samsa and Grete bent down over their letters as if intent on continuing with what they were writing; Mr. Samsa saw that the cleaner wanted to start describing everything in detail but, with outstretched hand, he made it quite clear that she was not to. So, as she was prevented from telling them all about it, she suddenly remembered what a hurry she was in and, clearly peeved, called out "Cheerio then, everyone", turned round sharply and left, slamming the door terribly as she went.

"Tonight she gets sacked", said Mr. Samsa, but he received no reply from either his wife or his daughter as the charwoman seemed to have destroyed the peace they had only just gained. They got up and went over to the window where they remained with their arms around each other. Mr. Samsa twisted round in his chair to look at them and sat there watching for a while. Then he called out: "Come here, then. Let's forget about all that old stuff, shall we. Come and give me a bit of attention". The two women immediately did as he said, hurrying over to him where they kissed him and hugged him and then they quickly finished their letters.

After that, the three of them left the flat together, which was something they had not done for months, and took the tram out to the open country outside the town. They had the tram, filled with warm sunshine, all to themselves. Leant back comfortably on their seats, they discussed their prospects and found that on closer examination they were not at all bad - until then they had never asked each other about their work but all three had jobs which were very good and held particularly good promise for the future. The greatest improvement for the time being, of course, would be achieved quite easily by moving house; what they needed now was a flat that was smaller and cheaper than the current one which had been chosen by Gregor, one that was in a better location and, most of all, more practical. All the time, Grete was becoming livelier. With all the worry they had been having of late her cheeks had become pale, but, while they were talking, Mr. and Mrs. Samsa were struck, almost simultaneously, with the thought of how their daughter was blossoming into a well built and beautiful young lady. They became quieter. Just from each other's glance and almost without knowing it they agreed that it would soon be time to find a good man for her. And, as if in confirmation of their new dreams and good intentions, as soon as they reached their destination Grete was the first to get up and stretch out her young body.

THE COLOR OF MAGIC 


A Discworld® Novel 


Terry Pratchett 


HarperCollins e-books 


Contents 


Foreword 

The Color of Magic Prologue 

The Sending of Eight Prologue 

1. The Color of Magic 

2. The Sending of Eight 

3. The Lure of the Wyrm 

4. Close of the Edge 

About the Author 

Praise 

Other Books by Terry Pratchett 

C opyright 
About the Publisher 














Foreword 


If I had a penny for every time someone asked me where I got the idea of the 
Discworld, I’d have—hang on a moment—£4.67. 

Anyway, the answer is that it was lying around and didn’t look as though it 
belonged to anyone. 

The world rides through space on the back of a turtle. It’s one of the great 
ancient myths, found wherever men and turtles were gathered together; the four 
elephants were an Indo-European sophistication. The idea has been lying in the 
lumber rooms of legend for centuries. All I had to do was grab it and run away 
before the alarms went off. 

Since this is a reprint by popular demand—gosh—of the first book in a 
series that will, eventually, contain at least ten, there’s a very good chance that 
you already know what happens after this book, which is more than I did when I 
wrote it. 

The Discworld is not a coherent fantasy world. Its geography is fuzzy, its 
chronology unreliable. A small traveling circle of firelight in a chilly infinity has 
turned out to be the home of defiant jokes and last chances. 

There are no maps. You can’t map a sense of humor. Anyway, what is a 
fantasy map but a space beyond which There Be Dragons? On the Discworld we 
know that There Be Dragons Everywhere. They might not all have scales and 
forked tongues, but they Be Here all right, grinning and jostling and trying to sell 
you souvenirs. 

Enjoy. 


Terry Pratchett 
October 1989 



The Color of Mag ic 



Prolog ue 


In A distant and secondhand set of dimensions, in an astral plane that was 
never meant to fly, the curling star-mists waver and part... 

See... 

Great ATuin the turtle comes, swimming slowly through the interstellar 
gulf, hydrogen frost on his ponderous limbs, his huge and ancient shell pocked 
with meteor craters. Through sea-sized eyes that are crusted with rheum and 
asteroid dust He stares fixedly at the Destination. 

In a brain bigger than a city, with geological slowness, He thinks only of the 
Weight. 

Most of the weight is of course accounted for by Berilia, Tubul, Great 
T’Phon and Jerakeen, the four giant elephants upon whose broad and star-tanned 
shoulders the Disc of the World rests, garlanded by the long waterfall at its vast 
circumference and domed by the baby-blue vault of Heaven. 

Astropsychology has been, as yet, unable to establish what they think about. 

The Great Turtle was a mere hypothesis until the day the small and secretive 
kingdom of Krull, whose rim-most mountains project out over the Rimfall, built 
a gantry and pulley arrangement at the tip of the most precipitous crag and 
lowered several observers over the Edge in a quartz-windowed brass vessel to 
peer through the mist veils. 

The early astrozoologists, hauled back from their long dangle by enormous 
teams of slaves, were able to bring back much information about the shape and 
nature of A’Tuin and the elephants but this did not resolve fundamental 
questions about the nature and purpose of the universe. 

For example, what was A’Tuin’s actual sex? This vital question, said the 
astrozoologists with mounting authority, would not be answered until a larger 
and more powerful gantry was constructed for a deep-space vessel. In the 
meantime they could only speculate about the revealed cosmos. 




There was, for example, the theory that A’Turn had come from nowhere and 
would continue at a uniform crawl, or steady gait, into nowhere, for all time. 

This theory was popular among academics. 

An alternative, favored by those of a religious persuasion, was that A’Tuin 
was crawling from the Birthplace to the Time of Mating, as were all the stars in 
the sky which were, obviously, also carried by giant turtles. When they arrived 
they would briefly and passionately mate, for the first and only time, and from 
that fiery union new turtles would be born to carry a new pattern of worlds. This 
was known as the Big Bang hypothesis. 

Thus it was that a young cosmochelonian of the Steady Gait faction, testing 
a new telescope with which he hoped to make measurements of the precise 
albedo of Great ATuin’s right eye, was on this eventful evening the first outsider 
to see the smoke rise hubward from the burning of the oldest city in the world. 

Later that night he became so engrossed in his studies he completely forgot 
about it. Nevertheless, he was the first. 

There were others... 



The Sending of Eig ht 





Prologue 


The Discworld offers sights far more impressive than those found in universes 
built by Creators with less imagination but more mechanical aptitude. 

Although the Disc’s sun is but an orbiting moonlet, its prominences hardly 
bigger than croquet hoops, this slight drawback must be set against the 
tremendous sight of Great A’Tuin the Turtle, upon Whose ancient and meteor 
riddled shell the Disc ultimately rests. Sometimes, in His slow journey across the 
shores of Infinity, He moves His country-sized head to snap at a passing comet. 

But perhaps the most impressive sight of all—if only because most brains, 
when faced with the sheer galactic enormity of A’Tuin, refuse to believe it—is 
the endless Rimfall, where the seas of the Disc boil ceaselessly over the Edge 
into space. Or perhaps it is the Rimbow, the eight-colored, world-girdling 
rainbow that hovers in the mist-laden air over the Fall. The eighth color is 
octarine, caused by the scatter effect of strong sunlight on an intense magical 
field. 

Or perhaps, again, the most magnificent sight is the Hub. There, a spire of 
green ice ten miles high rises through the clouds and supports at its peak the 
realm of Dunmanifestin, the abode of the Disc gods. The Disc gods themselves, 
despite the splendor of the world below them, are seldom satisfied. It is 
embarrassing to know that one is a god of a world that only exists because every 
improbability curve must have its far end; especially when one can peer into 
other dimensions at worlds whose Creators had more mechanical aptitude than 
imagination. No wonder, then, that the Disc gods spend more time in bickering 
than in omnicognizance. 

On this particular day Blind Io, by dint of constant vigilance the chief of the 
gods, sat with his chin on his hand and looked at the gaming board on the red 
marble table in front of him. Blind Io had got his name because, where his eye 
sockets should have been, there were nothing but two areas of blank skin. His 
eyes, of which he had an impressively large number, led a semi-independent life 
of their own. Several were currently hovering above the table. 

The gaming board was a carefully carved map of the Discworld, overprinted 



with squares. A number of beautifully modeled playing pieces were now 
occupying some of the squares. A human onlooker would, for example, have 
recognized in two of them the likenesses of Bravd and the Weasel. Others 
represented yet more heroes and champions, of which the Disc had a more than 
adequate supply. 

Still in the game were Io, Offler the Crocodile God, Zephyrus the god of 
slight breezes, Fate, and the Lady. There was an air of concentration around the 
board now that the lesser players had been removed from the Game. Chance had 
been an early casualty, running her hero into a full house of armed gnolls (the 
result of a lucky throw by Offler) and shortly afterward Night has cashed his 
chips, pleading an appointment with Destiny. Several minor deities had drifted 
up and were kibitzing over the shoulders of the players. 

Side bets were made that the Lady would be the next to leave the board. Her 
last champion of any standing was now a pinch of potash in the ruins of still¬ 
smoking Ankh-Morpork, and there were hardly any pieces that she could 
promote to first rank. 

Blind Io took up the dice box, which was a skull whose various orifices had 
been stoppered with rubies, and with several of his eyes on the Lady he rolled 
three fives. 

She smiled. This was the nature of the Lady’s eyes: they were bright green, 
lacking iris or pupil, and they glowed from within. 

The room was silent as she scrabbled in her box of pieces and, from the very 
bottom, produced a couple that she set down on the board with two decisive 
clicks. The rest of the players, as one god, craned forward to peer at them. 

“A wenegade wiffard and fome fort of clerk,” said Offler the Crocodile God, 
hindered as usual by his tusks. “Well, weally!” With one claw he pushed a pile of 
bone-white tokens into the center of the table. 

The Lady nodded slightly. She picked up the dice cup and held it as steady 
as a rock, yet all the gods could hear the three cubes rattling about inside. And 
then she sent them bouncing across the table. 


A six. A three. A five. 



Something was happening to the five, however. Battered by the chance 
collision of several billion molecules, the die flipped onto a point, spun gently 
and came down a seven. 

Blind Io picked up the cube and counted the sides. 

“Come on,” he said wearily. “Play fair.” 



1 


Thf, Cot,or of Magic 


Fire roared through the bifurcated city of Ankh-Morpork. Where it licked the 
Wizards’ Quarter it burned blue and green and was even laced with strange 
sparks of the eighth color, octarine; where its outriders found their way into the 
vats and oil stores all along Merchant Street it progressed in a series of blazing 
fountains and explosions; in the streets of the perfume blenders it burned with a 
sweetness; where it touched bundles of rare and dry herbs in the storerooms of 
the drugmasters it made men go mad and talk to God. 

By now the whole of downtown Morpork was alight, and the richer and 
worthier citizens of Ankh on the far bank were bravely responding to the 
situation by feverishly demolishing the bridges. But already the ships in the 
Morpork docks—laden with grain, cotton and timber, and coated with tar—were 
blazing merrily and, their moorings burnt to ashes, were breasting the river Ankh 
on the ebb tide, igniting riverside palaces and bowers as they drifted like 
drowning fireflies toward the sea. In any case, sparks were riding the breeze and 
touching down far across the river in hidden gardens and remote rickyards. 

The smoke from the merry burning rose miles high, in a wind-sculpted black 
column that could be seen across the whole of the Discworld. 

It was certainly impressive from the cool, dark hilltop a few leagues away, 
where two figures were watching with considerable interest. 

The taller of the pair was chewing on a chicken leg and leaning on a sword 
that was only marginally shorter than the average man. If it wasn’t for the air of 
wary intelligence about him it might have been supposed that he was a barbarian 
from the Hubland wastes. 



His partner was much shorter and wrapped from head to toe in a brown 
cloak. Later, when he has occasion to move, it will be seen that he moves lightly, 
catlike. 

The two had barely exchanged a word in the last twenty minutes except for a 
short and inconclusive argument as to whether a particularly powerful explosion 
had been the oil bond store or the workshop of Kerible the Enchanter. Money 
hinged on the fact. 

Now the big man finished gnawing at the bone and tossed it into the grass, 
smiling ruefully. 

“There go all those little alleyways,” he said. “I liked them.” 

“All the treasure houses,” said the small man. He added thoughtfully, “Do 
gems burn? I wonder. ’Tis said they’re kin to coal.” 

“All the gold, melting and running down the gutters,” said the big one, 
ignoring him. “And all the wine, boiling in the barrels.” 

“There were rats,” said his brown companion. 

“Rats, I’ll grant you.” 

“It was no place to be in high summer.” 

“That, too. One can’t help feeling, though, a—well, a momentary—” 

He trailed off, then brightened. “We owed old Fredor at the Crimson Leech 
eight silver pieces,” he added. The little man nodded. 

They were silent for a while as a whole new series of explosions carved a 
red line across a hitherto dark section of the greatest city in the world. Then the 
big man stirred. 

“Weasel?” 

“Yes?” 


“I wonder who started it.” 



The small swordsman known as the Weasel said nothing. He was watching 
the road in the ruddy light. Few had come that way since the Deosil Gate had 
been one of the first to collapse in a shower of white-hot embers. 

But two were coming up it now. The Weasel’s eyes, always at their sharpest 
in gloom and half-light, made out the shapes of two mounted men and some sort 
of low beast behind them. Doubtless a rich merchant escaping with as much 
treasure as he could lay frantic hands on. The Weasel said as much to his 
companion, who sighed. 

“The status of footpad ill suits us,” said the barbarian, “but, as you say, times 
are hard and there are no soft beds tonight.” 

He shifted his grip on his sword and, as the leading rider drew near, stepped 
out onto the road with a hand held up and his face set in a grin nicely calculated 
to reassure yet threaten. 

“Your pardon, sir—” he began. 

The rider reined in his horse and drew back his hood. The big man looked 
into a face blotched with superficial burns and punctuated by tufts of singed 
beard. Even the eyebrows had gone. 

“Bugger off,” said the face. “You’re Bravd the Hublander,* aren’t you?” 

Bravd became aware that he had fumbled the initiative. 

“Just go away, will you?” said the rider. “I just haven’t got time for you, do 
you understand?” 

He looked around and added: “That goes for your shadow-loving fleabag 
partner, too, wherever he’s hiding.” 

The Weasel stepped up to the horse and peered at the disheveled figure. 

“Why, it’s Rincewind the wizard, isn’t it?” he said in tones of delight, 
meanwhile filing the wizard’s description of him in his memory for leisurely 
vengeance. “I thought I recognized the voice.” 

Bravd spat and sheathed his sword. It was seldom worth tangling with 


wizards, they so rarely had any treasure worth speaking of. 


“He talks pretty big for a gutter wizard,” he muttered. 

“You don’t understand at all,” said the wizard wearily. “I’m so scared of you 
my spine has turned to jelly, it’s just that I’m suffering from an overdose of 
terror right now. I mean, when I’ve got over that then I’ll have time to be 
decently frightened of you.” 

The Weasel pointed toward the burning city. 

“You’ve been through that?” he asked. 

The wizard rubbed a red-raw hand across his eyes. “I was there when it 
started. See him? Back there?” He pointed back down the road to where his 
traveling companion was still approaching, having adopted a method of riding 
that involved falling out of the saddle every few seconds. 

“Well?” said Weasel. 

“He started it,” said Rincewind simply. 

Bravd and Weasel looked at the figure, now hopping across the road with 
one foot in a stirrup. 

“Fire-raiser, is he?” said Bravd at last. 

“No,” said Rincewind. “Not precisely. Let’s just say that if complete and 
utter chaos were lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a 
thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting ‘All gods are bastards.’ 
Got any food?” 

“There’s some chicken,” said Weasel. “In exchange for a story.” 

“What’s his name?” said Bravd, who tended to lag behind in conversations. 

“Twof lower.” 

“Twoflower?” said Bravd. “What a funny name.” 

“You,” said Rincewind, dismounting, “do not know the half of it. Chicken, 



you say?” 


“Deviled,” said Weasel. The wizard groaned. 

“That reminds me,” added the Weasel, snapping his fingers, “there was a 
really big explosion about, oh, half an hour ago—” 

“That was the oil bond store going up,” said Rincewind, wincing at the 
memory of the burning rain. 

Weasel turned and grinned expectantly at his companion, who grunted and 
handed over a coin from his pouch. Then there was a scream from the roadway, 
cut off abruptly. Rincewind did not look up from his chicken. 

“One of the things he can’t do, he can’t ride a horse,” he said. Then he 
stiffened as if sandbagged by a sudden recollection, gave a small yelp of terror 
and dashed into the gloom. When he returned, the being called Twoflower was 
hanging limply over his shoulder. It was small and skinny, and dressed very 
oddly in a pair of knee length britches and a shirt in such a violent and vivid 
conflict of colors that Weasel’s fastidious eye was offended even in the half- 
light. 


“No bones broken, by the feel of things,” said Rincewind. He was breathing 
heavily. Bravd winked at the Weasel and went to investigate the shape that they 
assumed was a pack animal. 

“You’d be wise to forget it,” said the wizard, without looking up from his 
examination of the unconscious Twoflower. “Believe me. A power protects it.” 

“A spell?” said Weasel, squatting down. 

“No-oo. But magic of a kind, I think. Not the usual sort. I mean, it can turn 
gold into copper while at the same time it is still gold, it makes men rich by 
destroying their possessions, it allows the weak to walk fearlessly among 
thieves, it passes through the strongest doors to leach the most protected 
treasuries. Even now it has me enslaved—so that I must follow this madman 
willynilly and protect him from harm. It’s stronger than you, Bravd. It is, I think, 
more cunning even than you, Weasel.” 

“What is it called then, this mighty magic?” 



Rincewind shrugged. “In our tongue it is called reflected-sound-as-of- 
underground-spirits. Is there any wine?” 

“You must know that I am not without artifice where magic is concerned,” 
said Weasel. “Only last year did I—assisted by my friend there—part the 
notoriously powerful Archmage of Ymitury from his staff, his belt of moon 
jewels and his life, in that approximate order. I do not fear this reflected-sound- 
of-underground-spirits of which you speak. However,” he added, “you engage 
my interest. Perhaps you would care to tell me more?” 

Bravd looked at the shape on the road. It was closer now, and clearer in the 
pre-dawn light. It looked for all the world like a— 

“A box on legs?” he said. 

“I’ll tell you about it,” said Rincewind. “If there’s any wine, that is.” 

Down in the valley there was a roar and a hiss. Someone more thoughtful 
than the rest had ordered to be shut the big river gates that were at the point 
where the Ankh flowed out of the twin city. Denied its usual egress, the river had 
burst its banks and was pouring down the fire-ravaged streets. Soon the 
continent of flame became a series of islands, each one growing smaller as the 
dark tide rose. And up from the city of fumes and smoke rose a broiling cloud of 
steam, covering the stars. Weasel thought that it looked like some dark fungus or 
mushroom. 


The twin city of proud Ankh and pestilent Morpork, of which all the other cities 
of time and space are, as it were, mere reflections, has stood many assaults in its 
long and crowded history and has always risen to flourish again. So the fire and 
its subsequent flood, which destroyed everything left that was not flammable and 
added a particularly noisome flux to the survivors’ problems, did not mark its 
end. Rather it was a fiery punctuation mark, a coal-like comma, or salamander 
semicolon, in a continuing story. 

Several days before these events a ship came up the Ankh on the dawn tide 
and fetched up, among many others, in the maze of wharves and docks on the 
Morpork shore. It carried a cargo of pink pearls, milk nuts, pumice, some official 
letters for the Patrician of Ankh, and a man. 



It was the man who engaged the attention of Blind Hugh, one of the beggars 
on early duty at Pearl Dock. He nudged Cripple Wa in the ribs, and pointed 
wordlessly. 

Now the stranger was standing on the quayside, watching several straining 
seamen carry a large, brass-bound chest down the gangplank. Another man, 
obviously the captain, was standing beside him. There was about the seamen— 
every nerve in Blind Hugh’s body, which tended to vibrate in the presence of 
even a small amount of impure gold at fifty paces, screamed into his brain—the 
air of one anticipating imminent enrichment. 

Sure enough, when the chest had been deposited on the cobbles, the stranger 
reached into a pouch and there was the flash of a coin. Several coins. Gold. 

Blind Hugh, his body twanging like a hazel rod in the presence of water, 
whistled to himself. Then he nudged Wa again, and sent him scurrying off down 
a nearby alley into the heart of the city. 

When the captain walked back onto his ship, leaving the newcomer looking 
faintly bewildered on the quayside, Blind Hugh snatched up his begging cup and 
made his way across the street with an ingratiating leer. At the sight of him the 
stranger started to fumble urgently with his money pouch. 

“Good day to thee, sire,” Blind Hugh began, and found himself looking up 
into a face with four eyes in it. He turned to run. 

“!” said the stranger, and grabbed his arm. Hugh was aware that the sailors 
lining the rail of the ship were laughing at him. At the same time his specialized 
senses detected an overpowering impression of money. He froze. The stranger let 
go and quickly thumbed through a small black book he had taken from his belt. 
Then he said “Hallo.” 

“What?” said Hugh. The man looked blank. 

“Hallo?” he repeated, rather louder than necessary and so carefully that 
Hugh could hear the vowels tinkling into place. 

“Hallo yourself,” Hugh riposted. The stranger smiled widely fumbled yet 
again in the pouch. This time his hand came out holding a large gold coin. It was 
in fact slightly larger than an 8,000-dollar Ankhian crown and the design on it 
was unfamiliar, but it spoke inside Hugh’s mind in a language he understood 



perfectly. My current owner, it said, is in need of succor and assistance; why not 
give it to him, so you and me can go off somewhere and enjoy ourselves? 

Subtle changes in the beggar’s posture made the stranger feel more at ease. 
He consulted the small book again. 

“I wish to be directed to a hotel, tavern, lodging house, inn, hospice, 
caravanserai,” he said. 

“What, all of them?” said Hugh, taken aback. 

“?” said the stranger. 

Hugh was aware that a small crowd of fishwives, shellfish diggers and 
freelance gawpers were watching them with interest. 

“Look,” he said, “I know a good tavern, is that enough?” He shuddered to 
think of the gold coin escaping from his life. He’d keep that one, even if Ymor 
confiscated all the rest. And the big chest that comprised most of the 
newcomer’s luggage looked to be full of gold, Hugh decided. 

The four-eyed man looked at his book. 

“I would like to be directed to a hotel, place of repose, tavern, a—” 

“Yes, all right. Come on then,” said Hugh hurriedly. He picked up one of the 
bundles and walked away quickly. The stranger, after a moment’s hesitation, 
strolled after him. 

A train of thought shunted its way through Hugh’s mind. Getting the 
newcomer to the Broken Drum so easily was a stroke of luck, no doubt of it, and 
Ymor would probably reward him. But for all his new acquaintance’s mildness 
there was something about him that made Hugh uneasy, and for the life of him 
he couldn’t figure out what it was. Not the two extra eyes, odd though they were. 
There was something else. He glanced back. 

The little man was ambling along in the middle of the street, looking around 
him with an expression of keen interest. 


Something else Hugh saw nearly made him gibber. 



The massive wooden chest, which he had last seen resting solidly on the 
quayside, was following on its master’s heels with a gentle rocking gait. Slowly, 
in case a sudden movement on his part might break his fragile control over his 
own legs, Hugh bent slightly so that he could see under the chest. 

There were lots and lots of little legs. 

Very deliberately, Hugh turned around and walked very carefully toward the 
Broken Drum. 


“Odd,” said Ymor. 

“He had this big wooden chest,” added Cripple Wa. 

“He’d have to be a merchant or a spy,” said Ymor. He pulled a scrap of meat 
from the cutlet in his hand and tossed it into the air. It hadn’t reached the zenith 
of its arc before a black shape detached itself from the shadows in the corner of 
the room and swooped down, taking the morsel in midair. 

“A merchant or a spy,” repeated Ymor. “I’d prefer a spy. A spy pays for 
himself twice, because there’s always the reward when we turn him in. What do 
you think, Withel?” 

Opposite Ymor the second greatest thief in Ankh-Morpork half closed his 
one eye and shrugged. 

“I’ve checked on the ship,” he said. “It’s a freelance trader. Does the 
occasional run to the Brown Islands. People there are just savages. They don’t 
understand about spies and I expect they eat merchants.” 

“He looked a bit like a merchant,” volunteered Wa. “Except he wasn’t fat.” 

There was a flutter of wings at the window. Ymor shifted his bulk out of the 
chair and crossed the room, coming back with a large raven. After he’d 
unfastened the message capsule from its leg it flew up to join its fellows lurking 
among the rafters. Withel regarded it without love. Ymor’s ravens were 
notoriously loyal to their master, to the extent that Withel’s one attempt to 
promote himself to the rank of greatest thief in Ankh-Morpork had cost their 



master’s right-hand man his left eye. But not his life, however. Ymor never 
gmdged a man his ambitions. 


“B12,” said Ymor, tossing the little phial aside and unrolling the tiny scroll 
within. 

“Gorrin the Cat,” said Withel automatically. “On station up in the gong 
tower at the Temple of Small Gods.” 

“He says Hugh has taken our stranger to the Broken Drum. Well, that’s good 
enough. Broadman is a—friend of ours, isn’t he?” 

“Aye,” said Withel. “If he knows what’s good for trade.”* 

“Among his customers has been your man Gorrin,” said Ymor pleasantly, 
“for he writes here about a box on legs, if I read this scrawl correctly.” He 
looked at Withel over the top of the paper. 

Withel looked away. “He will be disciplined,” he said flatly. Wa looked at 
the man leaning back in his chair, his black-clad frame resting as nonchalantly as 
a Rimland puma on a jungle branch, and decided that Gorrin atop Small Gods 
Temple would soon be joining those little deities in the multifold dimensions of 
Beyond. And he owed Wa three copper pieces. 

Ymor crumpled the note and tossed it into a corner. “I think we’ll wander 
along to the Drum later on, Withel. Perhaps, too, we may try this beer that your 
men find so tempting.” 

Withel said nothing. Being Ymor’s right-hand man was like being gently 
flogged to death with scented bootlaces. 


The twin city of Ankh-Morpork, foremost of all the cities bounding the Circle 
Sea, was as a matter of course the home of a large number of gangs, thieves’ 
guilds, syndicates and similar organizations. This was one of the reasons for its 
wealth. Most of the humbler folk on the widdershin side of the river, in 
Morpork’s mazy alleys, supplemented their meager incomes by filling some 
small role for one or other of the competing gangs. So it was that by the time 
Hugh and Twoflower entered the courtyard of the Broken Drum the leaders of a 



number of them were aware that someone had arrived in the city who appeared 
to have much treasure. Some reports from the more observant spies included 
details about a book that told the stranger what to say, and a box that walked by 
itself. These facts were immediately discounted. No magician capable of such 
enchantments ever came within a mile of Morpork docks. 

It still being that hour when most of the city was just rising or about to go to 
bed there were few people in the Drum to watch Twoflower descend the stairs. 
When the Luggage appeared behind him and started to lurch confidently down 
the steps the customers at the rough wooden tables, as one man, looked 
suspiciously at their drinks. 

Broadman was browbeating the small troll who swept the bar when the trio 
walked past him. “What in hell’s that?” he said. 

“Just don’t talk about it,” hissed Hugh. Twoflower was already thumbing 
through his book. 

“What’s he doing?” said Broadman, arms akimbo. 

“It tells him what to say. I know it sounds ridiculous,” muttered Hugh. 

“How can a book tell a man what to say?” 

“I wish for an accommodation, a room, lodgings, the lodging house, full 
board, are your rooms clean, a room with a view, what is your rate for one 
night?” said Twoflower in one breath. 

Broadman looked at Hugh. The beggar shrugged. 

“He’s got plenty money,” he said. 

“Tell him it’s three copper pieces, then. And that Thing will have to go in the 
stable.” 

“?” said the stranger. Broadman held up three thick red fingers and the man’s 
face was suddenly a sunny display of comprehension. He reached into his pouch 
and laid three large gold pieces in Broadman’s palm. 


Broadman stared at them. They represented about four times the worth of the 



Broken Drum, staff included. He looked at Hugh. There was no help there. He 
looked at the stranger. He swallowed. 


“Yes,” he said, in an unnaturally high voice. “And then there’s meals, 
o’course. Uh. You understand, yes? Food. You eat. No?” He made the 
appropriate motions. 

“Fut?” said the little man. 

“Yes,” said Broadman, beginning to sweat. “Have a look in your little book, 
I should.” 

The man opened the book and ran a finger down one page. Broadman, who 
could read after a fashion, peered over the top of the volume. What he saw made 
no sense. 

“Fooood,” said the stranger. “Yes. Cutlet, hash, chop, stew, ragout, fricassee, 
mince, collops, souffle, dumpling, blancmange, sorbet, gruel, sausage, not to 
have a sausage, beans, without a bean, kickshaws, jelly, jam. Giblets.” He 
beamed at Broadman. 

“All that?” said the innkeeper weakly. 

“It’s just the way he talks,” said Hugh. “Don’t ask me why. He just does.” 

All eyes in the room were watching the stranger—except for a pair 
belonging to Rincewind the wizard, who was sitting in the darkest corner 
nursing a mug of very small beer. 

He was watching the Luggage. 

Watch Rincewind. 

Look at him. Scrawny, like most wizards, and clad in a dark red robe on 
which a few mystic sigils were embroidered in tarnished sequins. Some might 
have taken him for a mere apprentice enchanter who had run away from his 
master out of defiance, boredom, fear and a lingering taste for heterosexuality. 
Yet around his neck was a chain bearing the bronze octagon that marked him as 
an alumnus of Unseen University, the high school of magic whose time-and- 
space transcendent campus is never precisely Here or There. Graduates were 



usually destined for mageship at least, but Rincewind—after an unfortunate 
event—had left knowing only one spell and made a living of sorts around the 
town by capitalizing on an innate gift for languages. He avoided work as a rule, 
but had a quickness of wit that put his acquaintances in mind of a bright rodent. 
And he knew sapient pearwood when he saw it. He was seeing it now, and didn’t 
quite believe it. 

An archmage, by dint of great effort and much expenditure of time, might 
eventually obtain a small staff made from the timber of the sapient pear tree. It 
grew only on the sites of ancient magic. There were probably no more than two 
such staffs in all the cities of the Circle Sea. A large chest of it... Rincewind tried 
to work it out, and decided that even if the box were crammed with star opals 
and sticks of auricholatum the contents would not be worth one-tenth the price 
of the container. A vein started to throb in his forehead. 

He stood up and made his way to the trio. 

“May I be of assistance?” he ventured. 

“Shove off, Rincewind,” snarled Broadman. 

“I only thought it might be useful to address this gentleman in his own 
tongue,” said the wizard gently. 

“He’s doing all right on his own,” said the innkeeper, but took a few steps 
backward. 

Rincewind smiled politely at the stranger and tried a few words of 
Chimeran. He prided himself on his fluency in the tongue, but the stranger only 
looked bemused. 

“It won’t work,” said Hugh knowledgeably. “It’s the book, you see. It tells 
him what to say. Magic.” 

Rincewind switched to High Borogravian, to Vanglemesht, Sumtri and even 
Black Oroogu, the language with no nouns and only one adjective, which is 
obscene. Each was met with polite incomprehension. In desperation he tried 
heathen Trob, and the little man’s face split into a delighted grin. 


“At last!” he said. “My good sir! This is remarkable!” (Although in Trob the 



last word in fact became “a thing which may happen but once in the usable 
lifetime of a canoe hollowed diligently by ax and fire from the tallest 
diamondwood tree that grows in the noted diamondwood forests on the lower 
slopes of Mount Awayawa, home of the firegods or so it is said.”) 

“What was all that?” said Broadman suspiciously. 

“What did the innkeeper say?” said the little man. 

Rincewind swallowed. “Broadman,” he said. “Two mugs of your best ale, 
please.” 

“You can understand him?” 

“Oh, sure.” 

“Tell him—tell him he’s very welcome. Tell him breakfast is—uh—one gold 
piece.” For a moment Broadman’s face looked as though some vast internal 
struggle was going on, and then he added with a burst of generosity, “I’ll throw 
in yours, too.” 

“Stranger,” said Rincewind levelly. “If you stay here you will be knifed or 
poisoned by nightfall. But don’t stop smiling, or so will I.” 

“Oh, come now,” said the stranger, looking around. “This looks like a 
delightful place. A genuine Morporkean tavern. I’ve heard so much about them, 
you know. All these quaint old beams. And so reasonable, too.” 

Rincewind glanced around quickly, in case some leakage of enchantment 
from the Magician’s Quarter across the river had momentarily transported them 
to some other place. No—this was still the interior of the Drum, its walls stained 
with smoke, its floor a compost of old rushes and nameless beetles, its sour beer 
not so much purchased as merely hired for a while. He tried to fit the image 
around the word “quaint,” or rather the nearest Trob equivalent, which was “that 
pleasant oddity of design found in the little coral houses of the sponge-eating 
pigmies on the Orohai peninsular.” 

His mind reeled back from the effort. The visitor went on, “My name is 
Twoflower,” and extended his hand. Instinctively, the other three looked down to 
see if there was a coin in it. 



“Pleased to meet you,” said Rincewind. “I’m Rincewind. Look, I wasn’t 
joking. This is a tough place.” 

“Good! Exactly what I wanted!” 

“Eh?” 

“What is this stuff in the mugs?” 

“This? Beer. Thanks, Broadman. Yes. Beer. You know. Beer.” 

“Ah. The so-typical drink. A small gold piece will be sufficient payment, do 
you think? I do not want to cause offense.” 

It was already half out of his purse. 

“Yarrt,” croaked Rincewind. “I mean, no, it won’t cause offense.” 

“Good. You say this is a tough place. Frequented, you mean, by heroes and 
men of adventure?” 

Rincewind considered this. “Yes?” he managed. 

“Excellent. I would like to meet some.” 

An explanation occurred to the wizard. “Ah,” he said. “You’ve come to hire 
mercenaries (‘warriors who fight for the tribe with most milknut meal’)?” 

“Oh no. I just want to meet them. So that when I get home I can say that I 
did it.” 

Rincewind thought that a meeting with most of the Drum’s clientele would 
mean that Twoflower never went home again, unless he lived downriver and 
happened to float past. 

“Where is your home?” he inquired. Broadman had slipped away into some 
back room, he noticed. Hugh was watching them suspiciously from a nearby 
table. 


“Have you heard of the city of Bes Palargic?” 



“Well, I didn’t spend much time in Trob. I was just passing through, you 
know—” 

“Oh, it’s not in Trob. I speak Trob because there are many beTrobi sailors in 
our ports. Bes Palargic is the major seaport of the Agatean Empire.” 

“Never heard of it, I’m afraid?” 

Twoflower raised his eyebrows. “No? It is quite big. You sail turnwise from 
the Brown Islands for about a week and there it is. Are you all right?” 

He hurried around the table and patted the wizard on the back. Rincewind 
choked on his beer. 

The Counterweight Continent! 


Three streets away an old man dropped a coin into a saucer of acid and swirled it 
gently. Broadman waited impatiently, ill at ease in a room made noisome by vats 
and bubbling beakers and lined with shelves containing shadowy shapes 
suggestive of skulls and stuffed impossibilities. 

“Well?” he demanded. 

“One cannot hurry these things,” said the old alchemist peevishly. “Assaying 
takes time. Ah.” He prodded the saucer, where the coin now lay in a swirl of 
green color. He made some calculations on a scrap of parchment. 

“Exceptionally interesting,” he said at last. 

“Is it genuine ?” 

The old man pursed his lips. “It depends on how you define the term,” he 
said. “If you mean: is this coin the same as, say, a fifty-dollar piece, then the 
answer is no.” 

“I knew it,” screamed the innkeeper, and started toward the door. 

“I’m not sure that I’m making myself clear,” said the alchemist. Broadman 
turned around angrily. 



“What do you mean?” 


“Well, you see, what with one thing and another our coinage has been 
somewhat watered, over the years. The gold content of the average coin is barely 
four parts in twelve, the balance being made up of silver, copper—” 

“What of it?” 

“I said this coin isn’t like ours. It is pure gold.” 

After Broadman had left, at a run, the alchemist spent some time staring at 
the ceiling. Then he drew out a very small piece of thin parchment, rummaged 
for a pen amongst the debris on his workbench, and wrote a very short, small, 
message. Then he went over to his cages of white doves, black cockerels and 
other laboratory animals. From one cage he removed a glossy coated rat, rolled 
the parchment into the phial attached to a hind leg, and let the animal go. 

It sniffed around the floor for a moment, then disappeared down a hole in the 
far wall. 

At about this time a hitherto unsuccessful fortune teller living on the other 
side of the block chanced to glance into her scrying bowl, gave a small scream 
and, within the hour, had sold her jewelry, various magical accoutrements, most 
of her clothes and almost all her other possessions that could not be conveniently 
carried on the fastest horse she could buy. The fact that later on, when her house 
collapsed in flames, she herself died in a freak landslide in the Morpork 
Mountains, proves that Death, too, has a sense of humor. 


Also at about the same moment as the homing rat disappeared into the maze of 
mns under the city, scurrying along in faultless obedience to an ancient instinct, 
the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork picked up the letters delivered that morning by 
albatross. He looked pensively at the topmost one again, and summoned his 
chief of spies. 

And in the Broken Drum Rincewind was listening open-mouthed as 
Twoflower talked. 


“So I decided to see for myself,” the little man was saying. “Eight years’ 



saving up, this has cost me. But worth every half-rhznu. I mean, here I am. In 
Ankh-Morpork. Famed in song and story, I mean. In the streets that have known 
the tread of Heric Whiteblade, Hrun the Barbarian, and Bravd the Hublander and 
the Weasel.. .It’s all just like I imagined, you know.” 

Rincewind’s face was a mask of fascinated horror. 

“I just couldn’t stand it any more back in Bes Pelargic,” Twoflower went on 
blithely, “sitting at a desk all day, just adding up columns of figures, just a 
pension to look forward to at the end of it.. .where’s the romance in that? 
Twoflower, I thought, it’s now or never. You don’t just have to listen to stories. 
You can go there. Now’s the time to stop hanging around the docks listening to 
sailors’ tales. So I compiled a phrase book and bought a passage on the next ship 
to the Brown Islands.” 

“No guards?” murmured Rincewind. 

“No. Why? What have I got that’s worth stealing?” 

Rincewind coughed. “You have, uh, gold,” he said. 

“Barely two thousand rhinu. Hardly enough to keep a man alive for more 
than a month or two. At home, that is. I imagine they might stretch a bit further 
here.” 

“Would a rhinu be one of those big gold coins?” said Rincewind. 

“Yes.” Twoflower looked worriedly at the wizard over the top of his strange 
seeing lenses. “Will two thousand be sufficient, do you think?” 

“Yarrrt,” croaked Rincewind. “I mean, yes—sufficient.” 

“Good.” 

“Um. Is everyone in the Agatean Empire as rich as you?” 

“Me? Rich? Bless you, whatever put that idea into your head? I am but a 
poor clerk! Did I pay the innkeeper too much, do you think?” Twoflower added. 

“Uh. He might have settled for less,” Rincewind conceded. 



“Ah. I shall know better next time. I can see I have a lot to learn. An idea 
occurs to me. Rincewind, would you perhaps consent to be employed as a, I 
don’t know, perhaps the word ‘guide’ would fit the circumstances? I think I 
could afford to pay you a rhinu a day.” 

Rincewind opened his mouth to reply but felt the words huddle together in 
his throat, reluctant to emerge in a world that was rapidly going mad. Twoflower 
blushed. 

“I have offended you,” he said. “It was an impertinent request to make of a 
professional man such as yourself. Doubtless you have many projects you wish 
to return to—some works of high magic, no doubt...” 

“No,” said Rincewind faintly. “Not just at present. A rhinu, you say? One a 
day. Every day?” 

“I think perhaps in the circumstances I should make it one and one half rhinu 
per day. Plus any out-of-pocket expenses, of course.” 

The wizard rallied magnificently. “That will be fine,” he said. “Great.” 

Twoflower reached into his pouch and took out a large round gold object, 
glanced at it for a moment, and slipped it back. Rincewind didn’t get a chance to 
see it properly. 

“I think,” said the tourist, “that I would like a little rest now. It was a long 
crossing. And then perhaps you would care to call back at noon and we can take 
a look at the city.” 

“Sure.” 

“Then please be good enough to ask the innkeeper to show me to my room.” 

Rincewind did so, and watched the nervous Broadman, who had arrived at a 
gallop from some back room, lead the way up the wooden steps behind the bar. 
After a few seconds the Luggage got up and pattered across the floor after them. 

Then the wizard looked down at the six big coins in his hand. Twoflower 
had insisted on paying his first four days’ wages in advance. 



Hugh nodded and smiled encouragingly. Rincewind snarled at him. 

As a student wizard Rincewind had never achieved high marks in 
precognition, but now unused circuits in his brain were throbbing and the future 
might as well have been engraved in bright colors on his eyeballs. The space 
between his shoulder blades began to itch. The sensible thing to do, he knew, 
was to buy a horse. It would have to be a fast one, and expensive—offhand, 
Rincewind couldn’t think of any horse dealer he knew who was rich enough to 
give change out of almost a whole ounce of gold. 

And then, of course, the other five coins would help him set up a useful 
practice at some safe distance, say two hundred miles. That would be the 
sensible thing. 

But what would happen to Twoflower, all alone in a city where even the 
cockroaches had an unerring instinct for gold? A man would have to be a real 
heel to leave him. 


The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork smiled, but with his mouth only. 

“The Hub Gate, you say?” he murmured. 

The guard captain saluted smartly. “Aye, lord. We had to shoot the horse 
before he would stop.” 

“Which, by a fairly direct route, brings you here,” said the Patrician, looking 
down at Rincewind. “And what have you got to say for yourself?” 

It was rumored that an entire wing of the Patrician’s palace was filled with 
clerks who spent their days collating and updating all the information collected 
by their master’s exquisitely organized spy system. Rincewind didn’t doubt it. 

He glanced toward the balcony that ran down one side of the audience room. A 
sudden run, a nimble jump—a sudden hail of crossbow quarrels. He shuddered. 

The Patrician cradled his chins in a beringed hand, and regarded the wizard 
with eyes as small and hard as beads. 


“Let me see,” he said. “Oathbreaking, the theft of a horse, uttering false 



coinage—yes, I think it’s the Arena for you, Rincewind.” 


This was too much. 

“I didn’t steal the horse! I bought it fairly!” 

“But with false coinage. Technical theft, you see.” 

“But those rhinu are solid gold!” 

“Rhinu?” The Patrician rolled one of them around in his thick fingers. “Is 
that what they are called? How interesting. But, as you point out, they are not 
very similar to dollars...” 

“Well, of course they’re not—” 

“Ah! you admit it, then?” 

Rincewind opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and shut it again. 

“Quite so. And on top of these there is, of course, the moral obloquy 
attendant on the cowardly betrayal of a visitor to this shore. For shame, 
Rincewind!” 

The Patrician waved a hand vaguely. The guards behind Rincewind backed 
away, and their captain took a few paces to the right. Rincewind suddenly felt 
very alone. 

It is said that when a wizard is about to die Death himself turns up to claim 
him (instead of delegating the task to a subordinate, such as Disease or Famine, 
as is usually the case). Rincewind looked around nervously for a tall figure in 
black (wizards, even failed wizards, have in addition to rods and cones in their 
eyeballs the tiny octagons that enable them to see into the far octarine, the basic 
color of which all other colors are merely pale shadows impinging on normal 
four dimensional space. It is said to be a sort of fluorescent greenish yellow 
purple). 

Was that a flickering shadow in the corner? 

“Of course,” said the Patrician, “I could be merciful.” 



The shadow disappeared. Rincewind looked up, an expression of insane 
hope on his face. 

“Yes?” he said. 

The Patrician waved a hand again. Rincewind saw the guards leave the 
chamber. Alone with the overlord of the twin cities, he almost wished they 
would come back. 

“Come hither, Rincewind,” said the Patrician. He indicated a bowl of 
savories on a low onyx table by the throne. “Would you care for a crystallized 
jellyfish? No?” 

“Um,” said Rincewind, “no.” 

“Now I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to say,” said the 
Patrician amiably, “otherwise you will die. In an interesting fashion. Over a 
period. Please stop fidgeting like that. 

“Since you are a wizard of sorts, you are of course aware that we live upon a 
world shaped, as it were, like a disc? And that there is said to exist, toward the 
far rim, a continent which though small is equal in weight to all the mighty land- 
masses in this hemi-circle? And that this, according to ancient legend, is because 
it is largely made of gold?” 

Rincewind nodded. Who hadn’t heard of the Counterweight Continent? 
Some sailors even believed the childhood tales and sailed in search of it. Of 
course, they returned either empty-handed or not at all. Probably eaten by giant 
turtles, in the opinion of more serious mariners. Because, of course, the 
Counterweight Continent was nothing more than a solar myth. 

“It does, of course, exist,” said the Patrician. “Although it is not made of 
gold, it is true that gold is a very common metal there. Most of the mass is made 
up by vast deposits of octiron deep within the crust. Now it will be obvious to an 
incisive mind like yours that the existence of the Counterweight Continent poses 
a deadly threat to our people here—” he paused, looking at Rincewind’s open 
mouth. He sighed. He said, “Do you by some chance fail to follow me?” 

“Yarrg,” said Rincewind. He swallowed, and licked his lips. “I mean, no. I 
mean—well, gold...” 



“I see,” said the Patrician sweetly. “You feel, perhaps, that it would be a 
marvelous thing to go to the Counterweight Continent and bring back a shipload 
of gold?” 

Rincewind had a feeling that some sort of trap was being set. 

“Yes?” he ventured. 

“And if every man on the shores of the Circle Sea had a mountain of gold of 
his own? Would that be a good thing? What would happen? Think carefully.” 

Rincewind’s brow furrowed. He thought. “We’d all be rich?” 

The way the temperature fell at his remark told him that it was not the 
correct one. 

“I may as well tell you, Rincewind, that there is some contact between the 
Lords of the Circle Sea and the Emperor of the Agatean Empire, as it is styled,” 
the Patrician went on. “It is only very slight. There is little common ground 
between us. We have nothing they want, and they have nothing we can afford. It 
is an old Empire, Rincewind. Old and cunning and cruel and very, very rich. So 
we exchange fraternal greetings by albatross mail. At infrequent intervals. 

“One such letter arrived this morning. A subject of the Emperor appears to 
have taken it into his head to visit our city. It appears he wishes to look at it. 
Only a madman would possibly undergo all the privations of crossing the 
Turnwise Ocean in order to merely look at anything. However. 

“He landed this morning. He might have met a great hero, or the cunningest 
of thieves, or some wise and great sage. He met you. He has employed you as a 
guide. You will be a guide, Rincewind, to this looker, this Twoflower. You will 
see that he returns home with a good report of our little homeland. What do you 
say to that?” 

“Er. Thank you, Lord,” said Rincewind miserably. 

“There is another point, of course. It would be a tragedy should anything 
untoward happen to our little visitor. It would be dreadful if he were to die, for 
example. Dreadful for the whole of our land, because the Agatean Emperor 
looks after his own and could certainly extinguish us at a nod. A mere nod. And 



that would be dreadful for you, Rincewind, because in the weeks that remained 
before the Empire’s huge mercenary fleet arrived certain of my servants would 
occupy themselves about your person in the hope that the avenging captains, on 
their arrival, might find their anger tempered by the sight of your still living 
body. There are certain spells that can prevent the life departing from a body, be 
it never so abused, and—I see by your face that understanding dawns?” 

“Yarrg.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Yes, lord. HI, er, see to it, I mean, I’ll endeavor to see, I mean, well, I’ll try 
to look after him and see he comes to no harm.” And after that I’ll get a job 
juggling snowballs through Hell, he added bitterly in the privacy of his own 
skull. 

“Capital! I gather already that you and Twoflower are on the best of terms. 
An excellent beginning. When he returns safely to his homeland you will not 
find me ungrateful. I shall probably even dismiss the charges against you. Thank 
you, Rincewind. You may go.” 

Rincewind decided not to ask for the return of his five remaining rhinu. He 
backed away, cautiously. 

“Oh, and there is one other thing,” the Patrician said, as the wizard groped 
for the door handles. 

“Yes, lord?” he replied, with a sinking heart. 

“I’m sure you won’t dream of trying to escape from your obligations by 
fleeing the city. I judge you to be a born city person. But you may be sure that 
the lords of the other cities will be appraised of these conditions by nightfall.” 

“I assure you the thought never even crossed my mind, Lord.” 

“Indeed? Then if I were you I’d sue my face for slander.” 


Rincewind reached the Broken Drum at a dead run, and was just in time to 
collide with a man who came out backward, fast. The stranger’s haste was in 



part accounted for by the spear in his chest. He bubbled noisily and dropped 
dead at the wizard’s feet. 

Rincewind peered around the doorframe and jerked back as a heavy 
throwing ax whirred past like a partridge. 

It was probably a lucky throw, a second cautious glance told him. The dark 
interior of the Drum was a broil of fighting men, quite a number of them—a 
third and longer glance confirmed—in bits. Rincewind swayed back as a wildly 
thrown stool sailed past and smashed on the far side of the street. Then he dived 
in. 


He was wearing a dark robe, made darker by constant wear and irregular 
washings. In the raging gloom no one appeared to notice a shadowy shape that 
shuffled desperately from table to table. At one point a fighter, staggering back, 
trod on what felt like fingers. A number of what felt like teeth bit his ankle. He 
yelped shrilly and dropped his guard just sufficiently for a sword, swung by a 
surprised opponent, to skewer him. 

Rincewind reached the stairway, sucking his bruised hand and running with 
a curious, bent-over gait. A crossbow quarrel thunked into the banister rail above 
him, and he gave a whimper. 

He made the stairs in one breathless rush, expecting at any moment another, 
more accurate shot. 

In the corridor above he stood upright, gasping, and saw the floor in front of 
him scattered with bodies. A big black bearded man, with a bloody sword in one 
hand, was trying a door handle. 

“Hey!” screamed Rincewind. The man looked around and then, almost 
absentmindedly, drew a short throwing knife from his bandolier and hurled it. 
Rincewind ducked. There was a brief scream behind him as the crossbow man, 
sighting down his weapon, dropped it and clutched at his throat. 

The big man was already reaching for another knife. Rincewind looked 
around wildly, and then with wild improvisation drew himself up into a wizardly 
pose. 


His hand was flung back. “Asoniti! Kyorucha! Beazleblor!” 



The man hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously from side to side as he waited 
for the magic. The conclusion that there was not going to be any hit him at the 
same time as Rincewind, whirring wildly down the passage, kicked him sharply 
in the groin. 

As he screamed and clutched at himself the wizard dragged open the door, 
sprang inside, slammed it behind him and threw his body against it, panting. 

It was quiet in here. There was Twoflower, sleeping peacefully on the low 
bed. And there, at the foot of the bed, was the Luggage. 

Rincewind took a few steps forward, cupidity moving him as easily as if he 
were on little wheels. The chest was open. There were bags inside, and in one of 
them he caught the gleam of gold. For a moment greed overcame caution, and he 
reached out gingerly.. .but what was the use? He’d never live to enjoy it. 
Reluctantly he drew his hand back, and was surprised to see a slight tremor in 
the chest’s open lid. Hadn’t it shifted slightly, as though rocked by the wind? 

Rincewind looked at his fingers, and then at the lid. It looked heavy, and was 
bound with brass bands. It was quite still now. 

What wind? 

“Rincewind!” 

Twoflower sprang off the bed. The wizard jumped back, wrenching his 
features into a smile. 

“My dear chap, right on time! We’ll just have lunch, and then I’m sure 
you’ve got a wonderful program lined up for this afternoon!” 

“Er—” 


“That’s great!” 

Rincewind took a deep breath. “Look,” he said desperately, “let’s eat 
somewhere else. There’s been a bit of a fight down below.” 


“A tavern brawl? Why didn’t you wake me up?” 



“Well, you see, I—What?” 


“I thought I made myself clear this morning, Rincewind. I want to see 
genuine Morporkian life—the slave market, the Whore Pits, the Temple of Small 
Gods, the Beggars’ Guild.. .and a genuine tavern brawl.” A faint note of 
suspicion entered Twoflower’s voice. “You do have them, don’t you? You know, 
people swinging on chandelier, swordfights over the table, the sort of thing Hrun 
the Barbarian and the Weasel are always getting involved in. You know 
— excitement .” 

Rincewind sat down heavily on the bed. 

“You want to see a fight?” he said. 

“Yes. What’s wrong with that?” 

“For a start, people get hurt.” 

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting we get involved. I just want to see one, that’s all. 
And some of your famous heroes. You do have some, don’t you? It’s not all 
dockside talk?” And now, to the wizard’s astonishment, Twoflower was almost 
pleading. 

“Oh, yeah. We have them all right,” said Rincewind hurriedly. He pictured 
them in his mind, and recoiled from the thought. 

All the heroes of the Circle Sea passed through the gates of Ankh-Morpork 
sooner or later. Most of them were from the barbaric tribes nearer the frozen 
Hub, which had a sort of export trade in heroes. Almost all of them had crude 
magic swords, whose unsuppressed harmonics on the astral plane played hell 
with any delicate experiments in applied sorcery for miles around, but 
Rincewind didn’t object to them on that score. He knew himself to be a magical 
dropout, so it didn’t bother him that the mere appearance of a hero at the city 
gates was enough to cause retorts to explode and demons to materialize all 
through the Magical Quarter. No, what he didn’t like about heroes was that they 
were usually suicidally gloomy when sober and homicidally insane when drunk. 
There were too many of them, too. Some of the most notable questing grounds 
near the city were a veritable hubbub in the season. There was talk of organizing 
a rota. 



He rubbed his nose. The only heroes he had much time for were Bravd and 
the Weasel, who were out of town at the moment, and Hrun the Barbarian, who 
was practically an academic by Hub standards in that he could think without 
moving his lips. Hrun was said to be roving somewhere Turnwise.. 

“Look,” he said at last. “Have you ever met a barbarian?” 

Twoflower shook his head. 

“I was afraid of that,” said Rincewind. “Well, they’re—” 

There was a clatter of running feet in the street outside and a fresh uproar 
from downstairs. It was followed by a commotion on the stairs. The door was 
flung open before Rincewind could collect himself sufficiently to make a dash 
for the window. 

But instead of the greed-crazed madman he expected, he found himself 
looking into the round red face of a Sergeant of the Watch. He breathed again. 

Of course. The Watch were always careful not to intervene too soon in any brawl 
where the odds were not heavily stacked in their favor. The job carried a 
pension, and attracted a cautious, thoughtful kind of man. 

The Sergeant glowered at Rincewind, and then peered at Twoflower with 
interest. 

“Everything all right here, then?” he said. 

“Oh, fine,” said Rincewind. “Got held up, did you?” 

The sergeant ignored him. “This the foreigner, then?” he inquired. 

“We were just leaving,” said Rincewind quickly, and switched to Trob. 
“Twoflower, I think we ought to get lunch somewhere else. I know some 
places.” 

He marched out into the corridor with as much aplomb as he could muster. 
Twoflower followed, and a few seconds later there was a strangling sound from 
the sergeant as the Luggage closed its lid with a snap, stood up, stretched, and 
marched after them. 



Watchmen were dragging bodies out of the room downstairs. There were no 
survivors. The Watch had ensured this by giving them ample time to escape via 
the back door, a neat compromise between caution and justice that benefited all 
parties. 

“Who are all these men?” said Twoflower. 

“Oh, you know. Just men,” said Rincewind. And before he could stop 
himself some part of his brain that had nothing to do took control of his mouth 
and added, “Heroes, in fact.” 

“Really?” 

When one foot is stuck in the Grey Miasma of H’rull it is much easier to step 
right in and sink rather than prolong the struggle. Rincewind let himself go. 

“Yes, that one over there is Erig Stronginthearm, over there is Black Zenell 


“Is Hrun the Barbarian here?” said Twoflower, looking around eagerly. 
Rincewind took a deep breath. 

“That’s him behind us,” he said. 

The enormity of this lie was so great that its ripples did in fact spread out 
one of the lower astral planes as far as the Magical Quarter across the river, 
where it picked up tremendous velocity from the huge standing wave of power 
that always hovered there and bounced wildly across the Circle Sea. A harmonic 
got as far as Hrun himself, currently fighting a couple of gnolls on a crumbling 
ledge high in the Caderack Mountains, and caused him a moment’s unexplained 
discomfort. 

Twoflower, meanwhile, had thrown back the lid of the Luggage and was 
hastily pulling out a heavy black cube. 

“This is fantastic!” he said. “They’re never going to believe this at home!” 

“What’s he going on about?” said the sergeant doubtfully. 

“He’s pleased you rescued us,” said Rincewind. He looked sidelong at the 



black box, half expecting it to explode or emit strange musical tones. 

“Ah,” said the sergeant. He was staring at the box, too. 

Twoflower smiled brightly at them. 

“I’d like a record of the event,” he said. “Do you think you could ask them 
all to stand over by the window, please? This won’t take a moment. And, er, 
Rincewind?” 

“Yes?” 

Twoflower stood on tiptoe to whisper. 

“I expect you know what this is, don’t you?” 

Rincewind stared down at the box. It had a round glass eye protruding from 
the center of one face, and a lever at the back. 

“Not wholly,” he said. 

“It’s a device for making pictures quickly,” said Twoflower. “Quite a new 
invention. I’m rather proud of it but, look, I don’t think these gentlemen would 
—well, I mean they might be—sort of apprehensive? Could you explain it to 
them? I’ll reimburse them for their time, of course.” 

“He’s got a box with a demon in it that draws pictures,” said Rincewind 
shortly. “Do what the madman says and he will give you gold.” 

The Watch smiled nervously. 

“I’d like you in the picture, Rincewind. That’s fine.” Twoflower took out the 
golden disc that Rincewind had noticed before, squinted at its unseen face for a 
moment, muttered “Thirty seconds should about do it,” and said brightly, “Smile 
please!” 

“Smile,” rasped Rincewind. There was a whirr from the box. 

“Right!” 



High above the Disc the second albatross soared; so high in fact that its tiny mad 
orange eyes could see the whole of the world and the great, glittering, girdling 
Circle Sea. There was a yellow message capsule strapped to one leg. Far below 
it, unseen in the clouds, the bird that had brought the earlier message to the 
Patrician of Ankh-Morpork flapped gently back to its home. 


Rincewind looked at the tiny square of glass in astonishment. There he was, all 
right—a tiny figure, in perfect color, standing in front of a group of Watchmen 
whose faces were each frozen in a terrified rictus. A buzz of wordless terror went 
up from the men around him as they craned over his shoulder to look. 

Grinning, Twoflower produced a handful of the smaller coins Rincewind 
now recognized as quarter -rhinu. He winked at the wizard. 

“I had similar problems when I stopped over in the Brown Islands,” he said. 
“They thought the iconograph steals a bit of their souls. Laughable, isn’t it?” 

“Yarg,” said Rincewind and then, because somehow that was hardly enough 
to keep up his side of the conversation, added, “I don’t think it looks very like 
me, though.” 

“It’s easy to operate,” said Twoflower, ignoring him. “Look, all you have to 
do is press this button. The iconograph does the rest. Now, I’ll just stand over 
here next to Hrun, and you can take the picture.” 

The coins quietened the men’s agitation in the way that gold can, and 
Rincewind was amazed to find, half a minute later, that he was holding a little 
glass portrait of Twoflower wielding a huge notched sword and smiling as 
though all his dreams had come true. 


They lunched at a small eating house near the Brass Bridge, with the Luggage 
nestling under the table. The food and wine, both far superior to Rincewind’s 
normal fare, did much to relax him. Things weren’t going to be too bad, he 
decided. A bit of invention and some quick thinking, that was all that was 
needed. 


Twoflower seemed to be thinking too. Looking reflectively into his wine cup 



he said, “Tavern fights are pretty common around here, I expect?” 


“Oh, fairly.” 

“No doubt fixtures and fittings get damaged?” 

“Fixt—Oh, I see. You mean like benches and whatnot. Yes, I suppose so.” 

“That must be upsetting for the innkeepers.” 

“I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose it must be one of the risks of 
the job.” 

Twoflower regarded him thoughtfully. 

“I might be able to help there,” he said. “Risks are my business. I say, this 
food is a bit greasy, isn’t it?” 

“You did say you wanted to try some typical Morporkean food,” said 
Rincewind. “What was that about risks?” 

“Oh, I know all about risks. They’re my business.” 

“I thought that’s what you said. I didn’t believe it the first time either.” 

“Oh, I don’t take risks. About the most exciting thing that happened to me 
was knocking some ink over. I assess risks. Day after day. Do you know what 
the odds are against a house catching fire in the Red Triangle district of Bes 
Pelargic? Five hundred and thirty-eight to one. I calculated that,” he added with 
a trace of pride. 

“What—” Rincewind tried to suppress a burp—“what for? ’Scuse me.” He 
helped himself to some more wine. 

“For—” Twoflower paused. “I can’t say it in Trob,” he said. “I don’t think 
the beTrobi have a word for it. In my language we call it—” he said a collection 
of outlandish syllables. 

“Inn-sewer-ants, ” repeated Rincewind. “Tha’s a funny word. Wossit mean?” 

“Well, suppose you have a ship loaded with, say, gold bars. It might run into 



storms or, or be taken by pirates. You don’t want that to happen, so you take out 
an inn-sewer-ants-polly-sea. I work out the odds against the cargo being lost, 
based on weather reports and piracy records for the last twenty years, then I add 
a bit, then you pay me some money based on those odds—” 

“—and the bit—” Rincewind said, waggling a finger solemnly. 

“—and then, if the cargo is lost, I reimburse you.” 

“Reeburs?” 

“Pay you the value of your cargo,” said Twoflower patiently. 

“I get it. It’s like a bet, right?” 

“A wager? In a way, I suppose.” 

“And you make money at this inn-sewer-ants ?” 

“It offers a return on investment, certainly.” 

Wrapped in the warm yellow glow of the wine, Rincewind tried to think of 
inn-sewer-ants in Circle Sea terms. 

“I don’t think I unnerstan’ this inn-sewer-ants ,” he said firmly, idly watching 
the world spin by. “Magic, now. Magic I unnerstan’.” 

Twoflower grinned. “Magic is one thing, and reflected-sound-of- 
underground-spirits is another,” he said. 

“Wha’?” 

“What?” 

“That funny wor’ you used,” said Rincewind impatiently. 

“Reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits ? ” 

“Never heard o’ it.” 


Twoflower tried to explain. 



Rincewind tried to understand. 


In the long afternoon they toured the city Turnwise of the river. Twoflower led 
the way, with the strange picture box slung on a strap around his neck. 

Rincewind trailed behind, whimpering at intervals and checking to see that his 
head was still there. 

A few others followed, too. In a city where public executions, duels, fights, 
magical feuds and strange events regularly punctuated the daily round the 
inhabitants had brought the profession of interested bystander to a peak of 
perfection. They were, to a man, highly skilled gawpers. In any case, Twoflower 
was delightedly taking picture after picture of people engaged in what he 
described as typical activities, and since a quarter -rhinu would subsequently 
change hands “for their trouble” a tail of bemused and happy nouveauxriches 
was soon following him in case this madman exploded in a shower of gold. 

At the Temple of the Seven-Handed Sek a hasty convocation of priests and 
ritual heart-transplant artisans agreed that the hundred-span high statue of Sek 
was altogether too holy to be made into a magic picture, but a payment of two 
rhinu left them astoundedly agreeing that perhaps He wasn’t as holy as all that. 

A prolonged session at the Whore Pits produced a number of colorful and 
instructive pictures, a number of which Rincewind concealed about his person 
for detailed perusal in private. As the fumes cleared from his brain he began to 
speculate seriously as to how the iconograph worked. 

Even a failed wizard knew that some substances were sensitive to light. 
Perhaps the glass plates were treated by some arcane process that froze the light 
that passed through them? Something like that, anyway. Rincewind often 
suspected that there was something, somewhere, that was better than magic. He 
was usually disappointed. 

However, he soon took every opportunity to operate the box. Twoflower was 
only too pleased to allow this, since that enabled the little man to appear in his 
own pictures. It was at this point that Rincewind noticed something strange. 
Possession of the box conferred a kind of power on the wielder—which was that 
anyone, confronted with the hypnotic glass eye, would submissively obey the 
most peremptory orders about stance and expression. 



It was while he was thus engaged in the Plaza of Broken Moons that disaster 
struck. 

Twoflower had posed alongside a bewildered charm seller, his crowd of 
newfound admirers watching him with interest in case he did something 
humorously lunatic. 

Rincewind got down on one knee, the better to arrange the picture, and 
pressed the enchanted lever. 

The box said, “It’s no good. I’ve run out of pink.” 

A hitherto unnoticed door opened in front of his eyes. A small, green and 
hideously warty humanoid figure leaned out, pointed at a color-encrusted palette 
in one clawed hand, and screamed at him. 

“No pink! See?” screeched the homunculus. “No good you going on 
pressing the lever when there’s no pink, is there? If you wanted pink you 
shouldn’t of took all those pictures of young ladies, should you? It’s 
monochrome from now on, friend. All right?” 

“All right. Yeah, Sure,” said Rincewind. In one dim corner of the little box 
he thought he could see an easel, and a tiny unmade bed. He hoped he couldn’t. 

“So long as that’s understood,” said the imp, and shut the door. Rincewind 
thought he could hear the muffled sound of grumbling and the scrape of a stool 
being dragged across the floor. 

“Twoflower—” he began, and looked up. 

Twoflower had vanished. As Rincewind stared at the crowd, with sensations 
of prickly horror traveling up his spine, there came a gentle prod in the small of 
his back. 

“Turn without haste,” said a voice like black silk. “Or kiss your kidneys 
goodbye.” 


The crowd watched with interest. It was turning out to be quite a good day. 
Rincewind turned slowly, feeling the point of the sword scrape along his 



ribs. At the other end of the blade he recognized Stren Withel—thief, cruel 
swordsman, disgruntled contender for the title of worst man in the world. 


“Hi,” he said weakly. A few yards away he noticed a couple of 
unsympathetic men raising the lid of the Luggage and pointing excitedly at the 
bags of gold. Withel smiled. It made an unnerving effect on his scar-crossed 
face. 

“I know you,” he said. “A gutter wizard. What is that thing?” 

Rincewind became aware that the lid of the Luggage was trembling slightly, 
although there was no wind. And he was still holding the picture box. 

“This? It makes pictures,” he said brightly. “Hey, just hold that smile, will 
you?” He backed away quickly and pointed the box. 

For a moment Withel hesitated. “What?” he said. 

“That’s fine, hold it just like that...” said Rincewind. 

The thief paused, then growled and swung his sword back. 

There was a snap, and a duet of horrible screams. Rincewind did not glance 
around for fear of the terrible things he might see, and by the time Withel looked 
for him again he was on the other side of the Plaza, and still accelerating. 


The albatross descended in wide, slow sweeps that ended in an undignified 
flurry of feathers and a thump as it landed heavily on its platform in the 
Patrician’s bird garden. 

The custodian of the birds, dozing in the sun and hardly expecting a long¬ 
distance message so soon after this morning’s arrival, jerked to his feet and 
looked up. 

A few moments later he was scuttling through the palace’s corridors holding 
the message capsule and—owing to carelessness brought on by surprise— 
sucking at the nasty beak wound on the back of his hand. 



Rincewind pounded down an alley, paying no heed to the screams of rage 
coming from the picture box, and cleared a high wall with his frayed robe 
flapping around him like the feathers of a disheveled jackdaw. He landed in the 
forecourt of a carpet shop, scattering the merchandise and customers, dived 
through its rear exit trailing apologies, skidded down another alley and stopped, 
teetering dangerously, just as he was about to plunge unthinkingly into the Ankh. 

There are said to be some mystic rivers one drop of which can steal a man’s 
life away. After its turbid passage through the twin cities the Ankh could have 
been one of them. 

In the distance the cries of rage took on a shrill note of terror. Rincewind 
looked around desperately for a boat, or a handhold up the sheer walls on either 
side of him. 

He was trapped. 

Unbidden, the Spell welled up in his mind. It was perhaps untrue to say that 
he had learned it; it had learned him. The episode had led to his expulsion from 
Unseen University, because, for a bet, he had dared to open the pages of the last 
remaining copy of the Creator’s own grimoire, the Octavo (while the University 
librarian was otherwise engaged). The spell had leapt out of the page and 
instantly burrowed deeply into his mind, whence even the combined talents of 
the Faculty of Medicine had been unable to coax it. Precisely which one it was 
they were also unable to ascertain, except that it was one of the eight basic spells 
that were intricately interwoven with the very fabric of time and space itself. 

Since then it had been showing a worrying tendency, when Rincewind was 
feeling rundown or especially threatened, to try to get itself said. 

He clenched his teeth together but the first syllable forced itself around the 
corner of his mouth. His left hand raised involuntarily and, as the magical force 
whirled him around, began to give off octarine sparks... 

The Luggage hurtled around the corner, its several hundred knees moving 
like pistons. 


Rincewind gaped. The spell died, unsaid. 

The box didn’t appear to be hampered in any way by the ornamental rug 



draped roguishly over it, nor by the thief hanging by one arm from the lid. It 
was, in a very real sense, a dead weight. Farther along the lid were the remains 
of two fingers, owner unknown. 

The Luggage halted a few feet from the wizard and, after a moment, 
retracted its legs. It had no eyes that Rincewind could see, but he was 
nevertheless sure that it was staring at him. Expectantly. 

“Shoo,” he said weakly. It didn’t budge, but the lid creaked open, releasing 
the dead thief. 

Rincewind remembered about the gold. Presumably the box had to have a 
master. In the absence of Twoflower, had it adopted him? 

The tide was turning and he could see debris drifting downstream in the 
yellow afternoon light toward the River Gate, a mere hundred yards 
downstream. It was the work of a moment to let the dead thief join them. Even if 
it was found later it would hardly cause comment. And the sharks in the estuary 
were used to solid, regular meals. 

Rincewind watched the body drift away, and considered his next move. The 
Luggage would probably float. All he had to do was wait until dusk, and then go 
out with the tide. There were plenty of wild places downstream where he could 
wade ashore, and then—well, if the Patrician really had sent out word about him 
then a change of clothing and a shave should take care of that. In any case, there 
were other lands and he had a facility for languages. Let him but get to Chimera 
or Gonim or Ecalpon and half a dozen armies couldn’t bring him back. And then 
—wealth, comfort, security... 

There was, of course, the problem of Twoflower. Rincewind allowed himself 
a moment’s sadness. 

“It could be worse,” he said by way of farewell. “It could be me.” 

It was when he tried to move that he found his robe was caught on some 
obstruction. 

By craning his neck he found that the edge of it was being gripped firmly by 
the Luggage’s lid. 



“Ah, Gorphal,” said the Patrician pleasantly. “Come in. Sit down. Can I press 
you to a candied starfish?” 

“I am yours to command, master,” said the old man calmly. “Save, perhaps, 
in the matter of preserved echinoderms.” 

The Patrician shrugged, and indicated the scroll on the table. 

“Read that,” he said. 

Gorphal picked up the parchment and raised one eyebrow slightly when he 
saw the familiar ideograms of the Golden Empire. He read in silence for perhaps 
a minute, and then turned the scroll over to examine minutely the seal on the 
obverse. 

“You are famed as a student of Empire affairs,” said the Patrician. “Can you 
explain this?” 

“Knowledge in the matter of the Empire lies less in noting particular events 
than in studying a certain cast of mind,” said the old diplomat. “The message is 
curious, yes, but not surprising.” 

“This morning the Emperor instructed,” the Patrician allowed himself the 
luxury of a scowl, “instructed me, Gorphal, to protect this Twoflower person. 
Now it seems I must have him killed. You don’t find that surprising?” 

“No. The Emperor is no more than a boy. He is—idealistic. Keen. A god to 
his people. Whereas this afternoon’s letter is, unless I am very much mistaken, 
from Nine Turning Mirrors, the Grand Vizier. He has grown old in the service of 
several Emperors. He regards them as a necessary but tiresome ingredient in the 
successful running of the Empire. He does not like things out of place. The 
Empire was not built by allowing things to get out of place. That is his view.” 

“I begin to see—” said the Patrician. 

“Quite so.” Gorphal smiled into his beard. “This tourist is a thing that is out 
of place. After acceding to his master’s wishes Nine Turning Mirrors would, I 
am quite sure, make his own arrangements with a view to ensuring that one 



wanderer would not be allowed to return home bringing, perhaps, the disease of 
dissatisfaction. The Empire likes people to stay where it puts them. So much 
more convenient, then, if this Twoflower disappears for good in the barbarian 
lands. Meaning here, master.” 

“And your advice?” said the Patrician. 

Gorphal shrugged. 

“Merely that you should do nothing. Matters will undoubtedly resolve 
themselves. However,” he scratched an ear thoughtfully, “perhaps the Assassins’ 
Guild...?” 

“Ah yes,” said the Patrician. “The Assassins’ Guild. Who is their president at 
the moment?” 

“Zlorf Flannelfoot, master.” 

“Have a word with him, will you?” 

“Quite so, master.” 

The Patrician nodded. It was all rather a relief. He agreed with Nine Turning 
Mirrors—life was difficult enough. People ought to stay where they were put. 


Brilliant constellations shone down on the Discworld. One by one the traders 
shuttered their shops. One by one the ganefs, thieves, finewirers, whores, 
illusionists, backsliders and second-story men awoke and breakfasted. Wizards 
went about their polydimensional affairs. Tonight saw the conjunction of two 
powerful planets, and already the air over the Magical Quarter was hazy with 
early spells. 

“Look,” said Rincewind, “this isn’t getting us anywhere.” He inched 
sideways. The Luggage followed faithfully, lid half open and menacing. 
Rincewind briefly considered making a desperate leap to safety. The lid smacked 
in anticipation. 


In any case, he told himself with sinking heart, the damn thing would only 
follow him again. It had that dogged look about it. Even if he managed to get to 



a horse, he had a nasty suspicion that it would follow him at its own pace. 
Endlessly. Swimming rivers and oceans. Gaining slowly every night, while he 
had to stop to sleep. And then one day, in some exotic city and years hence, he’d 
hear the sound of hundreds of tiny feet accelerating down the road behind him... 

“You’ve got the wrong man!” he moaned. “It’s not my fault! I didn’t kidnap 
him!” 

The box moved forward slightly. Now there was just a narrow strip of greasy 
jetty between Rincewind’s heels and the river. A flash of precognition told him 
that the box would be able to swim faster than he could. He tried not to imagine 
what it would be like to drown in the Ankh. 

“It won’t stop until you give in, you know,” said a small voice 
conversationally. 

Rincewind looked down at the iconograph, still hanging around his neck. Its 
trapdoor was open and the homunculus was leaning against the frame, smoking a 
pipe and watching the proceedings with amusement. 

“I’ll take you in with me, at least,” said Rincewind through gritted teeth. 

The imp took the pipe out of his mouth. “What did you say?” he said. 

“I said I’ll take you in with me, dammit!” 

“Suit yourself.” The imp tapped the side of the box meaningfully. “We’ll see 
who sinks first.” 

The Luggage yawned, and moved forward a fraction of an inch. 

“Oh, all right,” said Rincewind irritably. “But you’ll have to give me time to 
think.” 

The Luggage backed off slowly. Rincewind edged his way back onto 
reasonably safe land and sat down with his back against a wall. Across the river 
the lights of Ankh city glowed. 

“You’re a wizard,” said the picture imp. “You’ll think of some way to find 
him.” 



“Not much of a wizard, I’m afraid.” 


“You can just jump down on everyone and turn them into worms,” the imp 
added encouragingly, ignoring his last remark. 

“No. Turning To Animals is an Eighth Level spell. I never even completed 
my training. I only know one spell.” 

“Well, that’ll do.” 

“I doubt it,” said Rincewind hopelessly. 

“What does it do, then?” 

“Can’t tell you. Don’t really want to talk about it. But frankly,” he sighed, 

“no spells are much good. It takes three months to commit even a simple one to 
memory, and then once you’ve used it, poof! it’s gone. That’s what’s so stupid 
about the whole magic thing, you know. You spend twenty years learning the 
spell that makes nude virgins appear in your bedroom, and then you’re so 
poisoned by quicksilver fumes and half blind from reading old grimoires that 
you can’t remember what happens next.” 

“I never thought of it like that,” said the imp. 

“Hey, look—this is all wrong. When Twoflower said they’d got better kind 
of magic in the Empire I thought—I thought...” 

The imp looked at him expectantly. Rincewind cursed to himself. 

“Well, if you must know, I thought he didn’t mean magic. Not as such.” 

“What else is there, then?” 

Rincewind began to feel really wretched. “I don’t know,” he said. “Abetter 
way of doing things, I suppose. Something with a bit of sense in it. Harnessing— 
harnessing the lightning, or something.” 

The imp gave him a kind but pitying look. 

“Lightning is the spears hurled by the thunder giants when they fight,” it said 



gently. “Established meteorological fact. You can’t harness it.” 

“I know,” said Rincewind miserably. “That’s the flaw in the argument, of 
course.” 

The imp nodded, and disappeared into the depths of the iconograph. A few 
moments later Rincewind smelled bacon frying. He waited until his stomach 
couldn’t stand the strain anymore, and rapped on the box. The imp reappeared. 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” it said before Rincewind could 
open his mouth. “And even if you could get a harness on it, how could you get it 
to pull a cart?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

“Lightning. It just goes up and down. You’d want it to go along, not up and 
down. Anyway, it’d probably burn through the harness.” 

“I don’t care about the lightning! How can I think on an empty stomach?” 

“Eat something, then. That’s logic.” 

“How? Every time I move that damn box flexes its hinges at me!” 

The Luggage, on cue, gaped widely. 

“See?” 

“It’s not trying to bite you,” said the imp. “There’s food in there. You’re no 
use to it starved.” 

Rincewind peered into the dark recesses of the Luggage. There were indeed, 
among the chaos of boxes and bags of gold, several bottles and packages in oiled 
paper. He gave a cynical laugh, mooched around the abandoned jetty until he 
found a piece of wood about the right length, wedged it as politely as possible in 
the gap between the lid and the box, and pulled out one of the flat packages. 

It held biscuits that turned out to be as hard as diamondwood. 


“’Loody ’ell,” he muttered, nursing his teeth. 



“Captain Eightpanther’s Travelers’ Digestives, them,” said the imp from the 
doorway to his box. “Saved many a life at sea, they have.” 

“Oh, sure. Do you use them as a raft, or just throw them to the sharks and 
sort of watch them sink? What’s in the bottles? Poison?” 

“Water.” 

“But there’s water everywhere! Why’d he want to bring water?” 

“Trust.” 

“Trust?” 

“Yes. That’s what he didn’t, the water here. See?” 

Rincewind opened a bottle. The liquid inside might have been water. It had a 
flat, empty flavor, with no trace of life. “Neither taste nor smell,” he grumbled. 

The Luggage gave a little creak, attracting his attention. With a lazy air of 
calculated menace it shut its lid slowly, grinding Rincewind’s impromptu wedge 
like a dry loaf. 

“All right, all right,” he said. “I’m thinking.” 


Ymor’s headquarters were in the Leaning Tower at the junction of Rime Street 
and Lrost Alley. At midnight the solitary guard leaning in the shadows looked up 
at the conjoining planets and wondered idly what change in his fortunes they 
might herald. 

There was the faintest of sounds, as of a gnat yawning. 

The guard glanced down the deserted street, and now caught the glimmer of 
moonlight on something lying in the mud a few yards away. He picked it up. The 
lunar light gleamed on gold, and his intake of breath was almost loud enough to 
echo down the alleyway. 

There was a slight sound again, and another coin rolled into the gutter on the 
other side of the street. 



By the time he had picked it up there was another one, a little way off and 
still spinning. Gold was, he remembered, said to be formed from the crystallized 
light of stars. Until now he had never believed it to be true, that something as 
heavy as gold could fall naturally from the sky. 

As he drew level with the opposite alley mouth some more fell. It was still in 
its bag, there was an awful lot of it, and Rincewind brought it down heavily onto 
his head. 

When the guard came to he found himself looking up into the wild-eyed face 
of a wizard, who was menacing his throat with a sword. In the darkness, too, 
something was gripping his leg. 

It was the disconcerting sort of grip that suggested that the gripper could grip 
a whole lot harder, if he wanted to. 

“Where is he, the rich foreigner?” hissed the wizard. “Quickly!” 

“What’s holding my leg?” said the man, with a note of terror in his voice. He 
tried to wriggle free. The pressure increased. 

“You wouldn’t want to know,” said Rincewind. “Pay attention, please. 
Where’s the foreigner?” 

“Not here! They’ve got him at Broadman’s place! Everyone’s looking for 
him! You’re Rincewind, aren’t you? The box—the box that bites people— 
ononono.. .pleasssse...” 

Rincewind had gone. The guard felt the unseen leg gripper release his—or, 
as he was beginning to fear, its —hold. Then, as he tried to pull himself to his 
feet, something big and heavy and square cannoned into him out of the dark and 
plunged off after the wizard. Something with hundreds of tiny feet. 


With only his homemade phrase book to help him, Twoflower was trying to 
explain the mysteries of inn-sewer-ants to Broadman. The fat innkeeper was 
listening intently, his little black eyes glittering. 


From the other end of the table Ymor watched with mild amusement, 



occasionally feeding one of his ravens with scraps from his plate. Beside him 
Withel paced up and down. 

“You fret too much,” said Ymor, without taking his eyes from the two men 
opposite him. “I can feel it, Stren. Who would dare attack us here? And the 
gutter wizard will come. He’s too much of a coward not to. And he’ll try to 
bargain. And we shall have him. And the gold. And the chest.” 

Withel’s one eye glared, and he smacked a fist into the palm of a black- 
gloved hand. 

“Who would have thought there was so much sapient pearwood in the whole 
of the Disc?” he said. “How could we have known?” 

“You fret too much, Stren. I’m sure you can do better this time,” said Ymor 
pleasantly. 

The lieutenant snorted in disgust, and strode off around the room to bully his 
men. Ymor carried on watching the tourist. 

It was strange, but the little man didn’t seem to realize the seriousness of his 
position. Ymor had on several occasions seen him look around the room with an 
expression of deep satisfaction. He had also been talking for ages to Broadman, 
and Ymor had seen a piece of paper change hands. And Broadman had given the 
foreigner some coins. It was strange. 

When Broadman got up and waddled past Ymor’s chair the thiefmaster’s 
arm shot out like a steel spring and grabbed the fat man by his apron. 

“What was that all about, friend?” asked Ymor quietly. 

“N-nothing, Ymor. Just private business, like.” 

“There are no secrets between friends, Broadman.” 

“Yar. Well, I’m not sure about it myself, really. It’s a sort of bet, see?” said 
the innkeeper nervously. “Inn-sewer-ants, it’s called. It’s like a bet that the 
Broken Drum won’t get burned down.” 


Ymor held the man’s gaze until Broadman twitched in fear and 



embarrassment. Then the thiefmaster laughed. 


“This worm-eaten old tinder pile?” he said. “The man must be mad!” 

“Yes, but mad with money. He says now he’s got the—can’t remember the 
word, begins with a P, it’s what you might call the stake money—the people he 
works for in the Agatean Empire will pay up. If the Broken Drum burns down. 
Not that I hope it does. Burn down. The Broken Drum, I mean. I mean, it’s like a 
home to me, is the Drum...” 

“Not entirely stupid, are you?” said Ymor, and pushed the innkeeper away. 

The door slammed back on its hinges and thudded into the wall. 

“Hey, that’s my door!” screamed Broadman. Then he realized who was 
standing at the top of the steps, and ducked behind the table a mere shaving of 
time before a short black dart sped across the room and thunked into the 
woodwork. 

Ymor moved his hand carefully, and poured out another flagon of beer. 

“Won’t you join me, Zlorf?” he said levelly. “And put that sword away, 

Stren. Zlorf Flannelfoot is our friend.” 

The president of the Assassins’ Guild spun his short blowgun dexterously 
and slotted it into its holster in one smooth movement. 

“Stren!” said Ymor. 

The black-clad thief hissed, and sheathed his sword. But he kept his hand on 
the hilt, and his eyes on the assassin. 

That wasn’t easy. Promotion in the Assassins’ Guild was by competitive 
examination, the Practical being the most important—indeed, the only—part. 
Thus Zlorf’s broad, honest face was a welt of scar tissue, the result of many a 
close encounter. It probably hadn’t been all that good looking in any case—it 
was said that Zlorf had chosen a profession in which dark hoods, cloaks and 
nocturnal prowlings figured largely because there was a day-fearing trollish 
streak in his parentage. People who said this in earshot of Zlorf tended to carry 
their ears home in their hats. 



He strolled down the stairs, followed by a number of assassins. When he was 
directly in front of Ymor he said: “I’ve come for the tourist.” 

“Is it any of your business, Zlorf?” 

“Yes. Grinjo, Urmond—take him.” 

Two of the assassins stepped forward. Then Stren was in front of them, his 
sword appearing to materialize an inch from their throats without having to pass 
through the intervening air. 

“Possibly I could only kill one of you,” he murmured, “but I suggest you ask 
yourselves—which one?” 

“Look up, Zlorf,” said Ymor. 

A row of yellow, baleful eyes looked down from the darkness among the 
rafters. 

“One step more and you’ll leave here with fewer eyeballs than you came 
with,” said the thiefmaster. “So sit down and have a drink, Zlorf, and let’s talk 
about this sensibly. / thought we had an agreement. You don’t rob—I don’t kill. 
Not for payment, that is,” he added after a pause. 

Zlorf took the proferred beer. 

“So?” he said. “I’ll kill him. Then you rob him. Is he that funny looking one 
over there?” 

“Yes.” 

Zlorf stared at Twoflower, who grinned at him. He shrugged. He seldom 
wasted time wondering why people wanted other people dead. It was just a 
living. 

“Who is your client, may I ask?” said Ymor. 

Zlorf held up a hand. “Please!” he protested. “Professional etiquette.” 

“Of course. By the way—” 



“Yes?” 


“I believe I have a couple of guards outside—” 

“Had.” 

“And some others in the doorway across the street—” 

“Formerly.” 

“And two bowmen on the roof.” 

A flicker of doubt passed across Zlorf’s face, like the last shaft of sunlight 
over a badly plowed field. 

The door flew open, badly damaging the assassin who was standing beside 


“Stop doing that!” shrieked Broadman, from under his table. 

Zlorf and Ymor stared up at the figure on the threshold. It was short, fat and 
richly dressed. Very richly dressed. There were a number of tall, big shapes 
looming behind it. Very big, threatening shapes. 

“Who’s that?” said Zlorf. 

“I know him,” said Ymor. “His name’s Rerpf. He runs the Groaning Platter 
tavern down by Brass Bridge. Stren—remove him.” 

Rerpf held up a beringed hand. Stren Withel hesitated halfway to the door as 
several very large trolls ducked under the doorway and stood on either side of 
the fat man, blinking in the light. Muscles the size of melons bulged in forearms 
like floursacks. Each troll held a double-headed ax. Between thumb and 
forefinger. 

Broadman erupted from cover, his face suffused with rage. 

“Out!” he screamed. “Get those trolls out of here!” 

No one moved. The room was suddenly quiet. Broadman looked around 
quickly. It began to dawn on him just what he had said, and to whom. A 



whimper escaped from his lips, glad to be free. 

He reached the doorway to his cellars just as one of the trolls, with a lazy 
flick of one ham-sized hand, sent his ax whirling across the room. The slam of 
the door and its subsequent splitting as the ax hit it merged into one sound. 

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Zlorf Flannelfoot. 

“What do you want?” said Ymor. 

“I am here on behalf of the Guild of Merchants and Traders,” said Rerpf 
evenly. “To protect our interests, you might say. Meaning the little man.” 

Ymor wrinkled his brows. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I heard you say the Guild of Merchants?” 

“And traders,” agreed Rerpf. Behind him now, in addition to more trolls, 
were several humans that Ymor vaguely recognized. He had seen them, maybe, 
behind counters and bars. Shadowy figures, usually—easily ignored, easily 
forgotten. At the back of his mind a bad feeling began to grow. He thought about 
how it might be to be, say, a fox confronted with an angry sheep. A sheep, 
moreover, that could afford to employ wolves. 

“How long has this—Guild—been in existence, may I ask?” he said. 

“Since this afternoon,” said Rerpf. “I’m vice-guildmaster in charge of 
tourism, you know.” 

“What is this tourism of which you speak?” 

“Uh—we are not quite sure...” said Rerpf. An old bearded man poked his 
head over the guildmaster’s shoulder and cackled, “Speaking on behalf of the 
winesellers of Morpork, Tourism means Business. See?” 

“Well?” said Ymor coldly. 

“Well,” said Rerpf, “we’re protecting our interests, like I said.” 


“Thieves OUT, Thieves OUT!” cackled his elderly companion.” Several 



others took up the chant. Zlorf grinned. “And assassins,” chanted the old man. 
Zlorf growled. 


“Stands to reason,” said Rerpf. “People robbing and murdering all over 
place, what sort of impression are visitors going to take away? You come all the 
way to see our fine city with its many points of historical and civic interest, also 
many quaint customs, and you wake up dead in some back alley or as it might be 
floating down the Ankh, how are you going to tell all your friends what a great 
time you’re having? Let’s face it, you’ve got to move with the times.” 

Zlorf and Ymor met each other’s gaze. 

“We have, have we?” said Ymor. 

“Then let us move, brother,” agreed Zlorf. In one movement he brought his 
blowgun to his mouth and sent a dart hissing toward the nearest troll. It spun 
around, hurling its ax, which whirred over the assassin’s head and buried itself in 
a luckless thief behind him. 

Rerpf ducked, allowing a troll behind him to raise its huge iron crossbow 
and fire a spear length quarrel into the nearest assassin. That was the start... 


It has been remarked before that those who are sensitive to radiations in the far 
octarine—the eighth color, the pigment of the Imagination—can see things that 
others cannot. 

Thus it was that Rincewind, hurrying through the crowded, flare-lit evening 
bazaars of Morpork with the Luggage trundling behind him, jostled a tall dark 
figure, turned to deliver a few suitable curses, and beheld Death. 

It had to be Death. No one else went around with empty eye sockets and, of 
course, the scythe over one shoulder was another clue. As Rincewind stared in 
horror a courting couple, laughing at some private joke, walked straight through 
the apparition without appearing to notice it. 

Death, insofar as it was possible in a face with no movable features, looked 
surprised. 



Rincewind? Death said, in tones as deep and heavy as the slamming of 
leaden doors, far underground. 

“Um,” said Rincewind, trying to back away from that eyeless stare. 

But why are you here? (Boom, boom went crypt lids, in the worm haunted 
fastnesses under old mountains...) 

“Um, why not?” said Rincewind. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ve got lots to do, 
so if you’ll just—” 

I WAS SURPRISED THAT YOU JOSTLED ME, RINCEWIND, FOR I HAVE AN 
APPOINTMENT WITH THEE THIS VERY NIGHT. 

“Oh no, not—” 

Of course, what’s so bloody vexing about the whole business is that I 

WAS EXPECTING TO MEET THEE IN PSEPHOPOLOLIS. 

“But that’s five hundred miles away!” 

YOU DON’T HAVE TO TELL ME. THE WHOLE SYSTEM’S GOT SCREWED UP AGAIN, I 
CAN SEE THAT. LOOK, THERE’S NO CHANCE OF YOU—? 

Rincewind backed away, hands spread protectively in front of him. The 
dried fish salesman on a nearby stall watched this madman with interest. 

“Not a chance!” 

I COULD LEND YOU A VERY FAST HORSE. 

“No!” 

IT WON’T HURT A BIT. 

“No!” Rincewind turned and ran. Death watched him go, and shrugged 
bitterly. 

Sod you, then, Death said. He turned, and noticed the fish salesman. With a 
snarl Death reached out a bony finger and stopped the man’s heart, but he didn’t 
take much pride in it. 



Then Death remembered what was due to happen later that night. It would 
not be true to say that Death smiled, because in any case His features were 
perforce frozen in a calcareous grin. But He hummed a little tune, cheery as a 
plague pit, and—pausing only to extract the life from a passing mayfly, and one 
ninth of the lives from a cat cowering under the fish stall (all cats can see into 
the octarine)—Death turned on His heel and set off toward the Broken Drum. 


Short Street, Morpork, is in fact one of the longest in the city. Filigree Street 
crosses its turnwise end in the manner of the crosspiece of a T, and the Broken 
Drum is so placed that it looks down the full length of the street. 

At the furthermost end of Short Street a dark oblong rose on hundreds of tiny 
legs, and started to run. At first it moved at no more than a lumbering trot, but by 
the time it was halfway up the street it was moving arrow-fast... 

A darker shadow inched its way along one of the walls of the Drum, a few 
yards from the two trolls who were guarding the door. Rincewind was sweating. 
If they heard the faint clinking of the specially prepared bags at his belt... 

One of the trolls tapped his colleague on the shoulder, producing a noise like 
two pebbles being knocked together. He pointed down the starlit street... 

Rincewind darted from his hiding place, turned, and hurled his burden 
through the Drum’s nearest window. 


Withel saw it arrive. The bag arced across the room, turning slowly in the air, 
and burst on the edge of a table. A moment later gold coins were rolling across 
the floor, spinning, glittering. 

The room was suddenly silent, save for the tiny noises of gold and the 
whimpers of the wounded. With a curse Withel dispatched the assassin he had 
been fighting. “It’s a trick!” he screamed. “No one move!” 

Three score men and a dozen trolls froze in mid-grope. 

Then, for the third time, the door burst open. Two trolls hurried through it, 
slammed it behind them, dropped the heavy bar across it and fled down the 



stairs. 


Outside there was a sudden crescendo of running feet. And, for the last time, 
the door opened. In fact it exploded, the great wooden bar being hurled far 
across the room and the frame itself giving way. 

Door and frame landed on a table, which flew into splinters. It was then that 
the frozen fighters noticed that there was something else in the pile of wood. It 
was a box, shaking itself madly to free itself of the smashed timber around it. 

Rincewind appeared in the ruined doorway, hurling another of his gold 
grenades. It smashed into a wall, showering coins. 


Down in the cellar Broadman looked up, muttered to himself, and carried on 
with his work. His entire spindlewinter’s supply of candles had already been 
strewn on the floor, mixed with his store of kindling wood. Now he was 
attacking a barrel of lamp oil. 

“Inn-sewer-ants, ” he muttered. Oil gushed out and swirled around his feet. 

Withel stormed across the floor, his face a mask of rage. Rincewind took 
careful aim and caught the thief full in the chest with a bag of gold. 

But now Ymor was shouting, and pointing an accusing finger. A raven 
swooped down from its perch in the rafters and dived at the wizard, talons open 
and gleaming. 

It didn’t make it. At about the halfway point the Luggage leapt from its bed 
of splinters, gaped briefly in midair, and snapped shut. 

It landed lightly. Rincewind saw its lid open again, slightly. Just far enough 
for a tongue, large as a palm leaf, red as mahogany, to lick up a few errant 
feathers. 

At the same moment the giant candlewheel fell from the ceiling, plunging 
the room into gloom. Rincewind, coiling himself like a spring, gave a standing 
jump and grasped a beam, swinging himself up into the relative safety of the 
roof with a strength that amazed him. 



“Exciting, isn’t it!” said a voice by his ear. 


Down below, thieves, assassins, trolls and merchants all realized at about the 
same moment that they were in a room made treacherous of foothold by gold 
coins and containing something, among the suddenly menacing shapes in the 
semidarkness, that was absolutely horrible. As one they made for the door, but 
had two dozen different recollections of its exact position. 

High above the chaos Rincewind stared at Twoflower. 

“Did you cut the lights down?” he hissed. 

“Yes.” 

“How come you’re up here?” 

“I thought I’d better not get in everyone’s way.” 

Rincewind considered this. There didn’t seem to be much he could say. 
Twoflower added: “Areal brawl! Better than anything I’d imagined! Do you 
think I ought to thank them? Or did you arrange it?” 

Rincewind looked at him blankly. “I think we ought to be getting down 
now,” he said hollowly. “Everyone’s gone.” 

He dragged Twoflower across the littered floor and up the steps. They burst 
out into the tail end of the night. There were still a few stars but the moon was 
down, and there was a faint gray glow to rimward. Most important, the street 
was empty. 

Rincewind sniffed. 

“Can you smell oil?” he said. 

Then Withel stepped out of the shadows and tripped him up. 


At the top of the cellar steps Broadman knelt down and fumbled in his tinderbox. 
It turned out to be damp. 



“I’ll kill that bloody cat,” he muttered, and groped for the spare box that was 
normally on the ledge by the door. It was missing. Broadman said a bad word. 

A lighted taper appeared in midair, right beside him. 

Here, take this. 

“Thanks,” said Broadman. 

Don’t mention it. 

Broadman went to throw the taper down the steps. His hand paused in 
midair. He looked at the taper, his brow furrowing. Then he turned around and 
held the taper up to illuminate the scene. It didn’t shed much light, but it did give 
the darkness a shape... 

“Oh, no—” he breathed. 

But yes, said Death. 


Rincewind rolled. 

For a moment he thought Withel was going to spit him where he lay. But it 
was worse than that. He was waiting for him to get up. 

“I see you have a sword, wizard,” he said quietly. “I suggest you rise, and we 
shall see how well you use it.” 

Rincewind stood up as slowly as he dared, and drew from his belt the short 
sword he had taken from the guard a few hours and a hundred years ago. It was a 
short blunt affair compared to Withel’s hair-thin rapier. 

“But I don’t know how to use a sword,” he wailed. 

“Good.” 

“You know that wizards can’t be killed by edged weapons?” said Rincewind 
desperately. 



Withel smiled coldly. “So I have heard,” he said. “I look forward to putting it 
to the test.” He lunged. 

Rincewind caught the thrust by sheer luck, jerked his hand away in shock, 
deflected the second stroke by coincidence, and took the third one through his 
robe at heart height. 

There was a clink. 

Withel’s snarl of triumph died in his throat. He drew the sword out and 
prodded again at the wizard, who was rigid with terror and guilt. There was 
another clink, and gold coins began to drop out of the hem of the wizard’s robe. 

“So you bleed gold, do you?” hissed Withel. “But have you got gold 
concealed in that raggedy beard, you little—” 

As his sword went back for his final sweep the sullen glow that had been 
growing in the doorway of the Broken Drum flickered, dimmed, and erupted into 
a roaring fireball that sent the walls billowing outward and carried the roof a 
hundred feet into the air before bursting through it, in a gout of red-hot tiles. 

Withel stared at the boiling flames, unnerved. And Rincewind leapt. He 
ducked under the thief’s sword arm and brought his own blade around in an arc 
so incompetently misjudged that it hit the man flat first and jolted out of the 
wizard’s hand. Sparks and droplets of flaming oil rained down as Withel reached 
out with both gauntleted hands and grabbed Rincewind’s neck, forcing him 
down. 

“You did this!” he screamed. “You and your box of trickery!” 

His thumb found Rincewind’s windpipe. This is it, the wizard thought. 
Wherever I’m going, it can’t be worse than here... 

“Excuse me,” said Twoflower. 

Rincewind felt the grip lessen. And now Withel was slowly getting up, a 
look of absolute hatred on his face. 

A glowing ember landed on the wizard. He brushed it off hurriedly, and 
scrambled to his feet. 



Twoflower was behind Withel, holding the man’s own needle-sharp sword 
with the point resting in the small of the thief’s back. Rincewind’s eyes 
narrowed. He reached into his robe, then withdrew his hand bunched into a fist. 

“Don’t move,” he said. 

“Am I doing this right?” asked Twoflower anxiously. 

“He says he’ll skewer your liver if you move,” Rincewind translated freely. 

“I doubt it,” said Withel. 

“Bet?” 

“No.” 

As Withel tensed himself to turn on the tourist Rincewind lashed out and 
caught the thief on the jaw. Withel stared at him in amazement for a moment, 
and then quietly toppled into the mud. 

The wizard uncurled his stinging fist and the roll of gold coins slipped 
between his throbbing fingers. He looked down at the recumbent thief. 

“Good grief,” he gasped. 

He looked up and yelled as another ember landed on his neck. Flames were 
racing along the rooftops on either side of the street. All around him people were 
hurling possessions from windows and dragging horses from smoking stables. 
Another explosion in the white-hot volcano that was the Drum sent a whole 
marble mantelpiece scything overhead. 

“The Widdershin Gate’s the nearest!” Rincewind shouted above the crackle 
of collapsing rafters. “Come on!” 

He grabbed Twoflower’s reluctant arm and dragged him down the street. 

“My Luggage—” 

“Blast your luggage! Stay here much longer and you’ll go where you don’t 
need luggage! Come on!” screamed Rincewind. 



They jogged on through the crowd of frightened people leaving the area, 
while the wizard took great mouthfuls of cool dawn air. Something was puzzling 
him. 

“I’m sure all the candles went out,” he said. “So how did the Drum catch 
fire?” 

“I don’t know,” moaned Twoflower. “It’s terrible, Rincewind. We were 
getting along so well, too.” 

Rincewind stopped in astonishment, so that another refugee cannoned into 
him and spun away with an oath. 

“Getting on?” 

“Yes, a great bunch of fellows, I thought—language was a bit of a problem, 
but they were so keen for me to join their party, they just wouldn’t take no for an 
answer—really friendly people, I thought...” 

Rincewind started to correct him, then realized he didn’t know how to begin. 

“It’ll be a blow for old Broadman,” Twoflower continued. “Still, he was 
wise. I’ve still got the rhinu he paid as his first premium.” 

Rincewind didn’t know the meaning of the word premium, but his mind was 
working fast. 

“You inn-sewered the Drum?” he said. “You bet Broadman it wouldn’t catch 
fire?” 

“Oh yes. Standard valuation. Two hundred rhinu. Why do you ask?” 

Rincewind turned and stared at the flames racing toward them, and 
wondered how much of Ankh-Morpork could be bought for two hundred rhinu. 
Quite a large piece, he decided. Only not now, not the way those flames were 
moving... 

He glanced down at the tourist. 

“You—” he began, and searched his memory for the worst word in the Trob 



tongue; the happy little beTrobi didn’t really know how to swear properly. 


“You,” he repeated. Another hurrying figure bumped into him, narrowly 
missing him with the blade over its shoulder. Rincewind’s tortured temper 
exploded. 

“You little (such a one who, while wearing a copper nose ring, stands in a 
footbath atop Mount Raruaruaha during a heavy thunderstorm and shouts that 
Alohura, goddess of lightning, has the facial features of a diseased uloruaha 
root)!” 

Just doing my job, said the figure, stalking away. 

Every word fell as heavily as slabs of marble; moreover, Rincewind was 
certain that he was the only one who heard them. 

He grabbed Twoflower again. 

“Let’s get out of here!” he suggested. 


One interesting side effect of the fire in Ankh-Morpork concerns the inn-sewer- 
ants policy, which left the city through the ravaged roof of the Broken Drum, 
was wafted high into the Discworld’s atmosphere on the ensuing thermal, and 
came to earth several days and a few thousand miles away on an uloruaha bush 
in the beTrobi islands. The simple, laughing islanders subsequently worshipped 
it as a god, much to the amusement of their more sophisticated neighbors. 
Strangely enough the rainfall and harvests in the next few years were almost 
supernaturally abundant, and this led to a research team being dispatched to the 
islands by the Minor Religions faculty of Unseen University. Their verdict was 
that it only went to show. 


The fire, driven by the wind, spread out from the Drum faster than a man could 
walk. The timbers of the Widdershin Gate were already on fire when Rincewind, 
his face blistered and reddened from the flames, reached them. By now he and 
Twoflower were on horseback—mounts hadn’t been that hard to obtain. A wily 
merchant had asked fifty times their worth, and had been left gaping when one 
thousand times their worth had been pressed into his hands. 



They rode through just before the first of the big gate timbers descended in 
an explosion of sparks. Morpork was already a cauldron of flame. 

As they galloped up the red-lit road Rincewind glanced sideways at his 
traveling companion, currently trying hard to learn to ride a horse. 

Bloody hell, he thought. He’s alive! Me too. Who’d have thought it? Perhaps 
there is something in this reflected-sound-of-underground-spirits ? It was a 
cumbersome phrase. Rincewind tried to get his tongue around the thick syllables 
that were the word in Twoflower’s own language. 

“Ecolirix?” he tried. “Ecro-gnothics? Echo-gnomics?” 

That would do. That sounded about right. 


Several hundred yards downriver from the last smoldering suburb of the city a 
strangely rectangular and apparently heavily waterlogged object touched the 
mud on the widdershin bank. Immediately it sprouted numerous legs and 
scrabbled for a purchase. 

Hauling itself to the top of the bank the Luggage—streaked with soot, 
stained with water and very, very angry—shook itself and took its bearings. 
Then it moved away at a brisk trot, the small and incredibly ugly imp that was 
perching on its lid watching the scenery with interest. 


Bravd looked at the Weasel and raised his eyebrows. 

“And that’s it,” said Rincewind. “The Luggage caught up with us, don’t ask 
me how. Is there any more wine?” 

The Weasel picked up the empty wineskin. 

“I think you have had just about enough wine this night,” he said. 

Bravd’s forehead wrinkled. 


“Gold is gold,” he said finally. “How can a man with plenty of gold consider 



himself poor? You’re either poor or rich. It stands to reason.” 

Rincewind hiccupped. He was finding Reason rather difficult to hold on to. 
“Well,” he said, “what I think is, the point is, well, you know octiron?” 

The two adventurers nodded. The strange iridescent metal was almost as 
highly valued in the lands around the Circle Sea as sapient pearwood, and was 
about as rare. A man who owned a needle made of octiron would never lose his 
way, since it always pointed to the Hub of the Discworld, being acutely sensitive 
to the Disc’s magical field; it would also miraculously darn his socks. 

“Well, my point is, you see, that gold also has its sort of magical field. Sort 
of financial wizardry. Echo-gnomics.” Rincewind giggled. 

The Weasel stood up and stretched. The sun was well up now, and the city 
below them was wreathed in mists and full of foul vapors. Also gold, he decided. 
Even a citizen of Morpork would, at the very point of death, desert his treasure 
to save his skin. Time to move. 

The little man called Twoflower appeared to be asleep. The Weasel looked 
down at him and shook his head. 

“The city awaits, such as it is,” he said. “Thank you for a pleasant tale, 
Wizard. What will you do now?” He eyed the Luggage, which immediately 
backed away and snapped its lid at him. 

“Well, there are no ships leaving the city now,” giggled Rincewind. “I 
suppose we’ll take the coast road to Chirm. I’ve got to look after him, you see. 
But look, I didn’t make it—” 

“Sure, sure,” said the Weasel soothingly. He turned away and swung himself 
into the saddle of the horse that Bravd was holding. A few moments later the two 
heroes were just specks under a cloud of dust, heading down toward the charcoal 
city. 


Rincewind stared muzzily at the recumbent tourist. At two recumbent 
tourists. In his somewhat defenseless state a stray thought, wandering through 
the dimensions in search of a mind to harbor it, slid into his brain. 


“Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into,” he moaned, and slumped 



backward. 


“Mad,” said the Weasel. Bravd, galloping along a few feet away, nodded. 

“All wizards get like that,” he said. “It’s the quicksilver fumes. Rots their 
brains. Mushrooms, too.” 

“However—” said the brown clad one. He reached into his tunic and took 
out a golden disc on a short chain. Bravd raised his eyebrows. 

“The wizard said that the little man had some sort of golden disc that told 
him the time,” said the Weasel. 

“Arousing your cupidity, little friend? You always were an expert thief, 
Weasel.” 

“Aye,” agreed the Weasel modestly. He touched the knob at the disc’s rim, 
and it flipped open. 

The very small demon imprisoned within looked up from its tiny abacus and 
scowled. “It lacks but ten minutes to eight of the clock,” it snarled. The lid 
slammed shut, almost trapping the Weasel’s fingers. 

With an oath the Weasel hurled the time-teller far out into the heather, where 
it possibly hit a stone. Something, in any event, caused the case to split; there 
was a vivid octarine flash and a whiff of brimstone as the time being vanished 
into whatever demonic dimension it called home. 

“What did you do that for?” said Bravd, who hadn’t been close enough to 
hear the words. 

“Do what?” said the Weasel. “I didn’t do anything. Nothing happened at all. 
Come on—we’re wasting opportunities!” 

Bravd nodded. Together they turned their steeds and galloped toward ancient 
Ankh, and honest enchantments. 



2 


Thf, Sending of Eight 


The road from Ankh-Morpork to Chirm is high, white and winding, a thirty- 
league stretch of potholes and half-buried rocks that spirals around mountains 
and dips into cool green valleys of citrus trees, crosses liana-webbed gorges on 
creaking rope bridges and is generally more picturesque than useful. 

Picturesque. That was a new word to Rincewind the wizard (B. Mgc., 

Unseen University [failed]). It was one of a number he had picked up since 
leaving the charred ruins of Ankh-Morpork. Quaint was another one. Picturesque 
meant—he decided after careful observation of the scenery that inspired 
Twoflower to use the word—that the landscape was horribly precipitous. Quaint, 
when used to describe the occasional village through which they passed, meant 
fever-ridden and tumbledown. 

Twoflower was a tourist, the first ever seen on the Discworld. Tourist, 
Rincewind had decided, meant “idiot.” 

As they rode leisurely through the thyme-scented, bee-humming air, 
Rincewind pondered on the experiences of the last few days. While the little 
foreigner was obviously insane, he was also generous and considerably less 
lethal than half the people the wizard had mixed with in the city. Rincewind 
rather liked him. Disliking him would be like kicking a puppy. 

Currently Twoflower was showing a great interest in the theory and practice 
of magic. 

“It all seems, well, rather useless to me,” he said. “I always thought that, you 
know, a wizard just said the magic words and that was that. Not all this tedious 
memorizing.” 



Rincewind agreed moodily. He tried to explain that magic had indeed once 
been wild and lawless, but had been tamed back in the mists of time by the 
Olden Ones, who had bound it to obey among other things the Law of 
Conservation of Reality; this demanded that the effort needed to achieve a goal 
should be the same regardless of the means used. In practical terms this meant 
that, say, creating the illusion of a glass of wine was relatively easy, since it 
involved merely the subtle shifting of light patterns. On the other hand, lifting a 
genuine wineglass a few feet in the air by sheer mental energy required several 
hours of systematic preparation if the wizard wished to prevent the simple 
principle of leverage flicking his brain out through his ears. 

He went on to add that some of the ancient magic could still be found in its 
raw state, recognizable—to the initiated—by the eightfold shape it made in the 
crystalline structure of space-time. There was the metal octiron, for example, and 
the gas octogen. Both radiated dangerous amounts of raw enchantment. 

“It’s all very depressing,” he finished. 

“Depressing?” 

Rincewind turned in his saddle and glanced at Twoflower’s Luggage, which 
was currently ambling along on its little legs, occasionally snapping its lid at 
butterflies. He sighed. 

“Rincewind thinks he ought to be able to harness the lightning,” said the 
picture imp, who was observing the passing scene from the tiny doorway of the 
box slung around Twoflower’s neck. He had spent the morning painting 
picturesque views and quaint scenes for his master, and had been allowed to 
knock off for a smoke. 

“When I said harness I didn’t mean harness,” snapped Rincewind. “I meant, 
well, I just meant that—I dunno, I just can’t think of the right words. I just think 
the world ought to be more sort of organized.” 

“That’s just fantasy,” said Twoflower. 

“I know. That’s the trouble.” Rincewind sighed again. It was all very well 
going on about pure logic and how the universe was ruled by logic and the 
harmony of numbers, but the plain fact of the matter was that the Disc was 
manifestly traversing space on the back of a giant turtle and the gods had a habit 



of going around to atheists’ houses and smashing their windows. 


There was a faint sound, hardly louder than the noise of the bees in the 
rosemary by the road. It had a curiously bony quality, as of rolling skulls or a 
whirling dice box. Rincewind peered around. There was no one nearby. 

For some reason that worried him. 

Then came a slight breeze, that grew and went in the space of a few 
heartbeats. It left the world unchanged save in a few interesting particulars. 

There was now, for example, a five-meter tall mountain troll standing in the 
road. It was exceptionally angry. This was partly because trolls generally are, in 
any case, but it was exacerbated by the fact that the sudden and instantaneous 
teleportation from its lair in the Rammerorck Mountains three thousand miles 
away and a thousand yards closer to the Rim had raised its internal temperature 
to a dangerous level, in accordance with the laws of conservation of energy. So it 
bared its fangs and charged. 

“What a strange creature,” Twoflower remarked. “Is it dangerous?” 

“Only to people!” shouted Rincewind. He drew his sword and, with a 
smooth overarm throw, completely failed to hit the troll. The blade plunged on 
into the heather at the side of the track. 

There was the faintest of sounds, like the rattle of old teeth. 

The sword struck a boulder concealed in the heather—concealed, a watcher 
might have considered, so artfully that a moment before it had not appeared to 
be there at all. It sprang up like a leaping salmon and in mid-ricochet plunged 
deeply into the back of the troll’s gray neck. 

The creature grunted, and with one swipe of a claw gouged a wound in the 
flank of Twoflower’s horse, which screamed and bolted into the trees at the 
roadside. The troll spun around and made a grab for Rincewind. 

Then its sluggish nervous system brought it the message that it was dead. It 
looked surprised for a moment, and then toppled over and shattered into gravel 
(trolls being silica-ceous life-forms, their bodies reverted instantly to stone at the 
moment of death). 



“Aaargh,” thought Rincewind as his horse reared in terror. He hung on 
desperately as it staggered two-legged across the road and then, screaming, 
turned and galloped into the woods. 

The sound of hoofbeats died away, leaving the air to the hum of bees and the 
occasional rustle of butterfly wings. There was another sound, too, a strange 
noise for the bright time of noonday. 

It sounded like dice. 


“Rincewind?” 

The long aisles of trees threw Twoflower’s voice from side to side and 
eventually tossed it back to him, unheeded. He sat down on a rock and tried to 
think. 

Firstly, he was lost. That was vexing, but it did not worry him unduly. The 
forest looked quite interesting and probably held elves or gnomes, perhaps both. 
In fact on a couple of occasions he had thought he had seen strange green faces 
peering down at him from the branches. Twoflower had always wanted to meet 
an elf. In fact what he really wanted to meet was a dragon, but an elf would do. 
Or a real goblin. 

His Luggage was missing, and that was annoying. It was also starting to rain. 
He squirmed uncomfortably on the damp stone, and tried to look on the bright 
side. For example, during its mad dash his plunging horse had burst through 
some bushes and disturbed a she-bear with her cubs, but had gone on before the 
bear could react. Then it had suddenly been galloping over the sleeping bodies of 
a large wolf pack and, again, its mad speed had been such that the furious 
yelping had been left far behind. Nevertheless, the day was wearing on and 
perhaps it would be a good idea—Twoflower thought—not to hang about in the 
open. Perhaps there was a.. .he racked his brains trying to remember what sort of 
accommodation forests traditionally offered.. .perhaps there was a gingerbread 
house or something? 

The stone really was uncomfortable. Twoflower looked down and, for the 
first time, noticed the strange carving. 



It looked like a spider. Or was it a squid? Moss and lichens rather blurred the 
precise details. But they didn’t blur the runes carved below it. Twoflower could 
read them clearly, and they said: Traveler, the hospitable temple of Bel- 
Shamharoth lies one thousand paces hubward. Now this was strange, Twoflower 
realized, because although he could read the message the actual letters were 
completely unknown to him. Somehow the message was arriving in his brain 
without the tedious necessity of passing through his eyes. 

He stood up and untied his now-biddable horse from a sapling. He wasn’t 
sure which way the Hub lay, but there seemed to be an old track of sorts leading 
away between the trees. This Bel-Shamharoth seemed prepared to go out of his 
way to help stranded travelers. In any case, it was that or the wolves. Twoflower 
nodded decisively. 

It is interesting to note that, several hours later, a couple of wolves who were 
following Twoflower’s scent arrived in the glade. Their green eyes fell on the 
strange eight-legged carving—which may indeed have been a spider, or an 
octopus, or may yet again have been something altogether more strange—and 
they immediately decided that they weren’t so hungry, at that. 


About three miles away a failed wizard was hanging by his hands from a high 
branch in a beech tree. 

This was the end result of five minutes of crowded activity. First, an enraged 
she-bear had barged through the undergrowth and taken the throat out of his 
horse with one swipe of her paw. Then, as Rincewind had fled the carnage, he 
had run into a glade in which a number of irate wolves were milling about. His 
instructors at Unseen University, who had despaired of Rincewind’s inability to 
master levitation, would have then been amazed at the speed with which he 
reached and climbed the nearest tree, without apparently touching it. 

Now there was just the matter of the snake. 

It was large and green, and wound itself along the branch with reptilian 
patience. Rincewind wondered if it was poisonous, then chided himself for 
asking such a silly question. Of course it would be poisonous. 


“What are you grinning for?” he asked the figure on the next branch. 



I can’t help it, said Death. Now would you be so kind as to let go? I cant 

HANG AROUND ALL DAY. 

“I can,” said Rincewind defiantly. 

The wolves clustered around the base of the tree looked up with interest at 
their next meal talking to himself. 

It wont hurt, said Death. If words had weight, a single sentence from 
Death would have anchored a ship. 

Rincewind’s arms screamed their agony at him. He scowled at the 
vulturelike, slightly transparent figure. 

“Won’t hurt?” he said. “Being torn apart by wolves won’t hurt?” 

He noticed another branch crossing his dangerously narrowing one a few 
feet away. If he could just reach it... 

He swung himself forward, one hand outstretched. 

The branch, already bending, did not break. It simply made a wet little sound 
and twisted. 

Rincewind found that he was now hanging onto the end of a tongue of bark 
and fiber, lengthening as it peeled away from the tree. He looked down, and with 
a sort of fatal satisfaction realized that he would land right on the biggest wolf. 

Now he was moving slowly as the bark peeled back in a longer and longer 
strip. The snake watched him thoughtfully. 

But the growing length of bark held. Rincewind began to congratulate 
himself until, looking up, he saw what he had hitherto not noticed. There was the 
largest hornets’ nest he had ever seen, hanging right in his path. 

He shut his eyes tightly. 

Why the troll? he asked himself. Everything else is just my usual luck, but 
why the troll? What the hell is going on? 



Click. It may have been a twig snapping, except that the sound appeared to 
be inside Rincewind’s head. Click, click. And a breeze that failed to set a single 
leaf atremble. 

The hornets’ nest was ripped from the branch as the strip passed by. It shot 
past the wizard’s head and he watched it grow smaller as it plummeted toward 
the circle of upturned muzzles. 

The circle suddenly closed. 

The circle suddenly expanded. 

The concerted yelp of pain as the pack fought to escape the furious cloud 
echoed among the trees. Rincewind grinned inanely. 

Rincewind’s elbow nudged something. It was the tree trunk. The strip had 
carried him right to the end of the branch. But there were no other branches. The 
smooth bark beside him offered no handholds. 

It offered hands, though. Two were even now thrusting through the mossy 
bark beside him; slim hands, green as young leaves. Then a shapely arm 
followed, and then the hamadryad leaned right out and grasped the astonished 
wizard firmly and, with that vegetable strength that can send roots questing into 
rock, drew him into the tree. The solid bark parted like a mist, closed like a clam. 

Death watched impassively. 

He glanced at the cloud of mayflies that were dancing their joyful zigzags 
near His skull. He snapped His fingers. The insects fell out of the air. But, 
somehow, it wasn’t quite the same. 


Blind Io pushed his stack of chips across the table, glowered through such of his 
eyes that were currently in the room, and strode out. A few demigods tittered. At 
least Offler had taken the loss of a perfectly good troll with precise, if somewhat 
reptilian, grace. 

The Lady’s last opponent shifted his seat until he faced her across the board. 

“Lord,” she said, politely. 



“Lady,” he acknowledged. Their eyes met. 


He was a taciturn god. It was said that he had arrived in the Discworld after 
some terrible and mysterious incident in another Eventuality. It is of course the 
privilege of gods to control their apparent outward form, even to other gods; the 
Fate of the Discworld was currently a kindly man in late middle age, graying 
hair brushed neatly around features that a maiden would confidently proffer a 
glass of small beer to, should they appear at her back door. It was a face a kindly 
youth would gladly help over a stile. Except for his eyes, of course. 

No deity can disguise the manner and nature of his eyes. The nature of the 
two eyes of the Fate of the Discworld was this: that while at a mere glance they 
were simply dark, a closer look would reveal—too late!—that they were but 
holes opening onto a blackness so remote, so deep that the watcher would feel 
himself inexorably drawn into the twin pools of infinite night and their terrible, 
wheeling stars... 

The Lady coughed politely, and laid twenty-one white chips on the table. 
Then from her robe she took another chip, silvery and translucent and twice the 
size of the others. The soul of a true Hero always finds a better rate of exchange, 
and is valued highly by the gods. 

Fate raised an eyebrow. 

“And no cheating, Fady,” he said. 

“But who could cheat Fate?” she asked. He shrugged. 

“No one. Yet everyone tries.” 

“And yet, again, I believe I felt you giving me a little assistance against the 
others?” 

“But of course. So that the endgame could be the sweeter, Lady. And 
now...” 

He reached into his gaming box and brought forth a piece, setting it down on 
the board with a satisfied air. The watching deities gave a collective sigh. Even 
the Lady was momentarily taken aback. 



It was certainly ugly. The carving was uncertain, as if the craftsman’s hands 
were shaking in horror of the thing taking shape under his reluctant fingers. It 
seemed to be all suckers and tentacles. And mandibles, the Lady observed. And 
one great eye. 

“I thought such as He died out at the beginnings of Time,” she said. 

“Mayhap our necrotic friend was loath even to go near this one,” laughed 
Fate. He was enjoying himself. 

“It should never have been spawned.” 

“Nevertheless,” said Fate gnomically. He scooped the dice into their unusual 
box, and then glanced up at her. 

“Unless,” he added, “you wish to resign...?” 

She shook her head. 

“Play,” she said. 

“You can match my stake?” 

“Play. ” 


Rincewind knew what was inside trees: wood, sap, possibly squirrels. Not a 
palace. 

Still—the cushions underneath him were definitely softer than wood, the 
wine in the wooden cup beside him was much tastier than sap, and there could 
be absolutely no comparison between a squirrel and the girl sitting before him, 
clasping her knees and watching him thoughtfully, unless mention was made of 
certain hints of furriness. 

The room was high, wide and lit with a soft yellow light which came from 
no particular source that Rincewind could identify. Through gnarled and knotted 
archways he could see other rooms, and what looked like a very large winding 
staircase. And it had looked a perfectly normal tree from the outside, too. 



The girl was green—flesh green. Rincewind could be absolutely certain 
about that, because all she was wearing was a medallion around her neck. Her 
long hair had a faintly mossy look about it. Her eyes had no pupils and were a 
luminous green. Rincewind wished he had paid more attention to anthropology 
lectures at University. 

She had said nothing. Apart from indicating the couch and offering him the 
wine she had done no more than sit watching him, occasionally rubbing a deep 
scratch on her arm. 

Rincewind hurriedly recalled that a dryad was so linked to her tree that she 
suffered wounds in sympathy— 

“Sorry about that,” he said quickly. “It was just an accident. I mean, there 
were these wolves, and—” 

“You had to climb my tree, and I rescued you,” said the dryad smoothly. 
“How lucky for you. And for your friend, perhaps?” 

“Friend?” 

“The little man with the magic box,” said the dryad. 

“Oh, sure, him,” said Rincewind vaguely. “Yeah. I hope he’s okay.” 

“He needs your help.” 

“He usually does. Did he make it to a tree, too?” 

“He made it to the Temple of Bel-Shamharoth.” 

Rincewind choked on his wine. His ears tried to crawl into his head in terror 
of the syllables they had just heard. The Soul Eater! Before he could stop them 
the memories came galloping back. Once, while a student of practical magic at 
Unseen University, and for a bet, he’d slipped into the little room off the main 
library—the room with walls covered in protective lead pentagrams, the room no 
one was allowed to occupy for more than four minutes and thirty-two seconds, 
which was a figure arrived at after two hundred years of cautious 
experimentation... 



He had gingerly opened the Book, which was chained to the octiron pedestal 
in the middle of the rune-strewn floor not lest someone steal it, but lest it escape; 
for it was the Octavo, so full of magic that it had its own vague sentience. One 
spell had indeed leapt from the crackling pages and lodged itself in the dark 
recesses of his brain. And, apart from knowing that it was one of the Eight Great 
Spells, no one would know which one until he said it. Even Rincewind did not. 
But he could feel it sometimes, sidling out of sight behind his Ego, biding its 
time... 

On the front of the Octavo had been a representation of Bel-Shamharoth. He 
was not Evil, for even Evil has a certain vitality—Bel-Shamharoth was the flip 
side of the coin of which Good and Evil are but one side. 

“The Soul Eater. His number lyeth between seven and nine; it is twice four,” 
Rincewind quoted, his mind frozen with fear. “Oh no. Where’s the Temple?” 

“Hubward, toward the center of the forest,” said the dryad. “It is very old.” 

“But who would be so stupid as to worship Bel—him? I mean, devils yes, 
but he’s the Soul Eater—” 

“There were—certain advantages. And the race that used to live in these 
parts had strange notions.” 

“What happened to them, then?” 

“I did say they used to live in these parts.” The dryad stood up and stretched 
out her hand. “Come. I am Druellae. Come with me and watch your friend’s fate. 
It should be interesting.” 

“I’m not sure that—” began Rincewind. 

The dryad turned her green eyes on him. 

“Do you believe you have a choice?” she asked. 


A staircase broad as a major highway wound up through the tree, with vast 
rooms leading off at every landing. The sourceless yellow light was everywhere. 
There was also a sound like—Rincewind concentrated, trying to identify it—like 



far off thunder, or a distant waterfall. 

“It’s the tree,” said the dryad shortly. 

“What’s it doing?” said Rincewind. 

“Living.” 

“I wondered about that. I mean, are we really in a tree? Have I been reduced 
in size? From outside it looked narrow enough for me to put my arms around.” 

“It is.” 

“Um, but here I am inside it?” 

“You are.” 

“Um,” said Rincewind. 

Druellae laughed. 

“I can see into your mind, false wizard! Am I not a dryad? Do you not know 
that what you belittle by the name tree is but the mere four-dimensional 
analogue of a whole multidimensional universe which—no, I can see you do not. 
I should have realized that you weren’t a real wizard when I saw you didn’t have 
a staff.” 

“Lost it in a fire,” lied Rincewind automatically. 

“No hat with magic sigils embroidered on it.” 

“It blew off.” 

“No familiar.” 

“It died. Look, thanks for rescuing me, but if you don’t mind I think I ought 
to be going. If you could show me the way out—” 

Something in her expression made him turn around. There were three he- 
dryads behind him. They were as naked as the woman, and unarmed. That last 
fact was irrelevant, however. They didn’t look as though they would need 



weapons to fight Rincewind. They looked as though they could shoulder their 
way through solid rock and beat up a regiment of trolls into the bargain. The 
three handsome giants looked down at him with wooden menace. Their skins 
were the color of walnut husks, and under it muscles bulged like sacks of 
melons. 

He turned around again and grinned weakly at Druellae. Life was beginning 
to take on a familiar shape again. 

“I’m not rescued, am I?” he said. “I’m captured, right?” 

“Of course.” 

“And you’re not letting me go?” It was a statement. 

Druellae shook her head. “You hurt the Tree. But you are lucky. Your friend 
is going to meet Bel-Shamharoth. You will only die.” 

From behind two hands gripped his shoulders in much the same way that an 
old tree root coils relentlessly around a pebble. 

“With a certain amount of ceremony, of course,” the dryad went on. “After 
the Sender of Eight has finished with your friend.” 

All Rincewind could manage to say was, “You know, I never imagined there 
were he-dryads. Not even in an oak tree.” 

One of the giants grinned at him. 

Druellae snorted. “Stupid! Where do you think acorns come from?” 

There was a vast empty space like a hall, its roof lost in the golden haze. The 
endless stair ran right up through it. 

Several hundred dryads were clustered at the other end of the hall. They 
parted respectfully when Druellae approached, and stared through Rincewind as 
he was propelled firmly along behind. 


Most of them were females, although there were a few of the giant males 
among them. They stood like god-shaped statues among the small, intelligent 



females. Insects, thought Rincewind. The Tree is like a hive. 


But why were there dryads at all? As far as he could recall, the tree people 
had died out centuries before. They had been out-evolved by humans, like most 
of the other Twilight Peoples. Only elves and trolls had survived the coming of 
Man to the Discworld; the elves because they were altogether too clever by half, 
and the trollen folk because they were at least as good as humans at being nasty, 
spiteful and greedy. Dryads were supposed to have died out, along with gnomes 
and pixies. 

The background roar was louder here. Sometimes a pulsing golden glow 
would race up the translucent walls until it was lost in the haze overhead. Some 
power in the air made it vibrate. 

“O incompetent wizard,” said Druellae, “see some magic. Not your weasel¬ 
faced tame magic, but root-and-branch magic, the old magic. Wild magic. 
Watch.” 

Fifty or so of the females formed a tight cluster, joined hands and walked 
backward until they formed the circumference of a large circle. The rest of the 
dryads began a low chant. Then, at a nod from Druellae, the circle began to spin 
widder shins. 

As the pace began to quicken and the complicated threads of the chant began 
to rise Rincewind found himself watching, fascinated. He had heard about the 
Old Magic at University, although it was forbidden to wizards. He knew that 
when the circle was spinning fast enough against the standing magical field of 
the Discworld itself in its slow turning, the resulting astral friction would build 
up a vast potential difference which would earth itself by a vast discharge of the 
Elemental Magical Force. 

The circle was a blur now, and the walls of the Tree rang with the echoes of 
the chant— 

Rincewind felt the familiar sticky prickling in the scalp that indicated the 
build up of a heavy charge of raw enchantment in the vicinity, and so he was not 
utterly amazed when, a few seconds later, a shaft of vivid octarine light speared 
down from the invisible ceiling and focused, crackling, in the center of the 
circle. 



There it formed an image of a storm-swept, tree-girt hill with a temple on its 
crest. Its shape did unpleasant things to the eye. Rincewind knew that if it was a 
temple to Bel-Shamharoth it would have eight sides. (Eight was also the Number 
of Bel-Shamharoth, which was why a sensible wizard would never mention the 
number if he could avoid it. Or youTl be eight alive, apprentices were jocularly 
warned. Bel-Shamharoth was especially attracted to dabblers in magic who, by 
being as it were beachcombers on the shores of the unnatural, were already half- 
enmeshed in his nets. Rincewind’s room number in his hall of residence had 
been 7a. He hadn’t been surprised.) 


Rain streamed off the black walls of the temple. The only sign of life was the 
horse tethered outside, and it wasn’t Twoflower’s horse. For one thing, it was too 
big. It was a white charger with hooves the size of meat dishes and leather 
harness aglitter with ostentatious gold ornamentation. It was currently enjoying a 
nosebag. 

There was something familiar about it. Rincewind tried to remember where 
he had seen it before. 

It looked as though it was capable of a fair turn of speed, anyway. A speed 
which, once it had lumbered up to it, it could maintain for a long time. All 
Rincewind had to do was shake off his guards, fight his way out of the Tree, find 
the temple and steal the horse out from under whatever it was that Bel- 
Shamharoth used for a nose. 

“The Sender of Eight has two for dinner, it seems,” said Druellae, looking 
hard at Rincewind. “Who does that steed belong to, false wizard?” 

“I’ve no idea.” 

“No? Well, it does not matter. We shall see soon enough.” 

She waved a hand. The focus of the image moved inward, darted through a 
great octagonal archway and sped along the corridor within. 

There was a figure there, sidling along stealthily with its back against one 
wall. Rincewind saw the gleam of gold and bronze. 



There was no mistaking that shape. He’d seen it many times. The wide chest, 
the neck like a tree trunk, the surprisingly small head under its wild thatch of 
black hair looking like a tomato on a coffin.. .he could put a name to the 
creeping figure, and that name was Hrun the Barbarian. 

Hrun was one of the Circle Sea’s more durable heroes: a fighter of dragons, 
a despoiler of temples, a hired sword, the kingpost of every street brawl. He 
could even—and unlike many heroes of Rincewind’s acquaintance—speak 
words of more than two syllables, if given time and maybe a hint or two. 

There was a sound on the edge of Rincewind’s hearing. It sounded like 
several skulls bouncing down the steps of some distant dungeon. He looked 
sideways at his guards to see if they had heard it. 

They had all their limited attention focused on Hrun, who was admittedly 
built on the same lines as themselves. Their hands were resting lightly on the 
wizard’s shoulders. 

Rincewind ducked, jerked backward like a tumbler, and came up running. 
Behind him he heard Druellae shout, and he redoubled his speed. 

Something caught the hood of his robe, which tore off. A he-dryad waiting at 
the stairs spread his arms wide and grinned woodenly at the figure hurtling 
toward him. Without breaking his stride Rincewind ducked again, so low that his 
chin was on a level with his knees, while a fist like a log sizzled through the air 
by his ear. 

Ahead of him a whole spinney of the tree men awaited. He spun around, 
dodged another blow from the puzzled guard, and sped back toward the circle, 
passing on the way the dryads who were pursuing him and leaving them as 
disorganized as a set of skittles. 

But there were still more in front, pushing their way through the crowds of 
females and smacking their fists into the horny palms of their hands with 
anticipatory concentration. 

“Stand still, false wizard,” said Druellae, stepping forward. Behind her the 
enchanted dancers spun on; the focus of the circle was now drifting along a 
violet-lit corridor. 



Rincewind cracked. 


“Will you knock that off!” he snarled. “Let’s just get this straight, right? I am 
a real wizard!” He stamped a foot pettulantly. 

“Indeed?” said the dryad. “Then let us see you pass a spell.” 

“Uh—” began Rincewind. The fact was that, since the ancient and 
mysterious spell had squatted in his mind, he had been unable to remember even 
the simplest cantrap for, say, killing cockroaches or scratching the small of his 
back without using his hands. The mages at Unseen University had tried to 
explain this by suggesting that the involuntary memorizing of the spell had, as it 
were, tied up all his spellretention cells. In his darker moments Rincewind had 
come up with his own explanation as to why even minor spells refused to stay in 
his head for more than a few seconds. 

They were scared, he decided. 

“Um—” he repeated. 

“A small one would do,” said Druellae, watching him curl his lips in a frenzy 
of anger and embarrassment. She signaled, and a couple of he-dryads closed in. 

The Spell chose that moment to vault into the temporarily abandoned saddle 
of Rincewind’s consciousness. He felt it sitting there, leering defiantly at him. 

“I do know a spell,” he said wearily. 

“Yes? Pray tell,” said Druellae. 

Rincewind wasn’t sure that he dared, although the Spell was trying to take 
control of his tongue. He fought it. 

“You thed you could read by bind,” he said indistinctly. “Read it.” 

She stepped forward, looking mockingly into his eyes. 

Her smile froze. Her hands raised protectively, she crouched back. From her 
throat came a sound of pure terror. 



Rincewind looked around. The rest of the dryads were also backing away. 
What had he done? Something terrible, apparently. 

But in his experience it was only a matter of time before the normal balance 
of the universe restored itself and started doing the usual terrible things to him. 
He backed away, ducked between the still spinning dryads who were creating the 
magic circle, and watched to see what Druellae would do next. 

“Grab him,” she screamed. “Take him a long way from the Tree and kill 
him!” 

Rincewind turned and bolted. 

Across the focus of the circle. 

There was a brilliant flash. 

There was a sudden darkness. 

There was a vaguely Rincewind-shaped violet shadow, dwindling to a point 
and winking out. 

There was nothing at all. 


Hrun the Barbarian crept soundlessly along the corridors, which were lit with a 
light so violet that it was almost black. His earlier confusion was gone. This was 
obviously a magical temple, and that explained everything. 

It explained why, earlier in the afternoon, he had espied a chest by the side 
of the track while riding through this benighted forest. Its top was invitingly 
open, displaying much gold. But when he had leapt off his horse to approach it 
the chest had sprouted legs and had gone trotting off into the forest, stopping 
again a few hundred yards away. 

Now, after several hours of teasing pursuit, he had lost it in these hell-lit 
tunnels. On the whole, the unpleasant carvings and occasional disjointed 
skeletons he passed held no fears for Hrun. This was partly because he was not 
exceptionally bright while being at the same time exceptionally unimaginative, 
but it was also because odd carvings and perilous tunnels were all in a day’s 



work. He spent a great deal of time in similar situations, seeking gold or demons 
or distressed virgins and relieving them respectively of their owners, their lives 
and at least one cause of their distress. 

Observe Hrun, as he leaps cat-footed across a suspicious tunnel mouth. Even 
in this violet light his skin gleams coppery. There is much gold about his person, 
in the form of anklets and wristlets, but otherwise he is naked except for a 
leopardskin loincloth. He took that in the steaming forests of Howondaland, after 
killing its owner with his teeth. 

In his right hand he carries the magical black sword Kring, which was forged 
from a thunderbolt and has a soul but suffers no scabbard. Hrun had stolen it 
only three days before from the impregnable palace of the Archmandrite of 
BTtuni, and he was already regretting it. It was beginning to get on his nerves. 

“I tell you it went down that last passage on the right,” hissed Kring in a 
voice like the scrape of a blade over stone. 

“Be silent!” 

“All I said was—” 

“Shut up!” 


And Twoflower... 

He was lost, he knew that. Either the building was much bigger than it 
looked, or he was now on some wide underground level without having gone 
down any steps, or—as he was beginning to suspect—the inner dimensions of 
the place disobeyed a fairly basic rule of architecture by being bigger than the 
outside. And why all these strange lights? They were eight-sided crystals set at 
regular intervals in the walls and ceiling, and they shed a rather unpleasant glow 
that didn’t so much illuminate as outline the darkness. 

And whoever had done those carvings on the wall, Twoflower thought 
charitably, had probably been drinking too much. For years. 


On the other hand, it was certainly a fascinating building. Its builders had 



been obsessed with the number eight. The floor was a continuous mosaic of 
eight-sided tiles, the corridor walls were angled to give the corridors eight sides 
if the walls and ceilings were counted and, in those places where part of the 
masonry had fallen in, Twoflower noticed that even the stones themselves had 
eight sides. 

“I don’t like it,” said the picture imp, from his box around Twoflower’s neck. 

“Why not?” inquired Twoflower. 

“It’s weird.” 

“But you’re a demon. Demons can’t call things weird. I mean, what’s weird 
to a demon?” 

“Oh, you know,” said the demon cautiously, glancing around nervously and 
shifting from claw to claw. “Things. Stuff.” 

Twoflower looked at him sternly. “What things?” 

The demon coughed nervously (demons do not breathe; however, every 
intelligent being, whether it breathes or not, coughs nervously at some time in its 
life. And this was one of them as far as the demon was concerned). 

“Oh, things,” it said wretchedly. “Evil things. Things we don’t talk about is 
the point I’m broadly trying to get across, master.” 

Twoflower shook his head wearily. “I wish Rincewind was here,” he said. 
“He’d know what to do.” 

“Him?” sneered the demon. “Can’t see a wizard coming here. They can’t 
have anything to do with the number eight.” The demon slapped a hand across 
his mouth guiltily. 

Twoflower looked up at the ceiling. 

“What was that?” he asked. “Didn’t you hear something?” 

“Me? Hear? No! Not a thing!” the demon insisted. It jerked back into its box 
and slammed the door. Twoflower tapped on it. The door opened a crack. 



“It sounded like a stone moving,” he explained. The door banged shut. 
Twoflower shrugged. 

“The place is probably falling to bits,” he said to himself. He stood up. 

“I say!” he shouted. “Is anyone there?” 

AIR, Air, air, replied the dark tunnels. 

“Hullo?” he tried. 

LO, Lo, lo. 

“I know there’s someone here, I just heard you playing dice!” 

ICE, Ice, ice. 

“Look, I had just—” 

Twoflower stopped. The reason for this was the bright point of light that had 
popped into existence a few feet from his eyes. It grew rapidly, and after a few 
seconds was the tiny bright shape of a man. At this stage it began to make a 
noise, or, rather, Twoflower started to hear the noise it had been making all 
along. It sounded like a sliver of a scream, caught in one long instant of time. 

The iridescent man was doll-sized now, a tortured shape tumbling in slow 
motion while hanging in midair. Twoflower wondered why he had thought of the 
phrase “a sliver of a scream”.. .and began to wish he hadn’t. 

It was beginning to look like Rincewind. The wizard’s mouth was open, and 
his face was brilliantly lit by the light of—what? Strange suns, Twoflower found 
himself thinking. Suns men don’t usually see. He shivered. 

Now the turning wizard was half man-size. At that point the growth was 
faster, there was a sudden crowded moment, a rush of air, and an explosion of 
sound. Rincewind tumbled out of the air, screaming. He hit the floor hard, 
choked, then rolled over with his head cradled in his arms and his body curled up 
tightly. 


When the dust had settled Twoflower reached out gingerly and tapped the 



wizard on the shoulder. The human ball rolled up tighter. 

“It’s me,” explained Twoflower helpfully. The wizard unrolled a fraction. 
“What?” he said. 

“Me.” 

In one movement Rincewind unrolled and bounced up in front of the little 
man, his hands gripping his shoulders desperately. His eyes were wild and wide. 

“Don’t say it!” he hissed. “Don’t say it and we might get out!” 

“Get out? How did you get in? Don’t you know—” 

“Don’t say it!” 

Twoflower backed away from this madman. 

“Don’t say it!” 

“Don’t say what?” 

“The number!” 

“Number?” said Twoflower. “Hey, Rincewind—” 

“Yes, number! Between seven and nine. Four plus four!” 

“What, ei—” 

Rincewind’s hands clapped over the man’s mouth. “Say it and we’re 
doomed. Just don’t think about it, right? Trust me!” 

“I don’t understand!” wailed Twoflower. Rincewind relaxed slightly, which 
was to say that he still made a violin string look like a bowl of jelly. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s try and get out. And I’ll try and tell you.” 



After the first Age of Magic the disposal of grimoires began to become a severe 
problem on the Discworld. A spell is still a spell even when imprisoned 
temporarily in parchment and ink. It has potency. This is not a problem while the 
book’s owner still lives, but on his death the spell book becomes a source of 
uncontrolled power that cannot easily be defused. 

In short, spell books leak magic. Various solutions have been tried. Countries 
near the Rim simply loaded down the books of dead mages with leaden 
pentalphas and threw them over the Edge. Near the Hub less satisfactory 
alternatives were available. Inserting the offending books in canisters of 
negatively polarized octiron and sinking them in the fathomless depths of the sea 
was one (burial in deep caves on land was earlier ruled out after some districts 
complained of walking trees and five headed cats) but before long the magic 
seeped out and eventually fishermen complained of shoals of invisible fish or 
psychic clams. 

A temporary solution was the construction, in various centers of magical 
lore, of large rooms made of denatured octiron, which is impervious to most 
forms of magic. Here the more critical grimoires could be stored until their 
potency had attenuated. 

That was how there came to be at Unseen University the Octavo, greatest of 
all grimoires, formerly owned by the Creator of the Universe. It was this book 
that Rincewind had once opened for a bet. He had only a second to stare at a 
page before setting off various alarm spells, but that was time enough for one 
spell to leap from it and settle in his memory like a toad in a stone. 


“Then what?” said Twoflower. 

“Oh, they dragged me out. Thrashed me, of course.” 

“And no one knows what the spell does?” 

Rincewind shook his head. 

“It’d vanished from the page,” he said. “No one will know until I say it. Or 
until I die, of course. Then it will sort of say itself. For all I know it stops the 
universe, or ends Time, or anything.” 



Twoflower patted him on the shoulder. 


“No sense in brooding,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s have another look for a 
way out.” 

Rincewind shook his head. All the terror had been spent now. He had broken 
through the terror barrier, perhaps, and was in the dead calm state of mind that 
lies on the other side. Anyway, he had ceased to gibber. 

“We’re doomed,” he stated. “We’ve been walking around all night. I tell you, 
this place is a spiderweb. It doesn’t matter which way we go, we’ll end up in the 
center.” 

“It was kind of you to come looking for me, anyway,” said Twoflower. 

“How did you manage it exactly? It was very impressive.” 

“Oh, well,” began the wizard awkwardly. “I just thought “I can’t leave old 
Twoflower there’ and—” 

“So what we’ve got to do now is find this Bel-Shamharoth person and 
explain things to him and perhaps he’ll let us out,” said Twoflower. 

Rincewind ran a finger around his ear. 

“It must be the funny echoes in here,” he said. “I thought I heard you use 
words like find and explain” 

“That’s right.” 

Rincewind glared at him in the hellish purple glow. 

“Find Bel-Shamharoth?” he said. 

“Yes. We don’t have to get involved.” 

“Find the Soul Render and not get involved? Just give him a nod, I suppose, 
and ask the way to the exit? Explain things to the Sender of Eignnnngh,” 
Rincewind bit off the end of the word just in time and finished, “You’re insane ! 
Hey! Come back!” 



He darted down the passage after Twoflower, and after a few moments came 
to a halt with a groan. 

The violet light was intense here, giving everything new and unpleasant 
colors. This wasn’t a passage, it was a wide room with walls to a number that 
Rincewind didn’t dare to contemplate, and ei—and 7a passages radiating from it. 

Rincewind saw, a little way off, a low altar with the same number of sides as 
four times two. It didn’t occupy the center of the room, however. The center was 
occupied by a huge stone slab with twice as many sides as a square. It looked 
massive. In the strange light it appeared to be slightly tilted, with one edge 
standing proud of the slabs around it. 

Twoflower was standing on it. 

“Hey. Rincewind! Look what’s here!” 

The Luggage came ambling down one of the other passages that radiated 
from the room. 

“That’s great,” said Rincewind. “Fine. It can lead us out of here. Now.” 

Twoflower was already rummaging in the chest. 

“Yes,” he said. “After I’ve taken a few pictures. Just let me fit the attachment 


“I said now —” 

Rincewind stopped. Hrun the Barbarian was standing in the passage mouth 
directly opposite him, a great black sword held in one ham-sized fist. 

“You?” said Hrun uncertainly. 

“Ahaha. Yes,” said Rincewind. “Hrun, isn’t it? Long time no see. What 
brings you here?” 

Hrun pointed to the Luggage. 

“That,” he said. This much conversation seemed to exhaust Hrun. Then he 



added, in a tone that combined statement, claim, threat and ultimatum: “Mine.” 


“It belongs to Twoflower here,” said Rincewind. “Here’s a tip. Don’t touch 
it.” 


It dawned on him that this was precisely the wrong thing to say, but Hrun 
had already pushed Twoflower away and was reaching for the Luggage... 

.. .which sprouted legs, backed away, and raised its lid threateningly. In the 
uncertain light Rincewind thought he could see rows of enormous teeth, white as 
bleached beech-wood. 

“Hrun,” he said quickly, “there’s something I ought to tell you.” 

Hrun turned a puzzled face to him. 

“What?” he said. 

“It’s about numbers. Look, you know if you add seven and one, or three and 
five, or take two from ten, you get a number. While you’re here don’t say it, and 
we might all stand a chance of getting out of here alive. Or merely just dead.” 

“Who is he?” asked Twoflower. He was holding a cage in his hands, dredged 
from the bottommost depths of the Luggage. It appeared to be full of sulking 
pink lizards. 

“I am Hrun,” said Hrun proudly. Then he looked at Rincewind. 

“What?” he said. 

“Just don’t say it, okay?” said Rincewind. 

He looked at the sword in Hrun’s hand. It was black, the sort of black that is 
less a color than a graveyard of colors, and there was a highly ornate runic 
inscription up the blade. More noticeable still was the faint octarine glow that 
surrounded it. The sword must have noticed him, too, because it suddenly spoke 
in a voice like a claw being scraped across glass. 

“Strange,” it said. “Why can’t he say eight?” 



EIGHT, Hate, ate said the echoes. There was the faintest of grinding noises, 
deep under the earth. 

And the echoes, although they became softer, refused to die away. They 
bounced from wall to wall, crossing and recrossing, and the violet light flickered 
in time with the sound. 

“You did it!” screamed Rincewind. “I said you shouldn’t say eight!” 

He stopped, appalled at himself. But the word was out now, and joined its 
colleagues in the general susurration. 

Rincewind turned to run, but the air suddenly seemed to be thicker than 
treacle. A charge of magic bigger than he had ever seen was building up; when 
he moved, in painful slow motion, his limbs left trails of golden sparks that 
traced their shape in the air. 

Behind him there was a rumble as the great octagonal slab rose into the air, 
hung for a moment on one edge, and crashed down on the floor. 

Something thin and black snaked out of the pit and wrapped itself around his 
ankle. He screamed as he landed heavily on the vibrating flagstones. The 
tentacle started to pull him across the floor. 

Then Twoflower was in front of him, reaching out for his hands. He grasped 
the little man’s arms desperately and they lay looking into each other’s faces. 
Rincewind slid on, even so. 

“What’s holding you?” he gasped. 

“N-nothing!” said Twoflower. “What’s happening?” 

“I’m being dragged into this pit, what do you think?” 

“Oh, Rincewind, I’m sorry—” 

“You’re sorry—” 


There was a noise like a singing saw and the pressure on Rincewind’s legs 
abruptly ceased. He turned his head and saw Hrun crouched by the pit, his sword 



a blur as it hacked at the tentacles racing out toward him. 

Twoflower helped the wizard to his feet and they crouched by the altar stone, 
watching the manic figure as it battled the questing arms. 

“It won’t work,” said Rincewind. “The Sender can materialize tentacles. 
What are you doing?” 

Twoflower was feverishly attaching the cage of subdued lizards to the 
picture box, which he had mounted on a tripod. 

“I’ve just got to get a picture of this,” he muttered. “It’s stupendous! Can you 
hear me, imp?” 

The picture imp opened his tiny hatch, glanced momentarily at the scene 
around the pit, and vanished into the box. Rincewind jumped as something 
touched his leg, and brought his heel down on a questing tentacle. 

“Come on,” he said. “Time to go zoom.” He grabbed Twoflower’s arm, but 
the tourist resisted. 

“Run away and leave Hrun with that thing?” he said. 

Rincewind looked blank. “Why not?” he said. “It’s his job.” 

“But it’ll kill him!” 

“It could be worse,” said Rincewind. 

“What?” 

“It could be us,” Rincewind pointed out logically. “Come on!” 

Twoflower pointed. “Hey!” he said. “It’s got my Luggage!” 

Before Rincewind could restrain him Twoflower ran around the edge of the 
pit to the box, which was being dragged across the floor while its lid snapped 
ineffectually at the tentacle that held it. The little man began to kick at the 
tentacle in fury. 


Another one snapped out of the melee around Hrun and caught him around 



the waist. Hrun himself was already an indistinct shape amid the tightening coils. 
Even as Rincewind stared in horror the Hero’s sword was wrenched from his 
grasp and hurled against a wall. 

“Your spell!” shouted Twoflower. 

Rincewind did not move. He was looking at the Thing rising out of the pit. It 
was an enormous eye, and it was staring directly at him. He whimpered as a 
tentacle fastened itself around his waist. 

The words of the spell rose unbidden in his throat. He opened his mouth as 
in a dream, shapping it around the first barbaric syllable. 

Another tentacle shot out like a whip and coiled around his throat, choking 
him. Staggering and gasping, Rincewind was dragged across the floor. 

One flailing arm caught Twoflower’s picture box as it skittered past on its 
tripod. He snatched it up instinctively, as his ancestors might have snatched up a 
stone when faced with a marauding tiger. If only he could get enough room to 
swing it against the Eye... 

...the Eye filled the whole universe in front of him. Rincewind felt his will 
draining away like water from a sieve. 

In front of him the torpid lizards stirred in their cage on the picture box. 
Irrationally, as a man about to be beheaded notices every scratch and stain on the 
executioner’s block, Rincewind saw that they had overlarge tails that were 
bluish-white and, he realized, throbbing alarmingly. 

As he was drawn toward the Eye the terror-struck Rincewind raised the box 
protectively, and at the same time heard the picture imp say, “They’re about ripe 
now, can’t hold them any longer. Everyone smile, please.” 

There was a— 

—flash of light so white and so bright— 

—it didn’t seem like light at all. 


Bel-Shamharoth screamed, a sound that started in the far ultrasonic and 



finished somewhere in Rincewind’s bowels. The tentacles went momentarily as 
stiff as rods, hurling their various cargoes around the room, before bunching up 
protectively in front of the abused Eye. The whole mass dropped into the pit and 
a moment later the big slab was snatched up by several dozen tentacles and 
slammed into place, leaving a number of thrashing limbs trapped around the 
edge. 

Hrun landed rolling, bounced off a wall and came up on his feet. He found 
his sword and started to chop methodically at the doomed arms. Rincewind lay 
on the floor, concentrating on not going mad. A hollow wooden noise made him 
turn his head. 

The Luggage had landed on its curved lid. Now it was rocking angrily and 
kicking its little legs in the air. 

Warily, Rincewind looked around for Twoflower. The little man was in a 
crumpled heap against the wall, but at least he was groaning. 

The wizard pulled himself across the floor, painfully, and whispered, “What 
the hell was that?” 

“Why were they so bright?” muttered Twoflower. “Gods, my head...” 

“Too bright?” said Rincewind. He looked across the floor to the cage on the 
picture box. The lizards inside, now noticeably thinner, were watching him with 
interest. 

“The salamanders,” moaned Twoflower. “The pictureT1 be overexposed, I 
know it...” 

“They’re salamanders?” asked Rincewind incredulously. 

“Of course. Standard attachment.” 

Rincewind staggered across to the box and picked it up. He’d seen 
salamanders before, of course, but they had been small specimens. They had also 
been floating in a jar of pickle in the curiobiological museum down in the cellars 
of Unseen University, since live salamanders were extinct around the Circle Sea. 


He tried to remember the little he knew about them. They were magical 



creatures. They also had no mouths, since they subsisted entirely on the 
nourishing quality of the octarine wavelength in the Discworld’s sunlight, which 
they absorbed through their skins. Of course, they also absorbed the rest of the 
sunlight as well, storing it in a special sac until it was excreted in the normal 
way. A desert inhabited by Discworld salamanders was a veritable lighthouse at 
night. 

Rincewind put them down and nodded grimly. With all the octarine light in 
this magical place the creatures had been gorging themselves, and then nature 
had taken its course. 

The picture box sidled away on its tripod. Rincewind aimed a kick at it, and 
missed. He was beginning to dislike sapient pearwood. 

Something small stung his cheek. He brushed it away irritably. 

He looked around at a sudden grinding noise, and a voice like a carving 
knife cutting through silk said, “This is very undignified.” 

“Shuddup,” said Hrun. He was using Kring to lever the top off the altar. He 
looked up at Rincewind and grinned. Rincewind hoped that rictus-strung 
grimace was a grin. 

“Mighty magic,” commented the barbarian, pushing down heavily on the 
complaining blade with a hand the size of a ham. “Now we share the treasure, 
eh?” 


Rincewind grunted as something small and hard stmck his ear. There was a 
gust of wind, hardly felt. 

“How do you know there’s treasure in there?” he said. 

Hrun heaved, and managed to hook his fingers under the stone. “You find 
chokeapples under a chokeapple tree,” he said. “You find treasure under altars. 
Logic.” 

He gritted his teeth. The stone swung up and landed heavily on the floor. 

This time something struck Rincewind’s hand, heavily. He clawed at the air 
and looked at the thing he had caught. It was a piece of stone with five-plus- 



three sides. He looked up at the ceiling. Should it be sagging like that? Hrun 
hummed a little tune as he began to pull crumbling leather from the desecrated 
altar. 

The air crackled, fluoresced, hummed. Intangible winds gripped the wizard’s 
robe, flapping it out in eddies of blue and green sparks. Around Rincewind’s 
head mad, half-formed spirits howled and gibbered as they were sucked past. 

He tried raising a hand. It was immediately surrounded by a glowing 
octarine corona as the rising magical wind roared past. The gale raced through 
the room without stirring one iota of dust, yet it was blowing Rincewind’s 
eyelids inside out. It screamed along the tunnels, its banshee-wail bouncing 
madly from stone to stone. 

Twoflower staggered up, bent double in the teeth of the astral gale. 

“What the hell is this?” he shouted. 

Rincewind half-turned. Immediately the howling wind caught him, nearly 
pitching him over. Poltergeist eddies, spinning in the rushing air, snatched at his 
feet. 


Hrun’s arm shot out and caught him. A moment later he and Twoflower had 
been dragged into the lee of the ravaged altar, and lay panting on the floor. 

Beside them the talking sword Kring sparkled, its magical field boosted a 
hundredfold by the storm. 

“Hold on!” screamed Rincewind. 

“The wind!” shouted Twoflower. “Where’s it coming from? Where’s it 
blowing to?” He looked into Rincewind’s mask of sheer terror, which made him 
redouble his own grip on the stones. 

“We’re doomed,” murmured Rincewind, while overhead the roof cracked 
and shifted. “Where do shadows come from? That’s where the wind is blowing!” 

What was in fact happening, as the wizard knew, was that as the abused 
spirit of Bel-Shamharoth sank through the deeper chthonic planes his brooding 
spirit was being sucked out of the very stones into the region which, according to 
the Discworld’s most reliable priests, was both under the ground and Somewhere 



Else. In consequence his temple was being abandoned to the ravages of Time, 
who for thousands of shamefaced years had been reluctant to go near the place. 
Now the suddenly released, accumulated weight of all those pent-up seconds 
was bearing down heavily on the unbraced stones. 

Hrun glanced up at the widening cracks and sighed. Then he put two fingers 
into his mouth and whistled. 

Strangely the real sound rang out loudly over the pseudo-sound of the 
widening astral whirlpool that was forming in the middle of the great octagonal 
slab. It was followed by a hollow echo which sounded, he fancied, strangely like 
the bouncing of strange bones. Then came a noise with no hint of strangeness. It 
was hollow hoofbeats. 

Hrun’s warhorse cantered through a creaking archway and reared up by its 
master, its mane streaming in the gale. The barbarian pulled himself to his feet 
and slung his treasure bags into a sack that hung from the saddle, then hauled 
himself onto the beast’s back. He reached down and grabbed Twoflower by the 
scruff of his neck, dragging him across the saddle tree. As the horse turned 
around Rincewind took a desperate leap and landed behind Hrun, who raised no 
objection. 

The horse pounded surefooted along the tunnels, leaping sudden slides of 
mbble and adroitly sidestepping huge stones as they thundered down from the 
straining roof. Rincewind, clinging on grimly, looked behind them. 

No wonder the horse was moving so swiftly. Close behind, speeding through 
the flickering violet light, were a large ominous-looking chest and a picture box 
that skittered along dangerously on its three legs. So great was the ability of 
sapient pearwood to follow its master anywhere, the gravegoods of dead 
emperors had traditionally been made of it... 

They reached the outer air a moment before the octagonal arch finally broke 
and smashed into the flags. 

The sun was rising. Behind them a column of dust rose as the temple 
collapsed in on itself, but they did not look back. That was a shame, because 
Twoflower might have been able to obtain pictures unusual even by Discworld 
standards. 



There was a movement in the smoking mins. They seemed to be growing a 
green carpet. Then an oak tree spiraled up, branching out like an exploding green 
rocket, and was in the middle of a venerable copse even before the tips of its 
aged branches had stopped quivering. A beech burst out like a fungus, matured, 
rotted, and fell in a cloud of tinder dust amid its struggling offspring. Already the 
temple was a half-buried heap of mossy stones. 

But Time, having initially gone for the throat, was now setting out to 
complete the job. The boiling interface between decaying magic and ascendant 
entropy roared down the hill and overtook the galloping horse, whose riders, 
being themselves creatures of Time, completely failed to notice it. But it lashed 
into the enchanted forest with the whip of centuries. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” observed a voice by Rincewind’s knee as the horse 
cantered through the haze of decaying timber and falling leaves. 

The voice had an eerie metallic ring to it. Rincewind looked down at Kring 
the sword. It had a couple of rubies set in the pommel. He got the impression 
they were watching him. 

From the moorland rimward of the wood they watched the battle between 
the trees and Time, which could only have one ending. It was a sort of cabaret to 
the main business of the halt, which was the consumption of quite a lot of a bear 
which had incautiously come within bowshot of Hrun. 

Rincewind watched Hrun over the top of his slab of greasy meat. Hrun going 
about the business of being a hero, he realized, was quite different to the wine- 
bibbing, carousing Hrun who occasionally came to Ankh-Morpork. He was cat- 
cautious, lithe as a panther, and thoroughly at home. 

And I’ve survived Bel-Shamharoth, Rincewind reminded himself. Fantastic. 

Twoflower was helping the hero sort through the treasure stolen from the 
temple. It was mostly silver set with unpleasant purple stones. Representations 
of spiders, octopi and the tree-dwelling octarsier of the Hubland wastes figured 
largely in the heap. 

Rincewind tried to shut his ears to the grating voice beside him. It was no 


use. 



“—and then I belonged to the Pasha of Re’durat and played a prominent part 
in the battle of the Great Nef, which is where I received the slight nick you may 
have noticed some two-thirds of the way up my blade,” Kring was saying from 
its temporary home in a tussock. “Some infidel was wearing an octiron collar, 
most unsporting, and of course I was a lot sharper in those days and my master 
used to use me to cut silk handkerchiefs in midair and—am I boring you?” 

“Huh? Oh, no, no, not at all. It’s all very interesting,” said Rincewind, with 
his eyes still on Hrun. How trustworthy would he be? Here they were, out in the 
wilds, there were trolls about... 

“I could see you were a cultured person,” Kring went on. “So seldom do I 
get to meet really interesting people, for any length of time, anyway. What I’d 
really like is a nice mantelpiece to hang over, somewhere nice and quiet. I spent 
a couple of hundred years on the bottom of a lake once.” 

“That must have been fun,” said Rincewind absently. 

“Not really,” said Kring. 

“No, I suppose not.” 

“What I’d really like is to be a plowshare. I don’t know what that is, but it 
sounds like an existence with some point to it.” 

Twoflower hurried over to the wizard. 

“I had a great idea,” he burbled. 

“Yah,” said Rincewind, wearily. “Why don’t we get Hrun to accompany us 
to Quirm?” 

Twoflower looked amazed. “How did you know?” he said. 

“I just thought you’d think it,” said Rincewind. 

Hrun ceased stuffing silverware into his saddlebags and grinned 
encouragingly at them. Then his eyes strayed back to the Luggage. 


“If we had him with us, who’d attack us?” said Twoflower. 



Rincewind scratched his chin. “Hrun?” he suggested. 


“But we saved his life in the Temple!” 

“Well, if by attack you mean kill,” said Rincewind, “I don’t think he’d do 
that. He’s not that sort. He’d just rob us and tie us up and leave us for the 
wolves, I expect.” 

“Oh, come on.” 

“Look, this is real life,” snapped Rincewind. “I mean, here you are, carrying 
around a box full of gold, don’t you think anyone in their right minds would 
jump at the chance of pinching it?” I would, he added mentally—if I hadn’t seen 
what the Luggage does to prying fingers. 

Then the answer hit him. He looked from Hrun to the picture box. The 
picture imp was doing its laundry in a tiny tub, while the salamanders dozed in 
their cage. 

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “I mean, what is it heroes really want?” 

“Gold?” said Twoflower. 

“No. I mean really want.” 

Twoflower frowned. “I don’t quite understand,” he said. Rincewind picked 
up the picture box. 

“Hrun,” he said. “Come over here, will you?” 


The days passed peacefully. True, a small band of bridge trolls tried to ambush 
them on one occasion, and a party of brigands nearly caught them unawares one 
night (but unwisely tried to investigate the Luggage before slaughtering the 
sleepers). Hrun demanded, and got, double pay for both occasions. 

“If any harm comes to us,” said Rincewind, “then there will be no one to 
operate the magic box. No more pictures of Hrun, you understand?” 

Hrun nodded, his eyes fixed on the latest picture. It showed Hrun striking a 



heroic pose, with one foot on a heap of slain trolls. 

“Me and you and little friend Twoflowers, we all get on hokay,” he said. 
“Also tomorrow, may we get a better profile, hokay?” 

He carefully wrapped the picture in trollskin and stowed it in his saddlebag, 
along with the others. 

“It seems to be working,” said Twoflower admiringly, as Hrun rode ahead to 
scout the road. 

“Sure,” said Rincewind. “What heroes like best is themselves.” 

“You’re getting quite good at using the picture box, you know that?” 

“Yar.” 

“So you might like to have this.” Twoflower held out a picture. 

“What is it?” asked Rincewind. 

“Oh, just the picture you took in the temple.” 

Rincewind looked in horror. There, bordered by a few glimpses of tentacle, 
was a huge, whorled, callused, potion-stained and unfocused thumb. 

“That’s the story of my life,” he said wearily. 


“You win,” said Fate, pushing the heap of souls across the gaming table. The 
assembled gods relaxed. “There will be other games,” he added. 

The Lady smiled into two eyes that were like holes in the universe. 


And then there was nothing but the ruin of the forests and a cloud of dust on the 
horizon, which drifted away on the breeze. And, sitting on a pitted and moss- 
grown milestone, a black and raggedy figure. His was the air of one who is 
unjustly put upon, who is dreaded and feared, yet who is the only friend of the 



poor and the best doctor for the mortally wounded. 


Death, although of course completely eyeless, watched Rincewind 
disappearing with what would, had His face possessed any mobility at all, have 
been a frown. Death, although exceptionally busy at all times, decided that He 
now had a hobby. There was something about the wizard that irked Him beyond 
measure. He didn’t keep appointments, for one thing. 

I’ll get you yet, cully, said Death, in the voice like the slamming of leaden 
coffin lids, see if I don’t. 



3 


Thf, Lure of thf. Wyrm 


It was called the Wyrmberg and it rose almost one half of a mile above the green 
valley; a mountain huge, gray and upside down. 

At its base it was a mere score of yards across. Then it rose through clinging 
cloud, curving gracefully outward like an upturned trumpet until it was truncated 
by a plateau fully a quarter of a mile across. There was a tiny forest up there, its 
greenery cascading over the lip. There were buildings. There was even a small 
river, tumbling over the edge in a waterfall so wind-whipped that it reached the 
ground as rain. 

There were also a number of cave mouths, a few yards below the plateau. 
They had a crudely carved, regular look about them, so that on this crisp autumn 
morning the Wyrmberg hung over the clouds like a giant’s dovecote. 

This would mean that the “doves” had a wingspan slightly in excess of forty 
yards. 


“I knew it,” said Rincewind. “We’re in a strong magical field.” 

Twoflower and Hrun looked around the little hollow where they had made 
their noonday halt. Then they looked at each other. 

The horses were quietly cropping the rich grass by the stream. Yellow 
butterflies skittered among the bushes. There was a smell of thyme and a 
buzzing of bees. The wild pigs on the spit sizzled gently. 



Hrun shrugged and went back to oiling his biceps. They gleamed. 


“Looks all right to me,” he said. 

“Try tossing a coin,” said Rincewind. 

“What?” 

“Go on. Toss a coin.” 

“Hokay,” said Hrun. “If it gives you any pleasure.” He reached into his 
pouch and withdrew a handful of loose change plundered from a dozen realms. 
With some care he selected a Zchloty leaden quarter-iotum and balanced it on a 
purple thumbnail. 

“You call,” he said. “Heads or—” he inspected the obverse with an air of 
intense concentration, “some sort of a fish with legs.” 

“When it’s in the air,” said Rincewind. Hrun grinned and flicked his thumb. 

The iotum rose, spinning. 

“Edge,” said Rincewind, without looking at it. 


Magic never dies. It merely fades away. 

Nowhere was this more evident on the wide blue expanse of the Discworld 
than in those areas that had been the scene of the great battles of the Mage Wars, 
which had happened very shortly after Creation. In those days magic in its raw 
state had been widely available, and had been eagerly utilized by the First Men 
in their war against the gods. 

The precise origins of the Mage Wars have been lost in the fogs of Time, but 
Disc philosophers agree that the First Men, shortly after their creation, 
understandably lost their temper. And great and pyrotechnic were the battles that 
followed—the sun wheeled across the sky, the seas boiled, weird storms ravaged 
the land, small white pigeons mysteriously appeared in people’s clothing, and 
the very stability of the Disc (carried as it was through space on the backs of four 
giant turtle-riding elephants) was threatened. This resulted in stern action by the 



Old High Ones, to whom even the gods themselves are answerable. The gods 
were banished to high places, men were re-created a good deal smaller, and 
much of the old wild magic was sucked out of the earth. 

That did not solve the problem of those places on the Disc which, during the 
wars, had suffered a direct hit by a spell. The magic faded away—slowly, over 
the millennia, releasing as it decayed myriads of sub-astral particles that severely 
distorted the reality around it... 


Rincewind, Twoflower and Hmn stared at the coin. 

“Edge it is,” said Hrun. “Well, you’re a wizard. So what?” 

“I don’t do—that sort of spell.” 

“You mean you can’t.” 

Rincewind ignored this, because it was true. “Try it again,” he suggested. 

Hrun pulled out a fistful of coins. 

The first two landed in the usual manner. So did the fourth. The third landed 
on its edge and balanced there. The fifth turned into a small yellow caterpillar 
and crawled away. The sixth, upon reaching its zenith, vanished with a sharp 
“spang!” A moment later there was a small thunder clap. 

“Hey, that one was silver!” exclaimed Hrun, rising to his feet and staring 
upward. “Bring it back!” 

“I don’t know where it’s gone,” said Rincewind wearily. “It’s probably still 
accelerating. The ones I tried this morning didn’t come down, anyway.” 

Hrun was still staring into the sky. 

“What?” said Twoflower. 


Rincewind sighed. He had been dreading this. 

“We’ve strayed into a zone with a high magical index,” he said. “Don’t ask 



me how. Once upon a time a really powerful magic field must have been 
generated here, and we’re feeling the aftereffects.” 

“Precisely,” said a passing bush. 

Hrun’s head jerked down. 

“You mean this is one of those places?” he asked. “Let’s get out of here!” 

“Right,” agreed Rincewind. “If we retrace our steps we might make it. We 
can stop every mile or so and toss a coin.” 

He stood up urgently and started stuffing things into his saddlebags. 

“What?” said Twoflower. 

Rincewind stopped. “Look,” he snapped. “Just don’t argue. Come on.” 

“It looks all right,” said Twoflower. “Just a bit underpopulated, that’s all...” 

“Yes,” said Rincewind. “Odd, isn’t it? Come on!” 

There was a noise high above them, like a strip of leather being slapped on a 
wet rock. Something glassy and indistinct passed over Rincewind’s head, 
throwing up a cloud of ashes from the fire, and the pig carcass took off from the 
spit and rocketed into the sky. 

It banked to avoid a clump of trees, righted itself, roared around in a tight 
circle, and headed hubward leaving a trail of hot pork-fat droplets. 


“What are they doing now?” asked the old man. 

The young woman glanced at the scrying glass. 

“Heading rimward at speed,” she reported. “By the way—they’ve still got 
that box on legs.” 


The old man chuckled, an oddly disturbing sound in the dark and dusty 
crypt. “Sapient pearwood,” he said. “Remarkable. Yes, I think we will have that. 



Please see to it, my dear—before they go beyond your power, perhaps?” 


“Silence! Or—” 

“Or what, Liessa?” said the old man (in this dim light there was something 
odd about the way he was slumped in the stone chair). “You killed me once 
already, remember?” 

She snorted and stood up, tossing back her hair scornfully. It was red, 
flecked with gold. Erect, Liessa Wyrmbidder was entirely a magnificent sight. 
She was also almost naked, except for a couple of mere scraps of the lightest 
chain mail and riding boots of iridescent dragonhide. In one boot was thrust a 
riding crop, unusual in that it was as long as a spear and tipped with tiny steel 
barbs. 

“My power will be quite sufficient,” she said coldly. 

The indistinct figure appeared to nod, or at least to wobble. “As you keep 
assuring me,” he said. Liessa snorted, and strode out of the hall. 

Her father did not bother to watch her go. One reason for this was, of course, 
that since he had been dead for three months his eyes were in any case not in the 
best of condition. The other was that as a wizard—even a dead wizard of the 
fifteenth grade, his optic nerves had long since become attuned to seeing into 
levels and dimensions far removed from common reality, and were therefore 
somewhat inefficient at observing the merely mundane. (During his life they had 
appeared to others to be eight-faceted and eerily insectile). Besides, since he was 
now suspended in the narrow space between the living world and the dark 
shadow-world of Death he could survey the whole of Causality itself. That was 
why, apart from a mild hope that this time his wretched daughter would get 
herself killed, he did not devote his considerable powers to learning more about 
the three travelers galloping desperately out of his realm. 


Several hundred yards away, Liessa was in a strange humor as she strode down 
the worn steps that led into the hollow heart of the Wyrmberg, followed by half a 
dozen Riders. Would this be the opportunity? Perhaps here was the key to break 
the deadlock, the key to the throne of the Wyrmberg. It was rightfully hers, of 
course; but tradition said that only a man could rule the Wyrmberg. That irked 



Liessa, and when she was angry the Power flowed stronger and the dragons were 
especially big and ugly. 

If she had a man, things would be different. Someone who, for preference, 
was a big strapping lad but short on brains. Someone who would do what he was 
told... 

The biggest of the three now fleeing the dragonlands might do. And if it 
turned out that he wouldn’t, then dragons were always hungry and needed to be 
fed regularly. She could see to it that they got ugly. 

Uglier than usual, anyway. 

The stairway passed through a stone arch and ended in a narrow ledge near 
the roof of the great cavern where the Wyrms roosted. 

Sunbeams from the myriad entrances around the walls crisscrossed the dusty 
gloom like amber rods in which a million golden insects had been preserved. 
Below, they revealed nothing but a thin haze. Above... 

The walking rings started so close to Liessa’s head that she could reach up 
and touch one. They stretched away in their thousands across the upturned acres 
of the cavern roof. It had taken a score of masons a score of years to hammer the 
pitons for all those, hanging from their work as they progressed. Yet they were as 
nothing compared to the eighty-eight major rings that clustered near the apex of 
the dome. A further fifty had been lost in the old days, as they were swung into 
place by teams of sweating slaves (and there had been slaves aplenty, in the first 
days of the Power) and the great rings had gone crashing into the depths, 
dragging their unfortunate manipulators with them. 

But eighty-eight had been installed, huge as rainbows, rusty as blood. From 
them... 


The dragons sense Liessa’s presence. Air swishes around the cavern as eighty- 
eight pairs of wings unfold like a complicated puzzle. Great heads with green, 
multifaceted eyes peer down at her. 


The beasts are still faintly transparent. While the men around her take their 



hookboots from the rack, Liessa bends her mind to the task of full visualization; 
above her in the musty air the dragons become fully visible, bronze scales dully 
reflecting the sunbeam shafts. Her mind throbs, but now that the Power is 
flowing fully she can, with barely a waver of concentration, think of other things. 

Now she too buckles on the hookboots and turns a graceful cartwheel to 
bring their hooks, with a faint clang, against a couple of the walking rings in the 
ceiling. 

Only now it is the floor. The world has changed. Now she is standing on the 
edge of a deep bowl or crater, floored with the little rings across which the 
dragonriders are already strolling with a pendulum gait. In the center of the 
bowl their huge mounts wait among the herd. Far above are the distant rocks of 
the cavern floor, discolored by centuries of dragon droppings. 

Moving with the easy gliding movement that is second nature Liessa sets off 
toward her own dragon, Laolith, who turns his great horsey head toward her. 

His jowls are greasy with pork fat. 

It was very enjoyable, he says in her mind. 

“I thought I said there were to be no unaccompanied flights?” she snaps. 

I was hungry, Liessa. 

“Curb your hunger. Soon there will be horses to eat. ” 

The reins stick in our teeth. Are there any warriors ? We like warriors. 

Liessa swings down the mounting ladder and lands with her legs locked 
around Laolith’s leathery neck. 

“The warrior is mine. There are a couple of others you can have. One 
appears to be a wizard of sorts,” she adds by way of encouragement. 

Oh, you know how it is with wizards. Half an hour afterward you could do 
with another one, the dragon grumbles. 


He spreads his wings and drops. 



“They’re gaining!” screamed Rincewind. He bent even lower over his horse’s 
neck and groaned. Twoflower was trying to keep up while at the same time 
craning round to look at the flying beasts. 

“You don’t understand!” screamed the tourist, above the terrible noise of the 
wingbeats. “All my life I’ve wanted to see dragons!” 

“From the inside?” shouted Rincewind. “Shut up and ride!” He whipped at 
his horse with the reins and stared at the wood ahead, trying to drag it closer by 
sheer willpower. Under those trees they’d be safe. Under those trees no dragons 
could fly... 

He heard the clap of wings before shadows folded around him. Instinctively 
he rolled in the saddle and felt the white-hot stab of pain as something sharp 
scored a line across his shoulders. 

Behind him Hrun screamed, but it sounded more like a bellow of rage than a 
cry of pain. The barbarian had vaulted down into the heather and had drawn the 
black sword, Kring. He flourished it as one of the dragons curved in for another 
low pass. 

“No bloody lizard does that to me!” he roared. 

Rincewind leaned over and grabbed Twoflower’s reins. 

“Come on!” he hissed. 

“But, the dragons—” said Twoflower, entranced. 

“Blast the—” began the wizard, and froze. Another dragon had peeled off 
from the circling dots overhead and was gliding toward them. Rincewind let go 
of Twoflower’s horse, swore bitterly, and spurred his own mount toward the 
trees, alone. He didn’t look back at the sudden commotion behind him and, when 
a shadow passed over him, merely gibbered weakly and tried to burrow into the 
horse’s mane. 

Then, instead of the searing, piercing pain he had expected, there was a 
series of stinging blows as the terrified animal passed under the eaves of the 
wood. The wizard tried to hang on but another low branch, stouter than the 
others, knocked him out of the saddle. The last thing he heard before the flashing 



blue lights of unconsciousness closed in was a high reptilian scream of 
frustration, and the thrashing of talons in the treetops. 


When he awoke a dragon was watching him; at least, it was staring in his general 
direction. Rincewind groaned and tried to dig his way into the moss with his 
shoulderblades, then gasped as the pain hit him. 

Through the mists of agony and fear he looked back at the dragon. 

The creature was hanging from a branch of a large dead oak tree, several 
hundred feet away. Its bronze-gold wings were tightly wrapped around its body 
but the long equine head turned this way and that at the end of a remarkably 
prehensile neck. It was scanning the forest. 

It was also semitransparent. Although the sun glinted off its scales, 
Rincewind could clearly make out the outlines of the branches behind it. 

On one of them a man was sitting, dwarfed by the hanging reptile. He 
appeared to be naked except for a pair of high boots, a tiny leather hold-all in the 
region of his groin, and a high-crested helmet. He was swinging a short sword 
back and forth idly, and stared out across the treetops with the air of one carrying 
out a tedious and unglamorous assignment. 

A beetle began to crawl laboriously up Rincewind’s leg. 

The wizard wondered how much damage a half-solid dragon could do. 
Would it only half-kill him? He decided not to stay and find out. 

Moving on heels, fingertips and shoulder muscles, Rincewind wriggled 
sideways until foliage masked the oak and its occupants. Then he scrambled to 
his feet and hared off between the trees. 

He had no destination in mind, no provisions, and no horse. But while he 
still had legs he could run. Ferns and brambles whipped at him, but he didn’t feel 
them at all. 

When he had put about a mile between him and the dragon he stopped and 
collapsed against a tree, which then spoke to him. 



“Psst,” it said. 


Dreading what he might see, Rincewind let his gaze slide upward. It tried to 
fasten on innocuous bits of bark and leaf, but the scourge of curiosity forced it to 
leave them behind. Finally it fixed on a black sword thrust straight through the 
branch above Rincewind’s head. 

“Don’t just stand there,” said the sword (in a voice like the sound of a finger 
dragged around the rim of a large empty wine glass). “Pull me out.” 

“What?” said Rincewind, his chest still heaving. 

“Pull me out,” repeated Kring. “It’s either that or I’ll be spending the next 
million years in a coal measure. Did I ever tell you about the time I was thrown 
into a lake up in the—” 

“What happened to the others?” said Rincewind, still clutching the tree 
desperately. 

“Oh, the dragons got them. And the horses. And that box thing. Me too, 
except that Hrun dropped me. What a stroke of luck for you.” 

“Well—” began Rincewind. Kring ignored him. 

“I expect you’ll be in a hurry to rescue them,” it added. 

“Yes, well—” 

“So if you’ll just pull me out we can be off.” 

Rincewind squinted up at the sword. A rescue attempt had hitherto been so 
far at the back of his mind that, if some advanced speculations on the nature and 
shape of the many-dimensioned multiplexity of the universe were correct, it was 
right at the front; but a magic sword was a valuable item... 

And it would be a long trek back home, wherever that was... 

He scrambled up the tree and inched along the branch. Kring was buried 
very firmly in the wood. He gripped the pommel and heaved until lights flashed 
in front of his eyes. 



“Try again,” said the sword encouragingly. 

Rincewind groaned and gritted his teeth. 

“Could be worse,” said Kring. “This could have been an anvil.” 

“Yaargh,” hissed the wizard, fearing for the future of his groin. 

“I have had a multidimensional existence,” said the sword. 

“Ungh?” 

“I have had many names, you know.” 

“Amazing,” said Rincewind. He swayed backward as the blade slid free. It 
felt strangely light. 

Back on the ground again he decided to break the news. 

“I really don’t think rescue is a good idea,” he said. “I think we’d better head 
back to a city, you know. To raise a search party.” 

“The dragons headed hubward,” said Kring. “However, I suggest we start 
with the one in the trees over there.” 

“Sorry, but—” 

“You can’t leave them to their fate!” 

Rincewind looked surprised. “I can’t?” he said. 

“No. You can’t. Look, I’ll be frank. I’ve worked with better material than 
you, but it’s either that or—have you ever spent a million years in a coal 
measure?” 

“Look, I—” 

“So if you don’t stop arguing I’ll chop your head off.” 


Rincewind saw his own arm snap up until the shimmering blade was 
humming a mere inch from his throat. He tried to force his fingers to let go. 



They wouldn’t. 


“I don’t know how to be a hero!” he shouted. 
“I propose to teach you.” 


Bronze Psepha rumbled deep in his throat. 

KIsdra the dragonrider leaned forward and squinted across the clearing. 

“I see him,” he said. He swung himself down easily from branch to branch 
and landed lightly on the tussocky grass, drawing his sword. 

He took a long look at the approaching man, who was obviously not keen on 
leaving the shelter of the trees. He was armed, but the dragonrider observed with 
some interest the strange way in which the man held the sword in front of him at 
arm’s length, as though embarrassed to be seen in its company. 

KIsdra hefted his own sword and grinned expansively as the wizard shuffled 
toward him. Then he leapt. 

Later, he remembered only two things about the fight. He recalled the 
uncanny way in which the wizard’s sword curved up and caught his own blade 
with a shock that jerked it out of his grip. The other thing—and it was this, he 
averred, that led to his downfall—was that the wizard was covering his eyes with 
one hand. 

KIsdra jumped back to avoid another thrust and fell full length on the turf. 
With a snarl Psepha unfolded his great wings and launched himself from his tree. 

A moment later the wizard was standing over him, shouting, “Tell it that if it 
singes me I’ll let the sword go! I will! I’ll let it go! So tell it!” The tip of the 
black sword was hovering over KIsdra’s throat. What was odd was that the 
wizard was obviously struggling with it, and it appeared to be singing to itself. 

“Psepha!” KIsdra shouted. 

The dragon roared in defiance, but pulled out of the dive that would have 
removed Rincewind’s head, and flapped ponderously back to the tree. 



“Talk!” screamed Rincewind. 


KIsdra squinted at him up the length of the sword. 

“What would you like me to say?” he asked. 

“What?” 

“I said what would you like me to say? 

“Where are my friends? The barbarian and the little man is what I mean!” 

“I expect they have been taken back to the Wyrmberg.” 

Rincewind tugged desperately against the surge of the sword, trying to shut 
his mind to Kring’s bloodthirsty humming. 

“What’s a Wyrmberg?” he said. 

“The Wyrmberg. There is only one. It is Dragonhome.” 

“And I suppose you were waiting to take me there, eh?” 

K!sdra yelped involuntarily as the tip of the sword pricked a bead of blood 
from his Adam’s apple. 

“Don’t want people to know you’ve got dragons here, eh?” snarled 
Rincewind. The dragonrider forgot himself enough to nod, and came within a 
quarter-inch of cutting his own throat. 

Rincewind looked around desperately, and realized that this was something 
he was really going to have to go through with. 

“Right then,” he said as diffidently as he could manage. “You’d better take 
me to this Wyrmberg of yours, hadn’t you?” 

“I was supposed to take you in dead,” muttered KJsdra sullenly. 

Rincewind looked down at him and grinned slowly. It was a wide, manic and 
utterly humorless rictus. It was the sort of grin that is normally accompanied by 
small riverside birds wandering in and out, picking scraps out of the teeth. 



“Alive will do,” said Rincewind. “If we’re talking about anyone being dead, 
remember whose sword is in which hand.” 

“If you kill me nothing will prevent Psepha killing you!” shouted the prone 
dragonrider. 

“So what I’ll do is, I’ll chop bits off,” agreed the wizard. He tried the effect 
of the grin again. 

“Oh, all right,” said K!sdra sulkily. “Do you think I’ve got no imagination?” 

He wriggled out from under the sword and waved at the dragon, which took 
wing again and glided in toward them. Rincewind swallowed. 

“You mean we’ve got to go on that?” he said. KIsdra looked at him 
scornfully, the point of Kring still aimed at his neck. 

“How else would anyone get to the Wyrmberg?” 

“I don’t know,” said Rincewind. “How else?” 

“I mean, there is no other way. It’s flying or nothing.” 

Rincewind looked again at the dragon before him. He could quite clearly see 
through it to the crushed grass on which it lay but, when he gingerly touched a 
scale that was a mere golden sheen on thin air, it felt solid enough. Either 
dragons should exist completely or fail to exist at all, he felt. A dragon only half- 
existing was worse than the extremes. 

“I didn’t know dragons could be seen through,” he said. 

KIsdra shrugged. “Didn’t you?” he said. 

He swung himself astride the dragon awkwardly, because Rincewind was 
hanging on to his belt. Once uncomfortably aboard the wizard moved his white- 
knuckle grip to a convenient piece of harness and prodded KIsdra lightly with 
the sword. 

“Have you ever flown before?” said the dragonrider, without looking 
around. 



“Not as such, no.” 

“Would you like something to suck?” 

Rincewind gazed at the back of the man’s head, then dropped to the bag of 
red and yellow sweets that was being proffered. 

“Is it necessary?” he asked. 

“It is traditional,” said K!sdra. “Please yourself.” 

The dragon stood up, lumbered heavily across the meadow, and fluttered 
into the air. 

Rincewind occasionally had nightmares about teetering on some intangible 
but enormously high place, and seeing a blue-distanced, cloud-punctuated 
landscape reeling away below him (this usually woke him up with his ankles 
sweating; he would have been even more worried had he known that the 
nightmare was not, as he thought, just the usual Discworld vertigo. It was a 
backward memory of an event in his future so terrifying that it had generated 
harmonics of fear all the way along his lifeline). 

This was not that event, but it was good practice for it. 

Psepha clawed its way into the air with a series of vertebrae-shattering 
bounds. At the top of its last leap the wide wings unfolded with a snap and 
spread out with a thump which shook the trees. 

Then the ground was gone, dropping away in a series of gentle jerks. Psepha 
was suddenly rising gracefully, the afternoon sunlight gleaming off wings that 
were still no more than a golden film. Rincewind made the mistake of glancing 
downward, and found himself looking through the dragon to the treetops below. 
Far below. His stomach shrank at the sight. 

Closing his eyes wasn’t much better, because it gave his imagination full 
rein. He compromised by gazing fixedly into the middle distance, where 
moorland and forest drifted by and could be contemplated almost casually. 


Wind snatched at him. K!sdra half turned and shouted into his ear. 



“Behold the Wyrmberg!” 


Rincewind turned his head slowly, taking care to keep Kring resting lightly 
on the dragon’s back. His streaming eyes saw the impossibly inverted mountain 
rearing out of the deep forested valley like a trumpet in a tub of moss. Even at 
this distance he could make out the faint octarine glow in the air that must be 
indicating a stable magic aura of at least—he gasped—several milliPrime? At 
least! 

“Oh no,” he said. 

Even looking at the ground was better than that. He averted his eyes quickly, 
and realized that he could now no longer see the ground through the dragon. As 
they glided around in a wide circle toward the Wyrmberg it was definitely taking 
on a more solid form, as if the creature’s body was filling with a gold mist. By 
the time the Wyrmberg was in front of them, swinging wildly across the sky, the 
dragon was as real as a rock. 

Rincewind thought he could see a faint streak in the air, as if something from 
the mountain had reached out and touched the beast. He got the strange feeling 
that the dragon was being made more genuine. 

Ahead of it the Wyrmberg turned from a distant toy to several billion tons of 
rock poised between heaven and earth. He could see small fields, woods and a 
lake up there, and from the lake a river spilled out and over the edge... 

He made the mistake of following the thread of foaming water with his eyes, 
and jerked himself back just in time. 

The flared plateau of the upturned mountain drifted toward them. The 
dragon didn’t even slow. 

As the mountain loomed over Rincewind like the biggest fly-swatter in the 
universe he saw a cave mouth. Psepha skimmed toward it, shoulder muscles 
pumping. 

The wizard screamed as the dark spread and enfolded him. There was a brief 
vision of rock flashing past, blurred by speed. Then the dragon was in the open 
again. 



It was inside a cave, but bigger than any cave had a right to be. The dragon, 
gliding across its vast emptiness, was a mere gilded fly in a banqueting hall. 

There were other dragons—gold, silver, black, white—flapping across the 
sun-shafted air on errands of their own or perched on outcrops of rock. High in 
the domed roof of the cavern scores of others hung from huge rings, their wings 
wrapped batlike around their bodies. There were men up there, too. Rincewind 
swallowed hard when he saw them, because they were walking on that broad 
expanse of ceiling like flies. 

Then he made out the thousands of tiny rings that studded the ceiling. A 
number of inverted men were watching Psepha’s flight with interest. Rincewind 
swallowed again. For the life of him he couldn’t think of what to do next. 

“Well?” he asked, in a whisper. “Any suggestions?” 

“Obviously you attack,” said Kring scornfully. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?” said Rincewind. “Could it be because they all 
have crossbows?” 

“You’re a defeatist.” 

“Defeatist! That’s because I’m going to be defeated!” 

“You’re your own worst enemy, Rincewind,” said the sword. 

Rincewind looked up at grinning men. 

“Bet?” he said wearily. 

Before Kring could reply Psepha reared in midair and alighted on one of the 
large rings, which rocked alarmingly. 

“Would you like to die now, or surrender first?” asked K!sdra calmly. 

Men were converging on the ring from all directions, walking with a 
swaying motion as their hooked boots engaged the ceiling rings. 


There were more boots on a rack that hung in a small platform built on the 



side of the perch-ring. Before Rincewind could stop him the dragonrider had 
leapt from the creature’s back to land on the platform, where he stood grinning at 
the wizard’s discomforture. 

There was a small expressive sound made by a number of crossbows being 
cocked. Rincewind looked up at a number of impassive, upside down faces. The 
dragonfolk’s taste in clothing didn’t run to anything much more imaginative than 
a leather harness, studded with bronze ornaments. Knives and sword sheaths 
were worn inverted. Those who were not wearing helmets let their hair flow 
freely, so that it moved like seaweed in the ventilation breeze near the roof. 

There were several women among them. The inversion did strange things to 
their anatomy. Rincewind stared. 

“Surrender,” said KIsdra again. 

Rincewind opened his mouth to do so. Kring hummed a warning, and 
agonizing waves of pain shot up his arm. “Never,” he squeaked. The pain 
stopped. 

“Of course he won’t!” boomed an expansive voice behind him. “He’s a hero, 
isn’t he?” 

Rincewind turned and looked into a pair of hairy nostrils. They belonged to a 
heavily built young man, hanging nonchalantly from the ceiling by his boots. 

“What is your name, hero?” said the man. “So that we know who you were.” 

Agony shot up Rincewind’s arm. “I—I’m Rincewind of Ankh,” he managed 
to gasp. 

“And I am Lio!rt Dragonlord,” said the hanging man, pronouncing the word 
with the harsh click in the back of the throat that Rincewind could only think of 
as a kind of integral punctuation. “You have come to challenge me in mortal 
combat.” 

“Well, no, I didn’t—” 

“You are mistaken. KIsdra, help our hero into a pair of hookboots. I am sure 
he is anxious to get started.” 



“No, look, I just came here to find my friends. I’m sure there’s no—” 
Rincewind began, as the dragonrider guided him firmly onto the platform, 
pushed him onto a seat, and proceeded to strap hookboots to his feet. 

“Hurry up, KIsdra. We mustn’t keep our hero from his destiny,” said Lio!rt. 

“Look, I expect my friends are happy enough here, so if you could just, you 
know, set me down somewhere—” 

“You will see your friends soon enough,” said the dragonlord airily. “If you 
are religious, I mean. None who enter the Wyrmberg ever leave again. Except 
metaphorically, of course. Show him how to reach the rings, KIsdra.” 

“Look what you’ve got me into!” Rincewind hissed. 

Kring vibrated in his hand. “Remember that I am a magic sword,” it 
hummed. 

“How can I forget?” 

“Climb the ladder and grab a ring,” said the dragonrider, “then bring your 
feet up until the hooks catch.” He helped the protesting wizard climb until he 
was hanging upside down, robe tucked into his britches, Kring dangling from 
one hand. At this angle the dragonfolk looked reasonably bearable but the 
dragons themselves, hanging from their perches, loomed over the scene like 
immense gargoyles. Their eyes glowed with interest. 

“Attention, please,” said Liolrt. A dragonrider handed him a long shape, 
wrapped in red silk. 

“We fight to the death,” he said. “Yours.” 

“And I suppose I earn my freedom if I win?” said Rincewind, without much 
hope. 

Liolrt indicated the assembled dragonriders with a tilt of his head. 

“Don’t be naive,” he said. 


Rincewind took a deep breath. “I suppose I should warn you,” he said, his 



voice hardly quavering at all, “that this is a magic sword.” 


Lio!rt let the red silk wrapping drop away into the gloom and flourished a 
jet-black blade. Runes glowed on its surface. 

“What a coincidence,” he said, and lunged. 

Rincewind went rigid with fright, but his arm swung out as Kring shot 
forward. The swords met in an explosion of octarine light. 

Lio!rt swung himself backward, his eyes narrowing. Kring leapt past his 
guard and, although the dragonlord’s sword jerked up to deflect most of the 
force, the result was a thin red line across its master’s torso. 

With a growl he launched himself at the wizard, boots clattering as he slid 
from ring to ring. The swords met again in another violent discharge of magic 
and, at the same time, Liolrt brought his other hand down against Rincewind’s 
head, jarring him so hard that one foot jerked out of its ring and flailed 
desperately. 


Rincewind knew himself to be almost certainly the worst wizard on the 
Discworld since he knew but one spell; yet for all that he was still a wizard, and 
thus by the inexorable laws of magic this meant that upon his demise it would be 
Death himself who appeared to claim him (instead of sending one of his 
numerous servants, as is usually the case). 

Thus it was that, as a grinning Lio!rt swung back and brought his sword 
around in a lazy arc, time ran into treacle. 

To Rincewind’s eyes the world was suddenly lit by a flickering octarine 
light, tinged with violet as photons impacted on the sudden magical aura. Inside 
it the dragonlord was a ghastly-hued statue, his sword moving at a snail’s pace in 
the glow. 

Beside Liolrt was another figure, visible only to those who can see into the 
extra four dimensions of magic. It was tall and dark and thin and, against a 
sudden night of frosty stars, it swung two-handed a scythe of proverbial 
sharpness... 



Rincewind ducked. The blade hissed coldly through the air beside his head 
and entered the rock of the cavern roof without slowing. Death screamed a curse 
in his cold crypt voice. The scene vanished. What passed for reality on the 
Discworld reasserted itself with a rush of sound. Liolrt gasped at the sudden turn 
of speed with which the wizard had dodged his killing stroke and, with that 
desperation only available to the really terrified, Rincewind uncoiled like a snake 
and launched himself across the space between them. He locked both hands 
around the dragonlord’s sword arm, and wrenched. 

It was at that moment that Rincewind’s one remaining ring, already 
overburdened, slid out of the rock with a nasty little metal sound. 

He plunged down, swung wildly, and ended up dangling over a bone- 
splintering death with his hands gripping the dragonlord’s arm so tightly that the 
man screamed. 

Lio!rt looked up at his feet. Small flakes of rock were dropping out of the 
roof around the ring pitons. 

“Let go, damn you!” he screamed. “Or we’ll both die!” 

Rincewind said nothing. He was concentrating on maintaining his grip and 
keeping his mind closed to the pressing images of his fate on the rocks below. 

“Shoot him!” bellowed Lio!rt. 

Out of the corner of his eye Rincewind saw several crossbows leveled at 
him. Lio!rt chose that moment to flail down with his free hand, and a fistful of 
rings stabbed into the wizard’s fingers. 

He let go. 


Twoflower grabbed the bars and pulled himself up. 

“See anything?” said Hrun, from the region of his feet. 
“Just clouds.” 


Hrun lifted him down again, and sat on the edge of one of the wooden beds 



that were the only furnishings in the cell. “Bloody hell,” he said. 


“Don’t despair,” said Twoflower. 

“I’m not despairing.” 

“I expect it’s all some sort of misunderstanding. I expect they’ll release us 
soon. They seem very civilized.” 

Hrun stared at him from under bushy eyebrows. He started to say something, 
then appeared to think better of it. He sighed instead. 

“And when we get back we can say we’ve seen dragons!” Twoflower 
continued. “What about that, eh?” 

“Dragons don’t exist,” said Hrun flatly. “Codice of Chimeria killed the last 
one two hundred years ago. I don’t know what we’re seeing, but they aren’t 
dragons.” 

“But they carried us up in the air! In that hall there must have been hundreds 

55 


“I expect it was just magic,” said Hrun, dismissively. 

“Well, they looked like dragons,” said Twoflower, an air of defiance about 
him. “I always wanted to see dragons, ever since I was a little lad. Dragons 
flying around in the sky, breathing flames...” 

“They just used to crawl around in swamps and stuff, and all they breathed 
was stink,” said Hrun, lying down in the bunk. “They weren’t very big, either. 
They used to collect firewood.” 

“I heard they used to collect treasure,” said Twoflower. 

“And firewood. Hey,” Hrun added, brightening up, “did you notice all those 
rooms they brought us through? Pretty impressive, I thought. Lot of good stuff 
about, plus some of those tapestries have got to be worth a fortune.” He 
scratched his chin thoughtfully, making a noise like a porcupine shouldering its 
way through gorse. 



“What happens next?” asked Twoflower. 

Hrun screwed a finger in his ear and inspected it absently. 

“Oh,” he said, “I expect in a minute the door will be flung back and I’ll be 
dragged off to some sort of temple arena where I’ll fight maybe a couple of giant 
spiders and an eight-foot slave from the jungles of Klatch and then I’ll rescue 
some kind of a princess from the altar and then kill off a few guards or whatever 
and then this girl will show me the secret passage out of the place and we’ll 
liberate a couple of horses and escape with the treasure.” Hrun leaned his head 
back on his hands and looked at the ceiling, whistling tunelessly. 

“All that?” said Twoflower. 

“Usually.” 

Twoflower sat down on his bunk and tried to think. This proved difficult, 
because his mind was awash with dragons. 

Dragons! 

Ever since he was two years old he had been captivated by the pictures of 
the fiery beasts in The Octarine Fairy Book. His sister had told him they didn’t 
really exist, and he recalled the bitter disappointment. If the world didn’t contain 
those beautiful creatures, he’d decided, it wasn’t half the world it ought to be. 
And then later he had been bound apprentice to Ninereeds the Masteraccount, 
who in his gray-mindedness was everything that dragons were not, and there was 
no time for dreaming. 

But there was something wrong with these dragons. They were too small and 
sleek, compared to the ones in his mind’s eye. Dragons ought to be big and green 
and clawed and exotic and firebreathing—big and green with long sharp... 

Something moved at the edge of his vision, in the furthest, darkest corner of 
the dungeon. When he turned his head it vanished, although he thought he heard 
the faintest of noises that might have been made by claws scrabbling on stone. 

“Hrun?” he said. 


There was a snore from the other bunk. 



Twoflower padded over to the corner, poking gingerly at the stones in case 
there was a secret panel. At that moment the door was flung back, thumping 
against the wall. Half a dozen guards hurtled through it, spread out and flung 
themselves down on one knee. Their weapons were aimed exclusively at Hrun. 
When he thought about this later, Twoflower felt quite offended. 

Hrun snored. 

A woman strode into the room. Not many women can stride convincingly, 
but she managed it. She glanced briefly at Twoflower, as one might look at a 
piece of furniture, then glared down at the man on the bed. 

She was wearing the same sort of leather harness that the dragonriders had 
been wearing, but in her case it was much briefer. That, and the magnificent 
mane of chestnut-red hair that fell to her waist, was her only concession to what 
even on the Discworld passed for decency. She was also wearing a thoughtful 
expression. 

Hrun made a glubbing noise, turned over, and slept on. 

With a careful movement, as though handling some instrument of rare 
delicacy, the woman drew a slim black dagger from her belt and stabbed 
downward. 

Before it was halfway through its arc Hrun’s right hand moved so fast that it 
appeared to travel between two points in space without at any time occupying 
the intervening air. It closed around the woman’s wrist with a dull smack. His 
other hand groped feverishly for a sword that wasn’t there... 

Hrun awoke. 

“Gngh?” he said, looking up at the woman with a puzzled frown. Then he 
caught sight of the bowmen. 

“Let go,” said the woman, in a voice that was calm and quiet and edged with 
diamonds. Hrun released his grip slowly. 

She stepped back, massaging her wrist and looking at Hrun in much the 
same way that a cat watches a mousehole. 



“So,” she said at last. “You pass the first test. What is your name, 
barbarian?” 

“Who are you calling a barbarian?” snarled Hrun. 

“That is what I want to know.” 

Hrun counted the bowmen slowly and made a brief calculation. His 
shoulders relaxed. 

“I am Hrun of Chimeria. And you?” 

“Liessa Dragonlady.” 

“You are the lord of this place?” 

“That remains to be seen. You have the look about you of a hired sword, 
Hrun of Chimeria. I could use you—if you pass the tests, of course. There are 
three of them. You have passed the first.” 

“What are the other—” Hrun paused, his lips moved soundlessly and then he 
hazarded, “two?” 

“Perilous.” 

“And the fee?” 

“Valuable.” 

“Excuse me,” said Twoflower. 

“And if I fail these tests?” said Hrun, ignoring him. The air between Hrun 
and Liessa crackled with small explosions of charisma as their gazes sought for a 
hold. 

“If you had failed the first test you would now be dead. This may be 
considered a typical penalty.” 

“Urn, look,” began Twoflower. Liessa spared him a brief glance, and 
appeared actually to notice him for the first time. 



“Take that away,” she said calmly, and turned back to Hrun. Two of the 
guards shouldered their bows, grasped Twoflower by the elbows and lifted him 
off the ground. Then they trotted smartly through the doorway. 

“Hey,” said Twoflower, as they hurried down the corridor outside, “where” 
(as they stopped in front of another door) “is my” (as they dragged the door 
open) “Luggage?” He landed in a heap of what might once have been straw. The 
door banged shut, its echoes punctuated by the sound of bolts being slammed 
home. 

In the other cell Hrun had barely blinked. 

“Okay,” he said, “what is the second test?” 

“You must kill my two brothers.” Hrun considered this. 

“Both at the same time, or one after the other?” he said. 

“Consecutively or concurrently,” she assured him. 

“What?” 

“Just kill them,” she said sharply. 

“Good fighters, are they?” 

“Renowned.” 

“So in return for all this...?” 

“You will wed me and become Lord of the Wyrmberg.” 

There was a long pause. Hrun’s eyebrows twisted themselves in 
unaccustomed calculation. 

“I get you and this mountain?” he said at last. 

“Yes.” She looked him squarely in the eye, and her lips twitched. “The fee is 
worthwhile, I assure you.” 

Hrun dropped his gaze to the rings on her hand. The stones were large, being 



the incredibly rare blue milk diamonds from the clay basins of Mithos. When he 
managed to turn his eyes from them he saw Liessa glaring down at him in fury. 


“So calculating?” she rasped. “Hrun the Barbarian, who would boldly walk 
into the jaws of Death Himself?” 

Hrun shrugged. “Sure,” he said, “the only reason for walking into the jaws of 
Death is so’s you can steal His gold teeth.” He brought one arm around 
expansively, and the wooden bunk was at the end of it. It cannoned into the 
bowmen and Hrun followed it joyously, felling one man with a blow and 
snatching the weapon from another. A moment later it was all over. 

Liessa had not moved. 

“Well?” she said. 

“Well what?” said Hrun, from the carnage. 

“Do you intend to kill me?” 

“What? Oh no. No, this is just, you know, kind of a habit. Just keeping in 
practice. So where are these brothers?” He grinned. 


Twoflower sat on his straw and stared into the darkness. He wondered how long 
he had been there. Hours, at least. Days, probably. He speculated that perhaps it 
had been years, and he had simply forgotten. 

No, that sort of thinking wouldn’t do. He tried to think of something else— 
grass, trees, fresh air, dragons. Dragons... 

There was the faintest of scrabblings in the darkness. Twoflower felt the 
sweat prickle on his forehead. 

Something was in the cell with him. Something that made small noises, but 
even in the pitch blackness gave the impression of hugeness. He felt the air 
move. 

When he lifted his arm there was the greasy feel and faint shower of sparks 
that betokened a localized magical field. Twoflower found himself fervently 



wishing for light. 


A gout of flame rolled past his head and struck the far wall. As the rocks 
flashed into furnace heat he looked up at the dragon that now occupied more 
than half the cell. 

I obey, lord said a voice in his head. 

By the glow of the crackling, spitting stone Twoflower looked into his own 
reflection in two enormous green eyes. Beyond them the dragon was as 
multihued, horned, spiked and lithe as the one in his memory—a real dragon. Its 
folded wings were nevertheless still wide enough to scrape the wall on both 
sides of the room. It lay with him between its talons. 

“Obey?” he said, his voice vibrating with terror and delight. 

Of course, lord. 

The glow faded away. Twoflower pointed a trembling finger at where he 
remembered the door to be and said, “Open it!” 

The dragon raised its huge head. Again the ball of flame rolled out but this 
time, as the dragon’s neck muscles contracted, its color faded from orange to 
yellow, from yellow to white, and finally to the faintest of blues. By that time the 
flame was also very thin, and where it touched the wall the molten rock spat and 
ran. When it reached the door the metal exploded into a shower of hot droplets. 

Black shadows arced and jigggered over the walls. The metal bubbled for an 
eye-aching moment, and then the door fell in two pieces in the passage beyond. 
The flame winked out with a suddenness that was almost as startling as its 
arrival. 

Twoflower stepped gingerly over the cooling door and looked up and down 
the corridor. It was empty. 

The dragon followed. The heavy door frame caused it some minor difficulty, 
which it overcame with a swing of its shoulders that tore the timber out and 
tossed it to one side. The creature looked expectantly at Twoflower, its skin 
rippling and twitching as it sought to open its wings in the confines of the 
passage. 



“How did you get in there?” said Twoflower. 

You summoned me, master. 

“I don’t remember doing that.” 

In your mind. You called me up, in your mind, thought the dragon, patiently. 

“You mean I just thought of you and there you were?” 

Yes. 

“It was magic?” 

Yes. 

“But I’ve thought about dragons all my life!” 

In this place the frontier between thought and reality is probably a little 
confused. All I know is that once I was not, and then you thought me, and then I 
was. Therefore, of course, I am yours to command. 

“Good grief!” 

Half a dozen guards chose that moment to turn the bend in the corridor. They 
stopped, open-mouthed. Then one remembered himself sufficiently to raise his 
crossbow and fire. 

The dragon’s chest heaved. The quarrel exploded into flaming fragments in 
midair. The guards scurried out of sight. A fraction of a second later a wash of 
flame played over the stones where they had been standing. 

Twoflower looked up in admiration. 

“Can you fly, too?” he said. 

Of course. 

Twoflower glanced up and down the corridor, and decided against following 
the guards. Since he knew himself to be totally lost already, any direction was 
probably an improvement. He edged past the dragon and hurried away, the huge 



beast turning with difficulty to follow him. 


They padded down a series of passages that crisscrossed like a maze. At one 
point Twoflower thought he heard shouts, a long way behind them, but they soon 
faded away. Sometimes the dark arch of a crumbling doorway loomed past them 
in the gloom. Light filtered through dimly from various shafts and, here and 
there, bounced off big mirrors that had been mortared into angles of the passage. 
Sometimes there was a brighter glow from a distant light-well. 

What was odd, thought Twoflower as he strolled down a wide flight of stairs 
and kicked up billowing clouds of silver dust motes, was that the tunnels here 
were much wider. And better constructed, too. There were statues in niches set in 
the walls, and here and there faded but interesting tapestries had been hung. 

They mainly showed dragons—dragons by the hundred, in flight or hanging 
from their perch rings, dragons with men on their backs hunting down deer and, 
sometimes, other men. Twoflower touched one tapestry gingerly. The fabric 
crumbled instantly in the hot dry air, leaving only a dangling mesh where some 
threads had been plaited with fine gold wire. 

“I wonder why they left all this?” he said. 

I don’t know said a polite voice in his head. 

He turned and looked up into the scaly horse face above him. 

“What is your name, dragon?” said Twoflower. 

I don’t know. 

“I think I shall call you Ninereeds.” 

That is my name, then. 

They waded through the all-encroaching dust in a series of huge, dark- 
pillared halls which had been carved out of the solid rock. With some cunning 
too; from floor to ceiling the walls were a mass of statues, gargoyles, bas-reliefs 
and fluted columns that cast weirdly-moving shadows when the dragon gave an 
obliging illumination at Twoflower’s request. They crossed the lengthy galleries 
and vast carven amphitheaters, all awash with deep soft dust and completely 
uninhabited. No one had come to these dead caverns in centuries. 



Then he saw the path, leading away into yet another dark tunnel mouth. 
Someone had been using it regularly, and recently. It was a deep narrow trail in 
the gray blanket. 

Twoflower followed it. It led through still more lofty halls and winding 
corridors quite big enough for a dragon (and dragons had come this way once, it 
seemed; there was a room full of rotting harness, dragon-sized, and another room 
containing plate and chain mail big enough for elephants). They ended in a pair 
of green bronze doors, each so high that they disappeared into the gloom. In 
front of Twoflower, at chest height, was a small handle shaped like a brass 
dragon. 

When he touched it the doors swung open instantly and with a disconcerting 
noiselessness. 

Instantly sparks crackled in Twoflower’s hair and there was a sudden gust of 
hot dry wind that didn’t disturb the dust in the way that ordinary wind should 
but, instead, whipped it up momentarily into unpleasantly half-living shapes 
before it settled again. In Twoflower’s ears came the strange shrill twittering of 
the Things locked in the distant dungeon Dimensions, out beyond the fragile 
lattice of time and space. Shadows appeared where there was nothing to cause 
them. The air buzzed like a hive. 

In short, there was a vast discharge of magic going on around him. 

The chamber beyond the door was lit by a pale green glow. Stacked around 
the walls, each on its own marble shelf, were tier upon tier of coffins. In the 
center of the room was a stone chair on a raised dais, and it contained a slumped 
figure which did not move but said, in a brittle old voice, “Come in, young 
man.” 

Twoflower stepped forward. The figure in the seat was human, as far as he 
could make out in the murky light, but there was something about the awkward 
way it was sprawled in the chair that made him glad he couldn’t see it any 
clearer. 

“I’m dead, you know,” came a voice from what Twoflower fervently hoped 
was a head, in conversational tones. “I expect you can tell.” 


“Urn,” said Twoflower. “Yes.” He began to back away. 



“Obvious, isn’t it?” agreed the voice. “You’d be Twoflower, wouldn’t you? 
Or is that later?” 

“Later?” said Twoflower. “Later than what?” He stopped. 

“Well,” said the voice. “You see, one of the advantages of being dead is that 
one is released as it were from the bonds of time and therefore I can see 
everything that has happened or will happen, all at the same time except that of 
course I now know that Time does not, for all practical purposes, exist.” 

“That doesn’t sound like a disadvantage,” said Twoflower. 

“You don’t think so? Imagine every moment being at one and the same time 
a distant memory and a nasty surprise and you’ll see what I mean. Anyway, I 
now recall what it was I am about to tell you. Or have I already done so? That’s 
a fine-looking dragon, by the way. Or don’t I say that yet?” 

“It is rather good. It just turned up,” said Twoflower. 

“It turned up?” said the voice. “You summoned it!” 

“Yes, well, all I did—” 

“You have the Power!” 

“All I did was think of it.” 

“That’s what the Power is! Have I already told you that I am Greicha the 
First? Or is that next? I’m sorry, but I haven’t had too much experience of 
transcendence. Anyway, yes—the Power. It summons dragons, you know.” 

“I think you already told me that,” said Twoflower. 

“Did I? I certainly intended to,” said the dead man. 

“But how does it? I’ve been thinking about dragons all my life, but this is the 
first time one has turned up.” 

“Oh well, you see, the truth of the matter is that dragons have never existed 
as you (and, until I was poisoned some three months ago, /) understand 



existence. I’m talking about the true dragon, draconis nobilis, you understand; 
the swamp dragon, draconis vulgaris, is a base creature and not worth our 
consideration. The true dragon, on the other hand, is a creature of such 
refinement of spirit that they can only take on form in this world if they are 
conceived by the most skilled imagination. And even then the said imagination 
must be in some place heavily impregnated with magic, which helps to weaken 
the walls between the world of the seen and unseen. Then the dragons pop 
through, as it were, and impress their form on this world’s possibility matrix. I 
was very good at it when I was alive. I could imagine up to, oh, five hundred 
dragons at a time. Now Liessa, the most skilled of my children, can barely 
imagine fifty rather nondescript creatures. So much for a progressive education. 
She doesn’t really believe in them. That’s why her dragons are rather boring— 
while yours,” said the voice of Greicha, “is almost as good as some of mine used 
to be. A sight for sore eyes, not that I have any to speak of now.” 

Twoflower said hurriedly, “You keep saying you’re dead...” 

“Well?” 

“Well, the dead, er, they, you know, don’t talk much. As a rule.” 

“I used to be an exceptionally powerful wizard. My daughter poisoned me, 
of course. It is the generally accepted method of succession in our family, but,” 
the corpse sighed, or at least a sigh came from the air a few feet above it, “it 
soon became obvious that none of my three children is sufficiently powerful to 
wrest the lordship of the Wyrmberg from the other two. A most unsatisfactory 
arrangement. A kingdom like ours has to have one ruler. So I resolved to remain 
alive in an unofficial capacity, which of course annoys them all immensely. I 
won’t give my children the satisfaction of burying me until there is only one of 
them left to perform the ceremony.” There was a nasty wheezing noise. 
Twoflower decided that it was meant to be a chuckle. 

“So it was one of them that kidnapped us?” said Twoflower. 

“Liessa,” said the dead wizard’s voice. “My daughter. Her power is 
strongest, you know. My sons’ dragons are incapable of flying more than a few 
miles before they fade.” 

“Fade? I did notice that we could see through the one that brought us here,” 
said Twoflower. “I thought that was a bit odd.” 



“Of course,” said Greicha. “The Power only works near the Wyrmberg. It’s 
the inverse square law, you know. At least, I think it is. As the dragons fly 
further away they begin to dwindle. Otherwise my little Liessa would be ruling 
the whole world by now, if I know anything about it. But I can see I mustn’t 
keep you. I expect you’ll be wanting to rescue your friend.” 

Twoflower gaped. “Hrun?” he said. 

“Not him. The skinny wizard. My son Lio!rt is trying to hack him to pieces. 

I admired the way you rescued him. Will, I mean.” 

Twoflower drew himself up to his full height, an easy task. “Where is he?” 
he said, heading toward the door with what he hoped was an heroic stride. 

“Just follow the pathway in the dust,” said the voice. “Liessa comes to see 
me sometimes. She still comes to see her old dad, my little girl. She was the only 
one with the strength of character to murder me. A chip off the old block. Good 
luck, by the way. I seem to recall I said that. Will say it now, I mean.” 

The rambling voice got lost in a maze of tenses as Twoflower ran along the 
dead tunnels, with the dragon loping along easily behind him. But soon he was 
leaning against a pillar, completely out of breath. It seemed ages since he’d had 
anything to eat. 

Why don’t you fly? said Ninereeds, inside his head. The dragon spread its 
wings and gave an experimental flap, which lifted it momentarily off the ground. 
Twoflower stared for a moment, then ran forward and clambered quickly onto 
the beast’s neck. Soon they were airborne, the dragon skimming along easily a 
few feet from the floor and leaving a billowing cloud of dust in its wake. 

Twoflower hung on as best he could as Ninereeds swooped through a 
succession of caverns and soared around a spiral staircase that could easily have 
accommodated a retreating army. At the top they emerged into the more 
inhabited regions, the mirrors at every corridor corner brightly polished and 
reflecting a pale light. 

I smell other dragons. 

The wings became a blur and Twoflower was jerked back as the dragon 
veered and sped off down a side corridor like a gnat-crazed swallow. Another 



sharp turn sent them soaring out of a tunnel mouth in the side of a vast cavern. 
There were rocks far below, and up above were broad shafts of light from great 
holes near the roof. A lot of activity on the ceiling, too.. .as Ninereeds hovered, 
thumping the air with his wings, Twoflower peered up at the shapes of roosting 
beasts and tiny men-shaped dots that were somehow walking upside down. 

This is a roosting hall said the dragon in a satisfied tone. 

As Twoflower watched, one of the shapes far above detached itself from the 
roof and began to grow larger... 


Rincewind watched as Lio!rt’s pale face dropped away from him. This is funny, 
gibbered a small part of his mind, why am I rising? 

Then he began to tumble in the air and reality took over. He was dropping to 
the distant, guano-speckled rocks. 

His brain reeled with the thought. The words of the Spell picked just that 
moment to surface from the depths of his mind, as they always did in time of 
crisis. Why not say us, they seemed to urge. What have you got to lose? 

Rincewind waved a hand in the gathering slipstream. 

“Ashonai,” he called. The word formed in front of him in a cold blue flame 
that streamed in the wind. 

He waved the other hand, drunk with terror and magic. 

“Ebiris,” he intoned. The sound froze into a flickering orange word that hung 
beside its companion. 

“Urshoring. Kvanti. Pythan. N’gurad. Feringomalee.” As the words blazed 
their rainbow colors around him he flung his hands back and prepared to say the 
eighth and final word that would appear in corruscating octarine and seal the 
spell. The imminent rocks were forgotten. 

“—” he began. 


The breath was knocked out of him, the spell scattered and snuffed out. A 



pair of arms locked around his waist and the whole world jerked sideways as the 
dragon rose out of its long dive, claws grazing just for a moment the topmost 
rock on the Wyrmberg’s noisome floor. Twoflower laughed triumphantly. 

“Got him!” 

And the dragon, curving gracefully at the top of his flight, gave a lazy flip of 
his wings and soared through a cavemouth into the morning air. 


At noon, in a wide green meadow on the lush tableland that was the top of the 
impossibly balanced Wyrmberg, the dragons and their riders formed a wide 
circle. There was room beyond them for a rabble of servants and slaves and 
others who scratched a living here on the roof of the world, and they were all 
watching the figures clustered in the center of the grassy arena. 

The group contained a number of senior dragonlords, and among them were 
Lio!rt and his brother Liartes. The former was still rubbing his legs, with small 
grimaces of pain. Slightly to one side stood Liessa and Hrun, with some of the 
woman’s own followers. Between the two factions stood the Wyrmberg’s 
hereditary Loremaster. 

“As you know,” he said uncertainly, “the not-fully-late Lord of the 
Wyrmberg, Greicha the First, has stipulated that there will be no succession until 
one of his children feels himself—or as it might be, herself—powerful enough to 
challenge and defeat his or her siblings in mortal combat.” 

“Yes, yes, we know all that. Get on with it,” said a thin peevish voice from 
the air beside him. 

The Loremaster swallowed. He had never come to terms with his former 
master’s failure to expire properly. Is the old buzzard dead or isn’t he? he 
wondered. 

“It is not certain,” he quavered, “whether it is allowable to issue a challenge 
by proxy—” 

“It is, it is,” snapped Greicha’s disembodied voice. “It shows intelligence. 
Don’t take all day about it.” 



“I challenge you,” said Hrun, glaring at the brothers, “both at once.” 

Lio!rt and Liartes exchanged looks. 

“You’ll fight us both together?” said Liartes, a tall, wiry man with long black 

hair. 


“Yah.” 

“That’s pretty uneven odds, isn’t it?” 

“Yah. I outnumber you one to two.” 

Lio!rt scowled. “You arrogant barbarian—” 

“That just about does it!” growled Hrun. “I’ll—” 

The Loremaster put out a blue-veined hand to restrain him. 

“It is forbidden to fight on the Killing Ground,” he said, and paused while he 
considered the sense of this. “You know what I mean, anyway,” he hazarded, 
giving up, and added “As the challenged parties my lords Lio!rt and Liartes have 
choice of weapons.” 

“Dragons,” they said together. Liessa snorted. 

“Dragons can be used offensively, therefore they are weapons,” said Lio!rt 
firmly. “If you disagree we can fight over it.” 

“Yah,” said his brother, nodding at Hrun. 

The Loremaster felt a ghostly finger prod him in the chest. 

“Don’t stand there with your mouth open,” said Greicha’s graveyard voice. 
“Just hurry up, will you?” 

Hrun stepped back, shaking his head. 

“Oh no,” he said. “Once was enough. I’d rather be dead than fight on one of 
those things.” 



“Die, then,” said the Loremaster, as kindly as he could manage. 


Liolrt and Liartes were already striding back across the turf to where the 
servants stood waiting with their mounts. Hrun turned to Liessa. She shrugged. 

“Don’t I even get a sword?” he pleaded. “A knife, even?” 

“No,” she said. “I didn’t expect this.” She suddenly looked smaller, all 
defiance gone. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” 

“Yes. I’m sorry.” 

“Yes, I thought you said you’re sorry.” 

“Don’t glare at me like that! I can imagine you the finest dragon to ride—” 

“No!” 

The Loremaster wiped his nose on a handkerchief, held the little silken 
square aloft for a moment, then let it fall. 

A boom of wings made Hrun spin around. Lio!rt’s dragon was already 
airborne and circling around toward them. As it swooped low over the turf a 
billow of flame shot from its mouth, scoring a black streak across the grass that 
mshed toward Hrun. 

At the last minute he pushed Liessa aside, and felt the wild pain of the flame 
on his arm as he dived for safety. He rolled as he hit the ground, and flipped onto 
his feet again while he looked around frantically for the other dragon. It came in 
from one side, and Hrun was forced to take a badly judged standing jump to 
escape the flame. The dragon’s tail whipped around as it passed and caught him 
a stinging blow across the forehead. He pushed himself upright, shaking his head 
to make the wheeling stars go away. His blistered back screamed pain at him. 

Lio!rt came in for a second run, but slower this time to allow for the big 
man’s unexpected agility. As the ground drifted up he saw the barbarian standing 
stock still, chest heaving, arms hanging loosely by his sides. An easy target. 



As his dragon swooped away Lio!rt turned his head, expecting to see a 
dreadfully big cinder. 

There was nothing there. Puzzled, Lio!rt turned back. 

Hrun, heaving himself over the dragon’s shoulder scales with one hand and 
beating out his flaming hair with the other, presented himself to his view. Lio!rt’s 
hand flew to his dagger, but pain had sharpened Hrun’s normally excellent 
reflexes to needle point. A backhand blow hammered into the dragonlord’s wrist, 
sending the dagger arcing away toward the ground, and another caught the man 
full on the chin. 

The dragon, carrying the weight of two men, was only a few yards above the 
grass. This turned out to be fortunate, because at the moment Lio!rt lost 
consciousness the dragon winked out of existence. 

Liessa hurried across the grass and helped Hrun stagger to his feet. He 
blinked at her. 

“What happened? What happened?” he said thickly. 

“That was really fantastic!” she said. “The way you turned that somersault in 
midair and everything!” 

“Yah, but what happened ?” 

“It’s rather difficult to explain—” 

Hrun peered up at the sky. Liartes, by far the most cautious of the two 
brothers, was circling high above them. 

“Well, you’ve got about ten seconds to try,” he said. 

“The dragons—” 

“Yah?” 

“They’re imaginary.” 


“Like all these imaginary burns on my arm, you mean?” 



“Yes. No!” she shook her head violently. “I’ll have to tell you later!” 


“Fine, if you can find a really good medium,” snapped Hrun. He glared up at 
Liartes, who was beginning to descend in wide sweeps. 

“Just listen, will you? Unless my brother is conscious his dragon can’t exist, 
it’s got no pathway through to this—” 

“Run!” shouted Hrun. He threw her away from him and flung himself flat on 
the ground as Liartes’s dragon thundered by, leaving another smoking scar 
across the turf. 

While the creature sought height for another sweep Hrun scrambled to his 
feet and set off at a dead run for the woods at the edge of the arena. They were 
sparse, little more than a wide and overgrown hedge, but at least no dragon 
would be able to fly through them. 

It didn’t try. Liartes brought his mount in to land on the turf a few yards 
away and dismounted casually. The dragon folded its wings and poked its head 
in among the greenery, while its master leaned against a tree and whistled 
tunelessly. 

“I can burn you out,” said Liartes, after a while. 

The bushes remained motionless. 

“Perhaps you’re in that holly bush over there?” 

The holly bush became a waxy ball of flame. 

“I’m sure I can see movement in those ferns.” 

The ferns became mere skeletons of white ash. 

“You’re only prolonging it, barbarian. Why not give in now? I’ve burned 
lots of people; it doesn’t hurt a bit,” said Liartes, looking sideways at the bushes. 

The dragon continued through the spinney, incinerating every likely looking 
bush and clump of ferns. Liartes drew his sword and waited. 



Hrun dropped from a tree and landed running. Behind him the dragon roared 
and crashed through the bushes as it tried to turn around, but Hrun was running, 
running, with his gaze fixed on Liartes and a dead branch in his hands. 

It is a little known but true fact that a two legged creature can usually beat a 
four legged creature over a short distance, simply because of the time it takes the 
quadruped to get its legs sorted out. Hrun heard the scrabble of claws behind him 
and then an ominous thump. The dragon had half-opened its wings and was 
trying to fly. 

As Hrun bore down on the dragonlord Liartes’s sword came up wickedly, to 
be caught on the branch. Then Hrun cannoned into him and the two men 
sprawled on the ground. 

The dragon roared. 

Liartes screamed as Hrun brought a knee upward with anatomical precision, 
but managed a wild blow that rebroke the barbarian’s nose for him. 

Hrun kicked away and scrambled to his feet, to find himself looking up into 
the wild horse-face of the dragon, its nostrils distended. 

He lashed out with a foot and caught Liartes, who was trying to stand up, on 
the side of his head. The man slumped. 

The dragon vanished. The ball of fire that was billowing toward Hrun faded 
until, when it reached him, it was no more than a puff of warm air. Then there 
was no sound but the crackle of burning bushes. 

Hrun slung the unconscious dragonlord over his shoulder and set off at a trot 
back to the arena. Halfway there he found Lio!rt sprawled on the ground, one leg 
bent awkwardly. He stooped and, with a grunt, hoisted the man onto his vacant 
shoulder. 

Liessa and the Loremaster were waiting on a raised dais at one end of the 
meadow. The dragonwoman had quite recovered her composure now, and looked 
levelly at Hrun as he threw the two men down on the steps before her. The 
people around her were standing in deferential poses, like a court. 


“Kill them,” she said. 



“I kill in my own time,” he said. “In any case, killing unconscious people 
isn’t right.” 

“I can’t think of a more opportune time,” said the Loremaster. Liessa 
snorted. 

“Then I shall banish them,” she said. “Once they are beyond the reach of the 
Wyrmberg’s magic then they’ll have no Power. They’ll be simply brigands. Will 
that satisfy you?” 

“Yes.” 

“I am surprised that you are so merciful, ba—Hrun.” 

Hrun shrugged. “A man in my position, he can’t afford to be anything else, 
he’s got to consider his image.” He looked around. “Where’s the next test, then?” 

“I warn you that it is perilous. If you wish, you may leave now. If you pass 
the test, however, you will become Lord of the Wyrmberg and, of course, my 
lawful husband.” 

Hrun met her gaze. He thought about his life, to date. It suddenly seemed to 
him to have been full of long damp nights sleeping under the stars, desperate 
fights with trolls, city guards, countless bandits and evil priests and, on at least 
three occasions, actual demigods—and for what? Well, for quite a lot of treasure, 
he had to admit—but where had it all gone? Rescuing beleaguered maidens had 
a certain passing reward, but most of the time he’d finished up by setting them 
up in some city somewhere with a handsome dowry, because after a while even 
the most agreeable ex-maiden became possessive and had scant sympathy for his 
efforts to rescue her sister sufferers. In short, life had really left him with little 
more than a reputation and a network of scars. Being a lord might be fun. Hrun 
grinned. With a base like this, all these dragons and a good bunch of fighting 
men, a man could really be a contender. 

Besides, the wench was not uncomely. 

“The third test?” she said. 

“Am I to be weaponless again?” said Hrun. 



Liessa reached up and removed her helmet, letting the coils of red hair 
tumble out. Then she unfastened the brooch of her robe. Underneath, she was 
naked. 

As Hrun’s gaze swept over her his mind began to operate two notional 
counting machines. One assessed the gold in her bangles, the tiger-rubies that 
ornamented her toe-rings, the diamond spangle that adorned her navel, and two 
highly individual whirligigs of silver filigree. The other was plugged straight 
into his libido. Both produced tallies that pleased him mightily. 

As she raised a hand and proffered a glass of wine she smiled, and said, “I 
think not.” 


“He didn’t attempt to rescue you,” Rincewind pointed out as a last resort. 

He clung desperately to Twoflower’s waist as the dragon circled slowly, 
tilting the world at a dangerous angle. The new knowledge that the scaly back he 
was astride only existed as a sort of three-dimensional daydream did not, he had 
soon realized, do anything at all for his ankle-wrenching sensations of vertigo. 
His mind kept straying toward the possible results of Twoflower losing his 
concentration. 

“Not even Hrun could have prevailed against those crossbows,” said 
Twoflower stoutly. 

As the dragon rose higher above the patch of woodland, where the three of 
them had slept a damp and uneasy sleep, the sun rose over the edge of the Disc. 
Instantly the gloomy blues and grays of pre-dawn were transformed into a bright 
bronze river that flowed across the world, flaring into gold where it struck ice or 
water or a light-dam. (Owing to the density of the magical field surrounding the 
Disc, light itself moved at subsonic speeds; this interesting property was well 
utilized by the Sorca people of the Great Nef, for example, who over the 
centuries had constructed intricate and delicate dams, and valleys walled with 
polished silica, to catch the slow sunlight and sort of store it. The scintillating 
reservoirs of the Nef, overflowing after several weeks of uninterrupted sunlight, 
were a truly magnificent sight from the air and it is therefore unfortunate that 
Twoflower and Rincewind did not happen to glance in that direction.) 



In front of them the billion-ton impossibility that was the magic-wrought 
Wyrmberg hung against the sky and that was not too bad, until Rincewind turned 
his head and saw the mountain’s shadow slowly unroll itself across the 
cloudscape of the world... 

“What can you see?” said Twoflower to the dragon. 

I see fighting on the top of the mountain came the gentle reply. 

“See?” said Twoflower. “Hrun’s probably fighting for his life at this very 
moment.” 

Rincewind was silent. After a moment Twoflower looked around. The 
wizard was staring intently at nothing at all, his lips moving soundlessly. 

“Rincewind?” 

The wizard made a small croaking noise. 

“I’m sorry,” said Twoflower. “What did you say?” 

“.. .all the way.. .the great fall...” muttered Rincewind. His eyes focused, 
looked puzzled for a moment, then widened in terror. He made the mistake of 
looking down. 

“Aargh,” he opined, and began to slide. Twoflower grabbed him. 

“What’s the matter?” 

Rincewind tried shutting his eyes, but there were no eyelids to his 
imagination and it was staring widely. 

“Don’t you get scared of heights?” he managed to say. 

Twoflower looked down at the tiny landscape, mottled with cloud shadows. 
The thought of fear hadn’t actually occurred to him. 

“No,” he said. “Why should I? You’re just as dead if you fall from forty feet 
as you are from four thousand fathoms, that’s what I say.” 


Rincewind tried to consider this dispassionately, but couldn’t see the logic of 



it. It wasn’t the actual falling, it was the hitting he... 

Twoflower grabbed him quickly. 

“Steady on,” he said cheerfully. “We’re nearly there.” 

“I wish I was back in the city,” moaned Rincewind. “I wish I was back on 
the ground!” 

“I wonder if dragons can fly all the way to the stars?” mused Twoflower. 
“Now that would be something...” 

“You’re mad,” said Rincewind flatly. There was no reply from the tourist, 
and when the wizard craned around he was horrified to see Twoflower looking 
up at the paling stars with an odd smile on his face. 

“Don’t you even think about it,” added Rincewind, menacingly. 

The man you seek is talking to the dragonwoman said the dragon. 

“Hmm?” said Twoflower, still looking at the paling stars. 

“What?” said Rincewind urgently. 

“Oh yes. Hrun.” said Twoflower. “I hope we’re in time. Dive now! Go low!” 

Rincewind opened his eyes as the wind increased to a whistling gale. 

Perhaps they were blown open—the wind certainly made them impossible to 
shut. 

The flat summit of the Wyrmberg rose up at them, lurched alarmingly, then 
somersaulted into a green blur that flashed by on either side. Tiny woods and 
fields blurred into a rushing patchwork. A brief silvery flash in the landscape 
may have been the little river that overflowed into the air at the plateau’s rim. 
Rincewind tried to force the memory out of his mind, but it was rather enjoying 
itself there, terrorizing the other occupants and kicking over the furniture. 


“I think not,” said Liessa. 



Hrun took the wine cup, slowly. He grinned like a pumpkin. 


Around the arena the dragons started to bay. Their riders looked up. And 
something like a green blur flashed across the arena, and Hrun had gone. 

The winecup hung momentarily in the air, then crashed down on the steps. 
Only then did a single drop spill. 

This was because, in the instant of enfolding Hrun gently in his claws, 
Ninereeds the dragon had momentarily synchronized their bodily rhythms. Since 
the dimension of the imagination is much more complex than those of time and 
space, which are very junior dimensions indeed, the effect of this was to 
instantly transform a stationary and priapic Hrun into a Hrun moving sideways at 
eighty miles an hour with no ill effects whatsoever, except for a few wasted 
mouthfuls of wine. Another effect was to cause Liessa to scream with rage and 
summon her dragon. As the gold beast materialized in front of her she leapt 
astride it, still naked, and snatched a crossbow from one of the guards. Then she 
was airborne, while the other dragonriders swarmed toward their own beasts. 

The Loremaster, watching from the pillar he had prudently slid behind in the 
mad scramble, happened at that moment to catch the cross-dimensional echoes 
of a theory being at the same instant hatched in the mind of an early psychiatrist 
in an adjacent universe, possibly because the dimension-leak was flowing both 
ways, and for a moment the psychiatrist saw the girl on the dragon. The 
Loremaster smiled. 

“Want to bet that she won’t catch him?” said Greicha, in a voice of worms 
and sepulchers, right by his ear. 

The Loremaster shut his eyes and swallowed hard. 

“I thought that my Lord would now be residing fully in the Dread Land,” he 
managed. 

“I am a wizard,” said Greicha. “Death Himself must claim a wizard. And, 
aha, He doesn’t appear to be in the neighborhood...” 

Shall we go? asked Death. 

He was on a white horse, a horse of flesh and blood but red of eye and fiery 



of nostril, and He stretched out a bony hand and took Greicha’s soul out of the 
air and rolled it up until it was a point of painful light, and then He swallowed it. 


Then He clapped spurs to his steed and it sprang into the air, sparks 
corruscating from its hooves. 

“Lord Greicha!” whispered the old Loremaster, as the universe flickered 
around him. 

“That was a mean trick,” came the wizard’s voice, a mere speck of sound 
disappearing into the infinite black dimensions. 

“My Lord.. .what is Death like?” called the old man tremulously. 

“When I have investigated it fully, I will let you know,” came the faintest of 
modulations on the breeze. 

“Yes,” murmured the Loremaster. A thought struck him. “During daylight, 
please,” he added. 


“You clowns,” screamed Hrun, from his perch on Ninereeds’s foreclaws. 

“What did he say?” roared Rincewind, as the dragon ripped its way through 
the air in the race for the heights. 

“Didn’t hear!” bellowed Twoflower, his voice torn away by the gale. As the 
dragon banked slightly he looked down at the little toy spinning top that was the 
mighty Wyrmberg and saw the swarm of creatures rising in pursuit. Ninereed’s 
wings pounded and flicked the air away contemptuously. Thinner air, too. 
Twoflower’s ear popped for the third time. 

Ahead of the swarm, he noticed, was a golden dragon. Someone on it, too. 

“Hey, are you all right?” said Rincewind urgently. He had to drink in several 
lungfuls of the strangely distilled air in order to get the words out. 

“I could have been a lord, and you clowns had to go and—” Hrun gasped, as 
the chill thin air drew the life even out of his mighty chest. 



“Wass happnin to the air?” muttered Rincewind. Blue lights appeared in 
front of his eyes. 

“Unk,” said Twoflower, and passed out. 

The dragon vanished. 

For a few seconds the three men continued upward, Twoflower and the 
wizard presenting an odd picture as they sat one in front of the other with their 
legs astride something that wasn’t there. Then what passed for gravity on the 
Disc recovered from the surprise, and claimed them. 

At that moment Liessa’s dragon flashed by, and Hrun landed heavily across 
its neck. Liessa leaned over and kissed him. 

This detail was lost to Rincewind as he dropped away, with his arms still 
clasped around Twoflower’s waist. The Disc was a little round map pinned 
against the sky. It didn’t appear to be moving, but Rincewind knew that it was. 
The whole world was coming toward him like a giant custard pie. 

“Wake up!” he shouted, above the roar of the wind. “Dragons! Think of 
dragons!” 

There was a flurry of wings as they plummeted through the host of pursuing 
creatures, which fell away and up. Dragons screamed and wheeled across the 
sky. 


No answer came from Twoflower. Rincewind’s robe whipped around him, 
but he did not wake. 

Dragons, thought Rincewind in a panic. He tried to concentrate his mind, 
tried to envisage a really lifelike dragon. If he can do it, he thought, then so can 
I. But nothing happened. 

The Disc was bigger now, a cloud-swirled circle rising gently underneath 
them. 

Rincewind tried again, screwing up his eyes and straining every nerve in his 
body. A dragon. His imagination, a somewhat battered and overused organ, 
reached out for a dragon.. .any dragon. 



It won’t work, laughed a voice like the dull toning of a funeral bell, you 
don’t believe in them. 

Rincewind looked at the terrible mounted apparition grinning at him, and his 
mind bolted in terror. 

There was a brilliant flash. 

There was utter darkness. 

There was a soft floor under Rincewind’s feet, a pink light around him, and 
the sudden shocked cries of many people. 

He looked around wildly. He was standing in some kind of tunnel, which 
was mostly filled with seats in which out-landishly dressed people had been 
strapped. They were all shouting at him. 

“Wake up!” he hissed. “Help me!” 

Dragging the still-unconscious tourist with him he backed away from the 
mob until his free hand found an oddly shaped door handle. He twisted it and 
ducked through, then slammed it hard. 

He stared around the new room in which he found himself and met the 
terrified gaze of a young woman who dropped the tray she was holding and 
screamed. 

It sounded like the sort of scream that brings muscular help. Rincewind, 
awash with fear-distilled adrenaline, turned and barged past her. There were 
more seats here, and the people in them ducked as he dragged Twoflower 
urgently along the central gangway. Beyond the rows of seats were little 
windows. Beyond the windows, against a background of fleecy clouds, was a 
dragon’s wing. It was silver. 

I’ve been eaten by a dragon, he thought. That’s ridiculous, he replied, you 
can’t see out of dragons. Then his shoulder hit the door at the far end of the 
tunnel, and he followed it through into a cone-shaped room that was even 
stranger than the tunnel. 


It was full of tiny glittering lights. Among the lights, in contoured chairs, 



were four men who were now staring at him open-mouthed. As he stared back 
he saw their gazes dart sideways. 


Rincewind turned slowly. Beside him was a fifth man—youngish, bearded, 
as swarthy as the nomad folk of the Great Nef. 

“Where am I?” said the wizard. “In the belly of a dragon?” 

The young man crouched back and shoved a small black box in the wizard’s 
face. The men in the chairs ducked down. 

“What is it?” said Rincewind. “A picture box?” He reached out and took it, a 
movement which appeared to surprise the swarthy man, who shouted and tried to 
snatch it back. There was another shout, this time from one of the men in the 
chairs. Only now he wasn’t sitting. He was standing up, pointing something 
small and metallic at the young man. 

It had an amazing effect. The man crouched back with his hands in the air. 

“Please give me the bomb, sir,” said the man with the metallic thing. 
“Carefully, please.” 

“This thing?” said Rincewind. “You have it! I don’t want it!” The man took 
it very carefully and put it on the floor. The seated men relaxed, and one of them 
started speaking urgently to the wall. The wizard watched him in amazement. 

“Don’t move!” snapped the man with the metal—an amulet, Rincewind 
decided, it must be an amulet. The swarthy man backed into the corner. 

“That was a very brave thing you did,” said Amuletholder to Rincewind. 
“You know that?” 

“What?” 

“What’s the matter with your friend.” 

“Friend?” 

Rincewind looked down at Twoflower, who was still slumbering peacefully. 
That was no surprise. What was really surprising was that Twoflower was 



wearing new clothes. Strange clothes. His britches now ended just above his 
knees. Above that he wore some sort of vest of brightly-striped material. On his 
head was a ridiculous little straw hat. With a feather in it. 

An awkward feeling around the leg regions made Rincewind look down. His 
clothes had changed, too. Instead of the comfortable old robe, so marvelously 
well-adapted for speed into action in all possible contingencies, his legs were 
encased in cloth tubes. He was wearing a jacket of the same gray material... 

Until now he’d never heard the language the man with the amulet was using. 
It was uncouth and vaguely Hublandish—so why could he understand every 
word? 

Let’s see, they’d suddenly appeared in this dragon after, they’d materialized 
in this drag, they’d sudd, they’d, they’d— they had struck up a conversation in 
the airport so naturally they had chosen to sit together on the plane, and he’d 
promised to show Jack Zweiblumen around when they got back to the States. 

Yes, that was it. And then Jack had been taken ill and he’d panicked and come 
through here and surprised this hijacker. Of course. What on earth was 
“Hublandish?” 

Dr. Rjinswand rubbed his forehead. What he could do with was a drink. 


Ripples of paradox spread out across the sea of causality. 

Possibly the most important point that would have to be borne in mind by 
anyone outside the sum totality of the multiverse was that although the wizard 
and the tourist had indeed only recently appeared in an aircraft in midair, they 
had also at one and the same time been riding on that airplane in the normal 
course of things. That is to say: while it was true that they had just appeared in 
this particular set of dimensions, it was also true that they had been living in 
them all along. It is at this point that normal language gives up, and goes and has 
a drink. 

The point is that several quintillion atoms had just materialized (however, 
they had not. See below) in a universe where they should not strictly had been. 
The usual upshot of this sort of thing is a vast explosion but, since universes are 
fairly resilient things, this particular universe had saved itself by instantaneously 



unraveling its space-time continuum back to a point where the surplus atoms 
could safely be accommodated and then rapidly rewinding back to that circle of 
firelight which for want of a better term its inhabitants were wont to call The 
Present. This had of course changed history—there had been a few less wars, a 
few extra dinosaurs and so on—but on the whole the episode passed remarkably 
quietly. 

Outside of this particular universe, however, the repercussions of the sudden 
double-take bounced to and fro across the face of The Sum of Things, bending 
whole dimensions and sinking galaxies without a trace. 

A11 this was however totally lost on Dr. Rjinswand, 33, a bachelor, born in 
Sweden, raised in New Jersey, and a specialist in the breakaway oxidation 
phenomena of certain nuclear reactors. Anyway, he probably would not have 
believed any of it. 

Zweiblumen still seemed to be unconscious. The stewardess, who had 
helped Rjinswand to his seat to the applause of the rest of the passengers, was 
bending over him anxiously. 

“We’ve radioed ahead,” she told Rjinswand. “There’ll be an ambulance 
waiting when we land. Uh, it says on the passenger list that you’re a doctor—” 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” said Rjinswand hurriedly. “It might 
be a different matter if he was a Magnox reactor of course. Is it shock of some 
kind?” 

“I’ve never—” 

Her sentence terminated in a tremendous crash from the rear of the plane. 
Several passengers screamed. A sudden gale of air swept every loose magazine 
and newspaper into a screaming whirlwind that twisted madly down the aisle. 

Something else was coming up the aisle. Something big and oblong and 
wooden and brass-bound. It had hundreds of legs. If it was what it seemed—a 
walking chest of the kind that appeared in pirate stories brim full of ill-gotten 
gold and jewels—then what would have been its lid suddenly gaped open. 

There were no jewels. But there were lots of big square teeth, white as 
sycamore, and a pulsating tongue, red as mahogany. 



An ancient suitcase was coming to eat him. 

Rjinswand clutched at the unconscious Zweiblumen for what little comfort 
there was there, and gibbered. He wished fervently that he was somewhere 
else... 

There was a sudden darkness. 

There was a brilliant flash. 

The sudden departure of several quintillion atoms from a universe that they 
had no right to be in anyway caused a wild imbalance in the harmony of the Sum 
Totality which it tried frantically to retrieve, wiping out a number of subrealities 
in the process. Huge surges of raw magic boiled uncontrolled around the very 
foundations of the multiverse itself, welling up through every crevice into 
hitherto peaceful dimensions and causing novas, supernovas, stellar collisions, 
wild flights of geese and drowning of imaginary continents. Worlds as far away 
as the other end of time experienced brilliant sunsets of corruscating octarine as 
highly charged magical particles roared through the atmosphere. In the cometary 
halo around the fabled Ice System of Zeret a noble comet died as a prince flamed 
across the sky. 

All this was however lost on Rincewind as, clutching the inert Twoflower 
around the waist, he plunged toward the Disc’s sea several hundred feet below. 
Not even the convulsions of all the dimensions could break the iron Law of the 
Conservation of Energy, and Rjinswand’s brief journey in the plane had sufficed 
to carry him several hundred miles horizontally and seven thousand feet 
vertically. 

The word “plane” flamed and died in Rincewind’s mind. 

Was that a ship down there? 

The cold waters of the Circle Sea roared up at him and sucked him down 
into their green, suffocating embrace. A moment later there was another splash 
as the luggage, still bearing a label carrying the powerful traveling rune TWA, 
also hit the sea. 


Later on, they used it as a raft. 



4 


Cl.OSF, TO THF, Enr.F 


It had been a long time in the making. Now it was almost completed, and the 
slaves hacked away at the last clay remnants of the mantle. 

Where other slaves were industriously rubbing its metal flanks with silver 
sand it was already beginning to gleam in the sun with the silken, organic sheen 
of young bronze. It was still warm, even after a week of cooling in the casting 
pit. 


The Arch-astronomer of Krull motioned lightly with his hand and his bearers 
set the throne down in the shadow of the hull. 

Like a fish, he thought. A great flying fish. And of what seas? 

“It is indeed magnificent,” he whispered. “A work of true art.” 

“Craft,” said the thickset man by his side. The Arch-astronomer turned 
slowly and looked up at the man’s impassive face. It isn’t particularly hard for a 
face to look impassive when there are two golden spheres where the eyes should 
be. They glowed disconcertingly. 

“Craft, indeed,” said the astronomer, and smiled. “I would imagine that there 
is no greater craftsman on the entire Disc than you, Goldeneyes. Would I be 
right?” 

The craftsman paused, his naked body—naked, at least, were it not for a 
toolbelt, a wrist abacus and a deep tan—tensing as he considered the 
implications of this last remark. The golden eyes appeared to be looking into 
some other world. 



“The answer is both yes and no,” he said at last. Some of the lesser 
astronomers behind the throne gasped at this lack of etiquette, but the Arch¬ 
astronomer appeared not to have noticed it. 

“Continue,” he said. 

“There are some essential skills that I lack. Yet I am Goldeneyes Silverhand 
Dactylos,” said the craftsman. “I made the Metal Warriors that guard the Tomb 
of Pitchiu, I designed the Light Dams of the Great Nef, I built the Palace of the 
Seven Deserts. And yet—” he reached up and tapped one of his eyes, which rang 
faintly, “when I built the golem army for Pitchiu he loaded me down with gold 
and then, so that I would create no other work to rival my work for him, he had 
my eyes put out.” 

“Wise but cruel,” said the Arch-astronomer sympathetically. 

“Yah. So I learned to hear the temper of metals and to see with my fingers. I 
learned how to distinguish ores by taste and smell. I made these eyes, but I 
cannot make them see. 

“Next I was summoned to build the Palace of the Seven Deserts, as a result 
of which the Emir showered me with silver and then, not entirely to my surprise, 
had my right hand cut off.” 

“A grave hindrance in your line of business,” nodded the Arch-astronomer. 

“I used some of the silver to make myself this new hand, putting to use my 
unrivaled knowledge of levers and fulcrums. It suffices. After I created the first 
great Light Dam, which had a capacity of 50,000 daylight hours, the tribal 
councils of the Nef loaded me down with fine silks and then hamstrung me so 
that I could not escape. As a result I was put to some inconvenience to use the 
silk and some bamboo to build a flying machine from which I could launch 
myself from the topmost turret of my prison.” 

“Bringing you, by various diversions, to Krull,” said the Arch-astronomer. 
“And one cannot help feeling that some alternative occupation—lettuce farming, 
say—would offer somewhat less of a risk of being put to death by installments. 
Why do you persist in it?” 


Goldeneyes Dactylos shrugged. 



“I’m good at it,” he said. 


The Arch-astronomer looked up again at the bronze fish, shining now like a 
gong in the noontime sun. 

“Such beauty,” he murmured. “And unique. Come, Dactylos. Recall to me 
what it was that I promised should be your reward?” 

“You asked me to design a fish that would swim through the seas of space 
that lie between the worlds,” intoned the master craftsman. “In return for which 
—in return—” 

“Yes? My memory is not what it used to be,” purred the Arch-astronomer, 
stroking the warm bronze. 

“In return,” continued Dactylos, without much apparent hope, “you would 
set me free, and refrain from chopping off any appendages. I require no 
treasure.” 

“Ah, yes. I recall now.” The old man raised a blue-veined hand, and added, 
“I lied.” ' 

There was the merest whisper of sound, and the goldeneyed man rocked on 
his feet. Then he looked down at the arrowhead protruding from his chest, and 
nodded wearily. A speck of blood bloomed on his lips. 

There was no sound in the entire square (save for the buzzing of a few 
expectant flies) as his silver hand came up, very slowly, and fingered the 
arrowhead. 

Dactylos grunted. 

“Sloppy workmanship,” he said, and toppled backward. 

The Arch-astronomer prodded the body with his toe, and sighed. 

“There will be a short period of mourning, as befits a master craftsman,” he 
said. He watched a bluebottle alight on one golden eye and fly away 
puzzled...“That would seem to be long enough,” said the Arch-astronomer, and 
beckoned a couple of slaves to carry the corpse away. 



“Are the chelonauts ready?” he asked. 

The master launchcontroller bustled forward. 

“Indeed, your prominence,” he said. 

“The correct prayers are being intoned?” 

“Quite so, your prominence.” 

“How long to the doorway?” 

“The launch window,” corrected the master launchcontroller carefully. 
“Three days, your prominence. Great A’Tuin’s tail will be in an unmatched 
position.” 

“Then all that remains,” concluded the Arch-astronomer, “is to find the 
appropriate sacrifices.” 

The master launchcontroller bowed. 

“The ocean shall provide,” he said. 

The old man smiled. “It always does,” he said. 


“If only you could navigate—” 

“If only you could steer—” 

A wave washed over the deck. Rincewind and Twoflower looked at each 
other. “Keep bailing!” they screamed in unison, and reached for the buckets. 

After a while Twoflower’s peevish voice filtered up from the waterlogged 
cabin. 

“I don’t see how it’s my fault,” he said. He handed up another bucket, which 
the wizard tipped over the side. 


“You were supposed to be on watch,” snapped Rincewind. 



“I saved us from the slavers, remember,” said Twoflower. 


“I’d rather be a slave than a corpse,” replied the wizard. He straightened up 
and looked out to sea. He appeared puzzled. 

He was a somewhat different Rincewind from the one that escaped the fire 
of Ankh-Morpork some six months before. More scarred, for one thing, and 
much more traveled. He had visited the Hublands, discovered the curious 
folkways of many colorful peoples—invariably obtaining more scars in the 
process—and had even, for a never-to-be-forgotten few days, sailed on the 
legendary Dehydrated Ocean at the heart of the incredibly dry desert known as 
the Great Nef. On a colder and wetter sea he had seen floating mountains of ice. 
He had ridden on an imaginary dragon. He had very nearly said the most 
powerful spell on the Disc. He had— 

—there was definitely less horizon than there ought to be. 

“Hmm?” said Rincewind. 

“I said nothing’s worse than slavery,” said Twoflower. His mouth opened as 
the wizard flung his bucket far out to sea and sat down heavily on the 
waterlogged deck, his face a gray mask. 

“Look, I’m sorry I steered us into the reef, but this boat doesn’t seem to want 
to sink and we’re bound to strike land sooner or later,” said Twoflower 
comfortingly. “This current must go somewhere.” 

“Look at the horizon,” said Rincewind, in a monotone. 

Twoflower squinted. 

“It looks all right,” he said after a while. “Admittedly, there seems to be less 
than there usually is, but—” 

“That’s because of the Rimfall,” said Rincewind. “We’re being carried over 
the edge of the world.” 

There was a long silence, broken only by the lapping of the waves as the 
foundering ship spun slowly in the current. It was already quite strong. 



“That’s probably why we hit that reef,” Rincewind added. “We got pulled off 
course during the night.” 

“Would you like something to eat?” asked Twoflower. He began to rummage 
through the bundle that he had tied to the rail, out of the damp. 

“Don’t you understand?” snarled Rincewind. “We are going over the Edge, 
godsdammit!” 

“Can’t we do anything about it?” 

“No!” 

“Then I can’t see the sense in panicking,” said Twoflower calmly. 

“I knew we shouldn’t have come this far Edgewise,” complained Rincewind 
to the sky, “I wish—” 

“I wish I had my picture box,” said Twoflower, “but it’s back on that slaver 
ship with the rest of the Luggage and—” 

“You won’t need luggage where we’re going,” said Rincewind. He sagged, 
and stared moodily at a distant whale that had carelessly strayed into the 
rimward current and was now struggling against it. 

There was a line of white on the foreshortened horizon, and the wizard 
fancied he could hear a distant roaring. 

“What happens after a ship goes over the Rimfall?” said Twoflower. 

“Who knows?” 

“Well, in that case perhaps we’ll just sail on through space and land on 
another world.” A faraway look came into the little man’s eyes. “I’d like that,” 
he said. 

Rincewind snorted. 


The sun rose in the sky, looking noticeably bigger this close to the Edge. 
They stood with their backs against the mast, busy with their own thoughts. 



Every so often one or other would pick up a bucket and do a bit of desultory 
bailing, for no very intelligent reason. 


The sea around them seemed to be getting crowded. Rincewind noticed 
several tree trunks keeping station with them, and just below the surface the 
water was alive with fish of all sorts. Of course—the current must be teeming 
with food washed from the continents near the Hub. He wondered what kind of 
life it would be, having to keep swimming all the time to stay exactly in the 
same place. Pretty similar to his own, he decided. He spotted a small green frog 
which was paddling desperately in the grip of the inexorable current. To 
Twoflower’s amazement he found a paddle and carefully extended it toward the 
little amphibian, which scrambled onto it gratefully. A moment later a pair of 
jaws broke the water and snapped impotently at the spot where it had been 
swimming. 

The frog looked up at Rincewind from the cradle of his hands, and then bit 
him thoughtfully on the thumb. Twoflower giggled. Rincewind tucked the frog 
away in a pocket, and pretended he hadn’t heard. 

“All very humanitarian, but why?” said Twoflower. “It’ll all be the same in 
an hour.” 

“Because,” said Rincewind vaguely, and did a bit of bailing. Spray was 
being thrown up now and the current was so strong that waves were forming and 
breaking all around them. It all seemed unnaturally warm. There was a hot 
golden haze on the sea. 

The roaring was louder now. A squid bigger than anything Rincewind had 
seen before broke the surface a few hundred yards away and thrashed madly 
with its tentacles before sinking away. Something else that was large and 
fortunately unidentifiable howled in the mist. A whole squadron of flying fish 
tumbled up in a cloud of rainbow-edged droplets and managed to gain a few 
yards before dropping back and being swept away in an eddy. 

They were running out of world. Rincewind dropped his bucket and 
snatched at the mast as the roaring, final end of everything raced toward them. 

“I must see this—” said Twoflower, half falling and half diving toward the 
prow. 



Something hard and unyielding smacked into the hull, which spun ninety 
degrees and came side-on to the invisible obstacle. Then it stopped suddenly and 
a wash of cold sea foam cascaded over the deck, so that for a few seconds 
Rincewind was under several feet of boiling green water. He began to scream 
and then the underwater world became the deep clanging purple color of fading 
consciousness, because it was at about this point that Rincewind started to 
drown. 


He awoke with his mouth full of burning liquid and, when he swallowed, the 
searing pain in his throat jerked him into full consciousness. 

The boards of a boat pressed into his back and Twoflower was looking down 
at him with an expression of deep concern. Rincewind groaned, and sat up. 

This turned out to be a mistake. The edge of the world was a few feet away. 

Beyond it, at a level just below that of the lip of the endless Rimfall, was 
something altogether magical. 


Some seventy miles away, and well beyond the tug of the Rim current, a dhow 
with the red sails typical of a freelance slaver drifted aimlessly through the 
velvety twilight. The crew—such as remained—were clustered on the foredeck, 
surrounding the men working feverishly on the raft. 

The captain, a thickset man who wore the elbow-turbans typical of a Great 
Nef tribesman, was much traveled and had seen many strange peoples and 
curious things, many of which he had subsequently enslaved or stolen. He had 
begun his career as a sailor on the Dehydrated Ocean in the heart of the Disc’s 
driest desert. (Water on the Disc has an uncommon fourth state, caused by 
intense heat combined with the strange dessicating effects of octarine light; it 
dehydrates, leaving a silvery residue like free-flowing sand through which a 
well-designed hull can glide with ease. The Dehydrated Ocean is a strange place, 
but not so strange as its fish.) The captain had never before been really 
frightened. Now he was terrified. 


“I can’t hear anything,” he muttered to the first mate. 



The mate peered into the gloom. 


“Perhaps it fell overboard?” he suggested hopefully. As if in answer there 
came a furious pounding from the oar deck below their feet, and the sound of 
splintering wood. The crewmen drew together fearfully, brandishing axes and 
torches. 

They probably wouldn’t dare to use them, even if the Monster came rushing 
toward them. Before its terrible nature had been truly understood several men 
had attacked it with axes, whereupon it had turned aside from its single-minded 
searching of the ship and had either chased them overboard or had —eaten them? 
The captain was not quite certain. The Thing looked like an ordinary wooden sea 
chest. A bit larger than usual, maybe, but not suspiciously so. But while it 
sometimes seemed to contain things like old socks and miscellaneous luggage, at 
other times—and he shuddered—it seemed to be, seemed to be, seemed to 
have.. .He tried not to think about it. It was just that the men who had been 
drowned overboard had probably been more fortunate than those it had caught. 
He tried not to think about it. There had been teeth, teeth like white wooden 
gravestones, and a tongue red as mahogany... 

He tried not to think about it. It didn’t work. 

But he thought bitterly about one thing. This was going to be the last time he 
rescued ungrateful drowning men in mysterious circumstances. Slavery was 
better than sharks, wasn’t it? And then they had escaped and when his sailors 
had investigated their big chest—how had they appeared in the middle of an 
untroubled ocean sitting on a big chest, anyway?—and it had bitt.. .He tried not 
to think about it again, but he found himself wondering what would happen 
when the damned thing realized that its owner wasn’t on board any longer... 

“Raft’s ready, lord,” said the first mate. 

“Into the water with it,” shouted the captain, and “Get aboard!” and “Fire the 
ship!” 

After all, another ship wouldn’t be too hard to come by, he philosophized, 
but a man might have to wait a long time in that Paradise the mullahs advertised 
before he was granted another life. Let the magical box eat lobsters. 

Some pirates achieved immortality by great deeds of cruelty or derring-do. 



Some achieved immortality by amassing great wealth. But the captain had long 
ago decided that he would, on the whole, prefer to achieve immortality by not 
dying. 


“What the hell is that?” demanded Rincewind. 

“It’s beautiful,” said Twoflower beatifically. 

“I’ll decide about that when I know what it is,” said the wizard. 

“It is the Rimbow,” said a voice immediately behind his left ear, “and you 
are fortunate indeed to be looking at it. From above, at any rate.” 

The voice was accompanied by a gust of cold, fishy breath. Rincewind sat 
quite still. 

“Twoflower?” he said. 

“Yes?” 

“If I turn around, what will I see?” 

“His name is Tethis. He says he’s a sea troll. This is his boat. He rescued us,” 
explained Twoflower. “Will you look around now?” 

“Not just at the moment, thank you. So why aren’t we going over the Edge, 
then?” asked Rincewind with glassy calmness. 

“Because your boat hit the Circumfence,” said the voice behind him (in 
tones that made Rincewind imagine submarine chasms and lurking Things in 
coral reefs). 

“The Circumfence?” he repeated. 

“Yes. It runs along the edge of the world,” said the unseen troll. Above the 
roar of the waterfall Rincewind thought he could make out the splash of oars. He 
hoped they were oars. 


“Ah. You mean the circumference ,” said Rincewind. “The circumference 



makes the edge of things.” 


“So does the Circumfence,” said the troll. 

“He means this,” said Twoflower, pointing down. Rincewind’s eyes followed 
the finger, dreading what they might see... 

Hubward of the boat was a rope suspended a few feet above the surface of 
the white water. The boat was attached to it, moored yet mobile, by a 
complicated arrangement of pulleys and little wooden wheels. They ran along 
the rope as the unseen rower propelled the craft along the very lip of the Rimfall. 
That explained one mystery—but what supported the rope? 

Rincewind peered along its length and saw a stout wooden post sticking up 
out of the water a few yards ahead. As he watched the boat neared it and then 
passed it, the little wheels clacking neatly around it in a groove obviously cut for 
the purpose. 

Rincewind also noticed that smaller ropes hung down from the main rope at 
intervals of a yard or so. 

He turned back to Twoflower. 

“I can see what it is,” he said, “but what is it?” 

Twoflower shrugged. Behind Rincewind the sea troll said, “Up ahead is my 
house. We will talk more when we are there. Now I must row.” 

Rincewind found that looking ahead meant that he would have to turn and 
find out what a sea troll actually looked like, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do 
that yet. He looked at the Rimbow instead. 

It hung in the mists a few lengths beyond the edge of the world, appearing 
only at morning and evening when the light of the Disc’s little orbiting sun shone 
past the massive bulk of Great A’Tuin the World Turtle and struck the Disc’s 
magical field at exactly the right angle. 

A double rainbow corruscated into being. Close into the lip of the Rimfall 
were the seven lesser colors, sparkling and dancing in the spray of the dying 
seas. 



But they were pale in comparison to the wider band that floated beyond 
them, not deigning to share the same spectrum. 

It was the King Color, of which all the lesser colors are merely partial and 
wishy-washy reflections. It was octarine, the color of magic. It was alive and 
glowing and vibrant and it was the undisputed pigment of the imagination, 
because wherever it appeared it was a sign that mere matter was a servant of the 
powers of the magical mind. It was enchantment itself. 

But Rincewind always thought it looked a sort of greenish purple. 


After a while a small speck on the rim of the world resolved itself into a eyot or 
crag, so perilously perched that the waters of the fall swirled around it at the start 
of their long drop. A driftwood shanty had been built on it, and Rincewind saw 
that the top rope of the Circumfence climbed over the rocky island on a number 
of iron stakes and actually passed through the shack by a small round window. 

He learned later that this was so that the troll could be alerted to the arrival of 
any salvage on his stretch of the Circumfence by means of a series of small 
bronze bells, balanced delicately on the rope. 

A crude floating stockade had been built out of rough timber on the hubward 
side of the island. It contained one or two hulks and quite a large amount of 
floating wood in the form of planks, baulks and even whole natural tree trunks, 
some still sporting green leaves. This close to the Edge the Disc’s magical field 
was so intense that a hazy corona flickered across everything as raw illusion 
spontaneously discharged itself. 

With a last few squeaky jerks the boat slid up against a small driftwood jetty. 
As it grounded itself and formed a circuit Rincewind felt all the familiar 
sensations of a huge occult aura—oily, bluish tasting, and smelling of tin. All 
around them pure, unfocused magic was sleeting soundlessly into the world. 

The wizard and Twoflower scrambled onto the planking and for the first 
time Rincewind saw the troll. 


It wasn’t half so dreadful as he had imagined. 
Umm, said his imagination after a while. 



It wasn’t that the troll was horrifying. Instead of the rotting, betentacled 
monstrosity he had been expecting Rincewind found himself looking at a rather 
squat but not particularly ugly old man who would quite easily have passed for 
normal on any city street, always provided that other people on the street were 
used to seeing old men who were apparently composed of water and very little 
else. It was as if the ocean had decided to create life without going through all 
that tedious business of evolution, and had simply formed a part of itself into a 
biped and sent it walking squishily up the beach. The troll was a pleasant 
translucent blue color. As Rincewind stared a small shoal of silver fish flashed 
across its chest. 

“It’s rude to stare,” said the troll. Its mouth opened with a little crest of foam, 
and shut again in exactly the same way that water closes over a stone. 

“Is it? Why?” asked Rincewind. How does he hold himself together, his 
mind screamed at him. Why doesn’t he spill? 

“If you will follow me to my house I will find you food and a change of 
clothing,” said the troll solemnly. He set off over the rocks without turning to see 
if they would follow him. After all, where else could they go? It was getting 
dark, and a chilly damp breeze was blowing over the edge of the world. Already 
the transient Rimbow had faded and the mists above the waterfall were 
beginning to thin. 

“Come on,” said Rincewind, grabbing Twoflower’s elbow. But the tourist 
didn’t appear to want to move. 

“Come on,” the wizard repeated. 

“When it gets really dark, do you think we’ll be able to look down and see 
Great A’tuin the World Turtle?” asked Twoflower, staring at the rolling clouds. 

“I hope not,” said Rincewind, “I really do. Now let’s go, shall we?” 

Twoflower followed him reluctantly into the shack. The troll had lit a couple 
of lamps and was sitting comfortably in a rocking chair. He got to his feet as 
they entered and poured two cups of a green liquid from a tall pitcher. In the dim 
light he appeared to phosphoresce, in the manner of warm seas on velvety 
summer nights. Just to add a baroque gloss to Rincewind’s dull terror he seemed 
to be several inches taller, too. 



Most of the furniture in the room appeared to be boxes. 


“Uh. Really great place you’ve got here,” said Rincewind. “Ethnic.” 

He reached for a cup and looked at the green pool shimmering inside it. It’d 
better be drinkable, he thought. Because I’m going to drink it. He swallowed. 

It was the same stuff Twoflower had given him in the rowing boat but, at the 
time, his mind had ignored it because there were more pressing matters. Now it 
had the leisure to savor the taste. 

Rincewind’s mouth twisted. He whimpered a little. One of his legs came up 
convulsively and caught him painfully in the chest. 

Twoflower swirled his own drink thoughtfully while he considered the 
flavor. 

“Ghlen Livid,” he said. “The fermented vul nut drink they freeze-distill in 
my home country. A certain smoky quality.. .Piquant. From the western 
plantations in, ah, Rehigreed Province, yes? Next year’s harvest, I fancy, from 
the color. May I ask how you came by it?” 

(Plants on the Disc, while including the categories known commonly as 
annuals, which were sown this year to come up later this year, biennials, sown 
this year to grow next year, and perennials, sown this year to grow until further 
notice, also included a few rare re-annuals which, because of an unusual four¬ 
dimensional twist in their genes, could be planted this year to come up last year. 
The vul nut vine was particularly exceptional in that it could flourish as many as 
eight years prior to its seed actually being sown. Vul nut wine was reputed to 
give certain drinkers an insight into the future which was, from the nut’s point of 
view, the past. Strange but true.) 

“All things drift into the Circumfence in time,” said the troll, gnomically, 
gently rocking in his chair. “My job is to recover the flotsam. Timber, of course, 
and ships. Barrels of wine. Bales of cloth. You.” 

Light dawned inside Rincewind’s head. 

“It’s a net, isn’t it? You’ve got a net right on the edge of the sea!” 



“The Circumfence,” nodded the troll. Ripples ran across his chest. 


Rincewind looked out into the phosphorescent darkness that surrounded the 
island, and grinned inanely. 

“Of course,” he said. “Amazing! You could sink piles and attach it to reefs 
and—good grief! The net would have to be very strong.” 

“It is,” said Tethis. 

“It could be extended for a couple of miles, if you found enough rocks and 
things,” said the wizard. 

“Ten thousands of miles. I just patrol this league.” 

“That’s a third of the way around the Disc!” 

Tethis sloshed a little as he nodded again. While the two men helped 
themselves to some more of the green wine, he told them about the Circumfence, 
the great effort that had been made to build it, and the ancient and wise Kingdom 
of Krull which had constructed it several centuries before, and the seven navies 
that patrolled it constantly to keep it in repair and bring its salvage back to Krull, 
and the manner in which Krull had become a land of leisure ruled by the most 
learned seekers after knowledge, and the way in which they sought constantly to 
understand in every possible particular the wondrous complexity of the 
Circumfence were turned into slaves, and usually had their tongues cut out. After 
some interjections at this point he spoke, in a friendly way, on the futility of 
force, the impossibility of escaping from the island except by boat to one of the 
other three hundred and eighty isles that lay between the island and Krull itself, 
or by leaping over the Edge, and the high merit of muteness in comparison to, 
for example, death. 

There was a pause. The muted night-roar of the Rimfall only served to give 
the silence a heavier texture. 

Then the rocking chair started to creak again. Tethis seemed to have grown 
alarmingly during the monologue. 

“There is nothing personal in all this,” he added. “I too am a slave. If you try 
to overpower me I shall have to kill you, of course, but I won’t take any 



particular pleasure in it.” 


Rincewind looked at the shimmering fists that rested lightly in the troll’s lap. 
He suspected they could strike with all the force of a tsunami. 

“I don’t think you understand,” explained Twoflower. “I am a citizen of the 
Golden Empire. I’m sure Krull would not wish to incur the displeasure of the 
Emperor.” 

“How will the Emperor know?” asked the troll. “Do you think you’re the 
first person from the Empire who has ended up on the Circumfence?” 

“I won’t be a slave!” shouted Rincewind. “I’d—I’d jump over the Edge 
first!” He was amazed at the sound in his own voice. 

“Would you, though?” asked the troll. The rocking chair flicked back against 
the wall and one blue arm caught the wizard around the waist. A moment later 
the troll was striding out of the shack with Rincewind gripped carelessly in one 
fist. 


He did not stop until he came to the rimward edge of the island. Rincewind 
squealed. 

“Stop that or I really will throw you over the edge,” snapped the troll. “I’m 
holding you, aren’t I? Look” 

Rincewind looked. 

In front of him was a soft black night whose mist-muted stars glowed 
peacefully. But his eyes turned downward, drawn by some irresistible 
fascination. 

It was midnight on the Disc and so, therefore, the sun was far, far below, 
swinging slowly under Great A’Tuin’s vast and frosty plastron. Rincewind tried 
a last attempt to fix his gaze on the tips of his boots, which were protruding over 
the rim of the rock, but the sheer drop wrenched it away. 

On either side of him two glittering curtains of water hurtled toward infinity 
as the sea swept around the island on its way to the long fall. A hundred yards 
below the wizard the largest sea salmon he had ever seen flicked itself out of the 



foam in a wild, jerky and ultimately hopeless leap. Then it fell back, over and 
over, in the golden underworld light. 

Huge shadows grew out of that light like pillars supporting the roof of the 
universe. Hundreds of miles below him the wizard made out the shape of 
something, the edge of something— 

Like those curious little pictures where the silhouette of an ornate glass 
suddenly becomes the outline of two faces, the scene beneath him flipped into a 
whole, new, terrifying perspective. Because down there was the head of an 
elephant as big as a reasonablysized continent. One mighty tusk cut like a 
mountain against the golden light, trailing a widening shadow toward the stars. 
The head was slightly tilted, and a huge ruby eye might almost have been a red 
supergiant that had managed to shine at noonday. 

Below the elephant— 

Rincewind swallowed and tried not to think— 

Below the elephant there was nothing but the distant, painful Disc of the sun. 
And, sweeping slowly past it, was something that for all its city-sized scales, its 
crater-pocks, its Junar cragginess, was indubitably a flipper. 

“Shall I let go?” suggested the troll. 

“Gnah,” said Rincewind, straining backward. 

“I have lived here on the Edge for five years and I have not had the 
courage,” boomed Tethis. “Nor have you, if I’m any judge.” He stepped back, 
allowing Rincewind to fling himself onto the ground. 

Twoflower strolled up to the Rim and peered over. 

“Fantastic,” he said. “If only I had my picture box.. .What else is down 
there? I mean, if you jumped off, what would you see?” 

Tethis sat down on an outcrop. High over the Disc the moon came out from 
behind a cloud, giving him the appearance of ice. 


“My home is down there, perhaps,” he said slowly. “Beyond your silly 



elephants and that ridiculous turtle. Areal world. Sometimes I come out here and 
look, but somehow I can never bring myself to take that extra step.. .A real 
world, with real people. I have wives and little ones, somewhere down there...” 
He stopped, and blew his nose. “You soon learn what you’re made of, here on 
the Edge” 

“Stop saying that. Please,” moaned Rincewind. He turned over and saw 
Twoflower standing unconcernedly at the very lip of the rock. “Gnah,” he said, 
and tried to burrow into the stone. 

“There’s another world down there?” said Twoflower, peering over. “Where, 
exactly?” 

The troll waved an arm vaguely. “Somewhere,” he said. “That’s all I know. 

It was quite a small world. Mostly blue.” 

“So why are you here?” said Twoflower. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” snapped the troll. “I fell off the edge!” 


He told them of the world of Bathys, somewhere among the stars, where the 
seafolk had built a number of thriving civilizations in the three large oceans that 
sprawled across its Disc. He had been a meatman, one of the caste which earned 
a perilous living in large, sail-powered land yachts that ventured far out to land 
and hunted the shoals of deer and buffalo that abounded in the storm-haunted 
continents. His particular yacht had been blown into uncharted lands by a freak 
gale. The rest of the crew had taken the yacht’s little rowing trolley and had 
struck out for a distant lake, but Tethis, as master, had elected to remain with his 
vessel. The storm had carried it right over the rocky rim of the world, smashing 
it to matchwood in the process. 

“At first I fell,” said Tethis, “but falling isn’t so bad, you know. It’s only the 
landing that hurts, and there was nothing below me. As I fell I saw the world 
spin off into space until it was lost against the stars.” 

“What happened next?” said Twoflower breathlessly, glancing toward the 
misty universe. 



“I froze solid,” said Tethis simply. “Fortunately it is something my race can 
survive. But I thawed out occasionally when I passed near other worlds. There 
was one, I think it was the one with what I thought was this strange ring of 
mountains around it that turned out to be the biggest dragon you could ever 
imagine, covered in snow and glaciers and holding its tail in its mouth—well, I 
came within a few leagues of that, I shot over the landscape like a comet, in fact, 
and then I was off again. Then there was a time I woke up and there was your 
world coming at me like a custard piethrown by the Creator and, well, I landed 
in the sea not far from the Circumfence widdershins of Krull. All sorts of 
creatures get washed up against the Fence, and at the time they were looking for 
slaves to man the way stations, and I ended up here.” He stopped and stared 
intently at Rincewind. “Every night I come out here and look down,” he 
finished, “and I never jump. Courage is hard to come by, here on the Edge.” 

Rincewind began to crawl determinedly toward the shack. He gave a little 
scream as the troll picked him up, not unkindly, and set him on his feet. 

“Amazing,” said Twoflower, and leaned farther out over the Edge. “There 
are lots of other worlds out there?” 

“Quite a number, I imagine,” said the troll. 

“I suppose one could contrive some sort of, I don’t know, some sort of a 
thing that could preserve one against the cold,” said the little man thoughtfully. 
“Some sort of a ship that one could sail over the Edge and sail to far-off worlds, 
too. I wonder...” 

“Don’t even think about it!” moaned Rincewind. “Stop talking like that, do 
you hear?” 

“They all talk like that in Krull,” said Tethis. 

“Those with tongues, of course,” he added. 


“Are you awake?” 


Twoflower snored on. Rincewind jabbed him viciously in the ribs. 



“I said, are you awake?” he snarled. 


“Scrdfngh...” 

“We’ve got to get out of here before this salvage fleet comes!” 

The dishwater light of dawn oozed through the shack’s one window, 
slopping across the piles of salvaged boxes and bundles that were strewn around 
the interior. Twoflower grunted again and tried to burrow into the pile of furs and 
blankets that Tethis had given them. 

“Look, there’s all kinds of weapons and stuff in here,” said Rincewind. 

“He’s gone out somewhere. When he comes back we could overpower him and 
—and—well, then we can think of something. How about it?” 

“That doesn’t sound like a very good idea,” said Twoflower. “Anyhow, it’s a 
bit ungracious isn’t it?” 

“Tough buns,” snapped Rincewind. “This is a rough universe.” 

He rummaged through the piles around the walls and selected a heavy, 
wavy-bladed scimitar that had probably been some pirate’s pride and joy. It 
looked the sort of weapon that relied as much on its weight as its edge to cause 
damage. He raised it awkwardly. 

“Would he leave that sort of thing around if it could hurt him?” Twoflower 
wondered aloud. 

Rincewind ignored him and took up a position beside the door. When it 
opened some ten minutes later he moved unhesitatingly, swinging it across the 
opening at what he judged was the troll’s head height. It swished harmlessly 
through nothing at all and struck the doorpost, jerking him off his feet and onto 
the floor. 

There was a sigh above him. He looked up into Tethis’s face, which was 
shaking sadly from side to side. 

“It wouldn’t have harmed me,” said the troll, “but nevertheless I am hurt. 
Deeply hurt.” He reached over the wizard and jerked the sword out of the wood. 
With no apparent effort he bent its blade into a circle and sent it bowling away 



over the rocks until it hit a stone and sprang, still spinning, in a silver arc that 
ended in the mists forming over the Rimfall. 

“Very deeply hurt,” he concluded. He reached down beside the door and 
tossed a sack toward Twoflower. 

“It’s the carcass of a deer that is just about how you humans like it, and a 
few lobsters, and a sea salmon. The Circumfence provides,” he said casually. 

He looked hard at the tourist, and then down again at Rincewind. 

“What are you staring at?” he said. 

“It’s just that—” said Twoflower. 

“—compared to last night—” said Rincewind. 

“You’re so small,” finished Twoflower. 

“I see, said the troll carefully. “Personal remarks now.” He drew himself up 
to his full height, which was currently about four feet. “Just because I’m made of 
water doesn’t mean I’m made of wood, you know.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Twoflower, climbing hastily out of the furs. 

“You’re made of dirt,” said the troll, “but I didn’t pass comments about 
things you can’t help, did I? Oh, no. We can’t help the way the Creator made us, 
that’s my view. But if you must know, your moon here is rather more powerful 
than the ones around my own world.” 

“The moon?” said Twoflower. “I don’t under—” 

“If I’ve got to spell it out,” said the troll, testily, “I’m suffering from chronic 
tides.” 

Abell jangled in the darkness of the shack. Tethis strode across the creaking 
floor to the complicated devices of levers, strings and bells that was mounted on 
the Circumfence’s topmost strand where it passed through the hut. 


The bell rang again, and then started to clang away in an odd jerky rhythm 



for several minutes. The troll stood with his ear pressed close to it. 


When it stopped he turned slowly and looked at them with a worried frown. 

“You’re more important than I thought,” he said. “You’re not to wait for the 
salvage fleet. You’re to be collected by a flyer. That’s what they say in Krull.” 
He shrugged. “And I hadn’t even sent a message that you’re here, yet. 
Someone’s been drinking vul nut wine again.” 

He picked up a large mallet that hung on a pillar beside the bell and used it 
to tap out a brief carillon. 

“That’ll be passed from lengthman to lengthman all the way back to Krull,” 
he said. “Marvelous really, isn’t it?” 


It came speeding across the sea, floating a man-length above it, but still leaving a 
foaming wake as whatever power that held it up smacked brutally into the water. 
Rincewind knew what power held it up. He was, he would be the first to admit, a 
coward, an incompetent, and not even very good at being a failure; but he was 
still a wizard of sorts, he knew one of the Eight Great Spells, he would be 
claimed by Death himself when he died, and he recognized really finely honed 
magic when he saw it. 

The lens skimming toward the island was perhaps twenty feet across, and 
totally transparent. Sitting around its circumference were a large number of 
black-robed men, each one strapped securely to the Disc by a leather harness and 
each one staring down at the waves with an expression so tormented, so 
agonizing, that the transparent disc seemed to be ringed with gargoyles. 

Rincewind sighed with relief. This was such an unusual sound that it made 
Twoflower take his eyes off the approaching disc and turn them on him. 

“We’re important, no lie,” explained Rincewind. “They wouldn’t be wasting 
all that magic on a couple of potential slaves.” He grinned. 

“What is it?” said Twoflower. 

“Well, the disc itself would have been created by Fresnel’s Wonderful 



Concentrator,” said Rincewind, authoritatively. “That calls for many rare and 
unstable ingredients, such as demon’s breath and so forth, and it takes at least 
eight fourth-grade wizards a week to envision. Then there’s those wizards on it, 
who must all be gifted hydrophobes—” 

“You mean they hate water?” said Twoflower. 

“No, that wouldn’t work,” said Rincewind. “Hate is an attracting force, just 
like love. They really loathe it, the very idea of it revolts them. A really good 
hydrophobe has to be trained on dehydrated water from birth. I mean, that costs 
a fortune in magic alone. But they make great weather magicians. Rain clouds 
just give up and go away.” 

“It sounds terrible,” said the water troll behind them. 

“And they all die young,” said Rincewind, ignoring him. “They just can’t 
live with themselves.” 

“Sometimes I think a man could wander across the Disc all his life and not 
see everything there is to see,” said Twoflower. “And now it seems there are lots 
of other worlds as well. When I think I might die without seeing a hundredth of 
all there is to see it makes me feel,” he paused, then added, “well, humble, I 
suppose. And very angry, of course.” 

The flyer halted a few yards hubward of the island, throwing up a sheet of 
spray. It hung there, spinning slowly. A hooded figure standing by the stubby 
pillar at the exact center of the lens beckoned to them. 

“You’d better wade out,” said the troll. “It doesn’t do to keep them waiting. 

It has been nice to make your acquaintance.” He shook them both, wetly, by the 
hand. As he waded out a little way with them the two nearest loathers on the lens 
shied away with expressions of extreme disgust. 

The hooded figure reached down with one hand and released a rope ladder. 
In its other hand it held a silver rod, which had about it the unmistakable air of 
something designed for killing people. Rincewind’s first impression was 
reinforced when the figure raised the stick and waved it carelessly toward the 
shore. A section of rock vanished, leaving a small gray haze of nothingness. 


“That’s so you don’t think I’m afraid to use it,” said the figure. 



“Don’t think you’re afraid?” said Rincewind. The hooded figure snorted. 


“We know all about you, Rincewind the magician. You are a man of great 
cunning and artifice. You laugh in the face of Death. Your affected air of craven 
cowardice does not fool me.” 

It fooled Rincewind. “I—” he began, and paled as the nothingness-stick was 
turned toward him. “I see you know all about me,” he finished weakly, and sat 
down heavily on the slippery surface. He and Twoflower, under instructions 
from the hooded commander, strapped themselves down to rings set in the 
transparent disc. 

“If you make the merest suggestion of weaving a spell,” said the darkness 
under the hood, “you die. Third quadrant reconcile, ninth quadrant redouble, 
forward a//!” 

A wall of water shot into the air behind Rincewind and the disc jerked 
suddenly. The dreadful presence of the sea troll had probably concentrated the 
hydrophobes’ minds wonderfully, because it then rose at a very steep angle and 
didn’t begin level flight until it was a dozen fathoms above the waves. 

Rincewind glanced down through the transparent surface and wished he hadn’t. 

“Well, off again then,” said Twoflower cheerfully. He turned and waved at 
the troll, now no more than a speck on the edge of the world. 

Rincewind glared at him. “Doesn’t anything every worry you?” he asked. 

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?” asked Twoflower. “And you yourself said they 
wouldn’t be going to all this trouble if we were just going to be slaves. I expect 
Tethis was exaggerating. I expect it’s all a misunderstanding. I expect we’ll be 
sent home. After we’ve seen Krull, of course. And I must say it all sounds 
fascinating.” 

“Oh yes,” said Rincewind, in a hollow voice. “Fascinating.” He was 
thinking: I’ve seen excitement, and I’ve seen boredom. And boredom was best. 

Had either of them happened to look down at that moment they would have 
noticed a strange v-shaped wave surging through the water far below them, its 
apex pointing directly at Tethis’s island. But they weren’t looking. The twenty- 
four hydrophobic magicians were looking, but to them it was just another piece 



of dreadfulness, not really any different from the liquid horror around it. They 
were probably right. 


Sometime before all this the blazing pirate ship had hissed under the waves 
and started the long slow slide toward the distant ooze. It was more distant than 
average, because directly under the stricken keel was the Gorunna Trench—a 
chasm in the Disc’s surface that was so black, so deep and so reputedly evil that 
even the krakens went there fearfully, and in pairs. In less reputedly evil chasms 
the fish went about with natural lights on their heads and on the whole managed 
quite well. In Gorunna they left them unlit and, insofar as it is possible for 
something without legs to creep, they crept; they tended to bump into things, too. 
Horrible things. 

The water around the ship turned from green to purple, from purple to black, 
from black to a darkness so complete that blackness itself seemed merely gray 
by comparison. Most of its timbers had already been crushed into splinters under 
the intense pressure. 

It spiraled past groves of nightmare polyps and drifting forests of seaweed 
which glowed with faint, diseased colors. Things brushed it briefly with soft, 
cold tentacles as they darted away into the freezing silence. 

Something rose up from the murk and ate it in one mouthful. 

Some time later the islanders on a little rimward atoll were amazed to find, 
washed into their little local lagoon, the wave-rocked corpse of a hideous sea 
monster, all beaks, eyes and tentacles. They were further astonished at its size, 
since it was rather larger than their village. But their surprise was tiny compared 
to the huge, stricken expression on the face of the dead monster, which appeared 
to have been trampled to death. 

Somewhat farther rimward of the atoll a couple of little boats, trolling a net 
for the ferocious free-swimming oysters which abounded in those seas, caught 
something that dragged both vessels for several miles before one captain had the 
presence of mind to sever the lines. 

But even his bewilderment was as nothing compared to that of the islanders 
on the last atoll in the archipelago. During the following night they were 



awakened by a terrific crashing and splintering noise coming from their minute 
jungle; when some of the bolder spirits went to investigate in the morning they 
found that the trees had been smashed in a broad swath that started on the 
hubmost shore of the atoll and made a line of total destruction pointing precisely 
Edgewise, littered with broken lianas, crushed bushes and a few bewildered and 
angry oysters. 


They were high enough now to see the wide curve of the Rim sweeping away 
from them, lapped by the fluffy clouds that mercifully hid the waterfall for most 
of the time. From up here the sea, a deep blue dappled with cloud-shadows, 
looked almost inviting. Rincewind shuddered. 

“Excuse me,” he said. The hooded figure turned from its contemplation of 
the distant haze and raised its wand threateningly. 

“I don’t want to use this,” it said. 

“You don’t?” said Rincewind. 

“What is it, anyway?” said Twoflower. 

“Ajandurah’s Wand of Utter Negativity,” said Rincewind. “And I wish you’d 
stop waving it about. It might go off,” he added, nodding at the wand’s glittering 
point. “I mean, it’s all very flattering, all this magic being used just for our 
benefit, but there’s no need to go quite that far. And—” 

“Shut up. The figure reached up and pulled back its hood, revealing itself to 
be a most unusually tinted young woman. Her skin was black. Not the dark 
brown of Urabewe, or the polished blue-black of monsoon-haunted Klatch, but 
the deep black of midnight at the bottom of a cave. Her hair and eyebrows were 
the color of moonlight. There was the same pale sheen around her lips. She 
looked about fifteen, and very frightened. 

Rincewind couldn’t help noticing that the hand holding the wand was 
shaking; this was because a piece of sudden death, wobbling uncertainly a mere 
five feet from your nose, is very hard to miss. It dawned on him—very slowly, 
because it was a completely new sensation—that someone in the world was 
frightened of him. The complete reverse was so often the case that he had come 



to think of it as a kind of natural law. 

“What is your name?” he said, as reassuringly as he could manage. She 
might be frightened, but she did have the wand. If I had a wand like that, he 
thought, I wouldn’t be frightened of anything. So what in Creation can she 
imagine I could do? 

“My name is immaterial,” she said. 

“That’s a pretty name,” said Rincewind. “Where are you taking us, and why? 
I can’t see any harm in your telling us.” 

“You are being brought to Krull,” said the girl. “And don’t mock me, 
Hublander. Else I’ll use the wand. I must bring you in alive, but no one said 
anything about bringing you in whole. My name is Marchesa, and I am a wizard 
of the fifth level. Do you understand?” 

“Well, since you know all about me then you know that I never even made it 
to Neophyte,” said Rincewind. “I’m not even a wizard, really.” He caught 
Twoflower’s astonished expression, and added hastily, “Just a wizard of sorts.” 

“You can’t do magic because one of the Eight Great Spells is indelibly 
lodged in your mind,” said Marchesa, shifting her balance gracefully as the great 
lens described a wide arc over the sea. “That’s why you were thrown out of 
Unseen University. We know.” 

“But you said just now that he was a magician of great cunning and artifice,” 
protested Twoflower. 

“Yes, because anyone who survives all that he has survived—most of which 
was brought on himself by his tendency to think of himself as a wizard—well, 
he must be some kind of a magician,” said Marchesa. “I warn you, Rincewind. If 
you give me the merest suspicion that you are intoning the Great Spell I really 
will kill you.” She scowled at him nervously. 

“Seems to me your best course would be to just, you know, drop us off 
somewhere,” said Rincewind. “I mean, thanks for rescuing us and everything, so 
if you’d just let us get on with leading our lives I’m sure we’d all—” 


“I hope you’re not proposing to enslave us,” said Twoflower. 



Marchesa looked genuinely shocked. “Certainly not! Whatever could have 
given you that idea? Your lives in Krull will be rich, full and comfortable—” 

“Oh, good,” said Rincewind. 

“—just not very long.” 


Krull turned out to be a large island, quite mountainous and heavily wooded, 
with pleasant white buildings visible here and there among the trees. The land 
sloped gradually up toward the Rim, so that the highest point in Krull in fact 
slightly overhung the Edge. Here the Krullians had built their major city, also 
called Krull, and since so much of their building material had been salvaged 
from the Circumfence the houses of Krull had a decidedly nautical persuasion. 

To put it bluntly, entire ships had been mortised artfully together and 
converted into buildings. Triremes, dhows and caravels protruded at strange 
angles from the general wooden chaos. Painted figureheads and Hublandish 
dragonprows reminded the citizens of Krull that their good fortune stemmed 
from the sea; barquentines and carracks lent a distinctive shape to the larger 
buildings. And so the city rose tier on tier between the blue-green ocean of the 
Disc and the soft cloud sea of the Edge, the eight colors of the Rimbow reflected 
in every window and in the many telescope lenses of the city’s multitude of 
astronomers. 

“It’s absolutely awful,” said Rincewind gloomily. 

The lens was approaching now along the very lip of the Rimfall. The island 
not only got higher as it neared the Edge. It got narrower, too, so that the lens 
was able to remain over water until it was very near the city. The parapet along 
the edgewise cliff was dotted with gantries projecting into nothingness. The lens 
glided smoothly toward one of them and docked with it as smoothly as a boat 
might glide up to a quay. Four guards, with the same moonlight hair and 
nightblack faces as Marchesa, were waiting. They did not appear to be armed, 
but as Twoflower and Rincewind stumbled onto the parapet they were each 
grabbed by the arms and held quite firmly enough for any thought of escape to 
be instantly dismissed. 


Then Marchesa and the watching hydrophobic wizards were quickly left 



behind and the guards and their prisoners set off briskly along a lane that wound 
between the ship houses. Soon it led downward, into what turned out to be a 
palace of some sort, half-hewn out of the rock of the cliff itself. Rincewind was 
vaguely aware of brightly lit tunnels, and courtyards open to the distant sky. A 
few elderly men, their robes covered in mysterious occult symbols, stood aside 
and watched with interest as the sextet passed. Several times Rincewind noticed 
hydrophobes—their ingrained expressions of self-revulsion at their own body- 
fluids was distinctive—and here and there trudging men who could only be 
slaves. He didn’t have much time to reflect on all this before a door was opened 
ahead of them and they were pushed, gently but firmly, into a room. Then the 
door slammed behind them. 

Rincewind and Twoflower regained their balance and stared around the 
room in which they now found themselves. 

“Gosh,” said Twoflower ineffectually, after a pause during which he had 
tried unsuccessfully to find a better word. 

“This is a prison cell?” wondered Rincewind aloud. 

“All that gold and silk and stuff,” Twoflower added. “I’ve never seen 
anything like it!” 

In the center of the richly decorated room, on a carpet that was so deep and 
furry that Rincewind trod on it gingerly lest it be some kind of shaggy, floor- 
loving beast, was a long gleaming table laden with food. Most were fish dishes, 
including the biggest and most ornately prepared lobster Rincewind had ever 
seen, but there were also plenty of bowls and platters piled with strange creations 
that he had never seen before. He reached out cautiously and picked up some 
sort of purple fruit cmsted with green crystals. 

“Candied sea urchin,” said a cracked, cheerful voice behind him. “A great 
delicacy.” 

He dropped it quickly and turned around. An old man had stepped out from 
behind the heavy curtains. He was tall, thin and looked almost benign compared 
to some of the faces Rincewind had seen recently. 

“The puree of sea cucumbers is very good, too,” said the face, 
conversationally. “Those little green bits are baby starfish.” 



“Thank you for telling me,” said Rincewind weakly. 

“Actually, they’re rather good,” said Twoflower, his mouth full. “I thought 
you liked seafood?” 

“Yes, I thought I did,” said Rincewind. “What’s this wine—crushed octopus 
eyeballs?” 

“Sea grape,” said the old man. 

“Great,” said Rincewind, and swallowed a glassful. “Not bad. A bit salty, 
maybe.” 

“Sea grape is a kind of small jellyfish,” explained the stranger. “And now I 
really think I should introduce myself. Why has your friend gone that strange 
color?” 

“Culture shock, I imagine,” said Twoflower. “What did you say your name 
was?” 

“I didn’t. It’s Garhartra. I’m the Guestmaster, you see. It is my pleasant task 
to make sure that your stay here is as delightful as possible.” He bowed. “If there 
is anything you want you have only to say.” 

Twoflower sat down on an ornate mother-of-pearl chair with a glass of oily 
wine in one hand and a crystallized squid in the other. He frowned. 

“I think I’ve missed something along the way,” he said. “First we were told 
we were going to be slaves—” 

“Abase canard!” interrupted Garhartra. 

“What’s a canard?” said Twoflower. 

“I think it’s a kind of duck,” said Rincewind from the far end of the long 
table. “Are these biscuits made of something really nauseating, do you 
suppose?” 


55 


“—and then we were rescued at great magical expense 



“They’re made of pressed seaweed,” snapped the Guestmaster. 

“—but then we’re threatened, also at a vast expenditure of magic—” 

“Yes, I thought it would be something like seaweed,” agreed Rincewind. 
“They certainly taste like seaweed would taste if anyone was masochistic 
enough to eat seaweed.” 

“—and then we’re manhandled by guards and thrown in here—” 

“Pushed gently,” corrected Garhartra. 

“—which turned out to be this amazingly rich room and there’s all this food 
and a man saying he’s devoting his life to making us happy,” Twoflower 
concluded. “What I’m getting at is this sort of lack of consistency.” 

“Yar,” said Rincewind. “What he means is, are you about to start being 
generally unpleasant again? Is this just a break for lunch?” 

Garhartra held up his hands reassuringly. 

“Please, please,” he protested. “It was just necessary to get you here as soon 
as possible. We certainly do not want to enslave you. Please be reassured on that 
score.” 

“Well, fine,” said Rincewind. 

“Yes, you will in fact be sacrificed,” Garhartra continued placidly. 

“Sacrificed? You’re going to kill us?” shouted the wizard. 

“Kill? Yes, of course. Certainly! It would hardly be a sacrifice if we didn’t, 
would it? But don’t worry—it’ll be comparatively painless.” 

“Comparatively? Compared to what?” said Rincewind. He picked up a tall 
green bottle that was full of sea grape jellyfish wine and hurled it hard at the 
Guestmaster, who flung up a hand as if to protect himself. 

There was a crackle of octarine flame from his fingers and the air suddenly 
took on the thick, greasy feel that indicated a powerful magical discharge. The 



flung bottle slowed and then stopped in midair, rotating gently. 


At the same time an invisible force picked Rincewind up and hurled him 
down the length of the room, pinning him awkwardly halfway up the far wall 
with no breath left in his body. He hung there with his mouth open in rage and 
astonishment. 

Garhartra lowered his hand and brushed it slowly on his robe. 

“I didn’t enjoy doing that, you know,” he said. 

“I could tell,” muttered Rincewind. 

“But what do you want to sacrifice us for?” asked Twoflower. “You hardly 
know us!” 

“That’s rather the point, isn’t it? It’s not very good manners to sacrifice a 
friend. Besides, you were, um, specified. I don’t know a lot about the god in 
question, but He was quite clear on that point. Look, I must be running along 
now. So much to organize, you know how it is,” the Guestmaster opened the 
door, and then peered back around it. “Please make yourselves comfortable, and 
don’t worry.” 

“But you haven’t actually told us anything!” wailed Twoflower. 

“It’s not really worth it, is it? What with you being sacrificed in the 
morning,” said Garhartra, “it’s hardly worth the bother of knowing, really. Sleep 
well. Comparatively well, anyway.” 

He shut the door. A brief octarine flicker of balefire around it suggested that 
it had now been sealed beyond the skills of any earthly locksmith. 


Gling, clang, tang went the bells along the Circumfence in the moonlit, Rimfall¬ 
roaring night. 

Terton, lengthman of the 45th Length, hadn’t heard such a clashing since the 
night a giant kraken had been swept into the Fence five years ago. He leaned out 
of his hut, which for the lack of any convenient eyot on this Length had been 
built on wooden piles driven into the seabed, and stared into the darkness. Once 



or twice he thought he could see movement, far off. Strictly speaking, he should 
row out to see what was causing the din. But here in the clammy darkness it 
didn’t seem like an astoundingly good idea, so he slammed the door, wrapped 
some sacking around the madly jangling bells, and tried to get back to sleep. 

That didn’t work, because even the top strand of the Fence was thrumming 
now, as if something big and heavy was bouncing on it. After staring at the 
ceiling for a few minutes, and trying hard not to think of great long tentacles and 
pond-sized eyes, Terton blew out the lantern and opened the door a crack. 

Something was coming along the Fence, in giant loping bounds that covered 
meters at a time. It loomed up at him and for a moment Terton saw something 
rectangular, multilegged, shaggy with seaweed and—although it had absolutely 
no features from which he could have deduced this—it was also very angry 
indeed. 

The hut was smashed to fragments as the monster charged through it, 
although Terton survived by clinging to the Circumfence; some weeks later he 
was picked up by a returning salvage fleet, subsequently escaped from Krull on a 
hijacked lens (having developed hydrophobia to an astonishing degree) and after 
a number of adventures eventually found his way to the Great Nef, an area of the 
Disc so dry that it actually has negative rainfall, which he nevertheless 
considered uncomfortably damp. 


“Have you tried the door?” 

“Yes,” said Twoflower. “And it isn’t any less locked than it was last time you 
asked. There’s the window, though.” 

“A great way of escape,” muttered Rincewind, from his perch halfway up the 
wall. “You said it looks out over the Edge. Just step out, eh, and plunge through 
space and maybe freeze solid or hit some other world at incredible speeds or 
plunge wildly into the burning heart of a sun?” 

“Worth a try,” said Twoflower. “Want a seaweed biscuit?” 


“No!” 



“When are you coming down?” 

Rincewind snarled. This was partly in embarrassment. Garhartra’s spell had 
been the little-used and hard-to-master Atavarr’s Personal Gravitational Upset, 
the practical result of which was that until it wore off Rincewind’s body was 
convinced that “down” lay at ninety degrees to that direction normally accepted 
as of a downward persuasion by the majority of the Disc’s inhabitants. He was in 
fact standing on the wall. 

Meanwhile the flung bottle hung supportless in the air a few yards away. In 
its case time had—well, not actually been stopped, but had been slowed by 
several orders of magnitude, and its trajectory had so far occupied several hours 
and a couple of inches as far as Twoflower and Rincewind were concerned. The 
glass gleamed in the moonlight. Rincewind sighed and tried to make himself 
comfortable on the wall. 

“Why don’t you ever worry?” he demanded petulantly. “Here we are, going 
to be sacrificed to some god or other in the morning, and you just sit there eating 
barnacle canapes.” 

“I expect something will turn up,” said Twoflower. 

“I mean, it’s not as if we know why we’re going to be killed,” the wizard 
went on. 

You’d like to, would you? 

“Did you say that?” asked Rincewind. 

“Say what?” 

You’re hearing things said the voice in Rincewind’s head. 

He sat bolt sideways. “Who are you?” he demanded. 

Twoflower gave him a worried look. 

“I’m Twoflower,” he said. “Surely you remember?” 


Rincewind put his head in his hands. 



“It’s happened at last,” he moaned. “I’m going out of my mind.” 

Good idea said the voice. It’s getting pretty crowded in here 

The spell pinning Rincewind to the wall vanished with a faint “pop.” He fell 
forward and landed in a heap on the floor. 

Careful—you nearly squashed me 

Rincewind struggled to his elbows and reached into the pocket of his robe. 
When he withdrew his hand the green frog was sitting on it, its eyes oddly 
luminous in the half-light. 

“You?” said Rincewind. 

Put me down on the floor and stand back The frog blinked. 

The wizard did so, and dragged a bewildered Twoflower out of the way. 

The room darkened. There was a windy, roaring sound. Streamers of green, 
purple and octarine cloud appeared out of nowhere and began to spiral rapidly 
toward the recumbent amphibian, shedding small bolts of lightning as they 
whirled. Soon the frog was lost in a golden haze which began to elongate 
upward, filling the room with a warm yellow light. Within it was a darker, 
indistinct shape, which wavered and changed even as they watched. And all the 
time there was the high, brain-curdling whine of a huge magical field... 

As suddenly as it had appeared, the magical tornado vanished. And there, 
occupying the space where the frog had been, was a frog. 

“Fantastic,” said Rincewind. 

The frog gazed at him reproachfully. 

“Really amazing,” said Rincewind sourly. “A frog magically transformed 
into a frog. Wondrous.” 

“Turn around,” said a voice behind them. It was a soft, feminine voice, 
almost an inviting voice, the sort of voice you could have a few drinks with, but 
it was coming from a spot where there oughtn’t to be a voice at all. They 



managed to turn without really moving, like a couple of statues revolving on 
plinths. 

There was a woman standing in the pre-dawn light. She looked—she was— 
she had a—in point of actual fact she... 

Later Rincewind and Twoflower couldn’t quite agree on any single fact 
about her, except that she had appeared to be beautiful (precisely what physical 
features made her beautiful they could not, definitively, state) and that she had 
green eyes. Not the pale green of ordinary eyes, either—these were the green of 
fresh emeralds and as iridescent as a dragonfly. And one of the few genuinely 
magical facts that Rincewind knew was that no god or goddess, contrary and 
volatile as they might be in all other respects, could change the color or nature of 
their eyes... 

“L—” he began. She raised a hand. 

“You know that if you say my name I must depart,” she hissed. “Surely you 
recall that I am the one goddess who comes only when not invoked?” 

“Uh. Yes, I suppose I do,” croaked the wizard, trying not to look at the eyes. 
“You’re the one they call the Lady?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you a goddess then?” said Twoflower excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to 
meet one.” 

Rincewind tensed, waiting for the explosion of rage. Instead, the Lady 
merely smiled. 

“Your friend the wizard should introduce us,” she said. 

Rincewind coughed. “Uh, yar,” he said. “This is Twoflower, Lady, he’s a 
tourist—” 

“—I have attended him on a number of occasions—” 

“—and, Twoflower, this is the Lady. Just the Lady, right? Nothing else. 

Don’t try and give her any other name, okay?” he went on desperately, his eyes 



darting meaningful glances that were totally lost on the little man. 

Rincewind shivered. He was not, of course, an atheist; on the Disc the gods 
dealt severely with atheists. On the few occasions when he had some spare 
change he had always made a point of dropping a few coppers into a temple 
coffer, somewhere, on the principle that a man needed all the friends he could 
get. But usually he didn’t bother the gods, and he hoped the gods wouldn’t 
bother him. Life was quite complicated enough. 

There were two gods, however, who were really terrifying. The rest of the 
gods were usually only sort of large-scale humans, fond of wine and war and 
whoring. But Fate and the Lady were chilling. 

In the Gods’ Quarter, in Ankh-Morpork, Fate had a small, heavy, leaden 
temple, where hollow-eyed and gaunt worshippers met on dark nights for their 
predestined and fairly pointless rites. There were no temples at all to the Lady, 
although she was arguably the most powerful goddess in the entire history of 
Creation. A few of the more daring members of the Gamblers’ Guild had once 
experimented with a form of worship, in the deepest cellars of Guild 
headquarters, and had all died of penury, murder or just Death within the week. 
She was the Goddess Who Must Not Be Named; those who sought her never 
found her, yet she was known to come to the aid of those in greatest need. And, 
then again, sometimes she didn’t. She was like that. She didn’t like the clicking 
of rosaries, but was attracted to the sound of dice. No man knew what She 
looked like, although there were many times when a man who was gambling his 
life on the turn of the cards would pick up the hand he had been dealt and stare 
Her full in the face. Of course, sometimes he didn’t. Among all the gods she was 
at one and the same time the most courted and the most cursed. 

“We don’t have gods where I come from,” said Two flower. 

“You do, you know,” said the Lady. “Everyone has gods. You just don’t 
think they’re gods.” 

Rincewind shook himself mentally. 

“Look,” he said. “I don’t want to sound impatient, but in a few minutes some 
people are going to come through that door and take us away and kill us.” 


“Yes,” said the Lady. 



“I suppose you wouldn’t tell us why?” said Twoflower. 


“Yes,” said the Lady. “The Krullians intend to launch a bronze vessel over 
the edge of the Disc. Their prime purpose is to learn the sex of A’Tuin the World 
Turtle.” 

“Seems rather pointless,” said Rincewind. 

“No. Consider. One day Great A’Tuin may encounter another member of the 
species chelys galacdca, somewhere in the vast night in which we move. Will 
they fight? Will they mate? A little imagination will show you that the sex of 
Great A’Tuin could be very important to us. At least, so the Krullians say.” 

Rincewind tried not to think of World Turtles mating. It wasn’t completely 
easy. 

“So,” continued the goddess, “they intend to launch this ship of space, with 
two voyagers aboard. It will be the culmination of decades of research. It will 
also be very dangerous for the travelers. And so, in an attempt to reduce the 
risks, the Arch-astronomer of Krull has bargained with Fate to sacrifice two men 
at the moment of launch. Fate, in His turn, has agreed to smile on the space ship. 
A neat barter, is it not?” 

“And we’re the sacrifices,” said Rincewind. 

“Yes.” 

“I thought Fate didn’t go in for that sort of bargaining. I thought Fate was 
implaccable,” said Rincewind. 

“Normally, yes. But you two have been thorns in his side for some time. He 
specified that the sacrifices should be you. He allowed you to escape from the 
pirates. He allowed you to drift into the Circumfence. Fate can be one mean god 
at times.” 

There was a pause. The frog sighed and wandered off under the table. 

“But you can help us?” prompted Twoflower. 

“You amuse me,” said the Lady. “I have a sentimental streak. You’d know 



that, if you were gamblers. So for a little while I rode in a frog’s mind and you 
kindly rescued me, for, as we all know, no one likes to see pathetic and helpless 
creatures swept to their death.” 

“Thank you,” said Rincewind. 

“The whole mind of Fate is bent against you,” said the Lady. “But all I can 
do is give you one chance. Just one, small chance. The rest is up to you.” 

She vanished. 

“Gosh,” said Twoflower, after a while. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a 
goddess.” 

The door swung open. Garhartra entered, holding a wand in front of him. 
Behind him were two guards, armed more conventionally with swords. 

“Ah,” he said conversationally. “You are ready, I see.” 

Ready said a voice inside Rincewind’s head. 

The bottle that the wizard had flung some eight hours earlier had been 
hanging in the air, imprisoned by magic in its own personal time-field. But 
during all those hours the original mana of the spell had been slowly leaking 
away until the total magical energy was no longer sufficient to hold it against the 
universe’s own powerful normality field, and when that happened Reality 
snapped back in a matter of microseconds. The visible sign of this was that the 
bottle suddenly completed the last part of its parabola and burst against the side 
of the Guestmaster’s head, showering the guards with glass and jellyfish wine. 

Rincewind grabbed Twoflower’s arm, kicked the nearest guard in the groin, 
and dragged the startled tourist into the corridor. Before the stunned Garhartra 
had sunk to the floor his two guests were already pounding across distant 
flagstones. 

Rincewind skidded around a corner and found himself on a balcony that ran 
around the four sides of a courtyard. Below them, most of the floor of the yard 
was taken up by an ornamental pond in which a few terrapins sunbathed among 
the lily leaves. 



And ahead of Rincewind were a couple of very surprised wizards wearing 
the distinctive dark blue and black robes of trained hydrophobes. One of them, 
quicker on the uptake than his companion, raised a hand and began the first 
words of a spell. 

There was a short sharp noise by Rincewind’s side. Twoflower had spat. The 
hydrophobe screamed and dropped his hand as though it had been stung. 

The other didn’t have time to move before Rincewind was on him, fists 
swinging wildly. One stiff punch with the weight of terror behind it sent the man 
tumbling over the balcony rail and into the pond, which did a very strange thing; 
the water smacked aside as though a large invisible balloon had been dropped 
into it, and the hydrophobe hung screaming in his own revulsion field. 

Twoflower watched him in amazement until Rincewind snatched at his 
shoulder and indicated a likely looking passage. They hurried down it, leaving 
the remaining hydrophobe writhing on the floor and snatching at his damp hand. 

For a while there was some shouting behind them, but they scuttled along a 
cross corridor and another courtyard and soon left the sounds of pursuit behind. 
Finally Rincewind picked a safe looking door, peered around it, found the room 
beyond to be unoccupied, dragged Twoflower inside, and slammed it behind 
him. Then he leaned against it, wheezing horribly. 

“We’re totally lost in a palace on an island we haven’t a hope of leaving,” he 
panted. “And what’s more we—hey!” he finished, as the sight of the contents of 
the room filtered up his deranged optic nerves. 

Twoflower was already staring at the walls. 

Because what was so odd about the room was, it contained the whole 
universe. 


Death sat in His garden, running a whetstone along the edge of His scythe. It 
was already so sharp that any passing breeze that blew across it was sliced 
smoothly into two puzzled zephyrs, although breezes were rare indeed in Death’s 
silent garden. It lay on a sheltered plateau overlooking the Discworld’s complex 
dimensions, and behind it loomed the cold, still, immensely high and brooding 



mountains of Eternity. 


Swish! went the stone. Death hummed a dirge, and tapped one bony foot on 
the frosty flagstones. 

Someone approached through the dim orchard where the nightapples grew, 
and there came the sickly sweet smell of crushed lilies. Death looked up angrily, 
and found Himself staring into eyes that were black as the inside of a cat and full 
of distant stars that had no counterpart among the familiar constellations of the 
Realtime universe. 

Death and Fate looked at each other. Death grinned—He had no alternative, 
of course, being made of implaccable bone. The whetstone sang rhythmically 
along the blade as He continued His task. 

“I have a task for you,” said Fate. His words drifted across Death’s scythe 
and split tidily into two ribbons of consonants and vowels. 

I have tasks enough this day, said Death in a voice as heavy as neutronium. 
The white plague abides even now in Pseudopolis and I am bound there to 

RESCUE MANY OF ITS CITIZENS FROM HIS GRASP. SUCH A ONE HAS NOT BEEN SEEN 
THESE HUNDRED YEARS. I AM EXPECTED TO STALK THE STREETS, AS IS MY DUTY. 

“I refer to the matter of the little wanderer and the rogue wizard,” said Fate 
softly, seating himself beside Death’s black-robed form and staring down at the 
distant, multifaceted jewel which was the Disc universe as seen from this extra- 
dimensional vantage point. 

The scythe ceased its song. 

“They die in a few hours,” said Fate. “It is fated.” 

Death stirred, and the stone began to move again. 

“I thought you would be pleased,” said Fate. 

Death shrugged, a particularly expressive gesture for someone whose visible 
shape was that of a skeleton. 

I DID INDEED CHASE THEM MIGHTILY, ONCE, he Said, BUT AT LAST THE THOUGHT 



CAME TO ME THAT SOONER OR LATER ALL MEN MUST DIE. EVERYTHING DIES IN THE 
END. I CAN BE ROBBED BUT NEVER DENIED, I TOLD MYSELF. WHY WORRY? 


“I too cannot be cheated,” snapped Fate. 

So I have heard, said Death, still grinning. 

“Enough!” shouted Fate, jumping to his feet. “They will die!” He vanished 
in a sheet of blue fire. 

Death nodded to Himself and continued at His work. After some minutes the 
edge of the blade seemed to be finished to His satisfaction. He stood up and 
leveled the scythe at the fat and noisome candle that burned on the edge of the 
bench and then, with two deft sweeps, cut the flame into three bright slivers. 
Death grinned. 

A short while later he was saddling his white stallion, which lived in a stable 
at the back of Death’s cottage. The beast snuffled at him in a friendly fashion; 
though it was crimson-eyed and had flanks like oiled silk, it was nevertheless a 
real flesh-and-blood horse and, indeed, was in all probability better treated than 
most beasts of burden on the Disc. Death was not an unkind master. He weighed 
very little and, although He often rode back with His saddlebags bulging, they 
weighed nothing whatsoever. 


“All those worlds!” said Twoflower. “It’s fantastic!” 

Rincewind grunted, and continued to prowl warily around the star-filled 
room. Twoflower turned to a complicated astrolabe, in the center of which was 
the entire Great A’Tuin-Elephant-Disc system wrought in brass and picked out 
with tiny jewels. Around it stars and planets wheeled on fine silver wires. 

“Fantastic!” he said again. On the walls around him constellations made of 
tiny phosphorescent seed pearls had been picked out on vast tapestries made of 
jet-black velvet, giving the room’s occupants the impression of floating in the 
interstellar gulf. Various easels held huge sketches of Great A’Tuin as viewed 
from various parts of the Circumfence, with every mighty scale and cratered 
pock-mark meticulously marked in. Twoflower stared about him with a faraway 
look in his eyes. 



Rincewind was deeply troubled. What troubled him most of all were the two 
suits that hung from supports in the center of the room. He circled them uneasily. 

They appeared to be made of fine white leather, hung about with straps and 
brass nozzles and other highly unfamiliar and suspicious contrivances. The 
leggings ended in high, thick-soled boots, and the arms were shoved into big 
supple gauntlets. Strangest of all were the big copper helmets that were 
obviously supposed to fit on heavy collars around the neck of the suits. The 
helmets were almost certainly useless for protection—a light sword would have 
no difficulty in splitting them, even if it didn’t hit the ridiculous little glass 
windows in the front. Each helmet had a crest of white feathers on top, which 
went absolutely no way at all toward improving their overall appearance. 

Rincewind was beginning to have the glimmerings of a suspicion about 
those suits. 

In front of them was a table covered with celestial charts and scraps of 
parchment covered with figures. Whoever would be wearing those suits, 
Rincewind decided, was expecting to boldly go where no man—other than the 
occasional luckless sailor, who didn’t really count—had boldly gone before, and 
he was now beginning to get not just a suspicion but a horrible premonition. 

He turned around and found Twoflower looking at him with a speculative 
expression. 

“No—” began Rincewind, urgently. Twoflower ignored him. 

“The goddess said two men were going to be sent over the Edge,” he said, 
his eyes gleaming, “and you remember Tethis the troll saying you’d need some 
kind of protection? The Krullians have got over that. These are suits of space 
armor.” 

“They don’t look very roomy to me,” said Rincewind hurriedly, and grabbed 
the tourist by the arm, “so if you’d just come on, no sense in staying here—” 

“Why must you always panic?” asked Twoflower petulantly. 

“Because the whole of my future life just flashed in front of my eyes, and it 
didn’t take very long, and if you don’t move now I’m going to leave without you 
because any second now you’re going to suggest that we put on—” 



The door opened. 


Two husky young men stepped into the room. All they were wearing was a 
pair of woolen pants apiece. One of them was still toweling himself briskly. 

They both nodded at the two escapees with no apparent surprise. 

The taller of the two men sat down on one of the benches in front of the 
seats. He beckoned to Rincewind, and said: 

“?Ty0yur atl h0 sooten gatrunen?” 

And this was awkward, because although Rincewind considered himself an 
expert in most of the tongues of the western segments of the Disc it was the first 
time that he had ever been addressed in Krullian, and he did not understand one 
word of it. Neither did Twoflower, but that did not stop him stepping forward 
and taking a breath. 

The speed of light through a magical aura such as the one that surrounded 
the Disc was quite slow, being not much faster than the speed of sound in less 
highly tuned universes. But it was still the fastest thing around with the 
exception, in moments like this, of Rincewind’s mind. 

In an instant he became aware that the tourist was about to try his own 
peculiar brand of linguistics, which meant that he would speak loudly and slowly 
in his own language. 

Rincewind’s elbow shot back, knocking the breath from Twoflower’s body. 
When the little man looked up in pain and astonishment Rincewind caught his 
eye and pulled an imaginary tongue out of his mouth and cut it with an 
imaginary pair of scissors. 

The second chelonaut—for such was the profession of the men whose fate it 
would shortly be to voyage to Great A’Tuin—looked up from the chart table and 
watched this in puzzlement. His big heroic brow wrinkled with the effort of 
speech. 

“?H 0 ryu latruin mr ii?” he said. 

Rincewind smiled and nodded and pushed Twoflower in his general 
direction. With an inward sigh of relief he saw the tourist pay sudden attention to 



a big brass telescope that lay on the table. 


“/ Sooten ii!” commanded the seated chelonaut. Rincewind nodded and 
smiled and took one of the big copper helmets from the rack and brought it down 
on the man’s head as hard as he possibly could. The chelonaut fell forward with 
a soft grunt. 

The other man took one startled step before Twoflower hit him amateurishly 
but effectively with the telescope. He crumpled on top of his colleague. 

Rincewind and Twoflower looked at each other over the carnage. 

“All right]” snapped Rincewind, aware that he had lost some kind of contest 
but not entirely certain what it was. “Don’t bother to say it. Someone out there is 
expecting these two guys to come out in the suits in a minute. I suppose they 
thought we were slaves. Help me hide these behind the drapes and then, and then 


“—we’d better suit up,” said Twoflower, picking up the second helmet. 

“Yes,” said Rincewind. “You know, as soon as I saw the suits I just knew I’d 
end up wearing one. Don’t ask me how I knew—I suppose it was because it was 
just about the worst possible thing that was likely to happen.” 

“Well, you said yourself we have no way of escaping,” said Twoflower, his 
voice muffled as he pulled the top half of a suit over his head. “Anything’s better 
than being sacrificed.” 

“As soon as we get a chance we run for it,” said Rincewind. “Don’t get any 
ideas.” 

He thrust an arm savagely into his suit and banged his head on the helmet. 
He reflected briefly that someone up there was watching over him. 

“Thanks a lot,” he said bitterly. 


At the very edge of the city and country of Krull was a large semicircular 
amphitheater, with seating for several tens of thousands of people. The arena was 
only semicircular for the very elegant reason that it overlooked the cloud sea that 



boiled up from the Rimfall, far below, and now every seat was occupied. And the 
crowd was growing restive. It had come to see a double sacrifice and also the 
launching of the great bronze space ship. Neither event had yet materialized. 

The Arch-astronomer beckoned the Master Launchcontroller to him. 

“Well?” he said, filling a mere four letters with a full lexicon of anger and 
menace. The Master Launchcontroller went pale. 

“No news, lord,” said the Launchcontroller, and added with a brittle 
brightness, “except that your prominence will be pleased to hear that Garhartra 
has recovered.” 

“That is a fact he may come to regret,” said the Arch astronomer. 

“Yes, lord.” 

“How much longer do we have?” 

The Launchcontroller glanced at the rapidly climbing sun. 

“Thirty minutes, your prominence. After that Krull will have revolved away 
from Great A’Tuin’s tail and the Potent Voyager will be doomed to spin away 
into the interterrapene gulf. I have already set the automatic controls, so—” 

“All right, all right,” the Arch-astronomer said, waving him away. “The 
launch must go ahead. Maintain the watch on the harbor, of course. When the 
wretched pair are caught I will personally take a great deal of pleasure in 
executing them myself.” 

“Yes, lord. Er—” 

The Arch-astronomer frowned. “What else have you got to say, man?” 

The Launchcontroller swallowed. All this was very unfair on him, he was a 
practical magician rather than a diplomat, and that was why some wiser brains 
had seen to it that he would be the one to pass on the news. 

“A monster has come out of the sea and it’s attacking the ships in the 
harbor,” he said. “A runner just arrived from there.” 



“A big monster?” said the Arch-astronomer. 

“Not particularly, although it is said to be exceptionally fierce, lord.” 

The ruler of Krull and the Circumfence considered this for a moment, then 
shrugged. 

“The sea is full of monsters,” he said. “It is one of its prime attributes. Have 
it dealt with. And—Master Launchcontroller?” 

“Lord?” 

“If I am further vexed, you will recall that two people are due to be 
sacrificed. I may feel generous and increase the number.” 

“Yes, lord.” The Master Launchcontroller scuttled away, relieved to be out of 
the autocrat’s sight. 

The Potent Voyager, no longer the blank bronze shell that had been smashed 
from the mold a few days earlier, rested in its cradle on top of a wooden tower in 
the center of the arena. In front of it a railway ran down toward the Edge, where 
for the space of a few yards it turned suddenly upward. 

The late Dactylos Goldeneyes, who had designed the launching pad as well 
as the Potent Voyager itself, had claimed that this last touch was merely to 
ensure that the ship would not snag on any rocks as it began its long plunge. 
Maybe it was merely coincidental that it would also, because of that little twitch 
in the track, leap like a salmon and shine theatrically in the sunlight before 
disappearing into the cloud sea. 

There was a fanfare of trumpets at the edge of the arena. The chelonauts’ 
honor guard appeared, to much cheering from the crowd. Then the white-suited 
explorers themselves stepped out into the light. 

It immediately dawned on the Arch-astronomer that something was wrong. 
Heroes always walked in a certain way, for example. They certainly didn’t 
waddle, and one of the chelonauts was definitely waddling. 

The roar of the assembled people of Krull was deafening. As the chelonauts 
and their guards crossed the great arena, passing between the many altars that 



had been set up for the various wizards and priests of KrulTs many sects to 
ensure the success of the launch, the Arch-astronomer frowned. By the time the 
party was halfway across the floor his mind had reached a conclusion. By the 
time the chelonauts were standing at the foot of the ladder that led to the ship— 
and was there more than a hint of reluctance about them?—the Arch-astronomer 
was on his feet, his words lost in the noise of the crowd. One of his arms shot out 
and back, fingers spread dramatically in the traditional spell-casting position, 
and any passing lip-reader who was also familiar with the standard texts on 
magic would have recognized the opening words of Vestcake’s Floating Curse, 
and would then have prudently run away. 

Its final words remained unsaid, however. The Arch-astronomer turned in 
astonishment as a commotion broke out around the big arched entrance to the 
arena. Guards were running out into the daylight, throwing down their weapons 
as they scuttled among the altars or vaulted the parapet into the stands. 

Something emerged behind them, and the crowd around the entrance ceased 
its raucous cheering and began a silent, determined scramble to get out of the 
way. 

The something was a low dome of seaweed, moving slowly but with a 
sinister sense of purpose. One guard overcame his horror sufficiently to stand in 
its path and hurl his spear, which landed squarely among the weeds. The crowd 
cheered—then went deathly silent as the dome surged forward and engulfed the 
man completely. 

The Arch-astronomer dismissed the half-formed shape of Vestcake’s famous 
Curse with a sharp wave of his hand, and quickly spoke the words of one of the 
most powerful spells in his repertoire: the Infernal Combustion Enigma. 

Octarine fire spiraled around and between his fingers as he shaped the 
complex rune of the spell in midair and sent it, screaming and trailing blue 
smoke, toward the shape. 

There was a satisfying explosion and a gout of flame shot up into the clear 
morning sky, shedding flakes of burning seaweed on the way. A cloud of smoke 
and steam concealed the monster for several minutes, and when it cleared the 
dome had completely disappeared. 


There was a large charred circle on the flagstones, however, in which a few 



clumps of kelp and bladderwrack still smoldered. 


And in the center of the circle was a perfectly ordinary, if somewhat large, 
wooden chest. It was not even scorched. Someone on the far side of the arena 
started to laugh, but the sound was broken off abruptly as the chest rose up on 
dozens of what could only be legs and turned to face the Arch-Astronomer. A 
perfectly ordinary if somewhat large wooden chest does not, of course, have a 
face with which to face, but this one was quite definitely facing. In precisely the 
same way as he understood that, the Arch-astronomer was also horribly aware 
that this perfectly normal box was in some indescribable way narrowing its eyes. 

It began to move resolutely toward him. He shuddered. 

“Magicians!” he screamed. “Where are my magicians?” 

Around the arena pale-faced men peeped out from behind altars and under 
benches. One of the bolder ones, seeing the expression on the Arch-astronomer’s 
face, raised an arm tremulously and essayed a hasty thunderbolt. It hissed toward 
the chest and struck it squarely in a shower of white sparks. 

That was the signal for every magician, enchanter and thaumaturgist in Krull 
to leap up eagerly and, under the terrified eyes of their master, unleash the first 
spell that came to each desperate mind. Charms curved and whistled through the 
air. 


Soon the chest was lost to view again in an expanding cloud of magical 
particles, which billowed out and wreathed it in twisting, disquieting shapes. 
Spell after spell screamed into the melee. Flame and lightning bolts of all eight 
colors stabbed out brightly from the seething thing that now occupied the space 
where the box had been. 

Not since the Mage Wars had so much magic been concentrated on one 
small area. The air itself wavered and glittered. Spell ricocheted off spell, 
creating short-lived wild spells whose brief half-life was both weird and 
uncontrolled. The stones under the heaving mass began to buckle and split. One 
of them in fact turned into something best left undescribed and slunk off into 
some dismal dimension. Other strange side effects began to manifest themselves. 
A shower of small lead cubes bounced out of the storm and rolled across the 
heaving floor, and eldritch shapes gibbered and beckoned obscenely; four-sided 
triangles and double-ended circles existed momentarily before merging again 



into the booming, screaming tower of runaway raw magic that boiled up from 
the molten flagstones and spread out over Krull. It no longer mattered that most 
of the magicians had ceased their spell casting and fled—the thing was now 
feeding on the stream of octarine particles that were always at their thickest near 
the Edge of the Disc. Throughout the island of Krull every magical activity 
failed as all the available mana in the area was sucked into the cloud, which was 
already a quarter of a mile high and streaming out into mind-curdling shapes; 
hydrophobes on their sea-skimming lenses crashed screaming into the waves, 
magic potions turned to mere impure water in their phials, magic swords melted 
and dripped from their scabbards. 

But none of this in any way prevented the thing at the base of the cloud, now 
gleaming mirror-bright in the intensity of the power storm around it, from 
moving at a steady walking pace toward the Arch-astronomer. 


Rincewind and Twoflower watched in awe from the shelter of Potent Voyager’s 
launch tower. The honor party had long since vanished, leaving their weapons 
scattered behind them. 

“Well,” sighed Twoflower at last, “there goes the Luggage.” He sighed. 

“Don’t you believe it,” said Rincewind. “Sapient pearwood is totally 
impervious to all known forms of magic. It’s been constructed to follow you 
anywhere. I mean, when you die, if you go to Heaven, you’ll at least have a 
clean pair of socks in the afterlife. But I don’t want to die yet, so let’s just get 
going, shall we?” 

“Where?” said Twoflower. 

Rincewind picked up a crossbow and a handful of quarrels. “Anywhere that 
isn’t here,” he said. 

“What about the Luggage?” 

“Don’t worry. When the storm has used up all the free magic in the vicinity 
it’ll just die out.” 


In fact that was already beginning to happen. The billowing cloud was still 



flowing up from the area but now it had a tenuous, harmless look about it. Even 
as Twoflower stared, it began to flicker uncertainly. 

Soon it was a pale ghost. The Luggage was now visible as a squat shape 
among the almost invisible flames. Around it the rapidly cooling stones began to 
crack and buckle. 

Twoflower called softly to his Luggage. It stopped its stolid progression 
across the tortured flags and appeared to be listening intently; then, moving its 
dozens of feet in an intricate pattern, it turned on its length and headed toward 
the Potent Voyager. Rincewind watched it sourly. The Luggage had an elemental 
nature, absolutely no brain, a homicidal attitude toward anything that threatened 
its master, and he wasn’t quite sure that its inside occupied the same space-time 
framework as its outside. 

“Not a mark on it,” said Twoflower cheerfully, as the box settled down in 
front of him. He pushed open the lid. 

“This is a fine time to change your underwear,” snarled Rincewind. “In a 
minute all those guards and priests are going to come back, and they’re going to 
be upset, man!” 

“Water,” murmured Twoflower. “The whole box is full of water!” 

Rincewind peered over his shoulder. There was no sign of clothes, 
moneybags, or any other of the tourist’s belongings. The whole box was full of 
water. 

A wave sprang up from nowhere and lapped over the edge. It hit the 
flagstones but, instead of spreading out, began to take the shape of a foot. 
Another foot and the bottom half of a pair of legs followed as more water 
streamed down as if filling an invisible mold. A moment later Tethis the sea troll 
was standing in front of them, blinking. 

“I see,” he said at last. “You two. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” 

He looked around, ignoring their astonished expressions. 


“I was just sitting outside my hut, watching the sun set, when this thing came 
roaring up out of the water and swallowed me,” he said. “I thought it was rather 



strange. Where is this place?” 


“Krull,” said Rincewind. He stared hard at the now closed Luggage, which 
was managing to project a smug expression. Swallowing people was something 
it did quite frequently, but always when the lid was next opened there was 
nothing inside but Twoflower’s laundry. Savagely he wrenched the lid up. There 
was nothing inside but Twoflower’s laundry. It was perfectly dry. 

“Well, well,” said Tethis. He looked up. 

“Hey!” he said. “Isn’t this the ship they’re going to send over the Edge? Isn’t 
it? It must be!” 

An arrow zipped through his chest, leaving a faint ripple. He didn’t appear to 
notice. Rincewind did. Soldiers were beginning to appear at the edge of the 
arena, and a number of them were peering around the entrances. 

Another arrow bounced off the tower behind Twoflower. At this range the 
bolts did not have a lot of force, but it would only be a matter of time... 

“Quick!” said Twoflower. “Into the ship! They won’t dare fire at that!” 

“I knew you were going to suggest that,” groaned Rincewind. “I just knew 
it!” 


He aimed a kick at the Luggage. It backed off a few inches, and opened its 
lid threateningly. 

A spear arced out of the sky and trembled to a halt in the woodwork by the 
wizard’s ear. He screamed briefly and scrambled up the ladder after the others. 

Arrows whistled around them as they came out onto the narrow catwalk that 
led along the spine of the Potent Voyager. Twoflower led the way, jogging along 
with what Rincewind considered to be too much suppressed excitement. 

Atop the center of the ship was a large round bronze hatch with hasps around 
it. The troll and the tourist knelt down and started to work on them. 

In the heart of the Potent Voyager fine sand had been trickling into a 
carefully designed cup for several hours. Now the cup was filled by exactly the 



right amount to dip down and upset a carefully balanced weight. The weight 
swung away, pulling a pin from an intricate little mechanism. A chain began to 
move. There was a clonk... 

“What was that?” said Rincewind urgently. He looked down. 

The hail of arrows had stopped. The crowd of priests and soldiers were 
standing motionless, staring intently at the ship. A small worried man elbowed 
his way through them and started to shout something. 

“What was what?” said Twoflower, busy with a wing-nut. 

“I thought I heard something,” said Rincewind. “Look,” he said, “we’ll 
threaten to damage the thing if they don’t let us go, right? That’s all we’re going 
to do, right?” 

“Yah,” said Twoflower vaguely. He sat back on his heels. “That’s it,” he 
said. “It ought to lift off now.” 

Several muscular men were swarming up the ladder to the ship. Rincewind 
recognized the two chelonauts among them. They were carrying swords. 

“I—” he began. 

The ship lurched. Then, with infinite slowness, it began to move along the 
rails. 

In that moment of black horror Rincewind saw that Twoflower and the troll 
had managed to pull the hatch up. A metal ladder inside led into the cabin below. 
The troll disappeared. 

“We’ve got to get off,” whispered Rincewind. Twoflower looked at him, a 
strange mad smile on his face. 

“Stars,” said the tourist. “Worlds. The whole damn sky full of worlds. Places 
no one will ever see. Except me.” He stepped through the hatchway. 

“You’re totally mad,” said Rincewind hoarsely, trying to keep his balance as 
the ship began to speed up. He turned as one of the chelonauts tried to leap the 
gap between the Voyager and the tower, landed on the curving flank of the ship, 



scrabbled for an instant for purchase, failed to find any, and dropped away with a 
shriek. 


The Voyager was traveling quite fast now. Rincewind could see past 
Twoflower’s head to the sunlit cloud sea and the impossible Rimbow, floating 
tantalizingly beyond it, beckoning fools to venture too far... 

He also saw a gang of men climbing desperately over the lower slopes of the 
launching ramp and manhandling a large bulk of timber onto the track, in a 
frantic attempt to derail the ship before it vanished over the Edge. The wheels 
slammed into it, but the only effect was to make the ship rock, Twoflower to lose 
his grip on the ladder and fall into the cabin, and the hatch to slam down with the 
horrible sound of a dozen fiddly little catches snapping into place. Rincewind 
dived forward and scrabbled at them, whimpering. 

The cloud sea was much nearer now. The Edge itself, a rocky perimeter to 
the arena, was startlingly close. 

Rincewind stood up. There was only one thing to do now, and he did it. He 
panicked blindly, just as the ship’s bogeys hit the little upgrade and flung it, 
sparkling like a salmon, into the sky and over the Edge. 

A few seconds later there was a thunder of little feet and the Luggage cleared 
the rim of the world, legs still pumping determinedly, and plunged down into the 
universe. 


THE END 

Rincewind woke up and shivered. He was freezing cold. 

So this is it, he thought. When you die you go to a cold, damp, misty 
freezing place. Hades, where the mournful spirits of the Dead troop forever 
across the sorrowful marshes, corpse-lights flickering fitfully in the encircling— 
hang on a minute... 

Surely Hades wasn’t this uncomfortable? And he was very uncomfortable 
indeed. His back ached where a branch was pressing into it, his legs and arms 
hurt where the twigs had lacerated them and, judging by the way his head was 
feeling, something hard had recently hit it. If this was Hades it sure was hell— 



hang on a minute... 


Tree. He concentrated on the word that floated up from his mind, although 
the buzzing in his ears and the flashing lights in front of his eyes made this an 
unexpected achievement. Tree. Wooden thing. That was it. Branches and twigs 
and things. And Rincewind, lying in it. Tree. Dripping wet. Cold white cloud all 
around. Underneath, too. Now that was odd. 

He was alive and lying covered in bruises in a small thorn tree that was 
growing in a crevice in a rock that projected out of the foaming white wall that 
was the Rimfall. The realization hit him in much the same way as an icy 
hammer. He shuddered. The tree gave a warning creak. 

Something blue and blurred shot past him, dipped briefly into the thundering 
waters, and whirred back and settled on a branch near Rincewind’s head. It was a 
small bird with a tuft of blue and green feathers. It swallowed the little silver fish 
that it had snatched from the Fall and eyed him curiously. 

Rincewind became aware that there were lots of similar birds around. 

They hovered, darted and swooped easily across the face of the water, and 
every so often one would raise an extra plume of spray as it stole another 
doomed morsel from the waterfall. Several of them were perching in the tree. 
They were as iridescent as jewels. Rincewind was entranced. 

He was in fact the first man ever to see the rimfishers, the tiny creatures who 
had long ago evolved a lifestyle quite unique even for the Disc. Long before the 
Krullians had built the Circumfence the rimfishers had devised their own 
efficient method of policing the edge of the world for a living. 

They didn’t seem bothered about Rincewind. He had a brief but chilling 
vision of himself living the rest of his life out in this tree, subsisting on raw birds 
and such fish as he could snatch as they plummeted past. 

The tree moved distinctly. Rincewind gave a whimper as he found himself 
sliding backward, but managed to grab a branch. Only, sooner or later, he would 
fall asleep... 

There was a subtle change of scene, a slight purplish tint to the sky. A tall, 
black-cloaked figure was standing on the air next to the tree. It had a scythe in 



one hand. Its face was hidden in the shadows of the hood. 


I have come for thee, said the invisible mouth, in tones as heavy as a 
whale’s heartbeat. 

The trunk of the tree gave another protesting creak, and a pebble bounced off 
Rincewind’s helmet as one root tore loose from the rock. 

Death Himself always came in person to harvest the souls of wizards. 

“What am I going to die of?” said Rincewind. 

The tall figure hesitated. 

Pardon? it said. 

“Well, I haven’t broken anything, and I haven’t drowned, so what am I about 
to die of? You can’t just be killed by Death; there has to be a reason,” said 
Rincewind. To his utter amazement he didn’t feel terrified anymore. For about 
the first time in his life he wasn’t frightened. Pity the experience didn’t look like 
lasting for long. 

Death appeared to reach a conclusion. 

You could die of terror, the hood intoned. The voice still had its graveyard 
ring, but there was a slight tremor of uncertainty. 

“Won’t work,” said Rincewind smugly. 

THERE DOESN’T HAVE TO BE A REASON, Said Death. I CAN JUST KILL YOU. 

“Hey, you can’t do that! It’d be murder!” 

The cowled figure sighed and pulled back its hood. Instead of the grinning 
death’s head that Rincewind had been expecting he found himself looking up 
into the pale and slightly transparent face of a rather worried demon, of sorts. 

“I’m making rather a mess of this, aren’t I?” it said wearily. 

“You’re not Death! Who are you?” cried Rincewind. 



“Scrofula.” 


“Scrofula?” 

“Death couldn’t come,” said the demon wretchedly. “There’s a big plague on 
in Pseudopolis. He had to go and stalk the streets. So he sent me.” 

“No one dies of scrofula! I’ve got rights. I’m a wizard!” 

“All right, all right. This was going to be my big chance,” said Scrofula, “but 
look at it this way—if I hit you with this scythe you’ll be just as dead as you 
would be if Death had done it. Who’d know?” 

“I’d know!” snapped Rincewind. 

“You wouldn’t. You’d be dead,” said Scrofula logically. 

“Piss off,” said Rincewind. 

“That’s all very well,” said the demon, hefting the scythe, “but why not try 
to see things from my point of view? This means a lot to me, and you’ve got to 
admit that your life isn’t all that wonderful. Reincarnation can only be an 
improvement—uh.” 

His hand flew to his mouth but Rincewind was already pointing a trembling 
finger at him. 

“Reincarnation!” he said excitedly. “So it is true what the mystics say!” 

“I’m admitting nothing,” said Scrofula testily. “It was a slip of the tongue. 
Now—are you going to die willingly or not?” 

“No,” said Rincewind. 

“Please yourself,” replied the demon. He raised the scythe. It whistled down 
in quite a professional way, but Rincewind wasn’t there. He was in fact several 
meters below, and the distance was increasing all the time, because the branch 
had chosen that moment to snap and send him on his intermpted journey toward 
the interstellar gulf. 



“Come back!” screamed the demon. 


Rincewind didn’t answer. He was lying belly down in the rushing air, staring 
down into the clouds that even now were thinning. 

They vanished. 

Below, the whole universe twinkled at Rincewind. There was Great A’Tuin, 
huge and ponderous and pocked with craters. There was the little Disc moon. 
There was a distant gleam that could only be the Potent Voyager. And there were 
all the stars, looking remarkably like powdered diamonds spilled on black 
velvet, the stars that lured and ultimately called the boldest toward them... 

The whole of Creation was waiting for Rincewind to drop in. 

He did so. 

There didn’t seem to be any alternative. 



* The shape and cosmology of the disc system are perhaps worthy of note at this point. 

There are, of course, two major directions on the disc: hubward and rimward. But since the disc itself revolves at the rate of once 
every eight hundred days (in order to distribute the weight fairly upon its supportive pachyderms, according to Reforgule of Krull) 
there are also two lesser directions, which are Turnwise and Widdershins. 

Since the disc’s tiny orbiting sunlet maintains a fixed orbit while the majestic disc turns slowly beneath it, it will be readily 
deduced that a disc year consists of not four but eight seasons. The summers are those times when the sun rises or sets at the nearest 
point on the Rim, the winters those occasions when it rises or sets at a point around ninety degrees along the circumference. 

Thus, in the lands around the Circle Sea, the year begins on Hogs’ Watch Night, progresses through a Spring Prime to its first 
midsummer (Small Gods’ Eve) which is followed by Autumn Prime and, straddling the half-year point of Crueltide, Winter Secundus 
(also known as the Spindlewinter, since at this time the sun rises in the direction of spin). Then comes Secundus Spring with Summer 
Two on its heels, the three quarter mark of the year being the night of Alls Fallow—the one night of the year, according to legend, 
when witches and warlocks stay in bed. Then drifting leaves and frosty nights drag on toward Backspindlewinter and a new Hogs’ 
Watch Night nestling like a frozen jewel at its heart. 

Since the Hub is never closely warmed by the weak sun the lands there are locked in permafrost. The Rim, on the other hand, is a 
region of sunny islands and balmy days. 

There are, of course, eight days in a disc week and eight colors in its light spectrum. Eight is a number of some considerable occult 
significance on the disc and must never, ever, be spoken by a wizard. 

Precisely why all the above should be so is not clear, but goes some way to explain why, on the disc, the Gods are not so much 
worshipped as blamed. 


About the Author 


Terry Pratchett lives in England, an island off the coast of France, where he spends his time writing 
Discworld novels in accordance with the Very String Anthropic Principle, which holds that the entire 
Purpose of the Universe is to make possible a being that will live in England, an island off the coast of 
France, and spend his time writing Discworld novels. Which is exactly what he does. Which proves the 
whole business true. Any questions? 


Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite EiarperCollins author. 



Unanimous Praise For Terry Pratchett 


“For lighthearted escape with a thoughtful center, you can’t do better than.. .any.. .Discworld novel.” 

—Washington Post Book World 

“If I were making my list of Best Books of the Twentieth Century, Terry Pratchett’s would be most of 

them.” 

—Elizabeth Peters 

“Consistently, inventively mad.. .wild and wonderful!” 

—Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine 

“Simply the best humorous writer of the twentieth century.” 

—Oxford Times 

“A brilliant story—teller with a sense of humour.. .whose infectious fun completely engulfs you.. .The 

Dickens of the twentieth century.” 

—Mail on Sunday (London) 

“If you are unfamiliar with Pratchett’s unique blend of philosophical badinage interspersed with slapstick, 
you are on the threshold of a mind—expanding opportunity.” 

—Financial Times (London) 

“If you don’t know Pratchett and Discworld, you’ve got a treat in store.” 

—Jerry Pournelle 

“The funniest parodist working in the field today, period.” 

—New York Review of Science Fiction 

“Pratchett demonstrates just how great the distance is between one-or two-joke writers and the comic 
masters whose work will be read into the next century.” 


—Locus 



“Terry Pratchett is fast, funny and going places. Try him!” 
—Piers Anthony 


“As always he is head and shoulders above the best of the rest. He is screamingly funny. He is wise. He has 

style.” 

—Daily Telegraph (London) 

“Pratchett is a comic genius.” 

—Express (London) 

“Pratchett is as funny as Wodehouse and as witty as Waugh.” 

—Independent (London) 

“Terry Pratchett does for fantasy what Douglas Adams did for science fiction.” 

—Today (Great Britain) 

’’What makes Terry Pratchett’s fantasies so entertaining is that their humour depends on the characters first, 
on the plot second, rather than the other way around. The story isn’t there simply to lead from one slapstick 
pratfall to another pun. Its humour is genuine and unforced.” 

—Ottawa Citizen 

’’Terry Pratchett ought to be locked in a padded cell. And forced to write a book a month.” 

—Barbara Michaels 

“Terry Pratchett is more than a magician. He is the kindest, most fascinating teacher you ever had.” 

—Harlan Ellison 

“It is his unexpected insights into human mortality that make the Discworld series stand out.” 

—Times Literary Supplement (London) 

“Quite probably the funniest living author, bar nobody.” 

—Good Book Guide (England) 

“Delightful.. .Logically illogical as only Terry Pratchett can write.” 



—Anne McCaffrey 



Books by Terry Pratchett 


The Carpet People 
The Dark Side of the Sun 
Strata ■ Truckers 
Diggers ■ Wings 
Only You Can Save Mankind 
Johnny and the Dead ■ Johnny and the Bomb 
The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) 

Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) 

The Disc world® Series: 

Going Postal ■ Monstrous Regiment • Night Watch 
The Last Hero • The Truth ■ Thief of Time 
The Fifth Elephant ■ Carpe Jugulum 
The Last Continent ■ Jingo 
Hogfather ■ Feet of Clay ■ Maskerade 
Interesting Times ■ Soul Music ■ Men at Arms 
Lords and Ladies ■ Small Gods 
Witches Abroad • Reaper Man 
Moving Pictures ■ Eric (with Josh Kirby) 
Guards! Guards! ■ Pyramids 
Wyrd Sisters ■ Sourcery ■ Mort ■ Equal Rites 
The Light Fantastic ■ The Color of Magic 
Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) 
The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) 
The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) 



The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs) 
The Pratchett Portfolio (with Paul Kidby) 



Copyrig ht 


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination 
or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, 
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

THE COLOR OF MAGIC. Copyright © 2007 by Terry Pratchett. All rights reserved under International 
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the 
non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this 
text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or 
introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether 
electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of 
HarperCollins e-books. 

ePub edition © February 2007 ISBN: 9780061796845 
10 98765432 1 



mS HarperCollins e-books 

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-

THE FOUNDATION TRILOGY 
ISAAC ASIMOV 


Contents 

Introduction 

Foundation 

Foundation and Empire 

Second Foundation 

About the author 


THE STORY BEHIND THE "FOUNDATION" 

By ISAAC ASIMOV 


The date was August 1, 1941. World War II had been raging for two years. France had fallen, the Battle 
of Britain had been fought, and the Soviet Union had just been invaded by Nazi Germany. The bombing 
of Pearl Harbor was four months in the future. 

But on that day, with Europe in flames, and the evil shadow of Adolf Hitler apparently falling over all 
the world, what was chiefly on my mind was a meeting toward which I was hastening. 

I was 2 1 years old, a graduate student in chemistry at Columbia University, and I had been writing 
science fiction professionally for three years. In that time, I had sold five stories to John Campbell, editor 
of Astounding, and the fifth story, "Nightfall," was about to appear in the September 1941 issue of the 
magazine. I had an appointment to see Mr. Campbell to tell him the plot of a new story I was planning to 
write, and the catch was that I had no plot in mind, not the trace of one. 

I therefore tried a device I sometimes use. I opened a book at random and set up free association, 
beginning with whatever I first saw. The book I had with me was a collection of the Gilbert and Sullivan 
plays. I happened to open it to the picture of the Fairy Queen of lolanthe throwing herself at the feet of 
Private Willis. I thought of soldiers, of military empires, of the Roman Empire - of a Galactic Empire - 
aha! 

Why shouldn't I write of the fall of the Galactic Empire and of the return of feudalism, written from the 
viewpoint of someone in the secure days of the Second Galactic Empire? After all, I had read Gibbon's 


Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire not once, but twice. 

I was bubbling over by the time I got to Campbell's, and my enthusiasm must have been catching for 
Campbell blazed up as I had never seen him do. In the course of an hour we built up the notion of a vast 
series of connected stories that were to deal in intricate detail with the thousand-year period between the 
First and Second Galactic Empires. This was to be illuminated by the science of psychohistory, which 
Campbell and I thrashed out between us. 

On August 11, 1941, therefore, I began the story of that interregnum and called it "Foundation." In it, I 
described how the psychohistorian, Hari Seldon, established a pair of Foundations at opposite ends of the 
Universe under such circumstances as to make sure that the forces of history would bring about the 
second Empire after one thousand years instead of the thirty thousand that would be required otherwise. 

The story was submitted on September 8 and, to make sure that Campbell really meant what he said 
about a series, I ended "Foundation" on a cliff-hanger. Thus, it seemed to me, he would b e forced to buy 
a second story. 

However, when I started the second story (on October 24), I found that I had outsmarted myself. I 
quickly wrote myself into an impasse, and the Foundation series would have died an ignominious death 
had I not had a conversation with Fred Pohl on November 2 (on the Brooklyn Bridge, as it happened). I 
don't remember what Fred actually said, but, whatever it was, it pulled me out of the hole. 

"Foundation" appeared in the May 1942 issue of As founding and the succeeding story, "Bridle and 
Saddle," in the June 1942 issue. 

After that there was only the routine trouble of writing the stories. Through the remainder of the decade, 
John Campbell kept my nose to the grindstone and made sure he got additional Foundation stories. 

"The Big and the Little" was in the August 1944 Astounding, "The Wedge" in the October 1944 issue, 
and "Dead Hand" in the April 1945 issue. (These stories were written while I was working at the Navy 
Yard in Philadelphia.) 

On January 26, 1945, 1 began "The Mule," my personal favorite among the Foundation stories, and the 
longest yet, for it was 50,000 words. It was printed as a two-part serial (the very first serial I was ever 
responsible for) in the November and December 1945 issues. By the time the second part appeared I was 
in the army. 

After I got out of the army, I wrote "Now You See It-" which appeared in the January 1948 issue. By this 
time, though, I had grown tired of the Foundation stories so I tried to end them by setting up, and solving, 
the mystery of the location of the Second Foundation. Campbell would have none of that, however. He 
forced me to change the ending, and made me promise I would do one more Foundation story. 

Well, Campbell was the kind of editor who could not be denied, so I wrote one more Foundation story, 
vowing to myself that it would be the last. I called it "-And Now You Don't," and it appeared as a 
three-part serial in the November 1949, December 1949, and January 1950 issues of Astounding. 

By then, I was on the biochemistry faculty of Boston University School of Medicine, my first book had 
just been published, and I was determined to move on to new things. I had spent eight years on the 
Foundation, written nine stories with a total of about 220,000 words. My total earnings for the series 
came to $3,641 and that seemed enough. The Foundation was over and done with, as far as I was 



concerned. 


In 1950, however, hardcover science fiction was just coming into existence. I had no objection to earning 
a little more money by having the Foundation series reprinted in book form. I offered the series to 
Doubleday (which had already published a science-fiction novel by me, and which had contracted for 
another) and to Little-Brown, but both rejected it. In that year, though, a small publishing firm, Gnome 
Press, was beginning to be active, and it was prepared to do the Foundation series as three books. 

The publisher of Gnome felt, however, that the series began too abruptly. He persuaded me to write a 
small Foundation story, one that would serve as an introductory section to the first book (so that the first 
part of the Foundation series was the last written). 

In 1951, the Gnome Press edition of Foundation was published, containing the introduction and the first 
four stories of the series. In 1952, Foundation and Empire appeared, with the fifth and sixth stories; and 
in 1953, Second Foundation appeared, with the seventh and eighth stories. The three books together 
came to be called The Foundation Trilogy. 

The mere fact of the existence of the Trilogy pleased me, but Gnome Press did not have the financial 
clout or the publishing knowhow to get the books distributed properly, so that few copies were sold and 
fewer still paid me royalties. (Nowadays, copies of first editions of those Gnome Press books sell at $50 
a copy and up-but I still get no royalties from them.) 

Ace Books did put out paperback editions of Foundation and of Foundation and Empire, but they 
changed the titles, and used cut versions. Any money that was involved was paid to Gnome Press and I 
didn't see much of that. In the first decade of the existence of The Foundation Trilogy it may have earned 
something like $1500 total. 

And yet there was some foreign interest. In early 1961, Timothy Seldes, who was then my editor at 
Doubleday, told me that Doubleday had received a request for the Portuguese rights for the Foundation 
series and, since they weren't Doubleday books, he was passing them on to me. I sighed and said, "The 
heck with it, Tim. I don't get royalties on those books." 

Seldes was horrified, and instantly set about getting the books away from Gnome Press so that 
Doubleday could publish them instead. He paid no attention to my loudly expressed fears that Doubleday 
"would lose its shirt on them." In August 1961 an agreement was reached and the Foundation books 
became Doubleday property. What’s more, Avon Books, which had published a paperback version of 
Second Foundation, set about obtaining the rights to all three from Doubleday, and put out nice editions. 

From that moment on, the Foundation books took off and began to earn increasing royalties. They have 
sold well and steadily, both in hardcover and softcover, for two decades so far. Increasingly, the letters I 
received from the readers spoke of them in high praise. They received more attention than all my other 
books put together. 

Doubleday also published an omnibus volume, The Foundation Trilogy, for its Science Fiction Book 
Club. That omnibus volume has been continuously featured by the Book Club for over twenty years. 

Matters reached a climax in 1966. The fans organizing the World Science Fiction Convention for that 
year (to be held in Cleveland) decided to award a Hugo for the best all-time series, where the series, to 
qualify, had to consist of at least three connected novels. It was the first time such a category had been 



set up, nor has it been repeated since. The Foundation series was nominated, and I felt that was going to 
have to be glory enough for me, since I was sure that Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings" would win. 

It didn't. The Foundation series won, and the Hugo I received for it has been sitting on my bookcase in 
the livingroom ever since. 

In among all this litany of success, both in money and in fame, there was one annoying side-effect. 
Readers couldn't help but notice that the books of the Foundation series covered only three hundred-plus 
years of the thousand-year hiatus between Empires. That meant the Foundation series "wasn't finished." I 
got innumerable letters from readers who asked me to finish it, from others who demanded I finish it, and 
still others who threatened dire vengeance if I didn't finish it. Worse yet, various editors at Doubleday 
over the years have pointed out that it might be wise to finish it. 

It was flattering, of course, but irritating as well. Years had passed, then decades. Back in the 1940s, I 
had been in a Foundation- writing mood. Now I wasn't. Starting in the late 1950s, I had been in a more 
and more nonfiction-writing mood. 

That didn't mean I was writing no fiction at all. In the 1960s and 1970s, in fact, I wrote two 
science-fiction novels and a mystery novel, to say nothing of well over a hundred short stories - but 
about eighty percent of what I wrote was nonfiction. 

One of the most indefatigable nags in the matter of finishing the Foundation series was my good friend, 
the great science-fiction writer, Lester del Rey. He was constantly telling me I ought to finish the series 
and was just as constantly suggesting plot devices. He even told Larry Ashmead, then my editor at 
Doubleday, that if I refused to write more Foundation stories, he, Lester, would be willing to take on the 
task. 

When Ashmead mentioned this to me in 1973, 1 began another Foundation novel out of sheer 
desperation. I called it "Lightning Rod" and managed to write fourteen pages before other tasks called me 
away. The fourteen pages were put away and additional years passed. 

In January 1977, Cathleen Jordan, then my editor at Doubleday, suggested I do "an important book - a 
Foundation novel, perhaps." I said, "I'd rather do an autobiography," and I did - 640,000 words of it. 

In January 1981, Doubleday apparently lost its temper. At least, Hugh O'Neill, then my editor there, said, 
"Betty Prashker wants to see you," and marched me into her office. She was then one of the senior 
editors, and a sweet and gentle person. 

She wasted no time. "Isaac," she said, "you are going to write a novel for us and you are going to sign a 
contract to that effect." 

"Betty," I said, "I am already working on a big science book for Doubleday and I have to revise the 
Biographical Encyclopedia for Doubleday and 

"It can all wait," she said. "You are going to sign a contract to do a novel. What's more, we're going to 
give you a $50,000 advance." 

That was a stunner. I don't like large advances. They put me under too great an obligation. My average 
advance is something like $3,000. Why not? It's all out of royalties. 



I said, "That's way too much money, Betty." 

"No, it isn't," she said. 

"Doubleday will lose its shirt," I said. 

"You keep telling us that all the time. It won't." 

I said, desperately, "All right. Have the contract read that I don't get any money until I notify you in 
writing that I have begun the novel." 

"Are you crazy?" she said. "You'll never start if that clause is in the contract. You get $25,000 on signing 
the contract, and $25,000 on delivering a completed manuscript." 

"But suppose the novel is no good." 

"Now you're being silly," she said, and she ended the conversation. 

That night, Pat LoBrutto, the science-fiction editor at Doubleday called to express his pleasure. "And 
remember," he said, "that when we say 'novel' we mean ’science-fiction novel,’ not anything else. And 
when we say ’science-fiction novel,’ we mean 'Foundation novel' and not anything else." 

On February 5, 1981, 1 signed the contract, and within the week, the Doubleday accounting system 
cranked out the check for $25,000. 

I moaned that I was not my own master anymore and Hugh O'Neill said, cheerfully, "That’s right, and 
from now on, we're going to call every other week and say, ’Where’s the manuscript?’" (But they didn't. 
They left me strictly alone, and never even asked for a progress report.) 

Nearly four months passed while I took care of a vast number of things I had to do, but about the end of 
May, I picked up my own copy of The Foundation Trilogy and began reading. 

I had to. For one thing, I hadn't read the Trilogy in thirty years and while I remembered the general plot, I 
did not remember the details. Besides, before beginning a new Foundation novel I had to immerse myself 
in the style and atmosphere of the series. 

I read it with mounting uneasiness. I kept waiting for something to happen, and nothing ever did. All 
three volumes, all the nearly quarter of a million words, consisted of thoughts and of conversations. No 
action. No physical suspense. 

What was all the fuss about, then? Why did everyone want more of that stuff? - To be sure, I couldn't 
help but notice that I was turning the pages eagerly, and that I was upset when I finished the book, and 
that I wanted more, but I was the author, for goodness' sake. You couldn't go by me. 

I was on the edge of deciding it was all a terrible mistake and of insisting on giving back the money, 
when (quite by accident, I swear) I came across some sentences by science-fiction writer and critic, 

James Gunn, who, in connection with the Foundation series, said, "Action and romance have little to do 
with the success of the Trilogy - virtually all the action takes place offstage, and the romance is almost 
invisible - but the stories provide a detective- story fascination with the permutations and reversals of 
ideas." 

Oh, well, if what was needed were "permutations and reversals of ideas," then that I could supply. Panic 



receded, and on June 10, 1981, 1 dug out the fourteen pages I had written more than eight years before 
and reread them. They sounded good to me. I didn't remember where I had been headed back then, but I 
had worked out what seemed to me to be a good ending now, and, starting page 15 on that day, I 
proceeded to work toward the new ending. 

I found, to my infinite relief, that I had no trouble getting back into a "Foundation-mood," and, fresh 
from my rereading, I had Foundation history at my finger-tips. 

There were differences, to be sure: 

1) The original stories were written for a science-fiction magazine and were from 7,000 to 50,000 words 
long, and no more. Consequently, each book in the trilogy had at least two stories and lacked unity. I 
intended to make the new book a single story. 

2) I had a particularly good chance for development since Hugh said, "Let the book find its own length, 
Isaac. We don't mind a long book." So I planned on 140,000 words, which was nearly three times the 
length of "The Mule," and this gave me plenty of elbow-room, and I could add all sorts of little touches. 

3) The Foundation series had been written at a time when our knowledge of astronomy was primitive 
compared with what it is today. I could take advantage of that and at least mention black holes, for 
instance. I could also take advantage of electronic computers, which had not been invented until I was 
half through with the series. 

The novel progressed steadily, and on January 17, 1982, 1 began final copy. I brought the manuscript to 
Hugh O'Neill in batches, and the poor fellow went half-crazy since he insisted on reading it in this 
broken fashion. On March 25, 1982, 1 brought in the last bit, and the very next day got the second half of 
the advance. 

I had kept "Lightning Rod" as my working title all the way through, but Hugh finally said, "Is there any 
way of putting 'Foundation' into the title, Isaac?" I suggested Foundations at Bay, therefore, and that may 
be the title that will actually be used. * 

You will have noticed that I have said nothing about the plot of the new Foundation novel. Well, 
naturally. I would rather you buy and read the book. 

And yet there is one thing I have to confess to you. I generally manage to tie up all the loose ends into 
one neat little bow-knot at the end of my stories, no matter how complicated the plot might be. In this 
case, however, I noticed that when I was all done, one glaring little item remained unresolved. 

I am hoping no one else notices it because it clearly points the way to the continuation of the series. 

It is even possible that I inadvertently gave this away for at the end of the novel, I wrote: "The End (for 
now)." 

I very much fear that if the novel proves successful, Doubleday will be at my throat again, as Campbell 
used to be in the old days. And yet what can I do but hope that the novel is very successful indeed. What 
a quandary ! 

*Editor's note: The novel was published in October 1982 as Foundation's Edge. 



ABOUT THE AUTHOR 


Isaac Asimov was born in the Soviet Union to his great surprise. He moved quickly to correct the 
situation. When his parents emigrated to the United States, Isaac (three years old at the time) stowed 
away in their baggage. He has been an American citizen since the age of eight. 

Brought up in Brooklyn, and educated in its public schools, he eventually found his way to Columbia 
University and, over the protests of the school administration, managed to annex a series of degrees in 
chemistry, up to and including a Ph.D. He then infiltrated Boston University and climbed the academic 
ladder, ignoring all cries of outrage, until he found himself Professor of Biochemistry. 

Meanwhile, at the age of nine, he found the love of his life (in the inanimate sense) when he discovered 
his first science-fiction magazine. By the time he was eleven, he began to write stories, and at eighteen, 
he actually worked up the nerve to submit one. It was rejected. After four long months of tribulation and 
suffering, he sold his first story and, thereafter, he never looked back. 

In 1941, when he was twenty-one years old, he wrote the classic short story "Nightfall" and his future 
was assured. Shortly before that he had begun writing his robot stories, and shortly after that he had 
begun his Foundation series. 

What was left except quantity? At the present time, he has published over 260 books, distributed through 
every major division of the Dewey system of library classification, and shows no signs of slowing up. He 
remains as youthful, as lively, and as lovable as ever, and grows more handsome with each year. You can 
be sure that this is so since he has written this little essay himself and his devotion to absolute objectivity 
is notorious. 

He is married to Janet Jeppson, psychiatrist and writer, has two children by a previous marriage, and 
lives in New York City. 



ejusir jyj ecows 


ASIMOV 


THE FOUNDATION NOVELS 


FOUNDATION 








FOUNDATION 
ISAAC ASIMOV 


Contents 

Introduction 

Part I The Psvchohistorians 

Part II The Encyclopedists 

Part III The Mayors 

Part IV The Traders 
Part V The Merchant Princes 


THE STORY BEHIND THE "FOUNDATION" 

By ISAAC ASIMOV 


The date was August 1 , 1941 . World War II had been raging for two years. France had fallen, 
the Battle of Britain had been fought, and the Soviet Union had just been invaded by Nazi 
Germany. The bombing of Pearl Harbor was four months in the future. 

But on that day, with Europe in flames, and the evil shadow of Adolf Hitler apparently falling 
over all the world, what was chiefly on my mind was a meeting toward which I was hastening. 

I was 21 years old, a graduate student in chemistry at Columbia University, and I had been 
writing science fiction professionally for three years. In that time, I had sold five stories to John 
Campbell, editor of Astounding, and the fifth story, "Nightfall," was about to appear in the 
September 1941 issue of the magazine. I had an appointment to see Mr. Campbell to tell him 
the plot of a new story I was planning to write, and the catch was that I had no plot in mind, not 
the trace of one. 

I therefore tried a device I sometimes use. I opened a book at random and set up free 
association, beginning with whatever I first saw. The book I had with me was a collection of the 
Gilbert and Sullivan plays. I happened to open it to the picture of the Fairy Queen of lolanthe 
throwing herself at the feet of Private Willis. I thought of soldiers, of military empires, of the 
Roman Empire - of a Galactic Empire - aha! 


Why shouldn't I write of the fall of the Galactic Empire and of the return of feudalism, written 
from the viewpoint of someone in the secure days of the Second Galactic Empire? After all, I 
had read Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire not once, but twice. 

I was bubbling over by the time I got to Campbell's, and my enthusiasm must have been 
catching for Campbell blazed up as I had never seen him do. In the course of an hour we built 
up the notion of a vast series of connected stories that were to deal in intricate detail with the 
thousand-year period between the First and Second Galactic Empires. This was to be 
illuminated by the science of psychohistory, which Campbell and I thrashed out between us. 

On August 11,1 941 , therefore, I began the story of that interregnum and called it "Foundation." 
In it, I described how the psychohistorian, Hari Seldon, established a pair of Foundations at 
opposite ends of the Universe under such circumstances as to make sure that the forces of 
history would bring about the second Empire after one thousand years instead of the thirty 
thousand that would be required otherwise. 

The story was submitted on September 8 and, to make sure that Campbell really meant what 
he said about a series, I ended "Foundation" on a cliff-hanger. Thus, it seemed to me, he would 
be forced to buy a second story. 

Flowever, when I started the second story (on October 24), I found that I had outsmarted 
myself. I quickly wrote myself into an impasse, and the Foundation series would have died an 
ignominious death had I not had a conversation with Fred Pohl on November 2 (on the 
Brooklyn Bridge, as it happened). I don't remember what Fred actually said, but, whatever it 
was, it pulled me out of the hole. 

"Foundation" appeared in the May 1942 issue of Astounding and the succeeding story, "Bridle 
and Saddle," in the June 1942 issue. 

After that there was only the routine trouble of writing the stories. Through the remainder of the 
decade, John Campbell kept my nose to the grindstone and made sure he got additional 
Foundation stories. 

"The Big and the Little" was in the August 1944 Astounding, "The Wedge" in the October 1944 
issue, and "Dead Fland" in the April 1945 issue. (These stories were written while I was working 
at the Navy Yard in Philadelphia.) 

On January 26, 1945, I began "The Mule," my personal favorite among the Foundation stories, 
and the longest yet, for it was 50,000 words. It was printed as a two-part serial (the very first 
serial I was ever responsible for) in the November and December 1945 issues. By the time the 
second part appeared I was in the army. 

After I got out of the army, I wrote "Now You See It-" which appeared in the January 1948 
issue. By this time, though, I had grown tired of the Foundation stories so I tried to end them by 
setting up, and solving, the mystery of the location of the Second Foundation. Campbell would 
have none of that, however. Fie forced me to change the ending, and made me promise I would 
do one more Foundation story. 

Well, Campbell was the kind of editor who could not be denied, so I wrote one more Foundation 



story, vowing to myself that it would be the last. I called it "-And Now You Don't," and it 
appeared as a three-part serial in the November 1949, December 1949, and January 1950 
issues of Astounding. 

By then, I was on the biochemistry faculty of Boston University School of Medicine, my first 
book had just been published, and I was determined to move on to new things. I had spent 
eight years on the Foundation, written nine stories with a total of about 220,000 words. My total 
earnings for the series came to $3,641 and that seemed enough. The Foundation was over and 
done with, as far as I was concerned. 

In 1950, however, hardcover science fiction was just coming into existence. I had no objection 
to earning a little more money by having the Foundation series reprinted in book form. I offered 
the series to Doubleday (which had already published a science-fiction novel by me, and which 
had contracted for another) and to Little-Brown, but both rejected it. In that year, though, a 
small publishing firm, Gnome Press, was beginning to be active, and it was prepared to do the 
Foundation series as three books. 

The publisher of Gnome felt, however, that the series began too abruptly. Fie persuaded me to 
write a small Foundation story, one that would serve as an introductory section to the first book 
(so that the first part of the Foundation series was the last written). 

In 1951 , the Gnome Press edition of Foundation was published, containing the introduction and 
the first four stories of the series. In 1 952, Foundation and Empire appeared, with the fifth and 
sixth stories; and in 1953, Second Foundation appeared, with the seventh and eighth stories. 
The three books together came to be called The Foundation Trilogy. 

The mere fact of the existence of the Trilogy pleased me, but Gnome Press did not have the 
financial clout or the publishing knowhow to get the books distributed properly, so that few 
copies were sold and fewer still paid me royalties. (Nowadays, copies of first editions of those 
Gnome Press books sell at $50 a copy and up-but I still get no royalties from them.) 

Ace Books did put out paperback editions of Foundation and of Foundation and Empire, but 
they changed the titles, and used cut versions. Any money that was involved was paid to 
Gnome Press and I didn't see much of that. In the first decade of the existence of The 
Foundation Trilogy it may have earned something like $1500 total. 

And yet there was some foreign interest. In early 1961 , Timothy Seldes, who was then my 
editor at Doubleday, told me that Doubleday had received a request for the Portuguese rights 
for the Foundation series and, since they weren't Doubleday books, he was passing them on to 
me. I sighed and said, "The heck with it, Tim. I don't get royalties on those books." 

Seldes was horrified, and instantly set about getting the books away from Gnome Press so that 
Doubleday could publish them instead. Fie paid no attention to my loudly expressed fears that 
Doubleday "would lose its shirt on them." In August 1961 an agreement was reached and the 
Foundation books became Doubleday property. What's more, Avon Books, which had 
published a paperback version of Second Foundation, set about obtaining the rights to all three 
from Doubleday, and put out nice editions. 

From that moment on, the Foundation books took off and began to earn increasing royalties. 



They have sold well and steadily, both in hardcover and softcover, for two decades so far. 
Increasingly, the letters I received from the readers spoke of them in high praise. They received 
more attention than all my other books put together. 

Doubleday also published an omnibus volume, The Foundation Trilogy, for its Science Fiction 
Book Club. That omnibus volume has been continuously featured by the Book Club for over 
twenty years. 

Matters reached a climax in 1966. The fans organizing the World Science Fiction Convention 
for that year (to be held in Cleveland) decided to award a Flugo for the best all-time series, 
where the series, to qualify, had to consist of at least three connected novels. It was the first 
time such a category had been set up, nor has it been repeated since. The Foundation series 
was nominated, and I felt that was going to have to be glory enough for me, since I was sure 
that Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings" would win. 

It didn't. The Foundation series won, and the Hugo I received for it has been sitting on my 
bookcase in the livingroom ever since. 

In among all this litany of success, both in money and in fame, there was one annoying 
side-effect. Readers couldn't help but notice that the books of the Foundation series covered 
only three hundred-plus years of the thousand-year hiatus between Empires. That meant the 
Foundation series "wasn't finished." I got innumerable letters from readers who asked me to 
finish it, from others who demanded I finish it, and still others who threatened dire vengeance if 
I didn't finish it. Worse yet, various editors at Doubleday over the years have pointed out that it 
might be wise to finish it. 

It was flattering, of course, but irritating as well. Years had passed, then decades. Back in the 
1940s, I had been in a Foundation-writing mood. Now I wasn't. Starting in the late 1950s, I had 
been in a more and more nonfiction-writing mood. 

That didn't mean I was writing no fiction at all. In the 1960s and 1970s, in fact, I wrote two 
science-fiction novels and a mystery novel, to say nothing of well over a hundred short stories - 
but about eighty percent of what I wrote was nonfiction. 

One of the most indefatigable nags in the matter of finishing the Foundation series was my 
good friend, the great science-fiction writer, Lester del Rey. He was constantly telling me I 
ought to finish the series and was just as constantly suggesting plot devices. He even told Larry 
Ashmead, then my editor at Doubleday, that if I refused to write more Foundation stories, he, 
Lester, would be willing to take on the task. 

When Ashmead mentioned this to me in 1973, I began another Foundation novel out of sheer 
desperation. I called it "Lightning Rod" and managed to write fourteen pages before other tasks 
called me away. The fourteen pages were put away and additional years passed. 

In January 1977, Cathleen Jordan, then my editor at Doubleday, suggested I do "an important 
book - a Foundation novel, perhaps." I said, "I'd rather do an autobiography," and I did- 
640,000 words of it. 


In January 1981, Doubleday apparently lost its temper. At least, Hugh O'Neill, then my editor 



there, said, "Betty Prashker wants to see you," and marched me into her office. She was then 
one of the senior editors, and a sweet and gentle person. 

She wasted no time. "Isaac," she said, "you are going to write a novel for us and you are going 
to sign a contract to that effect." 

"Betty," I said, "I am already working on a big science book for Doubleday and I have to revise 
the Biographical Encyclopedia for Doubleday and 

"It can all wait," she said. "You are going to sign a contract to do a novel. What's more, we're 
going to give you a $50,000 advance." 

That was a stunner. I don't like large advances. They put me under too great an obligation. My 
average advance is something like $3,000. Why not? It's all out of royalties. 

I said, "That's way too much money, Betty." 

"No, it isn't," she said. 

"Doubleday will lose its shirt," I said. 

"You keep telling us that all the time. It won't." 

I said, desperately, "All right. Have the contract read that I don't get any money until I notify you 
in writing that I have begun the novel." 

"Are you crazy?" she said. "You'll never start if that clause is in the contract. You get $25,000 
on signing the contract, and $25,000 on delivering a completed manuscript." 

"But suppose the novel is no good." 

"Now you're being silly," she said, and she ended the conversation. 

That night, Pat LoBrutto, the science-fiction editor at Doubleday called to express his pleasure. 
"And remember," he said, "that when we say 'novel' we mean 'science-fiction novel,' not 
anything else. And when we say 'science-fiction novel,' we mean 'Foundation novel' and not 
anything else." 

On February 5, 1981 , I signed the contract, and within the week, the Doubleday accounting 
system cranked out the check for $25,000. 

I moaned that I was not my own master anymore and Hugh O'Neill said, cheerfully, "That's 
right, and from now on, we're going to call every other week and say, 'Where's the 
manuscript?’" (But they didn't. They left me strictly alone, and never even asked for a progress 
report.) 

Nearly four months passed while I took care of a vast number of things I had to do, but about 
the end of May, I picked up my own copy of The Foundation Trilogy and began reading. 

I had to. For one thing, I hadn't read the Trilogy in thirty years and while I remembered the 
general plot, I did not remember the details. Besides, before beginning a new Foundation novel 
I had to immerse myself in the style and atmosphere of the series. 



I read it with mounting uneasiness. I kept waiting for something to happen, and nothing ever 
did. All three volumes, all the nearly quarter of a million words, consisted of thoughts and of 
conversations. No action. No physical suspense. 

What was all the fuss about, then? Why did everyone want more of that stuff? - To be sure, I 
couldn't help but notice that I was turning the pages eagerly, and that I was upset when I 
finished the book, and that I wanted more, but I was the author, for goodness' sake. You 
couldn't go by me. 

I was on the edge of deciding it was all a terrible mistake and of insisting on giving back the 
money, when (quite by accident, I swear) I came across some sentences by science-fiction 
writer and critic, James Gunn, who, in connection with the Foundation series, said, "Action and 
romance have little to do with the success of the Trilogy- virtually all the action takes place 
offstage, and the romance is almost invisible - but the stories provide a detective-story 
fascination with the permutations and reversals of ideas." 

Oh, well, if what was needed were "permutations and reversals of ideas," then that I could 
supply. Panic receded, and on June 10, 1981, I dug out the fourteen pages I had written more 
than eight years before and reread them. They sounded good to me. I didn't remember where I 
had been headed back then, but I had worked out what seemed to me to be a good ending 
now, and, starting page 15 on that day, I proceeded to work toward the new ending. 

I found, to my infinite relief, that I had no trouble getting back into a "Foundation-mood," and, 
fresh from my rereading, I had Foundation history at my finger-tips. 

There were differences, to be sure: 

1 ) The original stories were written for a science-fiction magazine and were from 7,000 to 
50,000 words long, and no more. Consequently, each book in the trilogy had at least two 
stories and lacked unity. I intended to make the new book a single story. 

2) I had a particularly good chance for development since Flugh said, "Let the book find its own 
length, Isaac. We don't mind a long book." So I planned on 140,000 words, which was nearly 
three times the length of "The Mule," and this gave me plenty of elbow-room, and I could add 
all sorts of little touches. 

3) The Foundation series had been written at a time when our knowledge of astronomy was 
primitive compared with what it is today. I could take advantage of that and at least mention 
black holes, for instance. I could also take advantage of electronic computers, which had not 
been invented until I was half through with the series. 

The novel progressed steadily, and on January 17, 1982, I began final copy. I brought the 
manuscript to Hugh O'Neill in batches, and the poor fellow went half-crazy since he insisted on 
reading it in this broken fashion. On March 25, 1982, I brought in the last bit, and the very next 
day got the second half of the advance. 

I had kept "Lightning Rod" as my working title all the way through, but Hugh finally said, "Is 
there any way of putting 'Foundation' into the title, Isaac?" I suggested Foundations at Bay, 
therefore, and that may be the title that will actually be used. * 



You will have noticed that I have said nothing about the plot of the new Foundation novel. Well, 
naturally. I would rather you buy and read the book. 

And yet there is one thing I have to confess to you. I generally manage to tie up all the loose 
ends into one neat little bow-knot at the end of my stories, no matter how complicated the plot 
might be. In this case, however, I noticed that when I was all done, one glaring little item 
remained unresolved. 

I am hoping no one else notices it because it clearly points the way to the continuation of the 
series. 

It is even possible that I inadvertently gave this away for at the end of the novel, I wrote: "The 
End (for now)." 

I very much fear that if the novel proves successful, Doubleday will be at my throat again, as 
Campbell used to be in the old days. And yet what can I do but hope that the novel is very 
successful indeed. What a quandary! 

*Editor's note: The novel was published in October 1982 as Foundation's Edge. 


PART I 

THE PSYCHOHISTORIANS 

i. 

HARI SELDON-... bom In the 1 1,988th year of the Galactic Era; died 12,069. The dates are 
more commonly given In terms of the current Foundational Era as - 79 to the year 1 F.E. Born 
to middle-class parents on Flelicon, Arcturus sector (where his father, In a legend of doubtful 
authenticity, was a tobacco grower in the hydroponic plants of the planet), he early showed 
amazing ability in mathematics. Anecdotes concerning his ability are innumerable, and some 
are contradictory. At the age of two, he is said to have ... 

... Undoubtedly his greatest contributions were in the field of psychohistory. Seldon found the 
field little more than a set of vague axioms; he left it a profound statistical science.... 

... The best existing authority we have for the details of his life is the biography written by Gaal 
Dornick who. as a young man, met Seldon two years before the great mathematician's death. 
The story of the meeting ... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA* 

* All quotations from the Encyclopedia Galactica here reproduced are taken from the 1 1 6th 
Edition published in 1020 F.E. by the Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with 
permission of the publishers. 




His name was Gaal Dornick and he was just a country boy who had never seen Trantor before. 
That is, not in real life. He had seen it many times on the hyper-video, and occasionally in 
tremendous three-dimensional newscasts covering an Imperial Coronation or the opening of a 
Galactic Council. Even though he had lived all his life on the world of Synnax, which circled a 
star at the edges of the Blue Drift, he was not cut off from civilization, you see. At that time, no 
place in the Galaxy was. 

There were nearly twenty-five million inhabited planets in the Galaxy then, and not one but 
owed allegiance to the Empire whose seat was on Trantor. It was the last halfcentury in which 
that could be said. 

To Gaal, this trip was the undoubted climax of his young, scholarly life. He had been in space 
before so that the trip, as a voyage and nothing more, meant little to him. To be sure, he had 
traveled previously only as far as Synnax's only satellite in order to get the data on the 
mechanics of meteor driftage which he needed for his dissertation, but space-travel was all one 
whether one travelled half a million miles, or as many light years. 

He had steeled himself just a little for the Jump through hyper-space, a phenomenon one did 
not experience in simple interplanetary trips. The Jump remained, and would probably remain 
forever, the only practical method of travelling between the stars. Travel through ordinary space 
could proceed at no rate more rapid than that of ordinary light (a bit of scientific knowledge that 
belonged among the items known since the forgotten dawn of human history), and that would 
have meant years of travel between even the nearest of inhabited systems. Through 
hyper-space, that unimaginable region that was neither space nor time, matter nor energy, 
something nor nothing, one could traverse the length of the Galaxy in the interval between two 
neighboring instants of time. 

Gaal had waited for the first of those Jumps with a little dread curled gently in his stomach, and 
it ended in nothing more than a trifling jar, a little internal kick which ceased an instant before 
he could be sure he had felt it. That was all. 

And after that, there was only the ship, large and glistening; the cool production of 12,000 years 
of Imperial progress; and himself, with his doctorate in mathematics freshly obtained and an 
invitation from the great Hari Seldon to come to Trantor and join the vast and somewhat 
mysterious Seldon Project. 

What Gaal was waiting for after the disappointment of the Jump was that first sight of Trantor. 
He haunted the View-room. The steel shutter-lids were rolled back at announced times and he 
was always there, watching the hard brilliance of the stars, enjoying the incredible hazy swarm 
of a star cluster, like a giant conglomeration of fire-flies caught in mid-motion and stilled forever, 
At one time there was the cold, blue-white smoke of a gaseous nebula within five light years of 
the ship, spreading over the window like distant milk, filling the room with an icy tinge, and 
disappearing out of sight two hours later, after another Jump. 

The first sight of Trantor's sun was that of a hard, white speck all but lost in a myriad such, and 
recognizable only because it was pointed out by the ship's guide. The stars were thick here 
near the Galactic center. But with each Jump, it shone more brightly, drowning out the rest, 
paling them and thinning them out. 



An officer came through and said, "View-room will be closed for the remainder of the trip. 
Prepare for landing." 

Gaal had followed after, clutching at the sleeve of the white uniform with the 
Spaceship-and-Sun of the Empire on it. 

He said, "Would it be possible to let me stay? I would like to see Trantor." 

The officer smiled and Gaal flushed a bit. It occurred to him that he spoke with a provincial 
accent. 

The officer said, "We'll be landing on Trantor by morning." 

"I mean I want to see it from Space." 

"Oh. Sorry, my boy. If this were a space-yacht we might manage it. But we're spinning down, 
sunside. You wouldn't want to be blinded, burnt, and radiation-scarred all at the same time, 
would you?" 

Gaal started to walk away. 

The officer called after him, "Trantor would only be gray blur anyway, Kid. Why don't you take a 
space-tour once you hit Trantor. They're cheap." 

Gaal looked back, "Thank you very much." 

It was childish to feel disappointed, but childishness comes almost as naturally to a man as to a 
child, and there was a lump in Gaal's throat. He had never seen Trantor spread out in all its 
incredibility, as large as life, and he hadn't expected to have to wait longer. 


2 . 

The ship landed in a medley of noises. There was the far-off hiss of the atmosphere cutting and 
sliding past the metal of the ship. There was the steady drone of the conditioners fighting the 
heat of friction, and the slower rumble of the engines enforcing deceleration. There was the 
human sound of men and women gathering in the debarkation rooms and the grind of the 
hoists lifting baggage, mail, and freight to the long axis of the ship, from which they would be 
later moved along to the unloading platform. 

Gaal felt the slight jar that indicated the ship no longer had an independent motion of its own. 
Ship's gravity had been giving way to planetary gravity for hours. Thousands of passengers had 
been sitting patiently in the debarkation rooms which swung easily on yielding force-fields to 
accommodate its orientation to the changing direction of the gravitational forces. Now they 
were crawling down curving ramps to the large, yawning locks. 

Gaal's baggage was minor. He stood at a desk, as it was quickly and expertly taken apart and 
put together again. His visa was inspected and stamped. He himself paid no attention. 

This was Trantor! The air seemed a little thicker here, the gravity a bit greater, than on his 



home planet of Synnax, but he would get used to that. He wondered if he would get used to 
immensity. 

Debarkation Building was tremendous. The roof was almost lost in the heights. Gaal could 
almost imagine that clouds could form beneath its immensity. He could see no opposite wall; 
just men and desks and converging floor till it faded out in haze. 

The man at the desk was speaking again. He sounded annoyed. He said, "Move on, Dornick." 
He had to open the visa, look again, before he remembered the name. 

Gaal said, "Where- where-" 

The man at the desk jerked a thumb, "Taxis to the right and third left." 

Gaal moved, seeing the glowing twists of air suspended high in nothingness and reading, 
"TAXIS TO ALL POINTS." 

A figure detached itself from anonymity and stopped at the desk, as Gaal left. The man at the 
desk looked up and nodded briefly. The figure nodded in return and followed the young 
immigrant. 

He was in time to hear Gaal's destination. 

Gaal found himself hard against a railing. 

The small siqn said, "Supervisor." The man to whom the siqn referred did not look up. He said, 
"Where to?" 

Gaal wasn't sure, but even a few seconds hesitation meant men queuing in line behind him. 
The Supervisor looked up, "Where to?" 

Gaal's funds were low, but there was only this one night and then he would have a job. He tried 
to sound nonchalant, "A good hotel, please." 

The Supervisor was unimpressed, "They're all good. Name one." 

Gaal said, desperately, "The nearest one, please." 

The Supervisor touched a button. A thin line of light formed along the floor, twisting among 
others which brightened and dimmed in different colors and shades. A ticket was shoved into 
Gaal's hands. It glowed faintly. 

The Supervisor said, "One point twelve." 

Gaal fumbled for the coins. He said, "Where do I go?" 

"Follow the light. The ticket will keep glowing as long as you're pointed in the tight direction." 

Gaal looked up and began walking. There were hundreds creeping across the vast floor, 
following their individual trails, sifting and straining themselves through intersection points to 
arrive at their respective destinations. 



His own trail ended. A man in glaring blue and yellow uniform, shining and new in unstainable 
plasto-textile, reached for his two bags. 

"Direct line to the Luxor," he said. 

The man who followed Gaal heard that. He also heard Gaal say, "Fine," and watched him enter 
the blunt-nosed vehicle. 

The taxi lifted straight up. Gaal stared out the curved, transparent window, marvelling at the 
sensation of airflight within an enclosed structure and clutching instinctively at the back of the 
driver's seat. The vastness contracted and the people became ants in random distribution. The 
scene contracted further and began to slide backward. 

There was a wall ahead. It began high in the air and extended upward out of sight. It was 
riddled with holes that were the mouths of tunnels. Gaal's taxi moved toward one then plunged 
into it. For a moment, Gaal wondered idly how his driver could pick out one among so many. 

There was now only blackness, with nothing but the past-flashing of a colored signal light to 
relieve the gloom. The air was full of a rushing sound. 

Gaal leaned forward against deceleration then and the taxi popped out of the tunnel and 
descended to ground-level once more. 

"The Luxor Hotel," said the driver, unnecessarily. He helped Gaal with his baggage, accepted a 
tenth-credit tip with a businesslike air, picked up a waiting passenger, and was rising again. 

In all this, from the moment of debarkation, there had been no glimpse of sky. 


3 . 

TRANTOR-...At the beginning of the thirteenth millennium, this tendency reached its climax. As 
the center of the imperial Government for unbroken hundreds of generations and located, as it 
was, toward the central regions of the Galaxy among the most densely populated and 
industrially advanced worlds of the system, it could scarcely help being the densest and richest 
clot of humanity the Race had ever seen. 

Its urbanization, progressing steadily, had finally reached the ultimate. All the land surface of 
Trantor, 75,000,000 square miles in extent, was a single city. The population, at its height, was 
well in excess of forty billions. This enormous population was devoted almost entirely to the 
administrative necessities of Empire, and found themselves all too few for the complications of 
the task. (It is to be remembered that the impossibility of proper administration of the Galactic 
Empire under the uninspired leadership of the later Emperors was a considerable factor in the 
Fall.) Daily, fleets of ships in the tens of thousands brought the produce of twenty agricultural 
worlds to the dinner tables of Trantor.... 

Its dependence upon the outer worlds for food and, indeed, for all necessities of life, made 
Trantor increasingly vulnerable to conquest by siege. In the last millennium of the Empire, the 
monotonously numerous revolts made Emperor after Emperor conscious of this, and Imperial 



policy became little more than the protection of Trantor's delicate jugular vein.... 
ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

Gaal was not certain whether the sun shone, or, for that matter, whether it was day or night. He 
was ashamed to ask. All the planet seemed to live beneath metal. The meal of which he had 
just partaken had been labelled luncheon, but there were many planets which lived a standard 
timescale that took no account of the perhaps inconvenient alternation of day and night. The 
rate of planetary turnings differed, and he did not know that of Trantor. 

At first, he had eagerly followed the signs to the "Sun Room" and found it but a chamber for 
basking in artificial radiation. He lingered a moment or two, then returned to the Luxor's main 
lobby. 

He said to the room clerk, "Where can I buy a ticket for a planetary tour?" 

"Right here." 

"When will it start?" 

"You just missed it. Another one tomorrow. Buy a ticket now and we'll reserve a place for you." 

"Oh." Tomorrow would be too late. He would have to be at the University tomorrow. He said, 
"There wouldn't be an observation tower - or something? I mean, in the open air." 

"Sure! Sell you a ticket for that, if you want. Better let me check if it's raining or not." He closed 
a contact at his elbow and read the flowing letters that raced across a frosted screen. Gaal read 
with him. 

The room clerk said, "Good weather. Come to think of it, I do believe it's the dry season now." 
He added, conversationally, "I don't bother with the outside myself. The last time I was in the 
open was three years ago. You see it once, you know and that's all there is to it. Here's your 
ticket. Special elevator in the rear. It's marked 'To the Tower.' Just take it." 

The elevator was of the new sort that ran by gravitic repulsion. Gaal entered and others flowed 
in behind him. The operator closed a contact. For a moment, Gaal felt suspended in space as 
gravity switched to zero, and then he had weight again in small measure as the elevator 
accelerated upward. Deceleration followed and his feet left the floor. He squawked against his 
will. 

The operator called out, "Tuck your feet under the railing. Can't you read the sign?" 

The others had done so. They were smiling at him as he madly and vainly tried to clamber back 
down the wall. Their shoes pressed upward against the chromium of the railings that stretched 
across the floor in parallels set two feet apart. He had noticed those railings on entering and 
had ignored them. 

Then a hand reached out and pulled him down. 

He gasped his thanks as the elevator came to a halt. 

He stepped out upon an open terrace bathed in a white brilliance that hurl his eyes. The man, 



whose helping hand he had just now been the recipient of, was immediately behind him. 

The man said, kindly, "Plenty of seats." 

Gaal closed his mouth; he had been gaping; and said, "It certainly seems so." He started for 
them automatically, then stopped. 

He said, "If you don't mind, I'll just stop a moment at the railing. I - I want to look a bit." 

The man waved him on, good-naturedly, and Gaal leaned out over the shoulder-high railing 
and bathed himself in all the panorama. 

He could not see the ground. It was lost in the ever increasing complexities of man-made 
structures. He could see no horizon other than that of metal against sky, stretching out to 
almost uniform grayness, and he knew it was so over all the land-surface of the planet. There 
was scarcely any motion to be seen - a few pleasure-craft lazed against the sky-but all the 
busy traffic of billions of men were going on, he knew, beneath the metal skin of the world. 

There was no green to be seen; no green, no soil, no life other than man. Somewhere on the 
world, he realized vaguely, was the Emperor's palace, set amid one hundred square miles of 
natural soil, green with trees, rainbowed with flowers. It was a small island amid an ocean of 
steel, but it wasn't visible from where he stood. It might be ten thousand miles away. He did not 
know. 

Before very long, he must have his tour! 

He sighed noisily, and realized finally that he was on Trantor at last; on the planet which was 
the center of all the Galaxy and the kernel of the human race. He saw none of its weaknesses. 
He saw no ships of food landing. He was not aware of a jugular vein delicately connecting the 
forty billion of Trantor with the rest of the Galaxy. He was conscious only of the mightiest deed 
of man; the complete and almost contemptuously final conquest of a world. 

He came away a little blank-eyed. His friend of the elevator was indicating a seat next to 
himself and Gaal took it. 

The man smiled. "My name is Jerril. First time on Trantor?" 

"Yes, Mr. Jerril." 

"Thought so. Jerril's my first name. Trantor gets you if you've got the poetic temperament. 
Trantorians never come up here, though. They don't like it. Gives them nerves." 

"Nerves! - My name's Gaal, by the way. Why should it give them nerves? It's glorious." 

"Subjective matter of opinion, Gaal. If you're born in a cubicle and grow up in a corridor, and 
work in a cell, and vacation in a crowded sun-room, then coming up into the open with nothing 
but sky over you might just give you a nervous breakdown. They make the children come up 
here once a year, after they're five. I don't know if it does any good. They don't get enough of it, 
really, and the first few times they scream themselves into hysteria. They ought to start as soon 
as they're weaned and have the trip once a week." 



He went on, "Of course, it doesn't really matter. What if they never come out at all? They're 
happy down there and they run the Empire. How high up do you think we are?" 

He said, "Half a mile?" and wondered if that sounded naive. 

It must have, for Jerril chuckled a little. He said, "No. Just five hundred feet." 

"What? But the elevator took about 

"I know. But most of the time it was just getting up to ground level. Trantor is tunneled over a 
mile down. It's like an iceberg. Nine-tenths of it is out of sight. It even works itself out a few 
miles into the sub-ocean soil at the shorelines. In fact, we're down so low that we can make use 
of the temperature difference between ground level and a couple of miles under to supply us 
with all the energy we need. Did you know that?" 

"No, I thought you used atomic generators." 

"Did once. But this is cheaper." 

"I imagine so." 

"What do you think of it all?" For a moment, the man's good nature evaporated into 
shrewdness. He looked almost sly. 

Gaal fumbled. "Glorious," he said, again. 

"Here on vacation? Traveling? Sight-seeing?" 

"No exactly. At least, I've always wanted to visit Trantor but I came here primarily for a job." 
"Oh?" 

Gaal felt obliged to explain further, "With Dr. Seldon's project at the University of Trantor." 
"Raven Seldon?" 

"Why, no. The one I mean is Hari Seldon. -The psychohistorian Seldon. I don't know of any 
Raven Seldon." 

"Hari's the one I mean. They call him Raven. Slang, you know. He keeps predicting disaster." 
"He does?" Gaal was genuinely astonished. 

"Surely, you must know." Jerril was not smiling. "You're coming to work for him, aren't you?" 
"Well, yes, I'm a mathematician. Why does he predict disaster? What kind of disaster?" 

"What kind would you think?" 

"I'm afraid I wouldn't have the least idea. I've read the papers Dr. Seldon and his group have 
published. They're on mathematical theory." 

"Yes, the ones they publish." 



Gaal felt annoyed. He said, "I think I'll go to my room now. Very pleased to have met you." 

Jerril waved his arm indifferently in farewell. 

Gaal found a man waiting for him in his room. For a moment, he was too startled to put into 
words the inevitable, "What are you doing here?" that came to his lips. 

The man rose. He was old and almost bald and he walked with a limp, but his eyes were very 
bright and blue. 

He said, "I am Hari Seldon," an instant before Gaal's befuddled brain placed the face alongside 
the memory of the many times he had seen it in pictures. 


4 . 

PSYCHOHISTORY-.. .Gaal Dornick, using nonmathematical concepts, has defined 
psychohistory to be that branch of mathematics which deals with the reactions of human 
conglomerates to fixed social and economic stimuli.... 

... Implicit in all these definitions is the assumption that the human conglomerate being dealt 
with is sufficiently large for valid statistical treatment. The necessary size of such a 
conglomerate may be determined by Seldon 's First Theorem which ...A further necessary 
assumption is that the human conglomerate be itself unaware of psychohistoric analysis in 
order that its reactions be truly random ... 

The basis of all valid psychohistory lies in the development of the Seldon. Functions which 
exhibit properties congruent to those of such social and economic forces as ... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

"Good afternoon, sir," said Gaal. "I- I-" 

"You didn't think we were to meet before tomorrow? Ordinarily, we would not have. It is just that 
if we are to use your services, we must work quickly. It grows continually more difficult to obtain 
recruits." 

"I don't understand, sir." 

"You were talking to a man on the observation tower, were you not?" 

"Yes. His first name is Jerril. I know no more about him. " 

"His name is nothing. He is an agent of the Commission of Public Safety. He followed you from 
the space-port." 

"But why? I am afraid I am very confused." 

"Did the man on the tower say nothing about me?" 

Gaal hesitated, "He referred to you as Raven Seldon." 



"Did he say why?" 

"He said you predict disaster." 

"I do. What does Trantor mean to you?" 

Everyone seemed to be asking his opinion of Trantor. Gaal felt incapable of response beyond 
the bare word, "Glorious." 

"You say that without thinking. What of psychohistory?" 

"I haven't thought of applying it to the problem." 

"Before you are done with me, young man, you will learn to apply psychohistory to all problems 
as a matter of course. -Observe." Seldon removed his calculator pad from the pouch at his 
belt. Men said he kept one beneath his pillow for use in moments of wakefulness. Its gray, 
glossy finish was slightly worn by use. Seldon's nimble fingers, spotted now with age, played 
along the files and rows of buttons that filled its surface. Red symbols glowed out from the 
upper tier. 

He said, "That represents the condition of the Empire at present." 

He waited. 

Gaal said finally, "Surely that is not a complete representation." 

"No, not complete," said Seldon. "I am glad you do not accept my word blindly. However, this is 
an approximation which will serve to demonstrate the proposition. Will you accept that?" 

"Subject to my later verification of the derivation of the function, yes." Gaal was carefully 
avoiding a possible trap. 

"Good. Add to this the known probability of Imperial assassination, viceregal revolt, the 
contemporary recurrence of periods of economic depression, the declining rate of planetary 
explorations, the. . ." 

He proceeded. As each item was mentioned, new symbols sprang to life at his touch, and 
melted into the basic function which expanded and changed. 

Gaal stopped him only once. "I don't see the validity of that set-transformation." 

Seldon repeated it more slowly. 

Gaal said, "But that is done by way of a forbidden sociooperation." 

"Good. You are quick, but not yet quick enough. It is not forbidden in this connection. Let me do 
it by expansions." 


The procedure was much longer and at its end, Gaal said, humbly, "Yes, I see now." 

Finally, Seldon stopped. "This is Trantor three centuries from now. How do you interpret that? 



Eh?" He put his head to one side and waited. 

Gaal said, unbelievingly, "Total destruction! But - but that is impossible. Trantor has never 
been -" 

Seldon was filled with the intense excitement of a man whose body only had grown old. "Come, 
come. You saw how the result was arrived at. Put it into words. Forget the symbolism for a 
moment." 

Gaal said, "As Trantor becomes more specialized, it be comes more vulnerable, less able to 
defend itself. Further, as it becomes more and more the administrative center of Empire, it 
becomes a greater prize. As the Imperial succession becomes more and more uncertain, and 
the feuds among the great families more rampant, social responsibility disappears. " 

"Enough. And what of the numerical probability of total destruction within three centuries?" 

"I couldn't tell." 

"Surely you can perform a field-differentiation?" 

Gaal felt himself under pressure. He was not offered the calculator pad. It was held a foot from 
his eyes. He calculated furiously and felt his forehead grow slick with sweat. 

He said, "About 85%?" 

"Not bad," said Seldon, thrusting out a lower lip, "but not good. The actual figure is 92.5%." 

Gaal said, "And so you are called Raven Seldon? I have seen none of this in the journals." 

"But of course not. This is unprintable. Do you suppose the Imperium could expose its 
shakiness in this manner. That is a very simple demonstration in psychohistory. But some of 
our results have leaked out among the aristocracy." 

"That's bad." 

"Not necessarily. All is taken into account." 

"But is that why I'm being investigated?" 

"Yes. Everything about my project is being investigated." 

"Are you in danger, sir?" 

"Oh, yes. There is probability of 1 .7% that I will be executed, but of course that will not stop the 
project. We have taken that into account as well. Well, never mind. You will meet me, I 
suppose, at the University tomorrow?" 

"I will," said Gaal. 


5 . 



COMMISSION OF PUBLIC SAFETY-... The aristocratic coterie rose to power after the 
assassination of Cleon I, last of the Entuns. In the main, they formed an element of order during 
the centuries of instability and uncertainty in the Imperium. Usually under the control of the 
great families of the Chens and the Divarts, it degenerated eventually into a blind instrument for 
maintenance of the status quo.... They were not completely removed as a power in the state 
until after the accession of the last strong Emperor, Cleon H. The first Chief Commissioner.... 

... In a way, the beginning of the Commission's decline can be traced to the trial of Fiari Seldon 
two years before the beginning of the Foundational Era. That trial is described in Gaal Dornick's 
biography of Fiari Seldon.... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

Gaal did not carry out his promise. He was awakened the next morning by a muted buzzer. He 
answered it, and the voice of the desk clerk, as muted, polite and deprecating as it well might 
be, informed him that he was under detention at the orders of the Commission of Public Safety. 

Gaal sprang to the door and found it would no longer open. He could only dress and wait. 

They came for him and took him elsewhere, but it was still detention. They asked him questions 
most politely. It was all very civilized. He explained that he was a provincial of Synnax; that he 
had attended such and such schools and obtained a Doctor of Mathematics degree on such 
and such a date. He had applied for a position on Dr. Seldon's staff and had been accepted. 
Over and over again, he gave these details; and over and over again, they returned to the 
question of his joining the Seldon Project. How had he heard of it; what were to be his duties; 
what secret instructions had he received; what was it all about? 

He answered that he did not know. He had no secret instructions. He was a scholar and a 
mathematician. He had no interest in politics. 

And finally the gentle inquisitor asked, "When will Trantor be destroyed?" 

Gaal faltered, "I could not say of my own knowledge." 

"Could you say of anyone's?" 

"How could I speak for another?" He felt warm; overwarm. 

The inquisitor said, "Has anyone told you of such destruction; set a date?" And, as the young 
man hesitated, he went on, "You have been followed, doctor. We were at the airport when you 
arrived; on the observation tower when you waited for your appointment; and, of course, we 
were able to overhear your conversation with Dr. Seldon." 

Gaal said, "Then you know his views on the matter." 

"Perhaps. But we would like to hear them from you." 

"He is of the opinion that Trantor would be destroyed within three centuries." 

"He proved it, - uh - mathematically?" 

"Yes, he did," - defiantly. 



"You maintain the - uh - mathematics to be valid, I suppose. 

"If Dr. Seldon vouches for it, it is valid." 

"Then we will return." 

"Wait. I have a right to a lawyer. I demand my rights as an Imperial citizen." 

"You shall have them." 

And he did. 

It was a tall man that eventually entered, a man whose face seemed all vertical lines and so 
thin that one could wonder whether there was room for a smile. 

Gaal looked up. He felt disheveled and wilted. So much had happened, yet he had been on 
Trantor not more than thirty hours. 

The man said, "I am Lors Avakim. Dr. Seldon has directed me to represent you." 

"Is that so? Well, then, look here. I demand an instant appeal to the Emperor. I'm being held 
without cause. I'm innocent of anything. Of anything." He slashed his hands outward, palms 
down, "You've got to arrange a hearing with the Emperor, instantly." 

Avakim was carefully emptying the contents of a flat folder onto the floor. If Gaal had had the 
stomach for it, he might have recognized Cellomet legal forms, metal thin and tapelike, adapted 
for insertion within the smallness of a personal capsule. He might also have recognized a 
pocket recorder. 

Avakim, paying no attention to Gaal's outburst, finally looked up. He said, "The Commission 
will, of course, have a spy beam on our conversation. This is against the law, but they will use 
one nevertheless." 

Gaal ground his teeth. 

"However," and Avakim seated himself deliberately, "the recorder I have on the table, - which 
is a perfectly ordinary recorder to all appearances and performs it duties well - has the 
additional property of completely blanketing the spy beam. This is something they will not find 
out at once." 

"Then I can speak." 

"Of course." 

"Then I want a hearing with the Emperor." 

Avakim smiled frostily, and it turned out that there was room for it on his thin face after all. His 
cheeks wrinkled to make the room. He said, "You are from the provinces." 

"I am none the less an Imperial citizen. As good a one as you or as any of this Commission of 
Public Safety." 

"No doubt; no doubt. It is merely that, as a provincial, you do not understand life on Trantor as it 



is, There are no hearings before the Emperor." 

"To whom else would one appeal from this Commission? Is there other procedure?" 

"None. There is no recourse in a practical sense. Legalistically, you may appeal to the 
Emperor, but you would get no hearing. The Emperor today is not the Emperor of an Entun 
dynasty, you know. Trantor, I am afraid is in the hands of the aristocratic families, members of 
which compose the Commission of Public Safety. This is a development which is well predicted 
by psychohistory." 

Gaal said, "Indeed? In that case, if Dr. Seldon can predict the history of Trantor three hundred 
years into the future 

"He can predict it fifteen hundred years into the future." 

"Let it be fifteen thousand. Why couldn't he yesterday have predicted the events of this morning 
and warned me. -No, I'm sorry." Gaal sat down and rested his head in one sweating palm, "I 
quite understand that psychohistory is a statistical science and cannot predict the future of a 
single man with any accuracy. You'll understand that I'm upset." 

"But you are wrong. Dr. Seldon was of the opinion that you would be arrested this morning." 
"What!" 

"It is unfortunate, but true. The Commission has been more and more hostile to his activities. 
New members joining the group have been interfered with to an increasing extent. The graphs 
showed that for our purposes, matters might best be brought to a climax now. The Commission 
of itself was moving somewhat slowly so Dr. Seldon visited you yesterday for the purpose of 
forcing their hand. No other reason." 

Gaal caught his breath, "I resent-" 

"Please. It was necessary. You were not picked for any personal reasons. You must realize that 
Dr. Seldon's plans, which are laid out with the developed mathematics of over eighteen years 
include all eventualities with significant probabilities. This is one of them. I've been sent here for 
no other purpose than to assure you that you need not fear. It will end well; almost certainly so 
for the project; and with reasonable probability for you." 

"What are the figures?" demanded Gaal. 

"For the project, over 99.9%." 

"And for myself?" 

"I am instructed that this probability is 77.2%." 

"Then I've got better than one chance in five of being sentenced to prison or to death." 

"The last is under one per cent." 

"Indeed. Calculations upon one man mean nothing. You send Dr. Seldon to me." 



"Unfortunately, I cannot. Dr. Seldon is himself arrested." 

The door was thrown open before the rising Gaal could do more than utter the beginning of a 
cry. A guard entered, walked to the table, picked up the recorder, looked upon all sides of it and 
put it in his pocket. 

Avakim said quietly, "I will need that instrument." 

"We will supply you with one, Counsellor, that does not cast a static field." 

"My interview is done, in that case." 

Gaal watched him leave and was alone. 


6 . 

The trial (Gaal supposed it to be one, though it bore little resemblance legalistically to the 
elaborate trial techniques Gaal had read of) had not lasted long. It was in its third day. Yet 
already, Gaal could no longer stretch his memory back far enough to embrace its beginning. 

He himself had been but little pecked at. The heavy guns were trained on Dr. Seldon himself. 
Hari Seldon, however, sat there unperturbed. To Gaal, he was the only spot of stability 
remaining in the world. 

The audience was small and drawn exclusively from among the Barons of the Empire. Press 
and public were excluded and it was doubtful that any significant number of outsiders even 
knew that a trial of Seldon was being conducted. The atmosphere was one of unrelieved 
hostility toward the defendants. 

Five of the Commission of Public Safety sat behind the raised desk. They wore scarlet and gold 
uniforms and the shining, close-fitting plastic caps that were the sign of their judicial function. In 
the center was the Chief Commissioner Linge Chen. Gaal had never before seen so great a 
Lord and he watched him with fascination. Chen, throughout the trial, rarely said a word. He 
made it quite clear that much speech was beneath his dignity. 

The Commission's Advocate consulted his notes and the examination continued, with Seldon 
still on the stand: 

Q. Let us see, Dr. Seldon. How many men are now engaged in the project of which you are 
head? 

A. Fifty mathematicians. 

Q. Including Dr. Gaal Dornick? 

A. Dr. Dornick is the fifty-first, 

Q. Oh, we have fifty-one then? Search your memory, Dr. Seldon. Perhaps there are fifty-two or 
fifty-three? Or perhaps even more? 



A. Dr. Dornick has not yet formally joined my organization. When he does, the membership will 
be fifty-one. It is now fifty, as I have said. 

Q. Not perhaps nearly a hundred thousand? 

A. Mathematicians? No. 

Q. I did not say mathematicians. Are there a hundred thousand in all capacities? 

A. In all capacities, your figure may be correct. 

Q. May be? I say it is. I say that the men in your project number ninety-eight thousand, five 
hundred and seventy-two. 

A. I believe you are counting women and children. 

Q. (raising his voice) Ninety eight thousand five hundred and seventy-two individuals is the 
intent of my statement. There is no need to quibble. 

A. I accept the figures. 

Q. (referring to his notes) Let us drop that for the moment, then, and take up another matter 
which we have already discussed at some length. Would you repeat, Dr. Seldon, your thoughts 
concerning the future of Trantor? 

A. I have said, and I say again, that Trantor will lie in ruins within the next three centuries. 

Q. You do not consider your statement a disloyal one? 

A. No, sir. Scientific truth is beyond loyalty and disloyalty. 

Q. You are sure that your statement represents scientific truth? 

A. I am. 

Q. On what basis? 

A. On the basis of the mathematics of psychohistory. 

Q. Can you prove that this mathematics is valid'? 

A. Only to another mathematician. 

Q. (with a smile) Your claim then is that your truth is of so esoteric a nature that it is beyond the 
understanding of a plain man. It seems to me that truth should be clearer than that, less 
mysterious, more open to the mind. 

A. It presents no difficulties to some minds. The physics of energy transfer, which we know as 
thermodynamics, has been clear and true through all the history of man since the mythical 
ages, yet there may be people present who would find it impossible to design a power engine. 
People of high intelligence, too. I doubt if the learned Commissioners- 

At this point, one of the Commissioners leaned toward the Advocate. His words were not heard 



but the hissing of the voice carried a certain asperity. The Advocate flushed and interrupted 
Seldon. 

Q. We are not here to listen to speeches, Dr. Seldon. Let us assume that you have made your 
point. Let me suggest to you that your predictions of disaster might be intended to destroy 
public confidence in the Imperial Government for purposes of your own. 

A. That is not so. 

Q. Let me suggest that you intend to claim that a period of time preceding the so-called ruin of 
Trantor will be filled with unrest of various types. 

A. That is correct. 

Q. And that by the mere prediction thereof, you hope to bring it about, and to have then an 
army of a hundred thousand available. 

A. In the first place, that is not so. And if it were, investigation will show you that barely ten 
thousand are men of military age, and none of these has training in arms. 

Q. Are you acting as an agent for another? 

A. I am not in the pay of any man, Mr. Advocate. 

Q. You are entirely disinterested? You are serving science? 

A. I am. 

Q. Then let us see how. Can the future be changed, Dr. Seldon? 

A. Obviously. This courtroom may explode in the next few hours, or it may not. If it did, the 
future would undoubtedly be changed in some minor respects. 

Q. You quibble, Dr. Seldon. Can the overall history of the human race be changed? 

A. Yes. 

Q. Easily? 

A. No. With great difficulty. 

Q. Why? 

A. The psychohistoric trend of a planet-full of people contains a huge inertia. To be changed it 
must be met with something possessing a similar inertia. Either as many people must be 
concerned, or if the number of people be relatively small, enormous time for change must be 
allowed. Do you understand? 

Q. I think I do. Trantor need not be ruined, if a great many people decide to act so that it will 
not. 


A. That is right. 



Q. As many as a hundred thousand people? 

A. No, sir. That is far too few. 

Q. You are sure? 

A. Consider that Trantor has a population of over forty billions. Consider further that the trend 
leading to ruin does not belong to Trantor alone but to the Empire as a whole and the Empire 
contains nearly a quintillion human beings. 

Q. I see. Then perhaps a hundred thousand people can change the trend, if they and their 
descendants labor for three hundred years. 

A. I'm afraid not. Three hundred years is too short a time. 

Q. Ah! In that case, Dr. Seldon, we are left with this deduction to be made from your 
statements. You have gathered one hundred thousand people within the confines of your 
project. These are insufficient to change the history of Trantor within three hundred years. In 
other words, they cannot prevent the destruction of Trantor no matter what they do. 

A. You are unfortunately correct. 

Q. And on the other hand, your hundred thousand are intended for no illegal purpose. 

A. Exactly. 

Q. (slowly and with satisfaction) In that case, Dr. Seldon- Now attend, sir, most carefully, for we 
want a considered answer. What is the purpose of your hundred thousand? 

The Advocate's voice had grown strident. He had sprung his trap; backed Seldon into a comer; 
driven him astutely from any possibility of answering. 

There was a rising buzz of conversation at that which swept the ranks of the peers in the 
audience and invaded even the row of Commissioners. They swayed toward one another in 
their scarlet and gold, only the Chief remaining uncorrupted. 

Hari Seldon remained unmoved. He waited for the babble to evaporate. 

A. To minimize the effects of that destruction. 

Q. And exactly what do you mean by that? 

A. The explanation is simple. The coming destruction of Trantor is not an event in itself, isolated 
in the scheme of human development. It will be the climax to an intricate drama which was 
begun centuries ago and which is accelerating in pace continuously. I refer, gentlemen, to the 
developing decline and fall of the Galactic Empire. 

The buzz now became a dull roar. The Advocate, unheeded, was yelling, "You are openly 
declaring that-" and stopped because the cries of "Treason" from the audience showed that the 
point had been made without any hammering. 

Slowly, the Chief Commissioner raised his gavel once and let it drop. The sound was that of a 



mellow gong. When the reverberations ceased, the gabble of the audience also did. The 
Advocate took a deep breath. 

Q. (theatrically) Do you realize, Dr. Seldon, that you are speaking of an Empire that has stood 
for twelve thousand years, through all the vicissitudes of the generations, and which has behind 
it the good wishes and love of a quadrillion human beings? 

A. I am aware both of the present status and the past history of the Empire. Without disrespect, 

I must claim a far better knowledge of it than any in this room. 

Q. And you predict its ruin? 

A. It is a prediction which is made by mathematics. I pass no moral judgements. Personally, I 
regret the prospect. Even if the Empire were admitted to be a bad thing (an admission I do not 
make), the state of anarchy which would follow its fall would be worse. It is that state of anarchy 
which my project is pledged to fight. The fall of Empire, gentlemen, is a massive thing, 
however, and not easily fought. It is dictated by a rising bureaucracy, a receding initiative, a 
freezing of caste, a damming of curiosity - a hundred other factors. It has been going on, as I 
have said, for centuries, and it is too majestic and massive a movement to stop. 

Q. Is it not obvious to anyone that the Empire is as strong as it ever was? 

A. The appearance of strength is all about you. It would seem to last forever. However, Mr. 
Advocate, the rotten tree-trunk, until the very moment when the storm-blast breaks it in two, 
has all the appearance of might it ever had. The storm-blast whistles through the branches of 
the Empire even now. Listen with the ears of psychohistory, and you will hear the creaking. 

Q. (uncertainly) We are not here, Dr. Seldon, to lis— 

A. (firmly) The Empire will vanish and all its good with it. Its accumulated knowledge will decay 
and the order it has imposed will vanish. Interstellar wars will be endless; interstellar trade will 
decay; population will decline; worlds will lose touch with the main body of the Galaxy. -And so 
matters will remain. 

Q. (a small voice in the middle of a vast silence) Forever? 

A. Psychohistory, which can predict the fall, can make statements concerning the succeeding 
dark ages. The Empire, gentlemen, as has just been said, has stood twelve thousand years. 
The dark ages to come will endure not twelve, but thirty thousand years. A Second Empire will 
rise, but between it and our civilization will be one thousand generations of suffering humanity. 
We must fight that. 

Q. (recovering somewhat) You contradict yourself. You said earlier that you could not prevent 
the destruction of Trantor; hence, presumably, the fall; -the so-called fall of the Empire. 

A. I do not say now that we can prevent the fall. But it is not yet too late to shorten the 
interregnum which will follow. It is possible, gentlemen, to reduce the duration of anarchy to a 
single millennium, if my group is allowed to act now. We are at a delicate moment in history. 
The huge, onrushing mass of events must be deflected just a little, - just a little - It cannot be 
much, but it may be enough to remove twenty-nine thousand years of misery from human 



history. 

Q. How do you propose to do this? 

A. By saving the knowledge of the race. The sum of human knowing is beyond any one man; 
any thousand men. With the destruction of our social fabric, science will be broken into a million 
pieces. Individuals will know much of exceedingly tiny facets of what there is to know. They will 
be helpless and useless by themselves. The bits of lore, meaningless, will not be passed on. 
They will be lost through the generations. But, if we now prepare a giant summary of all 
knowledge, it will never be lost. Coming generations will build on it, and will not have to 
rediscover it for themselves. One millennium will do the work of thirty thousand. 

Q. All this 

A. All my project; my thirty thousand men with their wives and children, are devoting 
themselves to the preparation of an "Encyclopedia Galactica." They will not complete it in their 
lifetimes. I will not even live to see it fairly begun. But by the time Trantor falls, it will be 
complete and copies will exist in every major library in the Galaxy. 

The Chief Commissioner's gavel rose and fell. Hari Seldon left the stand and quietly took his 
seat next to Gaal. 

He smiled and said, "How did you like the show?" 

Gaal said, "You stole it. But what will happen now?" 

"They'll adjourn the trial and try to come to a private agreement with me." 

"How do you know?" 

Seldon said, "I'll be honest. I don't know. It depends on the Chief Commissioner. I have studied 
him for years. I have tried to analyze his workings, but you know how risky it is to introduce the 
vagaries of an individual in the psychohistoric equations. Yet I have hopes." 


7 . 

Avakim approached, nodded to Gaal, leaned over to whisper to Seldon. The cry of adjournment 
rang out, and guards separated them. Gaal was led away. 

The next day's hearings were entirely different. Hari Seldon and Gaal Dornick were alone with 
the Commission. They were seated at a table together, with scarcely a separation between the 
five judges and the two accused. They were even offered cigars from a box of iridescent plastic 
which had the appearance of water, endlessly flowing. The eyes were fooled into seeing the 
motion although the fingers reported it to be hard and dry. 

Seldon accepted one; Gaal refused. 

Seldon said, "My lawyer is not present." 

A Commissioner replied, "This is no longer a trial, Dr. Seldon. We are here to discuss the safety 



of the State. 


Linge Chen said, "I will speak," and the other Commissioners sat back in their chairs, prepared 
to listen. A silence formed about Chen into which he might drop his words. 

Gaal held his breath. Chen, lean and hard, older in looks than in fact, was the actual Emperor 
of all the Galaxy. The child who bore the title itself was only a symbol manufactured by Chen, 
and not the first such, either. 

Chen said, "Dr. Seldon, you disturb the peace of the Emperor's realm. None of the quadrillions 
living now among all the stars of the Galaxy will be living a century from now. Why, then, should 
we concern ourselves with events of three centuries distance?" 

"I shall not be alive half a decade hence," said Seldon, and yet it is of overpowering concern to 
me. Call it idealism. Call it an identification of myself with that mystical generalization to which 
we refer by the term, 'humanity.'" 

"I do not wish to take the trouble to understand mysticism. Can you tell me why I may not rid 
myself of you, and of an uncomfortable and unnecessary three-century future which I will never 
see by having you executed tonight?" 

"A week ago," said Seldon, lightly, "you might have done so and perhaps retained a one in ten 
probability of yourself remaining alive at year's end. Today, the one in ten probability is scarcely 
one in ten thousand." 

There were expired breaths in the gathering and uneasy stirrings. Gaal felt the short hairs 
prickle on the back of his neck. Chen's upper eyelids dropped a little. 

"How so?" he said. 

"The fall of Trantor," said Seldon, "cannot be stopped by any conceivable effort. It can be 
hastened easily, however. The tale of my interrupted trial will spread through the Galaxy. 
Frustration of my plans to lighten the disaster will convince people that the future holds no 
promise to them. Already they recall the lives of their grandfathers with envy. They will see that 
political revolutions and trade stagnations will increase. The feeling will pervade the Galaxy that 
only what a man can grasp for himself at that moment will be of any account. Ambitious men 
will not wait and unscrupulous men will not hang back. By their every action they will hasten the 
decay of the worlds. Have me killed and Trantor will fall not within three centuries but within fifty 
years and you, yourself, within a single year." 

Chen said, "These are words to frighten children, and yet your death is not the only answer 
which will satisfy us." 

He lifted his slender hand from the papers on which it rested, so that only two fingers touched 
lightly upon the topmost sheet. 

"Tell me," he said, "will your only activity be that of preparing this encyclopedia you speak of?" 
"It will." 

"And need that be done on Trantor?" 



"Trantor, my lord, possesses the Imperial Library, as well as the scholarly resources of the 
University of Trantor." 

"And yet if you were located elsewhere- , let us say upon a planet where the hurry and 
distractions of a metropolis will not interfere with scholastic musings; where your men may 
devote themselves entirely and single-mindedly to their work; -might not that have 
advantages?" 

"Minor ones, perhaps." 

"Such a world had been chosen, then. You may work, doctor, at your leisure, with your hundred 
thousand about you. The Galaxy will know that you are working and fighting the Fall. They will 
even be told that you will prevent the Fall." Fie smiled, "Since I do not believe in so many things, 
it is not difficult for me to disbelieve in the Fall as well, so that I am entirely convinced I will be 
telling the truth to the people. And meanwhile, doctor, you will not trouble Trantor and there will 
be no disturbance of the Emperor's peace. 

"The alternative is death for yourself and for as many of your followers as will seem necessary. 
Your earlier threats I disregard. The opportunity for choosing between death and exile is given 
you over a time period stretching from this moment to one five minutes hence." 

"Which is the world chosen, my lord?" said Seldon. 

"It is called, I believe, Terminus," said Chen. Negligently, he turned the papers upon his desk 
with his fingertips so that they faced Seldon. "It is uninhabited, but quite habitable, and can be 
molded to suit the necessities of scholars. It is somewhat secluded-" 

Seldon interrupted, "It is at the edge of the Galaxy, sir." 

"As I have said, somewhat secluded. It will suit your needs for concentration. Come, you have 
two minutes left." 

Seldon said, "We will need time to arrange such a trip. There are twenty thousand families 
involved." 

"You will be given time." 

Seldon thought a moment, and the last minute began to die. Fie said, "I accept exile." 

Gaal's heart skipped a beat at the words. For the most part, he was filled with a tremendous joy 
for who would not be, to escape death. Yet in all his vast relief, he found space for a little regret 
that Seldon had been defeated. 


8 . 

For a long while, they sat silently as the taxi whined through the hundreds of miles of worm-like 
tunnels toward the University. And then Gaal stirred. Fie said: 

"Was what you told the Commissioner true? Would your execution have really hastened the 



Fall? 


Seldon said, "I never lie about psychohistoric findings. Nor would it have availed me in this 
case. Chen knew I spoke the truth. He is a very clever politician and politicians by the very 
nature of their work must have an instinctive feeling for the truths of psychohistory." 

"Then need you have accepted exile," Gaal wondered, but Seldon did not answer. 

When they burst out upon the University grounds, Gaal's muscles took action of their own; or 
rather, inaction. He had to be carried, almost, out of the taxi. 

All the University was a blaze of light. Gaal had almost forgotten that a sun could exist. 

The University structures lacked the hard steel-gray of the rest of Trantor. They were silvery, 
rather. The metallic luster was almost ivory in color. 

Seldon said, "Soldiers, it seems." 

"What?" Gaal brought his eyes to the prosaic ground and found a sentinel ahead of them. 

They stopped before him, and a soft-spoken captain materialized from a near-by doorway. 

He said, "Dr. Seldon?" 

"Yes." 

"We have been waiting for you. You and your men will be under martial law henceforth. I have 
been instructed to inform you that six months will be allowed you for preparations to leave for 
Terminus." 

"Six months!" began Gaal, but Seldon's fingers were upon his elbow with gentle pressure. 
"These are my instructions," repeated the captain. 

He was gone, and Gaal turned to Seldon, "Why, what can be done in six months? This is but 
slower murder." 

"Quietly. Quietly. Let us reach my office." 

It was not a large office, but it was quite spy-proof and quite undetectably so. Spy-beams 
trained upon it received neither a suspicious silence nor an even more suspicious static. They 
received, rather, a conversation constructed at random out of a vast stock of innocuous 
phrases in various tones and voices. 

"Now," said Seldon, at his ease, "six months will be enough." 

"I don't see how." 

"Because, my boy, in a plan such as ours, the actions of others are bent to our needs. Have I 
not said to you already that Chen's temperamental makeup has been subjected to greater 
scrutiny than that of any other single man in history. The trial was not allowed to begin until the 
time and circumstances were fight for the ending of our own choosing." 



"But could you have arranged-" 

"-to be exiled to Terminus? Why not?" He put his fingers on a certain spot on his desk and a 
small section of the wall behind him slid aside. Only his own fingers could have done so, since 
only his particular print-pattern could have activated the scanner beneath. 

"You will find several microfilms inside," said Seldon. "Take the one marked with the letter, T." 

Gaal did so and waited while Seldon fixed it within the projector and handed the young man a 
pair of eyepieces. Gaal adjusted them, and watched the film unroll before his eyes. 

He said, "But then-" 

Seldon said, "What surprises you?" 

"Have you been preparing to leave for two years?" 

"Two and a half. Of course, we could not be certain that it would be Terminus he would choose, 
but we hoped it might be and we acted upon that assumption-" 

"But why, Dr. Seldon? If you arranged the exile, why? Could not events be far better controlled 
here on Trantor?" 

"Why, there are some reasons. Working on Terminus, we will have Imperial support without 
ever rousing fears that we would endanger Imperial safety." 

Gaal said, "But you aroused those fears only to force exile. I still do not understand." 

"Twenty thousand families would not travel to the end of the Galaxy of their own will perhaps." 

"But why should they be forced there?" Gaal paused, "May I not know?" 

Seldon said, "Not yet. It is enough for the moment that you know that a scientific refuge will be 
established on Terminus. And another will be established at the other end of the Galaxy, let us 
say," and he smiled, "at Star's End. And as for the rest, I will die soon, and you will see more 
than I. -No, no. Spare me your shock and good wishes. My doctors tell me that I cannot live 
longer than a year or two. But then, I have accomplished in life what I have intended and under 
what circumstances may one better die." 

"And after you die, sir?" 

"Why, there will be successors - perhaps even yourself. And these successors will be able to 
apply the final touch in the scheme and instigate the revolt on Anacreon at the right time and in 
the right manner. Thereafter, events may roll unheeded." 

"I do not understand." 

"You will." Seldon's lined face grew peaceful and tired, both at once, "Most will leave for 
Terminus, but some will stay. It will be easy to arrange. -But as for me," and he concluded in a 
whisper, so that Gaal could scarcely hear him, "I am finished." 



PART II 

THE ENCYCLOPEDISTS 

i. 

TERMINUS-... Its location (see map) was an odd one for the role It was called upon to play In 
Galactic history, and yet as many writers have never tired of pointing out, an Inevitable one. 
Located on the very fringe of the Galactic spiral, an only planet of an Isolated sun, poor In 
resources and negligible In economic value, it was never settled In the five centuries after Its 
discovery, until the landing of the Encyclopedists.... 

It was inevitable that as a new generation grew, Terminus would become something more than 
an appendage of the psychohistorians of Trantor. With the Anacreonian revolt and the rise to 
power of Salvor Hardin, first of the great line of... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

Lewis Pirenne was busily engaged at his desk in the one well-lit comer of the room. Work had 
to be co-ordinated. Effort had to be organized. Threads had to be woven into a pattern. 

Fifty years now; fifty years to establish themselves and set up Encyclopedia Foundation 
Number One into a smoothly working unit. Fifty years to gather the raw material. Fifty years to 
prepare. 

It had been done. Five more years would see the publication of the first volume of the most 
monumental work the Galaxy had ever conceived. And then at ten-year intervals - regularly - 
like clockwork - volume after volume. And with them there would be supplements; special 
articles on events of current interest, until— 

Pirenne stirred uneasily, as the muted buzzer upon his desk muttered peevishly. Fie had almost 
forgotten the appointment. Fie shoved the door release and out of an abstracted comer of one 
eye saw the door open and the broad figure of Salvor FHardin enter. Pirenne did not look up. 

Hardin smiled to himself. He was in a hurry, but he knew better than to take offense at 
Pirenne's cavalier treatment of anything or anyone that disturbed him at his work. He buried 
himself in the chair on the other side of the desk and waited. 

Pirenne's stylus made the faintest scraping sound as it raced across paper. Otherwise, neither 
motion nor sound. And then Hardin withdrew a two-credit coin from his vest pocket. He flipped 
it and its stainless-steel surface caught flitters of light as it tumbled through the air. He caught it 
and-flipped it again, watching the flashing reflections lazily. Stainless steel made good medium 
of exchange on a planet where all metal had to be imported. 

Pirenne looked up and blinked. "Stop that!" he said querulously. 

"Eh?" 



"That infernal coin tossing. Stop it." 

"Oh." Hardin pocketed the metal disk. "Tell me when you're ready, will you? I promised to be 
back at the City Council meeting before the new aqueduct project is put to a vote." 

Pirenne sighed and shoved himself away from the desk. "I'm ready. But I hope you aren't going 
to bother me with city affairs. Take care of that yourself, please. The Encyclopedia takes up all 
my time." 

"Have you heard the news?" questioned Hardin, phlegmatically. 

"What news?" 

"The news that the Terminus City ultrawave set received two hours ago. The Royal Governor of 
the Prefect of Anacreon has assumed the title of king." 

"Well? What of it?" 

"It means," responded Hardin, "that we're cut off from the inner regions of the Empire. We've 
been expecting it but that doesn't make it any more comfortable. Anacreon stands square 
across what was our last remaining trade route to Santanni and to Trantor and to Vega itself. 
Where is our metal to come from? We haven't managed to get a steel or aluminum shipment 
through in six months and now we won't be able to get any at all, except by grace of the King of 
Anacreon." 

Pirenne tch-tched impatiently. "Get them through him, then." 

"But can we? Listen, Pirenne, according to the charter which established this Foundation, the 
Board of Trustees of the Encyclopedia Committee has been given full administrative powers. I, 
as Mayor of Terminus City, have just enough power to blow my own nose and perhaps to 
sneeze if you countersign an order giving me permission. It's up to you and your Board then. 

I'm asking you in the name of the City, whose prosperity depends upon uninterrupted 
commerce with the Galaxy, to call an emergency meeting-" 

"Stop! A campaign speech is out of order. Now, Hardin, the Board of Trustees has not barred 
the establishment of a municipal government on Terminus. We understand one to be 
necessary because of the increase in population since the Foundation was established fifty 
years ago, and because of the increasing number of people involved in non-Encyclopedia 
affairs. But that does not mean that the first and only aim of the Foundation is no longer to 
publish the definitive Encyclopedia of all human knowledge. We are a State-supported, 
scientific institution, Hardin. We cannot - must not -will not interfere in local politics." 

"Local politics! By the Emperor's left toe, Pirenne, this is a matter of life and death. The planet, 
Terminus, by itself cannot support a mechanized civilization. It lacks metals. You know that. It 
hasn't a trace of iron, copper, or aluminum in the surface rocks, and precious little of anything 
else. What do you think will happen to the Encyclopedia if this watchmacallum King of 
Anacreon clamps down on us?" 

"On us? Are you forgetting that we are under the direct control of the Emperor himself? We are 
not part of the Prefect of Anacreon or of any other prefect. Memorize that! We are part of the 



Emperor's personal domain, and no one touches us. The Empire can protect its own." 

"Then why didn't it prevent the Royal Governor of Anacreon from kicking over the traces? And 
only Anacreon? 

At least twenty of the outermost prefects of the Galaxy, the entire Periphery as a matter of fact, 
have begun steering things their own way. I tell you I feel damned uncertain of the Empire and 
its ability to protect us." 

"Hokum! Royal Governors, Kings - what's the difference? The Empire is always shot through 
with a certain amount of politics and with different men pulling this way and that. Governors 
have rebelled, and, for that matter, Emperors have been deposed, or assassinated before this. 
But what has that to do with the Empire itself? Forget it, Hardin. It's none of our business. We 
are first of all and last of all-scientists. And our concern is the Encyclopedia. 

Oh, yes, I'd almost forgotten. Hardin!" 

"Well?" 

"Do something about that paper of yours!" Pirenne's voice was angry. 

"The Terminus City Journal? It isn't mine; it's privately owned. What's it been doing?" 

"For weeks now it has been recommending that the fiftieth anniversary of the establishment of 
the Foundation be made the occasion for public holidays and quite inappropriate celebrations." 

"And why not? The computoclock will open the Vault in three months. I would call this first 
opening a big occasion, wouldn't you?" 

"Not for silly pageantry, Hardin. The Vault and its opening concern the Board of Trustees alone. 
Anything of importance will be communicated to the people. That is final and please make it 
plain to the Journal." 

"I'm sorry, Pirenne, but the City Charter guarantees a certain minor matter known as freedom of 
the press." 

"It may. But the Board of Trustees does not. I am the Emperor's representative on Terminus, 
Hardin, and have full powers in this respect." 

Hardin's expression became that of a man counting to ten, mentally. He said, grimly: "in 
connection with your status as Emperor's representative, then, I have a final piece of news to 
give you." 

"About Anacreon?" Pirenne's lips tightened. He felt annoyed. 

"Yes. A special envoy will be sent to us from Anacreon. In two weeks." 

"An envoy? Here? From Anacreon?" Pirenne chewed that. "What for?" 

Hardin stood up, and shoved his chair back up against the desk. "I give you one guess." And 
he left - quite unceremoniously. 



2 . 


Anselm haut Rodric - "haut" itself signifying noble blood -Sub-prefect of Pluema and Envoy 
Extraordinary of his Highness of Anacreon-plus half a dozen other titleswas met by Salvor 
Hardin at the spaceport with all the imposing ritual of a state occasion. 

With a tight smile and a low bow, the sub-prefect had flipped his blaster from its holster and 
presented it to Hardin butt first. Hardin returned the compliment with, a blaster specifically 
borrowed for the occasion. Friendship and good will were thus established, and if Hardin noted 
the barest bulge at Haut Rodric's shoulder, he prudently said nothing. 

The ground car that received them then - preceded, flanked, and followed by the suitable cloud 
of minor functionaries - proceeded in a slow, ceremonious manner to Cyclopedia Square, 
cheered on its way by a properly enthusiastic crowd. 

Sub-prefect Anselm received the cheers with the complaisant indifference of a soldier and a 
nobleman. 

He said to Hardin, "And this city is all your world?" 

Hardin raised his voice to be heard above the clamor. "We are a young world, your eminence. 

In our short history we have had but few members of the higher nobility visiting our poor planet. 
Hence, our enthusiasm." 

It is certain that "higher nobility" did not recognize irony when he heard it. 

He said thoughtfully: "Founded fifty years ago. Hm-m-m! You have a great deal of unexploited 
land here, mayor. You have never considered dividing it into estates?" 

"There is no necessity as yet. We're extremely centralized; we have to be, because of the 
Encyclopedia. Someday, perhaps, when our population has grown-" 

"A strange world! You have no peasantry?" 

Hardin reflected that it didn't require a great deal of acumen to tell that his eminence was 
indulging in a bit of fairly clumsy pumping. He replied casually, "No - nor nobility." 

Haut Rodric's eyebrows lifted. "And your leader -the man I am to meet?" 

"You mean Dr. Pirenne? Yes! He is the Chairman of the Board of Trustees - and a personal 
representative of the Emperor." 

"Doctor? No other title? A scholar? And he rates above the civil authority?" 

"Why, certainly," replied Hardin, amiably. "We're all scholars more or less. After all, we're not so 
much a world as a scientific foundation - under the direct control of the Emperor." 

There was a faint emphasis upon the last phrase that seemed to disconcert the sub-prefect. He 
remained thoughtfully silent during the rest of the slow way to Cyclopedia Square. 



If Hardin found himself bored by the afternoon and evening that followed, he had at least the 
satisfaction of realizing that Pirenne and Haut Rodric - having met with loud and mutual 
protestations of esteem and regard - were detesting each other's company a good deal more. 

Haut Rodric had attended with glazed eye to Pirenne's lecture during the "inspection tour" of 
the Encyclopedia Building. With polite and vacant smile, he had listened to the latter's rapid 
patter as they passed through the vast storehouses of reference films and the numerous 
projection rooms. 

It was only after he had gone down level by level into and through the composing departments, 
editing departments, publishing departments, and filming departments that he made the first 
comprehensive statement. 

"This is all very interesting," he said, "but it seems a strange occupation for grown men. What 
good is it?" 

It was a remark, Hardin noted, for which Pirenne found no answer, though the expression of his 
face was most eloquent. 

The dinner that evening was much the mirror image of the events of that afternoon, for Haut 
Rodric monopolized the conversation by describing - in minute technical detail and with 
incredible zest - his own exploits as battalion head during the recent war between Anacreon 
and the neighboring newly proclaimed Kingdom of Smyrno. 

The details of the sub-prefect's account were not completed until dinner was over and one by 
one the minor officials had drifted away. The last bit of triumphant description of mangled 
spaceships came when he had accompanied Pirenne and Hardin onto the balcony and relaxed 
in the warm air of the summer evening. 

"And now," he said, with a heavy joviality, "to serious matters." 

"By all means," murmured Hardin, lighting a long cigar of Vegan tobacco - not many left, he 
reflected - and teetering his chair back on two legs. 

The Galaxy was high in the sky and its misty lens shape stretched lazily from horizon to 
horizon. The few stars here at the very edge of the universe were insignificant twinkles in 
comparison. 

"Of course," said the sub-prefect, "all the formal discussions - the paper signing and such dull 
technicalities, that is - will take place before the - What is it you call your Council?" 

"The Board of Trustees," replied Pirenne, coldly. 

"Queer name! Anyway, that's for tomorrow. We might as well clear away some of the 
underbrush, man to man, right now, though. Hey?" 

"And this means-" prodded Hardin. 

"Just this. There's been a certain change in the situation out here in the Periphery and the 
status of your planet has become a trifle uncertain. It would be very convenient if we succeeded 
in coming to an understanding as to how the matter stands. By the way, mayor, have you 



another one of those cigars?" 

Hardin started and produced one reluctantly. 

Anselm haut Rodric sniffed at it and emitted a clucking sound of pleasure. "Vegan tobacco! 
Where did you get it?" 

"We received some last shipment. There's hardly any left. Space knows when we'll get more - 
if ever." 

Pirenne scowled. He didn't smoke - and, for that matter, detested the odor. "Let me understand 
this, your eminence. Your mission is merely one of clarification?" 

Haut Rodric nodded through the smoke of his first lusty puffs. 

"In that case, it is soon over. The situation with respect to the Encyclopedia Foundation is what 
it always has been." 

"Ah! And what is it that it always has been?" 

"Just this: A State-supported scientific institution and part of the personal domain of his august 
majesty, the Emperor." 

The sub-prefect seemed unimpressed. He blew smoke rings. "That's a nice theory, Dr. Pirenne. 
I imagine you've got charters with the Imperial Seal upon it - but what's the actual situation? 
How do you stand with respect to Smyrno? You're not fifty parsecs from Smyrno's capital, you 
know. And what about Konom and Daribow?" 

Pirenne said: "We have nothing to do with any prefect. As part of the Emperor's-" 

"They're not prefects," reminded Haut Rodric; "they're kingdoms now." 

"Kingdoms then. We have nothing to do with them. As a scientific institution-" 

"Science be damned!" swore the other. "What the devil has that got to do with the fact that 
we're liable to see Terminus taken over by Smyrno at any time?" 

"And the Emperor? He would just sit by?" 

Haut Rodric calmed down and said: "Well, now, Dr. Pirenne, you respect the Emperor's 
property and so does Anacreon, but Smyrno might not. Remember, we've just signed a treaty 
with the Emperor - I'll present a copy to that Board of yours tomorrow - which places upon us 
the responsibility of maintaining order within the borders of the old Prefect of Anacreon on 
behalf of the Emperor. Our duty is clear, then, isn't it?" 

"Certainly. But Terminus is not part of the Prefect of Anacreon." 

"And Smyrno-" 

"Nor is it part of the Prefect of Smyrno. It's not part of any prefect." 

"Does Smyrno know that?" 



I don't care what it knows. 


"We do. We've just finished a war with her and she still holds two stellar systems that are ours. 
Terminus occupies an extremely strategic spot, between the two nations." 

Hardin felt weary. He broke in: "What is your proposition, your eminence?" 

The sub-prefect seemed quite ready to stop fencing in favor of more direct statements. He said 
briskly: "It seems perfectly obvious that, since Terminus cannot defend itself, Anacreon must 
take over the job for its own sake. You understand we have no desire to interfere with internal 
administration-" 

"Uh-huh," grunted Hardin dryly. 

"-but we believe that it would be best for all concerned to have Anacreon establish a military 
base upon the planet." 

"And that is all you would want - a military base in some of the vast unoccupied territory - and 
let it go at that?" 

"Well, of course, there would be the matter of supporting the protecting forces." 

Hardin's chair came down on all four, and his elbows went forward on his knees. "Now we're 
getting to the nub. Let's put it into language. Terminus is to be a protectorate and to pay 
tribute." 

"Not tribute. Taxes. We're protecting you. You pay for it." 

Pirenne banged his hand on the chair with sudden violence. "Let me speak, Hardin. Your 
eminence, I don't care a rusty half-credit coin for Anacreon, Smyrno, or all your local politics 
and petty wars. I tell you this is a State-supported tax-free institution." 

"State-supported? But we are the State, Dr. Pirenne, and we're not supporting." 

Pirenne rose angrily. "Your eminence, I am the direct representative of-" 

"-his august majesty, the Emperor," chorused Anselm haut Rodric sourly, "And I am the direct 
representative of the King of Anacreon. Anacreon is a lot nearer, Dr. Pirenne. " 

"Let's get back to business," urged Hardin. "How would you take these so-called taxes, your 
eminence? Would you take them in kind: wheat, potatoes, vegetables, cattle?" 

The sub-prefect stared. "What the devil? What do we need with those? We've got hefty 
surpluses. Gold, of course. Chromium or vanadium would be even better, incidentally, if you 
have it in quantity." 

Hardin laughed. "Quantity! We haven't even got iron in quantity. Gold! Here, take a look at our 
currency." He tossed a coin to the envoy. 

Haut Rodric bounced it and stared. "What is it? Steel?" 

"That's right." 



I don't understand. 


"Terminus is a planet practically without metals. We import it all. Consequently, we have no 
gold, and nothing to pay unless you want a few thousand bushels of potatoes." 

"Well - manufactured goods." 

"Without metal? What do we make our machines out of?" 

There was a pause and Pirenne tried again. "This whole discussion is wide of the point. 
Terminus is not a planet, but a scientific foundation preparing a great encyclopedia. Space, 
man, have you no respect for science?" 

"Encyclopedias don't win wars." Haut Rodric's brows furrowed. "A completely unproductive 
world, then - and practically unoccupied at that. Well, you might pay with land." 

"What do you mean?" asked Pirenne. 

"This world is just about empty and the unoccupied land is probably fertile. There are many of 
the nobility on Anacreon that would like an addition to their estates." 

"You can't propose any such-" 

"There's no necessity of looking so alarmed, Dr. Pirenne. There's plenty for all of us. If it comes 
to what it comes, and you co-operate, we could probably arrange it so that you lose nothing. 
Titles can be conferred and estates granted. You understand me, I think." 

Pirenne sneered, "Thanks!" 

And then Hardin said ingenuously: "Could Anacreon supply us with adequate quantities of 
plutonium for our nuclear-power plant? We've only a few years' supply left." 

There was a gasp from Pirenne and then a dead silence for minutes. When Haut Rodric spoke 
it was in a voice quite different from what it had been till then: 

"You have nuclear power?" 

"Certainly. What's unusual in that? I imagine nuclear power is fifty thousand years old now. 

Why shouldn't we have it? Except that it's a little difficult to get plutonium." 

"Yes ... Yes." The envoy paused and added uncomfortably: "Well, gentlemen, we'll pursue the 
subject tomorrow. You'll excuse me-" 

Pirenne looked after him and gritted through his teeth: "That insufferable, dull-witted donkey! 
That-" 

Hardin broke in: "Not at all. He's merely the product of his environment. He doesn't understand 
much except that 'I have a gun and you haven't.’" 

Pirenne whirled on him in exasperation. "What in space did you mean by the talk about military 
bases and tribute? Are you crazy?" 

"No. I merely gave him rope and let him talk. You'll notice that he managed to stumble out with 



Anacreon's real intentions - that is, the parceling up of Terminus into landed estates. Of 
course, I don't intend to let that happen." 

"You don't intend. You don't. And who are you? And may I ask what you meant by blowing off 
your mouth about our nuclear-power plant? Why, it's just the thing that would make us a military 
target." 

"Yes," grinned Hardin. "A military target to stay away from. Isn't it obvious why I brought the 
subject up? It happened to confirm a very strong suspicion I had had." 

"And that was what?" 

"That Anacreon no longer has a nuclear-power economy. If they had, our friend would 
undoubtedly have realized that plutonium, except in ancient tradition is not used in power 
plants. And therefore it follows that the rest of the Periphery no longer has nuclear power either. 
Certainly Smyrno hasn't, or Anacreon wouldn't have won most of the battles in their recent war. 
Interesting, wouldn't you say?" 

"Bah!" Pirenne left in fiendish humor, and Hardin smiled gently. 

He threw his cigar away and looked up at the outstretched Galaxy. "Back to oil and coal, are 
they?" he murmured - and what the rest of his thoughts were he kept to himself. 


3 . 

When Hardin denied owning the Journal, he was perhaps technically correct, but no more. 
Hardin had been the leading spirit in the drive to incorporate Terminus into an autonomous 
municipality-he had been elected its first mayor-so it was not surprising that, though not a 
single share of Journal stock was in his name, some sixty percent was controlled by him in 
more devious fashions. 

There were ways. 

Consequently, when Hardin began suggesting to Pirenne that he be allowed to attend meetings 
of the Board of Trustees, it was not quite coincidence that the Journal began a similar 
campaign. And the first mass meeting in the history of the Foundation was held, demanding 
representation of the City in the "national" government. 

And, eventually, Pirenne capitulated with ill grace. 

Hardin, as he sat at the foot of the table, speculated idly as to just what it was that made 
physical scientists such poor administrators. It might be merely that they were too used to 
inflexible fact and far too unused to pliable people. 

In any case, there was Tomaz Sutt and Jord Fara on his left; Lundin Crast and Yate Fulham on 
his fight; with Pirenne, himself, presiding. He knew them all, of course, but they seemed to have 
put on an extra-special bit of pomposity for the occasion. 

Hardin had dozed through the initial formalities and then perked up when Pirenne sipped at the 



glass of water before him by way of preparation and said: 

"I find it very gratifying to be able to inform the Board that since our last meeting, I have 
received word that Lord Dorwin, Chancellor of the Empire, will arrive at Terminus in two weeks. 
It may be taken for granted that our relations with Anacreon will be smoothed out to our 
complete satisfaction as soon as the Emperor is informed of the situation. " 

He smiled and addressed Hardin across the length of the table. "Information to this effect has 
been given the Journal." 

Hardin snickered below his breath. It seemed evident that Pirenne's desire to strut this 
information before him had been one reason for his admission into the sacrosanctum. 

He said evenly: "Leaving vague expressions out of account, what do you expect Lord Dorwin to 
do?" 

Tomaz Sutt replied. He had a bad habit of addressing one in the third person when in his more 
stately moods. 

"It is quite evident," he observed, "that Mayor Hardin is a professional cynic. He can scarcely 
fail to realize that the Emperor would be most unlikely to allow his personal rights to be 
infringed." 

"Why? What would he do in case they were?" 

There was an annoyed stir. Pirenne said, "You are out of order," and, as an afterthought, "and 
are making what are near-treasonable statements, besides." 

"Am I to consider myself answered?" 

"Yes! If you have nothing further to say-" 

"Don't jump to conclusions. I'd like to ask a question. Besides this stroke of diplomacy - which 
may or may not prove to mean anything - has anything concrete been done to meet the 
Anacreonic menace?" 

Yate Fulham drew one hand along his ferocious red mustache. "You see a menace there, do 
you?" 

"Don't you?" 

"Scarcely"- this with indulgence. "The Emperor-" 

"Great space!" Hardin felt annoyed. "What is this? Every once in a while someone mentions 
'Emperor' or 'Empire' as if it were a magic word. The Emperor is thousands of parsecs away, 
and I doubt whether he gives a damn about us. And if he does, what can he do? What there 
was of the imperial navy in these regions is in the hands of the four kingdoms now and 
Anacreon has its share. Listen, we have to fight with guns, not with words. 

"Now, get this. We've had two months' grace so far, mainly because we've given Anacreon the 
idea that we've got nuclear weapons. Well, we all know that that's a little white lie. We've got 



nuclear power, but only for commercial uses, and darn little at that. They're going to find that 
out soon, and if you think they're going to enjoy being jollied along, you're mistaken." 

"My dear sir-" 

"Hold on: I'm not finished." Hardin was warming up. He liked this. "It's all very well to drag 
chancellors into this, but it would be much nicer to drag a few great big siege guns fitted for 
beautiful nuclear bombs into it. We've lost two months, gentlemen, and we may not have 
another two months to lose. What do you propose to do?" 

Said Lundin Crast, his long nose wrinkling angrily: "If you're proposing the militarization of the 
Foundation, I won't hear a word of it. It would mark our open entrance into the field of politics. 
We, Mr. Mayor, are a scientific foundation and nothing else." 

Added Sutt: "He does not realize, moreover, that building armaments would mean withdrawing 
men - valuable men - from the Encyclopedia. That cannot be done, come what may." 

"Very true," agreed Pirenne. "The Encyclopedia first - always." 

Hardin groaned in spirit. The Board seemed to suffer violently from Encyclopedia on the brain, 

He said icily: "Has it ever occurred to this Board that it is barely possible that Terminus may 
have interests other than the Encyclopedia?" 

Pirenne replied: "I do not conceive, Hardin, that the Foundation can have any interest other 
than the Encyclopedia." 

"I didn't say the Foundation; I said Terminus. I'm afraid you don't understand the situation. 
There's a good million of us here on Terminus, and not more than a hundred and fifty thousand 
are working directly on the Encyclopedia. To the rest of us, this is home. We were born here. 
We're living here. Compared with our farms and our homes and our factories, the Encyclopedia 
means little to us. We want them protected-" 

He was shouted down. 

"The Encyclopedia first," ground out Crast. "We have a mission to fulfill." 

"Mission, hell," shouted Hardin. "That might have been true fifty years ago. But this is a new 
generation." 

"That has nothing to do with it," replied Pirenne. "We are scientists." 

And Hardin leaped through the opening. "Are you, though? That's a nice hallucination, isn't it? 
Your bunch here is a perfect example of what's been wrong with the entire Galaxy for 
thousands of years. What kind of science is it to be stuck out here for centuries classifying the 
work of scientists of the last millennium? Have you ever thought of working onward, extending 
their knowledge and improving upon it? No! You're quite happy to stagnate. The whole Galaxy 
is, and has been for space knows how long. That's why the Periphery is revolting; that's why 
communications are breaking down; that's why petty wars are becoming eternal; that's why 
whole systems are losing nuclear power and going back to barbarous techniques of chemical 
power. 



If you ask me," he cried, "the Galactic Empire is dying!" 


He paused and dropped into his chair to catch his breath, paying no attention to the two or 
three that were attempting simultaneously to answer him. 

Crast got the floor. "I don't know what you're trying to gain by your hysterical statements, Mr. 
Mayor. Certainly, you are adding nothing constructive to the discussion. I move, Mr. Chairman, 
that the speaker's remarks be placed out of order and the discussion be resumed from the point 
where it was interrupted." 

Jord Fara bestirred himself for the first time. Up to this point Fara had taken no part in the 
argument even at its hottest. But now his ponderous voice, every bit as ponderous as his 
three-hundred-pound body, burst its bass way out. 

"Haven't we forgotten something, gentlemen?" 

"What?" asked Pirenne, peevishly. 

"That in a month we celebrate our fiftieth anniversary." Fara had a trick of uttering the most 
obvious platitudes with great profundity. 

"What of it?" 

"And on that anniversary," continued Fara, placidly, "Hari Seldon's Vault will open. Have you 
ever considered what might be in the Vault?" 

"I don't know. Routine matters. A stock Speech of congratulations, perhaps. I don't think any 
significance need be placed on the Vault - though the Journal'- and he glared at Hardin, who 
grinned back -"did try to make an issue of it. I put a stop to that." 

"Ah," said Fara, "but perhaps you are wrong. Doesn't it strike you" - he paused and put a finger 
to his round little nose -"that the Vault is opening at a very convenient time?" 

"Very inconvenient time, you mean," muttered Fulham. "We've got some other things to worry 
about." 

"Other things more important than a message from Hari Seldon? I think not." Fara was growing 
more pontifical than ever, and Hardin eyed him thoughtfully. What was he getting at? 

"In fact," said Fara, happily, "you all seem to forget that Seldon was the greatest psychologist of 
our time and that he was the founder of our Foundation. It seems reasonable to assume that he 
used his science to determine the probable course of the history of the immediate future. If he 
did, as seems likely, I repeat, he would certainly have managed to find a way to warn us of 
danger and, perhaps, to point out a solution. The Encyclopedia was very dear to his heart, you 
know." 

An aura of puzzled doubt prevailed. Pirenne hemmed. "Well, now, I don't know. Psychology is a 
great science, but-there are no psychologists among us at the moment, I believe. It seems to 
me we're on uncertain ground." 

Fara turned to Hardin. "Didn't you study psychology under Alurin?" 



Hardin answered, half in reverie: "Yes, I never completed my studies, though. I got tired of 
theory. I wanted to be a psychological engineer, but we lacked the facilities, so I did the next 
best thing - I went into politics. It's practically the same thing." 

"Well, what do you think of the Vault?" 

And Hardin replied cautiously, "I don't know." 

He did not say a word for the remainder of the meeting even though it got back to the subject of 
the Chancellor of the Empire. 

In fact, he didn't even listen. He'd been put on a new track and things were falling into 
place-just a little. Little angles were fitting together - one or two. 

And psychology was the key. He was sure of that. 

He was trying desperately to remember the psychological theory he had once learned - and 
from it he got one thing right at the start. 

A great psychologist such as Seldon could unravel human emotions and human reactions 
sufficiently to be able to predict broadly the historical sweep of the future. 

And what would that mean? 


4 . 

Lord Dorwin took snuff. He also had long hair, curled intricately and, quite obviously, artificially, 
to which were added a pair of fluffy, blond sideburns, which he fondled affectionately. Then, 
too, he spoke in overprecise statements and left out all the r's. 

At the moment, Hardin had no time to think of more of the reasons for the instant detestation in 
which he had held the noble chancellor. Oh, yes, the elegant gestures of one hand with which 
he accompanied his remarks and the studied condescension with which he accompanied even 
a simple affirmative. 

But, at any rate, the problem now was to locate him. He had disappeared with Pirenne half an 
hour before - passed clean out of sight, blast him. 

Hardin was quite sure that his own absence during the preliminary discussions would quite suit 
Pirenne. 

But Pirenne had been seen in this wing And on this floor. It was simply a matter of trying every 
door. Halfway down, he said, "Ah!" and stepped into the darkened room. The profile of Lord 
Dorwin's intricate hair-do was unmistakable against the lighted screen. 

Lord Dorwin looked up and said: "Ah, Hahdin. You ah looking foah us, no doubt?" He held out 
his snuffbox - overadorned and poor workmanship at that, noted Hardinand was politely 
refused whereat he helped himself to a pinch and smiled graciously. 



Pirenne scowled and Hardin met that with an expression of blank indifference. 

The only sound to break the short silence that followed was the clicking of the lid of Lord 
Dorwin's snuffbox. And then he put it away and said: 

"A gweat achievement, this Encyclopedia of yoahs, Hahdin. A feat, indeed, to rank with the 
most majestic accomplishments of all time." 

"Most of us think so, milord. It's an accomplishment not quite accomplished as yet, however." 

"Fwom the little I have seen of the efficiency of yoah Foundation, I have no feahs on that 
scoah." And he nodded to Pirenne, who responded with a delighted bow. 

Quite a love feast, thought Hardin. "I wasn't complaining about the lack of efficiency, milord, as 
much as of the definite excess of efficiency on the part of the Anacreonians - though in another 
and more destructive direction." 

"Ah, yes, Anacweon." A negligent wave of the hand. "I have just come from theah. Most 
bahbawous planet. It is thowoughly inconceivable that human beings could live heah in the 
Pewiphewy. The lack of the most elementawy wequiahments of a cultuahed gentleman; the 
absence of the most fundamental necessities foah comfoht and convenience - the uttah 
desuetude into which they-" 

Hardin interrupted dryly: "The Anacreonians, unfortunately, have all the elementary 
requirements for warfare and all the fundamental necessities for destruction." 

"Quite, quite." Lord Dorwin seemed annoyed, perhaps at being stopped midway in his 
sentence. "But we ahn't to discuss business now, y'know. Weally, I'm othahwise concuhned. 
Doctah Piwenne, ahn't you going to show me the second volume? Do, please." 

The lights clicked out and for the next half-hour Hardin might as well have been on Anacreon 
for all the attention they paid him. The book upon the screen made little sense to him, nor did 
he trouble to make the attempt to follow, but Lord Dorwin became quite humanly excited at 
times. Hardin noticed that during these moments of excitement the chancellor pronounced his 
r's. 

When the lights went on again, Lord Dorwin said: "Mahvelous. Twuly mahvelous. You ah not, 
by chance, intewested in ahchaeology, ah you, Hahdin?" 

"Eh?" Hardin shook himself out of an abstracted reverie. "No, milord, can't say I am. I'm a 
psychologist by original intention and a politician by final decision." 

"Ah! No doubt intewesting studies. 1 , myself, y'know" - he helped himself to a giant pinch of 
snuff -"dabble in ahchaeology." 

"Indeed?" 

"His lordship," interrupted Pirenne, "is most thoroughly acquainted with the field." 

"Well, p'haps I am, p'haps I am," said his lordship complacently. "I have done an awful amount 
of wuhk in the science. Extwemely well-read, in fact. I've gone thwough all of Jawdun, Obijasi, 



Kwomwill ... oh, all of them, y'know." 

"I've heard of them, of course," said Hardin, "but I've never read them." 

"You should some day, my deah fellow. It would amply repay you. Why, I cutainly considah it 
well wuhth the twip heah to the Pewiphewy to see this copy of Lameth. Would you believe it, 
my Libwawy totally lacks a copy. By the way, Doctah Piwenne, you have not fohgotten yoah 
pwomise to twansdevelop a copy foah me befoah I leave?" 

"Only too pleased." 

"Lameth, you must know," continued the chancellor, politically, "pwesents a new and most 
intwesting addition to my pwevious knowledge of the 'Owigin Question.'" 

"Which question?" asked Hardin. 

"The 'Owigin Question.' The place of the owigin of the human species, y'know. Suahly you must 
know that it is thought that owiginally the human wace occupied only one planetawy system." 

"Well, yes, I know that." 

"Of cohse, no one knows exactly which system it is - lost in the mists of antiquity. Theah ah 
theawies, howevah. Siwius, some say. Othahs insist on Alpha Centauwi, oah on Sol, oah on 61 
Cygni - all in the Siwius sectah, you see." 

"And what does Lameth say?" 

"Well, he goes off along a new twail completely. He twies to show that ahchaeological wemains 
on the thuhd planet of the Ahctuwian System show that humanity existed theah befoah theah 
wah any indications of space-twavel." 

"And that means it was humanity's birth planet?" 

"P'haps. I must wead it closely and weigh the evidence befoah I can say foah cuhtain. One 
must see just how weliable his obsuhvations ah." 

Hardin remained silent for a short while. Then he said, "When did Lameth write his book?" 

"Oh - I should say about eight hundwed yeahs ago. Of cohse, he has based it lahgely on the 
pwevious wuhk of Gleen." 

"Then why rely on him? Why not go to Arcturus and study the remains for yourself?" 

Lord Dorwin raised his eyebrows and took a pinch of snuff hurriedly. "Why, whatevah foah, my 
deah fellow?" 

"To get the information firsthand, of course." 

"But wheah's the necessity? It seems an uncommonly woundabout and hopelessly 
wigmawolish method of getting anywheahs. Look heah, now, I've got the wuhks of all the old 
mastahs - the gweat ahchaeologists of the past. I wigh them against each othah - balance the 
disagweements - analyze the conflicting statements - decide which is pwobably cowwect - 



and come to a conclusion. That is the scientific method. At least" - patronizingly -"as / see it. 
How insuffewably cwude it would be to go to Ahctuwus, oah to Sol, foah instance, and blundah 
about, when the old mastahs have covahed the gwound so much moah effectually than we 
could possibly hope to do." 

Hardin murmured politely, "I see." 

"Come, milord," said Pirenne, "think we had better be returning." 

"Ah, yes. P'haps we had." 

As they left the room, Hardin said suddenly, "Milord, may I ask a question?" 

Lord Dorwin smiled blandly and emphasized his answer with a gracious flutter of the hand. 
"Cuhtainly, my deah fellow. Only too happy to be of suhvice. If I can help you in any way fwom 
my pooah stoah of knowledge-" 

"It isn't exactly about archaeology, milord." 

"No?" 

"No. It's this: Last year we received news here in Terminus about the meltdown of a power 
plant on Planet V of Gamma Andromeda. We got the barest outline of the accident - no details 
at all. I wonder if you could tell me exactly what happened." 

Pirenne's mouth twisted. "I wonder you annoy his lordship with questions on totally irrelevant 
subjects." 

"Not at all, Doctah Piwenne," interceded the chancellor. "It is quite all wight. Theah isn't much to 
say concuhning it in any case. The powah plant did undergo meltdown and it was quite a 
catastwophe, y'know. I believe wadiatsen damage. Weally, the govuhnment is sewiously 
considewing placing seveah westwictions upon the indiscwiminate use of nucleah powah - 
though that is not a thing for genewal publication, y'know." 

"I understand," said Hardin. "But what was wrong with the plant?" 

"Well, weally," replied Lord Dorwin indifferently, "who knows? It had bwoken down some yeahs 
pweviously and it is thought that the weplacements and wepaiah wuhk wuh most infewiah. It is 
so difficult these days to find men who weally undahstand the moah technical details of ouah 
powah systems." And he took a sorrowful pinch of snuff. 

"You realize," said Hardin, "that the independent kingdoms of the Periphery had lost nuclear 
power altogether?" 

"Have they? I'm not at all suhpwised. Bahbawous planets- Oh, but my deah fellow, don't call 
them independent. They ahn't, y'know. The tweaties we've made with them ah pwoof positive of 
that. They acknowledge the soveweignty of the Empewah. They'd have to, of cohse, oah we 
wouldn't tweat with them." 


That may be so, but they have considerable freedom of action. 



"Yes, I suppose so. Considewable. But that scahcely mattahs. The Empiah is fah bettah off, 
with the Pewiphewy thwown upon its own wesoahces - as it is, moah oah less. They ahn't any 
good to us, y'know. Most bahbawous planets. Scahcely civilized." 

"They were civilized in the past. Anacreon was one of the richest of the outlying provinces. I 
understand it compared favorably with Vega itself." 

"Oh, but, Hahdin, that was centuwies ago. You can scahcely dwaw conclusion fwom that. 
Things wah diffewent in the old gweat days. We ahn't the men we used to be, y'know. But, 
Hahdin, come, you ah a most puhsistent chap. 

I've told you I simply won't discuss business today. Doctah Piwenne did pwepayah me foah 
you. He told me you would twy to badgah me, but I'm fah too old a hand foah that. Leave it foah 
next day. And that was that. 


5 . 

This was the second meeting of the Board that Hardin had attended, if one were to exclude the 
informal talks the Board members had had with the now-departed Lord Dorwin. Yet the mayor 
had a perfectly definite idea that at least one other, and possibly two or three, had been held, to 
which he had somehow never received an invitation. 

Nor, it seemed to him, would he have received notification of this one had it not been for the 
ultimatum. 

At least, it amounted to an ultimatum, though a superficial reading of the visigraphed document 
would lead one to suppose that it was a friendly interchange of greetings between two 
potentates. 

Hardin fingered it gingerly. It started off floridly with a salutation from "His Puissant Majesty, the 
King of Anacreon, to his friend and brother, Dr. Lewis Pirenne, Chairman of the Board of 
Trustees, of the Encyclopedia Foundation Number One," and it ended even more lavishly with 
a gigantic, multicolored seal of the most involved symbolism. 

But it was an ultimatum just the same. 

Hardin said: "It turned out that we didn't have much time after all - only three months. But little 
as it was, we threw it away unused. This thing here gives us a week. What do we do now?" 

Pirenne frowned worriedly. "There must be a loophole. It is absolutely unbelievable that they 
would push matters to extremities in the face of what Lord Dorwin has assured us regarding the 
attitude of the Emperor and the Empire." 

Hardin perked up. "I see. You have informed the King of Anacreon of this alleged attitude?" 

"I did - after having placed the proposal to the Board for a vote and having received unanimous 
consent." 


And when did this vote take place? 



Pirenne climbed onto his dignity. "I do not believe I am answerable to you in any way, Mayor 
Hardin." 


"All right. I'm not that vitally interested. It's just my opinion that it was your diplomatic 
transmission of Lord Dorwin's valuable contribution to the situation"- he lifted the comer of his 
mouth in a sour half-smile -"that was the direct cause of this friendly little note. They might 
have delayed longer otherwise - though I don't think the additional time would have helped 
Terminus any, considering the attitude of the Board." 

Said Yate Fulham: "And just how do you arrive at that remarkable conclusion, Mr. Mayor?" 

"In a rather simple way. It merely required the use of that much-neglected commodity - 
common sense. You see, there is a branch of human knowledge known as symbolic logic, 
which can be used to prune away all sorts of clogging deadwood that clutters up human 
language." 

"What about it?" said Fulham. 

"I applied it. Among other things, I applied it to this document here. I didn't really need to for 
myself because I knew what it was all about, but I think I can explain it more easily to five 
physical scientists by symbols rather than by words." 

Hardin removed a few sheets of paper from the pad under his arm and spread them out. "I 
didn't do this myself, by the way," he said. "Muller Hoik of the Division of Logic has his name 
signed to the analyses, as you can see." 

Pirenne leaned over the table to get a better view and Hardin continued: "The message from 
Anacreon was a simple problem, naturally, for the men who wrote it were men of action rather 
than men of words. It boils down easily and straightforwardly to the unqualified statement, when 
in symbols is what you see, and which in words, roughly translated, is, 'You give us what we 
want in a week, or we take it by force.'" 

There was silence as the five members of the Board ran down the line of symbols, and then 
Pirenne sat down and coughed uneasily. 

Hardin said, "No loophole, is there, Dr. Pirenne?" 

"Doesn't seem to be." 

"All right." Hardin replaced the sheets. "Before you now you see a copy of the treaty between 
the Empire and Anacreon - a treaty, incidentally, which is signed on the Emperor's behalf by 
the same Lord Dorwin who was here last week - and with it a symbolic analysis." 

The treaty ran through five pages of fine print and the analysis was scrawled out in just under 
half a page. 

"As you see, gentlemen, something like ninety percent of the treaty boiled right out of the 
analysis as being meaningless, and what we end up with can be described in the following 
interesting manner: 

"Obligations of Anacreon to the Empire: None! 



Powers of the Empire over Anacreon: None!" 


Again the five followed the reasoning anxiously, checking carefully back to the treaty, and when 
they were finished, Pirenne said in a worried fashion, "That seems to be correct." 

"You admit, then, that the treaty is nothing but a declaration of total independence on the part of 
Anacreon and a recognition of that status by the Empire?" 

"It seems so." 

"And do you suppose that Anacreon doesn't realize that, and is not anxious to emphasize the 
position of independence - so that it would naturally tend to resent any appearance of threats 
from the Empire? Particularly when it is evident that the Empire is powerless to fulfill any such 
threats, or it would never have allowed independence." 

"But then," interposed Sutt, "how would Mayor Hardin account for Lord Dorwin's assurances of 
Empire support? They seemed He shrugged. "Well, they seemed satisfactory." 

Hardin threw himself back in the chair. "You know, that's the most interesting part of the whole 
business. I'll admit I had thought his Lordship a most consummate donkey when I first met him 
- but it turned out that he was actually an accomplished diplomat and a most clever man. I took 
the liberty of recording all his statements." 

There was a flurry, and Pirenne opened his mouth in horror. 

"What of it?" demanded Hardin. "I realize it was a gross breach of hospitality and a thing no 
so-called gentleman would do. Also, that if his lordship had caught on, things might have been 
unpleasant; but he didn't, and I have the record, and that's that. I took that record, had it copied 
out and sent that to Hoik for analysis, also." 

Lundin Crast said, "And where is the analysis?" 

"That," replied Hardin, "is the interesting thing. The analysis was the most difficult of the three 
by all odds. When Hoik, after two days of steady work, succeeded in eliminating meaningless 
statements, vague gibberish, useless qualifications - in short, all the goo and dribble - he 
found he had nothing left. Everything canceled out." 

"Lord Dorwin, gentlemen, in five days of discussion didn't say one damned thing, and said it so 
you never noticed. There are the assurances you had from your precious Empire." 

Hardin might have placed an actively working stench bomb on the table and created no more 
confusion than existed after his last statement. He waited, with weary patience, for it to die 
down. 

"So," he concluded, "when you sent threats - and that's what they were - concerning Empire 
action to Anacreon, you merely irritated a monarch who knew better. Naturally, his ego would 
demand immediate action, and the ultimatum is the result-which brings me to my original 
statement. We have one week left and what do we do now?" 

"It seems," said Sutt, "that we have no choice but to allow Anacreon to establish military bases 



on Terminus. 


"I agree with you there," replied Hardin, "but what do we do toward kicking them off again at the 
first opportunity?" 

Yate Fulham's mustache twitched. "That sounds as if you have made up your mind that 
violence must be used against them." 

"Violence," came the retort, "is the last refuge of the incompetent. But I certainly don't intend to 
lay down the welcome mat and brush off the best furniture for their use." 

"I still don't like the way you put that," insisted Fulham. "It is a dangerous attitude; the more 
dangerous because we have noticed lately that a sizable section of the populace seems to 
respond to all your suggestions just so. I might as well tell you, Mayor Hardin, that the board is 
not quite blind to your recent activities." 

He paused and there was general agreement. Hardin shrugged. 

Fulham went on: "If you were to inflame the City into an act of violence, you would achieve 
elaborate suicide - and we don't intend to allow that. Our policy has but one cardinal principle, 
and that is the Encyclopedia. Whatever we decide to do or not to do will be so decided because 
it will be the measure required to keep that Encyclopedia safe." 

"Then," said Hardin, "you come to the conclusion that we must continue our intensive campaign 
of doing nothing." 

Pirenne said bitterly: "You have yourself demonstrated that the Empire cannot help us; though 
how and why it can be so, I don't understand. If compromise is necessary-" 

Hardin had the nightmarelike sensation of running at top speed and getting nowhere. "There is 
no compromise! Don't you realize that this bosh about military bases is a particularly inferior 
grade of drivel? Haut Rodric told us what Anacreon was after - outright annexation and 
imposition of its own feudal system of landed estates and peasant-aristocracy economy upon 
us. What is left of our bluff of nuclear power may force them to move slowly, but they will move 
nonetheless." 

He had risen indignantly, and the rest rose with him except for Jord Fara. 

And then Jord Fara spoke. "Everyone will please sit down. We've gone quite far enough, I 
think. Come, there's no use looking so furious, Mayor Hardin; none of us have been committing 
treason." 

"You'll have to convince me of that!" 

Fara smiled gently. "You know you don't mean that. Let me speak!" 


His little shrewd eyes were half closed, and the perspiration gleamed on the smooth expanse of 
his chin. "There seems no point in concealing that the Board has come to the decision that the 
real solution to the Anacreonian problem lies in what is to be revealed to us when the Vault 



opens six days from now. 


"Is that your contribution to the matter?" 

"Yes." 

"We are to do nothing, is that fight, except to wait in quiet serenity and utter faith for the deus ex 
machina to pop out of the Vault?" 

"Stripped of your emotional phraseology, that's the idea." 

"Such unsubtle escapism! Really, Dr. Fara, such folly smacks of genius. A lesser mind would 
be incapable of it." 

Fara smiled indulgently. "Your taste in epigrams is amusing, Hardin, but out of place. As a 
matter of fact, I think you remember my line of argument concerning the Vault about three 
weeks ago." 

"Yes, I remember it. I don't deny that it was anything but a stupid idea from the standpoint of 
deductive logic alone. You said - stop me when I make a mistake - that Hari Seldon was the 
greatest psychologist in the System; that, hence, he could foresee the right and uncomfortable 
spot we're in now; that, hence, he established the Vault as a method of telling us the way out." 

"You've got the essence of the idea." 

"Would it surprise you to hear that I've given considerable thought to the matter these last 
weeks?" 

"Very flattering. With what result?" 

"With the result that pure deduction is found wanting. Again what is needed is a little sprinkling 
of common sense." 

"For instance?" 

"For instance, if he foresaw the Anacreonian mess, why not have placed us on some other 
planet nearer the Galactic centers? It's well known that Seldon maneuvered the Commissioners 
on Trantor into ordering the Foundation established on Terminus. But why should he have done 
so? Why put us out here at all if he could see in advance the break in communication lines, our 
isolation from the Galaxy, the threat of our neighbors - and our helplessness because of the 
lack of metals on Terminus? That above all! Or if he foresaw all this, why not have warned the 
original settlers in advance that they might have had time to prepare, rather than wait, as he is 
doing, until one foot is over the cliff, before doing so? 

"And don't forget this. Even though he could foresee the problem then, we can see it equally 
well now. Therefore, if he could foresee the solution then, we should be able to see it now. After 
all, Seldon was not a magician. There are no trick methods of escaping from a dilemma that he 
can see and we can't." 



But, Hardin," reminded Fara, "we can't! 


"But you haven't tried. You haven't tried once. First, you refused to admit that there was a 
menace at all! Then you reposed an absolutely blind faith in the Emperor! Now you've shifted it 
to Hari Seldon. Throughout you have invariably relied on authority or on the past - never on 
yourselves." 

His fists balled spasmodically. "It amounts to a diseased attitude - a conditioned reflex that 
shunts aside the independence of your minds whenever it is a question of opposing authority. 
There seems no doubt ever in your minds that the Emperor is more powerful than you are, or 
Hari Seldon wiser. And that's wrong, don't you see?" 

For some reason, no one cared to answer him. 

Hardin continued: "It isn't just you. It's the whole Galaxy. Pirenne heard Lord Dorwin's idea of 
scientific research. Lord Dorwin thought the way to be a good archaeologist was to read all the 
books on the subject - written by men who were dead for centuries. He thought that the way to 
solve archaeological puzzles was to weigh the opposing authorities. And Pirenne listened and 
made no objections. Don't you see that there's something wrong with that?" 

Again the note of near-pleading in his voice. Again no answer. 

He went on: "And you men and half of Terminus as well are just as bad. We sit here, 
considering the Encyclopedia the all-in-all. We consider the greatest end of science, is the 
classification of past data. It is important, but is there no further work to be done? We're 
receding and forgetting, don't you see? Here in the Periphery they've lost nuclear power. In 
Gamma Andromeda, a power plant has undergone meltdown because of poor repairs, and the 
Chancellor of the Empire complains that nuclear technicians are scarce. And the solution? To 
train new ones? Never! Instead they're to restrict nuclear power." 

And for the third time: "Don't you see? It's Galaxywide. It's a worship of the past. It's a 
deterioration - a stagnation!" 

He stared from one to the other and they gazed fixedly at him. 

Fara was the first to recover. "Well, mystical philosophy isn't going to help us here. Let us be 
concrete. Do you deny that Hari Seldon could easily have worked out historical trends of the 
future by simple psychological technique?" 

"No, of course not," cried Hardin. "But we can't rely on him for a solution. At best, he might 
indicate the problem, but if ever there is to be a solution, we must work it out ourselves. He 
can't do it for us." 

Fulham spoke suddenly. "What do you mean - 'indicate the problem'? We know the problem." 

Hardin whirled on him. "You think you do? You think Anacreon is all Hari Seldon is likely to be 
worried about. I disagree! I tell you, gentlemen, that as yet none of you has the faintest 
conception of what is really going on." 

"And you do?" questioned Pirenne, hostilely. 



"I think so!" Hardin jumped up and pushed his chair away. His eyes were cold and hard. "If 
there's one thing that's definite, it is that there's something smelly about the whole situation; 
something that is bigger than anything we've talked about yet. Just ask yourself this question: 
Why was it that among the original population of the Foundation not one first-class psychologist 
was included, except Bor Alurin? And he carefully refrained from training his pupils in more 
than the fundamentals." 

A short silence and Fara said: "All right. Why?" 

"Perhaps because a psychologist might have caught on to what this was all about - and too 
soon to suit Hari Seldon. As it is, we've been stumbling about, getting misty glimpses of the 
truth and no more. And that is what Hari Seldon wanted." 

He laughed harshly. "Good day, gentlemen!" 

He stalked out of the room. 


6 . 

Mayor Hardin chewed at the end of his cigar. It had gone out but he was past noticing that. He 
hadn't slept the night before and he had a good idea that he wouldn't sleep this coming night. 
His eyes showed it. 

He said wearily, "And that covers it?" 

"I think so." Yohan Lee put a hand to his chin. "How does it sound?" 

"Not too bad. It's got to be done, you understand, with impudence. That is, there is to be no 
hesitation; no time to allow them to grasp the situation. Once we are in a position to give 
orders, why, give them as though you were born to do so, and they'll obey out of habit. That's 
the essence of a coup." 

"If the Board remains irresolute for even 

"The Board? Count them out. After tomorrow, their importance as a factor in Terminus affairs 
won't matter a rusty half-credit." 

Lee nodded slowly. "Yet it is strange that they've done nothing to stop us so far. You say they 
weren't entirely in the dark." 

"Fara stumbles at the edges of the problem. Sometimes he makes me nervous. And Pirenne's 
been suspicious of me since I was elected. But, you see, they never had the capacity of really 
understanding what was up. Their whole training has been authoritarian. They are sure that the 
Emperor, just because he is the Emperor, is all-powerful. And they are sure that the Board of 
Trustees, simply because it is the Board of Trustees acting in the name of the Emperor, cannot 
be in a position where it does not give the orders. That incapacity to recognize the possibility of 
revolt is our best ally." 

He heaved out of his chair and went to the water cooler. "They're not bad fellows, Lee, when 



they stick to their Encyclopedia - and we'll see that that's where they stick in the future. They're 
hopelessly incompetent when it comes to ruling Terminus. Go away now and start things 
rolling. I want to be alone." 

He sat down on the comer of his desk and stared at the cup of water. 

Space! If only he were as confident as he pretended! The Anacreonians were landing in two 
days and what had he to go on but a set of notions and half-guesses as to what Had Seldon 
had been driving at these past fifty years? He wasn't even a real, honest-to-goodness 
psychologist - just a tumbler with a little training trying to outguess the greatest mind of the 
age. 

If Fara were fight; if Anacreon were all the problem Hari Seldon had foreseen; if the 
Encyclopedia were all he was interested in preserving - then what price coup d'etat? 

He shrugged and drank his water. 


7 . 

The Vault was furnished with considerably more than six chairs, as though a larger company 
had been expected. Hardin noted that thoughtfully and seated himself wearily in a comer just 
as far from the other five as possible. 

The Board members did not seem to object to that arrangement. They spoke among 
themselves in whispers, which fell off into sibilant monosyllables, and then into nothing at all. Of 
them all, only Jord Fara seemed even reasonably calm. He had produced a watch and was 
staring at it somberly. 

Hardin glanced at his own watch and then at the glass cubicle - absolutely empty - that 
dominated half the room. It was the only unusual feature of the room, for aside from that there 
was no indication that somewhere a computer was splitting off instants of time toward that 
precise moment when a muon stream would flow, a connection be made and- 

The lights went dim! 

They didn't go out, but merely yellowed and sank with a suddenness that made Hardin jump. 

He had lifted his eyes to the ceiling lights in startled fashion, and when he brought them down 
the glass cubicle was no longer empty. 

A figure occupied it , a figure in a wheel chair! 

It said nothing for a few moments, but it closed the book upon its lap and fingered it idly. And 
then it smiled, and the face seemed all alive. 

It said, "I am Hari Seldon." The voice was old and soft. 

Hardin almost rose to acknowledge the introduction and stopped himself in the act. 

The voice continued conversationally: "As you see, I am confined to this chair and cannot rise 



to greet you. Your grandparents left for Terminus a few months back in my time and since then 
I have suffered a rather inconvenient paralysis. I can't see you, you know, so I can't greet you 
properly. I don't even know how many of you there are, so all this must be conducted 
informally. If any of you are standing, please sit down; and if you care to smoke, I wouldn't 
mind." There was a light chuckle. "Why should I? I'm not really here." 

Hardin fumbled for a cigar almost automatically, but thought better of it. 

Hari Seldon put away his book - as if laying it upon a desk at his side - and when his fingers let 
go, it disappeared. 

He said: "It is fifty years now since this Foundation was established - fifty years in which the 
members of the Foundation have been ignorant of what it was they were working toward. It was 
necessary that they be ignorant, but now the necessity is gone. 

"The Encyclopedia Foundation, to begin with, is a fraud, and always has been!" 

There was a sound of a scramble behind Hardin and one or two muffled exclamations, but he 
did not turn around. 

Hari Seldon was, of course, undisturbed. He went on: "It is a fraud in the sense that neither I 
nor my colleagues care at all whether a single volume of the Encyclopedia is ever published. It 
has served its purpose, since by it we extracted an imperial charter from the Emperor, by it we 
attracted the hundred thousand humans necessary for our scheme, and by it we managed to 
keep them preoccupied while events shaped themselves, until it was too late for any of them to 
draw back. 

"In the fifty years that you have worked on this fraudulent project - there is no use in softening 
phrases - your retreat has been cut off, and you have now no choice but to proceed on the 
infinitely more important project that was, and is, our real plan. 

"To that end we have placed you on such a planet and at such a time that in fifty years you 
were maneuvered to the point where you no longer have freedom of action. From now on, and 
into the centuries, the path you must take is inevitable. You will be faced with a series of crises, 
as you are now faced with the first, and in each case your freedom of action will become 
similarly circumscribed so that you will be forced along one, and only one, path. 

"It is that path which our psychology has worked out - and for a reason. 

"For centuries Galactic civilization has stagnated and declined, though only a few ever realized 
that. But now, at last, the Periphery is breaking away and the political unity of the Empire is 
shattered. Somewhere in the fifty years just past is where the historians of the future will place 
an arbitrary line and say: 'This marks the Fall of the Galactic Empire.' 

"And they will be right, though scarcely any will recognize that Fall for additional centuries. 

"And after the Fall will come inevitable barbarism, a period which, our psychohistory tells us, 
should, under ordinary circumstances, last for thirty thousand years. We cannot stop the Fall. 
We do not wish to; for Imperial culture has lost whatever virility and worth it once had. But we 
can shorten the period of Barbarism that must follow - down to a single thousand of years. 



"The ins and outs of that shortening, we cannot tell you; just as we could not tell you the truth 
about the Foundation fifty years ago. Were you to discover those ins and outs, our plan might 
fail; as it would have, had you penetrated the fraud of the Encyclopedia earlier; for then, by 
knowledge, your freedom of action would be expanded and the number of additional variables 
introduced would become greater than our psychology could handle. 

"But you won't, for there are no psychologists on Terminus, and never were, but for Alurin - 
and he was one of us. 

"But this I can tell you: Terminus and its companion Foundation at the other end of the Galaxy 
are the seeds of the Renascence and the future founders of the Second Galactic Empire. And it 
is the present crisis that is starting Terminus off to that climax. 

"This, by the way, is a rather straightforward crisis, much simpler than many of those that are 
ahead. To reduce it to its fundamentals, it is this: You are a planet suddenly cut off from the 
still-civilized centers of the Galaxy, and threatened by your stronger neighbors. You are a small 
world of scientists surrounded by vast and rapidly expanding reaches of barbarism. You are an 
island of nuclear power in a growing ocean of more primitive energy; but are helpless despite 
that, because of your lack of metals. 

"You see, then, that you are faced by hard necessity, and that action is forced on you. The 
nature of that action - that is, the solution to your dilemma - is, of course, obvious!" 

The image of Hari Seldon reached into open air and the book once more appeared in his hand. 
Fie opened it and said: 

"But whatever devious course your future history may take, impress it always upon your 
descendants that the path has been marked out, and that at its end is new and greater Empire!" 

And as his eyes bent to his book, he flicked into nothingness, and the lights brightened once 
more. 

Hardin looked up to see Pirenne facing him, eyes tragic and lips trembling. 

The chairman's voice was firm but toneless. "You were right, it seems. If you will see us tonight 
at six, the Board will consult with you as to the next move." 

They shook his hand, each one, and left, and Hardin smiled to himself. They were 
fundamentally sound at that; for they were scientists enough to admit that they were wrong - 
but for them, it was too late. 

Fie looked at his watch. By this time, it was all over. Lee's men were in control and the Board 
was giving orders no longer. 

The Anacreonians were landing their first spaceships tomorrow, but that was all right, too. In six 
months, they would be giving orders no longer. 

In fact, as Hari Seldon had said, and as Salvor Hardin had guessed since the day that Anselm 
haut Rodric had first revealed to him Anacreon's lack of nuclear power - the solution to this first 
crisis was obvious. 



Obvious as all hell! 


PART III 

THE MAYORS 

i. 

THE FOUR KINGDOMS - The name given to those portions of the Province of Anacreon which 
broke away from the First Empire in the early years of the Foundational Era to form 
independent and short-lived kingdoms. The largest and most powerful of these was Anacreon 
itself which in area... 

... Undoubtedly the most interesting aspect of the history of the Four Kingdoms involves the 
strange society forced temporarily upon it during the administration of Salvor Hardin.... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

A deputation! 

That Salvor Hardin had seen it coming made it none the more pleasant. On the contrary, he 
found anticipation distinctly annoying. 

Yohan Lee advocated extreme measures. "I don't see, Hardin," he said, "that we need waste 
any time. They can't do anything till next election - legally, anyway - and that gives us a year. 
Give them the brush-off." 

Hardin pursed his lips. "Lee, you'll never learn. In the forty years I've known you, you've never 
once learned the gentle art of sneaking up from behind." 

"It's not my way of fighting," grumbled Lee. 

"Yes, I know that. I suppose that's why you're the one man I trust." He paused and reached for 
a cigar. "We've come a long way, Lee, since we engineered our coup against the 
Encyclopedists way back. I'm getting old. Sixty-two. Do you ever think how fast those thirty 
years went?" 

Lee snorted. "I don't feel old, and I'm sixty-six." 

"Yes, but I haven't your digestion." Hardin sucked lazily at his cigar. He had long since stopped 
wishing for the mild Vegan tobacco of his youth. Those days when the planet, Terminus, had 
trafficked with every part of the Galactic Empire belonged in the limbo to which all Good Old 
Days go. Toward the same limbo where the Galactic Empire was heading. He wondered who 
the new emperor was - or if there was a new emperor at all - or any Empire. Space! For thirty 
years now, since the breakup of communications here at the edge of the Galaxy, the whole 
universe of Terminus had consisted of itself and the four surrounding kingdoms. 




How the mighty had fallen! Kingdoms ! They were prefects in the old days, all part of the same 
province, which in turn had been part of a sector, which in turn had been part of a quadrant, 
which in turn had been part of the allembracing Galactic Empire. And now that the Empire had 
lost control over the farther reaches of the Galaxy, these little splinter groups of planets became 
kingdoms - with comic-opera kings and nobles, and petty, meaningless wars, and a life that 
went on pathetically among the ruins. 

A civilization falling. Nuclear power forgotten. Science fading to mythology - until the 
Foundation had stepped in. The Foundation that Hari Seldon had established for just that 
purpose here on Terminus. 

Lee was at the window and his voice broke in on Hardin's reverie. "They've come," he said, "in 
a late-model ground car, the young pups." He took a few uncertain steps toward the door and 
then looked at Hardin. 

Hardin smiled, and waved him back. "I've given orders to have them brought up here." 

"Here! What for? You're making them too important." 

"Why go through all the ceremonies of an official mayor's audience? I'm getting too old for red 
tape. Besides which, flattery is useful when dealing with youngsters - particularly when it 
doesn't commit you to anything." He winked. "Sit down, Lee, and give me your moral backing. 

I'll need it with this young Sermak." 

"That fellow, Sermak," said Lee, heavily, "is dangerous. He's got a following, Hardin, so don't 
underestimate him." 

"Have I ever underestimated anybody?" 

"Well, then, arrest him. You can accuse him of something or other afterward." 

Hardin ignored that last bit of advice. "There they are, Lee." In response to the signal, he 
stepped on the pedal beneath his desk, and the door slid aside. 

They filed in, the four that composed the deputation, and Hardin waved them gently to the 
armchairs that faced his desk in a semicircle. They bowed and waited for the mayor to speak 
first. 

Hardin flicked open the curiously carved silver lid of the cigar box that had once belonged to 
Jord Fara of the old Board of Trustees in the long-dead days of the Encyclopedists. It was a 
genuine Empire product from Santanni, though the cigars it now contained were home-grown. 
One by one, with grave solemnity, the four of the deputation accepted cigars and lit up in 
ritualistic fashion. 

Sef Sermak was second from the right, the youngest of the young group - and the most 
interesting with his bristly yellow mustache trimmed precisely, and his sunken eyes of uncertain 
color. The other three Hardin dismissed almost immediately; they were rank and file on the face 
of them. It was on Sermak that he concentrated, the Sermak who had already, in his first term 
in the City Council, turned that sedate body topsy-turvy more than once, and it was to Sermak 
that he said: 



"I've been particularly anxious to see you, Councilman, ever since your very excellent speech 
last month. Your attack on the foreign policy of this government was a most capable one." 

Sermak's eyes smoldered. "Your interest honors me. The attack may or may not have been 
capable, but it was certainly justified." 

"Perhaps! Your opinions are yours, of course. Still you are rather young." 

Dryly. "It is a fault that most people are guilty of at some period of their life. You became mayor 
of the city when you were two years younger than I am now." 

Hardin smiled to himself. The yearling was a cool customer. He said, "I take it now that you 
have come to see me concerning this same foreign policy that annoys you so greatly in the 
Council Chamber. Are you speaking for your three colleagues, or must I listen to each of you 
separately?" There were quick mutual glances among the four young men, a slight flickering of 
eyelids. 

Sermak said grimly, "I speak for the people of Terminus - a people who are not now truly 
represented in the rubberstamp body they call the Council." 

"I see. Go ahead, then!" 

"It comes to this, Mr. Mayor. We are dissatisfied-" 

"By 'we' you mean 'the people,' don't you?" 

Sermak stared hostilely, sensing a trap, and replied coldly, "I believe that my views reflect those 
of the majority of the voters of Terminus. Does that suit you?" 

"Well, a statement like that is all the better for proof, but go on, anyway. You are dissatisfied." 

"Yes, dissatisfied with the policy which for thirty years had been stripping Terminus defenseless 
against the inevitable attack from outside." 

"I see. And therefore? Go on, go on." 

"It's nice of you to anticipate. And therefore we are forming a new political party; one that will 
stand for the immediate needs of Terminus and not for a mystic 'manifest destiny' of future 
Empire. We are going to throw you and your lick-spittle clique of appeasers out of City Hall-and 
that soon." 

"Unless? There's always an 'unless,' you know." 

"Not much of one in this case: Unless you resign now. I'm not asking you to change your 
policies - I wouldn't trust you that far. Your promises are worth nothing. An outright resignation 
is all we'll take." 

"I see." Hardin crossed his legs and teetered his chair back on two legs. "That's your ultimatum. 
Nice of you to give me warning. But, you see, I rather think I'll ignore it." 

"Don't think it was a warning, Mr. Mayor. It was an announcement of principles and of action. 
The new party has already been formed, and it will begin its official activities tomorrow. There is 



neither room nor desire for compromise, and, frankly, it was only our recognition of your 
services to the City that induced us to offer the easy way out. I didn't think you'd take it, but my 
conscience is clear. 

The next election will be a more forcible and quite irresistible reminder that resignation is 
necessary." 

He rose and motioned the rest up. 

Hardin lifted his arm. "Hold on! Sit down!" 

Sef Sermak seated himself once more with just a shade too much alacrity and Hardin smiled 
behind a straight face. In spite of his words, he was waiting for an offer. 

Hardin said, "In exactly what way do you want our foreign policy changed? Do you want us to 
attack the Four Kingdoms, now, at once, and all four simultaneously?" 

"I make no such suggestion, Mr. Mayor. It is our simple proposition that all appeasement cease 
immediately. Throughout your administration, you have carried out a policy of scientific aid to 
the Kingdoms. You have given them nuclear power. You have helped rebuild power plants on 
their territories. You have established medical clinics, chemical laboratories and factories." 

"Well? And your objection?" 

"You have done this in order to keep them from attacking us. With these as bribes, you have 
been playing the fool in a colossal game of blackmail, in which you have allowed Terminus to 
be sucked dry - with the result that now we are at the mercy of these barbarians." 

"In what way?" 

"Because you have given them power, given them weapons, actually serviced the ships of their 
navies, they are infinitely stronger than they were three decades ago. Their demands are 
increasing, and with their new weapons, they will eventually satisfy all their demands at once by 
violent annexation of Terminus. Isn't that the way blackmail usually ends?" 

"And your remedy?" 

"Stop the bribes immediately and while you can. Spend your effort in strengthening Terminus 
itself - and attack first!" 

Hardin watched the young fellow's little blond mustache with an almost morbid interest. Sermak 
felt sure of himself or he wouldn't talk so much. There was no doubt that his remarks were the 
reflection of a pretty huge segment of the population, pretty huge. 


His voice did not betray the slightly perturbed current of his thoughts. If was almost negligent. 
"Are you finished?" 

"For the moment." 

"Well, then, do you notice the framed statement I have on the wall behind me? Read it, if you 



will! 


Sermak's lips twitched. "It says: 'Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.' That's an old 
man's doctrine, Mr. Mayor." 

"I applied it as a young man, Mr. Councilman - and successfully. You were busily being born 
when it happened, but perhaps you may have read something of it in school." 

He eyed Sermak closely and continued in measured tones, "When Hari Seldon established the 
Foundation here, it was for the ostensible purpose of producing a great Encyclopedia, and for 
fifty years we followed that will-of-the-wisp, before discovering what he was really after. By that 
time, it was almost too late. When communications with the central regions of the old Empire 
broke down, we found ourselves a world of scientists concentrated in a single city, possessing 
no industries, and surrounded by newly created kingdoms, hostile and largely barbarous. We 
were a tiny island of nuclear power in this ocean of barbarism, and an infinitely valuable prize. 

"Anacreon, then as now, the most powerful of the Four Kingdoms, demanded and later actually 
established a military base upon Terminus, and the then rulers of the City, the Encyclopedists, 
knew very well that this was only a preliminary to taking over the entire planet. That is how 
matters stood when I ... uh ... assumed actual government. What would you have done?" 

Sermak shrugged his shoulders. "That's an academic question. Of course, I know what you 
did." 

"I'll repeat it, anyway. Perhaps you don't get the point. The temptation was great to muster what 
force we could and put up a fight. It's the easiest way out, and the most satisfactory to 
self-respect - but, nearly invariably, the stupidest. You would have done it; you and your talk of 
'attack first.' What I did, instead, was to visit the three other kingdoms, one by one; point out to 
each that to allow the secret of nuclear power to fall into the hands of Anacreon was the 
quickest way of cutting their own throats; and suggest gently that they do the obvious thing. 

That was all. One month after the Anacreonian force had landed on Terminus, their king 
received a joint ultimatum from his three neighbors. In seven days, the last Anacreonian was off 
Terminus. 

Now tell me, where was the need for violence?" 

The young councilman regarded his cigar stub thoughtfully and tossed it into the incinerator 
chute. "I fail to see the analogy. Insulin will bring a diabetic to normal without the faintest need 
of a knife, but appendicitis needs an operation. You can't help that. When other courses have 
failed, what is left but, as you put it, the last refuge? It's your fault that we're driven to it." 

"I? Oh, yes, again my policy of appeasement. You still seem to lack grasp of the fundamental 
necessities of our position. Our problem wasn't over with the departure of the Anacreonians. 
They had just begun. The Four Kingdoms were more our enemies than ever, for each wanted 
nuclear power-and each was kept off our throats only for fear of the other three. We are 
balanced on the point of a very sharp sword, and the slightest sway in any direction - If, for 
instance, one kingdom becomes too strong; or if two form a coalition - You understand?" 

"Certainly. That was the time to begin all-out preparations for war." 



"On the contrary. That was the time to begin all-out prevention of war. I played them one 
against the other. I helped each in turn. I offered them science, trade, education, scientific 
medicine. I made Terminus of more value to them as a flourishing world than as a military prize. 
It worked for thirty years." 

"Yes, but you were forced to surround these scientific gifts with the most outrageous mummery. 
You've made half religion, half balderdash out of it. You've erected a hierarchy of priests and 
complicated, meaningless ritual." 

Hardin frowned. "What of that? I don't see that it has anything to do with the argument at all. I 
started that way at first because the barbarians looked upon our science as a sort of magical 
sorcery, and it was easiest to get them to accept it on that basis. The priesthood built itself and 
if we help it along we are only following the line of least resistance. It is a minor matter." 

"But these priests are in charge of the power plants. That is not a minor matter." 

"True, but we have trained them. Their knowledge of their tools is purely empirical; and they 
have a firm belief in the mummery that surrounds them." 

"And if one pierces through the mummery, and has the genius to brush aside empiricism, what 
is to prevent him from learning actual techniques, and selling out to the most satisfactory 
bidder? What price our value to the kingdoms, then?" 

"Little chance of that, Sermak. You are being superficial. The best men on the planets of the 
kingdoms are sent here to the Foundation each year and educated into the priesthood. And the 
best of these remain here as research students. If you think that those who are left, with 
practically no knowledge of the elements of science, or worse, still, with the distorted 
knowledge the priests receive, can penetrate at a bound to nuclear power, to electronics, to the 
theory of the hyperwarp - you have a very romantic and very foolish idea of science. It takes 
lifetimes of training and an excellent brain to get that far." 

Yohan Lee had risen abruptly during the foregoing speech and left the room. He had returned 
now and when Hardin finished speaking, he bent to his superior's ear. A whisper was 
exchanged and then a leaden cylinder. Then, with one short hostile look at the deputation, Lee 
resumed his chair. 

Hardin turned the cylinder end for end in his hands, watching the deputation through his lashes. 
And then he opened it with a hard, sudden twist and only Sermak had the sense not to throw a 
rapid look at the rolled paper that fell out. 

"In short, gentlemen," he said, "the Government is of the opinion that it knows what it is doing." 

He read as he spoke. There were the lines of intricate, meaningless code that covered the 
page and the three penciled words scrawled in one comer that carried the message. He took it 
in at a glance and tossed it casually into the incinerator shaft. 

"That," Hardin then said, "ends the interview, I'm afraid. Glad to have met you all. Thank you for 
coming." He shook hands with each in perfunctory fashion, and they filed out. 

Hardin had almost gotten out of the habit of laughing, but after Sermak and his three silent 



partners were well out of earshot, he indulged in a dry chuckle and bent an amused look on 
Lee. 

"How did you like that battle of bluffs, Lee?" 

Lee snorted grumpily. "I'm not sure that he was bluffing. Treat him with kid gloves and he's 
quite liable to win the next election, just as he says." 

"Oh, quite likely, quite likely - if nothing happens first." 

"Make sure they don't happen in the wrong direction this time, Hardin. I tell you this Sermak has 
a following. What if he doesn't wait till the next election? There was a time when you and I put 
things through violently, in spite of your slogan about what violence is." 

Hardin cocked an eyebrow. "You are pessimistic today, Lee. And singularly contrary, too, or 
you wouldn't speak of violence. Our own little putsch was carried through without loss of life, 
you remember. It was a necessary measure put through at the proper moment, and went over 
smoothly, painlessly, and all but effortlessly. As for Sermak, he's up against a different 
proposition. You and I, Lee, aren't the Encyclopedists. We stand prepared. Order your men 
onto these youngsters in a nice way, old fellow. Don't let them know they're being watched - 
but eyes open, you understand." 

Lee laughed in sour amusement. "I'd be a fine one to wait for your orders, wouldn't I, Hardin? 
Sermak and his men have been under surveillance for a month now." 

The mayor chuckled. "Got in first, did you? All right. By the way," he observed, and added 
softly, "Ambassador Verisof is returning to Terminus. Temporarily, I hope." 

There was a short silence, faintly horrified, and then Lee said, "Was that the message? Are 
things breaking already?" 

"Don't know. I can't tell till I hear what Verisof has to say. They may be, though. After all, they 
have to before election. But what are you looking so dead about?" 

"Because I don't know how it's going to turn out. You're too deep, Hardin, and you're playing 
the game too close to your chest." 

"Even you?" murmured Hardin. And aloud, "Does that mean you're going to join Sermak's new 
party?" 

Lee smiled against his will. "All right. You win. How about lunch now?" 


2 . 

There are many epigrams attributed to Hardin - a confirmed epigrammatist - a good many of 
which are probably apocryphal. Nevertheless, it is reported that on a certain occasion, he said: 

"It pays to be obvious, especially if you have a reputation for subtlety." 

Poly Verisof had had occasion to act on that advice more than once for he was now in the 



fourteenth year of his double status on Anacreon - a double status the upkeep of which 
reminded him often and unpleasantly of a dance performed barefoot on hot metal. 

To the people of Anacreon he was high priest, representative of that Foundation which, to 
those "barbarians," was the acme of mystery and the physical center of this religion they had 
created - with Hardin's help - in the last three decades. As such, he received a homage that 
had become horribly wearying, for from his soul he despised the ritual of which he was the 
center. 

But to the King of Anacreon - the old one that had been, and the young grandson that was now 
on the throne - he was simply the ambassador of a power at once feared and coveted. 

On the whole, it was an uncomfortable job, and his first trip to the Foundation in three years, 
despite the disturbing incident that had made it necessary, was something in the nature of a 
holiday. 

And since it was not the first time he had had to travel in absolute secrecy, he again made use 
of Hardin's epigram on the uses of the obvious. 

He changed into his civilian clothes - a holiday in itself - and boarded a passenger liner to the 
Foundation, second class. Once at Terminus, he threaded his way through the crowd at the 
spaceport and called up City Hall at a public visiphone. 

He said, "My name is Jan Smite. I have an appointment with the mayor this afternoon." 

The dead-voiced but efficient young lady at the other end made a second connection and 
exchanged a few rapid words, then said to Verisof in dry, mechanical tone, "Mayor Hardin will 
see you in half an hour, sir," and the screen went blank. 

Whereupon the ambassador to Anacreon bought the latest edition of the Terminus City Journal, 
sauntered casually to City Hall Park and, sitting, down on the first empty bench he came to, 
read the editorial page, sport section and comic sheet while waiting. At the end of half an hour, 
he tucked the paper under his arm, entered City Hall and presented himself in the anteroom. 

In doing all this he remained safely and thoroughly unrecognized, for since he was so entirely 
obvious, no one gave him a second look. 

Hardin looked up at him and grinned. "Have a cigar! How was the trip?" 

Verisof helped himself. "Interesting. There was a priest in the next cabin on his way here to 
take a special course in the preparation of radioactive synthetics - for the treatment of cancer, 
you know 

"Surely, he didn't call it radioactive synthetics, now?" 

"I guess not! It was the Holy Food to him." 

The mayor smiled. "Go on." 

"He inveigled me into a theological discussion and did his level best to elevate me out of sordid 
materialism." 



"And never recognized his own high priest?" 

"Without my crimson robe? Besides, he was a Smyrnian. It was an interesting experience, 
though. It is remarkable, Hardin, how the religion of science has grabbed hold. I've written an 
essay on the subject - entirely for my own amusement; it wouldn't do to have it published. 
Treating the problem sociologically, it would seem that when the old Empire began to rot at the 
fringes, it could be considered that science, as science, had failed the outer worlds. To be 
reaccepted it would have to present itself in another guise and it has done just that. It works out 
beautifully." 

"Interesting!" The mayor placed his arms around his neck and said suddenly, "Start talking 
about the situation at Anacreon!" 

The ambassador frowned and withdrew the cigar from his mouth. He looked at it distastefully 
and put it down. "Well, it's pretty bad." 

"You wouldn't be here, otherwise." 

"Scarcely. Here's the position. The key man at Anacreon is the Prince Regent, Wienis. He's 
King Lepold's uncle." 

"I know. But Lepold is coming of age next year, isn't he? I believe he'll be sixteen in February." 

"Yes." Pause, and then a wry addition. "If he lives. The king's father died under suspicious 
circumstances. A needle bullet through the chest during a hunt. It was called an accident." 


"Hmph. I seem to remember Wienis the time I was on Anacreon, when we kicked them off 
Terminus. It was before your time. Let's see now. If I remember, he was a dark young fellow, 
black hair and a squint in his right eye. He had a funny hook in his nose." 

"Same fellow. The hook and the squint are still there, but his hair's gray now. He plays the 
game dirty. Luckily, he's the most egregious fool on the planet. Fancies himself as a shrewd 
devil, too, which mades his folly the more transparent." 

"That's usually the way." 

"His notion of cracking an egg is to shoot a nuclear blast at it. Witness the tax on Temple 
property he tried to impose just after the old king died two years ago. Remember?" 

Hardin nodded thoughtfully, then smiled. "The priests raised a howl." 

"They raised one you could hear way out to Lucreza. He's shown more caution in dealing with 
the priesthood since, but he still manages to do things the hard way. In a way, it's unfortunate 
for us; he has unlimited self-confidence." 

"Probably an over-compensated inferiority complex. Younger sons of royalty get that way, you 
know." 


But it amounts to the same thing. He's foaming at the mouth with eagerness to attack the 



Foundation. He scarcely troubles to conceal it. And he's in a position to do it, too, from the 
standpoint of armament. The old king built up a magnificent navy, and Wienis hasn't been 
sleeping the last two years. In fact, the tax on Temple property was originally intended for 
further armament, and when that fell through he increased the income tax twice." 

"Any grumbling at that?" 

"None of serious importance. Obedience to appointed authority was the text of every sermon in 
the kingdom for weeks. Not that Wienis showed any gratitude." 

"All right. I've got the background. Now what's happened?" 

"Two weeks ago an Anacreonian merchant ship came across a derelict battle cruiser of the old 
Imperial Navy. It must have been drifting in space for at least three centuries." 

Interest flickered in Hardin's eyes. He sat up. "Yes, I've heard of that. The Board of Navigation 
has sent me a petition asking me to obtain the ship for purposes of study. It is in good 
condition, I understand." 

"In entirely too good condition," responded Verisof, dryly. "When Wienis received your 
suggestion last week that he turn the ship over to the Foundation, he almost had convulsions." 

"He hasn't answered yet." 

"He won't - except with guns, or so he thinks. You see, he came to me on the day I left 
Anacreon and requested that the Foundation put this battle cruiser into fighting order and turn it 
over to the Anacreonian navy. He had the infernal gall to say that your note of last week 
indicated a plan of the Foundation's to attack Anacreon. He said that refusal to repair the battle 
cruiser would confirm his suspicions; and indicated that measures for the self-defense of 
Anacreon would be forced upon him. Those are his words. Forced upon him! And that's why I'm 
here." 

Hardin laughed gently. 

Verisof smiled and continued, "Of course, he expects a refusal, and it would be a perfect 
excuse - in his eyes - for immediate attack." 

"I see that, Verisof. Well, we have at least six months to spare, so have the ship fixed up and 
present it with my compliments. Have it renamed the Wienis as a mark of our esteem and 
affection." 

He laughed again. 

And again Verisof responded with the faintest trace of a smile, "I suppose it's the logical step, 
Hardin - but I'm worried." 

"What about?" 

"It's a ship! They could build in those days. Its cubic capacity is half again that of the entire 
Anacreonian navy. It's got nuclear blasts capable of blowing up a planet, and a shield that could 
take a Q-beam without working up radiation. Too much of a good thing, Hardin 



"Superficial, Verisof, superficial. You and I both know that the armament he now has could 
defeat Terminus handily, long before we could repair the cruiser for our own use. What does it 
matter, then, if we give him the cruiser as well? You know it won't ever come to actual war." 

"I suppose so. Yes." The ambassador looked up. "But Hardin 

"Well? Why do you stop? Go ahead." 

"Look. This isn't my province. But I've been reading the paper." He placed the Journal on the 
desk and indicated the front page. "What's this all about?" 

Hardin dropped a casual glance. "'A group of Councilmen are forming a new political party.'" 

"That's what it says." Verisof fidgeted. "I know you're in better touch with internal matters than I 
am, but they're attacking you with everything short of physical violence. How strong are they?" 

"Damned strong. They'll probably control the Council after next election." 

"Not before?" Verisof looked at the mayor obliquely. "There are ways of gaining control besides 
elections." 

"Do you take me for Wienis?" 

"No. But repairing the ship will take months and an attack after that is certain. Our yielding will 
be taken as a sign of appalling weakness and the addition of the Imperial Cruiser will just about 
double the strength of Wienis' navy. He'll attack as sure as I'm a high priest. Why take 
chances? Do one of two things. Either reveal the plan of campaign to the Council, or force the 
issue with Anacreon now!" 

Hardin frowned. "Force the issue now? Before the crisis comes? It's the one thing I mustn't do. 
There's Hari Seldon and the Plan, you know." 

Verisof hesitated, then muttered, "You're absolutely sure, then, that there is a Plan?" 

"There can scarcely be any doubt," came the stiff reply. "I was present at the opening of the 
Time Vault and Seldon's recording revealed it then." 

"I didn't mean that, Hardin. I just don't see how it could be possible to chart history for a 
thousand years ahead. Maybe Seldon overestimated himself." He shriveled a bit at Hardin's 
ironical smile, and added, "Well, I'm no psychologist," 

"Exactly. None of us are. But I did receive some elementary training in my youth - enough to 
know what psychology is capable of, even if I can't exploit its capabilities myself. There's no 
doubt but that Seldon did exactly what he claims to have done. The Foundation, as he says, 
was established as a scientific refuge - the means by which the science and culture of the 
dying Empire was to be preserved through the centuries of barbarism that have begun, to be 
rekindled in the end into a second Empire." 

Verisof nodded, a trifle doubtfully. "Everyone knows that's the way things are supposed to go. 



But can we afford to take chances? Can we risk the present for the sake of a nebulous future?" 

"We must - because the future isn't nebulous. It's been calculated out by Seldon and charted. 
Each successive crisis in our history is mapped and each depends in a measure on the 
successful conclusion of the ones previous. This is only the second crisis and Space knows 
what effect even a trifling deviation would have in the end." 

"That's rather empty speculation." 

"No! Hari Seldon said in the Time Vault, that at each crisis our freedom of action would become 
circumscribed to the point where only one course of action was possible." 

"So as to keep us on the straight and narrow?" 

"So as to keep us from deviating, yes. But, conversely, as long as more than one course of 
action is possible, the crisis has not been reached. We must let things drift so long as we 
possibly can, and by space, that's what I intend doing." 

Verisof didn't answer. He chewed his lower lip in a grudging silence. It had only been the year 
before that Hardin had first discussed the problem with him - the real problem; the problem of 
countering Anacreon's hostile preparations. And then only because he, Verisof, had balked at 
further appeasement. 

Hardin seemed to follow his ambassador's thoughts. "I would much rather never to have told 
you anything about this." 

"What makes you say that?" cried Verisof, in surprise. 

"Because there are six people now - you and I, the other three ambassadors and Yohan Lee - 
who have a fair notion of what's ahead; and I'm damned afraid that it was Seldon's idea to have 
no one know." 

"Why so?" 

"Because even Seldon's advanced psychology was limited. It could not handle too many 
independent variables. He couldn't work with individuals over any length of time; any more than 
you could apply kinetic theory of gases to single molecules. He worked with mobs, populations 
of whole planets, and only blind mobs who do not possess foreknowledge of the results of their 
own actions." 

"That's not plain." 

"I can't help it. I'm not psychologist enough to explain it scientifically. But this you know. There 
are no trained psychologists on Terminus and no mathematical texts on the science. It is plain 
that he wanted no one on Terminus capable of working out the future in advance. Seldon 
wanted us to proceed blindly - and therefore correctly - according to the law of mob 
psychology. As I once told you, I never knew where we were heading when I first drove out the 
Anacreonians. My idea had been to maintain balance of power, no more than that. It was only 
afterward that I thought I saw a pattern in events; but I've done my level best not to act on that 
knowledge. Interference due to foresight would have knocked the Plan out of kilter." 



Verisof nodded thoughtfully. "I've heard arguments almost as complicated in the Temples back 
on Anacreon. How do you expect to spot the fight moment of action?" 

"It's spotted already. You admit that once we repair the battle cruiser nothing will stop Wienis 
from attacking us. There will no longer be any alternative in that respect." 

"Yes 

"All right. That accounts for the external aspect. Meanwhile, you'll further admit that the next 
election will see a new and hostile Council that will force action against Anacreon. There is no 
alternative there." 

"Yes." 

"And as soon as all the alternatives disappear, the crisis has come. Just the same - I get 
worried." 

He paused, and Verisof waited. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hardin continued, "I've got the idea 
-just a notion - that the external and internal pressures were planned to come to a head 
simultaneously. As it is, there's a few months difference. Wienis will probably attack before 
spring, and elections are still a year off." 

"That doesn't sound important." 

"I don't know. It may be due merely to unavoidable errors of calculation, or it might be due to 
the fact that I knew too much. I tried never to let my foresight influence my action, but how can I 
tell? And what effect will the discrepancy have? Anyway," he looked up, "there's one thing I've 
decided." 

"And what's that?" 

"When the crisis does begin to break, I'm going to Anacreon. I want to be on the spot ... Oh, 
that's enough, Verisof. It's getting late. Let's go out and make a night of it. I want some 
relaxation." 


"Then get it right here,' said Verisof. "I don't want to be recognized, or you know what this new 
party your precious Councilmen are forming would say. Call for the brandy." 

And Hardin did - but not for too much. 


3 . 

In the ancient days when the Galactic Empire had embraced the Galaxy, and Anacreon had 
been the richest of the prefects of the Periphery, more than one emperor had visited the 
Viceregal Palace in state. And not one had left without at least one effort to pit his skill with air 
speedster and needle gun against the feathered flying fortress they call the Nyakbird. 

The fame of Anacreon had withered to nothing with the decay of the times. The Viceregal 



Palace was a drafty mass of ruins except for the wing that Foundation workmen had restored. 
And no Emperor had been seen in Anacreon for two hundred years. 

But Nyak hunting was still the royal sport and a good eye with the needle gun still the first 
requirement of Anacreon's kings. 

Lepold I, King of Anacreon and - as was invariably, but untruthfully added - Lord of the Outer 
Dominions, though not yet sixteen had already proved his skill many times over. He had 
brought down his first Nyak when scarcely thirteen; had brought down his tenth the week after 
his accession to the throne; and was returning now from his forty-sixth. 

"Fifty before I come of age," he had exulted. "Who'll take the wager?" 

But Courtiers don't take wagers against the king's skill. There is the deadly danger of winning. 
So no one did, and the king left to change his clothes in high spirits. 

"Lepold!" 

The king stopped mid-step at the one voice that could cause him to do so. He turned sulkily. 
Wienis stood upon the threshold of his chambers and beetled at his young nephew. 

"Send them away," he motioned impatiently. "Get rid of them." 

The king nodded curtly and the two chamberlains bowed and backed down the stairs. Lepold 
entered his uncle's room. 

Wienis stared at the king's hunting suit morosely. "You'll have more important things to tend to 
than Nyak hunting soon enough." 

He turned his back and stumped to his desk. Since he had grown too old for the rush of air, the 
perilous dive within wing-beat of the Nyak, the roll and climb of the speedster at the motion of a 
foot, he had soured upon the whole sport. 

Lepold appreciated his uncle's sour-grapes attitude and it was not without malice that he began 
enthusiastically, "But you should have been with us today, uncle. We flushed one in the wilds of 
Sarnia that was a monster. And game as they come. We had it out for two hours over at least 
seventy square miles of ground. And then I got to Sunwards - he was motioning graphically, as 
though he were once more in his speedster -"and dived torque-wise. Caught him on the rise 
just under the left wing at quarters. It maddened him and he canted athwart. I took his dare and 
veered a-left, waiting for the plummet. Sure enough, down he came. He was within wing-beat 
before I moved and then 

"Lepold!" 

"Well!- I got him." 

"I'm sure you did. Now will you attend?" 

The king shrugged and gravitated to the end table where he nibbled at a Lera nut in quite an 
unregal sulk. He did not dare to meet his uncle's eyes. 



Wienis said, by way of preamble, "I've been to the ship today." 

"What ship?" 

"There is only one ship. The ship. The one the Foundation is repairing for the navy. The old 
Imperial cruiser. Do I make myself sufficiently plain?" 

"That one? You see, I told you the Foundation would repair it if we asked them to. It's all 
poppycock, you know, that story of yours about their wanting to attack us. Because if they did, 
why would they fix the ship? It doesn't make sense, you know." 

"Lepold, you're a fool!" 

The king, who had just discarded the shell of the Lera nut and was lifting another to his lips, 
flushed. 

"Well now, look here," he said, with anger that scarcely rose above peevishness, "I don't think 
you ought to call me that. You forget yourself. I'll be of age in two months, you know." 

"Yes, and you're in a fine position to assume regal responsibilities. If you spent half the time on 
public affairs that you do on Nyak hunting, I'd resign the regency directly with a clear 
conscience." 

"I don't care. That has nothing to do with the case, you know. The fact is that even if you are 
the regent and my uncle, I'm still king and you're still my subject. You oughtn't to call me a fool 
and you oughtn't to sit in my presence, anyway. You haven't asked my permission. I think you 
ought to be careful, or I might do something about it pretty soon." 

Wienis' gaze was cold. "May I refer to you as 'your majesty'?" 

"Yes." 

"Very well! You are a fool, your majesty!" 

His dark eyes blazed from beneath his grizzled brows and the young king sat down slowly. For 
a moment, there was sardonic satisfaction in the regent's face, but it faded quickly. His thick 
lips parted in a smile and one hand fell upon the king's shoulder. 

"Never mind, Lepold. I should not have spoken harshly to you. It is difficult sometimes to 
behave with true propriety when the pressure of events is such as - You understand?" But if 
the words were conciliatory, there was something in his eyes that had not softened. 

Lepold said uncertainly, "Yes. Affairs of State are deuced difficult, you know." He wondered, not 
without apprehension, whether he were not in for a dull siege of meaningless details on the 
year's trade with Smyrno and the long, wrangling dispute over the sparsely settled worlds on 
the Red Corridor. 

Wienis was speaking again. "My boy, I had thought to speak of this to you earlier, and perhaps 
I should have, but I know that your youthful spirits are impatient of the dry detail of statecraft." 

Lepold nodded. "Well, that's all right-" 



His uncle broke in firmly and continued, "However, you will come of age in two months. 
Moreover, in the difficult times that are coming, you will have to take a full and active part. You 
will be king henceforward, Lepold." 

Again Lepold nodded, but his expression was quite blank. 

"There will be war, Lepold." 

"War! But there's been truce with Smyrno-" 

"Not Smyrno. The Foundation itself." 

"But, uncle, they've agreed to repair the ship. You said-" 

His voice choked off at the twist of his uncle's lip. 

"Lepold" - some of the friendliness had gone -"we are to talk man to man. There is to be war 
with the Foundation, whether the ship is repaired or not; all the sooner, in fact, since it is being 
repaired. The Foundation is the source of power and might. All the greatness of Anacreon; all 
its ships and its cities and its people and its commerce depend on the dribbles and leavings of 
power that the Foundation have given us grudgingly. I remember the time - I, myself - when 
the cities of Anacreon were warmed by the burning of coal and oil. But never mind that; you 
would have no conception of it." 

"It seems," suggested the king timidly, "that we ought to be grateful-" 

"Grateful?" roared Wienis. "Grateful that they begrudge us the merest dregs, while keeping 
space knows what for themselves - and keeping it with what purpose in mind? Why, only that 
they may some day rule the Galaxy." 

His hand came down on his nephew's knee, and his eyes narrowed. "Lepold, you are king of 
Anacreon. Your children and your children's children may be kings of the universe - if you have 
the power that the Foundation is keeping from us!" 

"There's something in that." Lepold's eyes gained a sparkle and his back straightened. "After 
all, what right have they to keep it to themselves? Not fair, you know. Anacreon counts for 
something, too." 

"You see, you're beginning to understand. And now, my boy, what if Smyrno decides to attack 
the Foundation for its own part and thus gains all that power? How long do you suppose we 
could escape becoming a vassal power? How long would you hold your throne?" 

Lepold grew excited. "Space, yes. You're absolutely right, you know. We must strike first. It's 
simply self-defense." 

Wienis' smile broadened slightly. "Furthermore, once, at the very beginning of the reign of your 
grandfather, Anacreon actually established a military base on the Foundation's planet, 

Terminus - a base vitally needed for national defense. We were forced to abandon that base 
as a result of the machinations of the leader of that Foundation, a sly cur, a scholar, with not a 
drop of noble blood in his veins. You understand, Lepold? Your grandfather was humiliated by 
this commoner. I remember him! He was scarcely older than myself when he came to 



Anacreon with his devil's smile and devil's brain - and the power of the other three kingdoms 
behind him, combined in cowardly union against the greatness of Anacreon." 

Lepold flushed and the sparkle in his eyes blazed. "By Seldon, if I had been my grandfather, I 
would have fought even so." 

"No, Lepold. We decided to wait - to wipe out the insult at a fitter time. It had been your father's 
hope, before his untimely death, that he might be the one to - Well, well!" Wienis turned away 
for a moment. Then, as if stifling emotion, "He was my brother. And yet, if his son were-" 

"Yes, uncle, I'll not fail him. I have decided. It seems only proper that Anacreon wipe out this 
nest of troublemakers, and that immediately." 

"No, not immediately. First, we must wait for the repairs of the battle cruiser to be completed. 
The mere fact that they are willing to undertake these repairs proves that they fear us. The 
fools attempt to placate us, but we are not to be turned from our path, are we?" 

And Lepold's fist slammed against his cupped palm. 

"Not while I am king in Anacreon." 

Wienis' lip twitched sardonically. "Besides which we must wait for Salvor Hardin to arrive." 

"Salvor Hardin!" The king grew suddenly round-eyed, and the youthful contour of his beardless 
face lost the almost hard lines into which they had been compressed. 

"Yes, Lepold, the leader of the Foundation himself is coming to Anacreon on your birthday - 
probably to soothe us with buttered words. But it won't help him." 

"Salvor Hardin!" It was the merest murmur. 

Wienis frowned. "Are you afraid of the name? It is the same Salvor Hardin, who on his previous 
visit, ground our noses into the dust. You're not forgetting that deadly insult to the royal house? 
And from a commoner. The dregs of the gutter." 

"No. I guess not. No, I won't. I won't! We'll pay him back - but.. .but - I'm afraid - a little." 

The regent rose. "Afraid? Of what? Of what, you young-" He choked off. 

"It would be. ..uh.. .sort of blasphemous, you know, to attack the Foundation. I mean-" He 
paused. 

"Go on." 

Lepold said confusedly, "I mean, if there were really a Galactic Spirit, he...uh...it mightn't like it. 
Don't you think? 

"No, I don't," was the hard answer. Wienis sat down again and his lips twisted in a queer smile. 
"And so you 

really bother your head a great deal over the Galactic Spirit, do you? That's what comes of 
letting you run wild. You've been listening to Verisof quite a bit, I take it." 



He's explained a great deal-' 
About the Galactic Spirit?" 


"Yes." 

"Why, you unweaned cub, he believes in that mummery a good deal less than I do, and I don't 
believe in it at all. How many times have you been told that all this talk is nonsense?" 

"Well, I know that. But Verisof says-" 

"Pay no heed to Verisof. It's nonsense." 

There was a short, rebellious silence, and then Lepold said, "Everyone believes it just the 
same. I mean all this talk about the Prophet Hari Seldon and how he appointed the Foundation 
to carry on his commandments that there might some day be a return of the Galactic Paradise: 
and how anyone who disobeys his commandments will be destroyed for eternity. They believe 
it. I've presided at festivals, and I'm sure they do." 

"Yes, they do ; but we don't. And you may be thankful it's so, for according to this foolishness, 
you are king by divine right - and are semi-divine yourself. Very handy. It eliminates all 
possibilities of revolts and insures absolute obedience in everything. And that is why, Lepold, 
you must take an active part in ordering the war against the Foundation. I am only regent, and 
quite human. You are king, and more than half a god - to them." 

"But I suppose I'm not really," said the king reflectively. 

"No, not really," came the sardonic response, "but you are to everyone but the people of the 
Foundation. Get that? To everyone but those of the Foundation. Once they are removed there 
will be no one to deny you the godhead. Think of that!" 

"And after that we will ourselves be able to operate the power boxes of the temples and the 
ships that fly without men and the holy food that cures cancer and all the rest? Verisof said only 
those blessed with the Galactic Spirit could-" 

"Yes, Verisof said! Verisof, next to Salvor Hardin, is your greatest enemy. Stay with me, Lepold, 
and don't worry about them. Together we will recreate an empire-not just the kingdom of 
Anacreon-but one comprising every one of the billions of suns of the Empire. Is that better than 
a wordy 'Galactic Paradise'?" 

"Ye-es." 

"Can Verisof promise more?" 

"No." 

"Very well." His voice became peremptory. "I suppose we may consider the matter settled." He 
waited for no answer. "Get along. I'll be down later. And just one thing, Lepold." 

The young king turned on the threshold. 



Wienis was smiling with all but his eyes. "Be careful on these Nyak hunts, my boy. Since the 
unfortunate accident to your father, I have had the strangest presentiments concerning you, at 
times. In the confusion, with needle guns thickening the air with darts, one can never tell. You 
will be careful, I hope. And you'll do as I say about the Foundation, won't you?" 

Lepold's eyes widened and dropped away from those of his uncle. "Yes - certainly." 

"Good!" He stared after his departing nephew, expressionlessly, and returned to his desk. 

And Lepold's thoughts as he left were somber and not unfearful. Perhaps it would be best to 
defeat the Foundation and gain the power Wienis spoke of. But afterward, when the war was 
over and he was secure on his throne- He became acutely conscious of the fact that Wienis 
and his two arrogant sons were at present next in line to the throne. 

But he was king. And kings could order people executed. 

Even uncles and cousins. 


4 . 

Next to Sermak himself, Lewis Bort was the most active in rallying those dissident elements 
which had fused into the now-vociferous Action Party. Yet he had not been one of the 
deputation that had called on Salvor Hardin almost half a year previously. That this was so was 
not due to any lack of recognition of his efforts; quite the contrary. He was absent for the very 
good reason that he was on Anacreon's capital world at the time. 

He visited it as a private citizen. He saw no official and he did nothing of importance. He merely 
watched the obscure comers of the busy planet and poked his stubby nose into dusty crannies. 

He arrived home toward the end of a short winter day that had started with clouds and was 
finishing with snow and within an hour was seated at the octagonal table in Sermak's home. 

His first words were not calculated to improve the atmosphere of a gathering already 
considerably depressed by the deepening snow-filled twilight outside.. 

"I'm afraid," he said, "that our position is what is usually termed, in melodramatic phraseology, a 
'Lost Cause.'" 

"You think so?" said Sermak, gloomily. 

"It's gone past thought, Sermak. There's no room for any other opinion." 

"Armaments-" began Dokor Walto, somewhat officiously, but Bort broke in at once. 

"Forget that. That's an old story." His eyes traveled round the circle. "I'm referring to the people. 

I admit that it was my idea originally that we attempt to foster a palace rebellion of some sort to 
install as king someone more favorable to the Foundation. It was a good idea. It still is. The 
only trifling flaw about it is that it is impossible. The great Salvor Hardin saw to that." 



Sermak said sourly, "If you'd give us the details, Bort-" 

"Details! There aren't any! It isn't as simple as that. It's the whole damned situation on 
Anacreon. It's this religion the Foundation has established. It works!" 

"Well!" 

"You've got to see it work to appreciate it. All you see here is that we have a large school 
devoted to the training of priests, and that occasionally a special show is put on in some 
obscure comer of the city for the benefit of pilgrims and that's all. The whole business hardly 
affects us as a general thing. But on Anacreon-" 

Lem Tarki smoothed his prim little Vandyke with one finger, and cleared his throat. "What kind 
of religion is it? Hardin's always said that it was just a fluffy flummery to get them to accept our 
science without question. You remember, Sermak, he told us that day-" 

"Hardin's explanations," reminded Sermak, "don't often mean much at face value. But what kind 
of a religion is it, Bort?" 

Bort considered. "Ethically, it's fine. It scarcely varies from the various philosophies of the old 
Empire. High moral standards and all that. There's nothing to complain about from that 
viewpoint. Religion is one of the great civilizing influences of history and in that respect, it's 
fulfilling-" 

"We know that," interrupted Sermak, impatiently. "Get to the point." 

"Here it is." Bort was a trifle disconcerted, but didn't show it. "The religion - which the 
Foundation has fostered and encouraged, mind you - is built on on strictly authoritarian lines. 
The priesthood has sole control of the instruments of science we have given Anacreon, but 
they've learned to handle these tools only empirically. They believe in this religion entirely, and 
in the ... uh ... spiritual value of the power they handle. For instance, two months ago some fool 
tampered with the power plant in the Thessalekian Temple - one of the large ones. He 
contaminated the city, of course. It was considered divine vengeance by everyone, including 
the priests." 

"I remember. The papers had some garbled version of the story at the time. I don't see what 
you're driving at." 

"Then, listen," said Bort, stiffly. "The priesthood forms a hierarchy at the apex of which is the 
king, who is regarded as a sort of minor god. He's an absolute monarch by divine right, and the 
people believe it, thoroughly, and the priests, too. You can't overthrow a king like that. Now do 
you get the point?" 

"Hold on," said Walto, at this point. "What did you mean when you said Hardin's done all this? 
How does he come in?" 

Bort glanced at his questioner bitterly. "The Foundation has fostered this delusion assiduously. 
We've put all our scientific backing behind the hoax. There isn't a festival at which the king does 
not preside surrounded by a radioactive aura shining forth all over his body and raising itself 
like a coronet above his head. Anyone touching him is severely burned. He can move from 



place to place through the air at crucial moments, supposedly by inspiration of divine spirit. He 
fills the temple with a pearly, internal light at a gesture. There is no end to these quite simple 
tricks that we perform for his benefit; but even the priests believe them, while working them 
personally." 

"Bad!" said Sermak, biting his lip. 

"I could cry - like the fountain in City Hall Park," said Bort, earnestly, "when I think of the 
chance we muffed. Take the situation thirty years ago, when Hardin saved the Foundation from 
Anacreon - At that time, the Anacreonian people had no real conception of the fact that the 
Empire was running down. They had been more or less running their own affairs since the 
Zeonian revolt, but even after communications broke down and Lepold's pirate of a grandfather 
made himself king, they never quite realized the Empire had gone kaput. 

"If the Emperor had had the nerve to try, he could have taken over again with two cruisers and 
with the help of the internal revolt that would have certainly sprung to life. And we we could 
have done the same; but no, Hardin established monarch worship. Personally, I don't 
understand it. Why? Why? Why?" 

"What," demanded Jaim Orsy, suddenly, "does Verisof do? There was a day when he was an 
advanced Actionist. What's he doing there? Is he blind, too?" 

"I don't know," said Bort, curtly. "He's high priest to them. As far as I know, he does nothing but 
act as adviser to the priesthood on technical details. Figurehead, blast him, figurehead!" 

There was silence all round and all eyes turned to Sermak. The young party leader was biting a 
fingernail nervously, and then said loudly, "No good. It's fishy!" 

He looked around him, and added more energetically, "Is Hardin then such a fool?" 

"Seems to be," shrugged Bort. 

"Never! There's something wrong. To cut our own throats so thoroughly and so hopelessly 
would require colossal stupidity. More than Hardin could possibly have even if he were a fool, 
which I deny. On the one hand, to establish a religion that would wipe out all chance of internal 
troubles. On the other hand, to arm Anacreon with all weapons of warfare. I don't see it." 

"The matter is a little obscure, I admit," said Bort, "but the facts are there. What else can we 
think?" 

Walto said, jerkily, "Outright treason. He's in their pay." 

But Sermak shook his head impatiently. "I don't see that, either. The whole affair is as insane 
and meaningless - Tell me, Bort, have you heard anything about a battle cruiser that the 
Foundation is supposed to have put into shape for use in the Anacreon navy?" 

"Battle cruiser?" 

"An old Imperial cruiser-" 

"No, I haven't. But that doesn't mean much. The navy yards are religious sanctuaries 



completely inviolate on the part of the lay public. No one ever hears anything about the fleet. 

"Well, rumors have leaked out. Some of the Party have brought the matter up in Council. 
Hardin never denied it, you know. His spokesmen denounced rumor mongers and let it go at 
that. It might have significance." 

"It's of a piece with the rest," said Bort. "if true, it's absolutely crazy. But it wouldn't be worse 
than the rest." 

"I suppose," said Orsy, "Hardin hasn't any secret weapon waiting. That might-" 

"Yes," said Sermak, viciously, "a huge jack-in-the-box that will jump out at the psychological 
moment and scare old Wienis into fits. The Foundation may as well blow itself out of existence 
and save itself the agony of suspense if it has to depend on any secret weapon." 

"Well," said Orsy, changing the subject hurriedly, "the question comes down to this: How much 
time have we left? Eli, Bort?" 

"All fight. It is the question. But don't look at me; I don't know. The Anacreonian press never 
mentions the Foundation at all. Right now, it's full of the approaching celebrations and nothing 
else. Lepold is coming of age next week, you know." 

"We have months then." Walto smiled for the first time that evening. "That gives us time-" 

"That gives us time, my foot," ground out Bort, impatiently. "The king's a god, I tell you. Do you 
suppose he has to carry on a campaign of propaganda to get his people into fighting spirit? Do 
you suppose he has to accuse us of aggression and pull out all stops on cheap emotionalism? 
When the time comes to strike, Lepold gives the order and the people fight. Just like that. 
That’s the damnedness of the system. You don’t question a god. He may give the order 
tomorrow for all I know; and you can wrap tobacco round that and smoke it." 


Everyone tried to talk at once and Sermak was slamming the table for silence, when the front 
door opened and Levi Norast stamped in. He bounded up the stairs, overcoat on, trailing snow. 


"Look at that!" he cried, tossing a cold, snow-speckled newspaper onto the table. "The 
visicasters are full of it, too." 


The newspaper was unfolded and five heads bent over it. 


Sermak said, in a hushed voice, "Great Space, he’s going to Anacreon! Going to Anacreon!" 


It is treason," squeaked Tarki, in sudden excitement. "I’ll be damned if Walto isn’t right. He’s 



sold us out and now he’s going there to collect his wage. 


Sermak had risen. "We’ve no choice now. I’m going to ask the Council tomorrow that Hardin be 
impeached. And if that fails-" 


5. 

The snow had ceased, but it caked the ground deeply now and the sleek ground car advanced 
through the deserted streets with lumbering effort. The murky gray light of incipient dawn was 
cold not only in the poetical sense but also in a very literal way - and even in the then turbulent 
state of the Foundation's politics, no one, whether Actionist or pro-Hardin found his spirits 
sufficiently ardent to begin street activity that early. 

Yohan Lee did not like that and his grumblings grew audible. "It's going to look bad, Hardin. 
They're going to say you sneaked away." 

"Let them say it if they wish. I've got to get to Anacreon and I want to do it without trouble. Now 
that's enough, Lee." 

Hardin leaned back into the cushioned seat and shivered slightly. It wasn't cold inside the 
well-heated car, but there was something frigid about a snow-covered world, even through 
glass, that annoyed him. 

He said, reflectively, "Some day when we get around to it we ought to weather-condition 
Terminus. It could be done." 

"I," replied Lee, "would like to see a few other things done first. For instance, what about 
weather-conditioning Sermak? A nice, dry cell fitted for twenty-five centigrade all year round 
would be just fight." 

"And then I'd really need bodyguards," said Hardin, "and not just those two," He indicated two 
of Lee's bully-boys sitting up front with the driver, hard eyes on the empty streets, ready hands 
at their atom blasts. "You evidently want to stir up civil war." 

"I do? There are other sticks in the fire and it won't require much stirring, I can tell you." He 
counted off on blunt fingers, "One: Sermak raised hell yesterday in the City Council and called 
for an impeachment." 

"He had a perfect right to do so," responded Hardin, coolly. "Besides which, his motion was 
defeated 206 to 184." 

"Certainly. A majority of twenty-two when we had counted on sixty as a minimum. Don't deny it; 
you know you did." 


It was close," admitted Hardin. 



"All right. And two; after the vote, the fifty-nine members of the Actionist Party reared upon their 
hind legs and stamped out of the Council Chambers." 

Hardin was silent, and Lee continued, "And three: Before leaving, Sermak howled that you 
were a traitor, that you were going to Anacreon to collect your payment, that the Chamber 
majority in refusing to vote impeachment had participated in the treason, and that the name of 
their party was not 'Actionist' for nothing. What does that sound like?" 

"Trouble, I suppose." 

"And now you're chasing off at daybreak, like a criminal. You ought to face them, Hardin - and 
if you have to, declare martial law, by space!" 

"Violence is the last refuge-" 

"-Of the incompetent. Bah!" 

"All right. We'll see. Now listen to me carefully, Lee. Thirty years ago, the Time Vault opened, 
and on the fiftieth anniversary of the beginning of the Foundation, there appeared a Hari Seldon 
recording to give us our first idea of what was really going on." 

"I remember," Lee nodded reminiscently, with a half smile. "It was the day we took over the 
government." 

"That's right. It was the time of our first major crisis. This is our second-and three weeks from 
today will be the eightieth anniversary of the beginning of the Foundation. Does that strike you 
as in any way significant?" 

"You mean he's coming again?" 

"I'm not finished. Seldon never said anything about returning, you understand, but that's of a 
piece with his whole plan. He's always done his best to keep all foreknowledge from us. Nor is 
there any way of telling whether the computer is set for further openings short of dismantling 
the Vault - and it's probably set to destroy itself if we were to try that. I've been there every 
anniversary since the first appearance, just on the chance. He's never shown up, but this is the 
first time since then that there's really been a crisis." 

"Then he'll come." 

"Maybe. I don't know. However, this is the point. At today's session of the Council, just after you 
announce that I have left for Anacreon, you will further announce, officially, that on March 14th 
next, there will be another Hari Seldon recording, containing a message of the utmost 
importance regarding the recent successfully concluded crisis. That's very important, Lee. Don't 
add anything more no matter how many questions are asked." 

Lee stared. "Will they believe it?" 

"That doesn't matter. It will confuse them, which is all I want. Between wondering whether it is 
true and what I mean by it if it isn't - they'll decide to postpone action till after March 1 4th. I'll be 
back considerably before then." 



Lee looked uncertain. "But that 'successfully concluded.' That's bull!" 

"Highly confusing bull. Here's the airport!" 

The waiting spaceship bulked somberly in the dimness. Hardin stamped through the snow 
toward it and at the open air lock turned about with outstretched hand. 

"Good-by, Lee. I hate to leave you in the frying pan like this, but there's not another I can trust. 
Now please keep out of the fire." 

"Don't worry. The frying pan is hot enough. I'll follow orders." He stepped back, and the air lock 
closed. 


6 . 


Salvor Hardin did not travel to the planet Anacreon - from which planet the kingdom derived its 
name - immediately. It was only on the day before the coronation that he arrived, after having 
made flying visits to eight of the larger stellar systems of the kingdom, stopping only long, 
enough to confer with the local representatives of the Foundation. 

The trip left him with an oppressive realization of the vastness of the kingdom. It was a little 
splinter, an insignificant fly speck compared to the inconceivable reaches of the Galactic 
Empire of which it had once formed so distinguished a part; but to one whose habits of thought 
had been built around a single planet, and a sparsely settled one at that, Anacreon's size in 
area and population was staggering. 

Following closely the boundaries of the old Prefect of Anacreon, it embraced twenty-five stellar 
systems, six of which included more than one inhabited world. The population of nineteen 
billion, though still far less than it had been in the Empire's heyday was rising rapidly with the 
increasing scientific development fostered by the Foundation. 

And it was only now that Hardin found himself floored by the magnitude of that task. Even in 
thirty years, only the capital world had been powered. The outer provinces still possessed 
immense stretches where nuclear power had not yet been re-introduced. Even the progress 
that had been made might have been impossible had it not been for the still workable relics left 
over by the ebbing tide of Empire. 

When Hardin did arrive at the capital world, it was to find all normal business at an absolute 
standstill. In the outer provinces there had been and still were celebrations; but here on the 
planet Anacreon, not a person but took feverish part in the hectic religious pageantry that 
heralded the coming-of-age of their god-king, Lepold. 

Hardin had been able to snatch only half an hour from a haggard and harried Verisof before his 
ambassador was forced to rush off to supervise still another temple festival. But the half-hour 
was a most profitable one, and Hardin prepared himself for the night's fireworks well satisfied. 

In all, he acted as an observer, for he had no stomach for the religious tasks he would 



undoubtedly have had to undertake if his identity became known. So, when the palace's 
ballroom filled itself with a glittering horde of the kingdom's very highest and most exalted 
nobility, he found himself hugging the wall, little noticed or totally ignored. 

He had been introduced to Lepold as one of a long line of introducees, and from a safe 
distance, for the king stood apart in lonely and impressive grandeur, surrounded by his deadly 
blaze of radioactive aura. And in less than an hour this same king would take his seat upon the 
massive throne of rhodium-iridium alloy with jewel-set gold chasings, and then, throne and all 
would rise maestically into the air, skim the ground slowly to hover before the great window 
from which the great crowds of common folk could see their king and shout themselves into 
near apoplexy. The throne would not have been so massive, of course, if it had not had a 
shielded nuclear motor built into it. 

It was past eleven. Hardin fidgeted and stood on his toes to better his view. He resisted an 
impulse to stand on a chair. And then he saw Wienis threading through the crowd toward him 
and he relaxed. 

Wienis' progress was slow. At almost every step, he had to pass a kindly sentence with some 
revered noble whose grandfather had helped Lepold's grandfather brigandize the kingdom and 
had received a dukedom therefor. 

And then he disentangled himself from the last uniformed peer and reached Hardin. His smile 
crooked itself into a smirk and his black eyes peered from under grizzled brows with glints of 
satisfaction in them. 

"My dear Hardin," he said, in a low voice, "you must expect to be bored, when you refuse to 
announce your identity." 

"I am not bored, your highness. This is all extremely interesting. We have no comparable 
spectacles on Terminus, you know." 

"No doubt. But would you care to step into my private chambers, where we can speak at 
greater length and with considerably more privacy?" 

"Certainly." 

With arms linked, the two ascended the staircase, and more than one dowager duchess stared 
after them in surprise and wondered at the identity of this insignificantly dressed and 
uninteresting-looking stranger on whom such signal honor was being conferred by the prince 
regent. 

In Wienis' chambers, Hardin relaxed in perfect comfort and accepted with a murmur of gratitude 
the glass of liquor that had been poured out by the regent's own hand. 

"Locris wine, Hardin," said Wienis, "from the royal cellars. The real thing - two centuries in age. 
It was laid down ten years before the Zeonian Rebellion." 

"A really royal drink," agreed Hardin, politely. "To Lepold I, King of Anacreon." 

They drank, and Wienis added blandly, at the pause, "And soon to be Emperor of the 



Periphery, and further, who knows? The Galaxy may some day be reunited." 

"Undoubtedly. By Anacreon?" 

"Why not? With the help of the Foundation, our scientific superiority over the rest of the 
Periphery would be undisputable." 

Hardin set his empty glass down and said, "Well, yes, except that, of course, the Foundation is 
bound to help any nation that requests scientific aid of it. Due to the high idealism of our 
government and the great moral purpose of our founder, Hari Seldon, we are unable to play 
favorites. That can't be helped, your highness." 

Wienis' smile broadened. "The Galactic Spirit, to use the popular cant, helps those who help 
themselves. I quite understand that, left to itself, the Foundation would never cooperate." 

"I wouldn't say that. We repaired the Imperial cruiser for you, though my board of navigation 
wished it for themselves for research purposes." 

The regent repeated the last words ironically. "Research purposes! Yes! Yet you would not 
have repaired it, had I not threatened war." 

Hardin made a deprecatory gesture. "I don't know." 

"I do. And that threat always stood." 

"And still stands now?" 

"Now it is rather too late to speak of threats." Wienis had cast a rapid glance at the clock on his 
desk. "Look here, Hardin, you were on Anacreon once before. You were young then; we were 
both young. But even then we had entirely different ways of looking at things. You're what they 
call a man of peace, aren't you?" 

"I suppose I am. At least, I consider violence an uneconomical way of attaining an end. There 
are always better substitutes, though they may sometimes be a little less direct." 

"Yes. I've heard of your famous remark: 'Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.' And 
yet" - the regent scratched one ear gently in affected abstraction -"I wouldn't call myself 
exactly incompetent." 

Hardin nodded politely and said nothing. 

"And in spite of that," Wienis continued, "I have always believed in direct action. I have believed 
in carving a straight path to my objective and following that path. I have accomplished much 
that way, and fully expect to accomplish still more." 

"I know," interrupted Hardin. "I believe you are carving a path such as you describe for yourself 
and your children that leads directly to the throne, considering the late unfortunate death of the 
king's father - your elder brother and the king's own precarious state of health. He is in a 
precarious state of health, is he not?" 

Wienis frowned at the shot, and his voice grew harder. "You might find it advisable, Hardin, to 
avoid certain subjects. You may consider yourself privileged as mayor of Terminus to make ... 



uh ... injudicious remarks, but if you do, please disabuse yourself of the notion. I am not one to 
be frightened at words. It has been my philosophy of life that difficulties vanish when faced 
boldly, and I have never turned my back upon one yet." 

"I don't doubt that. What particular difficulty are you refusing to turn your back upon at the 
present moment?" 

"The difficulty, Hardin, of persuading the Foundation to co-operate. Your policy of peace, you 
see, has led you into making several very serious mistakes, simply because you 
underestimated the boldness of your adversary. Not everyone is as afraid of direct action as 
you are." 

"For instance?" suggested Hardin. 

"For instance, you came to Anacreon alone and accompanied me to my chambers alone." 
Hardin looked about him. "And what is wrong with that?" 

"Nothing," said the regent, "except that outside this room are five police guards, well armed and 
ready to shoot. I don't think you can leave, Hardin." 

The mayor's eyebrows lifted, "I have no immediate desire to leave. Do you then fear me so 
much?" 

"I don't fear you at all. But this may serve to impress you with my determination. Shall we call it 
a gesture?" 

"Call it what you please," said Hardin, indifferently. "I shall not discommode myself over the 
incident, whatever you choose to call it." 

"I'm sure that attitude will change with time. But you have made another error, Hardin, a more 
serious one. It seems that the planet Terminus is almost wholly undefended." 

"Naturally. What have we to fear? We threaten no one's interest and serve all alike." 

"And while remaining helpless," Wienis went on, "you kindly helped us to arm ourselves, aiding 
us particularly in the development of a navy of our own, a great navy. In fact, a navy which, 
since your donation of the Imperial cruiser, is quite irresistible." 

"Your highness, you are wasting time." Hardin made as if to rise from his seat. "If you mean to 
declare war, and are informing me of the fact, you will allow me to communicate with my 
government at once." 

"Sit down, Hardin. I am not declaring war, and you are not communicating with your 
government at all. When the war is fought - not declared, Hardin, fought - the Foundation will 
be informed of it in due time by the nuclear blasts of the Anacreonian navy under the lead of my 
own son upon the flagship, Wienis, once a cruiser of the Imperial navy." 

Hardin frowned. "When will all this happen?" 

"If you're really interested, the ships of the fleet left Anacreon exactly fifty minutes ago, at 



eleven, and the first shot will be fired as soon as they sight Terminus, which should be at noon 
tomorrow. You may consider yourself a prisoner of war." 

"That's exactly what I do consider myself, your highness," said Hardin, still frowning. "But I'm 
disappointed." 

Wienis chuckled contemptuously. "Is that all?" 

"Yes. I had thought that the moment of coronation - midnight, you know - would be the logical 
time to set the fleet in motion. Evidently, you wanted to start the war while you were still regent. 
It would have been more dramatic the other way." 

The regent stared. "What in Space are you talking about?" 

"Don't you understand?" said Hardin, softly. "I had set my counterstroke for midnight." 

Wienis started from his chair. "You are not bluffing me. There is no counterstroke. If you are 
counting on the support of the other kingdoms, forget it. Their navies, combined, are no match 
for ours." 

"I know that. I don't intend firing a shot. It is simply that the word went out a week ago that at 
midnight tonight, the planet Anacreon goes under the interdict." 

"The interdict?" 

"Yes. If you don't understand, I might explain that every priest in Anacreon is going on strike, 
unless I countermand the order. But I can't while I'm being held incommunicado; nor do I wish 
to even if I weren't!" He leaned forward and added, with sudden animation, "Do you realize, 
your highness, that an attack on the Foundation is nothing short of sacrilege of the highest 
order?" 

Wienis was groping visibly for self-control. "Give me none of that, Hardin. Save it for the mob." 

"My dear Wienis, whoever do you think I am saving it for? I imagine that for the last half hour 
every temple on Anacreon has been the center of a mob listening to a priest exhorting them 
upon that very subject. There's not a man or woman on Anacreon that doesn't know that their 
government has launched a vicious, unprovoked attack upon the center of their religion. But it 
lacks only four minutes of midnight now. You'd better go down to the ballroom to watch events. 
I'll be safe here with five guards outside the door." He leaned back in his chair, helped himself 
to another glass of Locris wine, and gazed at the ceiling with perfect indifference. 

Wienis suddenly furious, rushed out of the room. 

A hush had fallen over the elite in the ballroom, as a broad path was cleared for the throne. 
Lepold sat on it now, hands solidly on its arms, head high, face frozen. The huge chandeliers 
had dimmed and in the diffused multi-colored light from the tiny nucleo-bulbs that bespangled 
the vaulted ceiling, the royal aura shone out bravely, lifting high above his head to form a 
blazing coronet. 

Wienis paused on the stairway. No one saw him; all eyes were on the throne. He clenched his 
fists and remained where he was; Hardin would not bluff him into action. 



And then the throne stiffed. Noiselessly, it lifted upward - and drifted. Off the dais, slowly down 
the steps, and then horizontally, five centimetres off the floor, it worked itself toward the huge, 
open window. 

At the sound of the deep-toned bell that signified midnight, it stopped before the window - and 
the king's aura died. 

For a frozen split second, the king did not move, face twisted in surprise, without an aura, 
merely human; and then the throne wobbled and dropped to the floor with a crashing thump, 
just as every light in the palace went out. 

Through the shrieking din and confusion, Wienis' bull voice sounded. "Get the flares! Get the 
flares!" 

He buffeted right and left through the crowd and forced his way to the door. From without, 
palace guards had streamed into the darkness. 

Somehow the flares were brought back to the ballroom; flares that were to have been used in 
the gigantic torchlight procession through the streets of the city after the coronation. 

Back to the ballroom guardsmen swarmed with torches - blue, green, and red; where the 
strange light lit up frightened, confused faces. 

"There is no harm done," shouted Wienis. "Keep your places. Power will return in a moment." 
He turned to the captain of the guard who stood stiffly at attention. "What is it, Captain?" 

"Your highness," was the instant response, "the palace is surrounded by the people of the city." 
"What do they want?" snarled Wienis. 

"A priest is at the head. He has been identified as High Priest Poly Verisof. He demands the 
immediate release of Mayor Salvor Hardin and cessation of the war against the Foundation." 
The report was made in the expressionless tones of an officer, but his eyes shifted uneasily. 

Wienis cried, "if any of the rabble attempt to pass the palace gates, blast them out of existence. 
For the moment, nothing more. Let them howl! There will be an accounting tomorrow." 

The torches had been distributed now, and the ballroom was again alight. Wienis rushed to the 
throne, still standing by the window, and dragged the stricken, wax-faced Lepold to his feet. 

"Come with me." He cast one look out of the window. The city was pitch-black. From below 
there were the hoarse confused cries of the mob. Only toward the fight, where the Argolid 
Temple stood was there illumination. He swore angrily, and dragged the king away. 

Wienis burst into his chambers, the five guardsmen at his heels. Lepold followed, wide-eyed, 
scared speechless. 

"Hardin," said Wienis, huskily, "you are playing with forces too great for you." 

The mayor ignored the speaker. In the pearly light of the pocket nucleo-bulb at his side, he 



remained quietly seated, a slightly ironic smile on his face. 

"Good morning, your majesty," he said to Lepold. "I congratulate you on your coronation." 
"Hardin," cried Wienis again, "order your priests back to their jobs." 

Hardin looked up coolly. "Order them yourself, Wienis, and see who is playing with forces too 
great for whom. Right now, there's not a wheel turning in Anacreon. There's not a light burning, 
except in the temples. There's not a drop of water running, except in the temples. On the wintry 
half of the planet, there's not a calorie of heat, except in the temples. The hospitals are taking in 
no more patients. The power plants have shut down. All ships are grounded. If you don't like it, 
Wienis, you can order the priests back to their jobs. I don't wish to." 

"By Space, Hardin, I will. If it's to be a showdown, so be it. We'll see if your priests can 
withstand the army. Tonight, every temple on the planet will be put under army supervision." 

"Very good, but how are you going to give the orders? Every line of communication on the 
planet is shut down. You'll find that neither wave nor hyperwave will work. In fact, the only 
communicator of the planet that will work - outside of the temples, of course - is the televisor 
right here in this room, and I've fitted it only for reception." 

Wienis struggled vainly for breath, and Hardin continued, "If you wish you can order your army 
into the Argolid Temple just outside the palace and then use the ultrawave sets there to contact 
other portions of the planet. But if you do that, I'm afraid the army contigent will be cut to pieces 
by the mob, and then what will protect your palace, Wienis? And your lives, Wienis?" 

Wienis said thickly, "We can hold out, devil. We'll last the day. Let the mob howl and let the 
power die, but we'll hold out. And when the news comes back that the Foundation has been 
taken, your precious mob will find upon what vacuum their religion has been built, and they'll 
desert your priests and turn against them. I give you until noon tomorrow, Hardin, because you 
can stop the power on Anacreon but you can't stop my fleet. " His voice croaked exultantly. 
"They're on their way, Hardin, with the great cruiser you yourself ordered repaired, at the head." 

Hardin replied lightly. "Yes, the cruiser I myself ordered repaired - but in my own way. Tell me, 
Wienis, have you ever heard of a hyperwave relay? No, I see you haven't. Well, in about two 
minutes you'll find out what one can do." 

The televisor flashed to life as he spoke, and he amended, "No, in two seconds. Sit down, 
Wienis. and listen." 


7 . 

Theo Aporat was one of the very highest ranking priests of Anacreon. From the standpoint of 
precedence alone, he deserved his appointment as head priest- attendant upon the flagship 
Wienis. 


But it was not only rank or precedence. He knew the ship. He had worked directly under the 
holy men from the Foundation itself in repairing the ship. He had gone over the motors under 



their orders. He had rewired the 'visors; revamped the communications system; replated the 
punctured hull; reinforced the beams. He had even been permitted to help while the wise men 
of the Foundation had installed a device so holy it had never been placed in any previous ship, 
but had been reserved only for this magnificent colossus of a vessel - a hyperwave relay. 

It was no wonder that he felt heartsick over the purposes to which the glorious ship was 
perverted. He had never wanted to believe what Verisof had told him - that the ship was to be 
used for appalling wickedness; that its guns were to be turned on the great Foundation. Turned 
on that Foundation, where he had been trained as a youth, from which all blessedness was 
derived. 

Yet he could not doubt now, after what the admiral had told him. 

How could the king, divinely blessed, allow this abominable act? Or was it the king? Was it not, 
perhaps, an action of the accursed regent, Wienis, without the knowledge of the king at all. And 
it was the son of this same Wienis that was the admiral who five minutes before had told him: 

"Attend to your souls and your blessings, priest. I will attend to my ship." 

Aporat smiled crookedly. He would attend to his souls and his blessings - and also to his 
cursings; and Prince Lefkin would whine soon enough. 

He had entered the general communications room now. His. acolyte preceded him and the two 
officers in charge made no move to interfere. The head priest-attendant had the right of free 
entry anywhere on the ship. 

"Close the door," Aporat ordered, and looked at the chronometer. It lacked Five minutes of 
twelve. He had timed it well. 

With quick practiced motions, he moved the little levers that opened all communications, so that 
every part of the two-mile-long ship was within reach of his voice and his image. 

"Soldiers of the royal flagship Wienis, attend! It is your priest-attendant that speaks!" The sound 
of his voice reverberated, he knew, from the stem atom blast in the extreme rear to the 
navigation tables in the prow. 

"Your ship," he cried, "is engaged in sacrilege. Without your knowledge, it is performing such 
an act as will doom the soul of every man among you to the eternal frigidity of space! Listen! It 
is the intention of your commander to take this ship to the Foundation and there to bombard 
that source of all blessings into submission to his sinful will. And since that is his intention, I, in 
the name of the Galactic Spirit, remove him from his command, for there is no command where 
the blessing of the Galactic Spirit has been withdrawn. The divine king himself may not 
maintain his kingship without the consent of the Spirit." 

His voice took on a deeper tone, while the acolyte listened with veneration and the two soldiers 
with mounting fear. "And because this ship is upon such a devil's errand, the blessing of the 
Spirit is removed from it as well." 

He lifted his arms solemnly, and before a thousand televisors throughout the ship, soldiers 
cowered, as the stately image of their priest-attendant spoke: 



"In the name of the Galactic Spirit and of his prophet, Hari Seldon, and of his interpreters, the 
holy men of the Foundation, I curse this ship. Let the televisors of this ship, which are its eyes, 
become blind. Let its grapples, which are its arms, be paralyzed. Let the nuclear blasts, which 
are its fists, lose their function. Let the motors, which are its heart, cease to beat. Let the 
communications, which are its voice, become dumb. Let its ventilations, which are its breath, 
fade. Let its lights, which are its soul, shrivel into nothing. In the name of the Galactic Spirit, I so 
curse this ship." 

And with his last word, at the stroke of midnight, a hand, light-years distant in the Argolid 
Temple, opened an ultrawave relay, which at the instantaneous speed of the ultrawave, opened 
another on the flagship Wienis. 

And the ship died! 

For it is the chief characteristic of the religion of science that it works, and that such curses as 
that of Aporat's are really deadly. 

Aporat saw the darkness close down on the ship and heard the sudden ceasing of the soft, 
distant purring of the hyperatomic motors. Fie exulted and from the pocket of his long robe 
withdrew a self-powered nucleo-bulb that filled the room with pearly light. 

Fie looked down at the two soldiers who, brave men though they undoubtedly were, writhed on 
their knees in the last extremity of mortal terror. "Save our souls, your reverence. We are poor 
men, ignorant of the crimes of our leaders," one whimpered. 

"Follow," said Aporat, sternly. "Your soul is not yet lost." 

The ship was a turmoil of darkness in which fear was so thick and palpable, it was all but a 
miasmic smell. Soldiers crowded close wherever Aporat and his circle of light passed, striving 
to touch the hem of his robe, pleading for the tiniest scrap of mercy. 

And always his answer was, "Follow me!" 

Fie found Prince Lefkin, groping his way through the officers' quarters, cursing loudly for lights. 
The admiral stared at the priest-attendant with hating eyes. 

"There you are!" Lefkin inherited his blue eyes from his mother, but there was that about the 
hook in his nose and the squint in his eye that marked him as the son of Wienis. "What is the 
meaning of your treasonable actions? Return the power to the ship. I am commander here." 

"No longer," said Aporat, somberly. 

Lefkin looked about wildly. "Seize that man. Arrest him, or by Space, I will send every man 
within reach of my voice out the air lock in the nude." Fie paused, and then shrieked, "It is your 
admiral that orders. Arrest him." 

Then, as he lost his head entirely, "Are you allowing yourselves to be fooled by this 
mountebank, this harlequin? Do you cringe before a religion compounded of clouds and 
moonbeams? This man is an imposter and the Galactic Spirit he speaks of a fraud of the 
imagination devised to-" 



Aporat interrupted furiously. "Seize the blasphemer. You listen to him at the peril of your souls." 
And promptly, the noble admiral went down under the clutching hands of a score of soldiers. 
"Take him with you and follow me." 

Aporat turned, and with Lefkin dragged along after him, and the corridors behind black with 
soldiery, he returned to the communications room. There, he ordered the ex-commander before 
the one televisor that worked. 

"Order the rest of the fleet to cease course and to prepare for the return to Anacreon." 

The disheveled Lefkin, bleeding, beaten, and half stunned, did so. 

"And now," continued Aporat, grimly, "we are in contact with Anacreon on the hyperwave beam. 
Speak as I order you." 

Lefkin made a gesture of negation, and the mob in the room and the others crowding the 
corridor beyond, growled fearfully. 

"Speak!" said Aporat. "Begin: The Anacreonian navy-" 

Lefkin began. 


8 . 

There was absolute silence in Wienis' chambers when the image of Prince Lefkin appeared at 
the televisor. There had been one startled gasp from the regent at the haggard face and 
shredded uniform of his son, and then he collapsed into a chair, face contorted with surprise 
and apprehension. 

Hardin listened stolidly, hands clasped lightly in his lap, while the just-crowned King Lepold sat 
shriveled in the most shadowy comer, biting spasmodically at his goldbraided sleeve. Even the 
soldiers had lost the emotionless stare that is the prerogative of the military, and, from where 
they lined up against the door, nuclear blasts ready, peered furtively at the figure upon the 
televisor. 

Lefkin spoke, reluctantly, with a tired voice that paused at intervals as though he were being 
prompted-and not gently: 

"The Anacreonian navy ... aware of the nature of its mission ... and refusing to be a party ... to 
abominable sacrilage ... is returning to Anacreon ... with the following ultimatum issued ... to 
those blaspheming sinners ... who would dare to use profane force ... against the Foundation ... 
source of all blessings ... and against the Galactic Spirit. Cease at once all war against ... the 
true faith . . . and guarantee in a manner suiting us of the navy ... as represented by our ... 
priest-attendant, Theo Aporat ... that such war will never in the future ... be resumed, and that"- 
here a long pause, and then continuing -"and that the one-time prince regent, Wienis ... be 
imprisoned ... and tried before an ecclesiastical court ... for his crimes. Otherwise the royal navy 
... upon returning to Anacreon ... will blast the palace to the ground ... and take whatever other 



measures ... are 


necessary ... to destroy the nest of sinners ... and the den of destroyers ... of men's souls that 
now prevail." 

The voice ended with half a sob and the screen went blank. 

Hardin's fingers passed rapidly over the nucleo-bulb and its light faded until in the dimness, the 
hitherto regent, the king, and the soldiers were hazy-edged shadows; and for the first time it 
could be seen that an aura encompassed Hardin. 

It was not the blazing light that was the prerogative of kings, but one less spectacular, less 
impressive, and yet one more effective in its own way, and more useful. 

Hardin's voice was softly ironic as he addressed the same Wienis who had one hour earlier 
declared him a prisoner of war and Terminus on the point of destruction, and who now was a 
huddled shadow, broken and silent. 

"There is an old fable," said Hardin, "as old perhaps as humanity, for the oldest records 
containing it are merely copies of other records still older, that might interest you. It runs as 
follows: 

"A horse having a wolf as a powerful and dangerous enemy lived in constant fear of his life. 
Being driven to desperation, it occured to him to seek a strong ally. Whereupon he approached 
a man, and offered an alliance, pointing out that the wolf was likewise an enemy of the man. 
The man accepted the partnership at once and offered to kill the wolf immediately, if his new 
partner would only co-operate by placing his greater speed at the man's disposal. The horse 
was willing, and allowed the man to place bridle and saddle upon him. The man mounted, 
hunted down the wolf, and killed him. 

"The horse, joyful and relieved, thanked the man, and said: 'Now that our enemy is dead, 
remove your bridle and saddle and restore my freedom.' 

"Whereupon the man laughed loudly and replied, 'Never!' and applied the spurs with a will." 
Silence still. The shadow that was Wienis did not stir. 

Hardin continued quietly, "You see the analogy, I hope. In their anxiety to cement forever 
domination over their own people, the kings of the Four Kingdoms accepted the religion of 
science that made them divine; and that same religion of science was their bridle and saddle, 
for it placed the life blood of nuclear power in the hands of the priesthoodwho took their orders 
from us, be it noted, and not from you. You killed the wolf, but could not get rid of the m-" 

Wienis sprang to his feet and in the shadows, his eyes were maddened hollows. His voice was 
thick, incoherent. "And yet I'll get you. You won't escape. You'll rot. Let them blow us up. Let 
them blow everything up. You'll rot! I'll get you! 

"Soldiers!" he thundered, hysterically. "Shoot me down that devil. Blast him! Blast him!" 

Hardin turned about in his chair to face the soldiers and smiled. One aimed his nuclear blast 
and then lowered it. The others never budged. Salvor Hardin, mayor of Terminus, surrounded 



by that soft aura, smiling so confidently, and before whom all the power of Anacreon had 
crumbled to powder was too much for them, despite the orders of the shrieking maniac just 
beyond. 

Wienis shouted incoherently and staggered to the nearest soldier. Wildly, he wrested the 
nuclear blast from the man's hand-aimed it at Hardin, who didn't stir, shoved the lever and held 
it contacted. 

The pale continous beam impinged upon the force-field that surrounded the mayor of Terminus 
and was sucked harmlessly to neutralization. Wienis pressed harder and laughed tearingly. 

Hardin still smiled and his force-field aura scarcely brightened as it absorbed the energies of 
the nuclear blast. From his comer Lepold covered his eyes and moaned. 

And, with a yell of despair, Wienis changed his aim and shot again - and toppled to the floor 
with his head blown into nothingness. 

Hardin winced at the sight and muttered, "A man of 'direct action' to the end. The last refuge!" 


9 . 

The Time Vault was filled; filled far beyond the available seating capacity, and men lined the 
back of the room, three deep. 

Salvor Hardin compared this large company with the few men attending the first appearance of 
Hari Seldon, thirty years earlier. There had only been six, then; the five old Encyclopedists - all 
dead now - and himself, the young figurehead of a mayor. It had been on that day, that he, with 
Yohan Lee's assistance had removed the "figurehead" stigma from his office. 

It was quite different now; different in every respect. Every man of the City Council was 
awaiting Seldon's appearance. He, himself, was still mayor, but all-powerful now; and since the 
utter rout of Anacreon, all-popular. When he had returned from Anacreon with the news of the 
death of Wienis, and the new treaty signed with the trembling Lepold, he was greeted with a 
vote of confidence of shrieking unanimity. When this was followed in rapid order, by similar 
treaties signed with each of the other three kingdoms - treaties that gave the Foundation 
powers such as would forever prevent any attempts at attack similar to that of Anacreon's - 
torchlight processions had been held in every city street of Terminus. Not even Hari Seldon's 
name had been more loudly cheered. 

Hardin's lips twitched. Such popularity had been his after the first crisis also. 

Across the room, Sef Sermak and Lewis Bort were engaged in animated discussion, and recent 
events seemed to have put them out not at all. They had joined in the vote of confidence; made 
speeches in which they publicly admitted that they had been in the wrong, apologized 
handsomely for the use of certain phrases in earlier debates, excused themselves delicately by 
declaring they had merely followed the dictates of their judgement and their conscience - and 
immediately launched a new Actionist campaign. 



Yohan Lee touched Hardin's sleeve and pointed significantly to his watch. 

Hardin looked up. "Hello there, Lee. Are you still sour? What's wrong now?" 

"He's due in five minutes, isn't he?" 

"I presume so. He appeared at noon last time." 

"What if he doesn't?" 

"Are you going to wear me down with your worries all your life? If he doesn't, he won't." 

Lee frowned and shook his head slowly. "If this thing flops, we're in another mess. Without 
Seldon's backing for what we've done, Sermak will be free to start all over. He wants outright 
annexation of the Four Kingdoms, and immediate expansion of the Foundation - by force, if 
necessary. He's begun his campaign, already." 

"I know. A fire eater must eat fire even if he has to kindle it himself. And you, Lee, have got to 
worry even if you must kill yourself to invent something to worry about." 

Lee would have answered, but he lost his breath at just that moment - as the lights yellowed 
and went dim. He raised his arm to point to the glass cubicle that dominated half the room and 
then collapsed into a chair with a windy sigh. 

Hardin himself straightened at the sight of the figure that now filled the cubicle - a figure in a 
wheel chair! He alone, of all those present could remember the day, decades ago, when that 
figure had appeared first. He had been young then, and the figure old. Since then, the figure 
had not aged a day, but he himself had in turn grown old. 

The figure stared straight ahead, hands fingering a book in its lap. 

It said, "I am Hari Seldon!" The voice was old and soft. 

There was a breathless silence in the room and Hari Seldon continued conversationally, "This 
is the second time I've been here. Of course, I don't know if any of you were here the first time. 
In fact, I have no way of telling, by sense perception, that there is anyone here at all, but that 
doesn't matter. If the second crisis has been overcome safely, you are bound to be here; there 
is no way out. If you are not here, then the second crisis has been too much for you." 

He smiled engagingly. "I doubt that, however, for my figures show a ninety-eight point four 
percent probability there is to be no significant deviation from the Plan in the first eighty years. 

"According to our calculations, you have now reached domination of the barbarian kingdoms 
immediately surrounding the Foundation. Just as in the first crisis you held them off by use of 
the Balance of Power, so in the second, you gained mastery by use of the Spiritual Power as 
against the Temporal. 

"However, I might warn you here against overconfidence. It is not my way to grant you any 
foreknowledge in these recordings, but it would be safe to indicate that what you have now 
achieved is merely a new balance-though one in which your position is considerably better. The 
Spiritual Power, while sufficient to ward off attacks of the Temporal is not sufficient to attack in 



turn. Because of the invariable growth of the counteracting force known as Regionalism, or 
Nationalism, the Spiritual Power cannot prevail. I am telling you nothing new, I'm sure. 

"You must pardon me, by the way, for speaking to you in this vague way. The terms I use are at 
best mere approximations, but none of you is qualified to understand the true symbology of 
psychohistory, and so I must do the best I can. 

"In this case, the Foundation is only at the start of the path that leads to the Second Galactic 
Empire. The neighboring kingdoms, in manpower and resources are still overwhelmingly 
powerful as compared to yourselves. Outside them lies the vast tangled jungle of barbarism 
that extends around the entire breadth of the Galaxy. Within that rim there is still what is left of 
the Galactic Empire - and that, weakened and decaying though it is, is still incomparably 
mighty." 

At this point, Hari Seldon lifted his book and opened it. His face grew solemn. "And never forget 
there was another Foundation established eighty years ago; a Foundation at the other end of 
the Galaxy, at Star's End. They will always be there for consideration. Gentlemen, nine hundred 
and twenty years of the Plan stretch ahead of you. The problem is yours!" 

He dropped his eyes to his book and flicked out of existence, while the lights brightened to 
fullness. In the babble that followed, Lee leaned over to Hardin's ear. "He didn't say when he'd 
be back." 

Hardin replied, "I know - but I trust he won't return until you and I are safely and cozily dead!" 


PART IV 

THE TRADERS 

i. 

TRADERS-... and constantly in advance of the political hegemony of the Foundation were the 
Traders, reaching out tenuous fingerholds through the tremendous distances of the Periphery. 
Months or years might pass between landings on Terminus; their ships were often nothing 
more than patchquilts of home-made repairs and improvisations; their honesty was none of the 
highest; their daring... 

Through it all they forged an empire more enduring than the pseudo-religious despotism of the 
Four Kingdoms... 


Tales without end are told of these massive, lonely figures who bore half-seriously, 
half-mockingly a motto adopted from one of Salvor Hardin's epigrams, "Never let your sense of 




morals prevent you from doing what is right!" It is difficult now to tell which tales are real and 
which apocryphal. There are none probably that have not suffered some exaggeration.... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

Limmar Ponyets was completely a-lather when the call reached his receiver - which proves 
that the old bromide about telemessages and the shower holds true even in the dark, hard 
space of the Galactic Periphery. 

Luckily that part of a free-lance trade ship which is not given over to miscellaneous 
merchandise is extremely snug. So much so, that the shower, hot water included, is located in 
a two-by-four cubby, ten feet from the control panels. Ponyets heard the staccato rattle of the 
receiver quite plainly. 

Dripping suds and a growl, he stepped out to adjust the vocal, and three hours later a second 
trade ship was alongside, and a grinning youngster entered through the air tube between the 
ships. 

Ponyets rattled his best chair forward and perched himself on the pilot-swivel. 

"What've you been doing, Gorm?" he asked, darkly. "Chasing me all the way from the 
Foundation?" 

Les Gorm broke out a cigarette, and shook his head definitely, "Me? Not a chance. I'm just a 
sucker who happened to land on Glyptal IV the day after the mail. So they sent me out after 
you with this." 

The tiny, gleaming sphere changed hands, and Gorm added, "It's confidential. Super-secret. 
Can't be trusted to the sub-ether and all that. Or so I gather. At least, it's a Personal Capsule, 
and won't open for anyone but you." 

Ponyets regarded the capsule distastefully, "I can see that. And I never knew one of these to 
hold good news, either." 

It opened in his hand and the thin, transparent tape unrolled stiffly. His eyes swept the 
message quickly, for when the last of the tape had emerged, the first was already brown and 
crinkled. In a minute and a half it had turned black and, molecule by molecule, fallen apart. 

Ponyets grunted hollowly, "Oh, Galaxy f 

Les Gorm said quietly, "Can I help somehow? Or is it too secret?" 

"It will bear telling, since you're of the Guild. I've got to go to Askone." 

"That place? How come?" 

"They've imprisoned a trader. But keep it to yourself." 

Gorm's expression jolted into anger, "Imprisoned! That's against the Convention." 

"So is the interference with local politics." 



"Oh! Is that what he did?" Gorm meditated. "Who's the trader'? Anyone I know?" 

"No!" said Ponyets sharply, and Gorm accepted the implication and asked no further questions. 

Ponyets was up and staring darkly out the visiplate. He mumbled strong expressions at that 
part of the misty lens-form that was the body of the Galaxy, then said loudly, "Damnedest 
mess! I'm way behind quota." 

Light broke on Gorm's intellect, "Hey, friend, Askone is a closed area." 

"That's right. You can't sell as much as a penknife on Askone. They won't buy nuclear gadgets 
of any sort. With my quota dead on its feet, it's murder to go there." 

"Can't get out of it?" 

Ponyets shook his head absently, A know the fellow involved. Can't walk out on a friend. What 
of it? I am in the hands of the Galactic Spirit and walk cheerfully in the way he points out." 

Gorm said blankly, "Huh?" 

Ponyets looked at him, and laughed shortly, "I forgot. You never read the 'Bood of the Spirit,' 
did you?" 

"Never heard of it," said Gorm, curtly. 

"Well, you would if you'd had a religious training." 

"Religious training? For the priesthood?" Gorm was profoundly shocked. 

"Afraid so. It's my dark shame and secret. I was too much for the Reverend Fathers, though, 
They expelled me, for reasons sufficient to promote me to a secular education under the 
Foundation. Well, look, I'd better push off. How's your quota this year?" 

Gorm crushed out his cigarette and adjusted his cap, "I've got my last cargo going now. I'll 
make it." 

"Lucky fellow," gloomed Ponyets, and for many minutes after Les Gorm left, he sat in 
motionless reverie. 

So Eskel Gorov was on Askone - and in prison as well! 

That was bad! In fact, considerably worse than it might appear. It was one thing to tell a curious 
youngster a diluted version of the business to throw him off and send him about his own. It was 
a thing of a different sort to face the truth. 

For Limmar Ponyets was one of the few people who happened to know that Master Trader 
Eskel Gorov was not a trader at all; but that entirely different thing, an agent of the Foundation! 


2 . 

Two weeks gone! Two weeks wasted. 



One week to reach Askone, at the extreme borders of which the vigilant warships speared out 
to meet him in converging numbers. Whatever their detection system was, it worked - and well. 


They sidled him in slowly, without a signal, maintaining their cold distance, and pointing him 
harshly towards the central sun of Askone. 

Ponyets could have handled them at a pinch. Those ships were holdovers from the 
dead-and-gone Galactic Empire - but they were sports cruisers, not warships; and without 
nuclear weapons, they were so many picturesque and impotent ellipsoids. But Eskel Gorov was 
a prisoner in their hands, and Gorov was not a hostage to lose. The Askonians must know that. 

And then another week - a week to wind a weary way through the clouds of minor officials that 
formed the buffer between the Grand Master and the outer world. Each little sub-secretary 
required soothing and conciliation. Each required careful and nauseating milking for the 
flourishing signature that was the pathway to the next official one higher up. 

For the first time, Ponyets found his trader's identification papers useless. 

I Now, at last, the Grand Master was on the other side of the Guard-flanked gilded door - and 
two weeks had gone. 

Gorov was still a prisoner and Ponyets' cargo rotted useless in the holds of his ship. 

The Grand Master was a small man; a small man with a balding head and very wrinkled face, 
whose body seemed weighed down to motionlessness by the huge, glossy fur collar about his 
neck. 

His fingers moved on either side, and the line of armed men backed away to for a passage, 
along which Ponyets strode to the foot of the Chair of State. 

"Don't speak," snapped the Grand Master, and Ponyets' opening lips closed tightly. 

"That's right," the Askonian ruler relaxed visibly, "I can't endure useless chatter. You cannot 
threaten and I won't abide flattery. Nor is there room for injured complaints. I have lost count of 
the times you wanderers have been warned that your devil's machines are not wanted 
anywhere in Askone." 

"Sir," said Ponyets, quietly, "there is no attempt to justify the trader in question. It is not the 
policy of traders to intrude where they are not wanted. But the Galaxy is great, and it has 
happened before that a boundary has been trespassed unwittingly. It was a deplorable 
mistake." 

"Deplorable, certainly," squeaked the Grand Master. "But mistake? Your people on Glyptal IV 
have been bombarding me with pleas for negotiation since two hours after the sacrilegious 
wretch was seized. I have been warned by them of your own coming many times over. It seems 
a well-organized rescue campaign. Much seems to have been anticipated - a little too much for 



mistakes, deplorable or otherwise." 

The Askonian's black eyes were scornful. He raced on, "And are you traders, flitting from world 
to world like mad little butterflies, so mad in your own right that you can land on Askone's 
largest world, in the center of its system, and consider it an unwitting boundary mixup? Come, 
surely not." 

Ponyets winced without showing it. He said, doggedly, "If the attempt to trade was deliberate, 
your Veneration, it was most injudicious and contrary to the strictest regulations of our Guild." 

"Injudicious, yes," said the Askonian, curtly. "So much so, that your comrade is likely to lose life 
in payment." 

Ponyets' stomach knotted. There was no irresolution there. He said, "Death, your Veneration, is 
so absolute and irrevocable a phenomenon that certainly there must be some alternative." 

There was a pause before the guarded answer came, "I have heard that the Foundation is 
rich." 

"Rich? Certainly. But our riches are that which you refuse to take. Our nuclear goods are 
worth-" 

"Your goods are worthless in that they lack the ancestral blessing. Your goods are wicked and 
accursed in that they lie under the ancestral interdict." The sentences were intoned; the 
recitation of a formula. 

The Grand Master's eyelids dropped, and he said with meaning, "You have nothing else of 
value?" 

The meaning was lost on the trader, "I don't understand. What is it you want?" 

The Askonian's hands spread apart, "You ask me to trade places with you, and make known to 
you my wants. I think not. Your colleague, it seems, must suffer the punishment set for 
sacrilege by the Askonian code. Death by gas. We are a just people. The poorest peasant, in 
like case, would suffer no more. I, myself, would suffer no less." 

Ponyets mumbled hopelessly, "Your Veneration, would it be permitted that I speak to the 
prisoner?" 

"Askonian law," said the Grand Master coldly, "allows no communication with a condemned 
man." 

Mentally, Ponyets held his breath, "Your Veneration, I ask you to be merciful towards a man's 
soul, in the hour when his body stands forfeit. He has been separated from spiritual consolation 
in all the time that his life has been in danger. Even now, he faces the prospect of going 
unprepared to the bosom of the Spirit that rules all." 

The Grand Master said slowly and suspiciously, "You are a Tender of the Soul?" 

Ponyets dropped a humble head, "I have been so trained. In the empty expanses of space, the 
wandering traders need men like myself to care for the spiritual side of a life so given over to 



commerce and worldly pursuits." 

The Askonian ruler sucked thoughtfully at his lower lip. "Every man should prepare his soul for 
his journey to his ancestral spirits. Yet I had never thought you traders to be believers." 


3 . 

Eskel Gorov stirred on his couch and opened one eye as Limmar Ponyets entered the heavily 
reinforced door. It boomed shut behind him. Gorov sputtered and came to his feet. 

"Ponyets! They sent you?" 

"Pure chance," said Ponyets, bitterly, "or the work of my own personal malevolent demon. Item 
one, you get into a mess on Askone. Item two, my sales route, as known to the Board of Trade, 
carries me within fifty parsecs of the system at just the time of item one. Item three, we've 
worked together before and the Board knows it. Isn't that a sweet, inevitable set-up? The 
answer just pops out of a slot." 

"Be careful," said Gorov, tautly. "There'll be someone listening. Are you wearing a Field 
Distorter?" 

Ponyets indicated the ornamented bracelet that hugged his wrist and Gorov relaxed. 

Ponyets looked about him. The cell was bare, but large. It was well-lit and it lacked offensive 
odors. He said, "Not bad. They're treating you with kid gloves." 

Gorov brushed the remark aside, "Listen, how did you get down here? I've been in strict solitary 
for almost two weeks." 

"Ever since I came, huh? Well, it seems the old bird who's boss here has his weak points. He 
leans toward pious speeches, so I took a chance that worked. I'm here in the capacity of your 
spiritual adviser. There's something about a pious man such as he. He will cheerfully cut your 
throat if it suits him, but he will hesitate to endanger the welfare of your immaterial and 
problematical soul. It's just a piece of empirical psychology. A trader has to know a little of 
everything." 

Gorov's smile was sardonic, "And you've been to theological school as well. You're all right, 
Ponyets. I'm glad they sent you. But the Grand Master doesn't love my soul exclusively. Has he 
mentioned a ransom?" 

The trader's eyes narrowed, "He hinted - barely. And he also threatened death by gas. I played 
safe, and dodged; it might easily have been a trap. So it's extortion, is it? What is it he wants?" 

"Gold." 

"Gold!" Ponyets frowned. "The metal itself? What for?" 

"It's their medium of exchange." 

"Is it? And where do I get gold from?" 



"Wherever you can. Listen to me; this is important. Nothing will happen to me as long as the 
Grand Master has the scent of gold in his nose. Promise it to him; as much as he asks for. 
Then go back to the Foundation, if necessary, to get it. When I'm free, we'll be escorted out of 
the system, and then we part company." 

Ponyets stared disapprovingly, "And then you'll come back and try again." 

"It's my assignment to sell nucleics to Askone." 

"They'll get you before you've gone a parsec in space. You know that, I suppose." 

"I don't," said Gorov. "And if I did, it wouldn't affect things." 

"They'll kill you the second time." 

Gorov shrugged. 

Ponyets said quietly, "If I'm going to negotiate with the Grand Master again, I want to know the 
whole story. So far, I've been working it too blind. As it was, the few mild remarks I did make 
almost threw his Veneration into fits." 

"It's simple enough," said Gorov. "The only way we can increase the security of the Foundation 
here in the Periphery is to form a religion-controlled commercial empire. We're still too weak to 
be able to force political control. It's all we can do to hold the Four Kingdoms." 

Ponyets was nodding. "This I realize. And any system that doesn't accept nuclear gadgets can 
never be placed under our religious control-" 

"And can therefore become a focal point for independence and hostility. Yes." 

"All right, then," said Ponyets, "so much for theory. Now what exactly prevents the sale. 
Religion? The Grand Master implied as much." 

"It's a form of ancestor worship. Their traditions tell of an evil past from which they were saved 
by the simple and virtuous heroes of the past generations. It amounts to a distortion of the 
anarchic period a century ago, when the imperial troops were driven out and an independent 
government was set up. Advanced science and nuclear power in particular became identified 
with the old imperial regime they remember with horror." 

"That so? But they have nice little ships which spotted me very handily two parsecs away. That 
smells of nucleics to me." 

Gorov shrugged. "Those ships are holdovers of the Empire, no doubt. Probably with nuclear 
drive. What they have, they keep. The point is that they will not innovate and their internal 
economy is entirely non-nuclear. That is what we must change." 

"Flow were you going to do it?" 

"By breaking the resistance at one point. To put it simply, if I could sell a penknife with a 
force-field blade to a nobleman, it would be to his interest to force laws that would allow him to 
use it. Put that baldly, it sounds silly, but it is sound, psychologically. To make strategic sales, 



at strategic points, would be to create a pro-nucleics faction at court." 

"And they send you for that purpose, while I'm only here to ransom you and leave, while you 
keep on trying? Isn't that sort of tail-backward?" 

"In what way?" said Gorov, guardedly. 

"Listen," Ponyets was suddenly exasperated, "you're a diplomat, not a trader, and calling you a 
trader won't make you one. This case is for one who's made a business of selling - and I'm 
here with a full cargo stinking into uselessness, and a quota that won't ever be met, it looks 
like." 

"You mean you're going to risk your life on something that isn't your business?" Gorov smiled 
thinly. 

Ponyets said, "You mean that this is a matter of patriotism and traders aren't patriotic?" 
"Notoriously not. Pioneers never are." 

"All right. I'll grant that. I don't scoot about space to save the Foundation or anything like that. 
But I'm out to make money, and this is my chance. If it helps the Foundation at the same time, 
all the better. And I've risked my life on slimmer chances." 

Ponyets rose, and Gorov rose with him, "What are you going to do?" 

The trader smiled, "Gorov, I don't know - not yet. But if the crux of the matter is to make a sale, 
then I'm your man. I'm not a boaster as a general thing, but there's one thing I'll always back 
up. I've never ended up below quota yet." 

The door to the cell opened almost instantly when he knocked, and two guards fell in on either 
side. 


4 . 

"A show!" said the Grand Master, grimly. Fie settled himself well into his furs, and one thin hand 
grasped the iron cudgel he used as a cane. 

"And gold, your Veneration." 

"Anc/ gold," agreed the Grand Master, carelessly. 

Ponyets set the box down and opened it with as fine an appearance of confidence as he could 
manage. Fie felt alone in the face of universal hostility; the way he had felt out in space his first 
year. The semicircle of bearded councilors who faced him down, stared unpleasantly. Among 
them was Pherl, the thin-faced favorite who sat next to the Grand Master in stiff hostility. 
Ponyets had met him once already and marked him immediately as prime enemy, and, as a 
consequence, prime victim. 

Outside the hall, a small army awaited events. Ponyets was effectively isolated from his ship; 
he lacked any weapon, but his attempted bribe; and Gorov was still a hostage. 



He made the final adjustments on the clumsy monstrosity that had cost him a week of 
ingenuity, and prayed once again that the lead-lined quartz would stand the strain. 

"What is it?" asked the Grand Master. 

"This," said Ponyets, stepping back, "is a small device I have constructed myself." 

"That is obvious, but it is not the information I want. Is it one of the black-magic abominations of 
your world?" 

"It is nuclear in nature, admitted Ponyets, gravely, "but none of you need touch it, or have 
anything to do with it. It is for myself alone, and if it contains abominations, I take the foulness 
of it upon myself." 

The Grand Master had raised his iron cane at the machine in a threatening gesture and his lips 
moved rapidly and silently in a purifying invocation. The thin-faced councilor at his right leaned 
towards him and his straggled red mustache approached the Grand Master's ear. The ancient 
Askonian petulantly shrugged himself free. 

"And what is the connection of your instrument of evil and the gold that may save your 
countryman's life?" 

"With this machine," began Ponyets, as his hand dropped softly onto the central chamber and 
caressed its hard, round flanks, "I can turn the iron you discard into gold of the finest quality. It 
is the only device known to man that will take iron - the ugly iron, your Veneration, that props 
up the chair you sit in and the walls of this building - and change it to shining, heavy, yellow 
gold." 

Ponyets felt himself botching it. His usual sales talk was smooth, facile and plausible; but this 
limped like a shot-up space wagon. But it was the content, not the form, that interested the 
Grand Master. 

"So? Transmutation? Men have been fools who have claimed the ability. They have paid for 
their prying sacrilege." 

"Had they succeeded?" 

"No." The Grand Master seemed coldly amused. "Success at producing gold would have been 
a crime that carried its own antidote. It is the attempt plus the failure that is fatal. Here, what 
can you do with my staff?" He pounded the floor with it. 

"Your Veneration will excuse me. My device is a small model, prepared by myself, and your 
staff is too long." 

The Grand Master's small shining eye wandered and stopped, "Randel, your buckles. Come, 
man, they shall be replaced double if need be." 

The buckles passed down the line, hand to hand. The Grand Master weighed them 
thoughtfully. 


Here," he said, and threw them to the floor. 



Ponyets picked them up. He tugged hard before the cylinder opened, and his eyes blinked and 
squinted with effort as he centered the buckles carefully on the anode screen. Later, it would be 
easier but there must be no failures the first time. 

The homemade transmuter crackled malevolently for ten minutes while the odor of ozone 
became faintly present. The Askonians backed away, muttering, and again Pherl whispered 
urgently into his ruler's ear. The Grand Master's expression was stony. He did not budge. 

And the buckles were gold. 

Ponyets held them out to the Grand Master with a murmured, "Your Veneration!" but the old 
man hesitated, then gestured them away. His stare lingered upon the transmuter. 

Ponyets said rapidly, "Gentlemen, this is pure gold. Gold through and through. You may subject 
it to every known physical and chemical test, if you wish to prove the point. It cannot be 
identified from naturally-occurring gold in any way. Any iron can be so treated. Rust will not 
interfere, not will a moderate amount of alloying metals-" 

But Ponyets spoke only to fill a vacuum. He let the buckles remain in his outstretched hand, 
and it was the gold that argued for him. 

The Grand Master stretched out a slow hand at last, and the thin-faced Pherl was roused to 
open speech. "Your Veneration, the gold is from a poisoned source." 

And Ponyets countered, "A rose can grow from the mud, your Veneration. In your dealings with 
your neighbors, you buy material of all imaginable variety, without inquiring as to where they 
get it, whether from an orthodox machine blessed by your benign ancestors or from some 
space-spawned outrage. Come, I don't offer the machine. I offer the gold." 

"Your Veneration," said Pherl, "you are not responsible for the sins of foreigners who work 
neither with your consent nor knowledge. But to accept this strange pseudo-gold made sinfully 
from iron in your presence and with your consent is an affront to the living spirits of our holy 
ancestors." 

"Yet gold is gold," said the Grand Master, doubtfully, "and is but an exchange for the heathen 
person of a convicted felon. Pherl, you are too critical." But he withdrew his hand. 

Ponyets said, "You are wisdom, itself, your Veneration. Consider - to give up a heathen is to 
lose nothing for your ancestors, whereas with the gold you get in exchange you can ornament 
the shrines of their holy spirits. And surely, were gold evil in itself, if such, a thing could be, the 
evil would depart of necessity once the metal were put to such pious use." 

"Now by the bones of my grandfather," said the Grand Master with surprising vehemence. His 
lips separated in a shrill laugh, "Pherl, what do you say of this young man? The statement is 
valid. It is as valid as the words of my ancestors." 

Pherl said gloomily, "So it would seem. Grant that the validity does not turn out to be a device 
of the Malignant Spirit." 

"I'll make it even better," said Ponyets, suddenly. "Hold the gold in hostage. Place it on the 



altars of your ancestors as an offering and hold me for thirty days. If at the end of that time, 
there is no evidence of displeasure - if no disasters occur - surely, it would be proof that the 
offering was accepted. What more can be offered?" 

And when the Grand Master rose to his feet to search out disapproval, not a man in the council 
failed to signal his agreement. Even Pherl chewed the ragged end of his mustache and nodded 
curtly. 

Ponyets smiled and meditated on the uses of a religious education. 


5 . 

Another week rubbed away before the meeting with Pherl was arranged. Ponyets felt the 
tension, but he was used to the feeling of physical helplessness now. He had left city limits 
under guard. He was in Pherl's suburban villa under guard. There was nothing to do but accept 
it without even looking over his shoulder. 

Pherl was taller and younger outside the circle of Elders. In nonformal costume, he seemed no 
Elder at all. 

He said abruptly, "You're a peculiar man." His close-set eyes seemed to quiver. "You've done 
nothing this last week, and particularly these last two hours, but imply that I need gold. It seems 
useless labor, for who does not? Why not advance one step?" 

"It is not simply gold," said Ponyets, discreetly. "Not simply gold. Not merely a coin or two. It is 
rather all that lies behind gold." 

"Now what can lie behind gold?" prodded Pherl, with a down-curved smile. "Certainly this is not 
the preliminary of another clumsy demonstration." 

"Clumsy?" Ponyets frowned slightly. 

"Oh, definitely." Pherl folded his hands and nudged them gently with his chin. "I don't criticize 
you. The clumsiness was on purpose, I am sure. I might have warned his Veneration of that, 
had I been certain of the motive. Now had I been you, I would have produced the gold upon my 
ship, and offered it alone. The show you offered us and the antagonism you aroused would 
have been dispensed with." 

"True," Ponyets admitted, "but since I was myself, I accepted the antagonism for the sake of 
attracting your attention." 


"Is that it? Simply that?" Pherl made no effort to hide his contemptuous amusement. "And I 
imagine you suggested the thirty-day purification period that you might assure yourself time to 
turn the attraction into something a bit more substantial. But what if the gold turns out to be 
impure?" 

Ponyets allowed himself a dark humor in return, "When the judgement of that impurity depends 



upon those who are most interested in finding it pure?" 

Pherl lifted his eyes and stared narrowly at the trader. He seemed at once surprised and 
satisfied. 

"A sensible point. Now tell me why you wished to attract me." 

"This I will do. In the short time I have been here, I have observed useful facts that concern you 
and interest me. For instance, you are young-very young for a member of the council, and even 
of a relatively young family." 

"You criticize my family?" 

"Not at all. Your ancestors are great and holy; all will admit that. But there are those that say 
you are not a member of one of the Five Tribes." 

Pherl leaned back, "With all respect to those involved," and he did not hide his venom, "the Five 
Tribes have impoverished loins and thin blood. Not fifty members of the Tribes are alive." 

"Yet there are those who say the nation would not be willing to see any man outside the Tribes 
as Grand Master. And so young and newly-advanced a favorite of the Grand Master is bound 
to make powerful enemies among the great ones of the State - it is said. His Veneration is 
aging and his protection will not last past his death, when it is an enemy of yours who will 
undoubtedly be the one to interpret the words of his Spirit." 

Pherl scowled, "For a foreigner you hear much. Such ears are made for cropping." 

"That may be decided later." 

"Let me anticipate." Pherl stirred impatiently in his seat. "You're going to offer me wealth and 
power in terms of those evil little machines you carry in your ship. Well?" 

"Suppose it so. What would be your objection? Simply your standard of good and evil?" 

Pherl shook his head. "Not at all. Look, my Outlander, your opinion of us in your heathen 
agnosticism is what it is - but I am not the entire slave of our mythology, though I may appear 
so. I am an educated man, sir, and, I hope, an enlightened one. The full depth of our religious 
customs, in the ritualistic rather than the ethical sense, is for the masses." 

"Your objection, then?" pressed Ponyets, gently. 

"Just that. The masses. I might be willing to deal with you, but your little machines must be 
used to be useful. How might riches come to me, if I had to use - what is it you sell?- well, a 
razor, for instance, only in the strictest, trembling secrecy. Even if my chin were more simply 
and more cleanly shaven, how would I become rich? And how would I avoid death by gas 
chamber or mob frightfulness if I were ever once caught using it?" 

Ponyets shrugged, "You are correct. I might point out that the remedy would be to educate your 
own people into the use of nucleics for their convenience and your own substantial profit. It 
would be a gigantic piece of work; I don't deny it; but the returns would be still more gigantic. 

Still that is your concern, and, at the moment, not mine at all. For I offer neither razor, knife, nor 



mechanical garbage disposer." 

"What do you offer?" 

"Gold itself. Directly. You may have the machine I demonstrated last week." 

And now Pherl stiffened and the skin on his forehead moved jerkily. "The transmuter?" 

"Exactly. Your supply of gold will equal your supply of iron. That, I imagine, is sufficient for all 
needs. Sufficient for the Grand Mastership itself, despite youth and enemies. And it is safe." 

"In what way?" 

"In that secrecy is the essence of its use; that same secrecy you described as the only safety 
with regard to nucleics. You may bury the transmuter in the deepest dungeon of the strongest 
fortress on your furthest estate, and it will still bring you instant wealth. It is the gold you buy, 
not the machine, and that gold bears no trace of its manufacture, for it cannot be told from the 
natural creation." 

"And who is to operate the machine?" 

"Yourself. Five minutes teaching is all you will require. I'll set it up for you wherever you wish." 
"And in return?" 

"Well," Ponyets grew cautious. "I ask a price and a handsome one. It is my living. Let us say,- 
for it its a valuable machine - the equivalent of a cubic foot of gold in wrought iron." 

Pherl laughed, and Ponyets grew red. "I point out, sir," he added, stiffly, "that you can get your 
price back in two hours." 

"True, and in one hour, you might be gone, and my machine might suddenly turn out to be 
useless. I'll need a guarantee." 

"You have my word." 

"A very good one," Pherl bowed sardonically, "but your presence would be an even better 
assurance. I'll give you my word to pay you one week after delivery in working order." 

"Impossible." 

"Impossible? When you've already incurred the death penalty very handily by even offering to 
sell me anything. The only alternative is my word that you'll get the gas chamber tomorrow 
otherwise." 

Ponyet's face was expressionless, but his eyes might have flickered. He said, "It is an unfair 
advantage. You will at least put your promise in writing?" 

"And also become liable for execution? No, sir!" Pherl smiled a broad satisfaction. "No, sir! Only 
one of us is a fool." 


The trader said in a small voice, "It is agreed, then. 



6 . 


Gorov was released on the thirtieth day, and five hundred pounds of the yellowest gold took his 
place. And with him was released the quarantined and untouched abomination that was his 
ship. 

Then, as on the journey into the Askonian system, so on the journey out, the cylinder of sleek 
little ships ushered them on their way. 

Ponyets watched the dimly sun-lit speck that was Gorov's ship while Gorov's voice pierced 
through to him, clear and thin on the tight, distortion-bounded ether-beam. 

He was saying, "But it isn't what's wanted, Ponyets. A transmuter won't do. Where did you get 
one, anyway?" 

"I didn't," Ponyets answer was patient. "I juiced it up out of a food irradiation chamber. It isn't 
any good, really. The power consumption is prohibitive on any large scale or the Foundation 
would use transmutation instead of chasing all over the Galaxy for heavy metals. It's one of the 
standard tricks every trader uses, except that I never saw an iron-to-gold one before. But it's 
impressive, and it works - very temporarily." 

"All right. But that particular trick is no good." 

"It got you out of a nasty spot." 

"That is very far from the point. Especially since I've got to go back, once we shake our 
solicitous escort." 

"Why?" 

"You yourself explained it to this politician of yours," Gorov's voice was on edge. "Your entire 
sales-point rested on the fact that the transmuter was a means to an end, but of no value in 
itself-, that he was buying the gold, not the machine. It was good psychology, since it worked, 
but-" 

"But?" Ponyets urged blandly and obtusely. 

The voice from the receiver grew shriller, "But we want to sell them a machine of value in itself, 
something they would want to use openly; something that would tend to force them out in favor 
of nuclear techniques as a matter of self-interest." 

"I understand all that," said Ponyets, gently. "You once explained it. But look at what follows 
from my sale, will you? As long as that transmuter lasts, Pherl will coin gold; and it will last long 
enough to buy him the next election. The present Grand Master won't last long." 

"You count on gratitude?" asked Gorov, coldly. 

"No - on intelligent self-interest. The transmuter gets him an election; other mechanisms-" 

"No! No! Your premise is twisted. It's not the transmuter, he'll credit - it'll be the good, 



old-fashioned gold. That's what I'm trying to tell you." 

Ponyets grinned and shifted into a more comfortable position. All right. He'd baited the poor 
fellow sufficiently. Gorov was beginning to sound wild. 

The trader said, "Not so fast, Gorov. I haven't finished. There are other gadgets already 
involved." 

There was a short silence. Then, Gorov's voice sounded cautiously, "What other gadgets?" 
Ponyets gestured automatically and uselessly, "You see that escort?" 

"I do," said Gorov shortly. "Tell me about those gadgets." 

"I will, -if you'll listen. That's Pherl's private navy escorting us; a special honor to him from the 
Grand Master. He managed to squeeze that out." 

"So?" 

"And where do you think he's taking us? To his mining estates on the outskirts of Askone, that's 
where. Listen!" Ponyets was suddenly fiery, "I told you I was in this to make money, not to save 
worlds. All right. I sold that transmuter for nothing. Nothing except the risk of the gas chamber 
and that doesn't count towards the quota." 

"Get back to the mining estates, Ponyets. Where do they come in?" 

"With the profits. We're stacking up on tin, Gorov. Tin to fill every last cubic foot this old scow 
can scrape up, and then some more for yours. I'm going down with Pherl to collect, old man, 
and you're going to cover me from upstairs with every gun you've got - just in case Pherl isn't 
as sporting about the matter as he lets on to be. That tin's my profit." 

"For the transmuter?" 

"For my entire cargo of nucleics. At double price, plus a bonus." He shrugged, almost 
apologetically. "I admit I gouged him, but I've got to make quota, don't I?" 

Gorov was evidently lost. He said, weakly, "Do you mind explaining'?" 

"What's there to explain? It's obvious, Gorov. Look, the clever dog thought he had me in a 
foolproof trap, because his word was worth more than mine to the Grand Master. He took the 
transmuter. That was a capital crime in Askone. But at any time he could say that he had lured 
me on into a trap with the purest of patriotic motives, and denounce me as a seller of forbidden 
things." 

"That was obvious." 

"Sure, but word against simple word wasn't all there was to it. You see, Pherl had never heard 
nor conceived of a microfilm-recorder." 

Gorov laughed suddenly. 

"That's right," said Ponyets. "He had the upper hand. I was properly chastened. But when I set 



up the transmuter for him in my whipped-dog fashion, I incorporated the recorder into the 
device and removed it in the next day's overhaul. I had a perfect record of his sanctum 
sanctorum, his holy-of-holies, with he himself, poor Pherl, operating the transmuter for all the 
ergs it had and crowing over his first piece of gold as if it were an egg he had just laid." 

"You showed him the results?" 

"Two days later. The poor sap had never seen three-dimensional color-sound images in his life. 
He claims he isn't superstitious, but if I ever saw an adult look as scared as he did then, call me 
rookie. When I told him I had a recorder planted in the city square, set to go off at midday with a 
million fanatical Askonians to watch, and to tear him to pieces subsequently, he was gibbering 
at my knees in half a second. He was ready to make any deal I wanted." 

"Did you?" Gorov's voice was suppressing laughter. "I mean, have one planted in the city 
square." 

"No, but that didn't matter. He made the deal. He bought every gadget I had, and every one you 
had for as much tin as we could carry. At that moment, he believed me capable of anything. 

The agreement is in writing and you'll have a copy before I go down with him, just as another 
precaution." 

"But you've damaged his ego," said Gorov. "Will he use the gadgets?" 

"Why not? It's his only way of recouping his losses, and if he makes money out of it, he'll salve 
his pride. And he will be the next Grand Master - and the best man we could have in our favor." 

"Yes," said Gorov, "it was a good sale. Yet you've certainly got an uncomfortable sales 
technique. No wonder you were kicked out of a seminary. Have you no sense of morals?" 

"What are the odds?" said Ponyets, indifferently. "You know what Salvor Hardin said about a 
sense of morals." 


PART V 

THE MERCHANT PRINCES 


i. 

TRADERS-... With psychohistoric inevitability, economic control of the Foundation grew. The 
traders grew rich; and with riches came power.... 

It is sometimes forgotten that Hober Mallow began life as an ordinary trader. It is never 
forgotten that he ended it as the first of the Merchant Princes.... 


ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 




Jorane Sutt put the tips of carefully-manicured fingers together and said, "It's something of a 
puzzle. In fact - and this is in the strictest of confidence - it may be another one of Hari 
Seldon's crises." 

The man opposite felt in the pocket of his short Smyrnian jacket for a cigarette. "Don't know 
about that, Sutt. As a general rule, politicians start shouting 'Seldon crisis' at every mayoralty 
campaign." 

Sutt smiled very faintly, "I'm not campaigning, Mallow. We're facing nuclear weapons, and we 
don't know where they're coming from." 

Hober Mallow of Smyrno, Master Trader, smoked quietly, almost indifferently. "Go on. If you 
have more to say, get it out." Mallow never made the mistake of being overpolite to a 
Foundation man. He might be an Outlander, but a man's a man for a’ that. 

Sutt indicated the trimensional star-map on the table. He adjusted the controls and a cluster of 
some half-dozen stellar systems blazed red. 

'That," he said quietly, "is the Korellian Republic." 

The trader nodded, "I've been there. Stinking rathole! I suppose you can call it a republic but it's 
always someone out of the Argo family that gets elected Commdor each time. And if you ever 
don't like it - things happen to you." He twisted his lip and repeated, "I've been there." 

"But you've come back, which hasn't always happened. Three trade ships, inviolate under the 
Conventions, have disappeared within the territory of the Republic in the last year. And those 
ships were armed with all the usual nuclear explosives and force-field defenses." 

"What was the last word heard from the ships?" 

"Routine reports. Nothing else." 

"What did Korell say?" 

Sutt's eyes gleamed sardonically, "There was no way of asking. The Foundation's greatest 
asset throughout the Periphery is its reputation of power. Do you think we can lose three ships 
and ask for them?" 

"Well, then, suppose you tell me what you want with me." 

Jorane Sutt did not waste his time in the luxury of annoyance. As secretary to the mayor, he 
had held off opposition councilmen, jobseekers, reformers, and crackpots who claimed to have 
solved in its entirety the course of future history as worked out by Hari Seldon. With training like 
that, it took a good deal to disturb him. 

He said methodically, "In a moment. You see, three ships lost in the same sector in the same 
year can't be accident, and nuclear power can be conquered only by more nuclear power. The 
question automatically arises: if Korell has nuclear weapons, where is it getting them?" 


And where does it? 



"Two alternatives. Either the Korellians have constructed them themselves-" 

"Far-fetched!" 

"Very! But the other possibility is that we are being afflicted with a case of treason." 

"You think so?" Mallow's voice was cold. 

The secretary said calmly, "There's nothing miraculous about the possibility. Since the Four 
Kingdoms accepted the Foundation Convention, we have had to deal with considerable groups 
of dissident populations in each nation. Each former kingdom has its pretenders and its former 
noblemen, who can't very well pretend to love the Foundation. Some of them are becoming 
active, perhaps." 

Mallow was a dull red. "I see. Is there anything you want to say to me? I'm a Smyrnian." 

"I know. You're a Smyrnian - born in Smyrno, one of the former Four Kingdoms. You're a 
Foundation man by education only. By birth, you're an Outlander and a foreigner. No doubt 
your grandfather was a baron at the time of the wars with Anacreon and Loris, and no doubt 
your family estates were taken away when Sef Sermak redistributed the land." 

"No, by Black Space, no! My grandfather was a blood-poor son-of-a-spacer who died heaving 
coal at starving wages before the Foundation took over. I owe nothing to the old regime. But I 
was born in Smyrno, and I'm not ashamed of either Smyrno or Smyrnians, by the Galaxy. Your 
sly little hints of treason aren't going to panic me into licking Foundation spittle. And now you 
can either give your orders or make your accusations. I don't care which." 

"My good Master Trader, I don't care an electron whether your grandfather was King of Smyrno 
or the greatest pauper on the planet. I recited that rigmarole about your birth and ancestry to 
show you that I'm not interested in them. Evidently, you missed the point. Let's go back now. 
You're a Smyrnian. You know the Outlanders. Also, you're a trader and one of the best. You've 
been to Korell and you know the Korellians. That's where you've got to go." 

Mallow breathed deeply, "As a spy?" 

"Not at all. As a trader - but with your eyes open. If you can find out where the power is coming 
from - I might remind you, since you're a Smyrnian, that two of those lost trade ships had 
Smyrnian crews." 

"When do I start?" 

"When will your ship be ready?" 

"In six days." 

"Then that's when you start. You'll have all the details at the Admiralty." 

"Right!" The trader rose, shook hands roughly, and strode out. 

Sutt waited, spreading his fingers gingerly and rubbing out the pressure; then shrugged his 
shoulders and stepped into the mayor's office. 



The mayor deadened the visiplate and leaned back. "What do you make of it, Sutt?" 
"He could be a good actor," said Sutt, and stared thoughtfully ahead. 


2 . 

It was evening of the same day, and in Jorane Sutt's bachelor apartment on the twenty-first 
floor of the Hardin Building, Publis Manlio was sipping wine slowly. 

It was Publis Manlio in whose slight, aging body were fulfilled two great offices of the 
Foundation. He was Foreign Secretary in the mayor's cabinet, and to all the outer suns, barring 
only the Foundation itself, he was, in addition, Primate of the Church, Purveyor of the Holy 
Food, Master of the Temples, and so forth almost indefinitely in confusing but sonorous 
syllables. 

He was saying, "But he agreed to let you send out that trader. It is a point." 

"But such a small one," said Sutt. "It gets us nothing immediately. The whole business is the 
crudest sort of stratagem, since we have no way of foreseeing it to the end. It is a mere paying 
out of rope on the chance that somewhere along the length of it will be a noose." 

"True. And this Mallow is a capable man. What if he is not an easy prey to dupery?" 

"That is a chance that must be run. If there is treachery, it is the capable men that are 
implicated. If not, we need a capable man to detect the truth. And Mallow will be guarded. Your 
glass is empty." 

"No, thanks. I've had enough." 

Sutt filled his own glass and patiently endured the other's uneasy reverie. 

Of whatever the reverie consisted, it ended indecisively, for the primate said suddenly, almost 
explosively, "Sutt, what's on your mind?" 

"I'll tell you, Manlio." His thin lips parted, "We're in the middle of a Seldon crisis." 

Manlio stared, then said softly, "How do you know? Has Seldon appeared in the Time Vault 
again?" 

"That much, my friend, is not necessary. Look, reason it out. Since the Galactic Empire 
abandoned the Periphery, and threw us on our own, we have never had an opponent who 
possessed nuclear power. Now, for the first time, we have one. That seems significant even if it 
stood by itself. And it doesn't. For the first time in over seventy years, we are facing a major 
domestic political crisis. I should think the synchronization of the two crises, inner and outer, 
puts it beyond all doubt." 

Manlio's eyes narrowed, "If that's all, it's not enough. There have been two Seldon crises so far, 
and both times the Foundation was in danger of extermination. Nothing can be a third crisis till 
that danger returns." 



Sutt never showed impatience, "That danger is coming. Any fool can tell a crisis when it arrives. 
The real service to the state is to detect it in embryo. Look, Manlio, we're proceeding along a 
planned history. We know that Hari Seldon worked out the historical probabilities of the future. 
We know that some day we're to rebuild the Galactic Empire. We know that it will take a 
thousand years or thereabouts. And we know that in the interval we will face certain definite 
crises. 

"Now the first crisis came fifty years after the establishment of the Foundation, and the second, 
thirty years later than that. Almost seventy-five years have gone since. It's time, Manlio, it's 
time." 

Manlio rubbed his nose uncertainly, "And you've made your plans to meet this crisis?" 

Sutt nodded. 

"And I," continued Manlio, "am to play a part in it?" 

Sutt nodded again, "Before we can meet the foreign threat of atomic power, we've got to put 
our own house in order. These traders-" 

"Ah!" The primate stiffened, and his eyes grew sharp. 

"That's right. These traders. They are useful, but they are too strong - and too uncontrolled. 
They are Outlanders, educated apart from religion. On the one hand, we put knowledge into 
their hands, and on the other, we remove our strongest hold upon them." 

"If we can prove treachery?" 

"If we could, direct action would be simple and sufficient. But that doesn't signify in the least. 
Even if treason among them did not exist, they would form an uncertain element in our society. 
They wouldn't be bound to us by patriotism or common descent, or even by religious awe. 
Under their secular leadership, the outer provinces, which, since Hardin's time, look to us as 
the Holy Planet, might break away." 

"I see all that, but the cure-" 

"The cure must come quickly, before the Seldon Crisis becomes acute. If nuclear weapons are 
without and disaffection within, the odds might be too great." Sutt put down the empty glass he 
had been fingering, "This is obviously your job." 

"Mine?" 

"I can't do it. My office is appointive and has no legislative standing." 

"The mayor-" 

"Impossible. His personality is entirely negative. He is energetic only in evading responsibility. 
But if an independent party arose that might endanger re-election, he might allow himself to be 
led." 

"But, Sutt, I lack the aptitude for practical politics." 



"Leave that to me. Who knows, Manlio? Since Salvor Hardin's time, the primacy and the 
mayoralty have never been combined in a single person. But it might happen now - if your job 
were well done." 


3 . 

And at the other end of town, in homelier surroundings, Hober Mallow kept a second 
appointment. He had listened long, and now he said cautiously, "Yes, I've heard of your 
campaigns to get trader representation in the council. But why me, Twer?" 

Jaim Twer, who would remind you any time, asked or unasked, that he was in the first group of 
Outlanders to receive a lay education at the Foundation, beamed. 

"I know what I'm doing," he said. "Remember when I met you first, last year." 

"At the Trader's Convention." 

"Right. You ran the meeting. You had those red-necked oxen planted in their seats, then put 
them in your shirtpocket and walked off with them. And you're all right with the Foundation 
masses, too. You've got glamor- or, at any rate, solid adventure-publicity, which is the same 
thing." 

"Very good," said Mallow, dryly. "But why now?" 

'Because now's our chance. Do you know that the Secretary of Education has handed in his 
resignation? It's not out in the open yet, but it will be." 

"How do you know?" 

"That - never mind-" He waved a disgusted hand. "It's so. The Actionist party is splitting wide 
open, and we can murder it right now on a straight question of equal rights for traders; or, 
rather, democracy, pro- and anti-." 

Mallow lounged back in his chair and stared at his thick fingers, "Uh-uh. Sorry, Twer. I'm 
leaving next week on business. You'll have to get someone else." 

Twer stared, "Business? What kind of business?" 

"Very super-secret. Triple-A priority. All that, you know. Had a talk with the mayor's own 
secretary." 

"Snake Sutt?" Jaim Twer grew excited. "A trick. The son-of-a-spacer is getting rid of you. 
Mallow-" 

"Hold on!" Mallow's hand fell on the other's balled fist. "Don't go into a blaze. If it's a trick, I'll be 
back some day for the reckoning, if it isn't, your snake, Sutt, is playing into our hands. Listen, 
there's a Seldon crisis coming up." 

Mallow waited for a reaction but it never came. Twer merely stared. "What's a Seldon crisis?" 



"Galaxy!" Mallow exploded angrily at the anticlimax, "What the blue blazes did you do when you 
went to school? What do you mean anyway by a fool question like that?" 

The elder man frowned, "If you'll explain-" 

There was a long pause, then, "I'll explain." Mallow's eyebrows lowered, and he spoke slowly. 
"When the Galactic Empire began to die at the edges, and when the ends of the Galaxy 
reverted to barbarism and dropped away, Hari Seldon and his band of psychologists planted a 
colony, the Foundation, out here in the middle of the mess, so that we could incubate art, 
science, and technology, and form the nucleus of the Second Empire." 

"Oh, yes, yes-" 

"I'm not finished," said the trader, coldly. "The future course of the Foundation was plotted 
according to the science of psychohistory, then highly developed, and conditions arranged so 
as to bring about a series of crises that will force us most rapidly along the route to future 
Empire. Each crisis, each Seldon crisis, marks an epoch in our history. We're approaching one 
now - our third." 

Twer shrugged. "I suppose this was mentioned in school, but I've been out of school a long 
time - longer than you." 

"I suppose so. Forget it. What matters is that I'm being sent out into the middle of the 
development of this crisis. There's no telling what I'll have when I come back, and there is a 
council election every year." 

Twer looked up, "Are you on the track of anything?" 

"No." 

"You have definite plans?" 

"Not the faintest inkling of one." 

"Well-" 

"Well, nothing. Hardin once said: 'To succeed, planning alone is insufficient. One must 
improvise as well.' I'll improvise." 

Twer shook his head uncertainly, and they stood, looking at each other. 

Mallow said, quite suddenly, but quite matter-of-factly, "I tell you what, how about coming with 
me? Don't stare, man. You've been a trader before you decided them was more excitement in 
politics. Or so I've heard." 

"Where are you going? Tell me that." 

Towards the Whassallian Rift. I can't be more specific till we're out in space. What do you say?" 
Suppose Sutt decides he wants me where he can see 

"Not likely. If he's anxious to get rid of me, why not of you as well? Besides which, no trader 



would hit space if he couldn't pick his own crew. I take whom I please." 

There was a queer glint in the older man's eyes, "All right. I'll go." He held out his hand, "It'll be 
my first trip in three years." 

Mallow grasped and shook the other's hand, "Good! All fired good! And now I've got to round 
up the boys. You know where the Far Star docks, don 't you? Then show up tomorrow. 
Good-by." 


4 . 

Korell is that frequent phenomenon in history: the republic whose ruler has every attribute of 
the absolute monarch but the name. It therefore enjoyed the usual despotism unrestrained 
even by those two moderating influences in the legitimate monarchies: regal "honor" and court 
etiquette. 

Materially, its prosperity was low. The day of the Galactic Empire had departed, with nothing 
but silent memorials and broken structures to testify to it. The day of the Foundation had not yet 
come - and in the fierce determination of its ruler, the Commdor Asper Argo, with his strict 
regulation of the traders and his stricter prohibition of the missionaries, it was never coming. 

The spaceport itself was decrepit and decayed, and the crew of the Far Star were drearily 
aware of that. The moldering hangars made for a moldering atmosphere and Jaim Twer itched 
and fretted over a game of solitaire. 

Hober Mallow said thoughtfully, "Good trading material here." He was staring quietly out the 
viewport. So far, there was little else to be said about Korell. The trip here was uneventful. The 
squadron of Korellian ships that had shot out to intercept the Far Star had been tiny, limping 
relics of ancient glory or battered, clumsy hulks. They had maintained their distance fearfully, 
and still maintained it, and for a week now, Mallow's requests for an audience with the local go 
government had been unanswered. 

Mallow repeated, "Good trading here. You might call this virgin territory." 

Jaim Twer looked up impatiently, and threw his cards aside, "What the devil do you intend 
doing, Mallow? The crew's grumbling, the officers are worried, and I’m wondering-" 

"Wondering? About what?" 

"About the situation. And about you. What are we doing?" 

"Waiting." 

The old trader snorted and grew red. He growled, "You're going it blind, Mallow. There's a 
guard around the field and there are ships overhead. Suppose they're getting ready to blow us 
into a hole in the ground." 

"They've had a week." 



"Maybe they're waiting for reinforcements." Twer's eyes were sharp and hard. 

Mallow sat down abruptly, "Yes, I'd thought of that You see, it poses a pretty problem. First, we 
got here without trouble. That may mean nothing, however, for only three ships out of better 
than three hundred went a-glimmer last year. The percentage is low. But that may mean also 
that the number of their ships equipped with nuclear power is small, and that they dare not 
expose them needlessly, until that number grows. 

"But it could mean, on the other hand, that they haven't nuclear power after all. Or maybe they 
have and are keeping undercover, for fear we know something. It's one thing, after all, to 
piratize blundering, light-armed merchant ships. It's another to fool around with an accredited 
envoy of the Foundation when the mere fact of his presence may mean the Foundation is 
growing suspicious. 

"Combine this-" 

"Flold on, Mallow, hold on." Twer raised his hands. "You're just about drowning me with talk. 
What're you getting at? Never mind the in-betweens." 

"You've got to have the in-betweens, or you won't understand, Twer. We're both waiting. They 
don't know what I'm doing here and I don't know what they've got here. But I'm in the weaker 
position because I'm one and they're an entire world - maybe with atomic power. I can't afford 
to be the one to weaken. Sure it's dangerous. Sure there may be a hole in the ground waiting 
for us. But we knew that from the start. What else is there to do?" 

"I don't- Who's that, now?" 

Mallow looked up patiently, and tuned the receiver. The visiplate glowed into the craggy face of 
the watch sergeant. 

"Speak, sergeant." 

The sergeant said, "Pardon, sir. The men have given entry to a Foundation missionary." 

"A what?' Mallow's face grew livid. 

"A missionary, sit. Fle's in need of hospitalization, sir-" 

"There'll be more than one in need of that, sergeant, for this piece of work. Order the men to 
battle stations." 

Crew's lounge was almost empty. Five minutes after the order, even the men on the off-shift 
were at their guns. It was speed that was the great virtue in the anarchic regions of the 
interstellar space of the Periphery, and it was in speed above all that the crew of a master 
trader excelled. 

Mallow entered slowly, and stared the missionary up and down and around. His eye slid to 
Lieutenant Tinter, who shifted uneasily to one side and to Watch-Sergeant Demen, whose 
blank face and stolid figure flanked the other. 

The Master Trader turned to Twer and paused thoughtfully, "Well, then, Twer, get the officers 



here quietly, except for the co-ordinators and the trajectorian. The men are to remain at stations 
till further orders." 

There was a five-minute hiatus, in which Mallow kicked open the doors to the lavatories, looked 
behind the bar, pulled the draperies across the thick windows. For half a minute he left the 
room altogether, and when he returned he was humming abstractedly. 

Men filed in. Twer followed, and closed the door silently. 

Mallow said quietly, "First, who let this man in without orders from me?" 

The watch sergeant stepped forward. Every eye shifted. "Pardon, sir. It was no definite person. 
It was a sort of mutual agreement. Fie was one of us, you might say, and these foreigners 
here-" 

Mallow cut him short, "I sympathize with your feelings, sergeant, and understand them. These 
men, were they under your command?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"When this is over, they're to be confined to individual quarters for a week. You yourself are 
relieved of all supervisory duties for a similar period. Understood?" 

The sergeant's face never changed, but there was the slightest droop to his shoulders. Fie said, 
crisply, "Yes, sir." 

"You may leave. Get to your gun-station." 

The door closed behind him and the babble rose. 

Twer broke in, "Why the punishment, Mallow? You know that these Korellians kill captured 
missionaries." 

"An action against my orders is bad in itself whatever other reasons there may be in its favor. 

No one was to leave or enter the ship without permission." 

Lieutenant Tinter murmured rebelliously, "Seven days without action. You can't maintain 
discipline that way." 

Mallow said icily, "/can. There's no merit in discipline under ideal circumstances. I'll have it in 
the face of death, or it's useless. Where's this missionary? Get him here in front of me." 

The trader sat down, while the scarlet-cloaked figure was carefully brought forward. 

"What's your name, reverend?" 

"Eh?" The scarlet-robed figure wheeled towards Mallow, the whole body turning as a unit. FHis 
eyes were blankly open and there was a bruise on one temple. Fie had not spoken, nor, as far 
as Mallow could tell, moved during all the previous interval. 

"Your name, revered one?" 

The missionary started to sudden feverish life. FHis arms went out in an embracing gesture. "My 



son - my children. May you always be in the protecting arms of the Galactic Spirit." 

Twer stepped forward, eyes troubled, voice husky, "The man's sick. Take him to bed, 
somebody. Order him to bed, Mallow, and have him seen to. He's badly hurt." 

Mallow's great arm shoved him back, "Don't interfere, Twer, or I'll have you out of the room. 
Your name, revered one?" 

The missionary's hands clasped in sudden supplication, "As you are enlightened men, save me 
from the heathen." The words tumbled out, "Save me from these brutes and darkened ones 
who raven after me and would afflict the Galactic Spirit with their crimes. I am Jord Parma, of 
the Anacreonian worlds. Educated at the Foundation; the Foundation itself, my children. I am a 
Priest of the Spirit educated into all the mysteries, who have come here where the inner voice 
called me." He was gasping. "I have suffered at the hands of the unenlightened. As you are 
Children of the Spirit; and in the name of that Spirit, protect me from them." 

A voice broke in upon them, as the emergency alarm box clamored metallically: 

"Enemy units in sight! Instruction desired!" 

Every eye shot mechanically upward to the speaker. 

Mallow swore violently. He clicked open the reverse and yelled, "Maintain vigil! That is all!" and 
turned it off. 

He made his way to the thick drapes that rustled aside at a touch and stared grimly out, 

Enemy units! Several thousands of them in the persons of the individual members of a 
Korellian mob. The rolling rabble encompassed the port from extreme end to extreme end, and 
in the cold, hard light of magnesium flares the foremost straggled closer. 

"Tinter!" The trader never turned, but the back of his neck was red. "Get the outer speaker 
working and find out what they want. Ask if they have a representative of the law with them. 
Make no promises and no threats, or I'll kill you." 

Tinter turned and left. 

Mallow felt a rough hand on his shoulder and he struck it aside. It was Twer. His voice was an 
angry hiss in his ear, "Mallow, you're bound to hold onto this man. There's no way of 
maintaining decency and honor otherwise. He's of the Foundation and, after all, he - is a priest. 
These savages outside- Do you hear me?" 

"I hear you, Twer." Mallow's voice was incisive. "I've got more to do here than guard 
missionaries. I'll do, sir, what I please, and, by Seldon and all the Galaxy, if you try to stop me, 
I'll tear out your stinking windpipe. Don't get in my way, Twer, or it will be the last of you." 

He turned and strode past. "You! Revered Parma! Did you know that, by convention, no 
Foundation missionaries may enter the Korellian territory?" 

The missionary was trembling, "I can but go where the Spirit leads, my son. If the darkened 
ones refuse enlightenment, is it not the greater sign of their need for it?" 



"That's outside the question, revered one. You are here against the law of both Korell and the 
Foundation. I cannot in law protect you." 

The missionary's hands were raised again. His earlier bewilderment was gone. There was the 
raucous clamor of the ship's outer communication system in action, and the faint, undulating 
gabble of the angry horde in response. The sound made his eyes wild. 

"You hear them? Why do you talk of law to me, of a law made by men? There are higher laws. 
Was it not the Galactic Spirit that said: Thou shalt not stand idly by to the hurl of thy fellowman. 
And has he not said: Even as thou dealest with the humble and defenseless, thus shalt thou be 
dealt with. 

"Have you not guns? Have you not a ship? And behind you is there not the Foundation? And 
above and all-about you is there not the Spirit that rules the universe?" He paused for breath. 

And then the great outer voice of the Far Star ceased and Lieutenant Tinter was back, troubled. 

"Speak!" said Mallow, shortly. 

"Sir, they demand the person of Jord Parma." 

"If not?" 

"There are various threats, sir. It is difficult to make much out. There are so many - and they 
seem quite mad. There is someone who says he governs the district and has police powers, 
but he is quite evidently not his own master." 

"Master or not," shrugged Mallow, "he is the law. Tell them that if this governor, or policeman, 
or whatever he is, approaches the ship alone, he can have the Revered Jord Parma." 

And there was suddenly a gun in his hand. He added, "I don't know what insubordination is. I 
have never had any experience with it. But if there's anyone here who thinks he can teach me, 
I'd like to teach him my antidote in return." 

The gun swiveled slowly, and rested on Twer. With an effort, the old trader's face untwisted and 
his hands unclenched and lowered. His breath was a harsh rasp in his nostrils. 

Tinter left, and in five minutes a puny figure detached itself from the crowd. It approached 
slowly and hesitantly, plainly drenched in fear and apprehension. Twice it turned back, and 
twice the patently obvious threats of the many-headed monster urged him on. 

"All right," Mallow gestured with the hand-blaster, which remained unsheathed. "Grun and 
Upshur, take him out." 

The missionary screeched. He raised his arms and rigid fingers speared upward as the 
voluminous sleeves fell away to reveal the thin, veined arms. There was a momentary, tiny 
flash of light that came and went in a breath. Mallow blinked and gestured again, 
contemptuously. 

The missionary's voice poured out as he struggled in the two-fold grasp, "Cursed be the traitor 
who abandons his fellowman to evil and to death. Deafened be the ears that are deaf to the 



pleadings of the helpless. Blind be the eyes that are blind to innocence. Blackened forever be 
the soul that consorts with blackness-" 

Twer clamped his hands tightly over his ears. 

Mallow flipped his blaster and put it away. "Disperse," he said, evenly, "to respective stations. 
Maintain full vigil for six hours after dispersion of crowd. Double stations for forty-eight hours 
thereafter. Further instructions at that time. Twer, come with me." 

They were alone in Mallow's private quarters. Mallow indicated a chair and Twer sat down. His 
stocky figure looked shrunken. 

Mallow stared him down, sardonically. "Twer," he said, "I'm disappointed. Your three years in 
politics seem to have gotten you out of trader habits. Remember, I may be a democrat back at 
the Foundation, but there's nothing short of tyranny that can run my ship the way I want it run. I 
never had to pull a blaster on my men before, and I wouldn't have had to now, if you hadn't 
gone out of line. 

"Twer, you have no official position, but you're here on my invitation, and I'll extend you every 
courtesy - in private. However, from now on, in the presence of my officers or men, I'm 'sir,' 
and not 'Mallow.' And when I give an order, you'll jump faster than a third-class recruit just for 
luck, or I'll have you handcuffed in the sub-level even faster. Understand?" 

The party-leader swallowed dryly. He said, reluctantly, "My apologies." 

"Accepted! Will you shake?" 

Twer's limp fingers were swallowed in Mallow's huge palm. Twer said, "My motives were good. 
It's difficult to send a man out to be lynched. That wobbly-kneed governor or whatever-he-was 
can't save him. It's murder." 

"I can't help that. Frankly, the incident smelled too bad. Didn't you notice?" 

"Notice what?" 

"This spaceport is deep in the middle of a sleepy far section. Suddenly a missionary escapes. 
Where from? He comes here. Coincidence? A huge crowd gathers. From where? The nearest 
city of any size must be at least a hundred miles away. But they arrive in half an hour. How?" 

"How?" echoed Twer. 

"Well, what if the missionary were brought here and released as bait. Our friend, Revered 
Parma, was considerably confused. He seemed at no time to be in complete possession of his 
wits." 

"Hard usage-" murmured Twer bitterly. 

"Maybe! And maybe the idea was to have us go all chivalrous and gallant, into a stupid defense 
of the man. He was here against the laws of Korell and the Foundation. If I withhold him, it is an 
act of war against Korell, and the Foundation would have no legal right to defend us." 

"That - that's pretty far-fetched." 



The speaker blared and forestalled Mallow's answer: "Sir, official communication received." 
"Submit immediately!" 

The gleaming cylinder arrived in its slot with a click. Mallow opened it and shook out the 
silver-impregnated sheet it held. He rubbed it appreciatively between thumb and finger and 
said, "Teleported direct from the capital. Commdor's own stationery." 

He read it in a glance and laughed shortly, "So my idea was far-fetched, was it?" 

He tossed it to Twer, and added, "Half an hour after we hand back the missionary, we finally 
get a very polite invitation to the Commdor's august presence - after seven days of previous 
waiting. / think we passed a test." 


5 . 

Commdor Asper was a man of the people, by self-acclamation. His remaining back-fringe of 
gray hair drooped limply to his shoulders, his shirt needed laundering, and he spoke with a 
snuffle. 

"There is no ostentation here, Trader Mallow," he said. "No false show. In me, you see merely 
the first citizen of the state. That's what Commdor means, and that's the only title I have." 

He seemed inordinately pleased with it all, "in fact, I consider that fact one of the strongest 
bonds between Korell and your nation. I understand you people enjoy the republican blessings 
we do." 

"Exactly, Commdor," said Mallow gravely, taking mental exception to the comparison, "an 
argument which I consider strongly in favor of continued peace and friendship between our 
governments." 

"Peace! Ah!" The Commdor's sparse gray beard twitched to the sentimental grimaces of his 
face. "I don't think there is anyone in the Periphery who has so near his heart the ideal of 
Peace, as I have. I can truthfully say that since I succeeded my illustrious father to the 
leadership of the state, the reign of Peace has never been broken. Perhaps I shouldn't say it" 
-he coughed gently- "but I have been told that my people, my fellow-citizens rather, know me 
as Asper, the Well-Beloved." 

Mallow's eyes wandered over the well-kept garden. Perhaps the tall men and the 
strangely-designed but openly-vicious weapons they carried just happened to be lurking in odd 
comers as a precaution against himself. That would be understandable. But the lofty, 
steel-girdered walls that circled the place had quite obviously been recently strengthened - an 
unfitting occupation for such a Well-Beloved Asper. 

He said, "It is fortunate that I have you to deal with then, Commdor. The despots and monarchs 
of surrounding worlds, which haven't the benefit of enlightened administration, often lack the 
qualities that would make a ruler well-beloved." 


Such as?" There was a cautious note in the Commdor's voice. 



"Such as a concern for the best interests of their people, You, on the other hand, would 
understand," 

The Commdor kept his eyes on the gravel path as they walked leisurely, His hands caressed 
each other behind his back. 

Mallow went on smoothly, "Up to now, trade between our two nations has suffered because of 
the restrictions placed upon our traders by your government. Surely, it has long been evident to 
you that unlimited trade-" 

"Free Trade!" mumbled the Commdor. 

"Free Trade, then. You must see that it would be of benefit to both of us. There are things you 
have that we want, and things we have that you want. It asks only an exchange to bring 
increased prosperity. An enlightened ruler such as yourself, a friend of the people - I might say, 
a member of the people - needs no elaboration on that theme. I won't insult your intelligence by 
offering any." 

"True! I have seen this. But what would you?" His voice was a plaintive whine. "Your people 
have always been so unreasonable. I am in favor of all the trade our economy can support, but 
not on your terms. I am not sole master here." His voice rose, "I am only the servant of public 
opinion. My people will not take commerce which carries with it a compulsory religion." 

Mallow drew himself up, "A compulsory religion?" 

"So it has always been in effect. Surely you remember the case of Askone twenty years ago. 
First they were sold some of your goods and then your people asked for complete freedom of 
missionary effort in order that the goods might be run properly; that Temples of Health be set 
up. There was then the establishment of religious schools; autonomous rights for all officers of 
the religion and with what result? Askone is now an integral member of the Foundation's 
system and the Grand Master cannot call his underwear his own. Oh, no! Oh, no! The dignity of 
an independent people could never suffer it." 

"None of what you speak is at all what I suggest," interposed Mallow. 

"No?" 

"No. I'm a Master Trader. Money is my religion. All this mysticism and hocus-pocus of the 
missionaries annoy me, and I'm glad you refuse to countenance it. It makes you more my type 
of man." 

The Commdor's laugh was high-pitched and jerky, "Well said! The Foundation should have 
sent a man of your caliber before this." 

He laid a friendly hand upon the trader's bulking shoulder, "But man, you have told me only 
half. You have told me what the catch is not. Now tell me what it is" 

"The only catch, Commdor, is that you're going to be burdened with an immense quantity of 
riches." 



"Indeed?" he snuffled. "But what could I want with riches? The true wealth is the love of one's 
people. I have that." 

"You can have both, for it is possible to gather gold with one hand and love with the other." 

"Now that, my young man, would be an interesting phenomenon, if it were possible. How would 
you go about it?" 

"Oh, in a number of ways. The difficulty is choosing among them. Let's see. Well, luxury items, 
for instance. This object here, now-" 

Mallow drew gently out of an inner pocket a flat, linked chain of polished metal. "This, for 
instance." 

"What is it?" 

"That's got to be demonstrated. Can you get a woman? Any young female will do. And a mirror, 
full length." 

"Hm-m-m. Let's get indoors, then." 

The Commdor referred to his dwelling place as a house. The populace undoubtedly would call 
it a palace. To Mallow's straightforward eyes, it looked uncommonly like a fortress, it was built 
on an eminence that overlooked the capital. Its walls were thick and reinforced. Its approaches 
were guarded, and its architecture was shaped for defense. Just the type of dwelling, Mallow 
thought sourly, for Asper, the Well-Beloved. 

A young girl was before them. She bent low to the Commdor, who said, "This is one of the 
Commdora's girls. Will she do?" 

"Perfectly!" 

The Commdor watched carefully while Mallow snapped the chain about the girl's waist, and 
stepped back. 

The Commdor snuffled, "Well. Is that all?" 

"Will you draw the curtain, Commdor. Young lady, there's a little knob just near the snap. Will 
you move it upward, please? Go ahead, it won't hurt you." 

The girl did so, drew a sharp breath, looked at her hands, and gasped, "Oh!" 

From her waist as a source she was drowned in a pale, streaming luminescence of shifting 
color that drew itself over her head in a flashing coronet of liquid fire. It was as if someone had 
tom the aurora borealis out of the sky and molded it into a cloak. 

The girl stepped to the mirror and stared, fascinated. 

"Here, take this." Mallow handed her a necklace of dull pebbles. "Put it around your neck." 

The girl did so, and each pebble, as it entered the luminescent field became an individual flame 
that leaped and sparkled in crimson and gold. 



"What do you think of it?" Mallow asked her. The girl didn't answer but there was adoration in 
her eyes. The Commdor gestured and reluctantly, she pushed the knob down, and the glory 
died. She left - with a memory. 

"It's yours, Commdor," said Mallow, "for the Commdora. Consider it a small gift from the 
Foundation." 

"Hm-m-m.' The Commdor turned the belt and necklace over in his hand as though calculating 
the weight. "How is it done?" 

Mallow shrugged, "That's a question for our technical experts. But it will work for you without - 
mark you, without- priestly help." 

"Well, it's only feminine frippery after all. What could you do with it? Where would the money 
come in?" 

"You have balls, receptions, banquets - that sort of thing?" 

"Oh, yes." 

"Do you realize what women will pay for that sort of jewelry? Ten thousand credits, at least." 
The Commdor seemed struck in a heap, "Ah!" 

"And since the power unit of this particular item will not last longer than six months, there will be 
the necessity of frequent replacements. Now we can sell as many of these as you want for the 
equivalent in wrought iron of one thousand credits. There's nine hundred percent profit for you." 

The Commdor plucked at his beard and seemed engaged in awesome mental calculations, 
"Galaxy, how they would fight for them. I'll keep the supply small and let them bid. Of course, it 
wouldn't do to let them know that I personally-" 

Mallow said, "We can explain the workings of dummy corporations, if you would like. -Then, 
working further at random, take our complete line of household gadgets. We have collapsible 
stoves that will roast the toughest meats to the desired tenderness in two minutes. We've got 
knives that won't require sharpening. We've got the equivalent of a complete laundry that can 
be packed in a small closet and will work entirely automatically. Ditto dish-washers. Ditto-ditto 
floor-scrubbers, furniture polishers, dust-precipitators, lighting fixtures - oh, anything you like. 
Think of your increased popularity, if you make them available to the public. Think of your 
increased quantity of, uh, worldly goods, if they're available as a government monopoly at nine 
hundred percent profit. It will be worth many times the money to them, and they needn't know 
what you pay for it. And, mind you, none of it will require priestly supervision. Everybody will be 
happy." 

"Except you, it seems. What do you get out of it?" 

"Just what every trader gets by Foundation law. My men and I will collect half of whatever 
profits we take in. Just you buy all I want to sell you, and we'll both make out quite well. Quite 
well." 


The Commdor was enjoying his thoughts, "What did you say you wanted to be paid with? Iron? 



"That, and coal, and bauxite. Also tobacco, pepper, magnesium, hardwood. Nothing you 
haven't got enough of." 

"It sounds well." 

"I think so. Oh, and still another item at random, Commdor. I could retool your factories." 

"Eh? How's that?" 

"Well, take your steel foundries. I have handy little gadgets that could do tricks with steel that 
would cut production costs to one percent of previous marks. You could cut prices by half, and 
still split extremely fat profits with the manufacturers. I tell you, I could show you exactly what I 
mean, if you allowed me a demonstration. Do you have a steel foundry in this city? It wouldn't 
take long." 

"It could be arranged, Trader Mallow. But tomorrow, tomorrow. Would you dine with us 
tonight?" 

"My men-" began Mallow. 

"Let them all come," said the Commdor, expansively. "A symbolic friendly union of our nations. 
It will give us a chance for further friendly discussion. But one thing," his face lengthened and 
grew stem, "none of your religion. Don't think that all this is an entering wedge for the 
missionaries." 

"Commdor," said Mallow, dryly, "I give you my word that religion would cut my profits." 

"Then that will do for now. You'll be escorted back to your ship." 


6 . 

The Commdora was much younger than her husband. Her face was pale and coldly formed 
and her black hair was drawn smoothly and tightly back. 

Her voice was tart. "You are quite finished, my gracious and noble husband? Quite, quite 
finished? I suppose I may even enter the garden if I wish, now." 

"There is no need for dramatics, Licia, my dear," said the Commdor, mildly. "The young man 
will attend at dinner tonight, and you can speak with him all you wish and even amuse yourself 
by listening to all I say. Room will have to be arranged for his men somewhere about the place. 
The stars grant that they be few in numbers." 

"Most likely they'll be great hogs of eaters who will eat meat by the quarter-animal and wine by 
the hogshead. And you will groan for two nights when you calculate the expense." 

"Well now, perhaps I won't. Despite your opinion, the dinner is to be on the most lavish scale." 

"Oh, I see." She stared at him contemptuously. "You are very friendly with these barbarians. 
Perhaps that is why I was not to be permitted to attend your conversation. Perhaps your little 



weazened soul is plotting to turn against my father." 

"Not at all." 

"Yes, I'd be likely to believe you, wouldn't I? If ever a poor woman was sacrificed for policy to 
an unsavory marriage, it was myself. I could have picked a more proper man from the alleys 
and mudheaps of my native world." 

"Well, now, I'll tell you what, my lady. Perhaps you would enjoy returning to your native world. 
Except that, to retain as a souvenir that portion of you with which I am best acquainted, I could 
have your tongue cut out first. And," he tolled his head, calculatingly, to one side, "as a final 
improving touch to your beauty, your ears and the tip of your nose as well." 

"You wouldn't dare, you little pug-dog. My father would pulverize your toy nation to meteoric 
dust. In fact, he might do it in any case, if I told him you were treating with these barbarians." 

"Hm-m-m. Well, there's no need for threats. You are free to question the man yourself tonight. 
Meanwhile, madam, keep your wagging tongue still." 

"At your orders?" 

"Here, take this, then, and keep still." 

The band was about her waist and the necklace around her neck. He pushed the knob himself 
and stepped back. 

The Commdora drew in her breath and held out her hands stiffly. She fingered the necklace 
gingerly, and gasped again. 

The Commdor rubbed his hands with satisfaction and said, "You may wear it tonight - and I'll 
get you more. Now keep still." 

The Commdora kept still. 


7 . 

Jaim Twer fidgeted and shuffled his feet. He said, "What's twisting yoi/rface?" 

Hober Mallow lifted out of his brooding, "Is my face twisted? It's not meant so." 

"Something must have happened yesterday, -I mean, besides that feast." With sudden 
conviction, "Mallow, there's trouble, isn't there?" 

"Trouble? No. Quite the opposite. In fact, I'm in the position of throwing my full weight against a 
door and finding it ajar at the time. We're getting into this steel foundry too easily." 

"You suspect a trap?" 

"Oh, for Seldon's sake, don't be melodramatic." Mallow swallowed his impatience and added 
conversationally, "It's just that the easy entrance means there will be nothing to see. 



"Nuclear power, huh?" Twer ruminated. "I'll tell you. There's just about no evidence of any 
nuclear power economy here in Korell. And it would be pretty hard to mask all signs of the 
widespread effects a fundamental technology such as nucleics would have on everything." 

"Not if it was just starting up, Twer, and being applied to a war economy. You'd find it in the 
shipyards and the steel foundries only." 

"So if we don't find it, then-" 

"Then they haven't got it - or they're not showing it. Toss a coin or take a guess." 

Twer shook his head, "I wish I'd been with you yesterday." 

"I wish you had, too," said Mallow stonily. "I have no objection to moral support. Unfortunately, 
it was the Commdor who set the terms of the meeting, and not myself. And what is coming now 
would seem to be the royal groundcar to escort us to the foundry. Have you got the gadgets?" 


"All of them." 


8 . 

The foundry was large, and bore the odor of decay which no amount of superficial repairs could 
quite erase. It was empty now and in quite an unnatural state of quiet, as it played 
unaccustomed host to the Commdor and his court. 

Mallow had swung the steel sheet onto the two supports with a careless heave. He had taken 
the instrument held out to him by Twer and was gripping the leather handle inside its leaden 
sheath. 

"The instrument," he said, "is dangerous, but so is a buzz saw. You just have to keep your 
fingers away." 

And as he spoke, he drew the muzzle-slit swiftly down the length of the steel sheet, which 
quietly and instantly fell in two. 

There was a unanimous jump, and Mallow laughed. He picked up one of the halves and 
propped it against his knee, "You can adjust the cutting-length accurately to a hundredth of an 
inch, and a two-inch sheet will slit down the middle as easily as this thing did. If you've got the 
thickness exactly judged, you can place steel on a wooden table, and split the metal without 
scratching the wood." 

And at each phrase, the nuclear shear moved and a gouged chunk of steel flew across the 
room. 

"That," he said, "is whittling - with steel." 

He passed back the shear. "Or else you have the plane. Do you want to decrease the thickness 
of a sheet, smooth out an irregularity, remove corrosion? Watch!" 



Thin, transparent foil flew off the other half of the original sheet in six-inch swarths, then 
eight-inch, then twelve. 

"Or drills? It's all the same principle." 

They were crowded around now. It might have been a sleight-of-hand show, a comer magician, 
a vaudeville act made into high-pressure salesmanship. Commdor Asper fingered scraps of 
steel. High officials of the government tiptoed over each other's shoulders, and whispered, 
while Mallow punched clean, beautiful round holes through an inch of hard steel at every touch 
of his nuclear drill. 

"Just one more demonstration. Bring two short lengths of pipe, somebody." 

An Honorable Chamberlain of something-or-other sprang to obedience in the general 
excitement and thought-absorption, and stained his hands like any laborer. 

Mallow stood them upright and shaved the ends off with a single stroke of the shear, and then 
joined the pipes, fresh cut to fresh cut. 

And there was a single pipe! The new ends, with even atomic irregularities missing, formed one 
piece upon joining. 

Then Mallow looked up at his audience, stumbled at his first word and stopped. There was the 
keen stirring of excitement in his chest, and the base of his stomach went tingly and cold. 

The Commdor's own bodyguard, in the confusion, had struggled to the front line, and Mallow, 
for the first time, was near enough to see their unfamiliar hand-weapons in detail. 

They were nuclear! There was no mistaking it; an explosive projectile weapon with a barrel like 
that was impossible. But that wasn't the big point. That wasn't the point at all. 

The butts of those weapons had, deeply etched upon them, in worn gold plating, the 
Spaceship-and-Sun! 

The same Spaceship-and-Sun that was stamped on every, one of the great volumes of the 
original Encyclopedia that the Foundation had begun and not yet finished. The same 
Spaceship-and-Sun that had blazoned the banner of the Galactic Empire through millennia. 

Mallow talked through and around his thoughts, "Test that pipe! It's one piece. Not perfect; 
naturally, the joining shouldn't be done by hand." 

There was no need of further legerdemain. It had gone over. Mallow was through. He had what 
he wanted. There was only one thing in his mind. The golden globe with its conventionalized 
rays, and the oblique cigar shape that was a space vessel. 

The Spaceship-and-Sun of the Empire! 

The Empire! The words drilled! A century and a half had passed but there was still the-Empire, 
somewhere deeper in the Galaxy. And it was emerging again, out into the Periphery. 


Mallow smiled! 



9 . 


The Far Star was two days out in space, when Hober Mallow, in his private quarters with Senior 
Lieutenant Drawt, handed him an envelope, a roll of microfilm, and a silvery spheroid. 

"As of an hour from now, Lieutenant, you're Acting Captain of the Far Star, until I return, -or 
forever." 

Drawt made a motion of standing but Mallow waved him down imperiously. 

"Quiet, and listen. The envelope contains the exact location of the planet to which you're to 
proceed. There you will wait for me for two months. If, before the two months are up, the 
Foundation locates you, the microfilm is my report of the trip. 

"If, however," and his voice was somber, "I do not return at the end of two months, and 
Foundation vessels do not locate you, proceed to the planet, Terminus, and hand in the Time 
Capsule as the report. Do you understand that?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"At no time are you, or any of the men, to amplify in any single instance, my official report." 

"If we are questioned, sir?" 

"Then you know nothing." 

"Yes, sir." 

The interview ended, and fifty minutes later, a lifeboat kicked lightly off the side of the Far Star. 


10 . 

Onum Barr was an old man, too old to be afraid. Since the last disturbances, he had lived alone 
on the fringes of the land with what books he had saved from the ruins. Fie had nothing he 
feared losing, least of all the worn remnant of his life, and so he faced the intruder without 
cringing. 

"Your door was open," the stranger explained. 

His accent was clipped and harsh, and Barr did not fail to notice the strange blue-steel 
hand-weapon at his hip. In the half gloom of the small room, Barr saw the glow of a force-shield 
surrounding the man. 

He said, wearily, "There is no reason to keep it closed. Do you wish anything of me?" 

"Yes." The stranger remained standing in the center of the room. He was large, both in height 
and bulk. "Yours is the only house about here." 

"It is a desolate place," agreed Barr, "but there is a town to the east. I can show you the way'." 



"In awhile. May I sit?" 

"If the chairs will hold you," said the old man, gravely. They were old, too. Relics of a better 
youth. 

The stranger said, "My name is Hober Mallow. I come from a far province." 

Barr nodded and smiled, "Your tongue convicted you of that long ago. I am Onum Barr of 
Siwenna - and once Patrician of the Empire." 

"Then this is Siwenna. I had only old maps to guide me." 

"They would have to be old, indeed, for star-positions to be misplaced." 

Barr sat quite still, while the other's eyes drifted away into a reverie. He noticed that the nuclear 
force-shield had vanished from about the man and admitted dryly to himself that his person no 
longer seemed formidable to strangers - or even, for good or for evil, to his enemies. 

He said, "My house is poor and my resources few. You may share what I have if your stomach 
can endure black bread and dried corn." 

Mallow shook his head, "No, I have eaten, and I can't stay. All I need are the directions to the 
center of government." 

"That is easily enough done, and poor though I am, deprives me of nothing. Do you mean the 
capital of the planet, or of the Imperial Sector?" 

The younger man's eyes narrowed, "Aren't the two identical? Isn't this Siwenna?" 

The old patrician nodded slowly, "Siwenna, yes. But Siwenna is no longer capital of the 
Normannic Sector. Your old map has misled you after all. The stars may not change even in 
centuries, but political boundaries are all too fluid." 

"That's too bad. In fact, that's very bad. Is the new capital far off?" 

"It's on Orsha II. Twenty parsecs off. Your map will direct you. How old is it?" 

"A hundred and fifty years." 

"That old?" The old man sighed. "History has been crowded since. Do you know any of it?" 
Mallow shook his bead slowly. 

Barr said, "You're fortunate. It has been an evil time for the provinces, but for the reign of 
Stannell VI, and he died fifty years ago. Since that time, rebellion and ruin, ruin and rebellion." 
Barr wondered if he were growing garrulous. It was a lonely life out here, and he had so little 
chance to talk to men. 

Mallow said with sudden sharpness, "Ruin, eh? You sound as if the province were 
impoverished." 

"Perhaps not on an absolute scale. The physical resources of twenty-five first-rank planets take 



a long time to use up. Compared to the wealth of the last century, though, we have gone a long 
way downhill - and there is no sign of turning, not yet. Why are you so interested in all this, 
young man? You are all alive and your eyes shine!" 

The trader came near enough to blushing, as the faded eyes seemed to look too deep into his 
and smile at what they saw. 

He said, "Now look here. I'm a trader out there - out toward the rim of the Galaxy. I've located 
some old maps, and I'm out to open new markets. Naturally, talk of impoverished provinces 
disturbs me. You can't get money out of a world unless money's there to be got. Now how's 
Siwenna, for instance?" 

The old man leaned forward, "I cannot say. It will do even yet, perhaps. But you a trader? You 
look more like a fighting man. You hold your hand near your gun and there is a scar on your 
jawbone." 

Mallow jerked his head, "There isn't much law out there where I come from. Fighting and scars 
are part of a trader's overhead. But fighting is only useful when there's money at the end, and if 
I can get it without, so much the sweeter. Now will I find enough money here to make it worth 
the fighting? I take it I can find the fighting easily enough." 

"Easily enough," agreed Barr. "You could join Wiscard's remnants in the Red Stars. I don't 
know, though, if you'd call that fighting or piracy. Or you could join our present gracious viceroy 
- gracious by right of murder, pillage, rapine, and the word of a boy Emperor, since rightfully 
assassinated." The patrician's thin cheeks reddened. His eyes closed and then opened, 
bird-bright. 

"You don't sound very friendly to the viceroy, Patrician Barr," said Mallow. "What if I'm one of 
his spies?" 

"What if you are?" said Barr, bitterly. "What can you take?" He gestured a withered arm at the 
bare interior of the decaying mansion. 

"Your life." 

"It would leave me easily enough. It has been with me five years too long. But you are not one 
of the viceroy's men. If you were, perhaps even now instinctive self-preservation would keep 
my mouth closed." 

"How do you know?" 

The old man laughed, "You seem suspicious - Come, I'll wager you think I'm trying to trap you 
into denouncing the government. No, no. I am past politics." 

"Past politics? Is a man ever past that? The words you used to describe the viceroy - what 
were they? Murder, pillage, all that. You didn't sound objective. Not exactly. Not as if you were 
past politics." 

The old man shrugged, "Memories sting when they come suddenly. Listen! Judge for yourself! 
When Siwenna was the provincial capital, I was a patrician and a member of the provincial 



senate. My family was an old and honored one. One of my great-grandfathers had been- No, 
never mind that. Past glories are poor feeding." 

"I take it," said Mallow, "there was a civil war, or a revolution." 

Barr's face darkened. "Civil wars are chronic in these degenerate days, but Siwenna had kept 
apart. Under Stannell VI, it had almost achieved its ancient prosperity. But weak emperors 
followed, and weak emperors mean strong viceroys, and our last viceroy - the same Wiscard, 
whose remnants still prey on the commerce among the Red Stars - aimed at the Imperial 
Purple. He wasn't the first to aim. And if he had succeeded, he wouldn't have been the first to 
succeed. 

"But he failed. For when the Emperor's Admiral approached the province at the head of a fleet, 
Siwenna itself rebelled against its rebel viceroy." He stopped, sadly. 

Mallow found himself tense on the edge of his seat, and relaxed slowly, "Please continue, sir." 

"Thank you," said Barr, wearily. "It's kind of you to humor an old man. They rebelled; or I should 
say, we rebelled, for I was one of the minor leaders. Wiscard left Siwenna, barely ahead of us, 
and the planet, and with it the province, were thrown open to the admiral with every gesture of 
loyalty to the Emperor. Why we did this, -I'm not sure. Maybe we felt loyal to the symbol, if not 
the person, of the Emperor, -a cruel and vicious child. Maybe we feared the horrors of a siege." 

"Well?" urged Mallow, gently. 

"Well, came the grim retort, "that didn't suit the admiral. He wanted the glory of conquering a 
rebellious province and his men wanted the loot such conquest would involve. So while the 
people were still gathered in every large city, cheering the Emperor and his admiral, he 
occupied all armed centers, and then ordered the population put to the nuclear blast." 

"On what pretext?" 

"On the pretext that they had rebelled against their viceroy, the Emperor's anointed. And the 
admiral became the new viceroy, by virtue of one month of massacre, pillage and complete 
horror. I had six sons. Five died - variously. I had a daughter. I hope she died, eventually. / 
escaped because I was old. I came here, too old to cause even our viceroy worry." He bent his 
gray head, "They left me nothing, because I had helped drive out a rebellious governor and 
deprived an admiral of his glory." 

Mallow sat silent, and waited. Then, "What of your sixth son?" he asked softly. 

"Eh?" Barr smiled acidly. "He is safe, for he has joined the admiral as a common soldier under 
an assumed name. He is a gunner in the viceroy's personal fleet. Oh, no, I see your eyes. He is 
not an unnatural son. He visits me when he can and gives me what he can. He keeps me alive. 
And some day, our great and glorious viceroy will grovel to his death, and it will be my son who 
will be his executioner." 

"And you tell this to a stranger? You endanger your son." 

"No. I help him, by introducing a new enemy. And were I a friend of the viceroy, as I am his 



enemy, I would tell him to string outer space with ships, clear to the rim of the Galaxy." 

"There are no ships there?" 

"Did you find any? Did any space-guards question your entry? With ships few enough, and the 
bordering provinces filled with their share of intrigue and iniquity, none can be spared to guard 
the barbarian outer suns. No danger ever threatened us from the broken edge of the Galaxy, 
-until you came." 

"I? I'm no danger." 

"There will be more after you." 

Mallow shook his head slowly, "I'm not sure I understand you." 

"Listen!" There was a feverish edge to the old man's voice. "I knew you when you entered. You 
have a force-shield about your body, or had when I first saw you." 

Doubtful silence, then, "Yes, -I had." 

"Good. That was a flaw, but you didn't know that. There are some things I know. It's out of 
fashion in these decaying times to be a scholar. Events race and flash past and who cannot 
fight the tide with nuclear-blast in hand is swept away, as I was. But I was a scholar, and I know 
that in all the history of nucleics, no portable force-shield was ever invented. We have 
force-shields - huge, lumbering powerhouses that will protect a city, or even a ship, but not 
one, single man." 

"Ah?" Mallow's underlip thrust out. "And what do you deduce from that?" 

"There have been stories percolating through space. They travel strange paths and become 
distorted with every parsec, -but when I was young there was a small ship of strange men, who 
did not know our customs and could not tell where they came from. They talked of magicians at 
the edge of the Galaxy; magicians who glowed in the darkness, who flew unaided through the 
air, and whom weapons would not touch. 

"We laughed. I laughed, too. I forgot it till today. But you glow in the darkness, and I don't think 
my blaster, if I had one, would hurt you. Tell me, can you fly through air as you sit there now?" 

Mallow said calmly, "I can make nothing of all this." 

Barr smiled, "I'm content with the answer. I do not examine my guests. But if there are 
magicians; if you are one of them; there may some day be a great influx of them, or you. 
Perhaps that would be well. Maybe we need new blood." He muttered soundlessly to himself, 
then, slowly, "But it works the other way, too. Our new viceroy also dreams, as did our old 
Wiscard." 

"Also after the Emperor's crown?" 

Barr nodded, "My son hears tales. In the viceroy's personal entourage, one could scarcely help 
it. And he tells me of them. Our new viceroy would not refuse the Crown if offered, but he 
guards his line of retreat. There are stories that, failing Imperial heights, he plans to carve out a 



new Empire in the Barbarian hinterland. It is said, but I don't vouch for this, that he has already 
given one of his daughters as wife to a Kinglet somewhere in the uncharted Periphery." 

"If one listened to every story-" 

"I know. There are many more. I'm old and I babble nonsense. But what do you say?" And 
those sharp, old eyes peered deep. 

The trader considered, "I say nothing. But I'd like to ask something. Does Siwenna have 
nuclear power? Now, wait, I know that it possesses the knowledge of nucleics. I mean, do they 
have power generators intact, or did the recent sack destroy them?" 

"Destroy them? Oh, no. Half a planet would be wiped out before the smallest power station 
would be touched. They are irreplaceable and the suppliers of the strength of the fleet." Almost 
proudly, "We have the largest and best on this side of Trantor itself." 

"Then what would I do first if I wanted to see these generators?" 

"Nothing!" replied Barr, decisively. "You couldn't approach any military center without being 
shot down instantly. Neither could anyone. Siwenna is still deprived of civic rights." 

"You mean all the power stations are under the military?" 

"No. There are the small city stations, the ones supplying power for heating and lighting homes, 
powering vehicles and so forth. Those are almost as bad. They're controlled by the tech-men." 

"Who are they?" 

"A specialized group which supervises the power plants. The honor is hereditary, the young 
ones being brought up in the profession as apprentices. Strict sense of duty, honor, and all that. 
No one but a tech-man could enter a station." 

"I see." 

"I don't say, though," added Barr, "that there aren't cases where tech-men haven't been bribed. 
In days when we have nine emperors in fifty years and seven of these are assassinated, -when 
every space-captain aspires to the usurpation of a viceroyship, and every viceroy to the 
Imperium, 

I suppose even a tech-man can fall prey to money. But it would require a good deal, and I have 
none. Have you?" 

"Money? No. But does one always bribe with money?" 

"What else, when money buys all else." 

"There is quite enough that money won't buy. And now if you'll tell me the nearest city with one 
of the stations, and how best to get there, I'll thank you." 

"Wait!" Barr held out his thin hands. "Where do you rush? You come here, but / ask no 
questions. In the city, where the inhabitants are still called rebels, you would be challenged by 
the first soldier or guard who heard your accent and saw your clothes." 



He rose and from an obscure comer of an old chest brought out a booklet. "My passport, 
-forged. I escaped with it." 

He placed it in Mallow's hand and folded the fingers over it. "The description doesn't fit, but if 
you flourish it, the chances are many to one they will not look closely." 

"But you. You'll be left without one." 

The old exile shrugged cynically, "What of it? And a further caution. Curb your tongue! Your 
accent is barbarous, your idioms peculiar, and every once in a while you deliver yourself of the 
most astounding archaisms. The less you speak, the less suspicion you will draw upon 
yourself. Now I'll tell you how to get to the city-" 

Five minutes later, Mallow was gone. 

He returned but once, for a moment, to the old patrician's house, before leaving it entirely, 
however. And when Onum Barr stepped into his little garden early the next morning, he found a 
box at his feet. It contained provisions, concentrated provisions such as one would find aboard 
ship, and alien in taste and preparation. 

But they were good, and lasted long. 


11 . 

The tech-man was short, and his skin glistened with well-kept plumpness. His hair was a fringe 
and his skull shone through pinkly. The rings on his fingers were thick and heavy, his clothes 
were scented, and he was the first man Mallow had met on the planet who hadn't looked 
hungry. 

The tech-man's lips pursed peevishly, "Now, my man, quickly. I have things of great importance 
waiting for me. You seem a stranger-" He seemed to evaluate Mallow's definitely 
un-Siwennese costume and his eyelids were heavy with suspicion. 

"I am not of the neighborhood," said Mallow, calmly, "but the matter is irrelevant. I have had the 
honor to send you a little gift yesterday-" 

The tech-man's nose lifted, "I received it. An interesting gewgaw. I may have use for it on 
occasion." 

"I have other and more interesting gifts. Quite out of the gewgaw stage." 

"Oh-h?" The tech-man's voice lingered thoughtfully over the monosyllable. "I think I already see 
the course of the interview; it has happened before. You are going to give me some trifle or 
other. A few credits, perhaps a cloak, second-rate jewelry; anything your little soul may think 
sufficient to corrupt a tech-man." His lower lip puffed out belligerently, "And I know what you 
wish in exchange. There have been others and to spare with the same bright idea. You wish to 
be adopted into our clan. You wish to be taught the mysteries of nucleics and the care of the 



machines. You think because you dogs of Siwenna - and probably your strangerhood is 
assumed for safety's sake - are being daily punished for your rebellion that you can escape 
what you deserve by throwing over yourselves the privileges and protections of the tech-man's 
guild." 

Mallow would have spoken, but the tech-man raised himself into a sudden roar. "And now leave 
before I report your name to the Protector of the City. Do you think that I would betray the trust? 
The Siwennese traitors that preceded me would have - perhaps! But you deal with a different 
breed now. Why, Galaxy, I marvel that I do not kill you myself at this moment with my bare 
hands." 

Mallow smiled to himself. The entire speech was patently artificial in tone and content, so that 
all the dignified indignation degenerated into uninspired farce. 

The trader glanced humorously at the two flabby hands that had been named as his possible 
executioners then and there, and said, "Your Wisdom, you are wrong on three counts. First, I 
am not a creature of the viceroy come to test your loyalty. Second, my gift is something the 
Emperor himself in all his splendor does not and will never possess. Third, what I wish in return 
is very little; a nothing; a mere breath." 

"So you say!" He descended into heavy sarcasm. "Come, what is this imperial donation that 
your godlike power wishes to bestow upon me? Something the Emperor doesn't have, eh?" He 
broke into a sharp squawk of derision. 

Mallow rose and pushed the chair aside, "I have waited three days to see you, Your Wisdom, 
but the display will take only three seconds. If you will just draw that blaster whose butt I see 
very near your hand-" 

"Eh?" 

"And shoot me, I will be obliged." 

"What?” 

"If I am killed, you can tell the police I tried to bribe you into betraying guild secrets. You'll 
receive high praise. If I am not killed, you may have my shield." 

For the first time, the tech-man became aware of the dimly-white illumination that hovered 
closely about his visitor, as though he had been dipped in pearl-dust. His blaster raised to the 
level and with eyes a-squint in wonder and suspicion, he closed contact. 

The molecules of air caught in the sudden surge of atomic disruption, tore into glowing, burning 
ions, and marked out the blinding thin line that struck at Mallow's heart - and splashed! 

While Mallow's look of patience never changed, the nuclear forces that tore at him consumed 
themselves against that fragile, pearly illumination, and crashed back to die in mid-air. 

The tech-man's blaster dropped to the floor with an unnoticed crash. 

Mallow said, "Does the Emperor have a personal force-shield? You can have one." 



The tech-man stuttered, "Are you a tech-man?" 

"No." 

"Then - then where did you get that?" 

"What do you care?" Mallow was coolly contemptuous. "Do you want it?" A thin, knobbed chain 
fell upon the desk, "There it is." 

The tech-man snatched it up and fingered it nervously, "Is this complete?" 

"Complete." 

"Where's the power?" 

Mallow's finger fell upon the largest knob, dull in its leaden case. 

The tech-man looked up, and his face was congested with blood, "Sir, I am a tech-man, senior 
grade. I have twenty years behind me as supervisor and I studied under the great Bier at the 
University of Trantor. If you have the infernal charlatanry to tell me that a small container the 
size of a - of a walnut, blast it, holds a nuclear generator, I'll have you before the Protector in 
three seconds." 

"Explain it yourself then, if you can. I say it's complete." 

The tech-man's flush faded slowly as he bound the chain about his waist, and, following 
Mallow's gesture, pushed the knob. The radiance that surrounded him shone into dim relief. His 
blaster lifted, then hesitated. Slowly, he adjusted it to an almost burnless minimum. 

And then, convulsively, he closed circuit and the nuclear fire dashed against his hand, 
harmlessly. 

.He whirled, "And what if I shoot you now, and keep the shield." 

"Try!" said Mallow. "Do you think I gave you my only sample?" And he, too, was solidly incased 
in light. 

The tech-man giggled nervously. The blaster clattered onto the desk. He said, "And what is this 
mere nothing, this breath, that you wish in return'?" 

"I want to see your generators." 

"You realize that that is forbidden. It would mean ejection into space for both of us-" 

"I don't want to touch them or have anything to do with them. I want to see them - from a 
distance." 

"If not?" 

"If not, you have your shield, but I have other things. For one thing, a blaster especially 
designed to pierce that shield." 

"Hm-m-m." The tech-man's eyes shifted. "Come with me." 



12 . 


The tech-man's home was a small two-story affair on the Outskirts of the huge, cubiform, 
windowless affair that dominated the center of the city. Mallow passed from one to the other 
through an underground passage, and found himself in the silent, ozone-tinged atmosphere of 
the powerhouse. 

For fifteen minutes, he followed his guide and said nothing. His eyes missed nothing. His 
fingers touched nothing. And then, the tech-man said in strangled tones, "Have you had 
enough? I couldn't trust my underlings in this case." 

"Could you ever?" asked Mallow, ironically. "I've had enough." 

They were back in the office and Mallow said, thoughtfully, "And all those generators are in 
your hands?" 

"Every one," said the tech-man, with more than a touch of complacency. 

"And you keep them running and in order?" 

"Right!" 

"And if they break down?" 

The tech-man shook his head indignantly, "They don't break down. They never break down. 
They were built for eternity." 

"Eternity is a long time. Just suppose-" 

"It is unscientific to suppose meaningless cases." 

"All right. Suppose I were to blast a vital part into nothingness? I suppose the machines aren't 
immune to nuclear forces? Suppose I fuse a vital connection, or smash a quartz D-tube?" 

"Well, then," shouted the tech-man, furiously, "you would be killed." 

"Yes, I know that," Mallow was shouting, too, "but what about the generator? Could you repair 
it?" 

"Sir," the tech-man howled his words, "you have had a fair return. You've had what you asked 
for. Now get out! I owe you nothing more!" 

Mallow bowed with a satiric respect and left. 

Two days later he was back where the Far Star waited to return with him to the planet, 
Terminus. 

And two days later, the tech-man's shield went dead, and for all his puzzling and cursing never 
glowed again. 



13 . 


Mallow relaxed for almost the first time in six months. He was on his back in the sunroom of his 
new house, stripped to the skin. His great, brown arms were thrown up and out, and the 
muscles tautened into a stretch, then faded into repose. 

The man beside him placed a cigar between Mallow's teeth and lit it. He champed on one of his 
own and said, "You must be overworked. Maybe you need a long rest." 

"Maybe I do, Jael, but I'd rather rest in a council seat. Because I'm going to have that seat, and 
you're going to help me." 

Ankor Jael raised his eyebrows and said, "How did I get into this?" 

"You got in obviously. Firstly, you're an old dog of a politico. Secondly, you were booted out of 
your cabinet seat by Jorane Sutt, the same fellow who'd rather lose an eyeball than see me in 
the council. You don't think much of my chances, do you?" 

"Not much," agreed the ex-Minister of Education. "You're a Smyrnian." 

"That's no legal bar. I've had a lay education." 

"Well, come now. Since when does prejudice follow any law but its own. Now, how about your 
own man - this Jaim Twer? What does he say?" 

"He spoke about running me for council almost a year ago," replied Mallow easily, "but I've 
outgrown him. He couldn't have pulled it off in any case. Not enough depth. He's loud and 
forceful - but that's only an expression of nuisance value. I'm off to put over a real coup. I need 
you." 

"Jorane Sutt is the cleverest politician on the planet and he'll be against you. I don't claim to be 
able to outsmart him. And don't think he doesn't fight hard, and dirty." 

"I've got money." 

"Mat helps. But it takes a lot to buy off prejudice, you dirty Smyrnian." 

"I'll have a lot." 

"Well, I'll look into the matter. But don't ever you crawl up on your hind legs and bleat that I 
encouraged you in the matter. Who's that?" 

Mallow pulled the corners of his mouth down, and said, "Jorane Sutt himself, I think. He's early, 
and I can understand it. I’ve been dodging him for a month. Look, Jael, get into the next room, 
and turn the speaker on low. I want you to listen." 

He helped the council member out of the room with a shove of his bare foot, then scrambled up 
and into a silk robe. The synthetic sunlight faded to normal power. 

The secretary to the mayor entered stiffly, while the solemn major-domo tiptoed the door shut 
behind him. 



Mallow fastened his belt and said, "Take your choice of chairs, Sutt." 

Sutt barely cracked a flickering smile. The chair he chose was comfortable but he did not relax 
into it. From its edge, he said, "If you'll state your terms to begin with, we'll get down to 
business." 

"What terms?" 

"You wish to be coaxed? Well, then, what, for instance, did you do at Korell? Your report was 
incomplete." 

"I gave it to you months ago. You were satisfied then." 

Yes," Sutt rubbed his forehead thoughtfully with one finger, "but since then your activities have 
been significant. We know a good deal of what you're doing, Mallow. We know, exactly, how 
many factories you're putting up; in what a hurry you're doing it; and how much it's costing you. 
And there's this palace you have," he gazed about him with a cold lack of appreciation, "which 
set you back considerably more than my annual salary; and a swathe you've been cutting - a 
very considerable and expensive swathe - through the upper layers of Foundation society." 

"So? Beyond proving that you employ capable spies, what does it show?" 

"It shows you have money you didn't have a year ago. And that can show anything - for 
instance, that a good deal went on at Korell that we know nothing of. Where are you getting 
your money?" 

"My dear Sutt, you can't really expect me to tell you." 

"I don't." 

"I didn't think you did. That's why I'm going to tell you. It's straight from the treasure-chests of 
the Commdor of Korell." 

Sutt blinked. 

Mallow smiled and continued. "Unfortunately for you, the money is quite legitimate. I'm a Master 
Trader and the money I received was a quantity of wrought iron and chromite in exchange for a 
number of trinkets I was able to supply him with. Fifty per cent of the profit is mine by 
hidebound contract with the Foundation. The other half goes to the government at the end of 
the year when all good citizens pay their income tax." 

"There was no mention of any trade agreement in your report." 

"Nor was there any mention of what I had for breakfast that day, or the name of my current 
mistress, or any other irrelevant detail." Mallow's smile was fading into a sneer. "I was sent - to 
quote yourself - to keep my eyes open. They were never, shut. You wanted to find out what 
happened to the captured Foundation merchant ships. I never saw or heard of them. You 
wanted to find out if Korell had nuclear power. My report tells of nuclear blasters in the 
possession of the Commdor's private bodyguard. I saw no other signs. And the blasters I did 
see are relics of the old Empire, and may be show-pieces that do not work, for all my 
knowledge. 



"So far, I followed orders, but beyond that I was, and. still am, a free agent. According to the 
laws of the Foundation, a Master Trader may open whatever new markets he can, and receive 
therefrom his due half of the profits. What are your objections? I don't see them." 

Sutt bent his eyes carefully towards the wall and spoke with a difficult lack of anger, "It is the 
general custom of all traders to advance the religion with their trade." 

"I adhere to law, and not to custom." 

"There are times when custom can be the higher law." 

"Then appeal to the courts." 

Sutt raised somber eyes which seemed to retreat into their sockets. "You're a Smyrnian after 
all. It seems naturalization and education can't wipe out the taint in the blood. Listen, and try to 
understand, just the same. 

"This goes beyond money, or markets. We have the science of the great Hari Seldon to prove 
that upon us depends the future empire of the Galaxy, and from the course that leads to that 
Imperium we cannot turn. The religion we have is our all-important instrument towards that end. 
With it we have brought the Four Kingdoms under our control, even at the moment when they 
would have crushed us. It is the most potent device known with which to control men and 
worlds. 

"The primary reason for the development of trade and traders was to introduce and spread this 
religion more quickly, and to insure that the introduction of new techniques and a new economy 
would be subject to our thorough and intimate control." 

Fie paused for breath, and Mallow interjected quietly, "I know the theory. I understand it 
entirely." 

"Do you? It is more than I expected. Then you see, of course, that your attempt at trade for its 
own sake; at mass production of worthless gadgets, which can only affect a world's economy 
superficially; at the subversion of interstellar policy to the god of profits; at the divorce of 
nuclear power from our controlling religion - can only end with the overthrow and complete 
negation of the policy that has worked successfully for a century." 

"And time enough, too," said Mallow, indifferently, "for a policy outdated, dangerous and 
impossible. Flowever well your religion has succeeded in the Four Kingdoms, scarcely another 
world in the Periphery has accepted it. At the time we seized control of the Kingdoms, there 
were a sufficient number of exiles, Galaxy knows, to spread the story of how Salvor Hardin 
used the priesthood and the superstition of the people to overthrow the independence and 
power of the secular monarchs. And if that wasn't enough, the case of Askone two decades 
back made it plain enough. There isn't a ruler in the Periphery now that wouldn't sooner cut his 
own throat than let a priest of the Foundation enter the territory. 

"I don't propose to force Korell or any other world to accept something I know they don't want. 
No, Sutt. If nuclear power makes them dangerous, a sincere friendship through trade will be 
many times better than an insecure overlordship, based on the hated supremacy of a foreign 



spiritual power, which, once it weakens ever so slightly, can only fall entirely and leave nothing 
substantial behind except an immortal fear and hate." 

Suit said cynically, "Very nicely put. So, to get back to the original point of discussion, what are 
your terms? What do you require to exchange your ideas for mine?" 

"You think my convictions are for sale?" 

"Why not?" came the cold response. "Isn't that your business, buying and selling?" 

"Only at a profit," said Mallow, unoffended. "Can you offer me more than I'm getting as is?" 
"You could have three-quarters of your trade profits, rather than half." 

Mallow laughed shortly, "A fine offer. The whole of the trade on your terms would fall far below 
- a tenth share on mine. Try harder than that." 

"You could have a council seat." 

"I'll have that anyway, without and despite you." 

With a sudden movement, Sutt clenched his fist, "You could also save yourself a prison term. 
Of twenty years, if I have my way. Count the profit in that." 

"No profit at all, but can you fulfill such a threat?" 

"How about a trial for murder?" 

"Whose murder?" asked Mallow, contemptuously. 

Sutt's voice was harsh now, though no louder than before, "The murder of an Anacreonian 
priest, in the service of the Foundation." 

"Is that so now? And what's your evidence?" 

The secretary to the mayor leaned forward, "Mallow, I'm not bluffing. The preliminaries are 
over. I have only to sign one final paper and the case of the Foundation versus Hober Mallow, 
Master Trader, is begun. You abandoned a subject of the Foundation to torture and death at 
the hands of an alien mob, Mallow, and you have only five seconds to prevent the punishment 
due you. For myself, I'd rather you decided to bluff it out. You'd be safer as a destroyed enemy, 
than as a doubtfully-converted friend." 

Mallow said solemnly, "You have your wish." 

"Good!" and the secretary smiled savagely. "It was the mayor who wished the preliminary 
attempt at compromise, not I. Witness that I did not try too hard." 

The door opened before him, and he left. 

Mallow looked up as Ankor Jael re-entered the room. 

Mallow said, "Did you hear him?" 



The politician flopped to the floor. "I never heard him as angry as that, since I've known the 
snake." 

"All right. What do you make of it?" 

"Well, I'll tell you. A foreign policy of domination through spiritual means is his idee fixe, but it's 
my notion that his ultimate aims aren't spiritual. I was fired out of the Cabinet for arguing on the 
same issue, as I needn't tell you." 

"You needn't. And what are those unspiritual aims according to your notion?" 

Jael grew serious, "Well, he's not stupid, so he must see the bankruptcy of our religious policy, 
which has hardly made a single conquest for us in seventy years. He's obviously using it for 
purposes of his own. 

"Now any dogma primarily based on faith and emotionalism, is a dangerous weapon to use on 
others, since it is almost impossible to guarantee that the weapon will never be turned on the 
user. For a hundred years now, we've supported a ritual and mythology that is becoming more 
and more venerable, traditional - and immovable. In some ways, it isn't under our control any 
more." 

"In what ways?" demanded Mallow. "Don't stop. I want your thoughts." 

"Well, suppose one man, one ambitious man, uses the force of religion against us, rather than 
for us." 

"You mean Sutt-" 

"You're right. I mean Sutt. Listen, man, if he could mobilize the various hierarchies on the 
subject planets against the Foundation in the name of orthodoxy, what chance would we 
stand? By planting himself at the head of the standards of the pious, he could make war on 
heresy, as represented by you, for instance, and make himself king eventually. After all, it was 
Hardin who said: 'A nuclear blaster is a good weapon, but it can point both ways.'" 

Mallow slapped his bare thigh, "All right, Jael, then get me in that council, and I'll fight him." 

Jael paused, then said significantly, "Maybe not. What was all that about having a priest 
lynched? Is isn't true, is it?" 

"It's true enough," Mallow said, carelessly. 

Jael whistled, "Has he definite proof?" 

"He should have." Mallow hesitated, then added, "Jaim Twer was his man from the beginning, 
though neither of them knew that I knew that. And Jaim Twer was an eyewitness." 

Jael shook his head. "Uh-uh. That's bad." 

"Bad? What's bad about it? That priest was illegally upon the planet by the Foundation's own 
laws. He was obviously used by the Korellian government as a bait, whether involuntary or not. 
By all the laws of common-sense, I had no choice but one action - and that action was strictly 



within the law. If he brings me to trial, he'll do nothing but make a prime fool of himself." 

And Jael shook his head again, "No, Mallow, you've missed it. I told you he played dirty. He's 
not out to convict you; he knows he can't do that. But he is out to ruin your standing with the 
people. You heard what he said. Custom is higher than law, at times. You could walk out of the 
trial scot-free, but if the people think you threw a priest to the dogs, your popularity is gone. 

"They'll admit you did the legal thing, even the sensible thing. But just the same you'll have 
been, in their eyes, a cowardly dog, an unfeeling brute, a hard-hearted monster. And you would 
never get elected to the council. You might even lose your rating as Master Trader by having 
your citizenship voted away from you. You're not native born, you know. What more do you 
think Sutt can want?" Mallow frowned stubbornly, "So!" "My boy," said Jael. "I'll stand by you, 
but / can't help. You're on the spot, -dead center." 


14 . 

The council chamber was full in a very literal sense on the fourth day of the trial of Hober 
Mallow, Master Trader. The only councilman absent was feebly cursing the fractured skull that 
had bedridden him. The galleries were filled to the aisleways and ceilings with those few of the 
crowd who by influence, wealth, or sheer diabolic perseverance had managed to get in. The 
rest filled the square outside, in swarming knots about the open-air trimensional 'visors. 

Ankor Jael made his way into the chamber with the near-futile aid and exertions of the police 
department, and then through the scarcely smaller confusion within to Hober Mallow's seat. 

Mallow turned with relief, "By Seldon, you cut it thin. Have you got it?" 

"Here, take it," said Jael. "It's everything you asked for." 

"Good. How are they taking it outside?" 

"They're wild clear through." Jael stirred uneasily, "You should never have allowed public 
hearings. You could have stopped them." 

"I didn't want to." 

"There's lynch talk. And Publis Manlio's men on the outer planets-" 

"I wanted to ask you about that, Jael. He's stirring up the Hierarchy against me, is he?" 

"Is he? It's the sweetest setup you ever saw, As Foreign Secretary, he handles the prosecution 
in a case of interstellar law. As High Priest and Primate of the Church, he rouses the fanatic 
hordes-" 

"Well, forget it. Do you remember that Hardin quotation you threw at me last month? We'll show 
them that the nuclear blaster can point both ways." 

The mayor was taking his seat now and the council members were rising in respect. 

Mallow whispered, "It's my turn today. Sit here and watch the fun." 



The day's proceedings began and fifteen minutes later, Hober Mallow stepped through a hostile 
whisper to the empty space before the mayor's bench. A lone beam of light centered upon him 
and in the public 'visors of the city, as well as on the myriads of private 'visors in almost every 
home of the Foundation's planets, the lonely giant figure of a man stared out defiantly. 

He began easily and quietly, "To save time, I will admit the truth of every point made against 
me by the prosecution. The story of the priest and the mob as related by them is perfectly 
accurate in every detail." 

There was a stirring in the chamber and a triumphant mass-snarl from the gallery. He waited 
patiently for silence. 

"However, the picture they presented fell short of completion. I ask the privilege of supplying 
the completion in my own fashion. My story may seem irrelevant at first. I ask your indulgence 
for that." 

Mallow made no reference to the notes before him. 

"I begin at the same time as the prosecution did; the day of my meeting with Jorane Sutt and 
Jaim Twer. What went on at those meetings you know. The conversations have been 
described, and to that description I have nothing to add - except my own thoughts of that day. 

"They were suspicious thoughts, for the events of that day were queer. Consider. Two people, 
neither of whom I knew more than casually, make unnatural and somewhat unbelievable 
propositions to me. One, the secretary to the mayor, asks me to play the part of intelligence 
agent to the government in a highly confidential matter, the nature and importance of which has 
already been explained to you. The other, self-styled leader of a political party, asks me to run 
for a council seat. 

"Naturally I looked for the ulterior motive. Sutt's seemed evident. He didn't trust me. Perhaps he 
thought I was selling nuclear power to enemies and plotting rebellion. And perhaps he was 
forcing the issue, or thought he was. In that case, he would need a man of his own near me on 
my proposed mission, as a spy. The last thought, however, did not occur to me until later on, 
when Jaim Twer came on the scene. 

"Consider again: Twer presents himself as a trader, retired into politics, yet I know of no details 
of his trading career, although my knowledge of the field is immense. And further, although 
Twer boasted of a lay education, he had never heard of a Seldon crisis." 

Hober Mallow waited to let the significance sink in and was rewarded with the first silence he 
had yet encountered, as the gallery caught its collective breath. That was for the inhabitants of 
Terminus itself. The men of the Outer Planets could hear only censored versions that would 
suit the requirements of religion. They would hear nothing of Seldon crises. But there would be 
further strokes they would not miss. 

Mallow continued: 

"Who here can honestly state that any man with a lay education can possibly be ignorant of the 
nature of a Seldon crisis? There is only one type of education upon the Foundation that 



excludes all mention of the planned history of Seldon and deals only with the man himself as a 
semi-mythical wizard- 

"I knew at that instant that Jaim Twer had never been a trader. I knew then that he was in holy 
orders and perhaps a full-fledged priest; and, doubtless, that for the three years he had 
pretended to head a political party of the traders, he had been a bought man of Jorane Sutt. 

"At the moment, I struck in the dark. I did not know Sun's purposes with regard to myself, but 
since he seemed to be feeding me rope liberally, I handed him a few fathoms of my own. My 
notion was that Twer was to be with me on my voyage as unofficial guardian on behalf of 
Jorane Sutt. Well, if he didn't get on, I knew well there'd be other devices waiting - and those 
others I might not catch in time. A known enemy is relatively safe. I invited Twer to come with 
me. He accepted. 

"That, gentlemen of the council, explains two things. First, it tells you that Twer is not a friend of 
mine testifying against me reluctantly and for conscience' sake, as the prosecution would have 
you believe. He is a spy, performing his paid job. Secondly, it explains a certain action of mine 
on the occasion of the first appearance of the priest whom I am accused of having murdered - 
an action as yet unmentioned, because unknown." 

Now there was a disturbed whispering in the council. Mallow cleared his throat theatrically, and 
continued: 

"I hate to describe my feelings when I first heard that we had a refugee missionary on board. I 
even hate to remember them. Essentially, they consisted of wild uncertainty. The event struck 
me at the moment as a move by Sutt, and passed beyond my comprehension or calculation. I 
was at sea - and completely. 

"There was one thing I could do. I got rid of Twer for five minutes by sending him after my 
officers. In his absence, I set up a Visual Record receiver, so that whatever happened might be 
preserved for future study. This was in the hope, the wild but earnest hope, that what confused 
me at the time might become plain upon review. 

"I have gone over that Visual Record some fifty times since. I have it here with me now, and will 
repeat the job a fifty-first time in your presence right now." 

The mayor pounded monotonously for order, as the chamber lost its equilibrium and the gallery 
roared. In five million homes on Terminus, excited observers crowded their receiving sets more 
closely, and at the prosecutor's own bench, Jorane Sutt shook his head coldly at the nervous 
high priest, while his eyes blazed fixedly on Mallow's face. 

The center of the chamber was cleared, and the lights burnt low. Ankor Jael, from his bench on 
the left, made the adjustments, and with a preliminary click, a holographic scene sprang to 
view; in color, in three-dimensions, in every attribute of life but life itself. 

There was the missionary, confused and battered, standing between the lieutenant and the 
sergeant. Mallow's image waited silently, and then men filed in, Twer bringing up the rear. 

The conversation played itself out, word for word. The sergeant was disciplined, and the 
missionary was questioned. The mob appeared, their growl could be heard, and the Revered 



Jord Parma made his wild appeal. Mallow drew his gun, and the missionary, as he was 
dragged away, lifted his arms in a mad, final curse and a tiny flash of light came and went. 

The scene ended, with the officers frozen at the horror of the situation, while Twer clamped 
shaking hands over his ears, and Mallow calmly put his gun away. 

The lights were on again; the empty space in the center of the floor was no longer even 
apparently full. Mallow, the real Mallow of the present, took up the burden of his narration: 

"The incident, you see, is exactly as the prosecution has presented it - on the surface. I'll 
explain that shortly. Jaim Twer's emotions through the whole business shows clearly a priestly 
education, by the way. 

"It was on that same day that I pointed out certain incongruities in the episode to Twer. I asked 
him where the missionary came from in the midst of the near-desolate tract we occupied at the 
time. I asked further where the gigantic mob had come from with the nearest sizable town a 
hundred miles away. The prosecution has paid no attention to such problems. 

"Or to other points; for instance, the curious point of Jord Parma's blatant conspicuousness. A 
missionary on Korell, risking his life in defiance of both Korellian and Foundation law, parades 
about in a very new and very distinctive priestly costume. There's something wrong there. At 
the time, I suggested that the missionary was an unwitting accomplice of the Commdor, who 
was using him in an attempt to force us into an act of wildly illegal aggression, to justify, in law, 
his subsequent destruction of our ship and of us. 

"The prosecution has anticipated this justification of my actions. They have expected me to 
explain that the safety of my ship, my crew, my mission itself were at stake and could not be 
sacrificed for one man, when that man would, in any case, have been destroyed, with us or 
without us. They reply by muttering about the Foundation's 'honor' and the necessity of 
upholding our 'dignity' in order to maintain our ascendancy. 

"For some strange reason, however, the prosecution has neglected Jord Parma himself, -as an 
individual. They brought out no details concerning him; neither his birthplace, nor his education, 
nor any detail of previous history. The explanation of this will also explain the incongruities I 
have pointed out in the Visual Record you have just seen. The two are connected. 

"The prosecution has advanced no details concerning Jord Parma because it cannot. That 
scene you saw by Visual Record seemed phoney because Jord Parma was phoney. There 
never was a Jord Parma. This whole trial is the biggest farce ever cooked up over an issue that 
never existed. " 

Once more he had to wait for the babble to die down. Fie said, slowly: 

"I'm going to show you the enlargement of a single still from the Visual Record. It will speak for 
itself. Lights again, Jael." 

The chamber dimmed, and the empty air filled again with frozen figures in ghostly, waxen 
illusion. The officers of the Far Star struck their stiff, impossible attitudes. A gun pointed from 
Mallow's rigid hand. At his left, the Revered Jord Parma, caught in mid-shriek, stretched his 
claws upward, while the failing sleeves hung halfway. 



And from the missionary's hand there was that little gleam that in the previous showing had 
flashed and gone. It was a permanent glow now. 

"Keep your eye on that light on his hand," called Mallow from the shadows. "Enlarge that 
scene, Jael!" 

The tableau bloated quickly. Outer portions fell away as the missionary drew towards the center 
and became a giant. Then there was only a hand and an arm, and then only a hand, which 
filled everything and remained there in immense, hazy tautness. 

The light had become a set of fuzzy, glowing letters: K S P. 

"That," Mallow's voice boomed out, "is a sample of tatooing, gentlemen. Under ordinary light it 
is invisible, but under ultraviolet light - with which I flooded the room in taking this Visual 
Record, it stands out in high relief. I'll admit it is a naive method of secret identification, but it 
works on Korell, where UV light is not to be found on street comers. Even in our ship, detection 
was accidental. 

"Perhaps some of you have already guessed what K S P stands for. Jord Parma knew his 
priestly lingo well and did his job magnificently. Where he had learned it, and how, I cannot say, 
but K S P stands for 'Korellian Secret Police.'" 

Mallow shouted over the tumult, roaring against the noise, "I have collateral proof in the form of 
documents brought from Korell, which I can present to the council if required. 

"And where is now the prosecution's case? They have already made and re-made the 
monstrous suggestion that I should have fought for the missionary in defiance of the law, and 
sacrificed my mission, my ship, and myself to the 'honor' of the Foundation. 

"But to do it for an impostor? 

"Should I have done it then for a Korellian secret agent tricked out in the robes and verbal 
gymnastics probably borrowed of an Anacreonian exile? Would Jorane Sutt and Publis Manlio 
have had me fall into a stupid, odious trap-" 

His hoarsened voice faded into the featureless background of a shouting mob. He was being 
lifted onto shoulders, and carried to the mayor's bench. Out the windows, he could see a torrent 
of madmen swarming into the square to add to the thousands there already. 

Mallow looked about for Ankor Jael, but it was impossible to find any single face in the 
incoherence of the mass. Slowly he became aware of a rhythmic, repeated shout, that was 
spreading from a small beginning, and pulsing into insanity: 

"Long live Mallow - long live Mallow - long live Mallow-" 


15 . 

Ankor Jael blinked at Mallow out of a haggard face. The last two days had been mad, sleepless 



ones. 


"Mallow, you've put on a beautiful show, so don't spoil it by jumping too high. You can't 
seriously consider running for mayor. Mob enthusiasm is a powerful thing, but it's notoriously 
fickle." ' 

"Exactly!" said Mallow, grimly, "so we must coddle it, and the best way to do that is to continue 
the show." 

"Now what?" 

"You're to have Publis Manlio and Jorane Sutt arrested-" 


"What!" 

"Just what you hear. Have the mayor arrest them! I don't care what threats you use. I control 
the mob, -for today, at any rate. He won't dare face them." 

"But on what charge, man?" 

"On the obvious one. They've been inciting the priesthood of the outer planets to take sides in 
the factional quarrels of the Foundation. That's illegal, by Seldon. Charge them with 
'endangering the state.' And I don't care about a conviction any more than they did in my case. 
Just get them out of circulation until I'm mayor." 

"It's half a year till election." 

"Not too long!" Mallow was on his feet, and his sudden grip of Jael's arm was tight. "Listen, I'd 
seize the government by force if I had to - the way Salvor Hardin did a hundred years ago. 
There's still that Seldon crisis coming up, and when it comes I have to be mayor and high 
priest. Both I" 


Jael's brow furrowed. He said, quietly, "What's it going to be? Korell, after all?" 

Mallow nodded, "Of course. They'll declare war, eventually, though I'm betting it'll take another 
pair of years." 

"With nuclear ships?" 

"What do you think? Those three merchant ships we lost in their space sector weren't knocked 
over with compressed-air pistols. Jael, they're getting ships from the Empire itself. Don't open 
your mouth like a fool. I said the Empire! It's still there, you know. It many be gone here in the 
Periphery but in the Galactic center it's still very much alive. And one false move means that it, 
itself, may be on our neck. That's why I must be mayor and high priest. I'm the only man who 
knows how to fight the crisis." 

Jael swallowed dryly, "How? What are you going to do?" 



"Nothing." 

Jael smiled uncertainly, "Really! All of that!" 

But Mallow's answer was incisive, "When I'm boss of this Foundation, I'm going to do nothing. 
One hundred percent of nothing, and that is the secret of this crisis." 


16 . 

Asper Argo, the Well-Beloved, Commdor of the Korellian Republic greeted his wife's entry by a 
hangdog lowering of his scanty eyebrows. To her at least, his self-adopted epithet did not 
apply. Even he knew that. 

She said, in a voice as sleek as her hair and as cold as her eyes, "My gracious lord, I 
understand, has finally come to a decision upon the fate of the Foundation upstarts." 

"Indeed?" said the Commdor, sourly. "And what more does your versatile understanding 
embrace?" 

"Enough, my very noble husband. You had another of your vacillating consultations with your 
councilors. Fine advisors." With infinite scorn, "A herd of palsied purblind idiots hugging their 
sterile profits close to their sunken chests in the face of my father's displeasure." 

"And who, my dear," was the mild response, "is the excellent source from which your 
understanding understands all this?" 

The Commdora laughed shortly, "If I told you, my source would be more corpse than source." 

"Well, you'll have your own way, as always." The Commdor shrugged and turned away. "And 
as for your father's displeasure: I much fear me it extends to a niggardly refusal to supply more 
ships." 

"More ships!" She blazed away, hotly, "And haven't you five? Don't deny it. I know you have 
five; and a sixth is promised." 

"Promised for the last year." 

"But one - just one - can blast that Foundation into stinking rubble. Just one! One, to sweep 
their little pygmy boats out of space." 

"I couldn't attack their planet, even with a dozen." 

"And how long would their planet hold out with their trade ruined, and their cargoes of toys and 
trash destroyed?" "Those toys and trash mean money," he sighed. "A good deal of money." 

"But if you had the Foundation itself, would you not have all it contained'? And if you had my 
father's respect and gratitude, would you not have more than ever the Foundation could give 
you? It's been three years - more - since that barbarian came with his magic sideshow. It's 
long enough." 



"My dear!" The Commdor turned and faced her. "I am growing old. I am weary. I lack the 
resilience to withstand your rattling mouth. You say you know that I have decided. Well, I have. 
It is over, and there is war between Korell and the Foundation." 

"Well!" The Commdora's figure expanded and her eyes sparkled, "You learned wisdom at last, 
though in your dotage. And now when you are master of this hinterland, you may be sufficiently 
respectable to be of some weight and importance in the Empire. For one thing, we might leave 
this barbarous world and attend the viceroy's court. Indeed we might." 

She swept out, with a smile, and a hand on her hip. Her hair gleamed in the light. 

The Commdor waited, and then said to the closed door, with malignance and hate, "And when I 
am master of what you call the hinterland, I may be sufficiently respectable to do without your 
father's arrogance and his daughter's tongue. Completely - without!" 


17 . 

The senior lieutenant of the Dark Nebula stared in horror at the visiplate. 

"Great Galloping Galaxies!" It should have been a howl, but it was a whisper instead, "What's 
that?" 

It was a ship, but a whale to the Dark Nebula's minnow; and on its side was the 
Spaceship-and-Sun of the Empire. Every alarm on the ship yammered hysterically. 

The orders went out, and the Dark Nebula prepared to run if it could, and fight if it must, -while 
down in the hyperwave room, a message stormed its way through hyperspace to the 
Foundation. 

Over and over again! Partly a plea for help, but mainly a warning of danger. 


18 . 

Flober Mallow shuffled his feet wearily as he leafed through the reports. Two years of the 
mayoralty had made him a bit more housebroken, a bit softer, a bit more patient, -but it had not 
made him learn to like government reports and the mind-breaking officialese in which they were 
written. 

"Flow many ships did they get?" asked Jael. 

"Four trapped on the ground. Two unreported. All others accounted for and safe." Mallow 
grunted, "We should have done better, but it's just a scratch." 

There was no answer and Mallow looked up, "Does anything worry you?" 

"I wish Sutt would get here," was the almost irrelevant answer. 

"Ah, yes, and now we'll hear another lecture on the home front." 



"No, we won't," snapped Jael, "but you're stubborn, Mallow. You may have worked out the 
foreign situation to the last detail but you've never given a care about what goes on here on the 
home planet." 

"Well, that's your job, isn't it? What did I make you Minister of Education and Propaganda for?" 

"Obviously to send me to an early and miserable grave, for all the co-operation you give me. 

For the last year, I've been deafening you with the rising danger of Sutt and his Religionists. 
What good will your plans be, if Sutt forces a special election and has you thrown out?" 

"None, I admit." 

"And your speech last night just about handed the election to Sutt with a smile and a pat. Was 
there any necessity for being so frank?" 

"Isn't there such a thing as stealing Sutt's thunder?" 

"No," said Jael, violently, "not the way you did it. You claim to have foreseen everything, and 
don't explain why you traded with Korell to their exclusive benefit for three years. Your only plan 
of battle is to retire without a battle. You abandon all trade with the sectors of space near Korell. 
You openly proclaim a stalemate. You promise no offensive, even in the future. Galaxy, Mallow, 
what am I supposed to do with such a mess?" 

"It lacks glamor?" 

"It lacks mob emotion-appeal." 

"Same thing." 

"Mallow, wake up. You have two alternatives. Either you present the people with a dynamic 
foreign policy, whatever your private plans are, or you make some sort of compromise with 
Sutt." 

Mallow said, "All right, if I've failed the first, let's try the second. Sutt's just arrived." 

Sutt and Mallow had not met personally since the day of the trial, two years back. Neither 
detected any change in the other, except for that subtle atmosphere about each which made it 
quite evident that the roles of ruler and defier had changed. 

Sutt took his seat without shaking hands. 

Mallow offered a cigar and said, "Mind if Jael stays? He wants a compromise earnestly. He can 
act as mediator if tempers rise." 

Sutt shrugged, "A compromise will be well for you. Upon another occasion I once asked you to 
state your terms. I presume the positions are reversed now." 

"You presume correctly." 

"Then there are my terms. You must abandon your blundering policy of economic bribery and 
trade in gadgetry, and return to the tested foreign policy of our fathers." 



"You mean conquest by missionary." 

"Exactly." 

"No compromise short of that?" 

"None." 

"Um-m-m." Mallow lit up very slowly and inhaled the tip of his cigar into a bright glow. "In 
Hardin's time, when conquest by missionary was new and radical, men like yourself opposed it. 
Now it is tried, tested, hallowed, -everything a Jorane Sutt would find well. But, tell me, how 
would you get us out of our present mess?" 

"Your present mess. I had nothing to do with it." 

"Consider the question suitably modified." 

"A strong offensive is indicated. The stalemate you seem to be satisfied with is fatal. It would be 
a confession of weakness to all the worlds of the Periphery, where the appearance of strength 
is all-important, and there's not one vulture among them that wouldn't join the assault for its 
share of the corpse. You ought to understand that. You're from Smyrno, aren't you?" 

Mallow passed over the significance of the remark. He said, "And if you beat Korell, what of the 
Empire? That is the real enemy." 

Sutt's narrow smile tugged at the comers of his mouth, "Oh, no, your records of your visit to 
Siwenna were complete. The viceroy of the Normannic Sector is interested in creating 
dissension in the Periphery for his own benefit, but only as a side issue. He isn't going to stake 
everything on an expedition to the Galaxy's rim when he has fifty hostile neighbors and an 
emperor to rebel against. I paraphrase your own words." 

"Oh, yes he might, Sutt, if he thinks we're strong enough to be dangerous. And he might think 
so, if we destroy Korell by the main force of frontal attack. We'd have to be considerably more 
subtle." 

"As for instance-" 

Mallow leaned back, "Sutt, I'll give you your chance. I don't need you, but I can use you. So I'll 
tell you what it's all about, and then you can either join me and receive a place in a coalition 
cabinet, or you can play the martyr and rot in jail." 

"Once before you tried that last trick." 

"Not very hard, Sutt. The right time has only just come. Now listen." Mallow's eyes narrowed. 

"When I first landed on Korell," he began, A bribed the Commdor with the trinkets and gadgets 
that form the trader's usual stock. At the start, that, was meant only to get us entrance into a 
steel foundry. I had no plan further than that, but in that I succeeded. I got what I wanted. But it 
was only after my visit to the Empire that I first realized exactly what a weapon I could build that 
trade into. 



"This is a Seldon crisis we're facing, Sutt, and Seldon crises are not solved by individuals but by 
historic forces. Hari Seldon, when he planned our course of future history, did not count on 
brilliant heroics but on the broad sweeps of economics and sociology. So the solutions to the 
various crises must be achieved by the forces that become available to us at the time. 

"In this case, -trade!" 

Sutt raised his eyebrows skeptically and took advantage of the pause, "I hope I am not of 
subnormal intelligence, but the fact is that your vague lecture isn't very illuminating." 

"It will become so," said Mallow. "Consider that until now the power of trade has been 
underestimated. It has been thought that it took a priesthood under our control to make it a 
powerful weapon. That is not so, and this is my contribution to the Galactic situation. Trade 
without priests! Trade alone! It is strong enough. Let us become very simple and specific. Korell 
is now at war with us. Consequently our trade with her has stopped. But, -notice that I am 
making this as simple as a problem in addition, -in the past three years she has based her 
economy more and more upon the nuclear techniques which we have introduced and which 
only we can continue to supply. Now what do you suppose will happen once the tiny nuclear 
generators begin failing, and one gadget after another goes out of commission? 

"The small household appliances go first. After a half a year of this stalemate that you abhor, a 
woman's nuclear knife won't work any more. Her stove begins failing. Her washer doesn't do a 
good job. The temperature-humidity control in her house dies on a hot summer day. What 
happens?" 

He paused for an answer, and Sutt said calmly, "Nothing. People endure a good deal in war." 

"Very true. They do. They'll send their sons out in unlimited numbers to die horribly on broken 
spaceships. They'll bear up under enemy bombardment, if it means they have to live on stale 
bread and foul water in caves half a mile deep. But it's very hard to bear up under little things 
when the patriotic uplift of imminent danger is not present. It's going to, be a stalemate. There 
will be no casualties, no bombardments, no battles. 

"There will just be a knife that won't cut, and a stove that won't cook, and a house that freezes 
in the winter. It will be annoying, and people will grumble." 

Sutt said slowly, wonderingly, "Is that what you're setting your hopes on, man? What do you 
expect? A housewives' rebellion? A Jacquerie? A sudden uprising of butchers and grocers with 
their cleavers and bread-knives shouting 'Give us back our Automatic Super-Kleeno Nuclear 
Washing Machines.'" 

"No, sir," said Mallow, impatiently, "I do not. I expect, however, a general background of 
grumbling and dissatisfaction which will be seized on by more important figures later on." 

"And what more important figures are these?" 

"The manufacturers, the factory owners, the industrialists of Korell. When two years of the 
stalemate have gone, the machines in the factories will, one by one, begin to fail. Those 
industries which we have changed from first to last with our new nuclear gadgets will find 
themselves very suddenly ruined. The heavy industries will find themselves, en masse and at a 



stroke, the owners of nothing but scrap machinery that won't work." 

"The factories ran well enough before you came there, Mallow." 

"Yes, Sutt, so they did - at about one-twentieth the profits, even if you leave out of 
consideration the cost of reconversion to the original pre-nuclear state. With the industrialist 
and financier and the average man all against him, how long will the Commdor hold out?" 

"As long as he pleases, as soon as it occurs to him to get new nuclear generators from the 
Empire." 

And Mallow laughed joyously, "You've missed, Sutt, missed as badly as the Commdor himself. 
You've missed everything, and understood nothing. Look, man, the Empire can replace 
nothing. The Empire has always been a realm of colossal resources. They've calculated 
everything in planets, in stellar systems, in whole sectors of the Galaxy. Their generators are 
gigantic because they thought in gigantic fashion. 

"But we, -we, our little Foundation, our single world almost without metallic resources, -have 
had to work with brute economy. Our generators have had to be the size of our thumb, because 
it was all the metal we could afford. We had to develop new techniques and new methods, 
-techniques and methods the Empire can't follow because they have degenerated past the 
stage where they can make any really vital scientific advance. 

"With all their nuclear shields, large enough to protect a ship, a city, an entire world; they could 
never build one to protect a single man. To supply light and heat to a city, they have motors six 
stories high, -I saw them - where ours could fit into this room. And when I told one of their 
nuclear specialists that a lead container the size of a walnut contained a nuclear generator, he 
almost choked with indignation on the spot. 

"Why, they don't even understand their own colossi any longer. The machines work from 
generation to generation automatically, and the caretakers are a hereditary caste who would be 
helpless if a single D-tube in all that vast structure burnt out. 

"The whole war is a battle between those two systems, between the Empire and the 
Foundation; between the big and the little. To seize control of a world, they bribe with immense 
ships that can make war, but lack all economic significance. We, on the other hand, bribe with 
little things, useless in war, but vital to prosperity and profits. 

"A king, or a Commdor, will take the ships and even make war. Arbitrary rulers throughout 
history have bartered their subjects' welfare for what they consider honor, and glory, and 
conquest. But it's still the little things in life that count - and Asper Argo won't stand up against 
the economic depression that will sweep all Korell in two or three years." 

Sutt was at the window, his back to Mallow and Jael. It was early evening now, and the few 
stars that struggled feebly here at the very rim of the Galaxy sparked against the background of 
the misty, wispy Lens that included the remnants of that Empire, still vast, that fought against 
them. 


Sutt said, "No. You are not the man. 



You don't believe me? 


"I mean I don't trust you. You're smooth-tongued. You befooled me properly when I thought I 
had you under proper care on your first trip to Korell. When I thought I had you cornered at the 
trial, you wormed your way out of it and into the mayor's chair by demagoguery. There is 
nothing straight about you; no motive that hasn't another behind it; no statement that hasn't 
three meanings. 

"Suppose you were a traitor. Suppose your visit to the Empire had brought you a subsidy and a 
promise of power. Your actions would be precisely what they are now. You would bring about a 
war after having strengthened the enemy. You would force the Foundation into inactivity. And 
you would advance a plausible explanation of everything, one so plausible it would convince 
everyone." 

"You mean there'll be no compromise?" asked Mallow, gently. 

"I mean you must get out, by free will or force." 

"I warned you of the only alternative to co-operation." 

Jorane Sutt's face congested with blood in a sudden access of emotion. "And I warn you, 

Hober Mallow of Smyrno, that if you arrest me, there will be no quarter. My men will stop 
nowhere in spreading the truth about you, and the common people of the Foundation will unite 
against their foreign ruler. They have a consciousness of destiny that a Smyrnian can never 
understand - and that consciousness will destroy you." 

Flober Mallow said quietly to the two guards who had entered, "Take him away. Fle's under 
arrest." 

Sutt said, "Your last chance." 

Mallow stubbed out his cigar and never looked up. 

And five minutes later, Jael stirred and said, wearily, "Well, now that you've made a martyr for 
the cause, what next?" 

Mallow stopped playing with the ash tray and looked up, "That's not the Sutt I used to know. 
Fle's a blood-blind bull. Galaxy, he hates me." 

"All the more dangerous then." 

"More dangerous? Nonsense! Fle's lost all power of judgement." 

Jael said grimly, "You're overconfident, Mallow. You're ignoring the possibility of a popular 
rebellion." 

Mallow looked up, grim in his turn, "Once and for all, Jael, there is no possibility of a popular 
rebellion." 

"You're sure of yourself!" 

"I'm sure of the Seldon crisis and the historical validity of their solutions, externally and 



internally. There are some things I didn't tell Suit right now. He tried to control the Foundation 
itself by religious forces as he controlled the outer worlds, and he failed, -which is the surest 
sign that in the Seldon scheme, religion is played out. 

"Economic control worked differently. And to paraphrase that famous Salvor Hardin quotation of 
yours, it's a poor nuclear blaster that won't point both ways. If Korell prospered with our trade, 
so did we. If Korellian factories fail without our trade; and if the prosperity of the outer worlds 
vanishes with commercial isolation; so will our factories fail and our prosperity vanish. 

"And there isn't a factory, not a trading center, not a shipping line that isn't under my control; 
that I couldn't squeeze to nothing if Sutt attempts revolutionary propaganda. Where his 
propaganda succeeds, or even looks as though it might succeed, I will make certain that 
prosperity dies. Where it fails, prosperity will continue, because my factories will remain fully 
staffed. 

"So by the same reasoning which makes me sure that the Korellians will revolt in favor of 
prosperity, I am sure we will not revolt against it. The game will be played out to its end." 

"So then," said Jael, "you're establishing a plutocracy. You're making us a land of traders and 
merchant princes. Then what of the future?" 

Mallow lifted his gloomy face, and exclaimed fiercely, "What business of mine is the future? No 
doubt Seldon has foreseen it and prepared against it. There will be other crises in the time to 
come when money power has become as dead a force as religion is now. Let my successors 
solve those new problems, as I have solved the one of today." 

KORELL-.. .And so after three years of a war which was certainly the most unfought war on 
record, the Republic of Korell surrendered unconditionally, and Hober Mallow took his place 
next to Hari Seldon and Salvor Hardin in the hearts of the people of the Foundation. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 


ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

Isaac Asimov was born in the Soviet Union to his great surprise. He moved quickly to correct 
the situation. When his parents emigrated to the United States, Isaac (three years old at the 
time) stowed away in their baggage. He has been an American citizen since the age of eight. 

Brought up in Brooklyn, and educated in its public schools, he eventually found his way to 
Columbia University and, over the protests of the school administration, managed to annex a 
series of degrees in chemistry, up to and including a Ph.D. He then infiltrated Boston University 
and climbed the academic ladder, ignoring all cries of outrage, until he found himself Professor 
of Biochemistry. 

Meanwhile, at the age of nine, he found the love of his life (in the inanimate sense) when he 
discovered his first science-fiction magazine. By the time he was eleven, he began to write 



stories, and at eighteen, he actually worked up the nerve to submit one. It was rejected. After 
four long months of tribulation and suffering, he sold his first story and, thereafter, he never 
looked back. 

In 1941 , when he was twenty-one years old, he wrote the classic short story "Nightfall" and his 
future was assured. Shortly before that he had begun writing his robot stories, and shortly after 
that he had begun his Foundation series. 


What was left except quantity? At the present time, he has published over 260 books, 
distributed through every major division of the Dewey system of library classification, and 
shows no signs of slowing up. He remains as youthful, as lively, and as lovable as ever, and 
grows more handsome with each year. You can be sure that this is so since he has written this 
little essay himself and his devotion to absolute objectivity is notorious. 

He is married to Janet Jeppson, psychiatrist and writer, has two children by a previous 
marriage, and lives in New York City. 




ASIMOV 


FOUNDATION AND EMPIRE 


THE FOUNDATION NOVELS 


FOUNDATION AND EMPIRE 
ISAAC ASIMOV 


PROLOGUE 


Contents 





PART I THE GENERAL 


1. SEARCH FOR MAGICIANS 

2. THE MAGICIANS 

3. THE DEAD HAND 

4. THE EMPEROR 

5. THE WAR BEGINS 

6. THE FAVORITE 

7. BRIBERY 

8. TO TRANTOR 

9. ON TRANTOR 

10. THE WAR ENDS 

PART II THE MULE 

11. BRIDE AND GROOM 

12. CAPTAIN AND MAYOR 

1 3. LIEUTENANT AND CLOWN 

14. THE MUTANT 

15. THE PSYCHOLOGIST 

16. CONFERENCE 

17. THE VISI-SONOR 

1 8. FALL OF THE FOUNDATION 

1 9. START OF THE SEARCH 

20. CONSPIRATOR 

21. INTERLUDE IN SPACE 

22. DEATH ON NEOTRANTOR 

23. THE RUINS OF TRANTOR 


24. CONVERT 


25. DEATH OF A PSYCHOLOGIST 

26. END OF THE SEARCH 


PROLOGUE 


The Galactic Empire Was Falling. 

It was a colossal Empire, stretching across millions of worlds from arm-end to arm-end of the 
mighty multi-spiral that was the Milky Way. Its fall was colossal, too - and a long one, for it had 
a long way to go. 

It had been falling for centuries before one man became really aware of that fall. That man was 
Hari Seldon, the man who represented the one spark of creative effort left among the gathering 
decay. He developed and brought to its highest pitch the science of psychohistory. 

Psychohistory dealt not with man, but with man-masses. It was the science of mobs; mobs in 
their billions. It could forecast reactions to stimuli with something of the accuracy that a lesser 
science could bring to the forecast of a rebound of a billiard ball. The reaction of one man could 
be forecast by no known mathematics; the reaction of a billion is something else again. 

Hari Seldon plotted the social and economic trends of the time, sighted along the curves and 
foresaw the continuing and accelerating fall of civilization and the gap of thirty thousand years 
that must elapse before a struggling new Empire could emerge from the ruins. 

It was too late to stop that fall, but not too late to narrow the gap of barbarism. Seldon 
established two Foundations at "opposite ends of the Galaxy" and their location was so 
designed that in one short millennium events would knit and mesh so as to force out of them a 
stronger, more permanent, more benevolent Second Empire. 

Foundation (Gnome Press, 1951) has told the story of one of those Foundations during the first 
two centuries of life. 

It began as a settlement of physical scientists on Terminus, a planet at the extreme end of one 
of the spiral arms of the Galaxy. Separated from the turmoil of the Empire, they worked as 
compilers of a universal compendium of knowledge, the Encyclopedia Galactica, unaware of 
the deeper role planned for them by the already-dead Seldon, 

As the Empire rotted, the outer regions fell into the hands of independent "kings." The 
Foundation was threatened by them. However, by playing one petty ruler against another, 
under the leadership of their first mayor, Salvor Hardin, they maintained a precarious 
independence. As sole possessors, of nuclear power among worlds which were losing their 
sciences and falling back on coal and oil, they even established an ascendancy. The 
Foundation became the "religious" center of the neighboring kingdoms. 


Slowly, the Foundation developed a trading economy as the Encyclopedia receded into the 
background. Their Traders, dealing in nuclear gadgets which not even the Empire in its heyday 
could have duplicated for compactness, penetrated hundreds of light-years through the 
Periphery. 

Under Hober Mallow, the first of the Foundation's Merchant Princes, they developed the 
techniques of economic warfare to the point of defeating the Republic of Korell, even though 
that world was receiving support from one of the outer provinces of what was left of the Empire. 

At the end of two hundred years, the Foundation was the most powerful state in the Galaxy, 
except for the remains of the Empire, which, concentrated in the inner third of the Milky Way, 
still controlled three quarters of the population and wealth of the Universe. 

It seemed inevitable that the next danger the Foundation would have to face was the final lash 
of the dying Empire. 

The way must he cleared for the battle of Foundation and Empire. 


PART I 

THE GENERAL 


1. SEARCH FOR MAGICIANS 

BEL RIOSE .... In his relatively short career, Riose earned the title of "The Last of the Imperials'' 
and earned It well. A study of his campaigns reveals him to be the equal of Peurifoy in strategic 
ability and his superior perhaps in his ability to handle men. That he was born in the days of the 
decline of Empire made it all but impossible for him to equal Peurifoy's record as a conqueror. 
Yet he had his chance when, the first of the Empire's generals to do so, he faced the 
Foundation squarely.... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA* 

*AII quotations from the Encyclopedia Galactica here reproduced are taken from the 1 1 6th 
Edition published in 1020 F.E. by the Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with 
permission of the publishers. 

Bel Riose traveled without escort, which is not what court etiquette prescribes for the head of a 
fleet stationed in a yet-sullen stellar system on the Marches of the Galactic Empire. 

But Bel Riose was young and energetic - energetic enough to be sent as near the end of the 
universe as possible by an unemotional and calculating court - and curious besides. Strange 
and improbable tales fancifully-repeated by hundreds and murkily-known to thousands intrigued 





the last faculty; the possibility of a military venture engaged the other two. The combination was 
overpowering. 

He was out of the dowdy ground-car he had appropriated and at the door of the fading mansion 
that was his destination. He waited. The photonic eye that spanned the doorway was alive, but 
when the door opened it was by hand. 

Bel Riose smiled at the old man. "I am Riose-" 

"I recognize you." The old man remained stiffly and unsurprised in his place. "Your business?" 

Riose withdrew a step in a gesture of submission. "One of peace. If you are Ducem Barr, I ask 
the favor of conversation." 

Ducem Barr stepped aside and in the interior of the house the walls glowed into life, The 
general entered into daylight. 

He touched the wall of the study, then stared at his fingertips. "You have this on Siwenna?" 

Barr smiled thinly. "Not elsewhere, I believe. I keep this in repair myself as well as I can. I must 
apologize for your wait at the door. The automatic device registers the presence of a visitor but 
will no longer open the door." 

"Your repairs fall short?" The general's voice was faintly mocking. 

"Parts are no longer available. If you will sit, sir. You drink tea?" 

"On Siwenna? My good sir, it is socially impossible not to drink it here." 

The old patrician retreated noiselessly with a slow bow that was part of the ceremonious legacy 
left by the aristocracy of the last century's better days. 

Riose looked after his host's departing figure, and his studied urbanity grew a bit uncertain at 
the edges. His education had been purely military; his experience likewise. He had, as the 
cliche, has it, faced death many times; but always death of a very familiar and tangible nature, 
Consequently, there is no inconsistency in the fact that the idolized lion of the Twentieth Fleet 
felt chilled in the suddenly musty atmosphere of an ancient room. 

The general recognized the small black-ivroid boxes that lined the shelves to be books. Their 
titles were unfamiliar. He guessed that the large structure at one end of the room was the 
receiver that transmuted the books into sight-and-sound on demand. He had never seen one in 
operation; but he had heard of them. 

Once he had been told that long before, during the golden ages when the Empire had been 
co-extensive with the entire Galaxy, nine houses out of every ten had such receivers - and 
such rows of books. 

But there were borders to watch now; books were for old men. And half the stories told about 
the old days were mythical anyway. More than half. 

The tea arrived, and Riose seated himself. Ducem Barr lifted his cup. "To your honor." 



"Thank you. To yours." 

Ducem Barr said deliberately, "You are said to be young. Thirty-five?" 

"Near enough. Thirty-four." 

"In that case," said Barr, with soft emphasis, "I could not begin better than by informing you 
regretfully that I am not in the possession of love charms, potions, or philtres. Nor am I in the 
least capable of influencing the favors of any young lady as may appeal to you." 

"I have no need of artificial aids in that respect, sir." The complacency undeniably present in the 
general's voice was stirred with amusement. "Do you receive many requests for such 
commodities?" 

"Enough. Unfortunately, an uninformed public tends to confuse scholarship with magicianry, 
and love life seems to be that factor which requires the largest quantity of magical tinkering." 

"And so would seem most natural. But I differ. I connect scholarship with nothing but the means 
of answering difficult questions." 

The Siwennian considered somberly, "You may be as wrong as they!" 

"That may turn out or not." The young general set down his cup in its flaring sheath and it 
refilled. He dropped the offered flavor-capsule into it with a small splash. "Tell me then, 
patrician, who are the magicians? The real ones." 

Barr seemed startled at a title long-unused. He said, "There are no magicians." 

"But people speak of them. Siwenna crawls with the tales of them. There are cults being built 
about them. There is some strange connection between it and those groups among your 
countrymen who dream and drivel of ancient days and what they call liberty and autonomy. 
Eventually the matter might become a danger to the State." 

The old man shook his head. "Why ask me? Do you smell rebellion, with myself at the head?" 

Riose shrugged, "Never. Never. Oh, it is not a thought completely ridiculous. Your father was 
an exile in his day; you yourself a patriot and a chauvinist in yours. It is indelicate in me as a 
guest to mention it, but my business here requires it. And yet a conspiracy now? I doubt it. 
Siwenna has had the spirit beat out of it these three generations." 

The old man replied with difficulty, "I shall be as indelicate a host as you a guest. I shall remind 
you that once a viceroy thought as you did of the spiritless Siwennians. By the orders of that 
viceroy my father became a fugitive pauper, my brothers martyrs, and my sister a suicide. Yet 
that viceroy died a death sufficiently horrible at the hands of these same slavish Siwennians." 

"Ah, yes, and there you touch nearly on something I could wish to say. For three years the 
mysterious death of that viceroy has been no mystery to me. There was a young soldier of his 
personal guard whose actions were of interest. You were that soldier, but there is no need of 
details, I think." 


Barr was quiet. "None. What do you propose? 



"That you answer my questions." 

"Not under threats. I am old enough for life not to mean particularly overmuch." 

"My good sir, these are hard times," said Riose, with meaning, "and you have children and 
friends. You have a country for which you have mouthed phrases of love and folly in the past. 
Come, if I should decide to use force, my aim would not be so poor as to strike you." 

Barr said coldly, "What do you want?" 

Riose held the empty cup as he spoke. "Patrician, listen to me. These are days when the most 
successful soldiers are those whose function is to lead the dress parades that wind through the 
imperial palace grounds on feast days and to escort the sparkling pleasure ships that carry His 
Imperial Splendor to the summer planets. I ... I am a failure. I am a failure at thirty-four, and I 
shall stay a failure. Because, you see, I like to fight. 

"That's why they sent me here. I'm too troublesome at court. I don't fit in with the etiquette. I 
offend the dandies and the lord admirals, but I'm too good a leader of ships and men to be 
disposed of shortly be being marooned in space. So Siwenna is the substitute. It's a frontier 
world; a rebellious and a barren province. It is far away, far enough away to satisfy all. 

"And so I moulder. There are no rebellions to stamp down, and the border viceroys do not 
revolt lately, at least, not since His Imperial Majesty's late father of glorious memory made an 
example of Mountel of Paramay." 

"A strong Emperor," muttered Barr. 

"Yes, and we need more of them. He is my master; remember that. These are his interests I 
guard." 

Barr shrugged unconcernedly. "How does all this relate to the subject?" 

"I'll show you in two words. The magicians I've mentioned come from beyond-out there beyond 
the frontier guards, where the stars are scattered thinly-" 

"'Where the stars are scattered thinly,'" quoted Barr, '"And the cold of space seeps in."' 

"Is that poetry?" Riose frowned. Verse seemed frivolous at the moment. "In any case, they're 
from the Periphery - from the only quarter where I am free to fight for the glory of the Emperor." 

"And thus serve His Imperial Majesty's interests and satisfy your own love of a good fight." 

"Exactly. But I must know what I fight; and there you can help." 

"How do you know?" 

Riose nibbled casually at a cakelet. "Because for three years I have traced every rumor, every 
myth, every breath concerning the magicians - and of all the library of information I have 
gathered, only two isolated facts are unanimously agreed upon, and are hence certainly true. 
The first is that the magicians come from the edge of the Galaxy opposite Siwenna; the second 
is that your father once met a magician, alive and actual, and spoke with him." 



The aged Siwennian stared unblinkingly, and Riose continued, "You had better tell me what 
you know-" 

Barr said thoughtfully, "It would be interesting to tell you certain things. It would be a 
psychohistoric experiment of my own." 

"What kind of experiment?" 

"Psychohistoric." The old man had an unpleasant edge to his smile. Then, crisply, "You'd better 
have more tea. I'm going to make a bit of a speech." 

He leaned far back into the soft cushions of his chair. The wall-lights had softened to a 
pink-ivory glow, which mellowed even the soldier's hard profile. 

Ducem Barr began, "My own knowledge is the result of two accidents; the accidents of being 
born the son of my father, and of being born the native of my country. It begins over forty years 
ago, shortly after the great Massacre, when my father was a fugitive in the forests of the South, 
while I was a gunner in the viceroy's personal fleet. This same viceroy, by the way, who had 
ordered the Massacre, and who died such a cruel death thereafter." 

Barr smiled grimly, and continued, "My father was a Patrician of the Empire and a Senator of 
Siwenna. His name was Onum Barr." 

Riose interrupted impatiently, "I know the circumstances of his exile very well. You needn't 
elaborate upon it." 

The Siwennian ignored him and proceeded without deflection. "During his exile a wanderer 
came upon him; a merchant from the edge of the Galaxy; a young man who spoke a strange 
accent, knew nothing of recent Imperial history, and who was protected by an individual 
force-shield." 

"An individual force-shield?" Riose glared. "You speak extravagance. What generator could be 
powerful enough to condense a shield to the size of a single man? By the Great Galaxy, did he 
carry five thousand myria-tons of nuclear power-source about with him on a little wheeled 
gocart?" 

Barr said quietly, "This is the magician of whom you hear whispers, stories and myths. The 
name 'magician' is not lightly earned. He carried no generator large enough to be seen, but not 
the heaviest weapon you can carry in your hand would have as much as creased the shield he 
bore." 

"Is this all the story there is? Are the magicians born of maunderings of an old man broken by 
suffering and exile?" 

"The story of the magicians antedated even my father, sir. And the proof is more concrete. After 
leaving my father, this merchant that men call a magician visited a Tech-man at the city to 
which my father had guided him, and there he left a shield-generator of the type he wore. That 
generator was retrieved by my father after his return from exile upon the execution of the 
bloody viceroy. It took a long time to find- 



"The generator hangs on the wall behind you, sir. It does not work. It never worked but for the 
first two days; but if you'll look at it, you will see that no one in the Empire ever designed it." 

Bel Riose reached for the belt of linked metal that clung to the curved wall. It came away with a 
little sucking noise as the tiny adhesion-field broke at the touch of his hand. The ellipsoid at the 
apex of the belt held his attention. It was the size of a walnut. 

"This-" he said. 

"Was the generator," nodded Barr. "But it was the generator. The secret of its workings are 
beyond discovery now. Sub-electronic investigations have shown it to be fused into a single 
lump of metal and not all the most careful study of the diffraction patterns have sufficed to 
distinguish the discrete parts that had existed before fusion." 

"Then your 'proof still lingers on the frothy border of words backed by no concrete evidence." 

Barr shrugged. "You have demanded my knowledge of me and threatened its extortion by 
force. If you choose to meet it with skepticism, what is that to me? Do you want me to stop?" 

"Go on!" said the general, harshly. 

"I continued my father's researches after he died, and then the second accident I mentioned 
came to help me, for Siwenna was well known to Hari Seldon." 

"And who is Hari Seldon?" 

"Hari Seldon was a scientist of the reign of the Emperor, Daluben IV. He was a psychohistorian; 
the last and greatest of them all. He once visited Siwenna, when Siwenna was a great 
commercial center, rich in the arts and sciences." 

"Hmph," muttered Riose, sourly, "where is the stagnant planet that does not claim to have been 
a land of overflowing wealth in older days?" 

"The days I speak of are the days of two centuries ago, when the Emperor yet ruled to the 
uttermost star; when Siwenna was a world of the interior and not a semi-barbarian border 
province. In those days, Hari Seldon foresaw the decline of Imperial power and the eventual 
barbarization of the entire Galaxy." 

Riose laughed suddenly. "He foresaw that? Then he foresaw wrong, my good scientist. I 
suppose you call yourself that. Why, the Empire is more powerful now than it has been in a 
millennium. Your old eyes are blinded by the cold bleakness of the border. Come to the inner 
worlds some day; come to the warmth and the wealth of the center." 

The old man shook his head somberly. "Circulation ceases first at the outer edges. It will take a 
while yet for the decay to reach the heart. That is, the apparent, obvious-to-all decay, as distinct 
from the inner decay that is an old story of some fifteen centuries." 

"And so this Hari Seldon foresaw a Galaxy of uniform barbarism," said Riose, good-humoredly. 
"And what then, eh?" 


So he established two foundations at the extreme opposing ends of the Galaxy - Foundations 



of the best, and the youngest, and the strongest, there to breed, grow, and develop. The worlds 
on which they were placed were chosen carefully; as were the times and the surroundings. All 
was arranged in such a way that the future as foreseen by the unalterable mathematics of 
psychohistory would involve their early isolation from the main body of Imperial civilization and 
their gradual growth into the germs of the Second Galactic Empire - cutting an inevitable 
barbarian interregnum from thirty thousand years to scarcely a single thousand." 

"And where did you find out all this? You seem to know it in detail." 

"I don't and never did," said the patrician with composure. "It is the painful result of the piecing 
together of certain evidence discovered by my father and a little more found by myself. The 
basis is flimsy and the superstructure has been romanticized into existence to fill the huge 
gaps. But I am convinced that it is essentially true." 

"You are easily convinced." 

"Am I? It has taken forty years of research." 

"Hmph. Forty years! I could settle the question in forty days. In fact, I believe I ought to. It would 
be - different." 

"And how would you do that?" 

"In the obvious way. I could become an explorer. I could find this Foundation you speak of and 
observe with my eyes. You say there are two?" 

"The records speak of two. Supporting evidence has been found only for one, which is 
understandable, for the other is at the extreme end of the long axis of the Galaxy." 

"Well, we'll visit the near one." The general was on his feet, adjusting his belt. 

"You know where to go?" asked Barr. 

"In a way. In the records of the last viceroy but one, he whom you murdered so effectively, 
there are suspicious tales of outer barbarians. In fact, one of his daughters was given in 
marriage to a barbarian prince. I'll find my way." 

Fie held out a hand. "I thank you for your hospitality." 

Ducem Barr touched the hand with his fingers and bowed formally. "Your visit was a great 
honor." 

"As for the information you gave me," continued Bel Riose, "I'll know how to thank you for that 
when I return." 


Ducem Barr followed his guest submissively to the outer door and said quietly to the 
disappearing ground-car, "And if you return." 



2. THE MAGICIANS 

FOUNDATION ... With forty years of expansion behind them, the Foundation faced the menace 
of Riose. The epic days of Hardin and Mallow had gone and with them were gone a certain 
hard daring and resolution.... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

There were four men in the room, and the room was set apart where none could approach. The 
four men looked at each other quickly, then lengthily at the table that separated them. There 
were four bottles on the table and as many full glasses, but no one had touched them. 

And then the man nearest the door stretched out an arm and drummed a slow, padding rhythm 
on the table. 

He said, "Are you going to sit and wonder forever? Does it matter who speaks first?" 

"Speak you first, then," said the big man directly opposite. "You're the one who should be the 
most worried." 

Sennett Forell chuckled with noiseless nonhumor. "Because you think I'm the richest. Well - Or 
is it that you expect me to continue as I have started. I don't suppose you forget that it was my 
own Trade Fleet that captured this scout ship of theirs." 

"You had the largest fleet," said a third, "and the best pilots; which is another way of saying you 
are the richest. It was a fearful risk; and would have been greater for one of us." 

Sennett Forell chuckled again. "There is a certain facility in risk-taking that I inherit from my 
father. After all, the essential point in running a risk is that the returns justify it. As to which, 
witness the fact that the enemy ship was isolated and captured without loss to ourselves or 
warning to the others." 

That Forell was a distant collateral relative of the late great Hober Mallow was recognized 
openly throughout the Foundation. That he was Mallow's illegitimate son was accepted quietly 
to just as wide an extent. 

The fourth man blinked his little eyes stealthily. Words crept out from between thin lips. "It is 
nothing to sleep over in fat triumph, this grasping of little ships. Most likely, it will but anger that 
young man further." 

"You think he needs motives?" questioned Forell, scornfully. 

"I do, and this might, or will, save him the vexation of having to manufacture one." The fourth 
man spoke slowly, "Hober Mallow worked otherwise. And Salvor Hardin. They let others take 
the uncertain paths of force, while they maneuvered surely and quietly." 

Forell shrugged. "This ship has proved its value. Motives are cheap and we have sold this one 
at a profit." There was the satisfaction of the born Trader in that. He continued, "The young 
man is of the old Empire." 

"We knew that," said the second man, the big one, with rumbling discontent. 



"We suspected that," corrected Forell, softly. "If a man comes with ships and wealth, with 
overtures of friendliness, and with offers of trade, it is only sensible to refrain from antagonizing 
him, until we are certain that the profitable mask is not a face after all. But now-" 

There was a faint whining edge to the third man's voice as he spoke. "We might have been 
even more careful. We might have found out first. We might have found out before allowing him 
to leave. It would have been the truest wisdom." 

"That has been discussed and disposed of," said Forell. Fie waved the subject aside with a 
flatly final gesture. 

"The government is soft," complained the third man. "The mayor is an idiot." 

The fourth man looked at the other three in turn and removed the stub of a cigar from his 
mouth. Fie dropped it casually into the slot at his right where it disappeared with a silent flash of 
disruption. 

Fie said sarcastically, "I trust the gentleman who last spoke is speaking through habit only. We 
can afford to remember here that we are the government." 

There was a murmur of agreement. 

The fourth man's little eyes were on the table. "Then let us leave government policy alone. This 
young man ... this stranger might have been a possible customer. There have been cases. All 
three of you tried to butter him into an advance contract. We have an agreement - a 
gentleman's agreement - against it, but you tried." 

"So did you," growled the second man. 

I know it," said the fourth, calmly. 

"Then let's forget what we should have done earlier," interrupted Forell impatiently, "and 
continue with what we should do now. In any case, what if we had imprisoned him, or killed 
him, what then? We are not certain of his intentions even yet, and at the worst, we could not 
destroy an Empire by snipping short one man's life. There might be navies upon navies waiting 
just the other side of his nonreturn." 

"Exactly," approved the fourth man. "Now what did you get out of your captured ship? I'm too 
old for all this talking." 

"It can be told in a few enough words," said Forell, grimly. "Fle's an Imperial general or 
whatever rank corresponds to that over there. Fle's a young man who has proved his military 
brilliance - so I am told - and who is the idol of his men. Quite a romantic career. The stories 
they tell of him are no doubt half lies, but even so it makes him out to be a type of wonder 
man." 

"Who are the 'they'?" demanded the second man. 

"The crew of the captured ship. Look, I have all their statements recorded on micro-film, which I 
have in a secure place. Later on, if you wish, you can see them. You can talk to the men 
yourselves, if you think it necessary. I've told you the essentials." 



"How did you get it out of them? How do you know they're telling the truth?" 

Forell frowned. "I wasn't gentle, good sir. I knocked them about, drugged them crazy, and used 
the Probe unmercifully. They talked. You can believe them." 

"In the old days," said the third man, with sudden irrelevance, "they would have used pure 
psychology. Painless, you know, but very sure. No chance of deceit." 

"Well, there is a good deal they had in the old days," said Forell, dryly. "These are the new 
days." 

"But," said the fourth man, "what did he want here, this general, this romantic wonder-man?" 
There was a dogged, weary persistence about him. 

Forell glanced at him sharply. "You think he confides the details of state policy to his crew? 
They didn't know. There was nothing to get out of them in that respect, and I tried, Galaxy 
knows." 

"Which leaves us-" 

"To draw our own conclusions, obviously." Forell's fingers were tapping quietly again. "The 
young man is a military leader of the Empire, yet he played the pretense of being a minor 
princeling of some scattered stars in an odd comer of the Periphery. That alone would assure 
us that his real motives are such as it would not benefit him to have us know. Combine the 
nature of his profession with the fact that the Empire has already subsidized one attack upon us 
in my father's time, and the possibilities become ominous. That first attack failed. I doubt that 
the Empire owes us love for that." 

"There is nothing in your findings," questioned the fourth man guardedly, "that makes for 
certainty? You are withholding nothing?" 

Forell answered levelly, "I can't withhold anything. From here on there can be no question of 
business rivalry. Unity is forced upon us." 

"Patriotism?" There was a sneer in the third man's thin voice. 

"Patriotism be damned," said Forell quietly. "Do you think I give two puffs of nuclear emanation 
for the future Second Empire? Do you think I'd risk a single Trade mission to smooth its path? 
But - do you suppose Imperial conquest will help my business or yours? If the Empire wins, 
there will be a sufficient number of yearning carrion crows to crave the rewards of battle." 

"And we're the rewards," added the fourth man, dryly. 

The second man broke his silence suddenly, and shifted his bulk angrily, so that the chair 
creaked under him. "But why talk of that. The Empire can't win, can it? There is Seldon's 
assurance that we will form the Second Empire in the end. This is only another crisis. There 
have been three before this." 

"Only another crisis, yes!" Forell brooded. "But - in the case of the first two, we had Salvor 
Hardin to guide us; in the third, there was Hober Mallow. Whom have we now?" 



He looked at the others somberly and continued, "Seldon's rules of psychohistory on which it is 
so comforting to rely probably have as one of the contributing variables, a certain normal 
initiative on the part of the people of the Foundation themselves. Seldon's laws help those who 
help themselves." 

"The times make the man," said the third man. "There's another proverb for you." 

"You can't count on that, not with absolute assurance," grunted Forell. "Now the way it seems 
to me is this. If this is the fourth crisis, then Seldon has foreseen it. If he has, then it can be 
beaten, and there should be a way of doing it. 

"Now The Empire is stronger than we; it always has been. But this is the first time we are in 
danger of its direct attack, so that strength becomes terribly menacing. If it can be beaten, it 
must be once again as in all past crises by a method other than pure force. We must find the 
weak side of our enemy and attack it there." 

"And what is that weak side?" asked the fourth man. "Do you intend advancing a theory?" 

"No. That is the point I'm leading up to. Our great leaders of the past always saw the weak 
points of their enemies and aimed at that. But now-" 

There was a helplessness in his voice, and for a moment none volunteered a comment. 

Then the fourth man said, "We need spies." 

Forell turned to him eagerly. "Right! I don't know when the Empire will attack. There may be 
time." 

"Hober Mallow himself entered the Imperial dominions," suggested the second man. 

But Forell shook his head. "Nothing so direct. None of us are precisely youthful; and all of us 
are rusty with red-tape and administrative detail. We need young men that are in the field 
now-" 

"The independent traders?" asked the fourth man. 

And Forell nodded his, head and whispered, "If there is yet time-" 


3. THE DEAD HAND 


Bel Riose interrupted his annoyed stridings to look up hopefully when his aide entered. "Any 
word of the Starlet ?" 

"None. The scouting party has quartered space, but the instruments have detected nothing. 
Commander Yume has reported that the Fleet is ready for an immediate attack in retaliation." 

The general shook his head. "No, not for a patrol ship. Not yet. Tell him to double - Wait! I'll 
write out the message. Have it coded and transmitted by tight beam." 

He wrote as he talked and thrust the paper at the waiting officer. "Has the Siwennian arrived 



yet?" 

"Not yet." 

"Well, see to it that he is brought in here as soon as he does arrive." 

The aide saluted crisply and left. Riose resumed his caged stride. 

When the door opened a second time, it was Ducem Barr that stood on the threshold. Slowly, 
in the footsteps of the ushering aide, he stepped into the garish room whose ceiling was an 
ornamented holographic model of the Galaxy, and in the center of which Bel Riose stood in 
field uniform. 

"Patrician, good day!" The general pushed forward a chair with his foot and gestured the aide 
away with a "That door is to stay closed till I open it." 

He stood before the Siwennian, legs apart, hand grasping wrist behind his back, balancing 
himself slowly, thoughtfully, on the balls of his feet. 

Then, harshly, "Patrician, are you a loyal subject of the Emperor?" 

Barr, who had maintained an indifferent silence till then, wrinkled a noncommittal brow. "I have 
no cause to love Imperial rule." 

"Which is a long way from saying that you would be a traitor." 

"True. But the mere act of not being a traitor is also a long way from agreeing to be an active 
helper." 

"Ordinarily also true. But to refuse your help at this point," said Riose, deliberately, "will be 
considered treason and treated as such." 

Barr's eyebrows drew together. "Save your verbal cudgels for your subordinates. A simple 
statement of your needs and wants will suffice me here." 

Riose sat down and crossed his legs. "Barr, we had an earlier discussion half a year ago." 
"About your magicians?" 

"Yes. You remember what I said I would do." 

Barr nodded. His arms rested limply in his lap. "You were going to visit them in their haunts, 
and you've been away these four months. Did you find them?" 

"Find them? That I did," cried Riose. His lips were stiff as he spoke. It seemed to require effort 
to refrain from grinding molars. "Patrician, they are not magicians; they are devils. It is as far 
from belief as the outer galaxies from here. Conceive it! It is a world the size of a handkerchief, 
of a fingernail; with resources so petty, power so minute, a population so microscopic as would 
never suffice the most backward worlds of the dusty prefects of the Dark Stars. Yet with that, a 
people so proud and ambitious as to dream quietly and methodically of Galactic rule. 

"Why, they are so sure of themselves that they do not even hurry. They move slowly, 



phlegmatically; they speak of necessary centuries. They swallow worlds at leisure; creep 
through systems with dawdling complacence. 

"And they succeed. There is no one to stop them. They have built up a filthy trading community 
that curls its tentacles about the systems further than their toy ships dare reach. For parsecs, 
their Traders - which is what their agents call themselves - penetrate." 

Ducem Barr interrupted the angry flow. "How much of this information is definite; and how much 
is simply fury?" 

The soldier caught his breath and grew calmer. "My fury does not blind me. I tell you I was in 
worlds nearer to Siwenna than to the Foundation, where the Empire was a myth of the 
distance, and where Traders were living truths. We ourselves were mistaken for Traders." 

"The Foundation itself told you they aimed at Galactic dominion?" 

"Told me!" Riose was violent again. "It was not a matter of telling me. The officials said nothing. 
They spoke business exclusively. But I spoke to ordinary men. I absorbed the ideas of the 
common folk; their 'manifest destiny,' their calm acceptance of a great future. It is a thing that 
can't be hidden; a universal optimism they don't even try to hide." 

The Siwennian openly displayed a certain quiet satisfaction. "You will notice that so far it would 
seem to bear out quite accurately my reconstruction of events from the paltry data on the 
subject that I have gathered." 

"It is no doubt," replied Riose with vexed sarcasm, "a tribute to your analytical powers. It is also 
a hearty and bumptious commentary on the growing danger to the domains of His Imperial 
Majesty." 

Barr shrugged his unconcern, and Riose leaned forward suddenly, to seize the old man's 
shoulders and stare with curious gentleness into his eyes. 

He said, "Now, patrician, none of that. I have no desire to be barbaric. For my part, the legacy 
of Siwennian hostility to the Imperium is an odious burden, and one which I would do 
everything in my power to wipe out. But my province is the military and interference in civil 
affairs is impossible. It would bring about my recall and ruin my usefulness at once. You see 
that? I know you see that. Between yourself and myself then, let the atrocity of forty years ago 
be repaid by your vengeance upon its author and so forgotten. I need your help. I frankly admit 
it." 

There was a world of urgency in the young man's voice, but Ducem Barr's head shook gently 
and deliberately in a negative gesture. 

Riose said pleadingly, "You don't understand, patrician, and I doubt my ability to make you. I 
can't argue on your ground. You're the scholar, not I. But this I can tell you. Whatever you think 
of the Empire, you will admit its great services. Its armed forces have committed isolated 
crimes, but in the main they have been a force for peace and civilization. It was the Imperial 
navy that created the Pax Imperium that ruled over all the Galaxy for thousands of years. 
Contrast the millennia of peace under the Sun-and-Spaceship of the Empire with the millennia 
of interstellar anarchy that preceded it. Consider the wars and devastations of those old days 



and tell me if, with all its faults, the Empire is not worth preserving. 

"Consider," he drove on forcefully, "to what the outer fringe of the Galaxy is reduced in these 
days of their breakaway and independence, and ask yourself if for the sake of a petty revenge 
you would reduce Siwenna from its position as a province under the protection of a mighty 
Navy to a barbarian world in a barbarian Galaxy, all immersed in its fragmentary independence 
and its common degradation and misery." 

"Is it so bad - so soon?" murmured the Siwennian. 

"No," admitted Riose. "We would be safe ourselves no doubt, were our lifetimes quadrupled. 

But it is for the Empire I fight; that, and a military tradition which is something for myself alone, 
and which I can not transfer to you. It is a military tradition built on the Imperial institution which 
I serve." 

"You are getting mystical, and I always find it difficult to penetrate another person's mysticism." 
"No matter. You understand the danger of this Foundation." 

"It was I who pointed out what you call the danger before ever you headed outward from 
Siwenna." 

"Then you realize that it must be stopped in embryo or perhaps not at all. You have known of 
this Foundation before anyone had heard of it. You know more about it than anyone else in the 
Empire. You probably know how it might best be attacked; and you can probably forewarn me 
of its countermeasures. Come, let us be friends." 

Ducem Barr rose. Fie said flatly, "Such help as I could give you means nothing. So I will make 
you free of it in the face of your strenuous demand." 

"I will be the judge of its meaning." 

"No, I am serious. Not all the might of the Empire could avail to crush this pygmy world." 

"Why not?" Bel Riose's eyes glistened fiercely. "No, stay where you are. I'll tell you when you 
may leave. Why not? If you think I underestimate this enemy I have discovered, you are wrong. 
Patrician," he spoke reluctantly, "I lost a ship on my return. I have no proof that it fell into the 
hands of the Foundation; but it has not been located since and were it merely an accident, its 
dead hulk should, certainly have been found along the route we took. It is not an important loss 
- less than the tenth part of a fleabite, but it may mean that the Foundation has already opened 
hostilities. Such eagerness and such disregard for consequences might mean secret forces of 
which I know nothing. Can you help me then by answering a specific question? What is their 
military power?" 

"I haven't any notion." 

"Then explain yourself on your own terms. Why do you say the Empire can not defeat this small 
enemy?" 

The Siwennian seated himself once more and looked away from Riose's fixed glare. Fie spoke 
heavily, "Because I have faith in the principles of psychohistory. It is a strange science. It 



reached mathematical maturity with one man, Hari Seldon, and died with him, for no man since 
has been capable of manipulating its intricacies. But in that short period, it proved itself the 
most powerful instrument ever invented for the study of humanity. Without pretending to predict 
the actions of individual humans, it formulated definite laws capable of mathematical analysis 
and extrapolation to govern and predict the mass action of human groups." 

"So-" 

"It was that psychohistory which Seldon and the group he worked with applied in full force to 
the establishment of the Foundation. The place, time, and conditions all conspire 
mathematically and so, inevitably, to the development of a Second Galactic Empire." 

Riose's voice trembled with indignation. "You mean that this art of his predicts that I would 
attack the Foundation and lose such and such a battle for such and such a reason? You are 
trying to say that I am a silly robot following a predetermined course into destruction." 

"No," replied the old patrician, sharply. "I have already said that the science had nothing to do 
with individual actions. It is the vaster background that has been foreseen." 

"Then we stand clasped tightly in the forcing hand of the Goddess of Historical Necessity." 

"Of Psyc/7ohistorical Necessity," prompted Barr, softly. 

"And if I exercise my prerogative of freewill? If I choose to attack next year, or not to attack at 
all? Flow pliable is the Goddess? Flow resourceful?" 

Barr shrugged. "Attack now or never; with a single ship, or all the force in the Empire; by 
military force or economic pressure; by candid declaration of war or by treacherous ambush. 

Do whatever you wish in your fullest exercise of freewill. You will still lose." 

"Because of Hari Seldon's dead hand?" 

"Because of the dead hand of the mathematics of human behavior that can neither be stopped, 
swerved, nor delayed." 

The two faced each other in deadlock, until the general stepped back. 

Fie said simply, "I'll take that challenge. It's a dead hand against a living will." 


4. THE EMPEROR 

CLEON II commonly called "The Great. " The last strong Emperor of the First Empire, he is 
important for the political and artistic renaissance that took place during his long reign. He is 
best known to romance, however, for his connection with Bel Riose, and to the common man, 
he is simply "Riose's Emperor. " It is important not to allow events of the last year of his reign to 
overshadow forty years of... 


ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 



Cleon II was Lord of the Universe. Cleon II also suffered from a painful and undiagnosed 
ailment. By the queer twists of human affairs, the two statements are not mutually exclusive, 
nor even particularly incongruous. There have been a wearisomely large number of precedents 
in history. 

But Cleon II cared nothing for such precedents. To meditate upon a long list of similar cases 
would not ameliorate personal suffering an electron's worth. It soothed him as little to think that 
where his great-grandfather had been the pirate ruler of a dust-speck planet, he himself slept in 
the pleasure palace of Ammenetik the Great, as heir of a line of Galactic rulers stretching 
backward into a tenuous past. It was at present no source of comfort to him that the efforts of 
his father had cleansed the realm of its leprous patches of rebellion and restored it to the peace 
and unity it had enjoyed under Stanel VI; that, as a consequence, in the twenty-five years of his 
reign, not one cloud of revolt had misted his burnished glory. 

The Emperor of the Galaxy and the Lord of All whimpered as he lolled his head backward into 
the invigorating plane of force about his pillows. It yielded in a softness that did not touch, and 
at the pleasant tingle, Cleon relaxed a bit. He sat up with difficulty and stared morosely at the 
distant walls of the grand chamber. It was a bad room to be alone in. It was too big. All the 
rooms were too big. 

But better to be alone during these crippling bouts than to endure the prinking of the courtiers, 
their lavish sympathy, their soft, condescending dullness. Better to be alone than to watch 
those insipid masks behind which spun the tortuous speculations on the chances of death and 
the fortunes of the succession. 

His thoughts hurried him. There were his three sons; three straight-backed youths full of 
promise and virtue. Where did they disappear on these bad days? Waiting, no doubt. Each 
watching the other; and all watching him. 

He stirred uneasily. And now Brodrig craved audience. The low-born, faithful Brodrig; faithful 
because he was hated with a unanimous and cordial hatred that was the only point of 
agreement between the dozen cliques that divided his court. 

Brodrig - the faithful favorite, who had to be faithful, since unless he owned the fastest 
speed-ship in the Galaxy and took to it the day of the Emperor's death, it would be the 
radiation-chamber the day after. 

Cleon II touched the smooth knob on the arm of his great divan, and the huge door at the end 
of the room dissolved to transparency. 

Brodrig advanced along the crimson carpet, and knelt to kiss the Emperor's limp hand. 

"Your health, sire?" asked the Privy Secretary in a low tone of becoming anxiety. 

"I live," snapped the Emperor with exasperation, "if you can call it life where every scoundrel 
who can read a book of medicine uses me as a blank and receptive field for his feeble 
experiments. If there is a conceivable remedy, chemical, physical, or nuclear, which has not yet 
been tried, why then, some learned babbler from the far comers of the realm will arrive 
tomorrow to try it. And still another newly-discovered book, or forgery morelike, will be used as 



authority. 

"By my father's memory," he rumbled savagely, "it seems there is not a biped extant who can 
study a disease before his eyes with those same eyes. There is not one who can count a 
pulse-beat without a book of the ancients before him. I'm sick and they call it 'unknown.' The 
fools! If in the course of millennia, human bodies learn new methods of falling askew, it remains 
uncovered by the studies of the ancients and uncurable forevermore. The ancients should be 
alive now, or I then." 

The Emperor ran down to a low-breathed curse while Brodrig waited dutifully. Cleon II said 
peevishly, "How many are waiting outside?" 

He jerked his head in the direction of the door. 

Brodrig said patiently, "The Great Hall holds the usual number." 

"Well, let them wait. State matters occupy me. Have the Captain of the Guard announce it. Or 
wait, forget the state matters. Just have it announced I hold no audience, and let the Captain of 
the Guard look doleful. The jackals among them may betray themselves." The Emperor 
sneered nastily. 

"There is a rumor, sire," said Brodrig, smoothly, "that it is your heart that troubles you." 

The Emperor's smile was little removed from the previous sneer. "It will hurt others more than 
myself if any act prematurely on that rumor. But what is it you want. Let's have this over." 

Brodrig rose from his kneeling posture at a gesture of permission and said, "It concerns 
General Bel Riose, the Military Governor of Siwenna." 

"Riose?" Cleon II frowned heavily. "I don't place him. Wait, is he the one who sent that quixotic 
message some months back? Yes, I remember. He panted for permission to enter a career of 
conquest for the glory of the Empire and Emperor." 

"Exactly, sire." 

The Emperor laughed shortly. "Did you think I had such generals left me, Brodrig? He seems to 
be a curious atavism. What was the answer? I believe you took care of it." 

"I did, sire. He was instructed to forward additional information and to take no steps involving 
naval action without further orders from the Imperium." 

"Hmp. Safe enough. Who is this Riose? Was he ever at court?" 

Brodrig nodded and his mouth twisted ever so little. "He began his career as a cadet in the 
Guards ten years back. He had part in that affair off the Lemul Cluster." 

"The Lemul Cluster? You know, my memory isn't quite - Was that the time a young soldier 
saved two ships of the line from a head-on collision by ... uh ... something or other?" He waved 
a hand impatiently. "I don't remember the details. It was something heroic." 

"Riose was that soldier. He received a promotion for it," Brodrig said dryly, "and an appointment 



to field duty as captain of a ship." 

"And now Military Governor of a border system and still young. Capable man, Brodrig!" 

"Unsafe, sire. He lives in the past. He is a dreamer of ancient times, or rather, of the myths of 
what ancient times used to be. Such men are harmless in themselves, but their queer lack of 
realism makes them fools for others." He added, "His men, I understand, are completely under 
his control. He is one of your popular generals." 

"Is he?" the Emperor mused. "Well, come, Brodrig, I would not wish to be served entirely by 
incompetents. They certainly set no enviable standard for faithfulness themselves." 

"An incompetent traitor is no danger. It is rather the capable men who must be watched." 

"You among them, Brodrig?" Cleon II laughed and then grimaced with pain. "Well, then, you 
may forget the lecture for the while. What new development is there in the matter of this young 
conqueror? I hope you haven't come merely to reminisce." 

"Another message, sire, has been received from General Riose." 

"Oh? And to what effect?" 

"He has spied out the land of these barbarians and advocates an expedition in force. His 
arguments are long and fairly tedious. It is not worth annoying Your Imperial Majesty with it at 
present, during your indisposition. Particularly since it will be discussed at length during the 
session of the Council of Lords." He glanced sidewise at the Emperor. 

Cleon II frowned. "The Lords? Is it a question for them, Brodrig? It will mean further demands 
for a broader interpretation of the Charter. It always comes to that." 

"It can't be avoided, sire. It might have been better if your august father could have beaten 
down the last rebellion without granting the Charter. But since it is here, we must endure it for 
the while." 

"You're right, I suppose. Then the Lords it must be. But why all this solemnity, man? It is, after 
all, a minor point. Success on a remote border with limited troops is scarcely a state affair." 

Brodrig smiled narrowly. He said coolly, "It is an affair of a romantic idiot; but even a romantic 
idiot can be a deadly weapon when an unromantic rebel uses him as a tool. Sire, the man was 
popular here and is popular there. He is young. If he annexes a vagrant barbarian planet or 
two, he will become a conqueror. Now a young conqueror who has proven his ability to rouse 
the enthusiasm of pilots, miners, tradesmen and suchlike rabble is dangerous at any time. Even 
if he lacked the desire to do to you as your august father did to the usurper, Ricker, then one of 
our loyal Lords of the Domain may decide to use him as his weapon." 

Cleon II moved an arm hastily and stiffened with pain. Slowly he relaxed, but his smile was 
weak, and his voice a whisper. "You are a valuable subject, Brodrig. You always suspect far 
more than is necessary, and I have but to take half your suggested precautions to be utterly 
safe. We'll put it up to the Lords. We shall see what they say and take our measure accordingly. 
The young man, I suppose, has made no hostile moves yet." 



"He report none. But already he asks for reinforcements." 

"Reinforcements!" The Emperor's eyes narrowed with wonder. "What force has he?" 

"Ten ships of the line, sire, with a full complement of auxiliary vessels. Two of the ships are 
equipped with motors salvaged from the old Grand Fleet, and one has a battery of power 
artillery from the same source. The other ships are new ones of the last fifty years, but are 
serviceable, nevertheless." 

"Ten ships would seem adequate for any reasonable undertaking. Why, with less than ten ships 
my father won his first victories against the usurper. Who are these barbarians he's fighting?" 

The Privy Secretary raised a pair of supercilious eyebrows. "He refers to them as 'the 
Foundation.'" 

"The Foundation? What is it?" 

"There is no record of it, sire. I have searched the archives carefully. The area of the Galaxy 
indicated falls within the ancient province of Anacreon, which two centuries since gave itself up 
to brigandage, barbarism, and anarchy. There is no planet known as Foundation in the 
province, however. There was a vague reference to a group of scientists sent to that province 
just before its separation from our protection. They were to prepare an Encyclopedia." He 
smiled thinly. "I believe they called it the Encyclopedia Foundation." 

"Well," the Emperor considered it somberly, "that seems a tenuous connection to advance." 

"I'm not advancing it, sire. No word was ever received from that expedition after the growth of 
anarchy in that region. If their descendants still live and retain their name, then they have 
reverted to barbarism most certainly." 

"And so he wants reinforcements." The Emperor bent a fierce glance at his secretary. "This is 
most peculiar; to propose to fight savages with ten ships and to ask for more before a blow is 
struck. And yet I begin to remember this Riose; he was a handsome boy of loyal family. 

Brodrig, there are complications in this that I don't penetrate. There may be more importance in 
it than would seem." 

His fingers played idly with the gleaming sheet that covered his stiffened legs. He said, "I need 
a man out there; one with eyes, brains and loyalty. Brodrig-" 

The secretary bent a submissive head. "And the ships, sire?" 

"Not yet!" The Emperor moaned softly as he shifted his position in gentle stages. He pointed a 
feeble finger, "Not till we know more. Convene the Council of Lords for this day week. It will be 
a good opportunity for the new appropriation as well. I'll put that through or lives will end." 

He leaned his aching head into the soothing tingle of the force-field pillow, "Go now, Brodrig, 
and send in the doctor. He's the worst bumbler of the lot." 



5. THE WAR BEGINS 

From the radiating point of Siwenna, the forces of the Empire reached out cautiously into the 
black unknown of the Periphery. Giant ships passed the vast distances that separated the 
vagrant stars at the Galaxy's rim, and felt their way around the outermost edge of Foundation 
influence. 

Worlds isolated in their new barbarism of two centuries felt the sensation once again of Imperial 
overlords upon their soil. Allegiance was sworn in the face of the massive artillery covering 
capital cities. 

Garrisons were left; garrisons of men in Imperial uniform with the Spaceship-and-Sun insignia 
upon their shoulders. The old men took notice and remembered once again the forgotten tales 
of their grandfathers' fathers of the times when the universe was big, and rich, and peaceful 
and that same Spaceship-and-Sun ruled all. 

Then the great ships passed on to weave their line of forward bases further around the 
Foundation. And as each world was knotted into its proper place in the fabric, the report went 
back to Bel Riose at the General Fleadquarters he had established on the rocky barrenness of 
a wandering sunless planet. 

Now Riose relaxed and smiled grimly at Ducem Barr. "Well, what do you think, patrician?" 

"I? Of what value are my thoughts? I am not a military man." He took in with one wearily 
distasteful glance the crowded disorder of the rock-bound room which had been carved out of 
the wall of a cavern of artificial air, light, and heat which marked the single bubble of life in the 
vastness of a bleak world. 

"For the help I could give you," he muttered, "or would want to give you, you might return me to 
Siwenna." 

"Not yet. Not yet." The general turned his chair to the comer which held the huge, 
brilliantly-transparent sphere that mapped the old Imperial prefect of Anacreon and its 
neighboring sectors. "Later, when this is over, you will go back to your books and to more. I'll 
see to it that the estates of your family are restored to you and to your children for the rest of 
time." 

"Thank you," said Barr, with faint irony, "but I lack your faith in the happy outcome of all this." 

Riose laughed harshly, "Don't start your prophetic croakings again. This map speaks louder 
than all your woeful theories." He caressed its curved invisible outline gently. "Can you read a 
map in radial projection? You can? Well, here, see for yourself. The stars in gold represent the 
Imperial territories. The red stars are those in subjection to the Foundation and the pink are 
those which are probably within the economic sphere of influence. Now watch-" 

Riose's hand covered a rounded knob, and slowly an area of hard, white pinpoints changed into 
a deepening blue. Like an inverted cup they folded about the red and the pink. 

"Those blue stars have been taken over by my forces," said Riose with quiet satisfaction, "and 



they still advance. No opposition has appeared anywhere. The barbarians are quiet. And 
particularly, no opposition has come from Foundation forces. They sleep peacefully and well." 

"You spread your force thinly, don't you?" asked Barr. 

"As a matter of fact," said Riose, "despite appearances, I don't. The key points which I garrison 
and fortify are relatively few, but they are carefully chosen. The result is that the force 
expended is small, but the strategic result great. There are many advantages, more than would 
ever appear to anyone who hasn't made a careful study of spatial tactics, but it is apparent to 
anyone, for instance, that I can base an attack from any point in an inclosing sphere, and that 
when I am finished it will be impossible for the Foundation to attack at flank or rear. I shall have 
no flank or rear with respect to them. 

"This strategy of the Previous Enclosure has been tried before, notably in the campaigns of 
Loris VI, some two thousand years ago, but always imperfectly; always with the knowledge and 
attempted interference of the enemy. This is different." 

"The ideal textbook case?" Barr's voice was languid and indifferent. 

Riose was impatient, "You still think my forces will fail?" 

"They must." 

"You understand that there is no case in military history where an Enclosure has been 
completed that the attacking forces have not eventually won, except where an outside Navy 
exists in sufficient force to break the Enclosure." 

"If you say so." 

"And you still adhere to your faith." 

"Yes." 

Riose shrugged. "Then do so." 

Barr allowed the angry silence to continue for a moment, then asked quietly, "Flave you 
received an answer from the Emperor?" 

Riose removed a cigarette from a wall container behind his head, placed a filter tip between his 
lips and puffed it aflame carefully. Fie said, "You mean my request for reinforcements? It came, 
but that's all. Just the answer." 

"No ships." 

"None. I half-expected that. Frankly, patrician, I should never have allowed myself to be 
stampeded by your theories into requesting them in the first place. It puts me in a false light." 

"Does it?" 

"Definitely. Ships are at a premium. The civil wars of the last two centuries have smashed up 
more than half of the Grand Fleet and what's left is in pretty shaky condition. You know it isn't 
as if the ships we build these days are worth anything. I don't think there's a man in the Galaxy 



today who can build a first-rate hypernuclear motor." 

"I knew that," said the Siwennian. His eyes were thoughtful and introspective. "I didn't know that 
yoi/knew it. So his Imperial Majesty can spare no ships. Psychohistory could have predicted 
that; in fact, it probably did. I should say that Hari Seldon's dead hand wins the opening round." 

Riose answered sharply, "I have enough ships as it is. Your Seldon wins nothing. Should the 
situation turn more serious, then more ships will be available. As yet, the Emperor does not 
know all the story." 

"Indeed? What haven't you told him?" 

"Obviously - your theories." Riose looked sardonic. "The story is, with all respect to you, 
inherently improbable. If developments warrant; if events supply me with proof, then, but only 
then, would I make out the case of mortal danger. 

"And in addition," Riose drove on, casually, "the story, unbolstered by fact, has a flavor of lese 
majeste that could scarcely be pleasant to His Imperial Majesty." 

The old patrician smiled. "You mean that telling him his august throne is in danger of 
subversion by a parcel of ragged barbarians from the ends of the universe is not a warning to 
be believed or appreciated. Then you expect nothing from him." 

"Unless you count a special envoy as something." 

"And why a special envoy?" 

"It's an old custom. A direct representative of the crown is present on every military campaign 
which is under government auspices." 

"Really? Why?" 

"It's a method of preserving the symbol of personal Imperial leadership in all campaigns. It's 
gained a secondary function of insuring the fidelity of generals. It doesn't always succeed in 
that respect." 

"You'll find that inconvenient, general. Extraneous authority, I mean." 

"I don't doubt that," Riose reddened faintly, "but it can't be helped-" 

The receiver at the general's hand glowed warmly, and with an unobtrusive jar, the cylindered 
communication popped into its slot. Riose unrolled it, "Good! This is it!" 

Ducem Barr raised a mildly questioning eyebrow. 

Riose said, "You know we've captured one of these Trader people. Alive - and with his ship 
intact." 

"I've heard talk of it." 

"Well, they've just brought him in, and we'll have him here in a minute. You keep your seat, 
patrician. I want you here when I'm questioning him. It's why I asked you here today in the first 



place. You may understand him where I might miss important points." 

The door signal sounded and a touch of the general's toe swung the door wide. The man who 
stood on the threshold was tall and bearded, wore a short coat of a soft, leathery plastic, with 
an attached hood shoved back on his neck. His hands were free, and if he noticed the men 
about him were armed, he did not trouble to indicate it. 

He stepped in casually, and looked about with calculating eyes. He favored the general with a 
rudimentary wave of the hand and a half nod. 

"Your name?" demanded Riose, crisply. 

"Lathan Devers." The trader hooked his thumbs into his wide and gaudy belt. "Are you the boss 
here?" 

"You are a trader of the Foundation?" 

"That's right. Listen, if you're the boss, you'd better tell your hired men here to lay off my cargo." 

The general raised his head and regarded the prisoner coldly. "Answer questions. Do not 
volunteer orders." 

"All right. I'm agreeable. But one of your boys blasted a two-foot hole in his chest already, by 
sticking his fingers where he wasn't supposed to." 

Riose shifted his gaze to the lieutenant in charge. "Is this man telling the truth? Your report, 
Vrank, had it that no lives were lost." 

"None were, sir," the lieutenant spoke stiffly, apprehensively, "at the time. There was later some 
disposition to search the ship, there having arisen a rumor that a woman was aboard. Instead, 
sir, many instruments of unknown nature were located, instruments which the prisoner claims 
to be his stock in trade. One of them flashed on handling, and the soldier holding it died." 

The general turned back to the trader. "Does your ship carry nuclear explosives?" 

"Galaxy, no. What for? That fool grabbed a nuclear puncher, wrong end forward and set at 
maximum dispersion. You're not supposed to do that. Might as well point a neut-gun at your 
head. I'd have stopped him, if five men weren't sitting on my chest." 

Riose gestured at the waiting guard, "You go. The captured ship is to he sealed against all 
intrusion. Sit down, Devers." 

The trader did so, in the spot indicated, and withstood stolidly the hard scrutiny of the Imperial 
general and the curious glance of the Siwennian patrician. 

Riose said, "You're a sensible man, Devers." 

"Thank you. Are you impressed by my face, or do you want something? Tell you what, though. 
I'm a good business man." 

"It's about the same thing. You surrendered your ship when you might have decided to waste 
our ammunition and have yourself blown to electron-dust. It could result in good treatment for 



you, if you continue that sort of outlook on life." 

"Good treatment is what I mostly crave, boss." 

"Good, and co-operation is what I mostly crave." Riose smiled, and said in a low aside to 
Ducem Barr, "I hope the word 'crave' means what I think it does. Did you ever hear such a 
barbarous jargon?" 

Devers said blandly, "Right. I check you. But what kind of co-operation are you talking about, 
boss? To tell you straight, I don't know where I stand." He looked about him, "Where's this 
place, for instance, and - what's the idea?" 

"Ah, I've neglected the other half of the introductions. I apologize." Riose was in good humor. 
"That gentleman is Ducem Barr, Patrician of the Empire. I am Bel Riose, Peer of the Empire, 
and General of the Third Class in the armed forces of His Imperial Majesty." 

The trader's jaw slackened. Then, "The Empire? I mean the old Empire they taught us about at 
school? Huh! Funny! I always had the sort of notion that it didn't exist any more." 

"Look about you. It does," said Riose grimly. 

"Might have known it though," and Lathan Devers pointed his beard at the ceiling. "That was a 
mightily polished-looking set of craft that took my tub. No kingdom of the Periphery could have 
turned them out." His brow furrowed. "So what's the game, boss? Or do I call you general?" 

"Me game is war." 

"Empire versus Foundation, that it?" 

"Right." 

"Why?" 

"I think you know why." 

The trader stared sharply and shook his head. 

Riose let the other deliberate, then said softly, "I'm sure you know why." 

Lathan Devers muttered, "Warm here," and stood up to remove his hooded jacket. Then he sat 
down again and stretched his legs out before him. 

"You know," he said, comfortably, "I figure you're thinking I ought to jump up with a whoop and 
lay about me. I can catch you before you could move if I choose my time, and this old fellow 
who sits there and doesn't say anything couldn't do much to stop me." 

"But you won't," said Riose, confidently. 

"I won't," agreed Devers, amiably. "First off, killing you wouldn't stop the war, I suppose. There 
are more generals where you came from." 

"Very accurately calculated." 



"Besides which, I'd probably be slammed down about two seconds after I got you, and killed 
fast, or maybe slow, depending. But I'd be killed, and I never like to count on that when I'm 
making plans. It doesn't pay off." 

"I said you were a sensible man." 

"But there's one thing I would like, boss. I'd like you to tell me what you mean when you say I 
know why you're jumping us. I don't; and guessing games bother me no end." 

"Yes? Ever hear of Hari Seldon?" 

"No. I said I don't like guessing games." 

Riose flicked a side glance at Ducem Barr who smiled with a narrow gentleness and resumed 
his inwardly-dreaming expression. 

Riose said with a grimace, "Don't you play games, Devers. There is a tradition, or a fable, or 
sober history - I don't care what - upon your Foundation, that eventually you will found the 
Second Empire. I know quite a detailed version of Hari Seldon's psychohistorical claptrap, and 
your eventual plans of aggression against the Empire." 

"That so?" Devers nodded thoughtfully. "And who told you all that?" 

"Does that matter?" said Riose with dangerous smoothness. "You're here to question nothing. I 
want what you know about the Seldon Fable." 

"But if it's a Fable-" 

"Don't play with words, Devers." 

"I'm not. In fact, I'll give it to you straight. You know all I know about it. It's silly stuff, half-baked. 
Every world has its yams; you can't keep it away from them. Yes, I've heard that sort of talk; 
Seldon, Second Empire, and so on. They put kids to sleep at night with the stuff. The young 
squirts curl up in the spare rooms with their pocket projectors and suck up Seldon thrillers. But 
it's strictly non-adult. Nonintelligent adult, anyway." The trader shook his head. 

The Imperial general's eyes were dark. "Is that really so? You waste your lies, man. I've been 
on the planet, Terminus. I know your Foundation. I've looked it in the face." 

"And you ask me? Me, when I haven't kept foot on it for two months at a piece in ten years. You 
are wasting your time. But go ahead with your war, if it's fables you're after." 

And Barr spoke for the first time, mildly, "You are so confident then that the Foundation will 
win?" 

The trader turned. He flushed faintly and an old scar on one temple showed whitely, "Hm-m-m, 
the silent partner. How'd you squeeze that out of what I said, doc?" 

Riose nodded very slightly at Barr, and the Siwennian continued in a low voice, "Because the 
notion would bother you if you thought your world might lose this war, and suffer the bitter 
reapings of defeat, I know. My world once did, and still does." 



Lathan Devers fumbled his beard, looked from one of his opponents to the other, then laughed 
shortly. "Does he always talk like that, boss? Listen," he grew serious, "what's defeat? I've seen 
wars and I've seen defeats. What if the winner does take over? Who's bothered? Me? Guys like 
me?" He shook his head in derision. 

"Get this," the trader spoke forcefully and earnestly, "there are five or six fat slobs who usually 
run an average planet. They get the rabbit punch, but I'm not losing peace of mind over them. 
See. The people? The ordinary run of guys? Sure, some get killed, and the rest pay extra taxes 
for a while. But it settles itself out; it runs itself down. And then it's the old situation again with a 
different five or six." 

Ducem Barr's nostrils flared, and the tendons of his old right hand jerked; but he said nothing. 

Lathan Devers' eyes were on him. They missed nothing. He said, "Look. I spend my life in 
space for my five-and-dime gadgets and my beer-and-pretzel kickback from the Combines. 
There's fat fellows back there," his thumb jerked over his shoulder and back, "that sit home and 
collect my year's income every minute - out of skimmings from me and more like me. Suppose 
you run the Foundation. You'll still need us. You'll need us more than ever the Combines do - 
because you'd not know your way around, and we could bring in the hard cash. We'd make a 
better deal with the Empire. Yes, we would; and I'm a man of business. If it adds up to a plus 
mark, I'm for it." 

And he stared at the two with sardonic belligerence. 

The silence remained unbroken for minutes, and then a cylinder rattled into its slot. The general 
flipped it open, glanced at the neat printing and in-circuited the visuals with a sweep. 

"Prepare plan indicating position of each ship in action. Await orders on full-armed defensive." 

He reached for his cape. As he fastened it about his shoulders, he whispered in a stiff-lipped 
monotone to Barr, "I'm leaving this man to you. I'll expect results. This is war and I can be cruel 
to failures. Remember!" He left, with a salute to both. 

Lathan Devers looked after him, "Well, something's hit him where it hurts. What goes on?" 

"A battle, obviously," said Barr, gruffly. "The forces of the Foundation are coming out for their 
first battle. You'd better come along." 

There were armed soldiers in the room. Their bearing was respectful and their faces were hard. 
Devers followed the proud old Siwennian patriarch out of the room. 

The room to which they were led was smaller, barer. It contained two beds, a visi-screen, and 
shower and sanitary facilities. The soldiers marched out, and the thick door boomed hollowly 
shut. 

" Hmp ?' Devers stared disapprovingly about. "This looks permanent." 

"It is," said Barr, shortly. The old Siwennian turned his back. 

The trader said irritably, "What's your game, doc?" 



"I have no game. You're in my charge, that's all." 

The trader rose and advanced. His bulk towered over the unmoving patrician. "Yes? But you're 
in this cell with me and when you were marched here the guns were pointed just as hard at you 
as at me. Listen, you were all boiled up about my notions on the subject of war and peace." 

He waited fruitlessly, "All fight, let me ask you something. You said your country was licked 
once. By whom? Comet people from the outer nebulae?" 

Barr looked up. "By the Empire." 

"That so? Then what are you doing here?" 

Barr maintained an eloquent silence. 

The trader thrust out a lower lip and nodded his head slowly. He slipped off the flat-linked 
bracelet that hugged his fight wrist and held it out. "What do you think of that?" He wore the 
mate to it on his left. 

The Siwennian took the ornament. He responded slowly to the trader's gesture and put it on. 
The odd tingling at the wrist passed away quickly. 

Devers' voice changed at once. "Right, doc, you've got the action now. Just speak casually. If 
this room is wired, they won't get a thing. That's a Field Distorter you've got there; genuine 
Mallow design. Sells for twenty-five credits on any world from here to the outer rim. You get it 
free. Hold your lips still when you talk and take it easy. You've got to get the trick of it." 

Ducem Barr was suddenly weary. The trader's boring eyes were luminous and urging. He felt 
unequal to their demands. 

Barr said, "What do you want?" The words slurred from between unmoving lips. 

"I've told you. You make mouth noises like what we call a patriot. Yet your own world has been 
mashed up by the Empire, and here you are playing ball with the Empire's fair-haired general. 
Doesn't make sense, does it?" 

Barr said, "I have done my part. A conquering Imperial viceroy is dead because of me." 

"That so? Recently?" 

"Forty years ago." 

"Forty ... years ... ago!" The words seemed to have meaning to the trader. He frowned, "That's 
a long time to live on memories. Does that young squirt in the general's uniform know about it?" 

Barr nodded. 

Devers' eyes were dark with thought. "You want the Empire to win?" 

And the old Siwennian patrician broke out in sudden deep anger, "May the Empire and all its 
works perish in universal catastrophe. All Siwenna prays that daily. I had brothers once, a 
sister, a father. But I have children now, grandchildren. The general knows where to find them." 



Devers waited. 


Barr continued in a whisper, "But that would not stop me if the results in view warranted the 
risk. They would know how to die." 

The trader said gently, "You killed a viceroy once, huh? You know, I recognize a few things. We 
once had a mayor, Hober Mallow his name was. He visited Siwenna; that's your world, isn't it? 
He met a man named Barr." 

Ducem Barr stared hard, suspiciously. "What do you know of this?" 

"What every trader on the Foundation knows. You might be a smart old fellow put in here to get 
on my right side. Sure, they'd point guns at you, and you'd hate the Empire and be all-out for its 
smashing. Then I'd fall all over you and pour out my heart to you, and wouldn't the general be 
pleased. There's not much chance of that, doc. 

"But just the same I'd like to have you prove that you're the son of Onum Barr of Siwenna - the 
sixth and youngest who escaped the massacre." 

Ducem Barr's hand shook as he opened the flat metal box in a wall recess. The metal object he 
withdrew clanked softly as he thrust it into the trader's hands. "Look at that," he said. 

Devers stared. He held the swollen central link of the chain close to his eyes and swore softly. 
"That's Mallow's monogram, or I'm a space-struck rookie, and the design is fifty years old if it's 
a day." 

He looked up and smiled. 

"Shake, doc. A man-sized nuclear shield is all the proof I need," and he held out his large hand. 


6. THE FAVORITE 

The tiny ships had appeared out of the vacant depths and darted into the midst of the Armada. 
Without a shot or a burst of energy, they weaved through the ship-swollen area, then blasted 
on and out, while the Imperial wagons turned after them like lumbering beasts. There were two 
noiseless flares that pinpointed space as two of the tiny gnats shriveled in atomic disintegration, 
and the rest were gone. 

The great ships searched, then returned to their original task, and world by world, the great web 
of the Enclosure continued. 

Brodrig's uniform was stately; carefully tailored and as carefully worn. His walk through the 
gardens of the obscure planet Wanda, now temporary Imperial headquarters, was leisurely; his 
expression was somber. 

Bel Riose walked with him, his field uniform open at the collar, and doleful in its monotonous 
gray-black. 

Riose indicated the smooth black bench under the fragrant tree-fern whose large spatulate 



leaves lifted flatly against the white sun. "See that, sir. It is a relic of the Imperium. The 
ornamented benches, built for lovers, linger on, fresh and useful, while the factories and the 
palaces collapse into unremembered ruin." 

He seated himself, while Cleon ll's Privy Secretary stood erect before him and clipped the 
leaves above neatly with precise swings of his ivory staff. 

Riose crossed his legs and offered a cigarette to the other. He fingered one himself as he 
spoke, "It is what one would expect from the enlightened wisdom of His Imperial Majesty to 
send so competent an observer as yourself. It relieves any anxiety I might have felt that the 
press of more important and more immediate business might perhaps force into the shadows a 
small campaign on the Periphery." 

"The eyes of the Emperor are everywhere," said Brodrig, mechanically. "We do not 
underestimate the importance of the campaign; yet still it would seem that too great an 
emphasis is being placed upon its difficulty. Surely their little ships are no such barrier that we 
must move through the intricate preliminary maneuver of an Enclosure." 

Riose flushed, but he maintained his equilibrium. "I can not risk the lives of my men, who are 
few enough, or the destruction of my ships which are irreplaceable, by a too-rash attack. The 
establishment of an Enclosure will quarter my casualties in the ultimate attack, howsoever 
difficult it be. The military reasons for that I took the liberty to explain yesterday." 

"Well, well, I am not a military man. In this case, you assure me that what seems patently and 
obviously right is, in reality, wrong. We will allow that. Yet your caution shoots far beyond that. 
In your second communication, you requested reinforcements. And these, against an enemy 
poor, small, and barbarous, with whom you have had not one' skirmish at the time. To desire 
more forces under the circumstances would savor almost of incapacity or worse, had not your 
earlier career given sufficient proof of your boldness and imagination." 

"I thank you," said the general, coldly, "but I would remind you that there is a difference 
between boldness and blindness. There is a place for a decisive gamble when you know your 
enemy and can calculate the risks at least roughly; but to move at all against an unknown 
enemy is boldness in itself. You might as well ask why the same man sprints safely across an 
obstacle course in the day, and falls over the furniture in his room at night." 

Brodrig swept away the other's words with a neat flirt of the fingers. "Dramatic, but not 
satisfactory. You have been to this barbarian world yourself. You have in addition this enemy 
prisoner you coddle, this trader. Between yourself and the prisoner you are not in a night fog." 

"No? I pray you to remember that a world which has developed in isolation for two centuries 
can not be interpreted to the point of intelligent attack by a month's visit. I am a soldier, not a 
cleft-chinned, barrel-chested hero of a subetheric trimensional thriller. Nor can a single 
prisoner, and one who is an obscure member of an economic group which has no close 
connection with the enemy world introduce me to all the inner secrets of enemy strategy." 

"You have questioned him?" 

"I have." 



Well? 


"It has been useful, but not vitally so. His ship is tiny, of no account. He sells little toys which 
are amusing if nothing else. I have a few of the cleverest which I intend sending to the Emperor 
as curiosities. Naturally, there is a good deal about the ship and its workings which I do not 
understand, but then I am not a tech-man." 

"But you have among you those who are," pointed out Brodrig. 

"I, too, am aware of that," replied the general in faintly caustic tones. "But the fools have far to 
go before they could meet my needs. I have already sent for clever men who can understand 
the workings of the odd nuclear field-circuits the ship contains. I have received no answer." 

"Men of that type can not be spared, general. Surely, there must be one man of your vast 
province who understands nucleics." 

"Were there such a one, I would have him heal the limping, invalid motors that power two of my 
small fleet of ships. Two ships of my meager ten that can not fight a major battle for lack of 
sufficient power supply. One fifth of my force condemned to the carrion activity of consolidating 
positions behind the lines." 

The secretary's fingers fluttered impatiently. "Your position is not unique in that respect, 
general. The Emperor has similar troubles." 

The general threw away his shredded, never-lit cigarette, lit another, and shrugged. "Well, it is 
beside the immediate point, this lack of first-class tech-men. Except that I might have made 
more progress with my prisoner were my Psychic Probe in proper order." 

The secretary's eyebrows lifted. "You have a Probe?" 

"An old one. A superannuated one which fails me the one time I needed it. I set it up during the 
prisoner's sleep, and received nothing. So much for the Probe. I have tried it on my own men 
and the reaction is quite proper, but again there is not one among my staff of tech-men who 
can tell me why it fails upon the prisoner. Ducem Barr, who is a theoretician of parts, though no 
mechanic, says the psychic structure of the prisoner may be unaffected by the Probe since 
from childhood he has been subjected to alien environments and neural stimuli. I don't know. 
But he may yet be useful. I save him in that hope." 

Brodrig leaned on his staff. A shall see if a specialist is available in the capital. In the 
meanwhile, what of this other man you just mentioned, this Siwennian? You keep too many 
enemies in your good graces." 

"He knows the enemy. He, too, I keep for future reference and the help he may afford me." 

"But he is a Siwennian and the son of a proscribed rebel." 

"He is old and powerless, and his family acts as hostage." 

"I see. Yet I think that I should speak to this trader, myself." 

"Certainly." 



"Alone," the secretary added coldly, making his point. 

"Certainly," repeated Riose, blandly. "As a loyal subject of the Emperor, I accept his personal 
representative as my superior. However, since the trader is at the permanent base, you will 
have to leave the front areas at an interesting moment." 

"Yes? Interesting in what way?" 

"Interesting in that the Enclosure is complete today. Interesting in that within the week, the 
Twentieth Fleet of the Border advances inward towards the core of resistance." Riose smiled 
and turned away. 

In a vague way, Brodrig felt punctured. 


7. BRIBERY 


Sergeant Mori Luk made an ideal soldier of the ranks. He came from the huge agricultural 
planets of the Pleiades where only army life could break the bond to the soil and the unavailing 
life of drudgery; and he was typical of that background. Unimaginative enough to face danger 
without fear, he was strong and agile enough to face it successfully. He accepted orders 
instantly, drove the men under him unbendingly and adored his general unswervingly. 

And yet with that, he was of a sunny nature. If he killed a man in the line of duty without a scrap 
of hesitation, it was also without a scrap of animosity. 

That Sergeant Luk should signal at the door before entering was further a sign of tact, for he 
would have been perfectly within his rights to enter without signaling. 

The two within looked up from their evening meal and one reached out with his foot to cut off 
the cracked voice which rattled out of the battered pocket-transmitter with bright liveliness. 

"More books?" asked Lathan Devers. 

The sergeant held out the tightly-wound cylinder of film and scratched his neck. "It belongs to 
Engineer Orre, but he'll have to have it back. He's going to send it to his kids, you know, like 
what you might call a souvenir, you know." 

Ducem Barr turned the cylinder in his hands with interest. "And where did the engineer get it? 
He hasn't a transmitter also, has he?" 

The sergeant shook his head emphatically. He pointed to the knocked-about remnant at the 
foot of the bed. "That's the only one in the place. This fellow, Orre, now, he got that book from 
one of these pig-pen worlds out here we captured. They had it in a big building by itself and he 
had to kill a few of the natives that tried to stop him from taking it." 

He looked at it appraisingly. "It makes a good souvenir - for kids." 

He paused, then said stealthily, "There's big news floating about, by the way. It's only 
scuttlebutt, but even so, it's too good to keep. The general did it again." And he nodded slowly, 



gravely. 

"That so?" said Devers. "And what did he do?" 

"Finished the Enclosure, that's all." The sergeant chuckled with a fatherly pride. "Isn't he the 
corker, though? Didn't he work it fine? One of the fellows who's strong on fancy talk, says it 
went as smooth and even as the music of the spheres, whatever they are." 

"The big offensive starts now?" asked Barr, mildly. 

"Hope so," was the boisterous response. "I want to get back on my ship now that my arm is in 
one piece again. I'm tired of sitting on my scupper out here." 

"So am I," muttered Devers, suddenly and savagely. There was a bit of underlip caught in his 
teeth, and he worried it. 

The sergeant looked at him doubtfully, and said, "I'd better go now. The captain's round is due 
and I'd just as soon he didn't catch me in here." 

He paused at the door. "By the way, sir," he said with sudden, awkward shyness to the trader, 

"I heard from my wife. She says that little freezer you gave me to send her works fine. It doesn't 
cost her anything, and she just about keeps a month's supply of food froze up complete. I 
appreciate it." 

"It's all right. Forget it." 

The great door moved noiselessly shut behind the grinning sergeant. 

Ducem Barr got out of his chair. "Well, he gives us a fair return for the freezer. Let's take a look 
at this new book. Ahh, the title is gone." 

He unrolled a yard or so of the film and looked through at the light. Then he murmured, "Well, 
skewer me through the scupper, as the sergeant says. This is 'The Garden of Summa,' 

Devers." 

"That so?" said the trader, without interest. He shoved aside what was left of his dinner. "Sit 
down, Barr. Listening to this old-time literature isn't doing me any good. You heard what the 
sergeant said?" 

"Yes, I did. What of it?" 

"The offensive will start. And we sit here!" 

"Where do you want to sit?" 

"You know what I mean. There's no use just waiting." 

"Isn't there?" Barr was carefully removing the old film from the transmitter and installing the 
new. "You told me a good deal of Foundation history in the last month, and it seems that the 
great leaders of past crises did precious little more than sit - and wait." 

"Ah, Barr, but they knew where they were going." 



"Did they? I suppose they said they did when it was over, and for all I know maybe they did. But 
there's no proof that things would not have worked out as well or better if they had not known 
where they were going. The deeper economic and sociological forces aren't directed by 
individual men." 

Devers sneered. "No way of telling that things wouldn't have worked out worse, either. You're 
arguing tail-end backwards." His eyes were brooding. "You know, suppose I blasted him?" 

"Whom? Riose?" 

"Yes." 

Barr sighed. His aging eyes were troubled with a reflection of the long past. "Assassination isn't 
the way out, Devers. I once tried it, under provocation, when I was twenty - but it solved 
nothing. I removed a villain from Siwenna, but not the Imperial yoke; and it was the Imperial 
yoke and not the villain that mattered." 

"But Riose is not just a villain, doc. He's the whole blamed army. It would fall apart without him. 
They hang on him like babies. The sergeant out there slobbers every time he mentions him." 

"Even so. There are other armies and other leaders. You must go deeper. There is this Brodrig, 
for instance - no one more than he has the ear of the Emperor. He could demand hundreds of 
ships where Riose must struggle with ten. I know him by reputation." 

"That so? What about him?" The trader's eyes lost in frustration what they gained in sharp 
interest. 

"You want a pocket outline? He's a low-born rascal who has by unfailing flattery tickled the 
whims of the Emperor. He's well-hated by the court aristocracy, vermin themselves, because 
he can lay claim to neither family nor humility. He is the Emperor's adviser in all things, and the 
Emperor's too in the worst things. He is faithless by choice but loyal by necessity. There is not a 
man in the Empire as subtle in villainy or as crude in his pleasures. And they say there is no 
way to the Emperor's favor but through him; and no way to his, but through infamy." 

"Wow!" Devers pulled thoughtfully at his neatly trimmed beard. "And he's the old boy the 
Emperor sent out here to keep an eye on Riose. Do you know I have an idea?" 

"I do now." 

"Suppose this Brodrig takes a dislike to our young Army's Delight?" 

"He probably has already. He's not noted for a capacity for liking." 

"Suppose it gets really bad. The Emperor might hear about it, and Riose might be in trouble." 
"Uh-huh. Quite likely. But how do you propose to get that to happen?" 

"I don't know. I suppose he could be bribed?" 

The patrician laughed gently. "Yes, in a way, but not in the manner you bribed the sergeant - 
not with a pocket freezer. And even if you reach his scale, it wouldn't be worth it. There's 
probably no one so easily bribed, but he lacks even the fundamental honesty of honorable 



corruption. He doesn't stay bribed; not for any sum. Think of something else." 

Devers swung a leg over his knee and his toe nodded quickly and restlessly. "It's the first hint, 
though-" 

He stopped; the door signal was flashing once again, and the sergeant was on the threshold 
once more. He was excited, and his broad face was red and unsmiling. 

"Sir," he began, in an agitated attempt at deference, "I am very thankful for the freezer, and you 
have always spoken to me very fine, although I am only the son of a farmer and you are great 
lords." 

His Pleiades accent had grown thick, almost too much so for easy comprehension; and with 
excitement, his lumpish peasant derivation wiped out completely the soldierly bearing so long 
and so painfully cultivated. 

Barr said softly, "What is it, sergeant?" 

"Lord Brodrig is coming to see you. Tomorrow! I know, because the captain told me to have my 
men ready for dress review tomorrow for ... for him. I thought - I might warn you." 

Barr said, "Thank you, sergeant, we appreciate that. But it's all right, man; no need for-" 

But the look on Sergeant Luk's face was now unmistakably one of fear. He spoke in a rough 
whisper, "You don't hear the stories the men tell about him. He has sold himself to the space 
fiend. No, don't laugh. There are most terrible tales told about him. They say he has men with 
blast-guns who follow him everywhere, and when he wants pleasure, he just tells them to blast 
down anyone they meet. And they do - and he laughs. They say even the Emperor is in terror 
of him, and that he forces the Emperor to raise taxes and won't let him listen to the complaints 
of the people. 

"And he hates the general, that's what they say. They say he would like to kill the general, 
because the general is so great and wise. But he can't because our general is a match for 
anyone and he knows Lord Brodrig is a bad 'un." 

The sergeant blinked; smiled in a sudden incongruous shyness at his own outburst; and 
backed toward the door. He nodded his head, jerkily. "You mind my words. Watch him." 

He ducked out. 

And Devers looked up, hard-eyed. "This breaks things our way, doesn't it, doc?" 

"It depends," said Barr, dryly, "on Brodrig, doesn't it?" 

But Devers was thinking, not listening. 

He was thinking hard. 

Lord Brodrig ducked his head as he stepped into the cramped living quarters of the trading 
ship, and his two armed guards followed quickly, with bared guns and the professionally hard 
scowls of the hired bravos. 



The Privy Secretary had little of the look of the lost soul about him just then. If the space fiend 
had bought him, he had left no visible mark of possession. Rather might Brodrig have been 
considered a breath of court-fashion come to enliven the hard, bare ugliness of an army base. 

The stiff, tight lines of his sheened and immaculate costume gave him the illusion of height, 
from the very top of which his cold, emotionless eyes stared down the declivity of a long nose 
at the trader. The mother-of-pearl ruches at his wrists fluttered filmily as he brought his ivory 
stick to the ground before him and leaned upon it daintily. 

"No," he said, with a little gesture, "you remain here. Forget your toys; I am not interested in 
them." 

He drew forth a chair, dusted it carefully with the iridescent square of fabric attached to the top 
of his white stick, and seated himself. Devers glanced towards the mate to the chair, but 
Brodrig said lazily, "You will stand in the presence of a Peer of the Realm." 

He smiled. 

Devers shrugged. "If you're not interested in my stock in trade, what am I here for?" 

The Privy Secretary waited coldly, and Devers added a slow, "Sir." 

"For privacy," said the secretary. "Now is it likely that I would come two hundred parsecs 
through space to inspect trinkets? It's you I want to see." He extracted a small pink tablet from 
an engraved box and placed it delicately between his teeth. He sucked it slowly and 
appreciatively. 

"For instance," he said, "who are you? Are you really a citizen of this barbarian world that is 
creating all this fury of military frenzy?" 

Devers nodded gravely. 

"And you were really captured by him after the beginning of this squabble he calls a war. I am 
referring to our young general." 

Devers nodded again. 

"So! Very well, my worthy Outlander. I see your fluency of speech is at a minimum. I shall 
smooth the way for you. It seems that our general here is fighting an apparently meaningless 
war with frightful transports of energy - and this over a forsaken fleabite of a world at the end of 
nowhere, which to a logical man would not seem worth a single blast of a single gun. Yet the 
general is not illogical. On the contrary, I would say he was extremely intelligent. Do you follow 
me?" 

"Can't say I do, sir." 

The secretary inspected his fingernails and said, "Listen further, then. The general would not 
waste his men and ships on a sterile feat of glory. I know he talks of glory and of Imperial 
honor, but it is quite obvious that the affectation of being one of the insufferable old demigods 
of the Heroic Age won't wash. There is something more than glory hereand he does take queer, 
unnecessary care of you. Now if you were my prisoner and told me as little of use as you have 



our general, I would slit open your abdomen and strangle you with your own intestines." 

Devers remained wooden. His eyes moved slightly, first to one of the secretary's bully-boys, 
and then to the other. They were ready; eagerly ready. 

The secretary smiled. "Well, now, you're a silent devil. According to the general, even a Psychic 
Probe made no impression, and that was a mistake on his part, by the way, for it convinced me 
that our young military whizz-bang was lying." He seemed in high humor. 

"My honest tradesman," he said, "I have a Psychic Probe of my own, one that ought to suit you 
peculiarly well. You see this-" 

And between thumb and forefinger, held negligently, were intricately designed, pink-and-yellow 
rectangles which were most definitely obvious in identity. 

Devers said so. "It looks like cash," he said. 

"Cash it is - and the best cash of the Empire, for it is backed by my estates, which are more 
extensive than the Emperor's own. A hundred thousand credits. All here! Between two fingers! 
Yours!" 

"For what, sir? I am a good trader, but all trades go in both directions." 

"For what? For the truth! What is the general after? Why is he fighting this war?" 

Lathan Devers sighed, and smoothed his beard thoughtfully. 

"What he's after?" His eyes were following the motions of the secretary's hands as he counted 
the money slowly, bill by bill. "In a word, the Empire." 

"Hmp. How ordinary! It always comes to that in the end. But how? What is the road that leads 
from the Galaxy's edge to the peak of Empire so broadly and invitingly?" 

"The Foundation," said Devers, bitterly, "has secrets. They have books, old books - so old that 
the language they are in is only known to a few of the top men. But the secrets are shrouded in 
ritual and religion, and none may use them. I tried and now I am here - and there is a death 
sentence waiting for me, there." 

"I see. And these old secrets? Come, for one hundred thousand I deserve the intimate details." 
"The transmutation of elements," said Devers, shortly. 

The secretary's eyes narrowed and lost some of their detachment. "I have been told that 
practical transmutation is impossible by the laws of nucleics." 

"So it is, if nuclear forces are used. But the ancients were smart boys. There are sources of 
power greater than the nuclei and more fundamental. If the Foundation used those sources as I 
suggested-" 

Devers felt a soft, creeping sensation in his stomach. The bait was dangling; the fish was 
nosing it. 



The secretary said suddenly, "Continue. The general, I am sure, is aware of a this. But what 
does he intend doing once he finishes this opera-bouffe affair?" 

Devers kept his voice rock-steady. "With transmutation he controls the economy of the whole 
set-up of your Empire. Mineral holdings won't be worth a sneeze when Riose can make 
tungsten out of aluminum and iridium out of iron. An entire production system based on the 
scarcity of certain elements and the abundance of others is thrown completely out of whack. 
There'll be the greatest disjointment the Empire has ever seen, and only Riose will be able to 
stop it. Anc/ there is the question of this new power I mentioned, the use of which won't give 
Riose religious heebies. 

"There's nothing that can stop him now. He's got the Foundation by the back of the neck, and 
once he's finished with it, he'll be Emperor in two years." 

"So." Brodrig laughed lightly. "Iridium out of iron, that's what you said, isn't it? Come, I'll tell you 
a state secret. Do you know that the Foundation has already been in communication with the 
general?" 

Devers' back stiffened. 

"You look surprised. Why not? It seems logical now. They offered him a hundred tons of iridium 
a year to make peace. A hundred tons of iron converted to iridium in violation of their religious 
principles to save their necks. Fair enough, but no wonder our rigidly incorruptible general 
refused - when he can have the iridium and the Empire as well. And poor Cleon called him his 
one honest general. My bewhiskered merchant, you have earned your money." 

He tossed it, and Devers scrambled after the flying bills. 

Lord Brodrig stopped at the door and turned. "One reminder, trader. My playmates with the 
guns here have neither middle ears, tongues, education, nor intelligence. They can neither 
hear, speak, write, nor even make sense to a Psychic Probe. But they are very expert at 
interesting executions. I have bought you, man, at one hundred thousand credits. You will be 
good and worthy merchandise. Should you forget that you are bought at any time and attempt 
to ... say ... repeat our conversation to Riose, you will be executed. But executed my way." 

And in that delicate face there were sudden hard lines of eager cruelty that changed the studied 
smile into a red-lipped snarl. For one fleeting second, Devers saw that space fiend who had 
bought his buyer, look out of his buyer's eyes. 

Silently, he preceded the two thrusting blast-guns of Brodrig's "playmates" to his quarters. 

And to Ducem Barr's question, he said with brooding satisfaction, "No, that's the queerest part 
of it. He bribed me. 

Two months of difficult war had left their mark on Bel Riose. There was heavy-handed gravity 
about him; and he was short-tempered. 

It was with impatience that he addressed the worshiping Sergeant Luk. "Wait outside, soldier, 
and conduct these men back to their quarters when I am through. No one is to enter until I call. 
No one at all, you understand." 



The sergeant saluted himself stiffly out of the room, and Riose with muttered disgust scooped 
up the waiting papers on his desk, threw them into the top drawer and slammed it shut. 

"Take seats," he said shortly, to the waiting two. "I haven't much time. Strictly speaking, I 
shouldn't be here at all, but it is necessary to see you." 

He turned to Ducem Barr, whose long fingers were caressing with interest the crystal cube in 
which was set the simulacrum of the lined, austere face of His Imperial Majesty, Cleon II. 

"In the first place, patrician," said the general, "your Seldon is losing. To be sure, he battles 
well, for these men of the Foundation swarm like senseless bees and fight like madmen. Every 
planet is defended viciously, and once taken, every planet heaves so with rebellion it is as 
much trouble to hold as to conquer. But they are taken, and they are held. Your Seldon is 
losing." 

"But he has not yet lost," murmured Barr politely. 

"The Foundation itself retains less optimism. They offer me millions in order that I may not put 
this Seldon to the final test." 

"So rumor goes." 

"Ah, is rumor preceding me? Does it prate also of the latest?" 

"What is the latest?" 

"Why, that Lord Brodrig, the darling of the Emperor, is now second in command at his own 
request." 

Devers spoke for the first time. "At his own request, boss? How come? Or are you growing to 
like the fellow?" He chuckled. 

Riose said, calmly, "No, can't say I do. It's just that he bought the office at what I considered a 
fair and adequate price." 

"Such as?" 

"Such as a request to the Emperor for reinforcements." 

Devers' contemptuous smile broadened. "'He has communicated with the Emperor, huh? And I 
take it, boss, you're just waiting for these reinforcements, but they'll come any day. Right?" 

"Wrong! They have already come. Five ships of the line; smooth and strong, with a personal 
message of congratulations from the Emperor, and more ships on the way. What's wrong, 
trader?" he asked, sardonically. 

Devers spoke through suddenly frozen lips. "Nothing!" 

Riose strode out from behind his desk and faced the trader, hand on the butt of his blast-gun. 

"I say, what's wrong, trader? The news would seem to disturb you. Surely, you have no sudden 
birth of interest in the Foundation." 



"I haven't." 

"Yes - there are queer points about you." 

"That so, boss?" Devers smiled tightly, and balled the fists in his pockets. "Just you line them 
up and I'll knock them down for you." 

"Here they are. You were caught easily. You surrendered at first blow with a burnt-out shield. 
You're quite ready to desert your world, and that without a price. Interesting, all this, isn't it?" 

"I crave to be on the winning side, boss. I'm a sensible man; you called me that yourself." 

Riose said with tight throatiness, "Granted! Yet no trader since has been captured. No trade 
ship but has had the speed to escape at choice. No trade ship but has had a screen that could 
take all the beating a light cruiser could give it, should it choose to fight. And no trader but has 
fought to death when occasion warranted. Traders have been traced as the leaders and 
instigators of the guerilla warfare on occupied planets and of the flying raids in occupied space. 

"Are you the only sensible man then? You neither fight nor flee, but turn traitor without urging. 
You are unique, amazingly unique - in fact, suspiciously unique." 

Devers said softly, "I take your meaning, but you have nothing on me. I've been here now six 
months, and I've been a good boy." 

"So you have, and I have repaid you by good treatment. I have left your ship undisturbed and 
treated you with every consideration. Yet you fall short. Freely offered information, for instance, 
on your gadgets might have been helpful. The atomic principles on which they are built would 
seem to be used in some of the Foundation's nastiest weapons. Right?" 

"I am only a trader," said Devers, "and not one of these bigwig technicians. I sell the stuff; I 
don't make it." 

"Well, that will be seen shortly. It is what I came here for. For instance, your ship will be 
searched for a personal force-shield. You have never worn one; yet all soldiers of the 
Foundation do. It will be significant evidence that there is information you do not choose to give 
me. Right?" 

There was no answer. He continued, "And there will be more direct evidence. I have brought 
with me the Psychic Probe. It failed once before, but contact with the enemy is a liberal 
education." 

His voice was smoothly threatening and Devers felt the gun thrust hard in his midriff - the 
general's gun, hitherto in its holster. 

The general said quietly, "You will remove your wristband and any other metal ornament you 
wear and give them to me. Slowly! Atomic fields can be distorted, you see, and Psychic Probes 
might probe only into static. That's right.. I'll take it." 

The receiver on the general's desk was glowing and a message capsule clicked into the slot, 
near which Barr stood and still held the trimensional Imperial bust. 



Riose stepped behind his desk, with his blast-gun held ready. He said to Barr, "You too, 
patrician. Your wristband condemns you. You have been helpful earlier, however, and I am not 
vindictive, but I shall judge the fate of your behostaged family by the results of the Psychic 
Probe." 

And as Riose leaned over to take out the message capsule, Barr lifted the crystal-enveloped 
bust of Cleon and quietly and methodically brought it down upon the general's head. 

It happened too suddenly for Devers to grasp. It was as if a sudden demon had grown into the 
old man. 

"Out!" said Barr, in a tooth-clenched whisper. "Quickly!" He seized Riose's dropped blaster and 
buried it in his blouse. 

Sergeant Luk turned as they emerged from the narrowest possible crack of the door. 

Barr said easily, "Lead on, sergeant!" 

Devers closed the door behind him. 

Sergeant Luk led in silence to their quarters, and then, with the briefest pause, continued 
onward, for there was the nudge of a blast-gun muzzle in his ribs, and a hard voice in his ears 
which said, "To the trade ship." 

Devers stepped forward to open the air lock, and Barr said, "Stand where you are, Luk. You've 
been a decent man, and we're not going to kill you." 

But the sergeant recognized the monogram on the gun. He cried in choked fury, "You've killed 
the general." 

With a wild, incoherent yell, he charged blindly upon the blasting fury of the gun and collapsed 
in blasted ruin. 

The trade ship was rising above the dead planet before the signal lights began their eerie blink 
and against the creamy cobweb of the great Lens in the sky which was the Galaxy, other black 
forms rose. 

Devers said grimly, "Hold tight, Barr - and let's see if they've got a ship that can match my 
speed." 

He knew they hadn't! 

And once in open space, the trader's voice seemed lost and dead as he said, "The line I fed 
Brodrig was a little too good. It seems as if he's thrown in with the general." 

Swiftly they raced into the depths of the star-mass that was the Galaxy. 



8. TO TRANTOR 

Devers bent over the little dead globe, watching for a tiny sign of life. The directional control 
was slowly and thoroughly sieving space with its jabbing tight sheaf of signals. 

Barr watched patiently from his seat on the low cot in the comer, He asked, "No more signs of 
them?" 

"The Empire boys? No." The trader growled the words with evident impatience. "We lost the 
scuppers long ago. Space! With the blind jumps we took through hyperspace, it's lucky we 
didn't land up in a sun's belly. They couldn't have followed us even if they outranqed us, which 
they didn't." 

He sat back and loosened his collar with a jerk. "I don't know what those Empire boys have 
done here. I think some of the gaps are out of alignment." 

"I take it, then, you're trying to get to the Foundation." 

"I'm calling the Association - or trying to." 

"The Association? Who are they?" 

"Association of Independent Traders. Never heard of it, huh? Well, you're not alone. We haven't 
made our splash yet!" 

For a while there was a silence that centered about the unresponsive Reception Indicator, and 
Barr said, "Are you within range?" 

"I don't know. I haven't but a small notion where we are, going by dead reckoning. That's why I 
have to use directional control. It could take years, you know." 

"Might it?" 

Barr pointed; and Devers jumped and adjusted his earphones. Within the little murky sphere 
there was a tiny glowing whiteness. 

For half an hour, Devers nursed the fragile, groping thread of communication that reached 
through hyperspace to connect two points that laggard light would take five hundred years to 
bind together. 

Then he sat back, hopelessly. He looked up, and shoved the earphones back. 

"Let's eat, doc. There's a needle-shower you can use if you want to, but go easy on the hot 
water." 

He squatted before one of the cabinets that lined one wall and felt through the contents. "You're 
not a vegetarian, I hope?" 

Barr said, "I'm omnivorous. But what about the Association. Have you lost them?" 

"Looks so. It was extreme range, a little too extreme. Doesn't matter, though. I got all that 
counted." 



He straightened, and placed the two metal containers upon the table. "Just give it five minutes, 
doc, then slit it open by pushing the contact. It'll be plate, food, and fork - sort of handy for 
when you're in a hurry, if you're not interested in such incidentals as napkins. I suppose you 
want to know what I got out of the Association." 

"If it isn't a secret." 

Devers shook his head. "Not to you. What Riose said was true." 

"About the offer of tribute?" 

"Uh-huh. They offered it, and had it refused. Things are bad. There's fighting in the outer suns 
of Loris." 

"Loris is close to the Foundation?" 

"Huh? Oh, you wouldn't know. It's one of the original Four Kingdoms. You might call it part of 
the inner line of defense. That's not the worst. They've been fighting large ships previously 
never encountered. Which means Riose wasn't giving us the works. He has received more 
ships. Brodrig has switched sides, and I have messed things up." 

His eyes were bleak as he joined the food-container contact-points and watched it fall open 
neatly. The stewlike dish steamed its aroma through the room. Ducem Barr was already eating. 

"So much," said Barr, "for improvisations, then. We can do nothing here; we can not cut 
through the Imperial lines to return to the Foundation; we can do nothing but that which is most 
sensible - to wait patiently. However, if Riose has reached the inner line I trust the wait will not 
be too long." 

And Devers put down his fork. "Wait, is it?" he snarled, glowering. "That's all right for you. 
You've got nothing at stake." 

"Haven't I?" Barr smiled thinly. 

"No. In fact, I'll tell you." Devers' irritation skimmed the surface. "I'm tired of looking at this whole 
business as if it were an interesting something-or-other on a microscope slide. I've got friends 
somewhere out there, dying; and a whole world out there, my home, dying also. You're an 
outsider. You don't know." 

"I have seen friends die." The old man's hands were limp in his lap and his eyes were closed. 
"Are you married?" 

Devers said, "Traders don't marry." 

"Well, I have two sons and a nephew. They have been warned, but - for reasons - they could 
take no action. Our escape means their death. My daughter and my two grandchildren have, I 
hope, left the planet safety before this, but even excluding them, I have already risked and lost 
more than you." 

Devers was morosely savage. "I know. But that was a matter of choice. You might have played 
ball with Riose. I never asked you to-" 



Barr shook his head. "It was not a matter of choice, Devers. Make your conscience free, I didn't 
risk my sons for you. I co-operated with Riose as long as I dared. But there was the Psychic 
Probe." 

The Siwennian patrician opened his eyes and they were sharp with pain. "Riose came to me 
once; it was over a year ago. He spoke of a cult centering about the magicians, but missed the 
truth. It is not quite a cult. You see, it is forty years now that Siwenna has been gripped in the 
same unbearable vise that threatens your world. Five revolts have been ground out. Then I 
discovered the ancient records of Hari Seldon - and now this 'cult' waits. 

"It waits for the coming of the 'magicians' and for that day it is ready. My sons are leaders of 
those who wait. It is that secret which is in my mind and which the Probe must never touch. 

And so they must die as hostages; for the alternative is their death as rebels and half of 
Siwenna with them. You see, I had no choice! And I am no outsider." 

Devers' eyes fell, and Barr continued softly, "It is on a Foundation victory that Siwenna's hopes 
depend. It is for a Foundation victory that my sons are sacrificed. And Hari Seldon does not 
pre-calculate the inevitable salvation of Siwenna as he does that of the Foundation. I have no 
certainty for my people - only hope." 

"But you are still satisfied to wait. Even with the Imperial Navy at Loris." 

"I would wait, in perfect confidence," said Barr, simply, "if they had landed on the planet, 
Terminus, itself." 

The trader frowned hopelessly. "I don't know. It can't really work like that; not just like magic. 
Psychohistory or not, they're terribly strong, and we're weak. What can Setdon do about it?" 

"There's nothing to do. It's all already done. It's proceeding now. Because you don't hear the 
wheels turning and the gongs beating doesn't mean it's any the less certain." 

"Maybe; but I wish you had cracked Riose's skull for keeps. He's more the enemy than all his 
army." 

"Cracked his skull? With Brodrig his second in command?" Barr's face sharpened with hate. "All 
Siwenna would have been my hostage. Brodrig has proven his worth long since. There exists a 
world which five years ago lost one male in every ten - and simply for failure to meet 
outstanding taxes. This same Brodrig was the tax-collector. No, Riose may live. His 
punishments are mercy in comparison." 

"But six months, six months, in the enemy Base, with nothing to show for it." Devers' strong 
hands clasped each other tautly, so that his knuckles cracked. "Nothing to show for it!" 

"Well, now, wait. You remind me-" Barr fumbled in his pouch. "You might want to count this." 
And he tossed the small sphere of metal on the table. 

Devers snatched it. "What is it?" 

"The message capsule. The one that Riose received just before I jacked him. Does that count 
as something?" 



"I don't know. Depends on what's in it!" Devers sat down and turned it over carefully in his 
hand. 


When Barr stepped from his cold shower and, gratefully, into the mild warm current of the air 
dryer, he found Devers silent and absorbed at the workbench. 

The Siwennian slapped his body with a sharp rhythm and spoke above the punctuating sounds. 
"What are you doing?" 

Devers looked up. Droplets of perspiration glittered in his beard. "I'm going to open this 
capsule." 

"Can you open it without Riose's personal characteristic?" There was mild surprise in the 
Siwennian's voice. 

"If I can't, I'll resign from the Association and never skipper a ship for what's left of my life. I've 
got a three-way electronic analysis of the interior now, and I've got little jiggers that the Empire 
never heard of, especially made for jimmying capsules. I've been a burglar before this, y'know. 
A trader has to be something of everything." 

He bent low over the little sphere, and a small flat instrument probed delicately and sparked 
redly at each fleeting contact. 

He said, "This capsule is a crude job, anyway. These Imperial boys are no shakes at this small 
work. I can see that. Ever see a Foundation capsule? It's half the size and impervious to 
electronic analysis in the first place." 

And then he was rigid, the shoulder muscles beneath his tunic tautening visibly. His tiny probe 
pressed slowly- 

It was noiseless when it came, but Devers; relaxed and sighed. In his hand was the shining 
sphere with its message unrolled like a parchment tongue. 

"It's from Brodrig," he said. Then, with contempt, "The message medium is permanent. In a 
Foundation capsule, the message would be oxidized to gas within the minute." 

But Ducem Barr waved him silent. He read the message quickly. 

FROM: AMMEL BRODRIG, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, PRIVY 
SECRETARY OF THE COUNCIL, AND PEER OF THE REALM. 

TO: BEL RIOSE, MILITARY GOVERNOR OF SIWENNA. GENERAL OF THE IMPERIAL 
FORCES, AND PEER OF THE REALM. I GREET YOU. 

PLANET #1 1 20 NO LONGER RESISTS. THE PLANS OF OFFENSE AS OUTLINED 
CONTINUE SMOOTHLY. THE ENEMY WEAKENS VISIBLY AND THE ULTIMATE ENDS IN 
VIEW WILL SURELY BE GAINED. 

Barr raised his head from the almost microscopic print and cried bitterly, "The fool! The 
forsaken blasted fop! That a. message?" 



"Huh?" said Devers. He was vaguely disappointed. 

"It says nothing," ground out Barr. "Our lick-spittle courtier is playing at general now. With Riose 
away, he is the field commander and must sooth his paltry spirit by spewing out his pompous 
reports concerning military affairs he has nothing to do with. 'So-and-so planet no longer 
resists.' 'The offensive moves on.' 'The enemy weakens.' The vacuum-headed peacock." 

"Well, now, wait a minute. Hold on-" 

"Throw it away." The old man turned away in mortification. "The Galaxy knows I never expected 
it to be world-shakingly important, but in wartime it is reasonable to assume that even the most 
routine order left undelivered might hamper military movements and lead to complications later. 
It's why I snatched it. But this! Better to have left it. It would have wasted a minute of Riose's 
time that will now be put to more constructive use." 

But Devers had arisen. "Will you hold on and stop throwing your weight around? For Seldon's 
sake-" 

He held out the sliver of message before Barr's nose, "Now read that again. What does he 
mean by 'ultimate ends in view'?" 

"The conquest of the Foundation. Well?" 

"Yes? And maybe he means the conquest of the Empire. You know he believes that to be the 
ultimate end." 

"And if he does?" 

"If he does!" Devers' one-sided smile was lost in his beard. "Why, watch then, and I'll show 
you." 

With one finger the lavishly monogrammed sheet of message-parchment was thrust back into 
its slot. With a soft twang, it disappeared and the globe was a smooth, unbroken whole again. 
Somewhere inside was the tiny oiled whir of the controls as they lost their setting by random 
movements. 

"Now there is no known way of opening this capsule without knowledge of Riose's personal 
characteristic, is there?" 

"To the Empire, no," said Barr. 

"Then the evidence it contains is unknown to us and absolutely authentic." 

"To the Empire, yes," said Barr. 

"And the Emperor can open it, can't he? Personal Characteristics of Government officials must 
be on file. We keep records of OL/r officials at the Foundation." 

"At the Imperial capital as well," agreed Barr. 

"Then when you, a Siwennian patrician and Peer of the Realm, tell this Cleon, this Emperor, 
that his favorite tame-parrot and his shiniest general are getting together to knock him over, 



and hand him the capsule as evidence, what will he think Brodrig's 'ultimate ends' are?" 

Barr sat down weakly. "Wait, I don't follow you." He stroked one thin cheek, and said, "You're 
not really serious, are you?" 

"I am." Devers was angrily excited. "Listen, nine out of the last ten Emperors got their throats 
cut, or their gizzards blasted out by one or another of their generals with bigtime notions in their 
heads. You told me that yourself more than once. Old man Emperor would believe us so fast it 
would make Riose's head swim." 

Barr muttered feebly, "He is serious, For the Galaxy's sake, man, you can't beat a Seldon crisis 
by a far-fetched, impractical, storybook scheme like that. Suppose you had never got hold of 
the capsule. Suppose Brodrig hadn't used the word 'ultimate.' Seldon doesn't depend on wild 
luck." 

"If wild luck comes our way, there's no law says Seldon can't take advantage of it." 

"Certainly. But ... but," Barr stopped, then spoke calmly but with visible restraint. "Look, in the 
first place, how will you get to the planet Trantor? You don't know its location in space, and I 
certainly don't remember the co-ordinates, to say nothing of the ephemerae. You don't even 
know your own position in space." 

"You can't get lost in space," grinned Devers. He was at the controls already. "Down we go to 
the nearest planet, and back we come with complete bearings and the best navigation charts 
Brodrig's hundred thousand smackers can buy." 

"And a blaster in our belly. Our descriptions are probably in every planet in this quarter of the 
Empire." 

"Doc," said Devers, patiently, "don't be a hick tom the sticks. Riose said my ship surrendered 
too easily and, brother, he wasn't kidding. This ship has enough fire-power and enough juice in 
its shield to hold off anything we're Rely to meet this deep inside the frontier. And we have 
personal shields, too. The Empire boys never found them, you know, but they weren't meant to 
be found." 

"All fight," said Barr, "all right. Suppose yourself on Trantor. How do you see the Emperor then? 
You think he keeps office hours?" 

"Suppose we worry about that on Trantor," said Devers. 

And Barr muttered helplessly, "All right again. I've wanted to see Trantor before I die for half a 
century now. Have your way." 

The hypernuclear motor was cut in. The lights flickered and there was the slight internal wrench 
that marked the shift into hyperspace. 



9. ON TRANTOR 

The stars were as thick as weeds in an unkempt field, and for the first time, Lathan Devers 
found the figures to the right of the decimal point of prime importance in calculating the cuts 
through the hyper-regions. There was a claustrophobic sensation about the necessity for leaps 
of not more than a light-year. There was a frightening harshness about a sky which glittered 
unbrokenly in every direction. It was being lost in a sea of radiation. 

And in the center of an open cluster of ten thousand stars, whose light tore to shreds the feebly 
encircling darkness, there circled the huge Imperial planet, Trantor. 

But it was more than a planet; it was the living pulse beat of an Empire of twenty million stellar 
systems. It had only one, function, administration; one purpose, government; and one 
manufactured product, law. 

The entire world was one functional distortion. There was no living object on its surface hut 
man, his pets, and his parasites. No blade of grass or fragment of uncovered soil could be 
found outside the hundred square miles of the Imperial Palace. No fresh water outside the 
Palace grounds existed but in the vast underground cisterns that held the water supply of a 
world. 

The lustrous, indestructible, incorruptible metal that was the unbroken surface of the planet was 
the foundation of the huge, metal structures that mazed the planet. They were structures 
connected by causeways; laced by corridors; cubbyholed by offices; basemented by the huge 
retail centers that covered square miles; penthoused by the glittering amusement world that 
sparkled into life each night. 

One could walk around the world of Trantor and never leave that one conglomerate building, 
nor see the city. 

A fleet of ships greater in number than all the war fleets the Empire had ever supported landed 
their cargoes on Trantor each day to feed the forty billions of humans who gave nothing in 
exchange but the fulfillment of the necessity of untangling the myriads of threads that spiraled 
into the central administration of the most complex government Humanity had ever known. 

Twenty agricultural worlds were the granary of Trantor. A universe was its servant. 

Tightly held by the huge metal arms on either side, the trade ship was gently lowered down the 
huge ramp that led to the hangar. Already Devers had fumed his way through the manifold 
complications of a world conceived in paper work and dedicated to the principle of the 
form-in-quadruplicate. 

There had been the preliminary halt in space, where the first of what had grown into a hundred 
questionnaires had been filled out. There were the hundred cross-examinations, the routine 
administration of a simple Probe, the photographing of the ship, the Characteristic-Analysis of 
the two men, and the subsequent recording of the same, the search for contraband, the 
payment of the entry tax - and finally the question of the identity cards and visitor's visa. 

Ducem Barr was a Siwennian and subject of the Emperor, but Lathan Devers was an unknown 



without the requisite documents. The official in charge at the moment was devastated with 
sorrow, but Devers could not enter. In fact, he would have to be held for official investigation. 

From somewhere a hundred credits in crisp, new bills backed by the estates of Lord Brodrig 
made their appearance, and changed bands quietly. The official hemmed importantly and the 
devastation of his sorrow was assuaged. A new form made its appearance from the appropriate 
pigeonhole. It was filled out rapidly and efficiently, with the Devers characteristic thereto 
formally and properly attached. 

The two men, trader and patrician, entered Siwenna. 

In the hangar, the trade ship was another vessel to be cached, photographed, recorded, 
contents noted, identity cards of passengers facsimiled, and for which a suitable fee was paid, 
recorded, and receipted. 

And then Devers was on a huge terrace under the bright white sun, along which women 
chattered, children shrieked, and men sipped drinks languidly and listened to the huge 
televisors blaring out the news of the Empire. 

Barr paid a requisite number of iridium coins and appropriated the uppermost member of a pile 
of newspapers. It was the Trantor Imperial News, official organ of the government. In the back 
of the news room, there was the soft clicking noise of additional editions being printed in 
long-distance sympathy with the busy machines at the Imperial News offices ten thousand 
miles away by corridor - six thousand by air-machine - just as ten million sets of copies were 
being likewise printed at that moment in ten million other news rooms all over the planet. 

Barr glanced at the headlines and said softly, "What shall we do first?" 

Devers tried to shake himself out of his depression. He was in a universe far removed from his 
own, on a world that weighted him down with its intricacy, among people whose doings were 
incomprehensible and whose language was nearly so. The gleaming metallic towers that 
surrounded him and continued onwards in never-ending multiplicity to beyond the horizon 
oppressed him; the whole busy, unheeding life of a world-metropolis cast him into the horrible 
gloom of isolation and pygmyish unimportance. 

He said, "I better leave it to you, doc." 

Barr was calm, low-voice. "I tried to tell you, but it's hard to believe without seeing for yourself, I 
know that. Do you know how many people want to see the Emperor every day? About one 
million. Do you know how many he sees? About ten. We'll have to work through the civil 
service, and that makes it harder. But we can't afford the aristocracy." 

"We have almost one hundred thousand." 

"A single Peer of the Realm would cost us that, and it would take at least three or four to form 
an adequate bridge to the Emperor. It may take fifty chief commissioners and senior 
supervisors to do the same, but they would cost us only a hundred apiece perhaps. I'll do the 
talking. In the first place, they wouldn't understand your accent, and in the second, you don't 
know the etiquette of Imperial bribery. It's an art, I assure you. Ah!" 



The third page of the Imperial News had what he wanted and he passed the paper to Devers. 

Devers read slowly. The vocabulary was strange, but he understood. He looked up, and his 
eyes were dark with concern. He slapped the news sheet angrily with the back of his hand. 

"You think this can be trusted?" 

"Within limits," replied Barr, calmly. "It's highly improbable that the Foundation fleet was wiped 
out. They've probably reported that several times already, if they've gone by the usual 
war-reporting technique of a world capital far from the actual scene of fighting. What it means, 
though, is that Riose has won another battle, which would be none-too-unexpected. It says he's 
captured Loris. Is that the capital planet of the Kingdom of Loris?" 

"Yes," brooded Devers, "or of what used to be the Kingdom of Loris. And it's not twenty parsecs 
from the Foundation. Doc, we've got to work fast." 

Barr shrugged, "You can't go fast on Trantor. If you try, you'll end up at the point of an 
atom-blaster, most likely." 

"How long will it take?" 

"A month, if we're lucky. A month, and our hundred thousand credits - if even that will suffice. 
And that is providing the Emperor does not take it into his head in the meantime to travel to the 
Summer Planets, where he sees no petitioners at all." 

"But the Foundation-" 

"-Will take care of itself, as heretofore. Come, there's the question of dinner. I'm hungry. And 
afterwards, the evening is ours and we may as well use it. We shall never see Trantor or any 
world like it again, you know." 

The Home Commissioner of the Outer Provinces spread his pudgy hands helplessly and 
peered at the petitioners with owlish nearsightedness. "But the Emperor is indisposed, 
gentlemen. It is really useless to take the matter to my superior. His Imperial Majesty has seen 
no one in a week." 

"He will see us," said Barr, with an affectation of confidence. "It is but a question of seeing a 
member of the staff of the Privy Secretary." 

"Impossible," said the commissioner emphatically. "It would be the worth of my job to attempt 
that. Now if you could but be more explicit concerning the nature of your business. I'm willing to 
help you, understand, but naturally I want something less vague, something I can present to my 
superior as reason for taking the matter further." 

"If my business were such that it could be told to any but the highest," suggested Barr, 
smoothly, "it would scarcely be important enough to rate audience with His Imperial Majesty. I 
propose that you take a chance. I might remind you that if His Imperial Majesty attaches the 
importance to our business which we guarantee that he will, you will stand certain to receive 
the honors you will deserve for helping us now." 

"Yes, but-" and the commissioner shrugged, wordlessly. 



"It's a chance," agreed Barr. "Naturally, a risk should have its compensation. It is a rather great 
favor to ask you, but we have already been greatly obliged with your kindness in offering us this 
opportunity to explain our problem. But if you would allow us to express our gratitude just 
slightly by-" 

Devers scowled. He had heard this speech with its slight variations twenty times in the past 
month. It ended, as always, in a quick shift of the half-hidden bills. But the epilogue differed 
here. Usually the bills vanished immediately; here they remained in plain view, while slowly the 
commissioner counted them, inspecting them front and back as he did so. 

There was a subtle change in his voice. "Backed by the Privy Secretary, hey? Good money!" 

"To get back to the subject-" urged Barr. 

"No, but wait," interrupted the commissioner, "let us go back by easy stages. I really do wish to 
know what your business can be. This money, it is fresh and new, and you must have a good 
deal, for it strikes me that you have seen other officials before me. Come, now, what about it?" 

Barr said, "I don't see what you are driving at." 

"Why, see here, it might be proven that you are upon the planet illegally, since the Identification 
and Entry Cards of your silent friend are certainly inadequate. He is not a subject of the 
Emperor." 

"I deny that." 

"It doesn't matter that you do," said the commissioner, with sudden bluntness. "The official who 
signed his Cards for the sum of a hundred credits has confessed - under pressure - and we 
know more of you than you think." 

"If you are hinting, sir, that the sum we have asked you to accept is inadequate in view of the 
risks-" 

The commissioner smiled. "On the contrary, it is more than adequate." He tossed the bills 
aside. "To return to what I was saying, it is the Emperor himself who has become interested in 
your case. Is it not true, sirs, that you have recently been guests of General Riose? Is it not true 
that you have escaped from the midst of his army with, to put it mildly, astonishing ease? Is it 
not true that you possess a small fortune in bills backed by Lord Brodrig's estates? In short, is it 
not true that you are a pair of spies and assassins sent here to - Well, you shall tell us yourself 
who paid you and for what!" 

"Do you know," said Barr, with silky anger, "I deny the right of a petty commissioner to accuse 
us of crimes. We will leave." 

"You will not leave." The commissioner arose, and his eyes no longer seemed near-sighted. 
"You need answer no question now; that will be reserved for a later - and more forceful - time. 
Nor am I a commissioner; I am a Lieutenant of the Imperial Police. You are under arrest." 

There was a glitteringly efficient blast-gun in his fist as he smiled. "There are greater men than 
you under arrest this day. It is a hornet's nest we are cleaning up." 



Devers snarled and reached slowly for his own gun. The lieutenant of police smiled more 
broadly and squeezed the contacts. The blasting line of force struck Devers' chest in an 
accurate blaze of destruction - that bounced harmlessly off his personal shield in sparkling 
spicules of light. 

Devers shot in turn, and the lieutenant's head fell from off an upper torso that had disappeared. 
It was still smiling as it lay in the jag of sunshine which entered through the new-made hole in 
the wall. 

It was through the back entrance that they left. 

Devers said huskily, "Quickly to the ship. They'll have the alarm out in no time." He cursed in a 
ferocious whisper. "It's another plan that's backfired. I could swear the space fiend himself is 
against me." 

It was in the open that they became aware of the jabbering crowds that surrounded the huge 
televisors. They had no time to wait; the disconnected roaring words that reached them, they 
disregarded. But Barr snatched a copy of the Imperial News before diving into the huge barn of 
the hangar, where the ship lifted hastily through a giant cavity burnt fiercely into the roof. 

"Can you get away from them?" asked Barr. 

Ten ships of the traffic-police wildly followed the runaway craft that had burst out of the lawful, 
radio-beamed Path of Leaving, and then broken every speed law in creation. Further behind 
still, sleek vessels of the Secret Service were lifting in pursuit of a carefully described ship 
manned by two thoroughly identified murderers. 

"Watch me," said Devers, and savagely shifted into hyperspace two thousand miles above the 
surface of Trantor. The shift, so near a planetary mass, meant unconsciousness for Barr and a 
fearful haze of pain for Devers, but light-years further, space above them was clear. 

Devers' somber pride in his ship burst to the surface. He said, "There's not an Imperial ship that 
could follow me anywhere." 

And then, bitterly, "But there is nowhere left to run to for us, and we can't fight their weight. 
What's there to do? What can anyone do?" 

Barr moved feebly on his cot. The effect of the hypershift had not yet worn off, and each of his 
muscles ached. He said, "No one has to do anything. It's all over. Here!" 

He passed the copy of the Imperial News that he still clutched, and the headlines were enough 
for the trader. 

"Recalled and arrested - Riose and Brodrig," Devers muttered. He stared blankly at Barr. 
"Why?" 

"The story doesn't say, but what does it matter? The war with the Foundation is over, and at 
this moment, Siwenna is revolting. Read the story and see." His voice was drifting off. "We'll 
stop in some of the provinces and find out the later details. If you don't mind, I'll go to sleep 
now." 



And he did. 


In grasshopper jumps of increasing magnitude, the trade ship was spanning the Galaxy in its 
return to the Foundation. 


10. THE WAR ENDS 

Lathan Devers felt definitely uncomfortable, and vaguely resentful. He had received his own 
decoration and withstood with mute stoicism the turgid oratory of the mayor which 
accompanied the slip of crimson ribbon. That had ended his share of the ceremonies, but, 
naturally, formality forced him to remain. And it was formality, chiefly - the type that couldn't 
allow him to yawn noisily or to swing a foot comfortably onto a chair seat - that made him long 
to be in space, where he belonged. 

The Siwennese delegation, with Ducem Barr a lionized member, signed the Convention, and 
Siwenna became the first province to pass directly from the Empire's political rule to the 
Foundation's economic one. 

Five Imperial Ships of the Line - captured when Siwenna rebelled behind the lines of the 
Empire's Border Fleet - flashed overhead, huge and massive, detonating a roaring salute as 
they passed over the city. 

Nothing but drinking, etiquette, and small talk now. 

A voice called him. It was Forell; the man who, Devers realized coldly, could buy twenty of him 
with a morning's profits - but a Forell who now crooked a finger at him with genial 
condescension. 

He stepped out upon the balcony into the cool night wind, and bowed properly, while scowling 
into his bristling beard. Barr was there, too; smiling. He said, "Devers, you'll have to come to my 
rescue. I'm being accused of modesty, a horrible and thoroughly unnatural crime." 

"Devers," Forell removed the fat cigar from the side of his mouth when he spoke, "Lord Barr 
claims that your trip to Cleon's capital had nothing to do with the recall of Riose." 

"Nothing at all, sir." Devers was curt. "We never saw the Emperor. The reports we picked up on 
our way back concerning the trial, showed it up to be the purest frameup. There was a mess of 
rigmarole about the general being tied up with subversive interests at the court." 

"And he was innocent?" 

"Riose?" interposed Barr. "Yes! By the Galaxy, yes. Brodrig was a traitor on general principles 
but was never guilty of the specific accusations brought against him. It was a judicial farce; but 
a necessary one, a predictable one, an inevitable one." 

"By psychohistorical necessity, I presume." Forell rolled the phrase sonorously with the 
humorous ease of long familiarity. 

"Exactly." Barr grew serious. "It never penetrated earlier, but once it was over and I could ... 



well ... look at the answers in the back of the book, the problem became simple. We can see, 
now , that the social background of the Empire makes wars of conquest impossible for it. Under 
weak Emperors, it is tom apart by generals competing for a worthless and surely death-bringing 
throne. Under strong Emperors, the Empire is frozen into a paralytic rigor in which 
disintegration apparently ceases for the moment, but only at the sacrifice of all possible 
growth." 

Forell growled bluntly through strong puffs, "You're not clear, Lord Barr." 

Barr smiled slowly. "I suppose so. It's the difficulty of not being trained in psychohistory. Words 
are a pretty fuzzy substitute for mathematical equations. But let's see now-" 

Barr considered, while Forell relaxed, back to railing, and Devers looked into the velvet sky and 
thought wonderingly of Trantor. 

Then Barr said, "You see, sir, you - and Devers - and everyone no doubt, had the idea that 
beating the Empire meant first prying apart the Emperor and his general. You, and Devers, and 
everyone else were right - right all the time, as far as the principle of internal disunion was 
concerned. 

"You were wrong, however, in thinking that this internal split was something to be brought about 
by individual acts, by inspirations of the moment. You tried bribery and lies. You appealed to 
ambition and to fear. But you got nothing for all your pains. In fact, appearances were worse 
after each attempt. 

"And through all this wild threshing up of tiny ripples, the Seldon tidal wave continued onward, 
quietly - but quite irresistibly." 

Ducem Barr turned away, and looked over the railing at the lights of a rejoicing city. Fie said, 
"There was a dead hand pushing all of us; the mighty general and the great Emperor; my world 
and your world - the dead hand of Hari Seldon. Fie knew that a man like Riose would have to 
fail, since it was his success that brought failure; and the greater the success, the surer the 
failure." 

Forell said dryly, "I can't say you're getting clearer." 

"A moment," continued Barr earnestly. "Look at the situation. A weak general could never have 
endangered us, obviously. A strong general during the time of a weak Emperor would never 
have endangered us, either; for he would have turned his arms towards a much more fruitful 
target. Events have shown that three-fourths of the Emperors of the last two centuries were 
rebel generals and rebel viceroys before they were Emperors. 

"So it is only the combination of strong Emperor and strong general that can harm the 
Foundation; for a strong Emperor can not be dethroned easily, and a strong general is forced to 
turn outwards, past the frontiers. 

"But, what keeps the Emperor strong? What kept Cleon strong? It's obvious. Fie is strong, 
because he permits no strong subjects. A courtier who becomes too rich, or a general who 
becomes too popular is dangerous. All the recent history of the Empire proves that to any 
Emperor intelligent enough to be strong. 



"Riose won victories, so the Emperor grew suspicious. All the atmosphere of the times forced 
him to be suspicious. Did Riose refuse a bribe? Very suspicious; ulterior motives. Did his most 
trusted courtier suddenly favor Riose? Very suspicious; ulterior motives. It wasn't the individual 
acts that were suspicious. Anything else would have done which is why our individual plots 
were unnecessary and rather futile. It was the success of Riose that was suspicious. So he was 
recalled, and accused, condemned, murdered. The Foundation wins again. 

"Look, there is not a conceivable combination of events that does not result in the Foundation 
winning. It was inevitable; whatever Riose did, whatever we did." 

The Foundation magnate nodded ponderously. "So! But what if the Emperor and the general 
had been the same person. Fley? What then? That's a case you didn't cover, so you haven't 
proved your point yet." 

Barr shrugged. "I can't prove anything; I haven't the mathematics. But I appeal to your reason. 
With an Empire in which every aristocrat, every strong man, every pirate can aspire to the 
Throne - and, as history shows, often successfully - what would happen to even a strong 
Emperor who preoccupied himself with foreign wars at the extreme end of the Galaxy? How 
long would he have to remain away from the capital before somebody raised the standards of 
civil war and forced him home. The social environment of the Empire would make that time 
short. 

"I once told Riose that not all the Empire's strength could swerve the dead hand of Hari 
Seldom" 

"Good! Good!" Forell was expansively pleased. "Then you imply the Empire can never threaten 
us again." 

"It seems to me so," agreed Barr. "Frankly, Cleon may not live out the year, and there's going to 
be a disputed succession almost as a matter of course, which might mean the last civil war for 
the Empire." 

"Then," said Forell, "there are no more enemies." 

Barr was thoughtful. "There's a Second Foundation." 

"At the other end of the Galaxy? Not for centuries." 

Devers turned suddenly at this, and his face was dark as he faced Forell. "There are internal 
enemies, perhaps." 

"Are there?" asked Forell, coolly. "Who, for instance?" 

"People, for instance, who might like to spread the wealth a bit, and keep it from concentrating 
too much out of the hands that work for it. See what I mean?" 


Slowly, Forell's gaze lost its contempt and grew one with the anger of Devers' own. 



PART II 
THE MULE 

11. BRIDE AND GROOM 

THE MULE Less is known of "The Mule" than of any character of comparable significance to 
Galactic history. Even the period of his greatest renown is known to us chiefly through the eyes 
of his antagonists and, principally, through those of a young bride.... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

Bayta's first sight of Haven was entirely the contrary of spectacular. Her husband pointed it out 
- a dull star lost in the emptiness of the Galaxy's edge. It was past the last sparse clusters, to 
where straggling points of light gleamed lonely. And even among these it was poor and 
inconspicuous. 

Toran was quite aware that as the earliest prelude to married life, the Red Dwarf lacked 
impressiveness and his lips curled self-consciously. "I know, Bay - It isn't exactly a proper 
change, is it? I mean from the Foundation to this." 

"A horrible change, Toran. I should never have married you." 

And when his face looked momentarily hurt, before he caught himself, she said with her special 
"cozy" tone, "All right, silly. Now let your lower lip droop and give me that special dying-duck 
look - the one just before you're supposed to bury your head on my shoulder, while I stroke 
your hair full of static electricity. You were fishing for some drivel, weren't you? You were 
expecting me to say 'I'd be happy anywhere with you, Toran!' or 'The interstellar depths 
themselves would be home, my sweet, were you but with me!' Now you admit it." 

She pointed a finger at him and snatched it away an instant before his teeth closed upon it. 

He said, "If I surrender, and admit you're right, will you prepare dinner?" 

She nodded contentedly. He smiled, and just looked at her. 

She wasn't beautiful on the grand scale to others - he admitted that - even if everybody did 
look twice. Her hair was dark and glossy, though straight, her mouth a bit wide - but her 
meticulous, close-textured eyebrows separated a white, unlined forehead from the warmest 
mahogany eyes ever filled with smiles. 

And behind a very sturdily-built and staunchly-defended facade of practical, unromantic, 
hard-headedness towards life, there was just that little pool of softness that would never show if 
you poked for it, but could be reached if you knew just how - and never let on that you were 
looking for it. 

Toran adjusted the controls unnecessarily and decided to relax. He was one interstellar jump, 



and then several milli-microparsecs "on the straight" before manipulation by hand was 
necessary. He leaned over backwards to look into the storeroom, where Bayta was juggling 
appropriate containers. 

There was quite a bit of smugness about his attitude towards Bayta - the satisfied awe that 
marks the triumph of someone who has been hovering at the edge of an inferiority complex for 
three years. 

After all he was a provincial - and not merely a provincial, but the son of a renegade Trader. 
And she was of the Foundation itself - and not merely that, but she could trace her ancestry 
back to Mallow. 

And with all that, a tiny quiver underneath. To take her back to Haven, with its rock-world and 
cave-cities was bad enough. To have her face the traditional hostility of Trader for Foundation - 
nomad for city dweller - was worse. 

Still - After supper, the last jump! 

Haven was an angry crimson blaze, and the second planet was a ruddy patch of light with 
atmosphere-blurred rim and a half-sphere of darkness. Bayta leaned over the large view table 
with its spidering of crisscross lines that centered Haven II neatly. 

She said gravely, "I wish I had met your father first. If he takes a dislike to me-" 

"Then," said Toran matter-of-factly, "you would be the first pretty girl to inspire that in him. 
Before he lost his arm and stopped roving around the Galaxy, he - Well, if you ask him about it, 
he'll talk to you about it till your ears wear down to a nubbin. After a while I got to thinking that 
he was embroidering; because he never told the same story twice the same way-" 

Haven II was rushing up at them now. The landlocked sea wheeled ponderously below them, 
slate-gray in the lowering dimness and lost to sight, here and there, among the wispy clouds. 
Mountains jutted raggedly along the coast. 

The sea became wrinkled with nearness and, as it veered off past the horizon just at the end, 
there was one vanishing glimpse of shore-hugging ice fields. 

Toran grunted under the fierce deceleration, "Is your suit locked?" 

Bayta's plump face was round and ruddy in the incasing sponge-foam of the internally-heated, 
skin-clinging costume. 

The ship lowered crunchingly on the open field just short of the lifting of the plateau. 

They climbed out awkwardly into the solid darkness of the outer-galactic night, and Bayta 
gasped as the sudden cold bit, and the thin wind swirled emptily. Toran seized her elbow and 
nudged her into an awkward run over the smooth, packed ground towards the sparking of 
artificial light in the distance. 

The advancing guards met them halfway, and after a whispered exchange of words, they were 
taken onward. The wind and the cold disappeared when the gate of rock opened and then 
closed behind them. The warm interior, white with wall-light, was filled with an incongruous 



humming bustle. Men looked up from their desks, and Toran produced documents. 

They were waved onward after a short glance and Toran whispered to his wife, "Dad must have 
fixed up the preliminaries. The usual lapse here is about five hours." 

They burst into the open and Bayta said suddenly, "Oh, my-" 

The cave city was in daylight - the white daylight of a young sun. Not that there was a sun, of 
course. What should have been the sky was lost in the unfocused glow of an over-all brilliance. 
And the warm air was properly thick and fragrant with greenery. 

Bayta said, "Why, Toran, it's beautiful." 

Toran grinned with anxious delight. "Well, now, Bay, it isn't like anything on the Foundation, of 
course, but it's the biggest city on Haven II - twenty thousand people, you know - and you'll get 
to like it. No amusement palaces, I'm afraid, but no secret police either." 

"Oh, Torie, it's just like a toy city. It's all white and pink - and so clean." 

"Well-" Toran looked at the city with her. The houses were two stories high for the most part, 
and of the smooth vein rock indigenous to the region. The spires of the Foundation were 
missing, and the colossal community houses of the Old Kingdoms - but the smallness was 
there and the individuality; a relic of personal initiative in a Galaxy of mass life. 

He snapped to sudden attention. "Bay - There's Dad! Right there - where I'm pointing, silly. 
Don't you see him?" 

She did. It was just the impression of a large man, waving frantically, fingers spread wide as 
though groping wildly in air. The deep thunder of a drawn-out shout reached them. Bayta trailed 
her husband, rushing downwards over the close-cropped lawn. She caught sight of a smaller 
man, white-haired, almost lost to view behind the robust One-arm, who still waved and still 
shouted. 

Toran cried over his shoulder, "It's my father's half-brother. The one who's been to the 
Foundation. You know." 

They met in the grass, laughing and incoherent, and Toran's father let out a final whoop for 
sheer joy. He hitched at his short jacket and adjusted the metal-chased belt that was his one 
concession to luxury. 

His eyes shifted from one of the youngsters to the other, and then he said, a little out of breath, 
"You picked a rotten day to return home, boy!" 

"What? Oh, it is Seldon's birthday, isn't it?" 

"It is. I had to rent a car to make the trip here, and dragoon Randu to drive it. Not a public 
vehicle to be had at gun's point." 

His eyes were on Bayta now, and didn't leave. He spoke to her more softly, "I have the crystal 
of you right here - and it's good, but I can see the fellow who took it was an amateur." 



He had the small cube of transparency out of his jacket pocket and in the light the laughing little 
face within sprang to vivid colored life as a miniature Bayta. 

"That one!" said Bayta. "Now I wonder why Toran should send that caricature. I'm surprised you 
let me come near you, sir." 

"Are you now? Call me Fran. I'll have none of this fancy mess. For that, I think you can take my 
arm, and we'll go on to the car. Till now I never did think my boy knew what he was ever up to. I 
think I'll change that opinion. I think I'll have to change that opinion." 

Toran said to his half uncle softly, "How is the old man these days? Does he still hound the 
women?" 

Randu puckered up all over his face when he smiled. "When he can, Toran, when he can. 

There are times when he remembers that his next birthday will be his sixtieth, and that 
disheartens him. But he shouts it down, this evil thought, and then he is himself. He is a Trader 
of the ancient type. But you, Toran. Where did you find such a pretty wife?" 

The young man chuckled and linked arms. "Do you want a three years' history at a gasp, 
uncle?" 

It was in the small living room of the home that Bayta struggled out of her traveling cloak and 
hood and shook her hair loose. She sat down, crossing her knees, and returned the 
appreciative stare of this large, ruddy man. 

She said, "I know what you're trying to estimate, and I'll help you; Age, twenty-four, height, 
five-four, weight, one-ten, educational specialty, history." She noticed that he always crooked 
his stand so as to hide the missing arm. But now Fran leaned close and said, "Since you 
mention it -weight, one-twenty." 

He laughed loudly at her flush. Then he said to the company in general, "You can always tell a 
woman's weight by her upper arm - with due experience, of course. Do you want a drink, Bay?" 

"Among other things," she said, and they left together, while Toran busied himself at the book 
shelves to check for new additions. 

Fran returned alone and said, "She'll be down later." 

He lowered himself heavily into the large comer chair and placed his stiff-jointed left leg on the 
stool before it. The laughter had left his red face, and Toran turned to face him. 

Fran said, "Well, you're home, boy, and I'm glad you are. I like your woman. She's no whining 
ninny." 

"I married her," said Toran simply. 

"Well, that's another thing altogether, boy." His eyes darkened. "It's a foolish way to tie up the 
future. In my longer life, and more experienced, I never did such a thing." 

Randu interrupted from the comer where he stood quietly. "Now Franssart, what comparisons 
are you making? Till your crash landing six years ago you were never in one spot long enough 



to establish residence requirements for marriage, And since then, who would have you?" 

The one-armed man jerked erect in his seat and replied hotly, "Many, you snowy dotard-" 

Toran said with hasty tact, "It's largely a legal formality, Dad. The situation has its 
conveniences." 

"Mostly for the woman," grumbled Fran. 

"And even if so," agreed Randu, "it's up to the boy to decide. Marriage is an old custom among 
the Foundationers." 

"The Foundationers are not fit models for an honest Trader," smoldered Fran. 

Toran broke in again, "My wife is a Foundationer." Fie looked from one to the other, and then 
said quietly, "She's coming." 

The conversation took a general turn after the evening meal, which Fran had spiced with three 
tales of reminiscence composed of equal parts of blood, women, profits, and embroidery. The 
small televisor was on, and some classic drama was playing itself out in an unregarded 
whisper. Randu had hitched himself into a more comfortable position on the low couch and 
gazed past the slow smoke of his long pipe to where Bayta had knelt down upon the softness 
of the white fur mat brought back once long ago from a trade mission and now spread out only 
upon the most ceremonious occasions. 

"You have studied history, my girl?" he asked, pleasantly. 

Bayta nodded. "I was the despair of my teachers, but I learned a bit, eventually." 

"A citation for scholarship," put in Toran, smugly, "that's all!" 

"And what did you learn?" proceeded Randu, smoothly. 

"Everything? Now?" laughed the girl. 

The old man smiled gently. "Well then, what do you think of the Galactic situation?" 

"I think," said Bayta, concisely, "that a Seldon crisis is pending - and that if it isn't then away 
with the Seldon plan altogether. It is a failure." 

("Whew," muttered Fran, from his comer. "What a way to speak of Seldon." But he said nothing 
aloud.) 

Randu sucked at his pipe speculatively. "Indeed? Why do you say that? I was to the 
Foundation, you know, in my younger days, and I, too, once thought great dramatic thoughts. 
But, now, why do you say that?" 

"Well," Bayta's eyes misted with thought as she curled her bare toes into the white softness of 
the rug and nestled her little chin in one plump hand, "it seems to me that the whole essence of 
Seldon's plan was to create a world better than the ancient one of the Galactic Empire. It was 
failing apart, that world, three centuries ago, when Seldon first established the Foundation - 
and if history speaks truly, it was falling apart of the triple disease of inertia, despotism, and 



maldistribution of the goods of the universe." 

Randu nodded slowly, while Toran gazed with proud, luminous eyes at his wife, and Fran in the 
comer clucked his tongue and carefully refilled his glass. 

Bayta said, "If the story of Seldon is true, he foresaw the complete collapse of the Empire 
through his Jaws of psychohistory, and was able to predict the necessary thirty thousand years 
of barbarism before the establishment of a new Second Empire to restore civilization and 
culture to humanity. It was the whole aim of his life-work to set up such conditions as would 
insure a speedier rejuvenation," 

The deep voice of Fran burst out, "And that's why he established the two Foundations, honor 
be to his name." 

"And that's why he established the two Foundations," assented Bayta. "Our Foundation was a 
gathering of the scientists of the dying Empire intended to carry on the science and learning of 
man to new heights. And the Foundation was so situated in space and the historical 
environment was such that through the careful calculations of his genius, Seldon foresaw that 
in one thousand years, it would become a newer, greater Empire." 

There was a reverent silence. 

The girl said softly, "It's an old story. You all know it. For almost three centuries every human 
being of the Foundation has known it. But I thought it would be appropriate to go through it - 
just quickly. Today is Seldon's birthday, you know, and even if I am of the Foundation, and you 
are of Flaven, we have that in common-" 

She lit a cigarette slowly, and watched the glowing tip absently. "The laws of history are as 
absolute as the laws of physics, and if the probabilities of error are greater, it is only because 
history does not deal with as many humans as physics does atoms, so that individual variations 
count for more. Seldon predicted a series of crises through the thousand years of growth, each 
of which would force a new turning of our history into a pre-calculated path. It is those crises 
which direct us - and therefore a crisis must come now. 

"Now!" she repeated, forcefully. "It's almost a century since the last one, and in that century, 
every vice of the Empire has been repeated in the Foundation. Inertia! Our ruling class knows 
one law; no change. Despotism! They know one rule; force. Maldistribution! They know one 
desire; to hold what is theirs." 

"While others starve!" roared Fran suddenly with a mighty blow of his fist upon the arm of his 
chair. "Girl, your words are pearls. The fat guts on their moneybags ruin the Foundation, while 
the brave Traders hide their poverty on dregs of worlds like Flaven. It's a disgrace to Seldon, a 
casting of dirt in his face, a spewing in his beard." Fie raised his arm high, and then his face 
lengthened. "If I had my other arm! If - once - they had listened to me!" 

"Dad," said Toran, "take it easy." 

"Take it easy. Take it easy," his father mimicked savagely. "We'll live here and die here forever 
- and you say, take it easy." 



"That's our modern Lathan Devers," said Randu, gesturing with his pipe, "this Fran of ours. 
Devers died in the slave mines eighty years ago with your husband's great-grandfather, 
because he lacked wisdom and didn't lack heart-" 

"Yes, by the Galaxy, I'd do the same if I were he," swore Fran. "Devers was the greatest Trader 
in history - greater than the overblown windbag, Mallow, the Foundationers worship. If the 
cutthroats who lord the Foundation killed him because he loved justice, the greater the 
blood-debt owed them." 

"Go on, girl," said Randu. "Go on, or, surely, he'll talk a the night and rave all the next day." 

"There's nothing to go on about," she said, with a sudden gloom. "There must be a crisis, but I 
don't know how to make one. The progressive forces on the Foundation are oppressed 
fearfully. You Traders may have the will, but you are hunted and disunited. If all the forces of 
good will in and out of the Foundation could combine-" 

Fran's laugh was a raucous jeer. "Listen to her, Randu, listen to her. In and out of the 
Foundation, she says. Girl, girl, there's no hope in the flab-sides of the Foundation. Among 
them some hold the whip and the rest are whipped dead whipped. Not enough spunk left in the 
whole rotten world to outface one good Trader." 

Bayta's attempted interruptions broke feebly against the overwhelming wind. 

Toran leaned over and put a hand over her mouth. "Dad," he said, coldly, "you've never been 
on the Foundation. You know nothing about it. I tell you that the underground there is brave and 
daring enough. I could tell you that Bayta was one of them-" 

"All right, boy, no offense. Now, where's the cause for anger?" Fie was genuinely perturbed. 

Toran drove on fervently, "The trouble with you, Dad, is that you've got a provincial outlook. 

You think because some hundred thousand Traders scurry into holes on an unwanted planet at 
the end of nowhere, that they're a great people. Of course, any tax collector from the 
Foundation that gets here never leaves again, but that's cheap heroism. What would you do if 
the Foundation sent a fleet?" 

"We'd blast them," said Fran, sharply. 

"And get blasted - with the balance in their favor. You're outnumbered, outarmed, outorganized 
- and as soon as the Foundation thinks it worth its while, you'll realize that. So you had better 
seek your allies - on the Foundation itself, if you can." 

"Randu, said Fran, looking at his brother like a great, helpless bull. 

Randu took his pipe away from his lips, "The boy's right, Fran. When you listen to the little 
thoughts deep inside you, you know he is. But they're uncomfortable thoughts, so you drown 
them out with that roar of yours. But they're still there. Toran, I'll tell you why I brought all this 
up." 

Fie puffed thoughtfully awhile, then dipped his pipe into the neck of the tray, waited for the silent 
flash, and withdrew it clean. Slowly, he filled it again with precise tamps of his little finger. 



He said, "Your little suggestion of Foundation's interest in us, Toran, is to the point. There have 
been two recent visits lately - for tax purposes. The disturbing point is that the second visitor 
was accompanied by a light patrol ship. They landed in Gleiar City - giving us the miss for a 
change - and they never lifted off again, naturally. But now they'll surely be back. Your father is 
aware of all this, Toran, he really is. 

"Look at the stubborn rakehell. He knows Haven is in trouble, and he knows we're helpless, but 
he repeats his formulas. It warms and protects him. But once he's had his say, and roared his 
defiance, and feels he's discharged his duty as a man and a Bull Trader, why he's as 
reasonable as any of us." 

"Any of who?" asked Bayta. 

He smiled at her. "We've formed a little group, Bayta - just in our city. We haven't done 
anything, yet. We haven't even managed to contact the other cities yet, but it's a start." 

"But towards what?" 

Randu shook his head. "We don't know-yet. We hope for a miracle. We have decided that, as 
you say, a Seldon crisis must be at hand." He gestured widely upwards. "The Galaxy is full of 
the chips and splinters of the broken Empire. The generals swarm. Do you suppose the time 
may come when one will grow bold?" 

Bayta considered, and shook her head decisively, so that the long straight hair with the single 
inward curl at the end swirled about her ears. "No, not a chance. There's not one of those 
generals who doesn't know that an attack on the Foundation is suicide. Bel Riose of the old 
Empire was a better man than any of them, and he attacked with the resources of a galaxy, and 
couldn't win against the Seldon Plan. Is there one general that doesn't know that?" 

"But what if we spur them on?" 

"Into where? Into an atomic furnace? With what could you possibly spur them?" 

"Well, there is one - a new one. In this past year or two, there has come word of a strange man 
whom they call the Mule." 

"The Mule?" She considered. "Ever hear of him, Torie?" 

Toran shook his head. She said, "What about him?" 

"I don't know. But he wins victories at, they say, impossible odds. The rumors may be 
exaggerated, but it would be interesting, in any case, to become acquainted with him. Not every 
man with sufficient ability and sufficient ambition would believe in Hari Seldon and his laws of 
psychohistory. We could encourage that disbelief. He might attack." 

"And the Foundation would win." 

"Yes - but not necessarily easily. It might be a crisis, and we could take advantage of such a 
crisis to force a compromise with the despots of the Foundation. At the worst, they would forget 
us long enough to enable us to plan farther." 



"What do you think, Torie?" 

Toran smiled feebly and pulled at a loose brown curl that fell over one eye. "The way he 
describes it, it can't hurt; but who is the Mule? What do you know of him, Randu?" 

"Nothing yet. For that, we could use you, Toran. And your wife, if she's willing. We've talked of 
this, your father and I. We've talked of this thoroughly." 

"In what way, Randu? What do you want of us?" The young man cast a quick inquisitive look at 
his wife. 

"Have you had a honeymoon?" 

"Well ... yes ... if you can call the trip from the Foundation a honeymoon." 

"How about a better one on Kalgan? It's semitropical beaches - water sports - bird hunting - 
quite the vacation spot. It's about seven thousand parsecs in-not too far." 

"What's on Kalgan?" 

"The Mule! His men, at least. He took it last month, and without a battle, though Kalgan's 
warlord broadcast a threat to blow the planet to ionic dust before giving it up." 

"Where's the warlord now?" 

"He isn't," said Randu, with a shrug. "What do you say?" 

"But what are we to do?" 

"I don't know. Fran and I are old; we're provincial. The Traders of Haven are all essentially 
provincial. Even you say so. Our trading is of a very restricted sort, and we're not the Galaxy 
roamers our ancestors were, Shut up, Fran! But you two know the Galaxy. Bayta, especially, 
speaks with a nice Foundation accent. We merely wish whatever you can find out. If you can 
make contact ... but we wouldn't expect that. Suppose you two think it over. You can meet our 
entire group if you wish ... oh, not before next week. You ought to have some time to catch your 
breath." 

There was a pause and then Fran roared, "Who wants; another drink? I mean, besides me?" 


12. CAPTAIN AND MAYOR 

Captain Han Pritcher was unused to the luxury of his surroundings and by no means 
impressed. As a general thing, he discouraged self-analysis and all forms of philosophy and 
metaphysics not directly connected with his work. 

It helped. 

His work consisted largely of what the War Department called "intelligence," the sophisticates, 
"espionage," and the romanticists, "spy stuff." And, unfortunately, despite the frothy shrillness of 
the televisors, "intelligence," "espionage," and "spy stuff" are at best a sordid business of 



routine betrayal and bad faith. It is excused by society since it is in the "interest of the State," 
but since philosophy seemed always to lead Captain Pritcher to the conclusion that even in that 
holy interest, society is much more easily soothed than one's own conscience - he discouraged 
philosophy. 

And now, in the luxury of the mayor's anteroom, his thoughts turned inward despite himself. 

Men had been promoted over his head continuously, though of lesser ability - that much was 
admitted. He had withstood an eternal rain of black marks and official reprimands, and survived 
it. And stubbornly he had held to his own way in the firm belief that insubordination in that same 
holy "interest of the State" would yet be recognized for the service it was. 

So here he was in the anteroom of the mayor-with five soldiers as a respectful guard, and 
probably a court-martial awaiting him. 

The heavy, marble doors rolled apart smoothly, silently, revealing satiny walls, a red plastic 
carpeting, and two more marble doors, metal-inlaid, within. Two officials in the straight-lined 
costume of three centuries back, stepped out, and called: 

"An audience to Captain Han Pritcher of Information." 

They stepped back with a ceremonious bow as the captain started forward. His escort stopped 
at the outer door, and he entered the inner alone. 

On the other side of the doors, in a large room strangely simple, behind a large desk strangely 
angular, sat a small man, almost lost in the immensity, 

Mayor Indbur - successively the third of that name - was the grandson of the first Indbur, who 
had been brutal and capable; and who had exhibited the first quality in spectacular fashion by 
his manner of seizing power, and the latter by the skill with which he put an end to the last 
farcical remnants of free election and the even greater skill with which he maintained a 
relatively peaceful rule. 

Mayor Indbur was also the son of the second Indbur, who was the first Mayor of the Foundation 
to succeed to his post by right of birth - and who was only half his father, for he was merely 
brutal. 

So Mayor Indbur was the third of the name and the second to succeed by right of birth, and he 
was the least of the three, for he was neither brutal nor capable - but merely an excellent 
bookkeeper born wrong. 

Indbur the Third was a peculiar combination of ersatz characteristics to all but himself. 

To him, a stilted geometric love of arrangement was "system," an indefatigable and feverish 
interest in the pettiest facets of day-to-day bureaucracy was "industry," indecision when right 
was "caution," and blind stubbornness when wrong, "determination." 

And withal he wasted no money, killed no man needlessly, and meant extremely well. 

If Captain Pritcher's gloomy thoughts ran along these lines as he remained respectfully in place 
before the large desk, the wooden arrangement of his features yielded no insight into the fact. 



He neither coughed, shifted weight, nor shuffled his feet until the thin face of the mayor lifted 
slowly as the busy stylus ceased in its task of marginal notations, and a sheet of close-printed 
paper was lifted from one neat stack and placed upon another neat stack. 

Mayor Indbur clasped his hands carefully before him, deliberately refraining from disturbing the 
careful arrangement of desk accessories. 

He said, in acknowledgment, "Captain Han Pritcher of Information." 

And Captain Pritcher in strict obedience to protocol bent one knee nearly to the ground and 
bowed his head until he heard the words of release. 

"Arise, Captain Pritcher!" 

The mayor said with an air of warm sympathy, "You are here, Captain Pritcher, because of 
certain disciplinary action taken against yourself by your superior officer. The papers 
concerning such action have come, in the ordinary course of events, to my notice, and since no 
event in the Foundation is of disinterest to me, I took the trouble to ask for further information 
on your case. You are not, I hope, surprised." 

Captain Pritcher said unemotionally, "Excellence, no. Your justice is proverbial." 

"Is it? Is it?" His tone was pleased, and the tinted contact lenses he wore caught the light in a 
manner that imparted a hard, dry gleam to his eyes. Meticulously, he fanned out a series of 
metal-bound folders before him. The parchment sheets within crackled sharply as he turned 
them, his long finger following down the line as he spoke. 

"I have your record here, captain - complete. You are forty-three and have been an Officer of 
the Armed Forces for seventeen years. You were born in Loris, of Anacreonian parents, no 
serious childhood diseases, an attack of myo ... well, that's of no importance ... education, 
premilitary, at the Academy of Sciences, major, hyper-engines, academic standing ... hm-m-m, 
very good, you are to be congratulated ... entered the Army as Under-Officer on the one 
hundred second day of the 293rd year of the Foundation Era." 

He lifted his eyes momentarily as he shifted the first folder, and opened the second. 

"You see," he said, "in my administration, nothing is left to chance. Order! System!" 

He lifted a pink, scented jelly-globule to his lips. It was his one vice, and but dolingly indulged 
in. Witness the fact that the mayor's desk lacked that almost-inevitable atom flash for the 
disposal of dead tobacco. For the mayor did not smoke. 

Nor, as a matter of course, did his visitors. 

The mayor's voice droned on, methodically, slurringly, mumblingly - now and then interspersed 
with whispered comments of equally mild and equally ineffectual commendation or reproof. 

Slowly, he replaced the folders as originally, in a single neat pile. 

"Well, captain," he said, briskly, "your record is unusual. Your ability is outstanding, it would 
seem, and your services valuable beyond question. I note that you have been wounded in the 



line of duty twice, and that you have been awarded the Order of Merit for bravery beyond the 
call of duty. Those are facts not lightly to be minimized." 

Captain Pritcher's expressionless face did not soften. He remained stiffly erect. Protocol 
required that a subject honored by an audience with the mayor may not sit down - a point 
perhaps needlessly reinforced by the fact that only one chair existed in the room, the one 
underneath the mayor. Protocol further required no statements other than those needed to 
answer a direct question. 

The mayor's eyes bore down hard upon the soldier and his voice grew pointed and heavy. 
"However, you have not been promoted in ten years, and your superiors report, over and over 
again, of the unbending stubbornness of your character. You are reported to be chronically 
insubordinate, incapable of maintaining a correct attitude towards superior officers, apparently 
uninterested in maintaining frictionless relationships with your colleagues, and an incurable 
troublemaker, besides. How do you explain that, captain?" 

"Excellence, I do what seems right to me. My deeds on behalf of the State, and my wounds in 
that cause bear witness that what seems fight to me is also in the interest of the State." 

"A soldierly statement, captain, but a dangerous doctrine. More of that, later. Specifically, you 
are charged with refusing an assignment three times in the face of orders signed by my legal 
delegates. What have you to say to that?" 

"Excellence, the assignment lacks significance in a critical time, where matters of first 
importance are being ignored." 

"Ah, and who tells you these matters you speak of are of the first importance at all, and if they 
are, who tells you further that they are ignored?" 

"Excellence, these things are quite evident to me. My experience and my knowledge of events 
- the value of neither of which my superiors deny - make it plain." 

"But, my good captain, are you blind that you do not see that by arrogating to yourself the right 
to determine Intelligence policy, you usurp the duties of your superior?" 

"Excellence, my duty is primarily to the State, and not to my superior." 

"Fallacious, for your superior has his superior, and that superior is myself, and I am the State. 
But come, you shall have no cause to complain of this justice of mine that you say is proverbial. 
State in your own words the nature of the breach in discipline that has brought all this on." 

"Excellence, my duty is primarily to the State, and not to my living the life of a retired merchant 
mariner upon the world of Kalgan. My instructions were to direct Foundation activity upon the 
planet, perfect an organization to act as check upon the warlord of Kalgan, particularly as 
regards his foreign policy." 

"This is known to me. Continue!" 

"Excellence, my reports have continually stressed the strategic positions of Kalgan and the 
systems it controls. I have reported on the ambition of the warlord, his resources, his 



determination to extend his domain and his essential friendliness - or, perhaps, neutrality - 
towards the Foundation." 

"I have read your reports thoroughly. Continue!" 

"Excellence, I returned two months ago. At that time, there was no sign of impending war; no 
sign of anything but an almost superfluity of ability to repel any conceivable attack. One month 
ago, an unknown soldier of fortune took Kalgan without a fight. The man who was once warlord 
of Kalgan is apparently no longer alive. Men do not speak of treason - they speak only of the 
power and genius of this strange condottiere - this Mule." 

"This who?" the mayor leaned forward, and looked offended. 

"Excellence, he is known as the Mule. He is spoken of little, in a factual sense, but I have 
gathered the scraps and fragments of knowledge and winnowed out the most probable of them. 
He is apparently a man of neither birth nor standing. His father, unknown. His mother, dead in 
childbirth. His upbringing, that of a vagabond. His education, that of the tramp worlds, and the 
backwash alleys of space. He has no name other than that of the Mule, a name reportedly 
applied by himself to himself, and signifying, by popular explanation, his immense physical 
strength, and stubbornness of purpose." 

"What is his military strength, captain? Never mind his physique." 

"Excellence, men speak of huge fleets, but in this they may be influenced by the strange fall of 
Kalgan. The territory he controls is not large, though its exact limits are not capable of definite 
determination. Nevertheless, this man must be investigated." 

"Hm-m-m. So! So!" The mayor fell into a reverie, and slowly with twenty-four strokes of his 
stylus drew six squares in hexagonal arrangements upon the blank top sheet of a pad, which 
he tore off, folded neatly in three parts and slipped into the wastepaper slot at his right hand. It 
slid towards a clean and silent atomic disintegration. 

"Now then, tell me, captain, what is the alternative? You have told me what 'must' be 
investigated. What have you been ordered to investigate?" 

"Excellence, there is a rat hole in space that, it seems, does not pay its taxes." 

"Ah, and is that all? You are not aware, and have not been told that these men who do not pay 
their taxes, are descendants of the wild Traders of our early days - anarchists, rebels, social 
maniacs who claim Foundation ancestry and deride Foundation culture. You are not aware, 
and have not been told, that this rat hole in space, is not one, but many; that these rat holes are 
in greater number than we know; that these rat holes conspire together, one with the other, and 
all with the criminal elements that still exist throughout Foundation territory. Even here, captain, 
even here!" 

The mayor's momentary fire subsided quickly. "You are not aware, captain?" 

"Excellence, I have been told all this. But as servant of the State, I must serve faithfully - and 
he serves most faithfully who serves Truth. Whatever the political implications of these dregs of 
the ancient Traders - the warlords who have inherited the splinters of the old Empire have the 



power. The Traders have neither arms nor resources. They have not even unity. I am not a tax 
collector to be sent on a child's errand." 


"Captain Pritcher, you are a soldier, and count guns. It is a failing to be allowed you up to the 
point where it involves disobedience to myself. Take care. My justice is not simply weakness. 
Captain, it has already been proven that the generals of the Imperial Age and the warlords of 
the present age are equally impotent against us. Seldon's science which predicts the course of 
the Foundation is based, not on individual heroism, as you seem to believe, but on the social 
and economic trends of history. We have passed successfully through four crises already, have 
we not?" 

"Excellence, we have. Yet Seldon's science is known only to Seldon. We ourselves have but 
faith. In the first three crises, as I have been carefully taught, the Foundation was led by wise 
leaders who foresaw the nature of the crises and took the proper precautions. Otherwise - who 
can say?" 

"Yes, captain, but you omit the fourth crisis. Come, captain, we had no leadership worthy of the 
name then, and we faced the cleverest opponent, the heaviest armor, the strongest force of all. 
Yet we won by the inevitability of history." 

"Excellence, that is true. But this history you mention became inevitable only after we had 
fought desperately for over a year. The inevitable victory we won cost us half a thousand ships 
and half a million men. Excellence, Seldon's plan helps those who help themselves." 

Mayor Indbur frowned and grew suddenly tired of his patient exposition. It occurred to him that 
there was a fallacy in condescension, since it was mistaken for permission to argue eternally; to 
grow contentious; to wallow in dialectic. Fie said, stiffly, "Nevertheless, captain, Seldon 
guarantees victory over the warlords, and I can not, in these busy times, indulge in a dispersal 
of effort. These Traders you dismiss are Foundation-derived. A war with them would be a civil 
war. Seldon's plan makes no guarantee there for us - since they anc/we are Foundation. So 
they must be brought to heel. You have your orders." 

"Excellence-" 

"You have been asked no question, captain. You have your orders. You will obey those orders. 
Further argument of any sort with myself or those representing myself will be considered 
treason. You are excused." 

Captain Flan Pritcher knelt once more, then left with slow, backward steps. 

Mayor Indbur, third of his name, and second mayor of Foundation history to be so by fight of 
birth, recovered his equilibrium, and lifted another sheet of paper from the neat stack at his left. 
It was a report on the saving of funds due to the reduction of the quantity of metal-foam edging 
on the uniforms of the police force. Mayor Indbur crossed out a superfluous comma, corrected 
a misspelling, made three marginal notations, and placed it upon the neat stack at his fight. Fie 
lifted another sheet of paper from the neat stack at his left. 

Captain Flan Pritcher of Information found a Personal Capsule waiting for him when he returned 
to barracks. It contained orders, terse and redly underlined with a stamped "URGENT"' across 



it, and the whole initialed with a precise, capital "I". 

Captain Han Pritcher was ordered to the "rebel world called Haven" in the strongest terms. 

Captain Han Pritcher, alone in his light one-man speedster, set his course quietly and calmly 
for Kalgan. He slept that night the sleep of a successfully stubborn man. 


13. LIEUTENANT AND CLOWN 

If, from a distance of seven thousand parsecs, the fall of Kalgan to the armies of the Mule had 
produced reverberations that had excited the curiosity of an old Trader, the apprehension of a 
dogged captain, and the annoyance of a meticulous mayor - to those on Kalgan itself, it 
produced nothing and excited no one. It is the invariable lesson to humanity that distance in 
time, and in space as well, lends focus. It is not recorded, incidentally, that the lesson has ever 
been permanently learned. 

Kalgan was - Kalgan. It alone of all that quadrant of the Galaxy seemed not to know that the 
Empire had fallen, that the Stannells no longer ruled, that greatness had departed, and peace 
had disappeared. 

Kalgan was the luxury world. With the edifice of mankind crumbling, it maintained its integrity as 
a producer of pleasure, a buyer of gold and a seller of leisure. 

It escaped the harsher vicissitudes of history, for what conqueror would destroy or even 
seriously damage a world so full of the ready cash that would buy immunity. 

Yet even Kalgan had finally become the headquarters of a warlord and its softness had been 
tempered to the exigencies of war. 

Its tamed jungles, its mildly modeled shores, and its garishly glamorous cities echoed to the 
march of imported mercenaries and impressed citizens. The worlds of its province had been 
armed and its money invested in battleships rather than bribes for the first time in its history. Its 
ruler proved beyond doubt that he was determined to defend what was his and eager to seize 
what was others. He was a great one of the Galaxy, a war and peace maker, a builder of 
Empire, an establisher of dynasty. 

And an unknown with a ridiculous nickname had taken him - and his arms - and his budding 
Empire - and had not even fought a battle. 

So Kalgan was as before, and its uniformed citizens hurried back to their older life, while the 
foreign professionals of war merged easily into the newer bands that descended. 

Again as always, there were the elaborate luxury hunts for the cultivated animal life of the 
jungles that never took human life; and the speedster bird-chases in the air above, that was 
fatal only to the Great Birds. 

In the cities, the escapers of the Galaxy could take their varieties of pleasure to suit their purse, 
from the ethereal sky-palaces of spectacle and fantasy that opened their doors to the masses 



at the jingle of half a credit, to the unmarked, unnoted haunts to which only those of great 
wealth were of the cognoscenti. 

To the vast flood, Toran and Bayta added not even a trickle. They registered their ship in the 
huge common hangar on the East Peninsula, and gravitated to that compromise of the 
middle-classes, the Inland Sea-where the pleasures were yet legal, and even respectable, and 
the crowds not yet beyond endurance. 

Bayta wore dark glasses against the light, and a thin, white robe against the heat. Warm-tinted 
arms, scarcely the goldener for the sun, clasped her knees to her, and she stared with firm, 
abstracted gaze at the length of her husband's outstretched body - almost shimmering in the 
brilliance of white sun-splendor. 

"Don't overdo it," she had said at first, but Toran was of a dying-red star, Despite three years of 
the Foundation, sunlight was a luxury, and for four days now his skin, treated beforehand for 
ray resistance, had not felt the harshness of clothing, except for the brief shorts. 

Bayta huddled close to him on the sand and they spoke in whispers. 

Toran's voice was gloomy, as it drifted upwards from a relaxed face, "No, I admit we're 
nowhere. But where is he? Who is he? This mad world says nothing of him. Perhaps he doesn't 
exist." 

"He exists," replied Bayta, with lips that didn't move. "He's clever, that's all. And your uncle is 
right. He's a man we could use - if there's time." 

A short pause. Toran whispered, "Know what I've been doing, Bay? I'm just daydreaming 
myself into a sun-stupor. Things figure themselves out so neatly - so sweetly." His voice nearly 
trailed off, then returned, "Remember the way Dr. Amann talked back at college, Bay. The 
Foundation can never lose, but that does not mean the rulers of the Foundation can't. Didn't the 
real history of the Foundation begin when Salvor Hardin kicked out the Encyclopedists and took 
over the planet Terminus as the first mayor? And then in the next century, didn't Hober Mallow 
gain power by methods almost as drastic? That's twice the rulers were defeated, so it can be 
done. So why not by us?" 

"It's the oldest argument in the books. Torie. What a waste of good reverie." 

"Is it? Follow it out. What's Haven? Isn't it part of the Foundation? If we become top dog, it's still 
the Foundation winning, and only the current rulers losing." 

"Lots of difference between 'we can' and 'we will.' You're just jabbering." 

Toran squirmed. "Nuts, Bay, you're just in one of your sour, green moods. What do you want to 
spoil my fun for? I'll just go to sleep if you don't mind." 

But Bayta was craning her head, and suddenly - quite a non sequitur - she giggled, and 
removed her glasses to look down the beach with only her palm shading her eyes. 

Toran looked up, then lifted and twisted his shoulders to follow her glance. 

Apparently, she was watching a spindly figure, feet in air, who teetered on his hands for the 



amusement of a haphazard crowd. It was one of the swarming acrobatic beggars of the shore, 
whose supple joints bent and snapped for the sake of the thrown coins. 

A beach guard was motioning him on his way and with a surprising one-handed balance, the 
clown brought a thumb to his nose in an upside-down gesture. The guard advanced 
threateningly and reeled backward with a foot in his stomach. The clown righted himself without 
interrupting the motion of the initial kick and was away, while the frothing guard was held off by 
a thoroughly unsympathetic crowd. 

The clown made his way raggedly down the beach. He brushed past many, hesitated often, 
stopped nowhere. The original crowd had dispersed. The guard had departed. 

"He's a queer fellow," said Bayta, with amusement, and Toran agreed indifferently. The clown 
was close enough now to be seen clearly. His thin face drew together in front into a nose of 
generous planes and fleshy tip that seemed all but prehensile. His long, lean limbs and spidery 
body, accentuated by his costume, moved easily and with grace, but with just a suggestion of 
having been thrown together at random. 

To look was to smile. 

The clown seemed suddenly aware of their regard, for he stopped after he had passed, and, 
with a sharp turn, approached. His large, brown eyes fastened upon Bayta. 

She found herself disconcerted. 

The clown smiled, but it only saddened his beaked face, and when he spoke it was with the 
soft, elaborate phrasing of the Central Sectors. 

"Were I to use the wits the good Spirits gave me," he said, "then I would say this lady can not 
exist - for what sane man would hold a dream to be reality. Yet rather would I not be sane and 
lend belief to charmed, enchanted eyes." 

Bayta's own eyes opened wide. She said, "Wow!" 

Toran laughed, "Oh, you enchantress. Go ahead, Bay, that deserves a five-credit piece. Let 
him have it." 

But the clown was forward with a jump. "No, my lady, mistake me not. I spoke for money not at 
all, but for bright eyes and sweet face." 

"Well, thanks," then, to Toran, "Golly, you think the sun's in his eyes?" 

"Yet not alone for eyes and face," babbled the clown, as his words hurled past each other in 
heightened frenzy, "but also for a mind, clear and sturdy - and kind as well." 

Toran rose to his feet, reached for the white robe he had crooked his arm about for four days, 
and slipped into it. 

"Now, bud," he said, "suppose you tell me what you want, and stop annoying the lady." 

The clown fell back a frightened step, his meager body cringing. "Now, sure I meant no harm. I 



am a stranger here, and it's been said I am of addled wits; yet there is something in a face that I 
can read. Behind this lady's fairness, there is a heart that's kind, and that would help me in my 
trouble for all I speak so boldly." 

"Will five credits cure your trouble?" said Toran, dryly, and held out the coin. 

But the clown did not move to take it, and Bayta said, "Let me talk to him, Torie," She added 
swiftly, and in an undertone, "There's no use being annoyed at his silly way of talking. That's 
just his dialect; and our speech is probably as strange to him." 

She said, "What is your trouble? You're not worried about the guard, are you? He won't bother 
you." 

"Oh, no, not he. He's but a windlet that blows the dust about my ankles. There is another that I 
flee, and he is a storm that sweeps the worlds aside and throws them plunging at each other. A 
week ago, I ran away, have slept in city streets, and hid in city crowds. I've looked in many 
faces for help in need. I find it here." He repeated the last phrase in softer, anxious tones, and 
his large eyes were troubled, "I find it here." 

"Now," said Bayta, reasonably, "I would like to help, but really, friend, I'm no protection against 
a world-sweeping storm. To be truthful about it, I could use-" 

There was an uplifted, powerful voice that bore down upon them. 

"Now, then, you mud-spawned rascal-" 

It was the beach guard, with a fire-red face, and snarling mouth, that approached at a run. He 
pointed with his low-power stun pistol. 

"Hold him, you two. Don't let him get away." His heavy hand fell upon the clown's thin shoulder, 
so that a whimper was squeezed out of him. 

Toran said, "What's he done?" 

"What's he done? What's he done? Well, now, that's good!" The guard reached inside the 
dangling pocket attached to his belt, and removed a purple handkerchief, with which he 
mopped his bare neck. He said with relish. "I'll tell you what he's done. He's run away. The 
word's all over Kalgan and I would have recognized him before this if he had been on his feet 
instead of on his hawkface top." And he rattled his prey in a fierce good humor. 

Bayta said with a smile, "Now where did he escape from, sir?" 

The guard raised his voice. A crowd was gathering, popeyed and jabbering, and with the 
increase of audience, the guard's sense of importance increased in direct ratio. 

"Where did he escape from?" he declaimed in high sarcasm. "Why, I suppose you've heard of 
the Mule, now." 

All jabbering stopped, and Bayta felt a sudden iciness trickle down into her stomach. The clown 
had eyes only for her-he still quivered in the guard's brawny grasp. 

"And who," continued the guard heavily, "would this infernal ragged piece be, but his lordship's 



own court fool who's run away." He jarred his captive with a massive shake, "Do you admit it, 
fool?" 


There was only white fear for answer, and the soundless sibilance of Bayta's voice close to 
Toran's ear. 

Toran stepped forward to the guard in friendly fashion, "Now, my man, suppose you take your 
hand away for just a while. This entertainer you hold has been dancing for us and has not yet 
danced out his fee." 

"Here!" The guard's voice rose in sudden concern. "There's a reward-" 

"You'll have it, if you can prove he's the man you want. Suppose you withdraw till then. You 
know that you're interfering with a guest, which could be serious for you." 

"But you're interfering with his lordship and that will be serious for you." He shook the clown 
once again. "Return the man's fee, carrion." 

Toran's hand moved quickly and the guard's stun pistol was wrenched away with half a finger 
nearly following it. The guard howled his pain and rage. Toran shoved him violently aside, and 
the clown, unhanded, scuttled behind him. 

The crowd, whose fringes were now lost to the eye, paid little attention to the latest 
development. There was among them a craning of necks, and a centrifugal motion as if many 
had decided to increase their distance from the center of activity. 

Then there was a bustle, and a rough order in the distance. A corridor formed itself and two 
men strode through, electric whips in careless readiness. Upon each purple blouse was 
designed an angular shaft of lightning with a splitting planet underneath. 

A dark giant, in lieutenant's uniform, followed them; dark of skin, and hair, and scowl. 

The dark man spoke with the dangerous softness that meant he had little need of shouting to 
enforce his whims. He said, "Are you the man who notified us?" 

The guard was still holding his wrenched hand, and with a pain-distorted face mumbled, "I 
claim the reward, your mightiness, and I accuse that man-" 

"You'll get your reward," said the lieutenant, without looking at him. He motioned curtly to his 
men, "Take him." 

Toran felt the clown tearing at his robe with a maddened grip. 

He raised his voice and kept it from shaking, "I'm sorry, lieutenant; this man is mine." 

The soldiers took the statement without blinking. One raised his whip casually, but the 
lieutenant's snapped order brought it down. 

His dark mightiness swung forward and planted his square body before Toran, "Who are you?" 
And the answer rang out, "A citizen of the Foundation." 



It worked-with the crowd, at any rate. The pent-up silence broke into an intense hum. The 
Mule's name might excite fear, but it was, after all, a new name and scarcely stuck as deeply in 
the vitals as the old one of the Foundation - that had destroyed the Empire - and the fear of 
which ruled a quadrant of the Galaxy with ruthless despotism. 

The lieutenant kept face. He said, "Are you aware of the identity of the man behind you?" 

"I have been told he's a runaway from the court of your leader, but my only sure knowledge is 
that he is a friend of mine. You'll need firm proof of his identity to take him." 

There were high-pitched sighs from the crowd, but the lieutenant let it pass. "Have you your 
papers of Foundation citizenship with you?" 

"At my ship." 

"You realize that your actions are illegal? I can have you shot." 

"Undoubtedly. But then you would have shot a Foundation citizen and it is quite likely that your 
body would be sent to the Foundation - quartered - as part compensation. It's been done by 
other warlords." 

The lieutenant wet his lips. The statement was true. 

He said, "Your name?" 

Toran followed up his advantage, "I will answer further questions at my ship. You can get the 
cell number at the Hangar; it is registered under the name 'Bayta'." 

"You won't give up the runaway?" 

"To the Mule, perhaps. Send your master!" 

The conversation had degenerated to a whisper and the lieutenant turned sharply away. 
"Disperse the crowd!" he said to his men, with suppressed ferocity. 

The electric whips rose and fell. There were shrieks and a vast surge of separation and flight. 

Toran interrupted his reverie only once on their way back to the Hangar. He said, almost to 
himself, "Galaxy, Bay, what a time I had! I was so scared-" 

"Yes," she said, with a voice that still shook, and eyes that still showed something akin to 
worship, "it was quite out of character." 

"Well, I still don't know what happened. I just got up there with a stun pistol that I wasn't even 
sure I knew how to use, and talked back to him. I don't know why I did it." 

He looked across the aisle of the short-run air vessel that was carrying them out of the beach 
area, to the seat on which the Mule's clown scrunched up in sleep, and added distastefully, "It 
was the hardest thing I've ever done." 

The lieutenant stood respectfully before the colonel of the garrison, and the colonel looked at 
him and said, "Well done. Your part's over now." 



But the lieutenant did not retire immediately. He said darkly, "The Mule has lost face before a 
mob, sir. It will be necessary to undertake disciplinary action to restore proper atmosphere of 
respect." 

"Those measures have already been taken." 

The lieutenant half turned, then, almost with resentment, "I'm willing to agree, sir, that orders 
are orders, but standing before that man with his stun pistol and swallowing his insolence 
whole, was the hardest thing I've ever done." 


14. THE MUTANT 

The "hangar" on Kalgan is an institution peculiar unto itself, born of the need for the disposition 
of the vast number of ships brought in by the visitors from abroad, and the simultaneous and 
consequent vast need for living accommodations for the same. The original bright one who had 
thought of the obvious solution had quickly become a millionaire. His heirs - by birth or finance 
- were easily among the richest on Kalgan. 

The "hangar" spreads fatly over square miles of territory, and "hangar" does not describe it at 
all sufficiently. It is essentially a hotel - for ships. The traveler pays in advance and his ship is 
awarded a berth from which it can take off into space at any desired moment. The visitor then 
lives in his ship as always. The ordinary hotel services such as the replacement of food and 
medical supplies at special rates, simple servicing of the ship itself, special intra-Kalgan 
transportation for a nominal sum are to be had, of course. 

As a result, the visitor combines hangar space and hotel bill into one, at a saving. The owners 
sell temporary use of ground space at ample profits. The government collects huge taxes. 
Everyone has fun. Nobody loses. Simple! 

The man who made his way down the shadow-borders of the wide corridors that connected the 
multitudinous wings of the "hangar" had in the past speculated on the novelty and usefulness of 
the system described above, but these were reflections for idle moments - distinctly unsuitable 
at present. 

The ships hulked in their height and breadth down the long lines of carefully aligned cells, and 
the man discarded line after line. He was an expert at what he was doing now and if his 
preliminary study of the hangar registry had failed to give specific information beyond the 
doubtful indication of a specific wing - one containing hundreds of ships - his specialized 
knowledge could winnow those hundreds into one. 

There was the ghost of a sigh in the silence, as the man stopped and faded down one of the 
lines; a crawling insect beneath the notice of the arrogant metal monsters that rested there. 

Here and there the sparkling of light from a porthole would indicate the presence of an early 
returner from the organized pleasures to simpler - or more private - pleasures of his own. 

The man halted, and would have smiled if he ever smiled. Certainly the convolutions of his 



brain performed the mental equivalent of a smile. 

The ship he stopped at was sleek and obviously fast. The peculiarity of its design was what he 
wanted. It was not a usual model - and these days most of the ships of this quadrant of the 
Galaxy either imitated Foundation design or were built by Foundation technicians. But this was 
special. This was a Foundation ship - if only because of the tiny bulges in the skin that were 
the nodes of the protective screen that only a Foundation ship could possess. There were other 
indications, too. 

The man felt no hesitation. 

The electronic barrier strung across the line of the ships as a concession to privacy on the part 
of the management was not at all important to him. It parted easily, and without activating the 
alarm, at the use of the very special neutralizing force he had at his disposal. 

So the first knowledge within the ship of the intruder without was the casual and almost friendly 
signal of the muted buzzer in the ship's living room that was the result of a palm placed over the 
little photocell just one side of the main air lock. 

And while that successful search went on, Toran and Bayta felt only the most precarious 
security within the steel walls of the Bayta. The Mule's clown who had reported that within his 
narrow compass of body he held the lordly name of Magnifico Giganticus, sat hunched over the 
table and gobbled at the food set before him. 

His sad, brown eyes lifted from his meat only to follow Bayta's movements in the combined 
kitchen and larder where he ate. 

"The thanks of a weak one are of but little value," he muttered, "but you have them, for truly, in 
this past week, little but scraps have come my way - and for all my body is small, yet is my 
appetite unseemly great." 

"Well, then, eat!" said Bayta, with a smile. "Don't waste your time on thanks. Isn't there a 
Central Galaxy proverb about gratitude that I once heard?" 

"Truly there is, my lady. For a wise man, I have been told, once said, 'Gratitude is best and 
most effective when it does not evaporate itself in empty phrases.' But alas, my lady, I am but a 
mass of empty phrases, it would seem. When my empty phrases pleased the Mule, it brought 
me a court dress, and a grand name - for, see you, it was originally simply Bobo, one that 
pleases him not - and then when my empty phrases pleased him not, it would bring upon my 
poor bones beatings and whippings." 

Toran entered from the pilot room, "Nothing to do now but wait, Bay. I hope the Mule is capable 
of understanding that a Foundation ship is Foundation territory." 

Magnifico Giganticus, once Bobo, opened his eyes wide and exclaimed, "How great is the 
Foundation before which even the cruel servants of the Mule tremble." 

"Have you heard of the Foundation, too?" asked Bayta, with a little smile. 

"And who has not?" Magnifico's voice was a mysterious whisper. "There are those who say it is 



a world of great magic, of fires that can consume planets, and secrets of mighty strength. They 
say that not the highest nobility of the Galaxy could achieve the honor and deference 
considered only the natural due of a simple man who could say 'I am a citizen of the 
Foundation,' - were he only a salvage miner of space, or a nothing like myself." 

Bayta said, "Now, Magnifico, you'll never finish if you make speeches. Here, I'll get you a little 
flavored milk. It's good." 

She placed a pitcher of it upon the table and motioned Toran out of the room. 

"Torie, what are we going to do now - about him?" and she motioned towards the kitchen. 

"How do you mean?" 

"If the Mule comes, are we going to give him up?" 

"Well, what else, Bay?" He sounded harassed, and the gesture with which he shoved back the 
moist curl upon his forehead testified to that. 

He continued impatiently, "Before I came here I had a sort of vague idea that all we had to do 
was to ask for the Mule, and then get down to business - just business, you know, nothing 
definite." 

"I know what you mean, Torie. I wasn't much hoping to see the Mule myself, but I did think we 
could pick up some firsthand knowledge of the mess, and then pass it over to people who know 
a little more about this interstellar intrigue. I'm no storybook spy." 

"You're not behind me, Bay." He folded his arms and frowned. "What a situation! You'd never 
know there was a person like the Mule, except for this last queer break. Do you suppose he'll 
come for his clown?" 

Bayta looked up at him. "I don't know that I want him to. I don't know what to say or do. Do 
you?" 

The inner buzzer sounded with its intermittent burring noise. Bayta's lips moved wordlessly, 
"The Mule!" 

Magnifico was in the doorway, eyes wide, his voice a whimper, "The Mule?" 

Toran murmured, "I've got to let them in." 

A contact opened the air lock and the outer door closed behind the newcomer. The scanner 
showed only a single shadowed figure. 

"It's only one person," said Toran, with open relief, and his voice was almost shaky as he bent 
toward the signal tube, "Who are you?" 

"You'd better let me in and find out, hadn't you?" The words came thinly out the receiver. 

"I'll inform you that this is a Foundation ship and consequently Foundation territory by 
international treaty." 



"I know that." 

"Come with your arms free, or I'll shoot. I'm well-armed." 

"Done!" 

Toran opened the inner door and closed contact on his blast pistol, thumb hovering over the 
pressure point. There was the sound of footsteps and then the door swung open, and Magnifico 
cried out, "It's not the Mule. It's but a man." 

The "man" bowed to the clown somberly, "Very accurate. I'm not the Mule." He held his hands 
apart, "I'm not armed, and I come on a peaceful errand. You might relax and put the blast pistol 
away. Your hand isn't steady enough for my peace of mind." 

"Who are you?" asked Toran, brusquely. 

"I might ask you that," said the stranger, coolly, "since you're the one under false pretenses, not 
I." 

"How so?" 

"You're the one who claims to be a Foundation citizen when there's not an authorized Trader 
on the planet." 

"That's not so. How would you know?" 

"Because I am a Foundation citizen, and have my papers to prove it. Where are yours?" 

"I think you'd better get out." 

"I think not. If you know anything about Foundation methods, and despite your imposture you 
might, you'd know that if I don't return alive to my ship at a specified time, there'll be a signal at 
the nearest Foundation headquarters so I doubt if your weapons will have much effect, 
practically speaking." 

There was an irresolute silence and then Bayta said, calmly, "Put the blaster away, Toran, and 
take him at face value. He sounds like the real thing." 

"Thank you," said the stranger. 

Toran put his gun on the chair beside him, "Suppose you explain all this now." 

The stranger remained standing. He was long of bone and large of limb. His face consisted of 
hard flat planes and it was somehow evident that he never smiled. But his eyes lacked 
hardness. 

He said, "News travels quickly, especially when it is apparently beyond belief. I don't suppose 
there's a person on Kalgan who doesn't know that the Mule's men were kicked in the teeth 
today by two tourists from the Foundation. I knew of the important details before evening, and, 
as I said, there are no Foundation tourists aside from myself on the planet. We know about 
those things." 



Who are the 'we'? 


"'We' are - 'we'! Myself for one! I knew you were at the Hangar - you had been overheard to 
say so. I had my ways of checking the registry, and my ways of finding the ship." 

He turned to Bayta suddenly, "You're from the Foundation - by birth, aren't you?" 

"Am I?" 

"You're a member of the democratic opposition - they call it 'the underground.' I don't 
remember your name, but I do the face. You got out only recently - and wouldn't have if you 
were more important." 

Bayta shrugged, "You know a lot." 

"I do. You escaped with a man. That one?" 

"Does it matter what I say?" 

"No. I merely want a thorough mutual understanding. I believe that the password during the 
week you left so hastily was 'Seldon, Hardin, and Freedom.' Porfirat Hart was your section 
leader. " 

"Where'd you get that?" Bayta was suddenly fierce. "Did the police get him?" Toran held her 
back, but she shook herself loose and advanced. 

The man from the Foundation said quietly, "Nobody has him. It's just that the underground 
spreads widely and in queer places. I'm Captain Han Pritcher of Information, and I'm a section 
leader myself - never mind under what name." 

He waited, then said, "No, you don't have to believe me. In our business it is better to overdo 
suspicion than the opposite. But I'd better get past the preliminaries." 

"Yes," said Toran, "suppose you do." 

"May I sit down? Thanks." Captain Pritcher swung a long leg across his knee and let an arm 
swing loose over the back of the chair. "I'll start out by saying that I don't know what all this is 
about - from your angle. You two aren't from the Foundation, but it's not a hard guess that 
you're from one of the independent Trading worlds. That doesn't bother me overmuch. But out 
of curiosity, what do you want with that fellow, that clown you snatched to safety? You're risking 
your life to hold on to him." 

"I can't tell you that." 

"Hm-m-m. Well, I didn't think you would. But if you're waiting for the Mule himself to come 
behind a fanfarade of horns, drums, and electric organs - relax! The Mule doesn't work that 
way." 

"What?" It came from both Toran and Bayta, and in the comer where Magnifico lurked with ears 
almost visibly expanded, there was a sudden joyful start. 

"That's right. I've been trying to contact him myself, and doing a rather more thorough job of it 



than you two amateurs can. It won't work. The man makes no personal appearance, does not 
allow himself to be photographed or simulated, and is seen only by his most intimate 
associates." 

"Is that supposed to explain your interest in us, captain?" questioned Toran. 

"No. That clown is the key. That clown is one of the very few that have seen him. I want him. 

He may be the proof I need - and I need something, Galaxy knows - to awaken the 
Foundation." 

"It needs awakening?" broke in Bayta with sudden sharpness. "Against what? And in what role 
do you act as alarm, that of rebel democrat or of secret police and provocateur?" 

The captain's face set in its hard lines. "When the entire Foundation is threatened, Madame 
Revolutionary, both democrats and tyrants perish. Let us save the tyrants from a greater, that 
we may overthrow them in their turn." 

"Who's the greater tyrant you speak of?" flared Bayta. 

"The Mule! I know a bit about him, enough to have been my death several times over already, if 
I had moved less nimbly. Send the clown out of the room. This will require privacy." 

"Magnifico," said Bayta, with a gesture, and the clown left without a sound. 

The captain's voice was grave and intense, and low enough so that Toran and Bayta drew 
close. 

He said, "The Mule is a shrewd operator - far too shrewd not to realize the advantage of the 
magnetism and glamour of personal leadership. If he gives that up, it's for a reason. That 
reason must be the fact that personal contact would reveal something that is of overwhelming 
importance not to reveal." 

He waved aside questions, and continued more quickly, "I went back to his birthplace for this, 
and questioned people who for their knowledge will not live long. Few enough are still alive. 
They remember the baby born thirty years before - the death of his mother - his strange youth. 
The Mule is not a human being!" 

And his two listeners drew back in horror at the misty implications. Neither understood, fully or 
clearly, but the menace of the phrase was definite. 

The captain continued, "He is a mutant, and obviously from his subsequent career, a highly 
successful one. I don't know his powers or the exact extent to which he is what our thrillers 
would call a 'superman,' but the rise from nothing to the conqueror of Kalgan's warlord in two 
years is revealing. You see, don't you, the danger? Can a genetic accident of unpredictable 
biological properties be taken into account in the Seldon plan?" 

Slowly, Bayta spoke, "I don't believe it. This is some sort of complicated trickery. Why didn't the 
Mule's men kill us when they could have, if he's a superman?" 

"I told you that I don't know the extent of his mutation. He may not be ready, yet, for the 
Foundation, and it would be a sign of the greatest wisdom to resist provocation until ready. Now 



let me speak to the clown." 

The captain faced the trembling Magnifico, who obviously distrusted this huge, hard man who 
faced him. 

The captain began slowly, "Have you seen the Mule with your own eyes?" 

"I have but too well, respected sir. And felt the weight of his arm with my own body as well." 

"I have no doubt of that. Can you describe him?" 

"It is frightening to recall him, respected sir. He is a man of mighty frame. Against him, even you 
would be but a spindling. His hair is of a burning crimson, and with all my strength and weight I 
could not pull down his arm, once extended - not a hair's thickness." Magnifico's thinness 
seemed to collapse upon itself in a huddle of arms and legs. "Often, to amuse his generals or to 
amuse only himself, he would suspend me by one finger in my belt from a fearful height, while I 
chattered poetry. It was only after the twentieth verse that I was withdrawn, and each 
improvised and each a perfect rhyme, or else start over. He is a man of overpowering might, 
respected sir, and cruel in the use of his power - and his eyes, respected sir, no one sees." 

"What? What's that last?" 

"He wears spectacles, respected sir, of a curious nature. It is said that they are opaque and that 
he sees by a powerful magic that far transcends human powers. I have heard," and his voice 
was small and mysterious, "that to see his eyes is to see death; that he kills with his eyes, 
respected sir." 

Magnifico's eyes wheeled quickly from one watching face to another. He quavered, "It is true. 

As I live, it is true. " 

Bayta drew a long breath, "Sounds like you're right, captain. Do you want to take over?" 

"Well, let's look at the situation. You don't owe anything here? The hangar's barrier above is 
free?" 

"I can leave any time." 

"Then leave. The Mule may not wish to antagonize the Foundation, but he runs a frightful risk in 
letting Magnifico get away. It probably accounts for the hue and cry after the poor devil in the 
first place. So there may be ships waiting for you upstairs. If you're lost in space, who's to pin 
the crime?" 

"You're right," agreed Toran, bleakly. 

"However, you've got a shield and you're probably speedier than anything they've got, so as 
soon as you're clear of the atmosphere make the circle in neutral to the other hemisphere, then 
just cut a track outwards at top acceleration." 

"Yes," said Bayta coldly, "and when we are back on the Foundation, what then, captain?" 

"Why, you are then co-operative citizens of Kalgan, are you not? I know nothing to the contrary, 
do I?" 



Nothing was said. Toran turned to the controls. There was an imperceptible lurch. 

It was when Toran had left Kalgan sufficiently far in the rear to attempt his first interstellar jump, 
that Captain Pritcher's face first creased slightly - for no ship of the Mule had in any way 
attempted to bar their leaving. 

"Looks like he's letting us carry off Magnifico," said Toran. "Not so good for your story." 

"Unless," corrected the captain, "he wants us to carry him off, in which case it's not so good for 
the Foundation." 

It was after the last jump, when within neutral-flight distance of the Foundation, that the first 
hyperwave news broadcast reached the ship. 

And there was one news item barely mentioned. It seemed that a warlord - unidentified by the 
bored speaker - had made representations to the Foundation concerning the forceful abduction 
of a member of his court. The announcer went on to the sports news. 

Captain Pritcher said icily, "He's one step ahead of us after all." Thoughtfully, he added, "He's 
ready for the Foundation, and he uses this as an excuse for action. It makes things more 
difficult for us. We will have to act before we are really ready." 


15. THE PSYCHOLOGIST 

There was reason to the fact that the element known as "pure science" was the freest form of 
life on the Foundation. In a Galaxy where the predominance - and even survival - of the 
Foundation still rested upon the superiority of its technology - even despite its large access of 
physical power in the last century and a half - a certain immunity adhered to The Scientist. He 
was needed, and he knew it. 

Likewise, there was reason to the fact that Ebling Mis - only those who did not know him added 
his titles to his name - was the freest form of life in the "pure science" of the Foundation. In a 
world where science was respected, he was The Scientist - with capital letters and no smile. 

He was needed, and he knew it. 

And so it happened, that when others bent their knee, he refused and added loudly that his 
ancestors in their time bowed no knee to any stinking mayor. And in his ancestors' time the 
mayor was elected anyhow, and kicked out at will, and that the only people that inherited 
anything by right of birth were the congenital idiots. 

So it also happened, that when Ebling Mis decided to allow Indbur to honor him with an 
audience, he did not wait for the usual rigid line of command to pass his request up and the 
favored reply down, but, having thrown the less disreputable of his two formal jackets over his 
shoulders and pounded an odd hat of impossible design on one side of his head, and lit a 
forbidden cigar into the bargain, he barged past two ineffectually bleating guards and into the 
mayor's palace. 

The first notice his excellence received of the intrusion was when from his garden he heard the 



gradually nearing uproar of expostulation and the answering bull-roar of inarticulate swearing. 

Slowly, Indbur lay down his trowel; slowly, he stood up; and slowly, he frowned. For Indbur 
allowed himself a daily vacation from work, and for two hours in the early afternoon, weather 
permitting, he was in his garden. There in his garden, the blooms grew in squares and 
triangles, interlaced in a severe order of red and yellow, with little dashes of violet at the apices, 
and greenery bordering the whole in rigid lines. There in his garden no one disturbed him - no 
one! 

Indbur peeled off his soil-stained gloves as he advanced toward the little garden door. 

Inevitably, he said, "What is the meaning of this?" 

It is the precise question and the precise wording thereof that has been put to the atmosphere 
on such occasions by an incredible variety of men since humanity was invented. It is not 
recorded that it has ever been asked for any purpose other than dignified effect. 

But the answer was literal this time, for Mis's body came plunging through with a bellow, and a 
shake of a fist at the ones who were still holding tatters of his cloak. 

Indbur motioned them away with a solemn, displeased frown, and Mis bent to pick up his ruin of 
a hat, shake about a quarter of the gathered dirt off it, thrust it under his armpit and say: 

"Look here, Indbur, those unprintable minions of yours will be charged for one good cloak. Lots 
of good wear left in this cloak." He puffed and wiped his forehead with just a trace of 
theatricality. 

The mayor stood stiff with displeasure, and said haughtily from the peak of his five-foot-two, "It 
has not been brought to my attention, Mis, that you have requested an audience. You have 
certainly not been assigned one." 

Ebling Mis looked down at his mayor with what was apparently shocked disbelief, "Ga-LAX-y, 
Indbur, didn't you get my note yesterday? I handed it to a flunky in purple uniform day before. I 
would have handed it to you direct, but I know how you like formality." 

"Formality!" Indbur turned up exasperated eyes. Then, strenuously, "Have you ever heard of 
proper organization? At all future times you are to submit your request for an audience, 
properly made out in triplicate, at the government office intended for the purpose. You are then 
to wait until the ordinary course of events brings you notification of the time of audience to be 
granted. You are then to appear, properly clothed - properly clothed, do you understand - and 
with proper respect, too. You may leave." 

"What's wrong with my clothes?" demanded Mis, hotly. "Best cloak I had till those unprintable 
fiends got their claws on it. I'll leave just as soon as I deliver what I came to deliver. "Ga-LAX-y, 
if it didn't involve a Seldon Crisis, I would leave right now." 

"Seldon crisis!" Indbur exhibited first interest. Mis was a great psychologist - a democrat, boor, 
and rebel certainly, but a psychologist, too. In his uncertainty, the mayor even failed to put into 
words the inner pang that stabbed suddenly when Mis plucked a casual bloom, held it to his 
nostrils expectantly, then flipped it away with a wrinkled nose. 



Indbur said coldly, "Would you follow me? This garden wasn't made for serious conversation." 

He felt better in his built-up chair behind his large desk from which he could look down on the 
few hairs that quite ineffectually hid Mis's pink scalp-skin. He felt much better when Mis cast a 
series of automatic glances about him for a non-existent chair and then remained standing in 
uneasy shifting fashion. He felt best of all when in response to a careful pressure of the correct 
contact, a liveried underling scurried in, bowed his way to the desk, and laid thereon a bulky, 
metal-bound volume. 

"Now, in order," said Indbur, once more master of the situation, "to make this unauthorized 
interview as short as possible, make your statement in the fewest possible words." 

Ebling Mis said unhurriedly, "You know what I'm doing these days?" 

"I have your reports here," replied the mayor, with satisfaction, "together with authorized 
summaries of them. As I understand it, your investigations into the mathematics of 
psychohistory have been intended to duplicate Hari Seldon's work and, eventually, trace the 
projected course of future history, for the use of the Foundation." 

"Exactly," said Mis, dryly. "When Seldon first established the Foundation, he was wise enough 
to include no psychologists among the scientists placed here - so that the Foundation has 
always worked blindly along the course of historical necessity. In the course of my researches, I 
have based a good deal upon hints found at the Time Vault." 

"I am aware of that, Mis. It is a waste of time to repeat." 

"I'm not repeating," blared Mis, "because what I'm going to tell you isn't in any of those reports." 

"How do you mean, not in the reports?" said Indbur, stupidly. "How could-" 

"Ga-LAX-y, Let me tell this my own way, you offensive little creature. Stop putting words into 
my mouth and questioning my every statement or I'll tramp out of here and let everything 
crumble around you. Remember, you unprintable fool, the Foundation will come through 
because it must, but if I walk out of here now - you won't." 

Dashing his hat on the floor, so that clods of earth scattered, he sprang up the stairs of the dais 
on which the wide desk stood and shoving papers violently, sat down upon a comer of it. 

Indbur thought frantically of summoning the guard, or using the built-in blasters of his desk. But 
Mis's face was glaring down upon him and there was nothing to do but cringe the best face 
upon it. 

"Dr. Mis," he began, with weak formality, "you must-" 

"Shut up," said Mis, ferociously, "and listen. If this thing here," and his palm came down heavily 
on the metal of the bound data, "is a mess of my reports - throw it out. Any report I write goes 
up through some twenty-odd officials, gets to you, and then sort of winds down through twenty 
more. That's fine if there's nothing you don't want kept secret. Well, I've got something 
confidential here. It's so confidential, even the boys working for me haven't got wind of it. They 
did the work, of course, but each just a little unconnected piece - and I put it together. You 



know what the Time Vault is? 


Indbur nodded his head, but Mis went on with loud enjoyment of the situation, "Well, I'll tell you 
anyhow because I've been sort of imagining this unprintable situation for a "Ga-LAX-y, of a long 
time; I can read your mind, you puny fraud. You've got your hand right near a little knob that'll 
call in about five hundred or so armed men to finish me off, but you're afraid of what I know - 
you're afraid of a Seldon Crisis. Besides which, if you touch anything on your desk, I'll knock 
your unprintable head off before anyone gets here. You and your bandit father and pirate 
grandfather have been blood-sucking the Foundation long enough anyway." 

"This is treason," gabbled Indbur. 

"It certainly is," gloated Mis, "but what are you going to do about it? Let me tell you about the 
Time Vault. That Time Vault is what Hari Seldon placed here at the beginning to help us over 
the rough spots. For every crisis, Seldon has prepared a personal simulacrum to help - and 
explain. Four crises so far - four appearances. The first time he appeared at the height of the 
first crisis. The second time, he appeared at the moment just after the successful evolution of 
the second crisis. Our ancestors were there to listen to him both times. At the third and fourth 
crises, he was ignored - probably because he was not needed, but recent investigations -not 
included in those reports you have - indicate that he appeared anyway, and at the proper 
times. Get it?" 

Fie did not wait for any answer. His cigar, a tattered, dead ruin was finally disposed of, a new 
cigar groped for, and lit. The smoke puffed out violently. 

Fie said, "Officially I've been trying to rebuild the science of psychohistory. Well, no one man is 
going to do that, and it won't get done in any one century, either. But I've made advances in the 
more simple elements and I've been able to use it as an excuse to meddle with the Time Vault. 
What I have done, involves the determination, to a pretty fair kind of certainty, of the exact date 
of the next appearance of Hari Seldon. I can give you the exact day, in other words, that the 
coming Seldon Crisis, the fifth, will reach its climax. " 

"Flow far off?" demanded Indbur, tensely. 

And Mis exploded his bomb with cheerful nonchalance, 

"Four months," he said. "Four unprintable months, less two days." 

"Four months," said Indbur, with uncharacteristic vehemence. "Impossible." 

"Impossible, my unprintable eye." 

"Four months? Do you understand what that means? For a crisis to come to a head in four 
months would mean that it has been preparing for years." 

"And why not? Is there a law of Nature that requires the process to mature in the full light of 
day?" 

"But nothing impends. Nothing hangs over us." Indbur almost wrung his hands for anxiety. With 
a sudden spasmodic recrudescence of ferocity, he screamed, "Will you get off my desk and let 



me put it in order? How do you expect me to think?" 

Mis, startled, lifted heavily and moved aside. 

Indbur replaced objects in their appropriate niches with a feverish motion. He was speaking 
quickly, "You have no right to come here like this. If you had presented your theory-" 

"It is not a theory. " 

"I say it is a theory. If you had presented it together with your evidence and arguments, in 
appropriate fashion, it would have gone to the Bureau of Historical Sciences. There it could 
have been properly treated, the resulting analyses submitted to me, and then, of course, proper 
action would have been taken. As it is, you've vexed me to no purpose. Ah, here it is." 

He had a sheet of transparent, silvery paper in his hand which he shook at the bulbous 
psychologist beside him. 

"This is a short summary I prepare myself - weekly - of foreign matters in progress. Listen - 
we have completed negotiations for a commercial treaty with Mores, continue negotiations for 
one with Lyonesse, sent a delegation to some celebration or other on Bonde, received some 
complaint or other from Kalgan and we've promised to look into it, protested some sharp trade 
practices in Asperta and they've promised to look into it - and so on and so on." The mayor's 
eyes swarmed down the list of coded notations, and then he carefully placed the sheet in its 
proper place in the proper folder in the proper pigeonhole. 

I tell you, Mis, there's not a thing there that breathes anything but order and peace-" 

The door at the far, long end opened, and, in far too dramatically coincident a fashion to 
suggest anything but real life, a plainly-costumed notable stepped in. 

Indbur half-rose. He had the curiously swirling sensation of unreality that comes upon those 
days when too much happens. After Mis's intrusion and wild turnings there now came the 
equally improper, hence disturbing, intrusion unannounced, of his secretary, who at least knew 
the rules. 

The secretary kneeled low. 

Indbur said, sharply, "Well!" 

The secretary addressed the floor, "Excellence, Captain Han Pritcher of Information, returning 
from Kalgan, in disobedience to your orders, has according to prior instructions - your order 
X20-513 - been imprisoned, and awaits execution. Those accompanying him are being held for 
questioning. A full report has been filed." 

Indbur, in agony, said, "A full report has been received. Well!" 

"Excellence, Captain Pritcher has reported, vaguely, dangerous designs on the part of the new 
warlord of Kalgan. He has been given, according to prior instructions - your order X20-651 - no 
formal hearing, but his remarks have been recorded and a full report filed." 


Indbur screamed, "A full report has been received. Well!" 



"Excellence, reports have within the quarter-hour been received from the Salinnian frontier. 
Ships identified as Kalganian have been entering Foundation territory, unauthorized. The ships 
are armed. Fighting has occurred." 

The secretary was bent nearly double. Indbur remained standing. Ebling Mis shook himself, 
clumped up to the secretary, and tapped him sharply on the shoulder. 

"Flere, you'd better have them release this Captain Pritcher, and have him sent here. Get out." 

The secretary left, and Mis turned to the mayor, "Fladn't you better get the machinery moving, 
Indbur? Four months, you know." 

Indbur remained standing, glaze-eyed. Only one finger seemed alive - and it traced rapid jerky 
triangles on the smooth desk top before him. 


16. CONFERENCE 

When the twenty-seven independent Trading worlds, united only by their distrust of the mother 
planet of the Foundation, concert an assembly among themselves, and each is big with a pride 
grown of its smallness, hardened by its own insularity and embittered by eternal danger - there 
are preliminary negotiations to be overcome of a pettiness sufficiently staggering to heartsicken 
the most persevering. 

It is not enough to fix in advance such details as methods of voting, type of representation - 
whether by world or by population. These are matters of involved political importance. It is not 
enough to fix matters of priority at the table, both council and dinner, those are matters of 
involved social importance. 

It was the place of meeting - since that was a matter of overpowering provincialism. And in the 
end the devious routes of diplomacy led to the world of Radole, which some commentators had 
suggested at the start for logical reason of central position. 

Radole was a small world - and, in military potential, perhaps the weakest of the twenty-seven. 
That, by the way, was another factor in the logic of the choice. 

It was a ribbon world - of which the Galaxy boasts sufficient, but among which, the inhabited 
variety is a rarity for the physical requirements are difficult to meet. It was a world, in other 
words, where the two halves face the monotonous extremes of heat and cold, while the region 
of possible life is the girdling ribbon of the twilight zone. 

Such a world invariably sounds uninviting to those who have not tried it, but there exist spots, 
strategically placed - and Radole City was located in such a one. 

It spread along the soft slopes of the foothills before the hacked-out mountains that backed it 
along the rim of the cold hemisphere and held off the frightful ice. The warm, dry air of the 
sun-half spilled over, and from the mountains was piped the water-and between the two, 

Radole City became a continuous garden, swimming in the eternal morning of an eternal June. 



Each house nestled among its flower garden, open to the fangless elements. Each garden was 
a horticultural forcing ground, where luxury plants grew in fantastic patterns for the sake of the 
foreign exchange they brought - until Radole had almost become a producing world, rather 
than a typical Trading world. 

So, in its way, Radole City was a little point of softness and luxury on a horrible planet - a tiny 
scrap of Eden - and that, too, was a factor in the logic of the choice. 

The strangers came from each of the twenty-six other Trading worlds: delegates, wives, 
secretaries, newsmen, ships, and crews - and Radole's population nearly doubled and 
Radole's resources strained themselves to the limit. One ate at will, and drank at will, and slept 
not at all. 

Yet there were few among the roisterers who were not intensely aware that all that volume of 
the Galaxy burnt slowly in a sort of quiet, slumbrous war. And of those who were aware, there 
were dime classes. First, there were the many who knew little and were very confident. 

Such as the young space pilot who wore the Haven cockade on the clasp of his cap, and who 
managed, in holding his glass before his eyes, to catch those of the faintly smiling Radolian girl 
opposite. He was saying: 

"We came fight through the war-zone to get here-on purpose. We traveled about a light-minute 
or so, in neutral, right past Horleggor-" 

"Horleggor?" broke in a long-legged native, who was playing host to that particular gathering. 
"That's where the Mule got the guts beat out of him last week, wasn't it?" 

"Where'd you hear that the Mule got the guts beat out of him?" demanded the pilot, loftily. 

"Foundation radio." 

"Yeah? Well, the Mule's got Horleggor. We almost ran into a convoy of his ships, and that's 
where they were coming from. It isn't a gut-beating when you stay where you fought, and the 
gut-beater leaves in a hurry." 

Someone else said in a high, blurred voice, "Don't talk like that. Foundation always takes it on 
the chin for a while. You watch; just sit tight and watch. 01' Foundation knows when to come 
back. And then - pow T The thick voice concluded and was succeeded by a bleary grin. 

"Anyway." said the pilot from Haven, after a short pause, "As I say, we saw the Mule's ships, 
and they looked pretty good, pretty good. I tell you what - they looked new." 

"New?" said the native, thoughtfully. "They build them themselves?" He broke a leaf from an 
overhanging branch, sniffed delicately at it, then crunched it between his teeth, the bruised 
tissues bleeding greenly and diffusing a minty odor. He said, "You trying to tell me they beat 
Foundation ships with homebuilt jobs? Go on." 

"We saw them, doc. And I can tell a ship from a comet, too, you know." 

The native leaned close. "You know what I think. Listen, don't kid yourself. Wars don't just start 
by themselves, and we have a bunch of shrewd apples running things. They know what they're 



doing." 

The well-unthirsted one said with sudden loudness, "You watch ol' Foundation. They wait for 
the last minute, then - powf' He grinned with vacuously open mouth at the girl, who moved 
away from him. 

The Radolian was saying, "For instance, old man, you think maybe that this Mule guy's running 
things. No-o-o." And he wagged a finger horizontally. "The way I hear it, and from pretty high 
up, mind you, he's our boy. We're paying him off, and we probably built those ships. Let's be 
realistic about it - we probably did. Sure, he can't beat the Foundation in the long run, but he 
can get them shaky, and when he does - we get in." 

The girl said, "Is that all you can talk about, Kiev? The war? You make me tired." 

The pilot from Haven said, in an access of gallantry, 

"Change the subject. Can't make the girls tired." 

The bedewed one took up the refrain and banged a mug to the rhythm. The little groups of two 
that had formed broke up with giggles and swagger, and a few similar groups of twos emerged 
from the sun-house in the background. 

The conversation became more general, more varied, more meaningless. 

Then there were those who knew a little more and were less confident. 

Such as the one-armed Fran, whose large bulk represented Haven as official delegated, and 
who lived high in consequence, and cultivated new friendships - with women when he could 
and with men when he had to. 

It was on the sun platform of the hilltop home, of one of these new friends, that he relaxed for 
the first of what eventually proved to be a total of two times while on Radole. The new friend 
was Iwo Lyon, a kindred soul of Radole. Iwo's house was apart from the general cluster, 
apparently alone in a sea of floral perfume and insect chatter. The sun platform was a grassy 
strip of lawn set at a forty-five degree angle, and upon it Fran stretched out and fairly sopped 
up sun. 

He said, "Don't have anything like this on Haven." 

Iwo replied, sleepily, "Ever seen the cold side. There's a spot twenty miles from here where the 
oxygen runs like water. " 

"Go on. 

"Fact." 

"Well, I'll tell you, Iwo-ln the old days before my arm was chewed off I knocked around, see - 
and you won't believe this, but" - The story that followed lasted considerably, and Iwo didn't 
believe it. 


Iwo said, through yawns, "They don't make them like in the old days, that's the truth. 



"No, guess they don't. Well, now," Fran fired up, "don't say that. I told you about my son, didn't 
I? He's one of the old school, if you like. He'll make a great Trader, blast it. He's his old man up 
and down. Up and down, except that he gets married." 

"You mean legal contract? With a girl?" 

"That's right. Don't see the sense in it myself. They went to Kalgan for their honeymoon." 
"Kalgan? Kalgan? When the Galaxy was this?" 

Fran smiled broadly, and said with slow meaning, "Just before the Mule declared war on the 
Foundation." 

"That so?" 

Fran nodded and motioned Iwo closer with his head. He said, hoarsely, "In fact, I can tell you 
something, if you don't let it go any further. My boy was sent to Kalgan for a purpose. Now I 
wouldn't like to let it out, you know, just what the purpose was, naturally, but you look at the 
situation now, and I suppose you can make a pretty good guess. In any case, my boy was the 
man for the job. We Traders needed some sort of ruckus." He smiled, craftily. "It's here. I'm not 
saying how we did it, but - my boy went to Kalgan, and the Mule sent out his ships. My son!" 

Iwo was duly impressed. He grew confidential in his turn, "That's good. You know, they say 
we've got five hundred ships ready to pitch in on our own at the right time. " 

Fran said authoritatively, "More than that, maybe. This is real strategy. This is the kind I like." 
He clawed loudly at the skin of his abdomen. "But don't you forget that the Mule is a smart boy, 
too. What happened at Horleggor worries me." 

"I heard he lost about ten ships." 

"Sure, but he had a hundred more, and the Foundation had to get out. It's all to the good to 
have those tyrants beaten, but not as quickly as all that." He shook his head. 

"The question I ask is where does the Mule get his ships? There's a widespread rumor we're 
making them for him." 

"We? The Traders? Haven has the biggest ship factories anywhere in the independent worlds, 
and we haven't made one for anyone but ourselves. Do you suppose any world is building a 
fleet for the Mule on its own, without taking the precaution of united action? That's a ... a fairy 
tale." 

"Well, where does he get them?" 

And Fran shrugged, "Makes them himself, I suppose. That worries me, too." 

Fran blinked at the sun and curled his toes about the smooth wood of the polished foot-rest. 
Slowly, he fell asleep and the soft burr of his breathing mingled with the insect sibilance. 

Lastly, there were the very few who knew considerable and were not confident at all. 

Such as Randu, who on the fifth day of the all-Trader convention entered the Central Hall and 



found the two men he had asked to be there, waiting for him. The five hundred seats were 
empty - and were going to stay so. 

Randu said quickly, almost before he sat down, "We three represent about half the military 
potential of the Independent Trading Worlds." 

"Yes," said Mangin of Iss, "my colleague and I have already commented upon the fact." 

"I am ready," said Randu, "to speak quickly and earnestly. I am not interested in bargaining or 
subtlety. Our position is radically in the worse." 

"As a result of-" urged Ovall Gri of Mnemon. 

"Of developments of the last hour. Please! From the beginning. First, our position is not of our 
doing, and but doubtfully of our control. Our original dealings were not with the Mule, but with 
several others; notably the ex-warlord of Kalgan, whom the Mule defeated at a most 
inconvenient time for us." 

"Yes, but this Mule is a worthy substitute," said Mangin. "I do not cavil at details." 

"You may when you know all the details." Randu leaned forward and placed his hands upon the 
table palms-up in an obvious gesture. 

Fie said, "A month ago I sent my nephew and my nephew's wife to Kalgan." 

"Your nephew!" cried Ovall Gri, in surprise. "I did not know he was your nephew." 

"With what purpose," asked Mangin, dryly. "This?" And his thumb drew an inclusive circle high 
in the air. 

"No. If you mean the Mule's war on the Foundation, no. Flow could I aim so high? The young 
man knew nothing - neither of our organization nor of our aims. Fie was told I was a minor 
member of an intra-Flaven patriotic society, and his function at Kalgan was nothing but that of 
an amateur observer. My motives were, I must admit, rather obscure. Mainly, I was curious 
about the Mule. Fie is a strange phenomenon - but that's a chewed cud; I'll not go into it. 
Secondly, it would make an interesting and educational training project for a man who had 
experience with the Foundation and the Foundation underground and showed promise of future 
usefulness to us. You see-" 

Ovall's long face fell into vertical lines as he showed his large teeth, "You must have been 
surprised at the outcome, then, since there is not a world among the Traders, I believe, that 
does not know that this nephew of yours abducted a Mule underling in the name of the 
Foundation and furnished the Mule with a casus belli. Galaxy, Randu, you spin romances. I find 
it hard to believe you had no hand in that. Come, it was a skillful job." 

Randu shook his white head, "Not of my doing. Nor, willfully, of my nephew's, who is now held 
prisoner at the Foundation, and may not live to see the completion of this so-skillful job. I have 
just heard from him. The Personal Capsule has been smuggled out somehow, come through 
the war zone, gone to Haven, and traveled from there to here. It has been a month on its 
travels." 



And?-' 


Randu leaned a heavy hand upon the heel of his palm and said, sadly, "I'm afraid we are cast 
for the same role that the onetime warlord of Kalgan played. The Mule is a mutant!" 

There was a momentary qualm; a faint impression of quickened heartbeats. Randu might easily 
have imagined it. 

When Mangin spoke, the evenness of his voice was unchanged, "How do you know?" 

"Only because my nephew says so, but he was on Kalgan. 

"What kind of a mutant? There are all kinds, you know." 

Randu forced the rising impatience down, "All kinds of mutants, yes, Mangin. All kinds! But only 
one kind of Mule. What kind of a mutant would start as an unknown, assemble an army, 
establish, they say, a five-mile asteroid as original base, capture a planet, then a system, then 
a region - and then attack the Foundation, and defeat them at Horleggor. And all in two or 
three years!" 

Ovall Gri shrugged, "So you think he'll beat the Foundation?" 

"I don't know. Suppose he does?" 

"Sorry, I can't go that far. You don't beat the Foundation. Look, there's not a new fact we have 
to go on except for the statements of a ... well, of an inexperienced boy. Suppose we shelve it 
for a while. With all the Mule's victories, we weren't worried until now, and unless he goes a 
good deal further than he has, I see no reason to change that. Yes?" 

Randu frowned and despaired at the cobweb texture of his argument. He said to both, "Have 
we yet made any contact with the Mule?" 

"No," both answered. 

"It's true, though, that we've tried, isn't it? It's true that there's not much purpose to our meeting 
unless we do reach him, isn't it? It's true that so far there's been more drinking than thinking, 
and more wooing than doing - I quote from an editorial in today's Radole Tribune - and all 
because we can't reach the Mule. Gentlemen, we have nearly a thousand ships waiting to be 
thrown into the fight at the proper moment to seize control of the Foundation. I say we should 
change that. I say, throw those thousand onto the board now - against the Mule." 

"You mean for the Tyrant Indbur and the bloodsuckers of the Foundation?" demanded Mangin, 
with quiet venom. 

Randu raised a weary hand, "Spare me the adjectives. Against the Mule, I say, and for 
l-don't-care-who." 

Ovall Gri rose, "Randu, I'll have nothing to do with that, You present it to the full council tonight 
if you particularly hunger for political suicide." 

He left without another word and Mangin followed silently, leaving Randu to drag out a lonely 



hour of endless, insoluble consideration. 

At the full council that night, he said nothing. 

But it was Ovall Gri who pushed into his room the next morning; an Ovall Gri only sketchily 
dressed and who had neither shaved nor combed his hair. 

Randu stared at him over a yet-uncleared breakfast table with an astonishment sufficiently 
open and strenuous to cause him to drop his pipe. 

Ovall said baldly, harshly. "Mnemon has been bombarded from space by treacherous attack." 
Randu's eyes narrowed, "The Foundation?" 

"The Mule!" exploded Ovall. "The Mule!" His words raced, "It was unprovoked and deliberate. 
Most of our fleet had joined the international flotilla. The few left as Home Squadron were 
insufficient and were blown out of the sky. There have been no landings yet, and there may not 
be, for half the attackers are reported destroyed - but it is war - and I have come to ask how 
Haven stands on the matter." 

"Haven, I am sure, will adhere to the spirit of the Charter of Federation. But, you see? He 
attacks us as well." 

"This Mule is a madman. Can he defeat the universe?" He faltered and sat down to seize 
Randu's wrist, "Our few survivors have reported the Mule's poss ... enemy's possession of a 
new weapon. A nuclear-field depressor." 

"A what?" 

Ovall said, "Most of our ships were lost because their nuclear weapons failed them. It could not 
have happened by either accident or sabotage. It must have been a weapon of the Mule. It 
didn't work perfectly; the effect was intermittent; there were ways to neutralize - my dispatches 
are not detailed. But you see that such a tool would change the nature of war and, possibly, 
make our entire fleet obsolete." 

Randu felt an old, old man. His face sagged hopelessly, "I am afraid a monster is grown that 
will devour all of us. Yet we must fight him." 


17. THE VISI-SONOR 

Ebling Mis's house in a not-so-pretentious neighborhood of Terminus City was well known to 
the intelligentsia, literati, and just-plain-well-read of the Foundation. Its notable characteristics 
depended, subjectively, upon the source material that was read. To a thoughtful biographer, it 
was the "symbolization of a retreat from a nonacademic reality," a society columnist gushed 
silkily at its "frightfully masculine atmosphere of careless disorder," a University Ph.D. called it 
brusquely, "bookish, but unorganized," a nonuniversity friend said, "good for a drink anytime 
and you can put your feet on the sofa," and a breezy newsweekly broadcast, that went in for 
color, spoke of the "rocky, down-to-earth, no-nonsense living quarters of blaspheming, Leftish, 



balding Ebling Mis." 

To Bayta, who thought for no audience but herself at the moment, and who had the advantage 
of first-hand information, it was merely sloppy. 

Except for the first few days, her imprisonment had been a light burden. Far lighter, it seemed, 
that this half-hour wait in the psychologist's home - under secret observation, perhaps? She 
had been with Toran then, at least. 

Perhaps she might have grown wearier of the strain, had not Magnifico's long nose drooped in 
a gesture that plainly showed his own far greater tension. 

Magnifico's pipe-stem legs were folded up under a pointed, sagging chin, as if he were trying to 
huddle himself into disappearance, and Bayta's hand went out in a gentle and automatic 
gesture of reassurance. Magnifico winced, then smiled. 

"Surely, my lady, it would seem that even yet my body denies the knowledge of my mind and 
expects of others' hands a blow." 

"There's no need for worry, Magnifico. I'm with you, and I won't let anyone hurt you." 

The clown's eyes sidled towards her, then drew away quickly. "But they kept me away from you 
earlier - and from your kind husband - and, on my word, you may laugh, but I was lonely for 
missing friendship." 

"I wouldn't laugh at that. I was, too." 

The clown brightened, and he hugged his knees closer. He said, "You have not met this man 
who will see us?" It was a cautious question. 

"No. But he is a famous man. I have seen him in the newscasts and heard quite a good deal of 
him. I think he's a good man, Magnifico, who means us no harm." 

"Yes?" The clown stirred uneasily. "That may be, my lady, but he has questioned me before, 
and his manner is of an abruptness and loudness that bequivers me. He is full of strange 
words, so that the answers to his questions could not worm out of my throat. Almost, I might 
believe the romancer who once played on my ignorance with a tale that, at such moments, the 
heart lodged in the windpipe and prevented speech." 

"But it's different now. We're two to his one, and he won't be able to frighten the both of us, will 
he?" 

"No, my lady." 

A door slammed somewheres, and the roaring of a voice entered the house. Just outside the 
room, it coagulated into words with a fierce, "Get the "Ga-LAX-y out of here!" and two 
uniformed guards were momentarily visible through the opening door, in quick retreat. 

Ebling Mis entered frowning, deposited a carefully wrapped bundle on the floor, and 
approached to shake Bayta's hand with careless pressure. Bayta returned it vigorously, 
man-fashion. Mis did a double-take as he turned to the clown, and favored the girl with a longer 



look. 

He said, "Married?" 

"Yes. We went through the legal formalities." 

Mis paused. Then, "Happy about it?" 

"So far." 

Mis shrugged, and turned again to Magnifico. He unwrapped the package, "Know what this is, 
boy?" 

Magnifico fairly hurled himself out of his seat and caught the multi-keyed instrument. He 
fingered the myriad knobby contacts and threw a sudden back somersault of joy, to the 
imminent destruction of the nearby furniture. 

He croaked, "A Visi-Sonor - and of a make to distill joy out of a dead man's heart." His long 
fingers caressed softly and slowly, pressing lightly on contacts with a rippling motion, resting 
momentarily on one key then another - and in the air before them there was a soft glowing 
rosiness, just inside the range of vision. 

Ebling Mis said, "All right, boy, you said you could pound on one of those gadgets, and there's 
your chance. You'd better tune it, though. It's out of a museum." Then, in an aside to Bayta, 
"Near as I can make it, no one on the Foundation can make it talk right." 

He leaned closer and said quickly, "The clown won't talk without you. Will you help?" 

She nodded. 

"Good!" he said. "His state of fear is almost fixed, and I doubt that his mental strength would 
possibly stand a psychic probe. If I'm to get anything out of him otherwise, he's got to feel 
absolutely at ease. You understand?" 

She nodded again. 

"This Visi-Sonor is the first step in the process. He says he can play it; and his reaction now 
makes it pretty certain that it's one of the great joys of his life. So whether the playing is good or 
bad, be interested and appreciative. Then exhibit friendliness and confidence in me. Above all, 
follow my lead in everything." There was a swift glance at Magnifico, huddled in a comer of the 
sofa, making rapid adjustments in the interior of the instrument. He was completely absorbed. 

Mis said in a conversational tone to Bayta, "Ever hear a Visi-Sonor?" 

"Once," said Bayta, equally casually, "at a concert of rare instruments. I wasn't impressed." 

"Well, I doubt that you came across good playing. There are very few really good players. It's 
not so much that it requires physical co-ordination - a multi-bank piano requires more, for 
instance - as a certain type of free-wheeling mentality." In a lower voice, "That's why our living 
skeleton there might be better than we think. More often than not, good players are idiots 
otherwise. It's one of those queer setups that makes psychology interesting." 



He added, in a patent effort to manufacture light conversation, "You know how the beblistered 
thing works? I looked it up for this purpose, and all I've made out so far is that its radiations 
stimulate the optic center of the brain directly, without ever touching the optic nerve. It's actually 
the utilization of a sense never met with in ordinary nature. Remarkable, when you come to 
think of it. What you hear is all right. That's ordinary. Eardrum, cochlea, all that. But - Shh! He's 
ready. Will you kick that switch. It works better in the dark." 

In the darkness, Magnifico was a mere blob, Ebling Mis a heavy-breathing mass. Bayta found 
herself straining her eyes anxiously, and at first with no effect. There was a thin, reedy quaver 
in the air, that wavered raggedly up the scale. It hovered, dropped and caught itself, gained in 
body, and swooped into a booming crash that had the effect of a thunderous split in a veiling 
curtain. 

A little globe of pulsing color grew in rhythmic spurts and burst in midair into formless gouts that 
swirled high and came down as curving streamers in interfacing patterns. They coalesced into 
little spheres, no two alike in color - and Bayta began discovering things. 

She noticed that closing her eyes made the color pattern all the clearer; that each little 
movement of color had its own little pattern of sound; that she could not identify the colors; and, 
lastly, that the globes were not globes but little figures. 

Little figures; little shifting flames, that danced and flickered in their myriads; that dropped out of 
sight and returned from nowhere; that whipped about one another and coalesced then into a 
new color. 

Incongruously, Bayta thought of the little blobs of color that come at night when you close your 
eyelids till they hurt, and stare patiently. There was the old familiar effect of the marching polka 
dots of shifting color, of the contracting concentric circles, of the shapeless masses that quiver 
momentarily. All that, larger, multivaried - and each little dot of color a tiny figure. 

They darted at her in pairs, and she lifted her hands with a sudden gasp, but they tumbled and 
for an instant she was the center of a brilliant snowstorm, while cold light slipped off her 
shoulders and down her arm in a luminous ski-slide, shooting off her stiff fingers and meeting 
slowly in a shining midair focus. Beneath it all, the sound of a hundred instruments flowed in 
liquid streams until she could not tell it from the light. 

She wondered if Ebling Mis were seeing the same thing, and if not, what he did see, The 
wonder passed, and then- 

She was watching again. The little figures-were they little figures? -little tiny women with 
burning hair that turned and bent too quickly for the mind to focus? -seized one another in 
star-shaped groups that turned - and the music was faint laughter - girls' laughter that began 
inside the ear. 

The stars drew together, sparked towards one another, grew slowly into structure - and from 
below, a palace shot upward in rapid evolution. Each brick a tiny color, each color a tiny spark, 
each spark a stabbing light that shifted patterns and led the eye skyward to twenty jeweled 
minarets. 



A glittering carpet shot out and about, whirling, spinning an insubstantial web that engulfed all 
space, and from it luminous shoots stabbed upward and branched into trees that sang with a 
music all their own. 

Bayta sat inclosed in it. The music welled about her in rapid, lyrical flights. She reached out to 
touch a fragile tree and blossoming spicules floated downwards and faded, each with its clear, 
tiny tinkle. 

The music crashed in twenty cymbals, and before her an area flamed up in a spout and 
cascaded down invisible steps into Bayta's lap, where it spilled over and flowed in rapid current, 
raising the fiery sparkle to her waist, while across her lap was a rainbow bridge and upon it the 
little figures- 

A palace, and a garden, and tiny men and women on a bridge, stretching out as far as she 
could see, swimming through the stately swells of stringed music converging in upon her- 

And then - there seemed a frightened pause, a hesitant, indrawn motion, a swift collapse. The 
colors fled, spun into a globe that shrank, and rose, and disappeared. 

And it was merely dark again. 

A heavy foot scratched for the pedal, reached it, and the light flooded in; the flat light of a prosy 
sun. Bayta blinked until the tears came, as though for the longing of what was gone. Ebling Mis 
was a podgy inertness with his eyes still round and his mouth still open. 

Only Magnifico himself was alive, and he fondled his Visi-Sonor in a crooning ecstasy. 

"My lady," he gasped, "it is indeed of an effect the most magical. It is of balance and response 
almost beyond hope in its delicacy and stability. On this, it would seem I could work wonders. 
How liked you my composition, my lady?" 

"Was it yours?" breathed Bayta. "Your own?" 

At her awe, his thin face turned a glowing red to the tip of his mighty nose. "My very own, my 
lady. The Mule liked it not, but often and often I have played it for my own amusement. It was 
once, in my youth, that I saw the palace - a gigantic place of jeweled riches that I saw from a 
distance at a time of high carnival. There were people of a splendor undreamed of - and 
magnificence more than ever I saw afterwards, even in the Mule's service. It is but a poor 
makeshift I have created, but my mind's poverty precludes more. I call it, 'The Memory of 
Heaven.'" 

Now through the midst of the chatter, Mis shook himself to active life. "Here," he said, "here, 
Magnifico, would you like to do that same thing for others?" 

For a moment, the clown drew back. "For others?" he quavered. 

"For thousands," cried Mis, "in the great Halls of the Foundation. Would you like to be your own 
master, and honored by all, wealthy, and ... and-" his imagination failed him. "And all that? Eh? 
What do you say?" 

"But how may I be all that, mighty sir, for indeed I am but a poor clown ungiven to the great 



things of the world?" 

The psychologist puffed out his lips, and passed the back of his hand across his brow. He said, 
"But your playing, man. The world is yours if you would play so for the mayor and his Trading 
Trusts. Wouldn't you like that?" 

The clown glanced briefly at Bayta, "Would she stay with me?" 

Bayta laughed, "Of course, silly. Would it be likely that I'd leave you now that you're on the point 
of becoming rich and famous?" 

"It would all be yours," he replied earnestly, "and surely the wealth of Galaxy itself would be 
yours before I could repay my debt to your kindness." 

"But," said Mis, casually, "if you would first help me-" 

"What is that?" 

The psychologist paused, and smiled, "A little surface probe that doesn't hurt. It wouldn't touch 
but the peel of your brain." 

There was a flare of deadly fear in Magnifico's eyes. "Not a probe. I have seen it used. It drains 
the mind and leaves an empty skull. The Mule did use it upon traitors and let them wander 
mindless through the streets, until out of mercy, they were killed." He held up his hand to push 
Mis away. 

"That was a psychic probe," explained Mis, patiently, "and even that would only harm a person 
when misused. This probe I have is a surface probe that wouldn't hurt a baby. " 

"That's right, Magnifico," urged Bayta. "It's only to help beat the Mule and keep him far away. 
Once that's done, you and I will be rich and famous all our lives." 

Magnifico held out a trembling hand, "Will you hold my hand, then?" 

Bayta took it in both her own, and the clown watched the approach of the burnished terminal 
plates with large eyes. 

Ebling Mis rested carelessly on the too-lavish chair in Mayor Indbur's private quarters, 
unregenerately unthankful for the condescension shown him and watched the small mayor's 
fidgeting unsympathetically. He tossed away a cigar stub and spat out a shred of tobacco. 

"And, incidentally, if you want something for your next concert at Mallow Hall, Indbur," he said, 
"you can dump out those electronic gadgeteers into the sewers they came from and have this 
little freak play the Visi-Sonor for you. Indbur - it's out of this world." 

Indbur said peevishly, "I did not call you here to listen to your lectures on music. What of the 
Mule? Tell me that. What of the Mule?" 

"The Mule? Well, I'll tell you - I used a surface probe and got little. Can't use the psychic probe 
because the freak is scared blind of it, so that his resistance will probably blow his unprintable 
mental fuses as soon as contact is made. But this is what I've got, if you'll just stop tapping your 



fingernails— 

"First place, de-stress the Mule's physical strength. He's probably strong, but most of the freak's 
fairy tales about it are probably considerably blown up by his own fearful memory, He wears 
queer glasses and his eyes kill, he evidently has mental powers." 

"So much we had at the start," commented the mayor, sourly. 

"Then the probe confirms it, and from there on I've been working mathematically." 

"So? And how long will all this take? Your word-rattling will deafen me yet." 

"About a month, I should say, and I may have something for you. And I may not, of course. But 
what of it? If this is all outside Seldon's plans, our chances are precious little, unprintable little." 

Indbur whirled on the psychologist fiercely, "Now I have you, traitor. Lie! Say you're not one of 
these criminal rumormongers that are spreading defeatism and panic through the Foundation, 
and making my work doubly hard." 

"I? I?" Mis gathered anger slowly. 

Indbur swore at him, "Because by the dust-clouds of space, the Foundation will win - the 
Foundation must win." 

"Despite the loss at Horleggor?" 

"It was not a loss. You have swallowed that spreading lie, too? We were outnumbered and 
betreasoned-" 

"By whom?" demanded Mis, contemptuously. 

"By the lice-ridden democrats of the gutter," shouted Indbur back at him. "I have known for long 
that the fleet has been riddled by democratic cells. Most have been wiped out, but enough 
remain for the unexplained surrender of twenty ships in the thickest of the swarming fight. 
Enough to force an apparent defeat. 

"For that matter, my rough-tongued, simple patriot and epitome of the primitive virtues, what are 
your own connections with the democrats?" 

Ebling Mis shrugged it off, "You rave, do you know that? What of the retreat since, and the loss 
of half of Siwenna? Democrats again?" 

"No. Not democrats," the little man smiled sharply. "We retreat - as the Foundation has always 
retreated under attack, until the inevitable march of history turns with us. Already, I see the 
outcome. Already, the so-called underground of the democrats has issued manifestoes 
swearing aid and allegiance to the Government. It could be a feint, a cover for a deeper 
treachery, but I make good use of it, and the propaganda distilled from it will have its effect, 
whatever the crawling traitors scheme. And better than that-" 

"Even better than that, Indbur?" 

"Judge for yourself. Two days ago, the so-called Association of Independent Traders declared 



war on the Mule, and the Foundation fleet is strengthened, at a stroke, by a thousand ships. 
You see, this Mule goes too far. He finds us divided and quarreling among ourselves and under 
the pressure of his attack we unite and grow strong. He must lose. It is inevitable - as always." 

Mis still exuded skepticism, "Then you tell me that Seldon planned even for the fortuitous 
occurrence of a mutant." 

"A mutant! I can't tell him from a human, nor could you but for the ravings of a rebel captain, 
some outland youngsters, and an addled juggler and clown. You forget the most conclusive 
evidence of all - your own." 

"My own?" For just a moment, Mis was startled. 

"Your own," sneered the mayor. "The Time Vault opens in nine weeks. What of that? It opens 
for a crisis. If this attack of the Mule is not the crisis, where is the 'real' one, the one the Vault is 
opening for? Answer me, you lardish ball." 

The psychologist shrugged, "All tight. If it keeps you happy. Do me a favor, though. Just in case 
... just in case old Seldon makes his speech and it does go sour, suppose you let me attend the 
Grand Opening." 

"All right. Get out of here. And stay out of my sight for nine weeks." 

"With unprintable pleasure, you wizened horror," muttered Mis to himself as he left. 


18. FALL OF THE FOUNDATION 

There was an atmosphere about the Time Vault that just missed definition in several directions 
at once. It was not one of decay, for it was well-lit and well-conditioned, with the color scheme 
of the walls lively, and the rows of fixed chairs comfortable and apparently designed for eternal 
use. It was not even ancient, for three centuries had left no obvious mark. There was certainly 
no effort at the creation of awe or reverence, for the appointments were simple and everyday - 
next door to bareness, in fact. 

Yet after all the negatives were added and the sum disposed of, something was left - and that 
something centered about the glass cubicle that dominated half the room with its clear 
emptiness. Four times in three centuries, the living simulacrum of Hari Seldon himself had sat 
there and spoken. Twice he had spoken to no audience. 

Through three centuries and nine generations, the old man who had seen the great days of 
universal empire projected himself - and still he understood more of the Galaxy of his 
great-ultra-great-grandchildren, than did those grandchildren themselves. 

Patiently that empty cubicle waited. 

The first to arrive was Mayor Indbur III, driving his ceremonial ground car through the hushed 
and anxious streets. Arriving with him was his own chair, higher than those that belonged there, 
and wider. It was placed before all the others, and Indbur dominated all but the empty 



glassiness before him. 

The solemn official at his left bowed a reverent head. "Excellence, arrangements are completed 
for the widest possible sub-etheric spread for the official announcement by your excellence 
tonight." 

"Good. Meanwhile, special interplanetary programs concerning the Time Vault are to continue. 
There will, of course, be no predictions or speculations of any sort on the subject. Does popular 
reaction continue satisfactory?" 

"Excellence, very much so. The vicious rumors prevailing of late have decreased further. 
Confidence is widespread." 

"Good!" He gestured the man away and adjusted his elaborate neckpiece to a nicety. 

It was twenty minutes of noon! 

A select group of the great props of the mayoralty - the leaders of the great Trading 
organizations - appeared in ones and twos with the degree of pomp appropriate to their 
financial status and place in mayoral favor. Each presented himself to the mayor, received a 
gracious word or two, took an assigned seat. 

Somewhere, incongruous among the stilted ceremony of all this, Randu of Haven made his 
appearance and wormed his way unannounced to the mayor's seat. 

"Excellence!" he muttered, and bowed. 

Indbur frowned. "You have not been granted an audience. " 

"Excellence, I have requested one for a week." 

"I regret that the matters of State involved in the appearance of Seldon have-" 

"Excellence, I regret them, too, but I must ask you to rescind your order that the ships of the 
Independent Traders be distributed among the fleets of the Foundation." 

Indbur had flushed red at the interruption. "This is not the time for discussion." 

"Excellence, it is the only time," Randu whispered urgently. "As representative of the 
Independent Trading Worlds, I tell you such a move can not be obeyed. It must be rescinded 
before Seldon solves our problem for us. Once the emergency is passed, it will be too late to 
conciliate and our alliance will melt away." 

Indbur stared at Randu coldly. "You realize that I am head of the Foundation armed forces? 
Have I the right to determine military policy or have I not?" 

"Excellence, you have, but some things are inexpedient." 

"I recognize no inexpediency. It is dangerous to allow your people separate fleets in this 
emergency. Divided action plays into the hands of the enemy. We must unite, ambassador, 
militarily as well as politically." 



Randu felt his throat muscles tighten. He omitted the courtesy of the opening title. "You feet 
safe now that Seldon will speak, and you move against us. A month ago you were soft and 
yielding, when our ships defeated the Mule at Terel. I might remind you, sir, that it is the 
Foundation Fleet that has been defeated in open battle five times, and that the ships of the 
Independent Trading Worlds have won your victories for you." 

Indbur frowned dangerously, "You are no longer welcome upon Terminus, ambassador. Your 
return will be requested this evening. Furthermore, your connection with subversive democratic 
forces on Terminus will be - and has been - investigated." 

Randu replied, "When I leave, our ships will go with me. I know nothing of your democrats. I 
know only that your Foundation's ships have surrendered to the Mule by the treason of their 
high officers, not their sailors, democratic or otherwise. I tell you that twenty ships of the 
Foundation surrendered at Horleggor at the orders of their rear admiral, when they were 
unharmed and unbeaten. The rear admiral was your own close associate - he presided at the 
trial of my nephew when he first arrived from Kalgan. It is not the only case we know of and our 
ships and men will not be risked under potential traitors. 

Indbur said, "You will be placed under guard upon leaving here." 

Randu walked away under the silent stares of the contemptuous coterie of the rulers of 
Terminus. 

It was ten minutes of twelve! 

Bayta and Toran had already arrived. They rose in their back seats and beckoned to Randu as 
he passed. 

Randu smiled gently, "You are here after all. How did you work it?" 

"Magnifico was our politician," grinned Toran. "Indbur insists upon his Visi-Sonor composition 
based on the Time Vault, with himself, no doubt, as hero. Magnifico refused to attend without 
us, and there was no arguing him out of it. Ebling Mis is with us, or was. He's wandering about 
somewhere." Then, with a sudden access of anxious qravity, "Why, what's wronq, uncle? You 
don't look well." 

Randu nodded, "I suppose not. We're in for bad times, Toran. When the Mule is disposed of, 
our turn will come, I'm afraid. " 

A straight solemn figure in white approached, and greeted them with a stiff bow. 

Bayta's dark eyes smiled, as she held out her hand, "Captain Pritcher! Are you on space duty 
then?" 

The captain took the hand and bowed lower, "Nothing like it. Dr. Mis, I understand, has been 
instrumental in bringing me here, but it's only temporary. Back to home guard tomorrow. What 
time is it?" 

It was three minutes of twelve! 

Magnifico was the picture of misery and heartsick depression. His body curled up, in his eternal 



effort at self-effacement. His long nose was pinched at the nostrils and his large, down-slanted 
eyes darted uneasily about. 

He clutched at Bayta's hand, and when she bent down, he whispered, "Do you suppose, my 
lady, that all these great ones were in the audience, perhaps, when I ... when I played the 
Visi-Sonor?" 

"Everyone, I'm sure," Bayta assured him, and shook him gently. "And I'm sure they all think 
you're the most wonderful player in the Galaxy and that your concert was the greatest ever 
seen, so you just straighten yourself and sit correctly. We must have dignity." 

He smiled feebly at her mock-frown and unfolded his long-boned limbs slowly. 

It was noon - and the glass cubicle was no longer empty. 

It was doubtful that anyone had witnessed the appearance. It was a clean break; one moment 
not there and the next moment there. 

In the cubicle was a figure in a wheelchair, old and shrunken, from whose wrinkled face bright 
eyes shone, and whose voice, as it turned out, was the livest thing about him. A book lay face 
downward in his lap, and the voice came softly. 

"I am Hari Seldon!" 

He spoke through a silence, thunderous in its intensity. 

"I am Hari Seldon! I do not know if anyone is here at all by mere sense-perception but that is 
unimportant. I have few fears as yet of a breakdown in the Plan. For the first three centuries the 
percentage probability of nondeviation is nine-four point two." 

He paused to smile, and then said genially, "By the way, if any of you are standing, you may sit. 
If any would like to smoke, please do. I am not here in the flesh. I require no ceremony. 

"Let us take up the problem of the moment, then. For the first time, the Foundation has been 
faced, or perhaps, is in the last stages of facing, civil war. Till now, the attacks from without 
have been adequately beaten off, and inevitably so, according to the strict laws of 
psychohistory. The attack at present is that of a too-undisciplined outer group of the Foundation 
against the too-authoritarian central government. The procedure was necessary, the result 
obvious." 

The dignity of the high-born audience was beginning to break. Indbur was half out of his chair. 

Bayta leaned forward with troubled eyes. What was the great Seldon talking about? She had 
missed a few of the words- 

"-that the compromise worked out is necessary in two respects. The revolt of the Independent 
Traders introduces an element of new uncertainty in a government perhaps grown 
over-confident. The element of striving is restored. Although beaten, a healthy increase of 
democracy-" 

There were raised voices now. Whispers had ascended the scale of loudness, and the edge of 



panic was in them. 

Bayta said in Toran's ear, "Why doesn't he talk about the Mule? The Traders never revolted." 
Toran shrugged his shoulders. 

The seated figure spoke cheerfully across and through the increasing disorganization: 

"-a new and firmer coalition government was the necessary and beneficial outcome of the 
logical civil war forced upon the Foundation. And now only the remnants of the old Empire 
stand in the way of further expansion, and in them, for the next few years, at any rate, is no 
problem. Of course, I can not reveal the nature of the next prob-" 

In the complete uproar, Seldon's lips moved soundlessly. 

Ebling Mis was next to Randu, face ruddy. He was shouting. "Seldon is off his rocker. He's got 
the wrong crisis. Were your Traders ever planning civil war?" 

Randu said thinly, "We planned one, yes. We called it off in the face of the Mule." 

"Then the Mule is an added feature, unprepared for in Seldon's psychohistory. Now what's 
happened?" 

In the sudden, frozen silence, Bayta found the cubicle once again empty. The nuclear glow of 
the walls was dead, the soft current of conditioned air absent. 

Somewhere the sound of a shrill siren was rising and falling in the scale and Randu formed the 
words with his lips, "Space raid!" 

And Ebling Mis held his wrist watch to his ears and shouted suddenly, "Stopped, by the 
"Ga-LAX-y, is there a watch in the room that is going?" His voice was a roar. 

Twenty wrists went to twenty ears. And in far less than twenty seconds, it was quite certain that 
none were. 

"Then," said Mis, with a grim and horrible finality, "something has stopped all nuclear power in 
the Time Vault - and the Mule is attacking." 

Indbur's wail rose high above the noise, "Take your seats! The Mule is fifty parsecs distant." 

"He was," shouted back Mis, "a week ago. Right now, Terminus is being bombarded." 

Bayta felt a deep depression settle softly upon her. She felt its folds tighten close and thick, 
until her breath forced its way only with pain past her tightened throat. 

The outer noise of a gathering crowd was evident. The doors were thrown open and a harried 
figure entered, and spoke rapidly to Indbur, who had rushed to him. 

"Excellence," he whispered, "not a vehicle is running in the city, not a communication line to the 
outside is open. 

The Tenth Fleet is reported defeated and the Mule's ships are outside the atmosphere. The 
general staff-" 



Indbur crumpled, and was a collapsed figure of impotence upon the floor. In all that hall, not a 
voice was raised now. Even the growing crowd without was fearful, but silent, and the horror of 
cold panic hovered dangerously. 

Indbur was raised. Wine was held to his lips. His lips moved before his eyes opened, and the 
word they formed was, "Surrender!" 

Bayta found herself near to crying - not for sorrow or humiliation, but simply and plainly out of a 
vast frightened despair. Ebling Mis plucked at her sleeve. "Come, young lady-" 

She was pulled out of her chair, bodily. 

"We're leaving," he said, "and take your musician with you." The plump scientist's lips were 
trembling and colorless. 

"Magnifico," said Bayta, faintly. The clown shrank in horror. His eyes were glassy. 

"The Mule," he shrieked. "The Mule is coming for me." 

He thrashed wildly at her touch. Toran leaned over and brought his fist up sharply. Magnifico 
slumped into unconsciousness and Toran carried him out potato-sack fashion. 

The next day, the ugly, battle-black ships of the Mule poured down upon the landing fields of 
the planet Terminus. The attacking general sped down the empty main street of Terminus City 
in a foreign-made ground car that ran where a whole city of atomic cars still stood useless. 

The proclamation of occupation was made twenty-four hours to the minute after Seldon had 
appeared before the former mighty of the Foundation. 

Of all the Foundation planets, only the Independent Traders still stood, and against them the 
power of the Mule - conqueror of the Foundation - now turned itself. 


19. START OF THE SEARCH 

The lonely planet, Haven - only planet of an only sun of a Galactic Sector that trailed raggedly 
off into intergalactic vacuum - was under siege. 

In a strictly military sense, it was certainly under siege, since no area of space on the Galactic 
side further than twenty parsecs distance was outside range of the Mule's advance bases. In 
the four months since the shattering fall of the Foundation, Haven's communications had fallen 
apart like a spiderweb under the razor's edge. The ships of Haven converged inwards upon the 
home world, and only Haven itself was now a fighting base. 

And in other respects, the siege was even closer; for the shrouds of helplessness and doom 
had already invaded 

Bayta plodded her way down the pink-waved aisle past the rows of milky plastic-topped tables 
and found her seat by blind reckoning. She eased on to the high, armless chair, answered 
half-heard greetings mechanically, rubbed a wearily-itching eye with the back of a weary hand, 



and reached for her menu. 


She had time to register a violent mental reaction of distaste to the pronounced presence of 
various cultured-fungus dishes, which were considered high delicacies at Haven, and which her 
Foundation taste found highly inedible - and then she was aware of the sobbing near her and 
looked up. 

Until then, her notice of Juddee, the plain, snub-nosed, indifferent blonde at the dining unit 
diagonally across had been the superficial one of the nonacquaintance. And now Juddee was 
crying, biting woefully at a moist handkerchief, and choking back sobs until her complexion was 
blotched with turgid red. Her shapeless radiation-proof costume was thrown back upon her 
shoulders, and her transparent face shield had tumbled forward into her dessert, and there 
remained. 

Bayta joined the three girls who were taking turns at the eternally applied and eternally 
inefficacious remedies of shoulder-patting, hair-smoothing, and incoherent murmuring. 

"What's the matter?" she whispered. 

One turned to her and shrugged a discreet, "I don't know." Then, feeling the inadequacy of the 
gesture, she pulled Bayta aside. 

"She's had a hard day, I guess. And she's worrying about her husband." 

"Is he on space patrol?" 

"Yes". 

Bayta reached a friendly hand out to Juddee. 

"Why don't you go home, Juddee?" Her voice was a cheerfully businesslike intrusion on the 
soft, flabby inanities that had preceded. 

Juddee looked up half in resentment. "I've been out once this week already-" 

"Then you'll be out twice. If you try to stay on, you know, you'll just be out three days next week 
- so going home now amounts to patriotism. Any of you girls work in her department? Well, 
then, suppose you take care of her card. Better go to the washroom first, Juddee, and get the 
peaches and cream back where it belongs. Go ahead! Shoo!" 

Bayta returned to her seat and took up the menu again with a dismal relief. These moods were 
contagious. One weeping girl would have her entire department in a frenzy these nerve-torn 
days. 

She made a distasteful decision, pressed the correct buttons at her elbow and put the menu 
back into its niche. 

The tall, dark girl opposite her was saying, "Isn't much any of us can do except cry, is there?" 

Her amazingly full lips scarcely moved, and Bayta noticed that their ends were carefully 
touched to exhibit that artificial, just-so half-smile that was the current last word in 
sophistication. 



Bayta investigated the insinuating thrust contained in the words with lashed eyes and 
welcomed the diversion of the arrival of her lunch, as the tile-top of her unit moved inward and 
the food lifted. She tore the wrappings carefully off her cutlery and handled them gingerly till 
they cooled. 

She said, "Can't you think of anything else to do, Hella?" 

"Oh, yes," said Hella. "/can!" She flicked her cigarette with a casual and expert finger-motion 
into the little recess provided and the tiny flash caught it before it hit shallow bottom. 

"For instance," and Hella clasped slender, well-kept hands under her chin, "I think we could 
make a very nice arrangement with the Mule and stop all this nonsense. But then I don't have 
the ... uh ... facilities to manage to get out of places quickly when the Mule takes over." 

Bayta's clear forehead remained clear. Her voice was light and indifferent. "You don't happen to 
have a brother or husband in the fighting ships, do you?" 

"No. All the more credit that I see no reason for the sacrifice of the brothers and husbands of 
others." 

"The sacrifice will come the more surely for surrender." 

"The Foundation surrendered and is at peace. Our men are away and the Galaxy is against 
us." 

Bayta shrugged, and said sweetly, "I'm afraid it is the first of the pair that bothers you." She 
returned to her vegetable platter and ate it with the clammy realization of the silence about her. 
No one in ear-shot had cared to answer Hella's cynicism. 

She left quickly, after stabbing at the button which cleared her dining unit for the next shift's 
occupant. 

A new girl, three seats away, stage-whispered to Hella, "Who was she?" 

Hella's mobile lips curled in indifference. "She's our coordinator's niece. Didn't you know that?" 

"Yes?" Her eyes sought out the last glimpse of disappearing back. "What's she doing here?" 

"Just an assembly girl. Don't you know it's fashionable to be patriotic? It's all so democratic, it 
makes me retch." 

"Now, Hella," said the plump girl to her right. "She's never pulled her uncle on us yet. Why don't 
you lay off?" 

Hella ignored her neighbor with a glazed sweep of eyes and lit another cigarette. 

The new girl was listening to the chatter of the bright-eyed accountant opposite. The words 
were coming quickly, 

"-and she's supposed to have been in the Vault - actually in the Vault, you know - when 
Seldon spoke - and they say the mayor was in frothing furies and there were riots, and all of 
that sort of thing, you know. She got away before the Mule landed, and they say she had the 



most tha-rilling escape - had to go through the blockade, and all - and I do wonder she doesn't 
write a book about it, these war books being so popular these days, you know. And she was 
supposed to be on this world of the Mule's, too - Kalgan, you know - and-" 

The time bell shrilled and the dining room emptied slowly. The accountant's voice buzzed on, 
and the new girl interrupted only with the conventional and wide-eyed, "Really-y-y-y?" at 
appropriate points. 

The huge cave lights were being shielded group-wise in the gradual descent towards the 
darkness that meant sleep for the righteous and hard-working, when Bayta returned home. 

Toran met her at the door, with a slice of buttered bread in his hand. 

"Where've you been?" he asked, food-muffled. Then, more clearly, "I've got a dinner of sorts 
rassled up. If it isn't much, don't blame me." 

But she was circling him, wide-eyed. "Torie! Where's your uniform? What are you doing in 
civvies?" 

"Orders, Bay. Randu is holed up with Ebling Mis right now, and what it's all about, I don't know. 
So there you have everything." 

"Am I going?" She moved towards him impulsively. 

He kissed her before he answered, "I believe so. It will probably be dangerous." 

"What isn't dangerous?" 

"Exactly. Oh, yes, and I've already sent for Magnifico, so he's probably coming too." 

"You mean his concert at the Engine Factory will have to be cancelled." 

"Obviously." 

Bayta passed into the next room and sat down to a meal that definitely bore signs of having 
been "rassled-up." She cut the sandwiches in two with quick efficiency and said: 

"That's too bad about the concert. The girls at the factory were looking forward to it. Magnifico, 
too, for that matter." She shook her head. "He's such a queer thing." 

"Stirs your mother-complex, Bay, that's what he does. Some day we'll have a baby, and then 
you'll forget Magnifico." 

'Bayta answered from the depths of her sandwich, "Strikes me that you're all the stirring my 
mother-complex can stand." 

And then she laid the sandwich down, and was gravely serious in a moment. 

"Torie." 

"M-m-m?" 

"Torie, I was at City Hall today - at the Bureau of Production. That is why I was so late today." 



"What were you doing there?" 

"Well..." she hesitated, uncertainly. "It's been building up. I was getting so I couldn't stand it at 
the factory. Morale just doesn't exist. The girls go on crying jags for no particular reason. Those 
who don't get sick become sullen. Even the little mousie types pout. In my particular section, 
production isn't a quarter what it was when I came, and there isn't a day that we have a full 
roster of workers." 

"All right," said Toran, "tie in the B. of P. What did you do there?" 

"Asked a few questions. And it's so, Torie, it's so all over Haven. Dropping production, 
increasing sedition and disaffection. The bureau chief just shrugged his shoulders - after I had 
sat in the anteroom an hour to see him, and only got in because I was the co-ordinator's niece 
- and said it was beyond him. Frankly, I don't think he cared." 

"Now, don't go off base, Bay." 

"I don't think he did." She was strenuously fiery. "I tell you there's something wrong. It's that 
same horrible frustration that hit me in the Time Vault when Seldon deserted us. You felt it 
yourself." 

"Yes, I did." 

"Well, it's back," she continued savagely. "And we'll never be able to resist the Mule. Even if we 
had the material, we lack the heart, the spirit, the will - Torie, there's no use fighting-" 

Bayta had never cried in Toran's memory, and she did not cry now. Not really. But Toran laid a 
light hand on her shoulder and whispered, "Suppose you forget it, baby. I know what you mean. 
But there's nothing-" 

"Yes, there's nothing we can do! Everyone says that - and we just sit and wait for the knife to 
come down." 

She returned to what was left of her sandwich and tea. Quietly, Toran was arranging the beds. 

It was quite dark outside. 

Randu, as newly-appointed co-ordinator - in itself a wartime post - of the confederation of 
cities on Haven, had been assigned, at his own request, to an upper room, out of the window of 
which he could brood over the roof tops and greenery of the city. Now, in the fading of the cave 
lights, the city receded into the level lack of distinction of the shades. Randu did not care to 
meditate upon the symbolism. 

He said to Ebling Mis - whose clear, little eyes seemed to have no further interest than the 
red-filled goblet in his hand - "There's a saying on Haven that when the cave lights go out, it is 
time for the righteous and hard-working to sleep." 

"Do you sleep much lately?" 

"No! Sorry to call you so late, Mis. I like the night better somehow these days. Isn't that 
strange? The people on Haven condition themselves pretty strictly on the lack of light meaning 
sleep. Myself, too. But it's different now-" 



"You're hiding," said Mis, flatly. "You're surrounded by people in the waking period, and you feel 
their eyes and their hopes on you. You can't stand up under it. In the sleep period, you're free." 

"Do you feel it, too, then? This miserable sense of defeat?" 

Ebling Mis nodded slowly, "I do. It's a mass psychosis, an unprintable mob panic. "Ga-LAX-y, 
Randu, what do you expect? Here you have a whole culture brought up to a blind, blubbering 
belief that a folk hero of the past has everything all planned out and is taking care of every little 
piece of their unprintable lives. The thought-pattern evoked has religious characteristics, and 
you know what that means." 

"Not a bit." 

Mis was not enthusiastic about the necessity of explanation. He never was. So he growled, 
stared at the long cigar he rolled thoughtfully between his fingers and said, "Characterized by 
strong faith reactions. Beliefs can't be shaken short of a major shock, in which case, a fairly 
complete mental disruption results. Mild cases-hysteria, morbid sense of insecurity. Advanced 
cases - madness and suicide." 

Randu bit at a thumbnail. "When Seldon fails us, in other words, our prop disappears, and 
we've been leaning upon it so long, our muscles are atrophied to where we can not stand 
without it." 

"That's it. Sort of a clumsy metaphor, but that's it." 

"And you, Ebling, what of your own muscles?" 

The psychologist filtered a long draught of air through his cigar, and let the smoke laze out. 
"Rusty, but not atrophied. My profession has resulted in just a bit of independent thinking." 

"And you see a way out?" 

"No, but there must be one. Maybe Seldon made no provisions for the Mule. Maybe he didn't 
guarantee our victory. But, then, neither did he guarantee defeat. He's just out of the game and 
we're on our own. The Mule can be licked." 

"How?" 

"By the only way anyone can be licked - by attacking in strength at weakness. See here, 

Randu, the Mule isn't a superman. If he is finally defeated, everyone will see that for himself. 

It's just that he's an unknown, and the legends cluster quickly. He's supposed to be a mutant. 
Well, what of that? A mutant means a 'superman' to the ignoramuses of humanity. Nothing of 
the sort. 

"It's been estimated that several million mutants are born in the Galaxy every day. Of the 
several million, all but one or two percent can be detected only by means of microscopes and 
chemistry. Of the one or two percent macromutants, that is, those with mutations detectable to 
the naked eye or naked mind, all but one or two percent are freaks, fit for the amusement 
centers, the laboratories, and death. Of the few macromutants whose differences are to the 
good, almost all are harmless curiosities, unusual in some single respect, normal - and often 



subnormal - in most others. You see that, Randu?" 

"I do. But what of the Mule?" 

"Supposing the Mule to be a mutant then, we can assume that he has some attribute, 
undoubtedly mental, which can be used to conquer worlds. In other respects, he undoubtedly 
has his shortcomings, which we must locate. He would not be so secretive, so shy of others' 
eyes, if these shortcomings were not apparent and fatal. If he's a mutant." 

"Is there an alternative?" 

"There might be. Evidence for mutation rests on Captain Han Pritcher of what used to be 
Foundation's Intelligence. He drew his conclusions from the feeble memories of those who 
claimed to know the Mule-or somebody who might have been the Mule - in infancy and early 
childhood. Pritcher worked on slim pickings there, and what evidence he found might easily 
have been planted by the Mule for his own purposes, for it's certain that the Mule has been 
vastly aided by his reputation as a mutant-superman." 

"This is interesting. How long have you thought that?" 

"I never thought that, in the sense of believing it. It is merely an alternative to be considered. 

For instance, Randu, suppose the Mule has discovered a form of radiation capable of 
depressing mental energy just as he is in possession of one which depresses nuclear 
reactions. What then, eh? Could that explain what's hitting us now - and what did hit the 
Foundation?" 

Randu seemed immersed in a near-wordless gloom. 

He said, "What of your own researches on the Mule's clown." 

And now Ebling Mis hesitated. "Useless as yet. I spoke bravely to the mayor previous to the 
Foundation's collapse, mainly to keep his courage up - partly to keep my own up as well. But, 
Randu, if my mathematical tools were up to it, then from the clown alone I could analyze the 
Mule completely. Then we would have him. Then we could solve the queer anomalies that have 
impressed me already." 

"Such as?" 

"Think, man. The Mule defeated the navies of the Foundation at will, but he has not once 
managed to force the much weaker fleets of the Independent Traders to retreat in open 
combat. The Foundation fell at a blow; the Independent Traders hold out against all his 
strength. He first used Extinguishing Field upon the nuclear weapons of the Independent 
Traders of Mnemon. The element of surprise lost them that battle but they countered the Field. 
He was never able to use it successfully against the Independents again. 

"But over and over again, it worked against Foundation forces. It worked on the Foundation 
itself. Why? With our present knowledge, it is all illogical. So there must be factors of which we 
are not aware." 


Treachery? 



"That's rattle-pated nonsense, Randu. Unprintable twaddle. There wasn't a man on the 
Foundation who wasn't sure of victory. Who would betray a certain-to-win side." 

Randu stepped to the curved window and stared unseeingly out into the unseeable. He said, 
"But we're certain to lose now, if the Mule had a thousand weaknesses; if he were a network of 
holes-" 

He did not turn. It was as if the slump of his back, the nervous groping for one another of the 
hands behind him that spoke. He said, "We escaped easily after the Time Vault episode, 

Ebling. Others might have escaped as well. A few did. Most did not. The Extinguishing Field 
could have been counteracted. It asked ingenuity and a certain amount of labor. All the ships of 
the Foundation Navy could have flown to Haven or other nearby planets to continue the fight as 
we did. Not one percent did so. In effect, they deserted to the enemy. 

"The Foundation underground, upon which most people here seem to rely so heavily, has thus 
far done nothing of consequence. The Mule has been politic enough to promise to safeguard 
the property and profits of the great Traders and they have gone over to him." 

Ebling Mis said stubbornly, "The plutocrats have always been against us." 

"They always held the power, too. Listen, Ebling. We have reason to believe that the Mule or 
his tools have already been in contact with powerful men among the Independent Traders. At 
least ten of the twenty-seven Trading Worlds are known to have gone over to the Mule. 

Perhaps ten more waver. There are personalities on Haven itself who would not be unhappy 
over the Mule's domination. It's apparently an insurmountable temptation to give up 
endangered political power, if that will maintain your hold over economic affairs. " 

"You don't think Haven can fight the Mule?" 

"I don't think Haven will." And now Randu turned his troubled face full upon the psychologist. "I 
think Haven is waiting to surrender. It's what I called you here to tell you. I want you to leave 
Haven." 

Ebling Mis puffed up his plump checks in amazement. "Already?" 

Randu felt horribly tired. "Ebling, you are the Foundation's greatest psychologist. The real 
master-psychologists went out with Seldon, but you're the best we have. You're our only 
chance of defeating the Mule. You can't do that here; you'll have to go to what's left of the 
Empire." 

"To Trantor?" 

"That's right. What was once the Empire is bare bones today, but something must still be at the 
center. They've got the records there, Ebling. You may learn more of mathematical psychology; 
perhaps enough to be able to interpret the clown's mind. He will go with you, of course." 

Mis responded dryly, "I doubt if he'd be willing to, even for fear of the Mule, unless your niece 
went with him." 


I know that. Toran and Bayta are leaving with you for that very reason. And, Ebling, there's 



another, greater purpose. Hari Seldon founded two Foundations three centuries ago; one at 
each end of the Galaxy. You must find that Second Foundation. " 


20. CONSPIRATOR 

The mayor's palace - what was once the mayor's palace - was a looming smudge in the 
darkness. The city was quiet under its conquest and curfew, and the hazy milk of the great 
Galactic Lens, with here and there a lonely star, dominated the sky of the Foundation. 

In three centuries the Foundation had grown from a private project of a small group of scientists 
to a tentacular trade empire sprawling deep into the Galaxy and half a year had flung it from its 
heights to the status of another conquered province. 

Captain Flan Pritcher refused to grasp that. 

The city's sullen nighttime quiet, the darkened palace, intruder-occupied, were symbolic 
enough, but Captain Flan Pritcher, just within the outer gate of the palace, with the tiny nuclear 
bomb under his tongue, refused to understand. 

A shape drifted closer - the captain bent his head. 

The whisper came deathly low, "The alarm system is as it always was, captain. Proceed! It will 
register nothing." 

Softly, the captain ducked through the low archway, and down the fountain-lined path to what 
had been Indbur's garden. 

Four months ago had been the day in the Time Vault, the fullness of which his memory balked 
at. Singly and separately the impressions would come back, unwelcome, mostly at night. 

Old Seldon speaking his benevolent words that were so shatteringly wrong - the jumbled 
confusion - Indbur, with his mayoral costume incongruously bright about his pinched, 
unconscious face - the frightened crowds gathering quickly, waiting noiselessly for the 
inevitable word of surrender - the young man, Toran, disappearing out of a side door with the 
Mule's clown dangling over his shoulder. 

And himself, somehow out of it all afterward, with his car unworkable. 

Shouldering his way along and through the leaderless mob that was already leaving the city - 
destination unknown. 

Making blindly for the various rat holes which were - which had once been - the headquarters 
for a democratic underground that for eighty years had been failing and dwindling. 

And the rat holes were empty. 

The next day, black alien ships were momentarily visible in the sky, sinking gently into the 
clustered buildings of the nearby city. Captain Flan Pritcher felt an accumulation of 
helplessness and despair drown him. 



He started his travels in earnest. 


In thirty days he had covered nearly two hundred miles on foot, changed to the clothing of a 
worker in the hydroponic factories whose body he found newly-dead by the side of the road, 
grown a fierce beard of russet intensity 

And found what was left of the underground. 

The city was Newton, the district a residential one of one-time elegance slowly edging towards 
squalor, the house an undistinguished member of a row, and the man a small-eyed, big-boned 
whose knotted fists bulged through his pockets and whose wiry body remained unbudgingly in 
the narrow door opening. 

The captain mumbled, "I come from Miran." 

The man returned the gambit, grimly. "Miran is early this year." 

The captain said, "No earlier than last year." 

But the man did not step aside. He said, "Who are you?" 

"Aren't you Fox?" 

"Do you always answer by asking?" 

The captain took an imperceptibly longer breath, and then said calmly, "I am Han Pritcher, 
Captain of the Fleet, and member of the Democratic Underground Party. Will you let me in?" 

The Fox stepped aside. He said, "My real name is Orum Palley." 

He held out his hand. The captain took it. 

The room was well-kept, but not lavish. In one comer stood a decorative book-film projector, 
which to the captain's military eyes might easily have been a camouflaged blaster of 
respectable caliber. The projecting lens covered the doorway, and such could be remotely 
controlled. 

The Fox followed his bearded guest's eyes, and smiled tightly. He said, "Yes! But only in the 
days of Indbur and his lackey-hearted vampires. It wouldn't do much against the Mule, eh? 
Nothing would help against the Mule. Are you hungry?" 

The captain's jaw muscles tightened beneath his beard, and he nodded. 

"It'll take a minute if you don't mind waiting." The Fox removed cans from a cupboard and 
placed two before Captain Pritcher. "Keep your finger on it, and break them when they're hot 
enough. My heat-control unit's out of whack. Things like that remind you there's a war on - or 
was on, eh?" 

His quick words had a jovial content, but were said in anything but a jovial tone - and his eyes 
were coldly thoughtful. He sat down opposite the captain and said, "There'll be nothing but a 
burn-spot left where you're sitting, if there's anything about you I don't like. Know that?" 



The captain did not answer. The cans before him opened at a pressure. 

The Fox said, shortly, "Stew! Sorry, but the food situation is short." 

"I know," said the captain. He ate quickly; not looking up. 

The Fox said, "I once saw you. I'm trying to remember, and the beard is definitely out of the 
picture." 

"I haven't shaved in thirty days." Then, fiercely, "What do you want? I had the correct 
passwords. I have identification." 

The other waved a hand, "Oh, I'll grant you're Pritcher all right. But there are plenty who have 
the passwords, and the identifications, and the identities - who are with the Mule. Ever hear of 
Levvaw, eh?" 

"Yes." 

"He's with the Mule." 

"What? He-" 

"Yes. He was the man they called 'No Surrender.'" The Fox's lips made laughing motions, with 
neither sound nor humor. "Then there's Willig. With the Mule! Garre and Noth. With the Mule! 
Why not Pritcher as well, eh? How would I know?" 

The captain merely shook his head. 

"But it doesn't matter," said the Fox, softly. "They must have my name, if Noth has gone over - 
so if you're legitimate, you're in more new danger than I am over our acquaintanceship." 

The captain had finished eating. He leaned back, "If you have no organization here, where can 
I find one? The Foundation may have surrendered, but I haven't." 

"So! You can't wander forever, captain. Men of the Foundation must have travel permits to 
move from town to town these days. You know that? Also identity cards. You have one? Also, 
all officers of the old Navy have been requested to report to the nearest occupation 
headquarters. That's you, eh?" 

"Yes." The captain's voice was hard. "Do you think I run through fear. I was on Kalgan not long 
after its fall to the Mule. Within a month, not one of the old warlord's officers was at large, 
because they were the natural military leaders of any revolt. It's always been the underground's 
knowledge that no revolution can be successful without the control of at least part of the Navy. 
The Mule evidently knows it, too." 

The Fox nodded thoughtfully, "Logical enough. The Mule is thorough." 

"I discarded the uniform as soon as I could. I grew the beard. Afterwards there may be a 
chance that others have taken the same action." 


Are you married? 



"My wife is dead. I have no children. 

"You're hostage-immune, then." 

"Yes." 

"You want my advice?" 

"If you have any." 

A don't know what the Mule's policy is or what he intends, but skilled workers have not been 
harmed so far. Pay rates have gone up. Production of all sorts of nuclear weapons is booming." 

"Yes? Sounds like a continuing offensive." 

"I don't know. The Mule's a subtle son of a drab, and he may merely be soothing the workers 
into submission. If Seldon couldn't figure him out with all his psychohistory, I'm not going to try. 
But you're wearing work clothes. That suggests something, eh?" 

"I'm not a skilled worker." 

"You've had a military course in nucleics, haven't you?" 

"Certainly." 

"That's enough. The Nuclear-Field Bearings, Inc., is located here in town. Tell them you've had 
experience. The stinkers who used to run the factory for Indbur are still running it - for the 
Mule. They won't ask questions, as long as they need more workers to make their fat hunk. 
They'll give you an identity card and you can apply for a room in the Corporation's housing 
district. You might start now." 

In that manner, Captain Han Pritcher of the National Fleet became Shield-man Lo Moro of the 
45 Shop of Nuclear-Field Bearings, Inc. And from an Intelligence agent, he descended the 
social scale to "conspirator"- a calling which led him months later to what had been Indbur's 
private garden, 

In the garden, Captain Pritcher consulted the radometer in the palm of his hand. The inner 
warning field was still in operation, and he waited. Half an hour remained to the life of the 
nuclear bomb in his mouth. He rolled it gingerly with his tongue. 

The radometer died into an ominous darkness and the captain advanced quickly. 

So far, matters had progressed well. 

He reflected objectively that the life of the nuclear bomb was his as well; that its death was his 
death - and the Mule's death. 

And the grand climacteric of a four-month's private war would be reached; a war that had 
passed from flight through a Newton factory 

For two months, Captain Pritcher wore leaden aprons and heavy face shields, till all things 
military had been frictioned off his outer bearing. He was a laborer, who collected his pay, spent 



his evenings in town, and never discussed politics. 

For two months, he did not see the Fox. 

And then, one day, a man stumbled past his bench, and there was a scrap of paper in his 
pocket. The word "Fox" was on it. Fie tossed it into the nuclear chamber, where it vanished in a 
sightless puff, sending the energy output up a millimicrovolt - and turned back to his work. 

That night he was at the Fox's home, and took a hand in a game of cards with two other men 
he knew by reputation and one by name and face. 

Over the cards and the passing and repassing tokens, they spoke. 

The captain said, "It's a fundamental error. You live in the exploded past. For eighty years our 
organization has been waiting for the correct historical moment. We've been blinded by 
Seldon's psychohistory, one of the first propositions of which is that the individual does not 
count, does not make history, and that complex social and economic factors override him, 
make a puppet out of him." Fie adjusted his cards carefully, appraised their value and said, as 
he put out a token. "Why not kill the Mule?" 

"Well, now, and what good would that do?" demanded the man at his left, fiercely. 

"You see," said the captain, discarding two cards, "that's the attitude. What is one man - out of 
quadrillions. The Galaxy won't stop rotating because one man dies. But the Mule is not a man, 
he is a mutant. Already, he had upset Seldon's plan, and if you'll stop to analyze the 
implications, it means that he - one man - one mutant - upset all of Seldon's psychohistory. If 
he had never lived, the Foundation would not have fallen. If he ceased living, it would not 
remain fallen. 

"Come, the democrats have fought the mayors and the traders for eighty years by connivery. 
Let's try assassination." 

"Flow?" interposed the Fox, with cold common sense. 

The captain said, slowly, "I've spent three months of thought on that with no solution. I came 
here and had it in five minutes." Fie glanced briefly at the man whose broad, pink melon of a 
face smiled from the place at his right. "You were once Mayor Indbur's chamberlain. I did not 
know you were of the underground," 

"Nor I, that you were." 

"Well, then, in your capacity as chamberlain you periodically checked the working of the alarm 
system of the palace." 

"I did." 

"And the Mule occupies the palace now." 

"So it has been announced - though he is a modest conqueror who makes no speeches, 
proclamations nor public appearances of any sort." 

"That's an old story, and affects nothing. You, my ex-chamberlain, are all we need." 



The cards were shown and the Fox collected the stakes. Slowly, he dealt a new hand. 

The man who had once been chamberlain picked up his cards, singly. "Sorry, captain. I 
checked the alarm system, but it was routine. I know nothing about it." 

"I expected that, but your mind carries an eidetic memory of the controls if it can be probed 
deeply enough - with a psychic probe." 

The chamberlain's ruddy face paled suddenly and sagged. The cards in his hand crumpled 
under sudden fist-pressure, "A psychic probe?" 

"You needn't worry," said the captain, sharply. "I know how to use one. It will not harm you past 
a few days' weakness. And if it did, it is the chance you take and the price you pay. There are 
some among us, no doubt, who from the controls of the alarm could determine the wavelength 
combinations. There are some among us who could manufacture a small bomb under 
time-control and I myself will carry it to the Mule." 

The men gathered over the table. 

The captain announced, "On a given evening, a riot will start in Terminus City in the 
neighborhood of the palace. No real fighting. Disturbance - then flight. As long as the palace 
guard is attracted ... or, at the very least, distracted-" 

From that day for a month the preparations went on, and Captain Flan Pritcher of the National 
Fleet having become conspirator descended further in the social scale and became an 
"assassin." 

Captain Pritcher, assassin, was in the palace itself, and found himself grimly pleased with his 
psychology. A thorough alarm system outside meant few guards within. In this case, it meant 
none at all. 

The floor plan was clear in his mind. Fie was a blob moving noiselessly up the well-carpeted 
ramp. At its head, he flattened against the wall and waited. 

The small closed door of a private room was before him. Behind that door must be the mutant 
who had beaten the unbeatable. Fie was early - the bomb had ten minutes of life in it. 

Five of these passed, and still in all the world there was no sound. The Mule had five minutes to 
live - So had Captain Pritcher- 

He stepped forward on sudden impulse. The plot could no longer fail. When the bomb went, the 
palace would go with it - all the palace. A door between - ten yards between - was nothing. 

But he wanted to see the Mule as they died together. 

In a last, insolent gesture, he thundered upon the door. 

And it opened and let out the blinding light. 

Captain Pritcher staggered, then caught himself. The solemn man, standing in the center of the 
small room before a suspended fish bowl, looked up mildly. 

FHis uniform was a somber black, and as he tapped the bowl in an absent gesture, it bobbed 



quickly and the feather-finned, orange and vermilion fish within darted wildly. 

He said, "Come in, captain!" 

To the captain's quivering tongue the little metal globe beneath was swelling ominously - a 
physical impossibility, the captain knew. But it was in its last minute of life. 

The uniformed man said, "You had better spit out the foolish pellet and free yourself for speech. 
It won't blast." 

The minute passed and with a slow, sodden motion the captain bent his head and dropped the 
silvery globe into his palm. With a furious force it was flung against the wall. It rebounded with a 
tiny, sharp clangor, gleaming harmlessly as it flew. 

The uniformed man shrugged. "So much for that, then. It would have done you no good in any 
case, captain. I am not the Mule. You will have to be satisfied with his viceroy." 

"How did you know?" muttered the captain, thickly. 

"Blame it on an efficient counter-espionage system. I can name every member of your little 
gang, every step of their planning-" 

"And you let it go this far?" 

"Why not? It has been one of my great purposes here to find you and some others. Particularly 
you. I might have had you some months ago, while you were still a worker at the Newton 
Bearings Works, but this is much better. If you hadn't suggested the main outlines of the plot 
yourself, one of my own men would have advanced something of much the same sort for you. 
The result is quite dramatic, and rather grimly humorous." 

The captain's eyes were hard. "I find it so, too. Is it all over now?" 

"Just begun. Come, captain, sit down. Let us leave heroics for the fools who are impressed by 
it. Captain, you are a capable man. According to the information I have, you were the first on 
the Foundation to recognize the power of the Mule. Since then you have interested yourself, 
rather daringly, in the Mule's early life. You have been one of those who carried off his clown, 
who, incidentally, has not yet been found, and for which there will yet be full payment. Naturally, 
your ability is recognized and the Mule is not of those who fear the ability of his enemies as 
long as he can convert it into the ability of a new friend." 

"Is that what you're hedging up to? Oh, no!" 

"Oh, yes! It was the purpose of tonight's comedy. You are an intelligent man, yet your little 
conspiracies against die Mule fail humorously. You can scarcely dignify it with the name of 
conspiracy. Is it part of your military training to waste ships in hopeless actions?" 

"One must first admit them to be hopeless." 

"One will," the viceroy assured him, gently. "The Mule has conquered the Foundation, It is 
rapidly being turned into an arsenal for accomplishment of his greater aims." 

"What greater aims?" 



"The conquest of the entire Galaxy. The reunion of all the tom worlds into a new Empire. The 
fulfillment, you dull-witted patriot, of your own Seldon's dream seven hundred years before he 
hoped to see it. And in the fulfillment, you can help us." 

"I can, undoubtedly. But I won't, undoubtedly." 

"I understand," reasoned the viceroy, "that only three of the Independent Trading Worlds yet 
resist. They will not last much longer. It will be the last of all Foundation forces. You still hold 
out." 

"Yes." 

"Yet you won't. A voluntary recruit is the, most efficient. But the other kind will do. 

Unfortunately, the Mule is absent. He leads the fight, as always, against the resisting Traders. 
But he is in continual contact with us. You will not have to wait long." 

"For what?" 

"For your conversion. 

"The Mule," said the captain, frigidly, "will find that beyond his ability." 

"But he won't. I was not beyond it. You don't recognize me? Come, you were on Kalgan, so you 
have seen me. I wore a monocle, a fur-lined scarlet robe, a high-crowned hat-" 

The captain stiffened in dismay. "You were the warlord of Kalgan." 

"Yes. And now I am the loyal viceroy of the Mule. You see, he is persuasive." 


21. INTERLUDE IN SPACE 

The blockade was run successfully. In the vast volume of space, not all the navies ever in 
existence could keep their watch in tight proximity. Given a single ship, a skillful pilot, and a 
moderate degree of luck, and there are holes and to spare. 

With cold-eyed calm, Toran drove a protesting vessel from the vicinity of one star to that of 
another. If the neighborhood of great mass made an interstellar jump erratic and difficult, it also 
made the enemy detection devices useless or nearly so. 

And once the girdle of ships had been passed the inner sphere of dead space, through whose 
blockaded sub-ether no message could be driven, was passed as well. For the first time in over 
three months Toran felt unisolated. 

A week passed before the enemy news programs dealt with anything more than the dull, 
self-laudatory details of growing control over the Foundation. It was a week in which Toran's 
armored trading ship fled inward from the Periphery in hasty jumps. 

Ebling Mis called out to the pilot room and Toran rose blink-eyed from his charts. 

"What's the matter?" Toran stepped down into the small central chamber which Bayta had 



inevitably devised into a living room. 

Mis shook his head, "Bescuppered if I know. The Mule's newsmen are announcing a special 
bulletin. Thought you might want to get in on it." 

"Might as well. Where's Bayta?" 

"Setting the table in the diner and picking out a menuor some such frippery." 

Toran sat down upon the cot that served as Magnifico's bed, and waited. The propaganda 
routine of the Mule's "special bulletins" were monotonously similar. First the martial music, and 
then the buttery slickness of the announcer. The minor news items would come, following one 
another in patient lock step. Then the pause. Then the trumpets and the rising excitement and 
the climax. 

Toran endured it. Mis muttered to himself. 

The newscaster spilled out, in conventional war-correspondent phraseology, the unctuous 
words that translated into sound the molten metal and blasted flesh of a battle in space. 

"Rapid cruiser squadrons under Lieutenant General Sammin hit back hard today at the task 
force striking out from Iss-" The carefully expressionless face of the speaker upon the screen 
faded into the blackness of a space cut through by the quick swaths of ships reeling across 
emptiness in deadly battle. The voice continued through the soundless thunder 

"The most striking action of the battle was the subsidiary combat of the heavy cruiser Cluster 
against three enemy ships of the 'Nova' class-" 

The screen's view veered and closed in. A great ship sparked and one of the frantic attackers 
glowed angrily, twisted out of focus, swung back and rammed. The Cluster bowed wildly and 
survived the glancing blow that drove the attacker off in twisting reflection. 

The newsman's smooth unimpassioned delivery continued to the last blow and the last hulk. 

Then a pause, and a large similar voice-and-picture of the fight off Mnemon, to which the 
novelty was added of a lengthy description of a hit-and-run landing - the picture of a blasted 
city - huddled and weary prisoners - and off again. 

Mnemon had not long to live. 

The pause again - and this time the raucous sound of the expected brasses. The screen faded 
into the long, impressively soldier-lined corridor up which the government spokesman in 
councilor's uniform strode quickly. 

The silence was oppressive. 

The voice that came at last was solemn, slow and hard: "By order of our sovereign, it is 
announced that the planet, Haven, hitherto in warlike opposition to his will, has submitted to the 
acceptance of defeat. At this moment, the forces of our sovereign are occupying the planet. 
Opposition was scattered, unco-ordinated, and speedily crushed." 



The scene faded out, the original newsman returned to state importantly that other 
developments would be transmitted as they occurred. 

Then there was dance music, and Ebling Mis threw the shield that cut the power. 

Toran rose and walked unsteadily away, without a word. The psychologist made no move to 
stop him. 

When Bayta stepped out of the kitchen, Mis motioned silence. 

He said, "They've taken Haven." 

And Bayta said, "Already?" Her eyes were round, and sick with disbelief. 

"Without a fight. Without an unprin-" He stopped and swallowed. "You'd better leave Toran 
alone. It's not pleasant for him. Suppose we eat without him this once." 

Bayta looked once toward the pilot room, then turned hopelessly. "Very well!" 

Magnifico sat unnoticed at the table. He neither spoke nor ate but stared ahead with a 
concentrated fear that seemed to drain all the vitality out of his thread of a body. 

Ebling Mis pushed absently at his iced-fruit dessert and said, harshly, "Two Trading worlds 
fight. They fight, and bleed, and die and don't surrender. Only at Haven - Just as at the 
Foundation-" 

"But why? Why?" 

The psychologist shook his head. "It's of a piece with all the problem. Every queer facet is a 
hint at the nature of the Mule. First, the problem of how he could conquer the Foundation, with 
little blood, and at a single blow essentially - while the Independent Trading Worlds held out. 
The blanket on nuclear reactions was a puny weapon - we've discussed that back and forth till 
I'm sick of it - and it did not work on any but the Foundation. 

"Randu suggested," and Ebling's grizzly eyebrows pulled together, "it might have been a 
radiant Will-Depresser. It's what might have done the work on Haven. But then why wasn't it 
used on Mnemon and Iss - which even now fight with such demonic intensity that it is taking 
half the Foundation fleet in addition to the Mule's forces to beat them down. Yes, I recognized 
Foundation ships in the attack." 

Bayta whispered, "The Foundation, then Haven. Disaster seems to follow us, without touching. 
We always seem to get out by a hair. Will it last forever?" 

Ebling Mis was not listening. To himself, he was making a point. "But there's another problem - 
another problem. Bayta, you remember the news item that the Mule's clown was not found on 
Terminus; that it was suspected he had fled to Haven, or been carried there by his original 
kidnappers. There is an importance attached to him, Bayta, that doesn't fade, and we have not 
located it yet. Magnifico must know something that is fatal to the Mule. I'm sure of it. " 

Magnifico, white and stuttering, protested, "Sire ... noble lord ... indeed, I swear it is past my 
poor reckoning to penetrate your wants. I have told what I know to the utter limits, and with your 



probe, you have drawn out of my meager wit that which I knew, but knew not that I knew." 

"I know ... I know. It is something small. A hint so small that neither you nor I recognize it for 
what it is. Yet I must find it - for Mnemon and Iss will go soon, and when they do, we are the 
last remnants, the last droplets of the independent Foundation." 

The stars begin to cluster closely when the core of the Galaxy is penetrated. Gravitational fields 
begin to overlap at intensities sufficient to introduce perturbations in an interstellar jump that 
can not be overlooked. 

Toran became aware of that when a jump landed their ship in the full glare of a red giant which 
clutched viciously, and whose grip was loosed, then wrenched apart, only after twelve 
sleepless, soul-battering hours. 

With charts limited in scope, and an experience not at all fully developed, either operationally or 
mathematically, Toran resigned himself to days of careful plotting between jumps. 

It became a community project of a sort. Ebling Mis checked Toran's mathematics and Bayta 
tested possible routes, by the various generalized methods, for the presence of real solutions. 
Even Magnifico was put to work on the calculating machine for routine computations, a type of 
work, which, once explained, was a source of great amusement to him and at which he was 
surprisingly proficient. 

So at the end of a month, or nearly, Bayta was able to survey the red line that wormed its way 
through the ship's trimensional model of the Galactic Lens halfway to its center, and say with 
Satiric relish, "You know what it looks like. It looks like a ten-foot earth-worm with a terrific case 
of indigestion. Eventually, you'll land us back in Haven." 

"I will," growled Toran, with a fierce rustle of his chart, "if you don't shut up." 

"And at that," continued Bayta, "there is probably a route fight through, straight as a meridian of 
longitude." 

"Yeah? Well, in the first place, dimwit, it probably took five hundred ships five hundred years to 
work out that route by hit-and-miss, and my lousy half-credit charts don't give it. Besides, 
maybe those straight routes are a good thing to avoid. They're probably choked up with ships. 
And besides-" 

"Oh, for Galaxy's sake, stop driveling and slavering so much righteous indignation." Her hands 
were in his hair. 

He yowled, "Ouch! Let go!" seized her wrists and whipped downward, whereupon Toran, Bayta, 
and chair formed a tangled threesome on the floor. It degenerated into a panting wrestling 
match, composed mostly of choking laughter and various foul blows. 

Toran broke loose at Magnifico's breathless entrance. 

"What is it?" 

The lines of anxiety puckered the clown's face and tightened the skin whitely over the 
enormous bridge of his nose. "The instruments are behaving queerly, sir. I have not, in the 



knowledge of my ignorance, touched anything-" 

In two seconds, Toran was in the pilot room. He said quietly to Magnifico, "Wake up Ebling Mis. 
Have him come down here." 

He said to Bayta, who was trying to get a basic order back to her hair by use of her fingers, 
"We've been detected, Bay." 

"Detected?" And Bayta's arms dropped. "By whom?" 

"Galaxy knows," muttered Toran, "but I imagine by someone with blasters already ranged and 
trained." 

He sat down and in a low voice was already sending into the sub-ether the ship's identification 
code. 

And when Ebling Mis entered, bathrobed and blear-eyed, Toran said with a desperate calm, "It 
seems we're inside the borders of a local Inner Kingdom which is called the Autarchy of Filia." 

"Never heard of it," said Mis, abruptly. 

"Well, neither did I," replied Toran, "but we're being stopped by a Filian ship just the same, and 
I don't know what it will involve." 

The captain-inspector of the Filian ship crowded aboard with six armed men following him. He 
was short, thin-haired, thin-lipped, and dry-skinned. He coughed a sharp cough as he sat down 
and threw open the folio under his arm to a blank page. 

"Your passports and ship's clearance, please." 

"We have none," said Toran. 

"None, hey?" he snatched up a microphone suspended from his belt and spoke into it quickly, 
"Three men and one woman. Papers not in order." He made an accompanying notation in the 
folio. 

He said, "Where are you from?" 

"Siwenna," said Toran warily. 

"Where is that?" 

"Thirty thousand parsecs, eighty degrees west Trantor, forty degrees-" 

"Never mind, never mind!" Toran could see that his inquisitor had written down: "Point of origin 
- Periphery." 

The Filian continued, "Where are you going?" 

Toran said, "Trantor sector." 

"Purpose?" 



"Pleasure trip." 

"Carrying any cargo?" 

"No." 

"Hm-m-m. We'll check on that." He nodded and two men jumped to activity. Toran made no 
move to interfere. 

"What brings you into Filian territory?" The Filian's eyes gleamed unamiably. 

"We didn't know we were. I lack a proper chart." 

"You will be required to pay a hundred credits for that lack - and, of course, the usual fees 
required for tariff duties, et cetera." 

He spoke again into the microphone - but listened more than he spoke. Then, to Toran, "Know 
anything about nuclear technology?" 

"A little," replied Toran, guardedly. 

"Yes?" The Filian closed his folio, and added, "The men of the Periphery have a knowledgeable 
reputation that way. Put on a suit and come with me." 

Bayta stepped forward, "What are you going to do with him?" 

Toran put her aside gently, and asked coldly, "Where do you want me to come?" 

"Our power plant needs minor adjustments. He'll come with you." His pointing finger aimed 
directly at Magnifico, whose brown eyes opened wide in a blubbery dismay. 

"What's he got to do with it?" demanded Toran fiercely. 

The official looked up coldly. "I am informed of pirate activities in this vicinity. A description of 
one of the known thugs tallies roughly. It is a purely routine matter of identification. " 

Toran hesitated, but six men and six blasters are eloquent arguments. He reached into the 
cupboard for the suits. 

An hour later, he rose upright in the bowels of the Filian ship and raged, "There's not a thing 
wrong with the motors that I can see. The busbars are true, the L-tubes are feeding properly 
and the reaction analysis checks. Who's in charge here?" 

The head engineer said quietly, "I am." 

"Well, get me out of here-" 

He was led to the officers' level and the small anteroom held only an indifferent ensign. 

"Where's the man who came with me?" 

"Please wait," said the ensign. 

It was fifteen minutes later that Magnifico was brought in. 



"What did they do to you?" asked Toran quickly. 

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Magnifico's head shook a slow negative. 

It took two hundred and fifty credits to fulfill the demands of Filia - fifty credits of it for instant 
release - and they were in free space again. 

Bayta said with a forced laugh, "Don't we rate an escort? Don't we get the usual figurative boot 
over the border?" 

And Toran replied, grimly, "That was no Filian ship - and we're not leaving for a while. Come in 
here." 

They gathered about him. 

Fie said, whitely, "That was a Foundation ship, and those were the Mule's men aboard." 

Ebling bent to pick up the cigar he had dropped. Fie said, "Flere? We're fifteen thousand 
parsecs from the Foundation. " 

"And we're here. What's to prevent them from making the same trip. Galaxy, Ebling, don't you 
think I can tell ships apart? I saw their engines, and that's enough for me. I tell you it was a 
Foundation engine in a Foundation ship." 

"And how did they get here?" asked Bayta, logically. "What are the chances of a random 
meeting of two given ships in space?" 

"What's that to do with it?" demanded Toran, hotly. "It would only show we've been followed." 
"Followed?" hooted Bayta. "Through hyperspace?" 

Ebling Mis interposed wearily, "That can be done - given a good ship and a great pilot. But the 
possibility doesn't impress me." 

"I haven't been masking my trail," insisted Toran. "I've been building up take-off speed on the 
straight. A blind man could have calculated our route." 

"The blazes he could," cried Bayta. "With the cockeyed jumps you are making, observing our 
initial direction didn't mean a thing. We came out of the jump wrong-end forwards more than 
once." 

"We're wasting time," blazed Toran, with gritted teeth. "It's a Foundation ship under the Mule. 
It's stopped us. It's searched us. It's had Magnifico - alone - with me as hostage to keep the 
rest of you quiet, in case you suspected. And we're going to bum it out of space right now." 

"Flold on now," and Ebling Mis clutched at him. "Are you going to destroy us for one ship you 
think is an enemy? Think, man, would those scuppers chase us over an impossible route half 
through the bestinkered Galaxy, look us over, and then let us go?' 

"They're still interested in where we're going." 

"Then why stop us and put us on our guard? You can't have it both ways, you know." 



"I'll have it my way. Let go of me, Ebling, or I'll knock you down." 

Magnifico leaned forward from his balanced perch on his favorite chair back. His long nostrils 
flared with excitement. "I crave your pardon for my interruption, but my poor mind is of a 
sudden plagued with a queer thought." 

Bayta anticipated Toran's gesture of annoyance, and added her grip to Ebling's. "Go ahead and 
speak, Magnifico. We will all listen faithfully." 

Magnifico said, "In my stay in their ship what addled wits I have were bemazed and bemused 
by a chattering fear that befell men. Of a truth I have a lack of memory of most that happened. 
Many men staring at me, and talk I did not understand. But towards the last - as though a 
beam of sunlight had dashed through a cloud rift - there was a face I knew. A glimpse, the 
merest glimmer - and yet it glows in my memory ever stronger and brighter." 

Toran said, "Who was it?" 

"That captain who was with us so long a time ago, when first you saved me from slavery." 

It had obviously been Magnifico's intention to create a sensation, and the delighted smile that 
curled broadly in the shadow of his proboscis, attested to his realization of the intention's 
success. 

"Captain ... Han ... Pritcher?" demanded Mis, sternly. "You're sure of that? Certain sure now?" 

"Sir, I swear," and he laid a bone-thin hand upon his narrow chest. "I would uphold the truth of it 
before the Mule and swear it in his teeth, though all his power were behind him to deny it." 

Bayta said in pure wonder, "Then what's it all about?" The clown faced her eagerly, "My lady, I 
have a theory. It came upon me, ready made, as though the Galactic Spirit had gently laid it in 
my mind." He actually raised his voice above Toran's interrupting objection. 

"My lady," he addressed himself exclusively to Bayta, "if this captain had, like us, escaped with 
a ship; if he, like us, were on a trip for a purpose of his own devising; if he blundered upon us - 
he would suspect us of following and waylaying him, as we suspect him of the like. What 
wonder he played this comedy to enter our ship?" 

"Why would he want us in his ship, then?" demanded Toran. "That doesn't fit." 

"Why, yes, it does," clamored the clown, with a flowing inspiration. "He sent an underling who 
knew us not, but who described us into his microphone. The listening captain would be struck 
at my own poor likeness - for, of a truth there are not many in this great Galaxy who bear a 
resemblance to my scantiness. I was the proof of the identity of the rest of you." 

"And so he leaves us?" 

"What do we know of his mission, and the secrecy thereof? lie has spied us out for not an 
enemy and having it done so, must he needs think it wise to risk his plan by widening the 
knowledge thereof?" 

Bayta said slowly, "Don't be stubborn, Torie. It does explain things." 



"It could be," agreed Mis. 

Toran seemed helpless in the face of united resistance. Something in the clown's fluent 
explanations bothered him. Something was wrong. Yet he was bewildered and, in spite of 
himself, his anger ebbed. 

"For a while," he whispered, "I thought we might have had one of the Mule's ships." 

And his eyes were dark with the pain of Haven's loss. 

The others understood. 


22. DEATH ON NEOTRANTOR 

NEOTRANTOR The small planet of Dellcass, renamed after the Great Sack, was for nearly a 
century, the seat of the last dynasty of the First Empire. It was a shadow world and a shadow 
Empire and Its existence Is only of legalistic importance. Under the first of the Neotrantorlan 
dynasty.... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA 

Neotrantor was the name! New Trantor! And when you have said the name you have 
exhausted at a stroke all the resemblances of the new Trantor to the great original. Two 
parsecs away, the sun of Old Trantor still shone and the Galaxy's Imperial Capital of the 
previous century still cut through space in the silent and eternal repetition of its orbit. 

Men even inhabited Old Trantor. Not many - a hundred million, perhaps, where fifty years 
before, forty billions had swarmed. The huge, metal world was in jagged splinters. The towering 
thrusts of the multi-towers from the single world-girdling base were torn and empty - still 
bearing the original blastholes and firegut - shards of the Great Sack of forty years earlier. 

It was strange that a world which had been the center of a Galaxy for two thousand years - that 
had ruled limitless space and been home to legislators and rulers whose whims spanned the 
parsecs - could die in a month. It was strange that a world which had been untouched through 
the vast conquering sweeps and retreats of a millennia, and equally untouched by the civil wars 
and palace revolutions of other millennia - should lie dead at last. It was strange that the Glory 
of the Galaxy should be a rotting corpse. 

And pathetic! 

For centuries would yet pass before the mighty works of fifty generations of humans would 
decay past use. Only the declining powers of men, themselves, rendered them useless now. 

The millions left after the billions had died tore up the gleaming metal base of the planet and 
exposed soil that had not felt the touch of sun in a thousand years. 

Surrounded by the mechanical perfections of human efforts, encircled by the industrial marvels 
of mankind freed of the tyranny of environment - they returned to the land. In the huge traffic 



clearings, wheat and corn grew. In the shadow of the towers, sheep grazed. 

But Neotrantor existed - an obscure village of a planet drowned in the shadow of mighty 
Trantor, until a heart-throttled royal family, racing before the fire and flame of the Great Sack 
sped to it as its last refuge - and held out there, barely, until the roaring wave of rebellion 
subsided. There it ruled in ghostly splendor over a cadaverous remnant of Imperium. 

Twenty agricultural worlds were a Galactic Empire! 

Dagobert IX, ruler of twenty worlds of refractory squires and sullen peasants, was Emperor of 
the Galaxy, Lord of the Universe. 

Dagobert IX had been twenty-five on the bloody day he arrived with his father upon Neotrantor. 
His eyes and mind were still alive with the glory and the power of the Empire that was. But his 
son, who might one day be Dagobert X, was born on Neotrantor. 

Twenty worlds were all he knew. 

Jord Commason's open air car was the finest vehicle of its type on all Neotrantor - and, after 
all, justly so. It did not end with the fact that Commason was the largest landowner on 
Neotrantor. It began there. For in earlier days he had been the companion and evil genius of a 
young crown prince, restive in the dominating grip of a middle-aged emperor. And now he was 
the companion and still the evil genius of a middle-aged crown prince who hated and 
dominated an old emperor. 

So Jord Commason, in his air car, which in mother-of-pearl finish and gold-and-lumetron 
ornamentation needed no coat of arms as owner's identification, surveyed the lands that were 
his, and the miles of rolling wheat that were his, and the huge threshers and harvesters that 
were his, and the tenant-farmers and machine-tenders that were his - and considered his 
problems cautiously. 

Beside him, his bent and withered chauffeur guided the ship gently through the upper winds 
and smiled. 

Jord Commason spoke to the wind, the air, and the sky, "You remember what I told you, 
Inchney?" 

Inchney's thin gray hair wisped lightly in the wind. His gap-toothed smile widened in its 
thin-lipped fashion and the vertical wrinkles of his cheeks deepened as though he were keeping 
an eternal secret from himself. The whisper of his voice whistled between his teeth. 

"I remember, sire, and I have thought." 

"And what have you thought, Inchney?" There was an impatience about the question. 

Inchney remembered that he had been young and handsome, and a lord on Old Trantor. 
Inchney remembered that he was a disfigured ancient on Neotrantor, who lived by grace of 
Squire Jord Commason, and paid for the grace by lending his subtlety on request. He sighed 
very softly. 

He whispered again, "Visitors from the Foundation, sire, are a convenient thing to have. 



Especially, sire, when they come with but a single ship, and but a single fighting man. How 
welcome they might be." 

"Welcome?" said Commason, gloomily. "Perhaps so. But those men are magicians and may be 
powerful." 

"Pugh," muttered Inchney, "the mistiness of distance hides the truth. The Foundation is but a 
world. Its citizens are but men. If you blast them, they die." 

Inchney held the ship on its course - A river was a winding sparkle below. He whispered, "And 
is there not a man they speak of now who stirs the worlds of the Periphery?" 

Commason was suddenly suspicious. "What do you know of this?" 

There was no smile on his chauffeur's face. "Nothing, sire. It was but an idle question." 

The squire's hesitation was short. He said, with brutal directness, "Nothing you ask is idle, and 
your method of acquiring knowledge will have your scrawny neck in a vise yet. But - I have it! 
This man is called the Mule, and a subject of his had been here some months ago on a ... 
matter of business. I await another ... now ... for its conclusion." 

"And these newcomers? They are not the ones you want, perhaps?" 

"They lack the identification they should have." 

"It has been reported that the Foundation has been captured-" 

"I did not tell you that." 

"It has been so reported," continued Inchney, coolly, "and if that is correct, then these may be 
refugees from the destruction, and may be held for the Mule's man out of honest friendship." 

"Yes?" Commason was uncertain. 

"And, sire, since it is well-known that the friend of a conqueror is but the last victim, it would be 
but a measure of honest self-defense. For there are such things as psychic probes, and here 
we have four Foundation brains. There is much about the Foundation it would be useful to 
know, much even about the Mule. And then the Mule's friendship would be a trifle the less 
overpowering." 

Commason, in the quiet of the upper air, returned with a shiver to his first thought. "But if the 
Foundation has not fallen. If the reports are lies. It is said that it has been foretold it can not 
fall." 

"We are past the age of soothsayers, sire." 

"And yet if it did not fall, Inchney. Think! If it did not fall. The Mule made me promises, indeed-" 
He had gone too far, and backtracked. "That is, he made boasts. But boasts are wind and 
deeds are hard." 


Inchney laughed noiselessly. "Deeds are hard indeed, until begun. One could scarcely find a 
further fear than a Galaxy-end Foundation." 



"There is still the prince," murmured Commason, almost to himself. 

"He deals with the Mule also, then, sire?" 

Commason could not quite choke down the complacent shift of features. "Not entirely. Not as / 
do. But he grows wilder, more uncontrollable. A demon is upon him. If I seize these people and 
he takes them away for his own use - for he does not lack a certain shrewdness - I am not yet 
ready to quarrel with him." He frowned and his heavy cheeks bent downwards with dislike. 

"I saw those strangers for a few moments yesterday," said the gray chauffeur, irrelevantly, "and 
it is a strange woman, that dark one. she walks with the freedom of a man and she is of a 
startling paleness against the dark luster of hair." There was almost a warmth in the husky 
whisper of the withered voice, so that Commason turned toward him in sudden surprise. 

Inchney continued, "The prince, I think, would not find his shrewdness proof against a 
reasonable compromise. You could have the rest, if you left him the girl-" 

A light broke upon Commason, "A thought! Indeed a thought! Inchney, turn back! And Inchney, 
if all turns well, we will discuss further this matter of your freedom." 

It was with an almost superstitious sense of symbolism that Commason found a Personal 
Capsule waiting for him in his private study when he returned. It had arrived by a wavelength 
known to few. Commason smiled a fat smile. The Mule's man was coming and the Foundation 
had indeed fallen. 

Bayta's misty visions, when she had them, of an Imperial palace, did not jibe with the reality, 
and inside her, there was a vague sense of disappointment. The room was small, almost plain, 
almost ordinary. The palace did not even match the mayor's residence back at the Foundation 
- and Dagobert IX - 

Bayta had definite ideas of what an emperor ought to look like. He ought not look like 
somebody's benevolent grandfather. He ought not be thin and white and faded - or serving 
cups of tea with his own hand in an expressed anxiety for the comfort of his visitors. 

But so it was. 

Dagobert IX chuckled as he poured tea into her stiffly outheld cup. 

"This is a great pleasure for me, my dear. It is a moment away from ceremony and courtiers. I 
have not had the opportunity for welcoming visitors from my outer provinces for a time now. My 
son takes care of these details now that I'm older. You haven't met my son? A fine boy. 
Headstrong, perhaps. But then he's young. Do you care for a flavor capsule? No?" 

Toran attempted an interruption, "Your imperial majesty-" 

"Yes?" 

"Your imperial majesty, it has not been our intention to intrude upon you-" 

"Nonsense, there is no intrusion. Tonight there will be the official reception, but until then, we 
are free. Let's see, where did you say you were from? It seems a long time since we had an 



official reception. You said you were from the Province of Anacreon?" 

"From the Foundation, your imperial majesty!" 

"Yes, the Foundation. I remember now. I had it located. It is in the Province of Anacreon. I have 
never been there. My doctor forbids extensive traveling. I don't recall any recent reports from 
my viceroy at Anacreon. Flow are conditions there?" he concluded anxiously. 

"Sire," mumbled Toran, "I bring no complaints." 

"That is gratifying. I will commend my viceroy." 

Toran looked helplessly at Ebling Mis, whose brusque voice rose. "Sire, we have been told that 
it will require your permission for us to visit the Imperial University Library on Trantor." 

"Trantor?" questioned the emperor, mildly, "Trantor?" 

Then a look of puzzled pain crossed his thin face. "Trantor?" he whispered. "I remember now. I 
am making plans now to return there with a flood of ships at my back. You shall come with me. 
Together we will destroy the rebel, Gilmer. Together we shall restore the empire!" 

His bent back had straightened. His voice had strengthened. For a moment his eyes were hard. 
Then, he blinked and said softly, "But Gilmer is dead. I seem to remember - Yes. Yes! Gilmer 
is dead! Trantor is dead - For a moment, it seemed - Where was it you said you came from?" 

Magnifico whispered to Bayta, "Is this really an emperor? For somehow I thought emperors 
were greater and wiser than ordinary men." 

Bayta motioned him quiet. She said, "If your imperial majesty would but sign an order permitting 
us to go to Trantor, it would avail greatly the common cause." 

"To Trantor?" The emperor was blank and uncomprehending. 

"Sire, the Viceroy of Anacreon, in whose name we speak, sends word that Gilmer is yet alive-" 
"Alive! Alive!" thundered Dagobert. "Where? It will be war!" 

"Your imperial majesty, it must not yet be known. His whereabouts are uncertain. The viceroy 
sends us to acquaint you of the fact, and it is only on Trantor that we may find his hiding place. 
Once discovered-" 

"Yes, yes - Fie must be found-" The old emperor doddered to the wall and touched the little 
photocell with a trembling finger. Fie muttered, after an ineffectual pause, "My servants do not 
come. I can not wait for them." 

Fie was scribbling on a blank sheet, and ended with a flourished "D." Fie said, "Gilmer will yet 
learn the power of his emperor. Where was it you came from? Anacreon? What are the 
conditions there? Is the name of the emperor powerful?" 

Bayta took the paper from his loose fingers, "Your imperial majesty is beloved by the people. 
Your love for them is widely known." 



"I shall have to visit my good people of Anacreon, but my doctor says ... I don't remember what 
he says, but-" He looked up, his old gray eyes sharp, "Were you saying something of Gilmer?" 

"No, your imperial majesty." 

"He shall not advance further. Go back and tell your people that. Trantor shall hold! My father 
leads the fleet now, and the rebel vermin Gilmer shall freeze in space with his regicidal rabble." 

He staggered into a seat and his eyes were blank once more. "What was I saying?" 

Toran rose and bowed low, "Your imperial majesty has been kind to us, but the time allotted us 
for an audience is over. " 

For a moment, Dagobert IX looked like an emperor indeed as he rose and stood stiff-backed 
while, one by one, his visitors retreated backward through the door 

-to where twenty armed men intervened and locked a circle about them. 

A hand-weapon flashed- 

To Bayta, consciousness returned sluggishly, but without the "Where am I?" sensation. She 
remembered clearly the odd old man who called himself emperor, and the other men who 
waited outside. The arthritic tingle in her finger joints meant a stun pistol. 

She kept her eyes closed, and listened with painful attention to the voices. 

There were two of them. One was slow and cautious, with a slyness beneath the surface 
obsequity. The other was hoarse and thick, almost sodden, and blurted out in viscous spurts. 
Bayta liked neither. 

The thick voice was predominant. 

Bayta caught the last words, "He will live forever, that old madman. It wearies me. It annoys 
me. Commason, I will have it. I grow older, too." 

"Your highness, let us first see of what use these people are. It may be we shall have sources 
of strength other than your father still provides." 

The thick voice was lost in a bubbling whisper. Bayta caught only the phrase, " -the girl-" but 
the other, fawning voice was a nasty, low, running chuckle followed by a comradely, 
near-patronizing, "Dagobert, you do not age. They lie who say you are not a youth of twenty." 

They laughed together, and Bayta's blood was an icy trickle. Dagobert - your highness - The 
old emperor had spoken of a headstrong son, and the implication of the whispers now beat 
dully upon her. But such things didn't happen to people in real life— 

Toran's voice broke upon her in a slow, hard current of cursing. 

She opened her eyes, and Toran's, which were upon her, showed open relief. He said, fiercely, 
"This banditry will be answered by the emperor. Release us." 

It dawned upon Bayta that her wrists and ankles were fastened to wall and floor by a tight 



attraction field. 


Thick Voice approached Toran. He was paunchy, his lower eyelids puffed darkly, and his hair 
was thinning out. There was a gay feather in his peaked hat, and the edging of his doublet was 
embroidered with silvery metal-foam. 

He sneered with a heavy amusement. "The emperor? The poor, mad emperor?" 

"I have his pass. No subject may hinder our freedom." 

"But I am no subject, space-garbage. I am the regent and crown prince and am to be 
addressed as such. As for my poor silly father, it amuses him to see visitors occasionally. And 
we humor him. It tickles his mock-imperial fancy. But, of course, it has no other meaning." 

And then he was before Bayta, and she looked up at him contemptuously. He leaned close and 
his breath was overpoweringly minted. 

He said, "Her eyes suit well, Commason - she is even prettier with them open. I think she'll do. 
It will be an exotic dish for a jaded taste, eh?" 

There was a futile surge upwards on Toran's part, which the crown prince ignored and Bayta 
felt the iciness travel outward to the skin. Ebling Mis was still out; head lolling weakly upon his 
chest, but, with a sensation of surprise, Bayta noted that Magnifico's eyes were open, sharply 
open, as though awake for many minutes. Those large brown eyes swiveled towards Bayta and 
stared at her out of a doughy face. 

He whimpered, and nodded with his head towards the crown prince, "That one has my 
Visi-Sonor." 

The crown prince turned sharply toward the new voice, "This is yours, monster?" He swung the 
instrument from his shoulder where it had hung, suspended by its green strap, unnoticed by 
Bayta. 

He fingered it clumsily, tried to sound a chord and got nothing for his pains, "Can you play it, 
monster?" 

Magnifico nodded once. 

Toran said suddenly, "You've rifled a ship of the Foundation. If the emperor will not avenge, the 
Foundation will." 

It was the other, Commason, who answered slowly, "What Foundation? Or is the Mule no 
longer the Mule?" 

There was no answer to that. The prince's grin showed large uneven teeth. The clown's binding 
field was broken and he was nudged ungently to his feet. The Visi-Sonor was thrust into his 
hand. 

"Play for us, monster," said the prince. "Play us a serenade of love and beauty for our foreign 
lady here. Tell her that my father's country prison is no palace, but that I can take her to one 
where she can swim in rose water - and know what a prince's love is. Sing of a prince's love, 



monster. 


He placed one thick thigh upon a marble table and swung a leg idly, while his fatuous smiling 
stare swept Bayta into a silent rage. Toran's sinews strained against the field, in painful, 
perspiring effort. Ebling Mis stirred and moaned. 

Magnifico gasped, "My fingers are of useless stiffness-" 

"Play, monster!" roared the prince. The lights dimmed at a gesture to Commason and in the 
dimness he crossed his arms and waited. 

Magnifico drew his fingers in rapid, rhythmic jumps from end to end of the multikeyed 
instrument - and a sharp, gliding rainbow of light jumped across the room. A low, soft tone 
sounded - throbbing, tearful. It lifted in sad laughter, and underneath it there sounded a dull 
tolling. 

The darkness seemed to intensify and grow thick. Music reached Bayta through the muffled 
folds of invisible blankets. Gleaming light reached her from the depths as though a single 
candle glowed at the bottom of a pit. 

Automatically, her eyes strained. The light brightened, but remained blurred. It moved fuzzily, in 
confused color, and the music was suddenly brassy, evil - flourishing in high crescendo. The 
light flickered quickly, in swift motion to the wicked rhythm. Something writhed within the light. 
Something with poisonous metallic scales writhed and yawned. And the music writhed and 
yawned with it. 

Bayta struggled with a strange emotion and then caught herself in a mental gasp. Almost, it 
reminded her of the time in the Time Vault, of those last days on Haven. It was that horrible, 
cloying, clinging spiderweb of horror and despair. She shrunk beneath it oppressed. 

The music dinned upon her, laughing horribly, and the writhing terror at the wrong end of the 
telescope in the small circle of light was lost as she turned feverishly away. Her forehead was 
wet and cold. 

The music died. It must have lasted fifteen minutes, and a vast pleasure at its absence flooded 
Bayta. Light glared, and Magnifico's face was close to hers, sweaty, wild-eyed, lugubrious. 

"My lady," he gasped, "how fare you?" 

"Well enough," she whispered, "but why did you play like that?" 

She became aware of the others in the room. Toran and Mis were limp and helpless against 
the wall, but her eyes skimmed over them. There was the prince, lying strangely still at the foot 
of the table. There was Commason, moaning wildly through an open, drooling mouth. 

Commason flinched, and yelled mindlessly, as Magnifico took a step towards him. 

Magnifico turned, and with a leap, turned the others loose. 

Toran lunged upwards and with eager, taut fists seized the landowner by the neck, "You come 
with us. We'll want you - to make sure we get to our ship." 



Two hours later, in the ship's kitchen, Bayta served a walloping homemade pie, and Magnifico 
celebrated the return to space by attacking it with a magnificent disregard of table manners. 

"Good, Magnifico?" 

"Um-m-m-m!" 

"Magnifico?" 

"Yes, my lady?" 

"What was it you played back there?" 

The clown writhed, "I ... I'd rather not say. I learned it once, and the Visi-Sonor is of an effect 
upon the nervous system most profound. Surely, it was an evil thing, and not for your sweet 
innocence, my lady." 

"Oh, now, come, Magnifico. I'm not as innocent as that. Don't flatter so. Did I see anything like 
what f/7eysaw?" 

"I hope not. I played it for them only. If you saw, it was but the rim of it - from afar." 

"And that was enough. Do you know you knocked the prince out?" 

Magnifico spoke grimly through a large, muffling piece of pie. "I killed h\rr\, my lady." 

"What?" She swallowed, painfully. 

"He was dead when I stopped, or I would have continued. I cared not for Commason. His 
greatest threat was death or torture. But, my lady, this prince looked upon you wickedly, and-" 
he choked in a mixture of indignation and embarrassment. 

Bayta felt strange thoughts come and repressed them sternly. "Magnifico, you've got a gallant 
soul." 

"Oh, my lady." He bent a red nose into his pie, but, somehow did not eat. 

Ebling Mis stared out the port. Trantor was near - its metallic shine fearfully bright. Toran was 
standing there, too. 

He said with dull bitterness, "We've come for nothing, Ebling. The Mule's man precedes us." 

Ebling Mis rubbed his forehead with a hand that seemed shriveled out of its former plumpness. 
His voice was an abstracted mutter. 

Toran was annoyed. "I say those people know the Foundation has fallen. I say-" 

"Eh?" Mis looked up, puzzled. Then, he placed a gentle hand upon Toran's wrist, in complete 
oblivion of any previous conversation, "Toran, I ... I've been looking at Trantor. Do you know ... I 
have the queerest feeling ... ever since we arrived on Neotrantor. It's an urge, a driving urge 
that's pushing and pushing inside. Toran, I can do it; I know I can do it. Things are becoming 
clear in my mind - they have never been so clear." 



Toran stared - and shrugged. The words brought him no confidence. 

He said, tentatively, "Mis?" 

"Yes?" 

"You didn't see a ship come down on Neotrantor as we left?" 

Consideration was brief. "No." 

"I did. Imagination, I suppose, but it could have been that Filian ship." 

"The one with Captain Han Pritcher on it?" 

"The one with space knows who upon it. Magnifico's information - It followed us here, Mis." 
Ebling Mis said nothing, 

Toran said strenuously, "is there anything wrong with you? Aren't you well?" 

Mis's eyes were thoughtful, luminous, and strange. He did not answer. 


23. THE RUINS OF TRANTOR 

The location of an objective upon the great world of Trantor presents a problem unique in the 
Galaxy. There are no continents or oceans to locate from a thousand miles distance. There are 
no rivers, lakes, and islands to catch sight of through the cloud rifts. 

The metal-covered world was - had been - one colossal city, and only the old Imperial palace 
could be identified readily from outer space by a stranger. The Bayta circled the world at almost 
air-car height in repeated painful search. 

From polar regions, where the icy coating of the metal spires were somber evidence of the 
breakdown or neglect of the weather-conditioning machinery, they worked southwards. 
Occasionally they could experiment with the correlations -(or presumable correlations)- 
between what they saw and what the inadequate map obtained at Neotrantor showed. 

But it was unmistakable when it came. The gap in the metal coat of the planet was fifty miles. 
The unusual greenery spread over hundreds of square miles, inclosing the mighty grace of the 
ancient Imperial residences. 

The Bayta hovered and slowly oriented itself. There were only the huge supercauseways to 
guide them. Long straight arrows on the map, smooth, gleaming ribbons there below them. 

What the map indicated to be the University area was reached by dead reckoning, and upon 
the flat area of what once must have been a busy landing-field, the ship lowered itself. 

It was only as they submerged into the welter of metal that the smooth beauty apparent from 
the air dissolved into the broken, twisted near-wreckage that had been left in the wake of the 
Sack. Spires were truncated, smooth walls gouted and twisted, and just for an instant there was 



the glimpse of a shaven area of earth - perhaps several hundred acres in extent - dark and 
plowed. 

Lee Senter waited as the ship settled downward cautiously. It was a strange ship, not from 
Neotrantor, and inwardly he sighed. Strange ships and confused dealings with the men of outer 
space could mean the end of the short days of peace, a return to the old grandiose times of 
death and battle. Senter was leader of the group; the old books were in his charge and he had 
read of those old days. He did not want them. 

Perhaps ten minutes spent themselves as the strange ship came down to nestle upon the 
flatness, but long memories telescoped themselves in that time. There was first the great farm 
of his childhood - that remained in his mind merely as busy crowds of people. Then there was 
the trek of the young families to new lands. He was ten, then; an only child, puzzled, and 
frightened. 

Then the new buildings; the great metal slabs to be uprooted and tom aside; the exposed soil 
to be turned, and freshened, and invigorated; neighboring buildings to be tom down and 
leveled; others to be transformed to living quarters. 

There were crops to be grown and harvested; peaceful relations with neighboring farms to be 
established- 

There was growth and expansion, and the quiet efficiency of self-rule. There was the coming of 
a new generation of hard, little youngsters born to the soil. There was the great day when he 
was chosen leader of the Group and for the first time since his eighteenth birthday he did not 
shave and saw the first stubble of his Leader's Beard appear. 

And now the Galaxy might intrude and put an end to the brief idyll of isolation- 

The ship landed. He watched wordlessly as the port opened. Four emerged, cautious and 
watchful. There were three men, varied, old, young, thin and beaked. And a woman striding 
among them like an equal. His hand left the two glassy black tufts of his beard as he stepped 
forward. 

He gave the universal gesture of peace. Both hands were before him; hard, calloused palms 
upward. 

The young man approached two steps and duplicated the gesture. "I come in peace." 

The accent was strange, but the words were understandable, and welcome. He replied, deeply, 
"In peace be it. You are welcome to the hospitality of the Group. Are you hungry? You shall eat. 
Are you thirsty? You shall drink." 

Slowly, the reply came, "We thank you for your kindness, and shall bear good report of your 
Group when we return to our world." 

A queer answer, but good. Behind him, the men of the Group were smiling, and from the 
recesses of the surrounding structures, the women emerged. 

In his own quarters, he removed the locked, mirror-walled box from its hidden place, and 



offered each of the guests the long, plump cigars that were reserved for great occasions. 

Before the woman, he hesitated. She had taken a seat among the men. The strangers 
evidently allowed, even expected, such effrontery. Stiffly, he offered the box. 

She accepted one with a smile, and drew in its aromatic smoke, with all the relish one could 
expect. Lee Senter repressed a scandalized emotion. 

The stiff conversation, in advance of the meal, touched politely upon the subject of fanning on 
Trantor. 

It was the old man who asked, "What about hydroponics? Surely, for such a world as Trantor, 
hydroponics would be the answer." 

Senter shook his head slowly. He felt uncertain. His knowledge was the unfamiliar matter of the 
books he had read, "Artificial fanning in chemicals, I think? No, not on Trantor. This 
hydroponics requires a world of industy - for instance, a great chemical industry. And in war or 
disaster, when industry breaks down, the people starve. Nor can all foods be grown artificially. 
Some lose their food value. The soil is cheaper, still better - always more dependable." 

"And your food supply is sufficient?" 

"Sufficient; perhaps monotonous. We have fowl that supply eggs, and milk-yielders for our dairy 
products - but our meat supply rests upon our foreign trade." 

"Trade." The young man seemed roused to sudden interest. "You trade then. But what do you 
export?" 

"Metal," was the curt answer. "Look for yourself. We have an infinite supply, ready processed. 
They come from Neotrantor with ships, demolish an indicated area-increasing our growing 
space - and leave us in exchange meat, canned fruit, food concentrates, farm machinery and 
so on. They carry off the metal and both sides profit." 

They feasted on bread and cheese, and a vegetable stew that was unreservedly delicious. It 
was over the dessert of frosted fruit, the only imported item on the menu, that, for the first time, 
the Outlanders became other than mere guests. The young man produced a map of Trantor. 

Calmly, Lee Senter studied it. He listened - and said gravely, "The University Grounds are a 
static area. We farmers do not grow crops on it. We do not, by preference, even enter it. It is 
one of our few relics of another time we would keep undisturbed. " 

"We are seekers after knowledge. We would disturb nothing. Our ship would be our hostage." 
The old man offered this - eagerly, feverishly. 

"I can take you there then," said Senter. 

That night the strangers slept, and that night Lee Senter sent a message to Neotrantor. 



24. CONVERT 

The thin life of Trantor trickled to nothing when they entered among the wide-spaced buildings 
of the University grounds. There was a solemn and lonely silence over it. 

The strangers of the Foundation knew nothing of the swirling days and nights of the bloody 
Sack that had left the University untouched. They knew nothing of the time after the collapse of 
the Imperial power, when the students, with their borrowed weapons, and their pale-faced 
inexperienced bravery, formed a protective volunteer army to protect the central shrine of the 
science of the Galaxy. They knew nothing of the Seven Days Fight, and the armistice that kept 
the University free, when even the Imperial palace clanged with the boots of Gilmer and his 
soldiers, during the short interval of their rule. 

Those of the Foundation, approaching for the first time, realized only that in a world of transition 
from a gutted old to a strenuous new this area was a quiet, graceful museum-piece of ancient 
greatness. 

They were intruders in a sense. The brooding emptiness rejected them. The academic 
atmosphere seemed still to live and to stir angrily at the disturbance. 

The library was a deceptively small building which broadened out vastly underground into a 
mammoth volume of silence and reverie. Ebling Mis paused before the elaborate murals of the 
reception room. 

Fie whispered - one had to whisper here: "I think we passed the catalog rooms back a way. I'll 
stop there." 

His forehead was flushed, his hand trembling, "I mustn't be disturbed, Toran. Will you bring my 
meals down to me?" 

"Anything you say. We'll do all we can to help. Do you want us to work under you-" 

"No. I must be alone-" 

"You think you will get what you want." 

And Ebling Mis replied with a soft certainty, "I know I will!" 

Toran and Bayta came closer to "setting up housekeeping" in normal fashion than at any time 
in their year of married life. It was a strange sort of "housekeeping." They lived in the middle of 
grandeur with an inappropriate simplicity. Their food was drawn largely from Lee Senter's farm 
and was paid for in the little nuclear gadgets that may be found on any Trader's ship. 

Magnifico taught himself how to use the projectors in the library reading room, and sat over 
adventure novels and romances to the point where he was almost as forgetful of meals and 
sleep as was Ebling Mis. 

Ebling himself was completely buried. Fie had insisted on a hammock being slung up for him in 
the Psychology Reference Room. His face grew thin and white. His vigor of speech was lost 
and his favorite curses had died a mild death. There were times when the recognition of either 



Toran or Bayta seemed a struggle. 

He was more himself with Magnifico who brought him his meals and often sat watching him for 
hours at a time, with a queer, fascinated absorption, as the aging psychologist transcribed 
endless equations, cross-referred to endless book-films, scurried endlessly about in a wild 
mental effort towards an end he alone saw. 

Toran came upon her in the darkened room, and said sharply, "Bayta!" 

Bayta started guiltily. "Yes? You want me, Torie?" 

"Sure I want you. What in Space are you sitting there for? You've been acting all wrong since 
we got to Trantor. What's the matter with you?" 

"Oh, Torie, stop," she said, wearily. 

And "Oh, Torie, stop!" he mimicked impatiently. Then, with sudden softness, "Won't you tell me 
what's wrong, Bay? Something's bothering you." 

"No! Nothing is, Torie. If you keep on just nagging and nagging, you'll have me mad. I'm just — 
thinking." 

"Thinking about what?" 

"About nothing. Well, about the Mule, and Haven, and the Foundation, and everything. About 
Ebling Mis and whether he'll find anything about the Second Foundation, and whether it will 
help us when he does find it - and a million other things. Are you satisfied?" Her voice was 
agitated. 

"If you're just brooding, do you mind stopping? It isn't pleasant and it doesn't help the situation." 
Bayta got to her feet and smiled weakly. "All right. I'm happy. See, I'm smiling and jolly. " 
Magnifico's voice was an agitated cry outside. "My lady-" 

"What is it? Come-" 

Bayta's voice choked off sharply when the opening door framed the large, hard-faced- 
"Pritcher," cried Toran. 

Bayta gasped, "Captain! How did you find us?" 

Han Pritcher stepped inside. His voice was clear and level, and utterly dead of feeling, "My rank 
is colonel now - under the Mule." 

"Under the ... Mule!" Toran's voice trailed off. They formed a tableau there, the three. 

Magnifico stared wildly and shrank behind Toran. Nobody stopped to notice him. 

Bayta said, her hands trembling in each other's tight grasp, "You are arresting us? You have 
really gone over to them?" 



The colonel replied quickly, "I have not come to arrest you. My instructions make no mention of 
you. With regard to you, I am free, and I choose to exercise our old friendship, if you will let 
me." 

Toran's face was a twisted suppression of fury, "How did you find us? You were in the Filian 
ship, then? You followed us?" 

The wooden lack of expression on Pritcher's face might have flickered in embarrassment. "I 
was on the Filian ship! I met you in the first place ... well ... by chance." 

"It is a chance that is mathematically impossible." 

"No. Simply rather improbable, so my statement will have to stand. In any case, you admitted to 
the. Filians - there is, of course, no such nation as Filia actually - that you were heading for the 
Trantor sector, and since the Mule already had his contacts upon Neotrantor, it was easy to 
have you detained there. Unfortunately, you got away before I arrived, but not long before. I 
had time to have the farms on Trantor ordered to report your arrival. It was done and I am here. 
May I sit down? I come in friendliness, believe me. 

He sat. Toran bent his head and thought futilely. With a numbed lack of emotion, Bayta 
prepared tea. 

Toran looked up harshly. "Well, what are you waiting for - colonel? What's your friendship? If 
it's not arrest, what is it then? Protective custody? Call in your men and give your orders." 

Patiently, Pritcher shook his head. "No, Toran. I come of my own will to speak to you, to 
persuade you of the uselessness of what you are doing. If I fail I shall leave. That is all." 

"That is all? Well, then peddle your propaganda, give us your speech, and leave. I don't want 
any tea, Bayta." 

Pritcher accepted a cup, with a grave word of thanks. He looked at Toran with a clear strength 
as he sipped lightly. Then he said, "The Mule is a mutant. He can not be beaten in the very 
nature of the mutation-" 

"Why? What is the mutation?" asked Toran, with sour humor. "I suppose you'll tell us now, eh?" 

"Yes, I will. Your knowledge won't hurt him. You see - he is capable of adjusting the emotional 
balance of human beings. It sounds like a little trick, but it's quite unbeatable." 

Bayta broke in, "The emotional balance?" She frowned, "Won't you explain that? I don't quite 
understand." 

"I mean that it is an easy matter for him to instill into a capable general, say, the emotion of 
utter loyalty to the Mule and complete belief in the Mule's victory. His generals are emotionally 
controlled. They can not betray him; they can not weaken - and the control is permanent. His 
most capable enemies become his most faithful subordinates, The warlord of Kalgan 
surrenders his planet and becomes his viceroy for the Foundation." 

"And you," added Bayta, bitterly, "betray your cause and become Mule's envoy to Trantor. I 
see!" 



"I haven't finished. The Mule's gift works in reverse even more effectively. Despair is an 
emotion! At the crucial moment, keymen on the Foundation - keymen on Haven - despaired. 
Their worlds fell without too much struggle." 

"Do you mean to say," demanded Bayta, tensely, "that the feeling I had in the Time Vault was 
the Mule juggling my emotional control." 

"Mine, too. Everyone's. How was it on Haven towards the end?" 

Bayta turned away. 

Colonel Pritcher continued earnestly, "As it works for worlds, so it works for individuals. Can 
you fight a force which can make you surrender willingly when it so desires; can make you a 
faithful servant when it so desires?" 

Toran said slowly, "How do I know this is the truth?" 

"Can you explain the fall of the Foundation and of Haven otherwise? Can you explain my 
conversion otherwise? Think, man! What have you - or I - or the whole Galaxy accomplished 
against the Mule in all this time? What one little thing?" 

Toran felt the challenge, "By the Galaxy, I can!" With a sudden touch of fierce satisfaction, he 
shouted, "Your wonderful Mule had contacts with Neotrantor you say that were to have 
detained us, eh? Those contacts are dead or worse. We killed the crown prince and left the 
other a whimpering idiot. The Mule did not stop us there, and that much has been undone." 

"Why, no, not at all. Those weren't our men. The crown prince was a wine-soaked mediocrity. 
The other man, Commason, is phenomenally stupid. He was a power on his world but that 
didn't prevent him from being vicious, evil, and completely incompetent. We had nothing really 
to do with them. They were, in a sense, merely feints-" 

"It was they who detained us, or tried." 

"Again, no. Commason had a personal slave - a man called Inchney. Detention was his policy. 
He is old, but will serve our temporary purpose. You would not have killed him, you see." 

Bayta whirled on him. She had not touched her own tea. "But, by your very statement, your own 
emotions have been tampered with. You've got faith and belief in the Mule, an unnatural, a 
diseased faith in the Mule. Of what value are your opinions? You've lost all power of objective 
thought." 

"You are wrong." Slowly, the colonel shook his head. "Only my emotions are fixed. My reason 
is as it always was. It may be influenced in a certain direction by my conditioned emotions, but 
it is not forced. And there are some things I can see more clearly now that I am freed of my 
earlier emotional trend. 

"I can see that the Mule's program is an intelligent and worthy one. In the time since I have 
been - converted, I have followed his career from its start seven years ago. With his mutant 
mental power, he began by winning over a condottiere and his band. With that - and his power 
- he won a planet. With that - and his power - he extended his grip until he could tackle the 



warlord of Kalgan. Each step followed the other logically. With Kalgan in his pocket, he had a 
first-class fleet, and with that - and his power - he could attack the Foundation. 

"The Foundation is the key. It is the greatest area of industrial concentration in the Galaxy, and 
now that the nuclear techniques of the Foundation are in his hands, he is the actual master of 
the Galaxy. With those techniques - and his power - he can force the remnants of the Empire 
to acknowledge his rule, and eventually - with the death of the old emperor, who is mad and 
not long for this world - to crown him emperor. Fie will then have the name as well as the fact. 
With that - and his power - where is the world in the Galaxy that can oppose him? 

"In these last seven years, he has established a new Empire. In seven years, in other words, he 
will have accomplished what all Seldon's psychohistory could not have done in less than an 
additional seven hundred. The Galaxy will have peace and order at last. 

"And you could not stop it - any more than you could stop a planet's rush with your shoulders." 

A long silence followed Pritcher's speech. What remained of his tea had grown cold. Fie 
emptied his cup, filled it again, and drained it slowly. Toran bit viciously at a thumbnail. Bayta's 
face was cold, and distant, and white. 

Then Bayta said in a thin voice, "We are not convinced. If the Mule wishes us to be, let him 
come here and condition us himself. You fought him until the last moment of your conversion, I 
imagine, didn't you?" 

"I did," said Colonel Pritcher, solemnly. 

"Then allow us the same privilege." 

Colonel Pritcher arose. With a crisp air of finality, he said, "Then I leave. As I said earlier, my 
mission at present concerns you in no way. Therefore, I don't think it will be necessary to report 
your presence here. That is not too great a kindness. If the Mule wishes you stopped, he no 
doubt has other men assigned to the job, and you will be stopped. But, for what it is worth, I 
shall not contribute more than my requirement." 

"Thank you," said Bayta faintly. 

"As for Magnifico. Where is he? Come out, Magnifico, I won't hurt you-" 

"What about him?" demanded Bayta, with sudden animation. 

"Nothing. My instructions make no mention of him, either. I have heard that he is searched for, 
but the Mule will find him when the time suits him. I shall say nothing. Will you shake hands?" 

Bayta shook her head. Toran glared his frustrated contempt. 

There was the slightest lowering of the colonel's iron shoulders. Fie strode to the door, turned 
and said: 

"One last thing. Don't think I am not aware of the source of your stubbornness. It is known that 
you search for the Second Foundation. The Mule, in his time, will take his measures. Nothing 
will help you - But I knew you in other times; perhaps there is something in my conscience that 



urged me to this; at any rate, I tried to help you and remove you from the final danger before it 
was too late. Good-by." 

He saluted sharply - and was gone. 

Bayta turned to a silent Toran, and whispered, "They even know about the Second 
Foundation." 

In the recesses of the library, Ebling Mis, unaware of all, crouched under the one spark of light 
amid the murky spaces and mumbled triumphantly to himself. 


25. DEATH OF A PSYCHOLOGIST 

After that there were only two weeks left to the life of Ebling Mis. 

And in those two weeks, Bayta was with him three times. The first time was on the night after 
the evening upon which they saw Colonel Pritcher. The second was one week later. And the 
third was again a week later - on the last day - the day Mis died. 

First, there was the night of Colonel Pritcher's evening, the first hour of which was spent by a 
stricken pair in a brooding, unmerry merry-go-round. 

Bayta said, "Torie, let's tell Ebling." 

Toran said dully, "Think he can help?" 

"We're only two. We've got to take some of the weight off. Maybe he can help." 

Toran said, "He's changed. He's lost weight. He's a little feathery; a little woolly." His fingers 
groped in air, metaphorically. "Sometimes, I don't think he'll help us muchever. Sometimes, I 
don't think anything will help." 

"Don't!" Bayta's voice caught and escaped a break, "Torie, don't! When you say that, I think the 
Mule's getting us. Let's tell Ebling, Torie - now!" 

Ebling Mis raised his head from the long desk, and bleared at them as they approached. His 
thinning hair was scuffed up, his lips made sleepy, smacking sounds. 

"Eh?" he said. "Someone want me?" 

Bayta bent to her knees, "Did we wake you? Shall we leave?" 

"Leave? Who is it? Bayta? No, no, stay! Aren't there chairs? I saw them-" His finger pointed 
vaguely. 

Toran pushed two ahead of him. Bayta sat down and took one of the psychologist's flaccid 
hands in hers. "May we talk to you, Doctor?" She rarely used the title. 

"Is something wrong?" A little sparkle returned to his abstracted eyes. His sagging cheeks 
regained a touch of color. "Is something wrong?" 



Bayta said, "Captain Pritcher has been here. Let me talk, Torie. You remember Captain 
Pritcher, Doctor?" 

"Yes- Yes-" His fingers pinched his lips and released them. "Tall man. Democrat." 

"Yes, he. He's discovered the Mule's mutation. He was here, Doctor, and told us." 

"But that is nothing new. The Mule's mutation is straightened out." In honest astonishment, 
"Haven't I told you? Have I forgotten to tell you?" 

"Forgotten to tell us what?" put in Toran, quickly. 

"About the Mule's mutation, of course. He tampers with emotions. Emotional control! I haven't 
told you? Now what made me forget?" Slowly, he sucked in his under lip and considered. 

Then, slowly, life crept into his voice and his eyelids lifted wide, as though his sluggish brain 
had slid onto a well-greased single track. He spoke in a dream, looking between the two 
listeners rather than at them. "It is really so simple. It requires no specialized knowledge. In the 
mathematics of psychohistory, of course, it works out promptly, in a third-level equation 
involving no more - Never mind that. It can be put into ordinary words - roughly - and have it 
make sense, which isn't usual with psychohistorical phenomena. 

"Ask yourselves - What can upset Hari Seldon's careful scheme of history, eh?" He peered 
from one to the other with a mild, questioning anxiety. "What were Seldon's original 
assumptions? First, that there would be no fundamental change in human society over the next 
thousand years. 

"For instance, suppose there were a major change in the Galaxy's technology, such as finding 
a new principle for the utilization of energy, or perfecting the study of electronic neurobiology. 
Social changes would render Seldon's original equations obsolete. But that hasn't happened, 
has it now?" 

"Or suppose that a new weapon were to be invented by forces outside the Foundation, capable 
of withstanding all the Foundation's armaments. That might cause a ruinous deviation, though 
less certainly. But even that hasn't happened. The Mule's Nuclear Field-Depressor was a 
clumsy weapon and could be countered. And that was the only novelty he presented, poor as it 
was. 

"But there was a second assumption, a more subtle one! Seldon assumed that human reaction 
to stimuli would remain constant. Granted that the first assumption held true, then the second 
must have broken down! Some factor must be twisting and distorting the emotional responses 
of human beings or Seldon couldn't have failed and the Foundation couldn't have fallen. And 
what factor but the Mule? 

"Am I right? Is there a flaw in the reasoning?" 

Bayta's plump hand patted his gently. "No flaw, Ebling." 

Mis was joyful, like a child. "This and more comes so easily. I tell you I wonder sometimes what 
is going on inside me. I seem to recall the time when so much was a mystery to me and now 



things are so clear. Problems are absent. I come across what might be one, and somehow, 
inside me, I see and understand. And my guesses, my theories seem always to be borne out. 
There's a drive in me ... always onward ... so that I can't stop ... and I don't want to eat or sleep 
... but always go on ... and on ... and on-" 

His voice was a whisper; his wasted, blue-veined hand rested tremblingly upon his forehead. 
There was a frenzy in his eyes that faded and went out. 

He said more quietly, "Then I never told you about the Mule's mutant powers, did I? But then ... 
did you say you knew about it?" 

"It was Captain Pritcher, Ebling," said Bayta. "Remember?" 

"He told you?" There was a tinge of outrage in his tone. "But how did he find out?" 

"He's been conditioned by the Mule. He's a colonel now, a Mule's man. He came to advise us 
to surrender to the Mule, and he told us - what you told us." 

"Then the Mule knows we're here? I must hurry - Where's Magnifico? Isn't he with you?" 
"Magnifico's sleeping," said Toran, impatiently. "It's past midnight, you know." 

"It is? Then - Was I sleeping when you came in?" 

"You were," said Bayta decisively, "and you're not going back to work, either. You're getting into 
bed. Come on, Torie, help me. And you stop pushing at me, Ebling, because it's just your luck I 
don't shove you under a shower first. Pull off his shoes, Torie, and tomorrow you come down 
here and drag him out into the open air before he fades completely away. Look at you, Ebling, 
you'll be growing cobwebs. Are you hungry?" 

Ebling Mis shook his head and looked up from his cot in a peevish confusion. "I want you to 
send Magnifico down tomorrow," he muttered. 

Bayta tucked the sheet around his neck. "You'll have me down tomorrow, with washed clothes. 
You're going to take a good bath, and then get out and visit the farm and feel a little sun on 
you." 

"I won't do it," said Mis weakly. "You hear me? I'm too busy." 

His sparse hair spread out on the pillow like a silver fringe about his head. His voice was a 
confidential whisper. "You want that Second Foundation, don't you?" 

Toran turned quickly and squatted down on the cot beside him. "What about the Second 
Foundation, Ebling?" 

The psychologist freed an arm from beneath the sheet and his tired fingers clutched at Toran's 
sleeve. "The Foundations were established at a great Psychological Convention presided over 
by Hari Seldon. Toran, I have located the published minutes of that Convention. Twenty-five fat 
films. I have already looked through various summaries." 


Well? 



"Well, do you know that it is very easy to find from them the exact location of the First 
Foundation, if you know anything at all about psychohistory. It is frequently referred to, when 
you understand the equations. But Toran, nobody mentions the Second Foundation, There has 
been no reference to it anywhere." 

Toran's eyebrows pulled into a frown. "It doesn't exist?" 

"Of course it exists," cried Mis, angrily, "who said it didn't? But there's less talk of it. Its 
significance - and all about it - are better hidden, better obscured. Don't you see? It's the more 
important of the two. It's the critical one; the one that counts! And I've got the minutes of the 
Seldon Convention. The Mule hasn't won yet-" 

Quietly, Bayta turned the lights down. "Go to sleep!" 

Without speaking, Toran and Bayta made their way up to their own quarters. 

The next day, Ebling Mis bathed and dressed himself, saw the sun of Trantor and felt the wind 
of Trantor for the last time. At the end of the day he was once again submerged in the gigantic 
recesses of the library, and never emerged thereafter. 

In the week that followed, life settled again into its groove. The sun of Neotrantor was a calm, 
bright star in Trantor's night sky. The farm was busy with its spring planting. The University 
grounds were silent in their desertion. The Galaxy seemed empty. The Mule might never have 
existed. 

Bayta was thinking that as she watched Toran light his cigar carefully and look up at the 
sections of blue sky visible between the swarming metal spires that encircled the horizon. 

"It's a nice day," he said. 

"Yes, it is. Flave you everything mentioned on the list, Torie?" 

"Sure. Half pound butter, dozen eggs, string beans - Got it all down here, Bay. I'll have it right." 

"Good. And make sure the vegetables are of the last harvest and not museum relics. Did you 
see Magnifico anywhere, by the way?" 

"Not since breakfast. Guess he's down with Ebling, watching a book-film." 

"All right. Don't waste any time, because I'll need the eggs for dinner." 

Toran left with a backward smile and a wave of the hand. 

Bayta turned away as Toran slid out of sight among the maze of metal. She hesitated before 
the kitchen door, about-faced slowly, and entered the colonnade leading to the elevator that 
burrowed down into the recesses. 

Ebling Mis was there, head bent down over the eyepieces of the projector, motionless, a 
frozen, questing body. Near him sat Magnifico, screwed up into a chair, eyes sharp and 
watching - a bundle of slatty limbs with a nose emphasizing his scrawny face. 

Bayta said softly, "Magnifico-" 



Magnifico scrambled to his feet. His voice was an eager whisper. "My lady!" 

"Magnifico," said Bayta, "Toran has left for the farm and won't be back for a while. Would you 
be a good boy and go out after him with a message that I'll write for you?" 

"Gladly, my lady. My small services are but too eagerly yours, for the tiny uses you can put 
them to." 

She was alone with Ebling Mis, who had not moved. Firmly, she placed her hand upon his 
shoulder. "Ebling-" 

The psychologist started, with a peevish cry, "What is it?" He wrinkled his eyes. "Is it you, 
Bayta? Where's Magnifico?" 

"I sent him away. I want to be alone with you for a while." She enunciated her words with 
exaggerated distinctness. "I want to talk to you, Ebling." 

The psychologist made a move to return to his projector, but her hand on his shoulder was firm. 
She felt the bone under the sleeve clearly. The flesh seemed to have fairly melted away since 
their arrival on Trantor. His face was thin, yellowish, and bore a half-week stubble. His 
shoulders were visibly stooped, even in a sitting position. 

Bayta said, "Magnifico isn't bothering you, is he, Ebling? He seems to be down here night and 
day." 

"No, no, no! Not at all. Why, I don't mind him. He is silent and never disturbs me. Sometimes he 
carries the films back and forth for me; seems to know what I want without my speaking. Just 
let him be." 

"Very well - but, Ebling, doesn't he make you wonder? Do you hear me, Ebling? Doesn't he 
make you wonder?" 

She jerked a chair close to his and stared at him as though to pull the answer out of his eyes. 
Ebling Mis shook his head. "No. What do you mean?" 

"I mean that Colonel Pritcher and you both say the Mule can condition the emotions of human 
beings. But are you sure of it? Isn't Magnifico himself a flaw in the theory?" 

There was silence. 

Bayta repressed a strong desire to shake the psychologist. "What's wrong with you, Ebling? 
Magnifico was the Mule's clown. Why wasn't he conditioned to love and faith? Why should he, 
of all those in contact with the Mule, hate him so. 

"But ... but he was conditioned. Certainly, Bay!" He seemed to gather certainty as he spoke. 

"Do you suppose that the Mule treats his clown the way he treats his generals? He needs faith 
and loyalty in the latter, but in his clown he needs only fear. Didn't you ever notice that 
Magnifico's continual state of panic is pathological in nature? Do you suppose it is natural for a 
human being to be as frightened as that all the time? Fear to such an extent becomes comic. It 
was probably comic to the Mule - and helpful, too, since it obscured what help we might have 



gotten earlier from Magnifico." 

Bayta said, "You mean Magnifico's information about the Mule was false?" 

"it was misleading. It was colored by pathological fear. The Mule is not the physical giant 
Magnifico thinks. He is more probably an ordinary man outside his mental powers. But if it 
amused him to appear a superman to poor Magnifico-" The psychologist shrugged. "In any 
case, Magnifico's information is no longer of importance." 

"What is, then?" 

But Mis shook himself loose and returned to his projector. 

"What is, then?" she repeated. "The Second Foundation?" 

The psychologist's eyes jerked towards her. "Have I told you anything about that? I don't 
remember telling you anything. I'm not ready yet. What have I told you?" 

"Nothing," said Bayta, intensely. "Oh, Galaxy, you've told me nothing, but I wish you would 
because I'm deathly tired. When will it be over?" 

Ebling Mis peered at her, vaguely rueful, "Well, now, my ... my dear, I did not mean to hurt you. 

I forget sometimes ... who my friends are. Sometimes it seems to me that I must not talk of all 
this. There's a need for secrecy - but from the Mule, not from you, my dear." He patted her 
shoulder with a weak amiability. 

She said, "What about the Second Foundation?" 

His voice was automatically a whisper, thin and sibilant. "Do you know the thoroughness with 
which Seldon covered his traces? The proceedings of the Seldon Convention would have been 
of no use to me at a as little as a month ago, before this strange insight came. Even now, it 
seems - tenuous. The papers put out by the Convention are often apparently unrelated; always 
obscure. More than once I wondered if the members of the Convention, themselves, knew all 
that was in Seldon's mind. Sometimes I think he used the Convention only as a gigantic front, 
and single-handed erected the structure-" 

"Of the Foundations?" urged Bayta. 

"Of the Second Foundation! Our Foundation was simple. But the Second Foundation was only 
a name. It was mentioned, but if there was any elaboration, it was hidden deep in the 
mathematics. There is still much I don't even begin to understand, but for seven days, the bits 
have been clumping together into a vague picture. 

"Foundation Number One was a world of physical scientists. It represented a concentration of 
the dying science of the Galaxy under the conditions necessary to make it live again. No 
psychologists were included. It was a peculiar distortion, and must have had a purpose. The 
usual explanation was that Seldon's psychohistory worked best where the individual working 
units - human beings - had no knowledge of what was coming, and could therefore react 
naturally to all situations. Do you follow me, my dear-" 


Yes, doctor. 



"Then listen carefully. Foundation Number Two was a world of mental scientists. It was the 
mirror image of our world. Psychology, not physics, was king." Triumphantly. "You see?" 

"I don't." 

"But think, Bayta, use your head. Hari Seldon knew that his psychohistory could predict only 
probabilities, and not certainties. There was always a margin of error, and as time passed that 
margin increases in geometric progression. Seldon would naturally guard as well as he could 
against it. Our Foundation was scientifically vigorous. It could conquer armies and weapons. It 
could pit force against force. But what of the mental attack of a mutant such as the Mule?" 

"That would be for the psychologists of the Second Foundation!" Bayta felt excitement rising 
within her. 

"Yes, yes, yes! Certainly!" 

"But they have done nothing so far." 

"Flow do you know they haven't?" 

Bayta considered that, "I don't. Do you have evidence that they have?" 

"No. There are many factors I know nothing of. The Second Foundation could not have been 
established full-grown, any more than we were. We developed slowly and grew in strength; 
they must have also. The stars know at what stage their strength is now. Are they strong 
enough to fight the Mule? Are they aware of the danger in the first place? Flave they capable 
leaders?" 

"But if they follow Seldon's plan, then the Mule must be beaten by the Second Foundation." 

"Ah," and Ebling Mis's thin face wrinkled thoughtfully, "is it that again? But the Second 
Foundation was a more difficult job than the First. Its complexity is hugely greater; and 
consequently so is its possibility of error. And if the Second Foundation should not beat the 
Mule, it is bad - ultimately bad. It is the end, may be, of the human race as we know it." 

"No. 

"Yes. If the Mule's descendants inherit his mental powers - You see? Flomo sapiens could not 
compete. There would be a new dominant race - a new aristocracy - with homo sapiens 
demoted to slave labor as an inferior race. Isn't that so?" 

"Yes, that is so." 

"And even if by some chance the Mule did not establish a dynasty, he would still establish a 
distorted new Empire upheld by his personal power only. It would die with his death; the Galaxy 
would be left where it was before he came, except that there would no longer be Foundations 
around which a real and healthy Second Empire could coalesce. It would mean thousands of 
years of barbarism. It would mean no end in sight." 


What can we do? Can we warn the Second Foundation? 



"We must, or they may go under through ignorance, which we can not risk. But there is no way 
of warning them." 

"No way?" 

"I don't know where they are located. They are 'at the other end of the Galaxy' but that is all, 
and there are millions of worlds to choose from." 

"But, Ebling, don't they say?" She pointed vaguely at the films that covered the table. 

"No, they don't. Not where I can find it - yet. The secrecy must mean something. There must 
be a reason-" A puzzled expression returned to his eyes. "But I wish you'd leave. I have 
wasted enough time, and it's growing short - it's growing short." 

He tore away, petulant and frowning. 

Magnifico's soft step approached. "Your husband is home, my lady." 

Ebling Mis did not greet the clown. He was back at his projector. 

That evening Toran, having listened, spoke, "And you think he's really right, Bay? You think he 
isn't-" He hesitated. 

"He is right, Torie. He's sick, I know that. The change that's come over him, the loss in weight, 
the way he speaks - he's sick. But as soon as the subject of the Mule or the Second 
Foundation, or anything he is working on, comes up, listen to him. He is lucid and clear as the 
sky of outer space. He knows what he's talking about. I believe him." 

"Then there's hope." It was half a question. 

"I ... I haven't worked it out. Maybe! Maybe not! I'm carrying a blaster from now on." The 
shiny-barreled weapon was in her hand as she spoke. "Just in case, Torie, just in case." 

"In case what?" 

Bayta laughed with a touch of hysteria, "Never mind. Maybe I'm a little crazy, too - like Ebling 
Mis." 

Ebling Mis at that time had seven days to live, and the seven days slipped by, one after the 
other, quietly. 

To Toran, there was a quality of stupor about them. The warming days and the dull silence 
covered him with lethargy. All life seemed to have lost its quality of action, and changed into an 
infinite sea of hibernation. 

Mis was a hidden entity whose burrowing work produced nothing and did not make itself 
known. He had barricaded himself. Neither Toran nor Bayta could see him. Only Magnifico's 
go-between characteristics were evidence of his existence. Magnifico, grown silent and 
thoughtful, with his tiptoed trays of food and his still, watchful witness in the gloom. 

Bayta was more and more a creature of herself. The vivacity died, the self-assured competence 
wavered. She, too, sought her own worried, absorbed company, and once Toran bad come 



upon her, fingering her blaster. She had put it away quickly, forced a smile. 

"What are you doing with it, Bay?" 

"Holding it. Is that a crime?" 

"You'll blow your fool head off." 

"Then I'll blow it off. Small loss!" 

Married life had taught Toran the futility of arguing with a female in a dark-brown mood. He 
shrugged, and left her. 

On the last day, Magnifico scampered breathless into their presence. He clutched at them, 
frightened. "The learned doctor calls for you. He is not well." 

And he wasn't well. He was in bed, his eyes unnaturally large, unnaturally bright. He was dirty, 
unrecognizable. 

"Ebling!" cried Bayta. 

"Let me speak," croaked the psychologist, lifting his weight to a thin elbow with an effort. "Let 
me speak. I am finished; the work I pass on to you. I have kept no notes; the scrap-figures I 
have destroyed. No other must know. All must remain in your minds." 

"Magnifico," said Bayta, with rough directness. "Go upstairs!" 

Reluctantly, the clown rose and took a backward step. His sad eyes were on Mis. 

Mis gestured weakly, "He won't matter; let him stay. Stay, Magnifico." 

The clown sat down quickly. Bayta gazed at the floor. 

Slowly, slowly, her lower lip caught in her teeth. 

Mis said, in a hoarse whisper, "I am convinced the Second Foundation can win, if it is not 
caught prematurely by the Mule. It has kept itself secret; the secrecy must be upheld; it has a 
purpose. You must go there; your information is vital ... may make all the difference. Do you 
hear me?" 

Toran cried in near-agony, "Yes, yes! Tell us how to get there, Ebling? Where is it?" 

"I can tell you," said the faint voice. 

He never did. 

Bayta, face frozen white, lifted her blaster and shot, with an echoing clap of noise. From the 
waist upward, Mis was not, and a ragged hole was in the wall behind. From numb fingers, 
Bayta's blaster dropped to the floor. 



26. END OF THE SEARCH 

There was not a word to be said. The echoes of the blast rolled away into the outer rooms and 
rumbled downward into a hoarse, dying whisper. Before its death, it had muffled the sharp 
clamor of Bayta's falling blaster, smothered Magnifico's high-pitched cry, drowned out Toran's 
inarticulate roar. 

There was a silence of agony. 

Bayta's head was bent into obscurity. A droplet caught the light as it fell. Bayta had never wept 
since her childhood. 

Toran's muscles almost cracked in their spasm, but he did not relax - he felt as if he would 
never unclench his teeth again. Magnifico's face was a faded, lifeless mask. 

Finally, from between teeth still tight, Toran choked out in an unrecognizable voice, "You're a 
Mule's woman, then. He got to you!" 

Bayta looked up, and her mouth twisted with a painful merriment, "/, a Mule's woman? That's 
ironic." 

She smiled - a brittle effort - and tossed her hair back. Slowly, her voice verged back to the 
normal, or something near it. "It's over, Toran; I can talk now. How much I will survive, I don't 
know. But I can start talking-" 

Toran's tension had broken of its own weight and faded into a flaccid dullness, "Talk about 
what, Bay? What's there to talk about?" 

"About the calamity that's followed us. We've remarked about it before, Torie. Don't you 
remember? How defeat has always bitten at our heels and never actually managed to nip us? 
We were on the Foundation, and it collapsed while the Independent Traders still fought - but 
we got out in time to go to Haven. We were on Haven, and it collapsed while the others still 
fought - and again we got out in time. We went to Neotrantor, and by now it's undoubtedly 
joined the Mule." 

Toran listened and shook his head, "I don't understand." 

"Torie, such things don't happen in real life. You and I are insignificant people; we don't fall from 
one vortex of politics into another continuously for the space of a year - unless we carry the 
vortex with us. Unless we carry the source of infection with us! Now do you see?" 

Toran's lips tightened. His glance fixed horribly upon the bloody remnants of what had once 
been a human, and his eyes sickened. 

"Let's get out of here, Bay. Let's get out into the open." 

It was cloudy outside. The wind scudded about them in drab spurts and disordered Bayta's hair. 
Magnifico had crept after them and now he hovered at the edge of their conversation. 

Toran said tightly, "You killed Ebling Mis because you believed him to be the focus of 



infection?" Something in her eyes struck him. He whispered, "He was the Mule?" He did not - 
could not - believe the implications of his own words. 

Bayta laughed sharply, "Poor Ebling the Mule? Galaxy, no! I couldn't have killed him if he were 
the Mule. He would have detected the emotion accompanying the move and changed it for me 
to love, devotion, adoration, terror, whatever he pleased. No, I killed Ebling because he was not 
the Mule. I killed him because he knew where the Second Foundation was, and in two seconds 
would have told the Mule the secret." 

"Would have told the Mule the secret," Toran repeated stupidly. "Told the Mule-" 

And then he emitted a sharp cry, and turned to stare in horror at the clown, who might have 
been crouching unconscious there for the apparent understanding he had of what he heard. 

"Not Magnifico?" Toran whispered the question. 

"Listen!" said Bayta. "Do you remember what happened on Neotrantor? Oh, think for yourself, 
Torie-" 

But he shook his head and mumbled at her. 

She went on, wearily, "A man died on Neotrantor. A man died with no one touching him. Isn't 
that true? Magnifico played on his Visi-Sonor and when he was finished, the crown prince was 
dead. Now isn't that strange? Isn't it queer that a creature afraid of everything, apparently 
helpless with terror, has the capacity to kill at will." 

"The music and the light-effects," said Toran, "have a profound emotional effect-" 

"Yes, an emotional effect. A pretty big one. Emotional effects happen to be the Mule's specialty. 
That, I suppose, can be considered a coincidence. And a creature who can kill by suggestion is 
so full of fright. Well, the Mule tampered with his mind, supposedly, so that can be explained. 
But, Toran, I caught a little of that Visi-Sonor selection that killed the crown prince. Just a little - 
but it was enough to give me that same feeling of despair I had in the Time Vault and on 
Haven. Toran, I can't mistake that particular feeling." 

Toran's face was darkening. "I ... felt it, too. I forgot. I never thought-" 

"It was then that it first occurred to me. It was just a vague feeling - intuition, if you like. I had 
nothing to go on. And then Pritcher told us of the Mule and his mutation, and it was clear in a 
moment. It was the Mule who had created the despair in the Time Vault; it was Magnifico who 
had created the despair on Neotrantor. It was the same emotion. Therefore, the Mule and 
Magnifico were the same person. Doesn't it work out nicely, Torie? Isn't it just like an axiom in 
geometry - things equal to the same thing are equal to each other?" 

She was at the edge of hysteria, but dragged herself back to sobriety by main force. She 
continued, "The discovery scared me to death. If Magnifico were the Mule, he could know my 
emotions - and cure them for his own purposes. I dared not let him know. I avoided him. 

Luckily, he avoided me also; he was too interested in Ebling Mis. I planned killing Mis before he 
could talk. I planned it secretly - as secretly as I could - so secretly I didn't dare tell it to myself. 



"If I could have killed the Mule himself - But I couldn't take the chance. He would have noticed, 
and I would have lost everything." 

She seemed drained of emotion. 

Toran said harshly and with finality, "It's impossible. Look at the miserable creature. He the 
Mule? He doesn't even hear what we're saying." 

But when his eyes followed his pointing finger, Magnifico was erect and alert, his eyes sharp 
and darkly bright. His voice was without a trace of an accent, "I hear her, my friend. It is merely 
that I have been sitting here and brooding on the fact that with all my cleverness and 
forethought I could make a mistake, and lose so much." 

Toran stumbled backward as if afraid the clown might touch him or that his breath might 
contaminate him. 

Magnifico nodded, and answered the unspoken question. "I am the Mule." 

He seemed no longer a grotesque; his pipestem limbs, his beak of a nose lost their 
humor-compelling qualities. His fear was gone; his bearing was firm. 

He was in command of the situation with an ease born of usage. 

He said, tolerantly, "Seat yourselves. Go ahead; you might as well sprawl out and make 
yourselves comfortable. The game's over, and I'd like to tell you a story. It's a weakness of 
mine - I want people to understand me." 

And his eyes as he looked at Bayta were still the old, soft sad brown ones of Magnifico, the 
clown. 

"There is nothing really to my childhood," he began, plunging bodily into quick, impatient 
speech, "that I care to remember. Perhaps you can understand that. My meagerness is 
glandular; my nose I was born with. It was not possible for me to lead a normal childhood. My 
mother died before she saw me. I do not know my father. I grew up haphazard, wounded and 
tortured in mind, full of self-pity and hatred of others. I was known then as a queer child. All 
avoided me; most out of dislike; some out of fear. Queer incidents occurred - Well, never mind! 
Enough happened to enable Captain Pritcher, in his investigation of my childhood to realize 
that I was a mutant, which was more than / ever realized until I was in my twenties." 

Toran and Bayta listened distantly. The wash of his voice broke over them, seated on the 
ground as they were, unheeded almost. The clown - or the Mule - paced before them with little 
steps, speaking downward to his own folded arms. 

"The whole notion of my unusual power seems to have broken on me so slowly, in such 
sluggish steps. Even toward the end, I couldn't believe it. To me, men's minds are dials, with 
pointers that indicate the prevailing emotion. It is a poor picture, but how else can I explain it? 
Slowly, I learned that I could reach into those minds and turn the pointer to the spot I wished, 
that I could nail it there forever. And then it took even longer to realize that others couldn't. 

"But the consciousness of power came, and with it, the desire to make up for the miserable 



position of my earlier life. Maybe you can understand it. Maybe you can try to understand it. It 
isn't easy to be a freak - to have a mind and an understanding and be a freak. Laughter and 
cruelty! To be different! To be an outsider! 

"You've never been through it!" 

Magnifico looked up to the sky and teetered on the balls of his feet and reminisced stonily, "But 
I eventually did learn, and I decided that the Galaxy and I could take turns. Come, they had had 
their innings, and I had been patient about it - for twenty-two years. My turn! It would be up to 
the rest of you to take it! And the odds would be fair enough for the Galaxy. One of me! 
Quadrillions of them!" 

He paused to glance at Bayta swiftly. "But I had a weakness. I was nothing in myself. If I could 
gain power, it could only be by means of others. Success came to me through middlemen. 
Always! It was as Pritcher said. Through a pirate, I obtained my first asteroidal base of 
operations. Through an industrialist I got my first foothold on a planet. Through a variety of 
others ending with the warlord of Kalgan, I won Kalgan itself and got a navy. After that, it was 
the Foundation - and you two come into the story. 

"The Foundation," he said, softly, "was the most difficult task I had met. To beat it, I would have 
to win over, break down, or render useless an extraordinary proportion of its ruling class. I 
could have done it from scratch - but a short cut was possible, and I looked for it. After all, if a 
strong man can lift five hundred pounds, it does not mean that he is eager to do so 
continuously. My emotional control is not an easy task, I prefer not to use it, where not fully 
necessary. So I accepted allies in my first attack upon the Foundation. 

"As my clown, I looked for the agent, or agents, of the Foundation that must inevitably have 
been sent to Kalgan to investigate my humble self. I know now it was Han Pritcher I was 
looking for. By a stroke of fortune, I found you instead. I am a telepath, but not a complete one, 
and, my lady, you were from the Foundation. I was led astray by that. It was not fatal for 
Pritcher joined us afterward, but it was the starting point of an error that was fatal." 

Toran stirred for the first time. He spoke in an outraged tone, "Hold on, now. You mean that 
when I outfaced that lieutenant on Kalgan with only a stun pistol, and rescued you - that you 
had emotionally-controlled me into it." He was spluttering. "You mean I've been tampered with 
all along." 

A thin smile played on Magnifico's face. "Why not? You don't think it's likely? Ask yourself then 
- Would you have risked death for a strange grotesque you had never seen before, if you had 
been in your right mind? I imagine you were surprised at events in cold after-blood." 

"Yes," said Bayta, distantly, "he was. It's quite plain." 

"As it was," continued the Mule, "Toran was in no danger. The lieutenant had his own strict 
instructions to let us go. So the three of us and Pritcher went to the Foundation - and see how 
my campaign shaped itself instantly. When Pritcher was court-martialed and we were present, I 
was busy. The military judges of that trial later commanded their squadrons in the war. They 
surrendered rather easily, and my Navy won the battle of Horleggor, and other lesser affairs. 



"Through Pritcher, I met Dr. Mis, who brought me a Visi-Sonor, entirely of his own accord, and 
simplified my task immensely. Only it wasn't entirely of his own accord." 

Bayta interrupted, "Those concerts! I've been trying to fit them in. Now I see." 

"Yes," said Magnifico, "the Visi-Sonor acts as a focusing device. In a way, it is a primitive 
device for emotional control in itself. With it, I can handle people in quantity and single people 
more intensively. The concerts I gave on Terminus before it fell and Haven before it fell 
contributed to the general defeatism. I might have made the crown prince of Neotrantor very 
sick without the Visi-Sonor, but I could not have killed him. You see? 

"But it was Ebling Mis who was my most important find. He might have been-" Magnifico said it 
with chagrin, then hurried on, "There is a special facet to emotional control you do not know 
about. Intuition or insight or hunch-tendency, whatever you wish to call it, can be treated as an 
emotion. At least, I can treat it so. You don't understand it, do you?" 

He waited for no negative, "The human mind works at low efficiency. Twenty percent is the 
figure usually given. When, momentarily, there is a flash of greater power it is termed a hunch, 
or insight, or intuition. I found early that I could induce a continual use of high brain-efficiency. It 
is a killing process for the person affected, but it is useful. The nuclear field-depressor which I 
used in the war against the Foundation was the result of high-pressuring a Kalgan technician. 
Again I work through others. 

"Ebling Mis was the bull's-eye. His potentialities were high, and I needed him. Even before my 
war with the Foundation had opened, I had already sent delegates to negotiate with the Empire. 
It was at that time I began my search for the Second Foundation. Naturally, I didn't find it. 
Naturally, I knew that I must find it - and Ebling Mis was the answer. With his mind at high 
efficiency, he might possibly have duplicated the work of Hari Seldon. 

"Partly, he did. I drove him to the utter limit. The process was ruthless, but had to be completed. 
He was dying at the end, but he lived-" Again, his chagrin interrupted him. "He would have 
lived long enough. Together, we three could have gone onward to the Second Foundation. It 
would have been the last battle - but for my mistake." 

Toran stirred his voice to hardness, "Why do you stretch it out so? What was your mistake, and 
... and have done with your speech." 

"Why, your wife was the mistake. Your wife was an unusual person. I had never met her like 
before in my life. I ... I-" Quite suddenly, Magnifico's voice broke. He recovered with difficulty. 
There was a grimness about him as he continued. "She liked me without my having to juggle 
her emotions. She was neither repelled by me nor amused by me. She liked me! 

"Don't you understand? Can't you see what that would mean to me? Never before had anyone 
- Well, I ... cherished that. My own emotions played me false, though I was master of all others. 
I stayed out of her mind, you see; I did not tamper with it. I cherished the natural feeling too 
greatly. It was my mistake - the first. 

"You, Toran, were under control. You never suspected me; never questioned me; never saw 
anything peculiar or strange about me. As for instance, when the 'Filian' ship stopped us. They 



knew our location, by the way, because I was in communication with them, as I've remained in 
communication with my generals at all times. When they stopped us, I was taken aboard to 
adjust Han Pritcher, who was on it as a prisoner. When I left, he was a colonel, a Mule's man, 
and in command. The whole procedure was too open even for you, Toran. Yet you accepted 
my explanation of the matter, which was full of fallacies. See what I mean?" 

Toran grimaced, and challenged him, "How did you retain communications with your generals?" 

"There was no difficulty to it. Hyperwave transmitters are easy to handle and eminently 
portable. Nor could I be detected in a real sense! Anyone who did catch me in the act would 
leave me with a slice gapped out of his memory. It happened, on occasion. 

"On Neotrantor, my own foolish emotions betrayed me again. Bayta was not under my control, 
but even so might never have suspected me if I had kept my head about the crown prince. His 
intentions towards Bayta - annoyed me. 

"I killed him. It was a foolish gesture. An unobtrusive flight would have served as well. 

"And still your suspicions would not have been certainties, if I had stopped Pritcher in his 
well-intentioned babbling, or paid less attention to Mis and more to you-" He shrugged. 

"That's the end of it?" asked Bayta. 

"That's the end." 

"What now, then?" 

"I'll continue with my program. That I'll find another as adequately brained and trained as Ebling 
Mis in these degenerate days, I doubt. I shall have to search for the Second Foundation 
otherwise. In a sense you have defeated me." 

And now Bayta was upon her feet, triumphant. "In a sense? Only in a sense? We have 
defeated you entirely! All your victories outside the Foundation count for nothing, since the 
Galaxy is a barbarian vacuum now. The Foundation itself is only a minor victory, since it wasn't 
meant to stop your variety of crisis. It's the Second Foundation you must beat - the Second 
Foundation - and it's the Second Foundation that will defeat you. Your only chance was to 
locate it and strike it before it was prepared. You won't do that now. Every minute from now on, 
they will be readier for you. At this moment, at this moment, the machinery may have started. 
You'll know - when it strikes you, and your short term of power will be over, and you'll be just 
another strutting conqueror, flashing quickly and meanly across the bloody face of history." 

She was breathing hard, nearly gasping in her vehemence, "And we've defeated you, Toran 
and I. I am satisfied to die." 

But the Mule's sad, brown eyes were the sad, brown, loving eyes of Magnifico. "I won't kill you 
or your husband. It is, after all, impossible for you two to hurt me further; and killing you won't 
bring back Ebling Mis. My mistakes were my own, and I take responsibility for them. Your 
husband and yourself may leave! Go in peace, for the sake of what I call - friendship." 

Then, with a sudden touch of pride, "And meanwhile I am still the Mule, the most powerful man 



in the Galaxy. I shall still defeat the Second Foundation." 

And Bayta shot her last arrow with a firm, calm certitude, "You won't! I have faith in the wisdom 
of Seldon yet. You shall be the last ruler of your dynasty, as well as the first." 

Something caught Magnifico. "Of my dynasty? Yes, I had thought of that, often. That I might 
establish a dynasty. That I might have a suitable consort." 

Bayta suddenly caught the meaning of the look in his eyes and froze horribly. 

Magnifico shook his head. "I sense your revulsion, but that's silly. If things were otherwise, I 
could make you happy very easily. It would be an artificial ecstasy, but there would be no 
difference between it and the genuine emotion. But things are not otherwise. I call myself the 
Mule - but not because of my strength - obviously-" 

He left them, never looking back. 




ASIMOV 


SECOND FOUNDATION 




SECOND FOUNDATION 
ISAAC ASIMOV 


Contents 

PROLOGUE 

PART I SEARCH BY THE MULE 

1 . TWO MEN AND THE MULE 

First Interlude 

2. TWO MEN WITHOUT THE MULE 

Second Interlude 

3. TWO MEN AND A PEASANT 

Third Interlude 

4. TWO MEN AND THE ELDERS 

Fourth Interlude 

5. ONE MAN AND THE MULE 

6. ONE MAN, THE MULE - AND ANOTHER 

Last Interlude 

PART II SEARCH BY THE FOUNDATION 

7. ARCADIA 

8. SELDON'S PLAN 

9. THE CONSPIRATORS 

10. APPROACHING CRISIS 

1 1 . STOWAWAY 

12. LORD 


13. LADY 


14. ANXIETY 

15. THROUGH THE GRID 

16. BEGINNING OF WAR 

1 7. WAR 

18. GHOST OF A WORLD 

19. END OF WAR 

20. "I KNOW..." 

21 . THE ANSWER THAT SATISFIED 

22. THE ANSWER THAT WAS TRUE 


Prologue 

The First Galactic Empire had endured for tens of thousands of years. It had included all the 
planets of the Galaxy in a centralized rule, sometimes tyrannical, sometimes benevolent, 
always orderly. Human beings had forgotten that any other form of existence could be. 

All except Hari Seldon. 

Hari Seldon was the last great scientist of the First Empire. It was he who brought the science 
of psycho-history to its full development. Psycho-history was the quintessence of sociology, it 
was the science of human behavior reduced to mathematical equations. 

The individual human being is unpredictable, but the reactions of human mobs, Seldon found, 
could be treated statistically. The larger the mob, the greater the accuracy that could be 
achieved. And the size of the human masses that Seldon worked with was no less than the 
population of the Galaxy which in his time was numbered in the quintillions. 

It was Seldon, then, who foresaw, against all common sense and popular belief, that the 
brilliant Empire which seemed so strong was in a state of irremediable decay and decline. He 
foresaw (or he solved his equations and interpreted its symbols, which amounts to the same 
thing) that left to itself, the Galaxy would pass through a thirty thousand year period of misery 
and anarchy before a unified government would rise once more. 

He set about to remedy the situation, to bring about a state of affairs that would restore peace 
and civilization in a single thousand of years. Carefully, he set up two colonies of scientists that 
he called "Foundations." With deliberate intention, he set them up "at opposite ends of the 
Galaxy." One Foundation was set up in the full daylight of publicity. The existence of the other, 


the Second Foundation, was drowned in silence. 

In Foundation (Gnome, 1951) and Foundation and Empire (Gnome, 1952) are told the first 
three centuries of the history of the First Foundation. It began as a small community of 
Encyclopedists lost in the emptiness of the outer periphery of the Galaxy. Periodically, it faced 
a crisis in which the variables of human intercourse, of the social and economic currents of the 
time constricted about it. Its freedom to move lay along only one certain line and when it moved 
in that direction, a new horizon of development opened before it. All had been planned by Hari 
Seldon, long dead now. 

The First Foundation, with its superior science, took over the barbarized planets that 
surrounded it. It faced the anarchic Warlords that broke away from the dying Empire and beat 
them. It faced the remnant of the Empire itself under its last strong Emperor and its last strong 
General and beat it. 

Then it faced something which Hari Seldon could not foresee, the overwhelming power of a 
single human being, a Mutant. The creature known as the Mule was born with the ability to 
mold men's emotions and to shape their minds. His bitterest opponents were made into his 
devoted servants. Armies could not, would not fight him. Before him, the First Foundation fell 
and Seldon's schemes lay partly in ruins. 

There was left the mysterious Second Foundation, the goal of all searches. The Mule must find 
it to make his conquest of the Galaxy complete. The faithful of what was left of the First 
Foundation must find it for quite another reason. But where was it? That no one knew. 

This, then, is the story of the search for the Second Foundation! 


PART I 

SEARCH BY THE MULE 


1 

Two Men and the Mule 

THE MULE It was after the fall of the First Foundation that the constructive aspects of the 
Mule's regime took shape. After the definite break-up at the first Galactic Empire, it was he who 
first presented history with a unified volume at space truly imperial in scope. The earlier 
commercial empire at the fallen Foundation had been diverse and loosely knit, despite the 
impalpable backing at the predictions of psycho-history. It was not to be compared with the 
tightly controlled 'Union of Worlds' under the Mule, comprising as it did, one-tenth the volume of 





the Galaxy and one-fifteenth of its population. Particularly during the era of the so-called 
Search.... 

ENCYCLOPEDIA GALACTICA * 

* All quotations from the Encyclopedia Galactica here reproduced are taken from the 1 1 6th 
Edition published in 1020 F.E. by the Encyclopedia Galactica Publishing Co., Terminus, with 
permission of the publishers. 

There is much more that the Encyclopedia has to say on the subject of the Mule and his Empire 
but almost all of it is not germane to the issue at immediate hand, and most of it is considerably 
too dry for our purposes in any case. Mainly, the article concerns itself at this point with the 
economic conditions that led to the rise of the "First Citizen of the Union" - the Mule's official 
title - and with the economic consequences thereof. 

If, at any time, the writer of the article is mildly astonished at the colossal haste with which the 
Mule rose from nothing to vast dominion in five years, he conceals it. If he is further surprised at 
the sudden cessation of expansion in favor of a five-year consolidation of territory, he hides the 
fact. 

We therefore abandon the Encyclopedia and continue on our own path for our own purposes 
and take up the history of the Great Interregnum - between the First and Second Galactic 
Empires - at the end of that five years of consolidation. 

Politically, the Union is quiet. Economically, it is prosperous. Few would care to exchange the 
peace of the Mule's steady grip for the chaos that had preceded, On the worlds that five years 
previously had known the Foundation, there might be a nostalgic regret, but no more. The 
Foundation's leaders were dead, where useless; and Converted, where useful. 

And of the Converted, the most useful was Flan Pritcher, now lieutenant general. 

In the days of the Foundation, Flan Pritcher had been a captain and a member of the 
underground Democratic Opposition. When the Foundation fell to the Mule without a fight, 
Pritcher fought the Mule. Until, that is, he was Converted. 

The Conversion was not the ordinary one brought on by the power of superior reason. Flan 
Pritcher know that well enough. Fie had been changed because the Mule was a mutant with 
mental powers quite capable of adjusting the conditions of ordinary humans to suit himself. But 
that satisfied him completely. That was as it should be. The very contentment with the 
Conversion was a prime symptom of it, but Flan Pritcher was no longer even curious about the 
matter. 

And now that he was returning from his fifth major expedition into the boundlessness of the 
Galaxy outside the Union, it was with something approaching artless joy that the veteran 
spaceman and Intelligence agent considered his approaching audience with the "First Citizen." 
FHis hard face, gouged out of a dark, grainless wood that did not seem to be capable of smiling 
without cracking, didn't show it - but the outward indications were unnecessary. The Mule could 
see the emotions within, down to the smallest, much as an ordinary man could see the twitch of 
an eyebrow. 



Pritcher left his air car at the old vice-regal hangars and entered the palace grounds on foot as 
was required. He walked one mile along the arrowed highway - which was empty and silent. 
Pritcher knew that over the square miles of Palace grounds, there was not one guard, not one 
soldier, not one armed man. 

The Mule had need of no protection. 

The Mule was his own best, all-powerful protector. 

Pritcher's footsteps beat softly in his own cars, as the palace reared its gleaming, incredibly 
light and incredibly strong metallic walls before him in the daring, overblown, near-hectic arches 
that characterized the architecture of the Late Empire. It brooded strongly over the empty 
grounds, over the crowded city on the horizon. 

Within the palace was that one man - by himself - on whose inhuman mental attributes 
depended the new aristocracy, and the whole structure of the Union. 

The huge, smooth door swung massively open at the general's approach, and he entered. He 
stepped on to the wide, sweeping ramp that moved upward under him. He rose swiftly in the 
noiseless elevator. He stood before the small plain door of the Mule's own room in the highest 
glitter of the palace spires. 

It opened- 

Bail Channis was young, and Bail Channis was Unconverted. That is, in plainer language, his 
emotional make-up had been unadjusted by the Mule. It remained exactly as it had been 
formed by the original shape of its heredity and the subsequent modifications of his 
environment. And that satisfied him, too. 

At not quite thirty, he was in marvelously good odor in the capital. He was handsome and 
quick-witted - therefore successful in society. He was intelligent and self-possessed - therefore 
successful with the Mule. And he was thoroughly pleased at both successes. 

And now, for the first time, the Mule had summoned him to personal audience. 

His legs carried him down the long, glittering highway that led tautly to the sponge-aluminum 
spires that had been once the residence of the viceroy of Kalgan, who ruled under the old 
emperors; and that had been later the residence of the independent Princes of Kalgan, who 
ruled in their own name; and that was now the residence of the First Citizen of the Union, who 
ruled over an empire of his own. 

Channis hummed softly to himself. He did not doubt what this was all about. The Second 
Foundation, naturally! That all-embracing bogey, the mere consideration of which had thrown 
the Mule back from his policy of limitless expansion into static caution. The official term was - 
"consolidation." 

Now there were rumors - you couldn't stop rumors. The Mule was to begin the offensive once 
more. The Mule had discovered the whereabouts of the Second Foundation, and would attack 
The Mule had come to an agreement with the Second Foundation and divided the Galaxy. The 
Mule had decided the Second Foundation did not exist and would take over all the Galaxy. 



No use listing all the varieties one heard in the anterooms. It was not even the first time such 
rumors had circulated. But now they seemed to have more body in them, and all the free, 
expansive Souls Who thrived on war, military adventure, and political chaos and withered in 
times of stability and stagnant peace were joyful. 

Bail Channis was one of these. He did not fear the mysterious Second Foundation. For that 
matter, he did not fear the Mule, and boasted of it. Some, perhaps, who disapproved of one at 
once so young and so well-off, waited darkly for the reckoning with the gay ladies' man who 
employed his wit openly at the expense of the Mule's physical appearance and sequestered 
life. None dared join him and few dared laugh, but when nothing happened to him, his 
reputation rose accordingly. 

Channis was improvising words to the tune he was humming. Nonsense words with the 
recurrent refrain: "Second Foundation threatens the Nation and all of Creation." 

He was at the palace. 

The huge, smooth door swung massively open at his approach and he entered. He stepped on 
to the wide, sweeping ramp that moved upward under him. He rose swiftly in the noiseless 
elevator. He stood before the small plain door of the Mule's own room in the highest glitter of 
the palace spires. 

It opened- 

The man who had no name other than the Mule, and no title other than First Citizen looked out 
through the one-way transparency of the wall to the light and lofty city on the horizon. 

In the darkening twilight, the stars were emerging, and not one but owed allegiance to him. 

He smiled with fleeting bitterness at the thought. The allegiance they owed was to a personality 
few had ever seen. 

He was not a man to look at, the Mule - not a man to look at without derision. Not more than 
one hundred and twenty pounds was stretched out into his five-foot-eight length. His limbs were 
bony stalks that jutted out of his scrawniness in graceless angularity. And his thin face was 
nearly drowned out in the prominence of a fleshy beak that thrust three inches outward. 

Only his eyes played false with the general farce that was the Mule. In their softness - a 
strange softness for the Galaxy's greatest conqueror - sadness was never entirely subdued. 

In the city was to be found all the gaiety of a luxurious capital on a luxurious world. He might 
have established his capital on the Foundation, the strongest of his now-conquered enemies, 
but it was far out on the very rim of the Galaxy. Kalgan, more centrally located, with a long 
tradition as aristocracy's playground, suited him better - strategically. 

But in its traditional gaiety, enhanced by unheard-of prosperity, he found no peace. 

They feared him and obeyed him and, perhaps, even respected him - from a goodly distance. 
But who could look at him without contempt? Only those he had Converted. And of what value 
was their artificial loyalty? It lacked flavor. He might have adopted titles, and enforced ritual and 



invented elaborations, but even that would have changed nothing. Better - or at least, no worse 

- to be simply the First Citizen - and to hide himself. 

There was a sudden surge of rebellion within him - strong and brutal. Not a portion of the 
Galaxy must be denied him, For five years he had remained silent and buried here on Kalgan 
because of the eternal, misty, space-ridden menace of the unseen, unheard, unknown Second 
Foundation. Fie was thirty-two. Not old - but he felt old. His body, whatever its mutant mental 
powers, was physically weak. 

Every star! Every star he could see - and every star he couldnt see. It must all be his! 

Revenge on all. On a humanity of which he wasn't a part. On a Galaxy in which he didn't fit. 

The cool, overhead warning light flickered. Fie could follow the progress of the man who had 
entered the palace, and simultaneously, as though his mutant sense had been enhanced and 
sensitized in the lonely twilight, he felt the wash of emotional content touch the fibers of his 
brain. 

Fie recognized the identity without an effort. It was Pritcher. 

Captain Pritcher of the one-time Foundation. The Captain Pritcher who had been ignored and 
passed over by the bureaucrats of that decaying government. The Captain Pritcher whose job 
as petty spy he had wiped out and whom he had lifted from its slime. The Captain Pritcher 
whom he had made first colonel and then general; whose scope of activity he had made 
Galaxywide. 

The now-General Pritcher who was, iron rebel though he began, completely loyal. And yet with 
all that, not loyal because of benefits gained, not loyal out of gratitude, not loyal as a fair return 

- but loyal only through the artifice of Conversion. 

The Mule was conscious of that strong unalterable surface layer of loyalty and love that colored 
every swirl and eddy of the emotionality of Flan Pritcher - the layer he had himself implanted 
five years before. Far underneath there were the original traces of stubborn individuality, 
impatience of rule, idealism - but even he, himself, could scarcely detect them any longer. 

The door behind him opened, and he turned. The transparency of the wall faded to opacity, and 
the purple evening light gave way to the whitely blazing glow of atomic power. 

Flan Pritcher took the seat indicated. There was neither bowing, nor kneeling nor the use of 
honorifics in private audiences with the Mule. The Mule was merely "First Citizen." Fie was 
addressed as "sir." You sat in his presence, and you could turn your back on him if it so 
happened that you did. 

To Flan Pritcher this was all evidence of the sure and confident power of the man. Fie was 
warmly satisfied with it. 

The Mule said: "Your final report reached me yesterday. I can't deny that I find it somewhat 
depressing, Pritcher." 

The general's eyebrows closed upon each other: "Yes, I imagine so - but I don't see to what 



other conclusions I could have come. There just isn't any Second Foundation, sir." 

Arid the Mule considered and then slowly shook his head, as he had done many a time before: 
"There's the evidence of Ebling Mis. There is always the evidence of Ebling Mis." 

It was not a new story. Pritcher said without qualification: "Mis may have been the greatest 
psychologist of the Foundation, but he was a baby compared to Hari Seldon. At the time he 
was investigating Seldon's works, he was under the artificial stimulation of your own brain 
control. You may have pushed him too far. Fie might have been wrong. Sir, he must have been 
wrong." 

The Mule sighed, his lugubrious face thrust forward on its thin stalk of a neck. "If only he had 
lived another minute. Fie was on the point of telling me where the Second Foundation was. Fie 
knew, I'm telling you. I need not have retreated. I need not have waited and waited. So much 
time lost. Five years gone for nothing." 

Pritcher could not have been censorious over the weak longing of his ruler; his controlled 
mental make-up forbade that. Fie was disturbed instead; vaguely uneasy. Fie said: "But what 
alternative explanation can there possibly be, sir? Five times I've gone out. You yourself have 
plotted the routes. And I've left no asteroid unturned. It was three hundred years ago that FHari 
Seldon of the old Empire supposedly established two Foundations to act as nuclei of a new 
Empire to replace the dying old one. One hundred years after Seldon, the First Foundation - 
the one we know so well - was known through all the Periphery. One hundred fifty years after 
Seldon - at the time of the last battle with the old Empire - it was known throughout the Galaxy. 
And now it's three hundred years - and where should this mysterious Second be? In no eddy of 
the Galactic stream has it been heard of." 

"Ebling Mis said it kept itself secret. Only secrecy can turn its weakness to strength." 

"Secrecy as deep as this is past possibility without nonexistence as well." 

The Mule looked up, large eyes sharp and wary. "No. It does exist." A bony finger pointed 
sharply. "There is going to be a slight change in tactics." 

Pritcher frowned. "You plan to leave yourself? I would scarcely advise it." 

"No, of course not. You will have to go out once again - one last time. But with another in joint 
command." 

There was a silence, and Pritcher's voice was hard, "Who, Sir?" 

"There's a young man here in Kalgan. Bail Channis." 

"I've never heard of him, Sir." 

"No, I imagine not. But he's got an agile mind, he's ambitious - and he's not Converted." 

Pritcher's long jaw trembled for a bare instant, "I fail to see the advantage in that." 

"There is one, Pritcher. You're a resourceful and experienced man. You have given me good 
service. But you are Converted. Your motivation is simply an enforced and helpless loyalty to 

-

Title: The Island of Doctor Moreau

Author: H. G. Wells

Release Date: October 14, 2004 [EBook #159]
[Last updated: May 26, 2012]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ISLAND OF DOCTOR MOREAU ***

 

This etext was created by Judith Boss, of Omaha, Nebraska, from the
Garden City Publishing Company, 1896 edition, and first posted in
August, 1994. Minor corrections made by Andrew Sly in October, 2004.

 

 

The Island of Doctor Moreau
by H. G. Wells
Contents

INTRODUCTION
I. IN THE DINGEY OF THE “LADY VAIN”
II. THE MAN WHO WAS GOING NOWHERE
III. THE STRANGE FACE
IV. AT THE SCHOONER'S RAIL
V. THE MAN WHO HAD NOWHERE TO GO
VI. THE EVIL-LOOKING BOATMEN
VII. THE LOCKED DOOR
VIII. THE CRYING OF THE PUMA
IX. THE THING IN THE FOREST
X. THE CRYING OF THE MAN
XI. THE HUNTING OF THE MAN
XII. THE SAYERS OF THE LAW
XIII. THE PARLEY
XIV. DOCTOR MOREAU EXPLAINS
XV. CONCERNING THE BEAST FOLK
XVI. HOW THE BEAST FOLK TASTE BLOOD
XVII. A CATASTROPHE
XVIII. THE FINDING OF MOREAU
XIX. MONTGOMERY'S BANK HOLIDAY
XX. ALONE WITH THE BEAST FOLK
XXI. THE REVERSION OF THE BEAST FOLK
XXII. THE MAN ALONE
INTRODUCTION.
ON February the First 1887, the Lady Vain was lost by collision with a derelict when about the latitude 1° S. and longitude 107° W.

On January the Fifth, 1888—that is eleven months and four days after—my uncle, Edward Prendick, a private gentleman, who certainly went aboard the Lady Vain at Callao, and who had been considered drowned, was picked up in latitude 5° 3′ S. and longitude 101° W. in a small open boat of which the name was illegible, but which is supposed to have belonged to the missing schooner Ipecacuanha. He gave such a strange account of himself that he was supposed demented. Subsequently he alleged that his mind was a blank from the moment of his escape from the Lady Vain. His case was discussed among psychologists at the time as a curious instance of the lapse of memory consequent upon physical and mental stress. The following narrative was found among his papers by the undersigned, his nephew and heir, but unaccompanied by any definite request for publication.

The only island known to exist in the region in which my uncle was picked up is Noble's Isle, a small volcanic islet and uninhabited. It was visited in 1891 by H. M. S. Scorpion. A party of sailors then landed, but found nothing living thereon except certain curious white moths, some hogs and rabbits, and some rather peculiar rats. So that this narrative is without confirmation in its most essential particular. With that understood, there seems no harm in putting this strange story before the public in accordance, as I believe, with my uncle's intentions. There is at least this much in its behalf: my uncle passed out of human knowledge about latitude 5° S. and longitude 105° E., and reappeared in the same part of the ocean after a space of eleven months. In some way he must have lived during the interval. And it seems that a schooner called the Ipecacuanha with a drunken captain, John Davies, did start from Africa with a puma and certain other animals aboard in January, 1887, that the vessel was well known at several ports in the South Pacific, and that it finally disappeared from those seas (with a considerable amount of copra aboard), sailing to its unknown fate from Bayna in December, 1887, a date that tallies entirely with my uncle's story.

CHARLES EDWARD PRENDICK.

(The Story written by Edward Prendick.)

I. IN THE DINGEY OF THE “LADY VAIN.”
I DO not propose to add anything to what has already been written concerning the loss of the Lady Vain. As everyone knows, she collided with a derelict when ten days out from Callao. The longboat, with seven of the crew, was picked up eighteen days after by H. M. gunboat Myrtle, and the story of their terrible privations has become quite as well known as the far more horrible Medusa case. But I have to add to the published story of the Lady Vain another, possibly as horrible and far stranger. It has hitherto been supposed that the four men who were in the dingey perished, but this is incorrect. I have the best of evidence for this assertion: I was one of the four men.

But in the first place I must state that there never were four men in the dingey,—the number was three. Constans, who was “seen by the captain to jump into the gig,”{1} luckily for us and unluckily for himself did not reach us. He came down out of the tangle of ropes under the stays of the smashed bowsprit, some small rope caught his heel as he let go, and he hung for a moment head downward, and then fell and struck a block or spar floating in the water. We pulled towards him, but he never came up.

{1} Daily News, March 17, 1887.

I say luckily for us he did not reach us, and I might almost say luckily for himself; for we had only a small beaker of water and some soddened ship's biscuits with us, so sudden had been the alarm, so unprepared the ship for any disaster. We thought the people on the launch would be better provisioned (though it seems they were not), and we tried to hail them. They could not have heard us, and the next morning when the drizzle cleared,—which was not until past midday,—we could see nothing of them. We could not stand up to look about us, because of the pitching of the boat. The two other men who had escaped so far with me were a man named Helmar, a passenger like myself, and a seaman whose name I don't know,—a short sturdy man, with a stammer.

We drifted famishing, and, after our water had come to an end, tormented by an intolerable thirst, for eight days altogether. After the second day the sea subsided slowly to a glassy calm. It is quite impossible for the ordinary reader to imagine those eight days. He has not, luckily for himself, anything in his memory to imagine with. After the first day we said little to one another, and lay in our places in the boat and stared at the horizon, or watched, with eyes that grew larger and more haggard every day, the misery and weakness gaining upon our companions. The sun became pitiless. The water ended on the fourth day, and we were already thinking strange things and saying them with our eyes; but it was, I think, the sixth before Helmar gave voice to the thing we had all been thinking. I remember our voices were dry and thin, so that we bent towards one another and spared our words. I stood out against it with all my might, was rather for scuttling the boat and perishing together among the sharks that followed us; but when Helmar said that if his proposal was accepted we should have drink, the sailor came round to him.

I would not draw lots however, and in the night the sailor whispered to Helmar again and again, and I sat in the bows with my clasp-knife in my hand, though I doubt if I had the stuff in me to fight; and in the morning I agreed to Helmar's proposal, and we handed halfpence to find the odd man. The lot fell upon the sailor; but he was the strongest of us and would not abide by it, and attacked Helmar with his hands. They grappled together and almost stood up. I crawled along the boat to them, intending to help Helmar by grasping the sailor's leg; but the sailor stumbled with the swaying of the boat, and the two fell upon the gunwale and rolled overboard together. They sank like stones. I remember laughing at that, and wondering why I laughed. The laugh caught me suddenly like a thing from without.

I lay across one of the thwarts for I know not how long, thinking that if I had the strength I would drink sea-water and madden myself to die quickly. And even as I lay there I saw, with no more interest than if it had been a picture, a sail come up towards me over the sky-line. My mind must have been wandering, and yet I remember all that happened, quite distinctly. I remember how my head swayed with the seas, and the horizon with the sail above it danced up and down; but I also remember as distinctly that I had a persuasion that I was dead, and that I thought what a jest it was that they should come too late by such a little to catch me in my body.

For an endless period, as it seemed to me, I lay with my head on the thwart watching the schooner (she was a little ship, schooner-rigged fore and aft) come up out of the sea. She kept tacking to and fro in a widening compass, for she was sailing dead into the wind. It never entered my head to attempt to attract attention, and I do not remember anything distinctly after the sight of her side until I found myself in a little cabin aft. There's a dim half-memory of being lifted up to the gangway, and of a big round countenance covered with freckles and surrounded with red hair staring at me over the bulwarks. I also had a disconnected impression of a dark face, with extraordinary eyes, close to mine; but that I thought was a nightmare, until I met it again. I fancy I recollect some stuff being poured in between my teeth; and that is all.

II. THE MAN WHO WAS GOING NOWHERE.
THE cabin in which I found myself was small and rather untidy. A youngish man with flaxen hair, a bristly straw-coloured moustache, and a dropping nether lip, was sitting and holding my wrist. For a minute we stared at each other without speaking. He had watery grey eyes, oddly void of expression. Then just overhead came a sound like an iron bedstead being knocked about, and the low angry growling of some large animal. At the same time the man spoke. He repeated his question,—“How do you feel now?”

I think I said I felt all right. I could not recollect how I had got there. He must have seen the question in my face, for my voice was inaccessible to me.

“You were picked up in a boat, starving. The name on the boat was the Lady Vain, and there were spots of blood on the gunwale.”

At the same time my eye caught my hand, so thin that it looked like a dirty skin-purse full of loose bones, and all the business of the boat came back to me.

“Have some of this,” said he, and gave me a dose of some scarlet stuff, iced.

It tasted like blood, and made me feel stronger.

“You were in luck,” said he, “to get picked up by a ship with a medical man aboard.” He spoke with a slobbering articulation, with the ghost of a lisp.

“What ship is this?” I said slowly, hoarse from my long silence.

“It's a little trader from Arica and Callao. I never asked where she came from in the beginning,—out of the land of born fools, I guess. I'm a passenger myself, from Arica. The silly ass who owns her,—he's captain too, named Davies,—he's lost his certificate, or something. You know the kind of man,—calls the thing the Ipecacuanha, of all silly, infernal names; though when there's much of a sea without any wind, she certainly acts according.”

(Then the noise overhead began again, a snarling growl and the voice of a human being together. Then another voice, telling some “Heaven-forsaken idiot” to desist.)

“You were nearly dead,” said my interlocutor. “It was a very near thing, indeed. But I've put some stuff into you now. Notice your arm's sore? Injections. You've been insensible for nearly thirty hours.”

I thought slowly. (I was distracted now by the yelping of a number of dogs.) “Am I eligible for solid food?” I asked.

“Thanks to me,” he said. “Even now the mutton is boiling.”

“Yes,” I said with assurance; “I could eat some mutton.”

“But,” said he with a momentary hesitation, “you know I'm dying to hear of how you came to be alone in that boat. Damn that howling!” I thought I detected a certain suspicion in his eyes.

He suddenly left the cabin, and I heard him in violent controversy with some one, who seemed to me to talk gibberish in response to him. The matter sounded as though it ended in blows, but in that I thought my ears were mistaken. Then he shouted at the dogs, and returned to the cabin.

“Well?” said he in the doorway. “You were just beginning to tell me.”

I told him my name, Edward Prendick, and how I had taken to Natural History as a relief from the dulness of my comfortable independence.

He seemed interested in this. “I've done some science myself. I did my Biology at University College,—getting out the ovary of the earthworm and the radula of the snail, and all that. Lord! It's ten years ago. But go on! go on! tell me about the boat.”

He was evidently satisfied with the frankness of my story, which I told in concise sentences enough, for I felt horribly weak; and when it was finished he reverted at once to the topic of Natural History and his own biological studies. He began to question me closely about Tottenham Court Road and Gower Street. “Is Caplatzi still flourishing? What a shop that was!” He had evidently been a very ordinary medical student, and drifted incontinently to the topic of the music halls. He told me some anecdotes.

“Left it all,” he said, “ten years ago. How jolly it all used to be! But I made a young ass of myself,—played myself out before I was twenty-one. I daresay it's all different now. But I must look up that ass of a cook, and see what he's done to your mutton.”

The growling overhead was renewed, so suddenly and with so much savage anger that it startled me. “What's that?” I called after him, but the door had closed. He came back again with the boiled mutton, and I was so excited by the appetising smell of it that I forgot the noise of the beast that had troubled me.

After a day of alternate sleep and feeding I was so far recovered as to be able to get from my bunk to the scuttle, and see the green seas trying to keep pace with us. I judged the schooner was running before the wind. Montgomery—that was the name of the flaxen-haired man—came in again as I stood there, and I asked him for some clothes. He lent me some duck things of his own, for those I had worn in the boat had been thrown overboard. They were rather loose for me, for he was large and long in his limbs. He told me casually that the captain was three-parts drunk in his own cabin. As I assumed the clothes, I began asking him some questions about the destination of the ship. He said the ship was bound to Hawaii, but that it had to land him first.

“Where?” said I.

“It's an island, where I live. So far as I know, it hasn't got a name.”

He stared at me with his nether lip dropping, and looked so wilfully stupid of a sudden that it came into my head that he desired to avoid my questions. I had the discretion to ask no more.

III. THE STRANGE FACE.
WE left the cabin and found a man at the companion obstructing our way. He was standing on the ladder with his back to us, peering over the combing of the hatchway. He was, I could see, a misshapen man, short, broad, and clumsy, with a crooked back, a hairy neck, and a head sunk between his shoulders. He was dressed in dark-blue serge, and had peculiarly thick, coarse, black hair. I heard the unseen dogs growl furiously, and forthwith he ducked back,—coming into contact with the hand I put out to fend him off from myself. He turned with animal swiftness.

In some indefinable way the black face thus flashed upon me shocked me profoundly. It was a singularly deformed one. The facial part projected, forming something dimly suggestive of a muzzle, and the huge half-open mouth showed as big white teeth as I had ever seen in a human mouth. His eyes were blood-shot at the edges, with scarcely a rim of white round the hazel pupils. There was a curious glow of excitement in his face.

“Confound you!” said Montgomery. “Why the devil don't you get out of the way?”

The black-faced man started aside without a word. I went on up the companion, staring at him instinctively as I did so. Montgomery stayed at the foot for a moment. “You have no business here, you know,” he said in a deliberate tone. “Your place is forward.”

The black-faced man cowered. “They—won't have me forward.” He spoke slowly, with a queer, hoarse quality in his voice.

“Won't have you forward!” said Montgomery, in a menacing voice. “But I tell you to go!” He was on the brink of saying something further, then looked up at me suddenly and followed me up the ladder.

I had paused half way through the hatchway, looking back, still astonished beyond measure at the grotesque ugliness of this black-faced creature. I had never beheld such a repulsive and extraordinary face before, and yet—if the contradiction is credible—I experienced at the same time an odd feeling that in some way I had already encountered exactly the features and gestures that now amazed me. Afterwards it occurred to me that probably I had seen him as I was lifted aboard; and yet that scarcely satisfied my suspicion of a previous acquaintance. Yet how one could have set eyes on so singular a face and yet have forgotten the precise occasion, passed my imagination.

Montgomery's movement to follow me released my attention, and I turned and looked about me at the flush deck of the little schooner. I was already half prepared by the sounds I had heard for what I saw. Certainly I never beheld a deck so dirty. It was littered with scraps of carrot, shreds of green stuff, and indescribable filth. Fastened by chains to the mainmast were a number of grisly staghounds, who now began leaping and barking at me, and by the mizzen a huge puma was cramped in a little iron cage far too small even to give it turning room. Farther under the starboard bulwark were some big hutches containing a number of rabbits, and a solitary llama was squeezed in a mere box of a cage forward. The dogs were muzzled by leather straps. The only human being on deck was a gaunt and silent sailor at the wheel.

The patched and dirty spankers were tense before the wind, and up aloft the little ship seemed carrying every sail she had. The sky was clear, the sun midway down the western sky; long waves, capped by the breeze with froth, were running with us. We went past the steersman to the taffrail, and saw the water come foaming under the stern and the bubbles go dancing and vanishing in her wake. I turned and surveyed the unsavoury length of the ship.

“Is this an ocean menagerie?” said I.

“Looks like it,” said Montgomery.

“What are these beasts for? Merchandise, curios? Does the captain think he is going to sell them somewhere in the South Seas?”

“It looks like it, doesn't it?” said Montgomery, and turned towards the wake again.

Suddenly we heard a yelp and a volley of furious blasphemy from the companion hatchway, and the deformed man with the black face came up hurriedly. He was immediately followed by a heavy red-haired man in a white cap. At the sight of the former the staghounds, who had all tired of barking at me by this time, became furiously excited, howling and leaping against their chains. The black hesitated before them, and this gave the red-haired man time to come up with him and deliver a tremendous blow between the shoulder-blades. The poor devil went down like a felled ox, and rolled in the dirt among the furiously excited dogs. It was lucky for him that they were muzzled. The red-haired man gave a yawp of exultation and stood staggering, and as it seemed to me in serious danger of either going backwards down the companion hatchway or forwards upon his victim.

So soon as the second man had appeared, Montgomery had started forward. “Steady on there!” he cried, in a tone of remonstrance. A couple of sailors appeared on the forecastle. The black-faced man, howling in a singular voice rolled about under the feet of the dogs. No one attempted to help him. The brutes did their best to worry him, butting their muzzles at him. There was a quick dance of their lithe grey-figured bodies over the clumsy, prostrate figure. The sailors forward shouted, as though it was admirable sport. Montgomery gave an angry exclamation, and went striding down the deck, and I followed him. The black-faced man scrambled up and staggered forward, going and leaning over the bulwark by the main shrouds, where he remained, panting and glaring over his shoulder at the dogs. The red-haired man laughed a satisfied laugh.

“Look here, Captain,” said Montgomery, with his lisp a little accentuated, gripping the elbows of the red-haired man, “this won't do!”

I stood behind Montgomery. The captain came half round, and regarded him with the dull and solemn eyes of a drunken man. “Wha' won't do?” he said, and added, after looking sleepily into Montgomery's face for a minute, “Blasted Sawbones!”

With a sudden movement he shook his arms free, and after two ineffectual attempts stuck his freckled fists into his side pockets.

“That man's a passenger,” said Montgomery. “I'd advise you to keep your hands off him.”

“Go to hell!” said the captain, loudly. He suddenly turned and staggered towards the side. “Do what I like on my own ship,” he said.

I think Montgomery might have left him then, seeing the brute was drunk; but he only turned a shade paler, and followed the captain to the bulwarks.

“Look you here, Captain,” he said; “that man of mine is not to be ill-treated. He has been hazed ever since he came aboard.”

For a minute, alcoholic fumes kept the captain speechless. “Blasted Sawbones!” was all he considered necessary.

I could see that Montgomery had one of those slow, pertinacious tempers that will warm day after day to a white heat, and never again cool to forgiveness; and I saw too that this quarrel had been some time growing. “The man's drunk,” said I, perhaps officiously; “you'll do no good.”

Montgomery gave an ugly twist to his dropping lip. “He's always drunk. Do you think that excuses his assaulting his passengers?”

“My ship,” began the captain, waving his hand unsteadily towards the cages, “was a clean ship. Look at it now!” It was certainly anything but clean. “Crew,” continued the captain, “clean, respectable crew.”

“You agreed to take the beasts.”

“I wish I'd never set eyes on your infernal island. What the devil—want beasts for on an island like that? Then, that man of yours—understood he was a man. He's a lunatic; and he hadn't no business aft. Do you think the whole damned ship belongs to you?”

“Your sailors began to haze the poor devil as soon as he came aboard.”

“That's just what he is—he's a devil! an ugly devil! My men can't stand him. I can't stand him. None of us can't stand him. Nor you either!”

Montgomery turned away. “You leave that man alone, anyhow,” he said, nodding his head as he spoke.

But the captain meant to quarrel now. He raised his voice. “If he comes this end of the ship again I'll cut his insides out, I tell you. Cut out his blasted insides! Who are you, to tell me what I'm to do? I tell you I'm captain of this ship,—captain and owner. I'm the law here, I tell you,—the law and the prophets. I bargained to take a man and his attendant to and from Arica, and bring back some animals. I never bargained to carry a mad devil and a silly Sawbones, a—”

Well, never mind what he called Montgomery. I saw the latter take a step forward, and interposed. “He's drunk,” said I. The captain began some abuse even fouler than the last. “Shut up!” I said, turning on him sharply, for I had seen danger in Montgomery's white face. With that I brought the downpour on myself.

However, I was glad to avert what was uncommonly near a scuffle, even at the price of the captain's drunken ill-will. I do not think I have ever heard quite so much vile language come in a continuous stream from any man's lips before, though I have frequented eccentric company enough. I found some of it hard to endure, though I am a mild-tempered man; but, certainly, when I told the captain to “shut up” I had forgotten that I was merely a bit of human flotsam, cut off from my resources and with my fare unpaid; a mere casual dependant on the bounty, or speculative enterprise, of the ship. He reminded me of it with considerable vigour; but at any rate I prevented a fight.

IV. AT THE SCHOONER'S RAIL.
THAT night land was sighted after sundown, and the schooner hove to. Montgomery intimated that was his destination. It was too far to see any details; it seemed to me then simply a low-lying patch of dim blue in the uncertain blue-grey sea. An almost vertical streak of smoke went up from it into the sky. The captain was not on deck when it was sighted. After he had vented his wrath on me he had staggered below, and I understand he went to sleep on the floor of his own cabin. The mate practically assumed the command. He was the gaunt, taciturn individual we had seen at the wheel. Apparently he was in an evil temper with Montgomery. He took not the slightest notice of either of us. We dined with him in a sulky silence, after a few ineffectual efforts on my part to talk. It struck me too that the men regarded my companion and his animals in a singularly unfriendly manner. I found Montgomery very reticent about his purpose with these creatures, and about his destination; and though I was sensible of a growing curiosity as to both, I did not press him.

We remained talking on the quarter deck until the sky was thick with stars. Except for an occasional sound in the yellow-lit forecastle and a movement of the animals now and then, the night was very still. The puma lay crouched together, watching us with shining eyes, a black heap in the corner of its cage. Montgomery produced some cigars. He talked to me of London in a tone of half-painful reminiscence, asking all kinds of questions about changes that had taken place. He spoke like a man who had loved his life there, and had been suddenly and irrevocably cut off from it. I gossiped as well as I could of this and that. All the time the strangeness of him was shaping itself in my mind; and as I talked I peered at his odd, pallid face in the dim light of the binnacle lantern behind me. Then I looked out at the darkling sea, where in the dimness his little island was hidden.

This man, it seemed to me, had come out of Immensity merely to save my life. To-morrow he would drop over the side, and vanish again out of my existence. Even had it been under commonplace circumstances, it would have made me a trifle thoughtful; but in the first place was the singularity of an educated man living on this unknown little island, and coupled with that the extraordinary nature of his luggage. I found myself repeating the captain's question. What did he want with the beasts? Why, too, had he pretended they were not his when I had remarked about them at first? Then, again, in his personal attendant there was a bizarre quality which had impressed me profoundly. These circumstances threw a haze of mystery round the man. They laid hold of my imagination, and hampered my tongue.

Towards midnight our talk of London died away, and we stood side by side leaning over the bulwarks and staring dreamily over the silent, starlit sea, each pursuing his own thoughts. It was the atmosphere for sentiment, and I began upon my gratitude.

“If I may say it,” said I, after a time, “you have saved my life.”

“Chance,” he answered. “Just chance.”

“I prefer to make my thanks to the accessible agent.”

“Thank no one. You had the need, and I had the knowledge; and I injected and fed you much as I might have collected a specimen. I was bored and wanted something to do. If I'd been jaded that day, or hadn't liked your face, well—it's a curious question where you would have been now!”

This damped my mood a little. “At any rate,” I began.

“It's a chance, I tell you,” he interrupted, “as everything is in a man's life. Only the asses won't see it! Why am I here now, an outcast from civilisation, instead of being a happy man enjoying all the pleasures of London? Simply because eleven years ago—I lost my head for ten minutes on a foggy night.”

He stopped. “Yes?” said I.

“That's all.”

We relapsed into silence. Presently he laughed. “There's something in this starlight that loosens one's tongue. I'm an ass, and yet somehow I would like to tell you.”

“Whatever you tell me, you may rely upon my keeping to myself—if that's it.”

He was on the point of beginning, and then shook his head, doubtfully.

“Don't,” said I. “It is all the same to me. After all, it is better to keep your secret. There's nothing gained but a little relief if I respect your confidence. If I don't—well?”

He grunted undecidedly. I felt I had him at a disadvantage, had caught him in the mood of indiscretion; and to tell the truth I was not curious to learn what might have driven a young medical student out of London. I have an imagination. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. Over the taffrail leant a silent black figure, watching the stars. It was Montgomery's strange attendant. It looked over its shoulder quickly with my movement, then looked away again.

It may seem a little thing to you, perhaps, but it came like a sudden blow to me. The only light near us was a lantern at the wheel. The creature's face was turned for one brief instant out of the dimness of the stern towards this illumination, and I saw that the eyes that glanced at me shone with a pale-green light. I did not know then that a reddish luminosity, at least, is not uncommon in human eyes. The thing came to me as stark inhumanity. That black figure with its eyes of fire struck down through all my adult thoughts and feelings, and for a moment the forgotten horrors of childhood came back to my mind. Then the effect passed as it had come. An uncouth black figure of a man, a figure of no particular import, hung over the taffrail against the starlight, and I found Montgomery was speaking to me.

“I'm thinking of turning in, then,” said he, “if you've had enough of this.”

I answered him incongruously. We went below, and he wished me good-night at the door of my cabin.

That night I had some very unpleasant dreams. The waning moon rose late. Its light struck a ghostly white beam across my cabin, and made an ominous shape on the planking by my bunk. Then the staghounds woke, and began howling and baying; so that I dreamt fitfully, and scarcely slept until the approach of dawn.

V. THE MAN WHO HAD NOWHERE TO GO.
IN the early morning (it was the second morning after my recovery, and I believe the fourth after I was picked up), I awoke through an avenue of tumultuous dreams,—dreams of guns and howling mobs,—and became sensible of a hoarse shouting above me. I rubbed my eyes and lay listening to the noise, doubtful for a little while of my whereabouts. Then came a sudden pattering of bare feet, the sound of heavy objects being thrown about, a violent creaking and the rattling of chains. I heard the swish of the water as the ship was suddenly brought round, and a foamy yellow-green wave flew across the little round window and left it streaming. I jumped into my clothes and went on deck.

As I came up the ladder I saw against the flushed sky—for the sun was just rising—the broad back and red hair of the captain, and over his shoulder the puma spinning from a tackle rigged on to the mizzen spanker-boom.

The poor brute seemed horribly scared, and crouched in the bottom of its little cage.

“Overboard with 'em!” bawled the captain. “Overboard with 'em! We'll have a clean ship soon of the whole bilin' of 'em.”

He stood in my way, so that I had perforce to tap his shoulder to come on deck. He came round with a start, and staggered back a few paces to stare at me. It needed no expert eye to tell that the man was still drunk.

“Hullo!” said he, stupidly; and then with a light coming into his eyes, “Why, it's Mister—Mister?”

“Prendick,” said I.

“Prendick be damned!” said he. “Shut-up,—that's your name. Mister Shut-up.”

It was no good answering the brute; but I certainly did not expect his next move. He held out his hand to the gangway by which Montgomery stood talking to a massive grey-haired man in dirty-blue flannels, who had apparently just come aboard.

“That way, Mister Blasted Shut-up! that way!” roared the captain.

Montgomery and his companion turned as he spoke.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“That way, Mister Blasted Shut-up,—that's what I mean! Overboard, Mister Shut-up,—and sharp! We're cleaning the ship out,—cleaning the whole blessed ship out; and overboard you go!”

I stared at him dumfounded. Then it occurred to me that it was exactly the thing I wanted. The lost prospect of a journey as sole passenger with this quarrelsome sot was not one to mourn over. I turned towards Montgomery.

“Can't have you,” said Montgomery's companion, concisely.

“You can't have me!” said I, aghast. He had the squarest and most resolute face I ever set eyes upon.

“Look here,” I began, turning to the captain.

“Overboard!” said the captain. “This ship aint for beasts and cannibals and worse than beasts, any more. Overboard you go, Mister Shut-up. If they can't have you, you goes overboard. But, anyhow, you go—with your friends. I've done with this blessed island for evermore, amen! I've had enough of it.”

“But, Montgomery,” I appealed.

He distorted his lower lip, and nodded his head hopelessly at the grey-haired man beside him, to indicate his powerlessness to help me.

“I'll see to you, presently,” said the captain.

Then began a curious three-cornered altercation. Alternately I appealed to one and another of the three men,—first to the grey-haired man to let me land, and then to the drunken captain to keep me aboard. I even bawled entreaties to the sailors. Montgomery said never a word, only shook his head. “You're going overboard, I tell you,” was the captain's refrain. “Law be damned! I'm king here.” At last I must confess my voice suddenly broke in the middle of a vigorous threat. I felt a gust of hysterical petulance, and went aft and stared dismally at nothing.

Meanwhile the sailors progressed rapidly with the task of unshipping the packages and caged animals. A large launch, with two standing lugs, lay under the lee of the schooner; and into this the strange assortment of goods were swung. I did not then see the hands from the island that were receiving the packages, for the hull of the launch was hidden from me by the side of the schooner. Neither Montgomery nor his companion took the slightest notice of me, but busied themselves in assisting and directing the four or five sailors who were unloading the goods. The captain went forward interfering rather than assisting. I was alternately despairful and desperate. Once or twice as I stood waiting there for things to accomplish themselves, I could not resist an impulse to laugh at my miserable quandary. I felt all the wretcheder for the lack of a breakfast. Hunger and a lack of blood-corpuscles take all the manhood from a man. I perceived pretty clearly that I had not the stamina either to resist what the captain chose to do to expel me, or to force myself upon Montgomery and his companion. So I waited passively upon fate; and the work of transferring Montgomery's possessions to the launch went on as if I did not exist.

Presently that work was finished, and then came a struggle. I was hauled, resisting weakly enough, to the gangway. Even then I noticed the oddness of the brown faces of the men who were with Montgomery in the launch; but the launch was now fully laden, and was shoved off hastily. A broadening gap of green water appeared under me, and I pushed back with all my strength to avoid falling headlong. The hands in the launch shouted derisively, and I heard Montgomery curse at them; and then the captain, the mate, and one of the seamen helping him, ran me aft towards the stern.

The dingey of the Lady Vain had been towing behind; it was half full of water, had no oars, and was quite unvictualled. I refused to go aboard her, and flung myself full length on the deck. In the end, they swung me into her by a rope (for they had no stern ladder), and then they cut me adrift. I drifted slowly from the schooner. In a kind of stupor I watched all hands take to the rigging, and slowly but surely she came round to the wind; the sails fluttered, and then bellied out as the wind came into them. I stared at her weather-beaten side heeling steeply towards me; and then she passed out of my range of view.

I did not turn my head to follow her. At first I could scarcely believe what had happened. I crouched in the bottom of the dingey, stunned, and staring blankly at the vacant, oily sea. Then I realised that I was in that little hell of mine again, now half swamped; and looking back over the gunwale, I saw the schooner standing away from me, with the red-haired captain mocking at me over the taffrail, and turning towards the island saw the launch growing smaller as she approached the beach.

Abruptly the cruelty of this desertion became clear to me. I had no means of reaching the land unless I should chance to drift there. I was still weak, you must remember, from my exposure in the boat; I was empty and very faint, or I should have had more heart. But as it was I suddenly began to sob and weep, as I had never done since I was a little child. The tears ran down my face. In a passion of despair I struck with my fists at the water in the bottom of the boat, and kicked savagely at the gunwale. I prayed aloud for God to let me die.

VI. THE EVIL-LOOKING BOATMEN.
BUT the islanders, seeing that I was really adrift, took pity on me. I drifted very slowly to the eastward, approaching the island slantingly; and presently I saw, with hysterical relief, the launch come round and return towards me. She was heavily laden, and I could make out as she drew nearer Montgomery's white-haired, broad-shouldered companion sitting cramped up with the dogs and several packing-cases in the stern sheets. This individual stared fixedly at me without moving or speaking. The black-faced cripple was glaring at me as fixedly in the bows near the puma. There were three other men besides,—three strange brutish-looking fellows, at whom the staghounds were snarling savagely. Montgomery, who was steering, brought the boat by me, and rising, caught and fastened my painter to the tiller to tow me, for there was no room aboard.

I had recovered from my hysterical phase by this time and answered his hail, as he approached, bravely enough. I told him the dingey was nearly swamped, and he reached me a piggin. I was jerked back as the rope tightened between the boats. For some time I was busy baling.

It was not until I had got the water under (for the water in the dingey had been shipped; the boat was perfectly sound) that I had leisure to look at the people in the launch again.

The white-haired man I found was still regarding me steadfastly, but with an expression, as I now fancied, of some perplexity. When my eyes met his, he looked down at the staghound that sat between his knees. He was a powerfully-built man, as I have said, with a fine forehead and rather heavy features; but his eyes had that odd drooping of the skin above the lids which often comes with advancing years, and the fall of his heavy mouth at the corners gave him an expression of pugnacious resolution. He talked to Montgomery in a tone too low for me to hear.

From him my eyes travelled to his three men; and a strange crew they were. I saw only their faces, yet there was something in their faces—I knew not what—that gave me a queer spasm of disgust. I looked steadily at them, and the impression did not pass, though I failed to see what had occasioned it. They seemed to me then to be brown men; but their limbs were oddly swathed in some thin, dirty, white stuff down even to the fingers and feet: I have never seen men so wrapped up before, and women so only in the East. They wore turbans too, and thereunder peered out their elfin faces at me,—faces with protruding lower-jaws and bright eyes. They had lank black hair, almost like horsehair, and seemed as they sat to exceed in stature any race of men I have seen. The white-haired man, who I knew was a good six feet in height, sat a head below any one of the three. I found afterwards that really none were taller than myself; but their bodies were abnormally long, and the thigh-part of the leg short and curiously twisted. At any rate, they were an amazingly ugly gang, and over the heads of them under the forward lug peered the black face of the man whose eyes were luminous in the dark. As I stared at them, they met my gaze; and then first one and then another turned away from my direct stare, and looked at me in an odd, furtive manner. It occurred to me that I was perhaps annoying them, and I turned my attention to the island we were approaching.

It was low, and covered with thick vegetation,—chiefly a kind of palm, that was new to me. From one point a thin white thread of vapour rose slantingly to an immense height, and then frayed out like a down feather. We were now within the embrace of a broad bay flanked on either hand by a low promontory. The beach was of dull-grey sand, and sloped steeply up to a ridge, perhaps sixty or seventy feet above the sea-level, and irregularly set with trees and undergrowth. Half way up was a square enclosure of some greyish stone, which I found subsequently was built partly of coral and partly of pumiceous lava. Two thatched roofs peeped from within this enclosure. A man stood awaiting us at the water's edge. I fancied while we were still far off that I saw some other and very grotesque-looking creatures scuttle into the bushes upon the slope; but I saw nothing of these as we drew nearer. This man was of a moderate size, and with a black negroid face. He had a large, almost lipless, mouth, extraordinary lank arms, long thin feet, and bow-legs, and stood with his heavy face thrust forward staring at us. He was dressed like Montgomery and his white-haired companion, in jacket and trousers of blue serge. As we came still nearer, this individual began to run to and fro on the beach, making the most grotesque movements.

At a word of command from Montgomery, the four men in the launch sprang up, and with singularly awkward gestures struck the lugs. Montgomery steered us round and into a narrow little dock excavated in the beach. Then the man on the beach hastened towards us. This dock, as I call it, was really a mere ditch just long enough at this phase of the tide to take the longboat. I heard the bows ground in the sand, staved the dingey off the rudder of the big boat with my piggin, and freeing the painter, landed. The three muffled men, with the clumsiest movements, scrambled out upon the sand, and forthwith set to landing the cargo, assisted by the man on the beach. I was struck especially by the curious movements of the legs of the three swathed and bandaged boatmen,—not stiff they were, but distorted in some odd way, almost as if they were jointed in the wrong place. The dogs were still snarling, and strained at their chains after these men, as the white-haired man landed with them. The three big fellows spoke to one another in odd guttural tones, and the man who had waited for us on the beach began chattering to them excitedly—a foreign language, as I fancied—as they laid hands on some bales piled near the stern. Somewhere I had heard such a voice before, and I could not think where. The white-haired man stood, holding in a tumult of six dogs, and bawling orders over their din. Montgomery, having unshipped the rudder, landed likewise, and all set to work at unloading. I was too faint, what with my long fast and the sun beating down on my bare head, to offer any assistance.

Presently the white-haired man seemed to recollect my presence, and came up to me.

“You look,” said he, “as though you had scarcely breakfasted.” His little eyes were a brilliant black under his heavy brows. “I must apologise for that. Now you are our guest, we must make you comfortable,—though you are uninvited, you know.” He looked keenly into my face. “Montgomery says you are an educated man, Mr. Prendick; says you know something of science. May I ask what that signifies?”

I told him I had spent some years at the Royal College of Science, and had done some researches in biology under Huxley. He raised his eyebrows slightly at that.

“That alters the case a little, Mr. Prendick,” he said, with a trifle more respect in his manner. “As it happens, we are biologists here. This is a biological station—of a sort.” His eye rested on the men in white who were busily hauling the puma, on rollers, towards the walled yard. “I and Montgomery, at least,” he added. Then, “When you will be able to get away, I can't say. We're off the track to anywhere. We see a ship once in a twelve-month or so.”

He left me abruptly, and went up the beach past this group, and I think entered the enclosure. The other two men were with Montgomery, erecting a pile of smaller packages on a low-wheeled truck. The llama was still on the launch with the rabbit hutches; the staghounds were still lashed to the thwarts. The pile of things completed, all three men laid hold of the truck and began shoving the ton-weight or so upon it after the puma. Presently Montgomery left them, and coming back to me held out his hand.

“I'm glad,” said he, “for my own part. That captain was a silly ass. He'd have made things lively for you.”

“It was you,” said I, “that saved me again.”

“That depends. You'll find this island an infernally rum place, I promise you. I'd watch my goings carefully, if I were you. He—” He hesitated, and seemed to alter his mind about what was on his lips. “I wish you'd help me with these rabbits,” he said.

His procedure with the rabbits was singular. I waded in with him, and helped him lug one of the hutches ashore. No sooner was that done than he opened the door of it, and tilting the thing on one end turned its living contents out on the ground. They fell in a struggling heap one on the top of the other. He clapped his hands, and forthwith they went off with that hopping run of theirs, fifteen or twenty of them I should think, up the beach.

“Increase and multiply, my friends,” said Montgomery. “Replenish the island. Hitherto we've had a certain lack of meat here.”

As I watched them disappearing, the white-haired man returned with a brandy-flask and some biscuits. “Something to go on with, Prendick,” said he, in a far more familiar tone than before. I made no ado, but set to work on the biscuits at once, while the white-haired man helped Montgomery to release about a score more of the rabbits. Three big hutches, however, went up to the house with the puma. The brandy I did not touch, for I have been an abstainer from my birth.

VII. THE LOCKED DOOR.
THE reader will perhaps understand that at first everything was so strange about me, and my position was the outcome of such unexpected adventures, that I had no discernment of the relative strangeness of this or that thing. I followed the llama up the beach, and was overtaken by Montgomery, who asked me not to enter the stone enclosure. I noticed then that the puma in its cage and the pile of packages had been placed outside the entrance to this quadrangle.

I turned and saw that the launch had now been unloaded, run out again, and was being beached, and the white-haired man was walking towards us. He addressed Montgomery.

“And now comes the problem of this uninvited guest. What are we to do with him?”

“He knows something of science,” said Montgomery.

“I'm itching to get to work again—with this new stuff,” said the white-haired man, nodding towards the enclosure. His eyes grew brighter.

“I daresay you are,” said Montgomery, in anything but a cordial tone.

“We can't send him over there, and we can't spare the time to build him a new shanty; and we certainly can't take him into our confidence just yet.”

“I'm in your hands,” said I. I had no idea of what he meant by “over there.”

“I've been thinking of the same things,” Montgomery answered. “There's my room with the outer door—”

“That's it,” said the elder man, promptly, looking at Montgomery; and all three of us went towards the enclosure. “I'm sorry to make a mystery, Mr. Prendick; but you'll remember you're uninvited. Our little establishment here contains a secret or so, is a kind of Blue-Beard's chamber, in fact. Nothing very dreadful, really, to a sane man; but just now, as we don't know you—”

“Decidedly,” said I, “I should be a fool to take offence at any want of confidence.”

He twisted his heavy mouth into a faint smile—he was one of those saturnine people who smile with the corners of the mouth down,—and bowed his acknowledgment of my complaisance. The main entrance to the enclosure was passed; it was a heavy wooden gate, framed in iron and locked, with the cargo of the launch piled outside it, and at the corner we came to a small doorway I had not previously observed. The white-haired man produced a bundle of keys from the pocket of his greasy blue jacket, opened this door, and entered. His keys, and the elaborate locking-up of the place even while it was still under his eye, struck me as peculiar. I followed him, and found myself in a small apartment, plainly but not uncomfortably furnished and with its inner door, which was slightly ajar, opening into a paved courtyard. This inner door Montgomery at once closed. A hammock was slung across the darker corner of the room, and a small unglazed window defended by an iron bar looked out towards the sea.

This the white-haired man told me was to be my apartment; and the inner door, which “for fear of accidents,” he said, he would lock on the other side, was my limit inward. He called my attention to a convenient deck-chair before the window, and to an array of old books, chiefly, I found, surgical works and editions of the Latin and Greek classics (languages I cannot read with any comfort), on a shelf near the hammock. He left the room by the outer door, as if to avoid opening the inner one again.

“We usually have our meals in here,” said Montgomery, and then, as if in doubt, went out after the other. “Moreau!” I heard him call, and for the moment I do not think I noticed. Then as I handled the books on the shelf it came up in consciousness: Where had I heard the name of Moreau before? I sat down before the window, took out the biscuits that still remained to me, and ate them with an excellent appetite. Moreau!

Through the window I saw one of those unaccountable men in white, lugging a packing-case along the beach. Presently the window-frame hid him. Then I heard a key inserted and turned in the lock behind me. After a little while I heard through the locked door the noise of the staghounds, that had now been brought up from the beach. They were not barking, but sniffing and growling in a curious fashion. I could hear the rapid patter of their feet, and Montgomery's voice soothing them.

I was very much impressed by the elaborate secrecy of these two men regarding the contents of the place, and for some time I was thinking of that and of the unaccountable familiarity of the name of Moreau; but so odd is the human memory that I could not then recall that well-known name in its proper connection. From that my thoughts went to the indefinable queerness of the deformed man on the beach. I never saw such a gait, such odd motions as he pulled at the box. I recalled that none of these men had spoken to me, though most of them I had found looking at me at one time or another in a peculiarly furtive manner, quite unlike the frank stare of your unsophisticated savage. Indeed, they had all seemed remarkably taciturn, and when they did speak, endowed with very uncanny voices. What was wrong with them? Then I recalled the eyes of Montgomery's ungainly attendant.

Just as I was thinking of him he came in. He was now dressed in white, and carried a little tray with some coffee and boiled vegetables thereon. I could hardly repress a shuddering recoil as he came, bending amiably, and placed the tray before me on the table. Then astonishment paralysed me. Under his stringy black locks I saw his ear; it jumped upon me suddenly close to my face. The man had pointed ears, covered with a fine brown fur!

“Your breakfast, sair,” he said.

I stared at his face without attempting to answer him. He turned and went towards the door, regarding me oddly over his shoulder. I followed him out with my eyes; and as I did so, by some odd trick of unconscious cerebration, there came surging into my head the phrase, “The Moreau Hollows”—was it? “The Moreau—” Ah! It sent my memory back ten years. “The Moreau Horrors!” The phrase drifted loose in my mind for a moment, and then I saw it in red lettering on a little buff-coloured pamphlet, to read which made one shiver and creep. Then I remembered distinctly all about it. That long-forgotten pamphlet came back with startling vividness to my mind. I had been a mere lad then, and Moreau was, I suppose, about fifty,—a prominent and masterful physiologist, well-known in scientific circles for his extraordinary imagination and his brutal directness in discussion.

Was this the same Moreau? He had published some very astonishing facts in connection with the transfusion of blood, and in addition was known to be doing valuable work on morbid growths. Then suddenly his career was closed. He had to leave England. A journalist obtained access to his laboratory in the capacity of laboratory-assistant, with the deliberate intention of making sensational exposures; and by the help of a shocking accident (if it was an accident), his gruesome pamphlet became notorious. On the day of its publication a wretched dog, flayed and otherwise mutilated, escaped from Moreau's house. It was in the silly season, and a prominent editor, a cousin of the temporary laboratory-assistant, appealed to the conscience of the nation. It was not the first time that conscience has turned against the methods of research. The doctor was simply howled out of the country. It may be that he deserved to be; but I still think that the tepid support of his fellow-investigators and his desertion by the great body of scientific workers was a shameful thing. Yet some of his experiments, by the journalist's account, were wantonly cruel. He might perhaps have purchased his social peace by abandoning his investigations; but he apparently preferred the latter, as most men would who have once fallen under the overmastering spell of research. He was unmarried, and had indeed nothing but his own interest to consider.

I felt convinced that this must be the same man. Everything pointed to it. It dawned upon me to what end the puma and the other animals—which had now been brought with other luggage into the enclosure behind the house—were destined; and a curious faint odour, the halitus of something familiar, an odour that had been in the background of my consciousness hitherto, suddenly came forward into the forefront of my thoughts. It was the antiseptic odour of the dissecting-room. I heard the puma growling through the wall, and one of the dogs yelped as though it had been struck.

Yet surely, and especially to another scientific man, there was nothing so horrible in vivisection as to account for this secrecy; and by some odd leap in my thoughts the pointed ears and luminous eyes of Montgomery's attendant came back again before me with the sharpest definition. I stared before me out at the green sea, frothing under a freshening breeze, and let these and other strange memories of the last few days chase one another through my mind.

What could it all mean? A locked enclosure on a lonely island, a notorious vivisector, and these crippled and distorted men?

VIII. THE CRYING OF THE PUMA.
MONTGOMERY interrupted my tangle of mystification and suspicion about one o'clock, and his grotesque attendant followed him with a tray bearing bread, some herbs and other eatables, a flask of whiskey, a jug of water, and three glasses and knives. I glanced askance at this strange creature, and found him watching me with his queer, restless eyes. Montgomery said he would lunch with me, but that Moreau was too preoccupied with some work to come.

“Moreau!” said I. “I know that name.”

“The devil you do!” said he. “What an ass I was to mention it to you! I might have thought. Anyhow, it will give you an inkling of our—mysteries. Whiskey?”

“No, thanks; I'm an abstainer.”

“I wish I'd been. But it's no use locking the door after the steed is stolen. It was that infernal stuff which led to my coming here,—that, and a foggy night. I thought myself in luck at the time, when Moreau offered to get me off. It's queer—”

“Montgomery,” said I, suddenly, as the outer door closed, “why has your man pointed ears?”

“Damn!” he said, over his first mouthful of food. He stared at me for a moment, and then repeated, “Pointed ears?”

“Little points to them,” said I, as calmly as possible, with a catch in my breath; “and a fine black fur at the edges?”

He helped himself to whiskey and water with great deliberation. “I was under the impression—that his hair covered his ears.”

“I saw them as he stooped by me to put that coffee you sent to me on the table. And his eyes shine in the dark.”

By this time Montgomery had recovered from the surprise of my question. “I always thought,” he said deliberately, with a certain accentuation of his flavouring of lisp, “that there was something the matter with his ears, from the way he covered them. What were they like?”

I was persuaded from his manner that this ignorance was a pretence. Still, I could hardly tell the man that I thought him a liar. “Pointed,” I said; “rather small and furry,—distinctly furry. But the whole man is one of the strangest beings I ever set eyes on.”

A sharp, hoarse cry of animal pain came from the enclosure behind us. Its depth and volume testified to the puma. I saw Montgomery wince.

“Yes?” he said.

“Where did you pick up the creature?”

“San Francisco. He's an ugly brute, I admit. Half-witted, you know. Can't remember where he came from. But I'm used to him, you know. We both are. How does he strike you?”

“He's unnatural,” I said. “There's something about him—don't think me fanciful, but it gives me a nasty little sensation, a tightening of my muscles, when he comes near me. It's a touch—of the diabolical, in fact.”

Montgomery had stopped eating while I told him this. “Rum!” he said. “I can't see it.” He resumed his meal. “I had no idea of it,” he said, and masticated. “The crew of the schooner must have felt it the same. Made a dead set at the poor devil. You saw the captain?”

Suddenly the puma howled again, this time more painfully. Montgomery swore under his breath. I had half a mind to attack him about the men on the beach. Then the poor brute within gave vent to a series of short, sharp cries.

“Your men on the beach,” said I; “what race are they?”

“Excellent fellows, aren't they?” said he, absentmindedly, knitting his brows as the animal yelled out sharply.

I said no more. There was another outcry worse than the former. He looked at me with his dull grey eyes, and then took some more whiskey. He tried to draw me into a discussion about alcohol, professing to have saved my life with it. He seemed anxious to lay stress on the fact that I owed my life to him. I answered him distractedly.

Presently our meal came to an end; the misshapen monster with the pointed ears cleared the remains away, and Montgomery left me alone in the room again. All the time he had been in a state of ill-concealed irritation at the noise of the vivisected puma. He had spoken of his odd want of nerve, and left me to the obvious application.

I found myself that the cries were singularly irritating, and they grew in depth and intensity as the afternoon wore on. They were painful at first, but their constant resurgence at last altogether upset my balance. I flung aside a crib of Horace I had been reading, and began to clench my fists, to bite my lips, and to pace the room. Presently I got to stopping my ears with my fingers.

The emotional appeal of those yells grew upon me steadily, grew at last to such an exquisite expression of suffering that I could stand it in that confined room no longer. I stepped out of the door into the slumberous heat of the late afternoon, and walking past the main entrance—locked again, I noticed—turned the corner of the wall.

The crying sounded even louder out of doors. It was as if all the pain in the world had found a voice. Yet had I known such pain was in the next room, and had it been dumb, I believe—I have thought since—I could have stood it well enough. It is when suffering finds a voice and sets our nerves quivering that this pity comes troubling us. But in spite of the brilliant sunlight and the green fans of the trees waving in the soothing sea-breeze, the world was a confusion, blurred with drifting black and red phantasms, until I was out of earshot of the house in the chequered wall.

IX. THE THING IN THE FOREST.
I STRODE through the undergrowth that clothed the ridge behind the house, scarcely heeding whither I went; passed on through the shadow of a thick cluster of straight-stemmed trees beyond it, and so presently found myself some way on the other side of the ridge, and descending towards a streamlet that ran through a narrow valley. I paused and listened. The distance I had come, or the intervening masses of thicket, deadened any sound that might be coming from the enclosure. The air was still. Then with a rustle a rabbit emerged, and went scampering up the slope before me. I hesitated, and sat down in the edge of the shade.

The place was a pleasant one. The rivulet was hidden by the luxuriant vegetation of the banks save at one point, where I caught a triangular patch of its glittering water. On the farther side I saw through a bluish haze a tangle of trees and creepers, and above these again the luminous blue of the sky. Here and there a splash of white or crimson marked the blooming of some trailing epiphyte. I let my eyes wander over this scene for a while, and then began to turn over in my mind again the strange peculiarities of Montgomery's man. But it was too hot to think elaborately, and presently I fell into a tranquil state midway between dozing and waking.

From this I was aroused, after I know not how long, by a rustling amidst the greenery on the other side of the stream. For a moment I could see nothing but the waving summits of the ferns and reeds. Then suddenly upon the bank of the stream appeared something—at first I could not distinguish what it was. It bowed its round head to the water, and began to drink. Then I saw it was a man, going on all-fours like a beast. He was clothed in bluish cloth, and was of a copper-coloured hue, with black hair. It seemed that grotesque ugliness was an invariable character of these islanders. I could hear the suck of the water at his lips as he drank.

I leant forward to see him better, and a piece of lava, detached by my hand, went pattering down the slope. He looked up guiltily, and his eyes met mine. Forthwith he scrambled to his feet, and stood wiping his clumsy hand across his mouth and regarding me. His legs were scarcely half the length of his body. So, staring one another out of countenance, we remained for perhaps the space of a minute. Then, stopping to look back once or twice, he slunk off among the bushes to the right of me, and I heard the swish of the fronds grow faint in the distance and die away. Long after he had disappeared, I remained sitting up staring in the direction of his retreat. My drowsy tranquillity had gone.

I was startled by a noise behind me, and turning suddenly saw the flapping white tail of a rabbit vanishing up the slope. I jumped to my feet. The apparition of this grotesque, half-bestial creature had suddenly populated the stillness of the afternoon for me. I looked around me rather nervously, and regretted that I was unarmed. Then I thought that the man I had just seen had been clothed in bluish cloth, had not been naked as a savage would have been; and I tried to persuade myself from that fact that he was after all probably a peaceful character, that the dull ferocity of his countenance belied him.

Yet I was greatly disturbed at the apparition. I walked to the left along the slope, turning my head about and peering this way and that among the straight stems of the trees. Why should a man go on all-fours and drink with his lips? Presently I heard an animal wailing again, and taking it to be the puma, I turned about and walked in a direction diametrically opposite to the sound. This led me down to the stream, across which I stepped and pushed my way up through the undergrowth beyond.

I was startled by a great patch of vivid scarlet on the ground, and going up to it found it to be a peculiar fungus, branched and corrugated like a foliaceous lichen, but deliquescing into slime at the touch; and then in the shadow of some luxuriant ferns I came upon an unpleasant thing,—the dead body of a rabbit covered with shining flies, but still warm and with the head torn off. I stopped aghast at the sight of the scattered blood. Here at least was one visitor to the island disposed of! There were no traces of other violence about it. It looked as though it had been suddenly snatched up and killed; and as I stared at the little furry body came the difficulty of how the thing had been done. The vague dread that had been in my mind since I had seen the inhuman face of the man at the stream grew distincter as I stood there. I began to realise the hardihood of my expedition among these unknown people. The thicket about me became altered to my imagination. Every shadow became something more than a shadow,—became an ambush; every rustle became a threat. Invisible things seemed watching me. I resolved to go back to the enclosure on the beach. I suddenly turned away and thrust myself violently, possibly even frantically, through the bushes, anxious to get a clear space about me again.

I stopped just in time to prevent myself emerging upon an open space. It was a kind of glade in the forest, made by a fall; seedlings were already starting up to struggle for the vacant space; and beyond, the dense growth of stems and twining vines and splashes of fungus and flowers closed in again. Before me, squatting together upon the fungoid ruins of a huge fallen tree and still unaware of my approach, were three grotesque human figures. One was evidently a female; the other two were men. They were naked, save for swathings of scarlet cloth about the middle; and their skins were of a dull pinkish-drab colour, such as I had seen in no savages before. They had fat, heavy, chinless faces, retreating foreheads, and a scant bristly hair upon their heads. I never saw such bestial-looking creatures.

They were talking, or at least one of the men was talking to the other two, and all three had been too closely interested to heed the rustling of my approach. They swayed their heads and shoulders from side to side. The speaker's words came thick and sloppy, and though I could hear them distinctly I could not distinguish what he said. He seemed to me to be reciting some complicated gibberish. Presently his articulation became shriller, and spreading his hands he rose to his feet. At that the others began to gibber in unison, also rising to their feet, spreading their hands and swaying their bodies in rhythm with their chant. I noticed then the abnormal shortness of their legs, and their lank, clumsy feet. All three began slowly to circle round, raising and stamping their feet and waving their arms; a kind of tune crept into their rhythmic recitation, and a refrain,—“Aloola,” or “Balloola,” it sounded like. Their eyes began to sparkle, and their ugly faces to brighten, with an expression of strange pleasure. Saliva dripped from their lipless mouths.

Suddenly, as I watched their grotesque and unaccountable gestures, I perceived clearly for the first time what it was that had offended me, what had given me the two inconsistent and conflicting impressions of utter strangeness and yet of the strangest familiarity. The three creatures engaged in this mysterious rite were human in shape, and yet human beings with the strangest air about them of some familiar animal. Each of these creatures, despite its human form, its rag of clothing, and the rough humanity of its bodily form, had woven into it—into its movements, into the expression of its countenance, into its whole presence—some now irresistible suggestion of a hog, a swinish taint, the unmistakable mark of the beast.

I stood overcome by this amazing realisation and then the most horrible questionings came rushing into my mind. They began leaping in the air, first one and then the other, whooping and grunting. Then one slipped, and for a moment was on all-fours,—to recover, indeed, forthwith. But that transitory gleam of the true animalism of these monsters was enough.

I turned as noiselessly as possible, and becoming every now and then rigid with the fear of being discovered, as a branch cracked or a leaf rustled, I pushed back into the bushes. It was long before I grew bolder, and dared to move freely. My only idea for the moment was to get away from these foul beings, and I scarcely noticed that I had emerged upon a faint pathway amidst the trees. Then suddenly traversing a little glade, I saw with an unpleasant start two clumsy legs among the trees, walking with noiseless footsteps parallel with my course, and perhaps thirty yards away from me. The head and upper part of the body were hidden by a tangle of creeper. I stopped abruptly, hoping the creature did not see me. The feet stopped as I did. So nervous was I that I controlled an impulse to headlong flight with the utmost difficulty. Then looking hard, I distinguished through the interlacing network the head and body of the brute I had seen drinking. He moved his head. There was an emerald flash in his eyes as he glanced at me from the shadow of the trees, a half-luminous colour that vanished as he turned his head again. He was motionless for a moment, and then with a noiseless tread began running through the green confusion. In another moment he had vanished behind some bushes. I could not see him, but I felt that he had stopped and was watching me again.

What on earth was he,—man or beast? What did he want with me? I had no weapon, not even a stick. Flight would be madness. At any rate the Thing, whatever it was, lacked the courage to attack me. Setting my teeth hard, I walked straight towards him. I was anxious not to show the fear that seemed chilling my backbone. I pushed through a tangle of tall white-flowered bushes, and saw him twenty paces beyond, looking over his shoulder at me and hesitating. I advanced a step or two, looking steadfastly into his eyes.

“Who are you?” said I.

He tried to meet my gaze. “No!” he said suddenly, and turning went bounding away from me through the undergrowth. Then he turned and stared at me again. His eyes shone brightly out of the dusk under the trees.

My heart was in my mouth; but I felt my only chance was bluff, and walked steadily towards him. He turned again, and vanished into the dusk. Once more I thought I caught the glint of his eyes, and that was all.

For the first time I realised how the lateness of the hour might affect me. The sun had set some minutes since, the swift dusk of the tropics was already fading out of the eastern sky, and a pioneer moth fluttered silently by my head. Unless I would spend the night among the unknown dangers of the mysterious forest, I must hasten back to the enclosure. The thought of a return to that pain-haunted refuge was extremely disagreeable, but still more so was the idea of being overtaken in the open by darkness and all that darkness might conceal. I gave one more look into the blue shadows that had swallowed up this odd creature, and then retraced my way down the slope towards the stream, going as I judged in the direction from which I had come.

I walked eagerly, my mind confused with many things, and presently found myself in a level place among scattered trees. The colourless clearness that comes after the sunset flush was darkling; the blue sky above grew momentarily deeper, and the little stars one by one pierced the attenuated light; the interspaces of the trees, the gaps in the further vegetation, that had been hazy blue in the daylight, grew black and mysterious. I pushed on. The colour vanished from the world. The tree-tops rose against the luminous blue sky in inky silhouette, and all below that outline melted into one formless blackness. Presently the trees grew thinner, and the shrubby undergrowth more abundant. Then there was a desolate space covered with a white sand, and then another expanse of tangled bushes. I did not remember crossing the sand-opening before. I began to be tormented by a faint rustling upon my right hand. I thought at first it was fancy, for whenever I stopped there was silence, save for the evening breeze in the tree-tops. Then when I turned to hurry on again there was an echo to my footsteps.

I turned away from the thickets, keeping to the more open ground, and endeavouring by sudden turns now and then to surprise something in the act of creeping upon me. I saw nothing, and nevertheless my sense of another presence grew steadily. I increased my pace, and after some time came to a slight ridge, crossed it, and turned sharply, regarding it steadfastly from the further side. It came out black and clear-cut against the darkling sky; and presently a shapeless lump heaved up momentarily against the sky-line and vanished again. I felt assured now that my tawny-faced antagonist was stalking me once more; and coupled with that was another unpleasant realisation, that I had lost my way.

For a time I hurried on hopelessly perplexed, and pursued by that stealthy approach. Whatever it was, the Thing either lacked the courage to attack me, or it was waiting to take me at some disadvantage. I kept studiously to the open. At times I would turn and listen; and presently I had half persuaded myself that my pursuer had abandoned the chase, or was a mere creation of my disordered imagination. Then I heard the sound of the sea. I quickened my footsteps almost into a run, and immediately there was a stumble in my rear.

I turned suddenly, and stared at the uncertain trees behind me. One black shadow seemed to leap into another. I listened, rigid, and heard nothing but the creep of the blood in my ears. I thought that my nerves were unstrung, and that my imagination was tricking me, and turned resolutely towards the sound of the sea again.

In a minute or so the trees grew thinner, and I emerged upon a bare, low headland running out into the sombre water. The night was calm and clear, and the reflection of the growing multitude of the stars shivered in the tranquil heaving of the sea. Some way out, the wash upon an irregular band of reef shone with a pallid light of its own. Westward I saw the zodiacal light mingling with the yellow brilliance of the evening star. The coast fell away from me to the east, and westward it was hidden by the shoulder of the cape. Then I recalled the fact that Moreau's beach lay to the west.

A twig snapped behind me, and there was a rustle. I turned, and stood facing the dark trees. I could see nothing—or else I could see too much. Every dark form in the dimness had its ominous quality, its peculiar suggestion of alert watchfulness. So I stood for perhaps a minute, and then, with an eye to the trees still, turned westward to cross the headland; and as I moved, one among the lurking shadows moved to follow me.

My heart beat quickly. Presently the broad sweep of a bay to the westward became visible, and I halted again. The noiseless shadow halted a dozen yards from me. A little point of light shone on the further bend of the curve, and the grey sweep of the sandy beach lay faint under the starlight. Perhaps two miles away was that little point of light. To get to the beach I should have to go through the trees where the shadows lurked, and down a bushy slope.

I could see the Thing rather more distinctly now. It was no animal, for it stood erect. At that I opened my mouth to speak, and found a hoarse phlegm choked my voice. I tried again, and shouted, “Who is there?” There was no answer. I advanced a step. The Thing did not move, only gathered itself together. My foot struck a stone. That gave me an idea. Without taking my eyes off the black form before me, I stooped and picked up this lump of rock; but at my motion the Thing turned abruptly as a dog might have done, and slunk obliquely into the further darkness. Then I recalled a schoolboy expedient against big dogs, and twisted the rock into my handkerchief, and gave this a turn round my wrist. I heard a movement further off among the shadows, as if the Thing was in retreat. Then suddenly my tense excitement gave way; I broke into a profuse perspiration and fell a-trembling, with my adversary routed and this weapon in my hand.

It was some time before I could summon resolution to go down through the trees and bushes upon the flank of the headland to the beach. At last I did it at a run; and as I emerged from the thicket upon the sand, I heard some other body come crashing after me. At that I completely lost my head with fear, and began running along the sand. Forthwith there came the swift patter of soft feet in pursuit. I gave a wild cry, and redoubled my pace. Some dim, black things about three or four times the size of rabbits went running or hopping up from the beach towards the bushes as I passed.

So long as I live, I shall remember the terror of that chase. I ran near the water's edge, and heard every now and then the splash of the feet that gained upon me. Far away, hopelessly far, was the yellow light. All the night about us was black and still. Splash, splash, came the pursuing feet, nearer and nearer. I felt my breath going, for I was quite out of training; it whooped as I drew it, and I felt a pain like a knife at my side. I perceived the Thing would come up with me long before I reached the enclosure, and, desperate and sobbing for my breath, I wheeled round upon it and struck at it as it came up to me,—struck with all my strength. The stone came out of the sling of the handkerchief as I did so. As I turned, the Thing, which had been running on all-fours, rose to its feet, and the missile fell fair on its left temple. The skull rang loud, and the animal-man blundered into me, thrust me back with its hands, and went staggering past me to fall headlong upon the sand with its face in the water; and there it lay still.

I could not bring myself to approach that black heap. I left it there, with the water rippling round it, under the still stars, and giving it a wide berth pursued my way towards the yellow glow of the house; and presently, with a positive effect of relief, came the pitiful moaning of the puma, the sound that had originally driven me out to explore this mysterious island. At that, though I was faint and horribly fatigued, I gathered together all my strength, and began running again towards the light. I thought I heard a voice calling me.

X. THE CRYING OF THE MAN.
AS I drew near the house I saw that the light shone from the open door of my room; and then I heard coming from out of the darkness at the side of that orange oblong of light, the voice of Montgomery shouting, “Prendick!” I continued running. Presently I heard him again. I replied by a feeble “Hullo!” and in another moment had staggered up to him.

“Where have you been?” said he, holding me at arm's length, so that the light from the door fell on my face. “We have both been so busy that we forgot you until about half an hour ago.” He led me into the room and sat me down in the deck chair. For awhile I was blinded by the light. “We did not think you would start to explore this island of ours without telling us,” he said; and then, “I was afraid—But—what—Hullo!”

My last remaining strength slipped from me, and my head fell forward on my chest. I think he found a certain satisfaction in giving me brandy.

“For God's sake,” said I, “fasten that door.”

“You've been meeting some of our curiosities, eh?” said he.

He locked the door and turned to me again. He asked me no questions, but gave me some more brandy and water and pressed me to eat. I was in a state of collapse. He said something vague about his forgetting to warn me, and asked me briefly when I left the house and what I had seen.

I answered him as briefly, in fragmentary sentences. “Tell me what it all means,” said I, in a state bordering on hysterics.

“It's nothing so very dreadful,” said he. “But I think you have had about enough for one day.” The puma suddenly gave a sharp yell of pain. At that he swore under his breath. “I'm damned,” said he, “if this place is not as bad as Gower Street, with its cats.”

“Montgomery,” said I, “what was that thing that came after me? Was it a beast or was it a man?”

“If you don't sleep to-night,” he said, “you'll be off your head to-morrow.”

I stood up in front of him. “What was that thing that came after me?” I asked.

He looked me squarely in the eyes, and twisted his mouth askew. His eyes, which had seemed animated a minute before, went dull. “From your account,” said he, “I'm thinking it was a bogle.”

I felt a gust of intense irritation, which passed as quickly as it came. I flung myself into the chair again, and pressed my hands on my forehead. The puma began once more.

Montgomery came round behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Look here, Prendick,” he said, “I had no business to let you drift out into this silly island of ours. But it's not so bad as you feel, man. Your nerves are worked to rags. Let me give you something that will make you sleep. That—will keep on for hours yet. You must simply get to sleep, or I won't answer for it.”

I did not reply. I bowed forward, and covered my face with my hands. Presently he returned with a small measure containing a dark liquid. This he gave me. I took it unresistingly, and he helped me into the hammock.

When I awoke, it was broad day. For a little while I lay flat, staring at the roof above me. The rafters, I observed, were made out of the timbers of a ship. Then I turned my head, and saw a meal prepared for me on the table. I perceived that I was hungry, and prepared to clamber out of the hammock, which, very politely anticipating my intention, twisted round and deposited me upon all-fours on the floor.

I got up and sat down before the food. I had a heavy feeling in my head, and only the vaguest memory at first of the things that had happened over night. The morning breeze blew very pleasantly through the unglazed window, and that and the food contributed to the sense of animal comfort which I experienced. Presently the door behind me—the door inward towards the yard of the enclosure—opened. I turned and saw Montgomery's face.

“All right,” said he. “I'm frightfully busy.” And he shut the door.

Afterwards I discovered that he forgot to re-lock it. Then I recalled the expression of his face the previous night, and with that the memory of all I had experienced reconstructed itself before me. Even as that fear came back to me came a cry from within; but this time it was not the cry of a puma. I put down the mouthful that hesitated upon my lips, and listened. Silence, save for the whisper of the morning breeze. I began to think my ears had deceived me.

After a long pause I resumed my meal, but with my ears still vigilant. Presently I heard something else, very faint and low. I sat as if frozen in my attitude. Though it was faint and low, it moved me more profoundly than all that I had hitherto heard of the abominations behind the wall. There was no mistake this time in the quality of the dim, broken sounds; no doubt at all of their source. For it was groaning, broken by sobs and gasps of anguish. It was no brute this time; it was a human being in torment!

As I realised this I rose, and in three steps had crossed the room, seized the handle of the door into the yard, and flung it open before me.

“Prendick, man! Stop!” cried Montgomery, intervening.

A startled deerhound yelped and snarled. There was blood, I saw, in the sink,—brown, and some scarlet—and I smelt the peculiar smell of carbolic acid. Then through an open doorway beyond, in the dim light of the shadow, I saw something bound painfully upon a framework, scarred, red, and bandaged; and then blotting this out appeared the face of old Moreau, white and terrible. In a moment he had gripped me by the shoulder with a hand that was smeared red, had twisted me off my feet, and flung me headlong back into my own room. He lifted me as though I was a little child. I fell at full length upon the floor, and the door slammed and shut out the passionate intensity of his face. Then I heard the key turn in the lock, and Montgomery's voice in expostulation.

“Ruin the work of a lifetime,” I heard Moreau say.

“He does not understand,” said Montgomery. and other things that were inaudible.

“I can't spare the time yet,” said Moreau.

The rest I did not hear. I picked myself up and stood trembling, my mind a chaos of the most horrible misgivings. Could it be possible, I thought, that such a thing as the vivisection of men was carried on here? The question shot like lightning across a tumultuous sky; and suddenly the clouded horror of my mind condensed into a vivid realisation of my own danger.

XI. THE HUNTING OF THE MAN.
IT came before my mind with an unreasonable hope of escape that the outer door of my room was still open to me. I was convinced now, absolutely assured, that Moreau had been vivisecting a human being. All the time since I had heard his name, I had been trying to link in my mind in some way the grotesque animalism of the islanders with his abominations; and now I thought I saw it all. The memory of his work on the transfusion of blood recurred to me. These creatures I had seen were the victims of some hideous experiment. These sickening scoundrels had merely intended to keep me back, to fool me with their display of confidence, and presently to fall upon me with a fate more horrible than death,—with torture; and after torture the most hideous degradation it is possible to conceive,—to send me off a lost soul, a beast, to the rest of their Comus rout.

I looked round for some weapon. Nothing. Then with an inspiration I turned over the deck chair, put my foot on the side of it, and tore away the side rail. It happened that a nail came away with the wood, and projecting, gave a touch of danger to an otherwise petty weapon. I heard a step outside, and incontinently flung open the door and found Montgomery within a yard of it. He meant to lock the outer door! I raised this nailed stick of mine and cut at his face; but he sprang back. I hesitated a moment, then turned and fled, round the corner of the house. “Prendick, man!” I heard his astonished cry, “don't be a silly ass, man!”

Another minute, thought I, and he would have had me locked in, and as ready as a hospital rabbit for my fate. He emerged behind the corner, for I heard him shout, “Prendick!” Then he began to run after me, shouting things as he ran. This time running blindly, I went northeastward in a direction at right angles to my previous expedition. Once, as I went running headlong up the beach, I glanced over my shoulder and saw his attendant with him. I ran furiously up the slope, over it, then turning eastward along a rocky valley fringed on either side with jungle I ran for perhaps a mile altogether, my chest straining, my heart beating in my ears; and then hearing nothing of Montgomery or his man, and feeling upon the verge of exhaustion, I doubled sharply back towards the beach as I judged, and lay down in the shelter of a canebrake. There I remained for a long time, too fearful to move, and indeed too fearful even to plan a course of action. The wild scene about me lay sleeping silently under the sun, and the only sound near me was the thin hum of some small gnats that had discovered me. Presently I became aware of a drowsy breathing sound, the soughing of the sea upon the beach.

After about an hour I heard Montgomery shouting my name, far away to the north. That set me thinking of my plan of action. As I interpreted it then, this island was inhabited only by these two vivisectors and their animalised victims. Some of these no doubt they could press into their service against me if need arose. I knew both Moreau and Montgomery carried revolvers; and, save for a feeble bar of deal spiked with a small nail, the merest mockery of a mace, I was unarmed.

So I lay still there, until I began to think of food and drink; and at that thought the real hopelessness of my position came home to me. I knew no way of getting anything to eat. I was too ignorant of botany to discover any resort of root or fruit that might lie about me; I had no means of trapping the few rabbits upon the island. It grew blanker the more I turned the prospect over. At last in the desperation of my position, my mind turned to the animal men I had encountered. I tried to find some hope in what I remembered of them. In turn I recalled each one I had seen, and tried to draw some augury of assistance from my memory.

Then suddenly I heard a staghound bay, and at that realised a new danger. I took little time to think, or they would have caught me then, but snatching up my nailed stick, rushed headlong from my hiding-place towards the sound of the sea. I remember a growth of thorny plants, with spines that stabbed like pen-knives. I emerged bleeding and with torn clothes upon the lip of a long creek opening northward. I went straight into the water without a minute's hesitation, wading up the creek, and presently finding myself kneedeep in a little stream. I scrambled out at last on the westward bank, and with my heart beating loudly in my ears, crept into a tangle of ferns to await the issue. I heard the dog (there was only one) draw nearer, and yelp when it came to the thorns. Then I heard no more, and presently began to think I had escaped.

The minutes passed; the silence lengthened out, and at last after an hour of security my courage began to return to me. By this time I was no longer very much terrified or very miserable. I had, as it were, passed the limit of terror and despair. I felt now that my life was practically lost, and that persuasion made me capable of daring anything. I had even a certain wish to encounter Moreau face to face; and as I had waded into the water, I remembered that if I were too hard pressed at least one path of escape from torment still lay open to me,—they could not very well prevent my drowning myself. I had half a mind to drown myself then; but an odd wish to see the whole adventure out, a queer, impersonal, spectacular interest in myself, restrained me. I stretched my limbs, sore and painful from the pricks of the spiny plants, and stared around me at the trees; and, so suddenly that it seemed to jump out of the green tracery about it, my eyes lit upon a black face watching me. I saw that it was the simian creature who had met the launch upon the beach. He was clinging to the oblique stem of a palm-tree. I gripped my stick, and stood up facing him. He began chattering. “You, you, you,” was all I could distinguish at first. Suddenly he dropped from the tree, and in another moment was holding the fronds apart and staring curiously at me.

I did not feel the same repugnance towards this creature which I had experienced in my encounters with the other Beast Men. “You,” he said, “in the boat.” He was a man, then,—at least as much of a man as Montgomery's attendant,—for he could talk.

“Yes,” I said, “I came in the boat. From the ship.”

“Oh!” he said, and his bright, restless eyes travelled over me, to my hands, to the stick I carried, to my feet, to the tattered places in my coat, and the cuts and scratches I had received from the thorns. He seemed puzzled at something. His eyes came back to my hands. He held his own hand out and counted his digits slowly, “One, two, three, four, five—eigh?”

I did not grasp his meaning then; afterwards I was to find that a great proportion of these Beast People had malformed hands, lacking sometimes even three digits. But guessing this was in some way a greeting, I did the same thing by way of reply. He grinned with immense satisfaction. Then his swift roving glance went round again; he made a swift movement—and vanished. The fern fronds he had stood between came swishing together.

I pushed out of the brake after him, and was astonished to find him swinging cheerfully by one lank arm from a rope of creepers that looped down from the foliage overhead. His back was to me.

“Hullo!” said I.

He came down with a twisting jump, and stood facing me.

“I say,” said I, “where can I get something to eat?”

“Eat!” he said. “Eat Man's food, now.” And his eye went back to the swing of ropes. “At the huts.”

“But where are the huts?”

“Oh!”

“I'm new, you know.”

At that he swung round, and set off at a quick walk. All his motions were curiously rapid. “Come along,” said he.

I went with him to see the adventure out. I guessed the huts were some rough shelter where he and some more of these Beast People lived. I might perhaps find them friendly, find some handle in their minds to take hold of. I did not know how far they had forgotten their human heritage.

My ape-like companion trotted along by my side, with his hands hanging down and his jaw thrust forward. I wondered what memory he might have in him. “How long have you been on this island?” said I.

“How long?” he asked; and after having the question repeated, he held up three fingers.

The creature was little better than an idiot. I tried to make out what he meant by that, and it seems I bored him. After another question or two he suddenly left my side and went leaping at some fruit that hung from a tree. He pulled down a handful of prickly husks and went on eating the contents. I noted this with satisfaction, for here at least was a hint for feeding. I tried him with some other questions, but his chattering, prompt responses were as often as not quite at cross purposes with my question. Some few were appropriate, others quite parrot-like.

I was so intent upon these peculiarities that I scarcely noticed the path we followed. Presently we came to trees, all charred and brown, and so to a bare place covered with a yellow-white incrustation, across which a drifting smoke, pungent in whiffs to nose and eyes, went drifting. On our right, over a shoulder of bare rock, I saw the level blue of the sea. The path coiled down abruptly into a narrow ravine between two tumbled and knotty masses of blackish scoriae. Into this we plunged.

It was extremely dark, this passage, after the blinding sunlight reflected from the sulphurous ground. Its walls grew steep, and approached each other. Blotches of green and crimson drifted across my eyes. My conductor stopped suddenly. “Home!” said he, and I stood in a floor of a chasm that was at first absolutely dark to me. I heard some strange noises, and thrust the knuckles of my left hand into my eyes. I became aware of a disagreeable odor, like that of a monkey's cage ill-cleaned. Beyond, the rock opened again upon a gradual slope of sunlit greenery, and on either hand the light smote down through narrow ways into the central gloom.

XII. THE SAYERS OF THE LAW.
THEN something cold touched my hand. I started violently, and saw close to me a dim pinkish thing, looking more like a flayed child than anything else in the world. The creature had exactly the mild but repulsive features of a sloth, the same low forehead and slow gestures.

As the first shock of the change of light passed, I saw about me more distinctly. The little sloth-like creature was standing and staring at me. My conductor had vanished. The place was a narrow passage between high walls of lava, a crack in the knotted rock, and on either side interwoven heaps of sea-mat, palm-fans, and reeds leaning against the rock formed rough and impenetrably dark dens. The winding way up the ravine between these was scarcely three yards wide, and was disfigured by lumps of decaying fruit-pulp and other refuse, which accounted for the disagreeable stench of the place.

The little pink sloth-creature was still blinking at me when my Ape-man reappeared at the aperture of the nearest of these dens, and beckoned me in. As he did so a slouching monster wriggled out of one of the places, further up this strange street, and stood up in featureless silhouette against the bright green beyond, staring at me. I hesitated, having half a mind to bolt the way I had come; and then, determined to go through with the adventure, I gripped my nailed stick about the middle and crawled into the little evil-smelling lean-to after my conductor.

It was a semi-circular space, shaped like the half of a bee-hive; and against the rocky wall that formed the inner side of it was a pile of variegated fruits, cocoa-nuts among others. Some rough vessels of lava and wood stood about the floor, and one on a rough stool. There was no fire. In the darkest corner of the hut sat a shapeless mass of darkness that grunted “Hey!” as I came in, and my Ape-man stood in the dim light of the doorway and held out a split cocoa-nut to me as I crawled into the other corner and squatted down. I took it, and began gnawing it, as serenely as possible, in spite of a certain trepidation and the nearly intolerable closeness of the den. The little pink sloth-creature stood in the aperture of the hut, and something else with a drab face and bright eyes came staring over its shoulder.

“Hey!” came out of the lump of mystery opposite. “It is a man.”

“It is a man,” gabbled my conductor, “a man, a man, a five-man, like me.”

“Shut up!” said the voice from the dark, and grunted. I gnawed my cocoa-nut amid an impressive stillness.

I peered hard into the blackness, but could distinguish nothing.

“It is a man,” the voice repeated. “He comes to live with us?”

It was a thick voice, with something in it—a kind of whistling overtone—that struck me as peculiar; but the English accent was strangely good.

The Ape-man looked at me as though he expected something. I perceived the pause was interrogative. “He comes to live with you,” I said.

“It is a man. He must learn the Law.”

I began to distinguish now a deeper blackness in the black, a vague outline of a hunched-up figure. Then I noticed the opening of the place was darkened by two more black heads. My hand tightened on my stick.

The thing in the dark repeated in a louder tone, “Say the words.” I had missed its last remark. “Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law,” it repeated in a kind of sing-song.

I was puzzled.

“Say the words,” said the Ape-man, repeating, and the figures in the doorway echoed this, with a threat in the tone of their voices.

I realised that I had to repeat this idiotic formula; and then began the insanest ceremony. The voice in the dark began intoning a mad litany, line by line, and I and the rest to repeat it. As they did so, they swayed from side to side in the oddest way, and beat their hands upon their knees; and I followed their example. I could have imagined I was already dead and in another world. That dark hut, these grotesque dim figures, just flecked here and there by a glimmer of light, and all of them swaying in unison and chanting,

“Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?

“Not to suck up Drink; that is the Law. Are we not Men?

“Not to eat Fish or Flesh; that is the Law. Are we not Men?

“Not to claw the Bark of Trees; that is the Law. Are we not Men?

“Not to chase other Men; that is the Law. Are we not Men?”

And so from the prohibition of these acts of folly, on to the prohibition of what I thought then were the maddest, most impossible, and most indecent things one could well imagine. A kind of rhythmic fervour fell on all of us; we gabbled and swayed faster and faster, repeating this amazing Law. Superficially the contagion of these brutes was upon me, but deep down within me the laughter and disgust struggled together. We ran through a long list of prohibitions, and then the chant swung round to a new formula.

“His is the House of Pain.

“His is the Hand that makes.

“His is the Hand that wounds.

“His is the Hand that heals.”

And so on for another long series, mostly quite incomprehensible gibberish to me about Him, whoever he might be. I could have fancied it was a dream, but never before have I heard chanting in a dream.

“His is the lightning flash,” we sang. “His is the deep, salt sea.”

A horrible fancy came into my head that Moreau, after animalising these men, had infected their dwarfed brains with a kind of deification of himself. However, I was too keenly aware of white teeth and strong claws about me to stop my chanting on that account.

“His are the stars in the sky.”

At last that song ended. I saw the Ape-man's face shining with perspiration; and my eyes being now accustomed to the darkness, I saw more distinctly the figure in the corner from which the voice came. It was the size of a man, but it seemed covered with a dull grey hair almost like a Skye-terrier. What was it? What were they all? Imagine yourself surrounded by all the most horrible cripples and maniacs it is possible to conceive, and you may understand a little of my feelings with these grotesque caricatures of humanity about me.

“He is a five-man, a five-man, a five-man—like me,” said the Ape-man.

I held out my hands. The grey creature in the corner leant forward.

“Not to run on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?” he said.

He put out a strangely distorted talon and gripped my fingers. The thing was almost like the hoof of a deer produced into claws. I could have yelled with surprise and pain. His face came forward and peered at my nails, came forward into the light of the opening of the hut and I saw with a quivering disgust that it was like the face of neither man nor beast, but a mere shock of grey hair, with three shadowy over-archings to mark the eyes and mouth.

“He has little nails,” said this grisly creature in his hairy beard. “It is well.”

He threw my hand down, and instinctively I gripped my stick.

“Eat roots and herbs; it is His will,” said the Ape-man.

“I am the Sayer of the Law,” said the grey figure. “Here come all that be new to learn the Law. I sit in the darkness and say the Law.”

“It is even so,” said one of the beasts in the doorway.

“Evil are the punishments of those who break the Law. None escape.”

“None escape,” said the Beast Folk, glancing furtively at one another.

“None, none,” said the Ape-man,—“none escape. See! I did a little thing, a wrong thing, once. I jabbered, jabbered, stopped talking. None could understand. I am burnt, branded in the hand. He is great. He is good!”

“None escape,” said the grey creature in the corner.

“None escape,” said the Beast People, looking askance at one another.

“For every one the want that is bad,” said the grey Sayer of the Law. “What you will want we do not know; we shall know. Some want to follow things that move, to watch and slink and wait and spring; to kill and bite, bite deep and rich, sucking the blood. It is bad. ‘Not to chase other Men; that is the Law. Are we not Men? Not to eat Flesh or Fish; that is the Law. Are we not Men?’”

“None escape,” said a dappled brute standing in the doorway.

“For every one the want is bad,” said the grey Sayer of the Law. “Some want to go tearing with teeth and hands into the roots of things, snuffing into the earth. It is bad.”

“None escape,” said the men in the door.

“Some go clawing trees; some go scratching at the graves of the dead; some go fighting with foreheads or feet or claws; some bite suddenly, none giving occasion; some love uncleanness.”

“None escape,” said the Ape-man, scratching his calf.

“None escape,” said the little pink sloth-creature.

“Punishment is sharp and sure. Therefore learn the Law. Say the words.”

And incontinently he began again the strange litany of the Law, and again I and all these creatures began singing and swaying. My head reeled with this jabbering and the close stench of the place; but I kept on, trusting to find presently some chance of a new development.

“Not to go on all-fours; that is the Law. Are we not Men?”

We were making such a noise that I noticed nothing of a tumult outside, until some one, who I think was one of the two Swine Men I had seen, thrust his head over the little pink sloth-creature and shouted something excitedly, something that I did not catch. Incontinently those at the opening of the hut vanished; my Ape-man rushed out; the thing that had sat in the dark followed him (I only observed that it was big and clumsy, and covered with silvery hair), and I was left alone. Then before I reached the aperture I heard the yelp of a staghound.

In another moment I was standing outside the hovel, my chair-rail in my hand, every muscle of me quivering. Before me were the clumsy backs of perhaps a score of these Beast People, their misshapen heads half hidden by their shoulder-blades. They were gesticulating excitedly. Other half-animal faces glared interrogation out of the hovels. Looking in the direction in which they faced, I saw coming through the haze under the trees beyond the end of the passage of dens the dark figure and awful white face of Moreau. He was holding the leaping staghound back, and close behind him came Montgomery revolver in hand.

For a moment I stood horror-struck. I turned and saw the passage behind me blocked by another heavy brute, with a huge grey face and twinkling little eyes, advancing towards me. I looked round and saw to the right of me and a half-dozen yards in front of me a narrow gap in the wall of rock through which a ray of light slanted into the shadows.

“Stop!” cried Moreau as I strode towards this, and then, “Hold him!”

At that, first one face turned towards me and then others. Their bestial minds were happily slow. I dashed my shoulder into a clumsy monster who was turning to see what Moreau meant, and flung him forward into another. I felt his hands fly round, clutching at me and missing me. The little pink sloth-creature dashed at me, and I gashed down its ugly face with the nail in my stick and in another minute was scrambling up a steep side pathway, a kind of sloping chimney, out of the ravine. I heard a howl behind me, and cries of “Catch him!” “Hold him!” and the grey-faced creature appeared behind me and jammed his huge bulk into the cleft. “Go on! go on!” they howled. I clambered up the narrow cleft in the rock and came out upon the sulphur on the westward side of the village of the Beast Men.

That gap was altogether fortunate for me, for the narrow chimney, slanting obliquely upward, must have impeded the nearer pursuers. I ran over the white space and down a steep slope, through a scattered growth of trees, and came to a low-lying stretch of tall reeds, through which I pushed into a dark, thick undergrowth that was black and succulent under foot. As I plunged into the reeds, my foremost pursuers emerged from the gap. I broke my way through this undergrowth for some minutes. The air behind me and about me was soon full of threatening cries. I heard the tumult of my pursuers in the gap up the slope, then the crashing of the reeds, and every now and then the crackling crash of a branch. Some of the creatures roared like excited beasts of prey. The staghound yelped to the left. I heard Moreau and Montgomery shouting in the same direction. I turned sharply to the right. It seemed to me even then that I heard Montgomery shouting for me to run for my life.

Presently the ground gave rich and oozy under my feet; but I was desperate and went headlong into it, struggled through kneedeep, and so came to a winding path among tall canes. The noise of my pursuers passed away to my left. In one place three strange, pink, hopping animals, about the size of cats, bolted before my footsteps. This pathway ran up hill, across another open space covered with white incrustation, and plunged into a canebrake again. Then suddenly it turned parallel with the edge of a steep-walled gap, which came without warning, like the ha-ha of an English park,—turned with an unexpected abruptness. I was still running with all my might, and I never saw this drop until I was flying headlong through the air.

I fell on my forearms and head, among thorns, and rose with a torn ear and bleeding face. I had fallen into a precipitous ravine, rocky and thorny, full of a hazy mist which drifted about me in wisps, and with a narrow streamlet from which this mist came meandering down the centre. I was astonished at this thin fog in the full blaze of daylight; but I had no time to stand wondering then. I turned to my right, down-stream, hoping to come to the sea in that direction, and so have my way open to drown myself. It was only later I found that I had dropped my nailed stick in my fall.

Presently the ravine grew narrower for a space, and carelessly I stepped into the stream. I jumped out again pretty quickly, for the water was almost boiling. I noticed too there was a thin sulphurous scum drifting upon its coiling water. Almost immediately came a turn in the ravine, and the indistinct blue horizon. The nearer sea was flashing the sun from a myriad facets. I saw my death before me; but I was hot and panting, with the warm blood oozing out on my face and running pleasantly through my veins. I felt more than a touch of exultation too, at having distanced my pursuers. It was not in me then to go out and drown myself yet. I stared back the way I had come.

I listened. Save for the hum of the gnats and the chirp of some small insects that hopped among the thorns, the air was absolutely still. Then came the yelp of a dog, very faint, and a chattering and gibbering, the snap of a whip, and voices. They grew louder, then fainter again. The noise receded up the stream and faded away. For a while the chase was over; but I knew now how much hope of help for me lay in the Beast People.

XIII. A PARLEY.
I TURNED again and went on down towards the sea. I found the hot stream broadened out to a shallow, weedy sand, in which an abundance of crabs and long-bodied, many-legged creatures started from my footfall. I walked to the very edge of the salt water, and then I felt I was safe. I turned and stared, arms akimbo, at the thick green behind me, into which the steamy ravine cut like a smoking gash. But, as I say, I was too full of excitement and (a true saying, though those who have never known danger may doubt it) too desperate to die.

Then it came into my head that there was one chance before me yet. While Moreau and Montgomery and their bestial rabble chased me through the island, might I not go round the beach until I came to their enclosure,—make a flank march upon them, in fact, and then with a rock lugged out of their loosely-built wall, perhaps, smash in the lock of the smaller door and see what I could find (knife, pistol, or what not) to fight them with when they returned? It was at any rate something to try.

So I turned to the westward and walked along by the water's edge. The setting sun flashed his blinding heat into my eyes. The slight Pacific tide was running in with a gentle ripple. Presently the shore fell away southward, and the sun came round upon my right hand. Then suddenly, far in front of me, I saw first one and then several figures emerging from the bushes,—Moreau, with his grey staghound, then Montgomery, and two others. At that I stopped.

They saw me, and began gesticulating and advancing. I stood watching them approach. The two Beast Men came running forward to cut me off from the undergrowth, inland. Montgomery came, running also, but straight towards me. Moreau followed slower with the dog.

At last I roused myself from my inaction, and turning seaward walked straight into the water. The water was very shallow at first. I was thirty yards out before the waves reached to my waist. Dimly I could see the intertidal creatures darting away from my feet.

“What are you doing, man?” cried Montgomery.

I turned, standing waist deep, and stared at them. Montgomery stood panting at the margin of the water. His face was bright-red with exertion, his long flaxen hair blown about his head, and his dropping nether lip showed his irregular teeth. Moreau was just coming up, his face pale and firm, and the dog at his hand barked at me. Both men had heavy whips. Farther up the beach stared the Beast Men.

“What am I doing? I am going to drown myself,” said I.

Montgomery and Moreau looked at each other. “Why?” asked Moreau.

“Because that is better than being tortured by you.”

“I told you so,” said Montgomery, and Moreau said something in a low tone.

“What makes you think I shall torture you?” asked Moreau.

“What I saw,” I said. “And those—yonder.”

“Hush!” said Moreau, and held up his hand.

“I will not,” said I. “They were men: what are they now? I at least will not be like them.”

I looked past my interlocutors. Up the beach were M'ling, Montgomery's attendant, and one of the white-swathed brutes from the boat. Farther up, in the shadow of the trees, I saw my little Ape-man, and behind him some other dim figures.

“Who are these creatures?” said I, pointing to them and raising my voice more and more that it might reach them. “They were men, men like yourselves, whom you have infected with some bestial taint,—men whom you have enslaved, and whom you still fear.

“You who listen,” I cried, pointing now to Moreau and shouting past him to the Beast Men,—“You who listen! Do you not see these men still fear you, go in dread of you? Why, then, do you fear them? You are many—”

“For God's sake,” cried Montgomery, “stop that, Prendick!”

“Prendick!” cried Moreau.

They both shouted together, as if to drown my voice; and behind them lowered the staring faces of the Beast Men, wondering, their deformed hands hanging down, their shoulders hunched up. They seemed, as I fancied, to be trying to understand me, to remember, I thought, something of their human past.

I went on shouting, I scarcely remember what,—that Moreau and Montgomery could be killed, that they were not to be feared: that was the burden of what I put into the heads of the Beast People. I saw the green-eyed man in the dark rags, who had met me on the evening of my arrival, come out from among the trees, and others followed him, to hear me better. At last for want of breath I paused.

“Listen to me for a moment,” said the steady voice of Moreau; “and then say what you will.”

“Well?” said I.

He coughed, thought, then shouted: “Latin, Prendick! bad Latin, schoolboy Latin; but try and understand. Hi non sunt homines; sunt animalia qui nos habemus—vivisected. A humanising process. I will explain. Come ashore.”

I laughed. “A pretty story,” said I. “They talk, build houses. They were men. It's likely I'll come ashore.”

“The water just beyond where you stand is deep—and full of sharks.”

“That's my way,” said I. “Short and sharp. Presently.”

“Wait a minute.” He took something out of his pocket that flashed back the sun, and dropped the object at his feet. “That's a loaded revolver,” said he. “Montgomery here will do the same. Now we are going up the beach until you are satisfied the distance is safe. Then come and take the revolvers.”

“Not I! You have a third between you.”

“I want you to think over things, Prendick. In the first place, I never asked you to come upon this island. If we vivisected men, we should import men, not beasts. In the next, we had you drugged last night, had we wanted to work you any mischief; and in the next, now your first panic is over and you can think a little, is Montgomery here quite up to the character you give him? We have chased you for your good. Because this island is full of inimical phenomena. Besides, why should we want to shoot you when you have just offered to drown yourself?”

“Why did you set—your people onto me when I was in the hut?”

“We felt sure of catching you, and bringing you out of danger. Afterwards we drew away from the scent, for your good.”

I mused. It seemed just possible. Then I remembered something again. “But I saw,” said I, “in the enclosure—”

“That was the puma.”

“Look here, Prendick,” said Montgomery, “you're a silly ass! Come out of the water and take these revolvers, and talk. We can't do anything more than we could do now.”

I will confess that then, and indeed always, I distrusted and dreaded Moreau; but Montgomery was a man I felt I understood.

“Go up the beach,” said I, after thinking, and added, “holding your hands up.”

“Can't do that,” said Montgomery, with an explanatory nod over his shoulder. “Undignified.”

“Go up to the trees, then,” said I, “as you please.”

“It's a damned silly ceremony,” said Montgomery.

Both turned and faced the six or seven grotesque creatures, who stood there in the sunlight, solid, casting shadows, moving, and yet so incredibly unreal. Montgomery cracked his whip at them, and forthwith they all turned and fled helter-skelter into the trees; and when Montgomery and Moreau were at a distance I judged sufficient, I waded ashore, and picked up and examined the revolvers. To satisfy myself against the subtlest trickery, I discharged one at a round lump of lava, and had the satisfaction of seeing the stone pulverised and the beach splashed with lead. Still I hesitated for a moment.

“I'll take the risk,” said I, at last; and with a revolver in each hand I walked up the beach towards them.

“That's better,” said Moreau, without affectation. “As it is, you have wasted the best part of my day with your confounded imagination.” And with a touch of contempt which humiliated me, he and Montgomery turned and went on in silence before me.

The knot of Beast Men, still wondering, stood back among the trees. I passed them as serenely as possible. One started to follow me, but retreated again when Montgomery cracked his whip. The rest stood silent—watching. They may once have been animals; but I never before saw an animal trying to think.

XIV. DOCTOR MOREAU EXPLAINS.
“AND now, Prendick, I will explain,” said Doctor Moreau, so soon as we had eaten and drunk. “I must confess that you are the most dictatorial guest I ever entertained. I warn you that this is the last I shall do to oblige you. The next thing you threaten to commit suicide about, I shan't do,—even at some personal inconvenience.”

He sat in my deck chair, a cigar half consumed in his white, dexterous-looking fingers. The light of the swinging lamp fell on his white hair; he stared through the little window out at the starlight. I sat as far away from him as possible, the table between us and the revolvers to hand. Montgomery was not present. I did not care to be with the two of them in such a little room.

“You admit that the vivisected human being, as you called it, is, after all, only the puma?” said Moreau. He had made me visit that horror in the inner room, to assure myself of its inhumanity.

“It is the puma,” I said, “still alive, but so cut and mutilated as I pray I may never see living flesh again. Of all vile—”

“Never mind that,” said Moreau; “at least, spare me those youthful horrors. Montgomery used to be just the same. You admit that it is the puma. Now be quiet, while I reel off my physiological lecture to you.”

And forthwith, beginning in the tone of a man supremely bored, but presently warming a little, he explained his work to me. He was very simple and convincing. Now and then there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice. Presently I found myself hot with shame at our mutual positions.

The creatures I had seen were not men, had never been men. They were animals, humanised animals,—triumphs of vivisection.

“You forget all that a skilled vivisector can do with living things,” said Moreau. “For my own part, I'm puzzled why the things I have done here have not been done before. Small efforts, of course, have been made,—amputation, tongue-cutting, excisions. Of course you know a squint may be induced or cured by surgery? Then in the case of excisions you have all kinds of secondary changes, pigmentary disturbances, modifications of the passions, alterations in the secretion of fatty tissue. I have no doubt you have heard of these things?”

“Of course,” said I. “But these foul creatures of yours—”

“All in good time,” said he, waving his hand at me; “I am only beginning. Those are trivial cases of alteration. Surgery can do better things than that. There is building up as well as breaking down and changing. You have heard, perhaps, of a common surgical operation resorted to in cases where the nose has been destroyed: a flap of skin is cut from the forehead, turned down on the nose, and heals in the new position. This is a kind of grafting in a new position of part of an animal upon itself. Grafting of freshly obtained material from another animal is also possible,—the case of teeth, for example. The grafting of skin and bone is done to facilitate healing: the surgeon places in the middle of the wound pieces of skin snipped from another animal, or fragments of bone from a victim freshly killed. Hunter's cock-spur—possibly you have heard of that—flourished on the bull's neck; and the rhinoceros rats of the Algerian zouaves are also to be thought of,—monsters manufactured by transferring a slip from the tail of an ordinary rat to its snout, and allowing it to heal in that position.”

“Monsters manufactured!” said I. “Then you mean to tell me—”

“Yes. These creatures you have seen are animals carven and wrought into new shapes. To that, to the study of the plasticity of living forms, my life has been devoted. I have studied for years, gaining in knowledge as I go. I see you look horrified, and yet I am telling you nothing new. It all lay in the surface of practical anatomy years ago, but no one had the temerity to touch it. It is not simply the outward form of an animal which I can change. The physiology, the chemical rhythm of the creature, may also be made to undergo an enduring modification,—of which vaccination and other methods of inoculation with living or dead matter are examples that will, no doubt, be familiar to you. A similar operation is the transfusion of blood,—with which subject, indeed, I began. These are all familiar cases. Less so, and probably far more extensive, were the operations of those mediaeval practitioners who made dwarfs and beggar-cripples, show-monsters,—some vestiges of whose art still remain in the preliminary manipulation of the young mountebank or contortionist. Victor Hugo gives an account of them in ‘L'Homme qui Rit.’—But perhaps my meaning grows plain now. You begin to see that it is a possible thing to transplant tissue from one part of an animal to another, or from one animal to another; to alter its chemical reactions and methods of growth; to modify the articulations of its limbs; and, indeed, to change it in its most intimate structure.

“And yet this extraordinary branch of knowledge has never been sought as an end, and systematically, by modern investigators until I took it up! Some such things have been hit upon in the last resort of surgery; most of the kindred evidence that will recur to your mind has been demonstrated as it were by accident,—by tyrants, by criminals, by the breeders of horses and dogs, by all kinds of untrained clumsy-handed men working for their own immediate ends. I was the first man to take up this question armed with antiseptic surgery, and with a really scientific knowledge of the laws of growth. Yet one would imagine it must have been practised in secret before. Such creatures as the Siamese Twins—And in the vaults of the Inquisition. No doubt their chief aim was artistic torture, but some at least of the inquisitors must have had a touch of scientific curiosity.”

“But,” said I, “these things—these animals talk!”

He said that was so, and proceeded to point out that the possibility of vivisection does not stop at a mere physical metamorphosis. A pig may be educated. The mental structure is even less determinate than the bodily. In our growing science of hypnotism we find the promise of a possibility of superseding old inherent instincts by new suggestions, grafting upon or replacing the inherited fixed ideas. Very much indeed of what we call moral education, he said, is such an artificial modification and perversion of instinct; pugnacity is trained into courageous self-sacrifice, and suppressed sexuality into religious emotion. And the great difference between man and monkey is in the larynx, he continued,—in the incapacity to frame delicately different sound-symbols by which thought could be sustained. In this I failed to agree with him, but with a certain incivility he declined to notice my objection. He repeated that the thing was so, and continued his account of his work.

I asked him why he had taken the human form as a model. There seemed to me then, and there still seems to me now, a strange wickedness for that choice.

He confessed that he had chosen that form by chance. “I might just as well have worked to form sheep into llamas and llamas into sheep. I suppose there is something in the human form that appeals to the artistic turn of mind more powerfully than any animal shape can. But I've not confined myself to man-making. Once or twice—” He was silent, for a minute perhaps. “These years! How they have slipped by! And here I have wasted a day saving your life, and am now wasting an hour explaining myself!”

“But,” said I, “I still do not understand. Where is your justification for inflicting all this pain? The only thing that could excuse vivisection to me would be some application—”

“Precisely,” said he. “But, you see, I am differently constituted. We are on different platforms. You are a materialist.”

“I am not a materialist,” I began hotly.

“In my view—in my view. For it is just this question of pain that parts us. So long as visible or audible pain turns you sick; so long as your own pains drive you; so long as pain underlies your propositions about sin,—so long, I tell you, you are an animal, thinking a little less obscurely what an animal feels. This pain—”

I gave an impatient shrug at such sophistry.

“Oh, but it is such a little thing! A mind truly opened to what science has to teach must see that it is a little thing. It may be that save in this little planet, this speck of cosmic dust, invisible long before the nearest star could be attained—it may be, I say, that nowhere else does this thing called pain occur. But the laws we feel our way towards—Why, even on this earth, even among living things, what pain is there?”

As he spoke he drew a little penknife from his pocket, opened the smaller blade, and moved his chair so that I could see his thigh. Then, choosing the place deliberately, he drove the blade into his leg and withdrew it.

“No doubt,” he said, “you have seen that before. It does not hurt a pin-prick. But what does it show? The capacity for pain is not needed in the muscle, and it is not placed there,—is but little needed in the skin, and only here and there over the thigh is a spot capable of feeling pain. Pain is simply our intrinsic medical adviser to warn us and stimulate us. Not all living flesh is painful; nor is all nerve, not even all sensory nerve. There's no taint of pain, real pain, in the sensations of the optic nerve. If you wound the optic nerve, you merely see flashes of light,—just as disease of the auditory nerve merely means a humming in our ears. Plants do not feel pain, nor the lower animals; it's possible that such animals as the starfish and crayfish do not feel pain at all. Then with men, the more intelligent they become, the more intelligently they will see after their own welfare, and the less they will need the goad to keep them out of danger. I never yet heard of a useless thing that was not ground out of existence by evolution sooner or later. Did you? And pain gets needless.

“Then I am a religious man, Prendick, as every sane man must be. It may be, I fancy, that I have seen more of the ways of this world's Maker than you,—for I have sought his laws, in my way, all my life, while you, I understand, have been collecting butterflies. And I tell you, pleasure and pain have nothing to do with heaven or hell. Pleasure and pain—bah! What is your theologian's ecstasy but Mahomet's houri in the dark? This store which men and women set on pleasure and pain, Prendick, is the mark of the beast upon them,—the mark of the beast from which they came! Pain, pain and pleasure, they are for us only so long as we wriggle in the dust.

“You see, I went on with this research just the way it led me. That is the only way I ever heard of true research going. I asked a question, devised some method of obtaining an answer, and got a fresh question. Was this possible or that possible? You cannot imagine what this means to an investigator, what an intellectual passion grows upon him! You cannot imagine the strange, colourless delight of these intellectual desires! The thing before you is no longer an animal, a fellow-creature, but a problem! Sympathetic pain,—all I know of it I remember as a thing I used to suffer from years ago. I wanted—it was the one thing I wanted—to find out the extreme limit of plasticity in a living shape.”

“But,” said I, “the thing is an abomination—”

“To this day I have never troubled about the ethics of the matter,” he continued. “The study of Nature makes a man at last as remorseless as Nature. I have gone on, not heeding anything but the question I was pursuing; and the material has—dripped into the huts yonder. It is nearly eleven years since we came here, I and Montgomery and six Kanakas. I remember the green stillness of the island and the empty ocean about us, as though it was yesterday. The place seemed waiting for me.

“The stores were landed and the house was built. The Kanakas founded some huts near the ravine. I went to work here upon what I had brought with me. There were some disagreeable things happened at first. I began with a sheep, and killed it after a day and a half by a slip of the scalpel. I took another sheep, and made a thing of pain and fear and left it bound up to heal. It looked quite human to me when I had finished it; but when I went to it I was discontented with it. It remembered me, and was terrified beyond imagination; and it had no more than the wits of a sheep. The more I looked at it the clumsier it seemed, until at last I put the monster out of its misery. These animals without courage, these fear-haunted, pain-driven things, without a spark of pugnacious energy to face torment,—they are no good for man-making.

“Then I took a gorilla I had; and upon that, working with infinite care and mastering difficulty after difficulty, I made my first man. All the week, night and day, I moulded him. With him it was chiefly the brain that needed moulding; much had to be added, much changed. I thought him a fair specimen of the negroid type when I had finished him, and he lay bandaged, bound, and motionless before me. It was only when his life was assured that I left him and came into this room again, and found Montgomery much as you are. He had heard some of the cries as the thing grew human,—cries like those that disturbed you so. I didn't take him completely into my confidence at first. And the Kanakas too, had realised something of it. They were scared out of their wits by the sight of me. I got Montgomery over to me—in a way; but I and he had the hardest job to prevent the Kanakas deserting. Finally they did; and so we lost the yacht. I spent many days educating the brute,—altogether I had him for three or four months. I taught him the rudiments of English; gave him ideas of counting; even made the thing read the alphabet. But at that he was slow, though I've met with idiots slower. He began with a clean sheet, mentally; had no memories left in his mind of what he had been. When his scars were quite healed, and he was no longer anything but painful and stiff, and able to converse a little, I took him yonder and introduced him to the Kanakas as an interesting stowaway.

“They were horribly afraid of him at first, somehow,—which offended me rather, for I was conceited about him; but his ways seemed so mild, and he was so abject, that after a time they received him and took his education in hand. He was quick to learn, very imitative and adaptive, and built himself a hovel rather better, it seemed to me, than their own shanties. There was one among the boys a bit of a missionary, and he taught the thing to read, or at least to pick out letters, and gave him some rudimentary ideas of morality; but it seems the beast's habits were not all that is desirable.

“I rested from work for some days after this, and was in a mind to write an account of the whole affair to wake up English physiology. Then I came upon the creature squatting up in a tree and gibbering at two of the Kanakas who had been teasing him. I threatened him, told him the inhumanity of such a proceeding, aroused his sense of shame, and came home resolved to do better before I took my work back to England. I have been doing better. But somehow the things drift back again: the stubborn beast-flesh grows day by day back again. But I mean to do better things still. I mean to conquer that. This puma--

“But that's the story. All the Kanaka boys are dead now; one fell overboard of the launch, and one died of a wounded heel that he poisoned in some way with plant-juice. Three went away in the yacht, and I suppose and hope were drowned. The other one—was killed. Well, I have replaced them. Montgomery went on much as you are disposed to do at first, and then--

“What became of the other one?” said I, sharply,—“the other Kanaka who was killed?”

“The fact is, after I had made a number of human creatures I made a Thing—” He hesitated.

“Yes?” said I.

“It was killed.”

“I don't understand,” said I; “do you mean to say—”

“It killed the Kanaka—yes. It killed several other things that it caught. We chased it for a couple of days. It only got loose by accident—I never meant it to get away. It wasn't finished. It was purely an experiment. It was a limbless thing, with a horrible face, that writhed along the ground in a serpentine fashion. It was immensely strong, and in infuriating pain. It lurked in the woods for some days, until we hunted it; and then it wriggled into the northern part of the island, and we divided the party to close in upon it. Montgomery insisted upon coming with me. The man had a rifle; and when his body was found, one of the barrels was curved into the shape of an S and very nearly bitten through. Montgomery shot the thing. After that I stuck to the ideal of humanity—except for little things.”

He became silent. I sat in silence watching his face.

“So for twenty years altogether—counting nine years in England—I have been going on; and there is still something in everything I do that defeats me, makes me dissatisfied, challenges me to further effort. Sometimes I rise above my level, sometimes I fall below it; but always I fall short of the things I dream. The human shape I can get now, almost with ease, so that it is lithe and graceful, or thick and strong; but often there is trouble with the hands and the claws,—painful things, that I dare not shape too freely. But it is in the subtle grafting and reshaping one must needs do to the brain that my trouble lies. The intelligence is often oddly low, with unaccountable blank ends, unexpected gaps. And least satisfactory of all is something that I cannot touch, somewhere—I cannot determine where—in the seat of the emotions. Cravings, instincts, desires that harm humanity, a strange hidden reservoir to burst forth suddenly and inundate the whole being of the creature with anger, hate, or fear. These creatures of mine seemed strange and uncanny to you so soon as you began to observe them; but to me, just after I make them, they seem to be indisputably human beings. It's afterwards, as I observe them, that the persuasion fades. First one animal trait, then another, creeps to the surface and stares out at me. But I will conquer yet! Each time I dip a living creature into the bath of burning pain, I say, ‘This time I will burn out all the animal; this time I will make a rational creature of my own!’ After all, what is ten years? Men have been a hundred thousand in the making.” He thought darkly. “But I am drawing near the fastness. This puma of mine—” After a silence, “And they revert. As soon as my hand is taken from them the beast begins to creep back, begins to assert itself again.” Another long silence.

“Then you take the things you make into those dens?” said I.

“They go. I turn them out when I begin to feel the beast in them, and presently they wander there. They all dread this house and me. There is a kind of travesty of humanity over there. Montgomery knows about it, for he interferes in their affairs. He has trained one or two of them to our service. He's ashamed of it, but I believe he half likes some of those beasts. It's his business, not mine. They only sicken me with a sense of failure. I take no interest in them. I fancy they follow in the lines the Kanaka missionary marked out, and have a kind of mockery of a rational life, poor beasts! There's something they call the Law. Sing hymns about ‘all thine.’ They build themselves their dens, gather fruit, and pull herbs—marry even. But I can see through it all, see into their very souls, and see there nothing but the souls of beasts, beasts that perish, anger and the lusts to live and gratify themselves.—Yet they're odd; complex, like everything else alive. There is a kind of upward striving in them, part vanity, part waste sexual emotion, part waste curiosity. It only mocks me. I have some hope of this puma. I have worked hard at her head and brain--

“And now,” said he, standing up after a long gap of silence, during which we had each pursued our own thoughts, “what do you think? Are you in fear of me still?”

I looked at him, and saw but a white-faced, white-haired man, with calm eyes. Save for his serenity, the touch almost of beauty that resulted from his set tranquillity and his magnificent build, he might have passed muster among a hundred other comfortable old gentlemen. Then I shivered. By way of answer to his second question, I handed him a revolver with either hand.

“Keep them,” he said, and snatched at a yawn. He stood up, stared at me for a moment, and smiled. “You have had two eventful days,” said he. “I should advise some sleep. I'm glad it's all clear. Good-night.” He thought me over for a moment, then went out by the inner door.

I immediately turned the key in the outer one. I sat down again; sat for a time in a kind of stagnant mood, so weary, emotionally, mentally, and physically, that I could not think beyond the point at which he had left me. The black window stared at me like an eye. At last with an effort I put out the light and got into the hammock. Very soon I was asleep.

XV. CONCERNING THE BEAST FOLK.
I WOKE early. Moreau's explanation stood before my mind, clear and definite, from the moment of my awakening. I got out of the hammock and went to the door to assure myself that the key was turned. Then I tried the window-bar, and found it firmly fixed. That these man-like creatures were in truth only bestial monsters, mere grotesque travesties of men, filled me with a vague uncertainty of their possibilities which was far worse than any definite fear.

A tapping came at the door, and I heard the glutinous accents of M'ling speaking. I pocketed one of the revolvers (keeping one hand upon it), and opened to him.

“Good-morning, sair,” he said, bringing in, in addition to the customary herb-breakfast, an ill-cooked rabbit. Montgomery followed him. His roving eye caught the position of my arm and he smiled askew.

The puma was resting to heal that day; but Moreau, who was singularly solitary in his habits, did not join us. I talked with Montgomery to clear my ideas of the way in which the Beast Folk lived. In particular, I was urgent to know how these inhuman monsters were kept from falling upon Moreau and Montgomery and from rending one another. He explained to me that the comparative safety of Moreau and himself was due to the limited mental scope of these monsters. In spite of their increased intelligence and the tendency of their animal instincts to reawaken, they had certain fixed ideas implanted by Moreau in their minds, which absolutely bounded their imaginations. They were really hypnotised; had been told that certain things were impossible, and that certain things were not to be done, and these prohibitions were woven into the texture of their minds beyond any possibility of disobedience or dispute.

Certain matters, however, in which old instinct was at war with Moreau's convenience, were in a less stable condition. A series of propositions called the Law (I had already heard them recited) battled in their minds with the deep-seated, ever-rebellious cravings of their animal natures. This Law they were ever repeating, I found, and ever breaking. Both Montgomery and Moreau displayed particular solicitude to keep them ignorant of the taste of blood; they feared the inevitable suggestions of that flavour. Montgomery told me that the Law, especially among the feline Beast People, became oddly weakened about nightfall; that then the animal was at its strongest; that a spirit of adventure sprang up in them at the dusk, when they would dare things they never seemed to dream about by day. To that I owed my stalking by the Leopard-man, on the night of my arrival. But during these earlier days of my stay they broke the Law only furtively and after dark; in the daylight there was a general atmosphere of respect for its multifarious prohibitions.

And here perhaps I may give a few general facts about the island and the Beast People. The island, which was of irregular outline and lay low upon the wide sea, had a total area, I suppose, of seven or eight square miles.{2} It was volcanic in origin, and was now fringed on three sides by coral reefs; some fumaroles to the northward, and a hot spring, were the only vestiges of the forces that had long since originated it. Now and then a faint quiver of earthquake would be sensible, and sometimes the ascent of the spire of smoke would be rendered tumultuous by gusts of steam; but that was all. The population of the island, Montgomery informed me, now numbered rather more than sixty of these strange creations of Moreau's art, not counting the smaller monstrosities which lived in the undergrowth and were without human form. Altogether he had made nearly a hundred and twenty; but many had died, and others—like the writhing Footless Thing of which he had told me—had come by violent ends. In answer to my question, Montgomery said that they actually bore offspring, but that these generally died. When they lived, Moreau took them and stamped the human form upon them. There was no evidence of the inheritance of their acquired human characteristics. The females were less numerous than the males, and liable to much furtive persecution in spite of the monogamy the Law enjoined.

{2} This description corresponds in every respect to Noble's Isle. — C. E. P.

It would be impossible for me to describe these Beast People in detail; my eye has had no training in details, and unhappily I cannot sketch. Most striking, perhaps, in their general appearance was the disproportion between the legs of these creatures and the length of their bodies; and yet—so relative is our idea of grace—my eye became habituated to their forms, and at last I even fell in with their persuasion that my own long thighs were ungainly. Another point was the forward carriage of the head and the clumsy and inhuman curvature of the spine. Even the Ape-man lacked that inward sinuous curve of the back which makes the human figure so graceful. Most had their shoulders hunched clumsily, and their short forearms hung weakly at their sides. Few of them were conspicuously hairy, at least until the end of my time upon the island.

The next most obvious deformity was in their faces, almost all of which were prognathous, malformed about the ears, with large and protuberant noses, very furry or very bristly hair, and often strangely-coloured or strangely-placed eyes. None could laugh, though the Ape-man had a chattering titter. Beyond these general characters their heads had little in common; each preserved the quality of its particular species: the human mark distorted but did not hide the leopard, the ox, or the sow, or other animal or animals, from which the creature had been moulded. The voices, too, varied exceedingly. The hands were always malformed; and though some surprised me by their unexpected human appearance, almost all were deficient in the number of the digits, clumsy about the finger-nails, and lacking any tactile sensibility.

The two most formidable Animal Men were my Leopard-man and a creature made of hyena and swine. Larger than these were the three bull-creatures who pulled in the boat. Then came the silvery-hairy-man, who was also the Sayer of the Law, M'ling, and a satyr-like creature of ape and goat. There were three Swine-men and a Swine-woman, a mare-rhinoceros-creature, and several other females whose sources I did not ascertain. There were several wolf-creatures, a bear-bull, and a Saint-Bernard-man. I have already described the Ape-man, and there was a particularly hateful (and evil-smelling) old woman made of vixen and bear, whom I hated from the beginning. She was said to be a passionate votary of the Law. Smaller creatures were certain dappled youths and my little sloth-creature. But enough of this catalogue.

At first I had a shivering horror of the brutes, felt all too keenly that they were still brutes; but insensibly I became a little habituated to the idea of them, and moreover I was affected by Montgomery's attitude towards them. He had been with them so long that he had come to regard them as almost normal human beings. His London days seemed a glorious, impossible past to him. Only once in a year or so did he go to Arica to deal with Moreau's agent, a trader in animals there. He hardly met the finest type of mankind in that seafaring village of Spanish mongrels. The men aboard-ship, he told me, seemed at first just as strange to him as the Beast Men seemed to me,—unnaturally long in the leg, flat in the face, prominent in the forehead, suspicious, dangerous, and cold-hearted. In fact, he did not like men: his heart had warmed to me, he thought, because he had saved my life. I fancied even then that he had a sneaking kindness for some of these metamorphosed brutes, a vicious sympathy with some of their ways, but that he attempted to veil it from me at first.

M'ling, the black-faced man, Montgomery's attendant, the first of the Beast Folk I had encountered, did not live with the others across the island, but in a small kennel at the back of the enclosure. The creature was scarcely so intelligent as the Ape-man, but far more docile, and the most human-looking of all the Beast Folk; and Montgomery had trained it to prepare food, and indeed to discharge all the trivial domestic offices that were required. It was a complex trophy of Moreau's horrible skill,—a bear, tainted with dog and ox, and one of the most elaborately made of all his creatures. It treated Montgomery with a strange tenderness and devotion. Sometimes he would notice it, pat it, call it half-mocking, half-jocular names, and so make it caper with extraordinary delight; sometimes he would ill-treat it, especially after he had been at the whiskey, kicking it, beating it, pelting it with stones or lighted fusees. But whether he treated it well or ill, it loved nothing so much as to be near him.

I say I became habituated to the Beast People, that a thousand things which had seemed unnatural and repulsive speedily became natural and ordinary to me. I suppose everything in existence takes its colour from the average hue of our surroundings. Montgomery and Moreau were too peculiar and individual to keep my general impressions of humanity well defined. I would see one of the clumsy bovine-creatures who worked the launch treading heavily through the undergrowth, and find myself asking, trying hard to recall, how he differed from some really human yokel trudging home from his mechanical labours; or I would meet the Fox-bear woman's vulpine, shifty face, strangely human in its speculative cunning, and even imagine I had met it before in some city byway.

Yet every now and then the beast would flash out upon me beyond doubt or denial. An ugly-looking man, a hunch-backed human savage to all appearance, squatting in the aperture of one of the dens, would stretch his arms and yawn, showing with startling suddenness scissor-edged incisors and sabre-like canines, keen and brilliant as knives. Or in some narrow pathway, glancing with a transitory daring into the eyes of some lithe, white-swathed female figure, I would suddenly see (with a spasmodic revulsion) that she had slit-like pupils, or glancing down note the curving nail with which she held her shapeless wrap about her. It is a curious thing, by the bye, for which I am quite unable to account, that these weird creatures—the females, I mean—had in the earlier days of my stay an instinctive sense of their own repulsive clumsiness, and displayed in consequence a more than human regard for the decency and decorum of extensive costume.

XVI. HOW THE BEAST FOLK TASTE BLOOD.
MY inexperience as a writer betrays me, and I wander from the thread of my story.

After I had breakfasted with Montgomery, he took me across the island to see the fumarole and the source of the hot spring into whose scalding waters I had blundered on the previous day. Both of us carried whips and loaded revolvers. While going through a leafy jungle on our road thither, we heard a rabbit squealing. We stopped and listened, but we heard no more; and presently we went on our way, and the incident dropped out of our minds. Montgomery called my attention to certain little pink animals with long hind-legs, that went leaping through the undergrowth. He told me they were creatures made of the offspring of the Beast People, that Moreau had invented. He had fancied they might serve for meat, but a rabbit-like habit of devouring their young had defeated this intention. I had already encountered some of these creatures,—once during my moonlight flight from the Leopard-man, and once during my pursuit by Moreau on the previous day. By chance, one hopping to avoid us leapt into the hole caused by the uprooting of a wind-blown tree; before it could extricate itself we managed to catch it. It spat like a cat, scratched and kicked vigorously with its hind-legs, and made an attempt to bite; but its teeth were too feeble to inflict more than a painless pinch. It seemed to me rather a pretty little creature; and as Montgomery stated that it never destroyed the turf by burrowing, and was very cleanly in its habits, I should imagine it might prove a convenient substitute for the common rabbit in gentlemen's parks.

We also saw on our way the trunk of a tree barked in long strips and splintered deeply. Montgomery called my attention to this. “Not to claw bark of trees, that is the Law,” he said. “Much some of them care for it!” It was after this, I think, that we met the Satyr and the Ape-man. The Satyr was a gleam of classical memory on the part of Moreau,—his face ovine in expression, like the coarser Hebrew type; his voice a harsh bleat, his nether extremities Satanic. He was gnawing the husk of a pod-like fruit as he passed us. Both of them saluted Montgomery.

“Hail,” said they, “to the Other with the Whip!”

“There's a Third with a Whip now,” said Montgomery. “So you'd better mind!”

“Was he not made?” said the Ape-man. “He said—he said he was made.”

The Satyr-man looked curiously at me. “The Third with the Whip, he that walks weeping into the sea, has a thin white face.”

“He has a thin long whip,” said Montgomery.

“Yesterday he bled and wept,” said the Satyr. “You never bleed nor weep. The Master does not bleed or weep.”

“Ollendorffian beggar!” said Montgomery, “you'll bleed and weep if you don't look out!”

“He has five fingers, he is a five-man like me,” said the Ape-man.

“Come along, Prendick,” said Montgomery, taking my arm; and I went on with him.

The Satyr and the Ape-man stood watching us and making other remarks to each other.

“He says nothing,” said the Satyr. “Men have voices.”

“Yesterday he asked me of things to eat,” said the Ape-man. “He did not know.”

Then they spoke inaudible things, and I heard the Satyr laughing.

It was on our way back that we came upon the dead rabbit. The red body of the wretched little beast was rent to pieces, many of the ribs stripped white, and the backbone indisputably gnawed.

At that Montgomery stopped. “Good God!” said he, stooping down, and picking up some of the crushed vertebrae to examine them more closely. “Good God!” he repeated, “what can this mean?”

“Some carnivore of yours has remembered its old habits,” I said after a pause. “This backbone has been bitten through.”

He stood staring, with his face white and his lip pulled askew. “I don't like this,” he said slowly.

“I saw something of the same kind,” said I, “the first day I came here.”

“The devil you did! What was it?”

“A rabbit with its head twisted off.”

“The day you came here?”

“The day I came here. In the undergrowth at the back of the enclosure, when I went out in the evening. The head was completely wrung off.”

He gave a long, low whistle.

“And what is more, I have an idea which of your brutes did the thing. It's only a suspicion, you know. Before I came on the rabbit I saw one of your monsters drinking in the stream.”

“Sucking his drink?”

“Yes.”

“‘Not to suck your drink; that is the Law.’ Much the brutes care for the Law, eh? when Moreau's not about!”

“It was the brute who chased me.”

“Of course,” said Montgomery; “it's just the way with carnivores. After a kill, they drink. It's the taste of blood, you know.—What was the brute like?” he continued. “Would you know him again?” He glanced about us, standing astride over the mess of dead rabbit, his eyes roving among the shadows and screens of greenery, the lurking-places and ambuscades of the forest that bounded us in. “The taste of blood,” he said again.

He took out his revolver, examined the cartridges in it and replaced it. Then he began to pull at his dropping lip.

“I think I should know the brute again,” I said. “I stunned him. He ought to have a handsome bruise on the forehead of him.”

“But then we have to prove that he killed the rabbit,” said Montgomery. “I wish I'd never brought the things here.”

I should have gone on, but he stayed there thinking over the mangled rabbit in a puzzle-headed way. As it was, I went to such a distance that the rabbit's remains were hidden.

“Come on!” I said.

Presently he woke up and came towards me. “You see,” he said, almost in a whisper, “they are all supposed to have a fixed idea against eating anything that runs on land. If some brute has by any accident tasted blood—”

We went on some way in silence. “I wonder what can have happened,” he said to himself. Then, after a pause again: “I did a foolish thing the other day. That servant of mine—I showed him how to skin and cook a rabbit. It's odd—I saw him licking his hands—It never occurred to me.”

Then: “We must put a stop to this. I must tell Moreau.”

He could think of nothing else on our homeward journey.

Moreau took the matter even more seriously than Montgomery, and I need scarcely say that I was affected by their evident consternation.

“We must make an example,” said Moreau. “I've no doubt in my own mind that the Leopard-man was the sinner. But how can we prove it? I wish, Montgomery, you had kept your taste for meat in hand, and gone without these exciting novelties. We may find ourselves in a mess yet, through it.”

“I was a silly ass,” said Montgomery. “But the thing's done now; and you said I might have them, you know.”

“We must see to the thing at once,” said Moreau. “I suppose if anything should turn up, M'ling can take care of himself?”

“I'm not so sure of M'ling,” said Montgomery. “I think I ought to know him.”

In the afternoon, Moreau, Montgomery, myself, and M'ling went across the island to the huts in the ravine. We three were armed; M'ling carried the little hatchet he used in chopping firewood, and some coils of wire. Moreau had a huge cowherd's horn slung over his shoulder.

“You will see a gathering of the Beast People,” said Montgomery. “It is a pretty sight!”

Moreau said not a word on the way, but the expression of his heavy, white-fringed face was grimly set.

We crossed the ravine down which smoked the stream of hot water, and followed the winding pathway through the canebrakes until we reached a wide area covered over with a thick, powdery yellow substance which I believe was sulphur. Above the shoulder of a weedy bank the sea glittered. We came to a kind of shallow natural amphitheatre, and here the four of us halted. Then Moreau sounded the horn, and broke the sleeping stillness of the tropical afternoon. He must have had strong lungs. The hooting note rose and rose amidst its echoes, to at last an ear-penetrating intensity.

“Ah!” said Moreau, letting the curved instrument fall to his side again.

Immediately there was a crashing through the yellow canes, and a sound of voices from the dense green jungle that marked the morass through which I had run on the previous day. Then at three or four points on the edge of the sulphurous area appeared the grotesque forms of the Beast People hurrying towards us. I could not help a creeping horror, as I perceived first one and then another trot out from the trees or reeds and come shambling along over the hot dust. But Moreau and Montgomery stood calmly enough; and, perforce, I stuck beside them.

First to arrive was the Satyr, strangely unreal for all that he cast a shadow and tossed the dust with his hoofs. After him from the brake came a monstrous lout, a thing of horse and rhinoceros, chewing a straw as it came; then appeared the Swine-woman and two Wolf-women; then the Fox-bear witch, with her red eyes in her peaked red face, and then others,—all hurrying eagerly. As they came forward they began to cringe towards Moreau and chant, quite regardless of one another, fragments of the latter half of the litany of the Law,—“His is the Hand that wounds; His is the Hand that heals,” and so forth. As soon as they had approached within a distance of perhaps thirty yards they halted, and bowing on knees and elbows began flinging the white dust upon their heads.

Imagine the scene if you can! We three blue-clad men, with our misshapen black-faced attendant, standing in a wide expanse of sunlit yellow dust under the blazing blue sky, and surrounded by this circle of crouching and gesticulating monstrosities,—some almost human save in their subtle expression and gestures, some like cripples, some so strangely distorted as to resemble nothing but the denizens of our wildest dreams; and, beyond, the reedy lines of a canebrake in one direction, a dense tangle of palm-trees on the other, separating us from the ravine with the huts, and to the north the hazy horizon of the Pacific Ocean.

“Sixty-two, sixty-three,” counted Moreau. “There are four more.”

“I do not see the Leopard-man,” said I.

Presently Moreau sounded the great horn again, and at the sound of it all the Beast People writhed and grovelled in the dust. Then, slinking out of the canebrake, stooping near the ground and trying to join the dust-throwing circle behind Moreau's back, came the Leopard-man. The last of the Beast People to arrive was the little Ape-man. The earlier animals, hot and weary with their grovelling, shot vicious glances at him.

“Cease!” said Moreau, in his firm, loud voice; and the Beast People sat back upon their hams and rested from their worshipping.

“Where is the Sayer of the Law?” said Moreau, and the hairy-grey monster bowed his face in the dust.

“Say the words!” said Moreau.

Forthwith all in the kneeling assembly, swaying from side to side and dashing up the sulphur with their hands,—first the right hand and a puff of dust, and then the left,—began once more to chant their strange litany. When they reached, “Not to eat Flesh or Fish, that is the Law,” Moreau held up his lank white hand.

“Stop!” he cried, and there fell absolute silence upon them all.

I think they all knew and dreaded what was coming. I looked round at their strange faces. When I saw their wincing attitudes and the furtive dread in their bright eyes, I wondered that I had ever believed them to be men.

“That Law has been broken!” said Moreau.

“None escape,” from the faceless creature with the silvery hair. “None escape,” repeated the kneeling circle of Beast People.

“Who is he?” cried Moreau, and looked round at their faces, cracking his whip. I fancied the Hyena-swine looked dejected, so too did the Leopard-man. Moreau stopped, facing this creature, who cringed towards him with the memory and dread of infinite torment.

“Who is he?” repeated Moreau, in a voice of thunder.

“Evil is he who breaks the Law,” chanted the Sayer of the Law.

Moreau looked into the eyes of the Leopard-man, and seemed to be dragging the very soul out of the creature.

“Who breaks the Law—” said Moreau, taking his eyes off his victim, and turning towards us (it seemed to me there was a touch of exultation in his voice).

“Goes back to the House of Pain,” they all clamoured,—“goes back to the House of Pain, O Master!”

“Back to the House of Pain,—back to the House of Pain,” gabbled the Ape-man, as though the idea was sweet to him.

“Do you hear?” said Moreau, turning back to the criminal, “my friend—Hullo!”

For the Leopard-man, released from Moreau's eye, had risen straight from his knees, and now, with eyes aflame and his huge feline tusks flashing out from under his curling lips, leapt towards his tormentor. I am convinced that only the madness of unendurable fear could have prompted this attack. The whole circle of threescore monsters seemed to rise about us. I drew my revolver. The two figures collided. I saw Moreau reeling back from the Leopard-man's blow. There was a furious yelling and howling all about us. Every one was moving rapidly. For a moment I thought it was a general revolt. The furious face of the Leopard-man flashed by mine, with M'ling close in pursuit. I saw the yellow eyes of the Hyena-swine blazing with excitement, his attitude as if he were half resolved to attack me. The Satyr, too, glared at me over the Hyena-swine's hunched shoulders. I heard the crack of Moreau's pistol, and saw the pink flash dart across the tumult. The whole crowd seemed to swing round in the direction of the glint of fire, and I too was swung round by the magnetism of the movement. In another second I was running, one of a tumultuous shouting crowd, in pursuit of the escaping Leopard-man.

That is all I can tell definitely. I saw the Leopard-man strike Moreau, and then everything spun about me until I was running headlong. M'ling was ahead, close in pursuit of the fugitive. Behind, their tongues already lolling out, ran the Wolf-women in great leaping strides. The Swine folk followed, squealing with excitement, and the two Bull-men in their swathings of white. Then came Moreau in a cluster of the Beast People, his wide-brimmed straw hat blown off, his revolver in hand, and his lank white hair streaming out. The Hyena-swine ran beside me, keeping pace with me and glancing furtively at me out of his feline eyes, and the others came pattering and shouting behind us.

The Leopard-man went bursting his way through the long canes, which sprang back as he passed, and rattled in M'ling's face. We others in the rear found a trampled path for us when we reached the brake. The chase lay through the brake for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then plunged into a dense thicket, which retarded our movements exceedingly, though we went through it in a crowd together,—fronds flicking into our faces, ropy creepers catching us under the chin or gripping our ankles, thorny plants hooking into and tearing cloth and flesh together.

“He has gone on all-fours through this,” panted Moreau, now just ahead of me.

“None escape,” said the Wolf-bear, laughing into my face with the exultation of hunting. We burst out again among rocks, and saw the quarry ahead running lightly on all-fours and snarling at us over his shoulder. At that the Wolf Folk howled with delight. The Thing was still clothed, and at a distance its face still seemed human; but the carriage of its four limbs was feline, and the furtive droop of its shoulder was distinctly that of a hunted animal. It leapt over some thorny yellow-flowering bushes, and was hidden. M'ling was halfway across the space.

Most of us now had lost the first speed of the chase, and had fallen into a longer and steadier stride. I saw as we traversed the open that the pursuit was now spreading from a column into a line. The Hyena-swine still ran close to me, watching me as it ran, every now and then puckering its muzzle with a snarling laugh. At the edge of the rocks the Leopard-man, realising that he was making for the projecting cape upon which he had stalked me on the night of my arrival, had doubled in the undergrowth; but Montgomery had seen the manoeuvre, and turned him again. So, panting, tumbling against rocks, torn by brambles, impeded by ferns and reeds, I helped to pursue the Leopard-man who had broken the Law, and the Hyena-swine ran, laughing savagely, by my side. I staggered on, my head reeling and my heart beating against my ribs, tired almost to death, and yet not daring to lose sight of the chase lest I should be left alone with this horrible companion. I staggered on in spite of infinite fatigue and the dense heat of the tropical afternoon.

At last the fury of the hunt slackened. We had pinned the wretched brute into a corner of the island. Moreau, whip in hand, marshalled us all into an irregular line, and we advanced now slowly, shouting to one another as we advanced and tightening the cordon about our victim. He lurked noiseless and invisible in the bushes through which I had run from him during that midnight pursuit.

“Steady!” cried Moreau, “steady!” as the ends of the line crept round the tangle of undergrowth and hemmed the brute in.

“Ware a rush!” came the voice of Montgomery from beyond the thicket.

I was on the slope above the bushes; Montgomery and Moreau beat along the beach beneath. Slowly we pushed in among the fretted network of branches and leaves. The quarry was silent.

“Back to the House of Pain, the House of Pain, the House of Pain!” yelped the voice of the Ape-man, some twenty yards to the right.

When I heard that, I forgave the poor wretch all the fear he had inspired in me. I heard the twigs snap and the boughs swish aside before the heavy tread of the Horse-rhinoceros upon my right. Then suddenly through a polygon of green, in the half darkness under the luxuriant growth, I saw the creature we were hunting. I halted. He was crouched together into the smallest possible compass, his luminous green eyes turned over his shoulder regarding me.

It may seem a strange contradiction in me,—I cannot explain the fact,—but now, seeing the creature there in a perfectly animal attitude, with the light gleaming in its eyes and its imperfectly human face distorted with terror, I realised again the fact of its humanity. In another moment other of its pursuers would see it, and it would be overpowered and captured, to experience once more the horrible tortures of the enclosure. Abruptly I slipped out my revolver, aimed between its terror-struck eyes, and fired. As I did so, the Hyena-swine saw the Thing, and flung itself upon it with an eager cry, thrusting thirsty teeth into its neck. All about me the green masses of the thicket were swaying and cracking as the Beast People came rushing together. One face and then another appeared.

“Don't kill it, Prendick!” cried Moreau. “Don't kill it!” and I saw him stooping as he pushed through under the fronds of the big ferns.

In another moment he had beaten off the Hyena-swine with the handle of his whip, and he and Montgomery were keeping away the excited carnivorous Beast People, and particularly M'ling, from the still quivering body. The hairy-grey Thing came sniffing at the corpse under my arm. The other animals, in their animal ardour, jostled me to get a nearer view.

“Confound you, Prendick!” said Moreau. “I wanted him.”

“I'm sorry,” said I, though I was not. “It was the impulse of the moment.” I felt sick with exertion and excitement. Turning, I pushed my way out of the crowding Beast People and went on alone up the slope towards the higher part of the headland. Under the shouted directions of Moreau I heard the three white-swathed Bull-men begin dragging the victim down towards the water.

It was easy now for me to be alone. The Beast People manifested a quite human curiosity about the dead body, and followed it in a thick knot, sniffing and growling at it as the Bull-men dragged it down the beach. I went to the headland and watched the bull-men, black against the evening sky as they carried the weighted dead body out to sea; and like a wave across my mind came the realisation of the unspeakable aimlessness of things upon the island. Upon the beach among the rocks beneath me were the Ape-man, the Hyena-swine, and several other of the Beast People, standing about Montgomery and Moreau. They were all still intensely excited, and all overflowing with noisy expressions of their loyalty to the Law; yet I felt an absolute assurance in my own mind that the Hyena-swine was implicated in the rabbit-killing. A strange persuasion came upon me, that, save for the grossness of the line, the grotesqueness of the forms, I had here before me the whole balance of human life in miniature, the whole interplay of instinct, reason, and fate in its simplest form. The Leopard-man had happened to go under: that was all the difference. Poor brute!

Poor brutes! I began to see the viler aspect of Moreau's cruelty. I had not thought before of the pain and trouble that came to these poor victims after they had passed from Moreau's hands. I had shivered only at the days of actual torment in the enclosure. But now that seemed to me the lesser part. Before, they had been beasts, their instincts fitly adapted to their surroundings, and happy as living things may be. Now they stumbled in the shackles of humanity, lived in a fear that never died, fretted by a law they could not understand; their mock-human existence, begun in an agony, was one long internal struggle, one long dread of Moreau—and for what? It was the wantonness of it that stirred me.

Had Moreau had any intelligible object, I could have sympathised at least a little with him. I am not so squeamish about pain as that. I could have forgiven him a little even, had his motive been only hate. But he was so irresponsible, so utterly careless! His curiosity, his mad, aimless investigations, drove him on; and the Things were thrown out to live a year or so, to struggle and blunder and suffer, and at last to die painfully. They were wretched in themselves; the old animal hate moved them to trouble one another; the Law held them back from a brief hot struggle and a decisive end to their natural animosities.

In those days my fear of the Beast People went the way of my personal fear for Moreau. I fell indeed into a morbid state, deep and enduring, and alien to fear, which has left permanent scars upon my mind. I must confess that I lost faith in the sanity of the world when I saw it suffering the painful disorder of this island. A blind Fate, a vast pitiless mechanism, seemed to cut and shape the fabric of existence and I, Moreau (by his passion for research), Montgomery (by his passion for drink), the Beast People with their instincts and mental restrictions, were torn and crushed, ruthlessly, inevitably, amid the infinite complexity of its incessant wheels. But this condition did not come all at once: I think indeed that I anticipate a little in speaking of it now.

XVII. A CATASTROPHE.
SCARCELY six weeks passed before I had lost every feeling but dislike and abhorrence for this infamous experiment of Moreau's. My one idea was to get away from these horrible caricatures of my Maker's image, back to the sweet and wholesome intercourse of men. My fellow-creatures, from whom I was thus separated, began to assume idyllic virtue and beauty in my memory. My first friendship with Montgomery did not increase. His long separation from humanity, his secret vice of drunkenness, his evident sympathy with the Beast People, tainted him to me. Several times I let him go alone among them. I avoided intercourse with them in every possible way. I spent an increasing proportion of my time upon the beach, looking for some liberating sail that never appeared,—until one day there fell upon us an appalling disaster, which put an altogether different aspect upon my strange surroundings.

It was about seven or eight weeks after my landing,—rather more, I think, though I had not troubled to keep account of the time,—when this catastrophe occurred. It happened in the early morning—I should think about six. I had risen and breakfasted early, having been aroused by the noise of three Beast Men carrying wood into the enclosure.

After breakfast I went to the open gateway of the enclosure, and stood there smoking a cigarette and enjoying the freshness of the early morning. Moreau presently came round the corner of the enclosure and greeted me. He passed by me, and I heard him behind me unlock and enter his laboratory. So indurated was I at that time to the abomination of the place, that I heard without a touch of emotion the puma victim begin another day of torture. It met its persecutor with a shriek, almost exactly like that of an angry virago.

Then suddenly something happened,—I do not know what, to this day. I heard a short, sharp cry behind me, a fall, and turning saw an awful face rushing upon me,—not human, not animal, but hellish, brown, seamed with red branching scars, red drops starting out upon it, and the lidless eyes ablaze. I threw up my arm to defend myself from the blow that flung me headlong with a broken forearm; and the great monster, swathed in lint and with red-stained bandages fluttering about it, leapt over me and passed. I rolled over and over down the beach, tried to sit up, and collapsed upon my broken arm. Then Moreau appeared, his massive white face all the more terrible for the blood that trickled from his forehead. He carried a revolver in one hand. He scarcely glanced at me, but rushed off at once in pursuit of the puma.

I tried the other arm and sat up. The muffled figure in front ran in great striding leaps along the beach, and Moreau followed her. She turned her head and saw him, then doubling abruptly made for the bushes. She gained upon him at every stride. I saw her plunge into them, and Moreau, running slantingly to intercept her, fired and missed as she disappeared. Then he too vanished in the green confusion. I stared after them, and then the pain in my arm flamed up, and with a groan I staggered to my feet. Montgomery appeared in the doorway, dressed, and with his revolver in his hand.

“Great God, Prendick!” he said, not noticing that I was hurt, “that brute's loose! Tore the fetter out of the wall! Have you seen them?” Then sharply, seeing I gripped my arm, “What's the matter?”

“I was standing in the doorway,” said I.

He came forward and took my arm. “Blood on the sleeve,” said he, and rolled back the flannel. He pocketed his weapon, felt my arm about painfully, and led me inside. “Your arm is broken,” he said, and then, “Tell me exactly how it happened—what happened?”

I told him what I had seen; told him in broken sentences, with gasps of pain between them, and very dexterously and swiftly he bound my arm meanwhile. He slung it from my shoulder, stood back and looked at me.

“You'll do,” he said. “And now?”

He thought. Then he went out and locked the gates of the enclosure. He was absent some time.

I was chiefly concerned about my arm. The incident seemed merely one more of many horrible things. I sat down in the deck chair, and I must admit swore heartily at the island. The first dull feeling of injury in my arm had already given way to a burning pain when Montgomery reappeared. His face was rather pale, and he showed more of his lower gums than ever.

“I can neither see nor hear anything of him,” he said. “I've been thinking he may want my help.” He stared at me with his expressionless eyes. “That was a strong brute,” he said. “It simply wrenched its fetter out of the wall.” He went to the window, then to the door, and there turned to me. “I shall go after him,” he said. “There's another revolver I can leave with you. To tell you the truth, I feel anxious somehow.”

He obtained the weapon, and put it ready to my hand on the table; then went out, leaving a restless contagion in the air. I did not sit long after he left, but took the revolver in hand and went to the doorway.

The morning was as still as death. Not a whisper of wind was stirring; the sea was like polished glass, the sky empty, the beach desolate. In my half-excited, half-feverish state, this stillness of things oppressed me. I tried to whistle, and the tune died away. I swore again,—the second time that morning. Then I went to the corner of the enclosure and stared inland at the green bush that had swallowed up Moreau and Montgomery. When would they return, and how? Then far away up the beach a little grey Beast Man appeared, ran down to the water's edge and began splashing about. I strolled back to the doorway, then to the corner again, and so began pacing to and fro like a sentinel upon duty. Once I was arrested by the distant voice of Montgomery bawling, “Coo-ee—Moreau!” My arm became less painful, but very hot. I got feverish and thirsty. My shadow grew shorter. I watched the distant figure until it went away again. Would Moreau and Montgomery never return? Three sea-birds began fighting for some stranded treasure.

Then from far away behind the enclosure I heard a pistol-shot. A long silence, and then came another. Then a yelling cry nearer, and another dismal gap of silence. My unfortunate imagination set to work to torment me. Then suddenly a shot close by. I went to the corner, startled, and saw Montgomery,—his face scarlet, his hair disordered, and the knee of his trousers torn. His face expressed profound consternation. Behind him slouched the Beast Man, M'ling, and round M'ling's jaws were some queer dark stains.

“Has he come?” said Montgomery.

“Moreau?” said I. “No.”

“My God!” The man was panting, almost sobbing. “Go back in,” he said, taking my arm. “They're mad. They're all rushing about mad. What can have happened? I don't know. I'll tell you, when my breath comes. Where's some brandy?”

Montgomery limped before me into the room and sat down in the deck chair. M'ling flung himself down just outside the doorway and began panting like a dog. I got Montgomery some brandy-and-water. He sat staring in front of him at nothing, recovering his breath. After some minutes he began to tell me what had happened.

He had followed their track for some way. It was plain enough at first on account of the crushed and broken bushes, white rags torn from the puma's bandages, and occasional smears of blood on the leaves of the shrubs and undergrowth. He lost the track, however, on the stony ground beyond the stream where I had seen the Beast Man drinking, and went wandering aimlessly westward shouting Moreau's name. Then M'ling had come to him carrying a light hatchet. M'ling had seen nothing of the puma affair; had been felling wood, and heard him calling. They went on shouting together. Two Beast Men came crouching and peering at them through the undergrowth, with gestures and a furtive carriage that alarmed Montgomery by their strangeness. He hailed them, and they fled guiltily. He stopped shouting after that, and after wandering some time farther in an undecided way, determined to visit the huts.

He found the ravine deserted.

Growing more alarmed every minute, he began to retrace his steps. Then it was he encountered the two Swine-men I had seen dancing on the night of my arrival; blood-stained they were about the mouth, and intensely excited. They came crashing through the ferns, and stopped with fierce faces when they saw him. He cracked his whip in some trepidation, and forthwith they rushed at him. Never before had a Beast Man dared to do that. One he shot through the head; M'ling flung himself upon the other, and the two rolled grappling. M'ling got his brute under and with his teeth in its throat, and Montgomery shot that too as it struggled in M'ling's grip. He had some difficulty in inducing M'ling to come on with him. Thence they had hurried back to me. On the way, M'ling had suddenly rushed into a thicket and driven out an under-sized Ocelot-man, also blood-stained, and lame through a wound in the foot. This brute had run a little way and then turned savagely at bay, and Montgomery—with a certain wantonness, I thought—had shot him.

“What does it all mean?” said I.

He shook his head, and turned once more to the brandy.

XVIII. THE FINDING OF MOREAU.
WHEN I saw Montgomery swallow a third dose of brandy, I took it upon myself to interfere. He was already more than half fuddled. I told him that some serious thing must have happened to Moreau by this time, or he would have returned before this, and that it behoved us to ascertain what that catastrophe was. Montgomery raised some feeble objections, and at last agreed. We had some food, and then all three of us started.

It is possibly due to the tension of my mind, at the time, but even now that start into the hot stillness of the tropical afternoon is a singularly vivid impression. M'ling went first, his shoulder hunched, his strange black head moving with quick starts as he peered first on this side of the way and then on that. He was unarmed; his axe he had dropped when he encountered the Swine-man. Teeth were his weapons, when it came to fighting. Montgomery followed with stumbling footsteps, his hands in his pockets, his face downcast; he was in a state of muddled sullenness with me on account of the brandy. My left arm was in a sling (it was lucky it was my left), and I carried my revolver in my right. Soon we traced a narrow path through the wild luxuriance of the island, going northwestward; and presently M'ling stopped, and became rigid with watchfulness. Montgomery almost staggered into him, and then stopped too. Then, listening intently, we heard coming through the trees the sound of voices and footsteps approaching us.

“He is dead,” said a deep, vibrating voice.

“He is not dead; he is not dead,” jabbered another.

“We saw, we saw,” said several voices.

“Hullo!” suddenly shouted Montgomery, “Hullo, there!”

“Confound you!” said I, and gripped my pistol.

There was a silence, then a crashing among the interlacing vegetation, first here, then there, and then half-a-dozen faces appeared,—strange faces, lit by a strange light. M'ling made a growling noise in his throat. I recognised the Ape-man: I had indeed already identified his voice, and two of the white-swathed brown-featured creatures I had seen in Montgomery's boat. With these were the two dappled brutes and that grey, horribly crooked creature who said the Law, with grey hair streaming down its cheeks, heavy grey eyebrows, and grey locks pouring off from a central parting upon its sloping forehead,—a heavy, faceless thing, with strange red eyes, looking at us curiously from amidst the green.

For a space no one spoke. Then Montgomery hiccoughed, “Who—said he was dead?”

The Monkey-man looked guiltily at the hairy-grey Thing. “He is dead,” said this monster. “They saw.”

There was nothing threatening about this detachment, at any rate. They seemed awestricken and puzzled.

“Where is he?” said Montgomery.

“Beyond,” and the grey creature pointed.

“Is there a Law now?” asked the Monkey-man. “Is it still to be this and that? Is he dead indeed?”

“Is there a Law?” repeated the man in white. “Is there a Law, thou Other with the Whip?”

“He is dead,” said the hairy-grey Thing. And they all stood watching us.

“Prendick,” said Montgomery, turning his dull eyes to me. “He's dead, evidently.”

I had been standing behind him during this colloquy. I began to see how things lay with them. I suddenly stepped in front of Montgomery and lifted up my voice:—“Children of the Law,” I said, “he is not dead!” M'ling turned his sharp eyes on me. “He has changed his shape; he has changed his body,” I went on. “For a time you will not see him. He is—there,” I pointed upward, “where he can watch you. You cannot see him, but he can see you. Fear the Law!”

I looked at them squarely. They flinched.

“He is great, he is good,” said the Ape-man, peering fearfully upward among the dense trees.

“And the other Thing?” I demanded.

“The Thing that bled, and ran screaming and sobbing,—that is dead too,” said the grey Thing, still regarding me.

“That's well,” grunted Montgomery.

“The Other with the Whip—” began the grey Thing.

“Well?” said I.

“Said he was dead.”

But Montgomery was still sober enough to understand my motive in denying Moreau's death. “He is not dead,” he said slowly, “not dead at all. No more dead than I am.”

“Some,” said I, “have broken the Law: they will die. Some have died. Show us now where his old body lies,—the body he cast away because he had no more need of it.”

“It is this way, Man who walked in the Sea,” said the grey Thing.

And with these six creatures guiding us, we went through the tumult of ferns and creepers and tree-stems towards the northwest. Then came a yelling, a crashing among the branches, and a little pink homunculus rushed by us shrieking. Immediately after appeared a monster in headlong pursuit, blood-bedabbled, who was amongst us almost before he could stop his career. The grey Thing leapt aside. M'ling, with a snarl, flew at it, and was struck aside. Montgomery fired and missed, bowed his head, threw up his arm, and turned to run. I fired, and the Thing still came on; fired again, point-blank, into its ugly face. I saw its features vanish in a flash: its face was driven in. Yet it passed me, gripped Montgomery, and holding him, fell headlong beside him and pulled him sprawling upon itself in its death-agony.

I found myself alone with M'ling, the dead brute, and the prostrate man. Montgomery raised himself slowly and stared in a muddled way at the shattered Beast Man beside him. It more than half sobered him. He scrambled to his feet. Then I saw the grey Thing returning cautiously through the trees.

“See,” said I, pointing to the dead brute, “is the Law not alive? This came of breaking the Law.”

He peered at the body. “He sends the Fire that kills,” said he, in his deep voice, repeating part of the Ritual. The others gathered round and stared for a space.

At last we drew near the westward extremity of the island. We came upon the gnawed and mutilated body of the puma, its shoulder-bone smashed by a bullet, and perhaps twenty yards farther found at last what we sought. Moreau lay face downward in a trampled space in a canebrake. One hand was almost severed at the wrist and his silvery hair was dabbled in blood. His head had been battered in by the fetters of the puma. The broken canes beneath him were smeared with blood. His revolver we could not find. Montgomery turned him over. Resting at intervals, and with the help of the seven Beast People (for he was a heavy man), we carried Moreau back to the enclosure. The night was darkling. Twice we heard unseen creatures howling and shrieking past our little band, and once the little pink sloth-creature appeared and stared at us, and vanished again. But we were not attacked again. At the gates of the enclosure our company of Beast People left us, M'ling going with the rest. We locked ourselves in, and then took Moreau's mangled body into the yard and laid it upon a pile of brushwood. Then we went into the laboratory and put an end to all we found living there.

XIX. MONTGOMERY'S “BANK HOLIDAY.”
WHEN this was accomplished, and we had washed and eaten, Montgomery and I went into my little room and seriously discussed our position for the first time. It was then near midnight. He was almost sober, but greatly disturbed in his mind. He had been strangely under the influence of Moreau's personality: I do not think it had ever occurred to him that Moreau could die. This disaster was the sudden collapse of the habits that had become part of his nature in the ten or more monotonous years he had spent on the island. He talked vaguely, answered my questions crookedly, wandered into general questions.

“This silly ass of a world,” he said; “what a muddle it all is! I haven't had any life. I wonder when it's going to begin. Sixteen years being bullied by nurses and schoolmasters at their own sweet will; five in London grinding hard at medicine, bad food, shabby lodgings, shabby clothes, shabby vice, a blunder,—I didn't know any better,—and hustled off to this beastly island. Ten years here! What's it all for, Prendick? Are we bubbles blown by a baby?”

It was hard to deal with such ravings. “The thing we have to think of now,” said I, “is how to get away from this island.”

“What's the good of getting away? I'm an outcast. Where am I to join on? It's all very well for you, Prendick. Poor old Moreau! We can't leave him here to have his bones picked. As it is—And besides, what will become of the decent part of the Beast Folk?”

“Well,” said I, “that will do to-morrow. I've been thinking we might make the brushwood into a pyre and burn his body—and those other things. Then what will happen with the Beast Folk?”

“I don't know. I suppose those that were made of beasts of prey will make silly asses of themselves sooner or later. We can't massacre the lot—can we? I suppose that's what your humanity would suggest? But they'll change. They are sure to change.”

He talked thus inconclusively until at last I felt my temper going.

“Damnation!” he exclaimed at some petulance of mine; “can't you see I'm in a worse hole than you are?” And he got up, and went for the brandy. “Drink!” he said returning, “you logic-chopping, chalky-faced saint of an atheist, drink!”

“Not I,” said I, and sat grimly watching his face under the yellow paraffine flare, as he drank himself into a garrulous misery.

I have a memory of infinite tedium. He wandered into a maudlin defence of the Beast People and of M'ling. M'ling, he said, was the only thing that had ever really cared for him. And suddenly an idea came to him.

“I'm damned!” said he, staggering to his feet and clutching the brandy bottle.

By some flash of intuition I knew what it was he intended. “You don't give drink to that beast!” I said, rising and facing him.

“Beast!” said he. “You're the beast. He takes his liquor like a Christian. Come out of the way, Prendick!”

“For God's sake,” said I.

“Get—out of the way!” he roared, and suddenly whipped out his revolver.

“Very well,” said I, and stood aside, half-minded to fall upon him as he put his hand upon the latch, but deterred by the thought of my useless arm. “You've made a beast of yourself,—to the beasts you may go.”

He flung the doorway open, and stood half facing me between the yellow lamp-light and the pallid glare of the moon; his eye-sockets were blotches of black under his stubbly eyebrows.

“You're a solemn prig, Prendick, a silly ass! You're always fearing and fancying. We're on the edge of things. I'm bound to cut my throat to-morrow. I'm going to have a damned Bank Holiday to-night.” He turned and went out into the moonlight. “M'ling!” he cried; “M'ling, old friend!”

Three dim creatures in the silvery light came along the edge of the wan beach,—one a white-wrapped creature, the other two blotches of blackness following it. They halted, staring. Then I saw M'ling's hunched shoulders as he came round the corner of the house.

“Drink!” cried Montgomery, “drink, you brutes! Drink and be men! Damme, I'm the cleverest. Moreau forgot this; this is the last touch. Drink, I tell you!” And waving the bottle in his hand he started off at a kind of quick trot to the westward, M'ling ranging himself between him and the three dim creatures who followed.

I went to the doorway. They were already indistinct in the mist of the moonlight before Montgomery halted. I saw him administer a dose of the raw brandy to M'ling, and saw the five figures melt into one vague patch.

“Sing!” I heard Montgomery shout,—“sing all together, ‘Confound old Prendick!’ That's right; now again, ‘Confound old Prendick!’”

The black group broke up into five separate figures, and wound slowly away from me along the band of shining beach. Each went howling at his own sweet will, yelping insults at me, or giving whatever other vent this new inspiration of brandy demanded. Presently I heard Montgomery's voice shouting, “Right turn!” and they passed with their shouts and howls into the blackness of the landward trees. Slowly, very slowly, they receded into silence.

The peaceful splendour of the night healed again. The moon was now past the meridian and travelling down the west. It was at its full, and very bright riding through the empty blue sky. The shadow of the wall lay, a yard wide and of inky blackness, at my feet. The eastward sea was a featureless grey, dark and mysterious; and between the sea and the shadow the grey sands (of volcanic glass and crystals) flashed and shone like a beach of diamonds. Behind me the paraffine lamp flared hot and ruddy.

Then I shut the door, locked it, and went into the enclosure where Moreau lay beside his latest victims,—the staghounds and the llama and some other wretched brutes,—with his massive face calm even after his terrible death, and with the hard eyes open, staring at the dead white moon above. I sat down upon the edge of the sink, and with my eyes upon that ghastly pile of silvery light and ominous shadows began to turn over my plans. In the morning I would gather some provisions in the dingey, and after setting fire to the pyre before me, push out into the desolation of the high sea once more. I felt that for Montgomery there was no help; that he was, in truth, half akin to these Beast Folk, unfitted for human kindred.

I do not know how long I sat there scheming. It must have been an hour or so. Then my planning was interrupted by the return of Montgomery to my neighbourhood. I heard a yelling from many throats, a tumult of exultant cries passing down towards the beach, whooping and howling, and excited shrieks that seemed to come to a stop near the water's edge. The riot rose and fell; I heard heavy blows and the splintering smash of wood, but it did not trouble me then. A discordant chanting began.

My thoughts went back to my means of escape. I got up, brought the lamp, and went into a shed to look at some kegs I had seen there. Then I became interested in the contents of some biscuit-tins, and opened one. I saw something out of the tail of my eye,—a red figure,—and turned sharply.

Behind me lay the yard, vividly black-and-white in the moonlight, and the pile of wood and faggots on which Moreau and his mutilated victims lay, one over another. They seemed to be gripping one another in one last revengeful grapple. His wounds gaped, black as night, and the blood that had dripped lay in black patches upon the sand. Then I saw, without understanding, the cause of my phantom,—a ruddy glow that came and danced and went upon the wall opposite. I misinterpreted this, fancied it was a reflection of my flickering lamp, and turned again to the stores in the shed. I went on rummaging among them, as well as a one-armed man could, finding this convenient thing and that, and putting them aside for to-morrow's launch. My movements were slow, and the time passed quickly. Insensibly the daylight crept upon me.

The chanting died down, giving place to a clamour; then it began again, and suddenly broke into a tumult. I heard cries of, “More! more!” a sound like quarrelling, and a sudden wild shriek. The quality of the sounds changed so greatly that it arrested my attention. I went out into the yard and listened. Then cutting like a knife across the confusion came the crack of a revolver.

I rushed at once through my room to the little doorway. As I did so I heard some of the packing-cases behind me go sliding down and smash together with a clatter of glass on the floor of the shed. But I did not heed these. I flung the door open and looked out.

Up the beach by the boathouse a bonfire was burning, raining up sparks into the indistinctness of the dawn. Around this struggled a mass of black figures. I heard Montgomery call my name. I began to run at once towards this fire, revolver in hand. I saw the pink tongue of Montgomery's pistol lick out once, close to the ground. He was down. I shouted with all my strength and fired into the air. I heard some one cry, “The Master!” The knotted black struggle broke into scattering units, the fire leapt and sank down. The crowd of Beast People fled in sudden panic before me, up the beach. In my excitement I fired at their retreating backs as they disappeared among the bushes. Then I turned to the black heaps upon the ground.

Montgomery lay on his back, with the hairy-grey Beast-man sprawling across his body. The brute was dead, but still gripping Montgomery's throat with its curving claws. Near by lay M'ling on his face and quite still, his neck bitten open and the upper part of the smashed brandy-bottle in his hand. Two other figures lay near the fire,—the one motionless, the other groaning fitfully, every now and then raising its head slowly, then dropping it again.

I caught hold of the grey man and pulled him off Montgomery's body; his claws drew down the torn coat reluctantly as I dragged him away. Montgomery was dark in the face and scarcely breathing. I splashed sea-water on his face and pillowed his head on my rolled-up coat. M'ling was dead. The wounded creature by the fire—it was a Wolf-brute with a bearded grey face—lay, I found, with the fore part of its body upon the still glowing timber. The wretched thing was injured so dreadfully that in mercy I blew its brains out at once. The other brute was one of the Bull-men swathed in white. He too was dead. The rest of the Beast People had vanished from the beach.

I went to Montgomery again and knelt beside him, cursing my ignorance of medicine. The fire beside me had sunk down, and only charred beams of timber glowing at the central ends and mixed with a grey ash of brushwood remained. I wondered casually where Montgomery had got his wood. Then I saw that the dawn was upon us. The sky had grown brighter, the setting moon was becoming pale and opaque in the luminous blue of the day. The sky to the eastward was rimmed with red.

Suddenly I heard a thud and a hissing behind me, and, looking round, sprang to my feet with a cry of horror. Against the warm dawn great tumultuous masses of black smoke were boiling up out of the enclosure, and through their stormy darkness shot flickering threads of blood-red flame. Then the thatched roof caught. I saw the curving charge of the flames across the sloping straw. A spurt of fire jetted from the window of my room.

I knew at once what had happened. I remembered the crash I had heard. When I had rushed out to Montgomery's assistance, I had overturned the lamp.

The hopelessness of saving any of the contents of the enclosure stared me in the face. My mind came back to my plan of flight, and turning swiftly I looked to see where the two boats lay upon the beach. They were gone! Two axes lay upon the sands beside me; chips and splinters were scattered broadcast, and the ashes of the bonfire were blackening and smoking under the dawn. Montgomery had burnt the boats to revenge himself upon me and prevent our return to mankind!

A sudden convulsion of rage shook me. I was almost moved to batter his foolish head in, as he lay there helpless at my feet. Then suddenly his hand moved, so feebly, so pitifully, that my wrath vanished. He groaned, and opened his eyes for a minute. I knelt down beside him and raised his head. He opened his eyes again, staring silently at the dawn, and then they met mine. The lids fell.

“Sorry,” he said presently, with an effort. He seemed trying to think. “The last,” he murmured, “the last of this silly universe. What a mess—”

I listened. His head fell helplessly to one side. I thought some drink might revive him; but there was neither drink nor vessel in which to bring drink at hand. He seemed suddenly heavier. My heart went cold. I bent down to his face, put my hand through the rent in his blouse. He was dead; and even as he died a line of white heat, the limb of the sun, rose eastward beyond the projection of the bay, splashing its radiance across the sky and turning the dark sea into a weltering tumult of dazzling light. It fell like a glory upon his death-shrunken face.

I let his head fall gently upon the rough pillow I had made for him, and stood up. Before me was the glittering desolation of the sea, the awful solitude upon which I had already suffered so much; behind me the island, hushed under the dawn, its Beast People silent and unseen. The enclosure, with all its provisions and ammunition, burnt noisily, with sudden gusts of flame, a fitful crackling, and now and then a crash. The heavy smoke drove up the beach away from me, rolling low over the distant tree-tops towards the huts in the ravine. Beside me were the charred vestiges of the boats and these five dead bodies.

Then out of the bushes came three Beast People, with hunched shoulders, protruding heads, misshapen hands awkwardly held, and inquisitive, unfriendly eyes and advanced towards me with hesitating gestures.

XX. ALONE WITH THE BEAST FOLK.
I FACED these people, facing my fate in them, single-handed now,—literally single-handed, for I had a broken arm. In my pocket was a revolver with two empty chambers. Among the chips scattered about the beach lay the two axes that had been used to chop up the boats. The tide was creeping in behind me. There was nothing for it but courage. I looked squarely into the faces of the advancing monsters. They avoided my eyes, and their quivering nostrils investigated the bodies that lay beyond me on the beach. I took half-a-dozen steps, picked up the blood-stained whip that lay beneath the body of the Wolf-man, and cracked it. They stopped and stared at me.

“Salute!” said I. “Bow down!”

They hesitated. One bent his knees. I repeated my command, with my heart in my mouth, and advanced upon them. One knelt, then the other two.

I turned and walked towards the dead bodies, keeping my face towards the three kneeling Beast Men, very much as an actor passing up the stage faces the audience.

“They broke the Law,” said I, putting my foot on the Sayer of the Law. “They have been slain,—even the Sayer of the Law; even the Other with the Whip. Great is the Law! Come and see.”

“None escape,” said one of them, advancing and peering.

“None escape,” said I. “Therefore hear and do as I command.” They stood up, looking questioningly at one another.

“Stand there,” said I.

I picked up the hatchets and swung them by their heads from the sling of my arm; turned Montgomery over; picked up his revolver still loaded in two chambers, and bending down to rummage, found half-a-dozen cartridges in his pocket.

“Take him,” said I, standing up again and pointing with the whip; “take him, and carry him out and cast him into the sea.”

They came forward, evidently still afraid of Montgomery, but still more afraid of my cracking red whip-lash; and after some fumbling and hesitation, some whip-cracking and shouting, they lifted him gingerly, carried him down to the beach, and went splashing into the dazzling welter of the sea.

“On!” said I, “on! Carry him far.”

They went in up to their armpits and stood regarding me.

“Let go,” said I; and the body of Montgomery vanished with a splash. Something seemed to tighten across my chest.

“Good!” said I, with a break in my voice; and they came back, hurrying and fearful, to the margin of the water, leaving long wakes of black in the silver. At the water's edge they stopped, turning and glaring into the sea as though they presently expected Montgomery to arise therefrom and exact vengeance.

“Now these,” said I, pointing to the other bodies.

They took care not to approach the place where they had thrown Montgomery into the water, but instead, carried the four dead Beast People slantingly along the beach for perhaps a hundred yards before they waded out and cast them away.

As I watched them disposing of the mangled remains of M'ling, I heard a light footfall behind me, and turning quickly saw the big Hyena-swine perhaps a dozen yards away. His head was bent down, his bright eyes were fixed upon me, his stumpy hands clenched and held close by his side. He stopped in this crouching attitude when I turned, his eyes a little averted.

For a moment we stood eye to eye. I dropped the whip and snatched at the pistol in my pocket; for I meant to kill this brute, the most formidable of any left now upon the island, at the first excuse. It may seem treacherous, but so I was resolved. I was far more afraid of him than of any other two of the Beast Folk. His continued life was I knew a threat against mine.

I was perhaps a dozen seconds collecting myself. Then cried I, “Salute! Bow down!”

His teeth flashed upon me in a snarl. “Who are you that I should—”

Perhaps a little too spasmodically I drew my revolver, aimed quickly and fired. I heard him yelp, saw him run sideways and turn, knew I had missed, and clicked back the cock with my thumb for the next shot. But he was already running headlong, jumping from side to side, and I dared not risk another miss. Every now and then he looked back at me over his shoulder. He went slanting along the beach, and vanished beneath the driving masses of dense smoke that were still pouring out from the burning enclosure. For some time I stood staring after him. I turned to my three obedient Beast Folk again and signalled them to drop the body they still carried. Then I went back to the place by the fire where the bodies had fallen and kicked the sand until all the brown blood-stains were absorbed and hidden.

I dismissed my three serfs with a wave of the hand, and went up the beach into the thickets. I carried my pistol in my hand, my whip thrust with the hatchets in the sling of my arm. I was anxious to be alone, to think out the position in which I was now placed. A dreadful thing that I was only beginning to realise was, that over all this island there was now no safe place where I could be alone and secure to rest or sleep. I had recovered strength amazingly since my landing, but I was still inclined to be nervous and to break down under any great stress. I felt that I ought to cross the island and establish myself with the Beast People, and make myself secure in their confidence. But my heart failed me. I went back to the beach, and turning eastward past the burning enclosure, made for a point where a shallow spit of coral sand ran out towards the reef. Here I could sit down and think, my back to the sea and my face against any surprise. And there I sat, chin on knees, the sun beating down upon my head and unspeakable dread in my mind, plotting how I could live on against the hour of my rescue (if ever rescue came). I tried to review the whole situation as calmly as I could, but it was difficult to clear the thing of emotion.

I began turning over in my mind the reason of Montgomery's despair. “They will change,” he said; “they are sure to change.” And Moreau, what was it that Moreau had said? “The stubborn beast-flesh grows day by day back again.” Then I came round to the Hyena-swine. I felt sure that if I did not kill that brute, he would kill me. The Sayer of the Law was dead: worse luck. They knew now that we of the Whips could be killed even as they themselves were killed. Were they peering at me already out of the green masses of ferns and palms over yonder, watching until I came within their spring? Were they plotting against me? What was the Hyena-swine telling them? My imagination was running away with me into a morass of unsubstantial fears.

My thoughts were disturbed by a crying of sea-birds hurrying towards some black object that had been stranded by the waves on the beach near the enclosure. I knew what that object was, but I had not the heart to go back and drive them off. I began walking along the beach in the opposite direction, designing to come round the eastward corner of the island and so approach the ravine of the huts, without traversing the possible ambuscades of the thickets.

Perhaps half a mile along the beach I became aware of one of my three Beast Folk advancing out of the landward bushes towards me. I was now so nervous with my own imaginings that I immediately drew my revolver. Even the propitiatory gestures of the creature failed to disarm me. He hesitated as he approached.

“Go away!” cried I.

There was something very suggestive of a dog in the cringing attitude of the creature. It retreated a little way, very like a dog being sent home, and stopped, looking at me imploringly with canine brown eyes.

“Go away,” said I. “Do not come near me.”

“May I not come near you?” it said.

“No; go away,” I insisted, and snapped my whip. Then putting my whip in my teeth, I stooped for a stone, and with that threat drove the creature away.

So in solitude I came round by the ravine of the Beast People, and hiding among the weeds and reeds that separated this crevice from the sea I watched such of them as appeared, trying to judge from their gestures and appearance how the death of Moreau and Montgomery and the destruction of the House of Pain had affected them. I know now the folly of my cowardice. Had I kept my courage up to the level of the dawn, had I not allowed it to ebb away in solitary thought, I might have grasped the vacant sceptre of Moreau and ruled over the Beast People. As it was I lost the opportunity, and sank to the position of a mere leader among my fellows.

Towards noon certain of them came and squatted basking in the hot sand. The imperious voices of hunger and thirst prevailed over my dread. I came out of the bushes, and, revolver in hand, walked down towards these seated figures. One, a Wolf-woman, turned her head and stared at me, and then the others. None attempted to rise or salute me. I felt too faint and weary to insist, and I let the moment pass.

“I want food,” said I, almost apologetically, and drawing near.

“There is food in the huts,” said an Ox-boar-man, drowsily, and looking away from me.

I passed them, and went down into the shadow and odours of the almost deserted ravine. In an empty hut I feasted on some specked and half-decayed fruit; and then after I had propped some branches and sticks about the opening, and placed myself with my face towards it and my hand upon my revolver, the exhaustion of the last thirty hours claimed its own, and I fell into a light slumber, hoping that the flimsy barricade I had erected would cause sufficient noise in its removal to save me from surprise.

XXI. THE REVERSION OF THE BEAST FOLK.
IN this way I became one among the Beast People in the Island of Doctor Moreau. When I awoke, it was dark about me. My arm ached in its bandages. I sat up, wondering at first where I might be. I heard coarse voices talking outside. Then I saw that my barricade had gone, and that the opening of the hut stood clear. My revolver was still in my hand.

I heard something breathing, saw something crouched together close beside me. I held my breath, trying to see what it was. It began to move slowly, interminably. Then something soft and warm and moist passed across my hand. All my muscles contracted. I snatched my hand away. A cry of alarm began and was stifled in my throat. Then I just realised what had happened sufficiently to stay my fingers on the revolver.

“Who is that?” I said in a hoarse whisper, the revolver still pointed.

“I—Master.”

“Who are you?”

“They say there is no Master now. But I know, I know. I carried the bodies into the sea, O Walker in the Sea! the bodies of those you slew. I am your slave, Master.”

“Are you the one I met on the beach?” I asked.

“The same, Master.”

The Thing was evidently faithful enough, for it might have fallen upon me as I slept. “It is well,” I said, extending my hand for another licking kiss. I began to realise what its presence meant, and the tide of my courage flowed. “Where are the others?” I asked.

“They are mad; they are fools,” said the Dog-man. “Even now they talk together beyond there. They say, ‘The Master is dead. The Other with the Whip is dead. That Other who walked in the Sea is as we are. We have no Master, no Whips, no House of Pain, any more. There is an end. We love the Law, and will keep it; but there is no Pain, no Master, no Whips for ever again.’ So they say. But I know, Master, I know.”

I felt in the darkness, and patted the Dog-man's head. “It is well,” I said again.

“Presently you will slay them all,” said the Dog-man.

“Presently,” I answered, “I will slay them all,—after certain days and certain things have come to pass. Every one of them save those you spare, every one of them shall be slain.”

“What the Master wishes to kill, the Master kills,” said the Dog-man with a certain satisfaction in his voice.

“And that their sins may grow,” I said, “let them live in their folly until their time is ripe. Let them not know that I am the Master.”

“The Master's will is sweet,” said the Dog-man, with the ready tact of his canine blood.

“But one has sinned,” said I. “Him I will kill, whenever I may meet him. When I say to you, ‘That is he,’ see that you fall upon him. And now I will go to the men and women who are assembled together.”

For a moment the opening of the hut was blackened by the exit of the Dog-man. Then I followed and stood up, almost in the exact spot where I had been when I had heard Moreau and his staghound pursuing me. But now it was night, and all the miasmatic ravine about me was black; and beyond, instead of a green, sunlit slope, I saw a red fire, before which hunched, grotesque figures moved to and fro. Farther were the thick trees, a bank of darkness, fringed above with the black lace of the upper branches. The moon was just riding up on the edge of the ravine, and like a bar across its face drove the spire of vapour that was for ever streaming from the fumaroles of the island.

“Walk by me,” said I, nerving myself; and side by side we walked down the narrow way, taking little heed of the dim Things that peered at us out of the huts.

None about the fire attempted to salute me. Most of them disregarded me, ostentatiously. I looked round for the Hyena-swine, but he was not there. Altogether, perhaps twenty of the Beast Folk squatted, staring into the fire or talking to one another.

“He is dead, he is dead! the Master is dead!” said the voice of the Ape-man to the right of me. “The House of Pain—there is no House of Pain!”

“He is not dead,” said I, in a loud voice. “Even now he watches us!”

This startled them. Twenty pairs of eyes regarded me.

“The House of Pain is gone,” said I. “It will come again. The Master you cannot see; yet even now he listens among you.”

“True, true!” said the Dog-man.

They were staggered at my assurance. An animal may be ferocious and cunning enough, but it takes a real man to tell a lie.

“The Man with the Bandaged Arm speaks a strange thing,” said one of the Beast Folk.

“I tell you it is so,” I said. “The Master and the House of Pain will come again. Woe be to him who breaks the Law!”

They looked curiously at one another. With an affectation of indifference I began to chop idly at the ground in front of me with my hatchet. They looked, I noticed, at the deep cuts I made in the turf.

Then the Satyr raised a doubt. I answered him. Then one of the dappled things objected, and an animated discussion sprang up round the fire. Every moment I began to feel more convinced of my present security. I talked now without the catching in my breath, due to the intensity of my excitement, that had troubled me at first. In the course of about an hour I had really convinced several of the Beast Folk of the truth of my assertions, and talked most of the others into a dubious state. I kept a sharp eye for my enemy the Hyena-swine, but he never appeared. Every now and then a suspicious movement would startle me, but my confidence grew rapidly. Then as the moon crept down from the zenith, one by one the listeners began to yawn (showing the oddest teeth in the light of the sinking fire), and first one and then another retired towards the dens in the ravine; and I, dreading the silence and darkness, went with them, knowing I was safer with several of them than with one alone.

In this manner began the longer part of my sojourn upon this Island of Doctor Moreau. But from that night until the end came, there was but one thing happened to tell save a series of innumerable small unpleasant details and the fretting of an incessant uneasiness. So that I prefer to make no chronicle for that gap of time, to tell only one cardinal incident of the ten months I spent as an intimate of these half-humanised brutes. There is much that sticks in my memory that I could write,—things that I would cheerfully give my right hand to forget; but they do not help the telling of the story.

In the retrospect it is strange to remember how soon I fell in with these monsters' ways, and gained my confidence again. I had my quarrels with them of course, and could show some of their teeth-marks still; but they soon gained a wholesome respect for my trick of throwing stones and for the bite of my hatchet. And my Saint-Bernard-man's loyalty was of infinite service to me. I found their simple scale of honour was based mainly on the capacity for inflicting trenchant wounds. Indeed, I may say—without vanity, I hope—that I held something like pre-eminence among them. One or two, whom in a rare access of high spirits I had scarred rather badly, bore me a grudge; but it vented itself chiefly behind my back, and at a safe distance from my missiles, in grimaces.

The Hyena-swine avoided me, and I was always on the alert for him. My inseparable Dog-man hated and dreaded him intensely. I really believe that was at the root of the brute's attachment to me. It was soon evident to me that the former monster had tasted blood, and gone the way of the Leopard-man. He formed a lair somewhere in the forest, and became solitary. Once I tried to induce the Beast Folk to hunt him, but I lacked the authority to make them co-operate for one end. Again and again I tried to approach his den and come upon him unaware; but always he was too acute for me, and saw or winded me and got away. He too made every forest pathway dangerous to me and my ally with his lurking ambuscades. The Dog-man scarcely dared to leave my side.

In the first month or so the Beast Folk, compared with their latter condition, were human enough, and for one or two besides my canine friend I even conceived a friendly tolerance. The little pink sloth-creature displayed an odd affection for me, and took to following me about. The Monkey-man bored me, however; he assumed, on the strength of his five digits, that he was my equal, and was for ever jabbering at me,—jabbering the most arrant nonsense. One thing about him entertained me a little: he had a fantastic trick of coining new words. He had an idea, I believe, that to gabble about names that meant nothing was the proper use of speech. He called it “Big Thinks” to distinguish it from “Little Thinks,” the sane every-day interests of life. If ever I made a remark he did not understand, he would praise it very much, ask me to say it again, learn it by heart, and go off repeating it, with a word wrong here or there, to all the milder of the Beast People. He thought nothing of what was plain and comprehensible. I invented some very curious “Big Thinks” for his especial use. I think now that he was the silliest creature I ever met; he had developed in the most wonderful way the distinctive silliness of man without losing one jot of the natural folly of a monkey.

This, I say, was in the earlier weeks of my solitude among these brutes. During that time they respected the usage established by the Law, and behaved with general decorum. Once I found another rabbit torn to pieces,—by the Hyena-swine, I am assured,—but that was all. It was about May when I first distinctly perceived a growing difference in their speech and carriage, a growing coarseness of articulation, a growing disinclination to talk. My Monkey-man's jabber multiplied in volume but grew less and less comprehensible, more and more simian. Some of the others seemed altogether slipping their hold upon speech, though they still understood what I said to them at that time. (Can you imagine language, once clear-cut and exact, softening and guttering, losing shape and import, becoming mere lumps of sound again?) And they walked erect with an increasing difficulty. Though they evidently felt ashamed of themselves, every now and then I would come upon one or another running on toes and finger-tips, and quite unable to recover the vertical attitude. They held things more clumsily; drinking by suction, feeding by gnawing, grew commoner every day. I realised more keenly than ever what Moreau had told me about the “stubborn beast-flesh.” They were reverting, and reverting very rapidly.

Some of them—the pioneers in this, I noticed with some surprise, were all females—began to disregard the injunction of decency, deliberately for the most part. Others even attempted public outrages upon the institution of monogamy. The tradition of the Law was clearly losing its force. I cannot pursue this disagreeable subject.

My Dog-man imperceptibly slipped back to the dog again; day by day he became dumb, quadrupedal, hairy. I scarcely noticed the transition from the companion on my right hand to the lurching dog at my side.

As the carelessness and disorganisation increased from day to day, the lane of dwelling places, at no time very sweet, became so loathsome that I left it, and going across the island made myself a hovel of boughs amid the black ruins of Moreau's enclosure. Some memory of pain, I found, still made that place the safest from the Beast Folk.

It would be impossible to detail every step of the lapsing of these monsters,—to tell how, day by day, the human semblance left them; how they gave up bandagings and wrappings, abandoned at last every stitch of clothing; how the hair began to spread over the exposed limbs; how their foreheads fell away and their faces projected; how the quasi-human intimacy I had permitted myself with some of them in the first month of my loneliness became a shuddering horror to recall.

The change was slow and inevitable. For them and for me it came without any definite shock. I still went among them in safety, because no jolt in the downward glide had released the increasing charge of explosive animalism that ousted the human day by day. But I began to fear that soon now that shock must come. My Saint-Bernard-brute followed me to the enclosure every night, and his vigilance enabled me to sleep at times in something like peace. The little pink sloth-thing became shy and left me, to crawl back to its natural life once more among the tree-branches. We were in just the state of equilibrium that would remain in one of those “Happy Family” cages which animal-tamers exhibit, if the tamer were to leave it for ever.

Of course these creatures did not decline into such beasts as the reader has seen in zoological gardens,—into ordinary bears, wolves, tigers, oxen, swine, and apes. There was still something strange about each; in each Moreau had blended this animal with that. One perhaps was ursine chiefly, another feline chiefly, another bovine chiefly; but each was tainted with other creatures,—a kind of generalised animalism appearing through the specific dispositions. And the dwindling shreds of the humanity still startled me every now and then,—a momentary recrudescence of speech perhaps, an unexpected dexterity of the fore-feet, a pitiful attempt to walk erect.

I too must have undergone strange changes. My clothes hung about me as yellow rags, through whose rents showed the tanned skin. My hair grew long, and became matted together. I am told that even now my eyes have a strange brightness, a swift alertness of movement.

At first I spent the daylight hours on the southward beach watching for a ship, hoping and praying for a ship. I counted on the Ipecacuanha returning as the year wore on; but she never came. Five times I saw sails, and thrice smoke; but nothing ever touched the island. I always had a bonfire ready, but no doubt the volcanic reputation of the island was taken to account for that.

It was only about September or October that I began to think of making a raft. By that time my arm had healed, and both my hands were at my service again. At first, I found my helplessness appalling. I had never done any carpentry or such-like work in my life, and I spent day after day in experimental chopping and binding among the trees. I had no ropes, and could hit on nothing wherewith to make ropes; none of the abundant creepers seemed limber or strong enough, and with all my litter of scientific education I could not devise any way of making them so. I spent more than a fortnight grubbing among the black ruins of the enclosure and on the beach where the boats had been burnt, looking for nails and other stray pieces of metal that might prove of service. Now and then some Beast-creature would watch me, and go leaping off when I called to it. There came a season of thunder-storms and heavy rain, which greatly retarded my work; but at last the raft was completed.

I was delighted with it. But with a certain lack of practical sense which has always been my bane, I had made it a mile or more from the sea; and before I had dragged it down to the beach the thing had fallen to pieces. Perhaps it is as well that I was saved from launching it; but at the time my misery at my failure was so acute that for some days I simply moped on the beach, and stared at the water and thought of death.

I did not, however, mean to die, and an incident occurred that warned me unmistakably of the folly of letting the days pass so,—for each fresh day was fraught with increasing danger from the Beast People.

I was lying in the shade of the enclosure wall, staring out to sea, when I was startled by something cold touching the skin of my heel, and starting round found the little pink sloth-creature blinking into my face. He had long since lost speech and active movement, and the lank hair of the little brute grew thicker every day and his stumpy claws more askew. He made a moaning noise when he saw he had attracted my attention, went a little way towards the bushes and looked back at me.

At first I did not understand, but presently it occurred to me that he wished me to follow him; and this I did at last,—slowly, for the day was hot. When we reached the trees he clambered into them, for he could travel better among their swinging creepers than on the ground. And suddenly in a trampled space I came upon a ghastly group. My Saint-Bernard-creature lay on the ground, dead; and near his body crouched the Hyena-swine, gripping the quivering flesh with its misshapen claws, gnawing at it, and snarling with delight. As I approached, the monster lifted its glaring eyes to mine, its lips went trembling back from its red-stained teeth, and it growled menacingly. It was not afraid and not ashamed; the last vestige of the human taint had vanished. I advanced a step farther, stopped, and pulled out my revolver. At last I had him face to face.

The brute made no sign of retreat; but its ears went back, its hair bristled, and its body crouched together. I aimed between the eyes and fired. As I did so, the Thing rose straight at me in a leap, and I was knocked over like a ninepin. It clutched at me with its crippled hand, and struck me in the face. Its spring carried it over me. I fell under the hind part of its body; but luckily I had hit as I meant, and it had died even as it leapt. I crawled out from under its unclean weight and stood up trembling, staring at its quivering body. That danger at least was over; but this, I knew was only the first of the series of relapses that must come.

I burnt both of the bodies on a pyre of brushwood; but after that I saw that unless I left the island my death was only a question of time. The Beast People by that time had, with one or two exceptions, left the ravine and made themselves lairs according to their taste among the thickets of the island. Few prowled by day, most of them slept, and the island might have seemed deserted to a new-comer; but at night the air was hideous with their calls and howling. I had half a mind to make a massacre of them; to build traps, or fight them with my knife. Had I possessed sufficient cartridges, I should not have hesitated to begin the killing. There could now be scarcely a score left of the dangerous carnivores; the braver of these were already dead. After the death of this poor dog of mine, my last friend, I too adopted to some extent the practice of slumbering in the daytime in order to be on my guard at night. I rebuilt my den in the walls of the enclosure, with such a narrow opening that anything attempting to enter must necessarily make a considerable noise. The creatures had lost the art of fire too, and recovered their fear of it. I turned once more, almost passionately now, to hammering together stakes and branches to form a raft for my escape.

I found a thousand difficulties. I am an extremely unhandy man (my schooling was over before the days of Slöjd); but most of the requirements of a raft I met at last in some clumsy, circuitous way or other, and this time I took care of the strength. The only insurmountable obstacle was that I had no vessel to contain the water I should need if I floated forth upon these untravelled seas. I would have even tried pottery, but the island contained no clay. I used to go moping about the island trying with all my might to solve this one last difficulty. Sometimes I would give way to wild outbursts of rage, and hack and splinter some unlucky tree in my intolerable vexation. But I could think of nothing.

And then came a day, a wonderful day, which I spent in ecstasy. I saw a sail to the southwest, a small sail like that of a little schooner; and forthwith I lit a great pile of brushwood, and stood by it in the heat of it, and the heat of the midday sun, watching. All day I watched that sail, eating or drinking nothing, so that my head reeled; and the Beasts came and glared at me, and seemed to wonder, and went away. It was still distant when night came and swallowed it up; and all night I toiled to keep my blaze bright and high, and the eyes of the Beasts shone out of the darkness, marvelling. In the dawn the sail was nearer, and I saw it was the dirty lug-sail of a small boat. But it sailed strangely. My eyes were weary with watching, and I peered and could not believe them. Two men were in the boat, sitting low down,—one by the bows, the other at the rudder. The head was not kept to the wind; it yawed and fell away.

As the day grew brighter, I began waving the last rag of my jacket to them; but they did not notice me, and sat still, facing each other. I went to the lowest point of the low headland, and gesticulated and shouted. There was no response, and the boat kept on her aimless course, making slowly, very slowly, for the bay. Suddenly a great white bird flew up out of the boat, and neither of the men stirred nor noticed it; it circled round, and then came sweeping overhead with its strong wings outspread.

Then I stopped shouting, and sat down on the headland and rested my chin on my hands and stared. Slowly, slowly, the boat drove past towards the west. I would have swum out to it, but something—a cold, vague fear—kept me back. In the afternoon the tide stranded the boat, and left it a hundred yards or so to the westward of the ruins of the enclosure. The men in it were dead, had been dead so long that they fell to pieces when I tilted the boat on its side and dragged them out. One had a shock of red hair, like the captain of the Ipecacuanha, and a dirty white cap lay in the bottom of the boat.

As I stood beside the boat, three of the Beasts came slinking out of the bushes and sniffing towards me. One of my spasms of disgust came upon me. I thrust the little boat down the beach and clambered on board her. Two of the brutes were Wolf-beasts, and came forward with quivering nostrils and glittering eyes; the third was the horrible nondescript of bear and bull. When I saw them approaching those wretched remains, heard them snarling at one another and caught the gleam of their teeth, a frantic horror succeeded my repulsion. I turned my back upon them, struck the lug and began paddling out to sea. I could not bring myself to look behind me.

I lay, however, between the reef and the island that night, and the next morning went round to the stream and filled the empty keg aboard with water. Then, with such patience as I could command, I collected a quantity of fruit, and waylaid and killed two rabbits with my last three cartridges. While I was doing this I left the boat moored to an inward projection of the reef, for fear of the Beast People.

XXII. THE MAN ALONE.
IN the evening I started, and drove out to sea before a gentle wind from the southwest, slowly, steadily; and the island grew smaller and smaller, and the lank spire of smoke dwindled to a finer and finer line against the hot sunset. The ocean rose up around me, hiding that low, dark patch from my eyes. The daylight, the trailing glory of the sun, went streaming out of the sky, was drawn aside like some luminous curtain, and at last I looked into the blue gulf of immensity which the sunshine hides, and saw the floating hosts of the stars. The sea was silent, the sky was silent. I was alone with the night and silence.

So I drifted for three days, eating and drinking sparingly, and meditating upon all that had happened to me,—not desiring very greatly then to see men again. One unclean rag was about me, my hair a black tangle: no doubt my discoverers thought me a madman.

It is strange, but I felt no desire to return to mankind. I was only glad to be quit of the foulness of the Beast People. And on the third day I was picked up by a brig from Apia to San Francisco. Neither the captain nor the mate would believe my story, judging that solitude and danger had made me mad; and fearing their opinion might be that of others, I refrained from telling my adventure further, and professed to recall nothing that had happened to me between the loss of the Lady Vain and the time when I was picked up again,—the space of a year.

I had to act with the utmost circumspection to save myself from the suspicion of insanity. My memory of the Law, of the two dead sailors, of the ambuscades of the darkness, of the body in the canebrake, haunted me; and, unnatural as it seems, with my return to mankind came, instead of that confidence and sympathy I had expected, a strange enhancement of the uncertainty and dread I had experienced during my stay upon the island. No one would believe me; I was almost as queer to men as I had been to the Beast People. I may have caught something of the natural wildness of my companions. They say that terror is a disease, and anyhow I can witness that for several years now a restless fear has dwelt in my mind,—such a restless fear as a half-tamed lion cub may feel.

My trouble took the strangest form. I could not persuade myself that the men and women I met were not also another Beast People, animals half wrought into the outward image of human souls, and that they would presently begin to revert,—to show first this bestial mark and then that. But I have confided my case to a strangely able man,—a man who had known Moreau, and seemed half to credit my story; a mental specialist,—and he has helped me mightily, though I do not expect that the terror of that island will ever altogether leave me. At most times it lies far in the back of my mind, a mere distant cloud, a memory, and a faint distrust; but there are times when the little cloud spreads until it obscures the whole sky. Then I look about me at my fellow-men; and I go in fear. I see faces, keen and bright; others dull or dangerous; others, unsteady, insincere,—none that have the calm authority of a reasonable soul. I feel as though the animal was surging up through them; that presently the degradation of the Islanders will be played over again on a larger scale. I know this is an illusion; that these seeming men and women about me are indeed men and women,—men and women for ever, perfectly reasonable creatures, full of human desires and tender solicitude, emancipated from instinct and the slaves of no fantastic Law,—beings altogether different from the Beast Folk. Yet I shrink from them, from their curious glances, their inquiries and assistance, and long to be away from them and alone. For that reason I live near the broad free downland, and can escape thither when this shadow is over my soul; and very sweet is the empty downland then, under the wind-swept sky.

When I lived in London the horror was well-nigh insupportable. I could not get away from men: their voices came through windows; locked doors were flimsy safeguards. I would go out into the streets to fight with my delusion, and prowling women would mew after me; furtive, craving men glance jealously at me; weary, pale workers go coughing by me with tired eyes and eager paces, like wounded deer dripping blood; old people, bent and dull, pass murmuring to themselves; and, all unheeding, a ragged tail of gibing children. Then I would turn aside into some chapel,—and even there, such was my disturbance, it seemed that the preacher gibbered “Big Thinks,” even as the Ape-man had done; or into some library, and there the intent faces over the books seemed but patient creatures waiting for prey. Particularly nauseous were the blank, expressionless faces of people in trains and omnibuses; they seemed no more my fellow-creatures than dead bodies would be, so that I did not dare to travel unless I was assured of being alone. And even it seemed that I too was not a reasonable creature, but only an animal tormented with some strange disorder in its brain which sent it to wander alone, like a sheep stricken with gid.

This is a mood, however, that comes to me now, I thank God, more rarely. I have withdrawn myself from the confusion of cities and multitudes, and spend my days surrounded by wise books,—bright windows in this life of ours, lit by the shining souls of men. I see few strangers, and have but a small household. My days I devote to reading and to experiments in chemistry, and I spend many of the clear nights in the study of astronomy. There is—though I do not know how there is or why there is—a sense of infinite peace and protection in the glittering hosts of heaven. There it must be, I think, in the vast and eternal laws of matter, and not in the daily cares and sins and troubles of men, that whatever is more than animal within us must find its solace and its hope. I hope, or I could not live.

And so, in hope and solitude, my story ends.

EDWARD PRENDICK.

NOTE. The substance of the chapter entitled “Doctor Moreau explains,” which contains the essential idea of the story, appeared as a middle article in the Saturday Review in January, 1895. This is the only portion of this story that has been previously published, and it has been entirely recast to adapt it to the narrative form.

 

 

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FOREWORD To the Reader of this Work: In submitting Captain Carter's strange manuscript to you in book form, I believe that a few words relative to this remarkable personality will be of interest. My first recollection of Captain Carter is of the few months he spent at my father's home in Virginia, just prior to the opening of the civil war. I was then a child of but five years, yet I well remember the tall, dark, smooth-faced, athletic man whom I called Uncle Jack. He seemed always to be laughing; and he entered into the sports of the children with the same hearty good fellowship he displayed toward those pastimes in which the men and women of his own age indulged; or he would sit for an hour at a time entertaining my old grandmother with stories of his strange, wild life in all parts of the world. We all loved him, and our slaves fairly worshipped the ground he trod. He was a splendid specimen of manhood, standing a good two inches over six feet, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, with the carriage of the trained fighting man. His features were regular and clear cut, his hair black and closely cropped, while his eyes were of a steel gray, reflecting a strong and loyal character, filled with fire and initiative. His manners were perfect, and his courtliness was that of a typical southern gentleman of the highest type. His horsemanship, especially after hounds, was a marvel and delight even in that country of magnificent horsemen. I have often heard my father caution him against his wild recklessness, but he would only laugh, and say that the tumble that killed him would be from the back of a horse yet unfoaled. When the war broke out he left us, nor did I see him again for some fifteen or sixteen years. When he returned it was without warning, and I was much surprised to note that he had not aged apparently a moment, nor had he changed in any other outward way. He was, when others were with him, the same genial, happy fellow we had known of old, but when he thought himself alone I have seen him sit for hours gazing off into space, his face set in a look of wistful longing and hopeless misery; and at night he would sit thus looking up into the heavens, at what I did not know until I read his manuscript years afterward. He told us that he had been prospecting and mining in Arizona part of the time since the war; and that he had been very successful was evidenced by the unlimited amount of money with which he was supplied. As to the details of his life during these years he was very reticent, in fact he would not talk of them at all. He remained with us for about a year and then went to New York, where he purchased a little place on the Hudson, where I visited him once a year on the occasions of my trips to the New York market—my father and I owning and operating a string of general stores throughout Virginia at that time. Captain Carter had a small but beautiful cottage, situated on a bluff overlooking the river, and during one of my last visits, in the winter of 1885, I observed he was much occupied in writing, I presume now, upon this manuscript. He told me at this time that if anything should happen to him he wished me to take charge of his estate, and he gave me a key to a compartment in the safe which stood in his study, telling me I would find his will there and some personal instructions which he had me pledge myself to carry out with absolute fidelity. After I had retired for the night I have seen him from my window standing in the moonlight on the brink of the bluff overlooking the Hudson with his arms stretched out to the heavens as though in appeal. I thought at the time that he was praying, although I never understood that he was in the strict sense of the term a religious man. Several months after I had returned home from my last visit, the first of March, 1886, I think, I received a telegram from him asking me to come to him at once. I had always been his favorite among the younger generation of Carters and so I hastened to comply with his demand. I arrived at the little station, about a mile from his grounds, on the morning of March 4, 1886, and when I asked the livery man to drive me out to Captain Carter's he replied that if I was a friend of the Captain's he had some very bad news for me; the Captain had been found dead shortly after daylight that very morning by the watchman attached to an adjoining property. For some reason this news did not surprise me, but I hurried out to his place as quickly as possible, so that I could take charge of the body and of his affairs. I found the watchman who had discovered him, together with the local police chief and several townspeople, assembled in his little study. The watchman related the few details connected with the finding of the body, which he said had been still warm when he came upon it. It lay, he said, stretched full length in the snow with the arms outstretched above the head toward the edge of the bluff, and when he showed me the spot it flashed upon me that it was the identical one where I had seen him on those other nights, with his arms raised in supplication to the skies. There were no marks of violence on the body, and with the aid of a local physician the coroner's jury quickly reached a decision of death from heart failure. Left alone in the study, I opened the safe and withdrew the contents of the drawer in which he had told me I would find my instructions. They were in part peculiar indeed, but I have followed them to each last detail as faithfully as I was able. He directed that I remove his body to Virginia without embalming, and that he be laid in an open coffin within a tomb which he previously had had constructed and which, as I later learned, was well ventilated. The instructions impressed upon me that I must personally see that this was carried out just as he directed, even in secrecy if necessary. His property was left in such a way that I was to receive the entire income for twenty-five years, when the principal was to become mine. His further instructions related to this manuscript which I was to retain sealed and unread, just as I found it, for eleven years; nor was I to divulge its contents until twenty-one years after his death. A strange feature about the tomb, where his body still lies, is that the massive door is equipped with a single, huge gold-plated spring lock which can be opened only from the inside. Yours very sincerely, Edgar Rice Burroughs. CONTENTS I On the Arizona Hills II The Escape of the Dead III My Advent on Mars IV A Prisoner V I Elude My Watch Dog VI A Fight That Won Friends VII Child-Raising on Mars VIII A Fair Captive from the Sky IX I Learn the Language X Champion and Chief XI With Dejah Thoris XII A Prisoner with Power XIII Love-Making on Mars XIV A Duel to the Death XV Sola Tells Me Her Story XVI We Plan Escape XVII A Costly Recapture XVIII Chained in Warhoon XIX Battling in the Arena XX In the Atmosphere Factory XXI An Air Scout for Zodanga XXII I Find Dejah XXIII Lost in the Sky XXIV Tars Tarkas Finds a Friend XXV The Looting of Zodanga XXVI Through Carnage to Joy XXVII From Joy to Death XXVIII At the Arizona Cave ILLUSTRATIONS With my back against a golden throne, I fought once again for Dejah Thoris . . . . . Frontispiece I sought out Dejah Thoris in the throng of departing chariots. She drew upon the marble floor the first map of the Barsoomian territory I had ever seen. The old man sat and talked with me for hours. CHAPTER I ON THE ARIZONA HILLS I am a very old man; how old I do not know. Possibly I am a hundred, possibly more; but I cannot tell because I have never aged as other men, nor do I remember any childhood. So far as I can recollect I have always been a man, a man of about thirty. I appear today as I did forty years and more ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on living forever; that some day I shall die the real death from which there is no resurrection. I do not know why I should fear death, I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you who have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I believe, that I am so convinced of my mortality. And because of this conviction I have determined to write down the story of the interesting periods of my life and of my death. I cannot explain the phenomena; I can only set down here in the words of an ordinary soldier of fortune a chronicle of the strange events that befell me during the ten years that my dead body lay undiscovered in an Arizona cave. I have never told this story, nor shall mortal man see this manuscript until after I have passed over for eternity. I know that the average human mind will not believe what it cannot grasp, and so I do not purpose being pilloried by the public, the pulpit, and the press, and held up as a colossal liar when I am but telling the simple truths which some day science will substantiate. Possibly the suggestions which I gained upon Mars, and the knowledge which I can set down in this chronicle, will aid in an earlier understanding of the mysteries of our sister planet; mysteries to you, but no longer mysteries to me. My name is John Carter; I am better known as Captain Jack Carter of Virginia. At the close of the Civil War I found myself possessed of several hundred thousand dollars (Confederate) and a captain's commission in the cavalry arm of an army which no longer existed; the servant of a state which had vanished with the hopes of the South. Masterless, penniless, and with my only means of livelihood, fighting, gone, I determined to work my way to the southwest and attempt to retrieve my fallen fortunes in a search for gold. I spent nearly a year prospecting in company with another Confederate officer, Captain James K. Powell of Richmond. We were extremely fortunate, for late in the winter of 1865, after many hardships and privations, we located the most remarkable gold-bearing quartz vein that our wildest dreams had ever pictured. Powell, who was a mining engineer by education, stated that we had uncovered over a million dollars worth of ore in a trifle over three months. As our equipment was crude in the extreme we decided that one of us must return to civilization, purchase the necessary machinery and return with a sufficient force of men properly to work the mine. As Powell was familiar with the country, as well as with the mechanical requirements of mining we determined that it would be best for him to make the trip. It was agreed that I was to hold down our claim against the remote possibility of its being jumped by some wandering prospector. On March 3, 1866, Powell and I packed his provisions on two of our burros, and bidding me good-bye he mounted his horse, and started down the mountainside toward the valley, across which led the first stage of his journey. The morning of Powell's departure was, like nearly all Arizona mornings, clear and beautiful; I could see him and his little pack animals picking their way down the mountainside toward the valley, and all during the morning I would catch occasional glimpses of them as they topped a hog back or came out upon a level plateau. My last sight of Powell was about three in the afternoon as he entered the shadows of the range on the opposite side of the valley. Some half hour later I happened to glance casually across the valley and was much surprised to note three little dots in about the same place I had last seen my friend and his two pack animals. I am not given to needless worrying, but the more I tried to convince myself that all was well with Powell, and that the dots I had seen on his trail were antelope or wild horses, the less I was able to assure myself. Since we had entered the territory we had not seen a hostile Indian, and we had, therefore, become careless in the extreme, and were wont to ridicule the stories we had heard of the great numbers of these vicious marauders that were supposed to haunt the trails, taking their toll in lives and torture of every white party which fell into their merciless clutches. Powell, I knew, was well armed and, further, an experienced Indian fighter; but I too had lived and fought for years among the Sioux in the North, and I knew that his chances were small against a party of cunning trailing Apaches. Finally I could endure the suspense no longer, and, arming myself with my two Colt revolvers and a carbine, I strapped two belts of cartridges about me and catching my saddle horse, started down the trail taken by Powell in the morning. As soon as I reached comparatively level ground I urged my mount into a canter and continued this, where the going permitted, until, close upon dusk, I discovered the point where other tracks joined those of Powell. They were the tracks of unshod ponies, three of them, and the ponies had been galloping. I followed rapidly until, darkness shutting down, I was forced to await the rising of the moon, and given an opportunity to speculate on the question of the wisdom of my chase. Possibly I had conjured up impossible dangers, like some nervous old housewife, and when I should catch up with Powell would get a good laugh for my pains. However, I am not prone to sensitiveness, and the following of a sense of duty, wherever it may lead, has always been a kind of fetich with me throughout my life; which may account for the honors bestowed upon me by three republics and the decorations and friendships of an old and powerful emperor and several lesser kings, in whose service my sword has been red many a time. About nine o'clock the moon was sufficiently bright for me to proceed on my way and I had no difficulty in following the trail at a fast walk, and in some places at a brisk trot until, about midnight, I reached the water hole where Powell had expected to camp. I came upon the spot unexpectedly, finding it entirely deserted, with no signs of having been recently occupied as a camp. I was interested to note that the tracks of the pursuing horsemen, for such I was now convinced they must be, continued after Powell with only a brief stop at the hole for water; and always at the same rate of speed as his. I was positive now that the trailers were Apaches and that they wished to capture Powell alive for the fiendish pleasure of the torture, so I urged my horse onward at a most dangerous pace, hoping against hope that I would catch up with the red rascals before they attacked him. Further speculation was suddenly cut short by the faint report of two shots far ahead of me. I knew that Powell would need me now if ever, and I instantly urged my horse to his topmost speed up the narrow and difficult mountain trail. I had forged ahead for perhaps a mile or more without hearing further sounds, when the trail suddenly debouched onto a small, open plateau near the summit of the pass. I had passed through a narrow, overhanging gorge just before entering suddenly upon this table land, and the sight which met my eyes filled me with consternation and dismay. The little stretch of level land was white with Indian tepees, and there were probably half a thousand red warriors clustered around some object near the center of the camp. Their attention was so wholly riveted to this point of interest that they did not notice me, and I easily could have turned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and made my escape with perfect safety. The fact, however, that this thought did not occur to me until the following day removes any possible right to a claim to heroism to which the narration of this episode might possibly otherwise entitle me. I do not believe that I am made of the stuff which constitutes heroes, because, in all of the hundreds of instances that my voluntary acts have placed me face to face with death, I cannot recall a single one where any alternative step to that I took occurred to me until many hours later. My mind is evidently so constituted that I am subconsciously forced into the path of duty without recourse to tiresome mental processes. However that may be, I have never regretted that cowardice is not optional with me. In this instance I was, of course, positive that Powell was the center of attraction, but whether I thought or acted first I do not know, but within an instant from the moment the scene broke upon my view I had whipped out my revolvers and was charging down upon the entire army of warriors, shooting rapidly, and whooping at the top of my lungs. Singlehanded, I could not have pursued better tactics, for the red men, convinced by sudden surprise that not less than a regiment of regulars was upon them, turned and fled in every direction for their bows, arrows, and rifles. The view which their hurried routing disclosed filled me with apprehension and with rage. Under the clear rays of the Arizona moon lay Powell, his body fairly bristling with the hostile arrows of the braves. That he was already dead I could not but be convinced, and yet I would have saved his body from mutilation at the hands of the Apaches as quickly as I would have saved the man himself from death. Riding close to him I reached down from the saddle, and grasping his cartridge belt drew him up across the withers of my mount. A backward glance convinced me that to return by the way I had come would be more hazardous than to continue across the plateau, so, putting spurs to my poor beast, I made a dash for the opening to the pass which I could distinguish on the far side of the table land. The Indians had by this time discovered that I was alone and I was pursued with imprecations, arrows, and rifle balls. The fact that it is difficult to aim anything but imprecations accurately by moonlight, that they were upset by the sudden and unexpected manner of my advent, and that I was a rather rapidly moving target saved me from the various deadly projectiles of the enemy and permitted me to reach the shadows of the surrounding peaks before an orderly pursuit could be organized. My horse was traveling practically unguided as I knew that I had probably less knowledge of the exact location of the trail to the pass than he, and thus it happened that he entered a defile which led to the summit of the range and not to the pass which I had hoped would carry me to the valley and to safety. It is probable, however, that to this fact I owe my life and the remarkable experiences and adventures which befell me during the following ten years. My first knowledge that I was on the wrong trail came when I heard the yells of the pursuing savages suddenly grow fainter and fainter far off to my left. I knew then that they had passed to the left of the jagged rock formation at the edge of the plateau, to the right of which my horse had borne me and the body of Powell. I drew rein on a little level promontory overlooking the trail below and to my left, and saw the party of pursuing savages disappearing around the point of a neighboring peak. I knew the Indians would soon discover that they were on the wrong trail and that the search for me would be renewed in the right direction as soon as they located my tracks. I had gone but a short distance further when what seemed to be an excellent trail opened up around the face of a high cliff. The trail was level and quite broad and led upward and in the general direction I wished to go. The cliff arose for several hundred feet on my right, and on my left was an equal and nearly perpendicular drop to the bottom of a rocky ravine. I had followed this trail for perhaps a hundred yards when a sharp turn to the right brought me to the mouth of a large cave. The opening was about four feet in height and three to four feet wide, and at this opening the trail ended. It was now morning, and, with the customary lack of dawn which is a startling characteristic of Arizona, it had become daylight almost without warning. Dismounting, I laid Powell upon the ground, but the most painstaking examination failed to reveal the faintest spark of life. I forced water from my canteen between his dead lips, bathed his face and rubbed his hands, working over him continuously for the better part of an hour in the face of the fact that I knew him to be dead. I was very fond of Powell; he was thoroughly a man in every respect; a polished southern gentleman; a staunch and true friend; and it was with a feeling of the deepest grief that I finally gave up my crude endeavors at resuscitation. Leaving Powell's body where it lay on the ledge I crept into the cave to reconnoiter. I found a large chamber, possibly a hundred feet in diameter and thirty or forty feet in height; a smooth and well-worn floor, and many other evidences that the cave had, at some remote period, been inhabited. The back of the cave was so lost in dense shadow that I could not distinguish whether there were openings into other apartments or not. As I was continuing my examination I commenced to feel a pleasant drowsiness creeping over me which I attributed to the fatigue of my long and strenuous ride, and the reaction from the excitement of the fight and the pursuit. I felt comparatively safe in my present location as I knew that one man could defend the trail to the cave against an army. I soon became so drowsy that I could scarcely resist the strong desire to throw myself on the floor of the cave for a few moments' rest, but I knew that this would never do, as it would mean certain death at the hands of my red friends, who might be upon me at any moment. With an effort I started toward the opening of the cave only to reel drunkenly against a side wall, and from there slip prone upon the floor. CHAPTER II THE ESCAPE OF THE DEAD A sense of delicious dreaminess overcame me, my muscles relaxed, and I was on the point of giving way to my desire to sleep when the sound of approaching horses reached my ears. I attempted to spring to my feet but was horrified to discover that my muscles refused to respond to my will. I was now thoroughly awake, but as unable to move a muscle as though turned to stone. It was then, for the first time, that I noticed a slight vapor filling the cave. It was extremely tenuous and only noticeable against the opening which led to daylight. There also came to my nostrils a faintly pungent odor, and I could only assume that I had been overcome by some poisonous gas, but why I should retain my mental faculties and yet be unable to move I could not fathom. I lay facing the opening of the cave and where I could see the short stretch of trail which lay between the cave and the turn of the cliff around which the trail led. The noise of the approaching horses had ceased, and I judged the Indians were creeping stealthily upon me along the little ledge which led to my living tomb. I remember that I hoped they would make short work of me as I did not particularly relish the thought of the innumerable things they might do to me if the spirit prompted them. I had not long to wait before a stealthy sound apprised me of their nearness, and then a war-bonneted, paint-streaked face was thrust cautiously around the shoulder of the cliff, and savage eyes looked into mine. That he could see me in the dim light of the cave I was sure for the early morning sun was falling full upon me through the opening. The fellow, instead of approaching, merely stood and stared; his eyes bulging and his jaw dropped. And then another savage face appeared, and a third and fourth and fifth, craning their necks over the shoulders of their fellows whom they could not pass upon the narrow ledge. Each face was the picture of awe and fear, but for what reason I did not know, nor did I learn until ten years later. That there were still other braves behind those who regarded me was apparent from the fact that the leaders passed back whispered word to those behind them. Suddenly a low but distinct moaning sound issued from the recesses of the cave behind me, and, as it reached the ears of the Indians, they turned and fled in terror, panic-stricken. So frantic were their efforts to escape from the unseen thing behind me that one of the braves was hurled headlong from the cliff to the rocks below. Their wild cries echoed in the canyon for a short time, and then all was still once more. The sound which had frightened them was not repeated, but it had been sufficient as it was to start me speculating on the possible horror which lurked in the shadows at my back. Fear is a relative term and so I can only measure my feelings at that time by what I had experienced in previous positions of danger and by those that I have passed through since; but I can say without shame that if the sensations I endured during the next few minutes were fear, then may God help the coward, for cowardice is of a surety its own punishment. To be held paralyzed, with one's back toward some horrible and unknown danger from the very sound of which the ferocious Apache warriors turn in wild stampede, as a flock of sheep would madly flee from a pack of wolves, seems to me the last word in fearsome predicaments for a man who had ever been used to fighting for his life with all the energy of a powerful physique. Several times I thought I heard faint sounds behind me as of somebody moving cautiously, but eventually even these ceased, and I was left to the contemplation of my position without interruption. I could but vaguely conjecture the cause of my paralysis, and my only hope lay in that it might pass off as suddenly as it had fallen upon me. Late in the afternoon my horse, which had been standing with dragging rein before the cave, started slowly down the trail, evidently in search of food and water, and I was left alone with my mysterious unknown companion and the dead body of my friend, which lay just within my range of vision upon the ledge where I had placed it in the early morning. From then until possibly midnight all was silence, the silence of the dead; then, suddenly, the awful moan of the morning broke upon my startled ears, and there came again from the black shadows the sound of a moving thing, and a faint rustling as of dead leaves. The shock to my already overstrained nervous system was terrible in the extreme, and with a superhuman effort I strove to break my awful bonds. It was an effort of the mind, of the will, of the nerves; not muscular, for I could not move even so much as my little finger, but none the less mighty for all that. And then something gave, there was a momentary feeling of nausea, a sharp click as of the snapping of a steel wire, and I stood with my back against the wall of the cave facing my unknown foe. And then the moonlight flooded the cave, and there before me lay my own body as it had been lying all these hours, with the eyes staring toward the open ledge and the hands resting limply upon the ground. I looked first at my lifeless clay there upon the floor of the cave and then down at myself in utter bewilderment; for there I lay clothed, and yet here I stood but naked as at the minute of my birth. The transition had been so sudden and so unexpected that it left me for a moment forgetful of aught else than my strange metamorphosis. My first thought was, is this then death! Have I indeed passed over forever into that other life! But I could not well believe this, as I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs from the exertion of my efforts to release myself from the anaesthesis which had held me. My breath was coming in quick, short gasps, cold sweat stood out from every pore of my body, and the ancient experiment of pinching revealed the fact that I was anything other than a wraith. Again was I suddenly recalled to my immediate surroundings by a repetition of the weird moan from the depths of the cave. Naked and unarmed as I was, I had no desire to face the unseen thing which menaced me. My revolvers were strapped to my lifeless body which, for some unfathomable reason, I could not bring myself to touch. My carbine was in its boot, strapped to my saddle, and as my horse had wandered off I was left without means of defense. My only alternative seemed to lie in flight and my decision was crystallized by a recurrence of the rustling sound from the thing which now seemed, in the darkness of the cave and to my distorted imagination, to be creeping stealthily upon me. Unable longer to resist the temptation to escape this horrible place I leaped quickly through the opening into the starlight of a clear Arizona night. The crisp, fresh mountain air outside the cave acted as an immediate tonic and I felt new life and new courage coursing through me. Pausing upon the brink of the ledge I upbraided myself for what now seemed to me wholly unwarranted apprehension. I reasoned with myself that I had lain helpless for many hours within the cave, yet nothing had molested me, and my better judgment, when permitted the direction of clear and logical reasoning, convinced me that the noises I had heard must have resulted from purely natural and harmless causes; probably the conformation of the cave was such that a slight breeze had caused the sounds I heard. I decided to investigate, but first I lifted my head to fill my lungs with the pure, invigorating night air of the mountains. As I did so I saw stretching far below me the beautiful vista of rocky gorge, and level, cacti-studded flat, wrought by the moonlight into a miracle of soft splendor and wondrous enchantment. Few western wonders are more inspiring than the beauties of an Arizona moonlit landscape; the silvered mountains in the distance, the strange lights and shadows upon hog back and arroyo, and the grotesque details of the stiff, yet beautiful cacti form a picture at once enchanting and inspiring; as though one were catching for the first time a glimpse of some dead and forgotten world, so different is it from the aspect of any other spot upon our earth. As I stood thus meditating, I turned my gaze from the landscape to the heavens where the myriad stars formed a gorgeous and fitting canopy for the wonders of the earthly scene. My attention was quickly riveted by a large red star close to the distant horizon. As I gazed upon it I felt a spell of overpowering fascination—it was Mars, the god of war, and for me, the fighting man, it had always held the power of irresistible enchantment. As I gazed at it on that far-gone night it seemed to call across the unthinkable void, to lure me to it, to draw me as the lodestone attracts a particle of iron. My longing was beyond the power of opposition; I closed my eyes, stretched out my arms toward the god of my vocation and felt myself drawn with the suddenness of thought through the trackless immensity of space. There was an instant of extreme cold and utter darkness. CHAPTER III MY ADVENT ON MARS I opened my eyes upon a strange and weird landscape. I knew that I was on Mars; not once did I question either my sanity or my wakefulness. I was not asleep, no need for pinching here; my inner consciousness told me as plainly that I was upon Mars as your conscious mind tells you that you are upon Earth. You do not question the fact; neither did I. I found myself lying prone upon a bed of yellowish, mosslike vegetation which stretched around me in all directions for interminable miles. I seemed to be lying in a deep, circular basin, along the outer verge of which I could distinguish the irregularities of low hills. It was midday, the sun was shining full upon me and the heat of it was rather intense upon my naked body, yet no greater than would have been true under similar conditions on an Arizona desert. Here and there were slight outcroppings of quartz-bearing rock which glistened in the sunlight; and a little to my left, perhaps a hundred yards, appeared a low, walled enclosure about four feet in height. No water, and no other vegetation than the moss was in evidence, and as I was somewhat thirsty I determined to do a little exploring. Springing to my feet I received my first Martian surprise, for the effort, which on Earth would have brought me standing upright, carried me into the Martian air to the height of about three yards. I alighted softly upon the ground, however, without appreciable shock or jar. Now commenced a series of evolutions which even then seemed ludicrous in the extreme. I found that I must learn to walk all over again, as the muscular exertion which carried me easily and safely upon Earth played strange antics with me upon Mars. Instead of progressing in a sane and dignified manner, my attempts to walk resulted in a variety of hops which took me clear of the ground a couple of feet at each step and landed me sprawling upon my face or back at the end of each second or third hop. My muscles, perfectly attuned and accustomed to the force of gravity on Earth, played the mischief with me in attempting for the first time to cope with the lesser gravitation and lower air pressure on Mars. I was determined, however, to explore the low structure which was the only evidence of habitation in sight, and so I hit upon the unique plan of reverting to first principles in locomotion, creeping. I did fairly well at this and in a few moments had reached the low, encircling wall of the enclosure. There appeared to be no doors or windows upon the side nearest me, but as the wall was but about four feet high I cautiously gained my feet and peered over the top upon the strangest sight it had ever been given me to see. The roof of the enclosure was of solid glass about four or five inches in thickness, and beneath this were several hundred large eggs, perfectly round and snowy white. The eggs were nearly uniform in size being about two and one-half feet in diameter. Five or six had already hatched and the grotesque caricatures which sat blinking in the sunlight were enough to cause me to doubt my sanity. They seemed mostly head, with little scrawny bodies, long necks and six legs, or, as I afterward learned, two legs and two arms, with an intermediary pair of limbs which could be used at will either as arms or legs. Their eyes were set at the extreme sides of their heads a trifle above the center and protruded in such a manner that they could be directed either forward or back and also independently of each other, thus permitting this queer animal to look in any direction, or in two directions at once, without the necessity of turning the head. The ears, which were slightly above the eyes and closer together, were small, cup-shaped antennae, protruding not more than an inch on these young specimens. Their noses were but longitudinal slits in the center of their faces, midway between their mouths and ears. There was no hair on their bodies, which were of a very light yellowish-green color. In the adults, as I was to learn quite soon, this color deepens to an olive green and is darker in the male than in the female. Further, the heads of the adults are not so out of proportion to their bodies as in the case of the young. The iris of the eyes is blood red, as in Albinos, while the pupil is dark. The eyeball itself is very white, as are the teeth. These latter add a most ferocious appearance to an otherwise fearsome and terrible countenance, as the lower tusks curve upward to sharp points which end about where the eyes of earthly human beings are located. The whiteness of the teeth is not that of ivory, but of the snowiest and most gleaming of china. Against the dark background of their olive skins their tusks stand out in a most striking manner, making these weapons present a singularly formidable appearance. Most of these details I noted later, for I was given but little time to speculate on the wonders of my new discovery. I had seen that the eggs were in the process of hatching, and as I stood watching the hideous little monsters break from their shells I failed to note the approach of a score of full-grown Martians from behind me. Coming, as they did, over the soft and soundless moss, which covers practically the entire surface of Mars with the exception of the frozen areas at the poles and the scattered cultivated districts, they might have captured me easily, but their intentions were far more sinister. It was the rattling of the accouterments of the foremost warrior which warned me. On such a little thing my life hung that I often marvel that I escaped so easily. Had not the rifle of the leader of the party swung from its fastenings beside his saddle in such a way as to strike against the butt of his great metal-shod spear I should have snuffed out without ever knowing that death was near me. But the little sound caused me to turn, and there upon me, not ten feet from my breast, was the point of that huge spear, a spear forty feet long, tipped with gleaming metal, and held low at the side of a mounted replica of the little devils I had been watching. But how puny and harmless they now looked beside this huge and terrific incarnation of hate, of vengeance and of death. The man himself, for such I may call him, was fully fifteen feet in height and, on Earth, would have weighed some four hundred pounds. He sat his mount as we sit a horse, grasping the animal's barrel with his lower limbs, while the hands of his two right arms held his immense spear low at the side of his mount; his two left arms were outstretched laterally to help preserve his balance, the thing he rode having neither bridle or reins of any description for guidance. And his mount! How can earthly words describe it! It towered ten feet at the shoulder; had four legs on either side; a broad flat tail, larger at the tip than at the root, and which it held straight out behind while running; a gaping mouth which split its head from its snout to its long, massive neck. Like its master, it was entirely devoid of hair, but was of a dark slate color and exceeding smooth and glossy. Its belly was white, and its legs shaded from the slate of its shoulders and hips to a vivid yellow at the feet. The feet themselves were heavily padded and nailless, which fact had also contributed to the noiselessness of their approach, and, in common with a multiplicity of legs, is a characteristic feature of the fauna of Mars. The highest type of man and one other animal, the only mammal existing on Mars, alone have well-formed nails, and there are absolutely no hoofed animals in existence there. Behind this first charging demon trailed nineteen others, similar in all respects, but, as I learned later, bearing individual characteristics peculiar to themselves; precisely as no two of us are identical although we are all cast in a similar mold. This picture, or rather materialized nightmare, which I have described at length, made but one terrible and swift impression on me as I turned to meet it. Unarmed and naked as I was, the first law of nature manifested itself in the only possible solution of my immediate problem, and that was to get out of the vicinity of the point of the charging spear. Consequently I gave a very earthly and at the same time superhuman leap to reach the top of the Martian incubator, for such I had determined it must be. My effort was crowned with a success which appalled me no less than it seemed to surprise the Martian warriors, for it carried me fully thirty feet into the air and landed me a hundred feet from my pursuers and on the opposite side of the enclosure. I alighted upon the soft moss easily and without mishap, and turning saw my enemies lined up along the further wall. Some were surveying me with expressions which I afterward discovered marked extreme astonishment, and the others were evidently satisfying themselves that I had not molested their young. They were conversing together in low tones, and gesticulating and pointing toward me. Their discovery that I had not harmed the little Martians, and that I was unarmed, must have caused them to look upon me with less ferocity; but, as I was to learn later, the thing which weighed most in my favor was my exhibition of hurdling. While the Martians are immense, their bones are very large and they are muscled only in proportion to the gravitation which they must overcome. The result is that they are infinitely less agile and less powerful, in proportion to their weight, than an Earth man, and I doubt that were one of them suddenly to be transported to Earth he could lift his own weight from the ground; in fact, I am convinced that he could not do so. My feat then was as marvelous upon Mars as it would have been upon Earth, and from desiring to annihilate me they suddenly looked upon me as a wonderful discovery to be captured and exhibited among their fellows. The respite my unexpected agility had given me permitted me to formulate plans for the immediate future and to note more closely the appearance of the warriors, for I could not disassociate these people in my mind from those other warriors who, only the day before, had been pursuing me. I noted that each was armed with several other weapons in addition to the huge spear which I have described. The weapon which caused me to decide against an attempt at escape by flight was what was evidently a rifle of some description, and which I felt, for some reason, they were peculiarly efficient in handling. These rifles were of a white metal stocked with wood, which I learned later was a very light and intensely hard growth much prized on Mars, and entirely unknown to us denizens of Earth. The metal of the barrel is an alloy composed principally of aluminum and steel which they have learned to temper to a hardness far exceeding that of the steel with which we are familiar. The weight of these rifles is comparatively little, and with the small caliber, explosive, radium projectiles which they use, and the great length of the barrel, they are deadly in the extreme and at ranges which would be unthinkable on Earth. The theoretic effective radius of this rifle is three hundred miles, but the best they can do in actual service when equipped with their wireless finders and sighters is but a trifle over two hundred miles. This is quite far enough to imbue me with great respect for the Martian firearm, and some telepathic force must have warned me against an attempt to escape in broad daylight from under the muzzles of twenty of these death-dealing machines. The Martians, after conversing for a short time, turned and rode away in the direction from which they had come, leaving one of their number alone by the enclosure. When they had covered perhaps two hundred yards they halted, and turning their mounts toward us sat watching the warrior by the enclosure. He was the one whose spear had so nearly transfixed me, and was evidently the leader of the band, as I had noted that they seemed to have moved to their present position at his direction. When his force had come to a halt he dismounted, threw down his spear and small arms, and came around the end of the incubator toward me, entirely unarmed and as naked as I, except for the ornaments strapped upon his head, limbs, and breast. When he was within about fifty feet of me he unclasped an enormous metal armlet, and holding it toward me in the open palm of his hand, addressed me in a clear, resonant voice, but in a language, it is needless to say, I could not understand. He then stopped as though waiting for my reply, pricking up his antennae-like ears and cocking his strange-looking eyes still further toward me. As the silence became painful I concluded to hazard a little conversation on my own part, as I had guessed that he was making overtures of peace. The throwing down of his weapons and the withdrawing of his troop before his advance toward me would have signified a peaceful mission anywhere on Earth, so why not, then, on Mars! Placing my hand over my heart I bowed low to the Martian and explained to him that while I did not understand his language, his actions spoke for the peace and friendship that at the present moment were most dear to my heart. Of course I might have been a babbling brook for all the intelligence my speech carried to him, but he understood the action with which I immediately followed my words. Stretching my hand toward him, I advanced and took the armlet from his open palm, clasping it about my arm above the elbow; smiled at him and stood waiting. His wide mouth spread into an answering smile, and locking one of his intermediary arms in mine we turned and walked back toward his mount. At the same time he motioned his followers to advance. They started toward us on a wild run, but were checked by a signal from him. Evidently he feared that were I to be really frightened again I might jump entirely out of the landscape. He exchanged a few words with his men, motioned to me that I would ride behind one of them, and then mounted his own animal. The fellow designated reached down two or three hands and lifted me up behind him on the glossy back of his mount, where I hung on as best I could by the belts and straps which held the Martian's weapons and ornaments. The entire cavalcade then turned and galloped away toward the range of hills in the distance. CHAPTER IV A PRISONER We had gone perhaps ten miles when the ground began to rise very rapidly. We were, as I was later to learn, nearing the edge of one of Mars' long-dead seas, in the bottom of which my encounter with the Martians had taken place. In a short time we gained the foot of the mountains, and after traversing a narrow gorge came to an open valley, at the far extremity of which was a low table land upon which I beheld an enormous city. Toward this we galloped, entering it by what appeared to be a ruined roadway leading out from the city, but only to the edge of the table land, where it ended abruptly in a flight of broad steps. Upon closer observation I saw as we passed them that the buildings were deserted, and while not greatly decayed had the appearance of not having been tenanted for years, possibly for ages. Toward the center of the city was a large plaza, and upon this and in the buildings immediately surrounding it were camped some nine or ten hundred creatures of the same breed as my captors, for such I now considered them despite the suave manner in which I had been trapped. With the exception of their ornaments all were naked. The women varied in appearance but little from the men, except that their tusks were much larger in proportion to their height, in some instances curving nearly to their high-set ears. Their bodies were smaller and lighter in color, and their fingers and toes bore the rudiments of nails, which were entirely lacking among the males. The adult females ranged in height from ten to twelve feet. The children were light in color, even lighter than the women, and all looked precisely alike to me, except that some were taller than others; older, I presumed. I saw no signs of extreme age among them, nor is there any appreciable difference in their appearance from the age of maturity, about forty, until, at about the age of one thousand years, they go voluntarily upon their last strange pilgrimage down the river Iss, which leads no living Martian knows whither and from whose bosom no Martian has ever returned, or would be allowed to live did he return after once embarking upon its cold, dark waters. Only about one Martian in a thousand dies of sickness or disease, and possibly about twenty take the voluntary pilgrimage. The other nine hundred and seventy-nine die violent deaths in duels, in hunting, in aviation and in war; but perhaps by far the greatest death loss comes during the age of childhood, when vast numbers of the little Martians fall victims to the great white apes of Mars. The average life expectancy of a Martian after the age of maturity is about three hundred years, but would be nearer the one-thousand mark were it not for the various means leading to violent death. Owing to the waning resources of the planet it evidently became necessary to counteract the increasing longevity which their remarkable skill in therapeutics and surgery produced, and so human life has come to be considered but lightly on Mars, as is evidenced by their dangerous sports and the almost continual warfare between the various communities. There are other and natural causes tending toward a diminution of population, but nothing contributes so greatly to this end as the fact that no male or female Martian is ever voluntarily without a weapon of destruction. As we neared the plaza and my presence was discovered we were immediately surrounded by hundreds of the creatures who seemed anxious to pluck me from my seat behind my guard. A word from the leader of the party stilled their clamor, and we proceeded at a trot across the plaza to the entrance of as magnificent an edifice as mortal eye has rested upon. The building was low, but covered an enormous area. It was constructed of gleaming white marble inlaid with gold and brilliant stones which sparkled and scintillated in the sunlight. The main entrance was some hundred feet in width and projected from the building proper to form a huge canopy above the entrance hall. There was no stairway, but a gentle incline to the first floor of the building opened into an enormous chamber encircled by galleries. On the floor of this chamber, which was dotted with highly carved wooden desks and chairs, were assembled about forty or fifty male Martians around the steps of a rostrum. On the platform proper squatted an enormous warrior heavily loaded with metal ornaments, gay-colored feathers and beautifully wrought leather trappings ingeniously set with precious stones. From his shoulders depended a short cape of white fur lined with brilliant scarlet silk. What struck me as most remarkable about this assemblage and the hall in which they were congregated was the fact that the creatures were entirely out of proportion to the desks, chairs, and other furnishings; these being of a size adapted to human beings such as I, whereas the great bulks of the Martians could scarcely have squeezed into the chairs, nor was there room beneath the desks for their long legs. Evidently, then, there were other denizens on Mars than the wild and grotesque creatures into whose hands I had fallen, but the evidences of extreme antiquity which showed all around me indicated that these buildings might have belonged to some long-extinct and forgotten race in the dim antiquity of Mars. Our party had halted at the entrance to the building, and at a sign from the leader I had been lowered to the ground. Again locking his arm in mine, we had proceeded into the audience chamber. There were few formalities observed in approaching the Martian chieftain. My captor merely strode up to the rostrum, the others making way for him as he advanced. The chieftain rose to his feet and uttered the name of my escort who, in turn, halted and repeated the name of the ruler followed by his title. At the time, this ceremony and the words they uttered meant nothing to me, but later I came to know that this was the customary greeting between green Martians. Had the men been strangers, and therefore unable to exchange names, they would have silently exchanged ornaments, had their missions been peaceful—otherwise they would have exchanged shots, or have fought out their introduction with some other of their various weapons. My captor, whose name was Tars Tarkas, was virtually the vice-chieftain of the community, and a man of great ability as a statesman and warrior. He evidently explained briefly the incidents connected with his expedition, including my capture, and when he had concluded the chieftain addressed me at some length. I replied in our good old English tongue merely to convince him that neither of us could understand the other; but I noticed that when I smiled slightly on concluding, he did likewise. This fact, and the similar occurrence during my first talk with Tars Tarkas, convinced me that we had at least something in common; the ability to smile, therefore to laugh; denoting a sense of humor. But I was to learn that the Martian smile is merely perfunctory, and that the Martian laugh is a thing to cause strong men to blanch in horror. The ideas of humor among the green men of Mars are widely at variance with our conceptions of incitants to merriment. The death agonies of a fellow being are, to these strange creatures, provocative of the wildest hilarity, while their chief form of commonest amusement is to inflict death on their prisoners of war in various ingenious and horrible ways. The assembled warriors and chieftains examined me closely, feeling my muscles and the texture of my skin. The principal chieftain then evidently signified a desire to see me perform, and, motioning me to follow, he started with Tars Tarkas for the open plaza. Now, I had made no attempt to walk, since my first signal failure, except while tightly grasping Tars Tarkas' arm, and so now I went skipping and flitting about among the desks and chairs like some monstrous grasshopper. After bruising myself severely, much to the amusement of the Martians, I again had recourse to creeping, but this did not suit them and I was roughly jerked to my feet by a towering fellow who had laughed most heartily at my misfortunes. As he banged me down upon my feet his face was bent close to mine and I did the only thing a gentleman might do under the circumstances of brutality, boorishness, and lack of consideration for a stranger's rights; I swung my fist squarely to his jaw and he went down like a felled ox. As he sunk to the floor I wheeled around with my back toward the nearest desk, expecting to be overwhelmed by the vengeance of his fellows, but determined to give them as good a battle as the unequal odds would permit before I gave up my life. My fears were groundless, however, as the other Martians, at first struck dumb with wonderment, finally broke into wild peals of laughter and applause. I did not recognize the applause as such, but later, when I had become acquainted with their customs, I learned that I had won what they seldom accord, a manifestation of approbation. The fellow whom I had struck lay where he had fallen, nor did any of his mates approach him. Tars Tarkas advanced toward me, holding out one of his arms, and we thus proceeded to the plaza without further mishap. I did not, of course, know the reason for which we had come to the open, but I was not long in being enlightened. They first repeated the word "sak" a number of times, and then Tars Tarkas made several jumps, repeating the same word before each leap; then, turning to me, he said, "sak!" I saw what they were after, and gathering myself together I "sakked" with such marvelous success that I cleared a good hundred and fifty feet; nor did I, this time, lose my equilibrium, but landed squarely upon my feet without falling. I then returned by easy jumps of twenty-five or thirty feet to the little group of warriors. My exhibition had been witnessed by several hundred lesser Martians, and they immediately broke into demands for a repetition, which the chieftain then ordered me to make; but I was both hungry and thirsty, and determined on the spot that my only method of salvation was to demand the consideration from these creatures which they evidently would not voluntarily accord. I therefore ignored the repeated commands to "sak," and each time they were made I motioned to my mouth and rubbed my stomach. Tars Tarkas and the chief exchanged a few words, and the former, calling to a young female among the throng, gave her some instructions and motioned me to accompany her. I grasped her proffered arm and together we crossed the plaza toward a large building on the far side. My fair companion was about eight feet tall, having just arrived at maturity, but not yet to her full height. She was of a light olive-green color, with a smooth, glossy hide. Her name, as I afterward learned, was Sola, and she belonged to the retinue of Tars Tarkas. She conducted me to a spacious chamber in one of the buildings fronting on the plaza, and which, from the litter of silks and furs upon the floor, I took to be the sleeping quarters of several of the natives. The room was well lighted by a number of large windows and was beautifully decorated with mural paintings and mosaics, but upon all there seemed to rest that indefinable touch of the finger of antiquity which convinced me that the architects and builders of these wondrous creations had nothing in common with the crude half-brutes which now occupied them. Sola motioned me to be seated upon a pile of silks near the center of the room, and, turning, made a peculiar hissing sound, as though signaling to someone in an adjoining room. In response to her call I obtained my first sight of a new Martian wonder. It waddled in on its ten short legs, and squatted down before the girl like an obedient puppy. The thing was about the size of a Shetland pony, but its head bore a slight resemblance to that of a frog, except that the jaws were equipped with three rows of long, sharp tusks. CHAPTER V I ELUDE MY WATCH DOG Sola stared into the brute's wicked-looking eyes, muttered a word or two of command, pointed to me, and left the chamber. I could not but wonder what this ferocious-looking monstrosity might do when left alone in such close proximity to such a relatively tender morsel of meat; but my fears were groundless, as the beast, after surveying me intently for a moment, crossed the room to the only exit which led to the street, and lay down full length across the threshold. This was my first experience with a Martian watch dog, but it was destined not to be my last, for this fellow guarded me carefully during the time I remained a captive among these green men; twice saving my life, and never voluntarily being away from me a moment. While Sola was away I took occasion to examine more minutely the room in which I found myself captive. The mural painting depicted scenes of rare and wonderful beauty; mountains, rivers, lake, ocean, meadow, trees and flowers, winding roadways, sun-kissed gardens—scenes which might have portrayed earthly views but for the different colorings of the vegetation. The work had evidently been wrought by a master hand, so subtle the atmosphere, so perfect the technique; yet nowhere was there a representation of a living animal, either human or brute, by which I could guess at the likeness of these other and perhaps extinct denizens of Mars. While I was allowing my fancy to run riot in wild conjecture on the possible explanation of the strange anomalies which I had so far met with on Mars, Sola returned bearing both food and drink. These she placed on the floor beside me, and seating herself a short ways off regarded me intently. The food consisted of about a pound of some solid substance of the consistency of cheese and almost tasteless, while the liquid was apparently milk from some animal. It was not unpleasant to the taste, though slightly acid, and I learned in a short time to prize it very highly. It came, as I later discovered, not from an animal, as there is only one mammal on Mars and that one very rare indeed, but from a large plant which grows practically without water, but seems to distill its plentiful supply of milk from the products of the soil, the moisture of the air, and the rays of the sun. A single plant of this species will give eight or ten quarts of milk per day. After I had eaten I was greatly invigorated, but feeling the need of rest I stretched out upon the silks and was soon asleep. I must have slept several hours, as it was dark when I awoke, and I was very cold. I noticed that someone had thrown a fur over me, but it had become partially dislodged and in the darkness I could not see to replace it. Suddenly a hand reached out and pulled the fur over me, shortly afterwards adding another to my covering. I presumed that my watchful guardian was Sola, nor was I wrong. This girl alone, among all the green Martians with whom I came in contact, disclosed characteristics of sympathy, kindliness, and affection; her ministrations to my bodily wants were unfailing, and her solicitous care saved me from much suffering and many hardships. As I was to learn, the Martian nights are extremely cold, and as there is practically no twilight or dawn, the changes in temperature are sudden and most uncomfortable, as are the transitions from brilliant daylight to darkness. The nights are either brilliantly illumined or very dark, for if neither of the two moons of Mars happen to be in the sky almost total darkness results, since the lack of atmosphere, or, rather, the very thin atmosphere, fails to diffuse the starlight to any great extent; on the other hand, if both of the moons are in the heavens at night the surface of the ground is brightly illuminated. Both of Mars' moons are vastly nearer her than is our moon to Earth; the nearer moon being but about five thousand miles distant, while the further is but little more than fourteen thousand miles away, against the nearly one-quarter million miles which separate us from our moon. The nearer moon of Mars makes a complete revolution around the planet in a little over seven and one-half hours, so that she may be seen hurtling through the sky like some huge meteor two or three times each night, revealing all her phases during each transit of the heavens. The further moon revolves about Mars in something over thirty and one-quarter hours, and with her sister satellite makes a nocturnal Martian scene one of splendid and weird grandeur. And it is well that nature has so graciously and abundantly lighted the Martian night, for the green men of Mars, being a nomadic race without high intellectual development, have but crude means for artificial lighting; depending principally upon torches, a kind of candle, and a peculiar oil lamp which generates a gas and burns without a wick. This last device produces an intensely brilliant far-reaching white light, but as the natural oil which it requires can only be obtained by mining in one of several widely separated and remote localities it is seldom used by these creatures whose only thought is for today, and whose hatred for manual labor has kept them in a semi-barbaric state for countless ages. After Sola had replenished my coverings I again slept, nor did I awaken until daylight. The other occupants of the room, five in number, were all females, and they were still sleeping, piled high with a motley array of silks and furs. Across the threshold lay stretched the sleepless guardian brute, just as I had last seen him on the preceding day; apparently he had not moved a muscle; his eyes were fairly glued upon me, and I fell to wondering just what might befall me should I endeavor to escape. I have ever been prone to seek adventure and to investigate and experiment where wiser men would have left well enough alone. It therefore now occurred to me that the surest way of learning the exact attitude of this beast toward me would be to attempt to leave the room. I felt fairly secure in my belief that I could escape him should he pursue me once I was outside the building, for I had begun to take great pride in my ability as a jumper. Furthermore, I could see from the shortness of his legs that the brute himself was no jumper and probably no runner. Slowly and carefully, therefore, I gained my feet, only to see that my watcher did the same; cautiously I advanced toward him, finding that by moving with a shuffling gait I could retain my balance as well as make reasonably rapid progress. As I neared the brute he backed cautiously away from me, and when I had reached the open he moved to one side to let me pass. He then fell in behind me and followed about ten paces in my rear as I made my way along the deserted street. Evidently his mission was to protect me only, I thought, but when we reached the edge of the city he suddenly sprang before me, uttering strange sounds and baring his ugly and ferocious tusks. Thinking to have some amusement at his expense, I rushed toward him, and when almost upon him sprang into the air, alighting far beyond him and away from the city. He wheeled instantly and charged me with the most appalling speed I had ever beheld. I had thought his short legs a bar to swiftness, but had he been coursing with greyhounds the latter would have appeared as though asleep on a door mat. As I was to learn, this is the fleetest animal on Mars, and owing to its intelligence, loyalty, and ferocity is used in hunting, in war, and as the protector of the Martian man. I quickly saw that I would have difficulty in escaping the fangs of the beast on a straightaway course, and so I met his charge by doubling in my tracks and leaping over him as he was almost upon me. This maneuver gave me a considerable advantage, and I was able to reach the city quite a bit ahead of him, and as he came tearing after me I jumped for a window about thirty feet from the ground in the face of one of the buildings overlooking the valley. Grasping the sill I pulled myself up to a sitting posture without looking into the building, and gazed down at the baffled animal beneath me. My exultation was short-lived, however, for scarcely had I gained a secure seat upon the sill than a huge hand grasped me by the neck from behind and dragged me violently into the room. Here I was thrown upon my back, and beheld standing over me a colossal ape-like creature, white and hairless except for an enormous shock of bristly hair upon its head. CHAPTER VI A FIGHT THAT WON FRIENDS The thing, which more nearly resembled our earthly men than it did the Martians I had seen, held me pinioned to the ground with one huge foot, while it jabbered and gesticulated at some answering creature behind me. This other, which was evidently its mate, soon came toward us, bearing a mighty stone cudgel with which it evidently intended to brain me. The creatures were about ten or fifteen feet tall, standing erect, and had, like the green Martians, an intermediary set of arms or legs, midway between their upper and lower limbs. Their eyes were close together and non-protruding; their ears were high set, but more laterally located than those of the Martians, while their snouts and teeth were strikingly like those of our African gorilla. Altogether they were not unlovely when viewed in comparison with the green Martians. The cudgel was swinging in the arc which ended upon my upturned face when a bolt of myriad-legged horror hurled itself through the doorway full upon the breast of my executioner. With a shriek of fear the ape which held me leaped through the open window, but its mate closed in a terrific death struggle with my preserver, which was nothing less than my faithful watch-thing; I cannot bring myself to call so hideous a creature a dog. As quickly as possible I gained my feet and backing against the wall I witnessed such a battle as it is vouchsafed few beings to see. The strength, agility, and blind ferocity of these two creatures is approached by nothing known to earthly man. My beast had an advantage in his first hold, having sunk his mighty fangs far into the breast of his adversary; but the great arms and paws of the ape, backed by muscles far transcending those of the Martian men I had seen, had locked the throat of my guardian and slowly were choking out his life, and bending back his head and neck upon his body, where I momentarily expected the former to fall limp at the end of a broken neck. In accomplishing this the ape was tearing away the entire front of its breast, which was held in the vise-like grip of the powerful jaws. Back and forth upon the floor they rolled, neither one emitting a sound of fear or pain. Presently I saw the great eyes of my beast bulging completely from their sockets and blood flowing from its nostrils. That he was weakening perceptibly was evident, but so also was the ape, whose struggles were growing momentarily less. Suddenly I came to myself and, with that strange instinct which seems ever to prompt me to my duty, I seized the cudgel, which had fallen to the floor at the commencement of the battle, and swinging it with all the power of my earthly arms I crashed it full upon the head of the ape, crushing his skull as though it had been an eggshell. Scarcely had the blow descended when I was confronted with a new danger. The ape's mate, recovered from its first shock of terror, had returned to the scene of the encounter by way of the interior of the building. I glimpsed him just before he reached the doorway and the sight of him, now roaring as he perceived his lifeless fellow stretched upon the floor, and frothing at the mouth, in the extremity of his rage, filled me, I must confess, with dire forebodings. I am ever willing to stand and fight when the odds are not too overwhelmingly against me, but in this instance I perceived neither glory nor profit in pitting my relatively puny strength against the iron muscles and brutal ferocity of this enraged denizen of an unknown world; in fact, the only outcome of such an encounter, so far as I might be concerned, seemed sudden death. I was standing near the window and I knew that once in the street I might gain the plaza and safety before the creature could overtake me; at least there was a chance for safety in flight, against almost certain death should I remain and fight however desperately. It is true I held the cudgel, but what could I do with it against his four great arms? Even should I break one of them with my first blow, for I figured that he would attempt to ward off the cudgel, he could reach out and annihilate me with the others before I could recover for a second attack. In the instant that these thoughts passed through my mind I had turned to make for the window, but my eyes alighting on the form of my erstwhile guardian threw all thoughts of flight to the four winds. He lay gasping upon the floor of the chamber, his great eyes fastened upon me in what seemed a pitiful appeal for protection. I could not withstand that look, nor could I, on second thought, have deserted my rescuer without giving as good an account of myself in his behalf as he had in mine. Without more ado, therefore, I turned to meet the charge of the infuriated bull ape. He was now too close upon me for the cudgel to prove of any effective assistance, so I merely threw it as heavily as I could at his advancing bulk. It struck him just below the knees, eliciting a howl of pain and rage, and so throwing him off his balance that he lunged full upon me with arms wide stretched to ease his fall. Again, as on the preceding day, I had recourse to earthly tactics, and swinging my right fist full upon the point of his chin I followed it with a smashing left to the pit of his stomach. The effect was marvelous, for, as I lightly sidestepped, after delivering the second blow, he reeled and fell upon the floor doubled up with pain and gasping for wind. Leaping over his prostrate body, I seized the cudgel and finished the monster before he could regain his feet. As I delivered the blow a low laugh rang out behind me, and, turning, I beheld Tars Tarkas, Sola, and three or four warriors standing in the doorway of the chamber. As my eyes met theirs I was, for the second time, the recipient of their zealously guarded applause. My absence had been noted by Sola on her awakening, and she had quickly informed Tars Tarkas, who had set out immediately with a handful of warriors to search for me. As they had approached the limits of the city they had witnessed the actions of the bull ape as he bolted into the building, frothing with rage. They had followed immediately behind him, thinking it barely possible that his actions might prove a clew to my whereabouts and had witnessed my short but decisive battle with him. This encounter, together with my set-to with the Martian warrior on the previous day and my feats of jumping placed me upon a high pinnacle in their regard. Evidently devoid of all the finer sentiments of friendship, love, or affection, these people fairly worship physical prowess and bravery, and nothing is too good for the object of their adoration as long as he maintains his position by repeated examples of his skill, strength, and courage. Sola, who had accompanied the searching party of her own volition, was the only one of the Martians whose face had not been twisted in laughter as I battled for my life. She, on the contrary, was sober with apparent solicitude and, as soon as I had finished the monster, rushed to me and carefully examined my body for possible wounds or injuries. Satisfying herself that I had come off unscathed she smiled quietly, and, taking my hand, started toward the door of the chamber. Tars Tarkas and the other warriors had entered and were standing over the now rapidly reviving brute which had saved my life, and whose life I, in turn, had rescued. They seemed to be deep in argument, and finally one of them addressed me, but remembering my ignorance of his language turned back to Tars Tarkas, who, with a word and gesture, gave some command to the fellow and turned to follow us from the room. There seemed something menacing in their attitude toward my beast, and I hesitated to leave until I had learned the outcome. It was well I did so, for the warrior drew an evil looking pistol from its holster and was on the point of putting an end to the creature when I sprang forward and struck up his arm. The bullet striking the wooden casing of the window exploded, blowing a hole completely through the wood and masonry. I then knelt down beside the fearsome-looking thing, and raising it to its feet motioned for it to follow me. The looks of surprise which my actions elicited from the Martians were ludicrous; they could not understand, except in a feeble and childish way, such attributes as gratitude and compassion. The warrior whose gun I had struck up looked enquiringly at Tars Tarkas, but the latter signed that I be left to my own devices, and so we returned to the plaza with my great beast following close at heel, and Sola grasping me tightly by the arm. I had at least two friends on Mars; a young woman who watched over me with motherly solicitude, and a dumb brute which, as I later came to know, held in its poor ugly carcass more love, more loyalty, more gratitude than could have been found in the entire five million green Martians who rove the deserted cities and dead sea bottoms of Mars. CHAPTER VII CHILD-RAISING ON MARS After a breakfast, which was an exact replica of the meal of the preceding day and an index of practically every meal which followed while I was with the green men of Mars, Sola escorted me to the plaza, where I found the entire community engaged in watching or helping at the harnessing of huge mastodonian animals to great three-wheeled chariots. There were about two hundred and fifty of these vehicles, each drawn by a single animal, any one of which, from their appearance, might easily have drawn the entire wagon train when fully loaded. The chariots themselves were large, commodious, and gorgeously decorated. In each was seated a female Martian loaded with ornaments of metal, with jewels and silks and furs, and upon the back of each of the beasts which drew the chariots was perched a young Martian driver. Like the animals upon which the warriors were mounted, the heavier draft animals wore neither bit nor bridle, but were guided entirely by telepathic means. This power is wonderfully developed in all Martians, and accounts largely for the simplicity of their language and the relatively few spoken words exchanged even in long conversations. It is the universal language of Mars, through the medium of which the higher and lower animals of this world of paradoxes are able to communicate to a greater or less extent, depending upon the intellectual sphere of the species and the development of the individual. As the cavalcade took up the line of march in single file, Sola dragged me into an empty chariot and we proceeded with the procession toward the point by which I had entered the city the day before. At the head of the caravan rode some two hundred warriors, five abreast, and a like number brought up the rear, while twenty-five or thirty outriders flanked us on either side. Every one but myself—men, women, and children—were heavily armed, and at the tail of each chariot trotted a Martian hound, my own beast following closely behind ours; in fact, the faithful creature never left me voluntarily during the entire ten years I spent on Mars. Our way led out across the little valley before the city, through the hills, and down into the dead sea bottom which I had traversed on my journey from the incubator to the plaza. The incubator, as it proved, was the terminal point of our journey this day, and, as the entire cavalcade broke into a mad gallop as soon as we reached the level expanse of sea bottom, we were soon within sight of our goal. On reaching it the chariots were parked with military precision on the four sides of the enclosure, and half a score of warriors, headed by the enormous chieftain, and including Tars Tarkas and several other lesser chiefs, dismounted and advanced toward it. I could see Tars Tarkas explaining something to the principal chieftain, whose name, by the way, was, as nearly as I can translate it into English, Lorquas Ptomel, Jed; jed being his title. I was soon appraised of the subject of their conversation, as, calling to Sola, Tars Tarkas signed for her to send me to him. I had by this time mastered the intricacies of walking under Martian conditions, and quickly responding to his command I advanced to the side of the incubator where the warriors stood. As I reached their side a glance showed me that all but a very few eggs had hatched, the incubator being fairly alive with the hideous little devils. They ranged in height from three to four feet, and were moving restlessly about the enclosure as though searching for food. As I came to a halt before him, Tars Tarkas pointed over the incubator and said, "Sak." I saw that he wanted me to repeat my performance of yesterday for the edification of Lorquas Ptomel, and, as I must confess that my prowess gave me no little satisfaction, I responded quickly, leaping entirely over the parked chariots on the far side of the incubator. As I returned, Lorquas Ptomel grunted something at me, and turning to his warriors gave a few words of command relative to the incubator. They paid no further attention to me and I was thus permitted to remain close and watch their operations, which consisted in breaking an opening in the wall of the incubator large enough to permit of the exit of the young Martians. On either side of this opening the women and the younger Martians, both male and female, formed two solid walls leading out through the chariots and quite away into the plain beyond. Between these walls the little Martians scampered, wild as deer; being permitted to run the full length of the aisle, where they were captured one at a time by the women and older children; the last in the line capturing the first little one to reach the end of the gauntlet, her opposite in the line capturing the second, and so on until all the little fellows had left the enclosure and been appropriated by some youth or female. As the women caught the young they fell out of line and returned to their respective chariots, while those who fell into the hands of the young men were later turned over to some of the women. I saw that the ceremony, if it could be dignified by such a name, was over, and seeking out Sola I found her in our chariot with a hideous little creature held tightly in her arms. The work of rearing young, green Martians consists solely in teaching them to talk, and to use the weapons of warfare with which they are loaded down from the very first year of their lives. Coming from eggs in which they have lain for five years, the period of incubation, they step forth into the world perfectly developed except in size. Entirely unknown to their mothers, who, in turn, would have difficulty in pointing out the fathers with any degree of accuracy, they are the common children of the community, and their education devolves upon the females who chance to capture them as they leave the incubator. Their foster mothers may not even have had an egg in the incubator, as was the case with Sola, who had not commenced to lay, until less than a year before she became the mother of another woman's offspring. But this counts for little among the green Martians, as parental and filial love is as unknown to them as it is common among us. I believe this horrible system which has been carried on for ages is the direct cause of the loss of all the finer feelings and higher humanitarian instincts among these poor creatures. From birth they know no father or mother love, they know not the meaning of the word home; they are taught that they are only suffered to live until they can demonstrate by their physique and ferocity that they are fit to live. Should they prove deformed or defective in any way they are promptly shot; nor do they see a tear shed for a single one of the many cruel hardships they pass through from earliest infancy. I do not mean that the adult Martians are unnecessarily or intentionally cruel to the young, but theirs is a hard and pitiless struggle for existence upon a dying planet, the natural resources of which have dwindled to a point where the support of each additional life means an added tax upon the community into which it is thrown. By careful selection they rear only the hardiest specimens of each species, and with almost supernatural foresight they regulate the birth rate to merely offset the loss by death. Each adult Martian female brings forth about thirteen eggs each year, and those which meet the size, weight, and specific gravity tests are hidden in the recesses of some subterranean vault where the temperature is too low for incubation. Every year these eggs are carefully examined by a council of twenty chieftains, and all but about one hundred of the most perfect are destroyed out of each yearly supply. At the end of five years about five hundred almost perfect eggs have been chosen from the thousands brought forth. These are then placed in the almost air-tight incubators to be hatched by the sun's rays after a period of another five years. The hatching which we had witnessed today was a fairly representative event of its kind, all but about one per cent of the eggs hatching in two days. If the remaining eggs ever hatched we knew nothing of the fate of the little Martians. They were not wanted, as their offspring might inherit and transmit the tendency to prolonged incubation, and thus upset the system which has maintained for ages and which permits the adult Martians to figure the proper time for return to the incubators, almost to an hour. The incubators are built in remote fastnesses, where there is little or no likelihood of their being discovered by other tribes. The result of such a catastrophe would mean no children in the community for another five years. I was later to witness the results of the discovery of an alien incubator. The community of which the green Martians with whom my lot was cast formed a part was composed of some thirty thousand souls. They roamed an enormous tract of arid and semi-arid land between forty and eighty degrees south latitude, and bounded on the east and west by two large fertile tracts. Their headquarters lay in the southwest corner of this district, near the crossing of two of the so-called Martian canals. As the incubator had been placed far north of their own territory in a supposedly uninhabited and unfrequented area, we had before us a tremendous journey, concerning which I, of course, knew nothing. After our return to the dead city I passed several days in comparative idleness. On the day following our return all the warriors had ridden forth early in the morning and had not returned until just before darkness fell. As I later learned, they had been to the subterranean vaults in which the eggs were kept and had transported them to the incubator, which they had then walled up for another five years, and which, in all probability, would not be visited again during that period. The vaults which hid the eggs until they were ready for the incubator were located many miles south of the incubator, and would be visited yearly by the council of twenty chieftains. Why they did not arrange to build their vaults and incubators nearer home has always been a mystery to me, and, like many other Martian mysteries, unsolved and unsolvable by earthly reasoning and customs. Sola's duties were now doubled, as she was compelled to care for the young Martian as well as for me, but neither one of us required much attention, and as we were both about equally advanced in Martian education, Sola took it upon herself to train us together. Her prize consisted in a male about four feet tall, very strong and physically perfect; also, he learned quickly, and we had considerable amusement, at least I did, over the keen rivalry we displayed. The Martian language, as I have said, is extremely simple, and in a week I could make all my wants known and understand nearly everything that was said to me. Likewise, under Sola's tutelage, I developed my telepathic powers so that I shortly could sense practically everything that went on around me. What surprised Sola most in me was that while I could catch telepathic messages easily from others, and often when they were not intended for me, no one could read a jot from my mind under any circumstances. At first this vexed me, but later I was very glad of it, as it gave me an undoubted advantage over the Martians. CHAPTER VIII A FAIR CAPTIVE FROM THE SKY The third day after the incubator ceremony we set forth toward home, but scarcely had the head of the procession debouched into the open ground before the city than orders were given for an immediate and hasty return. As though trained for years in this particular evolution, the green Martians melted like mist into the spacious doorways of the nearby buildings, until, in less than three minutes, the entire cavalcade of chariots, mastodons and mounted warriors was nowhere to be seen. Sola and I had entered a building upon the front of the city, in fact, the same one in which I had had my encounter with the apes, and, wishing to see what had caused the sudden retreat, I mounted to an upper floor and peered from the window out over the valley and the hills beyond; and there I saw the cause of their sudden scurrying to cover. A huge craft, long, low, and gray-painted, swung slowly over the crest of the nearest hill. Following it came another, and another, and another, until twenty of them, swinging low above the ground, sailed slowly and majestically toward us. Each carried a strange banner swung from stem to stern above the upper works, and upon the prow of each was painted some odd device that gleamed in the sunlight and showed plainly even at the distance at which we were from the vessels. I could see figures crowding the forward decks and upper works of the air craft. Whether they had discovered us or simply were looking at the deserted city I could not say, but in any event they received a rude reception, for suddenly and without warning the green Martian warriors fired a terrific volley from the windows of the buildings facing the little valley across which the great ships were so peacefully advancing. Instantly the scene changed as by magic; the foremost vessel swung broadside toward us, and bringing her guns into play returned our fire, at the same time moving parallel to our front for a short distance and then turning back with the evident intention of completing a great circle which would bring her up to position once more opposite our firing line; the other vessels followed in her wake, each one opening upon us as she swung into position. Our own fire never diminished, and I doubt if twenty-five per cent of our shots went wild. It had never been given me to see such deadly accuracy of aim, and it seemed as though a little figure on one of the craft dropped at the explosion of each bullet, while the banners and upper works dissolved in spurts of flame as the irresistible projectiles of our warriors mowed through them. The fire from the vessels was most ineffectual, owing, as I afterward learned, to the unexpected suddenness of the first volley, which caught the ship's crews entirely unprepared and the sighting apparatus of the guns unprotected from the deadly aim of our warriors. It seems that each green warrior has certain objective points for his fire under relatively identical circumstances of warfare. For example, a proportion of them, always the best marksmen, direct their fire entirely upon the wireless finding and sighting apparatus of the big guns of an attacking naval force; another detail attends to the smaller guns in the same way; others pick off the gunners; still others the officers; while certain other quotas concentrate their attention upon the other members of the crew, upon the upper works, and upon the steering gear and propellers. Twenty minutes after the first volley the great fleet swung trailing off in the direction from which it had first appeared. Several of the craft were limping perceptibly, and seemed but barely under the control of their depleted crews. Their fire had ceased entirely and all their energies seemed focused upon escape. Our warriors then rushed up to the roofs of the buildings which we occupied and followed the retreating armada with a continuous fusillade of deadly fire. One by one, however, the ships managed to dip below the crests of the outlying hills until only one barely moving craft was in sight. This had received the brunt of our fire and seemed to be entirely unmanned, as not a moving figure was visible upon her decks. Slowly she swung from her course, circling back toward us in an erratic and pitiful manner. Instantly the warriors ceased firing, for it was quite apparent that the vessel was entirely helpless, and, far from being in a position to inflict harm upon us, she could not even control herself sufficiently to escape. As she neared the city the warriors rushed out upon the plain to meet her, but it was evident that she still was too high for them to hope to reach her decks. From my vantage point in the window I could see the bodies of her crew strewn about, although I could not make out what manner of creatures they might be. Not a sign of life was manifest upon her as she drifted slowly with the light breeze in a southeasterly direction. She was drifting some fifty feet above the ground, followed by all but some hundred of the warriors who had been ordered back to the roofs to cover the possibility of a return of the fleet, or of reinforcements. It soon became evident that she would strike the face of the buildings about a mile south of our position, and as I watched the progress of the chase I saw a number of warriors gallop ahead, dismount and enter the building she seemed destined to touch. As the craft neared the building, and just before she struck, the Martian warriors swarmed upon her from the windows, and with their great spears eased the shock of the collision, and in a few moments they had thrown out grappling hooks and the big boat was being hauled to ground by their fellows below. After making her fast, they swarmed the sides and searched the vessel from stem to stern. I could see them examining the dead sailors, evidently for signs of life, and presently a party of them appeared from below dragging a little figure among them. The creature was considerably less than half as tall as the green Martian warriors, and from my balcony I could see that it walked erect upon two legs and surmised that it was some new and strange Martian monstrosity with which I had not as yet become acquainted. They removed their prisoner to the ground and then commenced a systematic rifling of the vessel. This operation required several hours, during which time a number of the chariots were requisitioned to transport the loot, which consisted in arms, ammunition, silks, furs, jewels, strangely carved stone vessels, and a quantity of solid foods and liquids, including many casks of water, the first I had seen since my advent upon Mars. After the last load had been removed the warriors made lines fast to the craft and towed her far out into the valley in a southwesterly direction. A few of them then boarded her and were busily engaged in what appeared, from my distant position, as the emptying of the contents of various carboys upon the dead bodies of the sailors and over the decks and works of the vessel. This operation concluded, they hastily clambered over her sides, sliding down the guy ropes to the ground. The last warrior to leave the deck turned and threw something back upon the vessel, waiting an instant to note the outcome of his act. As a faint spurt of flame rose from the point where the missile struck he swung over the side and was quickly upon the ground. Scarcely had he alighted than the guy ropes were simultaneously released, and the great warship, lightened by the removal of the loot, soared majestically into the air, her decks and upper works a mass of roaring flames. Slowly she drifted to the southeast, rising higher and higher as the flames ate away her wooden parts and diminished the weight upon her. Ascending to the roof of the building I watched her for hours, until finally she was lost in the dim vistas of the distance. The sight was awe-inspiring in the extreme as one contemplated this mighty floating funeral pyre, drifting unguided and unmanned through the lonely wastes of the Martian heavens; a derelict of death and destruction, typifying the life story of these strange and ferocious creatures into whose unfriendly hands fate had carried it. Much depressed, and, to me, unaccountably so, I slowly descended to the street. The scene I had witnessed seemed to mark the defeat and annihilation of the forces of a kindred people, rather than the routing by our green warriors of a horde of similar, though unfriendly, creatures. I could not fathom the seeming hallucination, nor could I free myself from it; but somewhere in the innermost recesses of my soul I felt a strange yearning toward these unknown foemen, and a mighty hope surged through me that the fleet would return and demand a reckoning from the green warriors who had so ruthlessly and wantonly attacked it. Close at my heel, in his now accustomed place, followed Woola, the hound, and as I emerged upon the street Sola rushed up to me as though I had been the object of some search on her part. The cavalcade was returning to the plaza, the homeward march having been given up for that day; nor, in fact, was it recommenced for more than a week, owing to the fear of a return attack by the air craft. Lorquas Ptomel was too astute an old warrior to be caught upon the open plains with a caravan of chariots and children, and so we remained at the deserted city until the danger seemed passed. As Sola and I entered the plaza a sight met my eyes which filled my whole being with a great surge of mingled hope, fear, exultation, and depression, and yet most dominant was a subtle sense of relief and happiness; for just as we neared the throng of Martians I caught a glimpse of the prisoner from the battle craft who was being roughly dragged into a nearby building by a couple of green Martian females. And the sight which met my eyes was that of a slender, girlish figure, similar in every detail to the earthly women of my past life. She did not see me at first, but just as she was disappearing through the portal of the building which was to be her prison she turned, and her eyes met mine. Her face was oval and beautiful in the extreme, her every feature was finely chiseled and exquisite, her eyes large and lustrous and her head surmounted by a mass of coal black, waving hair, caught loosely into a strange yet becoming coiffure. Her skin was of a light reddish copper color, against which the crimson glow of her cheeks and the ruby of her beautifully molded lips shone with a strangely enhancing effect. She was as destitute of clothes as the green Martians who accompanied her; indeed, save for her highly wrought ornaments she was entirely naked, nor could any apparel have enhanced the beauty of her perfect and symmetrical figure. As her gaze rested on me her eyes opened wide in astonishment, and she made a little sign with her free hand; a sign which I did not, of course, understand. Just a moment we gazed upon each other, and then the look of hope and renewed courage which had glorified her face as she discovered me, faded into one of utter dejection, mingled with loathing and contempt. I realized I had not answered her signal, and ignorant as I was of Martian customs, I intuitively felt that she had made an appeal for succor and protection which my unfortunate ignorance had prevented me from answering. And then she was dragged out of my sight into the depths of the deserted edifice. CHAPTER IX I LEARN THE LANGUAGE As I came back to myself I glanced at Sola, who had witnessed this encounter and I was surprised to note a strange expression upon her usually expressionless countenance. What her thoughts were I did not know, for as yet I had learned but little of the Martian tongue; enough only to suffice for my daily needs. As I reached the doorway of our building a strange surprise awaited me. A warrior approached bearing the arms, ornaments, and full accouterments of his kind. These he presented to me with a few unintelligible words, and a bearing at once respectful and menacing. Later, Sola, with the aid of several of the other women, remodeled the trappings to fit my lesser proportions, and after they completed the work I went about garbed in all the panoply of war. From then on Sola instructed me in the mysteries of the various weapons, and with the Martian young I spent several hours each day practicing upon the plaza. I was not yet proficient with all the weapons, but my great familiarity with similar earthly weapons made me an unusually apt pupil, and I progressed in a very satisfactory manner. The training of myself and the young Martians was conducted solely by the women, who not only attend to the education of the young in the arts of individual defense and offense, but are also the artisans who produce every manufactured article wrought by the green Martians. They make the powder, the cartridges, the firearms; in fact everything of value is produced by the females. In time of actual warfare they form a part of the reserves, and when the necessity arises fight with even greater intelligence and ferocity than the men. The men are trained in the higher branches of the art of war; in strategy and the maneuvering of large bodies of troops. They make the laws as they are needed; a new law for each emergency. They are unfettered by precedent in the administration of justice. Customs have been handed down by ages of repetition, but the punishment for ignoring a custom is a matter for individual treatment by a jury of the culprit's peers, and I may say that justice seldom misses fire, but seems rather to rule in inverse ratio to the ascendency of law. In one respect at least the Martians are a happy people; they have no lawyers. I did not see the prisoner again for several days subsequent to our first encounter, and then only to catch a fleeting glimpse of her as she was being conducted to the great audience chamber where I had had my first meeting with Lorquas Ptomel. I could not but note the unnecessary harshness and brutality with which her guards treated her; so different from the almost maternal kindliness which Sola manifested toward me, and the respectful attitude of the few green Martians who took the trouble to notice me at all. I had observed on the two occasions when I had seen her that the prisoner exchanged words with her guards, and this convinced me that they spoke, or at least could make themselves understood by a common language. With this added incentive I nearly drove Sola distracted by my importunities to hasten on my education and within a few more days I had mastered the Martian tongue sufficiently well to enable me to carry on a passable conversation and to fully understand practically all that I heard. At this time our sleeping quarters were occupied by three or four females and a couple of the recently hatched young, beside Sola and her youthful ward, myself, and Woola the hound. After they had retired for the night it was customary for the adults to carry on a desultory conversation for a short time before lapsing into sleep, and now that I could understand their language I was always a keen listener, although I never proffered any remarks myself. On the night following the prisoner's visit to the audience chamber the conversation finally fell upon this subject, and I was all ears on the instant. I had feared to question Sola relative to the beautiful captive, as I could not but recall the strange expression I had noted upon her face after my first encounter with the prisoner. That it denoted jealousy I could not say, and yet, judging all things by mundane standards as I still did, I felt it safer to affect indifference in the matter until I learned more surely Sola's attitude toward the object of my solicitude. Sarkoja, one of the older women who shared our domicile, had been present at the audience as one of the captive's guards, and it was toward her the question turned. "When," asked one of the women, "will we enjoy the death throes of the red one? or does Lorquas Ptomel, Jed, intend holding her for ransom?" "They have decided to carry her with us back to Thark, and exhibit her last agonies at the great games before Tal Hajus," replied Sarkoja. "What will be the manner of her going out?" inquired Sola. "She is very small and very beautiful; I had hoped that they would hold her for ransom." Sarkoja and the other women grunted angrily at this evidence of weakness on the part of Sola. "It is sad, Sola, that you were not born a million years ago," snapped Sarkoja, "when all the hollows of the land were filled with water, and the peoples were as soft as the stuff they sailed upon. In our day we have progressed to a point where such sentiments mark weakness and atavism. It will not be well for you to permit Tars Tarkas to learn that you hold such degenerate sentiments, as I doubt that he would care to entrust such as you with the grave responsibilities of maternity." "I see nothing wrong with my expression of interest in this red woman," retorted Sola. "She has never harmed us, nor would she should we have fallen into her hands. It is only the men of her kind who war upon us, and I have ever thought that their attitude toward us is but the reflection of ours toward them. They live at peace with all their fellows, except when duty calls upon them to make war, while we are at peace with none; forever warring among our own kind as well as upon the red men, and even in our own communities the individuals fight amongst themselves. Oh, it is one continual, awful period of bloodshed from the time we break the shell until we gladly embrace the bosom of the river of mystery, the dark and ancient Iss which carries us to an unknown, but at least no more frightful and terrible existence! Fortunate indeed is he who meets his end in an early death. Say what you please to Tars Tarkas, he can mete out no worse fate to me than a continuation of the horrible existence we are forced to lead in this life." This wild outbreak on the part of Sola so greatly surprised and shocked the other women, that, after a few words of general reprimand, they all lapsed into silence and were soon asleep. One thing the episode had accomplished was to assure me of Sola's friendliness toward the poor girl, and also to convince me that I had been extremely fortunate in falling into her hands rather than those of some of the other females. I knew that she was fond of me, and now that I had discovered that she hated cruelty and barbarity I was confident that I could depend upon her to aid me and the girl captive to escape, provided of course that such a thing was within the range of possibilities. I did not even know that there were any better conditions to escape to, but I was more than willing to take my chances among people fashioned after my own mold rather than to remain longer among the hideous and bloodthirsty green men of Mars. But where to go, and how, was as much of a puzzle to me as the age-old search for the spring of eternal life has been to earthly men since the beginning of time. I decided that at the first opportunity I would take Sola into my confidence and openly ask her to aid me, and with this resolution strong upon me I turned among my silks and furs and slept the dreamless and refreshing sleep of Mars. CHAPTER X CHAMPION AND CHIEF Early the next morning I was astir. Considerable freedom was allowed me, as Sola had informed me that so long as I did not attempt to leave the city I was free to go and come as I pleased. She had warned me, however, against venturing forth unarmed, as this city, like all other deserted metropolises of an ancient Martian civilization, was peopled by the great white apes of my second day's adventure. In advising me that I must not leave the boundaries of the city Sola had explained that Woola would prevent this anyway should I attempt it, and she warned me most urgently not to arouse his fierce nature by ignoring his warnings should I venture too close to the forbidden territory. His nature was such, she said, that he would bring me back into the city dead or alive should I persist in opposing him; "preferably dead," she added. On this morning I had chosen a new street to explore when suddenly I found myself at the limits of the city. Before me were low hills pierced by narrow and inviting ravines. I longed to explore the country before me, and, like the pioneer stock from which I sprang, to view what the landscape beyond the encircling hills might disclose from the summits which shut out my view. It also occurred to me that this would prove an excellent opportunity to test the qualities of Woola. I was convinced that the brute loved me; I had seen more evidences of affection in him than in any other Martian animal, man or beast, and I was sure that gratitude for the acts that had twice saved his life would more than outweigh his loyalty to the duty imposed upon him by cruel and loveless masters. As I approached the boundary line Woola ran anxiously before me, and thrust his body against my legs. His expression was pleading rather than ferocious, nor did he bare his great tusks or utter his fearful guttural warnings. Denied the friendship and companionship of my kind, I had developed considerable affection for Woola and Sola, for the normal earthly man must have some outlet for his natural affections, and so I decided upon an appeal to a like instinct in this great brute, sure that I would not be disappointed. I had never petted nor fondled him, but now I sat upon the ground and putting my arms around his heavy neck I stroked and coaxed him, talking in my newly acquired Martian tongue as I would have to my hound at home, as I would have talked to any other friend among the lower animals. His response to my manifestation of affection was remarkable to a degree; he stretched his great mouth to its full width, baring the entire expanse of his upper rows of tusks and wrinkling his snout until his great eyes were almost hidden by the folds of flesh. If you have ever seen a collie smile you may have some idea of Woola's facial distortion. He threw himself upon his back and fairly wallowed at my feet; jumped up and sprang upon me, rolling me upon the ground by his great weight; then wriggling and squirming around me like a playful puppy presenting its back for the petting it craves. I could not resist the ludicrousness of the spectacle, and holding my sides I rocked back and forth in the first laughter which had passed my lips in many days; the first, in fact, since the morning Powell had left camp when his horse, long unused, had precipitately and unexpectedly bucked him off headforemost into a pot of frijoles. My laughter frightened Woola, his antics ceased and he crawled pitifully toward me, poking his ugly head far into my lap; and then I remembered what laughter signified on Mars—torture, suffering, death. Quieting myself, I rubbed the poor old fellow's head and back, talked to him for a few minutes, and then in an authoritative tone commanded him to follow me, and arising started for the hills. There was no further question of authority between us; Woola was my devoted slave from that moment hence, and I his only and undisputed master. My walk to the hills occupied but a few minutes, and I found nothing of particular interest to reward me. Numerous brilliantly colored and strangely formed wild flowers dotted the ravines and from the summit of the first hill I saw still other hills stretching off toward the north, and rising, one range above another, until lost in mountains of quite respectable dimensions; though I afterward found that only a few peaks on all Mars exceed four thousand feet in height; the suggestion of magnitude was merely relative. My morning's walk had been large with importance to me for it had resulted in a perfect understanding with Woola, upon whom Tars Tarkas relied for my safe keeping. I now knew that while theoretically a prisoner I was virtually free, and I hastened to regain the city limits before the defection of Woola could be discovered by his erstwhile masters. The adventure decided me never again to leave the limits of my prescribed stamping grounds until I was ready to venture forth for good and all, as it would certainly result in a curtailment of my liberties, as well as the probable death of Woola, were we to be discovered. On regaining the plaza I had my third glimpse of the captive girl. She was standing with her guards before the entrance to the audience chamber, and as I approached she gave me one haughty glance and turned her back full upon me. The act was so womanly, so earthly womanly, that though it stung my pride it also warmed my heart with a feeling of companionship; it was good to know that someone else on Mars beside myself had human instincts of a civilized order, even though the manifestation of them was so painful and mortifying. Had a green Martian woman desired to show dislike or contempt she would, in all likelihood, have done it with a sword thrust or a movement of her trigger finger; but as their sentiments are mostly atrophied it would have required a serious injury to have aroused such passions in them. Sola, let me add, was an exception; I never saw her perform a cruel or uncouth act, or fail in uniform kindliness and good nature. She was indeed, as her fellow Martian had said of her, an atavism; a dear and precious reversion to a former type of loved and loving ancestor. Seeing that the prisoner seemed the center of attraction I halted to view the proceedings. I had not long to wait for presently Lorquas Ptomel and his retinue of chieftains approached the building and, signing the guards to follow with the prisoner entered the audience chamber. Realizing that I was a somewhat favored character, and also convinced that the warriors did not know of my proficiency in their language, as I had plead with Sola to keep this a secret on the grounds that I did not wish to be forced to talk with the men until I had perfectly mastered the Martian tongue, I chanced an attempt to enter the audience chamber and listen to the proceedings. The council squatted upon the steps of the rostrum, while below them stood the prisoner and her two guards. I saw that one of the women was Sarkoja, and thus understood how she had been present at the hearing of the preceding day, the results of which she had reported to the occupants of our dormitory last night. Her attitude toward the captive was most harsh and brutal. When she held her, she sunk her rudimentary nails into the poor girl's flesh, or twisted her arm in a most painful manner. When it was necessary to move from one spot to another she either jerked her roughly, or pushed her headlong before her. She seemed to be venting upon this poor defenseless creature all the hatred, cruelty, ferocity, and spite of her nine hundred years, backed by unguessable ages of fierce and brutal ancestors. The other woman was less cruel because she was entirely indifferent; if the prisoner had been left to her alone, and fortunately she was at night, she would have received no harsh treatment, nor, by the same token would she have received any attention at all. As Lorquas Ptomel raised his eyes to address the prisoner they fell on me and he turned to Tars Tarkas with a word, and gesture of impatience. Tars Tarkas made some reply which I could not catch, but which caused Lorquas Ptomel to smile; after which they paid no further attention to me. "What is your name?" asked Lorquas Ptomel, addressing the prisoner. "Dejah Thoris, daughter of Mors Kajak of Helium." "And the nature of your expedition?" he continued. "It was a purely scientific research party sent out by my father's father, the Jeddak of Helium, to rechart the air currents, and to take atmospheric density tests," replied the fair prisoner, in a low, well-modulated voice. "We were unprepared for battle," she continued, "as we were on a peaceful mission, as our banners and the colors of our craft denoted. The work we were doing was as much in your interests as in ours, for you know full well that were it not for our labors and the fruits of our scientific operations there would not be enough air or water on Mars to support a single human life. For ages we have maintained the air and water supply at practically the same point without an appreciable loss, and we have done this in the face of the brutal and ignorant interference of you green men. "Why, oh, why will you not learn to live in amity with your fellows. Must you ever go on down the ages to your final extinction but little above the plane of the dumb brutes that serve you! A people without written language, without art, without homes, without love; the victims of eons of the horrible community idea. Owning everything in common, even to your women and children, has resulted in your owning nothing in common. You hate each other as you hate all else except yourselves. Come back to the ways of our common ancestors, come back to the light of kindliness and fellowship. The way is open to you, you will find the hands of the red men stretched out to aid you. Together we may do still more to regenerate our dying planet. The granddaughter of the greatest and mightiest of the red jeddaks has asked you. Will you come?" Lorquas Ptomel and the warriors sat looking silently and intently at the young woman for several moments after she had ceased speaking. What was passing in their minds no man may know, but that they were moved I truly believe, and if one man high among them had been strong enough to rise above custom, that moment would have marked a new and mighty era for Mars. I saw Tars Tarkas rise to speak, and on his face was such an expression as I had never seen upon the countenance of a green Martian warrior. It bespoke an inward and mighty battle with self, with heredity, with age-old custom, and as he opened his mouth to speak, a look almost of benignity, of kindliness, momentarily lighted up his fierce and terrible countenance. What words of moment were to have fallen from his lips were never spoken, as just then a young warrior, evidently sensing the trend of thought among the older men, leaped down from the steps of the rostrum, and striking the frail captive a powerful blow across the face, which felled her to the floor, placed his foot upon her prostrate form and turning toward the assembled council broke into peals of horrid, mirthless laughter. For an instant I thought Tars Tarkas would strike him dead, nor did the aspect of Lorquas Ptomel augur any too favorably for the brute, but the mood passed, their old selves reasserted their ascendency, and they smiled. It was portentous however that they did not laugh aloud, for the brute's act constituted a side-splitting witticism according to the ethics which rule green Martian humor. That I have taken moments to write down a part of what occurred as that blow fell does not signify that I remained inactive for any such length of time. I think I must have sensed something of what was coming, for I realize now that I was crouched as for a spring as I saw the blow aimed at her beautiful, upturned, pleading face, and ere the hand descended I was halfway across the hall. Scarcely had his hideous laugh rang out but once, when I was upon him. The brute was twelve feet in height and armed to the teeth, but I believe that I could have accounted for the whole roomful in the terrific intensity of my rage. Springing upward, I struck him full in the face as he turned at my warning cry and then as he drew his short-sword I drew mine and sprang up again upon his breast, hooking one leg over the butt of his pistol and grasping one of his huge tusks with my left hand while I delivered blow after blow upon his enormous chest. He could not use his short-sword to advantage because I was too close to him, nor could he draw his pistol, which he attempted to do in direct opposition to Martian custom which says that you may not fight a fellow warrior in private combat with any other than the weapon with which you are attacked. In fact he could do nothing but make a wild and futile attempt to dislodge me. With all his immense bulk he was little if any stronger than I, and it was but the matter of a moment or two before he sank, bleeding and lifeless, to the floor. Dejah Thoris had raised herself upon one elbow and was watching the battle with wide, staring eyes. When I had regained my feet I raised her in my arms and bore her to one of the benches at the side of the room. Again no Martian interfered with me, and tearing a piece of silk from my cape I endeavored to staunch the flow of blood from her nostrils. I was soon successful as her injuries amounted to little more than an ordinary nosebleed, and when she could speak she placed her hand upon my arm and looking up into my eyes, said: "Why did you do it? You who refused me even friendly recognition in the first hour of my peril! And now you risk your life and kill one of your companions for my sake. I cannot understand. What strange manner of man are you, that you consort with the green men, though your form is that of my race, while your color is little darker than that of the white ape? Tell me, are you human, or are you more than human?" "It is a strange tale," I replied, "too long to attempt to tell you now, and one which I so much doubt the credibility of myself that I fear to hope that others will believe it. Suffice it, for the present, that I am your friend, and, so far as our captors will permit, your protector and your servant." "Then you too are a prisoner? But why, then, those arms and the regalia of a Tharkian chieftain? What is your name? Where your country?" "Yes, Dejah Thoris, I too am a prisoner; my name is John Carter, and I claim Virginia, one of the United States of America, Earth, as my home; but why I am permitted to wear arms I do not know, nor was I aware that my regalia was that of a chieftain." We were interrupted at this juncture by the approach of one of the warriors, bearing arms, accoutrements and ornaments, and in a flash one of her questions was answered and a puzzle cleared up for me. I saw that the body of my dead antagonist had been stripped, and I read in the menacing yet respectful attitude of the warrior who had brought me these trophies of the kill the same demeanor as that evinced by the other who had brought me my original equipment, and now for the first time I realized that my blow, on the occasion of my first battle in the audience chamber had resulted in the death of my adversary. The reason for the whole attitude displayed toward me was now apparent; I had won my spurs, so to speak, and in the crude justice, which always marks Martian dealings, and which, among other things, has caused me to call her the planet of paradoxes, I was accorded the honors due a conqueror; the trappings and the position of the man I killed. In truth, I was a Martian chieftain, and this I learned later was the cause of my great freedom and my toleration in the audience chamber. As I had turned to receive the dead warrior's chattels I had noticed that Tars Tarkas and several others had pushed forward toward us, and the eyes of the former rested upon me in a most quizzical manner. Finally he addressed me: "You speak the tongue of Barsoom quite readily for one who was deaf and dumb to us a few short days ago. Where did you learn it, John Carter?" "You, yourself, are responsible, Tars Tarkas," I replied, "in that you furnished me with an instructress of remarkable ability; I have to thank Sola for my learning." "She has done well," he answered, "but your education in other respects needs considerable polish. Do you know what your unprecedented temerity would have cost you had you failed to kill either of the two chieftains whose metal you now wear?" "I presume that that one whom I had failed to kill, would have killed me," I answered, smiling. "No, you are wrong. Only in the last extremity of self-defense would a Martian warrior kill a prisoner; we like to save them for other purposes," and his face bespoke possibilities that were not pleasant to dwell upon. "But one thing can save you now," he continued. "Should you, in recognition of your remarkable valor, ferocity, and prowess, be considered by Tal Hajus as worthy of his service you may be taken into the community and become a full-fledged Tharkian. Until we reach the headquarters of Tal Hajus it is the will of Lorquas Ptomel that you be accorded the respect your acts have earned you. You will be treated by us as a Tharkian chieftain, but you must not forget that every chief who ranks you is responsible for your safe delivery to our mighty and most ferocious ruler. I am done." "I hear you, Tars Tarkas," I answered. "As you know I am not of Barsoom; your ways are not my ways, and I can only act in the future as I have in the past, in accordance with the dictates of my conscience and guided by the standards of mine own people. If you will leave me alone I will go in peace, but if not, let the individual Barsoomians with whom I must deal either respect my rights as a stranger among you, or take whatever consequences may befall. Of one thing let us be sure, whatever may be your ultimate intentions toward this unfortunate young woman, whoever would offer her injury or insult in the future must figure on making a full accounting to me. I understand that you belittle all sentiments of generosity and kindliness, but I do not, and I can convince your most doughty warrior that these characteristics are not incompatible with an ability to fight." Ordinarily I am not given to long speeches, nor ever before had I descended to bombast, but I had guessed at the keynote which would strike an answering chord in the breasts of the green Martians, nor was I wrong, for my harangue evidently deeply impressed them, and their attitude toward me thereafter was still further respectful. Tars Tarkas himself seemed pleased with my reply, but his only comment was more or less enigmatical—"And I think I know Tal Hajus, Jeddak of Thark." I now turned my attention to Dejah Thoris, and assisting her to her feet I turned with her toward the exit, ignoring her hovering guardian harpies as well as the inquiring glances of the chieftains. Was I not now a chieftain also! Well, then, I would assume the responsibilities of one. They did not molest us, and so Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium, and John Carter, gentleman of Virginia, followed by the faithful Woola, passed through utter silence from the audience chamber of Lorquas Ptomel, Jed among the Tharks of Barsoom. CHAPTER XI WITH DEJAH THORIS As we reached the open the two female guards who had been detailed to watch over Dejah Thoris hurried up and made as though to assume custody of her once more. The poor child shrank against me and I felt her two little hands fold tightly over my arm. Waving the women away, I informed them that Sola would attend the captive hereafter, and I further warned Sarkoja that any more of her cruel attentions bestowed upon Dejah Thoris would result in Sarkoja's sudden and painful demise. My threat was unfortunate and resulted in more harm than good to Dejah Thoris, for, as I learned later, men do not kill women upon Mars, nor women, men. So Sarkoja merely gave us an ugly look and departed to hatch up deviltries against us. I soon found Sola and explained to her that I wished her to guard Dejah Thoris as she had guarded me; that I wished her to find other quarters where they would not be molested by Sarkoja, and I finally informed her that I myself would take up my quarters among the men. Sola glanced at the accouterments which were carried in my hand and slung across my shoulder. "You are a great chieftain now, John Carter," she said, "and I must do your bidding, though indeed I am glad to do it under any circumstances. The man whose metal you carry was young, but he was a great warrior, and had by his promotions and kills won his way close to the rank of Tars Tarkas, who, as you know, is second to Lorquas Ptomel only. You are eleventh, there are but ten chieftains in this community who rank you in prowess." "And if I should kill Lorquas Ptomel?" I asked. "You would be first, John Carter; but you may only win that honor by the will of the entire council that Lorquas Ptomel meet you in combat, or should he attack you, you may kill him in self-defense, and thus win first place." I laughed, and changed the subject. I had no particular desire to kill Lorquas Ptomel, and less to be a jed among the Tharks. I accompanied Sola and Dejah Thoris in a search for new quarters, which we found in a building nearer the audience chamber and of far more pretentious architecture than our former habitation. We also found in this building real sleeping apartments with ancient beds of highly wrought metal swinging from enormous gold chains depending from the marble ceilings. The decoration of the walls was most elaborate, and, unlike the frescoes in the other buildings I had examined, portrayed many human figures in the compositions. These were of people like myself, and of a much lighter color than Dejah Thoris. They were clad in graceful, flowing robes, highly ornamented with metal and jewels, and their luxuriant hair was of a beautiful golden and reddish bronze. The men were beardless and only a few wore arms. The scenes depicted for the most part, a fair-skinned, fair-haired people at play. Dejah Thoris clasped her hands with an exclamation of rapture as she gazed upon these magnificent works of art, wrought by a people long extinct; while Sola, on the other hand, apparently did not see them. We decided to use this room, on the second floor and overlooking the plaza, for Dejah Thoris and Sola, and another room adjoining and in the rear for the cooking and supplies. I then dispatched Sola to bring the bedding and such food and utensils as she might need, telling her that I would guard Dejah Thoris until her return. As Sola departed Dejah Thoris turned to me with a faint smile. "And whereto, then, would your prisoner escape should you leave her, unless it was to follow you and crave your protection, and ask your pardon for the cruel thoughts she has harbored against you these past few days?" "You are right," I answered, "there is no escape for either of us unless we go together." "I heard your challenge to the creature you call Tars Tarkas, and I think I understand your position among these people, but what I cannot fathom is your statement that you are not of Barsoom." "In the name of my first ancestor, then," she continued, "where may you be from? You are like unto my people, and yet so unlike. You speak my language, and yet I heard you tell Tars Tarkas that you had but learned it recently. All Barsoomians speak the same tongue from the ice-clad south to the ice-clad north, though their written languages differ. Only in the valley Dor, where the river Iss empties into the lost sea of Korus, is there supposed to be a different language spoken, and, except in the legends of our ancestors, there is no record of a Barsoomian returning up the river Iss, from the shores of Korus in the valley of Dor. Do not tell me that you have thus returned! They would kill you horribly anywhere upon the surface of Barsoom if that were true; tell me it is not!" Her eyes were filled with a strange, weird light; her voice was pleading, and her little hands, reached up upon my breast, were pressed against me as though to wring a denial from my very heart. "I do not know your customs, Dejah Thoris, but in my own Virginia a gentleman does not lie to save himself; I am not of Dor; I have never seen the mysterious Iss; the lost sea of Korus is still lost, so far as I am concerned. Do you believe me?" And then it struck me suddenly that I was very anxious that she should believe me. It was not that I feared the results which would follow a general belief that I had returned from the Barsoomian heaven or hell, or whatever it was. Why was it, then! Why should I care what she thought? I looked down at her; her beautiful face upturned, and her wonderful eyes opening up the very depth of her soul; and as my eyes met hers I knew why, and—I shuddered. A similar wave of feeling seemed to stir her; she drew away from me with a sigh, and with her earnest, beautiful face turned up to mine, she whispered: "I believe you, John Carter; I do not know what a 'gentleman' is, nor have I ever heard before of Virginia; but on Barsoom no man lies; if he does not wish to speak the truth he is silent. Where is this Virginia, your country, John Carter?" she asked, and it seemed that this fair name of my fair land had never sounded more beautiful than as it fell from those perfect lips on that far-gone day. "I am of another world," I answered, "the great planet Earth, which revolves about our common sun and next within the orbit of your Barsoom, which we know as Mars. How I came here I cannot tell you, for I do not know; but here I am, and since my presence has permitted me to serve Dejah Thoris I am glad that I am here." She gazed at me with troubled eyes, long and questioningly. That it was difficult to believe my statement I well knew, nor could I hope that she would do so however much I craved her confidence and respect. I would much rather not have told her anything of my antecedents, but no man could look into the depth of those eyes and refuse her slightest behest. Finally she smiled, and, rising, said: "I shall have to believe even though I cannot understand. I can readily perceive that you are not of the Barsoom of today; you are like us, yet different—but why should I trouble my poor head with such a problem, when my heart tells me that I believe because I wish to believe!" It was good logic, good, earthly, feminine logic, and if it satisfied her I certainly could pick no flaws in it. As a matter of fact it was about the only kind of logic that could be brought to bear upon my problem. We fell into a general conversation then, asking and answering many questions on each side. She was curious to learn of the customs of my people and displayed a remarkable knowledge of events on Earth. When I questioned her closely on this seeming familiarity with earthly things she laughed, and cried out: "Why, every school boy on Barsoom knows the geography, and much concerning the fauna and flora, as well as the history of your planet fully as well as of his own. Can we not see everything which takes place upon Earth, as you call it; is it not hanging there in the heavens in plain sight?" This baffled me, I must confess, fully as much as my statements had confounded her; and I told her so. She then explained in general the instruments her people had used and been perfecting for ages, which permit them to throw upon a screen a perfect image of what is transpiring upon any planet and upon many of the stars. These pictures are so perfect in detail that, when photographed and enlarged, objects no greater than a blade of grass may be distinctly recognized. I afterward, in Helium, saw many of these pictures, as well as the instruments which produced them. "If, then, you are so familiar with earthly things," I asked, "why is it that you do not recognize me as identical with the inhabitants of that planet?" She smiled again as one might in bored indulgence of a questioning child. "Because, John Carter," she replied, "nearly every planet and star having atmospheric conditions at all approaching those of Barsoom, shows forms of animal life almost identical with you and me; and, further, Earth men, almost without exception, cover their bodies with strange, unsightly pieces of cloth, and their heads with hideous contraptions the purpose of which we have been unable to conceive; while you, when found by the Tharkian warriors, were entirely undisfigured and unadorned. "The fact that you wore no ornaments is a strong proof of your un-Barsoomian origin, while the absence of grotesque coverings might cause a doubt as to your earthliness." I then narrated the details of my departure from the Earth, explaining that my body there lay fully clothed in all the, to her, strange garments of mundane dwellers. At this point Sola returned with our meager belongings and her young Martian protege, who, of course, would have to share the quarters with them. Sola asked us if we had had a visitor during her absence, and seemed much surprised when we answered in the negative. It seemed that as she had mounted the approach to the upper floors where our quarters were located, she had met Sarkoja descending. We decided that she must have been eavesdropping, but as we could recall nothing of importance that had passed between us we dismissed the matter as of little consequence, merely promising ourselves to be warned to the utmost caution in the future. Dejah Thoris and I then fell to examining the architecture and decorations of the beautiful chambers of the building we were occupying. She told me that these people had presumably flourished over a hundred thousand years before. They were the early progenitors of her race, but had mixed with the other great race of early Martians, who were very dark, almost black, and also with the reddish yellow race which had flourished at the same time. These three great divisions of the higher Martians had been forced into a mighty alliance as the drying up of the Martian seas had compelled them to seek the comparatively few and always diminishing fertile areas, and to defend themselves, under new conditions of life, against the wild hordes of green men. Ages of close relationship and intermarrying had resulted in the race of red men, of which Dejah Thoris was a fair and beautiful daughter. During the ages of hardships and incessant warring between their own various races, as well as with the green men, and before they had fitted themselves to the changed conditions, much of the high civilization and many of the arts of the fair-haired Martians had become lost; but the red race of today has reached a point where it feels that it has made up in new discoveries and in a more practical civilization for all that lies irretrievably buried with the ancient Barsoomians, beneath the countless intervening ages. These ancient Martians had been a highly cultivated and literary race, but during the vicissitudes of those trying centuries of readjustment to new conditions, not only did their advancement and production cease entirely, but practically all their archives, records, and literature were lost. Dejah Thoris related many interesting facts and legends concerning this lost race of noble and kindly people. She said that the city in which we were camping was supposed to have been a center of commerce and culture known as Korad. It had been built upon a beautiful, natural harbor, landlocked by magnificent hills. The little valley on the west front of the city, she explained, was all that remained of the harbor, while the pass through the hills to the old sea bottom had been the channel through which the shipping passed up to the city's gates. The shores of the ancient seas were dotted with just such cities, and lesser ones, in diminishing numbers, were to be found converging toward the center of the oceans, as the people had found it necessary to follow the receding waters until necessity had forced upon them their ultimate salvation, the so-called Martian canals. We had been so engrossed in exploration of the building and in our conversation that it was late in the afternoon before we realized it. We were brought back to a realization of our present conditions by a messenger bearing a summons from Lorquas Ptomel directing me to appear before him forthwith. Bidding Dejah Thoris and Sola farewell, and commanding Woola to remain on guard, I hastened to the audience chamber, where I found Lorquas Ptomel and Tars Tarkas seated upon the rostrum. CHAPTER XII A PRISONER WITH POWER As I entered and saluted, Lorquas Ptomel signaled me to advance, and, fixing his great, hideous eyes upon me, addressed me thus: "You have been with us a few days, yet during that time you have by your prowess won a high position among us. Be that as it may, you are not one of us; you owe us no allegiance. "Your position is a peculiar one," he continued; "you are a prisoner and yet you give commands which must be obeyed; you are an alien and yet you are a Tharkian chieftain; you are a midget and yet you can kill a mighty warrior with one blow of your fist. And now you are reported to have been plotting to escape with another prisoner of another race; a prisoner who, from her own admission, half believes you are returned from the valley of Dor. Either one of these accusations, if proved, would be sufficient grounds for your execution, but we are a just people and you shall have a trial on our return to Thark, if Tal Hajus so commands. "But," he continued, in his fierce guttural tones, "if you run off with the red girl it is I who shall have to account to Tal Hajus; it is I who shall have to face Tars Tarkas, and either demonstrate my right to command, or the metal from my dead carcass will go to a better man, for such is the custom of the Tharks. "I have no quarrel with Tars Tarkas; together we rule supreme the greatest of the lesser communities among the green men; we do not wish to fight between ourselves; and so if you were dead, John Carter, I should be glad. Under two conditions only, however, may you be killed by us without orders from Tal Hajus; in personal combat in self-defense, should you attack one of us, or were you apprehended in an attempt to escape. "As a matter of justice I must warn you that we only await one of these two excuses for ridding ourselves of so great a responsibility. The safe delivery of the red girl to Tal Hajus is of the greatest importance. Not in a thousand years have the Tharks made such a capture; she is the granddaughter of the greatest of the red jeddaks, who is also our bitterest enemy. I have spoken. The red girl told us that we were without the softer sentiments of humanity, but we are a just and truthful race. You may go." Turning, I left the audience chamber. So this was the beginning of Sarkoja's persecution! I knew that none other could be responsible for this report which had reached the ears of Lorquas Ptomel so quickly, and now I recalled those portions of our conversation which had touched upon escape and upon my origin. Sarkoja was at this time Tars Tarkas' oldest and most trusted female. As such she was a mighty power behind the throne, for no warrior had the confidence of Lorquas Ptomel to such an extent as did his ablest lieutenant, Tars Tarkas. However, instead of putting thoughts of possible escape from my mind, my audience with Lorquas Ptomel only served to center my every faculty on this subject. Now, more than before, the absolute necessity for escape, in so far as Dejah Thoris was concerned, was impressed upon me, for I was convinced that some horrible fate awaited her at the headquarters of Tal Hajus. As described by Sola, this monster was the exaggerated personification of all the ages of cruelty, ferocity, and brutality from which he had descended. Cold, cunning, calculating; he was, also, in marked contrast to most of his fellows, a slave to that brute passion which the waning demands for procreation upon their dying planet has almost stilled in the Martian breast. The thought that the divine Dejah Thoris might fall into the clutches of such an abysmal atavism started the cold sweat upon me. Far better that we save friendly bullets for ourselves at the last moment, as did those brave frontier women of my lost land, who took their own lives rather than fall into the hands of the Indian braves. As I wandered about the plaza lost in my gloomy forebodings Tars Tarkas approached me on his way from the audience chamber. His demeanor toward me was unchanged, and he greeted me as though we had not just parted a few moments before. "Where are your quarters, John Carter?" he asked. "I have selected none," I replied. "It seemed best that I quartered either by myself or among the other warriors, and I was awaiting an opportunity to ask your advice. As you know," and I smiled, "I am not yet familiar with all the customs of the Tharks." "Come with me," he directed, and together we moved off across the plaza to a building which I was glad to see adjoined that occupied by Sola and her charges. "My quarters are on the first floor of this building," he said, "and the second floor also is fully occupied by warriors, but the third floor and the floors above are vacant; you may take your choice of these. "I understand," he continued, "that you have given up your woman to the red prisoner. Well, as you have said, your ways are not our ways, but you can fight well enough to do about as you please, and so, if you wish to give your woman to a captive, it is your own affair; but as a chieftain you should have those to serve you, and in accordance with our customs you may select any or all the females from the retinues of the chieftains whose metal you now wear." I thanked him, but assured him that I could get along very nicely without assistance except in the matter of preparing food, and so he promised to send women to me for this purpose and also for the care of my arms and the manufacture of my ammunition, which he said would be necessary. I suggested that they might also bring some of the sleeping silks and furs which belonged to me as spoils of combat, for the nights were cold and I had none of my own. He promised to do so, and departed. Left alone, I ascended the winding corridor to the upper floors in search of suitable quarters. The beauties of the other buildings were repeated in this, and, as usual, I was soon lost in a tour of investigation and discovery. I finally chose a front room on the third floor, because this brought me nearer to Dejah Thoris, whose apartment was on the second floor of the adjoining building, and it flashed upon me that I could rig up some means of communication whereby she might signal me in case she needed either my services or my protection. Adjoining my sleeping apartment were baths, dressing rooms, and other sleeping and living apartments, in all some ten rooms on this floor. The windows of the back rooms overlooked an enormous court, which formed the center of the square made by the buildings which faced the four contiguous streets, and which was now given over to the quartering of the various animals belonging to the warriors occupying the adjoining buildings. While the court was entirely overgrown with the yellow, moss-like vegetation which blankets practically the entire surface of Mars, yet numerous fountains, statuary, benches, and pergola-like contraptions bore witness to the beauty which the court must have presented in bygone times, when graced by the fair-haired, laughing people whom stern and unalterable cosmic laws had driven not only from their homes, but from all except the vague legends of their descendants. One could easily picture the gorgeous foliage of the luxuriant Martian vegetation which once filled this scene with life and color; the graceful figures of the beautiful women, the straight and handsome men; the happy frolicking children—all sunlight, happiness and peace. It was difficult to realize that they had gone; down through ages of darkness, cruelty, and ignorance, until their hereditary instincts of culture and humanitarianism had risen ascendant once more in the final composite race which now is dominant upon Mars. My thoughts were cut short by the advent of several young females bearing loads of weapons, silks, furs, jewels, cooking utensils, and casks of food and drink, including considerable loot from the air craft. All this, it seemed, had been the property of the two chieftains I had slain, and now, by the customs of the Tharks, it had become mine. At my direction they placed the stuff in one of the back rooms, and then departed, only to return with a second load, which they advised me constituted the balance of my goods. On the second trip they were accompanied by ten or fifteen other women and youths, who, it seemed, formed the retinues of the two chieftains. They were not their families, nor their wives, nor their servants; the relationship was peculiar, and so unlike anything known to us that it is most difficult to describe. All property among the green Martians is owned in common by the community, except the personal weapons, ornaments and sleeping silks and furs of the individuals. These alone can one claim undisputed right to, nor may he accumulate more of these than are required for his actual needs. The surplus he holds merely as custodian, and it is passed on to the younger members of the community as necessity demands. The women and children of a man's retinue may be likened to a military unit for which he is responsible in various ways, as in matters of instruction, discipline, sustenance, and the exigencies of their continual roamings and their unending strife with other communities and with the red Martians. His women are in no sense wives. The green Martians use no word corresponding in meaning with this earthly word. Their mating is a matter of community interest solely, and is directed without reference to natural selection. The council of chieftains of each community control the matter as surely as the owner of a Kentucky racing stud directs the scientific breeding of his stock for the improvement of the whole. In theory it may sound well, as is often the case with theories, but the results of ages of this unnatural practice, coupled with the community interest in the offspring being held paramount to that of the mother, is shown in the cold, cruel creatures, and their gloomy, loveless, mirthless existence. It is true that the green Martians are absolutely virtuous, both men and women, with the exception of such degenerates as Tal Hajus; but better far a finer balance of human characteristics even at the expense of a slight and occasional loss of chastity. Finding that I must assume responsibility for these creatures, whether I would or not, I made the best of it and directed them to find quarters on the upper floors, leaving the third floor to me. One of the girls I charged with the duties of my simple cuisine, and directed the others to take up the various activities which had formerly constituted their vocations. Thereafter I saw little of them, nor did I care to. CHAPTER XIII LOVE-MAKING ON MARS Following the battle with the air ships, the community remained within the city for several days, abandoning the homeward march until they could feel reasonably assured that the ships would not return; for to be caught on the open plains with a cavalcade of chariots and children was far from the desire of even so warlike a people as the green Martians. During our period of inactivity, Tars Tarkas had instructed me in many of the customs and arts of war familiar to the Tharks, including lessons in riding and guiding the great beasts which bore the warriors. These creatures, which are known as thoats, are as dangerous and vicious as their masters, but when once subdued are sufficiently tractable for the purposes of the green Martians. Two of these animals had fallen to me from the warriors whose metal I wore, and in a short time I could handle them quite as well as the native warriors. The method was not at all complicated. If the thoats did not respond with sufficient celerity to the telepathic instructions of their riders they were dealt a terrific blow between the ears with the butt of a pistol, and if they showed fight this treatment was continued until the brutes either were subdued, or had unseated their riders. In the latter case it became a life and death struggle between the man and the beast. If the former were quick enough with his pistol he might live to ride again, though upon some other beast; if not, his torn and mangled body was gathered up by his women and burned in accordance with Tharkian custom. My experience with Woola determined me to attempt the experiment of kindness in my treatment of my thoats. First I taught them that they could not unseat me, and even rapped them sharply between the ears to impress upon them my authority and mastery. Then, by degrees, I won their confidence in much the same manner as I had adopted countless times with my many mundane mounts. I was ever a good hand with animals, and by inclination, as well as because it brought more lasting and satisfactory results, I was always kind and humane in my dealings with the lower orders. I could take a human life, if necessary, with far less compunction than that of a poor, unreasoning, irresponsible brute. In the course of a few days my thoats were the wonder of the entire community. They would follow me like dogs, rubbing their great snouts against my body in awkward evidence of affection, and respond to my every command with an alacrity and docility which caused the Martian warriors to ascribe to me the possession of some earthly power unknown on Mars. "How have you bewitched them?" asked Tars Tarkas one afternoon, when he had seen me run my arm far between the great jaws of one of my thoats which had wedged a piece of stone between two of his teeth while feeding upon the moss-like vegetation within our court yard. "By kindness," I replied. "You see, Tars Tarkas, the softer sentiments have their value, even to a warrior. In the height of battle as well as upon the march I know that my thoats will obey my every command, and therefore my fighting efficiency is enhanced, and I am a better warrior for the reason that I am a kind master. Your other warriors would find it to the advantage of themselves as well as of the community to adopt my methods in this respect. Only a few days since you, yourself, told me that these great brutes, by the uncertainty of their tempers, often were the means of turning victory into defeat, since, at a crucial moment, they might elect to unseat and rend their riders." "Show me how you accomplish these results," was Tars Tarkas' only rejoinder. And so I explained as carefully as I could the entire method of training I had adopted with my beasts, and later he had me repeat it before Lorquas Ptomel and the assembled warriors. That moment marked the beginning of a new existence for the poor thoats, and before I left the community of Lorquas Ptomel I had the satisfaction of observing a regiment of as tractable and docile mounts as one might care to see. The effect on the precision and celerity of the military movements was so remarkable that Lorquas Ptomel presented me with a massive anklet of gold from his own leg, as a sign of his appreciation of my service to the horde. On the seventh day following the battle with the air craft we again took up the march toward Thark, all probability of another attack being deemed remote by Lorquas Ptomel. During the days just preceding our departure I had seen but little of Dejah Thoris, as I had been kept very busy by Tars Tarkas with my lessons in the art of Martian warfare, as well as in the training of my thoats. The few times I had visited her quarters she had been absent, walking upon the streets with Sola, or investigating the buildings in the near vicinity of the plaza. I had warned them against venturing far from the plaza for fear of the great white apes, whose ferocity I was only too well acquainted with. However, since Woola accompanied them on all their excursions, and as Sola was well armed, there was comparatively little cause for fear. On the evening before our departure I saw them approaching along one of the great avenues which lead into the plaza from the east. I advanced to meet them, and telling Sola that I would take the responsibility for Dejah Thoris' safekeeping, I directed her to return to her quarters on some trivial errand. I liked and trusted Sola, but for some reason I desired to be alone with Dejah Thoris, who represented to me all that I had left behind upon Earth in agreeable and congenial companionship. There seemed bonds of mutual interest between us as powerful as though we had been born under the same roof rather than upon different planets, hurtling through space some forty-eight million miles apart. That she shared my sentiments in this respect I was positive, for on my approach the look of pitiful hopelessness left her sweet countenance to be replaced by a smile of joyful welcome, as she placed her little right hand upon my left shoulder in true red Martian salute. "Sarkoja told Sola that you had become a true Thark," she said, "and that I would now see no more of you than of any of the other warriors." "Sarkoja is a liar of the first magnitude," I replied, "notwithstanding the proud claim of the Tharks to absolute verity." Dejah Thoris laughed. "I knew that even though you became a member of the community you would not cease to be my friend; 'A warrior may change his metal, but not his heart,' as the saying is upon Barsoom." "I think they have been trying to keep us apart," she continued, "for whenever you have been off duty one of the older women of Tars Tarkas' retinue has always arranged to trump up some excuse to get Sola and me out of sight. They have had me down in the pits below the buildings helping them mix their awful radium powder, and make their terrible projectiles. You know that these have to be manufactured by artificial light, as exposure to sunlight always results in an explosion. You have noticed that their bullets explode when they strike an object? Well, the opaque, outer coating is broken by the impact, exposing a glass cylinder, almost solid, in the forward end of which is a minute particle of radium powder. The moment the sunlight, even though diffused, strikes this powder it explodes with a violence which nothing can withstand. If you ever witness a night battle you will note the absence of these explosions, while the morning following the battle will be filled at sunrise with the sharp detonations of exploding missiles fired the preceding night. As a rule, however, non-exploding projectiles are used at night." [I have used the word radium in describing this powder because in the light of recent discoveries on Earth I believe it to be a mixture of which radium is the base. In Captain Carter's manuscript it is mentioned always by the name used in the written language of Helium and is spelled in hieroglyphics which it would be difficult and useless to reproduce.] While I was much interested in Dejah Thoris' explanation of this wonderful adjunct to Martian warfare, I was more concerned by the immediate problem of their treatment of her. That they were keeping her away from me was not a matter for surprise, but that they should subject her to dangerous and arduous labor filled me with rage. "Have they ever subjected you to cruelty and ignominy, Dejah Thoris?" I asked, feeling the hot blood of my fighting ancestors leap in my veins as I awaited her reply. "Only in little ways, John Carter," she answered. "Nothing that can harm me outside my pride. They know that I am the daughter of ten thousand jeddaks, that I trace my ancestry straight back without a break to the builder of the first great waterway, and they, who do not even know their own mothers, are jealous of me. At heart they hate their horrid fates, and so wreak their poor spite on me who stand for everything they have not, and for all they most crave and never can attain. Let us pity them, my chieftain, for even though we die at their hands we can afford them pity, since we are greater than they and they know it." Had I known the significance of those words "my chieftain," as applied by a red Martian woman to a man, I should have had the surprise of my life, but I did not know at that time, nor for many months thereafter. Yes, I still had much to learn upon Barsoom. "I presume it is the better part of wisdom that we bow to our fate with as good grace as possible, Dejah Thoris; but I hope, nevertheless, that I may be present the next time that any Martian, green, red, pink, or violet, has the temerity to even so much as frown on you, my princess." Dejah Thoris caught her breath at my last words, and gazed upon me with dilated eyes and quickening breath, and then, with an odd little laugh, which brought roguish dimples to the corners of her mouth, she shook her head and cried: "What a child! A great warrior and yet a stumbling little child." "What have I done now?" I asked, in sore perplexity. "Some day you shall know, John Carter, if we live; but I may not tell you. And I, the daughter of Mors Kajak, son of Tardos Mors, have listened without anger," she soliloquized in conclusion. Then she broke out again into one of her gay, happy, laughing moods; joking with me on my prowess as a Thark warrior as contrasted with my soft heart and natural kindliness. "I presume that should you accidentally wound an enemy you would take him home and nurse him back to health," she laughed. "That is precisely what we do on Earth," I answered. "At least among civilized men." This made her laugh again. She could not understand it, for, with all her tenderness and womanly sweetness, she was still a Martian, and to a Martian the only good enemy is a dead enemy; for every dead foeman means so much more to divide between those who live. I was very curious to know what I had said or done to cause her so much perturbation a moment before and so I continued to importune her to enlighten me. "No," she exclaimed, "it is enough that you have said it and that I have listened. And when you learn, John Carter, and if I be dead, as likely I shall be ere the further moon has circled Barsoom another twelve times, remember that I listened and that I—smiled." It was all Greek to me, but the more I begged her to explain the more positive became her denials of my request, and, so, in very hopelessness, I desisted. Day had now given away to night and as we wandered along the great avenue lighted by the two moons of Barsoom, and with Earth looking down upon us out of her luminous green eye, it seemed that we were alone in the universe, and I, at least, was content that it should be so. The chill of the Martian night was upon us, and removing my silks I threw them across the shoulders of Dejah Thoris. As my arm rested for an instant upon her I felt a thrill pass through every fiber of my being such as contact with no other mortal had even produced; and it seemed to me that she had leaned slightly toward me, but of that I was not sure. Only I knew that as my arm rested there across her shoulders longer than the act of adjusting the silk required she did not draw away, nor did she speak. And so, in silence, we walked the surface of a dying world, but in the breast of one of us at least had been born that which is ever oldest, yet ever new. I loved Dejah Thoris. The touch of my arm upon her naked shoulder had spoken to me in words I would not mistake, and I knew that I had loved her since the first moment that my eyes had met hers that first time in the plaza of the dead city of Korad. CHAPTER XIV A DUEL TO THE DEATH My first impulse was to tell her of my love, and then I thought of the helplessness of her position wherein I alone could lighten the burdens of her captivity, and protect her in my poor way against the thousands of hereditary enemies she must face upon our arrival at Thark. I could not chance causing her additional pain or sorrow by declaring a love which, in all probability she did not return. Should I be so indiscreet, her position would be even more unbearable than now, and the thought that she might feel that I was taking advantage of her helplessness, to influence her decision was the final argument which sealed my lips. "Why are you so quiet, Dejah Thoris?" I asked. "Possibly you would rather return to Sola and your quarters." "No," she murmured, "I am happy here. I do not know why it is that I should always be happy and contented when you, John Carter, a stranger, are with me; yet at such times it seems that I am safe and that, with you, I shall soon return to my father's court and feel his strong arms about me and my mother's tears and kisses on my cheek." "Do people kiss, then, upon Barsoom?" I asked, when she had explained the word she used, in answer to my inquiry as to its meaning. "Parents, brothers, and sisters, yes; and," she added in a low, thoughtful tone, "lovers." "And you, Dejah Thoris, have parents and brothers and sisters?" "Yes." "And a—lover?" She was silent, nor could I venture to repeat the question. "The man of Barsoom," she finally ventured, "does not ask personal questions of women, except his mother, and the woman he has fought for and won." "But I have fought—" I started, and then I wished my tongue had been cut from my mouth; for she turned even as I caught myself and ceased, and drawing my silks from her shoulder she held them out to me, and without a word, and with head held high, she moved with the carriage of the queen she was toward the plaza and the doorway of her quarters. I did not attempt to follow her, other than to see that she reached the building in safety, but, directing Woola to accompany her, I turned disconsolately and entered my own house. I sat for hours cross-legged, and cross-tempered, upon my silks meditating upon the queer freaks chance plays upon us poor devils of mortals. So this was love! I had escaped it for all the years I had roamed the five continents and their encircling seas; in spite of beautiful women and urging opportunity; in spite of a half-desire for love and a constant search for my ideal, it had remained for me to fall furiously and hopelessly in love with a creature from another world, of a species similar possibly, yet not identical with mine. A woman who was hatched from an egg, and whose span of life might cover a thousand years; whose people had strange customs and ideas; a woman whose hopes, whose pleasures, whose standards of virtue and of right and wrong might vary as greatly from mine as did those of the green Martians. Yes, I was a fool, but I was in love, and though I was suffering the greatest misery I had ever known I would not have had it otherwise for all the riches of Barsoom. Such is love, and such are lovers wherever love is known. To me, Dejah Thoris was all that was perfect; all that was virtuous and beautiful and noble and good. I believed that from the bottom of my heart, from the depth of my soul on that night in Korad as I sat cross-legged upon my silks while the nearer moon of Barsoom raced through the western sky toward the horizon, and lighted up the gold and marble, and jeweled mosaics of my world-old chamber, and I believe it today as I sit at my desk in the little study overlooking the Hudson. Twenty years have intervened; for ten of them I lived and fought for Dejah Thoris and her people, and for ten I have lived upon her memory. The morning of our departure for Thark dawned clear and hot, as do all Martian mornings except for the six weeks when the snow melts at the poles. I sought out Dejah Thoris in the throng of departing chariots, but she turned her shoulder to me, and I could see the red blood mount to her cheek. With the foolish inconsistency of love I held my peace when I might have pled ignorance of the nature of my offense, or at least the gravity of it, and so have effected, at worst, a half conciliation. I sought out Dejah Thoris in the throng of departing chariots. I sought out Dejah Thoris in the throng of departing chariots. My duty dictated that I must see that she was comfortable, and so I glanced into her chariot and rearranged her silks and furs. In doing so I noted with horror that she was heavily chained by one ankle to the side of the vehicle. "What does this mean?" I cried, turning to Sola. "Sarkoja thought it best," she answered, her face betokening her disapproval of the procedure. Examining the manacles I saw that they fastened with a massive spring lock. "Where is the key, Sola? Let me have it." "Sarkoja wears it, John Carter," she answered. I turned without further word and sought out Tars Tarkas, to whom I vehemently objected to the unnecessary humiliations and cruelties, as they seemed to my lover's eyes, that were being heaped upon Dejah Thoris. "John Carter," he answered, "if ever you and Dejah Thoris escape the Tharks it will be upon this journey. We know that you will not go without her. You have shown yourself a mighty fighter, and we do not wish to manacle you, so we hold you both in the easiest way that will yet ensure security. I have spoken." I saw the strength of his reasoning at a flash, and knew that it was futile to appeal from his decision, but I asked that the key be taken from Sarkoja and that she be directed to leave the prisoner alone in future. "This much, Tars Tarkas, you may do for me in return for the friendship that, I must confess, I feel for you." "Friendship?" he replied. "There is no such thing, John Carter; but have your will. I shall direct that Sarkoja cease to annoy the girl, and I myself will take the custody of the key." "Unless you wish me to assume the responsibility," I said, smiling. He looked at me long and earnestly before he spoke. "Were you to give me your word that neither you nor Dejah Thoris would attempt to escape until after we have safely reached the court of Tal Hajus you might have the key and throw the chains into the river Iss." "It were better that you held the key, Tars Tarkas," I replied He smiled, and said no more, but that night as we were making camp I saw him unfasten Dejah Thoris' fetters himself. With all his cruel ferocity and coldness there was an undercurrent of something in Tars Tarkas which he seemed ever battling to subdue. Could it be a vestige of some human instinct come back from an ancient forbear to haunt him with the horror of his people's ways! As I was approaching Dejah Thoris' chariot I passed Sarkoja, and the black, venomous look she accorded me was the sweetest balm I had felt for many hours. Lord, how she hated me! It bristled from her so palpably that one might almost have cut it with a sword. A few moments later I saw her deep in conversation with a warrior named Zad; a big, hulking, powerful brute, but one who had never made a kill among his own chieftains, and so was still an o mad, or man with one name; he could win a second name only with the metal of some chieftain. It was this custom which entitled me to the names of either of the chieftains I had killed; in fact, some of the warriors addressed me as Dotar Sojat, a combination of the surnames of the two warrior chieftains whose metal I had taken, or, in other words, whom I had slain in fair fight. As Sarkoja talked with Zad he cast occasional glances in my direction, while she seemed to be urging him very strongly to some action. I paid little attention to it at the time, but the next day I had good reason to recall the circumstances, and at the same time gain a slight insight into the depths of Sarkoja's hatred and the lengths to which she was capable of going to wreak her horrid vengeance on me. Dejah Thoris would have none of me again on this evening, and though I spoke her name she neither replied, nor conceded by so much as the flutter of an eyelid that she realized my existence. In my extremity I did what most other lovers would have done; I sought word from her through an intimate. In this instance it was Sola whom I intercepted in another part of camp. "What is the matter with Dejah Thoris?" I blurted out at her. "Why will she not speak to me?" Sola seemed puzzled herself, as though such strange actions on the part of two humans were quite beyond her, as indeed they were, poor child. "She says you have angered her, and that is all she will say, except that she is the daughter of a jed and the granddaughter of a jeddak and she has been humiliated by a creature who could not polish the teeth of her grandmother's sorak." I pondered over this report for some time, finally asking, "What might a sorak be, Sola?" "A little animal about as big as my hand, which the red Martian women keep to play with," explained Sola. Not fit to polish the teeth of her grandmother's cat! I must rank pretty low in the consideration of Dejah Thoris, I thought; but I could not help laughing at the strange figure of speech, so homely and in this respect so earthly. It made me homesick, for it sounded very much like "not fit to polish her shoes." And then commenced a train of thought quite new to me. I began to wonder what my people at home were doing. I had not seen them for years. There was a family of Carters in Virginia who claimed close relationship with me; I was supposed to be a great uncle, or something of the kind equally foolish. I could pass anywhere for twenty-five to thirty years of age, and to be a great uncle always seemed the height of incongruity, for my thoughts and feelings were those of a boy. There were two little kiddies in the Carter family whom I had loved and who had thought there was no one on Earth like Uncle Jack; I could see them just as plainly, as I stood there under the moonlit skies of Barsoom, and I longed for them as I had never longed for any mortals before. By nature a wanderer, I had never known the true meaning of the word home, but the great hall of the Carters had always stood for all that the word did mean to me, and now my heart turned toward it from the cold and unfriendly peoples I had been thrown amongst. For did not even Dejah Thoris despise me! I was a low creature, so low in fact that I was not even fit to polish the teeth of her grandmother's cat; and then my saving sense of humor came to my rescue, and laughing I turned into my silks and furs and slept upon the moon-haunted ground the sleep of a tired and healthy fighting man. We broke camp the next day at an early hour and marched with only a single halt until just before dark. Two incidents broke the tediousness of the march. About noon we espied far to our right what was evidently an incubator, and Lorquas Ptomel directed Tars Tarkas to investigate it. The latter took a dozen warriors, including myself, and we raced across the velvety carpeting of moss to the little enclosure. It was indeed an incubator, but the eggs were very small in comparison with those I had seen hatching in ours at the time of my arrival on Mars. Tars Tarkas dismounted and examined the enclosure minutely, finally announcing that it belonged to the green men of Warhoon and that the cement was scarcely dry where it had been walled up. "They cannot be a day's march ahead of us," he exclaimed, the light of battle leaping to his fierce face. The work at the incubator was short indeed. The warriors tore open the entrance and a couple of them, crawling in, soon demolished all the eggs with their short-swords. Then remounting we dashed back to join the cavalcade. During the ride I took occasion to ask Tars Tarkas if these Warhoons whose eggs we had destroyed were a smaller people than his Tharks. "I noticed that their eggs were so much smaller than those I saw hatching in your incubator," I added. He explained that the eggs had just been placed there; but, like all green Martian eggs, they would grow during the five-year period of incubation until they obtained the size of those I had seen hatching on the day of my arrival on Barsoom. This was indeed an interesting piece of information, for it had always seemed remarkable to me that the green Martian women, large as they were, could bring forth such enormous eggs as I had seen the four-foot infants emerging from. As a matter of fact, the new-laid egg is but little larger than an ordinary goose egg, and as it does not commence to grow until subjected to the light of the sun the chieftains have little difficulty in transporting several hundreds of them at one time from the storage vaults to the incubators. Shortly after the incident of the Warhoon eggs we halted to rest the animals, and it was during this halt that the second of the day's interesting episodes occurred. I was engaged in changing my riding cloths from one of my thoats to the other, for I divided the day's work between them, when Zad approached me, and without a word struck my animal a terrific blow with his long-sword. I did not need a manual of green Martian etiquette to know what reply to make, for, in fact, I was so wild with anger that I could scarcely refrain from drawing my pistol and shooting him down for the brute he was; but he stood waiting with drawn long-sword, and my only choice was to draw my own and meet him in fair fight with his choice of weapons or a lesser one. This latter alternative is always permissible, therefore I could have used my short-sword, my dagger, my hatchet, or my fists had I wished, and been entirely within my rights, but I could not use firearms or a spear while he held only his long-sword. I chose the same weapon he had drawn because I knew he prided himself upon his ability with it, and I wished, if I worsted him at all, to do it with his own weapon. The fight that followed was a long one and delayed the resumption of the march for an hour. The entire community surrounded us, leaving a clear space about one hundred feet in diameter for our battle. Zad first attempted to rush me down as a bull might a wolf, but I was much too quick for him, and each time I side-stepped his rushes he would go lunging past me, only to receive a nick from my sword upon his arm or back. He was soon streaming blood from a half dozen minor wounds, but I could not obtain an opening to deliver an effective thrust. Then he changed his tactics, and fighting warily and with extreme dexterity, he tried to do by science what he was unable to do by brute strength. I must admit that he was a magnificent swordsman, and had it not been for my greater endurance and the remarkable agility the lesser gravitation of Mars lent me I might not have been able to put up the creditable fight I did against him. We circled for some time without doing much damage on either side; the long, straight, needle-like swords flashing in the sunlight, and ringing out upon the stillness as they crashed together with each effective parry. Finally Zad, realizing that he was tiring more than I, evidently decided to close in and end the battle in a final blaze of glory for himself; just as he rushed me a blinding flash of light struck full in my eyes, so that I could not see his approach and could only leap blindly to one side in an effort to escape the mighty blade that it seemed I could already feel in my vitals. I was only partially successful, as a sharp pain in my left shoulder attested, but in the sweep of my glance as I sought to again locate my adversary, a sight met my astonished gaze which paid me well for the wound the temporary blindness had caused me. There, upon Dejah Thoris' chariot stood three figures, for the purpose evidently of witnessing the encounter above the heads of the intervening Tharks. There were Dejah Thoris, Sola, and Sarkoja, and as my fleeting glance swept over them a little tableau was presented which will stand graven in my memory to the day of my death. As I looked, Dejah Thoris turned upon Sarkoja with the fury of a young tigress and struck something from her upraised hand; something which flashed in the sunlight as it spun to the ground. Then I knew what had blinded me at that crucial moment of the fight, and how Sarkoja had found a way to kill me without herself delivering the final thrust. Another thing I saw, too, which almost lost my life for me then and there, for it took my mind for the fraction of an instant entirely from my antagonist; for, as Dejah Thoris struck the tiny mirror from her hand, Sarkoja, her face livid with hatred and baffled rage, whipped out her dagger and aimed a terrific blow at Dejah Thoris; and then Sola, our dear and faithful Sola, sprang between them; the last I saw was the great knife descending upon her shielding breast. My enemy had recovered from his thrust and was making it extremely interesting for me, so I reluctantly gave my attention to the work in hand, but my mind was not upon the battle. We rushed each other furiously time after time, 'til suddenly, feeling the sharp point of his sword at my breast in a thrust I could neither parry nor escape, I threw myself upon him with outstretched sword and with all the weight of my body, determined that I would not die alone if I could prevent it. I felt the steel tear into my chest, all went black before me, my head whirled in dizziness, and I felt my knees giving beneath me. CHAPTER XV SOLA TELLS ME HER STORY When consciousness returned, and, as I soon learned, I was down but a moment, I sprang quickly to my feet searching for my sword, and there I found it, buried to the hilt in the green breast of Zad, who lay stone dead upon the ochre moss of the ancient sea bottom. As I regained my full senses I found his weapon piercing my left breast, but only through the flesh and muscles which cover my ribs, entering near the center of my chest and coming out below the shoulder. As I had lunged I had turned so that his sword merely passed beneath the muscles, inflicting a painful but not dangerous wound. Removing the blade from my body I also regained my own, and turning my back upon his ugly carcass, I moved, sick, sore, and disgusted, toward the chariots which bore my retinue and my belongings. A murmur of Martian applause greeted me, but I cared not for it. Bleeding and weak I reached my women, who, accustomed to such happenings, dressed my wounds, applying the wonderful healing and remedial agents which make only the most instantaneous of death blows fatal. Give a Martian woman a chance and death must take a back seat. They soon had me patched up so that, except for weakness from loss of blood and a little soreness around the wound, I suffered no great distress from this thrust which, under earthly treatment, undoubtedly would have put me flat on my back for days. As soon as they were through with me I hastened to the chariot of Dejah Thoris, where I found my poor Sola with her chest swathed in bandages, but apparently little the worse for her encounter with Sarkoja, whose dagger it seemed had struck the edge of one of Sola's metal breast ornaments and, thus deflected, had inflicted but a slight flesh wound. As I approached I found Dejah Thoris lying prone upon her silks and furs, her lithe form wracked with sobs. She did not notice my presence, nor did she hear me speaking with Sola, who was standing a short distance from the vehicle. "Is she injured?" I asked of Sola, indicating Dejah Thoris by an inclination of my head. "No," she answered, "she thinks that you are dead." "And that her grandmother's cat may now have no one to polish its teeth?" I queried, smiling. "I think you wrong her, John Carter," said Sola. "I do not understand either her ways or yours, but I am sure the granddaughter of ten thousand jeddaks would never grieve like this over any who held but the highest claim upon her affections. They are a proud race, but they are just, as are all Barsoomians, and you must have hurt or wronged her grievously that she will not admit your existence living, though she mourns you dead. "Tears are a strange sight upon Barsoom," she continued, "and so it is difficult for me to interpret them. I have seen but two people weep in all my life, other than Dejah Thoris; one wept from sorrow, the other from baffled rage. The first was my mother, years ago before they killed her; the other was Sarkoja, when they dragged her from me today." "Your mother!" I exclaimed, "but, Sola, you could not have known your mother, child." "But I did. And my father also," she added. "If you would like to hear the strange and un-Barsoomian story come to the chariot tonight, John Carter, and I will tell you that of which I have never spoken in all my life before. And now the signal has been given to resume the march, you must go." "I will come tonight, Sola," I promised. "Be sure to tell Dejah Thoris I am alive and well. I shall not force myself upon her, and be sure that you do not let her know I saw her tears. If she would speak with me I but await her command." Sola mounted the chariot, which was swinging into its place in line, and I hastened to my waiting thoat and galloped to my station beside Tars Tarkas at the rear of the column. We made a most imposing and awe-inspiring spectacle as we strung out across the yellow landscape; the two hundred and fifty ornate and brightly colored chariots, preceded by an advance guard of some two hundred mounted warriors and chieftains riding five abreast and one hundred yards apart, and followed by a like number in the same formation, with a score or more of flankers on either side; the fifty extra mastodons, or heavy draught animals, known as zitidars, and the five or six hundred extra thoats of the warriors running loose within the hollow square formed by the surrounding warriors. The gleaming metal and jewels of the gorgeous ornaments of the men and women, duplicated in the trappings of the zitidars and thoats, and interspersed with the flashing colors of magnificent silks and furs and feathers, lent a barbaric splendor to the caravan which would have turned an East Indian potentate green with envy. The enormous broad tires of the chariots and the padded feet of the animals brought forth no sound from the moss-covered sea bottom; and so we moved in utter silence, like some huge phantasmagoria, except when the stillness was broken by the guttural growling of a goaded zitidar, or the squealing of fighting thoats. The green Martians converse but little, and then usually in monosyllables, low and like the faint rumbling of distant thunder. We traversed a trackless waste of moss which, bending to the pressure of broad tire or padded foot, rose up again behind us, leaving no sign that we had passed. We might indeed have been the wraiths of the departed dead upon the dead sea of that dying planet for all the sound or sign we made in passing. It was the first march of a large body of men and animals I had ever witnessed which raised no dust and left no spoor; for there is no dust upon Mars except in the cultivated districts during the winter months, and even then the absence of high winds renders it almost unnoticeable. We camped that night at the foot of the hills we had been approaching for two days and which marked the southern boundary of this particular sea. Our animals had been two days without drink, nor had they had water for nearly two months, not since shortly after leaving Thark; but, as Tars Tarkas explained to me, they require but little and can live almost indefinitely upon the moss which covers Barsoom, and which, he told me, holds in its tiny stems sufficient moisture to meet the limited demands of the animals. After partaking of my evening meal of cheese-like food and vegetable milk I sought out Sola, whom I found working by the light of a torch upon some of Tars Tarkas' trappings. She looked up at my approach, her face lighting with pleasure and with welcome. "I am glad you came," she said; "Dejah Thoris sleeps and I am lonely. Mine own people do not care for me, John Carter; I am too unlike them. It is a sad fate, since I must live my life amongst them, and I often wish that I were a true green Martian woman, without love and without hope; but I have known love and so I am lost. "I promised to tell you my story, or rather the story of my parents. From what I have learned of you and the ways of your people I am sure that the tale will not seem strange to you, but among green Martians it has no parallel within the memory of the oldest living Thark, nor do our legends hold many similar tales. "My mother was rather small, in fact too small to be allowed the responsibilities of maternity, as our chieftains breed principally for size. She was also less cold and cruel than most green Martian women, and caring little for their society, she often roamed the deserted avenues of Thark alone, or went and sat among the wild flowers that deck the nearby hills, thinking thoughts and wishing wishes which I believe I alone among Tharkian women today may understand, for am I not the child of my mother? "And there among the hills she met a young warrior, whose duty it was to guard the feeding zitidars and thoats and see that they roamed not beyond the hills. They spoke at first only of such things as interest a community of Tharks, but gradually, as they came to meet more often, and, as was now quite evident to both, no longer by chance, they talked about themselves, their likes, their ambitions and their hopes. She trusted him and told him of the awful repugnance she felt for the cruelties of their kind, for the hideous, loveless lives they must ever lead, and then she waited for the storm of denunciation to break from his cold, hard lips; but instead he took her in his arms and kissed her. "They kept their love a secret for six long years. She, my mother, was of the retinue of the great Tal Hajus, while her lover was a simple warrior, wearing only his own metal. Had their defection from the traditions of the Tharks been discovered both would have paid the penalty in the great arena before Tal Hajus and the assembled hordes. "The egg from which I came was hidden beneath a great glass vessel upon the highest and most inaccessible of the partially ruined towers of ancient Thark. Once each year my mother visited it for the five long years it lay there in the process of incubation. She dared not come oftener, for in the mighty guilt of her conscience she feared that her every move was watched. During this period my father gained great distinction as a warrior and had taken the metal from several chieftains. His love for my mother had never diminished, and his own ambition in life was to reach a point where he might wrest the metal from Tal Hajus himself, and thus, as ruler of the Tharks, be free to claim her as his own, as well as, by the might of his power, protect the child which otherwise would be quickly dispatched should the truth become known. "It was a wild dream, that of wresting the metal from Tal Hajus in five short years, but his advance was rapid, and he soon stood high in the councils of Thark. But one day the chance was lost forever, in so far as it could come in time to save his loved ones, for he was ordered away upon a long expedition to the ice-clad south, to make war upon the natives there and despoil them of their furs, for such is the manner of the green Barsoomian; he does not labor for what he can wrest in battle from others. "He was gone for four years, and when he returned all had been over for three; for about a year after his departure, and shortly before the time for the return of an expedition which had gone forth to fetch the fruits of a community incubator, the egg had hatched. Thereafter my mother continued to keep me in the old tower, visiting me nightly and lavishing upon me the love the community life would have robbed us both of. She hoped, upon the return of the expedition from the incubator, to mix me with the other young assigned to the quarters of Tal Hajus, and thus escape the fate which would surely follow discovery of her sin against the ancient traditions of the green men. "She taught me rapidly the language and customs of my kind, and one night she told me the story I have told to you up to this point, impressing upon me the necessity for absolute secrecy and the great caution I must exercise after she had placed me with the other young Tharks to permit no one to guess that I was further advanced in education than they, nor by any sign to divulge in the presence of others my affection for her, or my knowledge of my parentage; and then drawing me close to her she whispered in my ear the name of my father. "And then a light flashed out upon the darkness of the tower chamber, and there stood Sarkoja, her gleaming, baleful eyes fixed in a frenzy of loathing and contempt upon my mother. The torrent of hatred and abuse she poured out upon her turned my young heart cold in terror. That she had heard the entire story was apparent, and that she had suspected something wrong from my mother's long nightly absences from her quarters accounted for her presence there on that fateful night. "One thing she had not heard, nor did she know, the whispered name of my father. This was apparent from her repeated demands upon my mother to disclose the name of her partner in sin, but no amount of abuse or threats could wring this from her, and to save me from needless torture she lied, for she told Sarkoja that she alone knew nor would she ever tell her child. "With final imprecations, Sarkoja hastened away to Tal Hajus to report her discovery, and while she was gone my mother, wrapping me in the silks and furs of her night coverings, so that I was scarcely noticeable, descended to the streets and ran wildly away toward the outskirts of the city, in the direction which led to the far south, out toward the man whose protection she might not claim, but on whose face she wished to look once more before she died. "As we neared the city's southern extremity a sound came to us from across the mossy flat, from the direction of the only pass through the hills which led to the gates, the pass by which caravans from either north or south or east or west would enter the city. The sounds we heard were the squealing of thoats and the grumbling of zitidars, with the occasional clank of arms which announced the approach of a body of warriors. The thought uppermost in her mind was that it was my father returned from his expedition, but the cunning of the Thark held her from headlong and precipitate flight to greet him. "Retreating into the shadows of a doorway she awaited the coming of the cavalcade which shortly entered the avenue, breaking its formation and thronging the thoroughfare from wall to wall. As the head of the procession passed us the lesser moon swung clear of the overhanging roofs and lit up the scene with all the brilliancy of her wondrous light. My mother shrank further back into the friendly shadows, and from her hiding place saw that the expedition was not that of my father, but the returning caravan bearing the young Tharks. Instantly her plan was formed, and as a great chariot swung close to our hiding place she slipped stealthily in upon the trailing tailboard, crouching low in the shadow of the high side, straining me to her bosom in a frenzy of love. "She knew, what I did not, that never again after that night would she hold me to her breast, nor was it likely we would ever look upon each other's face again. In the confusion of the plaza she mixed me with the other children, whose guardians during the journey were now free to relinquish their responsibility. We were herded together into a great room, fed by women who had not accompanied the expedition, and the next day we were parceled out among the retinues of the chieftains. "I never saw my mother after that night. She was imprisoned by Tal Hajus, and every effort, including the most horrible and shameful torture, was brought to bear upon her to wring from her lips the name of my father; but she remained steadfast and loyal, dying at last amidst the laughter of Tal Hajus and his chieftains during some awful torture she was undergoing. "I learned afterwards that she told them that she had killed me to save me from a like fate at their hands, and that she had thrown my body to the white apes. Sarkoja alone disbelieved her, and I feel to this day that she suspects my true origin, but does not dare expose me, at the present, at all events, because she also guesses, I am sure, the identity of my father. "When he returned from his expedition and learned the story of my mother's fate I was present as Tal Hajus told him; but never by the quiver of a muscle did he betray the slightest emotion; only he did not laugh as Tal Hajus gleefully described her death struggles. From that moment on he was the cruelest of the cruel, and I am awaiting the day when he shall win the goal of his ambition, and feel the carcass of Tal Hajus beneath his foot, for I am as sure that he but waits the opportunity to wreak a terrible vengeance, and that his great love is as strong in his breast as when it first transfigured him nearly forty years ago, as I am that we sit here upon the edge of a world-old ocean while sensible people sleep, John Carter." "And your father, Sola, is he with us now?" I asked. "Yes," she replied, "but he does not know me for what I am, nor does he know who betrayed my mother to Tal Hajus. I alone know my father's name, and only I and Tal Hajus and Sarkoja know that it was she who carried the tale that brought death and torture upon her he loved." We sat silent for a few moments, she wrapped in the gloomy thoughts of her terrible past, and I in pity for the poor creatures whom the heartless, senseless customs of their race had doomed to loveless lives of cruelty and of hate. Presently she spoke. "John Carter, if ever a real man walked the cold, dead bosom of Barsoom you are one. I know that I can trust you, and because the knowledge may someday help you or him or Dejah Thoris or myself, I am going to tell you the name of my father, nor place any restrictions or conditions upon your tongue. When the time comes, speak the truth if it seems best to you. I trust you because I know that you are not cursed with the terrible trait of absolute and unswerving truthfulness, that you could lie like one of your own Virginia gentlemen if a lie would save others from sorrow or suffering. My father's name is Tars Tarkas." CHAPTER XVI WE PLAN ESCAPE The remainder of our journey to Thark was uneventful. We were twenty days upon the road, crossing two sea bottoms and passing through or around a number of ruined cities, mostly smaller than Korad. Twice we crossed the famous Martian waterways, or canals, so-called by our earthly astronomers. When we approached these points a warrior would be sent far ahead with a powerful field glass, and if no great body of red Martian troops was in sight we would advance as close as possible without chance of being seen and then camp until dark, when we would slowly approach the cultivated tract, and, locating one of the numerous, broad highways which cross these areas at regular intervals, creep silently and stealthily across to the arid lands upon the other side. It required five hours to make one of these crossings without a single halt, and the other consumed the entire night, so that we were just leaving the confines of the high-walled fields when the sun broke out upon us. Crossing in the darkness, as we did, I was unable to see but little, except as the nearer moon, in her wild and ceaseless hurtling through the Barsoomian heavens, lit up little patches of the landscape from time to time, disclosing walled fields and low, rambling buildings, presenting much the appearance of earthly farms. There were many trees, methodically arranged, and some of them were of enormous height; there were animals in some of the enclosures, and they announced their presence by terrified squealings and snortings as they scented our queer, wild beasts and wilder human beings. Only once did I perceive a human being, and that was at the intersection of our crossroad with the wide, white turnpike which cuts each cultivated district longitudinally at its exact center. The fellow must have been sleeping beside the road, for, as I came abreast of him, he raised upon one elbow and after a single glance at the approaching caravan leaped shrieking to his feet and fled madly down the road, scaling a nearby wall with the agility of a scared cat. The Tharks paid him not the slightest attention; they were not out upon the warpath, and the only sign that I had that they had seen him was a quickening of the pace of the caravan as we hastened toward the bordering desert which marked our entrance into the realm of Tal Hajus. Not once did I have speech with Dejah Thoris, as she sent no word to me that I would be welcome at her chariot, and my foolish pride kept me from making any advances. I verily believe that a man's way with women is in inverse ratio to his prowess among men. The weakling and the saphead have often great ability to charm the fair sex, while the fighting man who can face a thousand real dangers unafraid, sits hiding in the shadows like some frightened child. Just thirty days after my advent upon Barsoom we entered the ancient city of Thark, from whose long-forgotten people this horde of green men have stolen even their name. The hordes of Thark number some thirty thousand souls, and are divided into twenty-five communities. Each community has its own jed and lesser chieftains, but all are under the rule of Tal Hajus, Jeddak of Thark. Five communities make their headquarters at the city of Thark, and the balance are scattered among other deserted cities of ancient Mars throughout the district claimed by Tal Hajus. We made our entry into the great central plaza early in the afternoon. There were no enthusiastic friendly greetings for the returned expedition. Those who chanced to be in sight spoke the names of warriors or women with whom they came in direct contact, in the formal greeting of their kind, but when it was discovered that they brought two captives a greater interest was aroused, and Dejah Thoris and I were the centers of inquiring groups. We were soon assigned to new quarters, and the balance of the day was devoted to settling ourselves to the changed conditions. My home now was upon an avenue leading into the plaza from the south, the main artery down which we had marched from the gates of the city. I was at the far end of the square and had an entire building to myself. The same grandeur of architecture which was so noticeable a characteristic of Korad was in evidence here, only, if that were possible, on a larger and richer scale. My quarters would have been suitable for housing the greatest of earthly emperors, but to these queer creatures nothing about a building appealed to them but its size and the enormity of its chambers; the larger the building, the more desirable; and so Tal Hajus occupied what must have been an enormous public building, the largest in the city, but entirely unfitted for residence purposes; the next largest was reserved for Lorquas Ptomel, the next for the jed of a lesser rank, and so on to the bottom of the list of five jeds. The warriors occupied the buildings with the chieftains to whose retinues they belonged; or, if they preferred, sought shelter among any of the thousands of untenanted buildings in their own quarter of town; each community being assigned a certain section of the city. The selection of building had to be made in accordance with these divisions, except in so far as the jeds were concerned, they all occupying edifices which fronted upon the plaza. When I had finally put my house in order, or rather seen that it had been done, it was nearing sunset, and I hastened out with the intention of locating Sola and her charges, as I had determined upon having speech with Dejah Thoris and trying to impress on her the necessity of our at least patching up a truce until I could find some way of aiding her to escape. I searched in vain until the upper rim of the great red sun was just disappearing behind the horizon and then I spied the ugly head of Woola peering from a second-story window on the opposite side of the very street where I was quartered, but nearer the plaza. Without waiting for a further invitation I bolted up the winding runway which led to the second floor, and entering a great chamber at the front of the building was greeted by the frenzied Woola, who threw his great carcass upon me, nearly hurling me to the floor; the poor old fellow was so glad to see me that I thought he would devour me, his head split from ear to ear, showing his three rows of tusks in his hobgoblin smile. Quieting him with a word of command and a caress, I looked hurriedly through the approaching gloom for a sign of Dejah Thoris, and then, not seeing her, I called her name. There was an answering murmur from the far corner of the apartment, and with a couple of quick strides I was standing beside her where she crouched among the furs and silks upon an ancient carved wooden seat. As I waited she rose to her full height and looking me straight in the eye said: "What would Dotar Sojat, Thark, of Dejah Thoris his captive?" "Dejah Thoris, I do not know how I have angered you. It was furtherest from my desire to hurt or offend you, whom I had hoped to protect and comfort. Have none of me if it is your will, but that you must aid me in effecting your escape, if such a thing be possible, is not my request, but my command. When you are safe once more at your father's court you may do with me as you please, but from now on until that day I am your master, and you must obey and aid me." She looked at me long and earnestly and I thought that she was softening toward me. "I understand your words, Dotar Sojat," she replied, "but you I do not understand. You are a queer mixture of child and man, of brute and noble. I only wish that I might read your heart." "Look down at your feet, Dejah Thoris; it lies there now where it has lain since that other night at Korad, and where it will ever lie beating alone for you until death stills it forever." She took a little step toward me, her beautiful hands outstretched in a strange, groping gesture. "What do you mean, John Carter?" she whispered. "What are you saying to me?" "I am saying what I had promised myself that I would not say to you, at least until you were no longer a captive among the green men; what from your attitude toward me for the past twenty days I had thought never to say to you; I am saying, Dejah Thoris, that I am yours, body and soul, to serve you, to fight for you, and to die for you. Only one thing I ask of you in return, and that is that you make no sign, either of condemnation or of approbation of my words until you are safe among your own people, and that whatever sentiments you harbor toward me they be not influenced or colored by gratitude; whatever I may do to serve you will be prompted solely from selfish motives, since it gives me more pleasure to serve you than not." "I will respect your wishes, John Carter, because I understand the motives which prompt them, and I accept your service no more willingly than I bow to your authority; your word shall be my law. I have twice wronged you in my thoughts and again I ask your forgiveness." Further conversation of a personal nature was prevented by the entrance of Sola, who was much agitated and wholly unlike her usual calm and possessed self. "That horrible Sarkoja has been before Tal Hajus," she cried, "and from what I heard upon the plaza there is little hope for either of you." "What do they say?" inquired Dejah Thoris. "That you will be thrown to the wild calots [dogs] in the great arena as soon as the hordes have assembled for the yearly games." "Sola," I said, "you are a Thark, but you hate and loathe the customs of your people as much as we do. Will you not accompany us in one supreme effort to escape? I am sure that Dejah Thoris can offer you a home and protection among her people, and your fate can be no worse among them than it must ever be here." "Yes," cried Dejah Thoris, "come with us, Sola, you will be better off among the red men of Helium than you are here, and I can promise you not only a home with us, but the love and affection your nature craves and which must always be denied you by the customs of your own race. Come with us, Sola; we might go without you, but your fate would be terrible if they thought you had connived to aid us. I know that even that fear would not tempt you to interfere in our escape, but we want you with us, we want you to come to a land of sunshine and happiness, amongst a people who know the meaning of love, of sympathy, and of gratitude. Say that you will, Sola; tell me that you will." "The great waterway which leads to Helium is but fifty miles to the south," murmured Sola, half to herself; "a swift thoat might make it in three hours; and then to Helium it is five hundred miles, most of the way through thinly settled districts. They would know and they would follow us. We might hide among the great trees for a time, but the chances are small indeed for escape. They would follow us to the very gates of Helium, and they would take toll of life at every step; you do not know them." "Is there no other way we might reach Helium?" I asked. "Can you not draw me a rough map of the country we must traverse, Dejah Thoris?" "Yes," she replied, and taking a great diamond from her hair she drew upon the marble floor the first map of Barsoomian territory I had ever seen. It was crisscrossed in every direction with long straight lines, sometimes running parallel and sometimes converging toward some great circle. The lines, she said, were waterways; the circles, cities; and one far to the northwest of us she pointed out as Helium. There were other cities closer, but she said she feared to enter many of them, as they were not all friendly toward Helium. she drew upon the marble floor the first map of Barsoomian territory I had ever seen. She drew upon the marble floor the first map of Barsoomian territory I had ever seen. Finally, after studying the map carefully in the moonlight which now flooded the room, I pointed out a waterway far to the north of us which also seemed to lead to Helium. "Does not this pierce your grandfather's territory?" I asked. "Yes," she answered, "but it is two hundred miles north of us; it is one of the waterways we crossed on the trip to Thark." "They would never suspect that we would try for that distant waterway," I answered, "and that is why I think that it is the best route for our escape." Sola agreed with me, and it was decided that we should leave Thark this same night; just as quickly, in fact, as I could find and saddle my thoats. Sola was to ride one and Dejah Thoris and I the other; each of us carrying sufficient food and drink to last us for two days, since the animals could not be urged too rapidly for so long a distance. I directed Sola to proceed with Dejah Thoris along one of the less frequented avenues to the southern boundary of the city, where I would overtake them with the thoats as quickly as possible; then, leaving them to gather what food, silks, and furs we were to need, I slipped quietly to the rear of the first floor, and entered the courtyard, where our animals were moving restlessly about, as was their habit, before settling down for the night. In the shadows of the buildings and out beneath the radiance of the Martian moons moved the great herd of thoats and zitidars, the latter grunting their low gutturals and the former occasionally emitting the sharp squeal which denotes the almost habitual state of rage in which these creatures passed their existence. They were quieter now, owing to the absence of man, but as they scented me they became more restless and their hideous noise increased. It was risky business, this entering a paddock of thoats alone and at night; first, because their increasing noisiness might warn the nearby warriors that something was amiss, and also because for the slightest cause, or for no cause at all some great bull thoat might take it upon himself to lead a charge upon me. Having no desire to awaken their nasty tempers upon such a night as this, where so much depended upon secrecy and dispatch, I hugged the shadows of the buildings, ready at an instant's warning to leap into the safety of a nearby door or window. Thus I moved silently to the great gates which opened upon the street at the back of the court, and as I neared the exit I called softly to my two animals. How I thanked the kind providence which had given me the foresight to win the love and confidence of these wild dumb brutes, for presently from the far side of the court I saw two huge bulks forcing their way toward me through the surging mountains of flesh. They came quite close to me, rubbing their muzzles against my body and nosing for the bits of food it was always my practice to reward them with. Opening the gates I ordered the two great beasts to pass out, and then slipping quietly after them I closed the portals behind me. I did not saddle or mount the animals there, but instead walked quietly in the shadows of the buildings toward an unfrequented avenue which led toward the point I had arranged to meet Dejah Thoris and Sola. With the noiselessness of disembodied spirits we moved stealthily along the deserted streets, but not until we were within sight of the plain beyond the city did I commence to breathe freely. I was sure that Sola and Dejah Thoris would find no difficulty in reaching our rendezvous undetected, but with my great thoats I was not so sure for myself, as it was quite unusual for warriors to leave the city after dark; in fact there was no place for them to go within any but a long ride. I reached the appointed meeting place safely, but as Dejah Thoris and Sola were not there I led my animals into the entrance hall of one of the large buildings. Presuming that one of the other women of the same household may have come in to speak to Sola, and so delayed their departure, I did not feel any undue apprehension until nearly an hour had passed without a sign of them, and by the time another half hour had crawled away I was becoming filled with grave anxiety. Then there broke upon the stillness of the night the sound of an approaching party, which, from the noise, I knew could be no fugitives creeping stealthily toward liberty. Soon the party was near me, and from the black shadows of my entranceway I perceived a score of mounted warriors, who, in passing, dropped a dozen words that fetched my heart clean into the top of my head. "He would likely have arranged to meet them just without the city, and so—" I heard no more, they had passed on; but it was enough. Our plan had been discovered, and the chances for escape from now on to the fearful end would be small indeed. My one hope now was to return undetected to the quarters of Dejah Thoris and learn what fate had overtaken her, but how to do it with these great monstrous thoats upon my hands, now that the city probably was aroused by the knowledge of my escape was a problem of no mean proportions. Suddenly an idea occurred to me, and acting on my knowledge of the construction of the buildings of these ancient Martian cities with a hollow court within the center of each square, I groped my way blindly through the dark chambers, calling the great thoats after me. They had difficulty in negotiating some of the doorways, but as the buildings fronting the city's principal exposures were all designed upon a magnificent scale, they were able to wriggle through without sticking fast; and thus we finally made the inner court where I found, as I had expected, the usual carpet of moss-like vegetation which would provide their food and drink until I could return them to their own enclosure. That they would be as quiet and contented here as elsewhere I was confident, nor was there but the remotest possibility that they would be discovered, as the green men had no great desire to enter these outlying buildings, which were frequented by the only thing, I believe, which caused them the sensation of fear—the great white apes of Barsoom. Removing the saddle trappings, I hid them just within the rear doorway of the building through which we had entered the court, and, turning the beasts loose, quickly made my way across the court to the rear of the buildings upon the further side, and thence to the avenue beyond. Waiting in the doorway of the building until I was assured that no one was approaching, I hurried across to the opposite side and through the first doorway to the court beyond; thus, crossing through court after court with only the slight chance of detection which the necessary crossing of the avenues entailed, I made my way in safety to the courtyard in the rear of Dejah Thoris' quarters. Here, of course, I found the beasts of the warriors who quartered in the adjacent buildings, and the warriors themselves I might expect to meet within if I entered; but, fortunately for me, I had another and safer method of reaching the upper story where Dejah Thoris should be found, and, after first determining as nearly as possible which of the buildings she occupied, for I had never observed them before from the court side, I took advantage of my relatively great strength and agility and sprang upward until I grasped the sill of a second-story window which I thought to be in the rear of her apartment. Drawing myself inside the room I moved stealthily toward the front of the building, and not until I had quite reached the doorway of her room was I made aware by voices that it was occupied. I did not rush headlong in, but listened without to assure myself that it was Dejah Thoris and that it was safe to venture within. It was well indeed that I took this precaution, for the conversation I heard was in the low gutturals of men, and the words which finally came to me proved a most timely warning. The speaker was a chieftain and he was giving orders to four of his warriors. "And when he returns to this chamber," he was saying, "as he surely will when he finds she does not meet him at the city's edge, you four are to spring upon him and disarm him. It will require the combined strength of all of you to do it if the reports they bring back from Korad are correct. When you have him fast bound bear him to the vaults beneath the jeddak's quarters and chain him securely where he may be found when Tal Hajus wishes him. Allow him to speak with none, nor permit any other to enter this apartment before he comes. There will be no danger of the girl returning, for by this time she is safe in the arms of Tal Hajus, and may all her ancestors have pity upon her, for Tal Hajus will have none; the great Sarkoja has done a noble night's work. I go, and if you fail to capture him when he comes, I commend your carcasses to the cold bosom of Iss." CHAPTER XVII A COSTLY RECAPTURE As the speaker ceased he turned to leave the apartment by the door where I was standing, but I needed to wait no longer; I had heard enough to fill my soul with dread, and stealing quietly away I returned to the courtyard by the way I had come. My plan of action was formed upon the instant, and crossing the square and the bordering avenue upon the opposite side I soon stood within the courtyard of Tal Hajus. The brilliantly lighted apartments of the first floor told me where first to seek, and advancing to the windows I peered within. I soon discovered that my approach was not to be the easy thing I had hoped, for the rear rooms bordering the court were filled with warriors and women. I then glanced up at the stories above, discovering that the third was apparently unlighted, and so decided to make my entrance to the building from that point. It was the work of but a moment for me to reach the windows above, and soon I had drawn myself within the sheltering shadows of the unlighted third floor. Fortunately the room I had selected was untenanted, and creeping noiselessly to the corridor beyond I discovered a light in the apartments ahead of me. Reaching what appeared to be a doorway I discovered that it was but an opening upon an immense inner chamber which towered from the first floor, two stories below me, to the dome-like roof of the building, high above my head. The floor of this great circular hall was thronged with chieftains, warriors and women, and at one end was a great raised platform upon which squatted the most hideous beast I had ever put my eyes upon. He had all the cold, hard, cruel, terrible features of the green warriors, but accentuated and debased by the animal passions to which he had given himself over for many years. There was not a mark of dignity or pride upon his bestial countenance, while his enormous bulk spread itself out upon the platform where he squatted like some huge devil fish, his six limbs accentuating the similarity in a horrible and startling manner. But the sight that froze me with apprehension was that of Dejah Thoris and Sola standing there before him, and the fiendish leer of him as he let his great protruding eyes gloat upon the lines of her beautiful figure. She was speaking, but I could not hear what she said, nor could I make out the low grumbling of his reply. She stood there erect before him, her head high held, and even at the distance I was from them I could read the scorn and disgust upon her face as she let her haughty glance rest without sign of fear upon him. She was indeed the proud daughter of a thousand jeddaks, every inch of her dear, precious little body; so small, so frail beside the towering warriors around her, but in her majesty dwarfing them into insignificance; she was the mightiest figure among them and I verily believe that they felt it. Presently Tal Hajus made a sign that the chamber be cleared, and that the prisoners be left alone before him. Slowly the chieftains, the warriors and the women melted away into the shadows of the surrounding chambers, and Dejah Thoris and Sola stood alone before the jeddak of the Tharks. One chieftain alone had hesitated before departing; I saw him standing in the shadows of a mighty column, his fingers nervously toying with the hilt of his great-sword and his cruel eyes bent in implacable hatred upon Tal Hajus. It was Tars Tarkas, and I could read his thoughts as they were an open book for the undisguised loathing upon his face. He was thinking of that other woman who, forty years ago, had stood before this beast, and could I have spoken a word into his ear at that moment the reign of Tal Hajus would have been over; but finally he also strode from the room, not knowing that he left his own daughter at the mercy of the creature he most loathed. Tal Hajus arose, and I, half fearing, half anticipating his intentions, hurried to the winding runway which led to the floors below. No one was near to intercept me, and I reached the main floor of the chamber unobserved, taking my station in the shadow of the same column that Tars Tarkas had but just deserted. As I reached the floor Tal Hajus was speaking. "Princess of Helium, I might wring a mighty ransom from your people would I but return you to them unharmed, but a thousand times rather would I watch that beautiful face writhe in the agony of torture; it shall be long drawn out, that I promise you; ten days of pleasure were all too short to show the love I harbor for your race. The terrors of your death shall haunt the slumbers of the red men through all the ages to come; they will shudder in the shadows of the night as their fathers tell them of the awful vengeance of the green men; of the power and might and hate and cruelty of Tal Hajus. But before the torture you shall be mine for one short hour, and word of that too shall go forth to Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium, your grandfather, that he may grovel upon the ground in the agony of his sorrow. Tomorrow the torture will commence; tonight thou art Tal Hajus'; come!" He sprang down from the platform and grasped her roughly by the arm, but scarcely had he touched her than I leaped between them. My short-sword, sharp and gleaming was in my right hand; I could have plunged it into his putrid heart before he realized that I was upon him; but as I raised my arm to strike I thought of Tars Tarkas, and, with all my rage, with all my hatred, I could not rob him of that sweet moment for which he had lived and hoped all these long, weary years, and so, instead, I swung my good right fist full upon the point of his jaw. Without a sound he slipped to the floor as one dead. In the same deathly silence I grasped Dejah Thoris by the hand, and motioning Sola to follow we sped noiselessly from the chamber and to the floor above. Unseen we reached a rear window and with the straps and leather of my trappings I lowered, first Sola and then Dejah Thoris to the ground below. Dropping lightly after them I drew them rapidly around the court in the shadows of the buildings, and thus we returned over the same course I had so recently followed from the distant boundary of the city. We finally came upon my thoats in the courtyard where I had left them, and placing the trappings upon them we hastened through the building to the avenue beyond. Mounting, Sola upon one beast, and Dejah Thoris behind me upon the other, we rode from the city of Thark through the hills to the south. Instead of circling back around the city to the northwest and toward the nearest waterway which lay so short a distance from us, we turned to the northeast and struck out upon the mossy waste across which, for two hundred dangerous and weary miles, lay another main artery leading to Helium. No word was spoken until we had left the city far behind, but I could hear the quiet sobbing of Dejah Thoris as she clung to me with her dear head resting against my shoulder. "If we make it, my chieftain, the debt of Helium will be a mighty one; greater than she can ever pay you; and should we not make it," she continued, "the debt is no less, though Helium will never know, for you have saved the last of our line from worse than death." I did not answer, but instead reached to my side and pressed the little fingers of her I loved where they clung to me for support, and then, in unbroken silence, we sped over the yellow, moonlit moss; each of us occupied with his own thoughts. For my part I could not be other than joyful had I tried, with Dejah Thoris' warm body pressed close to mine, and with all our unpassed danger my heart was singing as gaily as though we were already entering the gates of Helium. Our earlier plans had been so sadly upset that we now found ourselves without food or drink, and I alone was armed. We therefore urged our beasts to a speed that must tell on them sorely before we could hope to sight the ending of the first stage of our journey. We rode all night and all the following day with only a few short rests. On the second night both we and our animals were completely fagged, and so we lay down upon the moss and slept for some five or six hours, taking up the journey once more before daylight. All the following day we rode, and when, late in the afternoon we had sighted no distant trees, the mark of the great waterways throughout all Barsoom, the terrible truth flashed upon us—we were lost. Evidently we had circled, but which way it was difficult to say, nor did it seem possible with the sun to guide us by day and the moons and stars by night. At any rate no waterway was in sight, and the entire party was almost ready to drop from hunger, thirst and fatigue. Far ahead of us and a trifle to the right we could distinguish the outlines of low mountains. These we decided to attempt to reach in the hope that from some ridge we might discern the missing waterway. Night fell upon us before we reached our goal, and, almost fainting from weariness and weakness, we lay down and slept. I was awakened early in the morning by some huge body pressing close to mine, and opening my eyes with a start I beheld my blessed old Woola snuggling close to me; the faithful brute had followed us across that trackless waste to share our fate, whatever it might be. Putting my arms about his neck I pressed my cheek close to his, nor am I ashamed that I did it, nor of the tears that came to my eyes as I thought of his love for me. Shortly after this Dejah Thoris and Sola awakened, and it was decided that we push on at once in an effort to gain the hills. We had gone scarcely a mile when I noticed that my thoat was commencing to stumble and stagger in a most pitiful manner, although we had not attempted to force them out of a walk since about noon of the preceding day. Suddenly he lurched wildly to one side and pitched violently to the ground. Dejah Thoris and I were thrown clear of him and fell upon the soft moss with scarcely a jar; but the poor beast was in a pitiable condition, not even being able to rise, although relieved of our weight. Sola told me that the coolness of the night, when it fell, together with the rest would doubtless revive him, and so I decided not to kill him, as was my first intention, as I had thought it cruel to leave him alone there to die of hunger and thirst. Relieving him of his trappings, which I flung down beside him, we left the poor fellow to his fate, and pushed on with the one thoat as best we could. Sola and I walked, making Dejah Thoris ride, much against her will. In this way we had progressed to within about a mile of the hills we were endeavoring to reach when Dejah Thoris, from her point of vantage upon the thoat, cried out that she saw a great party of mounted men filing down from a pass in the hills several miles away. Sola and I both looked in the direction she indicated, and there, plainly discernible, were several hundred mounted warriors. They seemed to be headed in a southwesterly direction, which would take them away from us. They doubtless were Thark warriors who had been sent out to capture us, and we breathed a great sigh of relief that they were traveling in the opposite direction. Quickly lifting Dejah Thoris from the thoat, I commanded the animal to lie down and we three did the same, presenting as small an object as possible for fear of attracting the attention of the warriors toward us. We could see them as they filed out of the pass, just for an instant, before they were lost to view behind a friendly ridge; to us a most providential ridge; since, had they been in view for any great length of time, they scarcely could have failed to discover us. As what proved to be the last warrior came into view from the pass, he halted and, to our consternation, threw his small but powerful fieldglass to his eye and scanned the sea bottom in all directions. Evidently he was a chieftain, for in certain marching formations among the green men a chieftain brings up the extreme rear of the column. As his glass swung toward us our hearts stopped in our breasts, and I could feel the cold sweat start from every pore in my body. Presently it swung full upon us and—stopped. The tension on our nerves was near the breaking point, and I doubt if any of us breathed for the few moments he held us covered by his glass; and then he lowered it and we could see him shout a command to the warriors who had passed from our sight behind the ridge. He did not wait for them to join him, however, instead he wheeled his thoat and came tearing madly in our direction. There was but one slight chance and that we must take quickly. Raising my strange Martian rifle to my shoulder I sighted and touched the button which controlled the trigger; there was a sharp explosion as the missile reached its goal, and the charging chieftain pitched backward from his flying mount. Springing to my feet I urged the thoat to rise, and directed Sola to take Dejah Thoris with her upon him and make a mighty effort to reach the hills before the green warriors were upon us. I knew that in the ravines and gullies they might find a temporary hiding place, and even though they died there of hunger and thirst it would be better so than that they fell into the hands of the Tharks. Forcing my two revolvers upon them as a slight means of protection, and, as a last resort, as an escape for themselves from the horrid death which recapture would surely mean, I lifted Dejah Thoris in my arms and placed her upon the thoat behind Sola, who had already mounted at my command. "Good-bye, my princess," I whispered, "we may meet in Helium yet. I have escaped from worse plights than this," and I tried to smile as I lied. "What," she cried, "are you not coming with us?" "How may I, Dejah Thoris? Someone must hold these fellows off for a while, and I can better escape them alone than could the three of us together." She sprang quickly from the thoat and, throwing her dear arms about my neck, turned to Sola, saying with quiet dignity: "Fly, Sola! Dejah Thoris remains to die with the man she loves." Those words are engraved upon my heart. Ah, gladly would I give up my life a thousand times could I only hear them once again; but I could not then give even a second to the rapture of her sweet embrace, and pressing my lips to hers for the first time, I picked her up bodily and tossed her to her seat behind Sola again, commanding the latter in peremptory tones to hold her there by force, and then, slapping the thoat upon the flank, I saw them borne away; Dejah Thoris struggling to the last to free herself from Sola's grasp. Turning, I beheld the green warriors mounting the ridge and looking for their chieftain. In a moment they saw him, and then me; but scarcely had they discovered me than I commenced firing, lying flat upon my belly in the moss. I had an even hundred rounds in the magazine of my rifle, and another hundred in the belt at my back, and I kept up a continuous stream of fire until I saw all of the warriors who had been first to return from behind the ridge either dead or scurrying to cover. My respite was short-lived however, for soon the entire party, numbering some thousand men, came charging into view, racing madly toward me. I fired until my rifle was empty and they were almost upon me, and then a glance showing me that Dejah Thoris and Sola had disappeared among the hills, I sprang up, throwing down my useless gun, and started away in the direction opposite to that taken by Sola and her charge. If ever Martians had an exhibition of jumping, it was granted those astonished warriors on that day long years ago, but while it led them away from Dejah Thoris it did not distract their attention from endeavoring to capture me. They raced wildly after me until, finally, my foot struck a projecting piece of quartz, and down I went sprawling upon the moss. As I looked up they were upon me, and although I drew my long-sword in an attempt to sell my life as dearly as possible, it was soon over. I reeled beneath their blows which fell upon me in perfect torrents; my head swam; all was black, and I went down beneath them to oblivion. CHAPTER XVIII CHAINED IN WARHOON It must have been several hours before I regained consciousness and I well remember the feeling of surprise which swept over me as I realized that I was not dead. I was lying among a pile of sleeping silks and furs in the corner of a small room in which were several green warriors, and bending over me was an ancient and ugly female. As I opened my eyes she turned to one of the warriors, saying, "He will live, O Jed." "'Tis well," replied the one so addressed, rising and approaching my couch, "he should render rare sport for the great games." And now as my eyes fell upon him, I saw that he was no Thark, for his ornaments and metal were not of that horde. He was a huge fellow, terribly scarred about the face and chest, and with one broken tusk and a missing ear. Strapped on either breast were human skulls and depending from these a number of dried human hands. His reference to the great games of which I had heard so much while among the Tharks convinced me that I had but jumped from purgatory into gehenna. After a few more words with the female, during which she assured him that I was now fully fit to travel, the jed ordered that we mount and ride after the main column. I was strapped securely to as wild and unmanageable a thoat as I had ever seen, and, with a mounted warrior on either side to prevent the beast from bolting, we rode forth at a furious pace in pursuit of the column. My wounds gave me but little pain, so wonderfully and rapidly had the applications and injections of the female exercised their therapeutic powers, and so deftly had she bound and plastered the injuries. Just before dark we reached the main body of troops shortly after they had made camp for the night. I was immediately taken before the leader, who proved to be the jeddak of the hordes of Warhoon. Like the jed who had brought me, he was frightfully scarred, and also decorated with the breastplate of human skulls and dried dead hands which seemed to mark all the greater warriors among the Warhoons, as well as to indicate their awful ferocity, which greatly transcends even that of the Tharks. The jeddak, Bar Comas, who was comparatively young, was the object of the fierce and jealous hatred of his old lieutenant, Dak Kova, the jed who had captured me, and I could not but note the almost studied efforts which the latter made to affront his superior. He entirely omitted the usual formal salutation as we entered the presence of the jeddak, and as he pushed me roughly before the ruler he exclaimed in a loud and menacing voice. "I have brought a strange creature wearing the metal of a Thark whom it is my pleasure to have battle with a wild thoat at the great games." "He will die as Bar Comas, your jeddak, sees fit, if at all," replied the young ruler, with emphasis and dignity. "If at all?" roared Dak Kova. "By the dead hands at my throat but he shall die, Bar Comas. No maudlin weakness on your part shall save him. O, would that Warhoon were ruled by a real jeddak rather than by a water-hearted weakling from whom even old Dak Kova could tear the metal with his bare hands!" Bar Comas eyed the defiant and insubordinate chieftain for an instant, his expression one of haughty, fearless contempt and hate, and then without drawing a weapon and without uttering a word he hurled himself at the throat of his defamer. I never before had seen two green Martian warriors battle with nature's weapons and the exhibition of animal ferocity which ensued was as fearful a thing as the most disordered imagination could picture. They tore at each others' eyes and ears with their hands and with their gleaming tusks repeatedly slashed and gored until both were cut fairly to ribbons from head to foot. Bar Comas had much the better of the battle as he was stronger, quicker and more intelligent. It soon seemed that the encounter was done saving only the final death thrust when Bar Comas slipped in breaking away from a clinch. It was the one little opening that Dak Kova needed, and hurling himself at the body of his adversary he buried his single mighty tusk in Bar Comas' groin and with a last powerful effort ripped the young jeddak wide open the full length of his body, the great tusk finally wedging in the bones of Bar Comas' jaw. Victor and vanquished rolled limp and lifeless upon the moss, a huge mass of torn and bloody flesh. Bar Comas was stone dead, and only the most herculean efforts on the part of Dak Kova's females saved him from the fate he deserved. Three days later he walked without assistance to the body of Bar Comas which, by custom, had not been moved from where it fell, and placing his foot upon the neck of his erstwhile ruler he assumed the title of Jeddak of Warhoon. The dead jeddak's hands and head were removed to be added to the ornaments of his conqueror, and then his women cremated what remained, amid wild and terrible laughter. The injuries to Dak Kova had delayed the march so greatly that it was decided to give up the expedition, which was a raid upon a small Thark community in retaliation for the destruction of the incubator, until after the great games, and the entire body of warriors, ten thousand in number, turned back toward Warhoon. My introduction to these cruel and bloodthirsty people was but an index to the scenes I witnessed almost daily while with them. They are a smaller horde than the Tharks but much more ferocious. Not a day passed but that some members of the various Warhoon communities met in deadly combat. I have seen as high as eight mortal duels within a single day. We reached the city of Warhoon after some three days march and I was immediately cast into a dungeon and heavily chained to the floor and walls. Food was brought me at intervals but owing to the utter darkness of the place I do not know whether I lay there days, or weeks, or months. It was the most horrible experience of all my life and that my mind did not give way to the terrors of that inky blackness has been a wonder to me ever since. The place was filled with creeping, crawling things; cold, sinuous bodies passed over me when I lay down, and in the darkness I occasionally caught glimpses of gleaming, fiery eyes, fixed in horrible intentness upon me. No sound reached me from the world above and no word would my jailer vouchsafe when my food was brought to me, although I at first bombarded him with questions. Finally all the hatred and maniacal loathing for these awful creatures who had placed me in this horrible place was centered by my tottering reason upon this single emissary who represented to me the entire horde of Warhoons. I had noticed that he always advanced with his dim torch to where he could place the food within my reach and as he stooped to place it upon the floor his head was about on a level with my breast. So, with the cunning of a madman, I backed into the far corner of my cell when next I heard him approaching and gathering a little slack of the great chain which held me in my hand I waited his coming, crouching like some beast of prey. As he stooped to place my food upon the ground I swung the chain above my head and crashed the links with all my strength upon his skull. Without a sound he slipped to the floor, stone dead. Laughing and chattering like the idiot I was fast becoming I fell upon his prostrate form my fingers feeling for his dead throat. Presently they came in contact with a small chain at the end of which dangled a number of keys. The touch of my fingers on these keys brought back my reason with the suddenness of thought. No longer was I a jibbering idiot, but a sane, reasoning man with the means of escape within my very hands. As I was groping to remove the chain from about my victim's neck I glanced up into the darkness to see six pairs of gleaming eyes fixed, unwinking, upon me. Slowly they approached and slowly I shrank back from the awful horror of them. Back into my corner I crouched holding my hands palms out, before me, and stealthily on came the awful eyes until they reached the dead body at my feet. Then slowly they retreated but this time with a strange grating sound and finally they disappeared in some black and distant recess of my dungeon. CHAPTER XIX BATTLING IN THE ARENA Slowly I regained my composure and finally essayed again to attempt to remove the keys from the dead body of my former jailer. But as I reached out into the darkness to locate it I found to my horror that it was gone. Then the truth flashed on me; the owners of those gleaming eyes had dragged my prize away from me to be devoured in their neighboring lair; as they had been waiting for days, for weeks, for months, through all this awful eternity of my imprisonment to drag my dead carcass to their feast. For two days no food was brought me, but then a new messenger appeared and my incarceration went on as before, but not again did I allow my reason to be submerged by the horror of my position. Shortly after this episode another prisoner was brought in and chained near me. By the dim torch light I saw that he was a red Martian and I could scarcely await the departure of his guards to address him. As their retreating footsteps died away in the distance, I called out softly the Martian word of greeting, kaor. "Who are you who speaks out of the darkness?" he answered "John Carter, a friend of the red men of Helium." "I am of Helium," he said, "but I do not recall your name." And then I told him my story as I have written it here, omitting only any reference to my love for Dejah Thoris. He was much excited by the news of Helium's princess and seemed quite positive that she and Sola could easily have reached a point of safety from where they left me. He said that he knew the place well because the defile through which the Warhoon warriors had passed when they discovered us was the only one ever used by them when marching to the south. "Dejah Thoris and Sola entered the hills not five miles from a great waterway and are now probably quite safe," he assured me. My fellow prisoner was Kantos Kan, a padwar (lieutenant) in the navy of Helium. He had been a member of the ill-fated expedition which had fallen into the hands of the Tharks at the time of Dejah Thoris' capture, and he briefly related the events which followed the defeat of the battleships. Badly injured and only partially manned they had limped slowly toward Helium, but while passing near the city of Zodanga, the capital of Helium's hereditary enemies among the red men of Barsoom, they had been attacked by a great body of war vessels and all but the craft to which Kantos Kan belonged were either destroyed or captured. His vessel was chased for days by three of the Zodangan war ships but finally escaped during the darkness of a moonless night. Thirty days after the capture of Dejah Thoris, or about the time of our coming to Thark, his vessel had reached Helium with about ten survivors of the original crew of seven hundred officers and men. Immediately seven great fleets, each of one hundred mighty war ships, had been dispatched to search for Dejah Thoris, and from these vessels two thousand smaller craft had been kept out continuously in futile search for the missing princess. Two green Martian communities had been wiped off the face of Barsoom by the avenging fleets, but no trace of Dejah Thoris had been found. They had been searching among the northern hordes, and only within the past few days had they extended their quest to the south. Kantos Kan had been detailed to one of the small one-man fliers and had had the misfortune to be discovered by the Warhoons while exploring their city. The bravery and daring of the man won my greatest respect and admiration. Alone he had landed at the city's boundary and on foot had penetrated to the buildings surrounding the plaza. For two days and nights he had explored their quarters and their dungeons in search of his beloved princess only to fall into the hands of a party of Warhoons as he was about to leave, after assuring himself that Dejah Thoris was not a captive there. During the period of our incarceration Kantos Kan and I became well acquainted, and formed a warm personal friendship. A few days only elapsed, however, before we were dragged forth from our dungeon for the great games. We were conducted early one morning to an enormous amphitheater, which instead of having been built upon the surface of the ground was excavated below the surface. It had partially filled with debris so that how large it had originally been was difficult to say. In its present condition it held the entire twenty thousand Warhoons of the assembled hordes. The arena was immense but extremely uneven and unkempt. Around it the Warhoons had piled building stone from some of the ruined edifices of the ancient city to prevent the animals and the captives from escaping into the audience, and at each end had been constructed cages to hold them until their turns came to meet some horrible death upon the arena. Kantos Kan and I were confined together in one of the cages. In the others were wild calots, thoats, mad zitidars, green warriors, and women of other hordes, and many strange and ferocious wild beasts of Barsoom which I had never before seen. The din of their roaring, growling and squealing was deafening and the formidable appearance of any one of them was enough to make the stoutest heart feel grave forebodings. Kantos Kan explained to me that at the end of the day one of these prisoners would gain freedom and the others would lie dead about the arena. The winners in the various contests of the day would be pitted against each other until only two remained alive; the victor in the last encounter being set free, whether animal or man. The following morning the cages would be filled with a new consignment of victims, and so on throughout the ten days of the games. Shortly after we had been caged the amphitheater began to fill and within an hour every available part of the seating space was occupied. Dak Kova, with his jeds and chieftains, sat at the center of one side of the arena upon a large raised platform. At a signal from Dak Kova the doors of two cages were thrown open and a dozen green Martian females were driven to the center of the arena. Each was given a dagger and then, at the far end, a pack of twelve calots, or wild dogs were loosed upon them. As the brutes, growling and foaming, rushed upon the almost defenseless women I turned my head that I might not see the horrid sight. The yells and laughter of the green horde bore witness to the excellent quality of the sport and when I turned back to the arena, as Kantos Kan told me it was over, I saw three victorious calots, snarling and growling over the bodies of their prey. The women had given a good account of themselves. Next a mad zitidar was loosed among the remaining dogs, and so it went throughout the long, hot, horrible day. During the day I was pitted against first men and then beasts, but as I was armed with a long-sword and always outclassed my adversary in agility and generally in strength as well, it proved but child's play to me. Time and time again I won the applause of the bloodthirsty multitude, and toward the end there were cries that I be taken from the arena and be made a member of the hordes of Warhoon. Finally there were but three of us left, a great green warrior of some far northern horde, Kantos Kan, and myself. The other two were to battle and then I to fight the conqueror for the liberty which was accorded the final winner. Kantos Kan had fought several times during the day and like myself had always proven victorious, but occasionally by the smallest of margins, especially when pitted against the green warriors. I had little hope that he could best his giant adversary who had mowed down all before him during the day. The fellow towered nearly sixteen feet in height, while Kantos Kan was some inches under six feet. As they advanced to meet one another I saw for the first time a trick of Martian swordsmanship which centered Kantos Kan's every hope of victory and life on one cast of the dice, for, as he came to within about twenty feet of the huge fellow he threw his sword arm far behind him over his shoulder and with a mighty sweep hurled his weapon point foremost at the green warrior. It flew true as an arrow and piercing the poor devil's heart laid him dead upon the arena. Kantos Kan and I were now pitted against each other but as we approached to the encounter I whispered to him to prolong the battle until nearly dark in the hope that we might find some means of escape. The horde evidently guessed that we had no hearts to fight each other and so they howled in rage as neither of us placed a fatal thrust. Just as I saw the sudden coming of dark I whispered to Kantos Kan to thrust his sword between my left arm and my body. As he did so I staggered back clasping the sword tightly with my arm and thus fell to the ground with his weapon apparently protruding from my chest. Kantos Kan perceived my coup and stepping quickly to my side he placed his foot upon my neck and withdrawing his sword from my body gave me the final death blow through the neck which is supposed to sever the jugular vein, but in this instance the cold blade slipped harmlessly into the sand of the arena. In the darkness which had now fallen none could tell but that he had really finished me. I whispered to him to go and claim his freedom and then look for me in the hills east of the city, and so he left me. When the amphitheater had cleared I crept stealthily to the top and as the great excavation lay far from the plaza and in an untenanted portion of the great dead city I had little trouble in reaching the hills beyond. CHAPTER XX IN THE ATMOSPHERE FACTORY For two days I waited there for Kantos Kan, but as he did not come I started off on foot in a northwesterly direction toward a point where he had told me lay the nearest waterway. My only food consisted of vegetable milk from the plants which gave so bounteously of this priceless fluid. Through two long weeks I wandered, stumbling through the nights guided only by the stars and hiding during the days behind some protruding rock or among the occasional hills I traversed. Several times I was attacked by wild beasts; strange, uncouth monstrosities that leaped upon me in the dark, so that I had ever to grasp my long-sword in my hand that I might be ready for them. Usually my strange, newly acquired telepathic power warned me in ample time, but once I was down with vicious fangs at my jugular and a hairy face pressed close to mine before I knew that I was even threatened. What manner of thing was upon me I did not know, but that it was large and heavy and many-legged I could feel. My hands were at its throat before the fangs had a chance to bury themselves in my neck, and slowly I forced the hairy face from me and closed my fingers, vise-like, upon its windpipe. Without sound we lay there, the beast exerting every effort to reach me with those awful fangs, and I straining to maintain my grip and choke the life from it as I kept it from my throat. Slowly my arms gave to the unequal struggle, and inch by inch the burning eyes and gleaming tusks of my antagonist crept toward me, until, as the hairy face touched mine again, I realized that all was over. And then a living mass of destruction sprang from the surrounding darkness full upon the creature that held me pinioned to the ground. The two rolled growling upon the moss, tearing and rending one another in a frightful manner, but it was soon over and my preserver stood with lowered head above the throat of the dead thing which would have killed me. The nearer moon, hurtling suddenly above the horizon and lighting up the Barsoomian scene, showed me that my preserver was Woola, but from whence he had come, or how found me, I was at a loss to know. That I was glad of his companionship it is needless to say, but my pleasure at seeing him was tempered by anxiety as to the reason of his leaving Dejah Thoris. Only her death I felt sure, could account for his absence from her, so faithful I knew him to be to my commands. By the light of the now brilliant moons I saw that he was but a shadow of his former self, and as he turned from my caress and commenced greedily to devour the dead carcass at my feet I realized that the poor fellow was more than half starved. I, myself, was in but little better plight but I could not bring myself to eat the uncooked flesh and I had no means of making a fire. When Woola had finished his meal I again took up my weary and seemingly endless wandering in quest of the elusive waterway. At daybreak of the fifteenth day of my search I was overjoyed to see the high trees that denoted the object of my search. About noon I dragged myself wearily to the portals of a huge building which covered perhaps four square miles and towered two hundred feet in the air. It showed no aperture in the mighty walls other than the tiny door at which I sank exhausted, nor was there any sign of life about it. I could find no bell or other method of making my presence known to the inmates of the place, unless a small round hole in the wall near the door was for that purpose. It was of about the bigness of a lead pencil and thinking that it might be in the nature of a speaking tube I put my mouth to it and was about to call into it when a voice issued from it asking me whom I might be, where from, and the nature of my errand. I explained that I had escaped from the Warhoons and was dying of starvation and exhaustion. "You wear the metal of a green warrior and are followed by a calot, yet you are of the figure of a red man. In color you are neither green nor red. In the name of the ninth ray, what manner of creature are you?" "I am a friend of the red men of Barsoom and I am starving. In the name of humanity open to us," I replied. Presently the door commenced to recede before me until it had sunk into the wall fifty feet, then it stopped and slid easily to the left, exposing a short, narrow corridor of concrete, at the further end of which was another door, similar in every respect to the one I had just passed. No one was in sight, yet immediately we passed the first door it slid gently into place behind us and receded rapidly to its original position in the front wall of the building. As the door had slipped aside I had noted its great thickness, fully twenty feet, and as it reached its place once more after closing behind us, great cylinders of steel had dropped from the ceiling behind it and fitted their lower ends into apertures countersunk in the floor. A second and third door receded before me and slipped to one side as the first, before I reached a large inner chamber where I found food and drink set out upon a great stone table. A voice directed me to satisfy my hunger and to feed my calot, and while I was thus engaged my invisible host put me through a severe and searching cross-examination. "Your statements are most remarkable," said the voice, on concluding its questioning, "but you are evidently speaking the truth, and it is equally evident that you are not of Barsoom. I can tell that by the conformation of your brain and the strange location of your internal organs and the shape and size of your heart." "Can you see through me?" I exclaimed. "Yes, I can see all but your thoughts, and were you a Barsoomian I could read those." Then a door opened at the far side of the chamber and a strange, dried up, little mummy of a man came toward me. He wore but a single article of clothing or adornment, a small collar of gold from which depended upon his chest a great ornament as large as a dinner plate set solid with huge diamonds, except for the exact center which was occupied by a strange stone, an inch in diameter, that scintillated nine different and distinct rays; the seven colors of our earthly prism and two beautiful rays which, to me, were new and nameless. I cannot describe them any more than you could describe red to a blind man. I only know that they were beautiful in the extreme. The old man sat and talked with me for hours, and the strangest part of our intercourse was that I could read his every thought while he could not fathom an iota from my mind unless I spoke. The old man sat and talked with me for hours. The old man sat and talked with me for hours. I did not apprise him of my ability to sense his mental operations, and thus I learned a great deal which proved of immense value to me later and which I would never have known had he suspected my strange power, for the Martians have such perfect control of their mental machinery that they are able to direct their thoughts with absolute precision. The building in which I found myself contained the machinery which produces that artificial atmosphere which sustains life on Mars. The secret of the entire process hinges on the use of the ninth ray, one of the beautiful scintillations which I had noted emanating from the great stone in my host's diadem. This ray is separated from the other rays of the sun by means of finely adjusted instruments placed upon the roof of the huge building, three-quarters of which is used for reservoirs in which the ninth ray is stored. This product is then treated electrically, or rather certain proportions of refined electric vibrations are incorporated with it, and the result is then pumped to the five principal air centers of the planet where, as it is released, contact with the ether of space transforms it into atmosphere. There is always sufficient reserve of the ninth ray stored in the great building to maintain the present Martian atmosphere for a thousand years, and the only fear, as my new friend told me, was that some accident might befall the pumping apparatus. He led me to an inner chamber where I beheld a battery of twenty radium pumps any one of which was equal to the task of furnishing all Mars with the atmosphere compound. For eight hundred years, he told me, he had watched these pumps which are used alternately a day each at a stretch, or a little over twenty-four and one-half Earth hours. He has one assistant who divides the watch with him. Half a Martian year, about three hundred and forty-four of our days, each of these men spend alone in this huge, isolated plant. Every red Martian is taught during earliest childhood the principles of the manufacture of atmosphere, but only two at one time ever hold the secret of ingress to the great building, which, built as it is with walls a hundred and fifty feet thick, is absolutely unassailable, even the roof being guarded from assault by air craft by a glass covering five feet thick. The only fear they entertain of attack is from the green Martians or some demented red man, as all Barsoomians realize that the very existence of every form of life of Mars is dependent upon the uninterrupted working of this plant. One curious fact I discovered as I watched his thoughts was that the outer doors are manipulated by telepathic means. The locks are so finely adjusted that the doors are released by the action of a certain combination of thought waves. To experiment with my new-found toy I thought to surprise him into revealing this combination and so I asked him in a casual manner how he had managed to unlock the massive doors for me from the inner chambers of the building. As quick as a flash there leaped to his mind nine Martian sounds, but as quickly faded as he answered that this was a secret he must not divulge. From then on his manner toward me changed as though he feared that he had been surprised into divulging his great secret, and I read suspicion and fear in his looks and thoughts, though his words were still fair. Before I retired for the night he promised to give me a letter to a nearby agricultural officer who would help me on my way to Zodanga, which he said, was the nearest Martian city. "But be sure that you do not let them know you are bound for Helium as they are at war with that country. My assistant and I are of no country, we belong to all Barsoom and this talisman which we wear protects us in all lands, even among the green men—though we do not trust ourselves to their hands if we can avoid it," he added. "And so good-night, my friend," he continued, "may you have a long and restful sleep—yes, a long sleep." And though he smiled pleasantly I saw in his thoughts the wish that he had never admitted me, and then a picture of him standing over me in the night, and the swift thrust of a long dagger and the half formed words, "I am sorry, but it is for the best good of Barsoom." As he closed the door of my chamber behind him his thoughts were cut off from me as was the sight of him, which seemed strange to me in my little knowledge of thought transference. What was I to do? How could I escape through these mighty walls? Easily could I kill him now that I was warned, but once he was dead I could no more escape, and with the stopping of the machinery of the great plant I should die with all the other inhabitants of the planet—all, even Dejah Thoris were she not already dead. For the others I did not give the snap of my finger, but the thought of Dejah Thoris drove from my mind all desire to kill my mistaken host. Cautiously I opened the door of my apartment and, followed by Woola, sought the inner of the great doors. A wild scheme had come to me; I would attempt to force the great locks by the nine thought waves I had read in my host's mind. Creeping stealthily through corridor after corridor and down winding runways which turned hither and thither I finally reached the great hall in which I had broken my long fast that morning. Nowhere had I seen my host, nor did I know where he kept himself by night. I was on the point of stepping boldly out into the room when a slight noise behind me warned me back into the shadows of a recess in the corridor. Dragging Woola after me I crouched low in the darkness. Presently the old man passed close by me, and as he entered the dimly lighted chamber which I had been about to pass through I saw that he held a long thin dagger in his hand and that he was sharpening it upon a stone. In his mind was the decision to inspect the radium pumps, which would take about thirty minutes, and then return to my bed chamber and finish me. As he passed through the great hall and disappeared down the runway which led to the pump-room, I stole stealthily from my hiding place and crossed to the great door, the inner of the three which stood between me and liberty. Concentrating my mind upon the massive lock I hurled the nine thought waves against it. In breathless expectancy I waited, when finally the great door moved softly toward me and slid quietly to one side. One after the other the remaining mighty portals opened at my command and Woola and I stepped forth into the darkness, free, but little better off than we had been before, other than that we had full stomachs. Hastening away from the shadows of the formidable pile I made for the first crossroad, intending to strike the central turnpike as quickly as possible. This I reached about morning and entering the first enclosure I came to I searched for some evidences of a habitation. There were low rambling buildings of concrete barred with heavy impassable doors, and no amount of hammering and hallooing brought any response. Weary and exhausted from sleeplessness I threw myself upon the ground commanding Woola to stand guard. Some time later I was awakened by his frightful growlings and opened my eyes to see three red Martians standing a short distance from us and covering me with their rifles. "I am unarmed and no enemy," I hastened to explain. "I have been a prisoner among the green men and am on my way to Zodanga. All I ask is food and rest for myself and my calot and the proper directions for reaching my destination." They lowered their rifles and advanced pleasantly toward me placing their right hands upon my left shoulder, after the manner of their custom of salute, and asking me many questions about myself and my wanderings. They then took me to the house of one of them which was only a short distance away. The buildings I had been hammering at in the early morning were occupied only by stock and farm produce, the house proper standing among a grove of enormous trees, and, like all red-Martian homes, had been raised at night some forty or fifty feet from the ground on a large round metal shaft which slid up or down within a sleeve sunk in the ground, and was operated by a tiny radium engine in the entrance hall of the building. Instead of bothering with bolts and bars for their dwellings, the red Martians simply run them up out of harm's way during the night. They also have private means for lowering or raising them from the ground without if they wish to go away and leave them. These brothers, with their wives and children, occupied three similar houses on this farm. They did no work themselves, being government officers in charge. The labor was performed by convicts, prisoners of war, delinquent debtors and confirmed bachelors who were too poor to pay the high celibate tax which all red-Martian governments impose. They were the personification of cordiality and hospitality and I spent several days with them, resting and recuperating from my long and arduous experiences. When they had heard my story—I omitted all reference to Dejah Thoris and the old man of the atmosphere plant—they advised me to color my body to more nearly resemble their own race and then attempt to find employment in Zodanga, either in the army or the navy. "The chances are small that your tale will be believed until after you have proven your trustworthiness and won friends among the higher nobles of the court. This you can most easily do through military service, as we are a warlike people on Barsoom," explained one of them, "and save our richest favors for the fighting man." When I was ready to depart they furnished me with a small domestic bull thoat, such as is used for saddle purposes by all red Martians. The animal is about the size of a horse and quite gentle, but in color and shape an exact replica of his huge and fierce cousin of the wilds. The brothers had supplied me with a reddish oil with which I anointed my entire body and one of them cut my hair, which had grown quite long, in the prevailing fashion of the time, square at the back and banged in front, so that I could have passed anywhere upon Barsoom as a full-fledged red Martian. My metal and ornaments were also renewed in the style of a Zodangan gentleman, attached to the house of Ptor, which was the family name of my benefactors. They filled a little sack at my side with Zodangan money. The medium of exchange upon Mars is not dissimilar from our own except that the coins are oval. Paper money is issued by individuals as they require it and redeemed twice yearly. If a man issues more than he can redeem, the government pays his creditors in full and the debtor works out the amount upon the farms or in mines, which are all owned by the government. This suits everybody except the debtor as it has been a difficult thing to obtain sufficient voluntary labor to work the great isolated farm lands of Mars, stretching as they do like narrow ribbons from pole to pole, through wild stretches peopled by wild animals and wilder men. When I mentioned my inability to repay them for their kindness to me they assured me that I would have ample opportunity if I lived long upon Barsoom, and bidding me farewell they watched me until I was out of sight upon the broad white turnpike. CHAPTER XXI AN AIR SCOUT FOR ZODANGA As I proceeded on my journey toward Zodanga many strange and interesting sights arrested my attention, and at the several farm houses where I stopped I learned a number of new and instructive things concerning the methods and manners of Barsoom. The water which supplies the farms of Mars is collected in immense underground reservoirs at either pole from the melting ice caps, and pumped through long conduits to the various populated centers. Along either side of these conduits, and extending their entire length, lie the cultivated districts. These are divided into tracts of about the same size, each tract being under the supervision of one or more government officers. Instead of flooding the surface of the fields, and thus wasting immense quantities of water by evaporation, the precious liquid is carried underground through a vast network of small pipes directly to the roots of the vegetation. The crops upon Mars are always uniform, for there are no droughts, no rains, no high winds, and no insects, or destroying birds. On this trip I tasted the first meat I had eaten since leaving Earth—large, juicy steaks and chops from the well-fed domestic animals of the farms. Also I enjoyed luscious fruits and vegetables, but not a single article of food which was exactly similar to anything on Earth. Every plant and flower and vegetable and animal has been so refined by ages of careful, scientific cultivation and breeding that the like of them on Earth dwindled into pale, gray, characterless nothingness by comparison. At a second stop I met some highly cultivated people of the noble class and while in conversation we chanced to speak of Helium. One of the older men had been there on a diplomatic mission several years before and spoke with regret of the conditions which seemed destined ever to keep these two countries at war. "Helium," he said, "rightly boasts the most beautiful women of Barsoom, and of all her treasures the wondrous daughter of Mors Kajak, Dejah Thoris, is the most exquisite flower. "Why," he added, "the people really worship the ground she walks upon and since her loss on that ill-starred expedition all Helium has been draped in mourning. "That our ruler should have attacked the disabled fleet as it was returning to Helium was but another of his awful blunders which I fear will sooner or later compel Zodanga to elevate a wiser man to his place." "Even now, though our victorious armies are surrounding Helium, the people of Zodanga are voicing their displeasure, for the war is not a popular one, since it is not based on right or justice. Our forces took advantage of the absence of the principal fleet of Helium on their search for the princess, and so we have been able easily to reduce the city to a sorry plight. It is said she will fall within the next few passages of the further moon." "And what, think you, may have been the fate of the princess, Dejah Thoris?" I asked as casually as possible. "She is dead," he answered. "This much was learned from a green warrior recently captured by our forces in the south. She escaped from the hordes of Thark with a strange creature of another world, only to fall into the hands of the Warhoons. Their thoats were found wandering upon the sea bottom and evidences of a bloody conflict were discovered nearby." While this information was in no way reassuring, neither was it at all conclusive proof of the death of Dejah Thoris, and so I determined to make every effort possible to reach Helium as quickly as I could and carry to Tardos Mors such news of his granddaughter's possible whereabouts as lay in my power. Ten days after leaving the three Ptor brothers I arrived at Zodanga. From the moment that I had come in contact with the red inhabitants of Mars I had noticed that Woola drew a great amount of unwelcome attention to me, since the huge brute belonged to a species which is never domesticated by the red men. Were one to stroll down Broadway with a Numidian lion at his heels the effect would be somewhat similar to that which I should have produced had I entered Zodanga with Woola. The very thought of parting with the faithful fellow caused me so great regret and genuine sorrow that I put it off until just before we arrived at the city's gates; but then, finally, it became imperative that we separate. Had nothing further than my own safety or pleasure been at stake no argument could have prevailed upon me to turn away the one creature upon Barsoom that had never failed in a demonstration of affection and loyalty; but as I would willingly have offered my life in the service of her in search of whom I was about to challenge the unknown dangers of this, to me, mysterious city, I could not permit even Woola's life to threaten the success of my venture, much less his momentary happiness, for I doubted not he soon would forget me. And so I bade the poor beast an affectionate farewell, promising him, however, that if I came through my adventure in safety that in some way I should find the means to search him out. He seemed to understand me fully, and when I pointed back in the direction of Thark he turned sorrowfully away, nor could I bear to watch him go; but resolutely set my face toward Zodanga and with a touch of heartsickness approached her frowning walls. The letter I bore from them gained me immediate entrance to the vast, walled city. It was still very early in the morning and the streets were practically deserted. The residences, raised high upon their metal columns, resembled huge rookeries, while the uprights themselves presented the appearance of steel tree trunks. The shops as a rule were not raised from the ground nor were their doors bolted or barred, since thievery is practically unknown upon Barsoom. Assassination is the ever-present fear of all Barsoomians, and for this reason alone their homes are raised high above the ground at night, or in times of danger. The Ptor brothers had given me explicit directions for reaching the point of the city where I could find living accommodations and be near the offices of the government agents to whom they had given me letters. My way led to the central square or plaza, which is a characteristic of all Martian cities. The plaza of Zodanga covers a square mile and is bounded by the palaces of the jeddak, the jeds, and other members of the royalty and nobility of Zodanga, as well as by the principal public buildings, cafes, and shops. As I was crossing the great square lost in wonder and admiration of the magnificent architecture and the gorgeous scarlet vegetation which carpeted the broad lawns I discovered a red Martian walking briskly toward me from one of the avenues. He paid not the slightest attention to me, but as he came abreast I recognized him, and turning I placed my hand upon his shoulder, calling out: "Kaor, Kantos Kan!" Like lightning he wheeled and before I could so much as lower my hand the point of his long-sword was at my breast. "Who are you?" he growled, and then as a backward leap carried me fifty feet from his sword he dropped the point to the ground and exclaimed, laughing, "I do not need a better reply, there is but one man upon all Barsoom who can bounce about like a rubber ball. By the mother of the further moon, John Carter, how came you here, and have you become a Darseen that you can change your color at will?" "You gave me a bad half minute my friend," he continued, after I had briefly outlined my adventures since parting with him in the arena at Warhoon. "Were my name and city known to the Zodangans I would shortly be sitting on the banks of the lost sea of Korus with my revered and departed ancestors. I am here in the interest of Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium, to discover the whereabouts of Dejah Thoris, our princess. Sab Than, prince of Zodanga, has her hidden in the city and has fallen madly in love with her. His father, Than Kosis, Jeddak of Zodanga, has made her voluntary marriage to his son the price of peace between our countries, but Tardos Mors will not accede to the demands and has sent word that he and his people would rather look upon the dead face of their princess than see her wed to any than her own choice, and that personally he would prefer being engulfed in the ashes of a lost and burning Helium to joining the metal of his house with that of Than Kosis. His reply was the deadliest affront he could have put upon Than Kosis and the Zodangans, but his people love him the more for it and his strength in Helium is greater today than ever. "I have been here three days," continued Kantos Kan, "but I have not yet found where Dejah Thoris is imprisoned. Today I join the Zodangan navy as an air scout and I hope in this way to win the confidence of Sab Than, the prince, who is commander of this division of the navy, and thus learn the whereabouts of Dejah Thoris. I am glad that you are here, John Carter, for I know your loyalty to my princess and two of us working together should be able to accomplish much." The plaza was now commencing to fill with people going and coming upon the daily activities of their duties. The shops were opening and the cafes filling with early morning patrons. Kantos Kan led me to one of these gorgeous eating places where we were served entirely by mechanical apparatus. No hand touched the food from the time it entered the building in its raw state until it emerged hot and delicious upon the tables before the guests, in response to the touching of tiny buttons to indicate their desires. After our meal, Kantos Kan took me with him to the headquarters of the air-scout squadron and introducing me to his superior asked that I be enrolled as a member of the corps. In accordance with custom an examination was necessary, but Kantos Kan had told me to have no fear on this score as he would attend to that part of the matter. He accomplished this by taking my order for examination to the examining officer and representing himself as John Carter. "This ruse will be discovered later," he cheerfully explained, "when they check up my weights, measurements, and other personal identification data, but it will be several months before this is done and our mission should be accomplished or have failed long before that time." The next few days were spent by Kantos Kan in teaching me the intricacies of flying and of repairing the dainty little contrivances which the Martians use for this purpose. The body of the one-man air craft is about sixteen feet long, two feet wide and three inches thick, tapering to a point at each end. The driver sits on top of this plane upon a seat constructed over the small, noiseless radium engine which propels it. The medium of buoyancy is contained within the thin metal walls of the body and consists of the eighth Barsoomian ray, or ray of propulsion, as it may be termed in view of its properties. This ray, like the ninth ray, is unknown on Earth, but the Martians have discovered that it is an inherent property of all light no matter from what source it emanates. They have learned that it is the solar eighth ray which propels the light of the sun to the various planets, and that it is the individual eighth ray of each planet which "reflects," or propels the light thus obtained out into space once more. The solar eighth ray would be absorbed by the surface of Barsoom, but the Barsoomian eighth ray, which tends to propel light from Mars into space, is constantly streaming out from the planet constituting a force of repulsion of gravity which when confined is able to lift enormous weights from the surface of the ground. It is this ray which has enabled them to so perfect aviation that battle ships far outweighing anything known upon Earth sail as gracefully and lightly through the thin air of Barsoom as a toy balloon in the heavy atmosphere of Earth. During the early years of the discovery of this ray many strange accidents occurred before the Martians learned to measure and control the wonderful power they had found. In one instance, some nine hundred years before, the first great battle ship to be built with eighth ray reservoirs was stored with too great a quantity of the rays and she had sailed up from Helium with five hundred officers and men, never to return. Her power of repulsion for the planet was so great that it had carried her far into space, where she can be seen today, by the aid of powerful telescopes, hurtling through the heavens ten thousand miles from Mars; a tiny satellite that will thus encircle Barsoom to the end of time. The fourth day after my arrival at Zodanga I made my first flight, and as a result of it I won a promotion which included quarters in the palace of Than Kosis. As I rose above the city I circled several times, as I had seen Kantos Kan do, and then throwing my engine into top speed I raced at terrific velocity toward the south, following one of the great waterways which enter Zodanga from that direction. I had traversed perhaps two hundred miles in a little less than an hour when I descried far below me a party of three green warriors racing madly toward a small figure on foot which seemed to be trying to reach the confines of one of the walled fields. Dropping my machine rapidly toward them, and circling to the rear of the warriors, I soon saw that the object of their pursuit was a red Martian wearing the metal of the scout squadron to which I was attached. A short distance away lay his tiny flier, surrounded by the tools with which he had evidently been occupied in repairing some damage when surprised by the green warriors. They were now almost upon him; their flying mounts charging down on the relatively puny figure at terrific speed, while the warriors leaned low to the right, with their great metal-shod spears. Each seemed striving to be the first to impale the poor Zodangan and in another moment his fate would have been sealed had it not been for my timely arrival. Driving my fleet air craft at high speed directly behind the warriors I soon overtook them and without diminishing my speed I rammed the prow of my little flier between the shoulders of the nearest. The impact sufficient to have torn through inches of solid steel, hurled the fellow's headless body into the air over the head of his thoat, where it fell sprawling upon the moss. The mounts of the other two warriors turned squealing in terror, and bolted in opposite directions. Reducing my speed I circled and came to the ground at the feet of the astonished Zodangan. He was warm in his thanks for my timely aid and promised that my day's work would bring the reward it merited, for it was none other than a cousin of the jeddak of Zodanga whose life I had saved. We wasted no time in talk as we knew that the warriors would surely return as soon as they had gained control of their mounts. Hastening to his damaged machine we were bending every effort to finish the needed repairs and had almost completed them when we saw the two green monsters returning at top speed from opposite sides of us. When they had approached within a hundred yards their thoats again became unmanageable and absolutely refused to advance further toward the air craft which had frightened them. The warriors finally dismounted and hobbling their animals advanced toward us on foot with drawn long-swords. I advanced to meet the larger, telling the Zodangan to do the best he could with the other. Finishing my man with almost no effort, as had now from much practice become habitual with me, I hastened to return to my new acquaintance whom I found indeed in desperate straits. He was wounded and down with the huge foot of his antagonist upon his throat and the great long-sword raised to deal the final thrust. With a bound I cleared the fifty feet intervening between us, and with outstretched point drove my sword completely through the body of the green warrior. His sword fell, harmless, to the ground and he sank limply upon the prostrate form of the Zodangan. A cursory examination of the latter revealed no mortal injuries and after a brief rest he asserted that he felt fit to attempt the return voyage. He would have to pilot his own craft, however, as these frail vessels are not intended to convey but a single person. Quickly completing the repairs we rose together into the still, cloudless Martian sky, and at great speed and without further mishap returned to Zodanga. As we neared the city we discovered a mighty concourse of civilians and troops assembled upon the plain before the city. The sky was black with naval vessels and private and public pleasure craft, flying long streamers of gay-colored silks, and banners and flags of odd and picturesque design. My companion signaled that I slow down, and running his machine close beside mine suggested that we approach and watch the ceremony, which, he said, was for the purpose of conferring honors on individual officers and men for bravery and other distinguished service. He then unfurled a little ensign which denoted that his craft bore a member of the royal family of Zodanga, and together we made our way through the maze of low-lying air vessels until we hung directly over the jeddak of Zodanga and his staff. All were mounted upon the small domestic bull thoats of the red Martians, and their trappings and ornamentation bore such a quantity of gorgeously colored feathers that I could not but be struck with the startling resemblance the concourse bore to a band of the red Indians of my own Earth. One of the staff called the attention of Than Kosis to the presence of my companion above them and the ruler motioned for him to descend. As they waited for the troops to move into position facing the jeddak the two talked earnestly together, the jeddak and his staff occasionally glancing up at me. I could not hear their conversation and presently it ceased and all dismounted, as the last body of troops had wheeled into position before their emperor. A member of the staff advanced toward the troops, and calling the name of a soldier commanded him to advance. The officer then recited the nature of the heroic act which had won the approval of the jeddak, and the latter advanced and placed a metal ornament upon the left arm of the lucky man. Ten men had been so decorated when the aide called out, "John Carter, air scout!" Never in my life had I been so surprised, but the habit of military discipline is strong within me, and I dropped my little machine lightly to the ground and advanced on foot as I had seen the others do. As I halted before the officer, he addressed me in a voice audible to the entire assemblage of troops and spectators. "In recognition, John Carter," he said, "of your remarkable courage and skill in defending the person of the cousin of the jeddak Than Kosis and, singlehanded, vanquishing three green warriors, it is the pleasure of our jeddak to confer on you the mark of his esteem." Than Kosis then advanced toward me and placing an ornament upon me, said: "My cousin has narrated the details of your wonderful achievement, which seems little short of miraculous, and if you can so well defend a cousin of the jeddak how much better could you defend the person of the jeddak himself. You are therefore appointed a padwar of The Guards and will be quartered in my palace hereafter." I thanked him, and at his direction joined the members of his staff. After the ceremony I returned my machine to its quarters on the roof of the barracks of the air-scout squadron, and with an orderly from the palace to guide me I reported to the officer in charge of the palace. CHAPTER XXII I FIND DEJAH The major-domo to whom I reported had been given instructions to station me near the person of the jeddak, who, in time of war, is always in great danger of assassination, as the rule that all is fair in war seems to constitute the entire ethics of Martian conflict. He therefore escorted me immediately to the apartment in which Than Kosis then was. The ruler was engaged in conversation with his son, Sab Than, and several courtiers of his household, and did not perceive my entrance. The walls of the apartment were completely hung with splendid tapestries which hid any windows or doors which may have pierced them. The room was lighted by imprisoned rays of sunshine held between the ceiling proper and what appeared to be a ground-glass false ceiling a few inches below. My guide drew aside one of the tapestries, disclosing a passage which encircled the room, between the hangings and the walls of the chamber. Within this passage I was to remain, he said, so long as Than Kosis was in the apartment. When he left I was to follow. My only duty was to guard the ruler and keep out of sight as much as possible. I would be relieved after a period of four hours. The major-domo then left me. The tapestries were of a strange weaving which gave the appearance of heavy solidity from one side, but from my hiding place I could perceive all that took place within the room as readily as though there had been no curtain intervening. Scarcely had I gained my post than the tapestry at the opposite end of the chamber separated and four soldiers of The Guard entered, surrounding a female figure. As they approached Than Kosis the soldiers fell to either side and there standing before the jeddak and not ten feet from me, her beautiful face radiant with smiles, was Dejah Thoris. Sab Than, Prince of Zodanga, advanced to meet her, and hand in hand they approached close to the jeddak. Than Kosis looked up in surprise, and, rising, saluted her. "To what strange freak do I owe this visit from the Princess of Helium, who, two days ago, with rare consideration for my pride, assured me that she would prefer Tal Hajus, the green Thark, to my son?" Dejah Thoris only smiled the more and with the roguish dimples playing at the corners of her mouth she made answer: "From the beginning of time upon Barsoom it has been the prerogative of woman to change her mind as she listed and to dissemble in matters concerning her heart. That you will forgive, Than Kosis, as has your son. Two days ago I was not sure of his love for me, but now I am, and I have come to beg of you to forget my rash words and to accept the assurance of the Princess of Helium that when the time comes she will wed Sab Than, Prince of Zodanga." "I am glad that you have so decided," replied Than Kosis. "It is far from my desire to push war further against the people of Helium, and, your promise shall be recorded and a proclamation to my people issued forthwith." "It were better, Than Kosis," interrupted Dejah Thoris, "that the proclamation wait the ending of this war. It would look strange indeed to my people and to yours were the Princess of Helium to give herself to her country's enemy in the midst of hostilities." "Cannot the war be ended at once?" spoke Sab Than. "It requires but the word of Than Kosis to bring peace. Say it, my father, say the word that will hasten my happiness, and end this unpopular strife." "We shall see," replied Than Kosis, "how the people of Helium take to peace. I shall at least offer it to them." Dejah Thoris, after a few words, turned and left the apartment, still followed by her guards. Thus was the edifice of my brief dream of happiness dashed, broken, to the ground of reality. The woman for whom I had offered my life, and from whose lips I had so recently heard a declaration of love for me, had lightly forgotten my very existence and smilingly given herself to the son of her people's most hated enemy. Although I had heard it with my own ears I could not believe it. I must search out her apartments and force her to repeat the cruel truth to me alone before I would be convinced, and so I deserted my post and hastened through the passage behind the tapestries toward the door by which she had left the chamber. Slipping quietly through this opening I discovered a maze of winding corridors, branching and turning in every direction. Running rapidly down first one and then another of them I soon became hopelessly lost and was standing panting against a side wall when I heard voices near me. Apparently they were coming from the opposite side of the partition against which I leaned and presently I made out the tones of Dejah Thoris. I could not hear the words but I knew that I could not possibly be mistaken in the voice. Moving on a few steps I discovered another passageway at the end of which lay a door. Walking boldly forward I pushed into the room only to find myself in a small antechamber in which were the four guards who had accompanied her. One of them instantly arose and accosted me, asking the nature of my business. "I am from Than Kosis," I replied, "and wish to speak privately with Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium." "And your order?" asked the fellow. I did not know what he meant, but replied that I was a member of The Guard, and without waiting for a reply from him I strode toward the opposite door of the antechamber, behind which I could hear Dejah Thoris conversing. But my entrance was not to be so easily accomplished. The guardsman stepped before me, saying, "No one comes from Than Kosis without carrying an order or the password. You must give me one or the other before you may pass." "The only order I require, my friend, to enter where I will, hangs at my side," I answered, tapping my long-sword; "will you let me pass in peace or no?" For reply he whipped out his own sword, calling to the others to join him, and thus the four stood, with drawn weapons, barring my further progress. "You are not here by the order of Than Kosis," cried the one who had first addressed me, "and not only shall you not enter the apartments of the Princess of Helium but you shall go back to Than Kosis under guard to explain this unwarranted temerity. Throw down your sword; you cannot hope to overcome four of us," he added with a grim smile. My reply was a quick thrust which left me but three antagonists and I can assure you that they were worthy of my metal. They had me backed against the wall in no time, fighting for my life. Slowly I worked my way to a corner of the room where I could force them to come at me only one at a time, and thus we fought upward of twenty minutes; the clanging of steel on steel producing a veritable bedlam in the little room. The noise had brought Dejah Thoris to the door of her apartment, and there she stood throughout the conflict with Sola at her back peering over her shoulder. Her face was set and emotionless and I knew that she did not recognize me, nor did Sola. Finally a lucky cut brought down a second guardsman and then, with only two opposing me, I changed my tactics and rushed them down after the fashion of my fighting that had won me many a victory. The third fell within ten seconds after the second, and the last lay dead upon the bloody floor a few moments later. They were brave men and noble fighters, and it grieved me that I had been forced to kill them, but I would have willingly depopulated all Barsoom could I have reached the side of my Dejah Thoris in no other way. Sheathing my bloody blade I advanced toward my Martian Princess, who still stood mutely gazing at me without sign of recognition. "Who are you, Zodangan?" she whispered. "Another enemy to harass me in my misery?" "I am a friend," I answered, "a once cherished friend." "No friend of Helium's princess wears that metal," she replied, "and yet the voice! I have heard it before; it is not—it cannot be—no, for he is dead." "It is, though, my Princess, none other than John Carter," I said. "Do you not recognize, even through paint and strange metal, the heart of your chieftain?" As I came close to her she swayed toward me with outstretched hands, but as I reached to take her in my arms she drew back with a shudder and a little moan of misery. "Too late, too late," she grieved. "O my chieftain that was, and whom I thought dead, had you but returned one little hour before—but now it is too late, too late." "What do you mean, Dejah Thoris?" I cried. "That you would not have promised yourself to the Zodangan prince had you known that I lived?" "Think you, John Carter, that I would give my heart to you yesterday and today to another? I thought that it lay buried with your ashes in the pits of Warhoon, and so today I have promised my body to another to save my people from the curse of a victorious Zodangan army." "But I am not dead, my princess. I have come to claim you, and all Zodanga cannot prevent it." "It is too late, John Carter, my promise is given, and on Barsoom that is final. The ceremonies which follow later are but meaningless formalities. They make the fact of marriage no more certain than does the funeral cortege of a jeddak again place the seal of death upon him. I am as good as married, John Carter. No longer may you call me your princess. No longer are you my chieftain." "I know but little of your customs here upon Barsoom, Dejah Thoris, but I do know that I love you, and if you meant the last words you spoke to me that day as the hordes of Warhoon were charging down upon us, no other man shall ever claim you as his bride. You meant them then, my princess, and you mean them still! Say that it is true." "I meant them, John Carter," she whispered. "I cannot repeat them now for I have given myself to another. Ah, if you had only known our ways, my friend," she continued, half to herself, "the promise would have been yours long months ago, and you could have claimed me before all others. It might have meant the fall of Helium, but I would have given my empire for my Tharkian chief." Then aloud she said: "Do you remember the night when you offended me? You called me your princess without having asked my hand of me, and then you boasted that you had fought for me. You did not know, and I should not have been offended; I see that now. But there was no one to tell you what I could not, that upon Barsoom there are two kinds of women in the cities of the red men. The one they fight for that they may ask them in marriage; the other kind they fight for also, but never ask their hands. When a man has won a woman he may address her as his princess, or in any of the several terms which signify possession. You had fought for me, but had never asked me in marriage, and so when you called me your princess, you see," she faltered, "I was hurt, but even then, John Carter, I did not repulse you, as I should have done, until you made it doubly worse by taunting me with having won me through combat." "I do not need ask your forgiveness now, Dejah Thoris," I cried. "You must know that my fault was of ignorance of your Barsoomian customs. What I failed to do, through implicit belief that my petition would be presumptuous and unwelcome, I do now, Dejah Thoris; I ask you to be my wife, and by all the Virginian fighting blood that flows in my veins you shall be." "No, John Carter, it is useless," she cried, hopelessly, "I may never be yours while Sab Than lives." "You have sealed his death warrant, my princess—Sab Than dies." "Nor that either," she hastened to explain. "I may not wed the man who slays my husband, even in self-defense. It is custom. We are ruled by custom upon Barsoom. It is useless, my friend. You must bear the sorrow with me. That at least we may share in common. That, and the memory of the brief days among the Tharks. You must go now, nor ever see me again. Good-bye, my chieftain that was." Disheartened and dejected, I withdrew from the room, but I was not entirely discouraged, nor would I admit that Dejah Thoris was lost to me until the ceremony had actually been performed. As I wandered along the corridors, I was as absolutely lost in the mazes of winding passageways as I had been before I discovered Dejah Thoris' apartments. I knew that my only hope lay in escape from the city of Zodanga, for the matter of the four dead guardsmen would have to be explained, and as I could never reach my original post without a guide, suspicion would surely rest on me so soon as I was discovered wandering aimlessly through the palace. Presently I came upon a spiral runway leading to a lower floor, and this I followed downward for several stories until I reached the doorway of a large apartment in which were a number of guardsmen. The walls of this room were hung with transparent tapestries behind which I secreted myself without being apprehended. The conversation of the guardsmen was general, and awakened no interest in me until an officer entered the room and ordered four of the men to relieve the detail who were guarding the Princess of Helium. Now, I knew, my troubles would commence in earnest and indeed they were upon me all too soon, for it seemed that the squad had scarcely left the guardroom before one of their number burst in again breathlessly, crying that they had found their four comrades butchered in the antechamber. In a moment the entire palace was alive with people. Guardsmen, officers, courtiers, servants, and slaves ran helter-skelter through the corridors and apartments carrying messages and orders, and searching for signs of the assassin. This was my opportunity and slim as it appeared I grasped it, for as a number of soldiers came hurrying past my hiding place I fell in behind them and followed through the mazes of the palace until, in passing through a great hall, I saw the blessed light of day coming in through a series of larger windows. Here I left my guides, and, slipping to the nearest window, sought for an avenue of escape. The windows opened upon a great balcony which overlooked one of the broad avenues of Zodanga. The ground was about thirty feet below, and at a like distance from the building was a wall fully twenty feet high, constructed of polished glass about a foot in thickness. To a red Martian escape by this path would have appeared impossible, but to me, with my earthly strength and agility, it seemed already accomplished. My only fear was in being detected before darkness fell, for I could not make the leap in broad daylight while the court below and the avenue beyond were crowded with Zodangans. Accordingly I searched for a hiding place and finally found one by accident, inside a huge hanging ornament which swung from the ceiling of the hall, and about ten feet from the floor. Into the capacious bowl-like vase I sprang with ease, and scarcely had I settled down within it than I heard a number of people enter the apartment. The group stopped beneath my hiding place and I could plainly overhear their every word. "It is the work of Heliumites," said one of the men. "Yes, O Jeddak, but how had they access to the palace? I could believe that even with the diligent care of your guardsmen a single enemy might reach the inner chambers, but how a force of six or eight fighting men could have done so unobserved is beyond me. We shall soon know, however, for here comes the royal psychologist." Another man now joined the group, and, after making his formal greetings to his ruler, said: "O mighty Jeddak, it is a strange tale I read in the dead minds of your faithful guardsmen. They were felled not by a number of fighting men, but by a single opponent." He paused to let the full weight of this announcement impress his hearers, and that his statement was scarcely credited was evidenced by the impatient exclamation of incredulity which escaped the lips of Than Kosis. "What manner of weird tale are you bringing me, Notan?" he cried. "It is the truth, my Jeddak," replied the psychologist. "In fact the impressions were strongly marked on the brain of each of the four guardsmen. Their antagonist was a very tall man, wearing the metal of one of your own guardsmen, and his fighting ability was little short of marvelous for he fought fair against the entire four and vanquished them by his surpassing skill and superhuman strength and endurance. Though he wore the metal of Zodanga, my Jeddak, such a man was never seen before in this or any other country upon Barsoom. "The mind of the Princess of Helium whom I have examined and questioned was a blank to me, she has perfect control, and I could not read one iota of it. She said that she witnessed a portion of the encounter, and that when she looked there was but one man engaged with the guardsmen; a man whom she did not recognize as ever having seen." "Where is my erstwhile savior?" spoke another of the party, and I recognized the voice of the cousin of Than Kosis, whom I had rescued from the green warriors. "By the metal of my first ancestor," he went on, "but the description fits him to perfection, especially as to his fighting ability." "Where is this man?" cried Than Kosis. "Have him brought to me at once. What know you of him, cousin? It seemed strange to me now that I think upon it that there should have been such a fighting man in Zodanga, of whose name, even, we were ignorant before today. And his name too, John Carter, who ever heard of such a name upon Barsoom!" Word was soon brought that I was nowhere to be found, either in the palace or at my former quarters in the barracks of the air-scout squadron. Kantos Kan, they had found and questioned, but he knew nothing of my whereabouts, and as to my past, he had told them he knew as little, since he had but recently met me during our captivity among the Warhoons. "Keep your eyes on this other one," commanded Than Kosis. "He also is a stranger and likely as not they both hail from Helium, and where one is we shall sooner or later find the other. Quadruple the air patrol, and let every man who leaves the city by air or ground be subjected to the closest scrutiny." Another messenger now entered with word that I was still within the palace walls. "The likeness of every person who has entered or left the palace grounds today has been carefully examined," concluded the fellow, "and not one approaches the likeness of this new padwar of the guards, other than that which was recorded of him at the time he entered." "Then we will have him shortly," commented Than Kosis contentedly, "and in the meanwhile we will repair to the apartments of the Princess of Helium and question her in regard to the affair. She may know more than she cared to divulge to you, Notan. Come." They left the hall, and, as darkness had fallen without, I slipped lightly from my hiding place and hastened to the balcony. Few were in sight, and choosing a moment when none seemed near I sprang quickly to the top of the glass wall and from there to the avenue beyond the palace grounds. CHAPTER XXIII LOST IN THE SKY Without effort at concealment I hastened to the vicinity of our quarters, where I felt sure I should find Kantos Kan. As I neared the building I became more careful, as I judged, and rightly, that the place would be guarded. Several men in civilian metal loitered near the front entrance and in the rear were others. My only means of reaching, unseen, the upper story where our apartments were situated was through an adjoining building, and after considerable maneuvering I managed to attain the roof of a shop several doors away. Leaping from roof to roof, I soon reached an open window in the building where I hoped to find the Heliumite, and in another moment I stood in the room before him. He was alone and showed no surprise at my coming, saying he had expected me much earlier, as my tour of duty must have ended some time since. I saw that he knew nothing of the events of the day at the palace, and when I had enlightened him he was all excitement. The news that Dejah Thoris had promised her hand to Sab Than filled him with dismay. "It cannot be," he exclaimed. "It is impossible! Why no man in all Helium but would prefer death to the selling of our loved princess to the ruling house of Zodanga. She must have lost her mind to have assented to such an atrocious bargain. You, who do not know how we of Helium love the members of our ruling house, cannot appreciate the horror with which I contemplate such an unholy alliance." "What can be done, John Carter?" he continued. "You are a resourceful man. Can you not think of some way to save Helium from this disgrace?" "If I can come within sword's reach of Sab Than," I answered, "I can solve the difficulty in so far as Helium is concerned, but for personal reasons I would prefer that another struck the blow that frees Dejah Thoris." Kantos Kan eyed me narrowly before he spoke. "You love her!" he said. "Does she know it?" "She knows it, Kantos Kan, and repulses me only because she is promised to Sab Than." The splendid fellow sprang to his feet, and grasping me by the shoulder raised his sword on high, exclaiming: "And had the choice been left to me I could not have chosen a more fitting mate for the first princess of Barsoom. Here is my hand upon your shoulder, John Carter, and my word that Sab Than shall go out at the point of my sword for the sake of my love for Helium, for Dejah Thoris, and for you. This very night I shall try to reach his quarters in the palace." "How?" I asked. "You are strongly guarded and a quadruple force patrols the sky." He bent his head in thought a moment, then raised it with an air of confidence. "I only need to pass these guards and I can do it," he said at last. "I know a secret entrance to the palace through the pinnacle of the highest tower. I fell upon it by chance one day as I was passing above the palace on patrol duty. In this work it is required that we investigate any unusual occurrence we may witness, and a face peering from the pinnacle of the high tower of the palace was, to me, most unusual. I therefore drew near and discovered that the possessor of the peering face was none other than Sab Than. He was slightly put out at being detected and commanded me to keep the matter to myself, explaining that the passage from the tower led directly to his apartments, and was known only to him. If I can reach the roof of the barracks and get my machine I can be in Sab Than's quarters in five minutes; but how am I to escape from this building, guarded as you say it is?" "How well are the machine sheds at the barracks guarded?" I asked. "There is usually but one man on duty there at night upon the roof." "Go to the roof of this building, Kantos Kan, and wait me there." Without stopping to explain my plans I retraced my way to the street and hastened to the barracks. I did not dare to enter the building, filled as it was with members of the air-scout squadron, who, in common with all Zodanga, were on the lookout for me. The building was an enormous one, rearing its lofty head fully a thousand feet into the air. But few buildings in Zodanga were higher than these barracks, though several topped it by a few hundred feet; the docks of the great battleships of the line standing some fifteen hundred feet from the ground, while the freight and passenger stations of the merchant squadrons rose nearly as high. It was a long climb up the face of the building, and one fraught with much danger, but there was no other way, and so I essayed the task. The fact that Barsoomian architecture is extremely ornate made the feat much simpler than I had anticipated, since I found ornamental ledges and projections which fairly formed a perfect ladder for me all the way to the eaves of the building. Here I met my first real obstacle. The eaves projected nearly twenty feet from the wall to which I clung, and though I encircled the great building I could find no opening through them. The top floor was alight, and filled with soldiers engaged in the pastimes of their kind; I could not, therefore, reach the roof through the building. There was one slight, desperate chance, and that I decided I must take—it was for Dejah Thoris, and no man has lived who would not risk a thousand deaths for such as she. Clinging to the wall with my feet and one hand, I unloosened one of the long leather straps of my trappings at the end of which dangled a great hook by which air sailors are hung to the sides and bottoms of their craft for various purposes of repair, and by means of which landing parties are lowered to the ground from the battleships. I swung this hook cautiously to the roof several times before it finally found lodgment; gently I pulled on it to strengthen its hold, but whether it would bear the weight of my body I did not know. It might be barely caught upon the very outer verge of the roof, so that as my body swung out at the end of the strap it would slip off and launch me to the pavement a thousand feet below. An instant I hesitated, and then, releasing my grasp upon the supporting ornament, I swung out into space at the end of the strap. Far below me lay the brilliantly lighted streets, the hard pavements, and death. There was a little jerk at the top of the supporting eaves, and a nasty slipping, grating sound which turned me cold with apprehension; then the hook caught and I was safe. Clambering quickly aloft I grasped the edge of the eaves and drew myself to the surface of the roof above. As I gained my feet I was confronted by the sentry on duty, into the muzzle of whose revolver I found myself looking. "Who are you and whence came you?" he cried. "I am an air scout, friend, and very near a dead one, for just by the merest chance I escaped falling to the avenue below," I replied. "But how came you upon the roof, man? No one has landed or come up from the building for the past hour. Quick, explain yourself, or I call the guard." "Look you here, sentry, and you shall see how I came and how close a shave I had to not coming at all," I answered, turning toward the edge of the roof, where, twenty feet below, at the end of my strap, hung all my weapons. The fellow, acting on impulse of curiosity, stepped to my side and to his undoing, for as he leaned to peer over the eaves I grasped him by his throat and his pistol arm and threw him heavily to the roof. The weapon dropped from his grasp, and my fingers choked off his attempted cry for assistance. I gagged and bound him and then hung him over the edge of the roof as I myself had hung a few moments before. I knew it would be morning before he would be discovered, and I needed all the time that I could gain. Donning my trappings and weapons I hastened to the sheds, and soon had out both my machine and Kantos Kan's. Making his fast behind mine I started my engine, and skimming over the edge of the roof I dove down into the streets of the city far below the plane usually occupied by the air patrol. In less than a minute I was settling safely upon the roof of our apartment beside the astonished Kantos Kan. I lost no time in explanation, but plunged immediately into a discussion of our plans for the immediate future. It was decided that I was to try to make Helium while Kantos Kan was to enter the palace and dispatch Sab Than. If successful he was then to follow me. He set my compass for me, a clever little device which will remain steadfastly fixed upon any given point on the surface of Barsoom, and bidding each other farewell we rose together and sped in the direction of the palace which lay in the route which I must take to reach Helium. As we neared the high tower a patrol shot down from above, throwing its piercing searchlight full upon my craft, and a voice roared out a command to halt, following with a shot as I paid no attention to his hail. Kantos Kan dropped quickly into the darkness, while I rose steadily and at terrific speed raced through the Martian sky followed by a dozen of the air-scout craft which had joined the pursuit, and later by a swift cruiser carrying a hundred men and a battery of rapid-fire guns. By twisting and turning my little machine, now rising and now falling, I managed to elude their search-lights most of the time, but I was also losing ground by these tactics, and so I decided to hazard everything on a straight-away course and leave the result to fate and the speed of my machine. Kantos Kan had shown me a trick of gearing, which is known only to the navy of Helium, that greatly increased the speed of our machines, so that I felt sure I could distance my pursuers if I could dodge their projectiles for a few moments. As I sped through the air the screeching of the bullets around me convinced me that only by a miracle could I escape, but the die was cast, and throwing on full speed I raced a straight course toward Helium. Gradually I left my pursuers further and further behind, and I was just congratulating myself on my lucky escape, when a well-directed shot from the cruiser exploded at the prow of my little craft. The concussion nearly capsized her, and with a sickening plunge she hurtled downward through the dark night. How far I fell before I regained control of the plane I do not know, but I must have been very close to the ground when I started to rise again, as I plainly heard the squealing of animals below me. Rising again I scanned the heavens for my pursuers, and finally making out their lights far behind me, saw that they were landing, evidently in search of me. Not until their lights were no longer discernible did I venture to flash my little lamp upon my compass, and then I found to my consternation that a fragment of the projectile had utterly destroyed my only guide, as well as my speedometer. It was true I could follow the stars in the general direction of Helium, but without knowing the exact location of the city or the speed at which I was traveling my chances for finding it were slim. Helium lies a thousand miles southwest of Zodanga, and with my compass intact I should have made the trip, barring accidents, in between four and five hours. As it turned out, however, morning found me speeding over a vast expanse of dead sea bottom after nearly six hours of continuous flight at high speed. Presently a great city showed below me, but it was not Helium, as that alone of all Barsoomian metropolises consists in two immense circular walled cities about seventy-five miles apart and would have been easily distinguishable from the altitude at which I was flying. Believing that I had come too far to the north and west, I turned back in a southeasterly direction, passing during the forenoon several other large cities, but none resembling the description which Kantos Kan had given me of Helium. In addition to the twin-city formation of Helium, another distinguishing feature is the two immense towers, one of vivid scarlet rising nearly a mile into the air from the center of one of the cities, while the other, of bright yellow and of the same height, marks her sister. CHAPTER XXIV TARS TARKAS FINDS A FRIEND About noon I passed low over a great dead city of ancient Mars, and as I skimmed out across the plain beyond I came full upon several thousand green warriors engaged in a terrific battle. Scarcely had I seen them than a volley of shots was directed at me, and with the almost unfailing accuracy of their aim my little craft was instantly a ruined wreck, sinking erratically to the ground. I fell almost directly in the center of the fierce combat, among warriors who had not seen my approach so busily were they engaged in life and death struggles. The men were fighting on foot with long-swords, while an occasional shot from a sharpshooter on the outskirts of the conflict would bring down a warrior who might for an instant separate himself from the entangled mass. As my machine sank among them I realized that it was fight or die, with good chances of dying in any event, and so I struck the ground with drawn long-sword ready to defend myself as I could. I fell beside a huge monster who was engaged with three antagonists, and as I glanced at his fierce face, filled with the light of battle, I recognized Tars Tarkas the Thark. He did not see me, as I was a trifle behind him, and just then the three warriors opposing him, and whom I recognized as Warhoons, charged simultaneously. The mighty fellow made quick work of one of them, but in stepping back for another thrust he fell over a dead body behind him and was down and at the mercy of his foes in an instant. Quick as lightning they were upon him, and Tars Tarkas would have been gathered to his fathers in short order had I not sprung before his prostrate form and engaged his adversaries. I had accounted for one of them when the mighty Thark regained his feet and quickly settled the other. He gave me one look, and a slight smile touched his grim lip as, touching my shoulder, he said, "I would scarcely recognize you, John Carter, but there is no other mortal upon Barsoom who would have done what you have for me. I think I have learned that there is such a thing as friendship, my friend." He said no more, nor was there opportunity, for the Warhoons were closing in about us, and together we fought, shoulder to shoulder, during all that long, hot afternoon, until the tide of battle turned and the remnant of the fierce Warhoon horde fell back upon their thoats, and fled into the gathering darkness. Ten thousand men had been engaged in that titanic struggle, and upon the field of battle lay three thousand dead. Neither side asked or gave quarter, nor did they attempt to take prisoners. On our return to the city after the battle we had gone directly to Tars Tarkas' quarters, where I was left alone while the chieftain attended the customary council which immediately follows an engagement. As I sat awaiting the return of the green warrior I heard something move in an adjoining apartment, and as I glanced up there rushed suddenly upon me a huge and hideous creature which bore me backward upon the pile of silks and furs upon which I had been reclining. It was Woola—faithful, loving Woola. He had found his way back to Thark and, as Tars Tarkas later told me, had gone immediately to my former quarters where he had taken up his pathetic and seemingly hopeless watch for my return. "Tal Hajus knows that you are here, John Carter," said Tars Tarkas, on his return from the jeddak's quarters; "Sarkoja saw and recognized you as we were returning. Tal Hajus has ordered me to bring you before him tonight. I have ten thoats, John Carter; you may take your choice from among them, and I will accompany you to the nearest waterway that leads to Helium. Tars Tarkas may be a cruel green warrior, but he can be a friend as well. Come, we must start." "And when you return, Tars Tarkas?" I asked. "The wild calots, possibly, or worse," he replied. "Unless I should chance to have the opportunity I have so long waited of battling with Tal Hajus." "We will stay, Tars Tarkas, and see Tal Hajus tonight. You shall not sacrifice yourself, and it may be that tonight you can have the chance you wait." He objected strenuously, saying that Tal Hajus often flew into wild fits of passion at the mere thought of the blow I had dealt him, and that if ever he laid his hands upon me I would be subjected to the most horrible tortures. While we were eating I repeated to Tars Tarkas the story which Sola had told me that night upon the sea bottom during the march to Thark. He said but little, but the great muscles of his face worked in passion and in agony at recollection of the horrors which had been heaped upon the only thing he had ever loved in all his cold, cruel, terrible existence. He no longer demurred when I suggested that we go before Tal Hajus, only saying that he would like to speak to Sarkoja first. At his request I accompanied him to her quarters, and the look of venomous hatred she cast upon me was almost adequate recompense for any future misfortunes this accidental return to Thark might bring me. "Sarkoja," said Tars Tarkas, "forty years ago you were instrumental in bringing about the torture and death of a woman named Gozava. I have just discovered that the warrior who loved that woman has learned of your part in the transaction. He may not kill you, Sarkoja, it is not our custom, but there is nothing to prevent him tying one end of a strap about your neck and the other end to a wild thoat, merely to test your fitness to survive and help perpetuate our race. Having heard that he would do this on the morrow, I thought it only right to warn you, for I am a just man. The river Iss is but a short pilgrimage, Sarkoja. Come, John Carter." The next morning Sarkoja was gone, nor was she ever seen after. In silence we hastened to the jeddak's palace, where we were immediately admitted to his presence; in fact, he could scarcely wait to see me and was standing erect upon his platform glowering at the entrance as I came in. "Strap him to that pillar," he shrieked. "We shall see who it is dares strike the mighty Tal Hajus. Heat the irons; with my own hands I shall burn the eyes from his head that he may not pollute my person with his vile gaze." "Chieftains of Thark," I cried, turning to the assembled council and ignoring Tal Hajus, "I have been a chief among you, and today I have fought for Thark shoulder to shoulder with her greatest warrior. You owe me, at least, a hearing. I have won that much today. You claim to be a just people—" "Silence," roared Tal Hajus. "Gag the creature and bind him as I command." "Justice, Tal Hajus," exclaimed Lorquas Ptomel. "Who are you to set aside the customs of ages among the Tharks." "Yes, justice!" echoed a dozen voices, and so, while Tal Hajus fumed and frothed, I continued. "You are a brave people and you love bravery, but where was your mighty jeddak during the fighting today? I did not see him in the thick of battle; he was not there. He rends defenseless women and little children in his lair, but how recently has one of you seen him fight with men? Why, even I, a midget beside him, felled him with a single blow of my fist. Is it of such that the Tharks fashion their jeddaks? There stands beside me now a great Thark, a mighty warrior and a noble man. Chieftains, how sounds, Tars Tarkas, Jeddak of Thark?" A roar of deep-toned applause greeted this suggestion. "It but remains for this council to command, and Tal Hajus must prove his fitness to rule. Were he a brave man he would invite Tars Tarkas to combat, for he does not love him, but Tal Hajus is afraid; Tal Hajus, your jeddak, is a coward. With my bare hands I could kill him, and he knows it." After I ceased there was tense silence, as all eyes were riveted upon Tal Hajus. He did not speak or move, but the blotchy green of his countenance turned livid, and the froth froze upon his lips. "Tal Hajus," said Lorquas Ptomel in a cold, hard voice, "never in my long life have I seen a jeddak of the Tharks so humiliated. There could be but one answer to this arraignment. We wait it." And still Tal Hajus stood as though petrified. "Chieftains," continued Lorquas Ptomel, "shall the jeddak, Tal Hajus, prove his fitness to rule over Tars Tarkas?" There were twenty chieftains about the rostrum, and twenty swords flashed high in assent. There was no alternative. That decree was final, and so Tal Hajus drew his long-sword and advanced to meet Tars Tarkas. The combat was soon over, and, with his foot upon the neck of the dead monster, Tars Tarkas became jeddak among the Tharks. His first act was to make me a full-fledged chieftain with the rank I had won by my combats the first few weeks of my captivity among them. Seeing the favorable disposition of the warriors toward Tars Tarkas, as well as toward me, I grasped the opportunity to enlist them in my cause against Zodanga. I told Tars Tarkas the story of my adventures, and in a few words had explained to him the thought I had in mind. "John Carter has made a proposal," he said, addressing the council, "which meets with my sanction. I shall put it to you briefly. Dejah Thoris, the Princess of Helium, who was our prisoner, is now held by the jeddak of Zodanga, whose son she must wed to save her country from devastation at the hands of the Zodangan forces. "John Carter suggests that we rescue her and return her to Helium. The loot of Zodanga would be magnificent, and I have often thought that had we an alliance with the people of Helium we could obtain sufficient assurance of sustenance to permit us to increase the size and frequency of our hatchings, and thus become unquestionably supreme among the green men of all Barsoom. What say you?" It was a chance to fight, an opportunity to loot, and they rose to the bait as a speckled trout to a fly. For Tharks they were wildly enthusiastic, and before another half hour had passed twenty mounted messengers were speeding across dead sea bottoms to call the hordes together for the expedition. In three days we were on the march toward Zodanga, one hundred thousand strong, as Tars Tarkas had been able to enlist the services of three smaller hordes on the promise of the great loot of Zodanga. At the head of the column I rode beside the great Thark while at the heels of my mount trotted my beloved Woola. We traveled entirely by night, timing our marches so that we camped during the day at deserted cities where, even to the beasts, we were all kept indoors during the daylight hours. On the march Tars Tarkas, through his remarkable ability and statesmanship, enlisted fifty thousand more warriors from various hordes, so that, ten days after we set out we halted at midnight outside the great walled city of Zodanga, one hundred and fifty thousand strong. The fighting strength and efficiency of this horde of ferocious green monsters was equivalent to ten times their number of red men. Never in the history of Barsoom, Tars Tarkas told me, had such a force of green warriors marched to battle together. It was a monstrous task to keep even a semblance of harmony among them, and it was a marvel to me that he got them to the city without a mighty battle among themselves. But as we neared Zodanga their personal quarrels were submerged by their greater hatred for the red men, and especially for the Zodangans, who had for years waged a ruthless campaign of extermination against the green men, directing special attention toward despoiling their incubators. Now that we were before Zodanga the task of obtaining entry to the city devolved upon me, and directing Tars Tarkas to hold his forces in two divisions out of earshot of the city, with each division opposite a large gateway, I took twenty dismounted warriors and approached one of the small gates that pierced the walls at short intervals. These gates have no regular guard, but are covered by sentries, who patrol the avenue that encircles the city just within the walls as our metropolitan police patrol their beats. The walls of Zodanga are seventy-five feet in height and fifty feet thick. They are built of enormous blocks of carborundum, and the task of entering the city seemed, to my escort of green warriors, an impossibility. The fellows who had been detailed to accompany me were of one of the smaller hordes, and therefore did not know me. Placing three of them with their faces to the wall and arms locked, I commanded two more to mount to their shoulders, and a sixth I ordered to climb upon the shoulders of the upper two. The head of the topmost warrior towered over forty feet from the ground. In this way, with ten warriors, I built a series of three steps from the ground to the shoulders of the topmost man. Then starting from a short distance behind them I ran swiftly up from one tier to the next, and with a final bound from the broad shoulders of the highest I clutched the top of the great wall and quietly drew myself to its broad expanse. After me I dragged six lengths of leather from an equal number of my warriors. These lengths we had previously fastened together, and passing one end to the topmost warrior I lowered the other end cautiously over the opposite side of the wall toward the avenue below. No one was in sight, so, lowering myself to the end of my leather strap, I dropped the remaining thirty feet to the pavement below. I had learned from Kantos Kan the secret of opening these gates, and in another moment my twenty great fighting men stood within the doomed city of Zodanga. I found to my delight that I had entered at the lower boundary of the enormous palace grounds. The building itself showed in the distance a blaze of glorious light, and on the instant I determined to lead a detachment of warriors directly within the palace itself, while the balance of the great horde was attacking the barracks of the soldiery. Dispatching one of my men to Tars Tarkas for a detail of fifty Tharks, with word of my intentions, I ordered ten warriors to capture and open one of the great gates while with the nine remaining I took the other. We were to do our work quietly, no shots were to be fired and no general advance made until I had reached the palace with my fifty Tharks. Our plans worked to perfection. The two sentries we met were dispatched to their fathers upon the banks of the lost sea of Korus, and the guards at both gates followed them in silence. CHAPTER XXV THE LOOTING OF ZODANGA As the great gate where I stood swung open my fifty Tharks, headed by Tars Tarkas himself, rode in upon their mighty thoats. I led them to the palace walls, which I negotiated easily without assistance. Once inside, however, the gate gave me considerable trouble, but I finally was rewarded by seeing it swing upon its huge hinges, and soon my fierce escort was riding across the gardens of the jeddak of Zodanga. As we approached the palace I could see through the great windows of the first floor into the brilliantly illuminated audience chamber of Than Kosis. The immense hall was crowded with nobles and their women, as though some important function was in progress. There was not a guard in sight without the palace, due, I presume, to the fact that the city and palace walls were considered impregnable, and so I came close and peered within. At one end of the chamber, upon massive golden thrones encrusted with diamonds, sat Than Kosis and his consort, surrounded by officers and dignitaries of state. Before them stretched a broad aisle lined on either side with soldiery, and as I looked there entered this aisle at the far end of the hall, the head of a procession which advanced to the foot of the throne. First there marched four officers of the jeddak's Guard bearing a huge salver on which reposed, upon a cushion of scarlet silk, a great golden chain with a collar and padlock at each end. Directly behind these officers came four others carrying a similar salver which supported the magnificent ornaments of a prince and princess of the reigning house of Zodanga. At the foot of the throne these two parties separated and halted, facing each other at opposite sides of the aisle. Then came more dignitaries, and the officers of the palace and of the army, and finally two figures entirely muffled in scarlet silk, so that not a feature of either was discernible. These two stopped at the foot of the throne, facing Than Kosis. When the balance of the procession had entered and assumed their stations Than Kosis addressed the couple standing before him. I could not hear his words, but presently two officers advanced and removed the scarlet robe from one of the figures, and I saw that Kantos Kan had failed in his mission, for it was Sab Than, Prince of Zodanga, who stood revealed before me. Than Kosis now took a set of the ornaments from one of the salvers and placed one of the collars of gold about his son's neck, springing the padlock fast. After a few more words addressed to Sab Than he turned to the other figure, from which the officers now removed the enshrouding silks, disclosing to my now comprehending view Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium. The object of the ceremony was clear to me; in another moment Dejah Thoris would be joined forever to the Prince of Zodanga. It was an impressive and beautiful ceremony, I presume, but to me it seemed the most fiendish sight I had ever witnessed, and as the ornaments were adjusted upon her beautiful figure and her collar of gold swung open in the hands of Than Kosis I raised my long-sword above my head, and, with the heavy hilt, I shattered the glass of the great window and sprang into the midst of the astonished assemblage. With a bound I was on the steps of the platform beside Than Kosis, and as he stood riveted with surprise I brought my long-sword down upon the golden chain that would have bound Dejah Thoris to another. In an instant all was confusion; a thousand drawn swords menaced me from every quarter, and Sab Than sprang upon me with a jeweled dagger he had drawn from his nuptial ornaments. I could have killed him as easily as I might a fly, but the age-old custom of Barsoom stayed my hand, and grasping his wrist as the dagger flew toward my heart I held him as though in a vise and with my long-sword pointed to the far end of the hall. "Zodanga has fallen," I cried. "Look!" All eyes turned in the direction I had indicated, and there, forging through the portals of the entranceway rode Tars Tarkas and his fifty warriors on their great thoats. A cry of alarm and amazement broke from the assemblage, but no word of fear, and in a moment the soldiers and nobles of Zodanga were hurling themselves upon the advancing Tharks. Thrusting Sab Than headlong from the platform, I drew Dejah Thoris to my side. Behind the throne was a narrow doorway and in this Than Kosis now stood facing me, with drawn long-sword. In an instant we were engaged, and I found no mean antagonist. As we circled upon the broad platform I saw Sab Than rushing up the steps to aid his father, but, as he raised his hand to strike, Dejah Thoris sprang before him and then my sword found the spot that made Sab Than jeddak of Zodanga. As his father rolled dead upon the floor the new jeddak tore himself free from Dejah Thoris' grasp, and again we faced each other. He was soon joined by a quartet of officers, and, with my back against a golden throne, I fought once again for Dejah Thoris. I was hard pressed to defend myself and yet not strike down Sab Than and, with him, my last chance to win the woman I loved. My blade was swinging with the rapidity of lightning as I sought to parry the thrusts and cuts of my opponents. Two I had disarmed, and one was down, when several more rushed to the aid of their new ruler, and to avenge the death of the old. As they advanced there were cries of "The woman! The woman! Strike her down; it is her plot. Kill her! Kill her!" Calling to Dejah Thoris to get behind me I worked my way toward the little doorway back of the throne, but the officers realized my intentions, and three of them sprang in behind me and blocked my chances for gaining a position where I could have defended Dejah Thoris against an army of swordsmen. The Tharks were having their hands full in the center of the room, and I began to realize that nothing short of a miracle could save Dejah Thoris and myself, when I saw Tars Tarkas surging through the crowd of pygmies that swarmed about him. With one swing of his mighty longsword he laid a dozen corpses at his feet, and so he hewed a pathway before him until in another moment he stood upon the platform beside me, dealing death and destruction right and left. The bravery of the Zodangans was awe-inspiring, not one attempted to escape, and when the fighting ceased it was because only Tharks remained alive in the great hall, other than Dejah Thoris and myself. Sab Than lay dead beside his father, and the corpses of the flower of Zodangan nobility and chivalry covered the floor of the bloody shambles. My first thought when the battle was over was for Kantos Kan, and leaving Dejah Thoris in charge of Tars Tarkas I took a dozen warriors and hastened to the dungeons beneath the palace. The jailers had all left to join the fighters in the throne room, so we searched the labyrinthine prison without opposition. I called Kantos Kan's name aloud in each new corridor and compartment, and finally I was rewarded by hearing a faint response. Guided by the sound, we soon found him helpless in a dark recess. He was overjoyed at seeing me, and to know the meaning of the fight, faint echoes of which had reached his prison cell. He told me that the air patrol had captured him before he reached the high tower of the palace, so that he had not even seen Sab Than. We discovered that it would be futile to attempt to cut away the bars and chains which held him prisoner, so, at his suggestion I returned to search the bodies on the floor above for keys to open the padlocks of his cell and of his chains. Fortunately among the first I examined I found his jailer, and soon we had Kantos Kan with us in the throne room. The sounds of heavy firing, mingled with shouts and cries, came to us from the city's streets, and Tars Tarkas hastened away to direct the fighting without. Kantos Kan accompanied him to act as guide, the green warriors commencing a thorough search of the palace for other Zodangans and for loot, and Dejah Thoris and I were left alone. She had sunk into one of the golden thrones, and as I turned to her she greeted me with a wan smile. "Was there ever such a man!" she exclaimed. "I know that Barsoom has never before seen your like. Can it be that all Earth men are as you? Alone, a stranger, hunted, threatened, persecuted, you have done in a few short months what in all the past ages of Barsoom no man has ever done: joined together the wild hordes of the sea bottoms and brought them to fight as allies of a red Martian people." "The answer is easy, Dejah Thoris," I replied smiling. "It was not I who did it, it was love, love for Dejah Thoris, a power that would work greater miracles than this you have seen." A pretty flush overspread her face and she answered, "You may say that now, John Carter, and I may listen, for I am free." "And more still I have to say, ere it is again too late," I returned. "I have done many strange things in my life, many things that wiser men would not have dared, but never in my wildest fancies have I dreamed of winning a Dejah Thoris for myself—for never had I dreamed that in all the universe dwelt such a woman as the Princess of Helium. That you are a princess does not abash me, but that you are you is enough to make me doubt my sanity as I ask you, my princess, to be mine." "He does not need to be abashed who so well knew the answer to his plea before the plea were made," she replied, rising and placing her dear hands upon my shoulders, and so I took her in my arms and kissed her. And thus in the midst of a city of wild conflict, filled with the alarms of war; with death and destruction reaping their terrible harvest around her, did Dejah Thoris, Princess of Helium, true daughter of Mars, the God of War, promise herself in marriage to John Carter, Gentleman of Virginia. CHAPTER XXVI THROUGH CARNAGE TO JOY Sometime later Tars Tarkas and Kantos Kan returned to report that Zodanga had been completely reduced. Her forces were entirely destroyed or captured, and no further resistance was to be expected from within. Several battleships had escaped, but there were thousands of war and merchant vessels under guard of Thark warriors. The lesser hordes had commenced looting and quarreling among themselves, so it was decided that we collect what warriors we could, man as many vessels as possible with Zodangan prisoners and make for Helium without further loss of time. Five hours later we sailed from the roofs of the dock buildings with a fleet of two hundred and fifty battleships, carrying nearly one hundred thousand green warriors, followed by a fleet of transports with our thoats. Behind us we left the stricken city in the fierce and brutal clutches of some forty thousand green warriors of the lesser hordes. They were looting, murdering, and fighting amongst themselves. In a hundred places they had applied the torch, and columns of dense smoke were rising above the city as though to blot out from the eye of heaven the horrid sights beneath. In the middle of the afternoon we sighted the scarlet and yellow towers of Helium, and a short time later a great fleet of Zodangan battleships rose from the camps of the besiegers without the city, and advanced to meet us. The banners of Helium had been strung from stem to stern of each of our mighty craft, but the Zodangans did not need this sign to realize that we were enemies, for our green Martian warriors had opened fire upon them almost as they left the ground. With their uncanny marksmanship they raked the on-coming fleet with volley after volley. The twin cities of Helium, perceiving that we were friends, sent out hundreds of vessels to aid us, and then began the first real air battle I had ever witnessed. The vessels carrying our green warriors were kept circling above the contending fleets of Helium and Zodanga, since their batteries were useless in the hands of the Tharks who, having no navy, have no skill in naval gunnery. Their small-arm fire, however, was most effective, and the final outcome of the engagement was strongly influenced, if not wholly determined, by their presence. At first the two forces circled at the same altitude, pouring broadside after broadside into each other. Presently a great hole was torn in the hull of one of the immense battle craft from the Zodangan camp; with a lurch she turned completely over, the little figures of her crew plunging, turning and twisting toward the ground a thousand feet below; then with sickening velocity she tore after them, almost completely burying herself in the soft loam of the ancient sea bottom. A wild cry of exultation arose from the Heliumite squadron, and with redoubled ferocity they fell upon the Zodangan fleet. By a pretty maneuver two of the vessels of Helium gained a position above their adversaries, from which they poured upon them from their keel bomb batteries a perfect torrent of exploding bombs. Then, one by one, the battleships of Helium succeeded in rising above the Zodangans, and in a short time a number of the beleaguering battleships were drifting hopeless wrecks toward the high scarlet tower of greater Helium. Several others attempted to escape, but they were soon surrounded by thousands of tiny individual fliers, and above each hung a monster battleship of Helium ready to drop boarding parties upon their decks. Within but little more than an hour from the moment the victorious Zodangan squadron had risen to meet us from the camp of the besiegers the battle was over, and the remaining vessels of the conquered Zodangans were headed toward the cities of Helium under prize crews. There was an extremely pathetic side to the surrender of these mighty fliers, the result of an age-old custom which demanded that surrender should be signalized by the voluntary plunging to earth of the commander of the vanquished vessel. One after another the brave fellows, holding their colors high above their heads, leaped from the towering bows of their mighty craft to an awful death. Not until the commander of the entire fleet took the fearful plunge, thus indicating the surrender of the remaining vessels, did the fighting cease, and the useless sacrifice of brave men come to an end. We now signaled the flagship of Helium's navy to approach, and when she was within hailing distance I called out that we had the Princess Dejah Thoris on board, and that we wished to transfer her to the flagship that she might be taken immediately to the city. As the full import of my announcement bore in upon them a great cry arose from the decks of the flagship, and a moment later the colors of the Princess of Helium broke from a hundred points upon her upper works. When the other vessels of the squadron caught the meaning of the signals flashed them they took up the wild acclaim and unfurled her colors in the gleaming sunlight. The flagship bore down upon us, and as she swung gracefully to and touched our side a dozen officers sprang upon our decks. As their astonished gaze fell upon the hundreds of green warriors, who now came forth from the fighting shelters, they stopped aghast, but at sight of Kantos Kan, who advanced to meet them, they came forward, crowding about him. Dejah Thoris and I then advanced, and they had no eyes for other than her. She received them gracefully, calling each by name, for they were men high in the esteem and service of her grandfather, and she knew them well. "Lay your hands upon the shoulder of John Carter," she said to them, turning toward me, "the man to whom Helium owes her princess as well as her victory today." They were very courteous to me and said many kind and complimentary things, but what seemed to impress them most was that I had won the aid of the fierce Tharks in my campaign for the liberation of Dejah Thoris, and the relief of Helium. "You owe your thanks more to another man than to me," I said, "and here he is; meet one of Barsoom's greatest soldiers and statesmen, Tars Tarkas, Jeddak of Thark." With the same polished courtesy that had marked their manner toward me they extended their greetings to the great Thark, nor, to my surprise, was he much behind them in ease of bearing or in courtly speech. Though not a garrulous race, the Tharks are extremely formal, and their ways lend themselves amazingly to dignified and courtly manners. Dejah Thoris went aboard the flagship, and was much put out that I would not follow, but, as I explained to her, the battle was but partly won; we still had the land forces of the besieging Zodangans to account for, and I would not leave Tars Tarkas until that had been accomplished. The commander of the naval forces of Helium promised to arrange to have the armies of Helium attack from the city in conjunction with our land attack, and so the vessels separated and Dejah Thoris was borne in triumph back to the court of her grandfather, Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium. In the distance lay our fleet of transports, with the thoats of the green warriors, where they had remained during the battle. Without landing stages it was to be a difficult matter to unload these beasts upon the open plain, but there was nothing else for it, and so we put out for a point about ten miles from the city and began the task. It was necessary to lower the animals to the ground in slings and this work occupied the remainder of the day and half the night. Twice we were attacked by parties of Zodangan cavalry, but with little loss, however, and after darkness shut down they withdrew. As soon as the last thoat was unloaded Tars Tarkas gave the command to advance, and in three parties we crept upon the Zodangan camp from the north, the south and the east. About a mile from the main camp we encountered their outposts and, as had been prearranged, accepted this as the signal to charge. With wild, ferocious cries and amidst the nasty squealing of battle-enraged thoats we bore down upon the Zodangans. We did not catch them napping, but found a well-entrenched battle line confronting us. Time after time we were repulsed until, toward noon, I began to fear for the result of the battle. The Zodangans numbered nearly a million fighting men, gathered from pole to pole, wherever stretched their ribbon-like waterways, while pitted against them were less than a hundred thousand green warriors. The forces from Helium had not arrived, nor could we receive any word from them. Just at noon we heard heavy firing all along the line between the Zodangans and the cities, and we knew then that our much-needed reinforcements had come. Again Tars Tarkas ordered the charge, and once more the mighty thoats bore their terrible riders against the ramparts of the enemy. At the same moment the battle line of Helium surged over the opposite breastworks of the Zodangans and in another moment they were being crushed as between two millstones. Nobly they fought, but in vain. The plain before the city became a veritable shambles ere the last Zodangan surrendered, but finally the carnage ceased, the prisoners were marched back to Helium, and we entered the greater city's gates, a huge triumphal procession of conquering heroes. The broad avenues were lined with women and children, among which were the few men whose duties necessitated that they remain within the city during the battle. We were greeted with an endless round of applause and showered with ornaments of gold, platinum, silver, and precious jewels. The city had gone mad with joy. My fierce Tharks caused the wildest excitement and enthusiasm. Never before had an armed body of green warriors entered the gates of Helium, and that they came now as friends and allies filled the red men with rejoicing. That my poor services to Dejah Thoris had become known to the Heliumites was evidenced by the loud crying of my name, and by the loads of ornaments that were fastened upon me and my huge thoat as we passed up the avenues to the palace, for even in the face of the ferocious appearance of Woola the populace pressed close about me. As we approached this magnificent pile we were met by a party of officers who greeted us warmly and requested that Tars Tarkas and his jeds with the jeddaks and jeds of his wild allies, together with myself, dismount and accompany them to receive from Tardos Mors an expression of his gratitude for our services. At the top of the great steps leading up to the main portals of the palace stood the royal party, and as we reached the lower steps one of their number descended to meet us. He was an almost perfect specimen of manhood; tall, straight as an arrow, superbly muscled and with the carriage and bearing of a ruler of men. I did not need to be told that he was Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium. The first member of our party he met was Tars Tarkas and his first words sealed forever the new friendship between the races. "That Tardos Mors," he said, earnestly, "may meet the greatest living warrior of Barsoom is a priceless honor, but that he may lay his hand on the shoulder of a friend and ally is a far greater boon." "Jeddak of Helium," returned Tars Tarkas, "it has remained for a man of another world to teach the green warriors of Barsoom the meaning of friendship; to him we owe the fact that the hordes of Thark can understand you; that they can appreciate and reciprocate the sentiments so graciously expressed." Tardos Mors then greeted each of the green jeddaks and jeds, and to each spoke words of friendship and appreciation. As he approached me he laid both hands upon my shoulders. "Welcome, my son," he said; "that you are granted, gladly, and without one word of opposition, the most precious jewel in all Helium, yes, on all Barsoom, is sufficient earnest of my esteem." We were then presented to Mors Kajak, Jed of lesser Helium, and father of Dejah Thoris. He had followed close behind Tardos Mors and seemed even more affected by the meeting than had his father. He tried a dozen times to express his gratitude to me, but his voice choked with emotion and he could not speak, and yet he had, as I was to later learn, a reputation for ferocity and fearlessness as a fighter that was remarkable even upon warlike Barsoom. In common with all Helium he worshiped his daughter, nor could he think of what she had escaped without deep emotion. CHAPTER XXVII FROM JOY TO DEATH For ten days the hordes of Thark and their wild allies were feasted and entertained, and, then, loaded with costly presents and escorted by ten thousand soldiers of Helium commanded by Mors Kajak, they started on the return journey to their own lands. The jed of lesser Helium with a small party of nobles accompanied them all the way to Thark to cement more closely the new bonds of peace and friendship. Sola also accompanied Tars Tarkas, her father, who before all his chieftains had acknowledged her as his daughter. Three weeks later, Mors Kajak and his officers, accompanied by Tars Tarkas and Sola, returned upon a battleship that had been dispatched to Thark to fetch them in time for the ceremony which made Dejah Thoris and John Carter one. For nine years I served in the councils and fought in the armies of Helium as a prince of the house of Tardos Mors. The people seemed never to tire of heaping honors upon me, and no day passed that did not bring some new proof of their love for my princess, the incomparable Dejah Thoris. In a golden incubator upon the roof of our palace lay a snow-white egg. For nearly five years ten soldiers of the jeddak's Guard had constantly stood over it, and not a day passed when I was in the city that Dejah Thoris and I did not stand hand in hand before our little shrine planning for the future, when the delicate shell should break. Vivid in my memory is the picture of the last night as we sat there talking in low tones of the strange romance which had woven our lives together and of this wonder which was coming to augment our happiness and fulfill our hopes. In the distance we saw the bright-white light of an approaching airship, but we attached no special significance to so common a sight. Like a bolt of lightning it raced toward Helium until its very speed bespoke the unusual. Flashing the signals which proclaimed it a dispatch bearer for the jeddak, it circled impatiently awaiting the tardy patrol boat which must convoy it to the palace docks. Ten minutes after it touched at the palace a message called me to the council chamber, which I found filling with the members of that body. On the raised platform of the throne was Tardos Mors, pacing back and forth with tense-drawn face. When all were in their seats he turned toward us. "This morning," he said, "word reached the several governments of Barsoom that the keeper of the atmosphere plant had made no wireless report for two days, nor had almost ceaseless calls upon him from a score of capitals elicited a sign of response. "The ambassadors of the other nations asked us to take the matter in hand and hasten the assistant keeper to the plant. All day a thousand cruisers have been searching for him until just now one of them returns bearing his dead body, which was found in the pits beneath his house horribly mutilated by some assassin. "I do not need to tell you what this means to Barsoom. It would take months to penetrate those mighty walls, in fact the work has already commenced, and there would be little to fear were the engine of the pumping plant to run as it should and as they all have for hundreds of years; but the worst, we fear, has happened. The instruments show a rapidly decreasing air pressure on all parts of Barsoom—the engine has stopped." "My gentlemen," he concluded, "we have at best three days to live." There was absolute silence for several minutes, and then a young noble arose, and with his drawn sword held high above his head addressed Tardos Mors. "The men of Helium have prided themselves that they have ever shown Barsoom how a nation of red men should live, now is our opportunity to show them how they should die. Let us go about our duties as though a thousand useful years still lay before us." The chamber rang with applause and as there was nothing better to do than to allay the fears of the people by our example we went our ways with smiles upon our faces and sorrow gnawing at our hearts. When I returned to my palace I found that the rumor already had reached Dejah Thoris, so I told her all that I had heard. "We have been very happy, John Carter," she said, "and I thank whatever fate overtakes us that it permits us to die together." The next two days brought no noticeable change in the supply of air, but on the morning of the third day breathing became difficult at the higher altitudes of the rooftops. The avenues and plazas of Helium were filled with people. All business had ceased. For the most part the people looked bravely into the face of their unalterable doom. Here and there, however, men and women gave way to quiet grief. Toward the middle of the day many of the weaker commenced to succumb and within an hour the people of Barsoom were sinking by thousands into the unconsciousness which precedes death by asphyxiation. Dejah Thoris and I with the other members of the royal family had collected in a sunken garden within an inner courtyard of the palace. We conversed in low tones, when we conversed at all, as the awe of the grim shadow of death crept over us. Even Woola seemed to feel the weight of the impending calamity, for he pressed close to Dejah Thoris and to me, whining pitifully. The little incubator had been brought from the roof of our palace at request of Dejah Thoris and she sat gazing longingly upon the unknown little life that now she would never know. As it was becoming perceptibly difficult to breathe Tardos Mors arose, saying, "Let us bid each other farewell. The days of the greatness of Barsoom are over. Tomorrow's sun will look down upon a dead world which through all eternity must go swinging through the heavens peopled not even by memories. It is the end." He stooped and kissed the women of his family, and laid his strong hand upon the shoulders of the men. As I turned sadly from him my eyes fell upon Dejah Thoris. Her head was drooping upon her breast, to all appearances she was lifeless. With a cry I sprang to her and raised her in my arms. Her eyes opened and looked into mine. "Kiss me, John Carter," she murmured. "I love you! I love you! It is cruel that we must be torn apart who were just starting upon a life of love and happiness." As I pressed her dear lips to mine the old feeling of unconquerable power and authority rose in me. The fighting blood of Virginia sprang to life in my veins. "It shall not be, my princess," I cried. "There is, there must be some way, and John Carter, who has fought his way through a strange world for love of you, will find it." And with my words there crept above the threshold of my conscious mind a series of nine long forgotten sounds. Like a flash of lightning in the darkness their full purport dawned upon me—the key to the three great doors of the atmosphere plant! Turning suddenly toward Tardos Mors as I still clasped my dying love to my breast I cried. "A flier, Jeddak! Quick! Order your swiftest flier to the palace top. I can save Barsoom yet." He did not wait to question, but in an instant a guard was racing to the nearest dock and though the air was thin and almost gone at the rooftop they managed to launch the fastest one-man, air-scout machine that the skill of Barsoom had ever produced. Kissing Dejah Thoris a dozen times and commanding Woola, who would have followed me, to remain and guard her, I bounded with my old agility and strength to the high ramparts of the palace, and in another moment I was headed toward the goal of the hopes of all Barsoom. I had to fly low to get sufficient air to breathe, but I took a straight course across an old sea bottom and so had to rise only a few feet above the ground. I traveled with awful velocity for my errand was a race against time with death. The face of Dejah Thoris hung always before me. As I turned for a last look as I left the palace garden I had seen her stagger and sink upon the ground beside the little incubator. That she had dropped into the last coma which would end in death, if the air supply remained unreplenished, I well knew, and so, throwing caution to the winds, I flung overboard everything but the engine and compass, even to my ornaments, and lying on my belly along the deck with one hand on the steering wheel and the other pushing the speed lever to its last notch I split the thin air of dying Mars with the speed of a meteor. An hour before dark the great walls of the atmosphere plant loomed suddenly before me, and with a sickening thud I plunged to the ground before the small door which was withholding the spark of life from the inhabitants of an entire planet. Beside the door a great crew of men had been laboring to pierce the wall, but they had scarcely scratched the flint-like surface, and now most of them lay in the last sleep from which not even air would awaken them. Conditions seemed much worse here than at Helium, and it was with difficulty that I breathed at all. There were a few men still conscious, and to one of these I spoke. "If I can open these doors is there a man who can start the engines?" I asked. "I can," he replied, "if you open quickly. I can last but a few moments more. But it is useless, they are both dead and no one else upon Barsoom knew the secret of these awful locks. For three days men crazed with fear have surged about this portal in vain attempts to solve its mystery." I had no time to talk, I was becoming very weak and it was with difficulty that I controlled my mind at all. But, with a final effort, as I sank weakly to my knees I hurled the nine thought waves at that awful thing before me. The Martian had crawled to my side and with staring eyes fixed on the single panel before us we waited in the silence of death. Slowly the mighty door receded before us. I attempted to rise and follow it but I was too weak. "After it," I cried to my companion, "and if you reach the pump room turn loose all the pumps. It is the only chance Barsoom has to exist tomorrow!" From where I lay I opened the second door, and then the third, and as I saw the hope of Barsoom crawling weakly on hands and knees through the last doorway I sank unconscious upon the ground. CHAPTER XXVIII AT THE ARIZONA CAVE It was dark when I opened my eyes again. Strange, stiff garments were upon my body; garments that cracked and powdered away from me as I rose to a sitting posture. I felt myself over from head to foot and from head to foot I was clothed, though when I fell unconscious at the little doorway I had been naked. Before me was a small patch of moonlit sky which showed through a ragged aperture. As my hands passed over my body they came in contact with pockets and in one of these a small parcel of matches wrapped in oiled paper. One of these matches I struck, and its dim flame lighted up what appeared to be a huge cave, toward the back of which I discovered a strange, still figure huddled over a tiny bench. As I approached it I saw that it was the dead and mummified remains of a little old woman with long black hair, and the thing it leaned over was a small charcoal burner upon which rested a round copper vessel containing a small quantity of greenish powder. Behind her, depending from the roof upon rawhide thongs, and stretching entirely across the cave, was a row of human skeletons. From the thong which held them stretched another to the dead hand of the little old woman; as I touched the cord the skeletons swung to the motion with a noise as of the rustling of dry leaves. It was a most grotesque and horrid tableau and I hastened out into the fresh air; glad to escape from so gruesome a place. The sight that met my eyes as I stepped out upon a small ledge which ran before the entrance of the cave filled me with consternation. A new heaven and a new landscape met my gaze. The silvered mountains in the distance, the almost stationary moon hanging in the sky, the cacti-studded valley below me were not of Mars. I could scarce believe my eyes, but the truth slowly forced itself upon me—I was looking upon Arizona from the same ledge from which ten years before I had gazed with longing upon Mars. Burying my head in my arms I turned, broken, and sorrowful, down the trail from the cave. Above me shone the red eye of Mars holding her awful secret, forty-eight million miles away. Did the Martian reach the pump room? Did the vitalizing air reach the people of that distant planet in time to save them? Was my Dejah Thoris alive, or did her beautiful body lie cold in death beside the tiny golden incubator in the sunken garden of the inner courtyard of the palace of Tardos Mors, the jeddak of Helium? For ten years I have waited and prayed for an answer to my questions. For ten years I have waited and prayed to be taken back to the world of my lost love. I would rather lie dead beside her there than live on Earth all those millions of terrible miles from her. The old mine, which I found untouched, has made me fabulously wealthy; but what care I for wealth! As I sit here tonight in my little study overlooking the Hudson, just twenty years have elapsed since I first opened my eyes upon Mars. I can see her shining in the sky through the little window by my desk, and tonight she seems calling to me again as she has not called before since that long dead night, and I think I can see, across that awful abyss of space, a beautiful black-haired woman standing in the garden of a palace, and at her side is a little boy who puts his arm around her as she points into the sky toward the planet Earth, while at their feet is a huge and hideous creature with a heart of gold. I believe that they are waiting there for me, and something tells me that I shall soon know.

AYN RAND 


THE FOUNTAINHEAD 

To Frank O'Connor 

Copyright (c) 1943 The Bobbs-Merrill Company 
Copyright (c) renewed 1971 by Ayn Rand. 

All rights reserved. For information address The Bobbs-Merrill Company, a division of 
Macmillan, Inc., 866 Third Avenue, New York, New York 1 0022. 


Introduction to the Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition 


Many people have asked me how I feel about the fact that The Fountainhead has been in print 
for twenty-five years. I cannot say that I feel anything in particular, except a kind of quiet 
satisfaction. In this respect, my attitude toward my writing is best expressed by a statement of 
Victor Hugo: "If a writer wrote merely for his time, I would have to break my pen and throw it 
away." 

Certain writers, of whom I am one, do not live, think or write on the range of the moment. 
Novels, in the proper sense of the word, are not written to vanish in a month or a year. That 
most of them do, today, that they are written and published as if they were magazines, to fade 
as rapidly, is one of the sorriest aspects of today's literature, and one of the clearest 
indictments of its dominant esthetic philosophy: concrete-bound, journalistic Naturalism which 
has now reached its dead end in the inarticulate sounds of panic. 

Longevity-predominantly, though not exclusively-is the prerogative of a literary school which is 
virtually non-existent today: Romanticism. This is not the place for a dissertation on the nature 
of Romantic fiction, so let me state-for the record and for the benefit of those college students 
who have never been allowed to discover it-only that Romanticism is the conceptual school of 
art. It deals, not with the random trivia of the day, but with the timeless, fundamental, universal 
problems and values of human existence. It does not record or photograph; it creates and 
projects. It is concerned-in the words of Aristotle-not with things as they are, but with things 
as they might be and ought to be. 

And for the benefit of those who consider relevance to one's own time as of crucial 
importance, I will add, in regard to our age, that never has there been a time when men have 
so desperately needed a projection of things as they ought to be. 

I do not mean to imply that I knew, when I wrote it, that The Fountainhead would remain in 
print for twenty-five years. I did not think of any specific time period. I knew only that it was a 
book that ought to live. It did. 

But that I knew it over twenty-five years ago-that I knew it while The Fountainhead was being 
rejected by twelve publishers, some of whom declared that it was "too intellectual," 

"too controversial" and would not sell because no audience existed for it-that was the difficult 
part of its history; difficult for me to bear. I mention it here for the sake of any other writer of 
my kind who might have to face the same battle-as a reminder of the fact that it can be done. 

It would be impossible for me to discuss The Fountainhead or any part of its history without 
mentioning the man who made it possible for me to write it: my husband, Frank O'Connor. 

In a play I wrote in my early thirties, Ideal, the heroine, a screen star, speaks for me when she 



says: "I want to see, real, living, and in the hours of my own days, that glory I create as an 
illusion. I want it real. I want to know that there is someone, somewhere, who wants it, too. Or 
else what is the use of seeing it, and working, and burning oneself for an impossible vision? A 
spirit, too, needs fuel. It can run dry." 

Frank was the fuel. He gave me, in the hours of my own days, the reality of that sense of life, 
which created The Fountainhead--and he helped me to maintain it over a long span of years 
when there was nothing around us but a gray desert of people and events that evoked nothing 
but contempt and revulsion. The essence of the bond between us is the fact that neither of us 
has ever wanted or been tempted to settle for anything less than the world presented in The 
Fountainhead. We never will. 

If there is in me any touch of the Naturalistic writer who records "real-life" dialogue for use in a 
novel, it has been exercised only in regard to Frank. For instance, one of the most effective 
lines in The Fountainhead comes at the end of Part II, when, in reply to Toohey's question: 
"Why don't you tell me what you think of me?" Roark answers: "But I don't think of you." That 
line was Frank's answer to a different type of person, in a somewhat similar context. "You're 
casting pearls without getting even a pork chop in return," was said by Frank to me, in regard 
to my professional position. I gave that line to Dominique at Roark's trial. 

I did not feel discouragement very often, and when I did, it did not last longer than overnight. 
But there was one evening, during the writing of The Fountainhead, when I felt so profound an 
indignation at the state of "things as they are" that it seemed as if I would never regain the 
energy to move one step farther toward "things as they ought to be." Frank talked to me for 
hours, that night. He convinced me of why one cannot give up the world to those one 
despises. By the time he finished, my discouragement was gone; it never came back in so 
intense a form. 

I had been opposed to the practice of dedicating books; I had held that a book is addressed to 
any reader who proves worthy of it. But, that night, I told Frank that I would dedicate The 
Fountainhead to him because he had saved it. And one of my happiest moments, about two 
years later, was given to me by the look on his face when he came home, one day, and saw 
the page-proofs of the book, headed by the page that stated in cold, clear, objective print: To 
Frank O'Connor. 

I have been asked whether I have changed in these past twenty-five years. No, I am the 
same-only more so. Have my ideas changed? No, my fundamental convictions, my view of 
life and of man, have never changed, from as far back as I can remember, but my knowledge 
of their applications has grown, in scope and in precision. What is my present evaluation of 
The Fountainhead? I am as proud of it as I was on the day when I finished writing it. 

Was The Fountainhead written for the purpose of presenting my philosophy? Here, I shall 
quote from The Goal of My Writing, an address I gave at Lewis and Clark College, on October 
1 , 1 963: "This is the motive and purpose of my writing; the projection of an ideal man. The 
portrayal of a moral ideal, as my ultimate literary goal, as an end in itself-to which any 
didactic, intellectual or philosophical values contained in a novel are only the means. 

"Let me stress this: my purpose is not the philosophical enlightenment of my readers. ..My 
purpose, first cause and prime mover is the portrayal of Howard Roark [or the heroes of Atlas 
Shrugged} as an end in himself... 

"I write-and read-for the sake of the story.. .My basic test for any story is: ’Would I want to 
meet these characters and observe these events in real life? Is this story an experience worth 
living through for its own sake? Is the pleasure of contemplating these characters an end in 
itself?'... 

"Since my purpose is the presentation of an ideal man, I had to define and present the 
conditions which make him possible and which his existence requires. Since man’s character 
is the product of his premises, I had to define and present the kinds of premises and values 
that create the character of an ideal man and motivate his actions; which means that I had to 
define and present a rational code of ethics. Since man acts among and deals with other men, 
I had to present the kind of social system that makes it possible for ideal men to exist and to 
function-a free, productive, rational system which demands and rewards the best in every 



man, and which is, obviously, laissez-faire capitalism. 


"But neither politics nor ethics nor philosophy is an end in itself, neither in life nor in literature. 
Only Man is an end in himself." 

Are there any substantial changes I would want to make in The Fountainhead? No-and, 
therefore, I have left its text untouched. I want it to stand as it was written. But there is one 
minor error and one possibly misleading sentence which I should like to clarify, so I shall 
mention them here. 

The error is semantic: the use of the word "egotist" in Roark's courtroom speech, while 
actually the word should have been "egoist." The error was caused by my reliance on a 
dictionary which gave such misleading definitions of these two words that "egotist" seemed 
closer to the meaning I intended (Webster's Daily Use Dictionary, 1933). (Modern 
philosophers, however, are guiltier than lexicographers in regard to these two terms.) 

The possibly misleading sentence is in Roark's speech: "From this simplest necessity to the 
highest religious abstraction, from the wheel to the skyscraper, everything we are and 
everything we have comes from a single attribute of man-the function of his reasoning mind." 

This could be misinterpreted to mean an endorsement of religion or religious ideas. I 
remember hesitating over that sentence, when I wrote it, and deciding that Roark's and my 
atheism, as well as the overall spirit of the book, were so clearly established that no one would 
misunderstand it, particularly since I said that religious abstractions are the product of man's 
mind, not of supernatural revelation. 

But an issue of this sort should not be left to implications. What I was referring to was not 
religion as such, but a special category of abstractions, the most exalted one, which, for 
centuries, had been the near-monopoly of religion: ethics-not the particular content of 
religious ethics, but the abstraction "ethics," the realm of values, man's code of good and evil, 
with the emotional connotations of height, uplift, nobility, reverence, grandeur, which pertain to 
the realm of man’s values, but which religion has arrogated to itself. 

The same meaning and considerations were intended and are applicable to another passage 
of the book, a brief dialogue between Roark and Hopton Stoddard, which may be 
misunderstood if taken out of context: 

’"You’re a profoundly religious man, Mr. Roark-in your own way. I can see that in your 
buildings.' 

'"That's true,' said Roark." 

In the context of that scene, however, the meaning is clear: it is Roark's profound dedication 
to values, to the highest and best, to the ideal, that Stoddard is referring to (see his 
explanation of the nature of the proposed temple). The erection of the Stoddard Temple and 
the subsequent trial state the issue explicitly. 

This leads me to a wider issue which is involved in every line of The Fountainhead and which 
has to be understood if one wants to understand the causes of its lasting appeal. 

Religion's monopoly in the field of ethics has made it extremely difficult to communicate the 
emotional meaning and connotations of a rational view of life. Just as religion has preempted 
the field of ethics, turning morality against man, so it has usurped the highest moral concepts 
of our language, placing them outside this earth and beyond man's reach. "Exaltation" is 
usually taken to mean an emotional state evoked by contemplating the supernatural. 

"Worship" means the emotional experience of loyalty and dedication to something higher than 
man. "Reverence" means the emotion of a sacred respect, to be experienced on one's knees. 
"Sacred" means superior to and not-to-be-touched-by any concerns of man or of this earth. 
Etc. 

But such concepts do name actual emotions, even though no supernatural dimension exists; 
and these emotions are experienced as uplifting or ennobling, without the self-abasement 
required by religious definitions. What, then, is their source or referent in reality? It is the entire 



emotional realm of man's dedication to a moral ideal. Yet apart from the man-degrading 
aspects introduced by religion, that emotional realm is left unidentified, without concepts, 
words or recognition. 

It is this highest level of man's emotions that has to be redeemed from the murk of mysticism 
and redirected at its proper object: man. 

It is in this sense, with this meaning and intention, that I would identify the sense of life 
dramatized in The Fountainhead as man-worship. 

It is an emotion that a few-a very few-men experience consistently; some men experience it 
in rare, single sparks that flash and die without consequences; some do not know what I am 
talking about; some do and spend their lives as frantically virulent spark-extinguishers. 

Do not confuse "man-worship" with the many attempts, not to emancipate morality from 
religion and bring it into the realm of reason, but to substitute a secular meaning for the worst, 
the most profoundly irrational elements of religion. For instance, there are all the variants of 
modern collectivism (communist, fascist, Nazi, etc.), which preserve the religious-altruist 
ethics in full and merely substitute "society" for God as the beneficiary of man's self- 
immolation. There are the various schools of modern philosophy which, rejecting the law of 
identity, proclaim that reality is an indeterminate flux ruled by miracles and shaped by whims- 
not God's whims, but man's or "society's." These neo-mystics are not man-worshipers; they 
are merely the secularizers of as profound a hatred for man as that of their avowedly mystic 
predecessors. 

A cruder variant of the same hatred is represented by those concrete-bound, "statistical" 
mentalities who-unable to grasp the meaning of man's volition-declare that man cannot be 
an object of worship, since they have never encountered any specimens of humanity who 
deserved it. 

The man-worshipers, in my sense of the term, are those who see man's highest potential and 
strive to actualize it. The man-haters are those who regard man as a helpless, depraved, 
contemptible creature-and struggle never to let him discover otherwise. It is important here to 
remember that the only direct, introspective knowledge of man anyone possesses is of 
himself. 

More specifically, the essential division between these two camps is: those dedicated to the 
exaltation of man's self-esteem and the sacredness of his happiness on earth-and those 
determined not to allow either to become possible. The majority of mankind spend their lives 
and psychological energy in the middle, swinging between these two, struggling not to allow 
the issue to be named. This does not change the nature of the issue. 

Perhaps the best way to communicate The Fountainhead's sense of life is by means of the 
quotation which had stood at the head of my manuscript, but which I removed from the final, 
published book. With this opportunity to explain it, I am glad to bring it back. 

I removed it, because of my profound disagreement with the philosophy of its author, Friedrich 
Nietzsche. Philosophically, Nietzsche is a mystic and an irrationalist. His metaphysics consists 
of a somewhat "Byronic" and mystically "malevolent" universe; his epistemology subordinates 
reason to "will," or feeling or instinct or blood or innate virtues of character. But, as a poet, he 
projects at times (not consistently) a magnificent feeling for man's greatness, expressed in 
emotional, not intellectual terms. 

This is especially true of the quotation I had chosen. I could not endorse its literal meaning: it 
proclaims an indefensible tenet-psychological determinism. But if one takes it as a poetic 
projection of an emotional experience (and if, intellectually, one substitutes the concept of an 
acquired "basic premise" for the concept of an innate "fundamental certainty"), then that 
quotation communicates the inner state of an exalted self-esteem-and sums up the emotional 
consequences for which The Fountainhead provides the rational, philosophical base: 

"It is not the works, but the belief which is here decisive and determines the order of rank-to 
employ once more an old religious formula with a new and deeper meaning, -it is some 
fundamental certainty which a noble soul has about itself, something which is not to be 



sought, is not to be found, and perhaps, also, is not to be lost.--The noble soul has reverence 
for itself.-" (Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil.) 


This view of man has rarely been expressed in human history. Today, it is virtually non- 
existent. Yet this is the view with which-in various degrees of longing, wistfulness, passion 
and agonized confusion-the best of mankind's youth start out in life. It is not even a view, for 
most of them, but a foggy, groping, undefined sense made of raw pain and incommunicable 
happiness. It is a sense of enormous expectation, the sense that one's life is important, that 
great achievements are within one's capacity, and that great things lie ahead. 

It is not in the nature of man-nor of any living entity-to start out by giving up, by spitting in 
one's own face and damning existence; that requires a process of corruption whose rapidity 
differs from man to man. Some give up at the first touch of pressure; some sell out; some run 
down by imperceptible degrees and lose their fire, never knowing when or how they lost it. 
Then all of these vanish in the vast swamp of their elders who tell them persistently that 
maturity consists of abandoning one's mind; security, of abandoning one's values; practicality, 
of losing self-esteem. Yet a few hold on and move on, knowing that that fire is not to be 
betrayed, learning how to give it shape, purpose and reality. But whatever their future, at the 
dawn of their lives, men seek a noble vision of man's nature and of life's potential. 

There are very few guideposts to find. The Fountainhead is one of them. 

This is one of the cardinal reasons of The Fountainhead's lasting appeal: it is a confirmation of 
the spirit of youth, proclaiming man's glory, showing how much is possible. 

It does not matter that only a few in each generation will grasp and achieve the full reality of 
man's proper stature-and that the rest will betray it. It is those few that move the world and 
give life its meaning-and it is those few that I have always sought to address. The rest are no 
concern of mine; it is not me or The Fountainhead that they will betray: it is their own souls. 

AYN RAND New York, May 1968 


CONTENTS 
PART ONE 
Peter Keating 
PART TWO 
Ellsworth M. Toohey 
PART THREE 
Gail Wynand 
PART FOUR 
Howard Roark 


I offer my profound gratitude to the great profession of architecture and its heroes who have 
given us some of the highest expressions of man's genius, yet have remained unknown, 
undiscovered by the majority of men. And to the architects who gave me their generous 
assistance in the technical matters of this book. 

No person or event in this story is intended as a reference to any real person or event. The 
titles of the newspaper columns were invented and used by me in the first draft of this novel 
five years ago. They were not taken from and have no reference to any actual newspaper 
columns or features. 



-AYN RAND March 10, 1943 


Part One: PETER KEATING 


1. 

HOWARD ROARK laughed. 

He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite 
burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone- 
flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust 
and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with 
sunrays. 

The lake below was only a thin steel ring that cut the rocks in half. The rocks went on into the 
depth, unchanged. They began and ended in the sky. So that the world seemed suspended in 
space, an island floating on nothing, anchored to the feet of the man on the cliff. 

His body leaned back against the sky. It was a body of long straight lines and angles, each 
curve broken into planes. He stood, rigid, his hands hanging at his sides, palms out. He felt 
his shoulder blades drawn tight together, the curve of his neck, and the weight of the blood in 
his hands. He felt the wind behind him, in the hollow of his spine. The wind waved his hair 
against the sky. His hair was neither blond nor red, but the exact color of ripe orange rind. 

He laughed at the thing which had happened to him that morning and at the things which now 
lay ahead. 

He knew that the days ahead would be difficult. There were questions to be faced and a plan 
of action to be prepared. He knew that he should think about it. He knew also that he would 
not think, because everything was clear to him already, because the plan had been set long 
ago, and because he wanted to laugh. 

He tried to consider it. But he forgot. He was looking at the granite. 

He did not laugh as his eyes stopped in awareness of the earth around him. His face was like 
a law of nature-a thing one could not question, alter or implore. It had high cheekbones 
over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the 
mouth of an executioner or a saint. 

He looked at the granite. To be cut, he thought, and made into walls. He looked at a tree. To 
be split and made into rafters. He looked at a streak of rust on the stone and thought of iron 
ore under the ground. To be melted and to emerge as girders against the sky. 

These rocks, he thought, are here for me; waiting for the drill, the dynamite and my voice; 
waiting to be split, ripped, pounded, reborn; waiting for the shape my hands will give them. 

Then he shook his head, because he remembered that morning and that there were many 
things to be done. He stepped to the edge, raised his arms, and dived down into the sky 
below. 

He cut straight across the lake to the shore ahead. He reached the rocks where he had left his 
clothes. He looked regretfully about him. For three years, ever since he had lived in Stanton, 
he had come here for his only relaxation, to swim, to rest, to think, to be alone and alive, 
whenever he could find one hour to spare, which had not been often. In his new freedom the 
first thing he had wanted to do was to come here, because he knew that he was coming for 
the last time. That morning he had been expelled from the Architectural School of the Stanton 
Institute of Technology. He pulled his clothes on: old denim trousers, sandals, a shirt with 
short sleeves and most of its buttons missing. He swung down a narrow trail among the 



boulders, to a path running through a green slope, to the road below. 


He walked swiftly, with a loose, lazy expertness of motion. He walked down the long road, in 
the sun. Far ahead Stanton lay sprawled on the coast of Massachusetts, a little town as a 
setting for the gem of its existence--the great institute rising on a hill beyond. 

The township of Stanton began with a dump. A gray mound of refuse rose in the grass. It 
smoked faintly. Tin cans glittered in the sun. The road led past the first houses to a church. 
The church was a Gothic monument of shingles painted pigeon blue. It had stout wooden 
buttresses supporting nothing. It had stained-glass windows with heavy traceries of imitation 
stone. It opened the way into long streets edged by tight, exhibitionist lawns. Behind the lawns 
stood wooden piles tortured out of all shape: twisted into gables, turrets, dormers; bulging with 
porches; crushed under huge, sloping roofs. White curtains floated at the windows. A garbage 
can stood at a side door, flowing over. An old Pekinese sat upon a cushion on a door step, its 
mouth drooling. A line of diapers fluttered in the wind between the columns of a porch. 

People turned to look at Howard Roark as he passed. Some remained staring after him with 
sudden resentment. They could give no reason for it: it was an instinct his presence 
awakened in most people. Howard Roark saw no one. For him, the streets were empty. He 
could have walked there naked without concern. He crossed the heart of Stanton, a broad 
green edged by shop windows. The windows displayed new placards announcing: 

WELCOME TO THE CLASS OF '22! GOOD LUCK, CLASS OF '22! The Class of '22 of the 
Stanton Institute of Technology was holding its commencement exercises that afternoon. 

Roark swung into a side street, where at the end of a long row, on a knoll over a green ravine, 
stood the house of Mrs. Keating. He had boarded at that house for three years. 

Mrs. Keating was out on the porch. She was feeding a couple of canaries in a cage 
suspended over the railing. Her pudgy little hand stopped in mid-air when she saw him. She 
watched him with curiosity. She tried to pull her mouth into a proper expression of sympathy; 
she succeeded only in betraying that the process was an effort. 

He was crossing the porch without noticing her. She stopped him. 

"Mr. Roark!" 

"Yes?" 

"Mr. Roark, I’m so sorry about-" she hesitated demurely, "-about what happened this 
morning." 

"What?" he asked. 

"Your being expelled from the Institute. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I only want you to know 
that I feel for you." 

He stood looking at her. She knew that he did not see her. No, she thought, it was not that 
exactly. He always looked straight at people and his damnable eyes never missed a thing, it 
was only that he made people feel as if they did not exist. He just stood looking. He would not 
answer. 

"But what I say," she continued, "is that if one suffers in this world, it's on account of error. Of 
course, you'll have to give up the architect profession now, won't you? But then a young man 
can always earn a decent living clerking or selling or something." 

He turned to go. 

"Oh, Mr. Roark!" she called. 

"Yes?" 

"The Dean phoned for you while you were out." 



For once, she expected some emotion from him; and an emotion would be the equivalent of 
seeing him broken. She did not know what it was about him that had always made her want to 
see him broken. 

"Yes?" he asked. 

"The Dean," she repeated uncertainly, trying to recapture her effect. "The Dean himself 
through his secretary." 

"Well?" 

"She said to tell you that the Dean wanted to see you immediately the moment you got back." 
"Thank you." 

"What do you suppose he can want now?" 

"I don't know." 

He had said: "I don't know." She had heard distinctly: "I don't give a damn." She stared at him 
incredulously. 

"By the way," she said, "Petey is graduating today." She said it without apparent relevance. 
"Today? Oh, yes." 

"It's a great day for me. When I think of how I skimped and slaved to put my boy through 
school. Not that I'm complaining. I'm not one to complain. Petey's a brilliant boy." 

She stood drawn up. Her stout little body was corseted so tightly under the starched folds of 
her cotton dress that it seemed to squeeze the fat out to her wrists and ankles. 

"But of course," she went on rapidly, with the eagerness of her favorite subject, "I'm not one to 
boast. Some mothers are lucky and others just aren't. We're all in our rightful place. You just 
watch Petey from now on. I'm not one to want my boy to kill himself with work and I'll thank the 
Lord for any small success that comes his way. But if that boy isn't the greatest architect of 
this U.S.A., his mother will want to know the reason why!" 

He moved to go. 

"But what am I doing, gabbing with you like that!" she said brightly. "You've got to hurry and 
change and run along. The Dean's waiting for you." 

She stood looking after him through the screen door, watching his gaunt figure move across 
the rigid neatness of her parlor. He always made her uncomfortable in the house, with a 
vague feeling of apprehension, as if she were waiting to see him swing out suddenly and 
smash her coffee tables, her Chinese vases, her framed photographs. He had never shown 
any inclination to do so. She kept expecting it, without knowing why. 

Roark went up the stairs to his room. It was a large, bare room, made luminous by the clean 
glow of whitewash. Mrs. Keating had never had the feeling that Roark really lived there. He 
had not added a single object to the bare necessities of furniture which she had provided; no 
pictures, no pennants, no cheering human touch. He had brought nothing to the room but his 
clothes and his drawings; there were few clothes and too many drawings; they were stacked 
high in one comer; sometimes she thought that the drawings lived there, not the man. 

Roark walked now to these drawings; they were the first things to be packed. He lifted one of 
them, then the next, then another. He stood looking at the broad sheets. 

They were sketches of buildings such as had never stood on the face of the earth. They were 
as the first houses built by the first man born, who had never heard of others building before 
him. There was nothing to be said of them, except that each structure was inevitably what it 



had to be. It was not as if the draftsman had sat over them, pondering laboriously, piecing 
together doors, windows and columns, as his whim dictated and as the books prescribed. It 
was as if the buildings had sprung from the earth and from some living force, complete, 
unalterably right. The hand that had made the sharp pencil lines still had much to learn. But 
not a line seemed superfluous, not a needed plane was missing. The structures were austere 
and simple, until one looked at them and realized what work, what complexity of method, what 
tension of thought had achieved the simplicity. No laws had dictated a single detail. The 
buildings were not Classical, they were not Gothic, they were not Renaissance. They were 
only Howard Roark. 

He stopped, looking at a sketch. It was one that had never satisfied him. He had designed it 
as an exercise he had given himself, apart from his schoolwork; he did that often when he 
found some particular site and stopped before it to think of what building it should bear. He 
had spent nights staring at this sketch, wondering what he had missed. Glancing at it now, 
unprepared, he saw the mistake he had made. 

He flung the sketch down on the table, he bent over it, he slashed lines straight through his 
neat drawing. He stopped once in a while and stood looking at it, his fingertips pressed to the 
paper; as if his hands held the building. His hands had long fingers, hard veins, prominent 
joints and wristbones. 

An hour later he heard a knock at his door. 

"Come in!" he snapped, without stopping. 

"Mr. Roark!" gasped Mrs. Keating, staring at him from the threshold. "What on earth are you 
doing?" 

He turned and looked at her, trying to remember who she was. 

"How about the Dean?" she moaned. "The Dean that's waiting for you?" 

"Oh," said Roark. "Oh, yes. I forgot." 

"You. ..forgot?" 

"Yes." There was a note of wonder in his voice, astonished by her astonishment. 

"Well, all I can say," she choked, "is that it serves you right! It just serves you right. And with 
the commencement beginning at four-thirty, how do you expect him to have time to see you?" 

"I'll go at once, Mrs. Keating." 

It was not her curiosity alone that prompted her to action; it was a secret fear that the 
sentence of the Board might be revoked. He went to the bathroom at the end of the hall; she 
watched him washing his hands, throwing his loose, straight hair back into a semblance of 
order. He came out again, he was on his way to the stairs before she realized that he was 
leaving. 

"Mr. Roark!" she gasped, pointing at his clothes. "You're not going like this?" 

"Why not?" 

"But it's your Dean!" 

"Not any more, Mrs. Keating." 

She thought, aghast, that he said it as if he were actually happy. 

The Stanton Institute of Technology stood on a hill, its crenelated walls raised as a crown over 
the city stretched below. It looked like a medieval fortress, with a Gothic cathedral grafted to 
its belly. The fortress was eminently suited to its purpose, with stout, brick walls, a few slits 
wide enough for sentries, ramparts behind which defending archers could hide, and corner 



turrets from which boiling oil could be poured upon the attacker-should such an emergency 
arise in an institute of learning. The cathedral rose over it in lace splendor, a fragile defense 
against two great enemies: light and air. 

The Dean's office looked like a chapel, a pool of dreamy twilight fed by one tall window of 
stained glass. The twilight flowed in through the garments of stiff saints, their arms contorted 
at the elbows. A red spot of light and a purple one rested respectively upon two genuine 
gargoyles squatting at the corners of a fireplace that had never been used. A green spot stood 
in the center of a picture of the Parthenon, suspended over the fireplace. 

When Roark entered the office, the outlines of the Dean's figure swam dimly behind his desk, 
which was carved like a confessional. He was a short, plumpish gentleman whose spreading 
flesh was held in check by an indomitable dignity. 

"Ah, yes, Roark," he smiled. "Do sit down, please." 

Roark sat down. The Dean entwined his fingers on his stomach and waited for the plea he 
expected. No plea came. The Dean cleared his throat. 

"It will be unnecessary for me to express my regret at the unfortunate event of this morning," 
he began, "since I take it for granted that you have always known my sincere interest in your 
welfare." 

"Quite unnecessary," said Roark. 

The Dean looked at him dubiously, but continued: 

"Needless to say, I did not vote against you. I abstained entirely. But you may be glad to know 
that you had quite a determined little group of defenders at the meeting. Small, but 
determined. Your professor of structural engineering acted quite the crusader on your behalf. 
So did your professor of mathematics. Unfortunately, those who felt it their duty to vote for 
your expulsion quite outnumbered the others. Professor Peterkin, your critic of design, made 
an issue of the matter. He went so far as to threaten us with his resignation unless you were 
expelled. You must realize that you have given Professor Peterkin great provocation." 

"I do," said Roark. 

"That, you see, was the trouble. I am speaking of your attitude towards the subject of 
architectural design. You have never given it the attention it deserves. And yet, you have been 
excellent in all the engineering sciences. Of course, no one denies the importance of 
structural engineering to a future architect, but why go to extremes? Why neglect what may be 
termed the artistic and inspirational side of your profession and concentrate on all those dry, 
technical, mathematical subjects? You intended to become an architect, not a civil engineer." 

"Isn't this superfluous?" Roark asked. "It's past. There's no point in discussing my choice of 
subjects now." 

"I am endeavoring to be helpful, Roark. You must be fair about this. You cannot say that you 
were not given many warnings before this happened." 

"I was." 

The Dean moved in his chair. Roark made him uncomfortable. Roark's eyes were fixed on 
him politely. The Dean thought, there's nothing wrong with the way he's looking at me, in fact 
it's quite correct, most properly attentive; only, it's as if I were not here. 

"Every problem you were given," the Dean went on, "every project you had to design-what did 
you do with it? Every one of them done in that-well, I cannot call it a style-in that incredible 
manner of yours. It is contrary to every principle we have tried to teach you, contrary to all 
established precedents and traditions of Art. You may think you are what is called a 
modernist, but it isn't even that. It is. ..it is sheer insanity, if you don't mind." 


I don't mind. 



"When you were given projects that left the choice of style up to you and you turned in one of 
your wild stunts-well, frankly, your teachers passed you because they did not know what to 
make of it. But, when you were given an exercise in the historical styles, a Tudor chapel or a 
French opera house to design-and you turned in something that looked like a lot of boxes 
piled together without rhyme or reason-would you say it was an answer to an assignment or 
plain insubordination?" 

"It was insubordination," said Roark. 

"We wanted to give you a chance-in view of your brilliant record in all other subjects. But 
when you turn in this-" the Dean slammed his fist down on a sheet spread before him-"this 
as a Renaissance villa for your final project of the year-really, my boy, it was too much!" 

The sheet bore a drawing-a house of glass and concrete. In the comer there was a sharp, 
angular signature: Howard Roark. 

"How do you expect us to pass you after this?" 

"I don't." 

"You left us no choice in the matter. Naturally, you would feel bitterness toward us at this 
moment, but..." 

"I feel nothing of the kind," said Roark quietly. "I owe you an apology. I don't usually let things 
happen to me. I made a mistake this time. I shouldn't have waited for you to throw me out. I 
should have left long ago." 

"Now, now, don't get discouraged. This is not the right attitude to take. Particularly in view of 
what I am going to tell you." 

The Dean smiled and leaned forward confidentially, enjoying the overture to a good deed. 

"Here is the real purpose of our interview. I was anxious to let you know as soon as possible. I 
did not wish to leave you disheartened. Oh, I did, personally, take a chance with the 
President's temper when I mentioned this to him, but.. .Mind you, he did not commit himself, 
but. ..Here is how things stand: now that you realize how serious it is, if you take a year off, to 
rest, to think it over-shall we say to grow up?-there might be a chance of our taking you 
back. Mind you, I cannot promise anything-this is strictly unofficial— it would be most unusual, 
but in view of the circumstances and of your brilliant record, there might be a very good 
chance." 

Roark smiled. It was not a happy smile, it was not a grateful one. It was a simple, easy smile 
and it was amused. 

"I don't think you understood me," said Roark. "What made you suppose that I want to come 
back?" 

"Eh?" 

"I won't be back. I have nothing further to learn here." 

"I don't understand you," said the Dean stiffly. 

"Is there any point in explaining? It's of no interest to you any longer." 

"You will kindly explain yourself." 

"If you wish. I want to be an architect, not an archeologist. I see no purpose in doing 
Renaissance villas. Why learn to design them, when I'll never build them?" 

"My dear boy, the great style of the Renaissance is far from dead. Houses of that style are 
being erected every day." 



"They are. And they will be. But not by me." 

"Come, come, now, this is childish." 

"I came here to learn about building. When I was given a project, its only value to me was to 
learn to solve it as I would solve I a real one in the future. I did them the way I'll build them. 
I've | learned all I could learn here--in the structural sciences of which you don't approve. 
One more year of drawing Italian post cards would give me nothing." 

An hour ago the Dean had wished that this interview would proceed as calmly as possible. 
Now he wished that Roark would display some emotion; it seemed unnatural for him to be so 
quietly natural in the circumstances. 

"Do you mean to tell me that you're thinking seriously of building that way, when and if you are 
an architect?" 

"Yes." 

"My dear fellow, who will let you?" 

"That's not the point. The point is, who will stop me?" 

"Look here, this is serious. I am sorry that I haven't had a long, earnest talk with you much 
earlier. ..I know, I know, I know, don't interrupt me, you've seen a modernistic building or two, 
and it gave you ideas. But do you realize what a passing fancy that whole so-called modern 
movement is? You must learn to understand-and it has been proved by all authorities-that 
everything beautiful in architecture has been done already. There is a treasure mine in every 
style of the past. We can only choose from the great masters. Who are we to improve upon 
them? We can only attempt, respectfully, to repeat." 

"Why?" asked Howard Roark. 

No, thought the Dean, no, he hasn't said anything else; it's a perfectly innocent word; he's not 
threatening me. 

"But it's self-evident!" said the Dean. 

"Look," said Roark evenly, and pointed at the window. "Can you see the campus and the 
town? Do you see how many men are walking and living down there? Well, I don't give a 
damn what any or all of them think about architecture-or about anything else, for that matter. 
Why should I consider what their grandfathers thought of it?" 

"That is our sacred tradition." 

"Why?" 

"For heaven's sake, can't you stop being so naive about it?" 

"But I don’t understand. Why do you want me to think that this is great architecture?" He 
pointed to the picture of the Parthenon. 

"That," said the Dean, "is the Parthenon." 

"So it is." 

"I haven't the time to waste on silly questions." 

"All right, then." Roark got up, he took a long ruler from the desk, he walked to the picture. 
"Shall I tell you what's rotten about it?" 

"It's the Parthenon!" said the Dean. 



'Yes, God damn it, the Parthenon! 


The ruler struck the glass over the picture. 

"Look," said Roark. "The famous flutings on the famous columns-what are they there for? To 
hide the joints in wood-when columns were made of wood, only these aren't, they're marble. 
The triglyphs, what are they? Wood. Wooden beams, the way they had to be laid when people 
began to build wooden shacks. Your Greeks took marble and they made copies of their 
wooden structures out of it, because others had done it that way. Then your masters of the 
Renaissance came along and made copies in plaster of copies in marble of copies in wood. 
Now here we are, making copies in steel and concrete of copies in plaster of copies in marble 
of copies in wood. Why?" 

The Dean sat watching him curiously. Something puzzled him, not in the words, but in Roark's 
manner of saying them. 

"Rules?" said Roark. "Here are my rules: what can be done with one substance must never be 
done with another. No two materials are alike. No two sites on earth are alike. No two 
buildings have the same purpose. The purpose, the site, the material determine the shape. 
Nothing can be reasonable or beautiful unless it's made by one central idea, and the idea sets 
every detail. A building is alive, like a man. Its integrity is to follow its own truth, its one single 
theme, and to serve its own single purpose. A man doesn't borrow pieces of his body. A 
building doesn't borrow hunks of its soul. Its maker gives it the soul and every wall, window 
and stairway to express it." 

"But all the proper forms of expression have been discovered long ago." 

"Expression-of what? The Parthenon did not serve the same purpose as its wooden 
ancestor. An airline terminal does not serve the same purpose as the Parthenon. Every form 
has its own meaning. Every man creates his meaning and form and goal. Why is it so 
important--what others have done? Why does it become sacred by the mere fact of not being 
your own? Why is anyone and everyone right-so long as it's not yourself? Why does the 
number of those others take the place of truth? Why is truth made a mere matter of 
arithmetic--and only of addition at that? Why is everything twisted out of all sense to fit 
everything else? There must be some reason. I don't know. I've never known it. I'd like to 
understand." 

"For heaven's sake," said the Dean. "Sit down. ...That's better.. ..Would you mind very much 
putting that ruler down?. ..Thank you. ...Now listen to me. No one has ever denied the 
importance of modern technique to an architect. We must learn to adapt the beauty of the 
past to the needs of the present. The voice of the past is the voice of the people. Nothing has 
ever been invented by one man in architecture. The proper creative process is a slow, 
gradual, anonymous, collective one, in which each man collaborates with all the others and 
subordinates himself to the standards of the majority." 

"But you see," said Roark quietly, "I have, let's say, sixty years to live. Most of that time will be 
spent working. I've chosen the work I want to do. If I find no joy in it, then I'm only condemning 
myself to sixty years of torture. And I can find the joy only if I do my work in the best way 
possible to me. But the best is a matter of standards--and I set my own standards. I inherit 
nothing. I stand at the end of no tradition. I may, perhaps, stand at the beginning of one." 

"How old are you?" asked the Dean. 

"Twenty-two," said Roark. 

"Quite excusable," said the Dean; he seemed relieved. "You'll outgrow all that." He smiled. 
"The old standards have lived for thousands of years and nobody has been able to improve 
upon them. What are your modernists? A transient mode, exhibitionists trying to attract 
attention. Have you observed the course of their careers? Can you name one who has 
achieved any permanent distinction? Look at Henry Cameron. A great man, a leading 
architect twenty years ago. What is he today? Lucky if he gets-once a year-a garage to 
remodel. A bum and a drunkard, who..." 



"We won't discuss Henry Cameron." 

"Oh? Is he a friend of yours?" 

"No. But I've seen his buildings." 

"And you found them..." 

"I said we won't discuss Henry Cameron." 

"Very well. You must realize that I am allowing you a great deal of. ..shall we say, latitude? I am 
not accustomed to hold a discussion with a student who behaves in your manner. However, I 
am anxious to forestall, if possible, what appears to be a tragedy, the spectacle of a young 
man of your obvious mental gifts setting out deliberately to make a mess of his life." 

The Dean wondered why he had promised the professor of mathematics to do all he could for 
this boy. Merely because the professor had said: "This," and pointed to Roark's project, "is a 
great man." A great man, thought the Dean, or a criminal. The Dean winced. He did not 
approve of either. 

He thought of what he had heard about Roark's past. Roark's father had been a steel puddler 
somewhere in Ohio and had died long ago. The boy's entrance papers showed no record of 
nearest relatives. When asked about it, Roark had said indifferently: "I don't think I have any 
relatives. I may have. I don't know." He had seemed astonished that he should be expected to 
have any interest in the matter. He had not made or sought a single friend on the campus. He 
had refused to join a fraternity. He had worked his way through high school and through the 
three years here at the Institute. He had worked as a common laborer in the building trades 
since childhood. He had done plastering, plumbing, steel work, anything he could get, going 
from one small town to another, working his way east, to the great cities. The Dean had seen 
him, last summer, on his vacation, catching rivets on a skyscraper in construction in Boston; 
his long body relaxed under greasy overalls, only his eyes intent, and his right arm swinging 
forward, once in a while, expertly, without effort, to catch the flying ball of fire at the last 
moment, when it seemed that the hot rivet would miss the bucket and strike him in the face. 

"Look here, Roark," said the Dean gently. "You have worked hard for your education. You had 
only one year left to go. There is something important to consider, particularly for a boy in your 
position. There's the practical side of an architect's career to think about. An architect is not an 
end in himself. He is only a small part of a great social whole. Co-operation is the key word to 
our modern world and to the profession of architecture in particular. Have you thought of your 
potential clients?" 

"Yes," said Roark. 

"The Client," said the Dean. "The Client. Think of that above all. He's the one to live in the 
house you build. Your only purpose is to serve him. You must aspire to give the proper artistic 
expression to his wishes. Isn't that all one can say on the subject?" 

"Well, I could say that I must aspire to build for my client the most comfortable, the most 
logical, the most beautiful house that can be built. I could say that I must try to sell him the 
best I have and also teach him to know the best. I could say it, but I won't. Because I don't 
intend to build in order to serve or help anyone. I don't intend to build in order to have clients. I 
intend to have clients in order to build." 

"How do you propose to force your ideas on them?" 

"I don't propose to force or be forced. Those who want me will come to me." 

Then the Dean understood what had puzzled him in Roark's manner. 

"You know," he said, "you would sound much more convincing if you spoke as if you cared 
whether I agreed with you or not." 


'That's true," said Roark. "I don't care whether you agree with me or not." He said it so simply 



that it did not sound offensive, it sounded like the statement of a fact which he noticed, 
puzzled, for the first time. 

"You don't care what others think-which might be understandable. But you don't care even to 
make them think as you do?" 

"No." 

"But that's. ..that's monstrous." 

"Is it? Probably. I couldn't say." 

"I'm glad of this interview," said the Dean, suddenly, too loudly. "It has relieved my conscience. 
I believe, as others stated at the meeting, that the profession of architecture is not for you. I 
have tried to help you. Now I agree with the Board. You are a man not to be encouraged. You 
are dangerous." 

"To whom?" asked Roark. 

But the Dean rose, indicating that the interview was over. 

Roark left the room. He walked slowly through the long halls, down the stairs, out to the lawn 
below. He had met many men such as the Dean; he had never understood them. He knew 
only that there was some important difference between his actions and theirs. It had ceased to 
disturb him long ago. But he always looked for a central theme in buildings and he looked for 
a central impulse in men. He knew the source of his actions; he could not discover theirs. He 
did not care. He had never learned the process of thinking about other people. But he 
wondered, at times, what made them such as they were. He wondered again, thinking of the 
Dean. There was an important secret involved somewhere in that question, he thought. There 
was a principle which he must discover. 

But he stopped. He saw the sunlight of late afternoon, held still in the moment before it was to 
fade, on the gray limestone of a stringcourse running along the brick wall of the Institute 
building. He forgot men, the Dean and the principle behind the Dean, which he wanted to 
discover. He thought only of how lovely the stone looked in the fragile light and of what he 
could have done with that stone. 

He thought of a broad sheet of paper, and he saw, rising on the paper, bare walls of gray 
limestone with long bands of glass, admitting the glow of the sky into the classrooms. In the 
comer of the sheet stood a sharp, angular signature--HOWARD ROARK. 


2 . 

"...ARCHITECTURE, my friends, is a great Art based on two cosmic principles: Beauty and 
Utility. In a broader sense, these are but part of the three eternal entities: Truth, Love and 
Beauty. Truth-to the traditions of our Art, Love-for our fellow men whom we are to serve, 
Beauty--ah, Beauty is a compelling goddess to all artists, be it in the shape of a lovely woman 
or a building. ...Hm.... Yes.. ..In conclusion, I should like to say to you, who are about to embark 
upon your careers in architecture, that you are now the custodians of a sacred 
heritage.. ..Hm... .Yes. ...So, go forth into the world, armed with the three eternal entities-armed 
with courage and vision, loyal to the standards this great school has represented for many 
years. May you all serve faithfully, neither as slaves to the past nor as those parvenus who 
preach originality for its own sake, which attitude is only ignorant vanity. May you all have 
many rich, active years before you and leave, as you depart from this world, your mark on the 
sands of time!" 

Guy Francon ended with a flourish, raising his right arm in a sweeping salute; informal, but 
with an air, that gay, swaggering air which Guy Francon could always permit himself. The 
huge hall before him came to life in applause and approval. 


A sea of faces, young, perspiring and eager, had been raised solemnly-for forty-five minutes- 



to the platform where Guy Francon had held forth as the speaker at the commencement 
exercises of the Stanton Institute of Technology, Guy Francon who had brought his own 
person from New York for the occasion; Guy Francon, of the illustrious firm of Francon & 
Heyer, vice-president of the Architects' Guild of America, member of the American Academy 
of Arts and Letters, member of the National Fine Arts Commission, Secretary of the Arts and 
Crafts League of New York, chairman of the Society for Architectural Enlightenment of the 
U.S.A.; Guy Francon, knight of the Legion of Honor of France, decorated by the governments 
of Great Britain, Belgium, Monaco and Siam; Guy Francon, Stanton's greatest alumnus, who 
had designed the famous Frink National Bank Building of New York City, on the top of which, 
twenty-five floors above the pavements, there burned in a miniature replica of the Hadrian 
Mausoleum a wind-blown torch made of glass and the best General Electric bulbs. 

Guy Francon descended from the platform, fully conscious of his timing and movements. He 
was of medium height and not too heavy, with just an unfortunate tendency to stoutness. 
Nobody, he knew, would give him his real age, which was fifty-one. His face bore not a wrinkle 
nor a single straight line; it was an artful composition in globes, circles, arcs and ellipses, with 
bright little eyes twinkling wittily. His clothes displayed an artist's infinite attention to details. He 
wished, as he descended the steps, that this were a co-educational school. 

The hall before him, he thought, was a splendid specimen of architecture, made a bit stuffy 
today by the crowd and by the neglected problem of ventilation. But it boasted green marble 
dadoes, Corinthian columns of cast iron painted gold, and garlands of gilded fruit on the walls; 
the pineapples particularly, thought Guy Francon, had stood the test of years very well. It is, 
thought Guy Francon, touching; it was I who built this annex and this very hall, twenty years 
ago; and here I am. 

The hall was packed with bodies and faces, so tightly that one could not distinguish at a 
glance which faces belonged to which bodies. It was like a soft, shivering aspic made of 
mixed arms, shoulders, chests and stomachs. One of the heads, pale, dark haired and 
beautiful, belonged to Peter Keating. 

He sat, well in front, trying to keep his eyes on the platform, because he knew that many 
people were looking at him and would look at him later. He did not glance back, but the 
consciousness of those centered glances never left him. His eyes were dark, alert, intelligent. 
His mouth, a small upturned crescent faultlessly traced, was gentle and generous, and warm 
with the faint promise of a smile. His head had a certain classical perfection in the shape of 
the skull, in the natural wave of black ringlets about finely hollowed temples. He held his head 
in the manner of one who takes his beauty for granted, but knows that others do not. He was 
Peter Keating, star student of Stanton, president of the student body, captain of the track 
team, member of the most important fraternity, voted the most popular man on the campus. 

The crowd was there, thought Peter Keating, to see him graduate, and he tried to estimate the 
capacity of the hall. They knew of his scholastic record and no one would beat his record 
today. Oh, well, there was Shlinker. Shlinker had given him stiff competition, but he had 
beaten Shlinker this last year. He had worked like a dog, because he had wanted to beat 
Shlinker. He had no rivals today. ...Then he felt suddenly as if something had fallen down, 
inside his throat, to his stomach, something cold and empty, a blank hole rolling down and 
leaving that feeling on its way: not a thought, just the hint of a question asking him whether he 
was really as great as this day would proclaim him to be. He looked for Shlinker in the crowd; 
he saw his yellow face and gold-rimmed glasses. He stared at Shlinker warmly, in relief, in 
reassurance, in gratitude. It was obvious that Shlinker could never hope to equal his own 
appearance or ability; he had nothing to doubt; he would always beat Shlinker and all the 
Shlinkers of the world; he would let no one achieve what he could not achieve. Let them all 
watch him. He would give them good reason to stare. He felt the hot breaths about him and 
the expectation, like a tonic. It was wonderful, thought Peter Keating, to be alive. 

His head was beginning to reel a little. It was a pleasant feeling. The feeling carried him, 
unresisting and unremembering, to the platform in front of all those faces. He stood-slender, 
trim, athletic-and let the deluge break upon his head. He gathered from its roar that he had 
graduated with honors, that the Architects' Guild of America had presented him with a gold 
medal and that he had been awarded the Prix de Paris by the Society for Architectural 
Enlightenment of the U.S.A.-a four-year scholarship at the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris. 



Then he was shaking hands, scratching the perspiration off his face with the end of a rolled 
parchment, nodding, smiling, suffocating in his black gown and hoping that people would not 
notice his mother sobbing with her arms about him. The President of the Institute shook his 
hand, booming: "Stanton will be proud of you, my boy." The Dean shook his hand, repeating: 
"...a glorious future. ..a glorious future. ..a glorious future..." Professor Peterkin shook his hand, 
and patted his shoulder, saying: "...and you'll find it absolutely essential; for example, I had the 
experience when I built the Peabody Post Office..." Keating did not listen to the rest, because 
he had heard the story of the Peabody Post Office many times. It was the only structure 
anyone had ever known Professor Peterkin to have erected, before he sacrificed his practice 
to the responsibilities of teaching. A great deal was said about Keating's final project--a Palace 
of Fine Arts. For the life of him, Keating could not remember at the moment what that project 
was. 

Through all this, his eyes held the vision of Guy Francon shaking his hand, and his ears held 
the sounds of Francon's mellow voice: "...as I have told you, it is still open, my boy. Of course, 
now that you have this scholarship. ..you will have to decide. ..a Beaux-Arts diploma is very 
important to a young man. ..but I should be delighted to have you in our office...." 

The banquet of the Class of '22 was long and solemn. Keating listened to the speeches with 
interest; when he heard the endless sentences about "young men as the hope of American 
Architecture" and "the future opening its golden gates," he knew that he was the hope and his 
was the future, and it was pleasant to hear this confirmation from so many eminent lips. He 
looked at the gray-haired orators and thought of how much younger he would be when he 
reached their positions, theirs and beyond them. 

Then he thought suddenly of Howard Roark. He was surprised to find that the flash of that 
name in his memory gave him a sharp little twinge of pleasure, before he could know why. 
Then he remembered: Howard Roark had been expelled this morning. He reproached himself 
silently; he made a determined effort to feel sorry. But the secret glow came back, whenever 
he thought of that expulsion. The event proved conclusively that he had been a fool to imagine 
Roark a dangerous rival; at one time, he had worried about Roark more than about Shlinker, 
even though Roark was two years younger and one class below him. If he had ever 
entertained any doubts on their respective gifts, hadn't this day settled it all? And, he 
remembered, Roark had been very nice to him, helping him whenever he was stuck on a 
problem. ..not stuck, really, just did not have the time to think it out, a plan or something. 

Christ! how Roark could untangle a plan, like pulling a string and it was open. ..well, what if he 
could? What did it get him? He was done for now. And knowing this, Peter Keating 
experienced at last a satisfying pang of sympathy for Howard Roark. 

When Keating was called upon to speak, he rose confidently. He could not show that he was 
terrified. He had nothing to say about architecture. But he spoke, his head high, as an equal 
among equals, just subtly diffident, so that no great name present could take offense. He 
remembered saying: "Architecture is a great art.. .with our eyes to the future and the reverence 
of the past in our hearts. ..of all the crafts, the most important one sociologically. ..and, as the 
man who is an inspiration to us all has said today, the three eternal entities are: Truth, Love 
and Beauty...." 

Then, in the corridors outside, in the noisy confusion of leave-taking, a boy had thrown an arm 
about Keating's shoulders and whispered: "Run on home and get out of the soup-and-fish, 
Pete, and it's Boston for us tonight, just our own gang; I'll pick you up in an hour." Ted Shlinker 
had urged: "Of course you're coming, Pete. No fun without you. And, by the way, 
congratulations and all that sort of thing. No hard feelings. May the best man win." Keating 
had thrown his arm about Shlinker's shoulders; Keating's eyes had glowed with an insistent 
kind of warmth, as if Shlinker were his most precious friend; Keating's eyes glowed like that on 
everybody. He had said: "Thanks, Ted, old man. I really do feel awful about the A.G.A. 
medal-1 think you were the one for it, but you never can tell what possesses those old 
fogies." And now Keating was on his way home through the soft darkness, wondering how to 
get away from his mother for the night. 

His mother, he thought, had done a great deal for him. As she pointed out frequently, she was 
a lady and had graduated from high school; yet she had worked hard, had taken boarders into 
their home, a concession unprecedented in her family. 



His father had owned a stationery store in Stanton. Changing times had ended the business 
and a hernia had ended Peter Keating, Sr., twelve years ago. Louisa Keating had been left 
with the home that stood at the end of a respectable street, an annuity from an insurance kept 
up accurately--she had seen to that--and her son. The annuity was a modest one, but with the 
help of the boarders and of a tenacious purpose Mrs. Keating had managed. In the summers 
her son helped, clerking in hotels or posing for hat advertisements. Her son, Mrs. Keating had 
decided, would assume his rightful place in the world, and she had clung to this as softly, as 
inexorably as a leech. ...It's funny, Keating remembered, at one time he had wanted to be an 
artist. It was his mother who had chosen a better field in which to exercise his talent for 
drawing. "Architecture," she had said, "is such a respectable profession. Besides, you meet 
the best people in it." She had pushed him into his career, he had never known when or how. 
It's funny, thought Keating, he had not remembered that youthful ambition of his for years. It's 
funny that it should hurt him now-to remember. Well, this was the night to remember it-and 
to forget it forever. 

Architects, he thought, always made brilliant careers. And once on top, did they ever fail? 
Suddenly, he recalled Henry Cameron; builder of skyscrapers twenty years ago; old drunkard 
with offices on some waterfront today. Keating shuddered and walked faster. 

He wondered, as he walked, whether people were looking at him. He watched the rectangles 
of lighted windows; when a curtain fluttered and a head leaned out, he tried to guess whether 
it had leaned to watch his passing; if it hadn't, some day it would; some day, they all would. 

Howard Roark was sitting on the porch steps when Keating approached the house. He was 
leaning back against the steps, propped up on his elbows, his long legs stretched out. A 
morning-glory climbed over the porch pillars, as a curtain between the house and the light of a 
lamppost on the corner. 

It was strange to see an electric globe in the air of a spring night. It made the street darker and 
softer; it hung alone, like a gap, and left nothing to be seen but a few branches heavy with 
leaves, standing still at the gap’s edges. The small hint became immense, as if the darkness 
held nothing but a flood of leaves. The mechanical ball of glass made the leaves seem more 
living; it took away their color and gave the promise that in daylight they would be a brighter 
green than had ever existed; it took away one’s sight and left a new sense instead, neither 
smell nor touch, yet both, a sense of spring and space. 

Keating stopped when he recognized the preposterous orange hair in the darkness of the 
porch. It was the one person whom he had wanted to see tonight. He was glad to find Roark 
alone, and a little afraid of it. 

"Congratulations, Peter," said Roark. 

"Oh. ..Oh, thanks...." Keating was surprised to find that he felt more pleasure than from any 
other compliment he had received today. He was timidly glad that Roark approved, and he 
called himself inwardly a fool for it. "...I mean. ..do you know or..." He added sharply: "Has 
mother been telling you?" 

"She has." 

"She shouldn't have!" 

"Why not?" 

"Look, Howard, you know that I'm terribly sorry about your being..." 

Roark threw his head back and looked up at him. 

"Forget it," said Roark. 

"I... there's something I want to speak to you about, Howard, to ask your advice. Mind if I sit 
down?" 


'What is it?’ 



Keating sat down on the steps beside him. There was no part that he could ever play in 
Roark's presence. Besides, he did not feel like playing a part now. He heard a leaf rustling in 
its fall to the earth; it was a thin, glassy, spring sound. 

He knew, for the moment, that he felt affection for Roark; an affection that held pain, 
astonishment and helplessness. 

"You won't think," said Keating gently, in complete sincerity, "that it's awful of me to be asking 
about my business, when you've just been...?" 

"I said forget about that. What is it?" 

"You know," said Keating honestly and unexpectedly even to himself, "I've often thought that 
you're crazy. But I know that you know many things about it-architecture, I mean-which those 
fools never knew. And I know that you love it as they never will." 

"Well?" 

"Well, I don't know why I should come to you, but-Howard, I've never said it before, but you 
see, I'd rather have your opinion on things than the Dean's--I'd probably follow the Dean's, but 
it's just that yours means more to me myself, I don't know why. I don't know why I'm saying 
this, either." 

Roark turned over on his side, looked at him, and laughed. It was a young, kind, friendly 
laughter, a thing so rare to hear from Roark that Keating felt as if someone had taken his hand 
in reassurance; and he forgot that he had a party in Boston waiting for him. 

"Come on," said Roark, "you're not being afraid of me, are you? What do you want to ask 
about?" 

"It's about my scholarship. The Paris prize I got." 

"Yes?" 

"It's for four years. But, on the other hand, Guy Francon offered me a job with him some time 
ago. Today he said it's still open. And I don't know which to take." 

Roark looked at him; Roark's fingers moved in slow rotation, beating against the steps. 

"If you want my advice, Peter," he said at last, "you've made a mistake already. By asking me. 
By asking anyone. Never ask people. Not about your work. Don't you know what you want? 
How can you stand it, not to know?" 

"You see, that's what I admire about you, Howard. You always know." 

"Drop the compliments." 

"But I mean it. How do you always manage to decide?" 

"How can you let others decide for you?" 

"But you see, I'm not sure, Howard. I'm never sure of myself. I don't know whether I'm as good 
as they all tell me I am. I wouldn't admit that to anyone but you. I think it’s because you're 
always so sure that I...” 

"Petey!" Mrs. Keating's voice exploded behind them. "Petey, sweetheart! What are you doing 
there?" 

She stood in the doorway, in her best dress of burgundy taffeta, happy and angry. 

"And here I've been sitting all alone, waiting for you! What on earth are you doing on those 
filthy steps in your dress suit? Get up this minute! Come on in the house, boys. I’ve got hot 



chocolate and cookies ready for you. 


"But, Mother. I wanted to speak to Howard about something important," said Keating. But he 
rose to his feet. 

She seemed not to have heard. She walked into the house. Keating followed. 

Roark looked after them, shrugged, rose and went in also. 

Mrs. Keating settled down in an armchair, her stiff skirt crackling. 

"Well?" she asked. "What were you two discussing out there?" 

Keating fingered an ash tray, picked up a matchbox and dropped it, then, ignoring her, turned 
to Roark. 

"Look, Howard, drop the pose," he said, his voice high. "Shall I junk the scholarship and go to 
work, or let Francon wait and grab the Beaux-Arts to impress the yokels? What do you think?" 

Something was gone. The one moment was lost. 

"Now, Petey, let me get this straight..." began Mrs. Keating. 

"Oh, wait a minute, Mother!. ..Howard, I've got to weigh it carefully. It isn't everyone who can 
get a scholarship like that. You're pretty good when you rate that. A course at the Beaux-Arts- 
you know how important that is." 

"I don't," said Roark. 

"Oh, hell, I know your crazy ideas, but I'm speaking practically, for a man in my position. Ideals 
aside for a moment, it certainly is..." 

"You don't want my advice," said Roark. 

"Of course I do! I'm asking you!" 

But Keating could never be the same when he had an audience, any audience. Something 
was gone. He did not know it, but he felt that Roark knew; Roark's eyes made him 
uncomfortable and that made him angry. 

"I want to practice architecture," snapped Keating, "not talk about it! Gives you a great 
prestige-the old Ecole. Puts you above the rank and file of the ex-plumbers who think they 
can build. On the other hand, an opening with Francon-Guy Francon himself offering it!" 

Roark turned away. 

"How many boys will match that?" Keating went on blindly. "A year from now they'll be 
boasting they're working for Smith or Jones if they find work at all. While I'll be with Francon & 
Heyer!" 

"You're quite right, Peter," said Mrs. Keating, rising. "On a question like that you don't want to 
consult your mother. It's too important. I'll leave you to settle it with Mr. Roark." 

He looked at his mother. He did not want to hear what she thought of this; he knew that his 
only chance to decide was to make the decision before he heard her; she had stopped, 
looking at him, ready to turn and leave the room; he knew it was not a pose-she would leave 
if he wished it; he wanted her to go; he wanted it desperately. He said: 

"Why, Mother, how can you say that? Of course I want your opinion. What. ..what do you 
think?" 

She ignored the raw irritation in his voice. She smiled. 



"Petey, I never think anything. It's up to you. It's always been up to you." 

"Well..." he began hesitantly, watching her, "if I go to the Beaux-Arts..." 

"Fine," said Mrs. Keating, "go to the Beaux-Arts. It's a grand place. A whole ocean away from 
your home. Of course, if you go, Mr. Francon will take somebody else. People will talk about 
that. Everybody knows that Mr. Francon picks out the best boy from Stanton every year for his 
office. I wonder how it'll look if some other boy gets the job? But I guess that doesn't matter." 

"What. ..what will people say?" 

"Nothing much, I guess. Only that the other boy was the best man of his class. I guess he'll 
take Shlinker." 

"No!" he gulped furiously. "Not Shlinker!" 

"Yes," she said sweetly. "Shlinker." 

"But..." 

"But why should you care what people will say? All you have to do is please yourself." 

"And you think that Francon..." 

"Why should I think of Mr. Francon? It's nothing to me." 

"Mother, you want me to take the job with Francon?" 

"I don't want anything, Petey. You're the boss." 

He wondered whether he really liked his mother. But she was his mother and this fact was 
recognized by everybody as meaning automatically that he loved her, and so he took for 
granted mat whatever he felt for her was love. He did not know whether there was any reason 
why he should respect her judgment. She was his mother; this was supposed to take the 
place of reasons. 

"Yes, of course, Mother. ...But.. .Yes, I know, but.. Howard?" 

It was a plea for help. Roark was there, on a davenport in the corner, half lying, sprawled 
limply like a kitten. It had often astonished Keating; he had seen Roark moving with the 
soundless tension, the control, the precision of a cat; he had seen him relaxed, like a cat, in 
shapeless ease, as if his body held no single solid bone. Roark glanced up at him. He said: 

"Peter, you know how I feel about either one of your opportunities. Take your choice of the 
lesser evil. What will you learn at the Beaux-Arts? Only more Renaissance palaces and 
operetta settings. They'll kill everything you might have in you. You do good work, once in a 
while, when somebody lets you. If you really want to learn, go to work. Francon is a bastard 
and a fool, but you will be building. It will prepare you for going on your own that much 
sooner." 

"Even Mr. Roark can talk sense sometimes," said Mrs. Keating, "even if he does talk like a 
truck driver." 

"Do you really think that I do good work?" Keating looked at him, as if his eyes still held the 
reflection of that one sentence-and nothing else mattered. 

"Occasionally," said Roark. "Not often." 

"Now that it's all settled..." began Mrs. Keating. 

"L.l'll have to think it over, Mother." 

"Now that it's all settled, how about the hot chocolate? I'll have it out to you in a jiffy!" 



She smiled at her son, an innocent smile that declared her obedience and gratitude, and she 
rustled out of the room. 

Keating paced nervously, stopped, lighted a cigarette, stood spitting the smoke out in short 
jerks, then looked at Roark. 

"What are you going to do now, Howard?" 

"I?" 

"Very thoughtless of me, I know, going on like that about myself. Mother means well, but she 
drives me crazy.. ..Well, to hell with that. What are you going to do?" 

"I'm going to New York." 

"Oh, swell. To get a job?" 

"To get a job." 

"In. ..in architecture?" 

"In architecture, Peter." 

"That's grand. I'm glad. Got any definite prospects? 

"I'm going to work for Henry Cameron." 

"Oh, no, Howard!" 

Roark smiled slowly, the corners of his mouth sharp, and said nothing. 

"Oh, no, Howard!" 

"Yes " 

"But he's nothing, nobody any more! Oh, I know he has a name but he's done for! He never 
gets any important buildings, hasn't had any for years! They say he’s got a dump for an office. 
What kind of future will you get out of him? What will you learn?" 

"Not much. Only how to build." 

"For God's sake, you can't go on like that, deliberately ruining yourself! I thought.. .well, yes, I 
thought you'd learned something today!" 

"I have." 

"Look, Howard, if it's because you think that no one else will have you now, no one better, 
why, I'll help you. I'll work old Francon and I'll get connections and..." 

"Thank you, Peter. But it won't be necessary. It's settled. 

"What did he say?" 

"Who?" 

"Cameron." 

"I've never met him." 

Then a horn screamed outside. Keating remembered, started off to change his clothes, 
collided with his mother at the door and knocked a cup off her loaded tray. 



Petey! 


"Never mind, Mother!" He seized her elbows. "I'm in a hurry, sweetheart. A little party with the 
boys-now, now, don't say anything--! won't be late and-look! We'll celebrate my going with 
Francon & Heyer!" 

He kissed her impulsively, with the gay exuberance that made him irresistible at times, and 
flew out of the room, up the stairs. Mrs. Keating shook her head, flustered, reproving and 
happy. 

In his room, while flinging his clothes in all directions, Keating thought suddenly of a wire he 
would send to New York. That particular subject had not been in his mind all day, but it came 
to him with a sense of desperate urgency; he wanted to send that wire now, at once. He 
scribbled it down on a piece of paper: 

"Katie dearest coming New York job Francon love ever 

"Peter" 

That night Keating raced toward Boston, wedged in between two boys, the wind and the road 
whistling past him. And he thought that the world was opening to him now, like the darkness 
fleeing before the bobbing headlights. He was free. He was ready. In a few years-so very 
soon, for time did not exist in the speed of that car-his name would ring like a horn, ripping 
people out of sleep. He was ready to do great things, magnificent things, things unsurpassed 
in. ..in.. .oh, hell. ..in architecture. 


3 . 

PETER KEATING looked at the streets of New York. The people, he observed, were 
extremely well dressed. 

He had stopped for a moment before the building on Fifth Avenue, where the office of 
Francon & Heyer and his first day of work awaited him. He looked at the men who hurried 
past. Smart, he thought, smart as hell. He glanced regretfully at his own clothes. He had a 
great deal to learn in New York. 

When he could delay it no longer, he turned to the door. It was a miniature Doric portico, every 
inch of it scaled down to the exact proportions decreed by the artists who had worn flowing 
Grecian tunics; between the marble perfection of the columns a revolving door sparkled with 
nickel plate, reflecting the streaks of automobiles flying past. Keating walked through the 
revolving door, through the lustrous marble lobby, to an elevator of gilt and red lacquer that 
brought him, thirty floors later, to a mahogany door. He saw a slender brass plate with delicate 
letters: 

FRANCON & HEYER, ARCHITECTS. 

The reception room of the office of Francon & Heyer, Architects, looked like a cool, intimate 
ballroom in a Colonial mansion. The silver white walls were paneled with flat pilasters; the 
pilasters were fluted and curved into Ionic snails; they supported little pediments broken in the 
middle to make room for half a Grecian urn plastered against the wall. Etchings of Greek 
temples adorned the panels, too small to be distinguished, but presenting the unmistakable 
columns, pediments and crumbling stone. 

Quite incongruously, Keating felt as if a conveyor belt was under his feet, from the moment he 
crossed the threshold. It carried him to the reception clerk who sat at a telephone switchboard 
behind the white balustrade of a Florentine balcony. It transferred him to the threshold of a 
huge drafting room. He saw long, flat tables, a forest of twisted rods descending from the 
ceiling to end in green-shaded lamps, enormous blueprint files, towers of yellow drawers, 
papers, tin boxes, sample bricks, pots of glue and calendars from construction companies, 
most of them bearing pictures of naked women. The chief draftsman snapped at Keating, 
without quite seeing him. He was bored and crackling with purpose simultaneously. He jerked 



his thumb in the direction of a locker room, thrust his chin out toward the door of a locker, and 
stood, rocking from heels to toes, while Keating pulled a pearl-gray smock over his stiff, 
uncertain body. Francon had insisted on that smock. The conveyor belt stopped at a table in a 
corner of the drafting room, where Keating found himself with a set of plans to expand, the 
scaggy back of the chief draftsman retreating from him in the unmistakable manner of having 
forgotten his existence. 

Keating bent over his task at once, his eyes fixed, his throat rigid. He saw nothing but the 
pearly shimmer of the paper before him. The steady lines he drew surprised him, for he felt 
certain that his hand was jerking an inch back and forth across the sheet. He followed the 
lines, not knowing where they led or why. He knew only that the plan was someone's 
tremendous achievement which he could neither question nor equal. He wondered why he 
had ever thought of himself as a potential architect. 

Much later, he noticed the wrinkles of a gray smock sticking to a pair of shoulder blades over 
the next table. He glanced about him, cautiously at first, then with curiosity, then with pleasure, 
then with contempt. When he reached this last, Peter Keating became himself again and felt 
love for mankind. He noticed sallow cheeks, a funny nose, a wart on a receding chin, a 
stomach squashed against the edge of a table. He loved these sights. What these could do, 
he could do better. He smiled. Peter Keating needed his fellow men. 

When he glanced at his plans again, he noticed the flaws glaring at him from the masterpiece. 
It was the floor of a private residence, and he noted the twisted hallways that sliced great 
hunks of space for no apparent reason, the long, rectangular sausages of rooms doomed to 
darkness. Jesus, he thought, they'd have flunked me for this in the first term. After which, he 
proceeded with his work swiftly, easily, expertly-and happily. 

Before lunchtime. Keating had made friends in the room, not any definite friends, but a vague 
soil spread and ready from which friendship would spring. He had smiled at his neighbors and 
winked in understanding over nothing at all. He had used each trip to the water cooler to 
caress those he passed with the soft, cheering glow of his eyes, the brilliant eyes that seemed 
to pick each man in turn out of the room, out of the universe, as the most important specimen 
of humanity and as Keating's dearest friend. There goes-there seemed to be left in his wake- 
a smart boy and a hell of a good fellow. 

Keating noticed that a tall blond youth at the next table was doing the elevation of an office 
building. Keating leaned with chummy respect against the boy’s shoulder and looked at the 
laurel garlands entwined about fluted columns three floors high. 

"Pretty good for the old man," said Keating with admiration. 

"Who?" asked the boy. 

"Why, Francon," said Keating. 

"Francon hell," said the boy placidly. "He hasn't designed a doghouse in eight years." He 
jerked his thumb over his shoulder, at a glass door behind them. "Him." 

"What?" asked Keating, turning. 

"Him," said the boy. "Stengel. He does all these things." 

Behind the glass door Keating saw a pair of bony shoulders above the edge of a desk, a 
small, triangular head bent intently, and two blank pools of light in the round frames of 
glasses. 

It was late in the afternoon when a presence seemed to have passed beyond the closed door, 
and Keating learned from the rustle of whispers around him that Guy Francon had arrived and 
had risen to his office on the floor above. Half an hour later the glass door opened and 
Stengel came out, a huge piece of cardboard dangling between his fingers. 

"Hey, you," he said, his glasses stopping on Keating's face. "You doing the plans for this?" He 
swung the cardboard forward. "Take this up to the boss for the okay. Try to listen to what he'll 



say and try to look intelligent. Neither of which matters anyway. 


He was short and his arms seemed to hang down to his ankles; arms swinging like ropes in 
the long sleeves, with big, efficient hands. Keating's eyes froze, darkening, for one-tenth of a 
second, gathered in a tight stare at the blank lenses. Then Keating smiled and said pleasantly: 

"Yes, sir." 

He carried the cardboard on the tips of his ten fingers, up the crimson-plushed stairway to Guy 
Francon's office. The cardboard displayed a water-color perspective of a gray granite mansion 
with three tiers of dormers, five balconies, four bays, twelve columns, one flagpole and two 
lions at the entrance. In the corner, neatly printed by hand, stood: "Residence of Mr. and Mrs. 
James S. Whattles. Francon & Heyer, Architects." Keating whistled softly: James S. Whattles 
was the multimillionaire manufacturer of shaving lotions. 

Guy Francon's office was polished. No, thought Keating, not polished, but shellacked; no, not 
shellacked, but liquid with mirrors melted and poured over every object. He saw splinters of 
his own reflection let loose like a swarm of butterflies, following him across the room, on the 
Chippendale cabinets, on the Jacobean chairs, on the Louis XV mantelpiece. He had time to 
note a genuine Roman statue in a corner, sepia photographs of the Parthenon, of Rheims 
Cathedral, of Versailles and of the Frink National Bank Building with the eternal torch. 

He saw his own legs approaching him in the side of the massive mahogany desk. Guy 
Francon sat behind the desk. Guy Francon's face was yellow and his cheeks sagged. He 
looked at Keating for an instant as if he had never seen him before, then remembered and 
smiled expansively. 

"Well, well, well, Kittredge, my boy, here we are, all set and at home! So glad to see you. Sit 
down, boy, sit down, what have you got there? Well, there's no hurry, no hurry at all. Sit down. 
How do you like it here?" 

"I'm afraid, sir, that I'm a little too happy," said Keating, with an expression of frank, boyish 
helplessness. "I thought I could be businesslike on my first job, but starting in a place like 
this...l guess it knocked me out a little. ...I'll get over it, sir," he promised. 

"Of course," said Guy Francon. "It might be a bit overwhelming for a boy, just a bit. But don't 
you worry. I’m sure you'll make good." 

"I'll do my best, sir." 

"Of course you will. What's this they sent me?" Francon extended his hand to the drawing, but 
his fingers came to rest limply on his forehead instead. "It's so annoying, this headache.. ..No, 
no, nothing serious-" he smiled at Keating's prompt concern-"just a little mal de tete. One 
works so hard." 

"Is there anything I can get for you, sir?" 

"No, no, thank you. It's not anything you can get for me, it's if only you could take something 
away from me." He winked. "The champagne. Entre nous, that champagne of theirs wasn't 
worth a damn last night. I've never cared for champagne anyway. Let me tell you, Kittredge, 
it’s very important to know about wines, for instance when you'll take a client out to dinner and 
will want to be sure of the proper thing to order. Now I'll tell you a professional secret. Take 
quail, for instance. Now most people would order Burgundy with it. What do you do? You call 
for Clos Vougeot 1904. See? Adds that certain touch. Correct, but original. One must always 
be original.. ..Who sent you up, by the way?" 

"Mr. Stengel, sir." 

"Oh, Stengel." The tone in which he pronounced the name clicked like a shutter in Keating's 
mind: it was a permission to be stored away for future use. "Too grand to bring his own stuff 
up, eh? Mind you, he's a great designer, the best designer in New York City, but he's just 
getting to be a bit too grand lately. He thinks he's the only one doing any work around here, 
just because he smudges at a board all day long. You'll learn, my boy, when you've been in 



the business longer, that the real work of an office is done beyond its walls. Take last night, for 
instance. Banquet of the Clarion Real Estate Association. Two hundred guests--dinner and 
champagne-oh, yes, champagne!" He wrinkled his nose fastidiously, in self-mockery. "A few 
words to say informally in a little after-dinner speech-you know, nothing blatant, no vulgar 
sales talk-only a few well-chosen thoughts on the responsibility of realtors to society, on the 
importance of selecting architects who are competent, respected and well established. You 
know, a few bright little slogans that will stick in the mind." 

"Yes, sir, like 'Choose the builder of your home as carefully as you choose the bride to inhabit 
it.'" 

"Not bad. Not bad at all, Kittredge. Mind if I jot it down?" 

"My name is Keating, sir," said Keating firmly. "You are very welcome to the idea. I'm happy if 
it appeals to you." 

"Keating, of course! Why, of course, Keating," said Francon with a disarming smile. "Dear me, 
one meets so many people. How did you say it? Choose the builder. ..it was very well put." 

He made Keating repeat it and wrote it down on a pad, picking a pencil from an array before 
him, new, many-colored pencils, sharpened to a professional needle point, ready, unused. 

Then he pushed he pad aside, sighed, patted the smooth waves of his hair and said wearily: 

"Well, all right, I suppose I'll have to look at the thing." 

Keating extended the drawing respectfully. Francon leaned back, held the cardboard out at 
arm's length and looked at it. He closed his left eye, then his right eye, then moved the 
cardboard an inch farther. Keating expected wildly to see him turn the drawing upside down. 
But Francon just held it and Keating knew suddenly that he had long since stopped seeing it. 
Francon was studying it for his, Keating's, benefit; and then Keating felt light, light as air, and 
he saw the road to his future, clear and open. 

"Hm...yes," Francon was saying, rubbing his chin with the tips of two soft fingers. "Hm...yes..." 
He turned to Keating. 

"Not bad," said Francon. "Not bad at all... .Well.. .perhaps. ..it would have been more 
distinguished, you know, but.. .well, the drawing is done so neatly.. ..What do you think, 
Keating?" 

Keating thought that four of the windows faced four mammoth granite columns. But he looked 
at Francon's fingers playing with a petunia-mauve necktie, and decided not to mention it. He 
said instead: 

"If I may make a suggestion, sir, it seems to me that the cartouches between the fourth and 
fifth floors are somewhat too modest for so imposing a building. It would appear that an 
ornamented stringcourse would be so much more appropriate." 

"That's it. I was just going to say it. An ornamented stringcourse.. ..But.. .but look, it would 
mean diminishing the fenestration, wouldn't it?" 

"Yes," said Keating, a faint coating of diffidence over the tone he had used in discussions with 
his classmates, "but windows are less important than the dignity of a building's facade." 

"That's right. Dignity. We must give our clients dignity above all. Yes, definitely, an 
ornamented stringcourse. ...Only.. .look, I've approved the preliminary drawings, and Stengel 
has had this done up so neatly." 

"Mr. Stengel will be delighted to change it if you advise him to." 

Francon's eyes held Keating's for a moment. Then Francon's lashes dropped and he picked a 
piece of lint off his sleeve. 



"Of course, of course..." he said vaguely. "But.. .do you think the stringcourse is really 
important?" 

"I think," said Keating slowly, "it is more important to make changes you find necessary than to 
okay every drawing just as Mr. Stengel designed it." 

Because Francon said nothing, but only looked straight at him, because Francon's eyes were 
focused and his hands limp, Keating knew that he had taken a terrible chance and won; he 
became frightened by the chance after he knew he had won. 

They looked silently across the desk, and both saw that they were two men who could 
understand each other. 

"We'll have an ornamented stringcourse," said Francon with calm, genuine authority. "Leave 
this here. Tell Stengel that I want to see him." 

He had turned to go. Francon stopped him. Francon's voice was gay and warm: 

"Oh, Keating, by the way, may I make a suggestion? Just between us, no offense intended, 
but a burgundy necktie would be so much better than blue with your gray smock, don't you 
think so?" 

"Yes, sir," said Keating easily. "Thank you. You'll see it tomorrow." 

He walked out and closed the door softly. 

On his way back through the reception room, Keating saw a distinguished, gray-haired 
gentleman escorting a lady to the door. The gentleman wore no hat and obviously belonged to 
the office; the lady wore a mink cape, and was obviously a client. 

The gentleman was not bowing to the ground, he was not unrolling a carpet, he was not 
waving a fan over her head; he was only holding the door for her. It merely seemed to Keating 
that the gentleman was doing all of that. 

The Frink National Bank Building rose over Lower Manhattan, and its long shadow moved, as 
the sun traveled over the sky, like a huge clock hand across grimy tenements, from the 
Aquarium to Manhattan Bridge. When the sun was gone, the torch of Hadrian's Mausoleum 
flared up in its stead, and made glowing red smears on the glass of windows for miles around, 
on the top stories of buildings high enough to reflect it. The Frink National Bank Building 
displayed the entire history of Roman art in well-chosen specimens; for a long time it had 
been considered the best building of the city, because no other structure could boast a single 
Classical item which it did not possess. It offered so many columns, pediments, friezes, 
tripods, gladiators, urns and volutes that it looked as if it had not been built of white marble, 
but squeezed out of a pastry tube. It was, however, built of white marble. No one knew that 
but the owners who had paid for it. It was now of a streaked, blotched, leprous color, neither 
brown nor green but the worst tones of both, the color of slow rot, the color of smoke, gas 
fumes and acids eating into a delicate stone intended for clean air and open country. The 
Frink National Bank Building, however, was a great success. It had been so great a success 
that it was the last structure Guy Francon ever designed; its prestige spared him the bother 
from then on. 

Three blocks east of the Frink National Bank stood the Dana Building. It was some stories 
lower and without any prestige whatever. Its lines were hard and simple, revealing, 
emphasizing the harmony of the steel skeleton within, as a body reveals the perfection of its 
bones. It had no other ornament to offer. It displayed nothing but the precision of its sharp 
angles, the modeling of its planes, the long streaks of its windows like streams of ice running 
down from the roof to the pavements. New Yorkers seldom looked at the Dana Building. 
Sometimes, a rare country visitor would come upon it unexpectedly in the moonlight and stop 
and wonder from what dream that vision had come. But such visitors were rare. The tenants 
of the Dana Building said that they would not exchange it for any structure on earth; they 
appreciated the light, the air, the beautiful logic of the plan in their halls and offices. But the 
tenants of the Dana Building were not numerous; no prominent man wished his business to be 



located in a building that looked "like a warehouse." 

The Dana Building had been designed by Henry Cameron. 

In the eighteen-eighties, the architects of New York fought one another for second place in 
their profession. No one aspired to the first. The first was held by Henry Cameron. Henry 
Cameron was hard to get in those days. He had a waiting list two years in advance; he 
designed personally every structure that left his office. He chose what he wished to build. 
When he built, a client kept his mouth shut. He demanded of all people the one thing he had 
never granted anybody: obedience. He went through the years of his fame like a projectile 
flying to a goal no one could guess. People called him crazy. But they took what he gave 
them, whether they understood it or not, because it was a building "by Henry Cameron." 

At first, his buildings were merely a little different, not enough to frighten anyone. He made 
startling experiments, once in a while, but people expected it and one did not argue with Henry 
Cameron. Something was growing in him with each new building, struggling, taking shape, 
rising dangerously to an explosion. The explosion came with the birth of the skyscraper. When 
structures began to rise not in tier on ponderous tier of masonry, but as arrows of steel 
shooting upward without weight or limit, Henry Cameron was among the first to understand 
this new miracle and to give it form. He was among the first and the few who accepted the 
truth that a tall building must look tall. While architects cursed, wondering how to make a 
twenty-story building look like an old brick mansion, while they used every horizontal device 
available in order to cheat it of its height, shrink it down to tradition, hide the shame of its steel, 
make it small, safe and ancient-Henry Cameron designed skyscrapers in straight, vertical 
lines, flaunting their steel and height. While architects drew friezes and pediments, Henry 
Cameron decided that the skyscraper must not copy the Greeks. Henry Cameron decided that 
no building must copy any other. 

He was thirty-nine years old then, short, stocky, unkempt; he worked like a dog, missed his 
sleep and meals, drank seldom but then brutally, called his clients unprintable names, laughed 
at hatred and fanned it deliberately, behaved like a feudal lord and a longshoreman, and lived 
in a passionate tension that stung men in any room he entered, a fire neither they nor he could 
endure much longer. It was the year 1892. 

The Columbian Exposition of Chicago opened in the year 1893. 

The Rome of two thousand years ago rose on the shores of Lake Michigan, a Rome improved 
by pieces of France, Spain, Athens and every style that followed it. It was a "Dream City" of 
columns, triumphal arches, blue lagoons, crystal fountains and popcorn. Its architects 
competed on who could steal best, from the oldest source and from the most sources at once. 
It spread before the eyes of a new country every structural crime ever committed in all the old 
ones. It was white as a plague, and it spread as such. 

People came, looked, were astounded, and carried away with them, to the cities of America, 
the seeds of what they had seen. The seeds sprouted into weeds; into shingled post offices 
with Doric porticos, brick mansions with iron pediments, lofts made of twelve Parthenons piled 
on top of one another. The weeds grew and choked everything else. 

Henry Cameron had refused to work for the Columbian Exposition, and had called it names 
that were unprintable, but repeatable, though not in mixed company. They were repeated. It 
was repeated also that he had thrown an inkstand at the face of a distinguished banker who 
had asked him to design a railroad station in the shape of the temple of Diana at Ephesus. 

The banker never came back. There were others who never came back. 

Just as he reached the goal of long, struggling years, just as he gave shape to the truth he 
had sought-the last barrier fell closed before him. A young country had watched him on his 
way, had wondered, had begun to accept the new grandeur of his work. A country flung two 
thousand years back in an orgy of Classicism could find no place for him and no use. 

It was not necessary to design buildings any longer, only to photograph them; the architect 
with the best library was the best architect Imitators copied imitations. To sanction it there was 
Culture; there were twenty centuries unrolling in moldering ruins; there was the great 
Exposition; there was every European post card in every family album. 



Henry Cameron had nothing to offer against this; nothing but a faith he held merely because it 
was his own. He had nobody to quote and nothing of importance to say. He said only that the 
form of a building must follow its function; that the structure of a building is the key to its 
beauty; that new methods of construction demand new forms; that he wished to build as he 
wished and for that reason only. But people could not listen to him when they were discussing 
Vitruvius, Michelangelo and Sir Christopher Wren. 

Men hate passion, any great passion. Henry Cameron made a mistake: he loved his work. 
That was why he fought. That was why he lost. 

People said he never knew that he had lost. If he did, he never let them see it. As his clients 
became rarer, his manner to them grew more overbearing. The less the prestige of his name, 
the more arrogant the sound of his voice pronouncing it. He had had an astute business 
manager, a mild, self-effacing little man of iron who, in the days of his glory, faced quietly the 
storms of Cameron's temper and brought him clients; Cameron insulted the clients, but the 
little man made them accept it and come back. The little man died. 

Cameron had never known how to face people. They did not matter to him, as his own life did 
not matter, as nothing mattered but buildings. He had never learned to give explanations, only 
orders. He had never been liked. He had been feared. No one feared him any longer. 

He was allowed to live. He lived to loathe the streets of the city he had dreamed of rebuilding. 
He lived to sit at the desk in his empty office, motionless, idle, waiting. He lived to read in a 
well-meaning newspaper account a reference to "the late Henry Cameron." He lived to begin 
drinking, quietly, steadily, terribly, for days and nights at a time; and to hear those who had 
driven him to it say, when his name was mentioned for a commission: "Cameron? I should say 
not. He drinks like a fish. That’s why he never gets any work." He lived to move from the 
offices that occupied three floors of a famous building to one floor on a less expensive street, 
then to a suite farther downtown, then to three rooms facing an air shaft, near the Battery. He 
chose these rooms because, by pressing his face to the window of his office, he could see, 
over a brick wall, the top of the Dana Building. 

Howard Roark looked at the Dana Building beyond the windows, stopping at each landing, as 
he mounted the six flights of stairs to Henry Cameron's office; the elevator was out of order. 
The stairs had been painted a dirty file-green a long time ago; a little of the paint remained to 
grate under shoe soles in crumbling patches. Roark went up swiftly, as if he had an 
appointment, a folder of his drawings under his arm, his eyes on the Dana Building. He 
collided once with a man descending the stairs; this had happened to him often in the last two 
days; he had walked through the streets of the city, his head thrown back, noticing nothing but 
the buildings of New York. 

In the dark cubbyhole of Cameron's anteroom stood a desk with a telephone and a typewriter. 
A gray-haired skeleton of a man sat at the desk, in his shirt sleeves, with a pair of limp 
suspenders over his shoulders. He was typing specifications intently, with two fingers and 
incredible speed. The light from a feeble bulb made a pool of yellow on his back, where the 
damp shirt stuck to his shoulder blades. 

The man raised his head slowly, when Roark entered. He looked at Roark, said nothing and 
waited, his old eyes weary, unquestioning, incurious. 

"I should like to see Mr. Cameron," said Roark. 

"Yeah?" said the man, without challenge, offense or meaning. "About what?" 

"About a job." 

"What job?" 

"Drafting." 

The man sat looking at him blankly. It was a request that had not confronted him for a long 
time. He rose at last, without a word, shuffled to a door behind him and went in. 



He left the door half open. Roark heard him drawling: 

"Mr. Cameron, there's a fellow outside says he's looking for a job here." 

Then a voice answered, a strong, clear voice that held no tones of age: 

"Why, the damn fool! Throw him out.. .Wait! Send him in!" 

The old man returned, held the door open and jerked his head at it silently. Roark went in. The 
door closed behind him. 

Henry Cameron sat at his desk at the end of a long, bare room. He sat bent forward, his 
forearms on the desk, his two hands closed before him. His hair and his beard were coal 
black, with coarse threads of white. The muscles of his short, thick neck bulged like ropes. He 
wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled above the elbows; the bare arms were hard, heavy 
and brown. The flesh of his broad face was rigid, as if it had aged by compression. The eyes 
were dark, young, living. 

Roark stood on the threshold and they looked at each other across the long room. 

The light from the air shaft was gray, and the dust on the drafting table, on the few green files, 
looked like fuzzy crystals deposited by the light. But on the wall, between the windows, Roark 
saw a picture. It was the only picture in the room. It was the drawing of a skyscraper that had 
never been erected. 

Roark's eyes moved first and they moved to the drawing. He walked across the office, 
stopped before it and stood looking at it. Cameron's eyes followed him, a heavy glance, like a 
long, thin needle held fast at one end, describing a slow circle, its point piercing Roark's body, 
keeping it pinned firmly. Cameron looked at the orange hair, at the hand hanging by his side, 
its palm to the drawing, the fingers bent slightly, forgotten not in a gesture but in the overture 
to a gesture of asking or seizing something. 

"Well?" said Cameron at last. "Did you come to see me or did you come to look at pictures?" 
Roark turned to him. 

"Both," said Roark. 

He walked to the desk. People had always lost their sense of existence in Roark's presence; 
but Cameron felt suddenly that he had never been as real as in the awareness of the eyes 
now looking at him. 

"What do you want?" snapped Cameron. "I should like to work for you," said Roark quietly. 

The voice said: "I should like to work for you." The tone of the voice said: "I'm going to work 
for you." 

"Are you?" said Cameron, not realizing that he answered the unpronounced sentence. "What's 
the matter? None of the bigger and better fellows will have you?" 

"I have not applied to anyone else." 

"Why not? Do you think this is the easiest place to begin? Think anybody can walk in here 
without trouble? Do you know who I am?" 

"Yes. That's why I'm here." 

"Who sent you?" 

"No one." 

"Why the hell should you pick me?" 



I think you know that. 


"What infernal impudence made you presume that I'd want you? Have you decided that I'm so 
hard up that I'd throw the gates open for any punk who'd do me the honor? 'Old Cameron,' 
you've said to yourself, 'is a has-been, a drunken..." come on, you've said it!. ..'a drunken 
failure who can't be particular!’ Is that it?. ..Come on, answer me! Answer me, damn you! What 
are you staring at? Is that it? Go on! Deny it!" 

"It's not necessary." 

"Where have you worked before?" 

"I'm just beginning." 

"What have you done?" 

"I've had three years at Stanton." 

"Oh? The gentleman was too lazy to finish?" 

"I have been expelled." 

"Great!" Cameron slapped the desk with his fist and laughed. "Splendid! You're not good 
enough for the lice nest at Stanton, but you'll work for Henry Cameron! You've decided this is 
the place for refuse! What did they kick you out for? Drink? Women? What?" 

"These," said Roark, and extended his drawings. Cameron looked at the first one, then at the 
next, then at every one of them to the bottom. Roark heard the paper rustling as Cameron 
slipped one sheet behind another. Then Cameron raised his head. "Sit down." 

Roark obeyed. Cameron stared at him, his thick fingers drumming against the pile of 
drawings. 

"So you think they're good?' said Cameron. "Well, they're awful. It's unspeakable. It's a crime. 
Look," he shoved a drawing at Roark's face, "look at that. What in Christ's name was your 
idea? What possessed you to indent that plan here? Did you just want to make it pretty, 
because you had to patch something together? Who do you think you are? Guy Francon, God 
help you?. ..Look at this building, you fool! You get an idea like this and you don't know what to 
do with it! You stumble on a magnificent thing and you have to ruin it! Do you know how much 
you've got to learn?" 

"Yes. That's why I'm here." 

"And look at that one! I wish I'd done that at your age! But why did you have to botch it? Do 
you know what I’d do with that? Look, to hell with your stairways and to hell with your furnace 
room! When you lay the foundations..." 

He spoke furiously for a long time. He cursed. He did not find one sketch to satisfy him. But 
Roark noticed that he spoke as of buildings that were in construction. 

He broke off abruptly, pushed the drawings aside, and put his fist over them. He asked: 

"When did you decide to become an architect?" 

"When I was ten years old." 

"Men don't know what they want so early in life, if ever. You're lying." 

"Am I?" 

"Don't stare at me like that! Can't you look at something else? Why did you decide to be an 
architect?" 



I didn't know it then. But it's because I've never believed in God. 


"Come on, talk sense." 

"Because I love this earth. That's all I love. I don't like the shape of things on this earth. I want 
to change them." 

"For whom?" 

"For myself." 

"How old are you?" 

"Twenty-two." 

"When did you hear all that?" 

"I didn't." 

"Men don't talk like that at twenty-two. You're abnormal." 

"Probably." 

"I didn't mean it as a compliment." 

"I didn't either." 

"Got any family?" 

"No." 

"Worked through school?" 

"Yes." 

"At what?" 

"In the building trades." 

"How much money have you got left?" 

"Seventeen dollars and thirty cents." 

"When did you come to New York?" 

"Yesterday." 

Cameron looked at the white pile under his fist. 

"God damn you," said Cameron softly. 

"God damn you!" roared Cameron suddenly, leaning forward. "I didn't ask you to come here! I 
don't need any draftsmen! There's nothing here to draft! I don't have enough work to keep 
myself and my men out of the Bowery Mission! I don't want any fool visionaries starving 
around here! I don't want the responsibility. I didn't ask for it. I never thought I'd see it again. 
I'm through with it. I was through with that many years ago. I'm perfectly happy with the 
drooling dolts I've got here, who never had anything and never will have and it makes no 
difference what becomes of them. That’s all I want Why did you have to come here? You're 
setting out to ruin yourself, you know that, don't you? And I'll help you to do it. I don't want to 
see you. I don't like you. I don't like your face. You look like an insufferable egotist. You're 
impertinent. You're too sure of yourself. Twenty years ago I'd have punched your face with the 
greatest of pleasure. You're coming to work here tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp." 



"Yes," said Roark, rising. 

"Fifteen dollars a week. That's all I can pay you." 

"Yes." 

"You're a damn fool. You should have gone to someone else. I'll kill you if you go to anyone 
else. What's your name?" 

"Howard Roark." 

"If you're late, I'll fire you." 

"Yes." 

Roark extended his hand for the drawings. 

"Leave these here!" bellowed Cameron. "Now get out!" 


4 . 

"TOOHEY," said Guy Francon, "Ellsworth Toohey. Pretty decent of him, don't you think? Read 
it, Peter." 

Francon leaned jovially across his desk and handed to Keating the August issue of New 
Frontiers. New Frontiers had a white cover with a black emblem that combined a palette, a 
lyre, a hammer, a screw driver and a rising sun; it had a circulation of thirty thousand and a 
following that described itself as the intellectual vanguard of the country; no one had ever 
risen to challenge the description. Keating read from an article entitled "Marble and Mortar," by 
Ellsworth M. Toohey: 

"...And now we come to another notable achievement of the metropolitan skyline. We call the 
attention of the discriminating to the new Melton Building by Francon & Heyer. It stands in 
white serenity as an eloquent witness to the triumph of Classical purity and common sense. 
The discipline of an immortal tradition has served here as a cohesive factor in evolving a 
structure whose beauty can reach, simply and lucidly, the heart of every man in the street. 
There is no freak exhibitionism here, no perverted striving for novelty, no orgy of unbridled 
egotism. Guy Francon, its designer, has known how to subordinate himself to the mandatory 
canons which generations of craftsmen behind him have proved inviolate, and at the same 
time how to display his own creative originality, not in spite of, but precisely because of the 
Classical dogma he has accepted with the humility of a true artist. It may be worth mentioning, 
in passing, that dogmatic discipline is the only thing which makes true originality possible.... 

"More important, however, is the symbolic significance of a building such as this rising in our 
imperial city. As one stands before its southern facade, one is stricken with the realization that 
the stringcourses, repeated with deliberate and gracious monotony from the third to the 
eighteenth story, these long, straight, horizontal lines are the moderating, leveling principle, 
the lines of equality. They seem to bring the towering structure down to the humble level of the 
observer. They are the lines of the earth, of the people, of the great masses. They seem to tell 
us that none may rise too high above the restraint of the common human level, that all is held 
and shall be checked, even as this proud edifice, by the stringcourses of men's 
brotherhood...." 

There was more. Keating read it all, then raised his head. "Gee!" he said, awed. 

Francon smiled happily. 

"Pretty good, eh? And from Toohey, no less. Not many people might have heard the name, 
but they will, mark my word, they will. I know the signs. ...So he doesn't think I'm so bad? And 
he's got a tongue like an icepick, when he feels like using it. You should see what he says 
about others, more often than not. You know Durkin's latest mousetrap? Well, I was at a party 
where Toohey said-" Francon chuckled-"he said: 'If Mr. Durkin suffers under the delusion 



that he is an architect, someone should mention to him the broad opportunities offered by the 
shortage of skilled plumbers.' That's what he said, imagine, in public!" 

"I wonder," said Keating wistfully, "what he'll say about me, when the times comes." 

"What on earth does he mean by the symbolic significance stuff and the stringcourses of 
men's brotherhood?. ..Oh, well, if that's what he praises us for, we should worry!" 

"It's the critic's job to interpret the artist, Mr. Francon, even to the artist himself. Mr. Toohey 
has merely stated the hidden significance that was subconsciously in your own mind." 

"Oh," said Francon vaguely. "Oh, do you think so?" he added brightly. "Quite possible. ...Yes, 
quite possible. ...You're a smart boy, Peter." 

"Thank you, Mr. Francon." Keating made a movement to rise. 

"Wait. Don't go. One more cigarette and then we'll both return to the drudgery." 

Francon was smiling over the article, reading it again. Keating had never seen him so 
pleased; no drawing in the office, no work accomplished had ever made him as happy as 
these words from another man on a printed page to be read by other eyes. 

Keating sat easily in a comfortable chair. His month with the firm had been well spent. He had 
said nothing and done nothing, but the impression had spread through the office that Guy 
Francon liked to see this particular boy sent to him whenever anyone had to be sent. Hardly a 
day passed without the pleasant interlude of sitting across the desk from Guy Francon, in a 
respectful, growing intimacy, listening to Francon's sighs about the necessity of being 
surrounded by men who understood him. 

Keating had learned all he could team about Guy Francon, from his fellow draftsmen. He had 
teamed that Guy Francon ate moderately and exquisitely, and prided himself on the title of 
gourmet; that he had graduated with distinction from the Ecole des Beaux-Arts; that he had 
married a great deal of money and that the marriage had not been a happy one; that he 
matched meticulously his socks with his handkerchiefs, but never with his neckties; that he 
had a great preference for designing buildings of gray granite; that he owned a quarry of gray 
granite in Connecticut, which did a thriving business; that he maintained a magnificent 
bachelor apartment done in plum-colored Louis XV; that his wife, of a distinguished old name, 
had died, leaving her fortune to their only daughter, that the daughter, now nineteen, was 
away at college. 

These last facts interested Keating a great deal. He mentioned to Francon, tentatively in 
passing, the subject of his daughter. "Oh, yes..." Francon said thinly. "Yes, indeed..." Keating 
abandoned all further research into the matter, for the time being; Francon's face had 
declared mat the thought of his daughter was painfully annoying to him, for some reason 
which Keating could not discover. 

Keating had met Lucius N. Heyer, Francon's partner, and had seen him come to the office 
twice in three weeks, but had been unable to learn what service Heyer rendered to the firm. 
Heyer did not have haemophilia, but looked as though he should have it He was a withered 
aristocrat, with a long, thin neck, pate, bulging eyes and a manner of frightened sweetness 
toward everyone. He was the relic of an ancient family, and it was suspected mat Francon had 
taken him into partnership for the sake of his social connections. People felt sorry for poor 
dear Lucius, admired him for the effort of undertaking a professional career, and thought it 
would be nice to let him build their homes. Francon built them and required no further service 
from Lucius. This satisfied everybody. 

The men in the drafting rooms loved Peter Keating. He made them feel as if he had been 
there for a long time; he had always known how to become part of any place he entered; he 
came soft and bright as a sponge to be filled, unresisting, with the air and the mood of the 
place. His warm smile, his gay voice, the easy shrug of his shoulders seemed to say that 
nothing weighed too much within his soul and so he was not one to blame, to demand, to 
accuse anything. 



As he sat now, watching Francon read the article, Francon raised his head to glance at him. 
Francon saw two eyes looking at him with immense approval-and two bright little points of 
contempt in the corners of Keating's mouth, like two musical notes of laughter visible the 
second before they were to be heard. Francon felt a great wave of comfort. The comfort came 
from the contempt. The approval, together with that wise half-smile, granted him a grandeur 
he did not have to earn; a blind admiration would have been precarious; a deserved 
admiration would have been a responsibility; an undeserved admiration was precious. 

"When you go, Peter, give this to Miss Jeffers to put in my scrapbook." 

On his way down the stairs, Keating flung the magazine high in the air and caught it smartly, 
his lips pursed to whistle without sound. 

In the drafting room he found Tim Davis, his best friend, slouched despondently over a 
drawing. Tim Davis was the tall, blond boy at the next table, whom Keating had noticed long 
ago, because he had known, with no tangible evidence, but with certainty, as Keating always 
knew such things, that this was the favored draftsman of the office. Keating managed to be 
assigned, as frequently as possible, to do parts of the projects on which Davis worked. Soon 
they were going out to lunch together, and to a quiet little speak-easy after the day's work, and 
Keating was listening with breathless attention to Davis' talk about his love for one Elaine 
Duffy, not a word of which Keating ever remembered afterward. 

He found Davis now in black gloom, his mouth chewing furiously a cigarette and a pencil at 
once. Keating did not have to question him. He merely bent his friendly face over Davis' 
shoulder. Davis spit out the cigarette and exploded. He had just been told that he would have 
to work overtime tonight, for the third time this week. 

"Got to stay late, God knows how late! Gotta finish this damn tripe tonight!" He slammed the 
sheets spread before him. "Look at it! Hours and hours and hours to finish it! What am I going 
to do?" 

"Well, it's because you're the best man here, Tim, and they need you." 

"To hell with that! I've got a date with Elaine tonight! How'm I going to break it? Third time! 

She won't believe me! She told me so last time! That's the end! I'm going up to Guy the Mighty 
and tell him where he can put his plans and his job! I'm through!" 

"Wait," said Keating, and leaned closer to him. "Wait! There's another way. I'll finish them for 
you." 

"Huh?" 

"I'll stay. I'll do them. Don't be afraid. No one'll tell the difference." 

"Pete! Would you?" 

"Sure. I've nothing to do tonight. You just stay till they all go home, then skip." 

"Oh, gee, Pete!" Davis sighed, tempted. "But look, if they find out, they'll can me. You're too 
new for this kind of job." 

"They won't find out." 

"I can't lose my job, Pete. You know I can’t. Elaine and I are going to be married soon. If 
anything happens..." 

"Nothing will happen." 

Shortly after six, Davis departed furtively from the empty drafting room, leaving Keating at his 
table. 


Bending under a solitary green lamp. Keating glanced at the desolate expanse of three long 
rooms, oddly silent after the day’s rush, and he felt that he owned them, that he would own 



them, as surely as the pencil moved in his hand. 


It was half past nine when he finished the plans, stacked them neatly on Davis' table, and left 
the office. He walked down the street, glowing with a comfortable, undignified feeling, as 
though after a good meal. Then the realization of his loneliness struck him suddenly. He had 
to share this with someone tonight. He had no one. For the first time he wished his mother 
were in New York. But she had remained in Stanton, awaiting the day when he would be able 
to send for her. He had nowhere to go tonight, save to the respectable little boardinghouse on 
West Twenty-Eighth Street, where he could climb three flights of stairs to his clean, airless 
little room. He had met people in New York, many people, many girls, with one of whom he 
remembered spending a pleasant night, though he could not remember her last name; but he 
wished to see none of them. And then he thought of Catherine Halsey. 

He had sent her a wire on the night of his graduation and forgotten her ever since. Now he 
wanted to see her; the desire was intense and immediate with the first sound of her name in 
his memory. He leaped into a bus for the long ride to Greenwich Village, climbed to the 
deserted top and, sitting alone on the front bench, cursed the traffic lights whenever they 
turned to red. It had always been like this where Catherine was concerned; and he wondered 
dimly what was the matter with him. 

He had met her a year ago in Boston, where she had lived with her widowed mother. He had 
found Catherine homely and dull, on that first meeting, with nothing to her credit but her lovely 
smile, not a sufficient reason ever to see her again. He had telephoned her the next evening. 
Of the countless girls he had known in his student years she was the only one with whom he 
had never progressed beyond a few kisses. He could have any girl he met and he knew it; he 
knew that he could have Catherine; he wanted her; she loved him and had admitted it simply, 
openly, without fear or shyness, asking nothing of him, expecting nothing; somehow, he had 
never taken advantage of it. He had felt proud of the girls whom he escorted in those days, 
the most beautiful girls, the most popular, the best dressed, and he had delighted in the envy 
of his schoolmates. He had been ashamed of Catherine's thoughtless sloppiness and of the 
fact that no other boy would look at her twice. But he had never been as happy as when he 
took her to fraternity dances. He had had many violent loves, when he swore he could not live 
without this girl or that; he forgot Catherine for weeks at a time and she never reminded him. 
He had always come back to her, suddenly, inexplicably, as he did tonight. 

Her mother, a gentle little schoolteacher, had died last winter. Catherine had gone to live with 
an uncle in New York. Keating had answered some of her letters immediately, others-months 
later. She had always replied at once, and never written during his long silences, waiting 
patiently. He had felt, when he thought of her, that nothing would ever replace her. Then, in 
New York, within reach of a bus or a telephone, he had forgotten her again for a month. 

He never thought, as he hurried to her now, that he should have announced his visit. He never 
wondered whether he would find her at home. He had always come back like this and she had 
always been there. She was there again tonight. 

She opened the door for him, on the top floor of a shabby, pretentious brownstone house. 
"Hello, Peter," she said, as if she had seen him yesterday. 

She stood before him, too small, too thin for her clothes. The short black skirt flared out from 
the slim band of her waist; the boyish shirt collar hung loosely, pulled to one side, revealing 
the knob of a thin collarbone; the sleeves were too long over the fragile hands. She looked at 
him, her head bent to one side; her chestnut hair was gathered carelessly at the back of her 
neck, but it looked as though it were bobbed, standing, light and fuzzy, as a shapeless halo 
about her face. Her eyes were gray, wide and nearsighted; her mouth smiled slowly, 
delicately, enchantingly, her lips glistening. "Hello, Katie," he said. 

He felt at peace. He felt he had nothing to fear, in this house or anywhere outside. He had 
prepared himself to explain how busy he'd been in New York; but explanations seemed 
irrelevant now. 

"Give me your hat," she said, "be careful of that chair, it's not very steady, we have better ones 
in the living room, come in." The living room, he noticed, was modest but somehow 
distinguished, and in surprisingly good taste. He noticed the books; cheap shelves rising to the 



ceiling, loaded with precious volumes; the volumes stacked carelessly, actually being used. 

He noticed, over a neat, shabby desk, a Rembrandt etching, stained and yellow, found, 
perhaps, in some junk shop by the eyes of a connoisseur who had never parted with it, though 
its price would have obviously been of help to him. He wondered what business her uncle 
could be in; he had never asked. 

He stood looking vaguely at the room, feeling her presence behind him, enjoying that sense of 
certainty which he found so rarely. Then he turned and took her in his arms and kissed her; 
her lips met his softly, eagerly; but she was neither frightened nor excited, too happy to accept 
this in any way save by taking it for granted. 

"God, I've missed you!" he said, and knew that he had, every day since he'd seen her last and 
most of all, perhaps, on the days when he had not thought of her. 

"You haven't changed much," she said. "You look a little thinner. It's becoming. You'll be very 
attractive when you're fifty, Peter." 

"That's not very complimentary-by implication." 

"Why? Oh, you mean I think you're not attractive now? Oh, but you are." 

"You shouldn't say that right out to me like that." 

"Why not? You know you are. But I've been thinking of what you’ll look like at fifty. You'll have 
gray temples and you'll wear a gray suit--l saw one in a window last week and I thought that 
would be the one--and you'll be a very great architect." 

"You really think so?" 

"Why, yes." She was not flattering him. She did not seem to realize that it could be flattery. 

She was merely stating a fact, too certain to need emphasis. 

He waited for the inevitable questions. But instead, they were talking suddenly of their old 
Stanton days together, and he was laughing, holding her across his knees, her thin shoulders 
leaning against the circle of his arm, her eyes soft, contented. He was speaking of their old 
bathing suits, of the runs in her stockings, of their favorite ice-cream parlor in Stanton, where 
they had spent so many summer evenings together-and he was thinking dimly that it made 
no sense at all; he had more pertinent things to tell and to ask her; people did not talk like that 
when they hadn't seen each other for months. But it seemed quite normal to her; she did not 
appear to know that they had been parted. 

He was first to ask finally: 

"Did you get my wire?" 

"Oh, yes. Thanks." 

"Don't you want to know how I’m getting along in the city?" 

"Sure. How are you getting along in the city?" 

"Look here, you're not terribly interested." 

"Oh, but I am! I want to know everything about you." 

"Why don't you ask?" 

"You'll tell me when you want to." 

"It doesn't matter much to you, does it?" 


What?' 



"What I've been doing." 

"Oh. ..Yes, it does, Peter. No, not too much." 

"That's sweet of you!" 

"But, you see, it's not what you do that matters really. It's only you." 

"Me what?" 

"Just you here. Or you in the city. Or you somewhere in the world. I don't know. Just that." 
"You know, you're a fool, Katie. Your technique is something awful." 

"My what?" 

"Your technique. You can't tell a man so shamelessly, like that, that you're practically crazy 
about him." 

"But I am." 

"But you can't say so. Men won't care for you." 

"But I don’t want men to care for me." 

"You want me to, don't you?" 

"But you do, don't you?" 

"I do," he said, his arms tightening about her. "Damnably. I'm a bigger fool than you are." 

"Well, then it's perfectly all right," she said, her fingers in his hair, "isn't it?" 

"It's always been perfectly all right, that's the strangest part about it.. ..But look, I want to tell 
you about what's happened to me, because it's important." 

"I'm really very interested, Peter." 

"Well, you know I'm working for Francon & Heyer and. ..Oh, hell, you don't even know what 
that means!" 

"Yes, I do. I've looked them up in Who's Who in Architecture. It said some very nice things 
about them. And I asked Uncle. He said they were tops in the business." 

"You bet they are. Francon-he’s the greatest designer in New York, in the whole country, in 
the world maybe. He’s put up seventeen skyscrapers, eight cathedrals, six railroad terminals 
and God knows what else. ...Of course, you know, he’s an old fool and a pompous fraud who 
oils his way into everything and..." He stopped, his mouth open, staring at her. He had not 
intended to say that. He had never allowed himself to think that before. 

She was looking at him serenely. "Yes?" she asked. "And...?" 

"Well. ..and..." he stammered, and he knew that he could not speak differently, not to her, "and 
that’s what I really think of him. And I have no respect for him at all. And I’m delighted to be 
working for him. See?" 

"Sure," she said quietly. "You’re ambitious, Peter." 

"Don’t you despise me for it?" 

"No. That’s what you wanted." 

"Sure, that's what I wanted. Well, actually, it's not as bad as that. It's a tremendous firm, the 



best in the city. I'm really doing good work, and Francon is very pleased with me. I'm getting 
ahead. I think I can have any job I want in the place eventually.. ..Why, only tonight I took over 
a man's work and he doesn't know that he'll be useless soon, because. ..Katie! What am I 
saying?" 

"It's all right, dear. I understand." 

"If you did, you'd call me the names I deserve and make me stop it." 

"No, Peter. I don't want to change you. I love you, Peter." 

"God help you!" 

"I know that." 

"You know that? And you say it like this? Like you'd say, 'Hello, it's a beautiful evening'?" 

"Well, why not? Why worry about it? I love you." 

"No, don't worry about it! Don't ever worry about it!. ..Katie.. ..I'll never love anyone else...." 

"I know that too." 

He held her close, anxiously, afraid that her weightless little body would vanish. He did not 
know why her presence made him confess things unconfessed in his own mind. He did not 
know why the victory he came here to share had faded. But it did not matter. He had a 
peculiar sense of freedom-her presence always lifted from him a pressure he could not 
define-he was alone-he was himself. All that mattered to him now was the feeling of her 
coarse cotton blouse against his wrist. 

Then he was asking her about her own life in New York and she was speaking happily about 
her uncle. 

"He’s wonderful, Peter. He’s really wonderful. He’s quite poor, but he took me in and he was 
so gracious about it he gave up his study to make a room for me and now he has to work 
here, in the living room. You must meet him, Peter. He’s away now, on a lecture tour, but you 
must meet him when he comes back." 

"Sure, I'd love to." 

"You know, I wanted to go to work, and be on my own, but he wouldn't let me. 'My dear child,' 
he said, 'not at seventeen. You don't want me to be ashamed of myself, do you? I don't 
believe in child labor.’ That was kind of a funny idea, don't you think? He has so many funny 
ideas--l don't understand them all, but they say he's a brilliant man. So he made it look as if I 
were doing him a favor by letting him keep me, and I think that was really very decent of him." 

"What do you do with yourself all day long?" 

"Nothing much of anything now. I read books. On architecture. Uncle has tons of books on 
architecture. But when he's here I type his lectures for him. I really don't think he likes me to 
do it, he prefers the typist he had, but I love it and he lets me. And he pays me her salary. I 
didn't want to take it, but he made me." 

"What does he do for a living?" 

"Oh, so many things, I don't know, I can’t keep track of them. He teaches art history, for one, 
he’s a kind of professor." 

"And when are you going to college, by the way?" 

"Oh. ..Well. ..well, you see, I don't think Uncle approves of the idea. I told him how I'd always 
planned to go and that I'd work my own way through, but he seems to think it's not for me. He 
doesn't say much, only: ’God made the elephant for toil and the mosquito for flitting about, and 



it's not advisable, as a rule, to experiment with the laws of nature, however, if you want to try it, 
my dear child...' But he’s not objecting really, it's up to me, only..." 

"Well, don't let him stop you." 

"Oh, he wouldn't want to stop me. Only, I was thinking, I was never any great shakes in high 
school, and, darling, I'm really quite utterly lousy at mathematics, and so I wonder. ..but then, 
there's no hurry, I've got plenty of time to decide." 

"Listen, Katie, I don't like that. You've always planned on college. If that uncle of yours..." 

"You shouldn't say it like this. You don't know him. He's the most amazing man. I've never met 
anyone quite like him. He’s so kind, so understanding. And he’s such fun, always joking, he’s 
so clever at it, nothing that you thought was serious ever seems to be when he's around, and 
yet he's a very serious man. You know, he spends hours talking to me, he's never too tired 
and he's not bored with my stupidity, he tells me all about strikes, and conditions in the slums, 
and the poor people in the sweatshops, always about others, never about himself. A friend of 
his told me that Uncle could be a very rich man if he tried, he's so clever, but he won't, he just 
isn't interested in money." 

"That's not human." 

"Wait till you see him. Oh, he wants to meet you, too. I've told him about you. He calls you 'the 
T-square Romeo.'" 

"Oh, he does, does he?" 

"But you don't understand. He means it kindly. It's the way he says things. You'll have a lot in 
common. Maybe he could help you. He knows something about architecture, too. You'll love 
Uncle Ellsworth." 

"Who?" said Keating. 

"My uncle." 

"Say," Keating asked, his voice a little husky, "what's your 
uncle's name?" 

"Ellsworth Toohey. Why?" His hands fell limply. He sat staring at her. "What's the matter, 
Peter?" 

He swallowed. She saw the jerking motion of his throat. Then he said, his voice hard: 

"Listen, Katie, I don't want to meet your uncle." 

"But why?" 

"I don't want to meet him. Not through you.. ..You see, Katie, you don't know me. I'm the kind 
that uses people. I don't want to use you. Ever. Don't let me. Not you." 

"Use me how? What’s the matter? Why?" 

"It's just this: I'd give my eyeteeth to meet Ellsworth Toohey, that's all." He laughed harshly. 

"So he knows something about architecture, does he? You little fool! He's the most important 
man in architecture. Not yet, maybe, but that's what he'll be in a couple of years-ask Francon, 
that old weasel knows. He's on his way to becoming the Napoleon of all architectural critics, 
your Uncle Ellsworth is, just watch him. In the first place, there aren't many to bother writing 
about our profession, so he's the smart boy who's going to comer the market. You should see 
the big shots in our office lapping up every comma he puts out in print! So you think maybe he 
could help me? Well, he could make me, and he will, and I'm going to meet him some day, 
when I’m ready for him, as I met Francon, but not here, not through you. Understand? Not 
from you!" 



But, Peter, why not?' 


"Because I don't want it that way! Because it's filthy and I hate it, all of it, ray work and my 
profession, and what I'm doing and what I'm going to do! It's something I want to keep you out 
of. You're all I really have. Just keep out of it, Katie!" 

"Out of what?" 

"I don't know!" 

She rose and stood in the circle of his arms, his face hidden against her hip; she stroked his 
hair, looking down at him. 

"All right, Peter. I think I know. You don't have to meet him until you want to. Just tell me when 
you want it. You can use me if you have to. It's all right. It won't change anything." 

When he raised his head, she was laughing softly. 

"You’ve worked too hard, Peter. You're a little unstrung. Suppose I make you some tea?" 

"Oh, I'd forgotten all about it, but I've had no dinner today. Had no time." 

"Well, of all things! Well, how perfectly disgusting! Come on to the kitchen, this minute, I'll see 
what I can fix up for you!" 

He left her two hours later, and he walked away feeling light, clean, happy, his fears forgotten, 
Toohey and Francon forgotten. He thought only that he had promised to come again tomorrow 
and that it was an unbearably long time to wait. She stood at the door, after he had gone, her 
hand on the knob he had touched, and she thought that he might come tomorrow-or three 
months later. 

# 

"When you finish tonight," said Henry Cameron, "I want to see you in my office." 

"Yes," said Roark. 

Cameron veered sharply on his heels and walked out of the drafting room. It had been the 
longest sentence he had addressed to Roark in a month. 

Roark had come to this room every morning, had done his task, and had heard no word of 
comment. Cameron would enter the drafting room and stand behind Roark for a long time, 
looking over his shoulder. It was as if his eyes concentrated deliberately on trying to throw the 
steady hand off its course on the paper. The two other draftsmen botched their work from the 
mere thought of such an apparition standing behind them. Roark did not seem to notice it. He 
went on, his hand unhurried, he took his time about discarding a blunted pencil and picking 
out another. "Uh-huh," Cameron would grunt suddenly. Roark would turn his head then, 
politely attentive. "What is it?" he would ask. Cameron would turn away without a word, his 
narrowed eyes underscoring contemptuously the fact that he considered an answer 
unnecessary, and would leave the drafting room. Roark would go on with his drawing. 

"Looks bad," Loomis, the young draftsman, confided to Simpson, his ancient colleague. "The 
old man doesn't like this guy. Can't say that I blame him, either. Here's one that won't last 
long." 

Simpson was old and helpless; he had survived from Cameron's three-floor office, had stuck 
and had never understood it Loomis was young, with the face of a drugstore-corner lout; he 
was here because he had been fired from too many other places. 

Both men disliked Roark. He was usually disliked, from the first sight of his face, anywhere he 
went His face was closed like the door of a safety vault; things locked in safety vaults are 
valuable; men did not care to feel that. He was a cold, disquieting presence in the room; his 
presence had a strange quality: it made itself felt and yet it made them feel that he was not 



there; or perhaps that he was and they weren't. 


After work he walked the long distance to his home, a tenement near the East River. He had 
chosen that tenement because he had been able to get, for two-fifty a week, its entire top 
floor, a huge room that had been used for storage: it had no ceiling and the roof leaked 
between its naked beams. But it had a long row of windows, along two of its walls, some 
panes filled with glass, others with cardboard, and the windows opened high over the river on 
one side and the city on the other. 

A week ago Cameron had come into the drafting room and had thrown down on Roark's table 
a violent sketch of a country residence. "See if you can make a house out of this!" he had 
snapped and gone without further explanation. He had not approached Roark's table during 
the days that followed. Roark had finished the drawings last night and left them on Cameron's 
desk. This morning, Cameron had come in, thrown some sketches of steel joints to Roark, 
ordered him to appear in his office later and had not entered the drafting room again for the 
rest of the day. The others were gone. Roark pulled an old piece of oilcloth over his table and 
went to Cameron's office. His drawings of the country house were spread on the desk. The 
light of the lamp fell on Cameron's cheek, on his beard, the white threads glistening, on his 
fist, on a corner of the drawing, its black lines bright and hard as if embossed on the paper. 
"You're fired," said Cameron. 

Roark stood, halfway across the long room, his weight on one leg, his arms hanging by his 
sides, one shoulder raised. "Am I?" he asked quietly, without moving. "Come here," said 
Cameron. "Sit down." Roark obeyed. 

"You're too good," said Cameron. "You're too good for what you want to do with yourself. It's 
no use, Roark. Better now than later." 

"What do you mean?' 

"It's no use wasting what you've got on an ideal that you'll never reach, that they'll never let 
you reach. It's no use, taking that marvelous thing you have and making a torture rack for 
yourself out of it. Sell it, Roark. Sell it now. It won't be the same, but you've got enough in you. 
You've got what they'll pay you for, and pay plenty, if you use it their way. Accept them, Roark. 
Compromise. Compromise now, because you'll have to later, anyway, only then you'll have 
gone through things you'll wish you hadn't. You don't know. I do. Save yourself from that. 
Leave me. Go to someone else." 

"Did you do that?" 

"You presumptuous bastard! How good do you think I said you were? Did I tell you to compare 
yourself to..." He stopped because he saw that Roark was smiling. 

He looked at Roark, and suddenly smiled in answer, and it was the most painful thing that 
Roark had ever seen. 

"No," said Cameron softly, "that won't work, huh? No, it won't.. .Well, you're right. You're as 
good as you think you are. But I want to speak to you. I don't know exactly how to go about it. 
I've lost the habit of speaking to men like you. Lost it? Maybe I've never had it. Maybe that's 
what frightens me now. Will you try to understand?" 

"I understand. I think you're wasting your time." 

"Don't be rude. Because I can't be rude to you now. I want you to listen. Will you listen and not 
answer me?" 

"Yes. I’m sorry. I didn't intend it as rudeness." 

"You see, of all men, I'm the last one to whom you should have come. I'll be committing a 
crime if I keep you here. Somebody should have warned you against me. I won't help you at 
all. I won't discourage you. I won’t teach you any common sense. Instead, I'll push you on. I'll 
drive you the way you're going now. I'll beat you into remaining what you are, and I'll make you 
worse.. ..Don't you see? In another month I won't be able to let you go. I'm not sure I can now. 



So don't argue with me and go. Get out while you can." 

"But can I? Don't you think it's too late for both of us? It was too late for me twelve years ago." 

"Try it, Roark. Try to be reasonable for once. There's plenty of big fellows who'll take you, 
expulsion or no expulsion, if I say so. They may laugh at me in their luncheon speeches, but 
they steal from me when it suits them, and they know that I know a good draftsman when I 
see one. I'll give you a letter to Guy Francon. He worked for me once, long ago. I think I fired 
him, but that wouldn't matter. Go to him. You won't like it at first, but you'll get used to it. And 
you'll thank me for it many years from now." 

"Why are you saying all this to me? That's not what you want to say. That's not what you did." 

"That's why I'm saying it! Because that's not what I did!. ..Look, Roark, there's one thing about 
you, the thing I'm afraid of. It's not just the kind of work you do; I wouldn't care, if you were an 
exhibitionist who's being different as a stunt, as a lark, just to attract attention to himself. It's a 
smart racket, to oppose the crowd and amuse it and collect admission to the side show. If you 
did that, I wouldn't worry. But it's not that. You love your work. God help you, you love it! And 
that's the curse. That's the brand on your forehead for all of them to see. You love it, and they 
know it, and they know they have you. Do you ever look at the people in the street? Aren't you 
afraid of them? I am. They move past you and they wear hats and they carry bundles. But 
that’s not the substance of them. The substance of them is hatred for any man who loves his 
work. That’s the only kind they fear. I don’t know why. You're opening yourself up, Roark, for 
each and every one of them." 

"But I never notice the people in the streets." 

"Do you notice what they've done to me?" 

"I notice only that you weren't afraid of them. Why do you ask me to be?" 

"That's just why I'm asking it!" He leaned forward, his fists closing on the desk before him. 
"Roark, do you want me to say it? You're cruel, aren't you? All right, I'll say it: do you want to 
end up like this? Do you want to be what I am?" Roark got up and stood against the edge of 
light on the desk. "If," said Roark, "at the end of my life, I'll be what you are today here, in this 
office, I shall consider it an honor that I could not have deserved." 

"Sit down!" roared Cameron. "I don't like demonstrations!" Roark looked down at himself, at 
the desk, astonished to find himself standing. He said: "I'm sorry. I didn't know I got up." 

"Well, sit down. Listen. I understand. And it's very nice of you. But you don't know. I thought a 
few days here would be enough to take the hero worship out of you. I see it wasn't. Here you 
are, saying to yourself how grand old Cameron is, a noble fighter, a martyr to a lost cause, 
and you'd just love to die on the barricades with me and to eat in dime lunch-wagons with me 
for the rest of your life. I know, it looks pure and beautiful to you now, at your great old age of 
twenty-two. But do you know what it means? Thirty years of a lost cause, that sounds 
beautiful, doesn't it? But do you know how many days there are in thirty years? Do you know 
what happens in those days? Roark! Do you know what happens?" 

"You don't want to speak of that." 

"No! I don't want to speak of that! But I'm going to. I want you to hear. I want you to know 
what's in store for you. There will be days when you'll look at your hands and you'll want to 
take something and smash every bone in them, because they'll be taunting you with what they 
could do, if you found a chance for them to do it, and you can't find that chance, and you can't 
bear your living body because it has failed those hands somewhere. There will be days when 
a bus driver will snap at you as you enter a bus, and he'll be only asking for a dime, but that 
won't be what you'll hear; you'll hear that you're nothing, that he's laughing at you, that it's 
written on your forehead, that thing they hate you for. There will be days when you'll stand in 
the corner of a hall and listen to a creature on a platform talking about buildings, about that 
work which you love, and the things he'll say will make you wait for somebody to rise and 
crack him open between two thumbnails; and then you'll hear the people applauding him, and 
you'll want to scream, because you won't know whether they're real or you are, whether you're 



in a room full of gored skulls, or whether someone has just emptied your own head, and you'll 
say nothing, because the sounds you could make--they're not a language in that room any 
longer; but if you'd want to speak, you won't anyway, because you'll be brushed aside, you 
who have nothing to tell them about buildings! Is that what you want?" 

Roark sat still, the shadows sharp on his face, a black wedge on a sunken cheek, a long 
triangle of black cutting across his chin, his eyes on Cameron. 

"Not enough?" asked Cameron. "All right. Then, one day, you'll see on a piece of paper before 
you a building that will make you want to kneel; you won't believe that you've done it, but you 
will have done it; then you'll think that the earth is beautiful and the air smells of spring and 
you love your fellow men, because there is no evil in the world. And you'll set out from your 
house with this drawing, to have it erected, because you won't have any doubt that it will be 
erected by the first man to see it. But you won't get very far from your house. Because you'll 
be stopped at the door by the man who's come to turn off the gas. You hadn't had much food, 
because you saved money to finish your drawing, but still you had to cook something and you 
hadn't paid for it.. ..All right, that's nothing, you can laugh at that. But finally you'll get into a 
man's office with your drawing, and you'll curse yourself for taking so much space of his air 
with your body, and you'll try to squeeze yourself out of his sight, so that he won't see you, but 
only hear your voice begging him, pleading, your voice licking his knees; you'll loathe yourself 
for it, but you won't care, if only he'd let you put up that building, you won't care, you'll want to 
rip your insides open to show him, because if he saw what's there he'd have to let you put it 
up. But he'll say that he's very sorry, only the commission has just been given to Guy Francon. 
And you'll go home, and do you know what you'll do there? You'll cry. You'll cry like a woman, 
like a drunkard, like an animal. That's your future, Howard Roark. Now, do you want it?" 

"Yes," said Roark. 

Cameron's eyes dropped; then his head moved down a little, then a little farther; his head 
went on dropping slowly, in long, single jerks, then stopped; he sat still, his shoulders 
hunched, his arms huddled together in his lap. 

"Howard," whispered Cameron, "I've never told it to anyone...." 

"Thank you...." said Roark. 

After a long time, Cameron raised his head. 

"Go home now," said Cameron, his voice flat. "You've worked too much lately. And you have a 
hard day ahead." He 

pointed to the drawings of the country house. "This is all very well, and I wanted to see what 
you'd do, but it's not good enough to build. You'll have to do it over. I'll show you what I want 
tomorrow." 


5 . 

A YEAR with the firm of Francon & Heyer had given Keating the whispered title of crown 
prince without portfolio. Still only a draftsman, he was Francon's reigning favorite. Francon 
took him out to lunch-an unprecedented honor for an employee. Francon called him to be 
present at interviews with clients. The clients seemed to like seeing so decorative a young 
man in an architect's office. 

Lucius N. Heyer had the annoying habit of asking Francon suddenly: "When did you get the 
new man?" and pointing to an employee who had been there for three years. But Heyer 
surprised everybody by remembering Keating's name and by greeting him, whenever they 
met, with a smile of positive recognition. Keating had had a long conversation with him, one 
dreary November afternoon, on the subject of old porcelain. It was Heyer's hobby; he owned a 
famous collection, passionately gathered. Keating displayed an earnest knowledge of the 
subject, though he had never heard of old porcelain till the night before, which he had spent at 
the public library. Heyer was delighted; nobody in the office cared about his hobby, few ever 



noticed his presence. Heyer remarked to his partner: "You're certainly good at picking your 
men, Guy. There's one boy I wish we wouldn't lose, what's his name?--Keating." 

"Yes, indeed," Francon answered, smiling, "yes, indeed." 

In the drafting room, Keating concentrated on Tim Davis. Work and drawings were only 
unavoidable details on the surface of his days; Tim Davis was the substance and the shape of 
the first step in his career. 

Davis let him do most of his own work; only night work, at first, then parts of his daily 
assignments as well; secretly, at first, then openly. Davis had not wanted it to be known. 
Keating made it known, with an air of naive confidence which implied that he was only a tool, 
no more than Tim's pencil or T-square, that his help enhanced Tim's importance rather than 
diminished it and, therefore, he did not wish to conceal it. 

At first, Davis relayed instructions to Keating; then the chief draftsman took the arrangement 
for granted and began coming to Keating with orders intended for Davis. Keating was always 
there, smiling, saying: "I'll do it; don't bother Tim with those little things, I'll take care of it." 

Davis relaxed and let himself be carried along; he smoked a great deal, he lolled about, his 
legs twisted loosely over the rungs of a stool, his eyes closed, dreaming of Elaine; he uttered 
once in a while: "Is the stuff ready, Pete?" 

Davis had married Elaine that spring. He was frequently late for work. He had whispered to 
Keating: "You're in with the old man, Pete, slip a good word for me, once in a while, will you?- 
so they'll overlook a few things. God, do I hate to have to be working right now!" Keating would 
say to Francon: "I'm sorry, Mr. Francon, that the Murray job sub-basement plans were so late, 
but Tim Davis had a quarrel with his wife last night, and you know how newlyweds are, you 
don't want to be too hard on them," or "It's Tim Davis again, Mr. Francon, do forgive him, he 
can't help it, he hasn't got his mind on his work at all!" 

When Francon glanced at the list of his employees' salaries, he noticed that his most 
expensive draftsman was the man least needed in the office. 

When Tim Davis lost his job, no one in the drafting room was surprised but Tim Davis. He 
could not understand it. He set his lips defiantly in bitterness against a world he would hate 
forever. He felt he had no friend on earth save Peter Keating. 

Keating consoled him, cursed Francon, cursed the injustice of humanity, spent six dollars in a 
speak-easy, entertaining the secretary of an obscure architect of his acquaintance and 
arranged a new job for Tim Davis. 

Whenever he thought of Davis afterward, Keating felt a warm pleasure; he had influenced the 
course of a human being, had thrown him off one path and pushed him into another; a human 
being-it was not Tim Davis to him any longer, it was a living frame and a mind, a conscious 
mind-why had he always feared that mysterious entity of consciousness within others?-and 
he had twisted that frame and that mind to his own will. By a unanimous decision of Francon, 
Heyer and the chief draftsman, Tim's table, position and salary were given to Peter Keating. 
But this was only part of his satisfaction; there was another sense of it, warmer and less real- 
and more dangerous. He said brightly and often: 'Tim Davis? Oh yes, I got him his present 
job." 

He wrote to his mother about it. She said to her friends: "Petey is such an unselfish boy." 

He wrote to her dutifully each week; his letters were short and respectful; hers, long, detailed 
and full of advice which he seldom finished reading. 

He saw Catherine Halsey occasionally. He had not gone to her on that following evening, as 
he had promised. He had awakened in the morning and remembered the things he had said 
to her, and hated her for his having said them. But he had gone to her again, a week later; she 
had not reproached him and they had not mentioned her uncle. He saw her after that every 
month or two; he was happy when he saw her, but he never spoke to her of his career. 


He tried to speak of it to Howard Roark; the attempt failed. He called on Roark twice; he 



climbed, indignantly, the five flights of stairs to Roark's room. He greeted Roark eagerly; he 
waited for reassurance, not knowing what sort of reassurance he needed nor why it could 
come only from Roark. He spoke of his job and he questioned Roark, with sincere concern, 
about Cameron's office. Roark listened to him, answered all his questions willingly, but 
Keating felt that he was knocking against a sheet of iron in Roark's unmoving eyes, and that 
they were not speaking about the same things at all. Before the visit was over, Keating was 
taking notice of Roark's frayed cuffs, of his shoes, of the patch on the knee of his trousers, 
and he felt satisfied. He went away chuckling, but he went away miserably uneasy, and 
wondered why, and swore never to see Roark again, and wondered why he knew that he 
would have to see him. 

# 

"Well," said Keating, "I couldn't quite work it to ask her to lunch, but she's coming to Mawson's 
exhibition with me day after tomorrow. Now what?" 

He sat on the floor, his head resting against the edge of a couch, his bare feet stretched out, a 
pair of Guy Francon's chartreuse pyjamas floating loosely about his limbs. 

Through the open door of the bathroom he saw Francon standing at the washstand, his 
stomach pressed to its shining edge, brushing his teeth. 

"That's splendid," said Francon, munching through a thick foam of toothpaste. "That'll do just 
as well. Don't you see?" 

"No." 

"Lord, Pete, I explained it to you yesterday before we started. Mrs. Dunlop's husband's 
planning to build a home for her." 

"Oh, yeah," said Keating weakly, brushing the matted black curls off his face. "Oh, yeah. ..I 
remember now.. .Jesus, Guy, I got a head on me!..." 

He remembered vaguely the party to which Francon had taken him the night before, he 
remembered the caviar in a hollow iceberg, the black net evening gown and the pretty face of 
Mrs. Dunlop, but he could not remember how he had come to end up in Francon's apartment. 
He shrugged; he had attended many parties with Francon in the past year and had often been 
brought here like this. 

"It's not a very large house," Francon was saying, holding the toothbrush in his mouth; it made 
a lump on his cheek and its green handle stuck out. "Fifty thousand or so, I understand. 
They're small fry anyway. But Mrs. Dunlop's brother-in-law is Quimby-you know, the big real 
estate fellow. Won't hurt to get a little wedge into that family, won't hurt at all. You're to see 
where that commission ends up, Pete. Can I count on you, Pete?" 

"Sure," said Keating, his head drooping. "You can always count on me, Guy...." 

He sat still, watching his bare toes and thinking of Stengel, Francon's designer. He did not 
want to think, but his mind leaped to Stengel automatically, as it always did, because Stengel 
represented his next step. 

Stengel was impregnable to friendship. For two years, Keating's attempts had broken against 
the ice of Stengel's glasses. What Stengel thought of him was whispered in the drafting 
rooms, but few dared to repeat it save in quotes; Stengel said it aloud, even though he knew 
that the corrections his sketches bore, when they returned to him from Francon's office, were 
made by Keating's hand. But Stengel had a vulnerable point: he had been planning for some 
time to leave Francon and open an office of his own. He had selected a partner, a young 
architect of no talent but of great inherited wealth. Stengel was waiting only for a chance. 
Keating had thought about this a great deal He could think of nothing else. He thought of it 
again, sitting there on the floor of Francon's bedroom. 

Two days later, when he escorted Mrs. Dunlop through the gallery exhibiting the paintings of 
one Frederic Mawson, his course of action was set. He piloted her through the sparse crowd, 
his fingers closing over her elbow once in a while, letting her catch his eyes directed at her 



young face more often than at the paintings. 


"Yes," he said as she stared obediently at a landscape featuring an auto dump and tried to 
compose her face into the look of admiration expected of her; "magnificent work. Note the 
colors, Mrs. Dunlop. ...They say this fellow Mawson had a terribly hard time. It's an old story- 
trying to get recognition. Old and heartbreaking. It's the same in all the arts. My own 
profession included." 

"Oh, indeed?" said Mrs. Dunlop, who quite seemed to prefer architecture at the moment. 

"Now this," said Keating, stopping before the depiction of an old hag picking at her bare toes 
on a street curb, "this is art as a social document. It takes a person of courage to appreciate 
this." 

"It's simply wonderful," said Mrs. Dunlop. 

"Ah, yes, courage. It's a rare quality.. ..They say Mawson was starving in a garret when Mrs. 
Stuyvesant discovered him. It's glorious to be able to help young talent on its way." 

"It must be wonderful," agreed Mrs. Dunlop. 

"If I were rich," said Keating wistfully, "I'd make it my hobby: to arrange an exhibition for a new 
artist, to finance the concert of a new pianist, to have a house built by a new architect...." 

"Do you know, Mr. Keating?-my husband and I are planning to build a little home on Long 
Island." 

"Oh, are you? How very charming of you, Mrs. Dunlop, to confess such a thing to me. You're 
so young, if you'll forgive my saying this. Don't you know that you run the danger of my 
becoming a nuisance and trying to interest you in my firm? Or are you safe and have chosen 
an architect already?" 

"No, I'm not safe at all," said Mrs. Dunlop prettily, "and I wouldn't mind the danger really. I've 
thought a great deal about the firm of Francon & Heyer in these last few days. And I’ve heard 
they are so terribly good." 

"Why, thank you, Mrs. Dunlop." 

"Mr. Francon is a great architect." 

"Oh, yes." 

"What's the matter?" 

"Nothing. Nothing really." 

"No, what's the matter?" 

"Do you really want me to tell you?" 

"Why, certainly." 

"Well, you see, Guy Francon-it's only a name. He would have nothing to do with your house. 
It's one of those professional secrets that I shouldn't divulge, but I don't know what it is about 
you that makes me want to be honest. All the best buildings in our office are designed by Mr. 
Stengel." 

"Who?" 

"Claude Stengel. You've never heard the name, but you will, when someone has the courage 
to discover him. You see, he does all the work, he's the real genius behind the scenes, but 
Francon puts his signature on it and gets all the credit. That's the way it's done everywhere." 



"But why does Mr. Stengel stand for it?" 

"What can he do? No one will give him a start. You know how most people are, they stick to 
the beaten path, they pay three times the price for the same thing, just to have the trademark. 
Courage, Mrs. Dunlop, they lack courage. Stengel is a great artist, but there are so few 
discerning people to see it. He's ready to go on his own, if only he could find some outstanding 
person like Mrs. Stuyvesant to give him a chance." 

"Really?" said Mrs. Dunlop. "How very interesting! Tell me more about it." 

He told her a great deal more about it. By the time they had finished the inspection of the 
works of Frederic Mawson, Mrs. Dunlop was shaking Keating's hand and saying: 

"It's so kind, so very unusually kind of you. Are you sure that it won't embarrass you with your 
office if you arrange for me to meet Mr. Stengel? I didn't quite dare to suggest it and it was so 
kind of you not to be angry at me. It's so unselfish of you and more than anyone else would 
have done in your position." 

When Keating approached Stengel with the suggestion of a proposed luncheon, the man 
listened to him without a word. Then he jerked his head and snapped: 

"What's in it for you?" 

Before Keating could answer, Stengel threw his head back suddenly. 

"Oh," said Stengel. "Oh, I see." 

Then he leaned forward, his mouth drawn thin in contempt: 

"Okay. I'll go to that lunch." 

When Stengel left the firm of Francon & Heyer to open his own office and proceed with the 
construction of the Dunlop house, his first commission, Guy Francon smashed a ruler against 
the edge of his desk and roared to Keating: 

"The bastard! The abysmal bastard! After all I've done for him." 

"What did you expect?" said Keating, sprawled in a low armchair before him. "Such is life." 

"But what beats me is how did that little skunk ever hear of it? To snatch it right from under 
our nose!" 

"Well, I've never trusted him anyway." Keating shrugged. "Human nature..." 

The bitterness in his voice was sincere. He had received no gratitude from Stengel. Stengel's 
parting remark to him had been only: "You're a worse bastard than I thought you were. Good 
luck. You'll be a great architect some day." 

Thus Keating achieved the position of chief designer for Francon & Heyer. 

Francon celebrated the occasion with a modest little orgy at one of the quieter and costlier 
restaurants. "In a coupla years," he kept repeating, "in a coupla years you'll see things 
happenin'. Pete. ...You're a good boy and I like you and I'll do things for you.. ..Haven't I done 
things for you?. ..You're going places, Pete. ..in a coupla years...." 

"Your tie's crooked, Guy," said Keating dryly, "and you're spilling brandy all over your vest...." 

Facing his first task of designing, Keating thought of Tim Davis, of Stengel, of many others 
who had wanted it, had struggled for it, had tried, had been beaten-by him. It was a 
triumphant feeling. It was a tangible affirmation of his greatness. Then he found himself 
suddenly in his glass-enclosed office, looking down at a blank sheet of paper-alone. 
Something rolled in his throat down to his stomach, cold and empty, his old feeling of the 
dropping hole. He leaned against the table, closing his eyes. It had never been quite real to 



him before that this was the thing actually expected of him-to fill a sheet of paper, to create 
something on a sheet of paper. 

It was only a small residence. But instead of seeing it rise before him, he saw it sinking; he 
saw its shape as a pit in the ground; and as a pit within him; as emptiness, with only Davis and 
Stengel rattling uselessly within it. Francon had said to him about the building: "It must have 
dignity, you know, dignity.. .nothing freaky. ..a structure of elegance. ..and stay within the 
budget," which was Francon's conception of giving his designer ideas and letting him work 
them out. Through a cold stupor, Keating thought of the clients laughing in his face; he heard 
the thin, omnipotent voice of Ellsworth Toohey calling his attention to the opportunities open to 
him in the field of plumbing. He hated every piece of stone on the face of the earth. He hated 
himself for having chosen to be an architect. 

When he began to draw, he tried not to think of the job he was doing; he thought only that 
Francon had done it, and Stengel, even Heyer, and all the others, and that he could do it, if 
they could. 

He spent many days on his preliminary sketches. He spent long hours in the library of Francon 
& Heyer, selecting from Classic photographs the appearance of his house. He felt the tension 
melting in his mind. It was right and it was good, that house growing under his hand, because 
men were still worshipping the masters who had done it before him. He did not have to 
wonder, to fear or to take chances; it had been done for him. 

When the drawings were ready, he stood looking at them uncertainly. Were he to be told that 
this was the best or the ugliest house in the world, he would agree with either. He was not 
sure. He had to be sure. He thought of Stanton and of what he had relied upon when working 
on his assignments there. He telephoned Cameron's office and asked for Howard Roark. 

He came to Roark's room, that night, and spread before him the plans, the elevations, the 
perspective of his first building. Roark stood over it, his arms spread wide, his hands holding 
the edge of the table, and he said nothing for a long time. 

Keating waited anxiously; he felt anger growing with his anxiety-because he could see no 
reason for being so anxious. When he couldn't stand it, he spoke: 

"You know, Howard, everybody says Stengel's the best designer in town, and I don't think he 
was really ready to quit, but I made him and I took his place. I had to do some pretty fine 
thinking to work that, I..." 

He stopped. It did not sound bright and proud, as it would have sounded anywhere else. It 
sounded like begging. 

Roark turned and looked at him. Roark's eyes were not contemptuous; only a little wider than 
usual, attentive and puzzled. He said nothing and turned back to the drawings. 

Keating felt naked. Davis, Stengel, Francon meant nothing here. People were his protection 
against people. Roark had no sense of people. Others gave Keating a feeling of his own 
value. Roark gave him nothing. He thought that he should seize his drawings and run. The 
danger was not Roark. The danger was that he, Keating, remained. Roark turned to him. 

"Do you enjoy doing this sort of thing, Peter?" he asked. "Oh, I know," said Keating, his voice 
shrill, "I know you don't approve of it, but this is business, I just want to know what you think of 
this practically, not philosophically, not..." 

"No, I'm not going to preach to you. I was only wondering." 

"If you could help me, Howard, if you could just help me with it a little. It's my first house, and it 
means so much to me at the office, and I'm not sure. What do you think? Will you help me, 
Howard?" 

"All right." 

Roark threw aside the sketch of the graceful facade with the fluted pilasters, the broken 



pediments, the Roman fasces over the windows and the two eagles of Empire by the 
entrance. He picked up the plans. He took a sheet of tracing paper, threw it over the plan and 
began to draw. Keating stood watching the pencil in Roark's hand. He saw his imposing 
entrance foyer disappearing, his twisted corridors, his lightless corners; he saw an immense 
living room growing in the space he had thought too limited; a wall of giant windows facing the 
garden, a spacious kitchen. He watched for a long time. "And the facade?" he asked, when 
Roark threw the pencil down. "I can't help you with that. If you must have it Classic, have it 
good Classic at least. You don't need three pilasters where one will do. And take those ducks 
off the door, it's too much." 

Keating smiled at him gratefully, when he was leaving, his drawings under his arm; he 
descended the stairs, hurt and angry; he worked for three days making new plans from 
Roark's sketches, and a new, simpler elevation; and he presented his house to Francon with a 
proud gesture that looked like a flourish. "Well," said Francon, studying it, "well, I 
declare!. ..What an imagination you have, Peter. ..I wonder. ..It's a bit daring, but I wonder..." He 
coughed and added: "It's just what I had in mind." 

"Of course," said Keating. "I studied your buildings, and I tried to think of what you'd do, and if 
it's good, it's because I think I know how to catch your ideas." 

Francon smiled. And Keating thought suddenly that Francon did not really believe it and knew 
that Keating did not believe it, and yet they were both contented, bound tighter together by a 
common method and a common guilt. 

# 

The letter on Cameron's desk informed him regretfully that after earnest consideration, the 
board of directors of the Security Trust Company had not been able to accept his plans for the 
building to house the new Astoria branch of the Company and that the commission had been 
awarded to the firm of Gould & Pettingill. A check was attached to the letter, in payment for his 
preliminary drawings, as agreed; the amount was not enough to cover the expense of making 
those drawings. 

The letter lay spread out on the desk. Cameron sat before it, drawn back, not touching the 
desk, his hands gathered in his lap, the back of one in the palm of the other, the fingers tight. 

It was only a small piece of paper, but he sat huddled and still, because it seemed to be a 
supernatural thing, like radium, sending forth rays that would hurt him if he moved and 
exposed his skin to them. 

For three months, he had awaited the commission of the Security Trust Company. One after 
another, the chances that had loomed before him at rare intervals, in the last two years, had 
vanished, looming in vague promises, vanishing in firm refusals. One of his draftsmen had 
had to be discharged long ago. The landlord had asked questions, politely at first, then dryly, 
then rudely and openly. But no one in the office had minded that nor the usual arrears in 
salaries: there had been the commission of the Security Trust Company. The vice-president, 
who had asked Cameron to submit drawings, had said: "I know, some of the directors won't 
see it as I do. But go ahead, Mr. Cameron. Take the chance with me and I'll fight for you." 

Cameron had taken the chance. He and Roark had worked savagely-to have the plans ready 
on time, before time, before Gould & Pettingill could submit theirs. Pettingill was a cousin of 
the Bank president's wife and a famous authority on the ruins of Pompeii; the Bank president 
was an ardent admirer of Julius Caesar and had once, while in Rome, spent an hour and a 
quarter in reverent inspection of the Coliseum. 

Cameron and Roark and a pot of black coffee had lived in the office from dawn till frozen 
dawn for many days, and Cameron had thought involuntarily of the electric bill, but made 
himself forget it. The lights still burned in the drafting room in the early hours when he sent 
Roark out for sandwiches, and Roark found gray morning in the streets while it was still night 
in the office, in the windows facing a high brick wall. On the last day, it was Roark who had 
ordered Cameron home after midnight, because Cameron's hands were jerking and his knees 
kept seeking the tall drafting stool for support, leaning against it with a slow, cautious, 
sickening precision. Roark had taken him down to a taxi and in the light of a street lamp 
Cameron had seen Roark's face, drawn, the eyes kept wide artificially, the lips dry. The next 
morning Cameron had entered the drafting room, and found the coffee pot on the floor, on its 



side over a black puddle, and Roark's hand in the puddle, palm up, fingers half closed, 

Roark's body stretched out on the floor, his head thrown back, fast asleep. On the table, 
Cameron had found the plans, finished.... 

He sat looking at the letter on his desk. The degradation was that he could not think of those 
nights behind him, he could not think of the building that should have risen in Astoria and of 
the building that would now take its place; it was that he thought only of the bill unpaid to the 
electric company.... 

In these last two years Cameron had disappeared from his office for weeks at a time, and 
Roark had not found him at home, and had known what was happening, but could only wait, 
hoping for Cameron's safe return. Then, Cameron had lost even the shame of his agony, and 
had come to his office reeling, recognizing no one, openly drunk and flaunting it before the 
walls of the only place on earth he had respected. 

Roark learned to face his own landlord with the quiet statement that he could not pay him for 
another week; the landlord was afraid of him and did not insist. Peter Keating heard of it 
somehow, as he always heard everything he wanted to know. He came to Roark's unheated 
room, one evening, and sat down, keeping his overcoat on. He produced a wallet, pulled out 
five ten-dollar bills, and handed them to Roark. "You need it, Howard. I know you need it. 

Don't start protesting now. You can pay me back any time." Roark looked at him, astonished, 
took the money, saying: "Yes, I need it. Thank you, Peter." Then Keating said: "What in hell 
are you doing, wasting yourself on old Cameron? What do you want to live like this for? Chuck 
it, Howard, and come with us. All I have to do is say so. Francon'II be delighted. We'll start you 
at sixty a week." Roark took the money out of his pocket and handed it back to him. "Oh, for 
God's sake, Howard! I...I didn't mean to offend you." 

"I didn't either." 

"But please, Howard, keep it anyway." 

"Good night, Peter." 

Roark was thinking of that when Cameron entered the drafting room, the letter from the 
Security Trust Company in his hand. He gave the letter to Roark, said nothing, turned and 
walked back to his office. Roark read the letter and followed him. Whenever they lost another 
commission Roark knew that Cameron wanted to see him in the office, but not to speak of it; 
just to see him there, to talk of other things, to lean upon the reassurance of his presence. 

On Cameron's desk Roark saw a copy of the New York Banner. 

It was the leading newspaper of the great Wynand chain. It was a paper he would have 
expected to find in a kitchen, in a barbershop, in a third-rate drawing room, in the subway; 
anywhere but in Cameron's office. Cameron saw him looking at it and grinned. 

"Picked it up this morning, on my way here. Funny, isn't it? I didn't know we'd. ..get that letter 
today. And yet it seems appropriate together-this paper and that letter. Don't know what 
made me buy it. A sense of symbolism, I suppose. Look at it, Howard. It's interesting." 

Roark glanced through the paper. The front page carried the picture of an unwed mother with 
thick glistening lips, who had shot her lover; the picture headed the first installment of her 
autobiography and a detailed account of her trial. The other pages ran a crusade against utility 
companies; a daily horoscope; extracts from church sermons; recipes for young brides; 
pictures of girls with beautiful legs; advice on how to hold a husband; a baby contest; a poem 
proclaiming that to wash dishes was nobler than to write a symphony; an article proving that a 
woman who had borne a child was automatically a saint. 

"That's our answer, Howard. That's the answer given to you and to me. This paper. That it 
exists and that it's liked. Can you fight that? Have you any words to be heard and understood 
by that? They shouldn't have sent us the letter. They should have sent a copy of Wynand’s 
Banner. It would be simpler and clearer. Do you know that in a few years that incredible 
bastard, Gail Wynand, will rule the world? It will be a beautiful world. And perhaps he’s right." 



Cameron held the paper outstretched, weighing it on the palm of his hand. 


"To give them what they want, Howard, and to let them worship you for it, for licking their feet- 
or...or what? What's the use?. ..Only it doesn't matter, nothing matters, not even that it doesn't 
matter to me any more...." Then he looked at Roark. He added: 

"If only I could hold on until I've started you on your own, Howard...." 

"Don’t speak of that." 

"I want to speak of that.... It's funny, Howard, next spring it will be three years that you've been 
here. Seems so much longer, doesn't it? Well, have I taught you anything? I'll tell you: I've 
taught you a great deal and nothing. No one can teach you anything, not at the core, at the 
source of it. What you're doing-it's yours, not mine, I can only teach you to do it better. I can 
give you the means, but the aim-the aim's your own. You won't be a little disciple putting up 
anemic little things in early Jacobean or late Cameron. What you'll be. ..if only I could live to 
see it!" 

"You'll live to see it. And you know it now." Cameron stood looking at the bare walls of his 
office, at the white piles of bills on his desk, at the sooty rain trickling slowly down the 
windowpanes. 

"I have no answer to give them, Howard. I'm leaving you to face them. You'll answer them. All 
of them, the Wynand papers and what makes the Wynand papers possible and what lies 
behind that. It's a strange mission to give you. I don't know what our answer is to be. I know 
only that there is an answer and that you're holding it, that you're the answer, Howard, and 
some day you'll find the words for it." 


6 . 

SERMONS IN STONE by Ellsworth M. Toohey was published in January of the year 1925. 

It had a fastidious jacket of midnight blue with plain silver letters and a silver pyramid in one 
corner. It was subtitled "Architecture for Everybody" and its success was sensational. It 
presented the entire history of architecture, from mud hut to skyscraper, in the terms of the 
man in the street, but it made these terms appear scientific. Its author stated in his preface 
that it was an attempt "to bring architecture where it belongs--to the people." He stated further 
that he wished to see the average man "think and speak of architecture as he speaks of 
baseball." He did not bore his readers with the technicalities of the Five Orders, the post and 
lintel, the flying buttress or reinforced concrete. He filled his pages with homey accounts of the 
daily life of the Egyptian housekeeper, the Roman shoe-cobbler, the mistress of Louis XIV, 
what they ate, how they washed, where they shopped and what effect their buildings had upon 
their existence. But he gave his readers the impression that they were learning all they had to 
know about the Five Orders and the reinforced concrete. He gave his readers the impression 
that there were no problems, no achievements, no reaches of thought beyond the common 
daily routine of people nameless in the past as they were in the present; that science had no 
goal and no expression beyond its influence on this routine; that merely by living through their 
own obscure days his readers were representing and achieving all the highest objectives of 
any civilization. His scientific precision was impeccable and his erudition astounding; no one 
could refute him on the cooking utensils of Babylon or the doormats of Byzantium. He wrote 
with the flash and the color of a first-hand observer. He did not plod laboriously through the 
centuries; he danced, said the critics, down the road of the ages, as a jester, a friend and a 
prophet. 

He said that architecture was truly the greatest of the arts, because it was anonymous, as all 
greatness. He said that the world had many famous buildings, but few renowned builders, 
which was as it should be, since no one man had ever created anything of importance in 
architecture, or elsewhere, for that matter. The few whose names had lived were really 
impostors, expropriating the glory of the people as others expropriated its wealth. "When we 
gaze at the magnificence of an ancient monument and ascribe its achievement to one man, 
we are guilty of spiritual embezzlement. We forget the army of craftsmen, unknown and 



unsung, who preceded him in the darkness of the ages, who toiled humbly-all heroism is 
humble-each contributing his small share to the common treasure of his time. A great 
building is not the private invention of some genius or other. It is merely a condensation of the 
spirit of a people." 

He explained that the decadence of architecture had come when private property replaced the 
communal spirit of the Middle Ages, and that the selfishness of individual owners-who built 
for no purpose save to satisfy their own bad taste, "all claim to an individual taste is bad 
taste"-had ruined the planned effect of cities. He demonstrated that there was no such thing 
as free will, since men's creative impulses were determined, as all else, by the economic 
structure of the epoch in which they lived. He expressed admiration for all the great historical 
styles, but admonished against their wanton mixture. He dismissed modern architecture, 
stating that: "So far, it has represented nothing but the whim of isolated individuals, has borne 
no relation to any great, spontaneous mass movement, and as such is of no consequence." 
He predicted a better world to come, where all men would be brothers and their buildings 
would become harmonious and all alike, in the great tradition of Greece, "the Mother of 
Democracy." When he wrote this, he managed to convey-with no tangible break in the 
detached calm of his style-that the words now seen in ordered print had been blurred in 
manuscript by a hand unsteady with emotion. He called upon architects to abandon their 
selfish quest for individual glory and dedicate themselves to the embodiment of the mood of 
their people. "Architects are servants, not leaders. They are not to assert their little egos, but 
to express the soul of their country and the rhythm of their time. They are not to follow the 
delusions of their personal fancy, but to seek the common denominator, which will bring their 
work close to the heart of the masses. Architects-ah, my friends, theirs is not to reason why. 
Theirs is not to command, but to be commanded." 

The advertisements for Sermons in Stone carried quotations from critics: "Magnificent!" 

"A stupendous achievement!" 

"Unequaled in all art history!" 

"Your chance to get acquainted with a charming man and a profound thinker." 

"Mandatory reading for anyone aspiring to the title of intellectual." 

There seemed to be a great many aspiring to that title. Readers acquired erudition without 
study, authority without cost, judgment without effort. It was pleasant to look at buildings and 
criticize them with a professional manner and with the memory of page 439; to hold artistic 
discussions and exchange the same sentences from the same paragraphs. In distinguished 
drawing rooms one could soon hear it said: "Architecture? Oh, yes, Ellsworth Toohey." 

According to his principles, Ellsworth M. Toohey listed no architect by name in the text of his 
book-"the myth-building, hero-worshipping method of historical research has always been 
obnoxious to me." The names appeared only in footnotes. Several of these referred to Guy 
Francon, "who has a tendency to the overornate, but must be commended for his loyalty to 
the strict tradition of Classicism." One note referred to Henry Cameron, "prominent once as 
one of the fathers of the so-called modern school of architecture and relegated since to a well- 
deserved oblivion. Vox populi vox dei." 

In February of 1925 Henry Cameron retired from practice. 

For a year, he had known that the day would come. He had not spoken of it to Roark, but they 
both knew and went on, expecting nothing save to go on as long as it was still possible. A few 
commissions had dribbled into their office in the past year, country cottages, garages, 
remodeling of old buildings. They took anything. But the drops stopped. The pipes were dry. 
The water had been turned off by a society to whom Cameron had never paid his bill. 

Simpson and the old man in the reception room had been dismissed long ago. Only Roark 
remained, to sit still through the winter evenings and look at Cameron's body slumped over his 
desk, arms flung out, head on arms, a bottle glistening under the lamp. 


Then, one day in February, when Cameron had touched no alcohol for weeks, he reached for 



a book on a shelf and collapsed at Roark's feet, suddenly, simply, finally. Roark took him 
home and the doctor stated that an attempt to leave his bed would be all the death sentence 
Cameron needed. Cameron knew it. He lay still on his pillow, his hands dropped obediently 
one at each side of his body, his eyes unblinking and empty. Then he said: 

"You'll close the office for me, Howard, will you?" 

"Yes," said Roark. 

Cameron closed his eyes, and would say nothing else, and Roark sat all night by his bed, not 
knowing whether the old man slept or not. 

A sister of Cameron's appeared from somewhere in New Jersey. She was a meek little old 
lady with white hair, trembling hands and a face one could never remember, quiet, resigned 
and gently hopeless. She had a meager little income and she assumed the responsibility of 
taking her brother to her home in New Jersey; she had never been married and had no one 
else in the world; she was neither glad nor sorry of the burden; she had lost all capacity for 
emotion many years ago. 

On the day of his departure Cameron handed to Roark a letter he had written in the night, 
written painfully, an old drawing board on his knees, a pillow propping his back. The letter was 
addressed to a prominent architect; it was Roark's introduction to a job. Roark read it and, 
looking at Cameron, not at his own hands, tore the letter across, folded the pieces and tore it 
again. "No," said Roark. "You're not going to ask them for anything. Don't worry about me." 

Cameron nodded and kept silent for a long time. Then he said: 

"You'll close up the office, Howard. You'll let them keep the furniture for their rent. But you'll 
take the drawing that's on the wall in my room there and you'll ship it to me. Only that. You'll 
burn everything else. All the papers, the files, the drawings, the contracts, everything." 

"Yes," said Roark. 

Miss Cameron came with the orderlies and the stretcher, and they rode in an ambulance to 
the ferry. At the entrance to the ferry, Cameron said to Roark: 

"You're going back now." He added: "You'll come to see me, Howard.. ..Not too often..." 

Roark turned and walked away, while they were carrying Cameron to the pier. It was a gray 
morning and there was the cold, rotting smell of the sea in the air. A gull dipped low over the 
street, gray like a floating piece of newspaper, against a corner of damp, streaked stone. 

That evening, Roark went to Cameron's closed office. He did not turn on the lights. He made a 
fire in the Franklin heater in Cameron's room, and emptied drawer after drawer into the fire, 
not looking down at them. The papers rustled dryly in the silence, a thin odor of mold rose 
through the dark room, and the fire hissed, crackling, leaping in bright streaks. At times a 
white flake with charred edges would flutter out of the flames. He pushed it back with the end 
of a steel ruler. 

There were drawings of Cameron's famous buildings and of buildings unbuilt; there were 
blueprints with the thin white lines that were girders still standing somewhere; there were 
contracts with famous signatures; and at times, from out of the red glow, there flashed a sum 
of seven figures written on yellowed paper, flashed and went down, in a thin burst of sparks. 

From among the letters in an old folder, a newspaper clipping fluttered to the floor. Roark 
picked it up. It was dry, brittle and yellow, and it broke at the folds, in his fingers. It was an 
interview given by Henry Cameron, dated May 7, 1892. It said: "Architecture is not a business, 
not a career, but a crusade and a consecration to a joy that justifies the existence of the 
earth." He dropped the clipping into the fire and reached for another folder. 

He gathered every stub of pencil from Cameron's desk and threw them in also. 

He stood over the heater. He did not move, he did not look down; he felt the movement of the 



glow, a faint shudder at the edge of his vision. He looked at the drawing of the skyscraper that 
had never been built, hanging on the wall before him. 

# 

It was Peter Keating's third year with the firm of Francon & Heyer. He carried his head high, 
his body erect with studied uprightness; he looked like the picture of a successful young man 
in advertisements for high-priced razors or medium-priced cars. 

He dressed well and watched people noticing it. He had an apartment off Park Avenue, 
modest but fashionable, and he bought three valuable etchings as well as a first edition of a 
classic he had never read nor opened since. Occasionally, he escorted clients to the 
Metropolitan Opera. He appeared, once, at a fancy-dress Arts Ball and created a sensation by 
his costume of a medieval stonecutter, scarlet velvet and tights; he was mentioned in a 
society-page account of the event-the first mention of his name in print-and he saved the 
clipping. 

He had forgotten his first building, and the fear and doubt of its birth. He had learned that it 
was so simple. His clients would accept anything, so long as he gave them an imposing 
facade, a majestic entrance and a regal drawing room, with which to astound their guests. It 
worked out to everyone's satisfaction: Keating did not care so long as his clients were 
impressed, the clients did not care so long as their guests were impressed, and the guests did 
not care anyway. 

Mrs. Keating rented her house in Stanton and came to live with him in New York. He did not 
want her; he could not refuse-because she was his mother and he was not expected to 
refuse. He met her with some eagerness; he could at least impress her by his rise in the 
world. She was not impressed; she inspected his rooms, his clothes, his bank books and said 
only: "It'll do, Petey-for the time being." 

She made one visit to his office and departed within a half-hour. That evening he had to sit 
still, squeezing and cracking his knuckles, for an hour and a half, while she gave him advice. 
"That fellow Whithers had a much more expensive suit than yours, Petey. That won't do. 
You've got to watch your prestige before those boys. The little one who brought in those 
blueprints--! didn't like the way he spoke to you. ...Oh, nothing, nothing, only I'd keep my eye 
on him. ...The one with the long nose is no friend of yours. ...Never mind, I just know.. ..Watch 
out for the one they called Bennett. I'd get rid of him if I were you. He's ambitious. I know the 
signs...." 

Then she asked: 

"Guy Francon. ..has he any children?" 

"One daughter." 

"Oh..." said Mrs. Keating. "What is she like?" 

"I've never met her." 

"Really, Peter," she said, "it's downright rude to Mr. Francon if you've made no effort to meet 
his family." 

"She's been away at college, Mother. I'll meet her some day. It's getting late, Mother, and I've 
got a lot of work to do tomorrow...." 

But he thought of it that night and the following day. He had thought of it before and often. He 
knew that Francon’s daughter had graduated from college long ago and was now working on 
the Banner, where she wrote a small column on home decoration. He had been able to learn 
nothing else about her. No one in the office seemed to know her. Francon never spoke of her. 

On that following day, at luncheon, Keating decided to face the subject. 

"I hear such nice things about your daughter," he said to 



Francon. "Where did you hear nice things about her?" Francon asked ominously. 

"Oh, well, you know how it is, one hears things. And she writes brilliantly." 

"Yes, she writes brilliantly." Francon's mouth snapped shut. 

"Really, Guy, I'd love to meet her." 

Francon looked at him and sighed wearily. 

"You know she's not living with me," said Francon. "She has an apartment of her own-l'm not 
sure that I even remember the address. ...Oh, I suppose you'll meet her some day. You won't 
like her, Peter." 

"Now, why do you say that?" 

"It's one of those things, Peter. As a father I'm afraid I'm a total failure. ...Say, Peter, what did 
Mrs. Mannering say about that new stairway arrangement?" 

Keating felt angry, disappointed--and relieved. He looked at Francon's squat figure and 
wondered what appearance his daughter must have inherited to earn her father's so obvious 
disfavor. Rich and ugly as sin-like most of them, he decided. He thought that this need not 
stop him-some day. He was glad only that the day was postponed. He thought, with new 
eagerness, that he would go to see Catherine tonight. 

Mrs. Keating had met Catherine in Stanton. She had hoped that Peter would forget. Now she 
knew that he had not forgotten, even though he seldom spoke of Catherine and never brought 
her to his home. Mrs. Keating did not mention Catherine by name. But she chatted about 
penniless girls who hooked brilliant young men, about promising boys whose careers had 
been wrecked by marriage to the wrong woman; and she read to him every newspaper 
account of a celebrity divorcing his plebeian wife who could not live up to his eminent position. 

Keating thought, as he walked toward Catherine's house that night, of the few times he had 
seen her; they had been such unimportant occasions, but they were the only days he 
remembered of his whole life in New York. 

He found, in the middle of her uncle's living room, when she let him in, a mess of letters 
spread all over the carpet, a portable typewriter, newspapers, scissors, boxes and a pot of 
glue. 

"Oh dear!" said Catherine, flopping limply down on her knees in the midst of the litter. "Oh 
dear!" 

She looked up at him, smiling disarmingly, her hands raised and spread over the crinkling 
white piles. She was almost twenty now and looked no older than she had looked at 
seventeen. 

"Sit down, Peter. I thought I'd be through before you came, but I guess I'm not. It's Uncle's fan 
mail and his press clippings. I've got to sort it out, and answer it and file it and write notes of 
thanks and. ..Oh, you should see some of the things people write to him! It’s wonderful. Don't 
stand there. Sit down, will you? I'll be through in a minute." 

"You're through right now," he said, picking her up in his arms, carrying her to a chair. 

He held her and kissed her and she laughed happily, her head buried on his shoulder. He 
said: 

"Katie, you're an impossible little fool and your hair smells so nice!" 

She said: "Don't move, Peter. I'm comfortable." 

"Katie, I want to tell you, I had a wonderful time today. They opened the Bordman Building 
officially this afternoon. You know, down on Broadway, twenty-two floors and a Gothic spire. 



Francon had indigestion, so I went there as his representative. I designed that building anyway 
and. ..Oh, well, you know nothing about it." 

"But I do, Peter. I've seen all your buildings. I have pictures of them. I cut them out of the 
papers. And I'm making a scrap-book, just like Uncle's. Oh, Peter, it's so wonderful!" 

"What?" 

"Uncle's scrapbooks, and his letters. ..all this..." She stretched her hands out over the papers 
on the floor, as if she wanted to embrace them. "Think of it, all these letters coming from all 
over the country, perfect strangers and yet he means so much to them. And here I am, 
helping him, me, just nobody, and look what a responsibility I have! It's so touching and so big, 
what do they matter-all the little things that can happen to us?-when this concerns a whole 
nation!" 

"Yeah? Did he tell you that?" 

"He told me nothing at all. But you can't live with him for years without getting some of 
that. ..that wonderful selflessness of his." He wanted to be angry, but he saw her twinkling 
smile, her new kind of fire, and he had to smile in answer. 

"I'll say this, Katie: it's becoming to you, becoming as hell. You know, you could look stunning 
if you learned something about clothes. One of these days, I'll take you bodily and drag you 
down to a good dressmaker. I want you to meet Guy Francon some day. You'll like him." 

"Oh? I thought you said once that I wouldn't." 

"Did I say that? Well, I didn't really know him. He's a grand fellow. I want you to meet them all. 
You'd be. ..hey, where are you going?" She had noticed the watch on his wrist and was edging 
away from him. 

"L.lt's almost nine o'clock, Peter, and I've got to have this finished before Uncle Ellsworth gets 
home. He'll be back by eleven, he's making a speech at a labor meeting tonight. I can work 
while we're talking, do you mind?" 

"I certainly do! To hell with your dear uncle's fans! Let him untangle it all himself. You stay just 
where you are." 

She sighed, but put her head on his shoulder obediently. "You mustn't talk like that about 
Uncle Ellsworth. You don't understand him at all. Have you read his book?" 

"Yes! I've read his book and it's grand, it's stupendous, but I've heard nothing but talk of his 
damn book everywhere I go, so do you mind if we change the subject?" 

"You still don't want to meet Uncle Ellsworth?" 

"Why? What makes you say that? I'd love to meet him." 

"Oh..." 

"What's the matter?" 

"You said once that you didn't want to meet him through me." 

"Did I? How do you always remember all the nonsense I happen to say?" 

"Peter, I don't want you to meet Uncle Ellsworth." 

"Why not?" 

"I don't know. It's kind of silly of me. But now I just don't 
want you to. I don't know why." 



"Well, forget it then. I'll meet him when the time comes. Katie, listen, yesterday I was standing 
at the window in my room, and I thought of you, and I wanted so much to have you with me, I 
almost called you, only it was too late. I get so terribly lonely for you like that, I..." 

She listened, her arms about his neck. And then he saw her looking suddenly past him, her 
mouth opened in consternation; she jumped up, dashed across the room, and crawled on her 
hands and knees to reach a lavender envelope lying under a desk. 

"Now what on earth?" he demanded angrily. 

"It's a very important letter," she said, still kneeling, the envelope held tightly in her little fist, 

"it's a very important letter and there it was, practically in the wastebasket, I might have swept 
it out without noticing. It's from a poor widow who has five children and her eldest son wants to 
be an architect and Uncle Ellsworth is going to arrange a scholarship for him." 

"Well," said Keating, rising, "I've had just about enough of this. Let's get out of here, Katie. 

Let's go for a walk. It's beautiful out tonight. You don't seem to belong to yourself in here." 

"Oh, fine! Let’s go for a walk." 

Outside, there was a mist of snow, a dry, fine, weightless snow that hung still in the air, filling 
the narrow tanks of streets. They walked together, Catherine's arm pressed to his, their feet 
leaving long brown smears on the white sidewalks. 

They sat down on a bench in Washington Square. The snow enclosed the Square, cutting 
them off from the houses, from the city beyond. Through the shadow of the arch, little dots of 
light rolled past them, steel-white, green and smeared red. 

She sat huddled close to him. He looked at the city. He had always been afraid of it and he 
was afraid of it now; but he had two fragile protections: the snow and the girl beside him. 
"Katie," he whispered, "Katie..." 

"I love you, Peter...." 

"Katie," he said, without hesitation, without emphasis, because the certainty of his words 
allowed no excitement, "we're engaged, aren't we?" 

He saw her chin move faintly as it dropped and rose to form one word. 

"Yes," she said calmly, so solemnly that the word sounded indifferent. 

She had never allowed herself to question the future, for a question would have been an 
admission of doubt. But she knew, when she pronounced the "yes," that she had waited for 
this and that she would shatter it if she were too happy. 

"In a year or two," he said holding her hand tightly, "we'll be married. Just as soon as I'm on 
my feet and set with the firm for good. I have mother to take care of, but in another year it will 
be all right." He tried to speak as coldly, as practically as he could, not to spoil the wonder of 
what he felt. "I'll wait, Peter," she whispered. "We don't have to hurry." 

"We won't tell anyone, Katie. ...It's our secret, just ours until..." And suddenly a thought came to 
him, and he realized, aghast, that he could not prove it had never occurred to him before; yet 
he knew, in complete honesty, even though it did astonish him, that he had never thought of 
this before. He pushed her aside. He said angrily: "Katie! You won't think that it's because of 
that great, damnable uncle of yours?" 

She laughed; the sound was light and unconcerned, and he knew that he was vindicated. 
"Lord, no, Peter! He won't like it, of course, but what do we care?" 

"He won't like it? Why?" 



"Oh, I don't think he approves of marriage. Not that he preaches anything immoral, but he's 
always told me marriage is old-fashioned, an economic device to perpetuate the institution of 
private property, or something like that or anyway that he doesn't like it." 

"Well, that’s wonderful! We’ll show him." 

In all sincerity, he was glad of it. It removed, not from his mind which he knew to be innocent, 
but from all other minds where it could occur, the suspicion that there had been in his feeling 
for her any hint of such considerations as applied to. ..to Francon’s daughter, for instance. He 
thought it was strange that this should seem so important; that he should wish so desperately 
to keep his feeling for her free from ties to all other people. 

He let his head fall back, he felt the bite of snowflakes on his lips. Then he turned and kissed 
her. The touch of her mouth was soft and cold with the snow. 

Her hat had slipped to one side, her lips were half open, her eyes round, helpless, her lashes 
glistening. He held her hand, palm up, and looked at it: she wore a black woolen glove and her 
fingers were spread out clumsily like a child's; he saw beads of melted snow in the fuzz of the 
glove; they sparkled radiantly once in the light of a car flashing past. 


7 . 

THE BULLETIN of the Architects' Guild of America carried, in its Miscellaneous Department, a 
short item announcing Henry Cameron's retirement. Six lines summarized his achievements 
in architecture and misspelled the names of his two best buildings. 

Peter Keating walked into Francon's office and interrupted Francon's well-bred bargaining with 
an antique dealer over a snuffbox that had belonged to Madame Pompadour. Francon was 
precipitated into paying nine dollars and twenty-five cents more than he had intended to pay. 
He turned to Keating testily, after the dealer had left, and asked: 

"Well, what is it, Peter, what is it?" 

Keating threw the bulletin down on Francon's desk, his thumbnail underscoring the paragraph 
about Cameron. 

"I've got to have that man," said Keating. 

"What man?" 

"Howard Roark." 

"Who the hell," asked Francon, "is Howard Roark?" 

"I've told you about him. Cameron's designer." 

"Oh. ..oh, yes, I believe you did. Well, go and get him." 

"Do you give me a free hand on how I hire him?" 

"What the hell? What is there about hiring another draftsman? Incidentally, did you have to 
interrupt me for that?" 

"He might be difficult. And I want to get him before he decides on anyone else." 

"Really? He’s going to be difficult about it, is he? Do you intend to beg him to come here after 
Cameron's? Which is not great recommendation for a young man anyway." 


Come on, Guy. Isn’t it?’ 



"Oh well. ..well, speaking structurally, not esthetically, Cameron does give them a thorough 
grounding and. ..Of course, Cameron was pretty important in his day. As a matter of fact, I was 
one of his best draftsmen myself once, long ago. There's something to be said for old 
Cameron when you need that sort of thing. Go ahead. Get your Roark if you think you need 
him." 

"It's not that I really need him. But he's an old friend of mine, and out of a job, and I thought it 
would be a nice thing to do for him." 

"Well, do anything you wish. Only don't bother me about it. ...Say, Peter, don't you think this is 
as lovely a snuffbox as you've ever seen?" 

That evening, Keating climbed, unannounced, to Roark's room and knocked, nervously, and 
entered cheerfully. He found Roark sitting on the window sill, smoking. 

"Just passing by," said Keating, "with an evening to kill and happened to think that that's 
where you live, Howard, and thought I'd drop in to say hello, haven't seen you for such a long 
time." 

"I know what you want," said Roark. "All right. How much?" 

"What do you mean, Howard?" 

"You know what I mean." 

"Sixty-five a week," Keating blurted out. This was not the elaborate approach he had 
prepared, but he had not expected to find that no approach would be necessary. "Sixty-five to 
start with. If you think it's not enough, I could maybe..." 

"Sixty-five will do." 

"You. ..you'll come with us, Howard?" 

"When do you want me to start?" 

"Why. ..as soon as you can! Monday?" 

"ALL right." 

"Thanks, Howard!" 

"On one condition," said Roark. "I'm not going to do any designing. Not any. No details. No 
Louis XV skyscrapers. Just keep me off esthetics if you want to keep me at all. Put me in the 
engineering department. Send me on inspections, out in the field. Now, do you still want me?" 

"Certainly. Anything you say. You'll like the place, just wait and see. You'll like Francon. He's 
one of Cameron's men himself." 

"He shouldn't boast about it." 

"Well..." 

"No. Don't worry. I won't say it to his face. I won't say anything to anyone. Is that what you 
wanted to know?" 

"Why, no, I wasn't worried, I wasn't even thinking of that." 

"Then it's settled. Good night. See you Monday." 

"Well, yes. ..but I'm in no special hurry, really I came to see you and..." 

"What's the matter, Peter? Something bothering you?" 





"You want to know why I'm doing it?" Roark smiled, without resentment or interest. "Is that it? 
I'll tell you, if you want to know. I don't give a damn where I work next. There's no architect in 
town that I'd want to work for. But I have to work somewhere, so it might as well be your 
Francon-if I can get what I want from you. I'm selling myself, and I'll play the game that way- 
for the time being." 

"Really, Howard, you don't have to look at it like that. There's no limit to how far you can go 
with us, once you get used to it. You'll see, for a change, what a real office looks like. After 
Cameron's dump..." 

"We'll shut up about that, Peter, and we'll do it damn fast." 

"I didn't mean to criticize or...l didn't mean anything." He did not know what to say nor what he 
should feel. It was a victory, but it seemed hollow. Still, it was a victory and he felt that he 
wanted to feel affection for Roark. 

"Howard, let's go out and have a drink, just sort of to celebrate the occasion." 

"Sorry, Peter. That's not part of the job." 

Keating had come here prepared to exercise caution and tact to the limit of his ability; he had 
achieved a purpose he had not expected to achieve; he knew he should take no chances, say 
nothing else and leave. But something inexplicable, beyond all practical considerations, was 
pushing him on. He said unheedingly: 

"Can't you be human for once in your life?" 

"What?" 

"Human! Simple. Natural." 

"But I am." 

"Can't you ever relax?" 

Roark smiled, because he was sitting on the window sill, leaning sloppily against the wall, his 
long legs hanging loosely, the cigarette held without pressure between limp fingers. 

"That’s not what I mean!" said Keating. "Why can't you go out for a drink with me?" 

"What for?" 

"Do you always have to have a purpose? Do you always have to be so damn serious? Can't 
you ever do things without reason, just like everybody else? You're so serious, so old. 
Everything's important with you, everything's great, significant in some way, every minute, 
even when you keep still. Can't you ever be comfortable--and unimportant?" 

"No." 

"Don't you get tired of the heroic?" 

"What's heroic about me?" 

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know. It's not what you do. It's what you make people feel around 
you." 

"What?" 

"The un-normal. The strain. When I'm with you-it's always like a choice. Between you-and 
the rest of the world. I don't want that kind of a choice. I don't want to be an outsider. I want to 
belong. There’s so much in the world that’s simple and pleasant. It's not all fighting and 



renunciation. It is-with you." 

"What have I ever renounced?" 

"Oh, you'll never renounce anything! You'd walk over corpses for what you want. But it's what 
you've renounced by never wanting it." 

"That's because you can't want both." 

"Both what?" 

"Look, Peter. I've never told you any of those things about me. What makes you see them? 
I've never asked you to make a choice between me and anything else. What makes you feel 
that there is a choice involved? What makes you uncomfortable when you feel that-since 
you're so sure I'm wrong?" 

"I...I don't know." He added: "I don't know what you're talking about." And then he asked 
suddenly: 

"Howard, why do you hate me?" 

"I don't hate you." 

"Well, that's it! Why don't you hate me at least?" 

"Why should I?" 

"Just to give me something. I know you can't like me. You can't like anybody. So it would be 
kinder to acknowledge people's existence by hating them." 

"I'm not kind, Peter." 

And as Keating found nothing to say, Roark added: 

"Go home, Peter. You got what you wanted. Let it go at that. See you Monday." 

# 

Roark stood at a table in the drafting room of Francon & Heyer, a pencil in his hand, a strand 
of orange hair hanging down over his face, the prescribed pearl-gray smock like a prison 
uniform on his body. 

He had learned to accept his new job. The lines he drew were to be the clean lines of steel 
beams, and he tried not to think of what these beams would carry. It was difficult, at times. 
Between him and the plan of the building on which he was working stood the plan of that 
building as it should have been. He saw what he could make of it, how to change the lines he 
drew, where to lead them in order to achieve a thing of splendor. He had to choke the 
knowledge. He had to kill the vision. He had to obey and draw the lines as instructed. It hurt 
him so much that he shrugged at himself in cold anger. He thought: difficult? — well, learn it. 

But the pain remained-and a helpless wonder. The thing he saw was so much more real than 
the reality of paper, office and commission. He could not understand what made others blind 
to it, and what made their indifference possible. He looked at the paper before him. He 
wondered why ineptitude should exist and have its say. He had never known that. And the 
reality which permitted it could never become quite real to him. 

But he knew that this would not last-he had to wait-it was his only assignment, to wait-what 
he felt didn't matter-it had to be done-he had to wait. 

"Mr. Roark, are you ready with the steel cage for the Gothic lantern for the American Radio 
Corporation Building?" 

He had no friends in the drafting room. He was there like a piece of furniture, as useful, as 
impersonal and as silent. Only the chief of the engineering department, to which Roark was 



assigned, had said to Keating after the first two weeks: "You've got more sense than I gave 
you credit for, Keating. Thanks." 

"For what?" asked Keating. "For nothing that was intentional, I'm sure," said the chief. 

Once in a while, Keating stopped by Roark's table to say softly: "Will you drop in at my office 
when you're through tonight, Howard? Nothing important." 

When Roark came, Keating began by saying: "Well, how do you like it here, Howard? If 
there's anything you want, just say so and I'll..." Roark interrupted to ask: "Where is it, this 
time?" Keating produced sketches from a drawer and said: "I know it's perfectly right, just as it 
is, but what do you think of it, generally speaking?" Roark looked at the sketches, and even 
though he wanted to throw them at Keating's face and resign, one thought stopped him: the 
thought that it was a building and that he had to save it, as others could not pass a drowning 
man without leaping in to the rescue. 

Then he worked for hours, sometimes all night, while Keating sat and watched. He forgot 
Keating's presence. He saw only a building and his chance to shape it. He knew that the 
shape would be changed, torn, distorted. Still, some order and reason would remain in its 
plan. It would be a better building than it would have been if he refused. 

Sometimes, looking at the sketch of a structure simpler, cleaner, more honest than the others, 
Roark would say: "That's not so bad, Peter. You're improving." And Keating would feel an odd 
little jolt inside, something quiet, private and precious, such as he never felt from the 
compliments of Guy Francon, of his clients, of all others. Then he would forget it and feel 
much more substantially pleased when a wealthy lady murmured over a teacup: "You're the 
coming architect of America, Mr. Keating," though she had never seen his buildings. 

He found compensations for his submission to Roark. He would enter the drafting room in the 
morning, throw a tracing boy's assignment down on Roark's table and say: "Howard, do this 
up for me, will you?-and make it fast." In the middle of the day, he would send a boy to 
Roark's table to say loudly: "Mr. Keating wishes to see you in his office at once." He would 
come out of the office and walk in Roark's direction and say to the room at large: "Where the 
hell are those Twelfth Street plumbing specifications? Oh, Howard, will you look through the 
files and dig them up for me?" 

At first, he was afraid of Roark's reaction. When he saw no reaction, only a silent obedience, 
he could restrain himself no longer. He felt a sensual pleasure in giving orders to Roark; and 
he felt also a fury of resentment at Roark's passive compliance. He continued, knowing that 
he could continue only so long as Roark exhibited no anger, yet wishing desperately to break 
him down to an explosion. No explosion came. 

Roark liked the days when he was sent out to inspect buildings in construction. He walked 
through the steel hulks of buildings more naturally than on pavements. The workers observed 
with curiosity that he walked on narrow planks, on naked beams hanging over empty space, 
as easily as the best of them. 

It was a day in March, and the sky was a faint green with the first hint of spring. In Central 
Park, five hundred feet below, the earth caught the tone of the sky in a shade of brown that 
promised to become green, and the lakes lay like splinters of glass under the cobwebs of bare 
branches. Roark walked through the shell of what was to be a gigantic apartment hotel, and 
stopped before an electrician at work. 

The man was toiling assiduously, bending conduits around a beam. It was a task for hours of 
strain and patience, in a space overfilled against all calculations. Roark stood, his hands in his 
pockets, watching the man's slow, painful progress. 

The man raised his head and turned to him abruptly. He had a big head and a face so ugly 
that it became fascinating; it was neither old nor flabby, but it was creased in deep gashes and 
the powerful jowls drooped like a bulldog's; the eyes were startling-wide, round and china- 
blue. 


'Well?" the man asked angrily, "what's the matter, Brick-top?’ 



"You're wasting your time," said Roark. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." 

"You don't say!" 

"It will take you hours to get your pipes around that beam." 

"Know a better way to do it?" 

"Sure." 

"Run along, punk. We don't like college smarties around here." 

"Cut a hole in that beam and put your pipes through." 

"What?" 

"Cut a hole through the beam." 

"The hell I will!" 

"The hell you won't." 

"It ain't done that way." 

"I've done it." 

"You?" 

"It’s done everywhere." 

"It ain't gonna be done here. Not by me." 

"Then I'll do it for you." 

The man roared. "That’s rich! When did office boys learn to do a man’s work?" 

"Give me your torch." 

"Look out, boy! It'll burn your pretty pink toes!" 

Roark took the man's gloves and goggles, took the acetylene torch, knelt, and sent a thin jet 
of blue fire at the center of the beam. The man stood watching him. Roark's arm was steady, 
holding the tense, hissing streak of flame in leash, shuddering faintly with its violence, but 
holding it aimed straight. There was no strain, no effort in the easy posture of his body, only in 
his arm. And it seemed as if the blue tension eating slowly through metal came not from the 
flame but from the hand holding it. 

He finished, put the torch down, and rose. 

"Jesus!" said the electrician. "Do you know how to handle a torch!" 

"Looks like it, doesn't it?" He removed the gloves, the goggles, and handed them back. "Do it 
that way from now on. Tell the foreman I said so." 

The electrician was staring reverently at the neat hole cut through the beam. He muttered: 
"Where did you learn to handle it like that, Red?" 

Roark's slow, amused smile acknowledged this concession of victory. "Oh, I've been an 



electrician, and a plumber, and a rivet catcher, and many other things." 

"And went to school besides?" 

"Well, in a way." 

"Gonna be an architect?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, you'll be the first one that knows something besides pretty pictures and tea parties. You 
should see the teacher's pets they send us down from the office." 

"If you're apologizing, don't. I don't like them either. Go back to the pipes. So long." 

"So long, Red." 

The next time Roark appeared on that job, the blue-eyed electrician waved to him from afar, 
and called him over, and asked advice about his work which he did not need; he stated that 
his name was Mike and that he had missed Roark for several days. On the next visit the day 
shift was just leaving, and Mike waited outside for Roark to finish the inspection. "How about a 
glass of beer, Red?" he invited, when Roark came out. "Sure," said Roark, "thanks." 

They sat together at a table in the corner of a basement speakeasy, and they drank beer, and 
Mike related his favorite tale of how he had fallen five stories when a scaffolding gave way 
under him, how he had broken three ribs but lived to tell it, and Roark spoke of his days in the 
building trades. Mike did have a real name, which was Sean Xavier Donnigan, but everyone 
had forgotten it long ago; he owned a set of tools and an ancient Ford, and existed for the sole 
purpose of traveling around the country from one big construction job to another. People 
meant very little to Mike, but their performance a great deal. He worshipped expertness of any 
kind. He loved his work passionately and had no tolerance for anything save for other single- 
track devotions. He was a master in his own field and he felt no sympathy except for mastery. 
His view of the world was simple: there were the able and there were the incompetent; he was 
not concerned with the latter. He loved buildings. He despised, however, all architects. 

"There was one, Red," he said earnestly, over his fifth beer, "one only and you’d be too young 
to know about him, but that was the only man that knew building. I worked for him when I was 
your age." 

"Who was that?" 

"Henry Cameron was his name. He’s dead, I guess, these many years." 

Roark looked at him for a long time, then said: "He’s not dead, Mike," and added: "I’ve worked 
for him." 

"You did?" 

"For almost three years." 

They looked at each other silently, and that was the final seal on their friendship. 

Weeks later, Mike stopped Roark, one day, at the building, his ugly face puzzled, and asked: 

"Say, Red, I heard the super tell a guy from the contractor's that you're stuck-up and stubborn 
and the lousiest bastard he's ever been up against. What did you do to him?" 

"Nothing." 

"What the hell did he mean?" 

"I don't know," said Roark. "Do you?" 



Mike looked at him, shrugged and grinned. 
"No," said Mike. 


8 . 

EARLY IN May, Peter Keating departed for Washington, to supervise the construction of a 
museum donated to the city by a great philanthropist easing his conscience. The museum 
building, Keating pointed out proudly, was to be decidedly different: it was not a reproduction 
of the Parthenon, but of the Maison Carree at Nfmes. 

Keating had been away for some time when an office boy approached Roark's table and 
informed him that Mr. Francon wished to see him in his office. When Roark entered the 
sanctuary, Francon smiled from behind the desk and said cheerfully: "Sit down, my friend. Sit 
down...." but something in Roark's eyes, which he had never seen at close range before, 
made Francon's voice shrink and stop, and he added dryly: "Sit down." Roark obeyed. 

Francon studied him for a second, but could reach no conclusion beyond deciding that the 
man had a most unpleasant face, yet looked quite correctly attentive. 

"You're the one who's worked for Cameron, aren't you?" Francon asked. "Yes," said Roark. 

"Mr. Keating has been telling me very nice things about you," Francon tried pleasantly and 
stopped. It was wasted courtesy; Roark just sat looking at him, waiting. "Listen. ..what's your 
name?" 

"Roark." 

"Listen, Roark. We have a client who is a little. ..odd, but he's an important man, a very 
important man, and we have to satisfy him. He's given us a commission for an eight-million- 
dollar office building, but the trouble is that he has very definite ideas on what he wants it to 
look like. He wants it--" Francon shrugged apologetically, disclaiming all blame for the 
preposterous suggestion-"he wants it to look like this." He handed Roark a photograph. It was 
a photograph of the Dana Building. 

Roark sat quite still, the photograph hanging between his fingers. "Do you know that 
building?" asked Francon. 

"Yes." 

"Well, that's what he wants. And Mr. Keating's away. I've had Bennett and Cooper and 
Williams make sketches, but he’s turned them down. So I thought I'd give you a chance." 

Francon looked at him, impressed by the magnanimity of his own offer. There was no 
reaction. There was only a man who still looked as if he'd been struck on the head. 

"Of course," said Francon, "it's quite a jump for you, quite an assignment, but I thought I'd let 
you try. Don't be afraid. Mr. Keating and I will go over it afterward. Just draw up the plans and 
a good sketch of it. You must have an idea of what the man wants. You know Cameron's 
tricks. But of course, we can't let a crude thing like this come out of our office. We must 
please him, but we must also preserve our reputation and not frighten all our other clients 
away. The point is to make it simple and in the general mood of this, but also artistic. You 
know, the more severe kind of Greek. You don't have to use the Ionic order, use the Doric. 
Plain pediments and simple moldings, or something like that. Get the idea? Now take this 
along and show me what you can do. Bennett will give you all the particulars and. ..What's the 
mat-" 

Francon's voice cut itself off. 

"Mr. Francon, please let me design it the way the Dana Building was designed." 


Huh?’ 



"Let me do it. Not copy the Dana Building, but design it as Henry Cameron would have wanted 
it done, as I will." 

"You mean modernistic?" 

"L.well, call it that." 

"Are you crazy?" 

"Mr. Francon, please listen to me." Roark's words were like the steps of a man walking a 
tightwire, slow, strained, groping for the only right spot, quivering over an abyss, but precise. "I 
don't blame you for the things you're doing. I'm Working for you, I'm taking your money, I have 
no right to express objections. But this time. ..this time the client is asking for it. You're risking 
nothing. He wants it. Think of it, there's a man, one man who sees and understands and 
wants it and has the power to build it. Are you going to fight a client for the first time in your 
life-and fight for what? To cheat him and to give him the same old trash, when you have so 
many others asking for it, and one, only one, who comes with a request like this?" 

"Aren't you forgetting yourself?" asked Francon, coldly. "What difference would it make to 
you? Just let me do it my way and show it to him. Only show it to him. He's already turned 
down three sketches, what if he turns down a fourth? But if he doesn't. ..if he doesn't..." Roark 
had never known how to entreat and he was not doing it well; his voice was hard, toneless, 
revealing the effort, so that the plea became an insult to the man who was making him plead. 
Keating would have given a great deal to see Roark in that moment. But Francon could not 
appreciate the triumph he was the first ever to achieve; he recognized only the insult. 

"Am I correct in gathering," Francon asked, "that you are criticizing me and teaching me 
something about architecture?" 

"I'm begging you," said Roark, closing his eyes. "If you weren't a protege of Mr. Keating's, I 
wouldn't bother to discuss the matter with you any further. But since you are quite obviously 
naive and inexperienced, I shall point out to you that I am not in the habit of asking for the 
esthetic opinions of my draftsmen. You will kindly take this photograph-and I do not wish any 
building as Cameron might have designed it, I wish the scheme of this adapted to our site- 
and you will follow my instructions as to the Classic treatment of the facade." 

"I can't do it," said Roark, very quietly. "What? Are you speaking to me? Are you actually 
saying: 'Sorry, I can't do it'?" 

"I haven't said 'sorry,' Mr. Francon." 

"What did you say?" 

"That I can't do it." 

"Why?" 

"You don't want to know why. Don't ask me to do any designing. I'll do any other kind of job 
you wish. But not that. And not to Cameron's work." 

"What do you mean, no designing? You expect to be an architect some day--or do you?" 

"Not like this." 

"Oh. ..I see. ..So you can't do it? You mean you won't?" 

"If you prefer." 

"Listen, you impertinent fool, this is incredible!" Roark got up. "May I go, Mr. Francon?" 

"In all my life," roared Francon, "in all my experience, I've never seen anything like it! Are you 
here to tell me what you'll do and what you won't do? Are you here to give me lessons and 



criticize my taste and pass judgment?' 


"I'm not criticizing anything," said Roark quietly. "I'm not passing judgment. There are some 
things that I can't do. Let it go at that. May I leave now?" 

"You may leave this room and this firm now and from now on! You may go straight to the 
devil! Go and find yourself another employer! Try and find him! Go get your check and get 
out!" 

"Yes, Mr. Francon." 

That evening Roark walked to the basement speak-easy where he could always find Mike 
after the day's work. Mike was now employed on the construction of a factory by the same 
contractor who was awarded most of Francon's biggest jobs. Mike had expected to see Roark 
on an inspection visit to the factory that afternoon, and greeted him angrily: 

"What’s the matter, Red? Lying down on the job?" 

When he heard the news, Mike sat still and looked like a bulldog baring its teeth. Then he 
swore savagely. 

"The bastards," he gulped between stronger names, "the bastards..." 

"Keep still, Mike." 

"Well. ..what now, Red?" 

"Someone else of the same kind, until the same thing happens again." 

# 

When Keating returned from Washington he went straight up to Francon's office. He had not 
stopped in the drafting room and had heard no news. Francon greeted him expansively: 

"Boy, it's great to see you back! What'll you have? A whisky-and-soda or a little brandy?" 

"No, thanks. Just give me a cigarette." 

"Here.. ..Boy, you look fine! Better than ever. How do you do it, you lucky bastard? I have so 
many things to tell you! How did it go down in Washington? Everything all right?" And before 
Keating could answer, Francon rushed on: "Something dreadful's happened to me. Most 
disappointing. Do you remember Lili Landau? I thought I was all set with her, but last time I 
saw her, did I get the cold shoulder! Do you know who's got her? You'll be surprised. Gail 
Wynand, no less! The girl's flying high. You should see her pictures and her legs all over his 
newspapers. Will it help her show or won't it! What can I offer against that? And do you know 
what he's done? Remember how she always said that nobody could give her what she wanted 
most-her childhood home, the dear little Austrian village where she was born? Well, Wynand 
bought it, long ago, the whole damn village, and had it shipped here-every bit of it!-and had it 
assembled again down on the Hudson, and there it stands now, cobbles, church, apple trees, 
pigsties and all! Then he springs it on Lili, two weeks ago. Wouldn't you just know it? If the 
King of Babylon could get hanging gardens for his homesick lady, why not Gail Wynand? Lili's 
all smiles and gratitude-but the poor girl was really miserable. She'd have much preferred a 
mink coat. She never wanted the damn village. And Wynand knew it, too. But there it stands, 
on the Hudson. Last week, he gave a party for her, right there, in that village-a costume party, 
with Mr. Wynand dressed as Cesare Borgia-wouldn't he, though?-and what a party!-if you 
can believe what you hear, but you know how it is, you can never prove anything on Wynand. 
Then what does he do the next day but pose up there himself with little schoolchildren who’d 
never seen an Austrian village-the philanthropist!-and plasters the photos all over his papers 
with plenty of sob stuff about educational values, and gets mush notes from women's clubs! 

I'd like to know what he'll do with the village when he gets rid of Lili! He will, you know, they 
never last long with him. Do you think I'll have a chance with her then?" 

"Sure," said Keating. "Sure, you will. How's everything here in the office?" 



"Oh, fine. Same as usual. Lucius had a cold and drank up all of my best Bas Armagnac. It's 
bad for his heart, and a hundred dollars a case!. ..Besides, Lucius got himself caught in a 
nasty little mess. It's that phobia of his, his damn porcelain. Seems he went and bought a 
teapot from a fence. He knew it was stolen goods, too. Took me quite a bit of bother to save 
us from a scandal. ...Oh, by the way, I fired that friend of yours, what's his name?-Roark." 

"Oh," said Keating, and let a moment pass, then asked: 

"Why?" 

"The insolent bastard! Where did you ever pick him up?" 

"What happened?" 

"I thought I'd be nice to him, give him a real break. I asked him to make a sketch for the 
Farrell Building-you know, the one Brent finally managed to design and we got Farrell to 
accept, you know, the simplified Doric--and your friend just up and refused to do it. It seems 
he has ideals or something. So I showed him the gate.. ..What's the matter? What are you 
smiling at?" 

"Nothing. I can just see it." 

"Now don't you ask me to take him back!" 

"No, of course not." 

For several days, Keating thought that he should call on Roark. He did not know what he 
would say, but felt dimly that he should say something. He kept postponing it. He was gaining 
assurance in his work. He felt that he did not need Roark, after all. The days went by, and he 
did not call on Roark, and he felt relief in being free to forget him. 

Beyond the windows of his room Roark saw the roofs, the water tanks, the chimneys, the cars 
speeding far below. There was a threat in the silence of his room, in the empty days, in his 
hands hanging idly by his sides. And he felt another threat rising from the city below, as if each 
window, each strip of pavement, had set itself closed grimly, in wordless resistance. It did not 
disturb him. He had known and accepted it long ago. 

He made a list of the architects whose work he resented least, in the order of their lesser evil, 
and he set out upon the search for a job, coldly, systematically, without anger or hope. He 
never knew whether these days hurt him; he knew only that it was a thing which had to be 
done. 

The architects he saw differed from one another. Some looked at him across the desk, kindly 
and vaguely, and their manner seemed to say that it was touching, his ambition to be an 
architect, touching and laudable and strange and attractively sad as all the delusions of youth. 
Some smiled at him with thin, drawn lips and seemed to enjoy his presence in the room, 
because it made them conscious of their own accomplishment. Some spoke coldly, as if his 
ambition were a personal insult. Some were brusque, and the sharpness of their voices 
seemed to say that they needed good draftsmen, they always needed good draftsmen, but 
this qualification could not possibly apply to him, and would he please refrain from being rude 
enough to force them to express it more plainly. 

It was not malice. It was not a judgment passed upon his merit. They did not think he was 
worthless. They simply did not care to find out whether he was good. Sometimes, he was 
asked to show his sketches; he extended them across a desk, feeling a contraction of shame 
in the muscles of his hand; it was like having the clothes torn off his body, and the shame was 
not, that his body was exposed, but that it was exposed to indifferent eyes. Once in a while he 
made a trip to New Jersey, to see Cameron. They sat together on the porch of a house on a 
hill, Cameron in a wheel chair, his hands on an old blanket spread over his knees. "How is it, 
Howard? Pretty hard?" 


No. 



"Want me to give you a letter to one of the bastards?" 

"No." 

Then Cameron would not speak of it any more, he did not want to speak of it, he did not want 
the thought of Roark rejected by their city to become real. When Roark came to him, 

Cameron spoke of architecture with the simple confidence of a private possession. They sat 
together, looking at he city in the distance, on the edge of the sky, beyond the river. The sky 
was growing dark and luminous as blue-green glass; the buildings looked like clouds 
condensed on the glass, gray-blue clouds frozen for an instant in straight angles and vertical 
shafts, with the sunset caught in the spires.... 

As the summer months passed, as his list was exhausted and he returned again to the places 
that had refused him once, Roark found that a few things were known about him and he heard 
the same words-spoken bluntly or timidly or angrily or apologetically-"You were kicked out of 
Stanton. You were kicked out of Francon's office." All the different voices saying it had one 
note in common: a note of relief in the certainty that the decision had been made for them. 

He sat on the window sill, in the evening, smoking, his hand spread on the pane, the city 
under his fingers, the glass cold against his skin. 

In September, he read an article entitled "Make Way For Tomorrow" by Gordon L. Prescott, 
A.G.A. in the Architectural Tribune. The article stated that the tragedy of the profession was 
the hardships placed in the way of its talented beginners; that great gifts had been lost in the 
struggle, unnoticed; that architecture was perishing from a lack of new blood and new thought, 
a lack of originality, vision and courage; that the author of the article made it his aim to search 
for promising beginners, to encourage them, develop them and give them the chance they 
deserved. Roark had never heard of Gordon L. Prescott, but there was a tone of honest 
conviction in the article. He allowed himself to start for Prescott's office with the first hint of 
hope. 

The reception room of Gordon L. Prescott's office was done in gray, black and scarlet; it was 
correct, restrained and daring all at once. A young and very pretty secretary informed Roark 
that one could not see Mr. Prescott without an appointment, but that she would be very glad to 
make an appointment for next Wednesday at two-fifteen. On Wednesday at two-fifteen, the 
secretary smiled at Roark and asked him please to be seated for just a moment. At four forty- 
five he was admitted into Gordon L. Prescott's office. Gordon L. Prescott wore a brown 
checkered tweed jacket and a white turtle-neck sweater of angora wool. He was tall, athletic 
and thirty-five, but his face combined a crisp air of sophisticated wisdom with the soft skin, the 
button nose, the small, puffed mouth of a college hero. His face was sun-scorched, his blond 
hair clipped short, in a military Prussian haircut. He was frankly masculine, frankly 
unconcerned about elegance and frankly conscious of the effect. 

He listened to Roark silently, and his eyes were like a stop watch registering each separate 
second consumed by each separate word of Roark's. He let the first sentence go by; on the 
second he interrupted to say curtly: "Let me see your drawings," as if to make it clear that 
anything Roark might say was quite well known to him already. 

He held the drawings in his bronzed hands. Before he looked down at them, he said: "Ah, yes, 
so many young men come to me for advice, so many." He glanced at the first sketch, but 
raised his head before he had seen it. "Of course, it's the combination of the practical and the 
transcendental that is so hard for beginners to grasp." He slipped the sketch to the bottom of 
the pile. "Architecture is primarily a utilitarian conception, and the problem is to elevate the 
principle of pragmatism into the realm of esthetic abstraction. All else is nonsense." He 
glanced at two sketches and slipped them to the bottom. "I have no patience with visionaries 
who see a holy crusade in architecture for architecture's sake. The great dynamic principle is 
the common principle of the human equation." He glanced at a sketch and slipped it under. 
"The public taste and the public heart are the final criteria of the artist. The genius is the one 
who knows how to express the general. The exception is to tap the unexceptional." He 
weighed the pile of sketches in his hand, noted that he had gone through half of them and 
dropped them down on the desk. 

"Ah, yes," he said, "your work. Very interesting. But not practical. Not mature. Unfocused and 



undisciplined. Adolescent. Originality for originality's sake. Not at all in the spirit of the present 
day. If you want an idea of the sort of thing for which there is a crying need-here-let me show 
you." He took a sketch out of a drawer of the desk. "Here's a young man who came to me 
totally unrecommended, a beginner who had never worked before. When you can produce 
stuff like this, you won't find it necessary to look for a job. I saw this one sketch of his and I 
took him on at once, started him at twenty-five a week, too. There's no question but that he is 
a potential genius." He extended the sketch to Roark. The sketch represented a house in the 
shape of a grain silo incredibly merged with the simplified, emaciated shadow of the 
Parthenon. 

"That," said Gordon L. Prescott, "is originality, the new in the eternal. Try toward something 
like this. I can't really say that I predict a great deal for your future. We must be frank, I 
wouldn't want to give you illusions based on my authority. You have a great deal to learn. I 
couldn't venture a guess on what talent you might possess or develop later. But with hard 
work, perhaps. ..Architecture is a difficult profession, however, and the competition is stiff, you 
know, very stiff. ..And now, if you'll excuse me, my secretary has an appointment waiting for 
me...." 

# 

Roark walked home late on an evening in October. It had been another of the many days that 
stretched into months behind him, and he could not tell what had taken place in the hours of 
that day, whom he had seen, what form the words of refusal had taken. He concentrated 
fiercely on the few minutes at hand, when he was in an office, forgetting everything else; he 
forgot these minutes when he left the office; it had to be done, it had been done, it concerned 
him no longer. He was free once more on his way home. 

A long street stretched before him, its high banks, coming close together ahead, so narrow 
that he felt as if he could spread his arms, seize the spires and push them apart. He walked 
swiftly, the pavements as a springboard throwing his steps forward. 

He saw a lighted triangle of concrete suspended somewhere hundreds of feet above the 
ground. He could not see what stood below, supporting it; he was free to think of what he'd 
want to see there, what he would have made to be seen. Then he thought suddenly that now, 
in this moment, according to the city, according to everyone save that hard certainty within 
him, he would never build again, never-before he had begun. He shrugged. Those things 
happening to him, in those offices of strangers, were only a kind of sub-reality, unsubstantial 
incidents in the path of a substance they could not reach or touch. 

He turned into side streets leading to the East River. A lonely traffic light hung far ahead, a 
spot of red in a bleak darkness. The old houses crouched low to the ground, hunched under 
the weight of the sky. The street was empty and hollow, echoing to his footsteps. He went on, 
his collar raised, his hands in his pockets. His shadow rose from under his heels, when he 
passed a light, and brushed a wall in a long black arc, like the sweep of a windshield wiper. 


9 . 

JOHN ERIK SNYTE looked through Roark's sketches, flipped three of them aside, gathered 
the rest into an even pile, glanced again at the three, tossed them down one after another on 
top of the pile, with three sharp thuds, and said: 

"Remarkable. Radical, but remarkable. What are you doing tonight?" 

"Why?" asked Roark, stupefied. 

"Are you free? Mind starting in at once? Take your coat off, go to the drafting room, borrow 
tools from somebody and do me up a sketch for a department store we're remodeling. Just a 
quick sketch, just a general idea, but I must have it tomorrow. Mind staying late tonight? The 
heat's on and I'll have Joe send you up some dinner. Want black coffee or Scotch or what? 
Just tell Joe. Can you stay?" 


’Yes," said Roark, incredulously. "I can work all night. 



"Fine! Splendid! that's just what I've always needed--a Cameron man. I've got every other 
kind. Oh, yes, what did they pay you at Francon's?" 

"Sixty-five." 

"Well, I can’t splurge like Guy the Epicure. Fifty's tops. Okay? Fine. Go right in. I'll have 
Billings explain about the store to you. I want something modern. Understand? Modern, 
violent, crazy, to knock their eye out. Don’t restrain yourself. Go the limit. Pull any stunt you 
can think of, the goofier the better. Come on!" 

John Erik Snyte shot to his feet, flung a door open into a huge drafting room, flew in, skidded 
against a table, stopped, and said to a stout man with a grim moon-face: "Billings-Roark. He’s 
our modernist. Give him the Benton store. Get him some instruments. Leave him your keys 
and show him what to lock up tonight. Start him as of this morning. Fifty. What time was my 
appointment with Dolson Brothers? I’m late already. So long, I won't be back tonight." 

He skidded out, slamming the door. Billings evinced no surprise. He looked at Roark as if 
Roark had always been there. He spoke impassively, in a weary drawl. Within twenty minutes 
he left Roark at a drafting table with paper, pencils, instruments, a set of plans and 
photographs of the department store, a set of charts and a long list of instructions. 

Roark looked at the clean white sheet before him, his fist closed tightly about the thin stem of 
a pencil. He put the pencil down, and picked it up again, his thumb running softly up and down 
the smooth shaft; he saw that the pencil was trembling. He put it down quickly, and he felt 
anger at himself for the weakness of allowing this job to mean so much to him, for the sudden 
knowledge of what the months of idleness behind him had really meant. His fingertips were 
pressed to the paper, as if the paper held them, as a surface charged with electricity will hold 
the flesh of a man who has brushed against it, hold and hurt. He tore his fingers off the paper. 
Then he went to work.... 

John Erik Snyte was fifty years old; he wore an expression of quizzical amusement, shrewd 
and unwholesome, as if he shared with each man he contemplated a lewd secret which he 
would not mention because it was so obvious to them both. He was a prominent architect; his 
expression did not change when he spoke of this fact. He considered Guy Francon an 
impractical idealist; he was not restrained by an Classic dogma; he was much more skillful 
and liberal: he built anything. He had no distaste for modern architecture and built cheerfully, 
when a rare client asked for it, bare boxes with flat roofs, which he called progressive; he built 
Roman mansions which he called fastidious; he built Gothic churches which he called 
spiritual. He saw no difference among any of them. He never became angry, except when 
somebody called him eclectic. 

He had a system of his own. He employed five designers of various types and he staged a 
contest among them on each commission he received. He chose the winning design and 
improved it with bits of the four others. "Six minds," he said, "are better than one." 

When Roark saw the final drawing of the Benton Department Store, he understood why Snyte 
had not been afraid to hire him. He recognized his own planes of space, his windows, his 
system of circulation; he saw, added to it, Corinthian capitals, Gothic vaulting, Colonial 
chandeliers and incredible moldings, vaguely Moorish. The drawing was done in water-color, 
with miraculous delicacy, mounted on cardboard, covered with a veil of tissue paper. The men 
in the drafting room were not allowed to look at it, except from a safe distance; all hands had 
to be washed, all cigarettes discarded. John Erik Snyte attached a great importance to the 
proper appearance of a drawing for submission to clients, and kept a young Chinese student 
of architecture employed solely upon the execution of these masterpieces. 

Roark knew what to expect of his job. He would never see his work erected, only pieces of it, 
which he preferred not to see; but he would be free to design as he wished and he would have 
the experience of solving actual problems. It was less than he wanted and more than he could 
expect. He accepted it at that. He met his fellow designers, the four other contestants, and 
learned that they were unofficially nicknamed in the drafting room as "Classic," 


Gothic, 



"Renaissance" and "Miscellaneous." He winced a little when he was addressed as "Hey, 
Modernistic." 

# 

The strike of the building-trades unions infuriated Guy Francon. The strike had started against 
the contractors who were erecting the Noyes-Belmont Hotel, and had spread to all the new 
structures of the city. It had been mentioned in the press that the architects of the Noyes- 
Belmont were the firm of Francon & Heyer. 

Most of the press helped the fight along, urging the contractors not to surrender. The loudest 
attacks against the strikers came from the powerful papers of the great Wynand chain. 

"We have always stood," said the Wynand editorials, "for the rights of the common man 
against the yellow sharks of privilege, but we cannot give our support to the destruction of law 
and order." It had never been discovered whether the Wynand papers led the public or the 
public led the Wynand papers; it was known only that the two kept remarkably in step. It was 
not known to anyone, however, save to Guy Francon and a very few others, that Gail Wynand 
owned the corporation which owned the corporation which owned the Noyes-Belmont Hotel. 

This added greatly to Francon's discomfort. Gail Wynand's real-estate operations were 
rumored to be vaster than his journalistic empire. It was the first chance Francon had ever had 
at a Wynand commission and he grasped it avidly, thinking of the possibilities which it could 
open. He and Keating had put their best efforts into designing the most ornate of all Rococo 
palaces for future patrons who could pay twenty-five dollars per day per room and who were 
fond of plaster flowers, marble cupids and open elevator cages of bronze lace. The strike had 
shattered the future possibilities; Francon could not be blamed for it, but one could never tell 
whom Gail Wynand would blame and for what reason. The unpredictable, unaccountable 
shifts of Wynand's favor were famous, and it was well known that few architects he employed 
once were ever employed by him again. 

Francon's sullen mood led him to the unprecedented breach of snapping over nothing in 
particular at the one person who had always been immune from it-Peter Keating. Keating 
shrugged, and turned his back to him in silent insolence. Then Keating wandered aimlessly 
through the halls, snarling at young draftsmen without provocation. He bumped into Lucius N. 
Heyer in a doorway and snapped: "Look where you're going!" Heyer stared after him, 
bewildered, blinking. 

There was little to do in the office, nothing to say and everyone to avoid. Keating left early and 
walked home through a cold December twilight. 

At home, he cursed aloud the thick smell of paint from the overheated radiators. He cursed 
the chill, when his mother opened a window. He could find no reason for his restlessness, 
unless it was the sudden inactivity that left him alone. He could not bear to be left alone. 

He snatched up the telephone receiver and called Catherine Halsey. The sound of her clear 
voice was like a hand pressed soothingly against his hot forehead. He said: "Oh, nothing 
important, dear, I just wondered if you'd be home tonight. I thought I'd drop in after dinner." 

"Of course, Peter. I'll be home." 

"Swell. About eight-thirty?" 

"Yes. ..Oh, Peter, have you heard about Uncle Ellsworth?" 

"Yes, God damn it, I've heard about your Uncle Ellsworth!. ..I’m sorry, Katie. ..Forgive me, 
darling, I didn't mean to be rude, but I've been hearing about your uncle all day long. I know, 
it's wonderful and all that, only look, we're not going to talk about him again tonight!" 

"No, of course not. I'm sorry. I understand. I'll be waiting for you." 

"So long, Katie." 



He had heard the latest story about Ellsworth Toohey, but he did not want to think of it 
because it brought him back to the annoying subject of the strike. Six months ago, on the 
wave of his success with Sermons in Stone, Ellsworth Toohey had been signed to write "One 
Small Voice," a daily syndicated column for the Wynand papers. It appeared in the Banner 
and had started as a department of art criticism, but grown into an informal tribune from which 
Ellsworth M. Toohey pronounced verdicts on art, literature, New York restaurants, 
international crises and sociology-mainly sociology. It had been a great success. But the 
building strike had placed Ellsworth M. Toohey in a difficult position. He made no secret of his 
sympathy with the strikers, but he had said nothing in his column, for no one could say what 
he pleased on the papers owned by Gail Wynand save Gail Wynand. However, a mass 
meeting of strike sympathizers had been called for this evening. Many famous men were to 
speak, Ellsworth Toohey among them. At least, Toohey's name had been announced. 

The event caused a great deal of curious speculation and bets were made on whether Toohey 
would dare to appear. "He will," Keating had heard a draftsman insist vehemently, "he'll 
sacrifice himself. He's that kind. He's the only honest man in print." 

"He won't," another had said. "Do you realize what it means to pull a stunt like that on 
Wynand? Once Wynand gets it in for a man, he'll break the guy for sure as hell's fire. Nobody 
knows when he'll do it or how he'll do it, but he'll do it, and nobody'll prove a thing on him, and 
you're done for once you get Wynand after you." Keating did not care about the issue one way 
or another, and the whole matter annoyed him. 

He ate his dinner, that evening, in grim silence and when Mrs. Keating began, with an "Oh, by 
the way..." to lead the conversation in a direction he recognized, he snapped: "You're not 
going to talk about Catherine. Keep still." Mrs. Keating said nothing further and concentrated 
on forcing more food on his plate. 

He took a taxi to Greenwich Village. He hurried up the stairs. He jerked at the bell. He waited. 
There was no answer. He stood, leaning against the wall, ringing, for a long time. Catherine 
wouldn't be out when she knew he was coming; she couldn't be. He walked incredulously 
down the stairs, out to the street, and looked up at the windows of her apartment. The 
windows were dark. 

He stood, looking up at the windows as at a tremendous betrayal. Then came a sick feeling of 
loneliness, as if he were homeless in a great city; for the moment, he forgot his own address 
or its existence. Then he thought of the meeting, the great mass meeting where her uncle was 
publicly to make a martyr of himself tonight. That's where she went, he thought, the damn little 
fool! He said aloud: "To hell with her!". ..And he was walking rapidly in the direction of the 
meeting hall. 

There was one naked bulb of light over the square frame of the hall's entrance, a small, blue- 
white lump glowing ominously, too cold and too bright. It leaped out of the dark street, lighting 
one thin trickle of rain from some ledge above, a glistening needle of glass, so thin and 
smooth that Keating thought crazily of stories where men had been killed by being pierced 
with an icicle. A few curious loafers stood indifferently in the rain around the entrance, and a 
few policemen. The door was open. The dim lobby was crowded with people who could not 
get into the packed hall, they were listening to a loud-speaker installed there for the occasion. 
At the door three vague shadows were handing out pamphlets to passers-by. One of the 
shadows was a consumptive, unshaved young man with a long, bare neck; the other was a 
trim youth with a fur collar on an expensive coat; the third was Catherine Halsey. 

She stood in the rain, slumped, her stomach jutting forward in weariness, her nose shiny, her 
eyes bright with excitement. Keating stopped, staring at her. 

Her hand shot toward him mechanically with a pamphlet, then she raised her eyes and saw 
him. She smiled without astonishment and said happily: 

"Why, Peter! How sweet of you to come here!" 

"Katie..." He choked a little. "Katie, what the hell..." 

"But I had to, Peter." Her voice had no trace of apology. "You don't understand, but I...” 



Get out of the rain. Get inside. 


"But I can't! I have to..." 

"Get out of the rain at least, you fool!" He pushed her roughly through the door, into a corner 
of the lobby. 

"Peter darling, you're not angry, are you? You see, it was like this: I didn't think Uncle would let 
me come here tonight, but at the last minute he said I could if I wanted to, and that I could 
help with the pamphlets. I knew you'd understand, and I left you a note on the living room 
table, explaining, and..." 

"You left me a note? Inside?" 

"Yes. ..Oh. ..Oh, dear me, I never thought of that, you couldn't get in of course, how silly of me, 
but I was in such a rush! No, you're not going to be angry, you can't! Don’t you see what this 
means to him? Don't you know what he's sacrificing by coming here? And I knew he would. I 
told them so, those people who said not a chance, it'll be the end of him-and it might be, but 
he doesn't care. That's what he's like. I'm frightened and I'm terribly happy, because what he's 
done-it makes me believe in all human beings. But I'm frightened, because you see, Wynand 
will..." 

"Keep still! I know it all. I'm sick of it. I don't want to hear about your uncle or Wynand or the 
damn strike. Let's get out of here." 

"Oh, no, Peter! We can't! I want to hear him and..." 

"Shut up over there!" someone hissed at them from the crowd. 

"We're missing it all," she whispered. "That's Austen Heller speaking. Don't you want to hear 
Austen Heller?" 

Keating looked up at the loud-speaker with a certain respect, which he felt for all famous 
names. He had not read much of Austen Heller, but he knew that Heller was the star 
columnist of the Chronicle, a brilliant, independent newspaper, arch-enemy of the Wynand 
publications; that Heller came from an old, distinguished family and had graduated from 
Oxford; that he had started as a literary critic and ended by becoming a quiet fiend devoted to 
the destruction of all forms of compulsion, private or public, in heaven or on earth; that he had 
been cursed by preachers, bankers, club-women and labor organizers; that he had better 
manners than the social elite whom he usually mocked, and a tougher constitution than the 
laborers whom he usually defended; that he could discuss the latest play on Broadway, 
medieval poetry or international finance; that he never donated to charity, but spent more of 
his own money than he could afford, on defending political prisoners anywhere. 

The voice coming from the loud-speaker was dry, precise, with the faint trace of a British 
accent. 

"...and we must consider," Austen Heller was saying unemotionally, "that since- 
unfortunately-we are forced to live together, the most important thing for us to remember is 
that the only way in which we can have any law at all is to have as little of it as possible. I see 
no ethical standard to which to measure the whole unethical conception of a State, except in 
the amount of time, of thought, of money, of effort and of obedience, which a society extorts 
from its every member. Its value and its civilization are in inverse ratio to that extortion. There 
is no conceivable law by which a man can be forced to work on any terms except those he 
chooses to set. There is no conceivable law to prevent him from setting them-just as there is 
none to force his employer to accept them. The freedom to agree or disagree is the 
foundation of our kind of society-and the freedom to strike is a part of it. I am mentioning this 
as a reminder to a certain Petronius from Hell's Kitchen, an exquisite bastard who has been 
rather noisy lately about telling us that this strike represents a destruction of law and order." 

The loud-speaker coughed out a high, shrill sound of approval and a clatter of applause. 

There were gasps among the people in the lobby. Catherine grasped Keating's arm. "Oh, 



Peter!" she whispered. "He means Wynand! Wynand was born in Hell's Kitchen. He can 
afford to say that, but Wynand will take it out on Uncle Ellsworth!" 

Keating could not listen to the rest of Heller's speech, because his head was swimming in so 
violent an ache that the sounds hurt his eyes and he had to keep his eyelids shut tightly. He 
leaned against the wall. 

He opened his eyes with a jerk, when he became aware of the peculiar silence around him. 

He had not noticed the end of Heller's speech. He saw the people in the lobby standing in 
tense, solemn expectation, and the blank rasping of the loud-speaker pulled every glance into 
its dark funnel. Then a voice came through the silence, loudly and slowly: 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have the great honor of presenting to you now Mr. Ellsworth 
Monkton Toohey!" 

Well, thought Keating, Bennett's won his six bits down at the office. There were a few seconds 
of silence. Then the thing which happened hit Keating on the back of the head; it was not a 
sound nor a blow, it was something that ripped time apart, that cut the moment from the 
normal one preceding it. He knew only the shock, at first; a distinct, conscious second was 
gone before he realized what it was and that it was applause. It was such a crash of applause 
that he waited for the loud-speaker to explode; it went on and on and on, pressing against the 
walls of the lobby, and he thought he could feel the walls buckling out to the street. 

The people around him were cheering. Catherine stood, her lips parted, and he felt certain 
that she was not breathing at all. 

It was a long time before silence came suddenly, as abrupt and shocking as the roar; the loud- 
speaker died, choking on a high note. Those in the lobby stood still. Then came the voice. 

"My friends," it said, simply and solemnly. "My brothers," it added softly, involuntarily, both full 
of emotion and smiling apologetically at the emotion. "I am more touched by this reception 
than I should allow myself to be. I hope I shall be forgiven for a trace of the vain child which is 
in all of us. But I realize-and in that spirit I accept it-that this tribute was paid not to my 
person, but to a principle which chance has granted me to represent in all humility tonight." 

It was not a voice, it was a miracle. It unrolled as a velvet banner. It spoke English words, but 
the resonant clarity of each syllable made it sound like a new language spoken for the first 
time. It was the voice of a giant. 

Keating stood, his mouth open. He did not hear what the voice was saying. He heard the 
beauty of the sounds without meaning. He felt no need to know the meaning; he could accept 
anything, he would be led blindly anywhere. 

"...and so, my friends," the voice was saying, "the lesson to be learned from our tragic struggle 
is the lesson of unity. We shall unite or we shall be defeated. Our will-the will of the 
disinherited, the forgotten, the oppressed-shall weld us into a solid bulwark, with a common 
faith and a common goal. This is the time for every man to renounce the thoughts of his petty 
little problems, of gain, of comfort, of self-gratification. This is the time to merge his self in a 
great current, in the rising tide which is approaching to sweep us all, willing or unwilling, into 
the future. History, my friends, does not ask questions or acquiescence. It is irrevocable, as 
the voice of the masses that determine it. Let us listen to the call. Let us organize, my 
brothers. Let us organize. Let us organize. Let us organize." 

Keating looked at Catherine. There was no Catherine; there was only a white face dissolving 
in the sounds of the loudspeaker. It was not that she heard her uncle; Keating could feel no 
jealousy of him; he wished he could. It was not affection. It was something cold and 
impersonal that left her empty, her will surrendered and no human will holding hers, but a 
nameless thing in which she was being swallowed. 

"Let's get out of here," he whispered. His voice was savage. He was afraid. 

She turned to him, as if she were emerging from unconsciousness. He knew that she was 
trying to recognize him and everything he implied. She whispered: "Yes. Let's get out." They 



walked through the streets, through the rain, without direction. It was cold, but they went on, to 
move, to feel the movement, to know the sensation of their own muscles moving. 

"We're getting drenched," Keating said at last, as bluntly and naturally as he could; their 
silence frightened him; it proved that they both knew the same thing and that the thing had 
been real. "Let's find some place where we can have a drink." 

"Yes," said Catherine, "let's. It's so cold. ...Isn't it stupid of me? Now I've missed Uncle's 
speech and I wanted so much to hear it." It was all right. She had mentioned it. She had 
mentioned it quite naturally, with a healthy amount of proper regret. The thing was gone. "But I 
wanted to be with you, Peter. ..I want to be with you always." The thing gave a last jerk, not in 
the meaning of what she said, but in the reason that had prompted her to say it. Then it was 
gone, and Keating smiled; his fingers sought her bare wrist between her sleeve and glove, 
and her skin was warm against his.... 

Many days later Keating heard the story that was being told all over town. It was said that on 
the day after the mass meeting Gail Wynand had given Ellsworth Toohey a raise in salary. 
Toohey had been furious and had tried to refuse it. "You cannot bribe me, Mr. Wynand," he 
said. "I'm not bribing you," Wynand had answered; "don't flatter yourself." 

# 

When the strike was settled, interrupted construction went forward with a spurt throughout the 
city, and Keating found himself spending days and nights at work, with new commissions 
pouring into the office. Francon smiled happily at everybody and gave a small party for his 
staff, to erase the memory of anything he might have said. The palatial residence of Mr. and 
Mrs. Dale Ainsworth on Riverside Drive, a pet project of Keating's, done in Late Renaissance 
and gray granite, was complete at last. Mr. and Mrs. Dale Ainsworth gave a formal reception 
as a housewarming, to which Guy Francon and Peter Keating were invited, but Lucius N. 
Heyer was ignored, quite accidentally, as always happened to him of late. Francon enjoyed 
the reception, because every square foot of granite in the house reminded him of the 
stupendous payment received by a certain granite quarry in Connecticut. Keating enjoyed the 
reception, because the stately Mrs. Ainsworth said to him with a disarming smile: "But I was 
certain that you were Mr. Francon's partner! It's Francon and Heyer, of course! How perfectly 
careless of me! All I can offer by way of excuse is that if you aren't his partner, one would 
certainly say you were entitled to be!" Life in the office rolled on smoothly, in one of those 
periods when everything seemed to go well. 

Keating was astonished, therefore, one morning shortly after the Ainsworth reception, to see 
Francon arrive at the office with a countenance of nervous irritation. "Oh, nothing," he waved 
his hand at Keating impatiently, "nothing at all." In the drafting room Keating noticed three 
draftsmen, their heads close together, bent over a section of the New York Banner, reading 
with a guilty kind of avid interest; he heard an unpleasant chuckle from one of them. When 
they saw him the paper disappeared, too quickly. He had no time to inquire into this; a 
contractor's job runner was waiting for him in his office, also a stack of mail and drawings to 
be approved. 

He had forgotten the incident three hours later in a rush of appointments. He felt light, clear- 
headed, exhilarated by his own energy. When he had to consult his library on a new drawing 
which he wished to compare with its best prototypes, he walked out of his office, whistling, 
swinging the drawing gaily. 

His motion had propelled him halfway across the reception room, when he stopped short; the 
drawing swung forward and flapped back against his knees. He forgot that it was quite 
improper for him to pause there like that in the circumstances. 

A young woman stood before the railing, speaking to the reception clerk. Her slender body 
seemed out of all scale in relation to a normal human body; its lines were so long, so fragile, 
so exaggerated that she looked like a stylized drawing of a woman and made the correct 
proportions of a normal being appear heavy and awkward beside her. She wore a plain gray 
suit; the contrast between its tailored severity and her appearance was deliberately 
exorbitant-and strangely elegant. She let the fingertips of one hand rest on the railing, a 
narrow hand ending the straight imperious line of her arm. She had gray eyes that were not 
ovals, but two long, rectangular cuts edged by parallel lines of lashes; she had an air of cold 



serenity and an exquisitely vicious mouth. Her face, her pale gold hair, her suit seemed to 
have no color, but only a hint, just on the verge of the reality of color, making the full reality 
seem vulgar. Keating stood still, because he understood for the first time what it was that 
artists spoke about when they spoke of beauty. 

"I'll see him now, if I see him at all," she was saying to the reception clerk. "He asked me to 
come and this is the only time I have." It was not a command; she spoke as if it were not 
necessary for her voice to assume the tones of commanding. 

"Yes, but..." A light buzzed on the clerk's switchboard; she plugged the connection through, 
hastily. "Yes, Mr. Francon..." She listened and nodded with relief. "Yes, Mr. Francon." She 
turned to the visitor: "Will you go right in, please?" 

The young woman turned and looked at Keating as she passed him on her way to the stairs. 
Her eyes went past him without stopping. Something ebbed from his stunned admiration. He 
had had time to see her eyes; they seemed weary and a little contemptuous, but they left him 
with a sense of cold cruelty. 

He heard her walking up the stairs, and the feeling vanished, but the admiration remained. He 
approached the reception clerk eagerly. 

"Who was that?" he asked. 

The clerk shrugged: 

"That's the boss's little girl." 

"Why, the lucky stiff!" said Keating. "He's been holding out on me." 

"You misunderstood me," the clerk said coldly. "It's his daughter. It's Dominique Francon." 
"Oh," said Keating. "Oh, Lord!" 

"Yeah?" the girl looked at him sarcastically. "Have you read this morning's Banner?" 

"No. Why?" 

"Read it." 

Her switchboard buzzed and she turned away from him. 

He sent a boy for a copy of the Banner, and turned anxiously to the column, "Your House," by 
Dominique Francon. He had heard that she'd been quite successful lately with descriptions of 
the homes of prominent New Yorkers. Her field was confined to home decoration, but she 
ventured occasionally into architectural criticism. Today her subject was the new residence of 
Mr. and Mrs. Dale Ainsworth on Riverside Drive. He read, among many other things, the 
following: 

"You enter a magnificent lobby of golden marble and you think that this is the City Hall or the 
Main Post Office, but it isn't. It has, however, everything: the mezzanine with the colonnade 
and the stairway with a goitre and the cartouches in the form of looped leather belts. Only it's 
not leather, it's marble. The dining room has a splendid bronze gate, placed by mistake on the 
ceiling, in the shape of a trellis entwined with fresh bronze grapes. There are dead ducks and 
rabbits hanging on the wall panels, in bouquets of carrots, petunias and string beans. I do not 
think these would have been very attractive if real, but since they are bad plaster imitations, it 
is all right. ...The bedroom windows face a brick wall, not a very neat wall, but nobody needs to 
see the bedrooms. ...The front windows are large enough and admit plenty of light, as well as 
the feet of the marble cupids that roost on the outside. The cupids are well fed and present a 
pretty picture to the street, against the severe granite of the fagade; they are quite 
commendable, unless you just can't stand to look at dimpled soles every time you glance out 
to see whether it's raining. If you get tired of it, you can always look out of the central windows 
of the third floor, and into the cast-iron rump of Mercury who sits on top of the pediment over 
the entrance. It's a very beautiful entrance. Tomorrow, we shall visit the home of Mr. and Mrs. 



Smythe-Pickering. 


Keating had designed the house. But he could not help chuckling through his fury when he 
thought of what Francon must have felt reading this, and of how Francon was going to face 
Mrs. Dale Ainsworth. Then he forgot the house and the article. He remembered only the girl 
who had written it. 

He picked three sketches at random from his table and started for Francon's office to ask his 
approval of the sketches, which he did not need. 

On the stair landing outside Francon's closed door he stopped. He heard Francon's voice 
behind the door, loud, angry and helpless, the voice he always heard when Francon was 
beaten. 

"...to expect such an outrage! From my own daughter! I'm used to anything from you, but this 
beats it all. What am I going to do? How am I going to explain? Do you have any kind of a 
vague idea of my position?" 

Then Keating heard her laughing; it was a sound so gay and so cold that he knew it was best 
not to go in. He knew he did not want to go in, because he was afraid again, as he had been 
when he'd seen her eyes. 

He turned and descended the stairs. When he had reached the floor below, he was thinking 
that he would meet her, that he would meet her soon and that Francon would not be able to 
prevent it now. He thought of it eagerly, laughing in relief at the picture of Francon's daughter 
as he had imagined her for years, revising his vision of his future; even though he felt dimly 
that it would be better if he never met her again. 


10 . 

RALSTON HOLCOMBE had no visible neck, but his chin took care of that. His chin and jaws 
formed an unbroken arc, resting on his chest. His cheeks were pink, soft to the touch, with the 
irresilient softness of age, like the skin of a peach that has been scalded. His rich white hair 
rose over his forehead and fell to his shoulders in the sweep of a medieval mane. It left 
dandruff on the back of his collar. 

He walked through the streets of New York, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a dark business 
suit, a pale green satin shirt, a vest of white brocade, a huge black bow emerging from under 
his chin, and he carried a staff, not a cane, but a tall ebony staff surmounted by a bulb of solid 
gold. It was as if his huge body were resigned to the conventions of a prosaic civilization and 
to its drab garments, but the oval of his chest and stomach sallied forth, flying the colors of his 
inner soul. 

These things were permitted to him, because he was a genius. He was also president of the 
Architects' Guild of America. Ralston Holcombe did not subscribe to the views of his 
colleagues in the organization. He was not a grubbing builder nor a businessman. He was, he 
stated firmly, a man of ideals. 

He denounced the deplorable state of American architecture and the unprincipled eclecticism 
of its practitioners. In any period of history, he declared, architects built in the spirit of their 
own time, and did not pick designs from the past; we could be true to history only in heeding 
her law, which demanded that we plant the roots of our art firmly in the reality of our own life. 
He decried the stupidity of erecting buildings that were Greek, Gothic or Romanesque; let us, 
he begged, be modern and build in the style that belongs to our days. He had found that style. 
It was Renaissance. 

He stated his reasons clearly. Inasmuch, he pointed out, as nothing of great historical 
importance had happened in the world since the Renaissance, we should consider ourselves 
still living in that period; and all the outward forms of our existence should remain faithful to 
the examples of the great masters of the sixteenth century. 



He had no patience with the few who spoke of a modern architecture in terms quite different 
from his own; he ignored them; he stated only that men who wanted to break with all of the 
past were lazy ignoramuses, and that one could not put originality above Beauty. His voice 
trembled reverently on that last word. He accepted nothing but stupendous commissions. He 
specialized in the eternal and the monumental. He built a great many memorials and capitols. 
He designed for International Expositions. 

He built like a composer improvising under the spur of a mystic guidance. He had sudden 
inspirations. He would add an enormous dome to the flat roof of a finished structure, or 
encrust a long vault with gold-leaf mosaic, or rip off a facade of limestone to replace it with 
marble. His clients turned pale, stuttered-and paid. His imperial personality carried him to 
victory in any encounter with a client's thrift; behind him stood the stern, unspoken, 
overwhelming assertion that he was an Artist. His prestige was enormous. 

He came from a family listed in the Social Register. In his middle years he had married a 
young lady whose family had not made the Social Register, but made piles of money instead, 
in a chewing-gum empire left to an only daughter. 

Ralston Holcombe was now sixty-five, to which he added a few years, for the sake of his 
friends' compliments on his wonderful physique; Mrs. Ralston Holcombe was forty-two, from 
which she deducted considerably. 

Mrs. Ralston Holcombe maintained a salon that met informally every Sunday afternoon. 
"Everybody who is anybody in architecture drops in on us," she told her friends. "They'd 
better," she added. 

On a Sunday afternoon in March, Keating drove to the Holcombe mansion-a reproduction of 
a Florentine palazzo-dutifully, but a little reluctantly. He had been a frequent guest at these 
celebrated gatherings and he was beginning to be bored, for he knew everybody he could 
expect to find there. He felt, however, that he had to attend this time, because the occasion 
was to be in honor of the completion of one more capitol by Ralston Holcombe in some state 
or another. 

A substantial crowd was lost in the marble ballroom of the Holcombes, scattered in forlorn 
islets through an expanse intended for court receptions. The guests stood about, self- 
consciously informal, working at being brilliant. Steps rang against the marble with the echoing 
sound of a crypt. The flames of tall candles clashed desolately with the gray of the light from 
the street; the light made the candles seem dimmer, the candles gave to the day outside a 
premonitory tinge of dusk. A scale model of the new state capitol stood displayed on a 
pedestal in the middle of the room, ablaze with tiny electric bulbs. 

Mrs. Ralston Holcombe presided over the tea table. Each guest accepted a fragile cup of 
transparent porcelain, took two delicate sips and vanished in the direction of the bar. Two 
stately butlers went about collecting the abandoned cups. 

Mrs. Ralston Holcombe, as an enthusiastic girl friend had described her, was "petite, but 
intellectual." Her diminutive stature was her secret sorrow, but she had learned to find 
compensations. She could talk, and did, of wearing dresses size ten and of shopping in the 
junior departments. She wore high-school garments and short socks in summer, displaying 
spindly legs with hard blue veins. She adored celebrities. That was her mission in life. She 
hunted them grimly; she faced them with wide-eyed admiration and spoke of her own 
insignificance, of her humility before achievement; she shrugged, tight-lipped and rancorous, 
whenever one of them did not seem to take sufficient account of her own views on life after 
death, the theory of relativity, Aztec architecture, birth control and the movies. She had a great 
many poor friends and advertised the fact. If a friend happened to improve his financial 
position, she dropped him, feeling that he had committed an act of treason. She hated the 
wealthy in all sincerity: they shared her only badge of distinction. She considered architecture 
her private domain. She had been christened Constance and found it awfully clever to be 
known as "Kiki," a nickname she had forced on her friends when she was well past thirty. 

Keating had never felt comfortable in Mrs. Holcombe's presence, because she smiled at him 
too insistently and commented on his remarks by winking and saying: "Why, Peter, how 
naughty of you!" when no such intention had been in his mind at all. He bowed over her hand, 



however, this afternoon as usual, and she smiled from behind the silver teapot. She wore a 
regal gown of emerald velvet, and a magenta ribbon in her bobbed hair with a cute little bow in 
front. Her skin was tanned and dry, with enlarged pores showing on her nostrils. She handed 
a cup to Keating, a square-cut emerald glittering on her finger in the candlelight. 

Keating expressed his admiration for the capital and escaped to examine the model. He stood 
before it for a correct number of minutes, scalding his lips with the hot liquid that smelled of 
cloves. Holcombe, who never looked in the direction of the model and never missed a guest 
stopping before it, slapped Keating's shoulder and said something appropriate about young 
fellows learning the beauty of the style of the Renaissance. Then Keating wandered off, shook 
a few hands without enthusiasm, and glanced at his wrist watch, calculating the time when it 
would be permissible to leave. Then he stopped. 

Beyond a broad arch, in a small library, with three young men beside her, he saw Dominique 
Francon. 

She stood leaning against a column, a cocktail glass in her hand. She wore a suit of black 
velvet; the heavy cloth, which transmitted no light rays, held her anchored to reality by 
stopping the light that flowed too freely through the flesh of her hands, her neck, her face. A 
white spark of fire flashed like a cold metallic cross in the glass she held, as if it were a lens 
gathering the diffused radiance of her skin. 

Keating tore forward and found Francon in the crowd. "Well, Peter!" said Francon brightly. 
"Want me to get you a drink? Not so hot," he added, lowering his voice, "but the Manhattans 
aren't too bad." 

"No," said Keating, "thanks." 

"Entre nous," said Francon, winking at the model of the capitol, "it's a holy mess, isn't it?" 

"Yes," said Keating. "Miserable proportions. ...That dome looks like Holcombe's face imitating 
a sunrise on the roof...." They had stopped in full view of the library and Keating's eyes were 
fixed on the girl in black, inviting Francon to notice it; he enjoyed having Francon in a trap. 

"And the plan! The plan! Do you see that on the second floor. ..oh," said Francon, noticing. 

He looked at Keating, then at the library, then at Keating again. 

"Well," said Francon at last, "don't blame me afterward. You've asked for it. Come on." 

They entered the library together. Keating stopped, correctly, but allowing his eyes an 
improper intensity, while Francon beamed with unconvincing cheeriness: 

"Dominique, my dear! May I present?-this is Peter Keating, my own right hand. Peter-my 
daughter." 

"How do you do," said Keating, his voice soft. 

Dominique bowed gravely. 

"I have waited to meet you for such a long time, Miss Francon." 

"This will be interesting," said Dominique. "You will want to be nice to me, of course, and yet 
that won't be diplomatic." 

"What do you mean, Miss Francon?" 

"Father would prefer you to be horrible with me. Father and I don't get along at all." 

"Why, Miss Francon, I..." 

"I think it's only fair to tell you this at the beginning. You may want to redraw some 
conclusions." He was looking for Francon, but Francon had vanished. "No," she said softly, 



"Father doesn't do these things well at all. He's too obvious. You asked him for the 
introduction, but he shouldn't have let me notice that. However, it's quite all right, since we 
both admit it. Sit down." 

She slipped into a chair and he sat down obediently beside her. The young men whom he did 
not know stood about for a few minutes, trying to be included in the conversation by smiling 
blankly, then wandered off. Keating thought with relief that there was nothing frightening about 
her; there was only a disquieting contrast between her words and the candid innocence of the 
manner she used to utter them; he did not know which to trust. 

"I admit I asked for the introduction," he said. "That's obvious anyway, isn't it? Who wouldn't 
ask for it? But don't you think that the conclusions I'll draw may have nothing to do with your 
father?" 

"Don't say that I'm beautiful and exquisite and like no one you've ever met before and that 
you're very much afraid that you're going to fall in love with me. You'll say it eventually, but let's 
postpone it. Apart from that, I think we'll get along very nicely." 

"But you're trying to make it very difficult for me, aren't you?" 

"Yes. Father should have warned you." 

"He did." 

"You should have listened. Be very considerate of Father. I've met so many of his own right 
hands that I was beginning to be skeptical. But you're the first one who's lasted. And who 
looks like he's going to last. I've heard a great deal about you. My congratulations." 

"I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for years. And I’ve been reading your column with 
so much..." He stopped. He knew he shouldn't have mentioned that; and, above all, he 
shouldn't have stopped. 

"So much...?" she asked gently. 

"...so much pleasure," he finished, hoping that she would let it go at that. 

"Oh, yes," she said. "The Ainsworth house. You designed it. I'm sorry. You just happened to 
be the victim of one of my rare attacks of honesty. I don't have them often. As you know, if 
you're read my stuff yesterday." 

"I've read it. And-well, I'll follow your example and I'll be perfectly frank. Don't take it as a 
complaint--one must never complain against one's critics. But really that capitol of Holcombe's 
is much worse in all those very things that you blasted us for. Why did you give him such a 
glowing tribute yesterday? Or did you have to?" 

"Don't flatter me. Of course I didn't have to. Do you think anyone on the paper pays enough 
attention to a column on home decoration to care what I say in it? Besides, I'm not even 
supposed to write about capitols. Only I'm getting tired of home decorations." 

"Then why did you praise Holcombe?" 

"Because that capitol of his is so awful that to pan it would have been an anticlimax. So I 
thought it would be amusing to praise it to the sky. It was." 

"Is that the way you go about it?" 

"That's the way I go about it. But no one reads my column, except housewives who can never 
afford to decorate their homes, so it doesn't matter at all." 

"But what do you really like in architecture?" 

"I don't like anything in architecture." 



"Well, you know of course that I won't believe that. Why do you write if you have nothing you 
want to say?" 

"To have something to do. Something more disgusting than many other things I could do. And 
more amusing." 

"Come on, that's not a good reason." 

"I never have any good reasons." 

"But you must be enjoying your work." 

"I am. Don't you see that I am?" 

"You know, I've actually envied you. Working for a magnificent enterprise like the Wynand 
papers. The largest organization in the country, commanding the best writing talent and..." 

"Look," she said, leaning toward him confidentially, "let me help you. If you had just met 
Father, and he were working for the Wynand papers, that would be exactly the right thing to 
say. But not with me. That's what I'd expect you to say and I don't like to hear what I expect. It 
would be much more interesting if you said that the Wynand papers are a contemptible dump 
heap of yellow journalism and all their writers put together aren't worth two bits." 

"Is that what you really think of them?" 

"Not at all. But I don't like people who try to say only what they think I think." 

"Thanks. I'll need your help. I've never met anyone. ..oh, no, of course, that’s what you didn't 
want me to say. But I really meant it about your papers. I've always admired Gail Wynand. I've 
always wished I could meet him. What is he like?" 

"Just what Austen Heller called him-an exquisite bastard." He winced. He remembered where 
he had heard Austen Heller say that. The memory of Catherine seemed heavy and vulgar in 
the presence of the thin white hand he saw hanging over the arm of the chair before him. 

"But, I mean," he asked, "what’s he like in person?" 

"I don’t know. I've never met him." 

"You haven't?" 

"No." 

"Oh, I've heard he’s so interesting!" 

"Undoubtedly. When I'm in a mood for something decadent I'll probably meet him." 

"Do you know Toohey?" 

"Oh," she said. He saw what he had seen in her eyes before, and he did not like the sweet 
gaiety of her voice. "Oh, Ellsworth Toohey. Of course I know him. He's wonderful. He's a man 
I always enjoy talking to. He's such a perfect black-guard." 

"Why, Miss Francon! You're the first person who's ever..." 

"I'm not trying to shock you. I meant all of it. I admire him. He's so complete. You don't meet 
perfection often in this world one way or the other, do you? And he's just that. Sheer perfection 
in his own way. Everyone else is so unfinished, broken up into so many different pieces that 
don’t fit together. But not Toohey. He's a monolith. Sometimes, when I feel bitter against the 
world, I find consolation in thinking that it's all right, that I'll be avenged, that the world will get 
what's coming to it-because there's Ellsworth Toohey." 


What do you want to be avenged for?" She looked at him, her eyelids lifted for a moment, so 



that her eyes did not seem rectangular, but soft and clear. 

"That was very clever of you," she said. "That was the first clever thing you've said." 

"Why?" 

"Because you knew what to pick out of all the rubbish I uttered. So I'll have to answer you. I'd 
like to be avenged for the fact that I have nothing to be avenged for. Now let's go on about 
Ellsworth Toohey." 

"Well, I've always heard, from everybody, that he's a sort of saint, the one pure idealist, utterly 
incorruptible and..." 

"That's quite true. A plain grafter would be much safer. But Toohey is like a testing stone for 
people. You can learn about them by the way they take him." 

"Why? What do you actually mean?" She leaned back in her chair, and stretched her arms 
down to her knees, twisting her wrists, palms out, the fingers of her two hands entwined. She 
laughed easily. 

"Nothing that one should make a subject of discussion at a tea party. Kiki's right. She hates 
the sight of me, but she's got to invite me once in a while. And I can't resist coming, because 
she's so obvious about not wanting me. You know, I told Ralston tonight what I really thought 
of his capitol, but he wouldn't believe me. He only beamed and said that I was a very nice little 
girl." 

"Well, aren't you?" 

"What?" 

"A very nice little girl." 

"No. Not today. I've made you thoroughly uncomfortable. So I'll make up for it. I'll tell you what 
I think of you, because you'll be worrying about that. I think you're smart and safe and obvious 
and quite ambitious and you'll get away with it. And I like you. I'll tell Father that I approve of 
his right hand very much, so you see you have nothing to fear from the boss's daughter. 
Though it would be better if I didn't say anything to Father, because my recommendation 
would work the other way with him." 

"May I tell you only one thing that I think about you?" 

"Certainly. Any number of them." 

"I think it would have been better if you hadn't told me that you liked me. Then I would have 
had a better chance of its being true." 

She laughed. 

"If you understand that," she said, "then we'll get along beautifully. Then it might even be true." 

Gordon L. Prescott appeared in the arch of the ballroom, glass in hand. He wore a gray suit 
and a turtle-neck sweater of silver wool. His boyish face looked freshly scrubbed, and he had 
his usual air of soap, tooth paste and the outdoors. 

"Dominique, darling!" he cried, waving his glass. "Hello, Keating," he added curtly. 

"Dominique, where have you been hiding yourself? I heard you were here and I've had a hell 
of a time looking for you!" 

"Hello, Gordon," she said. She said it quite correctly; there was nothing offensive in the quiet 
politeness of her voice; but following his high note of enthusiasm, her voice struck a tone that 
seemed flat and deadly in its indifference-as if the two sounds mingled into an audible 
counterpoint around the melodic thread of her contempt. 



Prescott had not heard. "Darling," he said, "you look lovelier every time I see you. One 
wouldn't think it were possible." 

"Seventh time," said Dominique. 

"What?" 

"Seventh time that you've said it when meeting me, Gordon. I'm counting them." 

"You simply won't be serious, Dominique. You'll never be serious." 

"Oh, yes, Gordon. I was just having a very serious conversation here with my friend Peter 
Keating." 

A lady waved to Prescott and he accepted the opportunity, escaping, looking very foolish. And 
Keating delighted in the thought that she had dismissed another man for a conversation she 
wished to continue with her friend Peter Keating. 

But when he turned to her, she asked sweetly: "What was it we were talking about, Mr. 
Keating?" And then she was staring with too great an interest across the room, at the wizened 
figure of a little man coughing over a whisky glass. "Why," said Keating, "we were..." 

"Oh, there's Eugene Pettingill. My great favorite. I must say hello to Eugene." 

And she was up, moving across the room, her body leaning back as she walked, moving 
toward the most unattractive septuagenarian present. 

Keating did not know whether he had been made to join the brotherhood of Gordon L. 
Prescott, or whether it had been only an accident. 

He returned to the ballroom reluctantly. He forced himself to join groups of guests and to talk. 
He watched Dominique Francon as she moved through the crowd, as she stopped in 
conversation with others. She never glanced at him again. He could not decide whether he 
had succeeded with her or failed miserably. 

He managed to be at the door when she was leaving. 

She stopped and smiled at him enchantingly. 

"No," she said, before he could utter a word, "you can't take me home. I have a car waiting. 
Thank you just the same." 

She was gone and he stood at the door, helpless and thinking furiously that he believed he 
was blushing. 

He felt a soft hand on his shoulder and turned to find Francon beside him. 

"Going home, Peter? Let me give you a lift." 

"But I thought you had to be at the club by seven." 

"Oh, that's all right, I'll be a little late, doesn't matter, I'll drive you home, no trouble at all." 
There was a peculiar expression of purpose on Francon's face, quite unusual for him and 
unbecoming. 

Keating followed him silently, amused, and said nothing when they were alone in the 
comfortable twilight of Francon's car. 

"Well?" Francon asked ominously. 

Keating smiled. "You're a pig, Guy. You don't know how to appreciate what you've got. Why 
didn't you tell me? She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." 



"Oh, yes," said Francon darkly. "Maybe that's the trouble." 

"What trouble? Where do you see any trouble?" 

"What do you really think of her, Peter? Forget the looks. You'll see how quickly you'll forget 
that. What do you think?" 

"Well, I think she has a great deal of character." 

"Thanks for the understatement." 

Francon was gloomily silent, and then he said with an awkward little note of something like 
hope in his voice: 

"You know, Peter, I was surprised. I watched you, and you had quite a long chat with her. 
That's amazing. I fully expected her to chase you away with one nice, poisonous crack. Maybe 
you could get along with her, after all. I've concluded that you just can't tell anything about her. 
Maybe. ..You know, Peter, what I wanted to tell you is this: Don't pay any attention to what she 
said about my wanting you to be horrible with her." 

The heavy earnestness of that sentence was such a hint that Keating's lips moved to shape a 
soft whistle, but he caught himself in time. Francon added heavily: "I don't want you to be 
horrible with her at all." 

"You know, Guy," said Keating, in a tone of patronizing reproach, "you shouldn't have run 
away like that." 

"I never know how to speak to her." He sighed. "I've never learned to. I can't understand what 
in blazes is the matter with her, but something is. She just won't behave like a human being. 
You know, she’s been expelled from two finishing schools. How she ever got through college I 
can't imagine, but I can tell you that I dreaded to open my mail for four solid years, waiting for 
word of the inevitable. Then I thought, well, once she’s on her own I'm through and I don't 
have to worry about it, but she's worse than ever." 

"What do you find to worry about?" 

"I don't. I try not to. I'm glad when I don't have to think of her at all. I can't help it, I just wasn't 
cut out for a father. But sometimes I get to feel that it's my responsibility after all, though God 
knows I don't want it, but still there it is, I should do something about it, there's no one else to 
assume it." 

"You've let her frighten you, Guy, and really there's nothing to be afraid of." 

"You don't think so?" 

"No." 

"Maybe you're the man to handle her. I don't regret your meeting her now, and you know that I 
didn't want you to. Yes, I think you're the one man who could handle her. You. ..you're quite 
determined-aren't you, Peter?-when you're after something?" 

"Well," said Keating, throwing one hand up in a careless gesture, "I'm not afraid very often." 

Then he leaned back against the cushions, as if he were tired, as if he had heard nothing of 
importance, and he kept silent for the rest of the drive. Francon kept silent also. 

# 

"Boys," said John Erik Snyte, "don't spare yourselves on this. It's the most important thing 
we've had this year. Not much money, you understand, but the prestige, the connections! If 
we do land it, won't some of those great architects turn green! You see, Austen Heller has told 
me frankly that we’re the third firm he’s approached. He would have none of what those big 
fellows tried to sell him. So it's up to us, boys. You know, something different, unusual, but in 
good taste, and you know, different. Now do your best." 



His five designers sat in a semicircle before him. "Gothic" looked bored and "Miscellaneous" 
looked discouraged in advance; "Renaissance" was following the course of a fly on the ceiling. 
Roark asked: 

"What did he actually say, Mr. Snyte?" 

Snyte shrugged and looked at Roark with amusement, as if he and Roark shared a shameful 
secret about the new client, not worth mentioning. 

"Nothing that makes great sense--quite between us, boys," said Snyte. "He was somewhat 
inarticulate, considering his great command of the English language in print. He admitted he 
knew nothing about architecture. He didn't say whether he wanted it modernistic or period or 
what. He said something to the effect that he wanted a house of his own, but he's hesitated 
for a long time about building one because all houses look alike to him and they all look like 
hell and he doesn't see how anyone can become enthusiastic about any house, and yet he 
has the idea that he wants a building he could love. 'A building that would mean something' is 
what he said, though he added that he ’didn't know what or how.’ There. That's about all he 
said. Not much to go on, and I wouldn't have undertaken to submit sketches if it weren't 
Austen Heller. But I grant you that it doesn't make sense. ...What's the matter, Roark?" 

"Nothing," said Roark. 

This ended the first conference on the subject of a residence for Austen Heller. 

Later that day Snyte crowded his five designers into a train, and they went to Connecticut to 
see the site Heller had chosen. They stood on a lonely, rocky stretch of shore, three miles 
beyond an unfashionable little town; they munched sandwiches and peanuts, and they looked 
at a cliff rising in broken ledges from the ground to end in a straight, brutal, naked drop over 
the sea, a vertical shaft of rock forming a cross with the long, pale horizontal of the sea. 

"There," said Snyte. "That's it." He twirled a pencil in his hand. "Damnable, eh?" He sighed. "I 
tried to suggest a more respectable location, but he didn't take it so well so I had to shut up." 
He twirled the pencil. "That’s where he wants the house, right on top of that rock." He 
scratched the tip of his nose with the point of the pencil. "I tried to suggest setting it farther 
back from the shore and keeping the damn rock for a view, but that didn't go so well either." 

He bit the eraser between the tips of his teeth. "Just think of the blasting, the leveling one's got 
to do on that top." He cleaned his fingernail with the lead, leaving a black mark. "Well, that's 
that. ...Observe the grade, and the quality of the stone. The approach will be difficult....! have 
all the surveys and the photographs in the office. ...Well.. .Who's got a cigarette?. ..Well, I think 
that's about all.. ..I'll help you with suggestions anytime.. ..Well.. .What time is that damn train 
back?" 

Thus the five designers were started on their task. Four of them proceeded immediately at 
their drawing boards. Roark returned alone to the site, many times. 

Roark's five months with Snyte stretched behind him like a blank. Had he wished to ask 
himself what he had felt, he would have found no answer, save in the fact that he 
remembered nothing of these months. He could remember each sketch he had made. He 
could, if he tried, remember what had happened to those sketches; he did not try. 

But he had not loved any of them as he loved the house of Austen Heller. He stayed in the 
drafting room through evening after evening, alone with a sheet of paper and the thought of a 
cliff over the sea. No one saw his sketches until they were finished. 

When they were finished, late one night, he sat at his table, with the sheets spread before 
him, sat for many hours, one hand propping his forehead, the other hanging by his side, blood 
gathering in the fingers, numbing them, while the street beyond the window became deep 
blue, then pale gray. He did not look at the sketches. He felt empty and very tired. 

The house on the sketches had been designed not by Roark, but by the cliff on which it stood. 
It was as if the cliff had grown and completed itself and proclaimed the purpose for which it 
had been waiting. The house was broken into many levels, following the ledges of the rock, 



rising as it rose, in gradual masses, in planes flowing together up into one consummate 
harmony. The walls, of the same granite as the rock, continued its vertical lines upward; the 
wide, projecting terraces of concrete, silver as the sea, followed the line of the waves, of the 
straight horizon. 

Roark was still sitting at his table when the men returned to begin their day in the drafting 
room. Then the sketches were sent to Snyte's office. 

Two days later, the final version of the house to be submitted to Austen Heller, the version 
chosen and edited by John Erik Snyte, executed by the Chinese artist, lay swathed in tissue 
paper on a table. It was Roark's house. His competitors had been eliminated. It was Roark's 
house, but its walls were now of red brick, its windows were cut to conventional size and 
equipped with green shutters, two of its projecting wings were omitted, the great cantilevered 
terrace over the sea was replaced by a little wrought-iron balcony, and the house was 
provided with an entrance of Ionic columns supporting a broken pediment, and with a little 
spire supporting a weather vane. 

John Erik Snyte stood by the table, his two hands spread in the air over the sketch, without 
touching the virgin purity of its delicate colors. 

"That is what Mr. Heller had in mind, I'm sure," he said. "Pretty good. ..Yes, pretty 
good. ..Roark, how many times do I have to ask you not to smoke around a final sketch? 

Stand away. You'll get ashes on it." 

Austen Heller was expected at twelve o'clock. But at half past eleven Mrs. Symington arrived 
unannounced and demanded to see Mr. Snyte immediately. Mrs. Symington was an imposing 
dowager who had just moved into her new residence designed by Mr. Snyte; besides, Snyte 
expected a commission for an apartment house from her brother. He could not refuse to see 
her and he bowed her into his office, where she proceeded to state without reticence of 
expression that the ceiling of her library had cracked and the bay windows of her drawing 
room were hidden under a perpetual veil of moisture which she could not combat. Snyte 
summoned his chief engineer and they launched together into detailed explanations, 
apologies and damnations of contractors. Mrs. Symington showed no sign of relenting when a 
signal buzzed on Snyte's desk and the reception clerk's voice announced Austen Heller. 

It would have been impossible to ask Mrs. Symington to leave or Austen Heller to wait. Snyte 
solved the problem by abandoning her to the soothing speech of his engineer and excusing 
himself for a moment. Then he emerged into the reception room, shook Heller's hand and 
suggested: "Would you mind stepping into the drafting room, Mr. Heller? Better light in there, 
you know, and the sketch is all ready for you, and I didn't want to take the chance of moving 
it." 

Heller did not seem to mind. He followed Snyte obediently into the drafting room, a tall, broad- 
shouldered figure in English tweeds, with sandy hair and a square face drawn in countless 
creases around the ironical calm of the eyes. 

The sketch lay on the Chinese artist's table, and the artist stepped aside diffidently, in silence. 
The next table was Roark's. He stood with his back to Heller; he went on with his drawing, and 
did not turn. The employees had been trained not to intrude on the occasions when Snyte 
brought a client into the drafting room. 

Snyte's fingertips lifted the tissue paper, as if raising the veil of a bride. Then he stepped back 
and watched Heller's face. Heller bent down and stood hunched, drawn, intent, saying nothing 
for a long time. 

"Listen, Mr. Snyte," he began at last. "Listen, I think..." and stopped. 

Snyte waited patiently, pleased, sensing the approach of something he didn't want to disturb. 

"This," said Heller suddenly, loudly, slamming his fist down on the drawing, and Snyte winced, 
"this is the nearest anyone's ever come to it!" 


I knew you'd like it, Mr. Heller," said Snyte. 



I don't," said Heller. 


Snyte blinked and waited. 

"It’s so near somehow," said Heller regretfully, "but it's not right. I don't know where, but it's 
not. Do forgive me, if this sounds vague, but I like things at once or I don't. I know that I 
wouldn't be comfortable, for instance, with that entrance. It’s a lovely entrance, but you won't 
even notice it because you've seen it so often." 

"Ah, but allow me to point out a few considerations, Mr. Heller. One wants to be modern, of 
course, but one wants to preserve the appearance of a home. A combination of stateliness 
and coziness, you understand, a very austere house like this must have a few softening 
touches. It is strictly correct architecturally." 

"No doubt," said Heller. "I wouldn't know about that. I've never been strictly correct in my life." 
"Just let me explain this scheme and you'll see that it's..." 

"I know," said Heller wearily. "I know. I'm sure you're right. Only..." His voice had a sound of 
the eagerness he wished he could feel. "Only, if it had some unity, some. ..some central 
idea. ..which is there and isn't.. .if it seemed to live. ..which it doesn't.. .It lacks something and it 
has too much. ...If it were cleaner, more clear-cut. ..what's the word I've heard used?-if it were 
integrated...." 

Roark turned. He was at the other side of the table. He seized the sketch, his hand flashed 
forward and a pencil ripped across the drawing, slashing raw black lines over the untouchable 
water-color. The lines blasted off the Ionic columns, the pediment, the entrance, the spire, the 
blinds, the bricks; they flung up two wings of stone; they rent the windows wide; they splintered 
the balcony and hurled a terrace over the sea. 

It was being done before the others had grasped the moment when it began. Then Snyte 
jumped forward, but Heller seized his wrist and stopped him. Roark's hand went on razing 
walls, splitting, rebuilding in furious strokes. 

Roark threw his head up once, for a flash of a second, to look at Heller across the table. It 
was all the introduction they needed; it was like a handshake. Roark went on, and when he 
threw the pencil down, the house-as he had designed it-stood completed in an ordered 
pattern of black streaks. The performance had not lasted five minutes. 

Snyte made an attempt at a sound. As Heller said nothing, Snyte felt free to whirl on Roark 
and scream: "You're fired, God damn you! Get out of here! You're fired!" 

"We're both fired," said Austen Heller, winking to Roark. "Come on. Have you had any lunch? 
Let's go some place. I want to talk to you." 

Roark went to his locker to get his hat and coat. The drafting room witnessed a stupefying act 
and all work stopped to watch it: Austen Heller picked up the sketch, folded it over four times, 
cracking the sacred cardboard, and slipped it into his pocket. 

"But, Mr. Heller..." Snyte stammered, "let me explain. ..It's perfectly all right if that's what you 
want, we'll do the sketch over. ..let me explain..." 

"Not now," said Heller. "Not now." He added at the door: "I'll send you a check." 

Then Heller was gone, and Roark with him; and the door, as Heller swung it shut behind them, 
sounded like the closing paragraph in one of Heller's articles. Roark had not said a word. 

In the softly lighted booth of the most expensive restaurant that Roark had ever entered, 
across the crystal and silver glittering between them, Heller was saying: 

"...because that's the house I want, because that's the house I've always wanted. Can you 
build it for me, draw up the plans and supervise the construction?" 



’Yes," said Roark. 


"How long will it take if we start at once?" 

"About eight months." 

"I'll have the house by late fall?" 

"Yes." 

"Just like that sketch?" 

"Just like that." 

"Look, I have no idea what kind of a contract one makes with an architect and you must know, 
so draw up one and let my lawyer okay it this afternoon, will you?" 

"Yes." 

Heller studied the man who sat facing him. He saw the hand lying on the table before him. 
Heller's awareness became focused on that hand. He saw the long fingers, the sharp joints, 
the prominent veins. He had the feeling that he was not hiring this man, but surrendering 
himself into his employment. "How old are you," asked Heller, "whoever you are?" 

"Twenty-six. Do you want any references?" 

"Hell, no. I have them, here in my pocket. What's your name?" 

"Howard Roark." 

Heller produced a checkbook, spread it open on the table and reached for his fountain pen. 

"Look," he said, writing, "I'll give you five hundred dollars on account. Get yourself an office or 
whatever you have to get, and go ahead." 

He tore off the check and handed it to Roark, between the tips of two straight fingers, leaning 
forward on his elbow, swinging his wrist in a sweeping curve. His eyes were narrowed, 
amused, watching Roark quizzically. But the gesture had the air of a salute. 

The check was made out to "Howard Roark, Architect." 


11 . 

HOWARD ROARK opened his own office. 

It was one large room on the top of an old building, with a broad window high over the roofs. 
He could see the distant band of the Hudson at his window sill, with the small streaks of ships 
moving under his fingertips when he pressed them to the glass. He had a desk, two chairs, 
and a huge drafting table. The glass entrance door bore the words: "Howard Roark, 
Architect." He stood in the hall for a long time, looking at the words. Then he went in, and 
slammed his door, he picked up a T-square from the table and flung it down again, as if 
throwing an anchor. 

John Erik Snyte had objected. When Roark came to the office for his drawing instruments 
Snyte emerged into the reception room, shook his hand warmly and said: "Well, Roark! Well, 
how are you? Come in, come right in, I want to speak to you!" 

And with Roark seated before his desk Snyte proceeded loudly: 

"Look, fellow, I hope you've got sense enough not to hold it against me, anything that I 



might've said yesterday. You know how it is, I lost my head a little, and it wasn't what you did, 
but that you had to go and do it on that sketch, that sketch. ..well, never mind. No hard 
feelings?" 

"No," said Roark. "None at all." 

"Of course, you're not fired. You didn't take me seriously, did you? You can go right back to 
work here this very minute." 

"What for, Mr. Snyte?" 

"What do you mean, what for? Oh, you're thinking of the Heller house? But you're not taking 
Heller seriously, are you? You saw how he is, that madman can change his mind sixty times a 
minute. He won't really give you that commission, you know, it isn't as simple as that, it isn't 
being done that way." 

"We’ve signed the contract yesterday." 

"Oh, you have? Well, that’s splendid! Well, look, Roark, I'll tell you what we'll do: you bring the 
commission back to us and I'll let you put your name on it with mine-'John Erik Snyte & 
Howard Roark.’ And we'll split the fee. That’s in addition to your salary-and you're getting a 
raise, incidentally. Then we'll have the same arrangement on any other commission you bring 
in. And. ..Lord, man, what are you laughing at?" 

"Excuse me, Mr. Snyte. I'm sorry." 

"I don't believe you understand," said Snyte, bewildered. "Don't you see? It’s your insurance. 
You don't want to break loose just yet. Commissions won't fall into your lap like this. Then 
what will you do? This way, you'll have a steady job and you'll be building toward independent 
practice, if that's what you're after. In four or five years, you'll be ready to take the leap. That's 
the way everybody does it. You see?" 

"Yes." 

"Then you agree?" 

"No." 

"But, good Lord, man, you've lost your mind! To set up alone now! Without experience, 
without connections, without.. .well, without anything at all! I never heard of such a thing. Ask 
anybody in the profession. See what they'll tell you. It's preposterous!" 

"Probably." 

"Listen. Roark, won't you please listen?" 

"I'll listen if you want me to, Mr. Snyte. But I think I should tell you now that nothing you can 
say will make any difference. If you don't mind that, I don't mind listening." 

Snyte went on speaking for a long time and Roark listened, without objecting, explaining or 
answering. 

"Well, if that's how you are, don't expect me to take you back when you find yourself on the 
pavement." 

"I don't expect it, Mr. Snyte." 

"Don't expect anyone else in the profession to take you in, after they hear what you've done to 
me." 

"I don't expect that either." 

For a few days Snyte thought of suing Roark and Heller. But he decided against it, because 



there was no precedent to follow under the circumstances: because Heller had paid him for 
his efforts, and the house had been actually designed by Roark; and because no one ever 
sued Austen Heller. The first visitor to Roark's office was Peter Keating. He walked in, without 
warning, one noon, walked straight across the room and sat down on Roark's desk, smiling 
gaily, spreading his arms wide in a sweeping gesture: "Well, Howard!" he said. "Well, fancy 
that!" He had not seen Roark for a year. "Hello, Peter," said Roark. 

"Your own office, your own name and everything! Already! Just imagine!" 

"Who told you, Peter?" 

"Oh, one hears things. You wouldn't expect me not to keep track of your career, now would 
you? You know what I've always thought of you. And I don't have to tell you that I congratulate 
you and wish you the very best." 

"No, you don't have to." 

"Nice place you got here. Light and roomy. Not quite as imposing as it should be, perhaps, but 
what can one expect at the beginning? And then, the prospects are uncertain, aren't they, 
Howard?" 

"Quite." 

"It's an awful chance that you've taken." 

"Probably." 

"Are you really going to go through with it? I mean, on your 
own?" 

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" 

"Well, it's not too late, you know. I thought, when I heard the story, that you'd surely turn it over 
to Snyte and make a smart deal with him." 

"I didn't." 

"Aren't you really going to?" 

"No." 

Keating wondered why he should experience that sickening feeling of resentment; why he had 
come here hoping to find the story untrue, hoping to find Roark uncertain and willing to 
surrender. That feeling had haunted him ever since he’d heard the news about Roark; the 
sensation of something unpleasant that remained after he'd forgotten the cause. The feeling 
would come back to him, without reason, a blank wave of anger, and he would ask himself: 
now what the hell?-what was it I heard today? Then he would remember: Oh, yes, Roark- 
Roark's opened his own office. He would ask himself impatiently: So what?-and know at the 
same time that the words were painful to face, and humiliating like an insult. 

"You know, Howard, I admire your courage. Really, you know, I've had much more experience 
and I've got more of a standing in the profession, don't mind my saying it— I’m only speaking 
objectively--but I wouldn't dare take such a step." 

"No, you wouldn't." 

"So you've made the jump first. Well, well. Who would have thought it?. ..I wish you all the luck 
in the world." 

"Thank you, Peter." 

"I know you'll succeed. I'm sure of it." 



"Are you?" 

"Of course! Of course, I am. Aren't you?" 

"I haven't thought of it." 

"You haven't thought of it?" 

"Not much." 

"Then you're not sure, Howard? You aren't?" 

"Why do you ask that so eagerly?" 

"What? Why.. .no, not eagerly, but of course, I'm concerned, Howard, it's bad psychology not 
to be certain now, in your position. So you have doubts?" 

"None at all." 

"But you said..." 

"I'm quite sure of things, Peter." 

"Have you thought about getting your registration?" 

"I've applied for it." 

"You've got no college degree, you know. They'll make it difficult for you at the examination." 
"Probably." 

"What are you going to do if you don't get the license?" 

"I'll get it." 

"Well, I guess I'll be seeing you now at the A.G.A., if you don’t go high hat on me, because 
you'll be a full-fledged member and I'm only a junior." 

"I'm not joining the A.G.A." 

"What do you mean, you're not joining? You're eligible now." 

"Possibly." 

"You'll be invited to join." 

"Tell them not to bother." 

"What!" 

"You know, Peter, we had a conversation just like this seven years ago, when you tried to talk 
me into joining your fraternity at Stanton. Don't start it again." 

"You won't join the A.G.A. when you have a chance to?" 

"I won't join anything, Peter, at any time." 

"But don't you realize how it helps?" 

"In what?" 


In being an architect. 



"I don't like to be helped in being an architect." 

"You're just making things harder for yourself." 

"I am." 

"And it will be plenty hard, you know." 

"I know." 

"You'll make enemies of them if you refuse such an invitation." 

"I'll make enemies of them anyway." 

The first person to whom Roark had told the news was Henry Cameron. Roark went to New 
Jersey the day after he signed the contract with Heller. It had rained and he found Cameron in 
the garden, shuffling slowly down the damp paths, leaning heavily on a cane. In the past 
winter, Cameron had improved enough to walk a few hours each day. He walked with effort, 
his body bent. 

He looked at the first shoots of green on the earth under his feet. He lifted his cane, once in a 
while, bracing his legs to stand firm for a moment; with the tip of the cane, he touched a folded 
green cup and watched it spill a glistening drop in the twilight. He saw Roark coming up the 
hill, and frowned. He had seen Roark only a week ago, and because these visits meant too 
much to both of them, neither wished the occasion to be too frequent. 

"Well?" Cameron asked gruffly. "What do you want here again?" 

"I have something to tell you." 

"It can wait." 

"I don't think so." 

"Well?" 

"I’m opening my own office. I've just signed for my first building." 

Cameron rotated his cane, the tip pressed into the earth, the shaft describing a wide circle, his 
two hands bearing down on the handle, the palm of one on the back of the other. His head 
nodded slowly, in rhythm with the motion, for a long time, his eyes closed. Then he looked at 
Roark and said: 

"Well, don't brag about it." 

He added: "Help me to sit down." It was the first time Cameron had ever pronounced this 
sentence; his sister and Roark had long since learned that the one outrage forbidden in his 
presence was any intention of helping him to move. 

Roark took his elbow and led him to a bench. Cameron asked harshly, staring ahead at the 
sunset: 

"What? For whom? How much?" 

He listened silently to Roark's story. He looked for a long time at the sketch on cracked 
cardboard with the pencil lines over the watercolor. Then he asked many questions about the 
stone, the steel, the roads, the contractors, the costs. He offered no congratulations. He made 
no comment. 

Only when Roark was leaving, Cameron said suddenly: 

"Howard, when you open your office, take snapshots of it-and show them to me." 



Then he shook his head, looked away guiltily, and swore. 


"I'm being senile. Forget it." 

Roark said nothing. 

Three days later he came back. "You're getting to be a nuisance," said Cameron. Roark 
handed him an envelope, without a word. Cameron looked at the snapshots, at the one of the 
broad, bare office, of the wide window, of the entrance door. He dropped the others, and held 
the one of the entrance door for a long time. 

"Well," he said at last, "I did live to see it." 

He dropped the snapshot. 

"Not quite exactly," he added. "Not in the way I had wanted to, but I did. It's like the shadows 
some say we'll see of the earth in that other world. Maybe that’s how I'll see the rest of it. I'm 
learning." 

He picked up the snapshot. 

"Howard," he said. "Look at it." 

He held it between them. 

"It doesn't say much. Only 'Howard Roark, Architect.' But it's like those mottoes men carved 
over the entrance of a castle and died for. It's a challenge in the face of something so vast and 
so dark, that all the pain on earth-and do you know how much suffering there is on earth?-all 
the pain comes from that thing you are going to face. I don't know what it is, I don't know why 
it should be unleashed against you. I know only that it will be. And I know that if you carry 
these words through to the end, it will be a victory, Howard, not just for you, but for something 
that should win, that moves the world-and never wins acknowledgment. It will vindicate so 
many who have fallen before you, who have suffered as you will suffer. May God bless you-or 
whoever it is that is alone to see the best, the highest possible to human hearts. You're on 
your way into hell, Howard." 

# 

Roark walked up the path to the top of the cliff where the steel hulk of the Heller house rose 
into a blue sky. The skeleton was up and the concrete was being poured; the great mats of 
the terraces hung over the silver sheet of water quivering far below; plumbers and electricians 
had started laying their conduits. 

He looked at the squares of sky delimited by the slender lines of girders and columns, the 
empty cubes of space he had torn out of the sky. His hands moved involuntarily, filling in the 
planes of walls to come, enfolding the future rooms. A stone clattered from under his feet and 
went bouncing down the hill, resonant drops of sound rolling in the sunny clarity of the 
summer air. 

He stood on the summit, his legs planted wide apart, leaning back against space. He looked 
at the materials before him, the knobs of rivets in steel, the sparks in blocks of stone, the 
weaving spirals in fresh, yellow planks. 

Then he saw a husky figure enmeshed in electric wires, a bulldog face spreading into a huge 
grin and china-blue eyes gloating in a kind of unholy triumph. 

"Mike!" he said incredulously. 

Mike had left for a big job in Philadelphia months ago, long before the appearance of Heller in 
Snyte's office, and Mike had never heard the news-or so he supposed. 

"Hello, Red," said Mike, much too casually, and added: "Hello, boss." 



Mike, how did you...?' 


"You're a hell of an architect. Neglecting the job like that. It's my third day here, waiting for you 
to show up." 

"Mike, how did you get here? Why such a come-down?" He had never known Mike to bother 
with small private residences. 

"Don't play the sap. You know how I got here. You didn't think I'd miss it, your first house, did 
you? And you think it's a come-down? Well, maybe it is. And maybe it's the other way around." 

Roark extended his hand and Mike's grimy fingers closed about it ferociously, as if the 
smudges he left implanted in Roark's skin said everything he wanted to say. And because he 
was afraid that he might say it, Mike growled: 

"Run along, boss, run along. Don't clog up the works like that." 

Roark walked through the house. There were moments when he could be precise, 
impersonal, and stop to give instructions as if this were not his house but only a mathematical 
problem; when he felt the existence of pipes and rivets, while his own person vanished. 

There were moments when something rose within him, not a thought nor a feeling, but a wave 
of some physical violence, and then he wanted to stop, to lean back, to feel the reality of his 
person heightened by the frame of steel that rose dimly about the bright, outstanding 
existence of his body as its center. He did not stop. He went on calmly. But his hands 
betrayed what he wanted to hide. His hands reached out, ran slowly down the beams and 
joints. The workers in the house had noticed it. They said: "That guy’s in love with the thing. 

He can't keep his hands off." 

The workers liked him. The contractor's superintendents did not. He had had trouble in finding 
a contractor to erect the house. Several of the better firms had refused the commission. "We 
don't do that kinda stuff." 

"Nan, we won't bother. Too complicated for a small job like that." 

"Who the hell wants that kind of house? Most likely we'll never collect from the crank 
afterwards. To hell with it." 

"Never did anything like it. Wouldn't know how to go about it. I'll stick to construction that is 
construction." One contractor had looked at the plans briefly and thrown them aside, declaring 
with finality: "It won't stand." 

"It will," said Roark. The contractor drawled indifferently. "Yeah? And who are you to tell me, 
Mister?" 

He had found a small firm that needed the work and undertook it, charging more than the job 
warranted-on the ground of the chance they were taking with a queer experiment. The 
construction went on, and the foremen obeyed sullenly, in disapproving silence, as if they 
were waiting for their predictions to come true and would be glad when the house collapsed 
about their heads. Roark had bought an old Ford and drove down to the job more often than 
was necessary. It was difficult to sit at a desk in his office, to stand at a table, forcing himself 
to stay away from the construction site. At the site there were moments when he wished to 
forget his office and his drawing board, to seize the men's tools and go to work on the actual 
erection of the house, as he had worked in his childhood, to build that house with his own 
hands. 

He walked through the structure, stepping lightly over piles of planks and coils of wire, he 
made notes, he gave brief orders in a harsh voice. He avoided looking in Mike's direction. But 
Mike was watching him, following his progress through the house. Mike winked at him in 
understanding, whenever he passed by. Mike said once: 

"Control yourself, Red. You're open like a book. God, it's indecent to be so happy!" 



Roark stood on the cliff, by the structure, and looked at the countryside, at the long, gray 
ribbon of the road twisting past along the shore. An open car drove by, fleeing into the country. 
The car was overfilled with people bound for a picnic. There was a jumble of bright sweaters, 
and scarves fluttering in the wind; a jumble of voices shrieking without purpose over the roar 
of the motor, and overstressed hiccoughs of laughter; a girl sat sidewise, her legs flung over 
the side of the car; she wore a man's straw hat slipping down to her nose and she yanked 
savagely at the strings of a ukulele, ejecting raucous sounds, yelling "Hey!" These people 
were enjoying a day of their existence; they were shrieking to the sky their release from the 
work and the burdens of the days behind them; they had worked and carried the burdens in 
order to reach a goal--and this was the goal. 

He looked at the car as it streaked past. He thought that there was a difference, some 
important difference, between the consciousness of this day in him and in them. He thought 
that he should try to grasp it. But he forgot. He was looking at a truck panting up the hill, 
loaded with a glittering mound of cut granite. 

# 

Austen Heller came to look at the house frequently, and watched it grow, curious, still a little 
astonished. He studied Roark and the house with the same meticulous scrutiny; he felt as if 
he could not quite tell them apart. 

Heller, the fighter against compulsion, was baffled by Roark, a man so impervious to 
compulsion that he became a kind of compulsion himself, an ultimatum against things Heller 
could not define. Within a week, Heller knew that he had found the best friend he would ever 
have; and he knew that the friendship came from Roark's fundamental indifference. In the 
deeper reality of Roark's existence there was no consciousness of Heller, no need for Heller, 
no appeal, no demand. Heller felt a line drawn, which he could not touch; beyond that line, 
Roark asked nothing of him and granted him nothing. But when Roark looked at him with 
approval, when Roark smiled, when Roark praised one of his articles, Heller felt the strangely 
clean joy of a sanction that was neither a bribe nor alms. 

In the summer evenings they sat together on a ledge halfway up the hill, and talked while 
darkness mounted slowly up the beams of the house above them, the last sunrays retreating 
to the tips of the steel uprights. 

"What is it that I like so much about the house you're building for me, Howard?" 

"A house can have integrity, just like a person," said Roark, "and just as seldom." 

"In what way?" 

"Well, look at it. Every piece of it is there because the house needs it--and for no other reason. 
You see it from here as it is inside. The rooms in which you'll live made the shape. The 
relation of masses was determined by the distribution of space within. The ornament was 
determined by the method of construction, an emphasis of the principle that makes it stand. 
You can see each stress, each support that meets it. Your own eyes go through a structural 
process when you look at the house, you can follow each step, you see it rise, you know what 
made it and why it stands. But you've seen buildings with columns that support nothing, with 
purposeless cornices, with pilasters, moldings, false arches, false windows. You've seen 
buildings that look as if they contained a single large hall, they have solid columns and single, 
solid windows six floors high. But you enter and find six stories inside. Or buildings that 
contain a single hall, but with a facade cut up into floor lines, band courses, tiers of windows. 
Do you understand the difference? Your house is made by its own needs. Those others are 
made by the need to impress. The determining motive of your house is in the house. The 
determining motive of the others is in the audience." 

"Do you know that that's what I've felt in a way? I've felt that when I move into this house, I'll 
have a new sort of existence, and even my simple daily routine will have a kind of honesty or 
dignity that I can't quite define. Don't be astonished if I tell you that I feel as if I'll have to live up 
to that house." 


I intended that," said Roark. 



"And, incidentally, thank you for all the thought you seem to have taken about my comfort. 
There are so many things I notice that had never occurred to me before, but you've planned 
them as if you knew all my needs. For instance, my study is the room I'll need most and 
you've given it the dominant spot-and, incidentally, I see where you've made it the dominant 
mass from the outside, too. And then the way it connects with the library, and the living room 
well out of my way, and the guest rooms where I won't hear too much of them-and all that. 
You were very considerate of me." 

"You know," said Roark. "I haven't thought of you at all. I thought of the house." He added: 
"Perhaps that’s why I knew how to be considerate of you." 

# 

The Heller house was completed in November of 1926. 

In January of 1 927 the Architectural Tribune published a survey of the best American homes 
erected during the past year. It devoted twelve large, glossy pages to photographs of the 
twenty-four houses its editors had selected as the worthiest architectural achievements. The 
Heller house was not mentioned. 

The real-estate sections of the New York papers presented, each Sunday, brief accounts of 
the notable new residences in the vicinity. There was no account of the Heller house. 

The year book of the Architects' Guild of America, which presented magnificent reproductions 
of what it chose as the best buildings of the country, under the title "Looking Forward," gave 
no reference to the Heller house. 

There were many occasions when lecturers rose to platforms and addressed trim audiences 
on the subject of the progress of American architecture. No one spoke of the Heller house. 

In the club rooms of the A.G.A. some opinions were expressed. 

"It's a disgrace to the country," said Ralston Holcombe, "that a thing like that Heller house is 
allowed to be erected. It's a blot on the profession. There ought to be a law." 

"That's what drives clients away," said John Erik Snyte. "They see a house like that and they 
think all architects are crazy." 

"I see no cause for indignation," said Gordon L. Prescott. "I think it's screamingly funny. It 
looks like a cross between a filling station and a comic-strip idea of a rocket ship to the moon." 

"You watch it in a couple of years," said Eugene Pettingill, "and see what happens. The thing'll 
collapse like a house of cards." 

"Why speak in terms of years?" said Guy Francon. "Those modernistic stunts never last more 
than a season. The owner will get good and sick of it and he'll come running home to a good 
old early Colonial." 

The Heller house acquired fame throughout the countryside surrounding it. People drove out 
of their way to park on the road before it, to stare, point and giggle. Gas-station attendants 
snickered when Heller's car drove past. Heller's cook had to endure the derisive glances of 
shopkeepers when she went on her errands. The Heller house was known in the 
neighborhood as "The Booby Hatch." 

Peter Keating told his friends in the profession, with an indulgent smile: "Now, now, you 
shouldn't say that about him. I've known Howard Roark for a long time, and he’s got quite a 
talent, quite. He’s even worked for me once. He’s just gone haywire on that house. He'll learn. 
He has a future. ...Oh, you don't think he has? You really don't think he has?" 

Ellsworth M. Toohey, who let no stone spring from the ground of America without his 
comment, did not know that the Heller house had been erected, as far as his column was 
concerned. He did not consider it necessary to inform his readers about it, if only to damn it. 

He said nothing. 



12 . 


A COLUMN entitled "Observations and Meditations" by Alvah Scarret appeared daily on the 
front page of the New York Banner. It was a trusted guide, a source of inspiration and a 
molder of public philosophy in small towns throughout the country. In this column there had 
appeared, years ago, the famous statement: "We'd all be a heap sight better off if we'd forget 
the highfalutin notions of our fancy civilization and mind more what the savages knew long 
before us: to honor our mother." Alvah Scarret was a bachelor, had made two millions dollars, 
played golf expertly and was editor-in-chief of the Wynand papers. 

It was Alvah Scarret who conceived the idea of the campaign against living conditions in the 
slums and "Landlord Sharks," which ran in the Banner for three weeks. This was material 
such as Alvah Scarret relished. It had human appeal and social implications. It lent itself to 
Sunday-supplement illustrations of girls leaping into rivers, their skirts flaring well above their 
knees. It boosted circulation. It embarrassed the sharks who owned a stretch of blocks by the 
East River, selected as the dire example of the campaign. The sharks had refused to sell 
these blocks to an obscure real-estate company; at the end of the campaign they surrendered 
and sold. No one could prove that the real-estate company was owned by a company owned 
by Gail Wynand. 

The Wynand papers could not be left without a campaign for long. They had just concluded 
one on the subject of modern aviation. They had run scientific accounts of the history of 
aviation in the Sunday Family Magazine supplement, with pictures ranging from Leonardo da 
Vinci's drawings of flying machines to the latest bomber; with the added attraction of Icarus 
writhing in scarlet flames, his nude body blue-green, his wax wings yellow and the smoke 
purple; also of a leprous hag with flaming eyes and a crystal ball, who had predicted in the 
Xlth century that man would fly; also of bats, vampires and werewolves. 

They had run a model plane construction contest; it was open to all boys under the age of ten 
who wished to send in three new subscriptions to the Banner. Gail Wynand, who was a 
licensed pilot, had made a solo flight from Los Angeles to New York, establishing a 
transcontinental speed record, in a small, specially built craft costing one hundred thousand 
dollars. He had made a slight miscalculation on reaching New York and had been forced to 
land in a rocky pasture; it had been a hair-raising landing, faultlessly executed; it had just so 
happened that a battery of photographers from the Banner were present in the neighborhood. 
Gail Wynand had stepped out of the plane. An ace pilot would have been shaken by the 
experience. Gail Wynand had stood before the cameras, an immaculate gardenia in the lapel 
of his flying jacket, his hand raised with a cigarette held between two fingers that did not 
tremble. When questioned about his first wish on returning to earth, he had expressed the 
desire to kiss the most attractive woman present, had chosen the dowdiest old hag from the 
crowd and bent to kiss her gravely on the forehead, explaining that she reminded him of his 
mother. 

Later, at the start of the slum campaign, Gail Wynand had said to Alvah Scarret; "Go ahead. 
Squeeze all you can out of the thing," and had departed on his yacht for a world cruise, 
accompanied by an enchanting aviatrix of twenty-four to whom he had made a present of his 
transcontinental plane. 

Alvah Scarret went ahead. Among many other steps of his campaign he assigned Dominique 
Francon to investigate the condition of homes in the slums and to gather human material. 
Dominique Francon had just returned from a summer in Biarritz; she always took a whole 
summer's vacation and Alvah Scarret granted it, because she was one of his favorite 
employees, because he was baffled by her and because he knew that she could quit her job 
whenever she pleased. 

Dominique Francon went to live for two weeks in the hall bedroom of an East-Side tenement. 
The room had a skylight, but no windows; there were five flights of stairs to climb and no 
running water. She cooked her own meals in the kitchen of a numerous family on the floor 
below; she visited neighbors, she sat on the landings of fire escapes in the evenings and went 
to dime movies with the girls of the neighborhood. 



She wore frayed skirts and blouses. The abnormal fragility of her normal appearance made 
her look exhausted with privation in these surroundings; the neighbors felt certain that she had 
TB. But she moved as she had moved in the drawing room of Kiki Holcombe-with the same 
cold poise and confidence. She scrubbed the floor of her room, she peeled potatoes, she 
bathed in a tin pan of cold water. She had never done these things before; she did them 
expertly. She had a capacity for action, a competence that clashed incongruously with her 
appearance. She did not mind this new background; she was indifferent to the slums as she 
had been indifferent to the drawing rooms. 

At the end of two weeks she returned to her penthouse apartment on the roof of a hotel over 
Central Park, and her articles on life in the slums appeared in the Banner. They were a 
merciless, brilliant account. 

She heard baffled questions at a dinner party. "My dear, you didn't actually write those 
things?" 

"Dominique, you didn't really live in that place?" 

"Oh, yes," she answered. "The house you own on East Twelfth Street, Mrs. Palmer," she said, 
her hand circling lazily from under the cuff of an emerald bracelet too broad and heavy for her 
thin wrist, "has a sewer that gets clogged every other day and runs over, all through the 
courtyard. It looks blue and purple in the sun, like a rainbow." 

"The block you control for the Claridge estate, Mr. Brooks, has the most attractive stalactites 
growing on all the ceilings," she said, her golden head leaning to her corsage of white 
gardenias with drops of water sparkling on the lusterless petals. 

She was asked to speak at a meeting of social workers. It was an important meeting, with a 
militant, radical mood, led by some of the most prominent women in the field. Alvah Scarret 
was pleased and gave her his blessing. "Go to it, kid," he said, "lay it on thick. We want the 
social workers." She stood in the speaker's pulpit of an unaired hall and looked at a flat sheet 
of faces, faces lecherously eager with the sense of their own virtue. She spoke evenly, without 
inflection. She said, among many other things: "The family on the first floor rear do not bother 
to pay their rent, and the children cannot go to school for lack of clothes. The father has a 
charge account at a corner speak-easy. He is in good health and has a good job. ...The couple 
on the second floor have just purchased a radio for sixty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents 
cash. In the fourth floor front, the father of the family has not done a whole day's work in his 
life, and does not intend to. There are nine children, supported by the local parish. There is a 
tenth one on its way..." When she finished there were a few claps of angry applause. She 
raised her hand and said: "You don't have to applaud. I don't expect it." She asked politely: 
"Are there any questions?" There were no questions. 

When she returned home she found Alvah Scarret waiting for her. He looked incongruous in 
the drawing room of her penthouse, his huge bulk perched on the edge of a delicate chair, a 
hunched gargoyle against the glowing spread of the city beyond a solid wall of glass. The city 
was like a mural designed to illuminate and complete the room: the fragile lines of spires on a 
black sky continued the fragile lines of the furniture; the lights glittering in distant windows 
threw reflections on the bare, lustrous floor; the cold precision of the angular structures 
outside answered the cold, inflexible grace of every object within. Alvah Scarret broke the 
harmony. He looked like a kindly country doctor and like a cardsharp. His heavy face bore the 
benevolent, paternal smile that had always been his passkey and his trademark. He had the 
knack of making the kindliness of his smile add to, not detract from his solemn appearance of 
dignity; his long, thin, hooked nose did detract from the kindliness, but it added to the dignity; 
his stomach, cantilevered over his legs, did detract from the dignity, but it added to the 
kindliness. He rose, beamed and held Dominique's hand. "Thought I'd drop in on my way 
home," he said. "I've got something to tell you. How did it go, kid?" 

"As I expected it." 

She tore her hat off and threw it down on the first chair in sight. Her hair slanted in a flat curve 
across her forehead and fell in a straight line to her shoulders; it looked smooth and tight, like 
a bathing cap of pale, polished metal. She walked to the window and stood looking out over 
the city. She asked without turning: "What did you want to tell me?" 



Alvah Scarret watched her pleasurably. He had long since given up any attempts beyond 
holding her hand when not necessary or patting her shoulder; he had stopped thinking of the 
subject, but he had a dim, half-conscious feeling which he summed up to himself in the words: 
You never can tell. 

"I've got good news for you, child," he said. "I've been working out a little scheme, just a bit of 
reorganization, and I've figured where I'll consolidate a few things together into a Women's 
Welfare Department. You know, the schools, the home economics, the care of babies, the 
juvenile delinquents and all the rest of it— all to be under one head. And I see no better woman 
for the job than my little girl." 

"Do you mean me?" she asked, without turning. 

"No one else but. Just as soon as Gail comes back, I'll get his okay." 

She turned and looked at him, her arms crossed, her hands holding her elbows. She said: 

"Thank you, Alvah. But I don't want it." 

"What do you mean, you don't want it?" 

"I mean that I don't want it." 

"For heaven's sake, do you realize what an advance that would be?" 

"Toward what?" 

"Your career." 

"I never said I was planning a career." 

"But you don't want to be running a dinky back-page column forever!" 

"Not forever. Until I get bored with it." 

"But think of what you could do in the real game! Think of what Gail could do for you once you 
come to his attention!" 

"I have no desire to come to his attention." 

"But, Dominique, we need you. The women will be for you solid after tonight." 

"I don't think so." 

"Why, I've ordered two columns held for a yarn on the meeting and your speech." 

She reached for the telephone and handed the receiver to him. She said: 

"You'd better tell them to kill it." 

"Why?" 

She searched through a litter of papers on a desk, found some typewritten sheets and handed 
them to him. "Here's the speech I made tonight," she said. 

He glanced through it. He said nothing, but clasped his forehead once. Then he seized the 
telephone and gave orders to run as brief an account of the meeting as possible, and not to 
mention the speaker by name. 

"All right," said Dominique, when he dropped the receiver. "Am I fired?" 

He shook his head dolefully. "Do you want to be?" 



"Not necessarily." 

"I'll squash the business," he muttered. "I'll keep it from Gail." 

"If you wish. I don't really care one way or the other." 

"Listen, Dominique-oh I know, I'm not to ask any questions-only why on earth are you always 
doing things like that?" 

"For no reason on earth." 

"Look, you know, I've heard about that swank dinner where you made certain remarks on this 
same subject. And then you go and say things like these at a radical meeting." 

"They're true, though, both sides of it, aren't they?" 

"Oh, sure, but couldn't you have reversed the occasions when you chose to express them?" 
"There wouldn't have been any point in that." 

"Was there any in what you've done?" 

"No. None at all. But it amused me." 

"I can't figure you out, Dominique. You've done it before. You go along so beautifully, you do 
brilliant work and just when you're about to make a real step forward--you spoil it by pulling 
something like this. Why?" 

"Perhaps that is precisely why." 

"Will you tell me--as a friend, because I like you and I'm interested in you--what are you really 
after?" 

"I should think that's obvious. I'm after nothing at all." 

He spread his hands open, shrugging helplessly. 

She smiled gaily. 

"What is there to look so mournful about? I like you, too, Alvah, and I'm interested in you. I 
even like to talk to you, which is better. Now sit still and relax and I'll get you a drink. You need 
a drink, Alvah." 

She brought him a frosted glass with ice cubes ringing in the silence. "You're just a nice child, 
Dominique," he said. 

"Of course. That's what I am." 

She sat down on the edge of a table, her hands flat behind her, leaning back on two straight 
arms, swinging her legs slowly. She said: 

"You know, Alvah, it would be terrible if I had a job I really wanted." 

"Well, of all things! Well, of all fool things to say! What do you mean?" 

"Just that. That it would be terrible to have a job I enjoyed and did not want to lose." 

"Why?" 

"Because I would have to depend on you--you're a wonderful person, Alvah, but not exactly 
inspiring and I don't think it would be beautiful to cringe before a whip in your hand-oh, don't 
protest, it would be such a polite little whip, and that's what would make it uglier. I would have 



to depend on our boss Gail--he's a great man, I'm sure, only I'd just as soon never set eyes on 
him." 

"Whatever gives you such a crazy attitude? When you know that Gail and I would do anything 
for you, and I personally..." 

"It's not only that, Alvah. It's not you alone. If I found a job, a project, an idea or a person I 
wanted-l'd have to depend on the whole world. Everything has strings leading to everything 
else. We're all so tied together. We're all in a net, the net is waiting, and we're pushed into it 
by one single desire. You want a thing and it's precious to you. Do you know who is standing 
ready to tear it out of your hands? You can't know, it may be so involved and so far away, but 
someone is ready, and you're afraid of them all. And you cringe and you crawl and you beg 
and you accept them-just so they'll let you keep it. And look at whom you come to accept." 

"If I'm correct in gathering that you're criticizing mankind in general..." 

"You know, it's such a peculiar thing-our idea of mankind in general. We all have a sort of 
vague, glowing picture when we say that, something solemn, big and important. But actually 
all we know of it is the people we meet in our lifetime. Look at them. Do you know any you'd 
feel big and solemn about? There's nothing but housewives haggling at pushcarts, drooling 
brats who write dirty words on the sidewalks, and drunken debutantes. Or their spiritual 
equivalent. As a matter of fact, one can feel some respect for people when they suffer. They 
have a certain dignity. But have you ever looked at them when they're enjoying themselves? 
That's when you see the truth. Look at those who spend the money they've slaved for-at 
amusement parks and side shows. Look at those who're rich and have the whole world open 
to them. Observe what they pick out for enjoyment. Watch them in the smarter speak-easies. 
That's your mankind in general. I don't want to touch it." 

"But hell! That's not the way to look at it. That's not the whole picture. There's some good in 
the worst of us. There's always a redeeming feature." 

"So much the worse. Is it an inspiring sight to see a man commit a heroic gesture, and then 
learn that he goes to vaudeville shows for relaxation? Or see a man who's painted a 
magnificent canvas--and learn that he spends his time sleeping with every slut he meets?" 

"What do you want? Perfection?" 

"-or nothing. So, you see, I take the nothing." 

"That doesn't make sense." 

"I take the only desire one can really permit oneself. Freedom, Alvah, freedom." 

"You call that freedom?" 

"To ask nothing. To expect nothing. To depend on nothing." 

"What if you found something you wanted?" 

"I won't find it. I won't choose to see it. It would be part of that lovely world of yours. I'd have to 
share it with all the rest of you-and I wouldn't. You know, I never open again any great book 
I've read and loved. It hurts me to think of the other eyes that have read it and of what they 
were. Things like that can't be shared. Not with people like that." 

"Dominique, it's abnormal to feel so strongly about anything." 

"That's the only way I can feel. Or not at all." 

"Dominique, my dear," he said, with earnest, sincere concern, "I wish I'd been your father. 
What kind of a tragedy did you have in your childhood?" 

"Why, none at all. I had a wonderful childhood. Free and peaceful and not bothered too much 
by anybody. Well, yes, I did feel bored very often. But I'm used to that." 



"I suppose you're just an unfortunate product of our times. That's what I've always said. We're 
too cynical, too decadent. If we went back in all humility to the simple virtues..." 

"Alvah, how can you start on that stuff? That's only for your editorials and..." She stopped, 
seeing his eyes; they looked puzzled and a little hurt. Then she laughed. "I'm wrong. You 
really do believe all that. If it's actually believing, or whatever it is you do that takes its place. 
Oh, Alvah! That's why I love you. That's why I'm doing again right now what I did tonight at the 
meeting." 

"What?" he asked, bewildered. 

"Talking as I am talking-to you as you are. It's nice, talking to you about such things. Do you 
know, Alvah, that primitive people made statues of their gods in man's likeness? Just think of 
what a statue of you would look like--of you nude, your stomach and all." 

"Now what's that in relation to?" 

"To nothing at all, darling. Forgive me." She added: "You know, I love statues of naked men. 
Don't look so silly. I said statues. I had one in particular. It was supposed to be Helios. I got it 
out of a museum in Europe. I had a terrible time getting it--it wasn't for sale, of course. I think I 
was in love with it, Alvah. I brought it home with me." 

"Where is it? I’d like to see something you like, for a change." 

"It's broken." 

"Broken? A museum piece? How did that happen?" 

"I broke it." 

"How?" 

"I threw it down the air shaft. There’s a concrete floor below." 

"Are you totally crazy? Why?" 

"So that no one else would ever see it." 

"Dominique!" 

She jerked her head, as if to shake off the subject; the straight mass of her hair stirred in a 
heavy ripple, like a wave through a half-liquid pool of mercury. She said: 

"I'm sorry, darling. I didn't want to shock you. I thought I could speak to you because you're the 
one person who's impervious to any sort of shock. I shouldn't have. It's no use, I guess." 

She jumped lightly off the table. 

"Run on home, Alvah," she said. "It's getting late. I'm tired. See you tomorrow." 

# 

Guy Francon read his daughter's articles; he heard of the remarks she had made at the 
reception and at the meeting of social workers. He understood nothing of it, but he understood 
that it had been precisely the sequence of events to expect from his daughter. It preyed on his 
mind, with the bewildered feeling of apprehension which the thought of her always brought 
him. He asked himself whether he actually hated his daughter. 

But one picture came back to his mind, irrelevantly, whenever he asked himself that question. 
It was a picture of her childhood, of a day from some forgotten summer on his country estate 
in Connecticut long ago. He had forgotten the rest of that day and what had led to the one 
moment he remembered. But he remembered how he stood on the terrace and saw her 
leaping over a high green hedge at the end of the lawn. The hedge seemed too high for her 



little body; he had time to think that she could not make it, in the very moment when he saw 
her flying triumphantly over the green barrier. He could not remember the beginning nor the 
end of that leap; but he still saw, clearly and sharply, as on a square of movie film cut out and 
held motionless forever, the one instant when her body hung in space, her long legs flung 
wide, her thin arms thrown up, hands braced against the air, her white dress and blond hair 
spread in two broad, flat mats on the wind, a single moment, the flash of a small body in the 
greatest burst of ecstatic freedom he had ever witnessed in his life. 

He did not know why that moment remained with him, what significance, unheeded at the 
time, had preserved it for him when so much else of greater import had been lost. He did not 
know why he had to see that moment again whenever he felt bitterness for his daughter, nor 
why, seeing it, he felt that unbearable twinge of tenderness. He told himself merely that his 
paternal affection was asserting itself quite against his will. But in an awkward, unthinking way 
he wanted to help her, not knowing, not wanting to know what she had to be helped against. 

So he began to look more frequently at Peter Keating. He began to accept the solution which 
he never quite admitted to himself. He found comfort in the person of Peter Keating, and he 
felt that Keating's simple, stable wholesomeness was just the support needed by the 
unhealthy inconstancy of his daughter. 

Keating would not admit that he had tried to see Dominique again, persistently and without 
results. He had obtained her telephone number from Francon long ago, and he had called her 
often. She had answered, and laughed gaily, and told him that of course she'd see him, she 
knew she wouldn't be able to escape it, but she was so busy for weeks to come and would he 
give her a ring by the first of next month? 

Francon guessed it. He told Keating he would ask Dominique to lunch and bring them 
together again. "That is," he added, "I'll try to ask her. She'll refuse, of course." Dominique 
surprised him again: she accepted, promptly and cheerfully. 

She met them at a restaurant, and she smiled as if this were a reunion she welcomed. She 
talked gaily, and Keating felt enchanted, at ease, wondering why he had ever feared her. At 
the end of a half hour she looked at Francon and said: 

"It was wonderful of you to take time off to see me, Father. Particularly when you're so busy 
and have so many appointments." 

Francon's face assumed a look of consternation. "My God, Dominique, that reminds me!" 

"You have an appointment you forgot?" she asked gently. "Confound it, yes! It slipped my 
mind entirely. Old Andrew Colson phoned this morning and I forgot to make a note of it and he 
insisted on seeing me at two o'clock, you know how it is, I just simply can't refuse to see 
Andrew Colson, confound itl-today of all..." He added, suspiciously: "How did you know it?" 

"Why, I didn't know it at all. It's perfectly all right, Father. Mr. Keating and I will excuse you, 
and we'll have a lovely luncheon together, and I have no appointments at all for the day, so 
you don't have to be afraid that I'll escape from him." 

Francon wondered whether she knew that that had been the excuse he'd prepared in advance 
in order to leave her alone with Keating. He could not be sure. She was looking straight at 
him; her eyes seemed just a bit too candid. He was glad to escape. 

Dominique turned to Keating with a glance so gentle that it could mean nothing but contempt. 

"Now let's relax," she said. "We both know what Father is after, so it's perfectly all right. Don't 
let it embarrass you. It doesn't embarrass me. It's nice that you've got Father on a leash. But I 
know it's not helpful to you to have him pulling ahead of the leash. So let's forget it and eat our 
lunch." 

He wanted to rise and walk out; and knew, in furious helplessness, that he wouldn't. She said: 

"Don't frown, Peter. You might as well call me Dominique, because we'll come to that anyway, 
sooner or later. I'll probably see a great deal of you, I see so many people, and if it will please 



Father to have you as one of them-why not?' 


For the rest of the luncheon she spoke to him as to an old friend, gaily and openly; with a 
disquieting candor which seemed to show that there was nothing to conceal, but showed that 
it was best to attempt no probe. The exquisite kindliness of her manner suggested that their 
relationship was of no possible consequence, that she could not pay him the tribute of 
hostility. He knew that he disliked her violently. But he watched the shape of her mouth, the 
movements of her lips framing words; he watched the way she crossed her legs, a gesture 
smooth and exact, like an expensive instrument being folded; and he could not escape the 
feeling of incredulous admiration he had experienced when he had seen her for the first time. 
When they were leaving, she said: 

"Will you take me to the theater tonight, Peter? I don't care what play, any one of them. Call 
for me after dinner. Tell Father about it. It will please him." 

"Though, of course, he should know better than to be pleased," said Keating, "and so should I, 
but I'll be delighted just the same, Dominique." 

"Why should you know better?" 

"Because you have no desire to go to a theater or to see me tonight." 

"None whatever. I'm beginning to like you, Peter. Call for me at half past eight." 

When Keating returned to the office, Francon called him upstairs at once. 

"Well?" Francon asked anxiously. 

"What's the matter, Guy?" said Keating, his voice innocent. "Why are you so concerned?" 

"Well, I. J'm just. ..frankly, I'm interested to see whether you two could get together at all. I 
think you'd be a good influence for her. What happened?" 

"Nothing at all. We had a lovely time. You know your restaurants--the food was 
wonderful. ..Oh, yes, I'm taking your daughter to a show tonight." 

"No!" 

"Why, yes." 

"How did you ever manage that?" 

Keating shrugged. "I told you one mustn't be afraid of Dominique." 

"I'm not afraid, but. ..Oh, is it 'Dominique' already? My congratulations, Peter.. ..I'm not afraid, 
it's only that I can't figure her out. No one can approach her. She’s never had a single girl 
friend, not even in kindergarten. There’s always a mob around her, but never a friend. I don’t 
know what to think. There she is now, living all alone, always with a crowd of men around 
and..." 

"Now, Guy, you mustn't think anything dishonorable about your own daughter." 

"I don't! That's just the trouble--that I don’t. I wish I could. But she's twenty-four, Peter, and 
she's a virgin-1 know, I'm sure of it. Can't you tell just by looking at a woman? I'm no moralist, 
Peter, and I think that's abnormal. It's unnatural at her age, with her looks, with the kind of 
utterly unrestricted existence that she leads. I wish to God she'd get married. I honestly 
do. ...Well, now, don’t repeat that, of course, and don’t misinterpret it, I didn't mean it as an 
invitation." 

"Of course not." 

"By the way, Peter, the hospital called while you were out. They said poor Lucius is much 
better. They think he'll pull through." Lucius N. Heyer had had a stroke, and Keating had 



exhibited a great deal of concern for his progress, but had not gone to visit him at the hospital. 


"I'm so glad," said Keating. 

"But I don't think he'll ever be able to come back to work. He's getting old, Peter.. ..Yes, he's 
getting old. ...One reaches an age when one can't be burdened with business any longer." He 
let a paper knife hang between two fingers and tapped it pensively against the edge of a desk 
calendar. "It happens to all of us, Peter, sooner or later. ...One must look ahead...." 

# 

Keating sat on the floor by the imitation logs in the fireplace of his living room, his hands 
clasped about his knees, and listened to his mother's questions on what did Dominique look 
like, what did she wear, what had she said to him and how much money did he suppose her 
mother had actually left her. 

He was meeting Dominique frequently now. He had just returned from an evening spent with 
her on a round of night clubs. She always accepted his invitations. He wondered whether her 
attitude was a deliberate proof that she could ignore him more completely by seeing him often 
than by refusing to see him. But each time he met her, he planned eagerly for the next 
meeting. He had not seen Catherine for a month. She was busy with research work which her 
uncle had entrusted to her, in preparation for a series of his lectures. 

Mrs. Keating sat under a lamp, mending a slight tear in the lining of Peter's dinner jacket, 
reproaching him, between questions, for sitting on the floor in his dress trousers and best 
formal shirt. He paid no attention to the reproaches or the questions. But under his bored 
annoyance he felt an odd sense of relief; as if the stubborn stream of her words were pushing 
him on and justifying him. He answered once in a while: "Yes. ...No. ...I don't know.. ..Oh, yes, 
she's lovely. She's very lovely.. ..It's awfully late, Mother. I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed...." The 
doorbell rang. 

"Well," said Mrs. Keating. "What can that be, at this hour?" Keating rose, shrugging, and 
ambled to the door. It was Catherine. She stood, her two hands clasped on a large, old, 
shapeless pocketbook. She looked determined and hesitant at once. She drew back a little. 
She said: "Good evening, Peter. Can I come in? I've got to speak to you." 

"Katie! Of course! How nice of you! Come right in. Mother, it's Katie." 

Mrs. Keating looked at the girl's feet which stepped as if moving on the rolling deck of a ship; 
she looked at her son, and she knew that something had happened, to be handled with great 
caution. 

"Good evening, Catherine," she said softly. 

Keating was conscious of nothing save the sudden stab of joy he had felt on seeing her; the 
joy told him that nothing had changed, that he was safe in certainty, that her presence 
resolved all doubts. He forgot to wonder about the lateness of the hour, about her first, 
uninvited appearance in his apartment. 

"Good evening, Mrs. Keating," she said, her voice bright and hollow. "I hope I'm not disturbing 
you, it's late probably, is it?" 

"Why, not at all, child," said Mrs. Keating. 

Catherine hurried to speak, senselessly, hanging on to the sound of words: 

"I'll just take my hat off. ...Where can I put it, Mrs. Keating? Here on the table? Would that be 
all right?. ..No, maybe I'd better put it on this bureau, though it's a little damp from the street, 
the hat is, it might hurt the varnish, it's a nice bureau, I hope it doesn't hurt the varnish...." 

"What's the matter, Katie?" Keating asked, noticing at last. 

She looked at him and he saw that her eyes were terrified. Her lips parted; she was trying to 
smile. "Katie!" he gasped. She said nothing. "Take your coat off. Come here, get yourself 



warm by the fire. 


He pushed a low bench to the fireplace, he made her sit down. She was wearing a black 
sweater and an old black skirt, school-girlish house garments which she had not changed for 
her visit. She sat hunched, her knees drawn tight together. She said, her voice lower and 
more natural, with the first released sound of pain in it: 

"You have such a nice place. ...So warm and roomy.. ..Can you open the windows any time you 
want to?" 

"Katie darling," he said gently, "what happened?" 

"Nothing. It's not that anything really happened. Only I had to speak to you. Now. Tonight." 

He looked at Mrs. Keating. "If you'd rather..." 

"No. It's perfectly all right. Mrs. Keating can hear it. Maybe it's better if she hears it." She 
turned to his mother and said very simply: "You see, Mrs. Keating, Peter and I are engaged." 
She turned to him and added, her voice breaking: "Peter, I want to be married now, tomorrow, 
as soon as possible." 

Mrs. Keating's hand descended slowly to her lap. She looked at Catherine, her eyes 
expressionless. She said quietly, with a dignity Keating had never expected of her: 

"I didn't know it, I am very happy, my dear." 

"You don't mind? You really don't mind at all?" Catherine asked desperately. 

"Why, child, such things are to be decided only by you and my son." 

"Katie!" he gasped, regaining his voice. "What happened? Why as soon as possible?" 

"Oh! oh, it did sound as if.. .as if I were in the kind of trouble girls are supposed to..." She 
blushed furiously. "Oh, my God! No! It’s not that! You know it couldn't be! Oh, you couldn't 
think, Peter, that L.that..." 

"No, of course not," he laughed, sitting down on the floor by her side, slipping an arm around 
her. "But pull yourself together. What is it? You know I'd marry you tonight if you wanted me 
to. Only what happened?" 

"Nothing. I'm all right now. I'll tell you. You'll think I'm crazy. I just suddenly had the feeling that 
I’d never marry you, that something dreadful was happening to me and I had to escape from 
it." 

"What was happening to you?" 

"I don't know. Not a thing. I was working on my research notes all day, and nothing had 
happened at all. No calls or visitors. And then suddenly tonight, I had that feeling, it was like a 
nightmare, you know, the kind of horror that you can't describe, that's not like anything normal 
at all. Just the feeling that I was in mortal danger, that something was closing in on me, that I'd 
never escape it, because it wouldn't let me and it was too late." 

"That you'd never escape what?" 

"I don't know exactly. Everything. My whole life. You know, like quicksand. Smooth and 
natural. With not a thing that you can notice about it or suspect. And you walk on it easily. 
When you've noticed, it's too late.. ..And I felt that it would get me, that I'd never marry you, 
that I had to run, now, now or never. Haven't you ever had a feeling like that, just fear that you 
couldn't explain?" 

"Yes," he whispered. 

"You don't think I'm crazy?" 



"No, Katie. Only what was it exactly that started it? Anything in particular?" 

"Well. ..it seems so silly now." She giggled apologetically. "It was like this: I was sitting in my 
room and it was a little chilly, so I didn't open the window. I had so many papers and books on 
the table, I hardly had room to write and every time I made a note my elbow'd push something 
off. There were piles of things on the floor all around me, all paper, and it rustled a little, 
because I had the door to the living room half open and there was a little draft, I guess. Uncle 
was working too, in the living room. I was getting along fine, I'd been at it for hours, didn't even 
know what time it was. And then suddenly it got me. I don't know why. Maybe the room was 
stuffy, or maybe it was the silence, I couldn't hear a thing, not a sound in the living room, and 
there was that paper rustling, so softly, like somebody being choked to death. And then I 
looked around and. ..and I couldn't see Uncle in the living room, but I saw his shadow on the 
wall, a huge shadow, all hunched, and it didn't move, only it was so huge!" 

She shuddered. The thing did not seem silly to her any longer. She whispered: 

"That's when it got me. It wouldn't move, that shadow, but I thought all that paper was moving, 

I thought it was rising very slowly off the floor, and it was going to come to my throat and I was 
going to drown. That’s when I screamed. And, Peter, he didn't hear. He didn't hear it! Because 
the shadow didn't move. Then I seized my hat and coat and I ran. When I was running 
through the living room, I think he said: 'Why, Catherine, what time is it?-Where are you 
going?' Something like that, I'm not sure. But I didn't look back and I didn't answer-1 couldn't. I 
was afraid of him. Afraid of Uncle Ellsworth who's never said a harsh word to me in his 
life!. ..That was all, Peter. I can't understand it, but I'm afraid. Not so much any more, not here 
with you, but I'm afraid...." Mrs. Keating spoke, her voice dry and crisp: "Why, it's plain what 
happened to you, my dear. You worked too hard and overdid it, and you just got a mite 
hysterical." 

"Yes. ..probably..." 

"No," said Keating dully, "no, it wasn't that...." He was thinking of the loud-speaker in the lobby 
of the strike meeting. Then he added quickly: "Yes, Mother's right. You're killing yourself with 
work, Katie. That uncle of yours-l'll wring his neck one of these days." 

"Oh, but it's not his fault! He doesn't want me to work. He often takes the books away from me 
and tells me to go to the movies. He's said that himself, that I work too hard. But I like it. I think 
that every note I make, every little bit of information-it's going to be taught to hundreds of 
young students, all over the country, and I think it's me who's helping to educate people, just 
my own little bit in such a big cause-and I feel proud and I don't want to stop. You see? I’ve 
really got nothing to complain about. And then. ..then, like tonight... I don’t know what’s the 
matter with me." 

"Look, Katie, well get the license tomorrow morning and then we'll be married at once, 
anywhere you wish." 

"Let's, Peter," she whispered. "You really don't mind? I have no real reasons, but I want it. I 
want it so much. Then I'll know that everything's all right. We'll manage. I can get a job if 
you. ..if you're not quite ready or..." 

"Oh, nonsense. Don't talk about that. Well manage. It doesn't matter. Only let's get married 
and everything else will take care of itself." 

"Darling, you understand? You do understand?" 

"Yes, Katie." 

"Now that it's all settled," said Mrs. Keating, "I'll fix you a cup of hot tea, Catherine. You'll need 
it before you go home." She prepared the tea, and Catherine drank it gratefully and said, 
smiling: 


I... I've often been afraid that you wouldn't approve, Mrs. Keating. 



"Whatever gave you that idea," Mrs. Keating drawled, her voice not in the tone of a question. 
"Now you run on home like a good girl and get a good night's sleep." 

"Mother, couldn't Katie stay here tonight? She could sleep with you." 

"Well, now, Peter, don't get hysterical. What would her uncle think?" 

"Oh, no, of course not. I'll be perfectly all right, Peter. I'll go home." 

"Not if you..." 

"I'm not afraid. Not now. I'm fine. You don't think that I'm really scared of Uncle Ellsworth?" 
"Well, all right. But don't go yet." 

"Now, Peter," said Mrs. Keating, "you don’t want her to be running around the streets later 
than she has to." 

"I'll take her home." 

"No," said Catherine. "I don't want to be sillier than I am. No, I won't let you." 

He kissed her at the door and he said: "I'll come for you at ten o'clock tomorrow morning and 
well go for the license." 

"Yes, Peter," she whispered. 

He closed the door after her and he stood for a moment, not noticing that he was clenching 
his fists. Then he walked defiantly back to the living room, and he stopped, his hands in his 
pockets, facing his mother. He looked at her, his glance a silent demand. Mrs. Keating sat 
looking at him quietly, without pretending to ignore the glance and without answering it. 

Then she asked: 

"Do you want to go to bed, Peter?" 

He had expected anything but that. He felt a violent impulse to seize the chance, to turn, leave 
the room and escape. But he had to learn what she thought; he had to justify himself. 

"Now, Mother, I'm not going to listen to any objections." 

"I've made no objections," said Mrs. Keating. 

"Mother, I want you to understand that I love Katie, that nothing can stop me now, and that's 
that." 

"Very well, Peter." 

"I don't see what it is that you dislike about her." 

"What I like or dislike is of no importance to you any more." 

"Oh yes, Mother, of course it is! You know it is. How can you say that?" 

"Peter, I have no likes or dislikes as far as I’m concerned. I have no thought for myself at all, 
because nothing in the world matters to me, except you. It might be old-fashioned, but that’s 
the way I am. I know I shouldn't be, because children don’t appreciate it nowadays, but I can’t 
help it." 

"Oh, Mother, you know that I appreciate it! You know that I wouldn't want to hurt you." 

"You can't hurt me, Peter, except by hurting yourself. And that. ..that's hard to bear." 



"How am I hurting myself?" 

"Well, if you won't refuse to listen to me..." 

"I've never refused to listen to you!" 

"If you do want to hear my opinion, I'll say that this is the funeral of twenty-nine years of my 
life, of all the hopes I've had for you." 

"But why? Why?" 

"It's not that I dislike, Catherine, Peter. I like her very much. She's a nice girl-if she doesn't let 
herself go to pieces often and pick things out of thin air like that. But she's a respectable girl 
and I'd say she'd make a good wife for anybody. For any nice, plodding, respectable boy. But 
to think of it for you, Peter! For you!" 

"But..." 

"You're modest, Peter. You're too modest. That's always been your trouble. You don't 
appreciate yourself. You think you're just like anybody else." 

"I certainly don't! and I won't have anyone think that!" 

"Then use your head! Don't you know what's ahead of you? Don't you see how far you've 
come already and how far you're going? You have a chance to become-well, not the very 
best, but pretty near the top in the architectural profession, and..." 

"Pretty near the top? Is that what you think? If I can't be the very best, if I can't be the one 
architect of this country in my day-1 don't want any damn part of it!" 

"Ah, but one doesn't get to that, Peter, by falling down on the job. One doesn't get to be first in 
anything without the strength to make some sacrifices." 

"But..." 

"Your life doesn't belong to you, Peter, if you're really aiming high. You can't allow yourself to 
indulge every whim, as ordinary people can, because with them it doesn't matter anyway. It's 
not you or me or what we feel. Peter. It's your career. It takes strength to deny yourself in 
order to win other people's respect." 

"You just dislike Katie and you let your own prejudice..." 

"Whatever would I dislike about her? Well, of course, I can't say that I approve of a girl who 
has so little consideration for her man that she'll run to him and upset him over nothing at all, 
and ask him to chuck his future out the window just because she gets some crazy notion. That 
shows what help you can expect from a wife like that. But as far as I'm concerned, if you think 
that I'm worried about myself-well, you're just blind, Peter. Don't you see that for me 
personally it would be a perfect match? Because I'd have no trouble with Catherine, I could 
get along with her beautifully, she'd be respectful and obedient to her mother-in-law. While, on 
the other hand, Miss Francon..." 

He winced. He had known that this would come. It was the one subject he had been afraid to 
hear mentioned. 

"Oh yes, Peter," said Mrs. Keating quietly, firmly, "we've got to speak of that. Now, I'm sure I 
could never manage Miss Francon, and an elegant society girl like that wouldn't even stand 
for a dowdy, uneducated mother like me. She'd probably edge me out of the house. Oh, yes, 
Peter. But you see, it's not me that I'm thinking of." 

"Mother," he said harshly, "that part of it is pure drivel-about my having a chance with 
Dominique. That hell-cat-l'm not sure she'd ever look at me." 


'You're slipping, Peter. There was a time when you wouldn't have admitted that there was 



anything you couldn't get." 

"But I don’t want her, Mother." 

"Oh, you don't, don't you? Well, there you are. Isn't that what I've been saying? Look at 
yourself! There you've got Francon, the best architect in town, just where you want him! He's 
practically begging you to take a partnership-at your age, over how many other, older men's 
heads? He's not permitting, he's asking you to marry his daughter! And you'll walk in tomorrow 
and you'll present to him the little nobody you've gone and married! Just stop thinking of 
yourself for a moment and think of others a bit. How do you suppose he'll like that? How will 
he like it when you show him the little guttersnipe that you've preferred to his daughter?" 

"He won't like it," Keating whispered. 

"You bet your life he won't! You bet your life he'll kick you right out on the street! He'll find 
plenty who'll jump at the chance to take your place. How about that Bennett fellow?" 

"Oh, no!" Keating gasped so furiously that she knew she had struck right. "Not Bennett!" 

"Yes," she said triumphantly. "Bennett! That's what it'll be-Francon & Bennett, while you'll be 
pounding the pavements looking for a job! But you'll have a wife! Oh, yes, you'll have a wife!" 

"Mother, please..." he whispered, so desperately that she could allow herself to go on without 
restraint. 

"This is the kind of a wife you'll have. A clumsy little girl who won't know where to put her 
hands or feet. A sheepish little thing who'll run and hide from any important person that you'll 
want to bring to the house. So you think you're so good? Don't kid yourself, Peter Keating! No 
great man ever got there alone. Don’t you shrug it off, how much the right woman's helped the 
best of them. Your Francon didn't marry a chambermaid, you bet your life he didn't! Just try to 
see things through other people's eyes for a bit. What will they think of your wife? What will 
they think of you? You don't make your living building chicken coops for soda jerkers, don't 
you forget that! You've got to play the game as the big men of this world see it. You've got to 
live up to them. What will they think of a man who's married to a common little piece of 
baggage like that? Will they admire you? Will they trust you? Will they respect you?" 

"Shut up!" he cried. 

But she went on. She spoke for a long time, while he sat, cracking his knuckles savagely, 
moaning once in a while: "But I love her. ...I can't, Mother! I can't. ...I love her...." 

She released him when the streets outside were gray with the light of morning. She let him 
stumble off to his room, to the accompaniment of the last, gentle, weary sounds of her voice: 

"At least, Peter, you can do that much. Just a few months. Ask her to wait just a few months. 
Heyer might die any moment and then, once you're a partner, you can marry her and you 
might get away with it. She won't mind waiting just that little bit longer, if she loves you. ...Think 
it over, Peter.. ..And while you're thinking it over, think just a bit that if you do this now, you'll be 
breaking your mother's heart. It's not important, but take just a tiny notice of that. Think of 
yourself for an hour, but give one minute to the thought of others...." 

He did not try to sleep. He did not undress, but sat on his bed for hours, and the thing clearest 
in his mind was the wish to find himself transported a year ahead when everything would have 
been settled, he did not care how. 

He had decided nothing when he rang the doorbell of Catherine's apartment at ten o'clock. He 
felt dimly that she would take his hand, that she would lead him, that she would insist-and 
thus the decision would be made. 

Catherine opened the door and smiled, happily and confidently, as if nothing had happened. 
She led him to her room, where broad shafts of sunlight flooded the columns of books and 
papers stacked neatly on her desk. The room was clean, orderly, the pile of the rug still striped 
in bands left by a carpet sweeper. Catherine wore a crisp organdy blouse, with sleeves 



standing stiffly, cheerfully about her shoulders; little fluffy needles glittered through her hair in 
the sunlight. He felt a brief wrench of disappointment that no menace met him in her house; a 
wrench of relief also, and of disappointment. 

"I'm ready, Peter," she said. "Get me my coat." 

"Did you tell your uncle?" he asked. 

"Oh, yes. I told him last night. He was still working when I got back." 

"What did he say?" 

"Nothing. He just laughed and asked me what I wanted for a wedding present. But he laughed 
so much!" 

"Where is he? Didn't he want to meet me at least?" 

"He had to go to his newspaper office. He said he'd have plenty of time to see more than 
enough of you. But he said it so nicely!" 

"Listen, Katie, I... there's one thing I wanted to tell you." He hesitated, not looking at her. His 
voice was flat. "You see, it's like this: Lucius Heyer, Francon's partner, is very ill and they don't 
expect him to live. Francon's been hinting quite openly mat I'm to take Heyer's place. But 
Francon has the crazy idea that he wants me to marry his daughter. Now don't misunderstand 
me, you know there's not a chance, but I can't tell him so. And I thought...! thought that if we 
waited. ..for just a few weeks. ..I'd be set with the firm and then Francon could do nothing to me 
when I come and tell him that I'm married. ...But, of course it's up to you." He looked at her and 
his voice was eager. "If you want to do it now, we'll go at once." 

"But, Peter," she said calmly, serene and astonished. "But of course. We'll wait." 

He smiled in approval and relief. But he closed his eyes. 

"Of course, we'll wait," she said firmly. "I didn't know this and it's very important. There's really 
no reason to hurry at all." 

"You're not afraid that Francon's daughter might get me?" 

She laughed. "Oh, Peter! I know you too well." 

"But if you'd rather..." 

"No, it's much better. You see, to tell you the truth, I thought this morning that it would be 
better if we waited, but I didn't want to say anything if you had made up your mind. Since you'd 
rather wait, I'd much rather too, because, you see, we got word this morning that Uncle's 
invited to repeat this same course of lectures at a terribly important university on the West 
Coast this summer. I felt horrible about leaving him flat, with the work unfinished. And then I 
thought also that perhaps we were being foolish, we're both so young. And Uncle Ellsworth 
laughed so much. You see, it's really wiser to wait a little." 

"Yes. Well, that's fine. But, Katie, if you feel as you did last night..." 

"But I don't! I'm so ashamed of myself. I can't imagine what ever happened to me last night. I 
try to remember it and I can't understand. You know how it is, you feel so silly afterward. 
Everything's so clear and simple the next day. Did I say a lot of awful nonsense last night?" 

"Well, forget it. You're a sensible little girl. We're both sensible. And we'll wait just a while, it 
won't be long." 

"Yes, Peter." 

He said suddenly, fiercely: 



Insist on it now, Katie. 


And then he laughed stupidly, as if he had not been quite serious. 

She smiled gaily in answer. "You see?" she said, spreading her hands out. 

"Well..." he muttered. "Well, all right, Katie. We'll wait. It's better, of course. L.l'll run along 
then. I'll be late at the office." He felt he had to escape her room for the moment, for that day. 
"I'll give you a ring. Let's have dinner together tomorrow." 

"Yes, Peter. That will be nice." 

He went away, relieved and desolate, cursing himself for the dull, persistent feeling that told 
him he had missed a chance which would never return; that something was closing in on them 
both and they had surrendered. He cursed, because he could not say what it was that they 
should have fought. He hurried on to his office where he was being late for an appointment 
with Mrs. Moorehead. 

Catherine stood in the middle of the room, after he had left, and wondered why she suddenly 
felt empty and cold; why she hadn't known until this moment that she had hoped he would 
force her to follow him. Then she shrugged, and smiled reproachfully at herself, and went 
back to the work on her desk. 


13 . 

ON A DAY in October, when the Heller house was nearing completion, a lanky young man in 
overalls stepped out of a small group that stood watching the house from the road and 
approached Roark. 

"You the fellow who built the Booby Hatch?" he asked, quite diffidently. 

"If you mean this house, yes," Roark answered. 

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. It's only that that's what they call the place around here. It's not 
what I'd call it. You see, I've got a building job. ..well, not exactly, but I'm going to build a filling 
station of my own about ten miles from here, down on the Post Road. I'd like to talk to you." 

Later, on a bench in front of the garage where he worked, Jimmy Gowan explained in detail. 
He added: "And how I happened to think of you, Mr. Roark, is that I like it, that funny house of 
yours. Can't say why, but I like it. It makes sense to me. And then again I figured everybody's 
gaping at it and talking about it, well, that's no use to a house, but that'd be plenty smart for a 
business, let them giggle, but let them talk about it. So I thought I'd get you to build it, and then 
they'll all say I'm crazy, but do you care? I don't." 

Jimmy Gowan had worked like a mule for fifteen years, saving money for a business of his 
own. People voiced indignant objections to his choice of architect; Jimmy uttered no word of 
explanation or self-defense; he said politely: "Maybe so, folks, maybe so," and proceeded to 
have Roark build his station. 

The station opened on a day in late December. It stood on the edge of the Boston Post Road, 
two small structures of glass and concrete forming a semicircle among the trees: the cylinder 
of the office and the long, low oval of the diner, with the gasoline pumps as the colonnade of a 
forecourt between them. It was a study in circles; there were no angles and no straight lines; it 
looked like shapes caught in a flow, held still at the moment of being poured, at the precise 
moment when they formed a harmony that seemed too perfect to be intentional. It looked like 
a cluster of bubbles hanging low over the ground, not quite touching it, to be swept aside in an 
instant on a wind of speed; it looked gay, with the hard, bracing gaiety of efficiency, like a 
powerful airplane engine. 

Roark stayed at the station on the day of its opening. He drank coffee in a clean, white mug, 
at the counter of the diner, and he watched the cars stopping at the door. He left late at night. 



He looked back once, driving down the long, empty road. The lights of the station winked, 
flowing away from him. There it stood, at the crossing of two roads, and cars would be 
streaming past it day and night, cars coming from cities in which there was no room for 
buildings such as this, going to cities in which there would be no buildings such as this. He 
turned his face to the road before him, and he kept his eyes off the mirror which still held, 
glittering softly, dots of light that moved away far behind him.... 

He drove back to months of idleness. He sat in his office each morning, because he knew that 
he had to sit there, looking at a door that never opened, his fingers forgotten on a telephone 
that never rang. The ash trays he emptied each day, before leaving, contained nothing but the 
stubs of his own cigarettes. 

"What are you doing about it, Howard?" Austen Heller asked him at dinner one evening. 
"Nothing." 

"But you must." 

"There's nothing I can do." 

"You must learn how to handle people." 

"I can't." 

"Why?" 

"I don't know how. I was born without some one particular sense." 

"It's something one acquires." 

"I have no organ to acquire it with. I don't know whether it's something I lack, or something 
extra I have that stops me. Besides, I don't like people who have to be handled." 

"But you can't sit still and do nothing now. You've got to go after commissions." 

"What can I tell people in order to get commissions? I can only show my work. If they don't 
hear that, they won't hear anything I say. I'm nothing to them, but my work-my work is all we 
have in common. And I have no desire to tell them anything else." 

"Then what are you going to do? You're not worried?" 

"No. I expected it. I'm waiting." 

"For what?" 

"My kind of people." 

"What kind is that?" 

"I don't know. Yes, I do know, but I can't explain it. I've often wished I could. There must be 
some one principle to cover it, but I don’t know what it is." 

"Honesty?" 

"Yes. ..no, only partly. Guy Francon is an honest man, but it isn't that. Courage? Ralston 
Holcombe has courage, in his own manner. ...I don't know. I'm not that vague on other things. 
But I can tell my kind of people by their faces. By something in their faces. There will be 
thousands passing by your house and by the gas station. If out of those thousands, one stops 
and sees it--that's all I need." 

"Then you do need other people, after all, don't you, Howard?" 

"Of course. What are you laughing at?" 



"I've always thought that you were the most anti-social animal I've ever had the pleasure of 
meeting." 

"I need people to give me work. I'm not building mausoleums. Do you suppose I should need 
them in some other way? In a closer, more personal way?" 

"You don't need anyone in a very personal way." 

"No." 

"You're not even boasting about it." 

"Should I?" 

You can't. You're too arrogant to boast." 

"Is that what I am?" 

"Don't you know what you are?" 

"No. Not as far as you're seeing me, or anyone else." 

Heller sat silently, his wrist describing circles with a cigarette. Then Heller laughed, and said: 
"That was typical." 

"What?" 

"That you didn't ask me to tell you what you are as I see you. Anybody else would have." 

"I'm sorry. It wasn't indifference. You're one of the few friends I want to keep. I just didn't think 
of asking." 

"I know you didn't. That's the point. You're a self-centered monster, Howard. The more 
monstrous because you're utterly innocent about it." 

"That's true." 

"You should show a little concern when you admit that." 

"Why?" 

"You know, there’s a thing that stumps me. You're the coldest man I know. And I can't 
understand why-knowing that you're actually a fiend in your quiet sort of way-why I always 
feel, when I see you, that you're the most life-giving person I've ever met." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I don't know. Just that." 

The weeks went by, and Roark walked to his office each day, sat at his desk for eight hours, 
and read a great deal. At five o'clock, he walked home. He had moved to a better room, near 
the office; he spent little; he had enough money for a long time to come. 

On a morning in February the telephone rang in his office. A brisk, emphatic feminine voice 
asked for an appointment with Mr. Roark, the architect. That afternoon, a brisk, small, dark- 
skinned woman entered the office; she wore a mink coat and exotic earrings that tinkled when 
she moved her head. She moved her head a great deal, in sharp little birdlike jerks. She was 
Mrs. Wayne Wilmot of Long Island and she wished to build a country house. She had selected 
Mr. Roark to build it, she explained, because he had designed the home of Austen Heller. She 
adored Austen Heller; he was, she stated, an oracle to all those pretending just the tiniest bit 
to the title of progressive intellectual, she thought-"don't you?"-and she followed Heller like a 



zealot, "yes, literally, like a zealot." Mr. Roark was very young, wasn't he?-but she didn't mind 
that, she was very liberal and glad to help youth. She wanted a large house, she had two 
children, she believed in expressing their individuality- "don't you?"-and each had to have a 
separate nursery, she had to have a library-"! read to distraction"-a music room, a 
conservatory-"we grow lilies-of-the-valley, my friends tell me it's my flower"-a den for her 
husband, who trusted her implicitly and let her plan the house-"because I'm so good at it, if I 
weren't a woman I'm sure I'd be an architect"-servants' rooms and all that, and a three-car 
garage. After an hour and a half of details and explanations, she said: 

"And of course, as to the style of the house, it will be English Tudor. I adore English Tudor." 

He looked at her. He asked slowly: 

"Have you seen Austen Heller's house?" 

"No, though I did want to see it, but how could I?— I've never met Mr. Heller, I'm only his fan, 
just that, a plain, ordinary fan, what is he like in person?-you must tell me, I'm dying to hear 
it— no, I haven't seen his house, it's somewhere up in Maine, isn't it?" 

Roark took photographs out of the desk drawer and handed them to her. 

"This," he said, "is the Heller house." 

She looked at the photographs, her glance like water skimming off their glossy surfaces, and 
threw them down on the desk. 

"Very interesting," she said. "Most unusual. Quite stunning. But, of course, that's not what I 
want. That kind of a house wouldn't express my personality. My friends tell me I have the 
Elizabethan personality." 

Quietly, patiently, he tried to explain to her why she should not build a Tudor house. She 
interrupted him in the middle of a sentence. 

"Look here, Mr. Roark, you're not trying to teach me something, are you? I'm quite sure that I 
have good taste, and I know a great deal about architecture, I've taken a special course at the 
club. My friends tell me that I know more than many architects. I’ve quite made up my mind 
that I shall have an English Tudor house. I do not care to argue about it." 

"You'll have to go to some other architect, Mrs. Wilmot." 

She stared at him incredulously. 

"You mean, you're refusing the commission?" 

"Yes." 

"You don't want my commission?" 

"No." 

"But why?" 

"I don't do this sort of thing." 

"But I thought architects..." 

"Yes. Architects will build you anything you ask for. Any other architect in town will." 

"But I gave you first chance." 

"Will you do me a favor, Mrs. Wilmot? Will you tell me why you came to me if all you wanted 
was a Tudor house?" 



"Well, I certainly thought you'd appreciate the opportunity. And then, I thought I could tell my 
friends that I had Austen Heller's architect." 


He tried to explain and to convince. He knew, while he spoke, that it was useless, because his 
words sounded as if they were hitting a vacuum. There was no such person as Mrs. Wayne 
Wilmot; there was only a shell containing the opinions of her friends, the picture post cards 
she had seen, the novels of country squires she had read; it was this that he had to address, 
this immateriality which could not hear him or answer, deaf and impersonal like a wad of 
cotton. 

"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Wayne Wilmot, "but I'm not accustomed to dealing with a person utterly 
incapable of reason. I'm quite sure I shall find plenty of bigger men who'll be glad to work for 
me. My husband was opposed to my idea of having you, in the first place, and I'm sorry to see 
that he was right. Good day, Mr. Roark." 

She walked out with dignity, but she slammed the door. He slipped the photographs back into 
the drawer of his desk. 

Mr. Robert L. Mundy, who came to Roark's office in March, had been sent by Austin Heller. 

Mr. Mundy's voice and hair were gray as steel, but his eyes were blue, gentle and wistful. He 
wanted to build a house in Connecticut, and he spoke of it tremulously, like a young 
bridegroom and like a man groping for his last, secret goal. 

"It's not just a house, Mr. Roark," he said with timid diffidence, as if he were speaking to a 
man older and more prominent than himself, "it's like. ..like a symbol to me. It's what I've been 
waiting and working for all these years. It’s so many years now....l must tell you this, so you'll 
understand. I have a great deal of money now, more than I care to think about. I didn't always 
have it. Maybe it came too late. I don't know. Young people think that you forget what happens 
on the way when you get there. But you don't. Something stays. I'll always remember how I 
was a boy--in a little place down in Georgia, that was--and how I ran errands for the harness 
maker, and the kids laughed when carriages drove by and splashed mud all over my pants. 
That's how long ago I decided that some day I'd have a house of my own, the kind of house 
that carriages stop before. After that, no matter how hard it got to be at times, I'd always think 
of that house, and it helped. Afterward, there were years when I was afraid of it--l could have 
built it, but I was afraid. Well, now the time has come. Do you understand, Mr. Roark? Austen 
said you'd be just the man who'd understand." 

"Yes," said Roark eagerly, "I do." 

"There was a place," said Mr. Mundy, "down there, near my home town. The mansion of the 
whole county. The Randolph place. An old plantation house, as they don't build them any 
more. I used to deliver things there sometimes, at the back door. That's the house I want, Mr. 
Roark. Just like it. But not back there in Georgia. I don't want to go back. Right here, near the 
city. I've bought the land. You must help me to have it landscaped just like the Randolph 
place. We'll plant trees and shrubs, the kind they have in Georgia, the flowers and everything. 
We'll find a way to make them grow. I don't care how much it costs. Of course, we'll have 
electric lights and garages now, not carriages. But I want the electric lights made like candles 
and I want the garages to look like the stables. Everything, just as it was. I have photographs 
of the Randolph place. And I've bought some of their old furniture." 

When Roark began to speak Mr. Mundy listened, in polite astonishment. He did not seem to 
resent the words. They did not penetrate. 

"Don’t you see?" Roark was saying. "It's a monument you want to build, but not to yourself. 

Not to your own life or your own achievement. To other people. To their supremacy over you. 
You're not challenging that supremacy. You're immortalizing it. You haven't thrown it off— 
you're putting it up forever. Will you be happy if you seal yourself for the rest of your life in that 
borrowed shape? Or if you strike free, for once, and build a new house, your own? You don't 
want the Randolph place. You want what it stood for. But what it stood for is what you've 
fought all your life." 

Mr. Mundy listened blankly. And Roark felt again a bewildered helplessness before unreality: 
there was no such person as Mr. Mundy; there were only the remnants, long dead, of the 



people who had inhabited the Randolph place; one could not plead with remnants or convince 
them. 

"No," said Mr. Mundy, at last. "No. You may be right, but that's not what I want at all. I don't 
say you haven't got your reasons, and they sound like good reasons, but I like the Randolph 
place." 

"Why?" 

"Just because I like it. Just because that's what I like." 

When Roark told him that he would have to select another architect, Mr. Mundy said 
unexpectedly: 

"But I like you. Why can't you build it for me? What difference would it make to you?" 

Roark did not explain. 

Later, Austen Heller said to him: "I expected it. I was afraid you'd turn him down. I'm not 
blaming you, Howard. Only he's so rich. It could have helped you so much. And, after all, 
you've got to live." 

"Not that way," said Roark. 

# 

In April Mr. Nathaniel Janss, of the Janss-Stuart Real Estate Company, called Roark to his 
office. Mr. Janss was frank and blunt. He stated that his company was planning the erection of 
a small office building-thirty stories-on lower Broadway, and that he was not sold on Roark 
as the architect, in fact he was more or less opposed to him, but his friend Austen Heller had 
insisted that he should meet Roark and talk to him about it; Mr. Janss did not think very much 
of Roark's stuff, but Heller had simply bullied him and he would listen to Roark before deciding 
on anyone, and what did Roark have to say on the subject? 

Roark had a great deal to say. He said it calmly, and this was difficult, at first, because he 
wanted that building, because what he felt was the desire to wrench that building out of Mr. 
Janss at the point of a gun, if he'd had one. But after a few minutes, it became simple and 
easy, the thought of the gun vanished, and even his desire for the building; it was not a 
commission to get and he was not there to get it; he was only speaking of buildings. 

"Mr. Janss, when you buy an automobile, you don't want it to have rose garlands about the 
windows, a lion on each fender and an angel sitting on the roof. Why don’t you?" 

"That would be silly," stated Mr. Janss. 

"Why would it be silly? Now I think it would be beautiful. Besides, Louis the Fourteenth had a 
carriage like that and what was good enough for Louis is good enough for us. We shouldn't go 
in for rash innovations and we shouldn't break with tradition." 

"Now you know damn well you don't believe anything of the sort!" 

"I know I don't. But that's what you believe, isn't it? Now take a human body. Why wouldn't you 
like to see a human body with a curling tail with a crest of ostrich feathers at the end? And with 
ears shaped like acanthus leaves? It would be ornamental, you know, instead of the stark, 
bare ugliness we have now. Well, why don't you like the idea? Because it would be useless 
and pointless. Because the beauty of the human body is that it hasn't a single muscle which 
doesn't serve its purpose; that there's not a line wasted; that every detail of it fits one idea, the 
idea of a man and the life of a man. Will you tell me why, when it comes to a building, you 
don't want it to look as if it had any sense or purpose, you want to choke it with trimmings, you 
want to sacrifice its purpose to its envelope-not knowing even why you want that kind of an 
envelope? You want it to look like a hybrid beast produced by crossing the bastards of ten 
different species until you get a creature without guts, without heart or brain, a creature all 
pelt, tail, claws and feathers? Why? You must tell me, because I’ve never been able to 
understand it." 



"Well," said Mr. Janss, "I've never thought of it that way." He added, without great conviction: 
"But we want our building to have dignity, you know, and beauty, what they call real beauty." 

"What who calls what beauty?" 

"Well-I-I..." 

"Tell me, Mr. Janss, do you really think that Greek columns and fruit baskets are beautiful on 
a modern, steel office building?" 

"I don't know that I’ve ever thought anything about why a building was beautiful, one way or 
another," Mr. Janss confessed, "but I guess that’s what the public wants." 

"Why do you suppose they want it?" 

"I don't know." 

"Then why should you care what they want?" 

"You’ve got to consider the public." 

"Don't you know that most people take most things because that's what's given them, and 
they have no opinion whatever? Do you wish to be guided by what they expect you to think 
they think or by your own judgment?" 

"You can't force it down their throats." 

"You don't have to. You must only be patient. Because on your side you have reason-oh, I 
know, it's something no one really wants to have on his side--and against you, you have just a 
vague, fat, blind inertia." 

"Why do you think that I don't want reason on my side?" 

"It's not you, Mr. Janss. It's the way most people feel. They have to take a chance, everything 
they do is taking a chance, but they feel so much safer when they take it on something they 
know to be ugly, vain and stupid." 

"That's true, you know," said Mr. Janss. 

At the conclusion of the interview, Mr. Janss said thoughtfully: "I can't say that it doesn't make 
sense, Mr. Roark. Let me think it over. You'll hear from me shortly." 

Mr. Janss called him a week later. "It's the board of directors that will have to decide. Are you 
willing to try, Roark? Draw up the plans and some preliminary sketches. I'll submit them to the 
board. I can't promise anything. But I'm for you and I'll fight them on it." 

Roark worked on the plans for two weeks of days and nights. The plans were submitted. Then 
he was called before the board of directors of the Janss-Stuart Real Estate Company. He 
stood at the side of a long table and he spoke, his eyes moving slowly from face to face. He 
tried not to look down at the table, but on the lower rim of his vision there remained the white 
spot of his drawings spread before the twelve men. He was asked a great many questions. 

Mr. Janss jumped up at times to answer instead, to pound the table with his fist, to snarl: 

"Don't you see? Isn't it clear?. ..What of it, Mr. Grant? What if no one has ever built anything 
like it?. ..Gothic, Mr. Hubbard? Why must we have Gothic?. ..I've a jolly good mind to resign if 
you turn this down!" 

Roark spoke quietly. He was the only man in the room who felt certain of his own words. He 
felt also that he had no hope. The twelve faces before him had a variety of countenances, but 
there was something, neither color nor feature, upon all of them, as a common denominator, 
something that dissolved their expressions, so that they were not faces any longer but only 
empty ovals of flesh. He was addressing everyone. He was addressing no one. He felt no 
answer, not even the echo of his own words striking against the membrane of an eardrum. His 



words were falling down a well, hitting stone salients on their way, and each salient refused to 
stop them, threw them farther, tossed them from one another, sent them to seek a bottom that 
did not exist. 

He was told that he would be informed of the board's decision. He knew that decision in 
advance. When he received the letter, he read it without feeling. The letter was from Mr. 

Janss and it began: "Dear Mr. Roark, I am sorry to inform you that our board of directors find 
themselves unable to grant you the commission for..." There was a plea in the letter's brutal, 
offensive formality: the plea of a man who could not face him. 

# 

John Fargo had started in life as a pushcart peddler. At fifty he owned a modest fortune and a 
prosperous department store on lower Sixth Avenue. For years he had fought successfully 
against a large store across the street, one of many inherited by a numerous family. In the fall 
of last year the family had moved that particular branch to new quarters, farther uptown. They 
were convinced that the center of the city's retail business was shifting north and they had 
decided to hasten the downfall of their former neighborhood by leaving their old store vacant, 
a grim reminder and embarrassment to their competitor across the street. John Fargo had 
answered by announcing that he would build a new store of his own, on the very same spot, 
next door to his old one; a store newer and smarter than any the city had seen; he would, he 
declared, keep the prestige of his old neighborhood. 

When he called Roark to his office he did not say that he would have to decide later or think 
things over. He said: "You're the architect." He sat, his feet on his desk, smoking a pipe, 
snapping out words and puffs of smoke together. "I'll tell you what space I need and how 
much I want to spend. If you need more-say so. The rest is up to you. I don't know much 
about buildings. But I know a man who knows when I see him. Go ahead." 

Fargo had chosen Roark because Fargo had driven, one day, past Gowan's Service Station, 
and stopped, and gone in, and asked a few questions. After that, he bribed Heller's cook to 
show him through the house in Heller's absence. Fargo needed no further argument. 

# 

Late in May, when the drafting table in Roark's office was buried deep in sketches for the 
Fargo store, he received another commission. 

Mr. Whitford Sanborn, the client, owned an office building that had been built for him many 
years ago by Henry Cameron. When Mr. Sanborn decided that he needed a new country 
residence he rejected his wife's suggestions of other architects; he wrote to Henry Cameron. 
Cameron wrote a ten-page letter in answer; the first three lines of the letter stated that he had 
retired from practice; the rest of it was about Howard Roark. Roark never learned what had 
been said in that letter; Sanborn would not show it to him and Cameron would not tell him. But 
Sanborn signed him to build the country residence, in spite of Mrs. Sanborn's violent 
objections. 

Mrs. Sanborn was the president of many charity organizations and this had given her an 
addiction to autocracy such as no other avocation could develop. Mrs. Sanborn wished a 
French chateau built upon their new estate on the Hudson. She wished it to look stately and 
ancient, as if it had always belonged to the family; of course, she admitted, people would know 
that it hadn't, but it would appear as if it had. 

Mr. Sanborn signed the contract after Roark had explained to him in detail the kind of a house 
he was to expect; Mr. Sanborn had agreed to it readily, had not wished even to wait for 
sketches. "But of course, Fanny," Mr. Sanborn said wearily, "I want a modern house. I told you 
that long ago. That’s what Cameron would have designed." 

"What in heaven's name does Cameron mean now?" she asked. "I don't know, Fanny. I know 
only that there's no building in New York like the one he did for me." 

The arguments continued for many long evenings in the dark, cluttered, polished mahogany 
splendor of the Sanborns' Victorian drawing room. Mr. Sanborn wavered. Roark asked, his 
arm sweeping out at the room around them: "Is this what you want?" 



"Well, if you're going to be impertinent..." Mrs. Sanborn began, but Mr. Sanborn exploded: 
"Christ, Fanny! He's right! That's just what I don't want! That's just what I'm sick of!" 

Roark saw no one until his sketches were ready. The house-of plain fieldstone, with great 
windows and many terraces--stood in the gardens over the river, as spacious as the spread of 
water, as open as the gardens, and one had to follow its lines attentively to find the exact 
steps by which it was tied to the sweep of the gardens, so gradual was the rise of the terraces, 
the approach to and the full reality of the walls; it seemed only that the trees flowed into the 
house and through it; it seemed that the house was not a barrier against the sunlight, but a 
bowl to gather it, to concentrate it into brighter radiance than that of the air outside. 

Mr. Sanborn was first to see the sketches. He studied them, and then he said: "I...I don't know 
quite how to say it, Mr. Roark. It's great. Cameron was right about you." 

After others had seen the sketches Mr. Sanborn was not certain of this any longer. Mrs. 
Sanborn said that the house was awful. And the long evening arguments were resumed. "Now 
why, why can't we add turrets there, on the corners?" Mrs. Sanborn asked. "There's plenty of 
room on those flat roofs." When she had been talked out of the turrets, she inquired: "Why 
can't we have mullioned windows? What difference would that make? God knows, the 
windows are large enough-though why they have to be so large I fail to see, it gives one no 
privacy at all— but I'm willing to accept your windows, Mr. Roark, if you're so stubborn about it, 
but why can't you put mullions on the panes? It will soften things, and it gives a regal air, you 
know, a feudal sort of mood." 

The friends and relatives to whom Mrs. Sanborn hurried with the sketches did not like the 
house at all. Mrs. Walling called it preposterous, and Mrs. Hooper-crude. Mr. Melander said 
he wouldn't have it as a present. Mrs. Applebee stated that it looked like a shoe factory. Miss 
Davitt glanced at the sketches and said with approval: "Oh, how very artistic, my dear! Who 
designed it?. ..Roark?. ..Roark?. ..Never heard of him. ...Well, frankly, Fanny, it looks like 
something phony." 

The two children of the family were divided on the question. June Sanborn, aged nineteen, 
had always thought that all architects were romantic, and she had been delighted to learn that 
they would have a very young architect; but she did not like Roark's appearance and his 
indifference to her hints, so she declared that the house was hideous and she, for one, would 
refuse to live in it. Richard Sanborn, aged twenty-four, who had been a brilliant student in 
college and was now slowly drinking himself to death, startled his family by emerging from his 
usual lethargy and declaring that the house was magnificent. No one could tell whether it was 
esthetic appreciation or hatred of his mother or both. 

Whitford Sanborn swayed with every new current. He would mutter: "Well, now, not mullions, 
of course, that's utter rubbish, but couldn't you give her a cornice, Mr. Roark, to keep peace in 
the family? Just a kind of a crenelated cornice, it wouldn't spoil anything. Or would it?" 

The arguments ended when Roark declared that he would not build the house unless Mr. 
Sanborn approved the sketches just as they were and signed his approval on every sheet of 
the drawings. Mr. Sanborn signed. 

Mrs. Sanborn was pleased to learn, shortly afterward, that no reputable contractor would 
undertake the erection of the house. "You see?" she stated triumphantly. Mr. Sanborn refused 
to see. He found an obscure firm that accepted the commission, grudgingly and as a special 
favor to him. Mrs. Sanborn learned that she had an ally in the contractor, and she broke social 
precedent to the extent of inviting him for tea. She had long since lost all coherent ideas about 
the house; she merely hated Roark. Her contractor hated all architects on principle. 

The construction of the Sanborn house proceeded through the months of summer and fall, 
each day bringing new battles. "But, of course, Mr. Roark, I told you I wanted three closets in 
my bedroom, I remember distinctly, it was on a Friday and we were sitting in the drawing room 
and Mr. Sanborn was sitting in the big chair by the window and I was. ..What about the plans? 
What plans? How do you expect me to understand plans?" 

"Aunt Rosalie says she can't possibly climb a circular stairway, Mr. Roark. What are we going 
to do? Select our guests to fit your house?" 



"Mr. Hulburt says that kind of ceiling won't hold. ...Oh yes, Mr. Hulburt knows a lot about 
architecture. He's spent two summers in Venice." 


"June, poor darling, says her room will be dark as a cellar. ...Well, that's the way she feels, Mr. 
Roark. Even if it isn't dark, but if it makes her feel dark, it's the same thing." Roark stayed up 
nights, redrafting the plans for the alterations which he could not avoid. It meant days of 
tearing down floors, stairways, partitions already erected; it meant extras piling up on the 
contractor's budget. The contractor shrugged and said: "I told you so. That's what always 
happens when you get one of those fancy architects. You wait and see what this thing will cost 
you before he gets through." 

Then, as the house took shape, it was Roark who found that he wanted to make a change. 
The eastern wing had never quite satisfied him. Watching it rise, he saw the mistake he had 
made and the way to correct it; he knew it would bring the house into a more logical whole. He 
was making his first steps in building and they were his first experiments. He could admit it 
openly. But Mr. Sanborn refused to allow the change; it was his turn. Roark pleaded with him; 
once the picture of that new wing had become clear in Roark's mind he could not bear to look 
at the house as it stood. "It's not that I disagree with you," Mr. Sanborn said coldly, "in fact, I 
do think you're right. But we cannot afford it. Sorry." 

"It will cost you less than the senseless changes Mrs. Sanborn has forced me to make." 

"Don't bring that up again." 

"Mr. Sanborn," Roark asked slowly, "will you sign a paper that you authorize this change 
provided it costs you nothing?" 

"Certainly. If you can conjure up a miracle to work that." 

He signed. The eastern wing was rebuilt. Roark paid for it himself. It cost him more than the 
fee he received. Mr. Sanborn hesitated: he wanted to repay it. Mrs. Sanborn stopped him. "It's 
just a low trick," she said, "just a form of high-pressure. He's blackmailing you on your better 
feelings. He expects you to pay. Wait and see. He'll ask for it. Don't let him get away with 
that." Roark did not ask for it. Mr. Sanborn never paid him. 

When the house was completed, Mrs. Sanborn refused to live in it. Mr. Sanborn looked at it 
wistfully, too tired to admit that he loved it, that he had always wanted a house just like it. He 
surrendered. The house was not furnished. Mrs. Sanborn took herself, her husband and her 
daughter off to Florida for the winter, "where," she said, "we have a house that's a decent 
Spanish, thank Godl-because we bought it ready-made. This is what happens when you 
venture to build for yourself, with some half-baked idiot of an architect!" Her son, to 
everybody's amazement, exhibited a sudden burst of savage will power: he refused to go to 
Florida; he liked the new house, he would live nowhere else. So three of the rooms were 
furnished for him. The family left and he moved alone into the house on the Hudson. At night, 
one could see from the river a single rectangle of yellow, small and lost, among the windows 
of the huge, dead house. 

The bulletin of the Architects' Guild of America carried a small item: 

"A curious incident, which would be amusing if it were not deplorable, is reported to us about a 
home recently built by Mr. Whitford Sanborn, noted industrialist. Designed by one Howard 
Roark and erected at a cost of well over $1 00,000, this house was found by the family to be 
uninhabitable. It stands now, abandoned, as an eloquent witness to professional 
incompetence." 


14. 

LUCIUS N. Heyer stubbornly refused to die. He had recovered from the stroke and returned to 
his office, ignoring the objections of his doctor and the solicitous protests of Guy Francon. 
Francon offered to buy him out. Heyer refused, his pale, watering eyes staring obstinately at 



nothing at all. He came to his office every two or three days; he read the copies of 
correspondence left in his letter basket according to custom; he sat at his desk and drew 
flowers on a clean pad; then he went home. He walked, dragging his feet slowly; he held his 
elbows pressed to his sides and his forearms thrust forward, with the fingers half closed, like 
claws; the fingers shook; he could not use his left hand at all. He would not retire. He liked to 
see his name on the firm's stationery. 

He wondered dimly why he was no longer introduced to prominent clients, why he never saw 
the sketches of their new buildings, until they were half erected. If he mentioned this, Francon 
protested: "But, Lucius, I couldn't think of bothering you in your condition. Any other man 
would have retired, long ago." 

Francon puzzled him mildly. Peter Keating baffled him. Keating barely bothered to greet him 
when they met, and then as an afterthought; Keating walked off in the middle of a sentence 
addressed to him; when Heyer issued some minor order to one of the draftsmen, it was not 
carried out and the draftsman informed him that the order had been countermanded by Mr. 
Keating. Heyer could not understand it; he always remembered Keating as the diffident boy 
who had talked to him so nicely about old porcelain. He excused Keating at first; then he tried 
to mollify him, humbly and clumsily; then he conceived an unreasoning fear of Keating. He 
complained to Francon. He said, petulantly, assuming the tone of an authority he could never 
have exercised: "That boy of yours, Guy, that Keating fellow, he's getting to be impossible. 

He's rude to me. You ought to get rid of him." 

"Now you see, Lucius," Francon answered dryly, "why I say that you should retire. You're 
overstraining your nerves and you're beginning to imagine things." 

Then came the competition for the Cosmo-Slotnick Building. 

Cosmo-Slotnick Pictures of Hollywood, California, had decided to erect a stupendous home 
office in New York, a skyscraper to house a motion-picture theater and forty floors of offices. A 
world-wide competition for the selection of the architect had been announced a year in 
advance. It was stated that Cosmo-Slotnick were not merely the leaders in the art of the 
motion picture, but embraced all the arts, since all contributed to the creation of the films; and 
architecture being a lofty, though neglected, branch of esthetics, Cosmo-Slotnick were ready 
to put it on the map. 

With the latest news of the casting of I'll Take a Sailor and the shooting of Wives for Sale, 
came stories about the Parthenon and the Pantheon. Miss Sally O'Dawn was photographed 
on the steps of the Rheims Cathedral-in a bathing suit, and Mr. Pratt ("Pardner") Purcell gave 
an interview, stating that he had always dreamed of being a master builder, if he hadn't been a 
movie actor. Ralston Holcombe, Guy Francon and Gordon L. Prescott were quoted on the 
future of American architecture-in an article written by Miss Dimples Williams, and an 
imaginary interview quoted what Sir Christopher Wren would have said about the motion 
picture. In the Sunday supplements there were photographs of Cosmo-Slotnick starlets in 
shorts and sweaters, holding T-squares and slide-rules, standing before drawing boards that 
bore the legend: "Cosmo-Slotnick Building" over a huge question mark. 

The competition was open to all architects of all countries; the building was to rise on 
Broadway and to cost ten million dollars; it was to symbolize the genius of modern technology 
and the spirit of the American people; it was announced in advance as "the most beautiful 
building in the world." The jury of award consisted of Mr. Shupe, representing Cosmo, Mr. 
Slotnick, representing Slotnick. Professor Peterkin of the Stanton Institute of Technology, the 
Mayor of the City of New York, Ralston Holcombe, president of the A.G.A., and Ellsworth M. 
Toohey. 

"Go to it, Peter!" Francon told Keating enthusiastically. "Do your best. Give me all you've got. 
This is your great chance. You'll be known the world over if you win. And here's what we'll do: 
we'll put your name on our entry, along with the firm's. If we win, you'll get one fifth of the prize. 
The grand prize is sixty thousand dollars, you know." 

"Heyer will object" said Keating cautiously. 

"Let him object. That's why I'm doing it. He might get it through his head what's the decent 



thing for him to do. And I. ..well, you know how I feel, Peter. I think of you as my partner 
already. I owe it to you. You've earned it. This might be your key to it." 

Keating redrew his project five times. He hated it. He hated every girder of that building before 
it was born. He worked, his hand trembling. He did not think of the drawing under his hand. He 
thought of all the other contestants, of the man who might win and be proclaimed publicly as 
his superior. He wondered what that other one would do, how the other would solve the 
problem and surpass him. He had to beat that man; nothing else mattered; there was no Peter 
Keating, there was only a suction chamber, like the kind of tropical plant he'd heard about, a 
plant that drew an insect into its vacuum and sucked it dry and thus acquired its own 
substance. 

He felt nothing but immense uncertainty when his sketches were ready and the delicate 
perspective of a white marble edifice lay, neatly finished, before him. It looked like a 
Renaissance palace made of rubber and stretched to the height of forty stories. He had 
chosen the style of the Renaissance because he knew the unwritten law that all architectural 
juries liked columns, and because he remembered Ralston Holcombe was on the jury. He had 
borrowed from all of Holcombe's favorite Italian palaces. It looked good. ..it might be good. ..he 
was not sure. He had no one to ask. 

He heard these words in his own mind and he felt a wave of blind fury. He felt it before he 
knew the reason, but he knew the reason almost in the same instant: there was someone 
whom he could ask. He did not want to think of that name; he would not go to him; the anger 
rose to his face and he felt the hot, tight patches under his eyes. He knew that he would go. 

He pushed the thought out of his mind. He was not going anywhere. When the time came, he 
slipped his drawings into a folder and went to Roark's office. 

He found Roark alone, sitting at the desk in the large room that bore no signs of activity. 

"Hello, Howard!" he said brightly. "How are you? I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" 

"Hello, Peter," said Roark. "You aren't." 

"Not awfully busy, are you?" 

"No." 

"Mind if I sit down for a few minutes?" 

"Sit down." 

"Well, Howard, you've been doing great work. I've seen the Fargo Store. It's splendid. My 
congratulations." 

"Thank you." 

"You've been forging straight ahead, haven't you? Had three commissions already?" 

"Four." 

"Oh, yes, of course, four. Pretty good. I hear you've been having a little trouble with the 
Sanborns." 

"I have." 

"Well, it's not all smooth sailing, not all of it, you know. No new commissions since? Nothing?" 
"No. Nothing." 

"Well, it will come. I've always said that architects don't have to cut one another's throat, 
there's plenty of work for all of us, we must develop a spirit of professional unity and co- 
operation. For instance, take that competition-have you sent your entry in already?" 



"What competition?" 

"Why, the competition. The Cosmo-Slotnick competition." 

"I'm not sending any entry." 

"You're. ..not? Not at all?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"I don't enter competitions." 

"Why, for heaven's sake?" 

"Come on, Peter. You didn't come here to discuss that." 

"As a matter of fact I did think I'd show you my own entry, you understand I'm not asking you 
to help me, I just want your reaction, just a general opinion." 

He hastened to open the folder. 

Roark studied the sketches. Keating snapped: "Well? Is it all right?" 

"No. It's rotten. And you know it." 

Then, for hours, while Keating watched and the sky darkened and lights flared up in the 
windows of the city, Roark talked, explained, slashed lines through the plans, untangled the 
labyrinth of the theater's exits out windows, unraveled halls, smashed useless arches, 
straightened stairways. Keating stammered once: "Jesus, Howard! Why don't you enter the 
competition, if you can do it like this?" Roark answered: "Because I can’t. I couldn't if I tried. I 
dry up. I go blank. I can't give them what they want. But I can straighten someone else’s damn 
mess when I see it:" 

It was morning when he pushed the plans aside. Keating whispered: 

"And the elevation?" 

"Oh, to hell with your elevation! I don't want to look at your damn Renaissance elevations!" But 
he looked. He could not prevent his hand from cutting lines across the perspective. "All right, 
damn you, give them good Renaissance if you must and if there is such a thing! Only I can't 
do that for you. Figure it out yourself. Something like this. Simpler. Peter, simpler, more direct, 
as honest as you can make of a dishonest thing. Now go home and try to work out something 
on this order." 

Keating went home. He copied Roark's plans. He worked out Roark's hasty sketch of the 
elevation into a neat, finished perspective. Then the drawings were mailed, properly 
addressed to: 

# 

"The Most Beautiful Building in the World" Competition 

Cosmo-Slotnick Pictures, Inc. 

New York City. 

# 

The envelope, accompanying the entry, contained the names: "Francon & Heyer, architects, 
Peter Keating, associated designer." 

# 



Through the months of that winter Roark found no other chances, no offers, no prospects of 
commissions. He sat at his desk and forgot, at times, to turn on the lights in the early dusk. It 
was as if the heavy immobility of all the hours that had flowed through the office, of its door, of 
its air were beginning to seep into his muscles. He would rise and fling a book at the wall, to 
feel his arm move, to hear the burst of sound. He smiled, amused, picked up the book, and 
laid it neatly back on the desk. He turned on the desk lamp. Then he stopped, before he had 
withdrawn his hands from the cone of light under the lamp, and he looked at his hands; he 
spread his fingers out slowly. Then he remembered what Cameron had said to him long ago. 
He jerked his hands away. He reached for his coat, turned the lights off, locked the door and 
went home. 

As spring approached he knew that his money would not last much longer. He paid the rent 
on his office promptly on the first of each month. He wanted the feeling of thirty days ahead, 
during which he would still own the office. He entered it calmly each morning. He found only 
that he did not want to look at the calendar when it began to grow dark and he knew that 
another day of the thirty had gone. When he noticed this, he made himself look at the 
calendar. It was a race he was running now, a race between his rent money and. ..he did not 
know the name of the other contestant. Perhaps it was every man whom he passed on the 
street. 

When he went up to his office, the elevator operators looked at him in a queer, lazy, curious 
sort of way; when he spoke, they answered, not insolently, but in an indifferent drawl that 
seemed to say it would become insolent in a moment. They did not know what he was doing 
or why; they knew only that he was a man to whom no clients ever came. He attended, 
because Austen Heller asked him to attend, the few parties Heller gave occasionally; he was 
asked by guests: "Oh, you're an architect? You'll forgive me, I haven't kept up with 
architecture-what have you built?" When he answered, he heard them say: "Oh, yes, 
indeed," and he saw the conscious politeness of their manner tell him that he was an architect 
by presumption. They had never seen his buildings; they did not know whether his buildings 
were good or worthless; they knew only that they had never heard of these buildings. 

It was a war in which he was invited to fight nothing, yet he was pushed forward to fight, he 
had to fight, he had no choice--and no adversary. 

He passed by buildings under construction. He stopped to look at the steel cages. He felt at 
times as if the beams and girders were shaping themselves not into a house, but into a 
barricade to stop him; and the few steps on the sidewalk that separated him from the wooden 
fence enclosing the construction were the steps he would never be able to take. It was pain, 
but it was a blunted, unpenetrating pain. It's true, he would tell himself; it's not, his body would 
answer, the strange, untouchable healthiness of his body. 

The Fargo Store had opened. But one building could not save a neighborhood; Fargo's 
competitors had been right, the tide had turned, was flowing uptown, his customers were 
deserting him. Remarks were made openly on the decline of John Fargo, who had topped his 
poor business judgment by an investment in a preposterous kind of a building; which proved, 
it was stated, that the public would not accept these architectural innovations. It was not stated 
that the store was the cleanest and brightest in the city; that the skill of its plan made its 
operation easier than had ever been possible; that the neighborhood had been doomed 
before its erection. The building took the blame. 

Athelstan Beasely, the wit of the architectural profession, the court jester of the A.G.A., who 
never seemed to be building anything, but organized all the charity balls, wrote in his column 
entitled "Quips and Quirks" in the A.G.A. Bulletin: 

"Well, lads and lassies, here's a fairy tale with a moral: seems there was, once upon a time, a 
little boy with hair the color of a Hallowe'en pumpkin, who thought that he was better than all 
you common boys and girls. So to prove it, he up and built a house, which is a very nice 
house, except that nobody can live in it, and a store, which is a very lovely store, except that 
it's going bankrupt. He also erected a very eminent structure, to wit: a dogcart on a mud road. 
This last is reported to be doing very well indeed, which, perhaps, is the right field of endeavor 
for that little boy." 


At the end of March Roark read in the papers about Roger Enright. Roger Enright possessed 



millions, an oil concern and no sense of restraint. This made his name appear in the papers 
frequently. He aroused a half-admiring, half-derisive awe by the incoherent variety of his 
sudden ventures. The latest was a project for a new type of residential development-an 
apartment building, with each unit complete and isolated like an expensive private home. It 
was to be known as the Enright House. Enright had declared that he did not want it to look like 
anything anywhere else. He had approached and rejected several of the best architects in 
town. 

Roark felt as if this newspaper item were a personal invitation; the kind of chance created 
expressly for him. For the first time he attempted to go after a commission. He requested an 
interview with Roger Enright. He got an interview with a secretary. The secretary, a young 
man who looked bored, asked him several questions about his experience; he asked them 
slowly, as if it required an effort to decide just what it would be appropriate to ask under the 
circumstances, since the answers would make no difference whatever; he glanced at some 
photographs of Roark's buildings, and declared that Mr. Enright would not be interested. 

In the first week of April, when Roark had paid his last rental for one more month at the office, 
he was asked to submit drawings for the new building of the Manhattan Bank Company. He 
was asked by Mr. Weidler, a member of the board of directors, who was a friend of young 
Richard Sanborn. Weidler told him: "I've had a stiff fight, Mr. Roark, but I think I've won. I’ve 
taken them personally through the Sanborn house, and Dick and I explained a few things. 
However, the board must see the drawings before they make a decision. So it's not quite 
certain as yet, I must tell you frankly, but it's almost certain. They've turned down two other 
architects. They're very much interested in you. Go ahead. Good luck!" 

Henry Cameron had had a relapse and the doctor warned his sister that no recovery could be 
expected. She did not believe it. She felt a new hope, because she saw that Cameron, lying 
still in bed, looked serene and-almost happy, a word she had never found it possible to 
associate with her brother. 

But she was frightened, one evening, when he said suddenly: "Call Howard. Ask him to come 
here." In the three years since his retirement he had never called for Roark, he had merely 
waited for Roark's visits. 

Roark arrived within an hour. He sat by the side of Cameron's bed, and Cameron talked to 
him as usual. He did not mention the special invitation and did not explain. The night was 
warm and the window of Cameron's bedroom stood open to the dark garden. When he 
noticed, in a pause between sentences, the silence of the trees outside, the unmoving silence 
of late hours, Cameron called his sister and said: "Fix the couch in the living room for Howard. 
He's staying here." Roark looked at him and understood. Roark inclined his head in 
agreement; he could acknowledge what Cameron had just declared to him only by a quiet 
glance as solemn as Cameron's. 

Roark remained at the house for three days. No reference was made to his staying here-nor 
to how long he would have to stay. His presence was accepted as a natural fact requiring no 
comment. Miss Cameron understood-and knew that she must say nothing. She moved about 
silently, with the meek courage of resignation. 

Cameron did not want Roark's continuous presence in his room. He would say: "Go out, take 
a walk through the garden, Howard. It's beautiful, the grass is coming up." He would lie in bed 
and watch, with contentment, through the open window, Roark's figure moving among the 
bare trees that stood against a pale blue sky. 

He asked only that Roark eat his meals with him. Miss Cameron would put a tray on 
Cameron's knees, and serve Roark's meal on a small table by the bed. Cameron seemed to 
take pleasure in what he had never had nor sought: a sense of warmth in performing a daily 
routine, the sense of family. 

On the evening of the third day Cameron lay back on his pillow, talking as usual, but the words 
came slowly and he did not move his head. Roark listened and concentrated on not showing 
that he knew what went on in the terrible pauses between Cameron's words. The words 
sounded natural, and the strain they cost was to remain Cameron's last secret, as he wished. 



Cameron spoke about the future of building materials. "Watch the light metals industry, 
Howard.. ..In a few. ..years. ..you'll see them do some astounding things.. ..Watch the plastics, 
there's a whole new era. ..coming from that. ...You'll find new tools, new means, new 
forms.. ..You'll have to show. ..the damn fools. ..what wealth the human brain has made for 
them. ..what possibilities.. ..Last week I read about a new kind of composition tile. ..and I've 
thought of a way to use it where nothing. ..else would do. ..take, for instance, a small 
house. ..about five thousand dollars..." 

After a while he stopped and remained silent, his eyes closed. Then Roark heard him whisper 
suddenly: 

"Gail Wynand..." 

Roark leaned closer to him, bewildered. 

"I don't.. .hate anybody any more. ..only Gail Wynand. ..No, I've never laid eyes on him.. ..But he 
represents. ..everything that’s wrong with the world. ..the triumph. ..of overbearing vulgarity.. ..It’s 
Gail Wynand that you'll have to fight, Howard...." 

Then he did not speak for a long time. When he opened his eyes again, he smiled. He said: 

"I know. ..what you're going through at your office just now...." Roark had never spoken to him 
of that. "No. ..don't deny and. ..don't say anything....! know.. ..But.. .it's all right.. ..Don't be 
afraid. ...Do you remember the day when I tried to fire you?. ..Forget what I said to you then.. ..It 
was not the whole story.. ..This is. ..Don't be afraid.. ..It was worth it...." 

His voice failed and he could not use it any longer. But the faculty of sight remained 
untouched and he could lie silently and look at Roark without effort. He died half an hour later. 
# 

Keating saw Catherine often. He had not announced their engagement, but his mother knew, 
and it was not a precious secret of his own any longer. Catherine thought, at times, that he 
had dropped the sense of significance in their meetings. She was spared the loneliness of 
waiting for him; but she had lost the reassurance of his inevitable returns. 

Keating had told her: "Let's wait for the results of that movie competition, Katie. It won't be 
long, they’ll announce the decision in May. If I win— I’ll be set for life. Then we’ll be married. 

And that's when I'll meet your uncle-and he'll want to meet me. And I've got to win." 

"I know you'll win." 

"Besides, old Heyer won't last another month. The doctor told us that we can expect a second 
stroke at any time and that will be that. If it doesn't get him to the graveyard, it’ll certainly get 
him out of the office." 

"Oh, Peter, I don't like to hear you talk like that. You mustn't be so. ..so terribly selfish." 

"I'm sorry, dear. Well. ..yes, I guess I'm selfish. Everybody is." 

He spent more time with Dominique. Dominique watched him complacently, as if he 
presented no further problem to her. She seemed to find him suitable as an inconsequential 
companion for an occasional, inconsequential evening. He thought that she liked him. He 
knew that this was not an encouraging sign. 

He forgot at times that she was Francon's daughter; he forgot all the reasons that prompted 
him to want her. He felt no need to be prompted. He wanted her. He needed no reasons now 
but the excitement of her presence. 

Yet he felt helpless before her. He refused to accept the thought that a woman could remain 
indifferent to him. But he was not certain even of her indifference. He waited and tried to 
guess her moods, to respond as he supposed she wished him to respond. He received no 
answer. 



On a spring night they attended a ball together. They danced, and he drew her close, he 
stressed the touch of his fingers on her body. He knew that she noticed and understood. She 
did not withdraw; she looked at him with an unmoving glance that was almost expectation. 
When they were leaving, he held her wrap and let his fingers rest on her shoulders; she did 
not move or draw the wrap closed; she waited; she let him lift his hands. Then they walked 
together down to the cab. 

She sat silently in a corner of the cab; she had never before considered his presence 
important enough to require silence. She sat, her legs crossed, her wrap gathered tightly, her 
fingertips beating in slow rotation against her knee. He closed his hand softly about her 
forearm. She did not resist; she did not answer; only her fingers stopped beating. His lips 
touched her hair; it was not a kiss, he merely let his lips rest against her hair for a long time. 

When the cab stopped, he whispered: "Dominique. ..let me come up. ..for just a moment..." 

"Yes," she answered. The word was flat, impersonal, with no sound of invitation. But she had 
never allowed it before. He followed her, his heart pounding. 

There was one fragment of a second, as she entered her apartment, when she stopped, 
waiting. He stared at her helplessly, bewildered, too happy. He noticed the pause only when 
she was moving again, walking away from him, into the drawing room. She sat down, and her 
hands fell limply one at each side, her arms away from her body, leaving her unprotected. Her 
eyes were half closed, rectangular, empty. 

"Dominique..." he whispered, "Dominique. ..how lovely you are!..." 

Then he was beside her, whispering incoherently: 

"Dominique. ..Dominique, I love you. ..Don't laugh at me, please don't laugh!. ..My whole 
life. ..anything you wish. ..Don't you know how beautiful you are?.. .Dominique.. .1 love you..." 

He stopped with his arms around her and his face over hers, to catch some hint of response 
or resistance; he saw nothing. He jerked her violently against him and kissed her lips. 

His arms fell open. He let her body fall back against the seat, and he stared at her, aghast. It 
had not been a kiss; he had not held a woman in his arms; what he had held and kissed had 
not been alive. Her lips had not moved in answer against his; her arms had not moved to 
embrace him; it was not revulsion-he could have understood revulsion. It was as if he could 
hold her forever or drop her, kiss her again or go further to satisfy his desire--and her body 
would not know it, would not notice it. She was looking at him, past him. She saw a cigarette 
stub that had fallen off a tray on a table beside her, she moved her hand and slipped the 
cigarette back into the tray. 

"Dominique," he whispered stupidly, "didn't you want me to kiss you?" 

"Yes." She was not laughing at him; she was answering simply and helplessly. 

"Haven't you ever been kissed before?" 

"Yes. Many times." 

"Do you always act like that?" 

"Always. Just like that." 

"Why did you want me to kiss you?" 

"I wanted to try it." 

"You're not human, Dominique." 

She lifted her head, she got up and the sharp precision of the movement was her own again. 
He knew he would hear no simple, confessing helplessness in her voice; he knew the intimacy 



was ended, even though her words, when she spoke, were more intimate and revealing than 
anything she had said; but she spoke as if she did not care what she revealed or to whom: 

"I suppose I'm one of those freaks you hear about, an utterly frigid woman. I'm sorry, Peter. 
You see? You have no rivals, but that includes you also. A disappointment, darling?" 

"You. ..you'll outgrow it.. .some day..." 

"I'm really not so young, Peter. Twenty-five. It must be an interesting experience to sleep with 
a man. I've wanted to want it. I should think it would be exciting to become a dissolute woman. 
I am, you know, in everything but in fact.... Peter, you look as if you were going to blush in a 
moment, and that's very amusing." 

"Dominique! Haven't you ever been in love at all? Not even a little?" 

"I haven't. I really wanted to fall in love with you. I thought it would be convenient. I'd have no 
trouble with you at all. But you see? I can't feel anything. I can't feel any difference, whether 
it's you or Alvah Scarret or Lucius Heyer." 

He got up. He did not want to look at her. He walked to a window and stood, staring out, his 
hands clasped behind his back. He had forgotten his desire and her beauty, but he 
remembered now that she was Francon's daughter. 

"Dominique, will you marry me?" 

He knew he had to say it now; if he let himself think of her, he would never say it; what he felt 
for her did not matter any longer; he could not let it stand between him and his future; and 
what lie felt for her was growing into hatred. 

"You're not serious?" she asked. 

He turned to her. He spoke rapidly, easily; he was lying now, and so he was sure of himself 
and it was not difficult: 

"I love you, Dominique. I'm crazy about you. Give me a chance. If there's no one else, why 
not? You'll learn to love me-because I understand you. I'll be patient. I'll make you happy." 

She shuddered suddenly, and then she laughed. She laughed simply, completely; he saw the 
pale form of her dress trembling; she stood straight, her head thrown back, like a string 
shaking with the vibrations of a blinding insult to him; an insult, because her laughter was not 
bitter or mocking, but quite simply gay. 

Then it stopped. She stood looking at him. She said earnestly: 

"Peter, if I ever want to punish myself for something terrible, if I ever want to punish myself 
disgustingly-l'll marry you." She added: "Consider it a promise." 

"I'll wait-no matter what reason you choose for it." 

Then she smiled gaily, the cold, gay smile he dreaded. 

"Really, Peter, you don't have to do it, you know. You'll get that partnership anyway. And we'll 
always be good friends. Now its time for you to go home. Don't forget, you're taking me to the 
horse show Wednesday. Oh, yes, we're going to the horse show Wednesday. I adore horse 
shows. Good night, Peter." 

He left and walked home through the warm spring night. He walked savagely. If, at that 
moment, someone had offered him sole ownership of the firm of Francon & Heyer at the price 
of marrying Dominique, he would have refused it. He knew also, hating himself, that he would 
not refuse, if it were offered to him on the following morning. 



15 . 


THIS was fear. This was what one feels in nightmares, thought Peter Keating, only then one 
awakens when it becomes unbearable, but he could neither awaken nor bear it any longer. It 
had been growing, for days, for weeks, and now it had caught him: this lewd, unspeakable 
dread of defeat. He would lose the competition, he was certain that he would lose it, and the 
certainty grew as each day of waiting passed. He could not work; he jerked when people 
spoke to him; he had not slept for nights. 

He walked toward the house of Lucius Heyer. He tried not to notice the faces of the people he 
passed, but he had to notice; he had always looked at people; and people looked at him, as 
they always did. He wanted to shout at them and tell them to turn away, to leave him alone. 
They were staring at him, he thought, because he was to fail and they knew it. 

He was going to Heyer's house to save himself from the coming disaster in the only way he 
saw left to him. If he failed in that competition-and he knew he was to fail-Francon would be 
shocked and disillusioned; then if Heyer died, as he could die at any moment, Francon would 
hesitate--in the bitter aftermath of a public humiliation-to accept Keating as his partner; if 
Francon hesitated, the game was lost. There were others waiting for the opportunity: Bennett, 
whom he had been unable to get out of the office; Claude Stengel, who had been doing very 
well on his own, and had approached Francon with an offer to buy Heyer's place. Keating had 
nothing to count on, except Francon's uncertain faith in him. Once another partner replaced 
Heyer, it would be the end of Keating's future. He had come too close and had missed. That 
was never forgiven. 

Through the sleepless nights the decision had become clear and hard in his mind: he had to 
close the issue at once; he had to take advantage of Francon's deluded hopes before the 
winner of the competition was announced; he had to force Heyer out and take his place; he 
had only a few days left. 

He remembered Francon's gossip about Heyer's character. He looked through the files in 
Heyer's office and found what he had hoped to find. It was a letter from a contractor, written 
fifteen years ago; it stated merely that the contractor was enclosing a check for twenty 
thousand dollars due Mr. Heyer. Keating looked up the records for that particular building; it 
did seem that the structure had cost more than it should have cost. That was the year when 
Heyer had started his collection of porcelain. 

He found Heyer alone in his study. It was a small, dim room and the air in it seemed heavy, as 
if it had not been disturbed for years. The dark mahogany paneling, the tapestries, the 
priceless pieces of old furniture were kept faultlessly clean, but the room smelt, somehow, of 
indigence and of decay. There was a single lamp burning on a small table in a corner, and five 
delicate, precious cups of ancient porcelain on the table. Heyer sat hunched, examining the 
cups in the dim light, with a vague, pointless enjoyment. He shuddered a little when his old 
valet admitted Keating, and he blinked in vapid bewilderment, but he asked Keating to sit 
down. 

When he heard the first sounds of his own voice, Keating knew he had lost the fear that had 
followed him on his way through the streets; his voice was cold and steady. Tim Davis, he 
thought, Claude Stengel, and now just one more to be removed. 

He explained what he wanted, spreading upon the still air of the room one short, concise, 
complete paragraph of thought, perfect as a gem with clean edges. 

"And so, unless you inform Francon of your retirement tomorrow morning," he concluded, 
holding the letter by a corner between two fingers, "this goes to the A.G.A." 

He waited. Heyer sat still, with his pale, bulging eyes blank and his mouth open in a perfect 
circle. Keating shuddered and wondered whether he was speaking to an idiot. 

Then Heyer's mouth moved and his pale pink tongue showed, flickering against his lower 
teeth. 

"But I don't want to retire." He said it simply, guilelessly, in a little petulant whine. 



'You will have to retire. 


"I don't want to. I'm not going to. I'm a famous architect. I've always been a famous architect. I 
wish people would stop bothering me. They all want me to retire. I'll tell you a secret." He 
leaned forward; he whispered slyly: "You may not know it, but I know, he can't deceive me; 
Guy wants me to retire. He thinks he's outwitting me, but I can see through him. That's a good 
one on Guy." He giggled softly. 

"I don't think you understood me. Do you understand this?" Keating pushed the letter into 
Heyer’s half-closed fingers. 

He watched the thin sheet trembling as Heyer held it. Then it dropped to the table and Heyer’s 
left hand with the paralyzed fingers jabbed at it blindly, purposelessly, like a hook. He said, 
gulping: 

"You can't send this to the A.G.A. They'll have my license taken away." 

"Certainly," said Keating, "they will." 

"And it will be in the papers." 

"In all of them." 

"You can't do that." 

"I'm going to-unless you retire." 

Heyer's shoulders drew down to the edge of the table. His head remained above the edge, 
timidly, as if he were ready to draw it also out of sight. 

"You won't do that please you won't," Heyer mumbled in one long whine without pauses. 
"You're a nice boy you're a very nice boy you won't do it will you?" 

The yellow square of paper lay on the table. Heyer's useless left hand reached for it, crawling 
slowly over the edge. Keating leaned forward and snatched the letter from under his hand. 

Heyer looked at him, his head bent to one side, his mouth open. He looked as if he expected 
Keating to strike him; with a sickening, pleading glance that said he would allow Keating to 
strike him. 

"Please," whispered Heyer, "you won't do that, will you? I don't feel very well. I've never hurt 
you. I seem to remember, I did something very nice for you once." 

"What?" snapped Keating. "What did you do for me?" 

"Your name's Peter Keating. ..Peter Keating.. .1 remember.. .1 did something nice for 
you.. ..You're the boy Guy has so much faith in. Don't trust Guy. I don't trust him. But I like you. 
We'll make you a designer one of these days." His mouth remained hanging open on the 
word. A thin strand of saliva trickled down from the corner of his mouth. "Please. ..don't..." 

Keating's eyes were bright with disgust; aversion goaded him on; he had to make it worse 
because he couldn't stand it. 

"You'll be exposed publicly," said Keating, the sounds of his voice glittering. "You'll be 
denounced as a grafter. People will point at you. They'll print your picture in the papers. The 
owners of that building will sue you. They'll throw you in jail." 

Heyer said nothing. He did not move. Keating heard the cups on the table tinkling suddenly. 
He could not see the shaking of Heyer's body. He heard a thin, glassy ringing in the silence of 
the room, as if the cups were trembling of themselves. 

"Get out!" said Keating, raising his voice, not to hear that sound. "Get out of the firm! What do 



you want to stay for? You're no good. You've never been any good. 


The yellow face at the edge of the table opened its mouth and made a wet, gurgling sound like 
a moan. 

Keating sat easily, leaning forward, his knees spread apart, one elbow resting on his knee, the 
hand hanging down, swinging the letter. 

"I..." Heyer choked. "I..." 

"Shut up! You've got nothing to say, except yes or no. Think fast now. I'm not here to argue 
with you." 

Heyer stopped trembling. A shadow cut diagonally across his face. Keating saw one eye that 
did not blink, and half a mouth, open, the darkness flowing in through the hole, into the face, 
as if it were drowning. 

"Answer me!" Keating screamed, frightened suddenly. "Why don't you answer me?" 

The half-face swayed and he saw the head lurch forward; it fell down on the table, and went 
on, and rolled to the floor, as it cut off; two of the cups fell after it, cracking softly to pieces on 
the carpet. The first thing Keating felt was relief to see that the body had followed the head 
and lay crumpled in a heap on the floor, intact. There had been no sound; only the muffled, 
musical bursting of porcelain. 

He'll be furious, thought Keating, looking down at the cups. He had jumped to his feet, he was 
kneeling, gathering the pieces pointlessly; he saw that they were broken beyond repair. He 
knew he was thinking also, at the same time, that it had come, that second stroke they had 
been expecting, and that he would have to do something about it in a moment, but that it was 
all right, because Heyer would have to retire now. 

Then he moved on his knees closer to Heyer's body. He wondered why he did not want to 
touch it. "Mr. Heyer," he called. His voice was soft, almost respectful. He lifted Heyer's head, 
cautiously. He let it drop. He heard no sound of its falling. He heard the hiccough in his own 
throat. Heyer was dead. 

He sat beside the body, his buttocks against his heels, his hands spread on his knees. He 
looked straight ahead; his glance stopped on the folds of the hangings by the door; he 
wondered whether the gray sheen was dust or the nap of velvet and was it velvet and how old- 
fashioned it was to have hangings by a door. Then he felt himself shaking. He wanted to 
vomit. He rose, walked across the room and threw the door open, because he remembered 
that there was the rest of the apartment somewhere and a valet in it, and he called, trying to 
scream for help. 

# 

Keating came to the office as usual. He answered questions, he explained that Heyer had 
asked him, that day, to come to his house after dinner; Heyer had wanted to discuss the 
matter of his retirement. No one doubted the story and Keating knew that no one ever would. 
Heyer's end had come as everybody had expected it to come. Francon felt nothing but relief. 
"We knew he would, sooner or later," said Francon. "Why regret that he spared himself and all 
of us a prolonged agony?" 

Keating's manner was calmer than it had been for weeks. It was the calm of blank stupor. The 
thought followed him, gentle, unstressed, monotonous, at his work, at home, at night: he was 
a murderer. ..no, but almost a murderer. ..almost a murderer. ..He knew that it had not been an 
accident; he knew he had counted on the shock and the terror; he had counted on that second 
stroke which would send Heyer to the hospital for the rest of his days. But was that all he had 
expected? Hadn't he known what else a second stroke could mean? Had he counted on that? 
He tried to remember. He tried, wringing his mind dry. He felt nothing. He expected to feel 
nothing, one way or another. Only he wanted to know. He did not notice what went on in the 
office around him. He forgot that he had but a short time left to close the deal with Francon 
about the partnership. 



A few days after Heyer's death Francon called him to his office. 


"Sit down, Peter," he said with a brighter smile than usual. "Well, I have some good news for 
you, kid. They read Lucius's will this morning. He had no relatives left, you know. Well, I was 
surprised, I didn't give him enough credit, I guess, but it seems he could make a nice gesture 
on occasion. He’s left everything to you.. ..Pretty grand, isn't it? Now you won't have to worry 
about investment when we make arrangements for. ..What's the matter, Peter?. ..Peter, my 
boy, are you sick?" 

Keating's face fell upon his arm on the corner of the desk. He could not let Francon see his 
face. He was going to be sick; sick, because through the horror, he had caught himself 
wondering how much Heyer had actually left.... 

The will had been made out five years ago; perhaps in a senseless spurt of affection for the 
only person who had shown Heyer consideration in the office; perhaps as a gesture against 
his partner; it had been made and forgotten. The estate amounted to two hundred thousand 
dollars, plus Heyer's interest in the firm and his porcelain collection. 

Keating left the office early, that day, not hearing the congratulations. He went home, told the 
news to his mother, left her gasping in the middle of the living room, and locked himself in his 
bedroom. He went out, saying nothing, before dinner. He had no dinner that night, but he 
drank himself into a ferocious lucidity, at his favorite speak-easy. And in that heightened state 
of luminous vision, his head nodding over a glass but his mind steady, he told himself that he 
had nothing to regret; he had done what anyone would have done; Catherine had said it, he 
was selfish; everybody was selfish; it was not a pretty thing, to be selfish, but he was not alone 
in it; he had merely been luckier than most; he had been, because he was better than most; 
he felt fine; he hoped the useless questions would never come back to him again; every man 
for himself, he muttered, falling asleep on the table. 

The useless questions never came back to him again. He had no time for them in the days 
that followed. He had won the Cosmo-Slotnick competition. 

# 

Peter Keating had known it would be a triumph, but he had not expected the thing that 
happened. He had dreamed of a sound of trumpets; he had not foreseen a symphonic 
explosion. 

It began with the thin ringing of a telephone, announcing the names of the winners. Then 
every phone in the office joined in, screaming, bursting from under the fingers of the operator 
who could barely control the switchboard; calls from every paper in town, from famous 
architects, questions, demands for interviews, congratulations. Then the flood rushed out of 
the elevators, poured through the office doors, the messages, the telegrams, the people 
Keating knew, the people he had never seen before, the reception clerk losing all sense, not 
knowing whom to admit or refuse, and Keating shaking hands, an endless stream of hands 
like a wheel with soft moist cogs flapping against his fingers. He did not know what he said at 
that first interview, with Francon's office full of people and cameras; Francon had thrown the 
doors of his liquor cabinet wide-open. Francon gulped to all these people that the Cosmo- 
Slotnick building had been created by Peter Keating alone; Francon did not care; he was 
magnanimous in a spurt of enthusiasm; besides, it made a good story. 

It made a better story than Francon had expected. From the pages of newspapers the face of 
Peter Keating looked upon the country, the handsome, wholesome, smiling face with the 
brilliant eyes and the dark curls; it headed columns of print about poverty, struggle, aspiration 
and unremitting toil that had won their reward; about the faith of a mother who had sacrificed 
everything to her boy's success; about the "Cinderella of Architecture." 

Cosmo-Slotnick were pleased; they had not thought that prize-winning architects could also be 
young, handsome and poor-well, so recently poor. They had discovered a boy genius; 
Cosmo-Slotnick adored boy geniuses; Mr. Slotnick was one himself, being only forty-three. 

Keating's drawings of the "most beautiful skyscraper on earth" were reproduced in the papers, 
with the words of the award underneath: "...for the brilliant skill and simplicity of its plan. ..for its 
clean, ruthless efficiency. ..for its ingenious economy of space. ..for the masterful blending of 



the modern with the traditional in Art. ..to Francon & Heyer and Peter Keating... 


Keating appeared in newsreels, shaking hands with Mr. Shupe and Mr. Slotnick, and the 
subtitle announced what these two gentlemen thought of his building. Keating appeared in 
newsreels, shaking hands with Miss Dimples Williams, and the subtitle announced what he 
thought of her current picture. He appeared at architectural banquets and at film banquets, in 
the place of honor, and he had to make speeches, forgetting whether he was to speak of 
buildings or of movies. He appeared at architectural clubs and at fan clubs. Cosmo-Slotnick 
put out a composite picture of Keating and of his building, which could be had for a self- 
addressed, stamped envelope, and two bits. He made a personal appearance each evening, 
for a week, on the stage of the Cosmo Theater, with the first run of the latest Cosmo-Slotnick 
special; he bowed over the footlights, slim and graceful in a black tuxedo, and he spoke for 
two minutes on the significance of architecture. He presided as judge at a beauty contest in 
Atlantic City, the winner to be awarded a screen test by Cosmo-Slotnick. He was 
photographed with a famous prize-fighter, under the caption: "Champions." A scale model of 
his building was made and sent on tour, together with the photographs of the best among the 
other entries, to be exhibited in the foyers of Cosmo-Slotnick theaters throughout the country. 

Mrs. Keating had sobbed at first, clasped Peter in her arms and gulped that she could not 
believe it. She had stammered, answering questions about Petey, and she had posed for 
pictures, embarrassed, eager to please. Then she became used to it. She told Peter, 
shrugging, that of course he had won, it was nothing to gape at, no one else could have won. 
She acquired a brisk little tone of condescension for the reporters. She was distinctly annoyed 
when she was not included in the photographs taken of Petey. She acquired a mink coat. 

Keating let himself be carried by the torrent. He needed the people and the clamor around 
him. There were no questions and no doubts when he stood on a platform over a sea of 
faces; the air was heavy, compact, saturated with a single solvent-admiration; there was no 
room for anything else. He was great; great as the number of people who told him so. He was 
right; right at the number of people who believed it. He looked at the faces, at the eyes; he 
saw himself born in them, he saw himself being granted the gift of life. That was Peter 
Keating, that, the reflection in those staring pupils, and his body was only its reflection. 

He found time to spend two hours with Catherine, one evening. He held her in his arms and 
she whispered radiant plans for their future; he glanced at her with contentment; he did not 
hear her words; he was thinking of how it would look if they were photographed like this 
together and in how many papers it would be syndicated. 

He saw Dominique once. She was leaving the city for the summer. Dominique was 
disappointing. She congratulated him, quite correctly; but she looked at him as she had 
always looked, as if nothing had happened. Of all architectural publications, her column had 
been the only one that had never mentioned the Cosmo-Slotnick competition or its winner. 

"I'm going to Connecticut," she told him. "I'm taking over Father's place down there for the 
summer. He's letting me have it all to myself. No, Peter, you can't come to visit me. Not even 
once. I'm going there so I won't have to see anybody." He was disappointed, but it did not spoil 
the triumph of his days. He was not afraid of Dominique any longer. He felt confident that he 
could bring her to change her attitude, that he would see the change when she came back in 
the fall. 

But there was one thing which did spoil his triumph; not often and not too loudly. He never 
tired of hearing what was said about him; but he did not like to hear too much about his 
building. And when he had to hear it, he did not mind the comments on "the masterful 
blending of the modern with the traditional" in its facade; but when they spoke of the plan-and 
they spoke so much of the plan-when he heard about "the brilliant skill and simplicity.. .the 
clean, ruthless efficiency. ..the ingenious economy of space..." when he heard it and thought 
of. ..He did not think it. There were no words in his brain. He would not allow them. There was 
only a heavy, dark feeling-and a name. 

For two weeks after the award he pushed this thing out of his mind, as a thing unworthy of his 
concern, to be buried as his doubting, humble past was buried. All winter long he had kept his 
own sketches of the building with the pencil lines cut across them by another's hands; on the 
evening of the award he had burned them; it was the first thing he had done. 



But the thing would not leave him. Then he grasped suddenly that it was not a vague threat, 
but a practical danger; and he lost all fear of it. He could deal with a practical danger, he could 
dispose of it quite simply. He chuckled with relief, he telephoned Roark's office, and made an 
appointment to see him. 

He went to that appointment confidently. For the first time in his life he felt free of the strange 
uneasiness which he had never been able to explain or escape in Roark's presence. He felt 
safe now. He was through with Howard Roark. 

# 

Roark sat at the desk in his office, waiting. The telephone had rung once, that morning, but it 
had been only Peter Keating asking for an appointment. He had forgotten now that Keating 
was coming. He was waiting for the telephone. He had become dependent on that telephone 
in the last few weeks. He was to hear at any moment about his drawings for the Manhattan 
Bank Company. 

His rent on the office was long since overdue. So was the rent on the room where he lived. He 
did not care about the room; he could tell the landlord to wait; the landlord waited; it would not 
have mattered greatly if he had stopped waiting. But it mattered at the office. He told the rental 
agent that he would have to wait; he did not ask for the delay; he only said flatly, quietly, that 
there would be a delay, which was all he knew how to do. But his knowledge that he needed 
his alms from the rental agent, that too much depended on it, and made it sound like begging 
in his own mind. That was torture. All right, he thought, it's torture. What of it? 

The telephone bill was overdue for two months. He had received the final warning. The 
telephone was to be disconnected in a few days. He had to wait. So much could happen in a 
few days. 

The answer of the bank board, which Weidler had promised him long ago, had been 
postponed from week to week. The board could reach no decision; there had been objectors 
and there had been violent supporters; there had been conferences; Weidler told him 
eloquently little, but he could guess much; there had been days of silence, of silence in the 
office, of silence in the whole city, of silence within him. He waited. 

He sat, slumped across the desk, his face on his arm, his fingers on the stand of the 
telephone. He thought dimly that he should not sit like that; but he felt very tired today. He 
thought that he should take his hand off that phone; but he did not move it. Well, yes, he 
depended on that phone, he could smash it, but he would still depend on it; he and every 
breath in him and every bit of him. His fingers rested on the stand without moving. It was this 
and the mail; he had lied to himself also about the mail; he had lied when he had forced 
himself not to leap, as a rare letter fell through the slot in the door, not to run forward, but to 
wait, to stand looking at me white envelope on the floor, then to walk to it slowly and pick it up. 
The slot in the door and the telephone-there was nothing else left to him of the world. 

He raised his head, as he thought of it, to look down at the door, at the foot of the door. There 
was nothing. It was late in the afternoon, probably past the time of the last delivery. He raised 
his wrist to glance at his watch; he saw his bare wrist; the watch had been pawned. He turned 
to the window; there was a clock he could distinguish on a distant tower; it was half past four; 
there would be no other delivery today. 

He saw that his hand was lifting the telephone receiver. His fingers were dialing the number. 

"No, not yet," Weidler's voice told him over the wire. "We had that meeting scheduled for 
yesterday, but it had to be called off. ...I'm keeping after them like a bulldog.. ..I can promise 
you that well have a definite answer tomorrow. I can almost promise you. If not tomorrow, 
then it will have to wait over the week end, but by Monday I promise it for certain.. ..You've 
been wonderfully patient with us, Mr. Roark. We appreciate it." Roark dropped the receiver. 

He closed his eyes. He thought he would allow himself to rest, just to rest blankly like this for a 
few minutes, before he would begin to think of what the date on the telephone notice had been 
and in what way he could manage to last until Monday. 


Hello, Howard," said Peter Keating. 



He opened his eyes. Keating had entered and stood before him, smiling. He wore a light tan 
spring coat, thrown open, the loops of its belt like handles at his sides, a blue cornflower in his 
buttonhole. He stood, his legs apart, his fists on his hips, his hat on the back of his head, his 
black curls so bright and crisp over his pale forehead that one expected to see drops of spring 
dew glistening on them as on the cornflower. 

"Hello, Peter," said Roark. 

Keating sat down comfortably, took his hat off, dropped it in the middle of the desk, and 
clasped one hand over each knee with a brisk little slap. 

"Well, Howard, things are happening, aren't they?" 

"Congratulations." 

"Thanks. What’s the matter, Howard? You look like hell. Surely, you're not overworking 
yourself, from what I hear?" 

This was not the manner he had intended to assume. He had planned the interview to be 
smooth and friendly. Well, he decided, he'd switch back to that later. But first he had to show 
that he was not afraid of Roark, that he'd never be afraid again. 

"No, I'm not overworking." 

"Look, Howard, why don't you drop it?" 

That was something he had not intended saying at all. His mouth remained open a little, in 
astonishment. 

"Drop what?" 

"The pose. Oh, the ideals, if you prefer. Why don't you come down to earth? Why don't you 
start working like everybody else? Why don't you stop being a damn fool?" He felt himself 
rolling down a hill, without brakes. He could not stop. 

"What's the matter, Peter?" 

"How do you expect to get along in the world? You have to live with people, you know. There 
are only two ways. You can join them or you can fight them. But you don't seem to be doing 
either." 

"No. Not either." 

"And people don't want you. They don't want you! Aren't you afraid?" 

"No." 

"You haven't worked for a year. And you won't. Who'll ever give you work? You might have a 
few hundreds left-and then it's the end." 

"That's wrong, Peter. I have fourteen dollars left, and fifty-seven cents." 

"Well? And look at me! I don't care if it's crude to say that myself. That's not the point. I'm not 
boasting. It doesn't matter who says it. But look at me! Remember how we started? Then look 
at us now. And then think that it's up to you. Just drop that fool delusion that you're better than 
everybody else-and go to work. In a year, you'll have an office that'll make you blush to think 
of this dump. You'll have people running after you, you'll have clients, you'll have friends, you'll 
have an army of draftsmen to order around!. ..Hell! Howard, it's nothing to me-what can it 
mean to me?-but this time I'm not fishing for anything for myself, in fact I know that you'd 
make a dangerous competitor, but I've got to say this to you. Just think, Howard, think of it! 
You'll be rich, you'll be famous, you'll be respected, you'll be praised, you'll be admired-you'll 
be one of us!.. .Well?. ..Say something! Why don't you say something?" 



He saw that Roark's eyes were not empty and scornful, but attentive and wondering. It was 
close to some sort of surrender for Roark, because he had not dropped the iron sheet in his 
eyes, because he allowed his eyes to be puzzled and curious--and almost helpless. 

"Look, Peter. I believe you. I know that you have nothing to gain by saying this. I know more 
than that. I know that you don't want me to succeed--it's all right, I'm not reproaching you, I've 
always known it-you don't want me ever to reach these things you're offering me. And yet 
you're pushing me on to reach them, quite sincerely. And you know that if I take your advice, 

I'll reach them. And it's not love for me, because that wouldn't make you so angry-and so 
frightened.. ..Peter, what is it that disturbs you about me as I am?" 

"I don't know..." whispered Rearing. 

He understood that it was a confession, that answer of his, and a terrifying one. He did not 
know the nature of what he had confessed and he felt certain that Roark did not know it either. 
But the thing had been bared; they could not grasp it, but they felt its shape. And it made them 
sit silently, facing each other, in astonishment, in resignation. 

"Pull yourself together, Peter," said Roark gently, as to a comrade. "We'll never speak of that 
again." 

Then Keating said suddenly, his voice clinging in relief to the bright vulgarity of its new tone: 

"Aw hell, Howard, I was only talking good plain horse sense. Now if you wanted to work like a 
normal person-" 

"Shut up!" snapped Roark. 

Keating leaned back, exhausted. He had nothing else to say. He had forgotten what he had 
come here to discuss. 

"Now," said Roark, "what did you want to tell me about the competition?" 

Keating jerked forward. He wondered what had made Roark guess that. And then it became 
easier, because he forgot the rest in a sweeping surge of resentment. 

"Oh, yes!" said Keating crisply, a bright edge of irritation in the sound of his voice. "Yes, I did 
want to speak to you about that. Thanks for reminding me. Of course, you'd guess it, because 
you know that I'm not an ungrateful swine. I really came here to thank you, Howard. I haven't 
forgotten that you had a share in that building, you did give me some advice on it. I'd be the 
first one to give you part of the credit." 

"That's not necessary." 

"Oh, it's not that I'd mind, but I'm sure you wouldn't want me to say anything about it. And I'm 
sure you don't want to say anything yourself, because you know how it is, people are so funny, 
they misinterpret everything in such a stupid way.. ..But since I'm getting part of the award 
money, I thought it's only fair to let you have some of it. I'm glad that it comes at a time when 
you need it so badly." 

He produced his billfold, pulled from it a check he had made out in advance and put it down 
on the desk. It read: "Pay to the order of Howard Roark-the sum of five hundred dollars." 

"Thank you, Peter," said Roark, taking the check. 

Then he turned it over, took his fountain pen, wrote on the back: "Pay to the order of Peter 
Keating," signed and handed the check to Keating. 

"And here's my bribe to you, Peter," he said. "For the same purpose. To keep your mouth 
shut." 


Keating stared at him blankly. 



"That's all I can offer you now," said Roark. "You can't extort anything from me at present, but 
later, when I’ll have money, I'd like to ask you please not to blackmail me. I'm telling you 
frankly that you could. Because I don't want anyone to know that I had anything to do with that 
building." 

He laughed at the slow look of comprehension on Keating's face. 

"No?" said Roark. "You don't want to blackmail me on that?. ..Go home, Peter. You're perfectly 
safe. I'll never say a word about it. It's yours, the building and every girder of it and every foot 
of plumbing and every picture of your face in the papers." 

Then Keating jumped to his feet. He was shaking. 

"God damn you!" he screamed. "God damn you! Who do you think you are? Who told you that 
you could do this to people? So you're too good for that building? You want to make me 
ashamed of it? You rotten, lousy, conceited bastard! Who are you? You don't even have the 
wits to know that you're a flop, an incompetent, a beggar, a failure, a failure, a failure! And you 
stand there pronouncing judgment! You, against the whole country! You against everybody! 
Why should I listen to you? You can't frighten me. You can't touch me. I have the whole world 
with me!. ..Don't stare at me like that! I've always hated you! You didn't know that, did you? I've 
always hated you! I always will! I'll break you some day, I swear I will, if it's the last thing I do!" 

"Peter," said Roark, "why betray so much?" 

Keating's breath failed on a choked moan. He slumped down on a chair, he sat still, his hands 
clasping the sides of the seat under him. 

After a while he raised his head. He asked woodenly: 

"Oh God, Howard, what have I been saying?" 

"Are you all right now? Can you go?" 

"Howard, I'm sorry. I apologize, if you want me to." His voice was raw and dull, without 
conviction. "I lost my head. Guess I'm just unstrung. I didn't mean any of it. I don't know why I 
said it. Honestly, I don't." 

"Fix your collar. It's unfastened." 

"I guess I was angry about what you did with that check. But I suppose you were insulted, too. 
I'm sorry. I'm stupid like that sometimes. I didn't mean to offend you. We'll just destroy the 
damn thing." 

He picked up the check, struck a match, cautiously watched the paper burn till he had to drop 
the last scrap. 

"Howard, well forget it?" 

"Don't you think you'd better go now?" 

Keating rose heavily, his hands poked about in a few useless gestures, and he mumbled: 

"Well. ..well, good night, Howard. I... I'll see you soon. ...It's because so much's happened to me 
lately.. ..Guess I need a rest. ...So long, Howard...." 

When he stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind him, Keating felt an icy sense of 
relief. He felt heavy and very tired, but drearily sure of himself. He had acquired the 
knowledge of one thing: he hated Roark. It was not necessary to doubt and wonder and 
squirm in uneasiness any longer. It was simple. He hated Roark. The reasons? It was not 
necessary to wonder about the reasons. It was necessary only to hate, to hate blindly, to hate 
patiently, to hate without anger; only to hate, and let nothing intervene, and not let oneself 
forget, ever. 



# 

The telephone rang late on Monday afternoon. 

"Mr. Roark?" said Weidler. "Can you come right over? I don't want to say anything over the 
phone, but get here at once." The voice sounded clear, gay, radiantly premonitory. 

Roark looked at the window, at the clock on the distant tower. He sat laughing at that clock, as 
at a friendly old enemy; he would not need it any longer, he would have a watch of his own 
again. He threw his head back in defiance to that pale gray dial hanging high over the city. 

He rose and reached for his coat. He threw his shoulders back, slipping the coat on; he felt 
pleasure in the jolt of his muscles. 

In the street outside, he took a taxi which he could not afford. 

The chairman of the board was waiting for him in his office, with Weidler and with the vice- 
president of the Manhattan Bank Company. There was a long conference table in the room, 
and Roark's drawings were spread upon it. Weidler rose when he entered and walked to meet 
him, his hand outstretched. It was in the air of the room, like an overture to the words Weidler 
uttered, and Roark was not certain of the moment when he heard them, because he thought 
he had heard them the instant he entered. 

"Well, Mr. Roark, the commission's yours," said Weidler. 

Roark bowed. It was best not to trust his voice for a few minutes. 

The chairman smiled amiably, inviting him to sit down. Roark sat down by the side of the table 
that supported his drawings. His hand rested on the table. The polished mahogany felt warm 
and living under his fingers; it was almost as if he were pressing his hand against the 
foundations of his building; his greatest building, fifty stories to rise in the center of Manhattan. 

"I must tell you," the chairman was saying, "that we've had a hell of a fight over that building of 
yours. Thank God it's over. Some of our members just couldn't swallow your radical 
innovations. You know how stupidly conservative some people are. But we've found a way to 
please them, and we got their consent. Mr. Weidler here was really magnificently convincing 
on your behalf." 

A great deal more was said by the three men. Roark barely heard it. He was thinking of the 
first bite of machine into earth that begins an excavation. Then he heard the chairman saying: 
"...and so it's yours, on one minor condition." He heard that and looked at the chairman. 

"It's a small compromise, and when you agree to it we can sign the contract. It's only an 
inconsequential matter of the building's appearance. I understand that you modernists attach 
no great importance to a mere facade, it's the plan that counts with you, quite rightly, and we 
wouldn't think of altering your plan in any way, it's the logic of the plan that sold us on the 
building. So I'm sure you won't mind." 

"What do you want?" 

"It's only a matter of a slight alteration in the facade. I'll show you. Our Mr. Parker's son is 
studying architecture and we had him draw us up a sketch, just a rough sketch to illustrate 
what we had in mind and to show the members of the board, because they couldn't have 
visualized the compromise we offered. Here it is." 

He pulled a sketch from under the drawings on the table and handed it to Roark. 

It was Roark's building on the sketch, very neatly drawn. It was his building, but it had a 
simplified Doric portico in front, a cornice on top, and his ornament was replaced by a stylized 
Greek ornament. 


Roark got up. He had to stand. He concentrated on the effort of standing. It made the rest 
easier. He leaned on one straight arm, his hand closed over the edge of the table, the tendons 



showing under the skin of his wrist. 


"You see the point?" said the chairman soothingly. "Our conservatives simply refused to 
accept a queer stark building like yours. And they claim that the public won't accept it either. 

So we hit upon the middle course. In this way, though it's not traditional architecture of course, 
it will give the public the impression of what they're accustomed to. It adds a certain air of 
sound, stable dignity--and that's what we want in a bank, isn't it? It does seem to be an 
unwritten law that a bank must have a Classic portico--and a bank is not exactly the right 
institution to parade law-breaking and rebellion. Undermines that intangible feeling of 
confidence, you know. People don't trust novelty. But this is the scheme that pleased 
everybody. Personally, I wouldn't insist on it, but I really don't see that it spoils anything. And 
that's what the board has decided. Of course, we don't mean that we want you to follow this 
sketch. But it gives you our general idea and you'll work it out yourself, make your own 
adaptation of the Classic motive to the facade." 

Then Roark answered. The men could not classify the tone of his voice; they could not decide 
whether it was too great a calm or too great an emotion. They concluded that it was calm, 
because the voice moved forward evenly, without stress, without color, each syllable spaced 
as by a machine; only the air in the room was not the air that vibrates to a calm voice. 

They concluded that there was nothing abnormal in the manner of the man who was 
speaking, except the fact that his right hand would not leave the edge of the table, and when 
he had to move the drawings, he did it with his left hand, like a man with one arm paralyzed. 

He spoke for a long time. He explained why this structure could not have a Classic motive on 
its facade. He explained why an honest building, like an honest man, had to be of one piece 
and one faith; what constituted the life source, the idea in any existing thing or creature, and 
why-if one smallest part committed treason to that idea-the thing of the creature was dead; 
and why the good, the high and the noble on earth was only that which kept its integrity. 

The chairman interrupted him: 

"Mr. Roark, I agree with you. There's no answer to what you're saying. But unfortunately, in 
practical life, one can't always be so flawlessly consistent. There's always the incalculable 
human element of emotion. We can't fight that with cold logic. This discussion is actually 
superfluous. I can agree with you, but I can't help you. The matter is closed. It was the board's 
final decision-after more than usually prolonged consideration, as you know." 

"Will you let me appear before the board and speak to them?" 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Roark, but the board will not re-open the question for further debate. It was 
final. I can only ask you to state whether you agree to accept the commission on our terms or 
not. I must admit that the board has considered the possibility of your refusal. In which case, 
the name of another architect, one Gordon L. Prescott, has been mentioned most favorably as 
an alternative. But I told the board that I felt certain you would accept." 

He waited. Roark said nothing. 

"You understand the situation, Mr. Roark?" 

"Yes," said Roark. His eyes were lowered. He was looking down at the drawings. 

"Well?" 

Roark did not answer. 

"Yes or no, Mr. Roark?" 

Roark's head leaned back. He closed his eyes. 

"No," said Roark. 

After a while the chairman asked: 



"Do you realize what you're doing?" 

"Quite," said Roark. 

"Good God!" Weidler cried suddenly. "Don't you know how big a commission this is? You're a 
young man, you won't get another chance like this. And. ..all right, damn it, I'll say it! You need 
this! I know how badly you need it!" 

Roark gathered the drawings from the table, rolled them together and put them under his arm. 

"It's sheer insanity!" Weidler moaned. "I want you. We want your building. You need the 
commission. Do you have to be quite so fanatical and selfless about it?" 

"What?" Roark asked incredulously. 

"Fanatical and selfless." 

Roark smiled. He looked down at his drawings. His elbow moved a little, pressing them to his 
body. He said: 

"That was the most selfish thing you've ever seen a man do." 

He walked back to his office. He gathered his drawing instruments and the few things he had 
there. It made one package and he carried it under his arm. He locked the door and gave the 
key to the rental agent. He told the agent that he was closing his office. He walked home and 
left the package there. Then he went to Mike Donnigan's house. 

"No?" Mike asked, after one look at him. 

"No," said Roark. 

"What happened?" 

"I'll tell you some other time." 

"The bastards!" 

"Never mind that, Mike." 

"How about the office now?" 

"I've closed the office." 

"For good?" 

"For the time being." 

"God damn them all, Red! God damn them!" 

"Shut up. I need a job, Mike. Can you help me?" 

"Me?" 

"I don't know anyone in those trades here. Not anyone that would want me. You know them 
all." 

"In what trades? What are you talking about?" 

"In the building trades. Structural work. As I've done before." 

"You mean-a plain workman's job?" 



"I mean a plain workman's job." 

"You're crazy, you God-damn fool!" 

"Cut it, Mike. Will you get me a job?" 

"But why in hell? You can get a decent job in an architect's office. You know you can." 

"I won't, Mike. Not ever again." 

"Why?" 

"I don't want to touch it. I don't want to see it. I don't want to help them do what they're doing." 
"You can get a nice clean job in some other line." 

"I would have to think on a nice clean job. I don't want to think. Not their way. It will have to be 
their way, no matter where I go. I want a job where I won't have to think." 

"Architects don't take workmen's jobs." 

"That's all this architect can do." 

"You can learn something in no time." 

"I don't want to learn anything." 

"You mean you want me to get you into a construction gang, here, in town?" 

"That's what I mean." 

"No, God damn you! I can’t! I won't! I won't do it!" 

"Why?" 

"Red, to be putting yourself up like a show for all the bastards in this town to see? For all the 
sons of bitches to know they brought you down like this? For all of them to gloat?" 

Roark laughed. 

"I don't give a damn about that, Mike. Why should you?" 

"Well, I'm not letting you. I'm not giving the sons of bitches that kinda treat." 

"Mike," Roark said softly, "there's nothing else for me to do." 

"Hell, yes, there is. I told you before. You'll be listening to reason now. I got all the dough you 
need until..." 

"I'll tell you what I've told Austen Heller: If you ever offer me money again, that'll be the end 
between us." 

"But why?" 

"Don't argue, Mike." 

"But..." 

"I'm asking you to do me a bigger favor. I want that job. You don't have to feel sorry for me. I 
don't." 

"But. ..but what'll happen to you, Red?" 



'Where?' 


"I mean. ..your future?" 

"I'll save enough money and I'll come back. Or maybe someone will send for me before then." 

Mike looked at him. He saw something in Roark's eyes which he knew Roark did not want to 
be there. 

"Okay, Red," said Mike softly. 

He thought it over for a long time. He said: 

"Listen, Red, I won't get you a job in town. I just can't. It turns my stomach to think of it. But I'll 
get you something in the same line." 

"All right. Anything. It doesn't make any difference to me." 

"I've worked for all of that bastard Francon's pet contractors for so long I know everybody ever 
worked for him. He’s got a granite quarry down in Connecticut. One of the foremen's a great 
pal of mine. He’s in town right now. Ever worked in a quarry before?" 

"Once. Long ago." 

"Think you'll like that?" 

"Sure." 

"I'll go see him. We won't be telling him who you are, just a friend of mine, that's all." 

"Thanks, Mike." 

Mike reached for his coat, and then his hands fell back, and he looked at the floor. 

"Red..." 

"It will be all right, Mike." 

Roark walked home. It was dark and the street was deserted. There was a strong wind. He 
could feel the cold, whistling pressure strike his cheeks. It was the only evidence of the flow 
ripping the air. Nothing moved in the stone corridor about him. There was not a tree to stir, no 
curtains, no awnings; only naked masses of stone, glass, asphalt and sharp corners. It was 
strange to feel that fierce movement against his face. But in a trash basket on a corner a 
crumpled sheet of newspaper was rustling, beating convulsively against the wire mesh. It 
made the wind real. 

# 

In the evening, two days later, Roark left for Connecticut. 

From the train, he looked back once at the skyline of the city as it flashed into sight and was 
held for some moments beyond the windows. The twilight had washed off the details of the 
buildings. They rose in thin shafts of a soft, porcelain blue, a color not of real things, but of 
evening and distance. They rose in bare outlines, like empty molds waiting to be filled. The 
distance had flattened the city. The single shafts stood immeasurably tall, out of scale to the 
rest of the earth. They were of their own world, and they held up to the sky the statement of 
what man had conceived and made possible. They were empty molds. But man had come so 
far; he could go farther. The city on the edge of the sky held a question-and a promise. 

# 

Little pinheads of light flared up about the peak of one famous tower, in the windows of the 
Star Roof Restaurant. Then the train swerved around a bend and the city vanished. 

That evening, in the banquet hall of the Star Roof Restaurant, a dinner was held to celebrate 



the admittance of Peter Keating to partnership in the firm to be known henceforward as 
Francon & Keating. 

At the long table that seemed covered, not with a tablecloth, but with a sheet of light, sat Guy 
Francon. Somehow, tonight, he did not mind the streaks of silver that appeared on his 
temples; they sparkled crisply against the black of his hair and they gave him an air of 
cleanliness and elegance, like the rigid white of his shirt against his black evening clothes. In 
the place of honor sat Peter Keating. He leaned back, his shoulders straight, his hand closed 
about the stem of a glass. His black curls glistened against his white forehead. In that one 
moment of silence, the guests felt no envy, no resentment, no malice. There was a grave 
feeling of brotherhood in the room, in the presence of the pale, handsome boy who looked 
solemn as at his first communion. Ralston Holcombe had risen to speak. He stood, his glass 
in hand. He had prepared his speech, but he was astonished to hear himself saying 
something quite different, in a voice of complete sincerity. He said: 

"We are the guardians of a great human function. Perhaps of the greatest function among the 
endeavors of man. We have achieved much and we have erred often. But we are willing in all 
humility to make way for our heirs. We are only men and we are only seekers. But we seek for 
truth with the best there is in our hearts. We seek with what there is of the sublime granted to 
the race of men. It is a great quest. To the future of American Architecture!" 


Part Two: ELLSWORTH M. TOOHEY 

D R A C U L A

---

CHAPTER I

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

(Kept in shorthand.)

3 May. Bistritz.—Left Munich at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the East; the most western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish rule.

We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh. Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (Mem., get recipe for Mina.) I asked the waiter, and he said it was called “paprika hendl,” and that, as it was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed, I don’t know how I should be able to get on without it.

Having had some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the British Museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. I find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, Transylvania, Moldavia and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk over my travels with Mina.

In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: Saxons in the South, and mixed with them the Wallachs, who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the West, and Szekelys in the East and North. I am going among the latter, who claim to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the Huns settled in it. I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (Mem., I must ask the Count all about them.)

I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was “mamaliga,” and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call “impletata.” (Mem., get recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 I had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. It seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What ought they to be in China?

All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those I saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets and round hats and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there were petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails. They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.

It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is a very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier—for the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina—it has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five separate occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century it underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of war proper being assisted by famine and disease.

Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of course I wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country. I was evidently expected, for when I got near the door I faced a cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress—white undergarment with long double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty. When I came close she bowed and said, “The Herr Englishman?” “Yes,” I said, “Jonathan Harker.” She smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white shirt-sleeves, who had followed her to the door. He went, but immediately returned with a letter:--

4 May.—I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count, directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he answered my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort of way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means comforting.

Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a very hysterical way:

“Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?” She was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at all. I was just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important business, she asked again:

“Do you know what day it is?” I answered that it was the fourth of May. She shook her head as she said again:

“Oh, yes! I know that! I know that, but do you know what day it is?” On my saying that I did not understand, she went on:

“It is the eve of St. George’s Day. Do you not know that to-night, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?” She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but without effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very ridiculous but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a state of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round my neck, and said, “For your mother’s sake,” and went out of the room. I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I am waiting for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round my neck. Whether it is the old lady’s fear, or the many ghostly traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here comes the coach!

 

5 May. The Castle.—The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on what they called “robber steak”—bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple style of the London cat’s meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.

When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I saw him talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door—which they call by a name meaning “word-bearer”—came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were “Ordog”—Satan, “pokol”—hell, “stregoica”—witch, “vrolok” and “vlkoslak”—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions)

When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but every one seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse which I had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the box-seat—“gotza” they call them—cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey.

I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom—apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the “Mittel Land” ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was always really at loading point.

Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us:--

“Look! Isten szek!”—“God’s seat!”—and he crossed himself reverently.

As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This was emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here and there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There were many things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. Now and again we passed a leiter-wagon—the ordinary peasant’s cart—with its long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their coloured, sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell it began to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the Pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background of late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes the hills were so steep that, despite our driver’s haste, the horses could only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home, but the driver would not hear of it. “No, no,” he said; “you must not walk here; the dogs are too fierce”; and then he added, with what he evidently meant for grim pleasantry—for he looked round to catch the approving smile of the rest—“and you may have enough of such matters before you go to sleep.” The only stop he would make was a moment’s pause to light his lamps.

When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each side and to frown down upon us; we were entering on the Borgo Pass. One by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed upon me with an earnestness which would take no denial; these were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which I had seen outside the hotel at Bistritz—the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye. Then, as we flew along, the driver leaned forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was evident that something very exciting was either happening or expected, but though I asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest explanation. This state of excitement kept on for some little time; and at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern side. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the glare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light was the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could see now the sandy road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle. The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; I thought it was “An hour less than the time.” Then turning to me, he said in German worse than my own:--

“There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected after all. He will now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better the next day.” Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of themselves, a calèche, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the flash of our lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us. He said to the driver:--

“You are early to-night, my friend.” The man stammered in reply:--

“The English Herr was in a hurry,” to which the stranger replied:--

“That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift.” As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s “Lenore”:--

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. “Give me the Herr’s luggage,” said the driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the calèche. Then I descended from the side of the coach, as the calèche was close alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been prodigious. Without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept into the darkness of the Pass. As I looked back I saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves. Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept on their way to Bukovina. As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in excellent German:--

“The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you should require it.” I did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. I felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. I think had there been any alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground again; and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was so. I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention to delay. By-and-by, however, as I was curious to know how time was passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch; it was within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road—a long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright. Then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling—that of wolves—which affected both the horses and myself in the same way—for I was minded to jump from the calèche and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting. In a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before them. He petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as I have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though they still trembled. The driver again took his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. This time, after going to the far side of the Pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which ran sharply to the right.

Soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the roadway till we passed as through a tunnel; and again great frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either side. Though we were in shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept along. It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket. The keen wind still carried the howling of the dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on our way. The baying of the wolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every side. I grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear. The driver, however, was not in the least disturbed; he kept turning his head to left and right, but I could not see anything through the darkness.

Suddenly, away on our left, I saw a faint flickering blue flame. The driver saw it at the same moment; he at once checked the horses, and, jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. I did not know what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but while I wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. I think I must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare. Once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness around us I could watch the driver’s motions. He went rapidly to where the blue flame arose—it must have been very faint, for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all—and gathering a few stones, formed them into some device. Once there appeared a strange optical effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same. This startled me, but as the effect was only momentary, I took it that my eyes deceived me straining through the darkness. Then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle.

At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true import.

All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see; but the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side; and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach. I shouted and beat the side of the calèche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness.

When I could see again the driver was climbing into the calèche, and the wolves had disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. We kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main always ascending. Suddenly, I became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit sky.

CHAPTER II

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL--continued

5 May.—I must have been asleep, for certainly if I had been fully awake I must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. In the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark ways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than it really is. I have not yet been able to see it by daylight.

When the calèche stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand to assist me to alight. Again I could not but notice his prodigious strength. His hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had chosen. Then he took out my traps, and placed them on the ground beside me as I stood close to a great door, old and studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of massive stone. I could see even in the dim light that the stone was massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and weather. As I stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook the reins; the horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared down one of the dark openings.

I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do. Of bell or knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked? Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor’s clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor’s clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of the morning.

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.

Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door. The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation:--

“Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!” He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. The instant, however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as ice—more like the hand of a dead than a living man. Again he said:--

“Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!” The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking; so to make sure, I said interrogatively:--

“Count Dracula?” He bowed in a courtly way as he replied:--

“I am Dracula; and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in; the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest.” As he was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage; he had carried it in before I could forestall him. I protested but he insisted:--

“Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available. Let me see to your comfort myself.” He insisted on carrying my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang heavily. At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished, flamed and flared.

The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a welcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with another log fire,—also added to but lately, for the top logs were fresh—which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the door:--

“You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared.”

The light and warmth and the Count’s courteous welcome seemed to have dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal state, I discovered that I was half famished with hunger; so making a hasty toilet, I went into the other room.

I found supper already laid out. My host, who stood on one side of the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of his hand to the table, and said:--

“I pray you, be seated and sup how you please. You will, I trust, excuse me that I do not join you; but I have dined already, and I do not sup.”

I handed to him the sealed letter which Mr. Hawkins had entrusted to me. He opened it and read it gravely; then, with a charming smile, he handed it to me to read. One passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure.

“I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters.”

The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of old Tokay, of which I had two glasses, was my supper. During the time I was eating it the Count asked me many questions as to my journey, and I told him by degrees all I had experienced.

By this time I had finished my supper, and by my host’s desire had drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he offered me, at the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke. I had now an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very marked physiognomy.

His face was a strong—a very strong—aquiline, with high bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse—broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal. The Count, evidently noticing it, drew back; and with a grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done his protuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of the fireplace. We were both silent for a while; and as I looked towards the window I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard as if from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. The Count’s eyes gleamed, and he said:--

“Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!” Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added:--

“Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.” Then he rose and said:--

“But you must be tired. Your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you shall sleep as late as you will. I have to be away till the afternoon; so sleep well and dream well!” With a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the octagonal room, and I entered my bedroom....

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!

 

7 May.—It is again early morning, but I have rested and enjoyed the last twenty-four hours. I slept till late in the day, and awoke of my own accord. When I had dressed myself I went into the room where we had supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the pot being placed on the hearth. There was a card on the table, on which was written:--

“I have to be absent for a while. Do not wait for me.—D.” I set to and enjoyed a hearty meal. When I had done, I looked for a bell, so that I might let the servants know I had finished; but I could not find one. There are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. The table service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value. The curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old, though in excellent order. I saw something like them in Hampton Court, but there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. But still in none of the rooms is there a mirror. There is not even a toilet glass on my table, and I had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before I could either shave or brush my hair. I have not yet seen a servant anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves. Some time after I had finished my meal—I do not know whether to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six o’clock when I had it—I looked about for something to read, for I did not like to go about the castle until I had asked the Count’s permission. There was absolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing materials; so I opened another door in the room and found a sort of library. The door opposite mine I tried, but found it locked.

In the library I found, to my great delight, a vast number of English books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. A table in the centre was littered with English magazines and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. The books were of the most varied kind—history, geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law—all relating to England and English life and customs and manners. There were even such books of reference as the London Directory, the “Red” and “Blue” books, Whitaker’s Almanac, the Army and Navy Lists, and—it somehow gladdened my heart to see it—the Law List.

Whilst I was looking at the books, the door opened, and the Count entered. He saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that I had had a good night’s rest. Then he went on:--

“I am glad you found your way in here, for I am sure there is much that will interest you. These companions”—and he laid his hand on some of the books—“have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since I had the idea of going to London, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. Through them I have come to know your great England; and to know her is to love her. I long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty London, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. But alas! as yet I only know your tongue through books. To you, my friend, I look that I know it to speak.”

“But, Count,” I said, “you know and speak English thoroughly!” He bowed gravely.

“I thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet I fear that I am but a little way on the road I would travel. True, I know the grammar and the words, but yet I know not how to speak them.”

“Indeed,” I said, “you speak excellently.”

“Not so,” he answered. “Well, I know that, did I move and speak in your London, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. That is not enough for me. Here I am noble; I am boyar; the common people know me, and I am master. But a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men know him not—and to know not is to care not for. I am content if I am like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his speaking if he hear my words, ‘Ha, ha! a stranger!’ I have been so long master that I would be master still—or at least that none other should be master of me. You come to me not alone as agent of my friend Peter Hawkins, of Exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in London. You shall, I trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking I may learn the English intonation; and I would that you tell me when I make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. I am sorry that I had to be away so long to-day; but you will, I know, forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand.”

Of course I said all I could about being willing, and asked if I might come into that room when I chose. He answered: “Yes, certainly,” and added:--

“You may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are locked, where of course you will not wish to go. There is reason that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand.” I said I was sure of this, and then he went on:--

“We are in Transylvania; and Transylvania is not England. Our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. Nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be.”

This led to much conversation; and as it was evident that he wanted to talk, if only for talking’s sake, I asked him many questions regarding things that had already happened to me or come within my notice. Sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by pretending not to understand; but generally he answered all I asked most frankly. Then as time went on, and I had got somewhat bolder, I asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as, for instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the blue flames. He then explained to me that it was commonly believed that on a certain night of the year—last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are supposed to have unchecked sway—a blue flame is seen over any place where treasure has been concealed. “That treasure has been hidden,” he went on, “in the region through which you came last night, there can be but little doubt; for it was the ground fought over for centuries by the Wallachian, the Saxon, and the Turk. Why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders. In old days there were stirring times, when the Austrian and the Hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them—men and women, the aged and the children too—and waited their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with their artificial avalanches. When the invader was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly soil.”

“But how,” said I, “can it have remained so long undiscovered, when there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?” The Count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely; he answered:--

“Because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! Those flames only appear on one night; and on that night no man of this land will, if he can help it, stir without his doors. And, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what to do. Why, even the peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight even for his own work. Even you would not, I dare be sworn, be able to find these places again?”

“There you are right,” I said. “I know no more than the dead where even to look for them.” Then we drifted into other matters.

“Come,” he said at last, “tell me of London and of the house which you have procured for me.” With an apology for my remissness, I went into my own room to get the papers from my bag. Whilst I was placing them in order I heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as I passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. The lamps were also lit in the study or library, and I found the Count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an English Bradshaw’s Guide. When I came in he cleared the books and papers from the table; and with him I went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. He was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its surroundings. He clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much more than I did. When I remarked this, he answered:--

“Well, but, my friend, is it not needful that I should? When I go there I shall be all alone, and my friend Harker Jonathan—nay, pardon me, I fall into my country’s habit of putting your patronymic first—my friend Jonathan Harker will not be by my side to correct and aid me. He will be in Exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law with my other friend, Peter Hawkins. So!”

We went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at Purfleet. When I had told him the facts and got his signature to the necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to Mr. Hawkins, he began to ask me how I had come across so suitable a place. I read to him the notes which I had made at the time, and which I inscribe here:--

“At Purfleet, on a by-road, I came across just such a place as seemed to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place was for sale. It is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of years. The closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with rust.

“The estate is called Carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old Quatre Face, as the house is four-sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. It contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned. There are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. The house is very large and of all periods back, I should say, to mediæval times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. It looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. I could not enter it, as I had not the key of the door leading to it from the house, but I have taken with my kodak views of it from various points. The house has been added to, but in a very straggling way, and I can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very great. There are but few houses close at hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum. It is not, however, visible from the grounds.”

When I had finished, he said:--

“I am glad that it is old and big. I myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me. A house cannot be made habitable in a day; and, after all, how few days go to make up a century. I rejoice also that there is a chapel of old times. We Transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. I seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. I am no longer young; and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to mirth. Moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. I love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when I may.” Somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his smile look malignant and saturnine.

Presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers together. He was some little time away, and I began to look at some of the books around me. One was an atlas, which I found opened naturally at England, as if that map had been much used. On looking at it I found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining these I noticed that one was near London on the east side, manifestly where his new estate was situated; the other two were Exeter, and Whitby on the Yorkshire coast.

It was the better part of an hour when the Count returned. “Aha!” he said; “still at your books? Good! But you must not work always. Come; I am informed that your supper is ready.” He took my arm, and we went into the next room, where I found an excellent supper ready on the table. The Count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being away from home. But he sat as on the previous night, and chatted whilst I ate. After supper I smoked, as on the last evening, and the Count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after hour. I felt that it was getting very late indeed, but I did not say anything, for I felt under obligation to meet my host’s wishes in every way. I was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified me; but I could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. They say that people who are near death die generally at the change to the dawn or at the turn of the tide; any one who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post, experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. All at once we heard the crow of a cock coming up with preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air; Count Dracula, jumping to his feet, said:--

“Why, there is the morning again! How remiss I am to let you stay up so long. You must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of England less interesting, so that I may not forget how time flies by us,” and, with a courtly bow, he quickly left me.

I went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little to notice; my window opened into the courtyard, all I could see was the warm grey of quickening sky. So I pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day.

 

8 May.—I began to fear as I wrote in this book that I was getting too diffuse; but now I am glad that I went into detail from the first, for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that I cannot but feel uneasy. I wish I were safe out of it, or that I had never come. It may be that this strange night-existence is telling on me; but would that that were all! If there were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with, and he!—I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place. Let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. If it does I am lost. Let me say at once how I stand—or seem to.

I only slept a few hours when I went to bed, and feeling that I could not sleep any more, got up. I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count’s voice saying to me, “Good-morning.” I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. In starting I had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. Having answered the Count’s salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed; but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself. This was startling, and, coming on the top of so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which I always have when the Count is near; but at the instant I saw that the cut had bled a little, and the blood was trickling over my chin. I laid down the razor, turning as I did so half round to look for some sticking plaster. When the Count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. I drew away, and his hand touched the string of beads which held the crucifix. It made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so quickly that I could hardly believe that it was ever there.

“Take care,” he said, “take care how you cut yourself. It is more dangerous than you think in this country.” Then seizing the shaving glass, he went on: “And this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. It is a foul bauble of man’s vanity. Away with it!” and opening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. Then he withdrew without a word. It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal.

When I went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but I could not find the Count anywhere. So I breakfasted alone. It is strange that as yet I have not seen the Count eat or drink. He must be a very peculiar man! After breakfast I did a little exploring in the castle. I went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the South. The view was magnificent, and from where I stood there was every opportunity of seeing it. The castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice. A stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without touching anything! As far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. Here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests.

But I am not in heart to describe beauty, for when I had seen the view I explored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. In no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit.

The castle is a veritable prison, and I am a prisoner!

CHAPTER III

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL--continued

WHEN I found that I was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me. I rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window I could find; but after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered all other feelings. When I look back after a few hours I think I must have been mad for the time, for I behaved much as a rat does in a trap. When, however, the conviction had come to me that I was helpless I sat down quietly—as quietly as I have ever done anything in my life—and began to think over what was best to be done. I am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. Of one thing only am I certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to the Count. He knows well that I am imprisoned; and as he has done it himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me if I trusted him fully with the facts. So far as I can see, my only plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. I am, I know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else I am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, I need, and shall need, all my brains to get through.

I had hardly come to this conclusion when I heard the great door below shut, and knew that the Count had returned. He did not come at once into the library, so I went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. This was odd, but only confirmed what I had all along thought—that there were no servants in the house. When later I saw him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the dining-room, I was assured of it; for if he does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them. This gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it must have been the Count himself who was the driver of the coach that brought me here. This is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand in silence. How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? Bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever I touch it. It is odd that a thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it. In the meantime I must find out all I can about Count Dracula, as it may help me to understand. To-night he may talk of himself, if I turn the conversation that way. I must be very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion.

 

Midnight.—I have had a long talk with the Count. I asked him a few questions on Transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject wonderfully. In his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. This he afterwards explained by saying that to a boyar the pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their fate is his fate. Whenever he spoke of his house he always said “we,” and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. I wish I could put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most fascinating. It seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. He grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though he would crush it by main strength. One thing he said which I shall put down as nearly as I can; for it tells in its way the story of his race:--

“We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. Here, in the whirlpool of European races, the Ugric tribe bore down from Iceland the fighting spirit which Thor and Wodin gave them, which their Berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of Europe, ay, and of Asia and Africa too, till the peoples thought that the were-wolves themselves had come. Here, too, when they came, they found the Huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled from Scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. Fools, fools! What devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila, whose blood is in these veins?” He held up his arms. “Is it a wonder that we were a conquering race; that we were proud; that when the Magyar, the Lombard, the Avar, the Bulgar, or the Turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? Is it strange that when Arpad and his legions swept through the Hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier; that the Honfoglalas was completed there? And when the Hungarian flood swept eastward, the Szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious Magyars, and to us for centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of Turkey-land; ay, and more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the Turks say, ‘water sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.’ Who more gladly than we throughout the Four Nations received the ‘bloody sword,’ or at its warlike call flocked quicker to the standard of the King? When was redeemed that great shame of my nation, the shame of Cassova, when the flags of the Wallach and the Magyar went down beneath the Crescent? Who was it but one of my own race who as Voivode crossed the Danube and beat the Turk on his own ground? This was a Dracula indeed! Woe was it that his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the Turk and brought the shame of slavery on them! Was it not this Dracula, indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and again brought his forces over the great river into Turkey-land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph! They said that he thought only of himself. Bah! what good are peasants without a leader? Where ends the war without a brain and heart to conduct it? Again, when, after the battle of Mohács, we threw off the Hungarian yoke, we of the Dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not free. Ah, young sir, the Szekelys—and the Dracula as their heart’s blood, their brains, and their swords—can boast a record that mushroom growths like the Hapsburgs and the Romanoffs can never reach. The warlike days are over. Blood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable peace; and the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told.”

It was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (Mem., this diary seems horribly like the beginning of the “Arabian Nights,” for everything has to break off at cockcrow—or like the ghost of Hamlet’s father.)

 

12 May.—Let me begin with facts—bare, meagre facts, verified by books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. I must not confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own observation, or my memory of them. Last evening when the Count came from his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the doing of certain kinds of business. I had spent the day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of the matters I had been examined in at Lincoln’s Inn. There was a certain method in the Count’s inquiries, so I shall try to put them down in sequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me.

First, he asked if a man in England might have two solicitors or more. I told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate against his interest. He seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the home of the banking solicitor. I asked him to explain more fully, so that I might not by any chance mislead him, so he said:--

“I shall illustrate. Your friend and mine, Mr. Peter Hawkins, from under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at Exeter, which is far from London, buys for me through your good self my place at London. Good! Now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that I have sought the services of one so far off from London instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest might be served save my wish only; and as one of London residence might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, I went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. Now, suppose I, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to Newcastle, or Durham, or Harwich, or Dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?” I answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man, could have his wishes carried out by him without further trouble.

“But,” said he, “I could be at liberty to direct myself. Is it not so?”

“Of course,” I replied; and “such is often done by men of business, who do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person.”

“Good!” he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded against. I explained all these things to him to the best of my ability, and he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or foresee. For a man who was never in the country, and who did not evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were wonderful. When he had satisfied himself on these points of which he had spoken, and I had verified all as well as I could by the books available, he suddenly stood up and said:--

“Have you written since your first letter to our friend Mr. Peter Hawkins, or to any other?” It was with some bitterness in my heart that I answered that I had not, that as yet I had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody.

“Then write now, my young friend,” he said, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder: “write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now.”

“Do you wish me to stay so long?” I asked, for my heart grew cold at the thought.

“I desire it much; nay, I will take no refusal. When your master, employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. I have not stinted. Is it not so?”

What could I do but bow acceptance? It was Mr. Hawkins’s interest, not mine, and I had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while Count Dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember that I was a prisoner, and that if I wished it I could have no choice. The Count saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth, resistless way:--

“I pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things other than business in your letters. It will doubtless please your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. Is it not so?” As he spoke he handed me three sheets of note-paper and three envelopes. They were all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, I understood as well as if he had spoken that I should be careful what I wrote, for he would be able to read it. So I determined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to Mr. Hawkins in secret, and also to Mina, for to her I could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the Count, if he did see it. When I had written my two letters I sat quiet, reading a book whilst the Count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his table. Then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed behind him, I leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. I felt no compunction in doing so, for under the circumstances I felt that I should protect myself in every way I could.

One of the letters was directed to Samuel F. Billington, No. 7, The Crescent, Whitby, another to Herr Leutner, Varna; the third was to Coutts & Co., London, and the fourth to Herren Klopstock & Billreuth, bankers, Buda-Pesth. The second and fourth were unsealed. I was just about to look at them when I saw the door-handle move. I sank back in my seat, having just had time to replace the letters as they had been and to resume my book before the Count, holding still another letter in his hand, entered the room. He took up the letters on the table and stamped them carefully, and then turning to me, said:--

“I trust you will forgive me, but I have much work to do in private this evening. You will, I hope, find all things as you wish.” At the door he turned, and after a moment’s pause said:--

“Let me advise you, my dear young friend—nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. Be warned! Should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. But if you be not careful in this respect, then”—He finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. I quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me.

 

Later.—I endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in question. I shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. I have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed—I imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain.

When he left me I went to my room. After a little while, not hearing any sound, I came out and went up the stone stair to where I could look out towards the South. There was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard. Looking out on this, I felt that I was indeed in prison, and I seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. I am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me. It is destroying my nerve. I start at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. God knows that there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! I looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as day. In the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. The mere beauty seemed to cheer me; there was peace and comfort in every breath I drew. As I leaned from the window my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat to my left, where I imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the windows of the Count’s own room would look out. The window at which I stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete; but it was evidently many a day since the case had been there. I drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully out.

What I saw was the Count’s head coming out from the window. I did not see the face, but I knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. In any case I could not mistake the hands which I had had so many opportunities of studying. I was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. At first I could not believe my eyes. I thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but I kept looking, and it could be no delusion. I saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall.

What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; I am in fear—in awful fear—and there is no escape for me; I am encompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of....

 

15 May.—Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion. He moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good deal to the left. He vanished into some hole or window. When his head had disappeared, I leaned out to try and see more, but without avail—the distance was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. I knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the opportunity to explore more than I had dared to do as yet. I went back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. They were all locked, as I had expected, and the locks were comparatively new; but I went down the stone stairs to the hall where I had entered originally. I found I could pull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains; but the door was locked, and the key was gone! That key must be in the Count’s room; I must watch should his door be unlocked, so that I may get it and escape. I went on to make a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try the doors that opened from them. One or two small rooms near the hall were open, but there was nothing to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and moth-eaten. At last, however, I found one door at the top of the stairway which, though it seemed to be locked, gave a little under pressure. I tried it harder, and found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. Here was an opportunity which I might not have again, so I exerted myself, and with many efforts forced it back so that I could enter. I was now in a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms I knew and a storey lower down. From the windows I could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. On the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. The castle was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. To the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. This was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more air of comfort than any I had seen. The windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and the moth. My lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but I was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. Still, it was better than living alone in the rooms which I had come to hate from the presence of the Count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, I found a soft quietude come over me. Here I am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since I closed it last. It is nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. And yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere “modernity” cannot kill.

 

Later: the Morning of 16 May.—God preserve my sanity, for to this I am reduced. Safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. Whilst I live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that I may not go mad, if, indeed, I be not mad already. If I be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the Count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone I can look for safety, even though this be only whilst I can serve his purpose. Great God! merciful God! Let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed. I begin to get new lights on certain things which have puzzled me. Up to now I never quite knew what Shakespeare meant when he made Hamlet say:--

for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.

The Count’s mysterious warning frightened me at the time; it frightens me more now when I think of it, for in future he has a fearful hold upon me. I shall fear to doubt what he may say!

When I had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen in my pocket I felt sleepy. The Count’s warning came into my mind, but I took a pleasure in disobeying it. The sense of sleep was upon me, and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. The soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of freedom which refreshed me. I determined not to return to-night to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. I drew a great couch out of its place near the corner, so that as I lay, I could look at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for the dust, composed myself for sleep. I suppose I must have fallen asleep; I hope so, but I fear, for all that followed was startlingly real—so real that now sitting here in the broad, full sunlight of the morning, I cannot in the least believe that it was all sleep.

I was not alone. The room was the same, unchanged in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where I had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. In the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. I thought at the time that I must be dreaming when I saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor. They came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered together. Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and great dark, piercing eyes that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. It is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet Mina’s eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all three laughed—such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her on. One said:--

“Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to begin.” The other added:--

“He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.” I lay quiet, looking out under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation. The fair girl advanced and bent over me till I could feel the movement of her breath upon me. Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.

I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one’s flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer—nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited—waited with beating heart.

But at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as lightning. I was conscious of the presence of the Count, and of his being as if lapped in a storm of fury. As my eyes opened involuntarily I saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant’s power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion. But the Count! Never did I imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. His eyes were positively blazing. The red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them. His face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires; the thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of white-hot metal. With a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back; it was the same imperious gesture that I had seen used to the wolves. In a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through the air and then ring round the room he said:--

“How dare you touch him, any of you? How dare you cast eyes on him when I had forbidden it? Back, I tell you all! This man belongs to me! Beware how you meddle with him, or you’ll have to deal with me.” The fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:--

“You yourself never loved; you never love!” On this the other women joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure of fiends. Then the Count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:--

“Yes, I too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. Is it not so? Well, now I promise you that when I am done with him you shall kiss him at your will. Now go! go! I must awaken him, for there is work to be done.”

“Are we to have nothing to-night?” said one of them, with a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it. For answer he nodded his head. One of the women jumped forward and opened it. If my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a half-smothered child. The women closed round, whilst I was aghast with horror; but as I looked they disappeared, and with them the dreadful bag. There was no door near them, and they could not have passed me without my noticing. They simply seemed to fade into the rays of the moonlight and pass out through the window, for I could see outside the dim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely faded away.

Then the horror overcame me, and I sank down unconscious.

CHAPTER IV

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL--continued

I AWOKE in my own bed. If it be that I had not dreamt, the Count must have carried me here. I tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but could not arrive at any unquestionable result. To be sure, there were certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by in a manner which was not my habit. My watch was still unwound, and I am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to bed, and many such details. But these things are no proof, for they may have been evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause or another, I had certainly been much upset. I must watch for proof. Of one thing I am glad: if it was that the Count carried me here and undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. I am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not have brooked. He would have taken or destroyed it. As I look round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who were—who are—waiting to suck my blood.

 

18 May.—I have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for I must know the truth. When I got to the doorway at the top of the stairs I found it closed. It had been so forcibly driven against the jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. I could see that the bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside. I fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise.

 

19 May.—I am surely in the toils. Last night the Count asked me in the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here was nearly done, and that I should start for home within a few days, another that I was starting on the next morning from the time of the letter, and the third that I had left the castle and arrived at Bistritz. I would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the Count whilst I am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. He knows that I know too much, and that I must not live, lest I be dangerous to him; my only chance is to prolong my opportunities. Something may occur which will give me a chance to escape. I saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him. He explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends; and he assured me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the later letters, which would be held over at Bistritz until due time in case chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to create new suspicion. I therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked him what dates I should put on the letters. He calculated a minute, and then said:--

“The first should be June 12, the second June 19, and the third June 29.”

I know now the span of my life. God help me!

 

28 May.—There is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to send word home. A band of Szgany have come to the castle, and are encamped in the courtyard. These Szgany are gipsies; I have notes of them in my book. They are peculiar to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. There are thousands of them in Hungary and Transylvania, who are almost outside all law. They attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or boyar, and call themselves by his name. They are fearless and without religion, save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the Romany tongue.

I shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them posted. I have already spoken them through my window to begin acquaintanceship. They took their hats off and made obeisance and many signs, which, however, I could not understand any more than I could their spoken language....

 

I have written the letters. Mina’s is in shorthand, and I simply ask Mr. Hawkins to communicate with her. To her I have explained my situation, but without the horrors which I may only surmise. It would shock and frighten her to death were I to expose my heart to her. Should the letters not carry, then the Count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowledge....

 

I have given the letters; I threw them through the bars of my window with a gold piece, and made what signs I could to have them posted. The man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. I could do no more. I stole back to the study, and began to read. As the Count did not come in, I have written here....

 

The Count has come. He sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened two letters:--

“The Szgany has given me these, of which, though I know not whence they come, I shall, of course, take care. See!”—he must have looked at it—“one is from you, and to my friend Peter Hawkins; the other”—here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly—“the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! It is not signed. Well! so it cannot matter to us.” And he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. Then he went on:--

“The letter to Hawkins—that I shall, of course, send on, since it is yours. Your letters are sacred to me. Your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly I did break the seal. Will you not cover it again?” He held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. I could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. When he went out of the room I could hear the key turn softly. A minute later I went over and tried it, and the door was locked.

When, an hour or two after, the Count came quietly into the room, his coming awakened me, for I had gone to sleep on the sofa. He was very courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that I had been sleeping, he said:--

“So, my friend, you are tired? Get to bed. There is the surest rest. I may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours to me; but you will sleep, I pray.” I passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. Despair has its own calms.

 

31 May.—This morning when I woke I thought I would provide myself with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so that I might write in case I should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a shock!

Every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that might be useful to me were I once outside the castle. I sat and pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and I made search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where I had placed my clothes.

The suit in which I had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and rug; I could find no trace of them anywhere. This looked like some new scheme of villainy....

 

17 June.—This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling my brains, I heard without a cracking of whips and pounding and scraping of horses’ feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard. With joy I hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a Slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. They had also their long staves in hand. I ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the main hall, as I thought that way might be opened for them. Again a shock: my door was fastened on the outside.

Then I ran to the window and cried to them. They looked up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the “hetman” of the Szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they laughed. Henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised entreaty, would make them even look at me. They resolutely turned away. The leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the Slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. When they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the yard, the Slovaks were given some money by the Szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse’s head. Shortly afterwards, I heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance.

 

24 June, before morning.—Last night the Count left me early, and locked himself into his own room. As soon as I dared I ran up the winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. I thought I would watch for the Count, for there is something going on. The Szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some kind. I know it, for now and then I hear a far-away muffled sound as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some ruthless villainy.

I had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when I saw something coming out of the Count’s window. I drew back and watched carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. It was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which I had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which I had seen the women take away. There could be no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! This, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave evidence that I have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me.

It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a criminal’s right and consolation.

I thought I would watch for the Count’s return, and for a long time sat doggedly at the window. Then I began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. They were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. I watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. I leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that I could enjoy more fully the aërial gambolling.

Something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. Louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. I felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. I was becoming hypnotised! Quicker and quicker danced the dust; the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. More and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. And then I started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. The phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three ghostly women to whom I was doomed. I fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp was burning brightly.

When a couple of hours had passed I heard something stirring in the Count’s room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. With a beating heart, I tried the door; but I was locked in my prison, and could do nothing. I sat down and simply cried.

As I sat I heard a sound in the courtyard without—the agonised cry of a woman. I rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between the bars. There, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over her heart as one distressed with running. She was leaning against a corner of the gateway. When she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:--

“Monster, give me my child!”

She threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same words in tones which wrung my heart. Then she tore her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant emotion. Finally, she threw herself forward, and, though I could not see her, I could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door.

Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. His call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. Before many minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard.

There was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but short. Before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips.

I could not pity her, for I knew now what had become of her child, and she was better dead.

What shall I do? what can I do? How can I escape from this dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear?

 

25 June, morning.—No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. When the sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. My fear fell from me as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. I must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. Last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the earth.

Let me not think of it. Action!

It has always been at night-time that I have been molested or threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. I have not yet seen the Count in the daylight. Can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep? If I could only get into his room! But there is no possible way. The door is always locked, no way for me.

Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window? The chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. I shall risk it. At the worst it can only be death; and a man’s death is not a calf’s, and the dreaded Hereafter may still be open to me. God help me in my task! Good-bye, Mina, if I fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and second father; good-bye, all, and last of all Mina!

 

Same day, later.—I have made the effort, and God, helping me, have come safely back to this room. I must put down every detail in order. I went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs around the building on this side. The stones are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. I took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. I looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. I knew pretty well the direction and distance of the Count’s window, and made for it as well as I could, having regard to the opportunities available. I did not feel dizzy—I suppose I was too excited—and the time seemed ridiculously short till I found myself standing on the window-sill and trying to raise up the sash. I was filled with agitation, however, when I bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. Then I looked around for the Count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery. The room was empty! It was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. I looked for the key, but it was not in the lock, and I could not find it anywhere. The only thing I found was a great heap of gold in one corner—gold of all kinds, Roman, and British, and Austrian, and Hungarian, and Greek and Turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. None of it that I noticed was less than three hundred years old. There were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and stained.

At one corner of the room was a heavy door. I tried it, for, since I could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which was the main object of my search, I must make further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. It was open, and led through a stone passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. I descended, minding carefully where I went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. At the bottom there was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. As I went through the passage the smell grew closer and heavier. At last I pulled open a heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently been used as a graveyard. The roof was broken, and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been brought by the Slovaks. There was nobody about, and I made search for any further outlet, but there was none. Then I went over every inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. I went down even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my very soul. Into two of these I went, but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, I made a discovery.

There, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the Count! He was either dead or asleep, I could not say which—for the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death—and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. But there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. I bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. He could not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours. By the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there. I thought he might have the keys on him, but when I went to search I saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that I fled from the place, and leaving the Count’s room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall. Regaining my room, I threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think....

 

29 June.—To-day is the date of my last letter, and the Count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again I saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my clothes. As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man’s hand would have any effect on him. I dared not wait to see him return, for I feared to see those weird sisters. I came back to the library, and read there till I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the Count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can look as he said:--

“To-morrow, my friend, we must part. You return to your beautiful England, I to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet. Your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow I shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. In the morning come the Szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some Slovaks. When they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall bear you to the Borgo Pass to meet the diligence from Bukovina to Bistritz. But I am in hopes that I shall see more of you at Castle Dracula.” I suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. Sincerity! It seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:--

“Why may I not go to-night?”

“Because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission.”

“But I would walk with pleasure. I want to get away at once.” He smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that I knew there was some trick behind his smoothness. He said:--

“And your baggage?”

“I do not care about it. I can send for it some other time.”

The Count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:--

“You English have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our boyars: ‘Welcome the coming; speed the parting guest.’ Come with me, my dear young friend. Not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will, though sad am I at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it. Come!” With a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. Suddenly he stopped.

“Hark!”

Close at hand came the howling of many wolves. It was almost as if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under the bâton of the conductor. After a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open.

To my intense astonishment I saw that it was unlocked. Suspiciously, I looked all round, but could see no key of any kind.

As the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. I knew then that to struggle at the moment against the Count was useless. With such allies as these at his command, I could do nothing. But still the door continued slowly to open, and only the Count’s body stood in the gap. Suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my doom; I was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. There was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the Count, and as a last chance I cried out:--

“Shut the door; I shall wait till morning!” and covered my face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. With one sweep of his powerful arm, the Count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places.

In silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two I went to my own room. The last I saw of Count Dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that Judas in hell might be proud of.

When I was in my room and about to lie down, I thought I heard a whispering at my door. I went to it softly and listened. Unless my ears deceived me, I heard the voice of the Count:--

“Back, back, to your own place! Your time is not yet come. Wait! Have patience! To-night is mine. To-morrow night is yours!” There was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage I threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips. As I appeared they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away.

I came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. It is then so near the end? To-morrow! to-morrow! Lord, help me, and those to whom I am dear!

 

30 June, morning.—These may be the last words I ever write in this diary. I slept till just before the dawn, and when I woke threw myself on my knees, for I determined that if Death came he should find me ready.

At last I felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning had come. Then came the welcome cock-crow, and I felt that I was safe. With a glad heart, I opened my door and ran down to the hall. I had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me. With hands that trembled with eagerness, I unhooked the chains and drew back the massive bolts.

But the door would not move. Despair seized me. I pulled, and pulled, at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its casement. I could see the bolt shot. It had been locked after I left the Count.

Then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and I determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the Count’s room. He might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of evils. Without a pause I rushed up to the east window, and scrambled down the wall, as before, into the Count’s room. It was empty, but that was as I expected. I could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold remained. I went through the door in the corner and down the winding stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. I knew now well enough where to find the monster I sought.

The great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their places to be hammered home. I knew I must reach the body for the key, so I raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall; and then I saw something which filled my very soul with horror. There lay the Count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. Even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. It seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. He lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion. I shuddered as I bent over to touch him, and every sense in me revolted at the contact; but I had to search, or I was lost. The coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those horrid three. I felt all over the body, but no sign could I find of the key. Then I stopped and looked at the Count. There was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. This was the being I was helping to transfer to London, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. The very thought drove me mad. A terrible desire came upon me to rid the world of such a monster. There was no lethal weapon at hand, but I seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. But as I did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. The sight seemed to paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. The shovel fell from my hand across the box, and as I pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. The last glimpse I had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell.

I thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on fire, and I waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming. With a last look around and at the box which contained the vile body, I ran from the place and gained the Count’s room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened. With strained ears, I listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. There must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the locked doors. Then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. I turned to run down again towards the vault, where I might find the new entrance; but at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from the lintels flying. When I ran to push it open, I found that it was hopelessly fast. I was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing round me more closely.

As I write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes, with their freight of earth. There is a sound of hammering; it is the box being nailed down. Now I can hear the heavy feet tramping again along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them.

The door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key in the lock; I can hear the key withdraw: then another door opens and shuts; I hear the creaking of lock and bolt.

Hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the Szgany as they pass into the distance.

I am alone in the castle with those awful women. Faugh! Mina is a woman, and there is nought in common. They are devils of the Pit!

I shall not remain alone with them; I shall try to scale the castle wall farther than I have yet attempted. I shall take some of the gold with me, lest I want it later. I may find a way from this dreadful place.

And then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet!

At least God’s mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the precipice is steep and high. At its foot a man may sleep—as a man. Good-bye, all! Mina!

CHAPTER V

Letter from Miss Mina Murray to Miss Lucy Westenra.

“9 May.

“My dearest Lucy,--

“Forgive my long delay in writing, but I have been simply overwhelmed with work. The life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. I am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air. I have been working very hard lately, because I want to keep up with Jonathan’s studies, and I have been practising shorthand very assiduously. When we are married I shall be able to be useful to Jonathan, and if I can stenograph well enough I can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also I am practising very hard. He and I sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. When I am with you I shall keep a diary in the same way. I don’t mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which I can write in whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not intended for them. I may show it to Jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. I shall try to do what I see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. I am told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day. However, we shall see. I will tell you of my little plans when we meet. I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week. I am longing to hear all his news. It must be so nice to see strange countries. I wonder if we—I mean Jonathan and I—shall ever see them together. There is the ten o’clock bell ringing. Good-bye.

“Your loving
“Mina.

“Tell me all the news when you write. You have not told me anything for a long time. I hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???”

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

“17, Chatham Street,
“Wednesday.

“My dearest Mina,--

“I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad correspondent. I wrote to you twice since we parted, and your last letter was only your second. Besides, I have nothing to tell you. There is really nothing to interest you. Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. As to the tall, curly-haired man, I suppose it was the one who was with me at the last Pop. Some one has evidently been telling tales. That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see us, and he and mamma get on very well together; they have so many things to talk about in common. We met some time ago a man that would just do for you, if you were not already engaged to Jonathan. He is an excellent parti, being handsome, well off, and of good birth. He is a doctor and really clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes now. I think he is one of the most resolute men I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. He has a curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read one’s thoughts. He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know that from my glass. Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it. He says that I afford him a curious psychological study, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a bore. That is slang again, but never mind; Arthur says that every day. There, it is all out. Mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we were children; we have slept together and eaten together, and laughed and cried together; and now, though I have spoken, I would like to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn’t you guess? I love him. I am blushing as I write, for although I think he loves me, he has not told me so in words. But oh, Mina, I love him; I love him; I love him! There, that does me good. I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit; and I would try to tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop, or I should tear up the letter, and I don’t want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all. Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that you think about it. Mina, I must stop. Good-night. Bless me in your prayers; and, Mina, pray for my happiness.

“LUCY.

“P.S.—I need not tell you this is a secret. Good-night again.

“L.”

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Murray.

“24 May.

“My dearest Mina,--

“Thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. It was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy.

“My dear, it never rains but it pours. How true the old proverbs are. Here am I, who shall be twenty in September, and yet I never had a proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day I have had three. Just fancy! THREE proposals in one day! Isn’t it awful! I feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. Oh, Mina, I am so happy that I don’t know what to do with myself. And three proposals! But, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. Some girls are so vain! You and I, Mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. Well, I must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from every one, except, of course, Jonathan. You will tell him, because I would, if I were in your place, certainly tell Arthur. A woman ought to tell her husband everything—don’t you think so, dear?—and I must be fair. Men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite as fair as they are; and women, I am afraid, are not always quite as fair as they should be. Well, my dear, number One came just before lunch. I told you of him, Dr. John Seward, the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. He was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. He had evidently been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don’t generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. He spoke to me, Mina, very straightforwardly. He told me how dear I was to him, though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him. He was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if I did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble. Then he broke off and asked if I could love him in time; and when I shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if I cared already for any one else. He put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman’s heart was free a man might have hope. And then, Mina, I felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one. I only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped I would be happy, and that if I ever wanted a friend I must count him one of my best. Oh, Mina dear, I can’t help crying: and you must excuse this letter being all blotted. Being proposed to is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn’t at all a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken-hearted, and to know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing quite out of his life. My dear, I must stop here at present, I feel so miserable, though I am so happy.

“Evening.

“Arthur has just gone, and I feel in better spirits than when I left off, so I can go on telling you about the day. Well, my dear, number Two came after lunch. He is such a nice fellow, an American from Texas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places and has had such adventures. I sympathise with poor Desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her ear, even by a black man. I suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. I know now what I would do if I were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. No, I don’t, for there was Mr. Morris telling us his stories, and Arthur never told any, and yet—— My dear, I am somewhat previous. Mr. Quincey P. Morris found me alone. It seems that a man always does find a girl alone. No, he doesn’t, for Arthur tried twice to make a chance, and I helping him all I could; I am not ashamed to say it now. I must tell you beforehand that Mr. Morris doesn’t always speak slang—that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well educated and has exquisite manners—but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk American slang, and whenever I was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things. I am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he has to say. But this is a way slang has. I do not know myself if I shall ever speak slang; I do not know if Arthur likes it, as I have never heard him use any as yet. Well, Mr. Morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he could, but I could see all the same that he was very nervous. He took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:--

“ ‘Miss Lucy, I know I ain’t good enough to regulate the fixin’s of your little shoes, but I guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. Won’t you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?’

“Well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn’t seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor Dr. Seward; so I said, as lightly as I could, that I did not know anything of hitching, and that I wasn’t broken to harness at all yet. Then he said that he had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, I would forgive him. He really did look serious when he was saying it, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit serious too—I know, Mina, you will think me a horrid flirt—though I couldn’t help feeling a sort of exultation that he was number two in one day. And then, my dear, before I could say a word he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at my feet. He looked so earnest over it that I shall never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. I suppose he saw something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour that I could have loved him for if I had been free:--

“ ‘Lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, I know. I should not be here speaking to you as I am now if I did not believe you clean grit, right through to the very depths of your soul. Tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care for? And if there is I’ll never trouble you a hair’s breadth again, but will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend.’

“My dear Mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy of them? Here was I almost making fun of this great-hearted, true gentleman. I burst into tears—I am afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one—and I really felt very badly. Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say it. I am glad to say that, though I was crying, I was able to look into Mr. Morris’s brave eyes, and I told him out straight:--

“ ‘Yes, there is some one I love, though he has not told me yet that he even loves me.’ I was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine—I think I put them into his—and said in a hearty way:--

“ ‘That’s my brave girl. It’s better worth being late for a chance of winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. Don’t cry, my dear. If it’s for me, I’m a hard nut to crack; and I take it standing up. If that other fellow doesn’t know his happiness, well, he’d better look for it soon, or he’ll have to deal with me. Little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that’s rarer than a lover; it’s more unselfish anyhow. My dear, I’m going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and Kingdom Come. Won’t you give me one kiss? It’ll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. You can, you know, if you like, for that other good fellow—he must be a good fellow, my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him—hasn’t spoken yet.’ That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him, and noble, too, to a rival—wasn’t it?—and he so sad; so I leant over and kissed him. He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into my face—I am afraid I was blushing very much—he said:--

“ ‘Little girl, I hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if these things don’t make us friends nothing ever will. Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and good-bye.’ He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause; and I am crying like a baby. Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on? I know I would if I were free—only I don’t want to be free. My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and I don’t wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy.

“Ever your loving
“Lucy.

“P.S.—Oh, about number Three—I needn’t tell you of number Three, need I? Besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was kissing me. I am very, very happy, and I don’t know what I have done to deserve it. I must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend.

“Good-bye.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

(Kept in phonograph)

25 May.—Ebb tide in appetite to-day. Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead. Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.... As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went down amongst the patients. I picked out one who has afforded me a study of much interest. He is so quaint that I am determined to understand him as well as I can. To-day I seemed to get nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. In my manner of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty. I seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his madness—a thing which I avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.

(Mem., under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia Romæ venalia sunt. Hell has its price! verb. sap. If there be anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better commence to do so, therefore--

R. M. Renfield, ætat 59.—Sanguine temperament; great physical strength; morbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which I cannot make out. I presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.

Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

“25 May.

“My dear Art,--

“We’ve told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another’s wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca. There are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. Won’t you let this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? I have no hesitation in asking you, as I know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and that you are free. There will only be one other, our old pal at the Korea, Jack Seward. He’s coming, too, and we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that God has made and the best worth winning. We promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. We shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. Come!

“Yours, as ever and always,
“Quincey P. Morris.”

Telegram from Arthur Holmwood to Quincey P. Morris.

“26 May.

“Count me in every time. I bear messages which will make both your ears tingle.

“Art.”

CHAPTER VI

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

24 July. Whitby.—Lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the Crescent in which they have rooms. This is a lovely place. The little river, the Esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the harbour. A great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the view seems somehow further away than it really is. The valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you are near enough to see down. The houses of the old town—the side away from us—are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the pictures we see of Nuremberg. Right over the town is the ruin of Whitby Abbey, which was sacked by the Danes, and which is the scene of part of “Marmion,” where the girl was built up in the wall. It is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits; there is a legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows. Between it and the town there is another church, the parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. This is to my mind the nicest spot in Whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to where the headland called Kettleness stretches out into the sea. It descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been destroyed. In one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over the sandy pathway far below. There are walks, with seats beside them, through the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. I shall come and sit here very often myself and work. Indeed, I am writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are sitting beside me. They seem to do nothing all day but sit up here and talk.

The harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. A heavy sea-wall runs along outside of it. On the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse. Between the two piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens.

It is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to nothing, and there is merely the stream of the Esk, running between banks of sand, with rocks here and there. Outside the harbour on this side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp edge of which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. At the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. I must ask the old man about this; he is coming this way....

He is a funny old man. He must be awfully old, for his face is all gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. He tells me that he is nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the Greenland fishing fleet when Waterloo was fought. He is, I am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when I asked him about the bells at sea and the White Lady at the abbey he said very brusquely:--

“I wouldn’t fash masel’ about them, miss. Them things be all wore out. Mind, I don’t say that they never was, but I do say that they wasn’t in my time. They be all very well for comers and trippers, an’ the like, but not for a nice young lady like you. Them feet-folks from York and Leeds that be always eatin’ cured herrin’s an’ drinkin’ tea an’ lookin’ out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. I wonder masel’ who’d be bothered tellin’ lies to them—even the newspapers, which is full of fool-talk.” I thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from, so I asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale-fishing in the old days. He was just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said:--

“I must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. My grand-daughter doesn’t like to be kept waitin’ when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of ’em; an’, miss, I lack belly-timber sairly by the clock.”

He hobbled away, and I could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down the steps. The steps are a great feature on the place. They lead from the town up to the church, there are hundreds of them—I do not know how many—and they wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them. I think they must originally have had something to do with the abbey. I shall go home too. Lucy went out visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, I did not go. They will be home by this.

 

1 August.—I came up here an hour ago with Lucy, and we had a most interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come and join him. He is evidently the Sir Oracle of them, and I should think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. He will not admit anything, and downfaces everybody. If he can’t out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement with his views. Lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a beautiful colour since she has been here. I noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down. She is so sweet with old people; I think they all fell in love with her on the spot. Even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but gave me double share instead. I got him on the subject of the legends, and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. I must try to remember it and put it down:--

“It be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that’s what it be, an’ nowt else. These bans an’ wafts an’ boh-ghosts an’ barguests an’ bogles an’ all anent them is only fit to set bairns an’ dizzy women a-belderin’. They be nowt but air-blebs. They, an’ all grims an’ signs an’ warnin’s, be all invented by parsons an’ illsome beuk-bodies an’ railway touters to skeer an’ scunner hafflin’s, an’ to get folks to do somethin’ that they don’t other incline to. It makes me ireful to think o’ them. Why, it’s them that, not content with printin’ lies on paper an’ preachin’ them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin’ them on the tombstones. Look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them steans, holdin’ up their heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant—simply tumblin’ down with the weight o’ the lies wrote on them, ‘Here lies the body’ or ‘Sacred to the memory’ wrote on all of them, an’ yet in nigh half of them there bean’t no bodies at all; an’ the memories of them bean’t cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. Lies all of them, nothin’ but lies of one kind or another! My gog, but it’ll be a quare scowderment at the Day of Judgment when they come tumblin’ up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an’ tryin’ to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them trimmlin’ and ditherin’, with their hands that dozzened an’ slippy from lyin’ in the sea that they can’t even keep their grup o’ them.”

I could see from the old fellow’s self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was “showing off,” so I put in a word to keep him going:--

“Oh, Mr. Swales, you can’t be serious. Surely these tombstones are not all wrong?”

“Yabblins! There may be a poorish few not wrong, savin’ where they make out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. The whole thing be only lies. Now look you here; you come here a stranger, an’ you see this kirk-garth.” I nodded, for I thought it better to assent, though I did not quite understand his dialect. I knew it had something to do with the church. He went on: “And you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be happed here, snod an’ snog?” I assented again. “Then that be just where the lie comes in. Why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as old Dun’s ’bacca-box on Friday night.” He nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. “And my gog! how could they be otherwise? Look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!” I went over and read:--

“Edward Spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of Andres, April, 1854, æt. 30.” When I came back Mr. Swales went on:--

“Who brought him home, I wonder, to hap him here? Murdered off the coast of Andres! an’ you consated his body lay under! Why, I could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the Greenland seas above”—he pointed northwards—“or where the currents may have drifted them. There be the steans around ye. Ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of the lies from here. This Braithwaite Lowrey—I knew his father, lost in the Lively off Greenland in ’20; or Andrew Woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777; or John Paxton, drowned off Cape Farewell a year later; or old John Rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the Gulf of Finland in ’50. Do ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to Whitby when the trumpet sounds? I have me antherums aboot it! I tell ye that when they got here they’d be jommlin’ an’ jostlin’ one another that way that it ’ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we’d be at one another from daylight to dark, an’ tryin’ to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis.” This was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto.

“But,” I said, “surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their tombstones with them on the Day of Judgment. Do you think that will be really necessary?”

“Well, what else be they tombstones for? Answer me that, miss!”

“To please their relatives, I suppose.”

“To please their relatives, you suppose!” This he said with intense scorn. “How will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?” He pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. “Read the lies on that thruff-stean,” he said. The letters were upside down to me from where I sat, but Lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read:--

“Sacred to the memory of George Canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on July, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at Kettleness. This tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son. ‘He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.’ Really, Mr. Swales, I don’t see anything very funny in that!” She spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely.

“Ye don’t see aught funny! Ha! ha! But that’s because ye don’t gawm the sorrowin’ mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk’d—a regular lamiter he was—an’ he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn’t get an insurance she put on his life. He blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin’ the crows with. ’Twarn’t for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. That’s the way he fell off the rocks. And, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, I’ve often heard him say masel’ that he hoped he’d go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she’d be sure to go to heaven, an’ he didn’t want to addle where she was. Now isn’t that stean at any rate”—he hammered it with his stick as he spoke—“a pack of lies? and won’t it make Gabriel keckle when Geordie comes pantin’ up the grees with the tombstean balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!”

I did not know what to say, but Lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up:--

“Oh, why did you tell us of this? It is my favourite seat, and I cannot leave it; and now I find I must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide.”

“That won’t harm ye, my pretty; an’ it may make poor Geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin’ on his lap. That won’t hurt ye. Why, I’ve sat here off an’ on for nigh twenty years past, an’ it hasn’t done me no harm. Don’t ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn’ lie there either! It’ll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. There’s the clock, an’ I must gang. My service to ye, ladies!” And off he hobbled.

Lucy and I sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about Arthur and their coming marriage. That made me just a little heart-sick, for I haven’t heard from Jonathan for a whole month.

 

The same day. I came up here alone, for I am very sad. There was no letter for me. I hope there cannot be anything the matter with Jonathan. The clock has just struck nine. I see the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly; they run right up the Esk and die away in the curve of the valley. To my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next the abbey. The sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of a donkey’s hoofs up the paved road below. The band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the quay there is a Salvation Army meeting in a back street. Neither of the bands hears the other, but up here I hear and see them both. I wonder where Jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! I wish he were here.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 June.—The case of Renfield grows more interesting the more I get to understand the man. He has certain qualities very largely developed; selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. I wish I could get at what is the object of the latter. He seems to have some settled scheme of his own, but what it is I do not yet know. His redeeming quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that I sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. His pets are of odd sorts. Just now his hobby is catching flies. He has at present such a quantity that I have had myself to expostulate. To my astonishment, he did not break out into a fury, as I expected, but took the matter in simple seriousness. He thought for a moment, and then said: “May I have three days? I shall clear them away.” Of course, I said that would do. I must watch him.

 

18 June.—He has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several very big fellows in a box. He keeps feeding them with his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room.

 

1 July.—His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his flies, and to-day I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at all events. He cheerfully acquiesced in this, and I gave him the same time as before for reduction. He disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and, before I knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it. I scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and very wholesome; that it was life, strong life, and gave life to him. This gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. I must watch how he gets rid of his spiders. He has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he is always jotting down something. Whole pages of it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though he were “focussing” some account, as the auditors put it.

 

8 July.—There is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. It will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your conscious brother. I kept away from my friend for a few days, so that I might notice if there were any change. Things remain as they were except that he has parted with some of his pets and got a new one. He has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. His means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminished. Those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting them with his food.

 

19 July.—We are progressing. My friend has now a whole colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. When I came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour—a very, very great favour; and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. I asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and bearing:--

“A kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that I can play with, and teach, and feed—and feed—and feed!” I was not unprepared for this request, for I had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but I did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so I said I would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten. His eagerness betrayed him as he answered:--

“Oh, yes, I would like a cat! I only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a cat. No one would refuse me a kitten, would they?” I shook my head, and said that at present I feared it would not be possible, but that I would see about it. His face fell, and I could see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing. The man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. I shall test him with his present craving and see how it will work out; then I shall know more.

 

10 p. m.—I have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner brooding. When I came in he threw himself on his knees before me and implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it. I was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where I had found him. I shall see him in the morning early.

 

20 July.—Visited Renfield very early, before the attendant went his rounds. Found him up and humming a tune. He was spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his fly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. I looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they were. He replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away. There were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of blood. I said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if there were anything odd about him during the day.

 

11 a. m.—The attendant has just been to me to say that Renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. “My belief is, doctor,” he said, “that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!”

 

11 p. m.—I gave Renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. The thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory proved. My homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. I shall have to invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoöphagous (life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. He gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds. What would have been his later steps? It would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. It might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. Men sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! Why not advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect—the knowledge of the brain? Had I even the secret of one such mind—did I hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic—I might advance my own branch of science to a pitch compared with which Burdon-Sanderson’s physiology or Ferrier’s brain-knowledge would be as nothing. If only there were a sufficient cause! I must not think too much of this, or I may be tempted; a good cause might turn the scale with me, for may not I too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally?

How well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope. I wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. He has closed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. How many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives?

To me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, and that truly I began a new record. So it will be until the Great Recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss. Oh, Lucy, Lucy, I cannot be angry with you, nor can I be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but I must only wait on hopeless and work. Work! work!

If I only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there—a good, unselfish cause to make me work—that would be indeed happiness.

Mina Murray’s Journal.

26 July.—I am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it is like whispering to one’s self and listening at the same time. And there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. I am unhappy about Lucy and about Jonathan. I had not heard from Jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but yesterday dear Mr. Hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. I had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. It is only a line dated from Castle Dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. That is not like Jonathan; I do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. Then, too, Lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. Her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that I am to lock the door of our room every night. Mrs. Westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. Poor dear, she is naturally anxious about Lucy, and she tells me that her husband, Lucy’s father, had the same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. Lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. I sympathise with her, for I do the same, only Jonathan and I will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. Mr. Holmwood—he is the Hon. Arthur Holmwood, only son of Lord Godalming—is coming up here very shortly—as soon as he can leave town, for his father is not very well, and I think dear Lucy is counting the moments till he comes. She wants to take him up to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of Whitby. I daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he arrives.

 

27 July.—No news from Jonathan. I am getting quite uneasy about him, though why I should I do not know; but I do wish that he would write, if it were only a single line. Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving about the room. Fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and I am getting nervous and wakeful myself. Thank God, Lucy’s health keeps up. Mr. Holmwood has been suddenly called to Ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill. Lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely rose-pink. She has lost that anæmic look which she had. I pray it will all last.

 

3 August.—Another week gone, and no news from Jonathan, not even to Mr. Hawkins, from whom I have heard. Oh, I do hope he is not ill. He surely would have written. I look at that last letter of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. It does not read like him, and yet it is his writing. There is no mistake of that. Lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about her which I do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching me. She tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room searching for the key.

6 August.—Another three days, and no news. This suspense is getting dreadful. If I only knew where to write to or where to go to, I should feel easier; but no one has heard a word of Jonathan since that last letter. I must only pray to God for patience. Lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. Last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. I must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. To-day is a grey day, and the sun as I write is hidden in thick clouds, high over Kettleness. Everything is grey—except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. The sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. The horizon is lost in a grey mist. All is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a “brool” over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom. Dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem “men like trees walking.” The fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. Here comes old Mr. Swales. He is making straight for me, and I can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk....

I have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. When he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:--

“I want to say something to you, miss.” I could see he was not at ease, so I took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:--

“I’m afraid, my deary, that I must have shocked you by all the wicked things I’ve been sayin’ about the dead, and such like, for weeks past; but I didn’t mean them, and I want ye to remember that when I’m gone. We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t altogether like to think of it, and we don’t want to feel scart of it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit; only I don’t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whettin’ his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the Angel of Death will sound his trumpet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my deary!”—for he saw that I was crying—“if he should come this very night I’d not refuse to answer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that we can rightly depend on. But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’ quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and wonderin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. Look! look!” he cried suddenly. “There’s something in that wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s in the air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me answer cheerful when my call comes!” He held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were praying. After a few minutes’ silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and upset me very much.

I was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his arm. He stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept looking at a strange ship.

“I can’t make her out,” he said; “she’s a Russian, by the look of her; but she’s knocking about in the queerest way. She doesn’t know her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can’t decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. Look there again! She is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn’t mind the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of wind. We’ll hear more of her before this time to-morrow.”

CHAPTER VII

CUTTING FROM “THE DAILYGRAPH,” 8 AUGUST

(Pasted in Mina Murray’s Journal.)

From a Correspondent.

Whitby.

ONE greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been experienced here, with results both strange and unique. The weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of August. Saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to Mulgrave Woods, Robin Hood’s Bay, Rig Mill, Runswick, Staithes, and the various trips in the neighbourhood of Whitby. The steamers Emma and Scarborough made trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount of “tripping” both to and from Whitby. The day was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the East Cliff churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of “mares’-tails” high in the sky to the north-west. The wind was then blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked “No. 2: light breeze.” The coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs from the East Cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. The approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. Before the sun dipped below the black mass of Kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour—flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. The experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the sketches of the “Prelude to the Great Storm” will grace the R. A. and R. I. walls in May next. More than one captain made up his mind then and there that his “cobble” or his “mule,” as they term the different classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed. The wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. There were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers, which usually “hug” the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but few fishing-boats were in sight. The only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. The foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in face of her danger. Before the night shut down she was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of the sea,

Shortly before ten o’clock the stillness of the air grew quite oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively French air, was like a discord in the great harmony of nature’s silence. A little after midnight came a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming.

Then without warning the tempest broke. With a rapidity which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. The waves rose in growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. White-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of Whitby Harbour. The wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. It was found necessary to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have been increased manifold. To add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland—white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. At times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the footsteps of the storm.

Some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of absorbing interest—the sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. On the summit of the East Cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried. The officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. Once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. As each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush.

Before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in the evening. The wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized the terrible danger in which she now was. Between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the harbour. It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one old salt, “she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in hell.” Then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto—a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like a grey pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder than before. The rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across the East Pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless. The wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, mirabile dictu, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour. The searchlight followed her, and a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the ship. No other form could be seen on deck at all. A great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! However, all took place more quickly than it takes to write these words. The schooner paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the East Cliff, known locally as Tate Hill Pier.

There was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on the sand heap. Every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the “top-hammer” came crashing down. But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the East Pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstones—“thruff-steans” or “through-stones,” as they call them in the Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight.

It so happened that there was no one at the moment on Tate Hill Pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed or were out on the heights above. Thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the first to climb on board. The men working the searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it there. The coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as though under some sudden emotion. This seemed to pique general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run. It is a good way round from the West Cliff by the Drawbridge to Tate Hill Pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. When I arrived, however, I found already assembled on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on board. By the courtesy of the chief boatman, I was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel.

It was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor—Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place—who came immediately after me, declared, after making examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some complications, later on, in the Admiralty Court; for coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already completely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a dead hand. It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till death—a steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca—and placed in the mortuary to await inquest.

Already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating; crowds are scattering homeward, and the sky is beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into harbour in the storm.

Whitby

9 August.—The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is a Russian from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small amount of cargo—a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould. This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S. F. Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and formally took possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here to-day except the strange coincidence; the officials of the Board of Trade have been most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a “nine days’ wonder,” they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of after complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the S. P. C. A., which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to befriend the animal. To the general disappointment, however, it was not to be found; it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still hiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead in the roadway opposite to its master’s yard. It had been fighting, and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away, and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.

 

Later.—By the kindness of the Board of Trade inspector, I have been permitted to look over the log-book of the Demeter, which was in order up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest except as to facts of missing men. The greatest interest, however, is with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced at the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come across. As there is no motive for concealment, I am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. It almost seems as though the captain had been seized with some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this had developed persistently throughout the voyage. Of course my statement must be taken cum grano, since I am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the Russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short.

LOG OF THE “DEMETER.”

Varna to Whitby.

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land.

 

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands ... two mates, cook, and myself (captain).

 

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.

 

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.

 

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something. Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

 

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong; they only told him there was something, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.

 

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it. Took larboard watch eight bells last night; was relieved by Abramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than there was something aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead.

 

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way, and go along the deck forward, and disappear. He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall to-day search entire ship carefully from stem to stern.

 

Later in the day I got together the whole crew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with a handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. First mate scowled, but said nothing.

 

22 July.—Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails—no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibralter and out through Straits. All well.

 

24 July.—There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and entering on the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost—disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear; sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do some violence.

 

28 July.—Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours’ sleep. Wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier.

 

29 July.—Another tragedy. Had single watch to-night, as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.

 

30 July.—Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling me that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship.

 

1 August.—Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he Roumanian.

 

2 August, midnight.—Woke up from few minutes’ sleep by hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran against mate. Tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and God seems to have deserted us.

 

3 August.—At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel, and when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: “It is here; I know it, now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind It, and gave It my knife; but the knife went through It, empty as the air.” And as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into space. Then he went on: “But It is here, and I’ll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one and see. You work the helm.” And, with a warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt those big boxes: they are invoiced as “clay,” and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay, and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can’t steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails and lie by, and signal for help....

 

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate would come out calmer—for I heard him knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good for him—there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he came as if shot from a gun—a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear. “Save me! save me!” he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said: “You had better come too, captain, before it is too late. He is there. I know the secret now. The sea will save me from Him, and it is all that is left!” Before I could say a word, or move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these horrors when I get to port? When I get to port! Will that ever be?

 

4 August.—Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. I know there is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the night I saw It—Him! God forgive me, but the mate was right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man; to die like a sailor in blue water no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with them I shall tie that which He—It!—dare not touch; and then, come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the face again, I may not have time to act.... If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not, ... well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God and the Blessed Virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty....

 

Of course the verdict was an open one. There is no evidence to adduce; and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now none to say. The folk here hold almost universally that the captain is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. Already it is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the Esk for a piece and then brought back to Tate Hill Pier and up the abbey steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. The owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as wishing to follow him to the grave.

No trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, I believe, be adopted by the town. To-morrow will see the funeral; and so will end this one more “mystery of the sea.”

Mina Murray’s Journal.

8 August.—Lucy was very restless all night, and I, too, could not sleep. The storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the chimney-pots, it made me shudder. When a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun. Strangely enough, Lucy did not wake; but she got up twice and dressed herself. Fortunately, each time I awoke in time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. It is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her life.

Early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see if anything had happened in the night. There were very few people about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth of the harbour—like a bullying man going through a crowd. Somehow I felt glad that Jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. But, oh, is he on land or sea? Where is he, and how? I am getting fearfully anxious about him. If I only knew what to do, and could do anything!

 

10 August.—The funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most touching. Every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from Tate Hill Pier up to the churchyard. Lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortège of boats went up the river to the Viaduct and came down again. We had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way. The poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on it when the time came and saw everything. Poor Lucy seemed much upset. She was restless and uneasy all the time, and I cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. She is quite odd in one thing: she will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness; or if there be, she does not understand it herself. There is an additional cause in that poor old Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor dear old man! Perhaps he had seen Death with his dying eyes! Lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other people do. Just now she was quite upset by a little thing which I did not much heed, though I am myself very fond of animals. One of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog. The dog is always with him. They are both quiet persons, and I never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. During the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. Its master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily; but it would neither come nor cease to make a noise. It was in a sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs bristling out like a cat’s tail when puss is on the war-path. Finally the man, too, got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. The moment it touched the stone the poor thing became quiet and fell all into a tremble. It did not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that I tried, though without effect, to comfort it. Lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. I greatly fear that she is of too super-sensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble. She will be dreaming of this to-night, I am sure. The whole agglomeration of things—the ship steered into port by a dead man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads; the touching funeral; the dog, now furious and now in terror—will all afford material for her dreams.

I think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so I shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to Robin Hood’s Bay and back. She ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then.

CHAPTER VIII

MINA MURRAY’S JOURNAL

Same day, 11 o’clock p. m.—Oh, but I am tired! If it were not that I had made my diary a duty I should not open it to-night. We had a lovely walk. Lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, I think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. I believe we forgot everything except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. We had a capital “severe tea” at Robin Hood’s Bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. I believe we should have shocked the “New Woman” with our appetites. Men are more tolerant, bless them! Then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. Lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could. The young curate came in, however, and Mrs. Westenra asked him to stay for supper. Lucy and I had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; I know it was a hard fight on my part, and I am quite heroic. I think that some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who don’t take supper, no matter how they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. Lucy is asleep and breathing softly. She has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh, so sweet. If Mr. Holmwood fell in love with her seeing her only in the drawing-room, I wonder what he would say if he saw her now. Some of the “New Women” writers will some day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won’t condescend in future to accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it, too! There’s some consolation in that. I am so happy to-night, because dear Lucy seems better. I really believe she has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. I should be quite happy if I only knew if Jonathan.... God bless and keep him.

 

11 August, 3 a. m.—Diary again. No sleep now, so I may as well write. I am too agitated to sleep. We have had such an adventure, such an agonising experience. I fell asleep as soon as I had closed my diary.... Suddenly I became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. The room was dark, so I could not see Lucy’s bed; I stole across and felt for her. The bed was empty. I lit a match and found that she was not in the room. The door was shut, but not locked, as I had left it. I feared to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got ready to look for her. As I was leaving the room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming intention. Dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside. Dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. “Thank God,” I said to myself, “she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress.” I ran downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. Not there! Then I looked in all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart. Finally I came to the hall door and found it open. It was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. The people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so I feared that Lucy must have gone out as she was. There was no time to think of what might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. I took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. The clock was striking one as I was in the Crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. I ran along the North Terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which I expected. At the edge of the West Cliff above the pier I looked across the harbour to the East Cliff, in the hope or fear—I don’t know which—of seeing Lucy in our favourite seat. There was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became gradually visible. Whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. The coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. What it was, whether man or beast, I could not tell; I did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the East Cliff. The town seemed as dead, for not a soul did I see; I rejoiced that it was so, for I wanted no witness of poor Lucy’s condition. The time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as I toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. I must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. When I got almost to the top I could see the seat and the white figure, for I was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. There was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the half-reclining white figure. I called in fright, “Lucy! Lucy!” and something raised a head, and from where I was I could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes. Lucy did not answer, and I ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. As I entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute or so I lost sight of her. When I came in view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that I could see Lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. She was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about.

When I bent over her I could see that she was still asleep. Her lips were parted, and she was breathing—not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every breath. As I came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her throat. Whilst she did so there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. I flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck, for I dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. I feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands free that I might help her, I fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety-pin; but I must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. When I had her carefully wrapped up I put my shoes on her feet and then began very gently to wake her. At first she did not respond; but gradually she became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. At last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other reasons, I wished to get her home at once, I shook her more forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. She did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was. Lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. She trembled a little, and clung to me; when I told her to come at once with me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. As we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and Lucy noticed me wince. She stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but I would not. However, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, I daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet.

Fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. Once we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or “wynds,” as they call them in Scotland. My heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes I thought I should faint. I was filled with anxiety about Lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should get wind. When we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, I tucked her into bed. Before falling asleep she asked—even implored—me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. I hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her mother’s health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted—nay, infallibly would—in case it should leak out, I thought it wiser to do so. I hope I did right. I have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps I shall not be again disturbed. Lucy is sleeping soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea....

 

Same day, noon.—All goes well. Lucy slept till I woke her and seemed not to have even changed her side. The adventure of the night does not seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. I was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. Indeed, it might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. I must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood. When I apologised and was concerned about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. Fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny.

 

Same day, night.—We passed a happy day. The air was clear, and the sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. We took our lunch to Mulgrave Woods, Mrs. Westenra driving by the road and Lucy and I walking by the cliff-path and joining her at the gate. I felt a little sad myself, for I could not but feel how absolutely happy it would have been had Jonathan been with me. But there! I must only be patient. In the evening we strolled in the Casino Terrace, and heard some good music by Spohr and Mackenzie, and went to bed early. Lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. I shall lock the door and secure the key the same as before, though I do not expect any trouble to-night.

 

12 August.—My expectations were wrong, for twice during the night I was wakened by Lucy trying to get out. She seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of protest. I woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside of the window. Lucy woke, too, and, I was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning. All her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about Arthur. I told her how anxious I was about Jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. Well, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can’t alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable.

 

13 August.—Another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before. Again I awoke in the night, and found Lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. I got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. It was brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky—merged together in one great, silent mystery—was beautiful beyond words. Between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. Once or twice it came quite close, but was, I suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. When I came back from the window Lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. She did not stir again all night.

 

14 August.—On the East Cliff, reading and writing all day. Lucy seems to have become as much in love with the spot as I am, and it is hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or dinner. This afternoon she made a funny remark. We were coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the West Pier and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. The setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind Kettleness; the red light was thrown over on the East Cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. We were silent for a while, and suddenly Lucy murmured as if to herself:--

“His red eyes again! They are just the same.” It was such an odd expression, coming apropos of nothing, that it quite startled me. I slewed round a little, so as to see Lucy well without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on her face that I could not quite make out; so I said nothing, but followed her eyes. She appeared to be looking over at our own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. I was a little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. The red sunlight was shining on the windows of St. Mary’s Church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. I called Lucy’s attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself with a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she was thinking of that terrible night up there. We never refer to it; so I said nothing, and we went home to dinner. Lucy had a headache and went early to bed. I saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; I walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness, for I was thinking of Jonathan. When coming home—it was then bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the Crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen—I threw a glance up at our window, and saw Lucy’s head leaning out. I thought that perhaps she was looking out for me, so I opened my handkerchief and waved it. She did not notice or make any movement whatever. Just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell on the window. There distinctly was Lucy with her head lying up against the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. She was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird. I was afraid she might get a chill, so I ran upstairs, but as I came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect it from cold.

I did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; I have taken care that the door is locked and the window securely fastened.

She looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which I do not like. I fear she is fretting about something. I wish I could find out what it is.

 

15 August.—Rose later than usual. Lucy was languid and tired, and slept on after we had been called. We had a happy surprise at breakfast. Arthur’s father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. Lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. Later on in the day she told me the cause. She is grieved to lose Lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to protect her. Poor dear, sweet lady! She confided to me that she has got her death-warrant. She has not told Lucy, and made me promise secrecy; her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for her heart is weakening. At any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her. Ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of the dreadful night of Lucy’s sleep-walking.

 

17 August.—No diary for two whole days. I have not had the heart to write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother’s hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy’s fading away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night I hear her gasping as if for air. I keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I found her leaning out when I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not; she was in a faint. When I managed to restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head and turned away. I trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white. They are like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them.

Letter, Samuel F. Billington & Son, Solicitors, Whitby, to Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London.

“17 August.

“Dear Sirs,--

“Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King’s Cross. The house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.

“You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house and marked ‘A’ on rough diagram enclosed. Your agent will easily recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at King’s Cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at King’s Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds (£10), receipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his duplicate key.

“Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

“We are, dear Sirs,
“Faithfully yours,
“Samuel F. Billington & Son.”

Letter, Messrs. Carter, Paterson & Co., London, to Messrs. Billington & Son, Whitby.

“21 August.

“Dear Sirs,--

“We beg to acknowledge £10 received and to return cheque £1 17s. 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. Goods are delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as directed.

“We are, dear Sirs,
“Yours respectfully.
“Pro Carter, Paterson & Co.”

Mina Murray’s Journal.

18 August.—I am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the churchyard. Lucy is ever so much better. Last night she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once. The roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. If she were in any way anæmic I could understand it, but she is not. She is in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. All the morbid reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if I needed any reminding, of that night, and that it was here, on this very seat, I found her asleep. As she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:--

“My poor little feet didn’t make much noise then! I daresay poor old Mr. Swales would have told me that it was because I didn’t want to wake up Geordie.” As she was in such a communicative humour, I asked her if she had dreamed at all that night. Before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her forehead, which Arthur—I call him Arthur from her habit—says he loves; and, indeed, I don’t wonder that he does. Then she went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself:--

“I didn’t quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. I only wanted to be here in this spot—I don’t know why, for I was afraid of something—I don’t know what. I remember, though I suppose I was asleep, passing through the streets and over the bridge. A fish leaped as I went by, and I leaned over to look at it, and I heard a lot of dogs howling—the whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once—as I went up the steps. Then I had a vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then I seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as I have heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air. I seem to remember that once the West Lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if I were in an earthquake, and I came back and found you shaking my body. I saw you do it before I felt you.”

Then she began to laugh. It seemed a little uncanny to me, and I listened to her breathlessly. I did not quite like it, and thought it better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other subjects, and Lucy was like her old self again. When we got home the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy. Her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy evening together.

 

19 August.—Joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. At last, news of Jonathan. The dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. I am not afraid to think it or say it, now that I know. Mr. Hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. I am to leave in the morning and go over to Jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. Mr. Hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. I have cried over the good Sister’s letter till I can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. It is of Jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is in my heart. My journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. I am only taking one change of dress; Lucy will bring my trunk to London and keep it till I send for it, for it may be that ... I must write no more; I must keep it to say to Jonathan, my husband. The letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet.

Letter, Sister Agatha, Hospital of St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, Buda-Pesth, to Miss Wilhelmina Murray.

“12 August.

“Dear Madam,--

“I write by desire of Mr. Jonathan Harker, who is himself not strong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary. He has been under our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. He wishes me to convey his love, and to say that by this post I write for him to Mr. Peter Hawkins, Exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. He will require some few weeks’ rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. He wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall not be wanting for help.

“Believe me,
“Yours, with sympathy and all blessings,
“Sister Agatha.

“P. S.—My patient being asleep, I open this to let you know something more. He has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his wife. All blessings to you both! He has had some fearful shock—so says our doctor—and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of what. Be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. We should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one could understand. He came in the train from Klausenburg, and the guard was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a ticket for home. Seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train reached.

“Be assured that he is well cared for. He has won all hearts by his sweetness and gentleness. He is truly getting on well, and I have no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. But be careful of him for safety’s sake. There are, I pray God and St. Joseph and Ste. Mary, many, many, happy years for you both.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

19 August.—Strange and sudden change in Renfield last night. About eight o’clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when setting. The attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. He is usually respectful to the attendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was quite haughty. Would not condescend to talk with him at all. All he would say was:--

The attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has seized him. If so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. The combination is a dreadful one. At nine o’clock I visited him myself. His attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him as nothing. It looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is God. These infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an Omnipotent Being. How these madmen give themselves away! The real God taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the God created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. Oh, if men only knew!

For half an hour or more Renfield kept getting excited in greater and greater degree. I did not pretend to be watching him, but I kept strict observation all the same. All at once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to know so well. He became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. I thought I would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite his attention. At first he made no reply, but at length said testily:--

“Bother them all! I don’t care a pin about them.”

“What?” I said. “You don’t mean to tell me you don’t care about spiders?” (Spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling up with columns of small figures.) To this he answered enigmatically:--

“The bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride; but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled.”

He would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed all the time I remained with him.

I am weary to-night and low in spirits. I cannot but think of Lucy, and how different things might have been. If I don’t sleep at once, chloral, the modern Morpheus—C₂HCl₃O. H₂O! I must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. No, I shall take none to-night! I have thought of Lucy, and I shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. If need be, to-night shall be sleepless....

 

Later.—Glad I made the resolution; gladder that I kept to it. I had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that Renfield had escaped. I threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. Those ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers. The attendant was waiting for me. He said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. His attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. He ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me. He was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off. The attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out of the building by the door. He is a bulky man, and couldn’t get through the window. I am thin, so, with his aid, I got out, but feet foremost, and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. The attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a straight line, so I ran as quickly as I could. As I got through the belt of trees I saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from those of the deserted house.

I ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men immediately and follow me into the grounds of Carfax, in case our friend might be dangerous. I got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the other side. I could see Renfield’s figure just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so I ran after him. On the far side of the house I found him pressed close against the old ironbound oak door of the chapel. He was talking, apparently to some one, but I was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest I might frighten him, and he should run off. Chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! After a few minutes, however, I could see that he did not take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him—the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. I heard him say:--

“I am here to do Your bidding, Master. I am Your slave, and You will reward me, for I shall be faithful. I have worshipped You long and afar off. Now that You are near, I await Your commands, and You will not pass me by, will You, dear Master, in Your distribution of good things?”

He is a selfish old beggar anyhow. He thinks of the loaves and fishes even when he believes he is in a Real Presence. His manias make a startling combination. When we closed in on him he fought like a tiger. He is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. I never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and I hope I shall not again. It is a mercy that we have found out his strength and his danger in good time. With strength and determination like his, he might have done wild work before he was caged. He is safe now at any rate. Jack Sheppard himself couldn’t get free from the strait-waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he’s chained to the wall in the padded room. His cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement.

Just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:--

“I shall be patient, Master. It is coming—coming—coming!”

So I took the hint, and came too. I was too excited to sleep, but this diary has quieted me, and I feel I shall get some sleep to-night.

CHAPTER IX

Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.

“Buda-Pesth, 24 August.

“My dearest Lucy,--

“I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse, tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself, and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject again, and after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved about, added: ‘I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be, have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can treat of.’ I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of my being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I felt a thrill of joy through me when I knew that no other woman was a cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his face while he sleeps. He is waking!...

“When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things. I saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to let me look at it—for I knew then that I might find some clue to his trouble—but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment. Then he called me back, and when I came he had his hand over the note-book, and he said to me very solemnly:--

“ ‘Wilhelmina’—I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him—‘you know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.’ For, my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are complete. ‘Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.’ He fell back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am waiting her reply....

 

“She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English mission church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon after as Jonathan awakes....

 

“Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his ‘I will’ firmly and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even those words seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband—oh, Lucy, it is the first time I have written the words ‘my husband’—left me alone with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax, and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh, Lucy, it was the first time he took his wife’s hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the year.

“Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn pledge between us....

“Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that in your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear, please Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope you will be always as happy as I am now. Good-bye, my dear. I shall post this at once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan is waking—I must attend to my husband!

“Your ever-loving
“Mina Harker.”

Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker.

“Whitby, 30 August.

“My dearest Mina,--

“Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own home with your husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough to stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore Jonathan; it has quite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of life, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing together; and I love him more than ever. He tells me that he loves me more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn’t love me more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me. So no more just at present from your loving

“Lucy.

“P. S.—Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear.

“P. P. S.—We are to be married on 28 September.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

20 August.—The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion. For the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself: “Now I can wait; now I can wait.” The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading—I might almost say, “cringing”—softness. I was satisfied with his present condition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes without protest. It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking furtively at them:--

“They think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The fools!”

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same I do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful to him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will only say: “I don’t take any stock in cats. I have more to think of now, and I can wait; I can wait.”

After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.

 

... Three nights has the same thing happened—violent all day then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went. Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they are required....

 

23 August.—“The unexpected always happens.” How well Disraeli knew life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one thing; that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have given orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room, when once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul’s body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark! The unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.

 

Later.—Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow. Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he would have tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught the patient’s eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had some intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said:--

“You needn’t tie me; I shall go quietly!” Without trouble we came back to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall not forget this night....

Lucy Westenra’s Diary

Hillingham, 24 August.—I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me, for I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel so weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me, and I hadn’t the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder if I could sleep in mother’s room to-night. I shall make an excuse and try.

 

25 August.—Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while; but when the clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling asleep. There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but I did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I must then have fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains me. It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don’t seem ever to get air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I know he will be miserable to see me so.

Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward.

“Albemarle Hotel, 31 August.

“My dear Jack,--

“I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no special disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have asked her if there is any cause; I do not dare to ask her mother, for to disturb the poor lady’s mind about her daughter in her present state of health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is spoken—disease of the heart—though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I am sure that there is something preying on my dear girl’s mind. I am almost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I told her I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at first—I know why, old fellow—she finally consented. It will be a painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for her sake, and I must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at Hillingham to-morrow, two o’clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being alone with you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; I am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as I can after you have seen her. Do not fail!

“Arthur.”

Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward.

“1 September.

“Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write me fully by to-night’s post to Ring. Wire me if necessary.”

Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood.

“2 September.

“My dear old fellow,--

“With regard to Miss Westenra’s health I hasten to let you know at once that in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady that I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means satisfied with her appearance; she is woefully different from what she was when I saw her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have full opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very friendship makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can bridge over. I had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have done and propose doing.

“I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present, and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew to mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is. We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained, for the servants were coming and going. As soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to make a diagnosis. She said to me very sweetly:--

“ ‘I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.’ I reminded her that a doctor’s confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that matter in a word. ‘Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for myself, but all for him!’ So I am quite free.

“I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not see the usual anæmic signs, and by a chance I was actually able to test the quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. The qualitative analysis gives a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in itself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was quite satisfied that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily at times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but regarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back, and that once she walked out in the night and went to East Cliff, where Miss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late the habit has not returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of; I have written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in the world. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that all things were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience to your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for her. Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal reason, so, no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because he knows what he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day; and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the kindliest and truest heart that beats—these form his equipment for the noble work that he is doing for mankind—work both in theory and practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I tell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in him. I have asked him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra to-morrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.

“Yours always,
“John Seward.”

Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr. Seward.

“2 September.

“My good Friend,--

“When I have received your letter I am already coming to you. By good fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds dear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he wants my aids and you call for them than all his great fortune could do. But it is pleasure added to do for him, your friend; it is to you that I come. Have then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be near to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too late on to-morrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that night. But if need be I shall come again in three days, and stay longer if it must. Till then good-bye, my friend John.

“Van Helsing.”

Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

“3 September.

“My dear Art,--

“Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and found that, by Lucy’s discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that we were alone with her. Van Helsing made a very careful examination of the patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of course I was not present all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned, but says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and how you trust to me in the matter, he said: ‘You must tell him all you think. Tell him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.’ I asked what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his brains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for The Daily Telegraph. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the smuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a student here. I am to get his report to-morrow if he can possibly make it. In any case I am to have a letter.

“Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was very sweet to the professor (as she always is), and tried to make him feel at ease; though I could see that the poor girl was making a hard struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of all things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite geniality that I could see poor Lucy’s pretense of animation merge into reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation gently round to his visit, and suavely said:--

“ ‘My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so much beloved. That is much, my dear, ever were there that which I do not see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. To them I say: “Pouf!” ’ And he snapped his fingers at me and went on: ‘But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can he’—and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of—‘know anything of a young ladies? He has his madams to play with, and to bring them back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and, oh, but there are rewards, in that we can bestow such happiness. But the young ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all to ourselves.’ I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the professor came to the window and called me in. He looked grave, but said: ‘I have made careful examination, but there is no functional cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost; it has been, but is not. But the conditions of her are in no way anæmic. I have asked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question, that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say. And yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go back home and think. You must send to me the telegram every day; and if there be cause I shall come again. The disease—for not to be all well is a disease—interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I come.’

“As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone. And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust your poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position between two people who are both so dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father, and you are right to stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to come at once to Lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from me.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

4 September.—Zoöphagous patient still keeps up our interest in him. He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The attendant knew the symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of noon he became so violent that it took all their strength to hold him. In about five minutes, however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm were really appalling; I found my hands full when I got in, attending to some of the other patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was some distance away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen, woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to show something directly. I cannot quite understand it.

 

Later.—Another change in my patient. At five o’clock I looked in on him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture by making nail-marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised for his bad conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to his own room and to have his note-book again. I thought it well to humour him: so he is back in his room with the window open. He has the sugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and is reaping quite a harvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them into a box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find a spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me; but he would not rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of far-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to me:--

“All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do it for myself!” Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said: “Doctor, won’t you be very good to me and let me have a little more sugar? I think it would be good for me.”

“And the flies?” I said.

“Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like it.” And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.

 

Midnight.—Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra, whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As his room is on this side of the house, I could hear it better than in the morning. It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul water, and to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and from his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an inert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual recuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up quite calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would do. He went straight over to the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then he took his fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box; then he shut the window, and crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised me, so I asked him: “Are you not going to keep flies any more?”

“No,” said he; “I am sick of all that rubbish!” He certainly is a wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop; there may be a clue after all, if we can find why to-day his paroxysms came on at high noon and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at periods which affects certain natures—as at times the moon does others? We shall see.

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.

“4 September.—Patient still better to-day.”

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.

“5 September.—Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps naturally; good spirits; colour coming back.”

Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam.

“6 September.—Terrible change for the worse. Come at once; do not lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen you.”

CHAPTER X

Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood.

“6 September.

“My dear Art,--

“My news to-day is not so good. Lucy this morning had gone back a bit. There is, however, one good thing which has arisen from it; Mrs. Westenra was naturally anxious concerning Lucy, and has consulted me professionally about her. I took advantage of the opportunity, and told her that my old master, Van Helsing, the great specialist, was coming to stay with me, and that I would put her in his charge conjointly with myself; so now we can come and go without alarming her unduly, for a shock to her would mean sudden death, and this, in Lucy’s weak condition, might be disastrous to her. We are hedged in with difficulties, all of us, my poor old fellow; but, please God, we shall come through them all right. If any need I shall write, so that, if you do not hear from me, take it for granted that I am simply waiting for news. In haste

Yours ever,
“John Seward.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

7 September.—The first thing Van Helsing said to me when we met at Liverpool Street was:--

“Have you said anything to our young friend the lover of her?”

“No,” I said. “I waited till I had seen you, as I said in my telegram. I wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as Miss Westenra was not so well, and that I should let him know if need be.”

“Right, my friend,” he said, “quite right! Better he not know as yet; perhaps he shall never know. I pray so; but if it be needed, then he shall know all. And, my good friend John, let me caution you. You deal with the madmen. All men are mad in some way or the other; and inasmuch as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with God’s madmen, too—the rest of the world. You tell not your madmen what you do nor why you do it; you tell them not what you think. So you shall keep knowledge in its place, where it may rest—where it may gather its kind around it and breed. You and I shall keep as yet what we know here, and here.” He touched me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched himself the same way. “I have for myself thoughts at the present. Later I shall unfold to you.”

“Why not now?” I asked. “It may do some good; we may arrive at some decision.” He stopped and looked at me, and said:--

“My friend John, when the corn is grown, even before it has ripened—while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff, and say to you: ‘Look! he’s good corn; he will make good crop when the time comes.’ ” I did not see the application, and told him so. For reply he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as he used long ago to do at lectures, and said: “The good husbandman tell you so then because he knows, but not till then. But you do not find the good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that is for the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it as of the work of their life. See you now, friend John? I have sown my corn, and Nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all, there’s some promise; and I wait till the ear begins to swell.” He broke off, for he evidently saw that I understood. Then he went on, and very gravely:--

“You were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more full than the rest. You were only student then; now you are master, and I trust that good habit have not fail. Remember, my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker. Even if you have not kept the good practise, let me tell you that this case of our dear miss is one that may be—mind, I say may be—of such interest to us and others that all the rest may not make him kick the beam, as your peoples say. Take then good note of it. Nothing is too small. I counsel you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises. Hereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess. We learn from failure, not from success!”

When I described Lucy’s symptoms—the same as before, but infinitely more marked—he looked very grave, but said nothing. He took with him a bag in which were many instruments and drugs, “the ghastly paraphernalia of our beneficial trade,” as he once called, in one of his lectures, the equipment of a professor of the healing craft. When we were shown in, Mrs. Westenra met us. She was alarmed, but not nearly so much as I expected to find her. Nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained that even death has some antidote to its own terrors. Here, in a case where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some cause or other, the things not personal—even the terrible change in her daughter to whom she is so attached—do not seem to reach her. It is something like the way Dame Nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that which it would otherwise harm by contact. If this be an ordered selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the vice of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have knowledge of.

I used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down a rule that she should not be present with Lucy or think of her illness more than was absolutely required. She assented readily, so readily that I saw again the hand of Nature fighting for life. Van Helsing and I were shown up to Lucy’s room. If I was shocked when I saw her yesterday, I was horrified when I saw her to-day. She was ghastly, chalkily pale; the red seemed to have gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of her face stood out prominently; her breathing was painful to see or hear. Van Helsing’s face grew set as marble, and his eyebrows converged till they almost touched over his nose. Lucy lay motionless, and did not seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all silent. Then Van Helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. The instant we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to the next door, which was open. Then he pulled me quickly in with him and closed the door. “My God!” he said; “this is dreadful. There is no time to be lost. She will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart’s action as it should be. There must be transfusion of blood at once. Is it you or me?”

“I am younger and stronger, Professor. It must be me.”

“Then get ready at once. I will bring up my bag. I am prepared.”

I went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at the hall-door. When we reached the hall the maid had just opened the door, and Arthur was stepping quickly in. He rushed up to me, saying in an eager whisper:--

“Jack, I was so anxious. I read between the lines of your letter, and have been in an agony. The dad was better, so I ran down here to see for myself. Is not that gentleman Dr. Van Helsing? I am so thankful to you, sir, for coming.” When first the Professor’s eye had lit upon him he had been angry at his interruption at such a time; but now, as he took in his stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young manhood which seemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. Without a pause he said to him gravely as he held out his hand:--

“Sir, you have come in time. You are the lover of our dear miss. She is bad, very, very bad. Nay, my child, do not go like that.” For he suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting. “You are to help her. You can do more than any that live, and your courage is your best help.”

“What can I do?” asked Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me, and I shall do it. My life is hers, and I would give the last drop of blood in my body for her.” The Professor has a strongly humorous side, and I could from old knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer:--

“My young sir, I do not ask so much as that—not the last!”

“What shall I do?” There was fire in his eyes, and his open nostril quivered with intent. Van Helsing slapped him on the shoulder. “Come!” he said. “You are a man, and it is a man we want. You are better than me, better than my friend John.” Arthur looked bewildered, and the Professor went on by explaining in a kindly way:--

“Young miss is bad, very bad. She wants blood, and blood she must have or die. My friend John and I have consulted; and we are about to perform what we call transfusion of blood—to transfer from full veins of one to the empty veins which pine for him. John was to give his blood, as he is the more young and strong than me”—here Arthur took my hand and wrung it hard in silence—“but, now you are here, you are more good than us, old or young, who toil much in the world of thought. Our nerves are not so calm and our blood not so bright than yours!” Arthur turned to him and said:--

“If you only knew how gladly I would die for her you would understand——”

He stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.

“Good boy!” said Van Helsing. “In the not-so-far-off you will be happy that you have done all for her you love. Come now and be silent. You shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must go; and you must leave at my sign. Say no word to Madame; you know how it is with her! There must be no shock; any knowledge of this would be one. Come!”

We all went up to Lucy’s room. Arthur by direction remained outside. Lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. She was not asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. Her eyes spoke to us; that was all. Van Helsing took some things from his bag and laid them on a little table out of sight. Then he mixed a narcotic, and coming over to the bed, said cheerily:--

“Now, little miss, here is your medicine. Drink it off, like a good child. See, I lift you so that to swallow is easy. Yes.” She had made the effort with success.

It astonished me how long the drug took to act. This, in fact, marked the extent of her weakness. The time seemed endless until sleep began to flicker in her eyelids. At last, however, the narcotic began to manifest its potency; and she fell into a deep sleep. When the Professor was satisfied he called Arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his coat. Then he added: “You may take that one little kiss whiles I bring over the table. Friend John, help to me!” So neither of us looked whilst he bent over her.

Van Helsing turning to me, said:

“He is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not defibrinate it.”

Then with swiftness, but with absolute method, Van Helsing performed the operation. As the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come back to poor Lucy’s cheeks, and through Arthur’s growing pallor the joy of his face seemed absolutely to shine. After a bit I began to grow anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on Arthur, strong man as he was. It gave me an idea of what a terrible strain Lucy’s system must have undergone that what weakened Arthur only partially restored her. But the Professor’s face was set, and he stood watch in hand and with his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on Arthur. I could hear my own heart beat. Presently he said in a soft voice: “Do not stir an instant. It is enough. You attend him; I will look to her.” When all was over I could see how much Arthur was weakened. I dressed the wound and took his arm to bring him away, when Van Helsing spoke without turning round—the man seems to have eyes in the back of his head:--

“The brave lover, I think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have presently.” And as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the pillow to the patient’s head. As he did so the narrow black velvet band which she seems always to wear round her throat, buckled with an old diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little up, and showed a red mark on her throat. Arthur did not notice it, but I could hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of Van Helsing’s ways of betraying emotion. He said nothing at the moment, but turned to me, saying: “Now take down our brave young lover, give him of the port wine, and let him lie down a while. He must then go home and rest, sleep much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to his love. He must not stay here. Hold! a moment. I may take it, sir, that you are anxious of result. Then bring it with you that in all ways the operation is successful. You have saved her life this time, and you can go home and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. I shall tell her all when she is well; she shall love you none the less for what you have done. Good-bye.”

When Arthur had gone I went back to the room. Lucy was sleeping gently, but her breathing was stronger; I could see the counterpane move as her breast heaved. By the bedside sat Van Helsing, looking at her intently. The velvet band again covered the red mark. I asked the Professor in a whisper:--

“What do you make of that mark on her throat?”

“What do you make of it?”

“I have not examined it yet,” I answered, and then and there proceeded to loose the band. Just over the external jugular vein there were two punctures, not large, but not wholesome-looking. There was no sign of disease, but the edges were white and worn-looking, as if by some trituration. It at once occurred to me that this wound, or whatever it was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood; but I abandoned the idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not be. The whole bed would have been drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must have lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion.

“Well?” said Van Helsing.

“Well,” said I, “I can make nothing of it.” The Professor stood up. “I must go back to Amsterdam to-night,” he said. “There are books and things there which I want. You must remain here all the night, and you must not let your sight pass from her.”

“Shall I have a nurse?” I asked.

“We are the best nurses, you and I. You keep watch all night; see that she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. You must not sleep all the night. Later on we can sleep, you and I. I shall be back as soon as possible. And then we may begin.”

“May begin?” I said. “What on earth do you mean?”

“We shall see!” he answered, as he hurried out. He came back a moment later and put his head inside the door and said with warning finger held up:--

“Remember, she is your charge. If you leave her, and harm befall, you shall not sleep easy hereafter!”

Dr. Seward’s Diary—continued.

8 September.—I sat up all night with Lucy. The opiate worked itself off towards dusk, and she waked naturally; she looked a different being from what she had been before the operation. Her spirits even were good, and she was full of a happy vivacity, but I could see evidences of the absolute prostration which she had undergone. When I told Mrs. Westenra that Dr. Van Helsing had directed that I should sit up with her she almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her daughter’s renewed strength and excellent spirits. I was firm, however, and made preparations for my long vigil. When her maid had prepared her for the night I came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by the bedside. She did not in any way make objection, but looked at me gratefully whenever I caught her eye. After a long spell she seemed sinking off to sleep, but with an effort seemed to pull herself together and shook it off. This was repeated several times, with greater effort and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. It was apparent that she did not want to sleep, so I tackled the subject at once:--

“You do not want to go to sleep?”

“No; I am afraid.”

“Afraid to go to sleep! Why so? It is the boon we all crave for.”

“Ah, not if you were like me—if sleep was to you a presage of horror!”

“A presage of horror! What on earth do you mean?”

“I don’t know; oh, I don’t know. And that is what is so terrible. All this weakness comes to me in sleep; until I dread the very thought.”

“But, my dear girl, you may sleep to-night. I am here watching you, and I can promise that nothing will happen.”

“Ah, I can trust you!” I seized the opportunity, and said: “I promise you that if I see any evidence of bad dreams I will wake you at once.”

“You will? Oh, will you really? How good you are to me. Then I will sleep!” And almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank back, asleep.

All night long I watched by her. She never stirred, but slept on and on in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. Her lips were slightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a pendulum. There was a smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind.

In the early morning her maid came, and I left her in her care and took myself back home, for I was anxious about many things. I sent a short wire to Van Helsing and to Arthur, telling them of the excellent result of the operation. My own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all day to clear off; it was dark when I was able to inquire about my zoöphagous patient. The report was good; he had been quite quiet for the past day and night. A telegram came from Van Helsing at Amsterdam whilst I was at dinner, suggesting that I should be at Hillingham to-night, as it might be well to be at hand, and stating that he was leaving by the night mail and would join me early in the morning.

 

9 September.—I was pretty tired and worn out when I got to Hillingham. For two nights I had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my brain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral exhaustion. Lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. When she shook hands with me she looked sharply in my face and said:--

“No sitting up to-night for you. You are worn out. I am quite well again; indeed, I am; and if there is to be any sitting up, it is I who will sit up with you.” I would not argue the point, but went and had my supper. Lucy came with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, I made an excellent meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than excellent port. Then Lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next her own, where a cozy fire was burning. “Now,” she said, “you must stay here. I shall leave this door open and my door too. You can lie on the sofa for I know that nothing would induce any of you doctors to go to bed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. If I want anything I shall call out, and you can come to me at once.” I could not but acquiesce, for I was “dog-tired,” and could not have sat up had I tried. So, on her renewing her promise to call me if she should want anything, I lay on the sofa, and forgot all about everything.

Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

9 September.—I feel so happy to-night. I have been so miserably weak, that to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after a long spell of east wind out of a steel sky. Somehow Arthur feels very, very close to me. I seem to feel his presence warm about me. I suppose it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our inner eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength give Love rein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he wills. I know where my thoughts are. If Arthur only knew! My dear, my dear, your ears must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. Oh, the blissful rest of last night! How I slept, with that dear, good Dr. Seward watching me. And to-night I shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand and within call. Thank everybody for being so good to me! Thank God! Good-night, Arthur.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

10 September.—I was conscious of the Professor’s hand on my head, and started awake all in a second. That is one of the things that we learn in an asylum, at any rate.

“And how is our patient?”

“Well, when I left her, or rather when she left me,” I answered.

“Come, let us see,” he said. And together we went into the room.

The blind was down, and I went over to raise it gently, whilst Van Helsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed.

As I raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, I heard the Professor’s low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a deadly fear shot through my heart. As I passed over he moved back, and his exclamation of horror, “Gott in Himmel!” needed no enforcement from his agonised face. He raised his hand and pointed to the bed, and his iron face was drawn and ashen white. I felt my knees begin to tremble.

There on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor Lucy, more horribly white and wan-looking than ever. Even the lips were white, and the gums seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a corpse after a prolonged illness. Van Helsing raised his foot to stamp in anger, but the instinct of his life and all the long years of habit stood to him, and he put it down again softly. “Quick!” he said. “Bring the brandy.” I flew to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter. He wetted the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and wrist and heart. He felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonising suspense said:--

“It is not too late. It beats, though but feebly. All our work is undone; we must begin again. There is no young Arthur here now; I have to call on you yourself this time, friend John.” As he spoke, he was dipping into his bag and producing the instruments for transfusion; I had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt-sleeve. There was no possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one; and so, without a moment’s delay, we began the operation. After a time—it did not seem a short time either, for the draining away of one’s blood, no matter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling—Van Helsing held up a warning finger. “Do not stir,” he said, “but I fear that with growing strength she may wake; and that would make danger, oh, so much danger. But I shall precaution take. I shall give hypodermic injection of morphia.” He proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent. The effect on Lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge subtly into the narcotic sleep. It was with a feeling of personal pride that I could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid cheeks and lips. No man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves.

The Professor watched me critically. “That will do,” he said. “Already?” I remonstrated. “You took a great deal more from Art.” To which he smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied:--

“He is her lover, her fiancé. You have work, much work, to do for her and for others; and the present will suffice.”

When we stopped the operation, he attended to Lucy, whilst I applied digital pressure to my own incision. I laid down, whilst I waited his leisure to attend to me, for I felt faint and a little sick. By-and-by he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for myself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half whispered:--

“Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up unexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and enjealous him, too. There must be none. So!”

When I came back he looked at me carefully, and then said:--

“You are not much the worse. Go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and rest awhile; then have much breakfast, and come here to me.”

I followed out his orders, for I knew how right and wise they were. I had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. I felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at what had occurred. I fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over and over again how Lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign anywhere to show for it. I think I must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for, sleeping and waking, my thoughts always came back to the little punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their edges—tiny though they were.

Lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. When Van Helsing had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict injunctions that I was not to leave her for a moment. I could hear his voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.

Lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything had happened. I tried to keep her amused and interested. When her mother came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but said to me gratefully:--

“We owe you so much, Dr. Seward, for all you have done, but you really must now take care not to overwork yourself. You are looking pale yourself. You want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit; that you do!” As she spoke, Lucy turned crimson, though it was only momentarily, for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long such an unwonted drain to the head. The reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned imploring eyes on me. I smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my lips; with a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows.

Van Helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me: “Now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. Make yourself strong. I stay here to-night, and I shall sit up with little miss myself. You and I must watch the case, and we must have none other to know. I have grave reasons. No, do not ask them; think what you will. Do not fear to think even the most not-probable. Good-night.”

In the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of them might not sit up with Miss Lucy. They implored me to let them; and when I said it was Dr. Van Helsing’s wish that either he or I should sit up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with the “foreign gentleman.” I was much touched by their kindness. Perhaps it is because I am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on Lucy’s account, that their devotion was manifested; for over and over again have I seen similar instances of woman’s kindness. I got back here in time for a late dinner; went my rounds—all well; and set this down whilst waiting for sleep. It is coming.

 

11 September.—This afternoon I went over to Hillingham. Found Van Helsing in excellent spirits, and Lucy much better. Shortly after I had arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the Professor. He opened it with much impressment—assumed, of course—and showed a great bundle of white flowers.

“These are for you, Miss Lucy,” he said.

“For me? Oh, Dr. Van Helsing!”

“Yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. These are medicines.” Here Lucy made a wry face. “Nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or in nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming nose, or I shall point out to my friend Arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing so much beauty that he so loves so much distort. Aha, my pretty miss, that bring the so nice nose all straight again. This is medicinal, but you do not know how. I put him in your window, I make pretty wreath, and hang him round your neck, so that you sleep well. Oh yes! they, like the lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. It smell so like the waters of Lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the Conquistadores sought for in the Floridas, and find him all too late.”

Whilst he was speaking, Lucy had been examining the flowers and smelling them. Now she threw them down, saying, with half-laughter, and half-disgust:--

“Oh, Professor, I believe you are only putting up a joke on me. Why, these flowers are only common garlic.”

To my surprise, Van Helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting:--

“No trifling with me! I never jest! There is grim purpose in all I do; and I warn you that you do not thwart me. Take care, for the sake of others if not for your own.” Then seeing poor Lucy scared, as she might well be, he went on more gently: “Oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear me. I only do for your good; but there is much virtue to you in those so common flowers. See, I place them myself in your room. I make myself the wreath that you are to wear. But hush! no telling to others that make so inquisitive questions. We must obey, and silence is a part of obedience; and obedience is to bring you strong and well into loving arms that wait for you. Now sit still awhile. Come with me, friend John, and you shall help me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the way from Haarlem, where my friend Vanderpool raise herb in his glass-houses all the year. I had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here.”

We went into the room, taking the flowers with us. The Professor’s actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopœia that I ever heard of. First he fastened up the windows and latched them securely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get in would be laden with the garlic smell. Then with the wisp he rubbed all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each side, and round the fireplace in the same way. It all seemed grotesque to me, and presently I said:--

“Well, Professor, I know you always have a reason for what you do, but this certainly puzzles me. It is well we have no sceptic here, or he would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit.”

“Perhaps I am!” he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which Lucy was to wear round her neck.

We then waited whilst Lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her neck. The last words he said to her were:--

“Take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do not to-night open the window or the door.”

“I promise,” said Lucy, “and thank you both a thousand times for all your kindness to me! Oh, what have I done to be blessed with such friends?”

As we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, Van Helsing said:--

“To-night I can sleep in peace, and sleep I want—two nights of travel, much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow, and a night to sit up, without to wink. To-morrow in the morning early you call for me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much more strong for my ‘spell’ which I have work. Ho! ho!”

He seemed so confident that I, remembering my own confidence two nights before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. It must have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but I felt it all the more, like unshed tears.

CHAPTER XI

Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

12 September.—How good they all are to me. I quite love that dear Dr. Van Helsing. I wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers. He positively frightened me, he was so fierce. And yet he must have been right, for I feel comfort from them already. Somehow, I do not dread being alone to-night, and I can go to sleep without fear. I shall not mind any flapping outside the window. Oh, the terrible struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late; the pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, with such unknown horrors as it has for me! How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams. Well, here I am to-night, hoping for sleep, and lying like Ophelia in the play, with “virgin crants and maiden strewments.” I never liked garlic before, but to-night it is delightful! There is peace in its smell; I feel sleep coming already. Good-night, everybody.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

13 September.—Called at the Berkeley and found Van Helsing, as usual, up to time. The carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting. The Professor took his bag, which he always brings with him now.

Let all be put down exactly. Van Helsing and I arrived at Hillingham at eight o’clock. It was a lovely morning; the bright sunshine and all the fresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the completion of nature’s annual work. The leaves were turning to all kinds of beautiful colours, but had not yet begun to drop from the trees. When we entered we met Mrs. Westenra coming out of the morning room. She is always an early riser. She greeted us warmly and said:--

“You will be glad to know that Lucy is better. The dear child is still asleep. I looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest I should disturb her.” The Professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. He rubbed his hands together, and said:--

“Aha! I thought I had diagnosed the case. My treatment is working,” to which she answered:--

“You must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. Lucy’s state this morning is due in part to me.”

“How you do mean, ma’am?” asked the Professor.

“Well, I was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into her room. She was sleeping soundly—so soundly that even my coming did not wake her. But the room was awfully stuffy. There were a lot of those horrible, strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually a bunch of them round her neck. I feared that the heavy odour would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so I took them all away and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh air. You will be pleased with her, I am sure.”

She moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. As she had spoken, I watched the Professor’s face, and saw it turn ashen grey. He had been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be; he actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass into her room. But the instant she had disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining-room and closed the door.

Then, for the first time in my life, I saw Van Helsing break down. He raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms together in a helpless way; finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart. Then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe. “God! God! God!” he said. “What have we done, what has this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? Is there fate amongst us still, sent down from the pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such way? This poor mother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter body and soul; and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her, or she die, and then both die. Oh, how we are beset! How are all the powers of the devils against us!” Suddenly he jumped to his feet. “Come,” he said, “come, we must see and act. Devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him all the same.” He went to the hall-door for his bag; and together we went up to Lucy’s room.

Once again I drew up the blind, whilst Van Helsing went towards the bed. This time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with the same awful, waxen pallor as before. He wore a look of stern sadness and infinite pity.

“As I expected,” he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which meant so much. Without a word he went and locked the door, and then began to set out on the little table the instruments for yet another operation of transfusion of blood. I had long ago recognised the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a warning hand. “No!” he said. “To-day you must operate. I shall provide. You are weakened already.” As he spoke he took off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeve.

Again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. This time I watched whilst Van Helsing recruited himself and rested.

Presently he took an opportunity of telling Mrs. Westenra that she must not remove anything from Lucy’s room without consulting him; that the flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing of their odour was a part of the system of cure. Then he took over the care of the case himself, saying that he would watch this night and the next and would send me word when to come.

After another hour Lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and seemingly not much the worse for her terrible ordeal.

What does it all mean? I am beginning to wonder if my long habit of life amongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain.

Lucy Westenra’s Diary.

17 September.—Four days and nights of peace. I am getting so strong again that I hardly know myself. It is as if I had passed through some long nightmare, and had just awakened to see the beautiful sunshine and feel the fresh air of the morning around me. I have a dim half-remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing; darkness in which there was not even the pain of hope to make present distress more poignant: and then long spells of oblivion, and the rising back to life as a diver coming up through a great press of water. Since, however, Dr. Van Helsing has been with me, all this bad dreaming seems to have passed away; the noises that used to frighten me out of my wits—the flapping against the windows, the distant voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh sounds that came from I know not where and commanded me to do I know not what--have all ceased. I go to bed now without any fear of sleep. I do not even try to keep awake. I have grown quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me every day from Haarlem. To-night Dr. Van Helsing is going away, as he has to be for a day in Amsterdam. But I need not be watched; I am well enough to be left alone. Thank God for mother’s sake, and dear Arthur’s, and for all our friends who have been so kind! I shall not even feel the change, for last night Dr. Van Helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. I found him asleep twice when I awoke; but I did not fear to go to sleep again, although the boughs or bats or something napped almost angrily against the window-panes.

“The Pall Mall Gazette,” 18 September.

THE ESCAPED WOLF.

PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER.

Interview with the Keeper in the Zoölogical Gardens.

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using the words “Pall Mall Gazette” as a sort of talisman, I managed to find the keeper of the section of the Zoölogical Gardens in which the wolf department is included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the elephant-house, and was just sitting down to his tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called “business” until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said:--

“Now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You’ll excoose me refoosin’ to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk them questions.”

“How do you mean, ask them questions?” I queried, wishful to get him into a talkative humour.

“ ’Ittin’ of them over the ’ead with a pole is one way; scratchin’ of their hears is another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I don’t so much mind the fust—the ’ittin’ with a pole afore I chucks in their dinner; but I waits till they’ve ’ad their sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the ear-scratchin’. Mind you,” he added philosophically, “there’s a deal of the same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here’s you a-comin’ and arskin’ of me questions about my business, and I that grumpy-like that only for your bloomin’ ’arf-quid I’d ’a’ seen you blowed fust ’fore I’d answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic-like if I’d like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without offence did I tell yer to go to ’ell?”

“You did.”

“An’ when you said you’d report me for usin’ of obscene language that was ’ittin’ me over the ’ead; but the ’arf-quid made that all right. I weren’t a-goin’ to fight, so I waited for the food, and did with my ’owl as the wolves, and lions, and tigers does. But, Lor’ love yer ’art, now that the old ’ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an’ rinsed me out with her bloomin’ old teapot, and I’ve lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you’re worth, and won’t git even a growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin’ at, that ’ere escaped wolf.”

“Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it happened; and when I know the facts I’ll get you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will end.”

“All right, guv’nor. This ’ere is about the ’ole story. That ’ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three grey ones that came from Norway to Jamrach’s, which we bought off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I’m more surprised at ’im for wantin’ to get out nor any other animile in the place. But, there, you can’t trust wolves no more nor women.”

“Don’t you mind him, sir!” broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. “ ’E’s got mindin’ the animiles so long that blest if he ain’t like a old wolf ’isself! But there ain’t no ’arm in ’im.”

“Well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I first hear my disturbance. I was makin’ up a litter in the monkey-house for a young puma which is ill; but when I heard the yelpin’ and ’owlin’ I kem away straight. There was Bersicker a-tearin’ like a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn’t much people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a ’ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin’ through it. He had a ’ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was ’im as they was hirritated at. He ’ad white kid gloves on ’is ’ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says: ‘Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.’

“ ‘Maybe it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he give ’isself. He didn’t git angry, as I ’oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. ‘Oh no, they wouldn’t like me,’ ’e says.

“ ‘Ow yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’ of him. ‘They always likes a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you ’as a bagful.’

“Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin’ they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn’t put in his hand and stroke the old wolf’s ears too!

“ ‘Tyke care,’ says I. ‘Bersicker is quick.’

“ ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘I’m used to ’em!’

“ ‘Are you in the business yourself?’ I says, tyking off my ’at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers.

“ ‘No’ says he, ‘not exactly in the business, but I ’ave made pets of several.’ And with that he lifts his ’at as perlite as a lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker kep’ a-lookin’ arter ’im till ’e was out of sight, and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn’t come hout the ’ole hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves here all began a-’owling. There warn’t nothing for them to ’owl at. There warn’t no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin’ a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice I went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the ’owling stopped. Just before twelve o’clock I just took a look round afore turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker’s cage I see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And that’s all I know for certing.”

“Did any one else see anything?”

“One of our gard’ners was a-comin’ ’ome about that time from a ’armony, when he sees a big grey dog comin’ out through the garding ’edges. At least, so he says, but I don’t give much for it myself, for if he did ’e never said a word about it to his missis when ’e got ’ome, and it was only after the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had been up all night-a-huntin’ of the Park for Bersicker, that he remembered seein’ anything. My own belief was that the ’armony ’ad got into his ’ead.”

“Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the wolf?”

“Well, sir,” he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, “I think I can; but I don’t know as ’ow you’d be satisfied with the theory.”

“Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from experience, can’t hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?”

“Well then, sir, I accounts for it this way; it seems to me that ’ere wolf escaped—simply because he wanted to get out.”

From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the joke I could see that it had done service before, and that the whole explanation was simply an elaborate sell. I couldn’t cope in badinage with the worthy Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way to his heart, so I said:--

“Now, Mr. Bilder, we’ll consider that first half-sovereign worked off, and this brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you’ve told me what you think will happen.”

“Right y’are, sir,” he said briskly. “Ye’ll excoose me, I know, for a-chaffin’ of ye, but the old woman here winked at me, which was as much as telling me to go on.”

“Well, I never!” said the old lady.

“My opinion is this: that ’ere wolf is a-’idin’ of, somewheres. The gard’ner wot didn’t remember said he was a-gallopin’ northward faster than a horse could go; but I don’t believe him, for, yer see, sir, wolves don’t gallop no more nor dogs does, they not bein’ built that way. Wolves is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when they gets in packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s more afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever it is. But, Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half so clever or bold as a good dog; and not half a quarter so much fight in ’im. This one ain’t been used to fightin’ or even to providin’ for hisself, and more like he’s somewhere round the Park a-’idin’ an’ a-shiverin’ of, and, if he thinks at all, wonderin’ where he is to get his breakfast from; or maybe he’s got down some area and is in a coal-cellar. My eye, won’t some cook get a rum start when she sees his green eyes a-shining at her out of the dark! If he can’t get food he’s bound to look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher’s shop in time. If he doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes a-walkin’ orf with a soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator—well, then I shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the less. That’s all.”

I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up against the window, and Mr. Bilder’s face doubled its natural length with surprise.

“God bless me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Bersicker come back by ’isself!”

He went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary proceeding it seemed to me. I have always thought that a wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between us; a personal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea.

After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder nor his wife thought any more of the wolf than I should of a dog. The animal itself was as peaceful and well-behaved as that father of all picture-wolves—Red Riding Hood’s quondam friend, whilst moving her confidence in masquerade.

The whole scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The wicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed London and set all the children in the town shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and was received and petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said:--

“There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble; didn’t I say it all along? Here’s his head all cut and full of broken glass. ’E’s been a-gettin’ over some bloomin’ wall or other. It’s a shyme that people are allowed to top their walls with broken bottles. This ’ere’s what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker.”

He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the fatted calf, and went off to report.

I came off, too, to report the only exclusive information that is given to-day regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

17 September.—I was engaged after dinner in my study posting up my books, which, through press of other work and the many visits to Lucy, had fallen sadly into arrear. Suddenly the door was burst open, and in rushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion. I was thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord into the Superintendent’s study is almost unknown. Without an instant’s pause he made straight at me. He had a dinner-knife in his hand, and, as I saw he was dangerous, I tried to keep the table between us. He was too quick and too strong for me, however; for before I could get my balance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely. Before he could strike again, however, I got in my right and he was sprawling on his back on the floor. My wrist bled freely, and quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet. I saw that my friend was not intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up my wrist, keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. When the attendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his employment positively sickened me. He was lying on his belly on the floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my wounded wrist. He was easily secured, and, to my surprise, went with the attendants quite placidly, simply repeating over and over again: “The blood is the life! The blood is the life!”

I cannot afford to lose blood just at present; I have lost too much of late for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of Lucy’s illness and its horrible phases is telling on me. I am over-excited and weary, and I need rest, rest, rest. Happily Van Helsing has not summoned me, so I need not forego my sleep; to-night I could not well do without it.

Telegram, Van Helsing, Antwerp, to Seward, Carfax.

(Sent to Carfax, Sussex, as no county given; delivered late by twenty-two hours.)

“17 September.—Do not fail to be at Hillingham to-night. If not watching all the time frequently, visit and see that flowers are as placed; very important; do not fail. Shall be with you as soon as possible after arrival.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

18 September.—Just off for train to London. The arrival of Van Helsing’s telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night lost, and I know by bitter experience what may happen in a night. Of course it is possible that all may be well, but what may have happened? Surely there is some horrible doom hanging over us that every possible accident should thwart us in all we try to do. I shall take this cylinder with me, and then I can complete my entry on Lucy’s phonograph.

Memorandum left by Lucy Westenra.

17 September. Night.—I write this and leave it to be seen, so that no one may by any chance get into trouble through me. This is an exact record of what took place to-night. I feel I am dying of weakness, and have barely strength to write, but it must be done if I die in the doing.

I went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as Dr. Van Helsing directed, and soon fell asleep.

I was waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun after that sleep-walking on the cliff at Whitby when Mina saved me, and which now I know so well. I was not afraid, but I did wish that Dr. Seward was in the next room—as Dr. Van Helsing said he would be—so that I might have called him. I tried to go to sleep, but could not. Then there came to me the old fear of sleep, and I determined to keep awake. Perversely sleep would try to come then when I did not want it; so, as I feared to be alone, I opened my door and called out: “Is there anybody there?” There was no answer. I was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door again. Then outside in the shrubbery I heard a sort of howl like a dog’s, but more fierce and deeper. I went to the window and looked out, but could see nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its wings against the window. So I went back to bed again, but determined not to go to sleep. Presently the door opened, and mother looked in; seeing by my moving that I was not asleep, came in, and sat by me. She said to me even more sweetly and softly than her wont:--

“I was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you were all right.”

I feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down beside me; she did not take off her dressing gown, for she said she would only stay a while and then go back to her own bed. As she lay there in my arms, and I in hers, the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. She was startled and a little frightened, and cried out: “What is that?” I tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet; but I could hear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. After a while there was the low howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor. The window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey wolf. Mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would help her. Amongst other things, she clutched the wreath of flowers that Dr. Van Helsing insisted on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. For a second or two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and horrible gurgling in her throat; then she fell over—as if struck with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me dizzy for a moment or two. The room and all round seemed to spin round. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole myriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in through the broken window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. I tried to stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear mother’s poor body, which seemed to grow cold already—for her dear heart had ceased to beat—weighed me down; and I remembered no more for a while.

The time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till I recovered consciousness again. Somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the dogs all round the neighbourhood were howling; and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing. I was dazed and stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort me. The sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for I could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door. I called to them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out. The wind rushed in through the broken window, and the door slammed to. They lifted off the body of my dear mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after I had got up. They were all so frightened and nervous that I directed them to go to the dining-room and have each a glass of wine. The door flew open for an instant and closed again. The maids shrieked, and then went in a body to the dining-room; and I laid what flowers I had on my dear mother’s breast. When they were there I remembered what Dr. Van Helsing had told me, but I didn’t like to remove them, and, besides, I would have some of the servants to sit up with me now. I was surprised that the maids did not come back. I called them, but got no answer, so I went to the dining-room to look for them.

My heart sank when I saw what had happened. They all four lay helpless on the floor, breathing heavily. The decanter of sherry was on the table half full, but there was a queer, acrid smell about. I was suspicious, and examined the decanter. It smelt of laudanum, and looking on the sideboard, I found that the bottle which mother’s doctor uses for her—oh! did use—was empty. What am I to do? what am I to do? I am back in the room with mother. I cannot leave her, and I am alone, save for the sleeping servants, whom some one has drugged. Alone with the dead! I dare not go out, for I can hear the low howl of the wolf through the broken window.

The air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim. What am I to do? God shield me from harm this night! I shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find it when they come to lay me out. My dear mother gone! It is time that I go too. Good-bye, dear Arthur, if I should not survive this night. God keep you, dear, and God help me!

CHAPTER XII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

18 September.—I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early. Keeping my cab at the gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently and rang as quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door. After a while, finding no response, I knocked and rang again; still no answer. I cursed the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an hour—for it was now ten o’clock—and so rang and knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without response. Hitherto I had blamed only the servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing tight around us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too late? I knew that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she had had again one of those frightful relapses; and I went round the house to try if I could find by chance an entry anywhere.

I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened and locked, and I returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse’s feet. They stopped at the gate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue. When he saw me, he gasped out:--

“Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you not get my telegram?”

I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his telegram early in the morning, and had not lost a minute in coming here, and that I could not make any one in the house hear me. He paused and raised his hat as he said solemnly:--

“Then I fear we are too late. God’s will be done!” With his usual recuperative energy, he went on: “Come. If there be no way open to get in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now.”

We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen window. The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window. I attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them. Then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him. There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants’ rooms, which were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining-room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four servant-women lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead, for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the room left no doubt as to their condition. Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he said: “We can attend to them later.” Then we ascended to Lucy’s room. For an instant or two we paused at the door to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. With white faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the room.

How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and her mother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the draught through the broken window, showing the drawn, white face, with a look of terror fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still more drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we found upon her mother’s bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two little wounds which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white and mangled. Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching poor Lucy’s breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me:--

“It is not yet too late! Quick! quick! Bring the brandy!”

I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I found on the table. The maids were still breathing, but more restlessly, and I fancied that the narcotic was wearing off. I did not stay to make sure, but returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed the brandy, as on another occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists and the palms of her hands. He said to me:--

“I can do this, all that can be at the present. You go wake those maids. Flick them in the face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them get heat and fire and a warm bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as that beside her. She will need be heated before we can do anything more.”

I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the women. The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently affected her more strongly, so I lifted her on the sofa and let her sleep. The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to them they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with them, however, and would not let them talk. I told them that one life was bad enough to lose, and that if they delayed they would sacrifice Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying, they went about their way, half clad as they were, and prepared fire and water. Fortunately, the kitchen and boiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water. We got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her in it. Whilst we were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door. One of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and opened it. Then she returned and whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come with a message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him that he must wait, for we could see no one now. She went away with the message, and, engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all about him.

I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly earnest. I knew—as he knew—that it was a stand-up fight with death, and in a pause told him so. He answered me in a way that I did not understand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear:--

“If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her fade away into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon.” He went on with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour.

Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to be of some effect. Lucy’s heart beat a trifle more audibly to the stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement. Van Helsing’s face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in a hot sheet to dry her he said to me:--

“The first gain is ours! Check to the King!”

We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I noticed that Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was still unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we had ever seen her.

Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me out of the room.

“We must consult as to what is to be done,” he said as we descended the stairs. In the hall he opened the dining-room door, and we passed in, he closing the door carefully behind him. The shutters had been opened, but the blinds were already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of death which the British woman of the lower classes always rigidly observes. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was, however, light enough for our purposes. Van Helsing’s sternness was somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity. He was evidently torturing his mind about something, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke:--

“What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl’s life won’t be worth an hour’s purchase. You are exhausted already; I am exhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if they would have courage to submit. What are we to do for some one who will open his veins for her?”

“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris. Van Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened and a glad look came into his eyes as I cried out: “Quincey Morris!” and rushed towards him with outstretched hands.

“What brought you here?” I cried as our hands met.

“I guess Art is the cause.”

He handed me a telegram:--

“Have not heard from Seward for three days, and am terribly anxious. Cannot leave. Father still in same condition. Send me word how Lucy is. Do not delay.--Holmwood.”

“I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to tell me what to do.”

Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in the eyes as he said:--

“A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in trouble. You’re a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work against us for all he’s worth, but God sends us men when we want them.”

Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the heart to go through with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock and it told on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on the other occasions. Her struggle back into life was something frightful to see and hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs improved, and Van Helsing made a subcutaneous injection of morphia, as before, and with good effect. Her faint became a profound slumber. The Professor watched whilst I went downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one of the maids to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. I left Quincey lying down after having a glass of wine, and told the cook to get ready a good breakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I went back to the room where Lucy now was. When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet or two of note-paper in his hand. He had evidently read it, and was thinking it over as he sat with his hand to his brow. There was a look of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper saying only: “It dropped from Lucy’s breast when we carried her to the bath.”

When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a pause asked him: “In God’s name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she, mad; or what sort of horrible danger is it?” I was so bewildered that I did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying:--

“Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You shall know and understand it all in good time; but it will be later. And now what is it that you came to me to say?” This brought me back to fact, and I was all myself again.

“I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have to be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it. Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker.”

“Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends that love her. One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old man. Ah yes, I know, friend John; I am not blind! I love you all the more for it! Now go.”

In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him that Mrs. Westenra was dead; that Lucy also had been ill, but was now going on better; and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him where I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said:--

“When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to ourselves?” I nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements.

When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her side. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of forestalling nature. So I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast-room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other rooms. When we were alone, he said to me:--

“Jack Seward, I don’t want to shove myself in anywhere where I’ve no right to be; but this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl and wanted to marry her; but, although that’s all past and gone, I can’t help feeling anxious about her all the same. What is it that’s wrong with her? The Dutchman—and a fine old fellow he is; I can see that—said, that time you two came into the room, that you must have another transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted. Now I know well that you medical men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to know what they consult about in private. But this is no common matter, and, whatever it is, I have done my part. Is not that so?”

“That’s so,” I said, and he went on:--

“I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did to-day. Is not that so?”

“That’s so.”

“And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his own place he looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down so quick since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may tell me without betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not that so?” As he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a torture of suspense regarding the woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible mystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain. His very heart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of him—and there was a royal lot of it, too—to keep him from breaking down. I paused before answering, for I felt that I must not betray anything which the Professor wished kept secret; but already he knew so much, and guessed so much, that there could be no reason for not answering, so I answered in the same phrase: “That’s so.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“About ten days.”

“Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature that we all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood of four strong men. Man alive, her whole body wouldn’t hold it.” Then, coming close to me, he spoke in a fierce half-whisper: “What took it out?”

I shook my head. “That,” I said, “is the crux. Van Helsing is simply frantic about it, and I am at my wits’ end. I can’t even hazard a guess. There has been a series of little circumstances which have thrown out all our calculations as to Lucy being properly watched. But these shall not occur again. Here we stay until all be well—or ill.” Quincey held out his hand. “Count me in,” he said. “You and the Dutchman will tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy’s first movement was to feel in her breast, and, to my surprise, produced the paper which Van Helsing had given me to read. The careful Professor had replaced it where it had come from, lest on waking she should be alarmed. Her eye then lit on Van Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she looked around the room, and seeing where she was, shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put her poor thin hands before her pale face. We both understood what that meant—that she had realised to the full her mother’s death; so we tried what we could to comfort her. Doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought and spirit, and wept silently and weakly for a long time. We told her that either or both of us would now remain with her all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk she fell into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she took the paper from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped over and took the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on with the action of tearing, as though the material were still in her hands; finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering the fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as if in thought, but he said nothing.

 

19 September.—All last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid to sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. The Professor and I took it in turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment unattended. Quincey Morris said nothing about his intention, but I knew that all night long he patrolled round and round the house.

When the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor Lucy’s strength. She was hardly able to turn her head, and the little nourishment which she could take seemed to do her no good. At times she slept, and both Van Helsing and I noticed the difference in her, between sleeping and waking. Whilst asleep she looked stronger, although more haggard, and her breathing was softer; her open mouth showed the pale gums drawn back from the teeth, which thus looked positively longer and sharper than usual; when she woke the softness of her eyes evidently changed the expression, for she looked her own self, although a dying one. In the afternoon she asked for Arthur, and we telegraphed for him. Quincey went off to meet him at the station.

When he arrived it was nearly six o’clock, and the sun was setting full and warm, and the red light streamed in through the window and gave more colour to the pale cheeks. When he saw her, Arthur was simply choking with emotion, and none of us could speak. In the hours that had passed, the fits of sleep, or the comatose condition that passed for it, had grown more frequent, so that the pauses when conversation was possible were shortened. Arthur’s presence, however, seemed to act as a stimulant; she rallied a little, and spoke to him more brightly than she had done since we arrived. He too pulled himself together, and spoke as cheerily as he could, so that the best was made of everything.

It was now nearly one o’clock, and he and Van Helsing are sitting with her. I am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and I am entering this on Lucy’s phonograph. Until six o’clock they are to try to rest. I fear that to-morrow will end our watching, for the shock has been too great; the poor child cannot rally. God help us all.

Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.
(Unopened by her.)

“17 September.

“My dearest Lucy,--

“It seems an age since I heard from you, or indeed since I wrote. You will pardon me, I know, for all my faults when you have read all my budget of news. Well, I got my husband back all right; when we arrived at Exeter there was a carriage waiting for us, and in it, though he had an attack of gout, Mr. Hawkins. He took us to his house, where there were rooms for us all nice and comfortable, and we dined together. After dinner Mr. Hawkins said:--

“ ‘My dears, I want to drink your health and prosperity; and may every blessing attend you both. I know you both from children, and have, with love and pride, seen you grow up. Now I want you to make your home here with me. I have left to me neither chick nor child; all are gone, and in my will I have left you everything.’ I cried, Lucy dear, as Jonathan and the old man clasped hands. Our evening was a very, very happy one.

“So here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and from both my bedroom and the drawing-room I can see the great elms of the cathedral close, with their great black stems standing out against the old yellow stone of the cathedral and I can hear the rooks overhead cawing and cawing and chattering and gossiping all day, after the manner of rooks—and humans. I am busy, I need not tell you, arranging things and housekeeping. Jonathan and Mr. Hawkins are busy all day; for, now that Jonathan is a partner, Mr. Hawkins wants to tell him all about the clients.

“How is your dear mother getting on? I wish I could run up to town for a day or two to see you, dear, but I dare not go yet, with so much on my shoulders; and Jonathan wants looking after still. He is beginning to put some flesh on his bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the long illness; even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in a sudden way and awakes all trembling until I can coax him back to his usual placidity. However, thank God, these occasions grow less frequent as the days go on, and they will in time pass away altogether, I trust. And now I have told you my news, let me ask yours. When are you to be married, and where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and what are you to wear, and is it to be a public or a private wedding? Tell me all about it, dear; tell me all about everything, for there is nothing which interests you which will not be dear to me. Jonathan asks me to send his ‘respectful duty,’ but I do not think that is good enough from the junior partner of the important firm Hawkins & Harker; and so, as you love me, and he loves me, and I love you with all the moods and tenses of the verb, I send you simply his ‘love’ instead. Good-bye, my dearest Lucy, and all blessings on you.

“Yours,
“Mina Harker.”

Report from Patrick Hennessey, M. D., M. R. C. S. L. K. Q. C. P. I., etc., etc., to John Seward, M. D.

“20 September.

“My dear Sir,--

“In accordance with your wishes, I enclose report of the conditions of everything left in my charge.... With regard to patient, Renfield, there is more to say. He has had another outbreak, which might have had a dreadful ending, but which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended with any unhappy results. This afternoon a carrier’s cart with two men made a call at the empty house whose grounds abut on ours—the house to which, you will remember, the patient twice ran away. The men stopped at our gate to ask the porter their way, as they were strangers. I was myself looking out of the study window, having a smoke after dinner, and saw one of them come up to the house. As he passed the window of Renfield’s room, the patient began to rate him from within, and called him all the foul names he could lay his tongue to. The man, who seemed a decent fellow enough, contented himself by telling him to “shut up for a foul-mouthed beggar,” whereon our man accused him of robbing him and wanting to murder him and said that he would hinder him if he were to swing for it. I opened the window and signed to the man not to notice, so he contented himself after looking the place over and making up his mind as to what kind of a place he had got to by saying: ‘Lor’ bless yer, sir, I wouldn’t mind what was said to me in a bloomin’ madhouse. I pity ye and the guv’nor for havin’ to live in the house with a wild beast like that.’ Then he asked his way civilly enough, and I told him where the gate of the empty house was; he went away, followed by threats and curses and revilings from our man. I went down to see if I could make out any cause for his anger, since he is usually such a well-behaved man, and except his violent fits nothing of the kind had ever occurred. I found him, to my astonishment, quite composed and most genial in his manner. I tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he blandly asked me questions as to what I meant, and led me to believe that he was completely oblivious of the affair. It was, I am sorry to say, however, only another instance of his cunning, for within half an hour I heard of him again. This time he had broken out through the window of his room, and was running down the avenue. I called to the attendants to follow me, and ran after him, for I feared he was intent on some mischief. My fear was justified when I saw the same cart which had passed before coming down the road, having on it some great wooden boxes. The men were wiping their foreheads, and were flushed in the face, as if with violent exercise. Before I could get up to him the patient rushed at them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to knock his head against the ground. If I had not seized him just at the moment I believe he would have killed the man there and then. The other fellow jumped down and struck him over the head with the butt-end of his heavy whip. It was a terrible blow; but he did not seem to mind it, but seized him also, and struggled with the three of us, pulling us to and fro as if we were kittens. You know I am no light weight, and the others were both burly men. At first he was silent in his fighting; but as we began to master him, and the attendants were putting a strait-waistcoat on him, he began to shout: ‘I’ll frustrate them! They shan’t rob me! they shan’t murder me by inches! I’ll fight for my Lord and Master!’ and all sorts of similar incoherent ravings. It was with very considerable difficulty that they got him back to the house and put him in the padded room. One of the attendants, Hardy, had a finger broken. However, I set it all right; and he is going on well.

“The two carriers were at first loud in their threats of actions for damages, and promised to rain all the penalties of the law on us. Their threats were, however, mingled with some sort of indirect apology for the defeat of the two of them by a feeble madman. They said that if it had not been for the way their strength had been spent in carrying and raising the heavy boxes to the cart they would have made short work of him. They gave as another reason for their defeat the extraordinary state of drouth to which they had been reduced by the dusty nature of their occupation and the reprehensible distance from the scene of their labours of any place of public entertainment. I quite understood their drift, and after a stiff glass of grog, or rather more of the same, and with each a sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore that they would encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of meeting so ‘bloomin’ good a bloke’ as your correspondent. I took their names and addresses, in case they might be needed. They are as follows:—Jack Smollet, of Dudding’s Rents, King George’s Road, Great Walworth, and Thomas Snelling, Peter Farley’s Row, Guide Court, Bethnal Green. They are both in the employment of Harris & Sons, Moving and Shipment Company, Orange Master’s Yard, Soho.

“I shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here, and shall wire you at once if there is anything of importance.

“Believe me, dear Sir,
“Yours faithfully,
“Patrick Hennessey.”

Letter, Mina Harker to Lucy Westenra.
(Unopened by her.)

“18 September.

“My dearest Lucy,--

“Such a sad blow has befallen us. Mr. Hawkins has died very suddenly. Some may not think it so sad for us, but we had both come to so love him that it really seems as though we had lost a father. I never knew either father or mother, so that the dear old man’s death is a real blow to me. Jonathan is greatly distressed. It is not only that he feels sorrow, deep sorrow, for the dear, good man who has befriended him all his life, and now at the end has treated him like his own son and left him a fortune which to people of our modest bringing up is wealth beyond the dream of avarice, but Jonathan feels it on another account. He says the amount of responsibility which it puts upon him makes him nervous. He begins to doubt himself. I try to cheer him up, and my belief in him helps him to have a belief in himself. But it is here that the grave shock that he experienced tells upon him the most. Oh, it is too hard that a sweet, simple, noble, strong nature such as his—a nature which enabled him by our dear, good friend’s aid to rise from clerk to master in a few years—should be so injured that the very essence of its strength is gone. Forgive me, dear, if I worry you with my troubles in the midst of your own happiness; but, Lucy dear, I must tell some one, for the strain of keeping up a brave and cheerful appearance to Jonathan tries me, and I have no one here that I can confide in. I dread coming up to London, as we must do the day after to-morrow; for poor Mr. Hawkins left in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his father. As there are no relations at all, Jonathan will have to be chief mourner. I shall try to run over to see you, dearest, if only for a few minutes. Forgive me for troubling you. With all blessings,

“Your loving
“Mina Harker.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

20 September.—Only resolution and habit can let me make an entry to-night. I am too miserable, too low-spirited, too sick of the world and all in it, including life itself, that I would not care if I heard this moment the flapping of the wings of the angel of death. And he has been flapping those grim wings to some purpose of late—Lucy’s mother and Arthur’s father, and now.... Let me get on with my work.

I duly relieved Van Helsing in his watch over Lucy. We wanted Arthur to go to rest also, but he refused at first. It was only when I told him that we should want him to help us during the day, and that we must not all break down for want of rest, lest Lucy should suffer, that he agreed to go. Van Helsing was very kind to him. “Come, my child,” he said; “come with me. You are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much mental pain, as well as that tax on your strength that we know of. You must not be alone; for to be alone is to be full of fears and alarms. Come to the drawing-room, where there is a big fire, and there are two sofas. You shall lie on one, and I on the other, and our sympathy will be comfort to each other, even though we do not speak, and even if we sleep.” Arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look on Lucy’s face, which lay in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. She lay quite still, and I looked round the room to see that all was as it should be. I could see that the Professor had carried out in this room, as in the other, his purpose of using the garlic; the whole of the window-sashes reeked with it, and round Lucy’s neck, over the silk handkerchief which Van Helsing made her keep on, was a rough chaplet of the same odorous flowers. Lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and her face was at its worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. Her teeth, in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than they had been in the morning. In particular, by some trick of the light, the canine teeth looked longer and sharper than the rest. I sat down by her, and presently she moved uneasily. At the same moment there came a sort of dull flapping or buffeting at the window. I went over to it softly, and peeped out by the corner of the blind. There was a full moonlight, and I could see that the noise was made by a great bat, which wheeled round—doubtless attracted by the light, although so dim—and every now and again struck the window with its wings. When I came back to my seat, I found that Lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic flowers from her throat. I replaced them as well as I could, and sat watching her.

Presently she woke, and I gave her food, as Van Helsing had prescribed. She took but a little, and that languidly. There did not seem to be with her now the unconscious struggle for life and strength that had hitherto so marked her illness. It struck me as curious that the moment she became conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close to her. It was certainly odd that whenever she got into that lethargic state, with the stertorous breathing, she put the flowers from her; but that when she waked she clutched them close. There was no possibility of making any mistake about this, for in the long hours that followed, she had many spells of sleeping and waking and repeated both actions many times.

At six o’clock Van Helsing came to relieve me. Arthur had then fallen into a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on. When he saw Lucy’s face I could hear the sissing indraw of his breath, and he said to me in a sharp whisper: “Draw up the blind; I want light!” Then he bent down, and, with his face almost touching Lucy’s, examined her carefully. He removed the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat. As he did so he started back, and I could hear his ejaculation, “Mein Gott!” as it was smothered in his throat. I bent over and looked, too, and as I noticed some queer chill came over me.

The wounds on the throat had absolutely disappeared.

For fully five minutes Van Helsing stood looking at her, with his face at its sternest. Then he turned to me and said calmly:--

“She is dying. It will not be long now. It will be much difference, mark me, whether she dies conscious or in her sleep. Wake that poor boy, and let him come and see the last; he trusts us, and we have promised him.”

I went to the dining-room and waked him. He was dazed for a moment, but when he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the shutters he thought he was late, and expressed his fear. I assured him that Lucy was still asleep, but told him as gently as I could that both Van Helsing and I feared that the end was near. He covered his face with his hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he remained, perhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his shoulders shook with grief. I took him by the hand and raised him up. “Come,” I said, “my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude: it will be best and easiest for her.”

When we came into Lucy’s room I could see that Van Helsing had, with his usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making everything look as pleasing as possible. He had even brushed Lucy’s hair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual sunny ripples. When we came into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered softly:--

“Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come!” He was stooping to kiss her, when Van Helsing motioned him back. “No,” he whispered, “not yet! Hold her hand; it will comfort her more.”

So Arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best, with all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. Then gradually her eyes closed, and she sank to sleep. For a little bit her breast heaved softly, and her breath came and went like a tired child’s.

And then insensibly there came the strange change which I had noticed in the night. Her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and the pale gums, drawn back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than ever. In a sort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened her eyes, which were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft, voluptuous voice, such as I had never heard from her lips:--

“Arthur! Oh, my love, I am so glad you have come! Kiss me!” Arthur bent eagerly over to kiss her; but at that instant Van Helsing, who, like me, had been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and catching him by the neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury of strength which I never thought he could have possessed, and actually hurled him almost across the room.

“Not for your life!” he said; “not for your living soul and hers!” And he stood between them like a lion at bay.

Arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do or say; and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realised the place and the occasion, and stood silent, waiting.

I kept my eyes fixed on Lucy, as did Van Helsing, and we saw a spasm as of rage flit like a shadow over her face; the sharp teeth champed together. Then her eyes closed, and she breathed heavily.

Very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and putting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took Van Helsing’s great brown one; drawing it to her, she kissed it. “My true friend,” she said, in a faint voice, but with untellable pathos, “My true friend, and his! Oh, guard him, and give me peace!”

“I swear it!” he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his hand, as one who registers an oath. Then he turned to Arthur, and said to him: “Come, my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on the forehead, and only once.”

Their eyes met instead of their lips; and so they parted.

Lucy’s eyes closed; and Van Helsing, who had been watching closely, took Arthur’s arm, and drew him away.

And then Lucy’s breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it ceased.

“It is all over,” said Van Helsing. “She is dead!”

I took Arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing-room, where he sat down, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way that nearly broke me down to see.

I went back to the room, and found Van Helsing looking at poor Lucy, and his face was sterner than ever. Some change had come over her body. Death had given back part of her beauty, for her brow and cheeks had recovered some of their flowing lines; even the lips had lost their deadly pallor. It was as if the blood, no longer needed for the working of the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death as little rude as might be.

I stood beside Van Helsing, and said:--

“Ah, well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. It is the end!”

He turned to me, and said with grave solemnity:--

“Not so; alas! not so. It is only the beginning!”

When I asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered:--

“We can do nothing as yet. Wait and see.”

CHAPTER XIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY--continued.

THE funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that Lucy and her mother might be buried together. I attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff were afflicted—or blessed—with something of his own obsequious suavity. Even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out from the death-chamber:--

“She makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. It’s quite a privilege to attend on her. It’s not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!”

I noticed that Van Helsing never kept far away. This was possible from the disordered state of things in the household. There were no relatives at hand; and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his father’s funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy’s papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me:--

“I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner. I have more than him to avoid. There may be papers more—such as this.”

As he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had been in Lucy’s breast, and which she had torn in her sleep.

“When you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late Mrs. Westenra, seal all her papers, and write him to-night. For me, I watch here in the room and in Miss Lucy’s old room all night, and I myself search for what may be. It is not well that her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers.”

I went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and address of Mrs. Westenra’s solicitor and had written to him. All the poor lady’s papers were in order; explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. I had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, Van Helsing walked into the room, saying:--

“Can I help you, friend John? I am free, and if I may, my service is to you.”

“Have you got what you looked for?” I asked, to which he replied:--

“I did not look for any specific thing. I only hoped to find, and find I have, all that there was—only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. But I have them here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. I shall see that poor lad to-morrow evening, and, with his sanction, I shall use some.”

When we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:--

“And now, friend John, I think we may to bed. We want sleep, both you and I, and rest to recuperate. To-morrow we shall have much to do, but for the to-night there is no need of us. Alas!”

Before turning in we went to look at poor Lucy. The undertaker had certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small chapelle ardente. There was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little repulsive as might be. The end of the winding-sheet was laid over the face; when the Professor bent over and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. All Lucy’s loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of “decay’s effacing fingers,” had but restored the beauty of life, till positively I could not believe my eyes that I was looking at a corpse.

The Professor looked sternly grave. He had not loved her as I had, and there was no need for tears in his eyes. He said to me: “Remain till I return,” and left the room. He came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. Then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. He restored the sheet to its place, and we came away.

I was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the door, he entered, and at once began to speak:--

“To-morrow I want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives.”

“Must we make an autopsy?” I asked.

“Yes and no. I want to operate, but not as you think. Let me tell you now, but not a word to another. I want to cut off her head and take out her heart. Ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! You, whom I have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make the rest shudder. Oh, but I must not forget, my dear friend John, that you loved her; and I have not forgotten it, for it is I that shall operate, and you must only help. I would like to do it to-night, but for Arthur I must not; he will be free after his father’s funeral to-morrow, and he will want to see her—to see it. Then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you and I shall come when all sleep. We shall unscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our operation: and then replace all, so that none know, save we alone.”

“But why do it at all? The girl is dead. Why mutilate her poor body without need? And if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it—no good to her, to us, to science, to human knowledge—why do it? Without such it is monstrous.”

For answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite tenderness:--

“Friend John, I pity your poor bleeding heart; and I love you the more because it does so bleed. If I could, I would take on myself the burden that you do bear. But there are things that you know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant things. John, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good cause? I may err—I am but man; but I believe in all I do. Was it not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble came? Yes! Were you not amazed, nay horrified, when I would not let Arthur kiss his love—though she was dying—and snatched him away by all my strength? Yes! And yet you saw how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? Yes! And did you not hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? Yes!

“Well, I have good reason now for all I want to do. You have for many years trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be things so strange that you might have well doubt. Believe me yet a little, friend John. If you trust me not, then I must tell what I think; and that is not perhaps well. And if I work—as work I shall, no matter trust or no trust—without my friend trust in me, I work with heavy heart and feel, oh! so lonely when I want all help and courage that may be!” He paused a moment and went on solemnly: “Friend John, there are strange and terrible days before us. Let us not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end. Will you not have faith in me?”

I took his hand, and promised him. I held my door open as he went away, and watched him go into his room and close the door. As I stood without moving, I saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage—she had her back towards me, so did not see me—and go into the room where Lucy lay. The sight touched me. Devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love. Here was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest....

 

I must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when Van Helsing waked me by coming into my room. He came over to my bedside and said:--

“You need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it.”

“Why not?” I asked. For his solemnity of the night before had greatly impressed me.

“Because,” he said sternly, “it is too late—or too early. See!” Here he held up the little golden crucifix. “This was stolen in the night.”

“How, stolen,” I asked in wonder, “since you have it now?”

“Because I get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the woman who robbed the dead and the living. Her punishment will surely come, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did and thus unknowing, she only stole. Now we must wait.”

He went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new puzzle to grapple with.

The forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: Mr. Marquand, of Wholeman, Sons, Marquand & Lidderdale. He was very genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all cares as to details. During lunch he told us that Mrs. Westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairs in absolute order; he informed us that, with the exception of a certain entailed property of Lucy’s father’s which now, in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to Arthur Holmwood. When he had told us so much he went on:--

“Frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. Indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out her wishes. Of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. We were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment. Frankly, however, I must admit that in this case any other form of disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her wishes. For by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived her mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no will—and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case—have been treated at her decease as under intestacy. In which case Lord Godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. I assure you, my dear sirs, I am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced.”

He was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part—in which he was officially interested—of so great a tragedy, was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding.

He did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and see Lord Godalming. His coming, however, had been a certain comfort to us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our acts. Arthur was expected at five o’clock, so a little before that time we visited the death-chamber. It was so in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. The undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at once. Van Helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as Lord Godalming was coming very soon, it would be less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his fiancée quite alone. The undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and exerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left them the night before, so that when Arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we could avoid were saved.

Poor fellow! He looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his much-tried emotions. He had, I knew, been very genuinely and devotedly attached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was a bitter blow to him. With me he was warm as ever, and to Van Helsing he was sweetly courteous; but I could not help seeing that there was some constraint with him. The Professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to bring him upstairs. I did so, and left him at the door of the room, as I felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but he took my arm and led me in, saying huskily:--

“You loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was no friend had a closer place in her heart than you. I don’t know how to thank you for all you have done for her. I can’t think yet....”

Here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and laid his head on my breast, crying:--

“Oh, Jack! Jack! What shall I do! The whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for.”

I comforted him as well as I could. In such cases men do not need much expression. A grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man’s heart. I stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then I said softly to him:--

“Come and look at her.”

Together we moved over to the bed, and I lifted the lawn from her face. God! how beautiful she was. Every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. It frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for Arthur, he fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. At last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:--

“Jack, is she really dead?”

I assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest—for I felt that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than I could help—that it often happened that after death faces became softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. It seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and long, he turned aside. I told him that that must be good-bye, as the coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. He came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came.

I left him in the drawing-room, and told Van Helsing that he had said good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker’s men to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. When he came out of the room again I told him of Arthur’s question, and he replied:--

“I am not surprised. Just now I doubted for a moment myself!”

We all dined together, and I could see that poor Art was trying to make the best of things. Van Helsing had been silent all dinner-time; but when we had lit our cigars he said--

“Lord——”; but Arthur interrupted him:--

“No, no, not that, for God’s sake! not yet at any rate. Forgive me, sir: I did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so recent.”

The Professor answered very sweetly:--

“I only used that name because I was in doubt. I must not call you ‘Mr.,’ and I have grown to love you—yes, my dear boy, to love you—as Arthur.”

Arthur held out his hand, and took the old man’s warmly.

“Call me what you will,” he said. “I hope I may always have the title of a friend. And let me say that I am at a loss for words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear.” He paused a moment, and went on: “I know that she understood your goodness even better than I do; and if I was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so—you remember”—the Professor nodded—“you must forgive me.”

He answered with a grave kindness:--

“I know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand; and I take it that you do not—that you cannot—trust me now, for you do not yet understand. And there may be more times when I shall want you to trust when you cannot—and may not—and must not yet understand. But the time will come when your trust shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight himself shone through. Then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others and for her dear sake to whom I swore to protect.”

“And, indeed, indeed, sir,” said Arthur warmly, “I shall in all ways trust you. I know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are Jack’s friend, and you were hers. You shall do what you like.”

The Professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said:--

“May I ask you something now?”

“Certainly.”

“You know that Mrs. Westenra left you all her property?”

“No, poor dear; I never thought of it.”

“And as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. I want you to give me permission to read all Miss Lucy’s papers and letters. Believe me, it is no idle curiosity. I have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. I have them all here. I took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them—no strange eye look through words into her soul. I shall keep them, if I may; even you may not see them yet, but I shall keep them safe. No word shall be lost; and in the good time I shall give them back to you. It’s a hard thing I ask, but you will do it, will you not, for Lucy’s sake?”

Arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, you may do what you will. I feel that in saying this I am doing what my dear one would have approved. I shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes.”

The old Professor stood up as he said solemnly:--

“And you are right. There will be pain for us all; but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. We and you too—you most of all, my dear boy—will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. But we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!”

I slept on a sofa in Arthur’s room that night. Van Helsing did not go to bed at all. He went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where Lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

22 September.—In the train to Exeter. Jonathan sleeping.

It seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan away and no news of him; and now, married to Jonathan, Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and Jonathan with another attack that may harm him. Some day he may ask me about it. Down it all goes. I am rusty in my shorthand—see what unexpected prosperity does for us—so it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow....

The service was very simple and very solemn. There were only ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his London agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton, the President of the Incorporated Law Society. Jonathan and I stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us....

We came back to town quietly, taking a ’bus to Hyde Park Corner. Jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the Row for a while, so we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. It made us think of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days before I went to school. I felt it very improper, for you can’t go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn’t know anybody who saw us—and we didn’t care if they did—so on we walked. I was looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano’s, when I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath: “My God!” I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so I turned to him quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him.

He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us, and so I had a good view of him. His face was not a good face; it was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal’s. Jonathan kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice. I feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that I knew as much about it as he did: “Do you see who it is?”

“No, dear,” I said; “I don’t know him; who is it?” His answer seemed to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was to me, Mina, to whom he was speaking:--

“It is the man himself!”

The poor dear was evidently terrified at something—very greatly terrified; I do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to support him he would have sunk down. He kept staring; a man came out of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove off. The dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage moved up Piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a hansom. Jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:--

“I believe it is the Count, but he has grown young. My God, if this be so! Oh, my God! my God! If I only knew! if I only knew!” He was distressing himself so much that I feared to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any questions, so I remained silent. I drew him away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. We walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in the Green Park. It was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place. After a few minutes’ staring at nothing, Jonathan’s eyes closed, and he went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. I thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. In about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:--

“Why, Mina, have I been asleep! Oh, do forgive me for being so rude. Come, and we’ll have a cup of tea somewhere.” He had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of. I don’t like this lapsing into forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. I must not ask him, for fear I shall do more harm than good; but I must somehow learn the facts of his journey abroad. The time is come, I fear, when I must open that parcel, and know what is written. Oh, Jonathan, you will, I know, forgive me if I do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake.

 

Later.—A sad home-coming in every way—the house empty of the dear soul who was so good to us; Jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from Van Helsing, whoever he may be:--

“You will be grieved to hear that Mrs. Westenra died five days ago, and that Lucy died the day before yesterday. They were both buried to-day.”

Oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy! Gone, gone, never to return to us! And poor, poor Arthur, to have lost such sweetness out of his life! God help us all to bear our troubles.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

22 September.—It is all over. Arthur has gone back to Ring, and has taken Quincey Morris with him. What a fine fellow is Quincey! I believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about Lucy’s death as any of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral Viking. If America can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world indeed. Van Helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his journey. He goes over to Amsterdam to-night, but says he returns to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which can only be made personally. He is to stop with me then, if he can; he says he has work to do in London which may take him some time. Poor old fellow! I fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his iron strength. All the time of the burial he was, I could see, putting some terrible restraint on himself. When it was all over, we were standing beside Arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to his Lucy’s veins; I could see Van Helsing’s face grow white and purple by turns. Arthur was saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married and that she was his wife in the sight of God. None of us said a word of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. Arthur and Quincey went away together to the station, and Van Helsing and I came on here. The moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics. He has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under very terrible conditions. He laughed till he cried, and I had to draw down the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he cried, till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a woman does. I tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the circumstances; but it had no effect. Men and women are so different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! Then when his face grew grave and stern again I asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time. His reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious. He said:--

“Ah, you don’t comprehend, friend John. Do not think that I am not sad, though I laugh. See, I have cried even when the laugh did choke me. But no more think that I am all sorry when I cry, for the laugh he come just the same. Keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and say, ‘May I come in?’ is not the true laughter. No! he is a king, and he come when and how he like. He ask no person; he choose no time of suitability. He say, ‘I am here.’ Behold, in example I grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl; I give my blood for her, though I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other sufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very grave—laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and say ‘Thud! thud!’ to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy—that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to him as to no other man—not even to you, friend John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son—yet even at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear, ‘Here I am! here I am!’ till the blood come dance back and bring some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall—all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with our labour, what it may be.”

I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different tone:--

“Oh, it was the grim irony of it all—this so lovely lady garlanded with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going ‘Toll! toll! toll!’ so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. And all for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?”

“Well, for the life of me, Professor,” I said, “I can’t see anything to laugh at in all that. Why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle than before. But even if the burial service was comic, what about poor Art and his trouble? Why, his heart was simply breaking.”

“Just so. Said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had made her truly his bride?”

“Yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him.”

“Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church’s law, though no wits, all gone—even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist.”

“I don’t see where the joke comes in there either!” I said; and I did not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. He laid his hand on my arm, and said:--

“Friend John, forgive me if I pain. I showed not my feeling to others when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom I can trust. If you could have looked into my very heart then when I want to laugh; if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so now, when King Laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him—for he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time—maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all.”

I was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why.

“Because I know!”

And now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. Lucy lies in the tomb of her kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming London; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over Hampstead Hill, and where wild flowers grow of their own accord.

So I can finish this diary; and God only knows if I shall ever begin another. If I do, or if I even open this again, it will be to deal with different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the romance of my life is told, ere I go back to take up the thread of my life-work, I say sadly and without hope,

“FINIS.”

“The Westminster Gazette,” 25 September.

A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY.

The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what was known to the writers of headlines as “The Kensington Horror,” or “The Stabbing Woman,” or “The Woman in Black.” During the past two or three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all these cases the children were too young to give any properly intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses is that they had been with a “bloofer lady.” It has always been late in the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the children have not been found until early in the following morning. It is generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed gave as his reason for being away that a “bloofer lady” had asked him to come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as occasion served. This is the more natural as the favourite game of the little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. A correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to be the “bloofer lady” is supremely funny. Some of our caricaturists might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the reality and the picture. It is only in accordance with general principles of human nature that the “bloofer lady” should be the popular rôle at these al fresco performances. Our correspondent naïvely says that even Ellen Terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of these grubby-faced little children pretend—and even imagine themselves—to be.

There is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the throat. The wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has a system or method of its own. The police of the division have been instructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially when very young, in and around Hampstead Heath, and for any stray dog which may be about.

“The Westminster Gazette,” 25 September.

Extra Special.

THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR.

ANOTHER CHILD INJURED.

The “Bloofer Lady.”

We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the Shooter’s Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is, perhaps, less frequented than the other parts. It has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak, and looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially restored, had the common story to tell of being lured away by the “bloofer lady.”

CHAPTER XIV

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

23 September.—Jonathan is better after a bad night. I am so glad that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible things; and oh, I am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new position. I knew he would be true to himself, and now how proud I am to see my Jonathan rising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon him. He will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch at home. My household work is done, so I shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it....

24 September.—I hadn’t the heart to write last night; that terrible record of Jonathan’s upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth in it at all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open the subject to him.... And yet that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain of him.... Poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some train of thought.... He believes it all himself. I remember how on our wedding-day he said: “Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane.” There seems to be through it all some thread of continuity.... That fearful Count was coming to London.... If it should be, and he came to London, with his teeming millions.... There may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must not shrink from it.... I shall be prepared. I shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall be ready for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if I am ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and find out things, and see how I may comfort him.

Letter, Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker.

“24 September.
(Confidence)

“Dear Madam,--

“I pray you to pardon my writing, in that I am so far friend as that I sent to you sad news of Miss Lucy Westenra’s death. By the kindness of Lord Godalming, I am empowered to read her letters and papers, for I am deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. In them I find some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and how you love her. Oh, Madam Mina, by that love, I implore you, help me. It is for others’ good that I ask—to redress great wrong, and to lift much and terrible troubles—that may be more great than you can know. May it be that I see you? You can trust me. I am friend of Dr. John Seward and of Lord Godalming (that was Arthur of Miss Lucy). I must keep it private for the present from all. I should come to Exeter to see you at once if you tell me I am privilege to come, and where and when. I implore your pardon, madam. I have read your letters to poor Lucy, and know how good you are and how your husband suffer; so I pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not, lest it may harm. Again your pardon, and forgive me.

“Van Helsing.”

Telegram, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing.

“25 September.—Come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch it. Can see you any time you call.

“Wilhelmina Harker.”

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL.

25 September.—I cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time draws near for the visit of Dr. Van Helsing, for somehow I expect that it will throw some light upon Jonathan’s sad experience; and as he attended poor dear Lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about her. That is the reason of his coming; it is concerning Lucy and her sleep-walking, and not about Jonathan. Then I shall never know the real truth now! How silly I am. That awful journal gets hold of my imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. Of course it is about Lucy. That habit came back to the poor dear, and that awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. I had almost forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. She must have told him of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that I knew all about it; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may understand. I hope I did right in not saying anything of it to Mrs. Westenra; I should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative one, brought harm on poor dear Lucy. I hope, too, Dr. Van Helsing will not blame me; I have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that I feel I cannot bear more just at present.

I suppose a cry does us all good at times—clears the air as other rain does. Perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and then Jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. I do hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. It is two o’clock, and the doctor will be here soon now. I shall say nothing of Jonathan’s journal unless he asks me. I am so glad I have type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks about Lucy, I can hand it to him; it will save much questioning.

 

Later.—He has come and gone. Oh, what a strange meeting, and how it all makes my head whirl round! I feel like one in a dream. Can it be all possible, or even a part of it? If I had not read Jonathan’s journal first, I should never have accepted even a possibility. Poor, poor, dear Jonathan! How he must have suffered. Please the good God, all this may not upset him again. I shall try to save him from it; but it may be even a consolation and a help to him—terrible though it be and awful in its consequences—to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. It may be that it is the doubt which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter which—waking or dreaming—may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and better able to bear the shock. Dr. Van Helsing must be a good man as well as a clever one if he is Arthur’s friend and Dr. Seward’s, and if they brought him all the way from Holland to look after Lucy. I feel from having seen him that he is good and kind and of a noble nature. When he comes to-morrow I shall ask him about Jonathan; and then, please God, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good end. I used to think I would like to practise interviewing; Jonathan’s friend on “The Exeter News” told him that memory was everything in such work—that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. Here was a rare interview; I shall try to record it verbatim.

It was half-past two o’clock when the knock came. I took my courage à deux mains and waited. In a few minutes Mary opened the door, and announced “Dr. Van Helsing.”

I rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. The poise of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. The face, clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the mouth tightens. The forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart; such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides. Big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man’s moods. He said to me:--

“Mrs. Harker, is it not?” I bowed assent.

“That was Miss Mina Murray?” Again I assented.

“It is Mina Murray that I came to see that was friend of that poor dear child Lucy Westenra. Madam Mina, it is on account of the dead I come.”

“Sir,” I said, “you could have no better claim on me than that you were a friend and helper of Lucy Westenra.” And I held out my hand. He took it and said tenderly:--

“Oh, Madam Mina, I knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be good, but I had yet to learn——” He finished his speech with a courtly bow. I asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at once began:--

“I have read your letters to Miss Lucy. Forgive me, but I had to begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. I know that you were with her at Whitby. She sometimes kept a diary—you need not look surprised, Madam Mina; it was begun after you had left, and was in imitation of you—and in that diary she traces by inference certain things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. In great perplexity then I come to you, and ask you out of your so much kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember.”

“I can tell you, I think, Dr. Van Helsing, all about it.”

“Ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? It is not always so with young ladies.”

“No, doctor, but I wrote it all down at the time. I can show it to you if you like.”

“Oh, Madam Mina, I will be grateful; you will do me much favour.” I could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit—I suppose it is some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our mouths—so I handed him the shorthand diary. He took it with a grateful bow, and said:--

“May I read it?”

“If you wish,” I answered as demurely as I could. He opened it, and for an instant his face fell. Then he stood up and bowed.

“Oh, you so clever woman!” he said. “I knew long that Mr. Jonathan was a man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things. And will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me? Alas! I know not the shorthand.” By this time my little joke was over, and I was almost ashamed; so I took the typewritten copy from my workbasket and handed it to him.

“Forgive me,” I said: “I could not help it; but I had been thinking that it was of dear Lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have time to wait—not on my account, but because I know your time must be precious—I have written it out on the typewriter for you.”

He took it and his eyes glistened. “You are so good,” he said. “And may I read it now? I may want to ask you some things when I have read.”

“By all means,” I said, “read it over whilst I order lunch; and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat.” He bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers, whilst I went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. When I came back, I found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. He rushed up to me and took me by both hands.

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “how can I say what I owe to you? This paper is as sunshine. It opens the gate to me. I am daze, I am dazzle, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. But that you do not, cannot, comprehend. Oh, but I am grateful to you, you so clever woman. Madam”—he said this very solemnly—“if ever Abraham Van Helsing can do anything for you or yours, I trust you will let me know. It will be pleasure and delight if I may serve you as a friend; as a friend, but all I have ever learned, all I can ever do, shall be for you and those you love. There are darknesses in life, and there are lights; you are one of the lights. You will have happy life and good life, and your husband will be blessed in you.”

“But, doctor, you praise me too much, and—and you do not know me.”

“Not know you—I, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and women; I, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to him and all that follow from him! And I have read your diary that you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every line. I, who have read your so sweet letter to poor Lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you! Oh, Madam Mina, good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of angels’ eyes. Your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. And your husband—tell me of him. Is he quite well? Is all that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?” I saw here an opening to ask him about Jonathan, so I said:--

“He was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by Mr. Hawkins’s death.” He interrupted:--

“Oh, yes, I know, I know. I have read your last two letters.” I went on:--

“I suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on Thursday last he had a sort of shock.”

“A shock, and after brain fever so soon! That was not good. What kind of a shock was it?”

“He thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something which led to his brain fever.” And here the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. The pity for Jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. I suppose I was hysterical, for I threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband well again. He took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:--

“My life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that I have not had much time for friendships; but since I have been summoned to here by my friend John Seward I have known so many good people and seen such nobility that I feel more than ever—and it has grown with my advancing years—the loneliness of my life. Believe, me, then, that I come here full of respect for you, and you have given me hope—hope, not in what I am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life happy—good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for the children that are to be. I am glad, glad, that I may here be of some use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my study and experience. I promise you that I will gladly do all for him that I can—all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy one. Now you must eat. You are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious. Husband Jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not where he love, is not to his good. Therefore for his sake you must eat and smile. You have told me all about Lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress. I shall stay in Exeter to-night, for I want to think much over what you have told me, and when I have thought I will ask you questions, if I may. And then, too, you will tell me of husband Jonathan’s trouble so far as you can, but not yet. You must eat now; afterwards you shall tell me all.”

After lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:--

“And now tell me all about him.” When it came to speaking to this great learned man, I began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and Jonathan a madman—that journal is all so strange—and I hesitated to go on. But he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and I trusted him, so I said:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, what I have to tell you is so queer that you must not laugh at me or at my husband. I have been since yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that I have even half believed some very strange things.” He reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said:--

“Oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which I am here, it is you who would laugh. I have learned not to think little of any one’s belief, no matter how strange it be. I have tried to keep an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane.”

“Thank you, thank you, a thousand times! You have taken a weight off my mind. If you will let me, I shall give you a paper to read. It is long, but I have typewritten it out. It will tell you my trouble and Jonathan’s. It is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that happened. I dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and judge. And then when I see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell me what you think.”

“I promise,” he said as I gave him the papers; “I shall in the morning, so soon as I can, come to see you and your husband, if I may.”

“Jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3:34 train, which will leave you at Paddington before eight.” He was surprised at my knowledge of the trains off-hand, but he does not know that I have made up all the trains to and from Exeter, so that I may help Jonathan in case he is in a hurry.

So he took the papers with him and went away, and I sit here thinking—thinking I don’t know what.

Letter (by hand), Van Helsing to Mrs. Harker.

“25 September, 6 o’clock.

“Dear Madam Mina,--

“I have read your husband’s so wonderful diary. You may sleep without doubt. Strange and terrible as it is, it is true! I will pledge my life on it. It may be worse for others; but for him and you there is no dread. He is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of men, that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to that room—ay, and going a second time—is not one to be injured in permanence by a shock. His brain and his heart are all right; this I swear, before I have even seen him; so be at rest. I shall have much to ask him of other things. I am blessed that to-day I come to see you, for I have learn all at once so much that again I am dazzle—dazzle more than ever, and I must think.

“Yours the most faithful,
“Abraham Van Helsing.”

Letter, Mrs. Harker to Van Helsing.

“25 September, 6:30 p. m.

“My dear Dr. Van Helsing,--

“A thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight off my mind. And yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be really in London! I fear to think. I have this moment, whilst writing, had a wire from Jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 to-night from Launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that I shall have no fear to-night. Will you, therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o’clock, if this be not too early for you? You can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring you to Paddington by 2:35. Do not answer this, as I shall take it that, if I do not hear, you will come to breakfast.

“Believe me,
“Your faithful and grateful friend,
“Mina Harker.”

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

26 September.—I thought never to write in this diary again, but the time has come. When I got home last night Mina had supper ready, and when we had supped she told me of Van Helsing’s visit, and of her having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me. She showed me in the doctor’s letter that all I wrote down was true. It seems to have made a new man of me. It was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. I felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. But, now that I know, I am not afraid, even of the Count. He has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting to London, and it was he I saw. He has got younger, and how? Van Helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what Mina says. We sat late, and talked it all over. Mina is dressing, and I shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over....

He was, I think, surprised to see me. When I came into the room where he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:--

“But Madam Mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock.” It was so funny to hear my wife called “Madam Mina” by this kindly, strong-faced old man. I smiled, and said:--

“I was ill, I have had a shock; but you have cured me already.”

“And how?”

“By your letter to Mina last night. I was in doubt, and then everything took a hue of unreality, and I did not know what to trust, even the evidence of my own senses. Not knowing what to trust, I did not know what to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. The groove ceased to avail me, and I mistrusted myself. Doctor, you don’t know what it is to doubt everything, even yourself. No, you don’t; you couldn’t with eyebrows like yours.” He seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:--

“So! You are physiognomist. I learn more here with each hour. I am with so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife.” I would listen to him go on praising Mina for a day, so I simply nodded and stood silent.

“She is one of God’s women, fashioned by His own hand to show us men and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its light can be here on earth. So true, so sweet, so noble, so little an egoist—and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and selfish. And you, sir—I have read all the letters to poor Miss Lucy, and some of them speak of you, so I know you since some days from the knowing of others; but I have seen your true self since last night. You will give me your hand, will you not? And let us be friends for all our lives.”

We shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite choky.

“And now,” he said, “may I ask you for some more help? I have a great task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. You can help me here. Can you tell me what went before your going to Transylvania? Later on I may ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do.”

“Look here, sir,” I said, “does what you have to do concern the Count?”

“It does,” he said solemnly.

“Then I am with you heart and soul. As you go by the 10:30 train, you will not have time to read them; but I shall get the bundle of papers. You can take them with you and read them in the train.”

After breakfast I saw him to the station. When we were parting he said:--

“Perhaps you will come to town if I send to you, and take Madam Mina too.”

“We shall both come when you will,” I said.

I had got him the morning papers and the London papers of the previous night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the train to start, he was turning them over. His eyes suddenly seemed to catch something in one of them, “The Westminster Gazette”—I knew it by the colour—and he grew quite white. He read something intently, groaning to himself: “Mein Gott! Mein Gott! So soon! so soon!” I do not think he remembered me at the moment. Just then the whistle blew, and the train moved off. This recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out: “Love to Madam Mina; I shall write so soon as ever I can.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

26 September.—Truly there is no such thing as finality. Not a week since I said “Finis,” and yet here I am starting fresh again, or rather going on with the same record. Until this afternoon I had no cause to think of what is done. Renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. He was already well ahead with his fly business; and he had just started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any trouble to me. I had a letter from Arthur, written on Sunday, and from it I gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. Quincey Morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. Quincey wrote me a line too, and from him I hear that Arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to them all my mind is at rest. As for myself, I was settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which I used to have for it, so that I might fairly have said that the wound which poor Lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised. Everything is, however, now reopened; and what is to be the end God only knows. I have an idea that Van Helsing thinks he knows, too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. He went to Exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. To-day he came back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o’clock, and thrust last night’s “Westminster Gazette” into my hand.

“What do you think of that?” he asked as he stood back and folded his arms.

I looked over the paper, for I really did not know what he meant; but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at Hampstead. It did not convey much to me, until I reached a passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. An idea struck me, and I looked up. “Well?” he said.

“It is like poor Lucy’s.”

“And what do you make of it?”

“Simply that there is some cause in common. Whatever it was that injured her has injured them.” I did not quite understand his answer:--

“That is true indirectly, but not directly.”

“How do you mean, Professor?” I asked. I was a little inclined to take his seriousness lightly—for, after all, four days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one’s spirits—but when I saw his face, it sobered me. Never, even in the midst of our despair about poor Lucy, had he looked more stern.

“Tell me!” I said. “I can hazard no opinion. I do not know what to think, and I have no data on which to found a conjecture.”

“Do you mean to tell me, friend John, that you have no suspicion as to what poor Lucy died of; not after all the hints given, not only by events, but by me?”

“Of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood.”

“And how the blood lost or waste?” I shook my head. He stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on:--

“You are clever man, friend John; you reason well, and your wit is bold; but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men’s eyes, because they know—or think they know—some things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain. But yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new; and which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young—like the fine ladies at the opera. I suppose now you do not believe in corporeal transference. No? Nor in materialisation. No? Nor in astral bodies. No? Nor in the reading of thought. No? Nor in hypnotism——”

“Yes,” I said. “Charcot has proved that pretty well.” He smiled as he went on: “Then you are satisfied as to it. Yes? And of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great Charcot—alas that he is no more!—into the very soul of the patient that he influence. No? Then, friend John, am I to take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a blank? No? Then tell me—for I am student of the brain—how you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading. Let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered electricity—who would themselves not so long before have been burned as wizards. There are always mysteries in life. Why was it that Methuselah lived nine hundred years, and ‘Old Parr’ one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that poor Lucy, with four men’s blood in her poor veins, could not live even one day? For, had she live one more day, we could have save her. Do you know all the mystery of life and death? Do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? Can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old Spanish church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? Can you tell me why in the Pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their veins; how in some islands of the Western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, and those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them, and then—and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even Miss Lucy was?”

“Good God, Professor!” I said, starting up. “Do you mean to tell me that Lucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a thing is here in London in the nineteenth century?” He waved his hand for silence, and went on:--

“Can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of men; why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint? Can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are some few who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and women who cannot die? We all know—because science has vouched for the fact—that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of the world. Can you tell me how the Indian fakir can make himself to die and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then men come and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the Indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before?” Here I interrupted him. I was getting bewildered; he so crowded on my mind his list of nature’s eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my imagination was getting fired. I had a dim idea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at Amsterdam; but he used then to tell me the thing, so that I could have the object of thought in mind all the time. But now I was without this help, yet I wanted to follow him, so I said:--

“Professor, let me be your pet student again. Tell me the thesis, so that I may apply your knowledge as you go on. At present I am going in my mind from point to point as a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an idea. I feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a mist, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without knowing where I am going.”

“That is good image,” he said. “Well, I shall tell you. My thesis is this: I want you to believe.”

“To believe what?”

“To believe in things that you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once of an American who so defined faith: ‘that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.’ For one, I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we value him; but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in the universe.”

“Then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. Do I read your lesson aright?”

“Ah, you are my favourite pupil still. It is worth to teach you. Now that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to understand. You think then that those so small holes in the children’s throats were made by the same that made the hole in Miss Lucy?”

“I suppose so.” He stood up and said solemnly:--

“Then you are wrong. Oh, would it were so! but alas! no. It is worse, far, far worse.”

“In God’s name, Professor Van Helsing, what do you mean?” I cried.

He threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke:--

“They were made by Miss Lucy!”

CHAPTER XV

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY--continued.

FOR a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had during her life struck Lucy on the face. I smote the table hard and rose up as I said to him:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, are you mad?” He raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once. “Would I were!” he said. “Madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this. Oh, my friend, why, think you, did I go so far round, why take so long to tell you so simple a thing? Was it because I hate you and have hated you all my life? Was it because I wished to give you pain? Was it that I wanted, now so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a fearful death? Ah no!”

“Forgive me,” said I. He went on:--

“My friend, it was because I wished to be gentle in the breaking to you, for I know you have loved that so sweet lady. But even yet I do not expect you to believe. It is so hard to accept at once any abstract truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always believed the ‘no’ of it; it is more hard still to accept so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as Miss Lucy. To-night I go to prove it. Dare you come with me?”

This staggered me. A man does not like to prove such a truth; Byron excepted from the category, jealousy.

He saw my hesitation, and spoke:--

“The logic is simple, no madman’s logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock in a misty bog. If it be not true, then proof will be relief; at worst it will not harm. If it be true! Ah, there is the dread; yet very dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief. Come, I tell you what I propose: first, that we go off now and see that child in the hospital. Dr. Vincent, of the North Hospital, where the papers say the child is, is friend of mine, and I think of yours since you were in class at Amsterdam. He will let two scientists see his case, if he will not let two friends. We shall tell him nothing, but only that we wish to learn. And then--—”

“And then?” He took a key from his pocket and held it up. “And then we spend the night, you and I, in the churchyard where Lucy lies. This is the key that lock the tomb. I had it from the coffin-man to give to Arthur.” My heart sank within me, for I felt that there was some fearful ordeal before us. I could do nothing, however, so I plucked up what heart I could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was passing....

We found the child awake. It had had a sleep and taken some food, and altogether was going on well. Dr. Vincent took the bandage from its throat, and showed us the punctures. There was no mistaking the similarity to those which had been on Lucy’s throat. They were smaller, and the edges looked fresher; that was all. We asked Vincent to what he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of some animal, perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he was inclined to think that it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the northern heights of London. “Out of so many harmless ones,” he said, “there may be some wild specimen from the South of a more malignant species. Some sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to escape; or even from the Zoölogical Gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred there from a vampire. These things do occur, you know. Only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, I believe, traced up in this direction. For a week after, the children were playing nothing but Red Riding Hood on the Heath and in every alley in the place until this ‘bloofer lady’ scare came along, since when it has been quite a gala-time with them. Even this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked the nurse if he might go away. When she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted to play with the ‘bloofer lady.’ ”

“I hope,” said Van Helsing, “that when you are sending the child home you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. These fancies to stray are most dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another night, it would probably be fatal. But in any case I suppose you will not let it away for some days?”

“Certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound is not healed.”

Our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and the sun had dipped before we came out. When Van Helsing saw how dark it was, he said:--

“There is no hurry. It is more late than I thought. Come, let us seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way.”

We dined at “Jack Straw’s Castle” along with a little crowd of bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. About ten o’clock we started from the inn. It was then very dark, and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual radius. The Professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he went on unhesitatingly; but, as for me, I was in quite a mixup as to locality. As we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse police going their usual suburban round. At last we reached the wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over. With some little difficulty—for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us—we found the Westenra tomb. The Professor took the key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to precede him. There was a delicious irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. My companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring, one. In the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. Then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light. The tomb in the day-time, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been imagined. It conveyed irresistibly the idea that life—animal life—was not the only thing which could pass away.

Van Helsing went about his work systematically. Holding his candle so that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he made assurance of Lucy’s coffin. Another search in his bag, and he took out a turnscrew.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“To open the coffin. You shall yet be convinced.” Straightway he began taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the casing of lead beneath. The sight was almost too much for me. It seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; I actually took hold of his hand to stop him. He only said: “You shall see,” and again fumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fret-saw. Striking the turnscrew through the lead with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point of the saw. I had expected a rush of gas from the week-old corpse. We doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed to such things, and I drew back towards the door. But the Professor never stopped for a moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side. Taking the edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the coffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to look.

I drew near and looked. The coffin was empty.

It was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but Van Helsing was unmoved. He was now more sure than ever of his ground, and so emboldened to proceed in his task. “Are you satisfied now, friend John?” he asked.

I felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as I answered him:--

“I am satisfied that Lucy’s body is not in that coffin; but that only proves one thing.”

“And what is that, friend John?”

“That it is not there.”

“That is good logic,” he said, “so far as it goes. But how do you—how can you—account for it not being there?”

“Perhaps a body-snatcher,” I suggested. “Some of the undertaker’s people may have stolen it.” I felt that I was speaking folly, and yet it was the only real cause which I could suggest. The Professor sighed. “Ah well!” he said, “we must have more proof. Come with me.”

He put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things and placed them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the bag. We opened the door, and went out. Behind us he closed the door and locked it. He handed me the key, saying: “Will you keep it? You had better be assured.” I laughed—it was not a very cheerful laugh, I am bound to say—as I motioned him to keep it. “A key is nothing,” I said; “there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of that kind.” He said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. Then he told me to watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the other. I took up my place behind a yew-tree, and I saw his dark figure move until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my sight.

It was a lonely vigil. Just after I had taken my place I heard a distant clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. I was chilled and unnerved, and angry with the Professor for taking me on such an errand and with myself for coming. I was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust so altogether I had a dreary, miserable time.

Suddenly, as I turned round, I thought I saw something like a white streak, moving between two dark yew-trees at the side of the churchyard farthest from the tomb; at the same time a dark mass moved from the Professor’s side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. Then I too moved; but I had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and I stumbled over graves. The sky was overcast, and somewhere far off an early cock crew. A little way off, beyond a line of scattered juniper-trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white, dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. The tomb itself was hidden by trees, and I could not see where the figure disappeared. I heard the rustle of actual movement where I had first seen the white figure, and coming over, found the Professor holding in his arms a tiny child. When he saw me he held it out to me, and said:--

“Are you satisfied now?”

“No,” I said, in a way that I felt was aggressive.

“Do you not see the child?”

“Yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? And is it wounded?” I asked.

“We shall see,” said the Professor, and with one impulse we took our way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child.

When we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child’s throat. It was without a scratch or scar of any kind.

“Was I right?” I asked triumphantly.

“We were just in time,” said the Professor thankfully.

We had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted about it. If we were to take it to a police-station we should have to give some account of our movements during the night; at least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we had come to find the child. So finally we decided that we would take it to the Heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would leave it where he could not fail to find it; we would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. All fell out well. At the edge of Hampstead Heath we heard a policeman’s heavy tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. We heard his exclamation of astonishment, and then we went away silently. By good chance we got a cab near the “Spaniards,” and drove to town.

I cannot sleep, so I make this entry. But I must try to get a few hours’ sleep, as Van Helsing is to call for me at noon. He insists that I shall go with him on another expedition.

 

27 September.—It was two o’clock before we found a suitable opportunity for our attempt. The funeral held at noon was all completed, and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of alder-trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him. We knew then that we were safe till morning did we desire it; but the Professor told me that we should not want more than an hour at most. Again I felt that horrid sense of the reality of things, in which any effort of imagination seemed out of place; and I realised distinctly the perils of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. Besides, I felt it was all so useless. Outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty. I shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for Van Helsing had a way of going on his own road, no matter who remonstrated. He took the key, opened the vault, and again courteously motioned me to precede. The place was not so gruesome as last night, but oh, how unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine streamed in. Van Helsing walked over to Lucy’s coffin, and I followed. He bent over and again forced back the leaden flange; and then a shock of surprise and dismay shot through me.

There lay Lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her funeral. She was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and I could not believe that she was dead. The lips were red, nay redder than before; and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom.

“Is this a juggle?” I said to him.

“Are you convinced now?” said the Professor in response, and as he spoke he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the dead lips and showed the white teeth.

“See,” he went on, “see, they are even sharper than before. With this and this”—and he touched one of the canine teeth and that below it—“the little children can be bitten. Are you of belief now, friend John?” Once more, argumentative hostility woke within me. I could not accept such an overwhelming idea as he suggested; so, with an attempt to argue of which I was even at the moment ashamed, I said:--

“She may have been placed here since last night.”

“Indeed? That is so, and by whom?”

“I do not know. Some one has done it.”

“And yet she has been dead one week. Most peoples in that time would not look so.” I had no answer for this, so was silent. Van Helsing did not seem to notice my silence; at any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor triumph. He was looking intently at the face of the dead woman, raising the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and examining the teeth. Then he turned to me and said:--

“Here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded; here is some dual life that is not as the common. She was bitten by the vampire when she was in a trance, sleep-walking—oh, you start; you do not know that, friend John, but you shall know it all later—and in trance could he best come to take more blood. In trance she died, and in trance she is Un-Dead, too. So it is that she differ from all other. Usually when the Un-Dead sleep at home”—as he spoke he made a comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was “home”—“their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was when she not Un-Dead she go back to the nothings of the common dead. There is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that I must kill her in her sleep.” This turned my blood cold, and it began to dawn upon me that I was accepting Van Helsing’s theories; but if she were really dead, what was there of terror in the idea of killing her? He looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he said almost joyously:--

“Ah, you believe now?”

I answered: “Do not press me too hard all at once. I am willing to accept. How will you do this bloody work?”

“I shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and I shall drive a stake through her body.” It made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the woman whom I had loved. And yet the feeling was not so strong as I had expected. I was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of this being, this Un-Dead, as Van Helsing called it, and to loathe it. Is it possible that love is all subjective, or all objective?

I waited a considerable time for Van Helsing to begin, but he stood as if wrapped in thought. Presently he closed the catch of his bag with a snap, and said:--

“I have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. If I did simply follow my inclining I would do now, at this moment, what is to be done; but there are other things to follow, and things that are thousand times more difficult in that them we do not know. This is simple. She have yet no life taken, though that is of time; and to act now would be to take danger from her for ever. But then we may have to want Arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? If you, who saw the wounds on Lucy’s throat, and saw the wounds so similar on the child’s at the hospital; if you, who saw the coffin empty last night and full to-day with a woman who have not change only to be more rose and more beautiful in a whole week, after she die—if you know of this and know of the white figure last night that brought the child to the churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can I expect Arthur, who know none of those things, to believe? He doubted me when I took him from her kiss when she was dying. I know he has forgiven me because in some mistaken idea I have done things that prevent him say good-bye as he ought; and he may think that in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive; and that in most mistake of all we have killed her. He will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that have killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy always. Yet he never can be sure; and that is the worst of all. And he will sometimes think that she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she must have suffered; and again, he will think that we may be right, and that his so beloved was, after all, an Un-Dead. No! I told him once, and since then I learn much. Now, since I know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do I know that he must pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. He, poor fellow, must have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him; then we can act for good all round and send him peace. My mind is made up. Let us go. You return home for to-night to your asylum, and see that all be well. As for me, I shall spend the night here in this churchyard in my own way. To-morrow night you will come to me to the Berkeley Hotel at ten of the clock. I shall send for Arthur to come too, and also that so fine young man of America that gave his blood. Later we shall all have work to do. I come with you so far as Piccadilly and there dine, for I must be back here before the sun set.”

So we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to Piccadilly.

Note left by Van Helsing in his portmanteau, Berkeley Hotel directed to John Seward, M. D.

(Not delivered.)

“27 September.

“Friend John,--

“I write this in case anything should happen. I go alone to watch in that churchyard. It pleases me that the Un-Dead, Miss Lucy, shall not leave to-night, that so on the morrow night she may be more eager. Therefore I shall fix some things she like not—garlic and a crucifix—and so seal up the door of the tomb. She is young as Un-Dead, and will heed. Moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out; they may not prevail on her wanting to get in; for then the Un-Dead is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance, whatsoever it may be. I shall be at hand all the night from sunset till after the sunrise, and if there be aught that may be learned I shall learn it. For Miss Lucy or from her, I have no fear; but that other to whom is there that she is Un-Dead, he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter. He is cunning, as I know from Mr. Jonathan and from the way that all along he have fooled us when he played with us for Miss Lucy’s life, and we lost; and in many ways the Un-Dead are strong. He have always the strength in his hand of twenty men; even we four who gave our strength to Miss Lucy it also is all to him. Besides, he can summon his wolf and I know not what. So if it be that he come thither on this night he shall find me; but none other shall—until it be too late. But it may be that he will not attempt the place. There is no reason why he should; his hunting ground is more full of game than the churchyard where the Un-Dead woman sleep, and the one old man watch.

“Therefore I write this in case.... Take the papers that are with this, the diaries of Harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this great Un-Dead, and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the world may rest from him.

“If it be so, farewell.

“Van Helsing.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

28 September.—It is wonderful what a good night’s sleep will do for one. Yesterday I was almost willing to accept Van Helsing’s monstrous ideas; but now they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on common sense. I have no doubt that he believes it all. I wonder if his mind can have become in any way unhinged. Surely there must be some rational explanation of all these mysterious things. Is it possible that the Professor can have done it himself? He is so abnormally clever that if he went off his head he would carry out his intent with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful way. I am loath to think it, and indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the other to find that Van Helsing was mad; but anyhow I shall watch him carefully. I may get some light on the mystery.

 

29 September, morning..... Last night, at a little before ten o’clock, Arthur and Quincey came into Van Helsing’s room; he told us all that he wanted us to do, but especially addressing himself to Arthur, as if all our wills were centred in his. He began by saying that he hoped we would all come with him too, “for,” he said, “there is a grave duty to be done there. You were doubtless surprised at my letter?” This query was directly addressed to Lord Godalming.

“I was. It rather upset me for a bit. There has been so much trouble around my house of late that I could do without any more. I have been curious, too, as to what you mean. Quincey and I talked it over; but the more we talked, the more puzzled we got, till now I can say for myself that I’m about up a tree as to any meaning about anything.”

“Me too,” said Quincey Morris laconically.

“Oh,” said the Professor, “then you are nearer the beginning, both of you, than friend John here, who has to go a long way back before he can even get so far as to begin.”

It was evident that he recognised my return to my old doubting frame of mind without my saying a word. Then, turning to the other two, he said with intense gravity:--

“I want your permission to do what I think good this night. It is, I know, much to ask; and when you know what it is I propose to do you will know, and only then, how much. Therefore may I ask that you promise me in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a time—I must not disguise from myself the possibility that such may be—you shall not blame yourselves for anything.”

“That’s frank anyhow,” broke in Quincey. “I’ll answer for the Professor. I don’t quite see his drift, but I swear he’s honest; and that’s good enough for me.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Van Helsing proudly. “I have done myself the honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear to me.” He held out a hand, which Quincey took.

Then Arthur spoke out:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, I don’t quite like to ‘buy a pig in a poke,’ as they say in Scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a gentleman or my faith as a Christian is concerned, I cannot make such a promise. If you can assure me that what you intend does not violate either of these two, then I give my consent at once; though for the life of me, I cannot understand what you are driving at.”

“I accept your limitation,” said Van Helsing, “and all I ask of you is that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first consider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your reservations.”

“Agreed!” said Arthur; “that is only fair. And now that the pourparlers are over, may I ask what it is we are to do?”

“I want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard at Kingstead.”

Arthur’s face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way:--

“Where poor Lucy is buried?” The Professor bowed. Arthur went on: “And when there?”

“To enter the tomb!” Arthur stood up.

“Professor, are you in earnest; or it is some monstrous joke? Pardon me, I see that you are in earnest.” He sat down again, but I could see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. There was silence until he asked again:--

“And when in the tomb?”

“To open the coffin.”

“This is too much!” he said, angrily rising again. “I am willing to be patient in all things that are reasonable; but in this—this desecration of the grave—of one who——” He fairly choked with indignation. The Professor looked pityingly at him.

“If I could spare you one pang, my poor friend,” he said, “God knows I would. But this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame!”

Arthur looked up with set white face and said:--

“Take care, sir, take care!”

“Would it not be well to hear what I have to say?” said Van Helsing. “And then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. Shall I go on?”

“That’s fair enough,” broke in Morris.

After a pause Van Helsing went on, evidently with an effort:--

“Miss Lucy is dead; is it not so? Yes! Then there can be no wrong to her. But if she be not dead——”

Arthur jumped to his feet.

“Good God!” he cried. “What do you mean? Has there been any mistake; has she been buried alive?” He groaned in anguish that not even hope could soften.

“I did not say she was alive, my child; I did not think it. I go no further than to say that she might be Un-Dead.”

“Un-Dead! Not alive! What do you mean? Is this all a nightmare, or what is it?”

“There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may solve only in part. Believe me, we are now on the verge of one. But I have not done. May I cut off the head of dead Miss Lucy?”

“Heavens and earth, no!” cried Arthur in a storm of passion. “Not for the wide world will I consent to any mutilation of her dead body. Dr. Van Helsing, you try me too far. What have I done to you that you should torture me so? What did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to cast such dishonour on her grave? Are you mad that speak such things, or am I mad to listen to them? Don’t dare to think more of such a desecration; I shall not give my consent to anything you do. I have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage; and, by God, I shall do it!”

Van Helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and said, gravely and sternly:--

“My Lord Godalming, I, too, have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead; and, by God, I shall do it! All I ask you now is that you come with me, that you look and listen; and if when later I make the same request you do not be more eager for its fulfilment even than I am, then—then I shall do my duty, whatever it may seem to me. And then, to follow of your Lordship’s wishes I shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account to you, when and where you will.” His voice broke a little, and he went on with a voice full of pity:--

“But, I beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. In a long life of acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did wring my heart, I have never had so heavy a task as now. Believe me that if the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one look from you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for I would do what a man can to save you from sorrow. Just think. For why should I give myself so much of labour and so much of sorrow? I have come here from my own land to do what I can of good; at the first to please my friend John, and then to help a sweet young lady, whom, too, I came to love. For her—I am ashamed to say so much, but I say it in kindness—I gave what you gave; the blood of my veins; I gave it, I, who was not, like you, her lover, but only her physician and her friend. I gave to her my nights and days—before death, after death; and if my death can do her good even now, when she is the dead Un-Dead, she shall have it freely.” He said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and Arthur was much affected by it. He took the old man’s hand and said in a broken voice:--

“Oh, it is hard to think of it, and I cannot understand; but at least I shall go with you and wait.”

CHAPTER XVI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY--continued

IT was just a quarter before twelve o’clock when we got into the churchyard over the low wall. The night was dark with occasional gleams of moonlight between the rents of the heavy clouds that scudded across the sky. We all kept somehow close together, with Van Helsing slightly in front as he led the way. When we had come close to the tomb I looked well at Arthur, for I feared that the proximity to a place laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him; but he bore himself well. I took it that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some way a counteractant to his grief. The Professor unlocked the door, and seeing a natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the difficulty by entering first himself. The rest of us followed, and he closed the door. He then lit a dark lantern and pointed to the coffin. Arthur stepped forward hesitatingly; Van Helsing said to me:--

“You were with me here yesterday. Was the body of Miss Lucy in that coffin?”

“It was.” The Professor turned to the rest saying:--

“You hear; and yet there is no one who does not believe with me.” He took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin. Arthur looked on, very pale but silent; when the lid was removed he stepped forward. He evidently did not know that there was a leaden coffin, or, at any rate, had not thought of it. When he saw the rent in the lead, the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness; he was still silent. Van Helsing forced back the leaden flange, and we all looked in and recoiled.

The coffin was empty!

For several minutes no one spoke a word. The silence was broken by Quincey Morris:--

“Professor, I answered for you. Your word is all I want. I wouldn’t ask such a thing ordinarily—I wouldn’t so dishonour you as to imply a doubt; but this is a mystery that goes beyond any honour or dishonour. Is this your doing?”

“I swear to you by all that I hold sacred that I have not removed nor touched her. What happened was this: Two nights ago my friend Seward and I came here—with good purpose, believe me. I opened that coffin, which was then sealed up, and we found it, as now, empty. We then waited, and saw something white come through the trees. The next day we came here in day-time, and she lay there. Did she not, friend John?”

“Yes.”

“That night we were just in time. One more so small child was missing, and we find it, thank God, unharmed amongst the graves. Yesterday I came here before sundown, for at sundown the Un-Dead can move. I waited here all the night till the sun rose, but I saw nothing. It was most probable that it was because I had laid over the clamps of those doors garlic, which the Un-Dead cannot bear, and other things which they shun. Last night there was no exodus, so to-night before the sundown I took away my garlic and other things. And so it is we find this coffin empty. But bear with me. So far there is much that is strange. Wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be. So”—here he shut the dark slide of his lantern—“now to the outside.” He opened the door, and we filed out, he coming last and locking the door behind him.

Oh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of that vault. How sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and passing—like the gladness and sorrow of a man’s life; how sweet it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how humanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city. Each in his own way was solemn and overcome. Arthur was silent, and was, I could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the mystery. I was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to throw aside doubt and to accept Van Helsing’s conclusions. Quincey Morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery, with hazard of all he has to stake. Not being able to smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew. As to Van Helsing, he was employed in a definite way. First he took from his bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white napkin; next he took out a double-handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. He crumbled the wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his hands. This he then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb. I was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close, asked him what it was that he was doing. Arthur and Quincey drew near also, as they too were curious. He answered:--

“I am closing the tomb, so that the Un-Dead may not enter.”

“And is that stuff you have put there going to do it?” asked Quincey. “Great Scott! Is this a game?”

“It is.”

“What is that which you are using?” This time the question was by Arthur. Van Helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered:--

“The Host. I brought it from Amsterdam. I have an Indulgence.” It was an answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the Professor’s, a purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was impossible to distrust. In respectful silence we took the places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any one approaching. I pitied the others, especially Arthur. I had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching horror; and yet I, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink within me. Never did tombs look so ghastly white; never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funereal gloom; never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously; never did bough creak so mysteriously; and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night.

There was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and then from the Professor a keen “S-s-s-s!” He pointed; and far down the avenue of yews we saw a white figure advance—a dim white figure, which held something dark at its breast. The figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds and showed in startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of the grave. We could not see the face, for it was bent down over what we saw to be a fair-haired child. There was a pause and a sharp little cry, such as a child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before the fire and dreams. We were starting forward, but the Professor’s warning hand, seen by us as he stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back; and then as we looked the white figure moved forwards again. It was now near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still held. My own heart grew cold as ice, and I could hear the gasp of Arthur, as we recognised the features of Lucy Westenra. Lucy Westenra, but yet how changed. The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness. Van Helsing stepped out, and, obedient to his gesture, we all advanced too; the four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. Van Helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide; by the concentrated light that fell on Lucy’s face we could see that the lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her chin and stained the purity of her lawn death-robe.

We shuddered with horror. I could see by the tremulous light that even Van Helsing’s iron nerve had failed. Arthur was next to me, and if I had not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen.

When Lucy—I call the thing that was before us Lucy because it bore her shape—saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken unawares; then her eyes ranged over us. Lucy’s eyes in form and colour; but Lucy’s eyes unclean and full of hell-fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. At that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing; had she then to be killed, I could have done it with savage delight. As she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. Oh, God, how it made me shudder to see it! With a careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls over a bone. The child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. There was a cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from Arthur; when she advanced to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in his hands.

She still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace, said:--

“Come to me, Arthur. Leave these others and come to me. My arms are hungry for you. Come, and we can rest together. Come, my husband, come!”

There was something diabolically sweet in her tones—something of the tingling of glass when struck—which rang through the brains even of us who heard the words addressed to another. As for Arthur, he seemed under a spell; moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his arms. She was leaping for them, when Van Helsing sprang forward and held between them his little golden crucifix. She recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb.

When within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if arrested by some irresistible force. Then she turned, and her face was shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no quiver from Van Helsing’s iron nerves. Never did I see such baffled malice on a face; and never, I trust, shall such ever be seen again by mortal eyes. The beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw out sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the folds of the flesh were the coils of Medusa’s snakes, and the lovely, blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of the Greeks and Japanese. If ever a face meant death—if looks could kill—we saw it at that moment.

And so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of entry. Van Helsing broke the silence by asking Arthur:--

“Answer me, oh my friend! Am I to proceed in my work?”

Arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he answered:--

“Do as you will, friend; do as you will. There can be no horror like this ever any more;” and he groaned in spirit. Quincey and I simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. We could hear the click of the closing lantern as Van Helsing held it down; coming close to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred emblem which he had placed there. We all looked on in horrified amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our own, pass in through the interstice where scarce a knife-blade could have gone. We all felt a glad sense of relief when we saw the Professor calmly restoring the strings of putty to the edges of the door.

When this was done, he lifted the child and said:

“Come now, my friends; we can do no more till to-morrow. There is a funeral at noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. The friends of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton lock the gate we shall remain. Then there is more to do; but not like this of to-night. As for this little one, he is not much harm, and by to-morrow night he shall be well. We shall leave him where the police will find him, as on the other night; and then to home.” Coming close to Arthur, he said:--

“My friend Arthur, you have had a sore trial; but after, when you look back, you will see how it was necessary. You are now in the bitter waters, my child. By this time to-morrow you will, please God, have passed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters; so do not mourn overmuch. Till then I shall not ask you to forgive me.”

Arthur and Quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other on the way. We had left the child in safety, and were tired; so we all slept with more or less reality of sleep.

 

29 September, night.—A little before twelve o’clock we three—Arthur, Quincey Morris, and myself—called for the Professor. It was odd to notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. Of course, Arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct. We got to the churchyard by half-past one, and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to ourselves. Van Helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of fair weight.

When we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the Professor to the tomb. He unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us. Then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient to work by. When he again lifted the lid off Lucy’s coffin we all looked—Arthur trembling like an aspen—and saw that the body lay there in all its death-beauty. But there was no love in my own heart, nothing but loathing for the foul Thing which had taken Lucy’s shape without her soul. I could see even Arthur’s face grow hard as he looked. Presently he said to Van Helsing:--

“Is this really Lucy’s body, or only a demon in her shape?”

“It is her body, and yet not it. But wait a while, and you all see her as she was, and is.”

She seemed like a nightmare of Lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth, the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth—which it made one shudder to see—the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of Lucy’s sweet purity. Van Helsing, with his usual methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and placing them ready for use. First he took out a soldering iron and some plumbing solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue flame; then his operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about three feet long. One end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point. With this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households is used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. To me, a doctor’s preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on both Arthur and Quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation. They both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet.

When all was ready, Van Helsing said:--

“Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and experience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers of the Un-Dead. When they become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that die from the preying of the Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-Dead, and prey on their kind. And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown in the water. Friend Arthur, if you had met that kiss which you know of before poor Lucy die; or again, last night when you open your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died, have become nosferatu, as they call it in Eastern Europe, and would all time make more of those Un-Deads that so have fill us with horror. The career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. Those children whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if she live on, Un-Dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power over them they come to her; and so she draw their blood with that so wicked mouth. But if she die in truth, then all cease; the tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their plays unknowing ever of what has been. But of the most blessed of all, when this now Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we love shall again be free. Instead of working wickedness by night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by day, she shall take her place with the other Angels. So that, my friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free. To this I am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better right? Will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the night when sleep is not: ‘It was my hand that sent her to the stars; it was the hand of him that loved her best; the hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?’ Tell me if there be such a one amongst us?”

We all looked at Arthur. He saw, too, what we all did, the infinite kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore Lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as snow:--

“My true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart I thank you. Tell me what I am to do, and I shall not falter!” Van Helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said:--

“Brave lad! A moment’s courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through her. It will be a fearful ordeal—be not deceived in that—but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great; from this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for you all the time.”

“Go on,” said Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me what I am to do.”

“Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for the dead—I shall read him, I have here the book, and the others shall follow—strike in God’s name, that so all may be well with the dead that we love and that the Un-Dead pass away.”

Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened his missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as well as we could. Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.

The Thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, blood-curdling screech came from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. His face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it gave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little vault.

And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The terrible task was over.

The hammer fell from Arthur’s hand. He reeled and would have fallen had we not caught him. The great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead, and his breath came in broken gasps. It had indeed been an awful strain on him; and had he not been forced to his task by more than human considerations he could never have gone through with it. For a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the coffin. When we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one to the other of us. We gazed so eagerly that Arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad, strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of horror that lay upon it.

There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in her life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever.

Van Helsing came and laid his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and said to him:--

“And now, Arthur my friend, dear lad, am I not forgiven?”

The reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man’s hand in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said:--

“Forgiven! God bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me peace.” He put his hands on the Professor’s shoulder, and laying his head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood unmoving. When he raised his head Van Helsing said to him:--

“And now, my child, you may kiss her. Kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would have you to, if for her to choose. For she is not a grinning devil now—not any more a foul Thing for all eternity. No longer she is the devil’s Un-Dead. She is God’s true dead, whose soul is with Him!”

Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the tomb; the Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body. Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away. When the Professor locked the door he gave the key to Arthur.

Outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. There was gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy.

Before we moved away Van Helsing said:--

“Now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves. But there remains a greater task: to find out the author of all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. I have clues which we can follow; but it is a long task, and a difficult, and there is danger in it, and pain. Shall you not all help me? We have learned to believe, all of us—is it not so? And since so, do we not see our duty? Yes! And do we not promise to go on to the bitter end?”

Each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. Then said the Professor as we moved off:--

“Two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine together at seven of the clock with friend John. I shall entreat two others, two that you know not as yet; and I shall be ready to all our work show and our plans unfold. Friend John, you come with me home, for I have much to consult about, and you can help me. To-night I leave for Amsterdam, but shall return to-morrow night. And then begins our great quest. But first I shall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread. Then our promise shall be made to each other anew; for there is a terrible task before us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare we must not draw back.”

CHAPTER XVII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY--continued

WHEN we arrived at the Berkeley Hotel, Van Helsing found a telegram waiting for him:--

The Professor was delighted. “Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina,” he said, “pearl among women! She arrive, but I cannot stay. She must go to your house, friend John. You must meet her at the station. Telegraph her en route, so that she may be prepared.”

When the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea; over it he told me of a diary kept by Jonathan Harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten copy of it, as also of Mrs. Harker’s diary at Whitby. “Take these,” he said, “and study them well. When I have returned you will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter on our inquisition. Keep them safe, for there is in them much of treasure. You will need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience as that of to-day. What is here told,” he laid his hand heavily and gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke, “may be the beginning of the end to you and me and many another; or it may sound the knell of the Un-Dead who walk the earth. Read all, I pray you, with the open mind; and if you can add in any way to the story here told do so, for it is all-important. You have kept diary of all these so strange things; is it not so? Yes! Then we shall go through all these together when we meet.” He then made ready for his departure, and shortly after drove off to Liverpool Street. I took my way to Paddington, where I arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in.

The crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival platforms; and I was beginning to feel uneasy, lest I might miss my guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty-looking girl stepped up to me, and, after a quick glance, said: “Dr. Seward, is it not?”

“And you are Mrs. Harker!” I answered at once; whereupon she held out her hand.

“I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy; but——” She stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face.

The blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for it was a tacit answer to her own. I got her luggage, which included a typewriter, and we took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, after I had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting-room and bedroom prepared at once for Mrs. Harker.

In due time we arrived. She knew, of course, that the place was a lunatic asylum, but I could see that she was unable to repress a shudder when we entered.

She told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as she had much to say. So here I am finishing my entry in my phonograph diary whilst I await her. As yet I have not had the chance of looking at the papers which Van Helsing left with me, though they lie open before me. I must get her interested in something, so that I may have an opportunity of reading them. She does not know how precious time is, or what a task we have in hand. I must be careful not to frighten her. Here she is!

Mina Harker’s Journal.

29 September.—After I had tidied myself, I went down to Dr. Seward’s study. At the door I paused a moment, for I thought I heard him talking with some one. As, however, he had pressed me to be quick, I knocked at the door, and on his calling out, “Come in,” I entered.

To my intense surprise, there was no one with him. He was quite alone, and on the table opposite him was what I knew at once from the description to be a phonograph. I had never seen one, and was much interested.

“I hope I did not keep you waiting,” I said; “but I stayed at the door as I heard you talking, and thought there was some one with you.”

“Oh,” he replied with a smile, “I was only entering my diary.”

“Your diary?” I asked him in surprise.

“Yes,” he answered. “I keep it in this.” As he spoke he laid his hand on the phonograph. I felt quite excited over it, and blurted out:--

“Why, this beats even shorthand! May I hear it say something?”

“Certainly,” he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train for speaking. Then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face.

“The fact is,” he began awkwardly, “I only keep my diary in it; and as it is entirely—almost entirely—about my cases, it may be awkward—that is, I mean——” He stopped, and I tried to help him out of his embarrassment:--

“You helped to attend dear Lucy at the end. Let me hear how she died; for all that I know of her, I shall be very grateful. She was very, very dear to me.”

To my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face:--

“Tell you of her death? Not for the wide world!”

“Why not?” I asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me. Again he paused, and I could see that he was trying to invent an excuse. At length he stammered out:--

“You see, I do not know how to pick out any particular part of the diary.” Even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said with unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naïveté of a child: “That’s quite true, upon my honour. Honest Indian!” I could not but smile, at which he grimaced. “I gave myself away that time!” he said. “But do you know that, although I have kept the diary for months past, it never once struck me how I was going to find any particular part of it in case I wanted to look it up?” By this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor who attended Lucy might have something to add to the sum of our knowledge of that terrible Being, and I said boldly:--

“Then, Dr. Seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my typewriter.” He grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said:--

“No! no! no! For all the world, I wouldn’t let you know that terrible story!”

Then it was terrible; my intuition was right! For a moment I thought, and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of typewriting on the table. His eyes caught the look in mine, and, without his thinking, followed their direction. As they saw the parcel he realised my meaning.

“You do not know me,” I said. “When you have read those papers—my own diary and my husband’s also, which I have typed—you will know me better. I have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in this cause; but, of course, you do not know me—yet; and I must not expect you to trust me so far.”

He is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear Lucy was right about him. He stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and said:--

“You are quite right. I did not trust you because I did not know you. But I know you now; and let me say that I should have known you long ago. I know that Lucy told you of me; she told me of you too. May I make the only atonement in my power? Take the cylinders and hear them—the first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they will not horrify you; then you will know me better. Dinner will by then be ready. In the meantime I shall read over some of these documents, and shall be better able to understand certain things.” He carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting-room and adjusted it for me. Now I shall learn something pleasant, I am sure; for it will tell me the other side of a true love episode of which I know one side already....

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

29 September.—I was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of Jonathan Harker and that other of his wife that I let the time run on without thinking. Mrs. Harker was not down when the maid came to announce dinner, so I said: “She is possibly tired; let dinner wait an hour,” and I went on with my work. I had just finished Mrs. Harker’s diary, when she came in. She looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her eyes were flushed with crying. This somehow moved me much. Of late I have had cause for tears, God knows! but the relief of them was denied me; and now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened with recent tears, went straight to my heart. So I said as gently as I could:--

“I greatly fear I have distressed you.”

“Oh, no, not distressed me,” she replied, “but I have been more touched than I can say by your grief. That is a wonderful machine, but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the anguish of your heart. It was like a soul crying out to Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be useful. I have copied out the words on my typewriter, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as I did.”

“No one need ever know, shall ever know,” I said in a low voice. She laid her hand on mine and said very gravely:--

“Ah, but they must!”

“Must! But why?” I asked.

“Because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor dear Lucy’s death and all that led to it; because in the struggle which we have before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must have all the knowledge and all the help which we can get. I think that the cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to know; but I can see that there are in your record many lights to this dark mystery. You will let me help, will you not? I know all up to a certain point; and I see already, though your diary only took me to 7 September, how poor Lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was being wrought out. Jonathan and I have been working day and night since Professor Van Helsing saw us. He is gone to Whitby to get more information, and he will be here to-morrow to help us. We need have no secrets amongst us; working together and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than if some of us were in the dark.” She looked at me so appealingly, and at the same time manifested such courage and resolution in her bearing, that I gave in at once to her wishes. “You shall,” I said, “do as you like in the matter. God forgive me if I do wrong! There are terrible things yet to learn of; but if you have so far travelled on the road to poor Lucy’s death, you will not be content, I know, to remain in the dark. Nay, the end—the very end—may give you a gleam of peace. Come, there is dinner. We must keep one another strong for what is before us; we have a cruel and dreadful task. When you have eaten you shall learn the rest, and I shall answer any questions you ask—if there be anything which you do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were present.”

Mina Harker’s Journal.

29 September.—After dinner I came with Dr. Seward to his study. He brought back the phonograph from my room, and I took my typewriter. He placed me in a comfortable chair, and arranged the phonograph so that I could touch it without getting up, and showed me how to stop it in case I should want to pause. Then he very thoughtfully took a chair, with his back to me, so that I might be as free as possible, and began to read. I put the forked metal to my ears and listened.

When the terrible story of Lucy’s death, and—and all that followed, was done, I lay back in my chair powerless. Fortunately I am not of a fainting disposition. When Dr. Seward saw me he jumped up with a horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case-bottle from a cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat restored me. My brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came through all the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my dear, dear Lucy was at last at peace, I do not think I could have borne it without making a scene. It is all so wild, and mysterious, and strange that if I had not known Jonathan’s experience in Transylvania I could not have believed. As it was, I didn’t know what to believe, and so got out of my difficulty by attending to something else. I took the cover off my typewriter, and said to Dr. Seward:--

“Let me write this all out now. We must be ready for Dr. Van Helsing when he comes. I have sent a telegram to Jonathan to come on here when he arrives in London from Whitby. In this matter dates are everything, and I think that if we get all our material ready, and have every item put in chronological order, we shall have done much. You tell me that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris are coming too. Let us be able to tell him when they come.” He accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and I began to typewrite from the beginning of the seventh cylinder. I used manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as I had done with all the rest. It was late when I got through, but Dr. Seward went about his work of going his round of the patients; when he had finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that I did not feel too lonely whilst I worked. How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men—even if there are monsters in it. Before I left him I remembered what Jonathan put in his diary of the Professor’s perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at the station at Exeter; so, seeing that Dr. Seward keeps his newspapers, I borrowed the files of “The Westminster Gazette” and “The Pall Mall Gazette,” and took them to my room. I remember how much “The Dailygraph” and “The Whitby Gazette,” of which I had made cuttings, helped us to understand the terrible events at Whitby when Count Dracula landed, so I shall look through the evening papers since then, and perhaps I shall get some new light. I am not sleepy, and the work will help to keep me quiet.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

30 September.—Mr. Harker arrived at nine o’clock. He had got his wife’s wire just before starting. He is uncommonly clever, if one can judge from his face, and full of energy. If this journal be true—and judging by one’s own wonderful experiences, it must be—he is also a man of great nerve. That going down to the vault a second time was a remarkable piece of daring. After reading his account of it I was prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet, business-like gentleman who came here to-day.

 

Later.—After lunch Harker and his wife went back to their own room, and as I passed a while ago I heard the click of the typewriter. They are hard at it. Mrs. Harker says that they are knitting together in chronological order every scrap of evidence they have. Harker has got the letters between the consignee of the boxes at Whitby and the carriers in London who took charge of them. He is now reading his wife’s typescript of my diary. I wonder what they make out of it. Here it is....

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

29 September, in train to London.—When I received Mr. Billington’s courteous message that he would give me any information in his power I thought it best to go down to Whitby and make, on the spot, such inquiries as I wanted. It was now my object to trace that horrid cargo of the Count’s to its place in London. Later, we may be able to deal with it. Billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station, and brought me to his father’s house, where they had decided that I must stay the night. They are hospitable, with true Yorkshire hospitality: give a guest everything, and leave him free to do as he likes. They all knew that I was busy, and that my stay was short, and Mr. Billington had ready in his office all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes. It gave me almost a turn to see again one of the letters which I had seen on the Count’s table before I knew of his diabolical plans. Everything had been carefully thought out, and done systematically and with precision. He seemed to have been prepared for every obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of his intentions being carried out. To use an Americanism, he had “taken no chances,” and the absolute accuracy with which his instructions were fulfilled, was simply the logical result of his care. I saw the invoice, and took note of it: “Fifty cases of common earth, to be used for experimental purposes.” Also the copy of letter to Carter Paterson, and their reply; of both of these I got copies. This was all the information Mr. Billington could give me, so I went down to the port and saw the coastguards, the Customs officers and the harbour-master. They had all something to say of the strange entry of the ship, which is already taking its place in local tradition; but no one could add to the simple description “Fifty cases of common earth.” I then saw the station-master, who kindly put me in communication with the men who had actually received the boxes. Their tally was exact with the list, and they had nothing to add except that the boxes were “main and mortal heavy,” and that shifting them was dry work. One of them added that it was hard lines that there wasn’t any gentleman “such-like as yourself, squire,” to show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form; another put in a rider that the thirst then generated was such that even the time which had elapsed had not completely allayed it. Needless to add, I took care before leaving to lift, for ever and adequately, this source of reproach.

 

30 September.—The station-master was good enough to give me a line to his old companion the station-master at King’s Cross, so that when I arrived there in the morning I was able to ask him about the arrival of the boxes. He, too, put me at once in communication with the proper officials, and I saw that their tally was correct with the original invoice. The opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here limited; a noble use of them had, however, been made, and again I was compelled to deal with the result in an ex post facto manner.

From thence I went on to Carter Paterson’s central office, where I met with the utmost courtesy. They looked up the transaction in their day-book and letter-book, and at once telephoned to their King’s Cross office for more details. By good fortune, the men who did the teaming were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over, sending also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected with the delivery of the boxes at Carfax. Here again I found the tally agreeing exactly; the carriers’ men were able to supplement the paucity of the written words with a few details. These were, I shortly found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature of the job, and of the consequent thirst engendered in the operators. On my affording an opportunity, through the medium of the currency of the realm, of the allaying, at a later period, this beneficial evil, one of the men remarked:--

“That ’ere ’ouse, guv’nor, is the rummiest I ever was in. Blyme! but it ain’t been touched sence a hundred years. There was dust that thick in the place that you might have slep’ on it without ’urtin’ of yer bones; an’ the place was that neglected that yer might ’ave smelled ole Jerusalem in it. But the ole chapel—that took the cike, that did! Me and my mate, we thort we wouldn’t never git out quick enough. Lor’, I wouldn’t take less nor a quid a moment to stay there arter dark.”

Having been in the house, I could well believe him; but if he knew what I know, he would, I think, have raised his terms.

Of one thing I am now satisfied: that all the boxes which arrived at Whitby from Varna in the Demeter were safely deposited in the old chapel at Carfax. There should be fifty of them there, unless any have since been removed—as from Dr. Seward’s diary I fear.

I shall try to see the carter who took away the boxes from Carfax when Renfield attacked them. By following up this clue we may learn a good deal.

 

Later.—Mina and I have worked all day, and we have put all the papers into order.

Mina Harker’s Journal

30 September.—I am so glad that I hardly know how to contain myself. It is, I suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which I have had: that this terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound might act detrimentally on Jonathan. I saw him leave for Whitby with as brave a face as I could, but I was sick with apprehension. The effort has, however, done him good. He was never so resolute, never so strong, never so full of volcanic energy, as at present. It is just as that dear, good Professor Van Helsing said: he is true grit, and he improves under strain that would kill a weaker nature. He came back full of life and hope and determination; we have got everything in order for to-night. I feel myself quite wild with excitement. I suppose one ought to pity any thing so hunted as is the Count. That is just it: this Thing is not human—not even beast. To read Dr. Seward’s account of poor Lucy’s death, and what followed, is enough to dry up the springs of pity in one’s heart.

 

Later.—Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris arrived earlier than we expected. Dr. Seward was out on business, and had taken Jonathan with him, so I had to see them. It was to me a painful meeting, for it brought back all poor dear Lucy’s hopes of only a few months ago. Of course they had heard Lucy speak of me, and it seemed that Dr. Van Helsing, too, has been quite “blowing my trumpet,” as Mr. Morris expressed it. Poor fellows, neither of them is aware that I know all about the proposals they made to Lucy. They did not quite know what to say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge; so they had to keep on neutral subjects. However, I thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the best thing I could do would be to post them in affairs right up to date. I knew from Dr. Seward’s diary that they had been at Lucy’s death—her real death—and that I need not fear to betray any secret before the time. So I told them, as well as I could, that I had read all the papers and diaries, and that my husband and I, having typewritten them, had just finished putting them in order. I gave them each a copy to read in the library. When Lord Godalming got his and turned it over—it does make a pretty good pile—he said:--

“Did you write all this, Mrs. Harker?”

I nodded, and he went on:--

“I don’t quite see the drift of it; but you people are all so good and kind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that all I can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. I have had one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man humble to the last hour of his life. Besides, I know you loved my poor Lucy—” Here he turned away and covered his face with his hands. I could hear the tears in his voice. Mr. Morris, with instinctive delicacy, just laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the room. I suppose there is something in woman’s nature that makes a man free to break down before her and express his feelings on the tender or emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his manhood; for when Lord Godalming found himself alone with me he sat down on the sofa and gave way utterly and openly. I sat down beside him and took his hand. I hope he didn’t think it forward of me, and that if he ever thinks of it afterwards he never will have such a thought. There I wrong him; I know he never will—he is too true a gentleman. I said to him, for I could see that his heart was breaking:--

“I loved dear Lucy, and I know what she was to you, and what you were to her. She and I were like sisters; and now she is gone, will you not let me be like a sister to you in your trouble? I know what sorrows you have had, though I cannot measure the depth of them. If sympathy and pity can help in your affliction, won’t you let me be of some little service—for Lucy’s sake?”

In an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. It seemed to me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence found a vent at once. He grew quite hysterical, and raising his open hands, beat his palms together in a perfect agony of grief. He stood up and then sat down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks. I felt an infinite pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly. With a sob he laid his head on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child, whilst he shook with emotion.

We women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above smaller matters when the mother-spirit is invoked; I felt this big sorrowing man’s head resting on me, as though it were that of the baby that some day may lie on my bosom, and I stroked his hair as though he were my own child. I never thought at the time how strange it all was.

After a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. He told me that for days and nights past—weary days and sleepless nights—he had been unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his time of sorrow. There was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or with whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow was surrounded, he could speak freely. “I know now how I suffered,” he said, as he dried his eyes, “but I do not know even yet—and none other can ever know—how much your sweet sympathy has been to me to-day. I shall know better in time; and believe me that, though I am not ungrateful now, my gratitude will grow with my understanding. You will let me be like a brother, will you not, for all our lives—for dear Lucy’s sake?”

“For dear Lucy’s sake,” I said as we clasped hands. “Ay, and for your own sake,” he added, “for if a man’s esteem and gratitude are ever worth the winning, you have won mine to-day. If ever the future should bring to you a time when you need a man’s help, believe me, you will not call in vain. God grant that no such time may ever come to you to break the sunshine of your life; but if it should ever come, promise me that you will let me know.” He was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that I felt it would comfort him, so I said:--

“I promise.”

As I came along the corridor I saw Mr. Morris looking out of a window. He turned as he heard my footsteps. “How is Art?” he said. Then noticing my red eyes, he went on: “Ah, I see you have been comforting him. Poor old fellow! he needs it. No one but a woman can help a man when he is in trouble of the heart; and he had no one to comfort him.”

He bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. I saw the manuscript in his hand, and I knew that when he read it he would realise how much I knew; so I said to him:--

“I wish I could comfort all who suffer from the heart. Will you let me be your friend, and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? You will know, later on, why I speak.” He saw that I was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and raising it to his lips, kissed it. It seemed but poor comfort to so brave and unselfish a soul, and impulsively I bent over and kissed him. The tears rose in his eyes, and there was a momentary choking in his throat; he said quite calmly:--

“Little girl, you will never regret that true-hearted kindness, so long as ever you live!” Then he went into the study to his friend.

“Little girl!”—the very words he had used to Lucy, and oh, but he proved himself a friend!

CHAPTER XVIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

30 September.—I got home at five o’clock, and found that Godalming and Morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the transcript of the various diaries and letters which Harker and his wonderful wife had made and arranged. Harker had not yet returned from his visit to the carriers’ men, of whom Dr. Hennessey had written to me. Mrs. Harker gave us a cup of tea, and I can honestly say that, for the first time since I have lived in it, this old house seemed like home. When we had finished, Mrs. Harker said:--

“Dr. Seward, may I ask a favour? I want to see your patient, Mr. Renfield. Do let me see him. What you have said of him in your diary interests me so much!” She looked so appealing and so pretty that I could not refuse her, and there was no possible reason why I should; so I took her with me. When I went into the room, I told the man that a lady would like to see him; to which he simply answered: “Why?”

“She is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it,” I answered. “Oh, very well,” he said; “let her come in, by all means; but just wait a minute till I tidy up the place.” His method of tidying was peculiar: he simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes before I could stop him. It was quite evident that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference. When he had got through his disgusting task, he said cheerfully: “Let the lady come in,” and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised so that he could see her as she entered. For a moment I thought that he might have some homicidal intent; I remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own study, and I took care to stand where I could seize him at once if he attempted to make a spring at her. She came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command the respect of any lunatic—for easiness is one of the qualities mad people most respect. She walked over to him, smiling pleasantly, and held out her hand.

“Good-evening, Mr. Renfield,” said she. “You see, I know you, for Dr. Seward has told me of you.” He made no immediate reply, but eyed her all over intently with a set frown on his face. This look gave way to one of wonder, which merged in doubt; then, to my intense astonishment, he said:--

“You’re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? You can’t be, you know, for she’s dead.” Mrs. Harker smiled sweetly as she replied:--

“Oh no! I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am Mrs. Harker.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“My husband and I are staying on a visit with Dr. Seward.”

“Then don’t stay.”

“But why not?” I thought that this style of conversation might not be pleasant to Mrs. Harker, any more than it was to me, so I joined in:--

“How did you know I wanted to marry any one?” His reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning them back again:--

“What an asinine question!”

“I don’t see that at all, Mr. Renfield,” said Mrs. Harker, at once championing me. He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown contempt to me:--

“You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him is of interest in our little community. Dr. Seward is loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of non causa and ignoratio elenchi.” I positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own pet lunatic—the most pronounced of his type that I had ever met with—talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished gentleman. I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker’s presence which had touched some chord in his memory. If this new phase was spontaneous, or in any way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some rare gift or power.

We continued to talk for some time; and, seeing that he was seemingly quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she began, to lead him to his favourite topic. I was again astonished, for he addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of the completest sanity; he even took himself as an example when he mentioned certain things.

“Why, I myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. Indeed, it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being put under control. I used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong life. At times I held the belief so strongly that I actually tried to take human life. The doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion I tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his blood—relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, ‘For the blood is the life.’ Though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarised the truism to the very point of contempt. Isn’t that true, doctor?” I nodded assent, for I was so amazed that I hardly knew what to either think or say; it was hard to imagine that I had seen him eat up his spiders and flies not five minutes before. Looking at my watch, I saw that I should go to the station to meet Van Helsing, so I told Mrs. Harker that it was time to leave. She came at once, after saying pleasantly to Mr. Renfield: “Good-bye, and I hope I may see you often, under auspices pleasanter to yourself,” to which, to my astonishment, he replied:--

“Good-bye, my dear. I pray God I may never see your sweet face again. May He bless and keep you!”

When I went to the station to meet Van Helsing I left the boys behind me. Poor Art seemed more cheerful than he has been since Lucy first took ill, and Quincey is more like his own bright self than he has been for many a long day.

Van Helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a boy. He saw me at once, and rushed up to me, saying:--

“Ah, friend John, how goes all? Well? So! I have been busy, for I come here to stay if need be. All affairs are settled with me, and I have much to tell. Madam Mina is with you? Yes. And her so fine husband? And Arthur and my friend Quincey, they are with you, too? Good!”

As I drove to the house I told him of what had passed, and of how my own diary had come to be of some use through Mrs. Harker’s suggestion; at which the Professor interrupted me:--

“Ah, that wonderful Madam Mina! She has man’s brain—a brain that a man should have were he much gifted—and a woman’s heart. The good God fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when He made that so good combination. Friend John, up to now fortune has made that woman of help to us; after to-night she must not have to do with this so terrible affair. It is not good that she run a risk so great. We men are determined—nay, are we not pledged?—to destroy this monster; but it is no part for a woman. Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. And, besides, she is young woman and not so long married; there may be other things to think of some time, if not now. You tell me she has wrote all, then she must consult with us; but to-morrow she say good-bye to this work, and we go alone.” I agreed heartily with him, and then I told him what we had found in his absence: that the house which Dracula had bought was the very next one to my own. He was amazed, and a great concern seemed to come on him. “Oh that we had known it before!” he said, “for then we might have reached him in time to save poor Lucy. However, ‘the milk that is spilt cries not out afterwards,’ as you say. We shall not think of that, but go on our way to the end.” Then he fell into a silence that lasted till we entered my own gateway. Before we went to prepare for dinner he said to Mrs. Harker:--

“I am told, Madam Mina, by my friend John that you and your husband have put up in exact order all things that have been, up to this moment.”

“Not up to this moment, Professor,” she said impulsively, “but up to this morning.”

“But why not up to now? We have seen hitherto how good light all the little things have made. We have told our secrets, and yet no one who has told is the worse for it.”

Mrs. Harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she said:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. It is my record of to-day. I too have seen the need of putting down at present everything, however trivial; but there is little in this except what is personal. Must it go in?” The Professor read it over gravely, and handed it back, saying:--

“It need not go in if you do not wish it; but I pray that it may. It can but make your husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more honour you—as well as more esteem and love.” She took it back with another blush and a bright smile.

And so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete and in order. The Professor took away one copy to study after dinner, and before our meeting, which is fixed for nine o’clock. The rest of us have already read everything; so when we meet in the study we shall all be informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with this terrible and mysterious enemy.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

30 September.—When we met in Dr. Seward’s study two hours after dinner, which had been at six o’clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of board or committee. Professor Van Helsing took the head of the table, to which Dr. Seward motioned him as he came into the room. He made me sit next to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary; Jonathan sat next to me. Opposite us were Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris—Lord Godalming being next the Professor, and Dr. Seward in the centre. The Professor said:--

“I may, I suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with the facts that are in these papers.” We all expressed assent, and he went on:--

“Then it were, I think good that I tell you something of the kind of enemy with which we have to deal. I shall then make known to you something of the history of this man, which has been ascertained for me. So we then can discuss how we shall act, and can take our measure according.

“There are such beings as vampires; some of us have evidence that they exist. Even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples. I admit that at the first I was sceptic. Were it not that through long years I have train myself to keep an open mind, I could not have believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear. ‘See! see! I prove; I prove.’ Alas! Had I known at the first what now I know—nay, had I even guess at him—one so precious life had been spared to many of us who did love her. But that is gone; and we must so work, that other poor souls perish not, whilst we can save. The nosferatu do not die like the bee when he sting once. He is only stronger; and being stronger, have yet more power to work evil. This vampire which is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within limitations, appear at will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; he can, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the thunder; he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and the bat—the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown. How then are we to begin our strike to destroy him? How shall we find his where; and having found it, how can we destroy? My friends, this is much; it is a terrible task that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave shudder. For if we fail in this our fight he must surely win; and then where end we? Life is nothings; I heed him not. But to fail here, is not mere life or death. It is that we become as him; that we henceforward become foul things of the night like him—without heart or conscience, preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. To us for ever are the gates of heaven shut; for who shall open them to us again? We go on for all time abhorred by all; a blot on the face of God’s sunshine; an arrow in the side of Him who died for man. But we are face to face with duty; and in such case must we shrink? For me, I say, no; but then I am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. You others are young. Some have seen sorrow; but there are fair days yet in store. What say you?”

Whilst he was speaking, Jonathan had taken my hand. I feared, oh so much, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when I saw his hand stretch out; but it was life to me to feel its touch—so strong, so self-reliant, so resolute. A brave man’s hand can speak for itself; it does not even need a woman’s love to hear its music.

When the Professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and I in his; there was no need for speaking between us.

“I answer for Mina and myself,” he said.

“Count me in, Professor,” said Mr. Quincey Morris, laconically as usual.

“I am with you,” said Lord Godalming, “for Lucy’s sake, if for no other reason.”

Dr. Seward simply nodded. The Professor stood up and, after laying his golden crucifix on the table, held out his hand on either side. I took his right hand, and Lord Godalming his left; Jonathan held my right with his left and stretched across to Mr. Morris. So as we all took hands our solemn compact was made. I felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even occur to me to draw back. We resumed our places, and Dr. Van Helsing went on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work had begun. It was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way, as any other transaction of life:--

“Well, you know what we have to contend against; but we, too, are not without strength. We have on our side power of combination—a power denied to the vampire kind; we have sources of science; we are free to act and think; and the hours of the day and the night are ours equally. In fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we are free to use them. We have self-devotion in a cause, and an end to achieve which is not a selfish one. These things are much.

“Now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are restrict, and how the individual cannot. In fine, let us consider the limitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular.

“All we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. These do not at the first appear much, when the matter is one of life and death—nay of more than either life or death. Yet must we be satisfied; in the first place because we have to be—no other means is at our control—and secondly, because, after all, these things—tradition and superstition—are everything. Does not the belief in vampires rest for others—though not, alas! for us—on them? A year ago which of us would have received such a possibility, in the midst of our scientific, sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? We even scouted a belief that we saw justified under our very eyes. Take it, then, that the vampire, and the belief in his limitations and his cure, rest for the moment on the same base. For, let me tell you, he is known everywhere that men have been. In old Greece, in old Rome; he flourish in Germany all over, in France, in India, even in the Chernosese; and in China, so far from us in all ways, there even is he, and the peoples fear him at this day. He have follow the wake of the berserker Icelander, the devil-begotten Hun, the Slav, the Saxon, the Magyar. So far, then, we have all we may act upon; and let me tell you that very much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own so unhappy experience. The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time; he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. Even more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow younger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. But he cannot flourish without this diet; he eat not as others. Even friend Jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never! He throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again Jonathan observe. He has the strength of many of his hand—witness again Jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help him from the diligence too. He can transform himself to wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in Whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as bat, as Madam Mina saw him on the window at Whitby, and as friend John saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend Quincey saw him at the window of Miss Lucy. He can come in mist which he create—that noble ship’s captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. He come on moonlight rays as elemental dust—as again Jonathan saw those sisters in the castle of Dracula. He become so small—we ourselves saw Miss Lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the tomb door. He can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up with fire—solder you call it. He can see in the dark—no small power this, in a world which is one half shut from the light. Ah, but hear me through. He can do all these things, yet he is not free. Nay; he is even more prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell. He cannot go where he lists; he who is not of nature has yet to obey some of nature’s laws—why we know not. He may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come; though afterwards he can come as he please. His power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day. Only at certain times can he have limited freedom. If he be not at the place whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise or sunset. These things are we told, and in this record of ours we have proof by inference. Thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he have his earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at Whitby; still at other time he can only change when the time come. It is said, too, that he can only pass running water at the slack or the flood of the tide. Then there are things which so afflict him that he has no power, as the garlic that we know of; and as for things sacred, as this symbol, my crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off and silent with respect. There are others, too, which I shall tell you of, lest in our seeking we may need them. The branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not from it; a sacred bullet fired into the coffin kill him so that he be true dead; and as for the stake through him, we know already of its peace; or the cut-off head that giveth rest. We have seen it with our eyes.

“Thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine him to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. But he is clever. I have asked my friend Arminius, of Buda-Pesth University, to make his record; and, from all the means that are, he tell me of what he has been. He must, indeed, have been that Voivode Dracula who won his name against the Turk, over the great river on the very frontier of Turkey-land. If it be so, then was he no common man; for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the ‘land beyond the forest.’ That mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed against us. The Draculas were, says Arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the Evil One. They learned his secrets in the Scholomance, amongst the mountains over Lake Hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. In the records are such words as ‘stregoica’—witch, ‘ordog,’ and ‘pokol’—Satan and hell; and in one manuscript this very Dracula is spoken of as ‘wampyr,’ which we all understand too well. There have been from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. For it is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good; in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest.”

Whilst they were talking Mr. Morris was looking steadily at the window, and he now got up quietly, and went out of the room. There was a little pause, and then the Professor went on:--

“And now we must settle what we do. We have here much data, and we must proceed to lay out our campaign. We know from the inquiry of Jonathan that from the castle to Whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which were delivered at Carfax; we also know that at least some of these boxes have been removed. It seems to me, that our first step should be to ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond that wall where we look to-day; or whether any more have been removed. If the latter, we must trace——”

Here we were interrupted in a very startling way. Outside the house came the sound of a pistol-shot; the glass of the window was shattered with a bullet, which, ricochetting from the top of the embrasure, struck the far wall of the room. I am afraid I am at heart a coward, for I shrieked out. The men all jumped to their feet; Lord Godalming flew over to the window and threw up the sash. As he did so we heard Mr. Morris’s voice without:--

“Sorry! I fear I have alarmed you. I shall come in and tell you about it.” A minute later he came in and said:--

“It was an idiotic thing of me to do, and I ask your pardon, Mrs. Harker, most sincerely; I fear I must have frightened you terribly. But the fact is that whilst the Professor was talking there came a big bat and sat on the window-sill. I have got such a horror of the damned brutes from recent events that I cannot stand them, and I went out to have a shot, as I have been doing of late of evenings, whenever I have seen one. You used to laugh at me for it then, Art.”

“Did you hit it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing.

“I don’t know; I fancy not, for it flew away into the wood.” Without saying any more he took his seat, and the Professor began to resume his statement:--

“We must trace each of these boxes; and when we are ready, we must either capture or kill this monster in his lair; or we must, so to speak, sterilise the earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it. Thus in the end we may find him in his form of man between the hours of noon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most weak.

“And now for you, Madam Mina, this night is the end until all be well. You are too precious to us to have such risk. When we part to-night, you no more must question. We shall tell you all in good time. We are men and are able to bear; but you must be our star and our hope, and we shall act all the more free that you are not in the danger, such as we are.”

All the men, even Jonathan, seemed relieved; but it did not seem to me good that they should brave danger and, perhaps, lessen their safety—strength being the best safety—through care of me; but their minds were made up, and, though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow, I could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me.

Mr. Morris resumed the discussion:--

“As there is no time to lose, I vote we have a look at his house right now. Time is everything with him; and swift action on our part may save another victim.”

I own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so close, but I did not say anything, for I had a greater fear that if I appeared as a drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave me out of their counsels altogether. They have now gone off to Carfax, with means to get into the house.

Manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep; as if a woman can sleep when those she loves are in danger! I shall lie down and pretend to sleep, lest Jonathan have added anxiety about me when he returns.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October, 4 a. m.—Just as we were about to leave the house, an urgent message was brought to me from Renfield to know if I would see him at once, as he had something of the utmost importance to say to me. I told the messenger to say that I would attend to his wishes in the morning; I was busy just at the moment. The attendant added:--

“He seems very importunate, sir. I have never seen him so eager. I don’t know but what, if you don’t see him soon, he will have one of his violent fits.” I knew the man would not have said this without some cause, so I said: “All right; I’ll go now”; and I asked the others to wait a few minutes for me, as I had to go and see my “patient.”

“Take me with you, friend John,” said the Professor. “His case in your diary interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on our case. I should much like to see him, and especial when his mind is disturbed.”

“May I come also?” asked Lord Godalming.

“Me too?” said Quincey Morris. “May I come?” said Harker. I nodded, and we all went down the passage together.

We found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more rational in his speech and manner than I had ever seen him. There was an unusual understanding of himself, which was unlike anything I had ever met with in a lunatic; and he took it for granted that his reasons would prevail with others entirely sane. We all four went into the room, but none of the others at first said anything. His request was that I would at once release him from the asylum and send him home. This he backed up with arguments regarding his complete recovery, and adduced his own existing sanity. “I appeal to your friends,” he said, “they will, perhaps, not mind sitting in judgment on my case. By the way, you have not introduced me.” I was so much astonished, that the oddness of introducing a madman in an asylum did not strike me at the moment; and, besides, there was a certain dignity in the man’s manner, so much of the habit of equality, that I at once made the introduction: “Lord Godalming; Professor Van Helsing; Mr. Quincey Morris, of Texas; Mr. Renfield.” He shook hands with each of them, saying in turn:--

“Lord Godalming, I had the honour of seconding your father at the Windham; I grieve to know, by your holding the title, that he is no more. He was a man loved and honoured by all who knew him; and in his youth was, I have heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much patronised on Derby night. Mr. Morris, you should be proud of your great state. Its reception into the Union was a precedent which may have far-reaching effects hereafter, when the Pole and the Tropics may hold alliance to the Stars and Stripes. The power of Treaty may yet prove a vast engine of enlargement, when the Monroe doctrine takes its true place as a political fable. What shall any man say of his pleasure at meeting Van Helsing? Sir, I make no apology for dropping all forms of conventional prefix. When an individual has revolutionised therapeutics by his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain-matter, conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to one of a class. You, gentlemen, who by nationality, by heredity, or by the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective places in the moving world, I take to witness that I am as sane as at least the majority of men who are in full possession of their liberties. And I am sure that you, Dr. Seward, humanitarian and medico-jurist as well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to deal with me as one to be considered as under exceptional circumstances.” He made this last appeal with a courtly air of conviction which was not without its own charm.

I think we were all staggered. For my own part, I was under the conviction, despite my knowledge of the man’s character and history, that his reason had been restored; and I felt under a strong impulse to tell him that I was satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about the necessary formalities for his release in the morning. I thought it better to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of old I knew the sudden changes to which this particular patient was liable. So I contented myself with making a general statement that he appeared to be improving very rapidly; that I would have a longer chat with him in the morning, and would then see what I could do in the direction of meeting his wishes. This did not at all satisfy him, for he said quickly:--

“But I fear, Dr. Seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. I desire to go at once—here—now—this very hour—this very moment, if I may. Time presses, and in our implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of the essence of the contract. I am sure it is only necessary to put before so admirable a practitioner as Dr. Seward so simple, yet so momentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment.” He looked at me keenly, and seeing the negative in my face, turned to the others, and scrutinised them closely. Not meeting any sufficient response, he went on:--

“Is it possible that I have erred in my supposition?”

“You have,” I said frankly, but at the same time, as I felt, brutally. There was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly:--

“Then I suppose I must only shift my ground of request. Let me ask for this concession—boon, privilege, what you will. I am content to implore in such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. I am not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons; but you may, I assure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. Could you look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the sentiments which animate me. Nay, more, you would count me amongst the best and truest of your friends.” Again he looked at us all keenly. I had a growing conviction that this sudden change of his entire intellectual method was but yet another form or phase of his madness, and so determined to let him go on a little longer, knowing from experience that he would, like all lunatics, give himself away in the end. Van Helsing was gazing at him with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting with the fixed concentration of his look. He said to Renfield in a tone which did not surprise me at the time, but only when I thought of it afterwards—for it was as of one addressing an equal:--

“Can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free to-night? I will undertake that if you will satisfy even me—a stranger, without prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind—Dr. Seward will give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the privilege you seek.” He shook his head sadly, and with a look of poignant regret on his face. The Professor went on:--

“Come, sir, bethink yourself. You claim the privilege of reason in the highest degree, since you seek to impress us with your complete reasonableness. You do this, whose sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are not yet released from medical treatment for this very defect. If you will not help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how can we perform the duty which you yourself put upon us? Be wise, and help us; and if we can we shall aid you to achieve your wish.” He still shook his head as he said:--

“Dr. Van Helsing, I have nothing to say. Your argument is complete, and if I were free to speak I should not hesitate a moment; but I am not my own master in the matter. I can only ask you to trust me. If I am refused, the responsibility does not rest with me.” I thought it was now time to end the scene, which was becoming too comically grave, so I went towards the door, simply saying:--

“Come, my friends, we have work to do. Good-night.”

As, however, I got near the door, a new change came over the patient. He moved towards me so quickly that for the moment I feared that he was about to make another homicidal attack. My fears, however, were groundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly, and made his petition in a moving manner. As he saw that the very excess of his emotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old relations, he became still more demonstrative. I glanced at Van Helsing, and saw my conviction reflected in his eyes; so I became a little more fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him that his efforts were unavailing. I had previously seen something of the same constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some request of which at the time he had thought much, such, for instance, as when he wanted a cat; and I was prepared to see the collapse into the same sullen acquiescence on this occasion. My expectation was not realised, for, when he found that his appeal would not be successful, he got into quite a frantic condition. He threw himself on his knees, and held up his hands, wringing them in plaintive supplication, and poured forth a torrent of entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his whole face and form expressive of the deepest emotion:--

“Let me entreat you, Dr. Seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out of this house at once. Send me away how you will and where you will; send keepers with me with whips and chains; let them take me in a strait-waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to a gaol; but let me go out of this. You don’t know what you do by keeping me here. I am speaking from the depths of my heart—of my very soul. You don’t know whom you wrong, or how; and I may not tell. Woe is me! I may not tell. By all you hold sacred—by all you hold dear—by your love that is lost—by your hope that lives—for the sake of the Almighty, take me out of this and save my soul from guilt! Can’t you hear me, man? Can’t you understand? Will you never learn? Don’t you know that I am sane and earnest now; that I am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting for his soul? Oh, hear me! hear me! Let me go! let me go! let me go!”

I thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so would bring on a fit; so I took him by the hand and raised him up.

“Come,” I said sternly, “no more of this; we have had quite enough already. Get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly.”

He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments. Then, without a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of the bed. The collapse had come, as on former occasion, just as I had expected.

When I was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a quiet, well-bred voice:--

“You will, I trust, Dr. Seward, do me the justice to bear in mind, later on, that I did what I could to convince you to-night.”

CHAPTER XIX

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

1 October, 5 a. m.—I went with the party to the search with an easy mind, for I think I never saw Mina so absolutely strong and well. I am so glad that she consented to hold back and let us men do the work. Somehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this fearful business at all; but now that her work is done, and that it is due to her energy and brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in such a way that every point tells, she may well feel that her part is finished, and that she can henceforth leave the rest to us. We were, I think, all a little upset by the scene with Mr. Renfield. When we came away from his room we were silent till we got back to the study. Then Mr. Morris said to Dr. Seward:--

“Say, Jack, if that man wasn’t attempting a bluff, he is about the sanest lunatic I ever saw. I’m not sure, but I believe that he had some serious purpose, and if he had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a chance.” Lord Godalming and I were silent, but Dr. Van Helsing added:--

“Friend John, you know more of lunatics than I do, and I’m glad of it, for I fear that if it had been to me to decide I would before that last hysterical outburst have given him free. But we live and learn, and in our present task we must take no chance, as my friend Quincey would say. All is best as they are.” Dr. Seward seemed to answer them both in a dreamy kind of way:--

“I don’t know but that I agree with you. If that man had been an ordinary lunatic I would have taken my chance of trusting him; but he seems so mixed up with the Count in an indexy kind of way that I am afraid of doing anything wrong by helping his fads. I can’t forget how he prayed with almost equal fervour for a cat, and then tried to tear my throat out with his teeth. Besides, he called the Count ‘lord and master,’ and he may want to get out to help him in some diabolical way. That horrid thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind to help him, so I suppose he isn’t above trying to use a respectable lunatic. He certainly did seem earnest, though. I only hope we have done what is best. These things, in conjunction with the wild work we have in hand, help to unnerve a man.” The Professor stepped over, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said in his grave, kindly way:--

“Friend John, have no fear. We are trying to do our duty in a very sad and terrible case; we can only do as we deem best. What else have we to hope for, except the pity of the good God?” Lord Godalming had slipped away for a few minutes, but now he returned. He held up a little silver whistle, as he remarked:--

“That old place may be full of rats, and if so, I’ve got an antidote on call.” Having passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care to keep in the shadows of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone out. When we got to the porch the Professor opened his bag and took out a lot of things, which he laid on the step, sorting them into four little groups, evidently one for each. Then he spoke:--

“My friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of many kinds. Our enemy is not merely spiritual. Remember that he has the strength of twenty men, and that, though our necks or our windpipes are of the common kind—and therefore breakable or crushable—his are not amenable to mere strength. A stronger man, or a body of men more strong in all than him, can at certain times hold him; but they cannot hurt him as we can be hurt by him. We must, therefore, guard ourselves from his touch. Keep this near your heart”—as he spoke he lifted a little silver crucifix and held it out to me, I being nearest to him—“put these flowers round your neck”—here he handed to me a wreath of withered garlic blossoms—“for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this knife; and for aid in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can fasten to your breast; and for all, and above all at the last, this, which we must not desecrate needless.” This was a portion of Sacred Wafer, which he put in an envelope and handed to me. Each of the others was similarly equipped. “Now,” he said, “friend John, where are the skeleton keys? If so that we can open the door, we need not break house by the window, as before at Miss Lucy’s.”

Dr. Seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as a surgeon standing him in good stead. Presently he got one to suit; after a little play back and forward the bolt yielded, and, with a rusty clang, shot back. We pressed on the door, the rusty hinges creaked, and it slowly opened. It was startlingly like the image conveyed to me in Dr. Seward’s diary of the opening of Miss Westenra’s tomb; I fancy that the same idea seemed to strike the others, for with one accord they shrank back. The Professor was the first to move forward, and stepped into the open door.

“In manus tuas, Domine!” he said, crossing himself as he passed over the threshold. We closed the door behind us, lest when we should have lit our lamps we should possibly attract attention from the road. The Professor carefully tried the lock, lest we might not be able to open it from within should we be in a hurry making our exit. Then we all lit our lamps and proceeded on our search.

The light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the rays crossed each other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great shadows. I could not for my life get away from the feeling that there was some one else amongst us. I suppose it was the recollection, so powerfully brought home to me by the grim surroundings, of that terrible experience in Transylvania. I think the feeling was common to us all, for I noticed that the others kept looking over their shoulders at every sound and every new shadow, just as I felt myself doing.

The whole place was thick with dust. The floor was seemingly inches deep, except where there were recent footsteps, in which on holding down my lamp I could see marks of hobnails where the dust was cracked. The walls were fluffy and heavy with dust, and in the corners were masses of spider’s webs, whereon the dust had gathered till they looked like old tattered rags as the weight had torn them partly down. On a table in the hall was a great bunch of keys, with a time-yellowed label on each. They had been used several times, for on the table were several similar rents in the blanket of dust, similar to that exposed when the Professor lifted them. He turned to me and said:--

“You know this place, Jonathan. You have copied maps of it, and you know it at least more than we do. Which is the way to the chapel?” I had an idea of its direction, though on my former visit I had not been able to get admission to it; so I led the way, and after a few wrong turnings found myself opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed with iron bands. “This is the spot,” said the Professor as he turned his lamp on a small map of the house, copied from the file of my original correspondence regarding the purchase. With a little trouble we found the key on the bunch and opened the door. We were prepared for some unpleasantness, for as we were opening the door a faint, malodorous air seemed to exhale through the gaps, but none of us ever expected such an odour as we encountered. None of the others had met the Count at all at close quarters, and when I had seen him he was either in the fasting stage of his existence in his rooms or, when he was gloated with fresh blood, in a ruined building open to the air; but here the place was small and close, and the long disuse had made the air stagnant and foul. There was an earthy smell, as of some dry miasma, which came through the fouler air. But as to the odour itself, how shall I describe it? It was not alone that it was composed of all the ills of mortality and with the pungent, acrid smell of blood, but it seemed as though corruption had become itself corrupt. Faugh! it sickens me to think of it. Every breath exhaled by that monster seemed to have clung to the place and intensified its loathsomeness.

Under ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our enterprise to an end; but this was no ordinary case, and the high and terrible purpose in which we were involved gave us a strength which rose above merely physical considerations. After the involuntary shrinking consequent on the first nauseous whiff, we one and all set about our work as though that loathsome place were a garden of roses.

We made an accurate examination of the place, the Professor saying as we began:--

“The first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left; we must then examine every hole and corner and cranny and see if we cannot get some clue as to what has become of the rest.” A glance was sufficient to show how many remained, for the great earth chests were bulky, and there was no mistaking them.

There were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! Once I got a fright, for, seeing Lord Godalming suddenly turn and look out of the vaulted door into the dark passage beyond, I looked too, and for an instant my heart stood still. Somewhere, looking out from the shadow, I seemed to see the high lights of the Count’s evil face, the ridge of the nose, the red eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor. It was only for a moment, for, as Lord Godalming said, “I thought I saw a face, but it was only the shadows,” and resumed his inquiry, I turned my lamp in the direction, and stepped into the passage. There was no sign of any one; and as there were no corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind, but only the solid walls of the passage, there could be no hiding-place even for him. I took it that fear had helped imagination, and said nothing.

A few minutes later I saw Morris step suddenly back from a corner, which he was examining. We all followed his movements with our eyes, for undoubtedly some nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass of phosphorescence, which twinkled like stars. We all instinctively drew back. The whole place was becoming alive with rats.

For a moment or two we stood appalled, all save Lord Godalming, who was seemingly prepared for such an emergency. Rushing over to the great iron-bound oaken door, which Dr. Seward had described from the outside, and which I had seen myself, he turned the key in the lock, drew the huge bolts, and swung the door open. Then, taking his little silver whistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call. It was answered from behind Dr. Seward’s house by the yelping of dogs, and after about a minute three terriers came dashing round the corner of the house. Unconsciously we had all moved towards the door, and as we moved I noticed that the dust had been much disturbed: the boxes which had been taken out had been brought this way. But even in the minute that had elapsed the number of the rats had vastly increased. They seemed to swarm over the place all at once, till the lamplight, shining on their moving dark bodies and glittering, baleful eyes, made the place look like a bank of earth set with fireflies. The dogs dashed on, but at the threshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and then, simultaneously lifting their noses, began to howl in most lugubrious fashion. The rats were multiplying in thousands, and we moved out.

Lord Godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him on the floor. The instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to recover his courage, and rushed at his natural enemies. They fled before him so fast that before he had shaken the life out of a score, the other dogs, who had by now been lifted in the same manner, had but small prey ere the whole mass had vanished.

With their going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for the dogs frisked about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at their prostrate foes, and turned them over and over and tossed them in the air with vicious shakes. We all seemed to find our spirits rise. Whether it was the purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening of the chapel door, or the relief which we experienced by finding ourselves in the open I know not; but most certainly the shadow of dread seemed to slip from us like a robe, and the occasion of our coming lost something of its grim significance, though we did not slacken a whit in our resolution. We closed the outer door and barred and locked it, and bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the house. We found nothing throughout except dust in extraordinary proportions, and all untouched save for my own footsteps when I had made my first visit. Never once did the dogs exhibit any symptom of uneasiness, and even when we returned to the chapel they frisked about as though they had been rabbit-hunting in a summer wood.

The morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front. Dr. Van Helsing had taken the key of the hall-door from the bunch, and locked the door in orthodox fashion, putting the key into his pocket when he had done.

“So far,” he said, “our night has been eminently successful. No harm has come to us such as I feared might be and yet we have ascertained how many boxes are missing. More than all do I rejoice that this, our first—and perhaps our most difficult and dangerous—step has been accomplished without the bringing thereinto our most sweet Madam Mina or troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts with sights and sounds and smells of horror which she might never forget. One lesson, too, we have learned, if it be allowable to argue a particulari: that the brute beasts which are to the Count’s command are yet themselves not amenable to his spiritual power; for look, these rats that would come to his call, just as from his castle top he summon the wolves to your going and to that poor mother’s cry, though they come to him, they run pell-mell from the so little dogs of my friend Arthur. We have other matters before us, other dangers, other fears; and that monster—he has not used his power over the brute world for the only or the last time to-night. So be it that he has gone elsewhere. Good! It has given us opportunity to cry ‘check’ in some ways in this chess game, which we play for the stake of human souls. And now let us go home. The dawn is close at hand, and we have reason to be content with our first night’s work. It may be ordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if full of peril; but we must go on, and from no danger shall we shrink.”

The house was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who was screaming away in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning sound from Renfield’s room. The poor wretch was doubtless torturing himself, after the manner of the insane, with needless thoughts of pain.

I came tiptoe into our own room, and found Mina asleep, breathing so softly that I had to put my ear down to hear it. She looks paler than usual. I hope the meeting to-night has not upset her. I am truly thankful that she is to be left out of our future work, and even of our deliberations. It is too great a strain for a woman to bear. I did not think so at first, but I know better now. Therefore I am glad that it is settled. There may be things which would frighten her to hear; and yet to conceal them from her might be worse than to tell her if once she suspected that there was any concealment. Henceforth our work is to be a sealed book to her, till at least such time as we can tell her that all is finished, and the earth free from a monster of the nether world. I daresay it will be difficult to begin to keep silence after such confidence as ours; but I must be resolute, and to-morrow I shall keep dark over to-night’s doings, and shall refuse to speak of anything that has happened. I rest on the sofa, so as not to disturb her.

 

1 October, later.—I suppose it was natural that we should have all overslept ourselves, for the day was a busy one, and the night had no rest at all. Even Mina must have felt its exhaustion, for though I slept till the sun was high, I was awake before her, and had to call two or three times before she awoke. Indeed, she was so sound asleep that for a few seconds she did not recognize me, but looked at me with a sort of blank terror, as one looks who has been waked out of a bad dream. She complained a little of being tired, and I let her rest till later in the day. We now know of twenty-one boxes having been removed, and if it be that several were taken in any of these removals we may be able to trace them all. Such will, of course, immensely simplify our labour, and the sooner the matter is attended to the better. I shall look up Thomas Snelling to-day.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October.—It was towards noon when I was awakened by the Professor walking into my room. He was more jolly and cheerful than usual, and it is quite evident that last night’s work has helped to take some of the brooding weight off his mind. After going over the adventure of the night he suddenly said:--

“Your patient interests me much. May it be that with you I visit him this morning? Or if that you are too occupy, I can go alone if it may be. It is a new experience to me to find a lunatic who talk philosophy, and reason so sound.” I had some work to do which pressed, so I told him that if he would go alone I would be glad, as then I should not have to keep him waiting; so I called an attendant and gave him the necessary instructions. Before the Professor left the room I cautioned him against getting any false impression from my patient. “But,” he answered, “I want him to talk of himself and of his delusion as to consuming live things. He said to Madam Mina, as I see in your diary of yesterday, that he had once had such a belief. Why do you smile, friend John?”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but the answer is here.” I laid my hand on the type-written matter. “When our sane and learned lunatic made that very statement of how he used to consume life, his mouth was actually nauseous with the flies and spiders which he had eaten just before Mrs. Harker entered the room.” Van Helsing smiled in turn. “Good!” he said. “Your memory is true, friend John. I should have remembered. And yet it is this very obliquity of thought and memory which makes mental disease such a fascinating study. Perhaps I may gain more knowledge out of the folly of this madman than I shall from the teaching of the most wise. Who knows?” I went on with my work, and before long was through that in hand. It seemed that the time had been very short indeed, but there was Van Helsing back in the study. “Do I interrupt?” he asked politely as he stood at the door.

“Not at all,” I answered. “Come in. My work is finished, and I am free. I can go with you now, if you like.

“It is needless; I have seen him!”

“Well?”

“I fear that he does not appraise me at much. Our interview was short. When I entered his room he was sitting on a stool in the centre, with his elbows on his knees, and his face was the picture of sullen discontent. I spoke to him as cheerfully as I could, and with such a measure of respect as I could assume. He made no reply whatever. “Don’t you know me?” I asked. His answer was not reassuring: “I know you well enough; you are the old fool Van Helsing. I wish you would take yourself and your idiotic brain theories somewhere else. Damn all thick-headed Dutchmen!” Not a word more would he say, but sat in his implacable sullenness as indifferent to me as though I had not been in the room at all. Thus departed for this time my chance of much learning from this so clever lunatic; so I shall go, if I may, and cheer myself with a few happy words with that sweet soul Madam Mina. Friend John, it does rejoice me unspeakable that she is no more to be pained, no more to be worried with our terrible things. Though we shall much miss her help, it is better so.”

“I agree with you with all my heart,” I answered earnestly, for I did not want him to weaken in this matter. “Mrs. Harker is better out of it. Things are quite bad enough for us, all men of the world, and who have been in many tight places in our time; but it is no place for a woman, and if she had remained in touch with the affair, it would in time infallibly have wrecked her.”

So Van Helsing has gone to confer with Mrs. Harker and Harker; Quincey and Art are all out following up the clues as to the earth-boxes. I shall finish my round of work and we shall meet to-night.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

1 October.—It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am to-day; after Jonathan’s full confidence for so many years, to see him manifestly avoid certain matters, and those the most vital of all. This morning I slept late after the fatigues of yesterday, and though Jonathan was late too, he was the earlier. He spoke to me before he went out, never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of what had happened in the visit to the Count’s house. And yet he must have known how terribly anxious I was. Poor dear fellow! I suppose it must have distressed him even more than it did me. They all agreed that it was best that I should not be drawn further into this awful work, and I acquiesced. But to think that he keeps anything from me! And now I am crying like a silly fool, when I know it comes from my husband’s great love and from the good, good wishes of those other strong men.

That has done me good. Well, some day Jonathan will tell me all; and lest it should ever be that he should think for a moment that I kept anything from him, I still keep my journal as usual. Then if he has feared of my trust I shall show it to him, with every thought of my heart put down for his dear eyes to read. I feel strangely sad and low-spirited to-day. I suppose it is the reaction from the terrible excitement.

Last night I went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told me to. I didn’t feel sleepy, and I did feel full of devouring anxiety. I kept thinking over everything that has been ever since Jonathan came to see me in London, and it all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate pressing on relentlessly to some destined end. Everything that one does seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring on the very thing which is most to be deplored. If I hadn’t gone to Whitby, perhaps poor dear Lucy would be with us now. She hadn’t taken to visiting the churchyard till I came, and if she hadn’t come there in the day-time with me she wouldn’t have walked there in her sleep; and if she hadn’t gone there at night and asleep, that monster couldn’t have destroyed her as he did. Oh, why did I ever go to Whitby? There now, crying again! I wonder what has come over me to-day. I must hide it from Jonathan, for if he knew that I had been crying twice in one morning—I, who never cried on my own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear—the dear fellow would fret his heart out. I shall put a bold face on, and if I do feel weepy, he shall never see it. I suppose it is one of the lessons that we poor women have to learn....

I can’t quite remember how I fell asleep last night. I remember hearing the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying on a very tumultuous scale, from Mr. Renfield’s room, which is somewhere under this. And then there was silence over everything, silence so profound that it startled me, and I got up and looked out of the window. All was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by the moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of their own. Not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or fate; so that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience and a vitality of its own. I think that the digression of my thoughts must have done me good, for when I got back to bed I found a lethargy creeping over me. I lay a while, but could not quite sleep, so I got out and looked out of the window again. The mist was spreading, and was now close up to the house, so that I could see it lying thick against the wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. The poor man was more loud than ever, and though I could not distinguish a word he said, I could in some way recognise in his tones some passionate entreaty on his part. Then there was the sound of a struggle, and I knew that the attendants were dealing with him. I was so frightened that I crept into bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears. I was not then a bit sleepy, at least so I thought; but I must have fallen asleep, for, except dreams, I do not remember anything until the morning, when Jonathan woke me. I think that it took me an effort and a little time to realise where I was, and that it was Jonathan who was bending over me. My dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of the way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams.

I thought that I was asleep, and waiting for Jonathan to come back. I was very anxious about him, and I was powerless to act; my feet, and my hands, and my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the usual pace. And so I slept uneasily and thought. Then it began to dawn upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold. I put back the clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was dim around. The gaslight which I had left lit for Jonathan, but turned down, came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had evidently grown thicker and poured into the room. Then it occurred to me that I had shut the window before I had come to bed. I would have got out to make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my limbs and even my will. I lay still and endured; that was all. I closed my eyes, but could still see through my eyelids. (It is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.) The mist grew thicker and thicker and I could see now how it came in, for I could see it like smoke—or with the white energy of boiling water—pouring in, not through the window, but through the joinings of the door. It got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through the top of which I could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye. Things began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words “a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night.” Was it indeed some such spiritual guidance that was coming to me in my sleep? But the pillar was composed of both the day and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the red eye, which at the thought got a new fascination for me; till, as I looked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog like two red eyes, such as Lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of St. Mary’s Church. Suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that Jonathan had seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist in the moonlight, and in my dream I must have fainted, for all became black darkness. The last conscious effort which imagination made was to show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist. I must be careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one’s reason if there were too much of them. I would get Dr. Van Helsing or Dr. Seward to prescribe something for me which would make me sleep, only that I fear to alarm them. Such a dream at the present time would become woven into their fears for me. To-night I shall strive hard to sleep naturally. If I do not, I shall to-morrow night get them to give me a dose of chloral; that cannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night’s sleep. Last night tired me more than if I had not slept at all.

 

2 October 10 p. m.—Last night I slept, but did not dream. I must have slept soundly, for I was not waked by Jonathan coming to bed; but the sleep has not refreshed me, for to-day I feel terribly weak and spiritless. I spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing. In the afternoon Mr. Renfield asked if he might see me. Poor man, he was very gentle, and when I came away he kissed my hand and bade God bless me. Some way it affected me much; I am crying when I think of him. This is a new weakness, of which I must be careful. Jonathan would be miserable if he knew I had been crying. He and the others were out till dinner-time, and they all came in tired. I did what I could to brighten them up, and I suppose that the effort did me good, for I forgot how tired I was. After dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to smoke together, as they said, but I knew that they wanted to tell each other of what had occurred to each during the day; I could see from Jonathan’s manner that he had something important to communicate. I was not so sleepy as I should have been; so before they went I asked Dr. Seward to give me a little opiate of some kind, as I had not slept well the night before. He very kindly made me up a sleeping draught, which he gave to me, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very mild.... I have taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. I hope I have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear comes: that I may have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the power of waking. I might want it. Here comes sleep. Good-night.

CHAPTER XX

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

1 October, evening.—I found Thomas Snelling in his house at Bethnal Green, but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything. The very prospect of beer which my expected coming had opened to him had proved too much, and he had begun too early on his expected debauch. I learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor soul, that he was only the assistant to Smollet, who of the two mates was the responsible person. So off I drove to Walworth, and found Mr. Joseph Smollet at home and in his shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out of a saucer. He is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good, reliable type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. He remembered all about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog’s-eared notebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle about the seat of his trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries in thick, half-obliterated pencil, he gave me the destinations of the boxes. There were, he said, six in the cartload which he took from Carfax and left at 197, Chicksand Street, Mile End New Town, and another six which he deposited at Jamaica Lane, Bermondsey. If then the Count meant to scatter these ghastly refuges of his over London, these places were chosen as the first of delivery, so that later he might distribute more fully. The systematic manner in which this was done made me think that he could not mean to confine himself to two sides of London. He was now fixed on the far east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern shore, and on the south. The north and west were surely never meant to be left out of his diabolical scheme—let alone the City itself and the very heart of fashionable London in the south-west and west. I went back to Smollet, and asked him if he could tell us if any other boxes had been taken from Carfax.

He replied:--

“Well, guv’nor, you’ve treated me wery ’an’some”—I had given him half a sovereign—“an’ I’ll tell yer all I know. I heard a man by the name of Bloxam say four nights ago in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds, in Pincher’s Alley, as ’ow he an’ his mate ’ad ’ad a rare dusty job in a old ’ouse at Purfect. There ain’t a-many such jobs as this ’ere, an’ I’m thinkin’ that maybe Sam Bloxam could tell ye summut.” I asked if he could tell me where to find him. I told him that if he could get me the address it would be worth another half-sovereign to him. So he gulped down the rest of his tea and stood up, saying that he was going to begin the search then and there. At the door he stopped, and said:--

“Look ’ere, guv’nor, there ain’t no sense in me a-keepin’ you ’ere. I may find Sam soon, or I mayn’t; but anyhow he ain’t like to be in a way to tell ye much to-night. Sam is a rare one when he starts on the booze. If you can give me a envelope with a stamp on it, and put yer address on it, I’ll find out where Sam is to be found and post it ye to-night. But ye’d better be up arter ’im soon in the mornin’, or maybe ye won’t ketch ’im; for Sam gets off main early, never mind the booze the night afore.”

This was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny to buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change. When she came back, I addressed the envelope and stamped it, and when Smollet had again faithfully promised to post the address when found, I took my way to home. We’re on the track anyhow. I am tired to-night, and want sleep. Mina is fast asleep, and looks a little too pale; her eyes look as though she had been crying. Poor dear, I’ve no doubt it frets her to be kept in the dark, and it may make her doubly anxious about me and the others. But it is best as it is. It is better to be disappointed and worried in such a way now than to have her nerve broken. The doctors were quite right to insist on her being kept out of this dreadful business. I must be firm, for on me this particular burden of silence must rest. I shall not ever enter on the subject with her under any circumstances. Indeed, it may not be a hard task, after all, for she herself has become reticent on the subject, and has not spoken of the Count or his doings ever since we told her of our decision.

 

2 October, evening.—A long and trying and exciting day. By the first post I got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on which was written with a carpenter’s pencil in a sprawling hand:--

“Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4, Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth. Arsk for the depite.”

I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She looked heavy and sleepy and pale, and far from well. I determined not to wake her, but that, when I should return from this new search, I would arrange for her going back to Exeter. I think she would be happier in our own home, with her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here amongst us and in ignorance. I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment, and told him where I was off to, promising to come back and tell the rest so soon as I should have found out anything. I drove to Walworth and found, with some difficulty, Potter’s Court. Mr. Smollet’s spelling misled me, as I asked for Poter’s Court instead of Potter’s Court. However, when I had found the court, I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran’s lodging-house. When I asked the man who came to the door for the “depite,” he shook his head, and said: “I dunno ’im. There ain’t no such a person ’ere; I never ’eard of ’im in all my bloomin’ days. Don’t believe there ain’t nobody of that kind livin’ ere or anywheres.” I took out Smollet’s letter, and as I read it it seemed to me that the lesson of the spelling of the name of the court might guide me. “What are you?” I asked.

“I’m the depity,” he answered. I saw at once that I was on the right track; phonetic spelling had again misled me. A half-crown tip put the deputy’s knowledge at my disposal, and I learned that Mr. Bloxam, who had slept off the remains of his beer on the previous night at Corcoran’s, had left for his work at Poplar at five o’clock that morning. He could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but he had a vague idea that it was some kind of a “new-fangled ware’us”; and with this slender clue I had to start for Poplar. It was twelve o’clock before I got any satisfactory hint of such a building, and this I got at a coffee-shop, where some workmen were having their dinner. One of these suggested that there was being erected at Cross Angel Street a new “cold storage” building; and as this suited the condition of a “new-fangled ware’us,” I at once drove to it. An interview with a surly gatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with the coin of the realm, put me on the track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my suggesting that I was willing to pay his day’s wages to his foreman for the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter. He was a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. When I had promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me that he had made two journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly, and had taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes—“main heavy ones”—with a horse and cart hired by him for this purpose. I asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in Piccadilly, to which he replied:--

“Well, guv’nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few doors from a big white church or somethink of the kind, not long built. It was a dusty old ’ouse, too, though nothin’ to the dustiness of the ’ouse we tooked the bloomin’ boxes from.”

“How did you get into the houses if they were both empty?”

“There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin’ in the ’ouse at Purfleet. He ’elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse me, but he was the strongest chap I ever struck, an’ him a old feller, with a white moustache, one that thin you would think he couldn’t throw a shadder.”

How this phrase thrilled through me!

“Why, ’e took up ’is end o’ the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and me a-puffin’ an’ a-blowin’ afore I could up-end mine anyhow—an’ I’m no chicken, neither.”

“How did you get into the house in Piccadilly?” I asked.

“He was there too. He must ’a’ started off and got there afore me, for when I rung of the bell he kem an’ opened the door ’isself an’ ’elped me to carry the boxes into the ’all.”

“The whole nine?” I asked.

“Yus; there was five in the first load an’ four in the second. It was main dry work, an’ I don’t so well remember ’ow I got ’ome.” I interrupted him:--

“Were the boxes left in the hall?”

“Yus; it was a big ’all, an’ there was nothin’ else in it.” I made one more attempt to further matters:--

“You didn’t have any key?”

“Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened the door ’isself an’ shut it again when I druv off. I don’t remember the last time—but that was the beer.”

“And you can’t remember the number of the house?”

“No, sir. But ye needn’t have no difficulty about that. It’s a ’igh ’un with a stone front with a bow on it, an’ ’igh steps up to the door. I know them steps, ’avin’ ’ad to carry the boxes up with three loafers what come round to earn a copper. The old gent give them shillin’s, an’ they seein’ they got so much, they wanted more; but ’e took one of them by the shoulder and was like to throw ’im down the steps, till the lot of them went away cussin’.” I thought that with this description I could find the house, so, having paid my friend for his information, I started off for Piccadilly. I had gained a new painful experience; the Count could, it was evident, handle the earth-boxes himself. If so, time was precious; for, now that he had achieved a certain amount of distribution, he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task unobserved. At Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and walked westward; beyond the Junior Constitutional I came across the house described, and was satisfied that this was the next of the lairs arranged by Dracula. The house looked as though it had been long untenanted. The windows were encrusted with dust, and the shutters were up. All the framework was black with time, and from the iron the paint had mostly scaled away. It was evident that up to lately there had been a large notice-board in front of the balcony; it had, however, been roughly torn away, the uprights which had supported it still remaining. Behind the rails of the balcony I saw there were some loose boards, whose raw edges looked white. I would have given a good deal to have been able to see the notice-board intact, as it would, perhaps, have given some clue to the ownership of the house. I remembered my experience of the investigation and purchase of Carfax, and I could not but feel that if I could find the former owner there might be some means discovered of gaining access to the house.

There was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side, and nothing could be done; so I went round to the back to see if anything could be gathered from this quarter. The mews were active, the Piccadilly houses being mostly in occupation. I asked one or two of the grooms and helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me anything about the empty house. One of them said that he heard it had lately been taken, but he couldn’t say from whom. He told me, however, that up to very lately there had been a notice-board of “For Sale” up, and that perhaps Mitchell, Sons, & Candy, the house agents, could tell me something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm on the board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant know or guess too much, so, thanking him in the usual manner, I strolled away. It was now growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so I did not lose any time. Having learned the address of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy from a directory at the Berkeley, I was soon at their office in Sackville Street.

The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but uncommunicative in equal proportion. Having once told me that the Piccadilly house—which throughout our interview he called a “mansion”—was sold, he considered my business as concluded. When I asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and paused a few seconds before replying:--

“It is sold, sir.”

“Pardon me,” I said, with equal politeness, “but I have a special reason for wishing to know who purchased it.”

Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. “It is sold, sir,” was again his laconic reply.

“Surely,” I said, “you do not mind letting me know so much.”

“But I do mind,” he answered. “The affairs of their clients are absolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy.” This was manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing with him. I thought I had best meet him on his own ground, so I said:--

“Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their confidence. I am myself a professional man.” Here I handed him my card. “In this instance I am not prompted by curiosity; I act on the part of Lord Godalming, who wishes to know something of the property which was, he understood, lately for sale.” These words put a different complexion on affairs. He said:--

“I would like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially would I like to oblige his lordship. We once carried out a small matter of renting some chambers for him when he was the Honourable Arthur Holmwood. If you will let me have his lordship’s address I will consult the House on the subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his lordship by to-night’s post. It will be a pleasure if we can so far deviate from our rules as to give the required information to his lordship.”

I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked him, gave the address at Dr. Seward’s and came away. It was now dark, and I was tired and hungry. I got a cup of tea at the Aërated Bread Company and came down to Purfleet by the next train.

I found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and pale, but she made a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful, it wrung my heart to think that I had had to keep anything from her and so caused her inquietude. Thank God, this will be the last night of her looking on at our conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our confidence. It took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of keeping her out of our grim task. She seems somehow more reconciled; or else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for when any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders. I am glad we made our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing knowledge would be torture to her.

I could not tell the others of the day’s discovery till we were alone; so after dinner—followed by a little music to save appearances even amongst ourselves—I took Mina to her room and left her to go to bed. The dear girl was more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me as though she would detain me; but there was much to be talked of and I came away. Thank God, the ceasing of telling things has made no difference between us.

When I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire in the study. In the train I had written my diary so far, and simply read it off to them as the best means of letting them get abreast of my own information; when I had finished Van Helsing said:--

“This has been a great day’s work, friend Jonathan. Doubtless we are on the track of the missing boxes. If we find them all in that house, then our work is near the end. But if there be some missing, we must search until we find them. Then shall we make our final coup, and hunt the wretch to his real death.” We all sat silent awhile and all at once Mr. Morris spoke:--

“Say! how are we going to get into that house?”

“We got into the other,” answered Lord Godalming quickly.

“But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but we had night and a walled park to protect us. It will be a mighty different thing to commit burglary in Piccadilly, either by day or night. I confess I don’t see how we are going to get in unless that agency duck can find us a key of some sort; perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in the morning.” Lord Godalming’s brows contracted, and he stood up and walked about the room. By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one to another of us:--

“Quincey’s head is level. This burglary business is getting serious; we got off once all right; but we have now a rare job on hand—unless we can find the Count’s key basket.”

As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at least advisable to wait till Lord Godalming should hear from Mitchell’s, we decided not to take any active step before breakfast time. For a good while we sat and smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and bearings; I took the opportunity of bringing this diary right up to the moment. I am very sleepy and shall go to bed....

Just a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. Her forehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even in her sleep. She is still too pale, but does not look so haggard as she did this morning. To-morrow will, I hope, mend all this; she will be herself at home in Exeter. Oh, but I am sleepy!

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

1 October.—I am puzzled afresh about Renfield. His moods change so rapidly that I find it difficult to keep touch of them, and as they always mean something more than his own well-being, they form a more than interesting study. This morning, when I went to see him after his repulse of Van Helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding destiny. He was, in fact, commanding destiny—subjectively. He did not really care for any of the things of mere earth; he was in the clouds and looked down on all the weaknesses and wants of us poor mortals. I thought I would improve the occasion and learn something, so I asked him:--

“What about the flies these times?” He smiled on me in quite a superior sort of way—such a smile as would have become the face of Malvolio—as he answered me:--

“The fly, my dear sir, has one striking feature; its wings are typical of the aërial powers of the psychic faculties. The ancients did well when they typified the soul as a butterfly!”

I thought I would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so I said quickly:--

“Oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it?” His madness foiled his reason, and a puzzled look spread over his face as, shaking his head with a decision which I had but seldom seen in him, he said:--

“Oh, no, oh no! I want no souls. Life is all I want.” Here he brightened up; “I am pretty indifferent about it at present. Life is all right; I have all I want. You must get a new patient, doctor, if you wish to study zoöphagy!”

This puzzled me a little, so I drew him on:--

“Then you command life; you are a god, I suppose?” He smiled with an ineffably benign superiority.

“Oh no! Far be it from me to arrogate to myself the attributes of the Deity. I am not even concerned in His especially spiritual doings. If I may state my intellectual position I am, so far as concerns things purely terrestrial, somewhat in the position which Enoch occupied spiritually!” This was a poser to me. I could not at the moment recall Enoch’s appositeness; so I had to ask a simple question, though I felt that by so doing I was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic:--

“And why with Enoch?”

“Because he walked with God.” I could not see the analogy, but did not like to admit it; so I harked back to what he had denied:--

“So you don’t care about life and you don’t want souls. Why not?” I put my question quickly and somewhat sternly, on purpose to disconcert him. The effort succeeded; for an instant he unconsciously relapsed into his old servile manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon me as he replied:--

“I don’t want any souls, indeed, indeed! I don’t. I couldn’t use them if I had them; they would be no manner of use to me. I couldn’t eat them or——” He suddenly stopped and the old cunning look spread over his face, like a wind-sweep on the surface of the water. “And doctor, as to life, what is it after all? When you’ve got all you require, and you know that you will never want, that is all. I have friends—good friends—like you, Dr. Seward”; this was said with a leer of inexpressible cunning. “I know that I shall never lack the means of life!”

I think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some antagonism in me, for he at once fell back on the last refuge of such as he—a dogged silence. After a short time I saw that for the present it was useless to speak to him. He was sulky, and so I came away.

Later in the day he sent for me. Ordinarily I would not have come without special reason, but just at present I am so interested in him that I would gladly make an effort. Besides, I am glad to have anything to help to pass the time. Harker is out, following up clues; and so are Lord Godalming and Quincey. Van Helsing sits in my study poring over the record prepared by the Harkers; he seems to think that by accurate knowledge of all details he will light upon some clue. He does not wish to be disturbed in the work, without cause. I would have taken him with me to see the patient, only I thought that after his last repulse he might not care to go again. There was also another reason: Renfield might not speak so freely before a third person as when he and I were alone.

I found him sitting out in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose which is generally indicative of some mental energy on his part. When I came in, he said at once, as though the question had been waiting on his lips:--

“What about souls?” It was evident then that my surmise had been correct. Unconscious cerebration was doing its work, even with the lunatic. I determined to have the matter out. “What about them yourself?” I asked. He did not reply for a moment but looked all round him, and up and down, as though he expected to find some inspiration for an answer.

“I don’t want any souls!” he said in a feeble, apologetic way. The matter seemed preying on his mind, and so I determined to use it—to “be cruel only to be kind.” So I said:--

“You like life, and you want life?”

“Oh yes! but that is all right; you needn’t worry about that!”

“But,” I asked, “how are we to get the life without getting the soul also?” This seemed to puzzle him, so I followed it up:--

“A nice time you’ll have some time when you’re flying out there, with the souls of thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing and twittering and miauing all round you. You’ve got their lives, you know, and you must put up with their souls!” Something seemed to affect his imagination, for he put his fingers to his ears and shut his eyes, screwing them up tightly just as a small boy does when his face is being soaped. There was something pathetic in it that touched me; it also gave me a lesson, for it seemed that before me was a child—only a child, though the features were worn, and the stubble on the jaws was white. It was evident that he was undergoing some process of mental disturbance, and, knowing how his past moods had interpreted things seemingly foreign to himself, I thought I would enter into his mind as well as I could and go with him. The first step was to restore confidence, so I asked him, speaking pretty loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears:--

“Would you like some sugar to get your flies round again?” He seemed to wake up all at once, and shook his head. With a laugh he replied:--

“Not much! flies are poor things, after all!” After a pause he added, “But I don’t want their souls buzzing round me, all the same.”

“Or spiders?” I went on.

“Blow spiders! What’s the use of spiders? There isn’t anything in them to eat or”—he stopped suddenly, as though reminded of a forbidden topic.

“So, so!” I thought to myself, “this is the second time he has suddenly stopped at the word ‘drink’; what does it mean?” Renfield seemed himself aware of having made a lapse, for he hurried on, as though to distract my attention from it:--

“I don’t take any stock at all in such matters. ‘Rats and mice and such small deer,’ as Shakespeare has it, ‘chicken-feed of the larder’ they might be called. I’m past all that sort of nonsense. You might as well ask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chop-sticks, as to try to interest me about the lesser carnivora, when I know of what is before me.”

“I see,” I said. “You want big things that you can make your teeth meet in? How would you like to breakfast on elephant?”

“What ridiculous nonsense you are talking!” He was getting too wide awake, so I thought I would press him hard. “I wonder,” I said reflectively, “what an elephant’s soul is like!”

The effect I desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his high-horse and became a child again.

“I don’t want an elephant’s soul, or any soul at all!” he said. For a few moments he sat despondently. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, with his eyes blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement. “To hell with you and your souls!” he shouted. “Why do you plague me about souls? Haven’t I got enough to worry, and pain, and distract me already, without thinking of souls!” He looked so hostile that I thought he was in for another homicidal fit, so I blew my whistle. The instant, however, that I did so he became calm, and said apologetically:--

“Forgive me, Doctor; I forgot myself. You do not need any help. I am so worried in my mind that I am apt to be irritable. If you only knew the problem I have to face, and that I am working out, you would pity, and tolerate, and pardon me. Pray do not put me in a strait-waistcoat. I want to think and I cannot think freely when my body is confined. I am sure you will understand!” He had evidently self-control; so when the attendants came I told them not to mind, and they withdrew. Renfield watched them go; when the door was closed he said, with considerable dignity and sweetness:--

“Dr. Seward, you have been very considerate towards me. Believe me that I am very, very grateful to you!” I thought it well to leave him in this mood, and so I came away. There is certainly something to ponder over in this man’s state. Several points seem to make what the American interviewer calls “a story,” if one could only get them in proper order. Here they are:--

Will not mention “drinking.”

Fears the thought of being burdened with the “soul” of anything.

Has no dread of wanting “life” in the future.

Despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads being haunted by their souls.

Logically all these things point one way! he has assurance of some kind that he will acquire some higher life. He dreads the consequence—the burden of a soul. Then it is a human life he looks to!

And the assurance—?

Merciful God! the Count has been to him, and there is some new scheme of terror afoot!

 

Later.—I went after my round to Van Helsing and told him my suspicion. He grew very grave; and, after thinking the matter over for a while asked me to take him to Renfield. I did so. As we came to the door we heard the lunatic within singing gaily, as he used to do in the time which now seems so long ago. When we entered we saw with amazement that he had spread out his sugar as of old; the flies, lethargic with the autumn, were beginning to buzz into the room. We tried to make him talk of the subject of our previous conversation, but he would not attend. He went on with his singing, just as though we had not been present. He had got a scrap of paper and was folding it into a note-book. We had to come away as ignorant as we went in.

His is a curious case indeed; we must watch him to-night.

Letter, Mitchell, Sons and Candy to Lord Godalming.

“1 October.

“My Lord,

“We are at all times only too happy to meet your wishes. We beg, with regard to the desire of your Lordship, expressed by Mr. Harker on your behalf, to supply the following information concerning the sale and purchase of No. 347, Piccadilly. The original vendors are the executors of the late Mr. Archibald Winter-Suffield. The purchaser is a foreign nobleman, Count de Ville, who effected the purchase himself paying the purchase money in notes ‘over the counter,’ if your Lordship will pardon us using so vulgar an expression. Beyond this we know nothing whatever of him.

“We are, my Lord,
“Your Lordship’s humble servants,
“Mitchell, Sons & Candy.”

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

2 October.—I placed a man in the corridor last night, and told him to make an accurate note of any sound he might hear from Renfield’s room, and gave him instructions that if there should be anything strange he was to call me. After dinner, when we had all gathered round the fire in the study—Mrs. Harker having gone to bed—we discussed the attempts and discoveries of the day. Harker was the only one who had any result, and we are in great hopes that his clue may be an important one.

Before going to bed I went round to the patient’s room and looked in through the observation trap. He was sleeping soundly, and his heart rose and fell with regular respiration.

This morning the man on duty reported to me that a little after midnight he was restless and kept saying his prayers somewhat loudly. I asked him if that was all; he replied that it was all he heard. There was something about his manner so suspicious that I asked him point blank if he had been asleep. He denied sleep, but admitted to having “dozed” for a while. It is too bad that men cannot be trusted unless they are watched.

To-day Harker is out following up his clue, and Art and Quincey are looking after horses. Godalming thinks that it will be well to have horses always in readiness, for when we get the information which we seek there will be no time to lose. We must sterilise all the imported earth between sunrise and sunset; we shall thus catch the Count at his weakest, and without a refuge to fly to. Van Helsing is off to the British Museum looking up some authorities on ancient medicine. The old physicians took account of things which their followers do not accept, and the Professor is searching for witch and demon cures which may be useful to us later.

I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.

 

Later.—We have met again. We seem at last to be on the track, and our work of to-morrow may be the beginning of the end. I wonder if Renfield’s quiet has anything to do with this. His moods have so followed the doings of the Count, that the coming destruction of the monster may be carried to him in some subtle way. If we could only get some hint as to what passed in his mind, between the time of my argument with him to-day and his resumption of fly-catching, it might afford us a valuable clue. He is now seemingly quiet for a spell.... Is he?—— That wild yell seemed to come from his room....

 

The attendant came bursting into my room and told me that Renfield had somehow met with some accident. He had heard him yell; and when he went to him found him lying on his face on the floor, all covered with blood. I must go at once....

CHAPTER XXI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

3 October.—Let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well as I can remember it, since last I made an entry. Not a detail that I can recall must be forgotten; in all calmness I must proceed.

When I came to Renfield’s room I found him lying on the floor on his left side in a glittering pool of blood. When I went to move him, it became at once apparent that he had received some terrible injuries; there seemed none of that unity of purpose between the parts of the body which marks even lethargic sanity. As the face was exposed I could see that it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten against the floor—indeed it was from the face wounds that the pool of blood originated. The attendant who was kneeling beside the body said to me as we turned him over:--

“I think, sir, his back is broken. See, both his right arm and leg and the whole side of his face are paralysed.” How such a thing could have happened puzzled the attendant beyond measure. He seemed quite bewildered, and his brows were gathered in as he said:--

“I can’t understand the two things. He could mark his face like that by beating his own head on the floor. I saw a young woman do it once at the Eversfield Asylum before anyone could lay hands on her. And I suppose he might have broke his neck by falling out of bed, if he got in an awkward kink. But for the life of me I can’t imagine how the two things occurred. If his back was broke, he couldn’t beat his head; and if his face was like that before the fall out of bed, there would be marks of it.” I said to him:--

“Go to Dr. Van Helsing, and ask him to kindly come here at once. I want him without an instant’s delay.” The man ran off, and within a few minutes the Professor, in his dressing gown and slippers, appeared. When he saw Renfield on the ground, he looked keenly at him a moment, and then turned to me. I think he recognised my thought in my eyes, for he said very quietly, manifestly for the ears of the attendant:--

“Ah, a sad accident! He will need very careful watching, and much attention. I shall stay with you myself; but I shall first dress myself. If you will remain I shall in a few minutes join you.”

The patient was now breathing stertorously and it was easy to see that he had suffered some terrible injury. Van Helsing returned with extraordinary celerity, bearing with him a surgical case. He had evidently been thinking and had his mind made up; for, almost before he looked at the patient, he whispered to me:--

“Send the attendant away. We must be alone with him when he becomes conscious, after the operation.” So I said:--

“I think that will do now, Simmons. We have done all that we can at present. You had better go your round, and Dr. Van Helsing will operate. Let me know instantly if there be anything unusual anywhere.”

The man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination of the patient. The wounds of the face was superficial; the real injury was a depressed fracture of the skull, extending right up through the motor area. The Professor thought a moment and said:--

“We must reduce the pressure and get back to normal conditions, as far as can be; the rapidity of the suffusion shows the terrible nature of his injury. The whole motor area seems affected. The suffusion of the brain will increase quickly, so we must trephine at once or it may be too late.” As he was speaking there was a soft tapping at the door. I went over and opened it and found in the corridor without, Arthur and Quincey in pajamas and slippers: the former spoke:--

“I heard your man call up Dr. Van Helsing and tell him of an accident. So I woke Quincey or rather called for him as he was not asleep. Things are moving too quickly and too strangely for sound sleep for any of us these times. I’ve been thinking that to-morrow night will not see things as they have been. We’ll have to look back—and forward a little more than we have done. May we come in?” I nodded, and held the door open till they had entered; then I closed it again. When Quincey saw the attitude and state of the patient, and noted the horrible pool on the floor, he said softly:--

“My God! what has happened to him? Poor, poor devil!” I told him briefly, and added that we expected he would recover consciousness after the operation—for a short time, at all events. He went at once and sat down on the edge of the bed, with Godalming beside him; we all watched in patience.

“We shall wait,” said Van Helsing, “just long enough to fix the best spot for trephining, so that we may most quickly and perfectly remove the blood clot; for it is evident that the hæmorrhage is increasing.”

The minutes during which we waited passed with fearful slowness. I had a horrible sinking in my heart, and from Van Helsing’s face I gathered that he felt some fear or apprehension as to what was to come. I dreaded the words that Renfield might speak. I was positively afraid to think; but the conviction of what was coming was on me, as I have read of men who have heard the death-watch. The poor man’s breathing came in uncertain gasps. Each instant he seemed as though he would open his eyes and speak; but then would follow a prolonged stertorous breath, and he would relapse into a more fixed insensibility. Inured as I was to sick beds and death, this suspense grew, and grew upon me. I could almost hear the beating of my own heart; and the blood surging through my temples sounded like blows from a hammer. The silence finally became agonising. I looked at my companions, one after another, and saw from their flushed faces and damp brows that they were enduring equal torture. There was a nervous suspense over us all, as though overhead some dread bell would peal out powerfully when we should least expect it.

At last there came a time when it was evident that the patient was sinking fast; he might die at any moment. I looked up at the Professor and caught his eyes fixed on mine. His face was sternly set as he spoke:--

“There is no time to lose. His words may be worth many lives; I have been thinking so, as I stood here. It may be there is a soul at stake! We shall operate just above the ear.”

Without another word he made the operation. For a few moments the breathing continued to be stertorous. Then there came a breath so prolonged that it seemed as though it would tear open his chest. Suddenly his eyes opened, and became fixed in a wild, helpless stare. This was continued for a few moments; then it softened into a glad surprise, and from the lips came a sigh of relief. He moved convulsively, and as he did so, said:--

“I’ll be quiet, Doctor. Tell them to take off the strait-waistcoat. I have had a terrible dream, and it has left me so weak that I cannot move. What’s wrong with my face? it feels all swollen, and it smarts dreadfully.” He tried to turn his head; but even with the effort his eyes seemed to grow glassy again so I gently put it back. Then Van Helsing said in a quiet grave tone:--

“Tell us your dream, Mr. Renfield.” As he heard the voice his face brightened, through its mutilation, and he said:--

“That is Dr. Van Helsing. How good it is of you to be here. Give me some water, my lips are dry; and I shall try to tell you. I dreamed”—he stopped and seemed fainting, I called quietly to Quincey—“The brandy—it is in my study—quick!” He flew and returned with a glass, the decanter of brandy and a carafe of water. We moistened the parched lips, and the patient quickly revived. It seemed, however, that his poor injured brain had been working in the interval, for, when he was quite conscious, he looked at me piercingly with an agonised confusion which I shall never forget, and said:--

“I must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim reality.” Then his eyes roved round the room; as they caught sight of the two figures sitting patiently on the edge of the bed he went on:--

“If I were not sure already, I would know from them.” For an instant his eyes closed—not with pain or sleep but voluntarily, as though he were bringing all his faculties to bear; when he opened them he said, hurriedly, and with more energy than he had yet displayed:--

“Quick, Doctor, quick. I am dying! I feel that I have but a few minutes; and then I must go back to death—or worse! Wet my lips with brandy again. I have something that I must say before I die; or before my poor crushed brain dies anyhow. Thank you! It was that night after you left me, when I implored you to let me go away. I couldn’t speak then, for I felt my tongue was tied; but I was as sane then, except in that way, as I am now. I was in an agony of despair for a long time after you left me; it seemed hours. Then there came a sudden peace to me. My brain seemed to become cool again, and I realised where I was. I heard the dogs bark behind our house, but not where He was!” As he spoke, Van Helsing’s eyes never blinked, but his hand came out and met mine and gripped it hard. He did not, however, betray himself; he nodded slightly and said: “Go on,” in a low voice. Renfield proceeded:--

“He came up to the window in the mist, as I had seen him often before; but he was solid then—not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a man’s when angry. He was laughing with his red mouth; the sharp white teeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt of trees, to where the dogs were barking. I wouldn’t ask him to come in at first, though I knew he wanted to—just as he had wanted all along. Then he began promising me things—not in words but by doing them.” He was interrupted by a word from the Professor:--

“How?”

“By making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the sun was shining. Great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their wings; and big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their backs.” Van Helsing nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously:--

“The Acherontia Aitetropos of the Sphinges—what you call the ‘Death’s-head Moth’?” The patient went on without stopping.

“Then he began to whisper: ‘Rats, rats, rats! Hundreds, thousands, millions of them, and every one a life; and dogs to eat them, and cats too. All lives! all red blood, with years of life in it; and not merely buzzing flies!’ I laughed at him, for I wanted to see what he could do. Then the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in His house. He beckoned me to the window. I got up and looked out, and He raised his hands, and seemed to call out without using any words. A dark mass spread over the grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and then He moved the mist to the right and left, and I could see that there were thousands of rats with their eyes blazing red—like His, only smaller. He held up his hand, and they all stopped; and I thought he seemed to be saying: ‘All these lives will I give you, ay, and many more and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship me!’ And then a red cloud, like the colour of blood, seemed to close over my eyes; and before I knew what I was doing, I found myself opening the sash and saying to Him: ‘Come in, Lord and Master!’ The rats were all gone, but He slid into the room through the sash, though it was only open an inch wide—just as the Moon herself has often come in through the tiniest crack and has stood before me in all her size and splendour.”

His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again, and he continued; but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in the interval for his story was further advanced. I was about to call him back to the point, but Van Helsing whispered to me: “Let him go on. Do not interrupt him; he cannot go back, and maybe could not proceed at all if once he lost the thread of his thought.” He proceeded:--

“All day I waited to hear from him, but he did not send me anything, not even a blow-fly, and when the moon got up I was pretty angry with him. When he slid in through the window, though it was shut, and did not even knock, I got mad with him. He sneered at me, and his white face looked out of the mist with his red eyes gleaming, and he went on as though he owned the whole place, and I was no one. He didn’t even smell the same as he went by me. I couldn’t hold him. I thought that, somehow, Mrs. Harker had come into the room.”

The two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, standing behind him so that he could not see them, but where they could hear better. They were both silent, but the Professor started and quivered; his face, however, grew grimmer and sterner still. Renfield went on without noticing:--

“When Mrs. Harker came in to see me this afternoon she wasn’t the same; it was like tea after the teapot had been watered.” Here we all moved, but no one said a word; he went on:--

“I didn’t know that she was here till she spoke; and she didn’t look the same. I don’t care for the pale people; I like them with lots of blood in them, and hers had all seemed to have run out. I didn’t think of it at the time; but when she went away I began to think, and it made me mad to know that He had been taking the life out of her.” I could feel that the rest quivered, as I did, but we remained otherwise still. “So when He came to-night I was ready for Him. I saw the mist stealing in, and I grabbed it tight. I had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and as I knew I was a madman—at times anyhow—I resolved to use my power. Ay, and He felt it too, for He had to come out of the mist to struggle with me. I held tight; and I thought I was going to win, for I didn’t mean Him to take any more of her life, till I saw His eyes. They burned into me, and my strength became like water. He slipped through it, and when I tried to cling to Him, He raised me up and flung me down. There was a red cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed to steal away under the door.” His voice was becoming fainter and his breath more stertorous. Van Helsing stood up instinctively.

“We know the worst now,” he said. “He is here, and we know his purpose. It may not be too late. Let us be armed—the same as we were the other night, but lose no time; there is not an instant to spare.” There was no need to put our fear, nay our conviction, into words—we shared them in common. We all hurried and took from our rooms the same things that we had when we entered the Count’s house. The Professor had his ready, and as we met in the corridor he pointed to them significantly as he said:--

“They never leave me; and they shall not till this unhappy business is over. Be wise also, my friends. It is no common enemy that we deal with. Alas! alas! that that dear Madam Mina should suffer!” He stopped; his voice was breaking, and I do not know if rage or terror predominated in my own heart.

Outside the Harkers’ door we paused. Art and Quincey held back, and the latter said:--

“Should we disturb her?”

“We must,” said Van Helsing grimly. “If the door be locked, I shall break it in.”

“May it not frighten her terribly? It is unusual to break into a lady’s room!”

Van Helsing said solemnly, “You are always right; but this is life and death. All chambers are alike to the doctor; and even were they not they are all as one to me to-night. Friend John, when I turn the handle, if the door does not open, do you put your shoulder down and shove; and you too, my friends. Now!”

He turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not yield. We threw ourselves against it; with a crash it burst open, and we almost fell headlong into the room. The Professor did actually fall, and I saw across him as he gathered himself up from hands and knees. What I saw appalled me. I felt my hair rise like bristles on the back of my neck, and my heart seemed to stand still.

The moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the room was light enough to see. On the bed beside the window lay Jonathan Harker, his face flushed and breathing heavily as though in a stupor. Kneeling on the near edge of the bed facing outwards was the white-clad figure of his wife. By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black. His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognised the Count—in every way, even to the scar on his forehead. With his left hand he held both Mrs. Harker’s hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man’s bare breast which was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing a kitten’s nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink. As we burst into the room, the Count turned his face, and the hellish look that I had heard described seemed to leap into it. His eyes flamed red with devilish passion; the great nostrils of the white aquiline nose opened wide and quivered at the edge; and the white sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood-dripping mouth, champed together like those of a wild beast. With a wrench, which threw his victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he turned and sprang at us. But by this time the Professor had gained his feet, and was holding towards him the envelope which contained the Sacred Wafer. The Count suddenly stopped, just as poor Lucy had done outside the tomb, and cowered back. Further and further back he cowered, as we, lifting our crucifixes, advanced. The moonlight suddenly failed, as a great black cloud sailed across the sky; and when the gaslight sprang up under Quincey’s match, we saw nothing but a faint vapour. This, as we looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from its bursting open, had swung back to its old position. Van Helsing, Art, and I moved forward to Mrs. Harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with it had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it seems to me now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. For a few seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and disarray. Her face was ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by the blood which smeared her lips and cheeks and chin; from her throat trickled a thin stream of blood; her eyes were mad with terror. Then she put before her face her poor crushed hands, which bore on their whiteness the red mark of the Count’s terrible grip, and from behind them came a low desolate wail which made the terrible scream seem only the quick expression of an endless grief. Van Helsing stepped forward and drew the coverlet gently over her body, whilst Art, after looking at her face for an instant despairingly, ran out of the room. Van Helsing whispered to me:--

“Jonathan is in a stupor such as we know the Vampire can produce. We can do nothing with poor Madam Mina for a few moments till she recovers herself; I must wake him!” He dipped the end of a towel in cold water and with it began to flick him on the face, his wife all the while holding her face between her hands and sobbing in a way that was heart-breaking to hear. I raised the blind, and looked out of the window. There was much moonshine; and as I looked I could see Quincey Morris run across the lawn and hide himself in the shadow of a great yew-tree. It puzzled me to think why he was doing this; but at the instant I heard Harker’s quick exclamation as he woke to partial consciousness, and turned to the bed. On his face, as there might well be, was a look of wild amazement. He seemed dazed for a few seconds, and then full consciousness seemed to burst upon him all at once, and he started up. His wife was aroused by the quick movement, and turned to him with her arms stretched out, as though to embrace him; instantly, however, she drew them in again, and putting her elbows together, held her hands before her face, and shuddered till the bed beneath her shook.

“In God’s name what does this mean?” Harker cried out. “Dr. Seward, Dr. Van Helsing, what is it? What has happened? What is wrong? Mina, dear, what is it? What does that blood mean? My God, my God! has it come to this!” and, raising himself to his knees, he beat his hands wildly together. “Good God help us! help her! oh, help her!” With a quick movement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on his clothes,—all the man in him awake at the need for instant exertion. “What has happened? Tell me all about it!” he cried without pausing. “Dr. Van Helsing, you love Mina, I know. Oh, do something to save her. It cannot have gone too far yet. Guard her while I look for him!” His wife, through her terror and horror and distress, saw some sure danger to him: instantly forgetting her own grief, she seized hold of him and cried out:--

“No! no! Jonathan, you must not leave me. I have suffered enough to-night, God knows, without the dread of his harming you. You must stay with me. Stay with these friends who will watch over you!” Her expression became frantic as she spoke; and, he yielding to her, she pulled him down sitting on the bed side, and clung to him fiercely.

Van Helsing and I tried to calm them both. The Professor held up his little golden crucifix, and said with wonderful calmness:--

“Do not fear, my dear. We are here; and whilst this is close to you no foul thing can approach. You are safe for to-night; and we must be calm and take counsel together.” She shuddered and was silent, holding down her head on her husband’s breast. When she raised it, his white night-robe was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and where the thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops. The instant she saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking sobs:--

“Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it should be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have most cause to fear.” To this he spoke out resolutely:--

“Nonsense, Mina. It is a shame to me to hear such a word. I would not hear it of you; and I shall not hear it from you. May God judge me by my deserts, and punish me with more bitter suffering than even this hour, if by any act or will of mine anything ever come between us!” He put out his arms and folded her to his breast; and for a while she lay there sobbing. He looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes that blinked damply above his quivering nostrils; his mouth was set as steel. After a while her sobs became less frequent and more faint, and then he said to me, speaking with a studied calmness which I felt tried his nervous power to the utmost:--

“And now, Dr. Seward, tell me all about it. Too well I know the broad fact; tell me all that has been.” I told him exactly what had happened, and he listened with seeming impassiveness; but his nostrils twitched and his eyes blazed as I told how the ruthless hands of the Count had held his wife in that terrible and horrid position, with her mouth to the open wound in his breast. It interested me, even at that moment, to see, that, whilst the face of white set passion worked convulsively over the bowed head, the hands tenderly and lovingly stroked the ruffled hair. Just as I had finished, Quincey and Godalming knocked at the door. They entered in obedience to our summons. Van Helsing looked at me questioningly. I understood him to mean if we were to take advantage of their coming to divert if possible the thoughts of the unhappy husband and wife from each other and from themselves; so on nodding acquiescence to him he asked them what they had seen or done. To which Lord Godalming answered:--

“I could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of our rooms. I looked in the study but, though he had been there, he had gone. He had, however——” He stopped suddenly, looking at the poor drooping figure on the bed. Van Helsing said gravely:--

“Go on, friend Arthur. We want here no more concealments. Our hope now is in knowing all. Tell freely!” So Art went on:--

“He had been there, and though it could only have been for a few seconds, he made rare hay of the place. All the manuscript had been burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes; the cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax had helped the flames.” Here I interrupted. “Thank God there is the other copy in the safe!” His face lit for a moment, but fell again as he went on: “I ran downstairs then, but could see no sign of him. I looked into Renfield’s room; but there was no trace there except——!” Again he paused. “Go on,” said Harker hoarsely; so he bowed his head and moistening his lips with his tongue, added: “except that the poor fellow is dead.” Mrs. Harker raised her head, looking from one to the other of us she said solemnly:--

“God’s will be done!” I could not but feel that Art was keeping back something; but, as I took it that it was with a purpose, I said nothing. Van Helsing turned to Morris and asked:--

“And you, friend Quincey, have you any to tell?”

“A little,” he answered. “It may be much eventually, but at present I can’t say. I thought it well to know if possible where the Count would go when he left the house. I did not see him; but I saw a bat rise from Renfield’s window, and flap westward. I expected to see him in some shape go back to Carfax; but he evidently sought some other lair. He will not be back to-night; for the sky is reddening in the east, and the dawn is close. We must work to-morrow!”

He said the latter words through his shut teeth. For a space of perhaps a couple of minutes there was silence, and I could fancy that I could hear the sound of our hearts beating; then Van Helsing said, placing his hand very tenderly on Mrs. Harker’s head:--

“And now, Madam Mina—poor, dear, dear Madam Mina—tell us exactly what happened. God knows that I do not want that you be pained; but it is need that we know all. For now more than ever has all work to be done quick and sharp, and in deadly earnest. The day is close to us that must end all, if it may be so; and now is the chance that we may live and learn.”

The poor, dear lady shivered, and I could see the tension of her nerves as she clasped her husband closer to her and bent her head lower and lower still on his breast. Then she raised her head proudly, and held out one hand to Van Helsing who took it in his, and, after stooping and kissing it reverently, held it fast. The other hand was locked in that of her husband, who held his other arm thrown round her protectingly. After a pause in which she was evidently ordering her thoughts, she began:--

“I took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly given me, but for a long time it did not act. I seemed to become more wakeful, and myriads of horrible fancies began to crowd in upon my mind—all of them connected with death, and vampires; with blood, and pain, and trouble.” Her husband involuntarily groaned as she turned to him and said lovingly: “Do not fret, dear. You must be brave and strong, and help me through the horrible task. If you only knew what an effort it is to me to tell of this fearful thing at all, you would understand how much I need your help. Well, I saw I must try to help the medicine to its work with my will, if it was to do me any good, so I resolutely set myself to sleep. Sure enough sleep must soon have come to me, for I remember no more. Jonathan coming in had not waked me, for he lay by my side when next I remember. There was in the room the same thin white mist that I had before noticed. But I forget now if you know of this; you will find it in my diary which I shall show you later. I felt the same vague terror which had come to me before and the same sense of some presence. I turned to wake Jonathan, but found that he slept so soundly that it seemed as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and not I. I tried, but I could not wake him. This caused me a great fear, and I looked around terrified. Then indeed, my heart sank within me: beside the bed, as if he had stepped out of the mist—or rather as if the mist had turned into his figure, for it had entirely disappeared—stood a tall, thin man, all in black. I knew him at once from the description of the others. The waxen face; the high aquiline nose, on which the light fell in a thin white line; the parted red lips, with the sharp white teeth showing between; and the red eyes that I had seemed to see in the sunset on the windows of St. Mary’s Church at Whitby. I knew, too, the red scar on his forehead where Jonathan had struck him. For an instant my heart stood still, and I would have screamed out, only that I was paralysed. In the pause he spoke in a sort of keen, cutting whisper, pointing as he spoke to Jonathan:--

“ ‘Silence! If you make a sound I shall take him and dash his brains out before your very eyes.’ I was appalled and was too bewildered to do or say anything. With a mocking smile, he placed one hand upon my shoulder and, holding me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did so, ‘First, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. You may as well be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have appeased my thirst!’ I was bewildered, and, strangely enough, I did not want to hinder him. I suppose it is a part of the horrible curse that such is, when his touch is on his victim. And oh, my God, my God, pity me! He placed his reeking lips upon my throat!” Her husband groaned again. She clasped his hand harder, and looked at him pityingly, as if he were the injured one, and went on:--

“I felt my strength fading away, and I was in a half swoon. How long this horrible thing lasted I know not; but it seemed that a long time must have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I saw it drip with the fresh blood!” The remembrance seemed for a while to overpower her, and she drooped and would have sunk down but for her husband’s sustaining arm. With a great effort she recovered herself and went on:--

“Then he spoke to me mockingly, ‘And so you, like the others, would play your brains against mine. You would help these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my designs! You know now, and they know in part already, and will know in full before long, what it is to cross my path. They should have kept their energies for use closer to home. Whilst they played wits against me—against me who commanded nations, and intrigued for them, and fought for them, hundreds of years before they were born—I was countermining them. And you, their best beloved one, are now to me, flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful wine-press for a while; and shall be later on my companion and my helper. You shall be avenged in turn; for not one of them but shall minister to your needs. But as yet you are to be punished for what you have done. You have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my call. When my brain says “Come!” to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding; and to that end this!’ With that he pulled open his shirt, and with his long sharp nails opened a vein in his breast. When the blood began to spurt out, he took my hands in one of his, holding them tight, and with the other seized my neck and pressed my mouth to the wound, so that I must either suffocate or swallow some of the—— Oh my God! my God! what have I done? What have I done to deserve such a fate, I who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my days. God pity me! Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril; and in mercy pity those to whom she is dear!” Then she began to rub her lips as though to cleanse them from pollution.

As she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to quicken, and everything became more and more clear. Harker was still and quiet; but over his face, as the awful narrative went on, came a grey look which deepened and deepened in the morning light, till when the first red streak of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood darkly out against the whitening hair.

We have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of the unhappy pair till we can meet together and arrange about taking action.

Of this I am sure: the sun rises to-day on no more miserable house in all the great round of its daily course.

CHAPTER XXII

JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

3 October.—As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary. It is now six o’clock, and we are to meet in the study in half an hour and take something to eat; for Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward are agreed that if we do not eat we cannot work our best. Our best will be, God knows, required to-day. I must keep writing at every chance, for I dare not stop to think. All, big and little, must go down; perhaps at the end the little things may teach us most. The teaching, big or little, could not have landed Mina or me anywhere worse than we are to-day. However, we must trust and hope. Poor Mina told me just now, with the tears running down her dear cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial that our faith is tested—that we must keep on trusting; and that God will aid us up to the end. The end! oh my God! what end?... To work! To work!

When Dr. Van Helsing and Dr. Seward had come back from seeing poor Renfield, we went gravely into what was to be done. First, Dr. Seward told us that when he and Dr. Van Helsing had gone down to the room below they had found Renfield lying on the floor, all in a heap. His face was all bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were broken.

Dr. Seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had heard anything. He said that he had been sitting down—he confessed to half dozing—when he heard loud voices in the room, and then Renfield had called out loudly several times, “God! God! God!” after that there was a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he found him lying on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had seen him. Van Helsing asked if he had heard “voices” or “a voice,” and he said he could not say; that at first it had seemed to him as if there were two, but as there was no one in the room it could have been only one. He could swear to it, if required, that the word “God” was spoken by the patient. Dr. Seward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go into the matter; the question of an inquest had to be considered, and it would never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe it. As it was, he thought that on the attendant’s evidence he could give a certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. In case the coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily to the same result.

When the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next step, the very first thing we decided was that Mina should be in full confidence; that nothing of any sort—no matter how painful—should be kept from her. She herself agreed as to its wisdom, and it was pitiful to see her so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth of despair. “There must be no concealment,” she said, “Alas! we have had too much already. And besides there is nothing in all the world that can give me more pain than I have already endured—than I suffer now! Whatever may happen, it must be of new hope or of new courage to me!” Van Helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said, suddenly but quietly:--

“But dear Madam Mina, are you not afraid; not for yourself, but for others from yourself, after what has happened?” Her face grew set in its lines, but her eyes shone with the devotion of a martyr as she answered:--

“Ah no! for my mind is made up!”

“To what?” he asked gently, whilst we were all very still; for each in our own way we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant. Her answer came with direct simplicity, as though she were simply stating a fact:--

“Because if I find in myself—and I shall watch keenly for it—a sign of harm to any that I love, I shall die!”

“You would not kill yourself?” he asked, hoarsely.

“I would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a pain, and so desperate an effort!” She looked at him meaningly as she spoke. He was sitting down; but now he rose and came close to her and put his hand on her head as he said solemnly:

“My child, there is such an one if it were for your good. For myself I could hold it in my account with God to find such an euthanasia for you, even at this moment if it were best. Nay, were it safe! But my child——” For a moment he seemed choked, and a great sob rose in his throat; he gulped it down and went on:--

“There are here some who would stand between you and death. You must not die. You must not die by any hand; but least of all by your own. Until the other, who has fouled your sweet life, is true dead you must not die; for if he is still with the quick Un-Dead, your death would make you even as he is. No, you must live! You must struggle and strive to live, though death would seem a boon unspeakable. You must fight Death himself, though he come to you in pain or in joy; by the day, or the night; in safety or in peril! On your living soul I charge you that you do not die—nay, nor think of death—till this great evil be past.” The poor dear grew white as death, and shock and shivered, as I have seen a quicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide. We were all silent; we could do nothing. At length she grew more calm and turning to him said, sweetly, but oh! so sorrowfully, as she held out her hand:--

“I promise you, my dear friend, that if God will let me live, I shall strive to do so; till, if it may be in His good time, this horror may have passed away from me.” She was so good and brave that we all felt that our hearts were strengthened to work and endure for her, and we began to discuss what we were to do. I told her that she was to have all the papers in the safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs we might hereafter use; and was to keep the record as she had done before. She was pleased with the prospect of anything to do—if “pleased” could be used in connection with so grim an interest.

As usual Van Helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was prepared with an exact ordering of our work.

“It is perhaps well,” he said, “that at our meeting after our visit to Carfax we decided not to do anything with the earth-boxes that lay there. Had we done so, the Count must have guessed our purpose, and would doubtless have taken measures in advance to frustrate such an effort with regard to the others; but now he does not know our intentions. Nay, more, in all probability, he does not know that such a power exists to us as can sterilise his lairs, so that he cannot use them as of old. We are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as to their disposition that, when we have examined the house in Piccadilly, we may track the very last of them. To-day, then, is ours; and in it rests our hope. The sun that rose on our sorrow this morning guards us in its course. Until it sets to-night, that monster must retain whatever form he now has. He is confined within the limitations of his earthly envelope. He cannot melt into thin air nor disappear through cracks or chinks or crannies. If he go through a doorway, he must open the door like a mortal. And so we have this day to hunt out all his lairs and sterilise them. So we shall, if we have not yet catch him and destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching and the destroying shall be, in time, sure.” Here I started up for I could not contain myself at the thought that the minutes and seconds so preciously laden with Mina’s life and happiness were flying from us, since whilst we talked action was impossible. But Van Helsing held up his hand warningly. “Nay, friend Jonathan,” he said, “in this, the quickest way home is the longest way, so your proverb say. We shall all act and act with desperate quick, when the time has come. But think, in all probable the key of the situation is in that house in Piccadilly. The Count may have many houses which he has bought. Of them he will have deeds of purchase, keys and other things. He will have paper that he write on; he will have his book of cheques. There are many belongings that he must have somewhere; why not in this place so central, so quiet, where he come and go by the front or the back at all hour, when in the very vast of the traffic there is none to notice. We shall go there and search that house; and when we learn what it holds, then we do what our friend Arthur call, in his phrases of hunt ‘stop the earths’ and so we run down our old fox—so? is it not?”

“Then let us come at once,” I cried, “we are wasting the precious, precious time!” The Professor did not move, but simply said:--

“And how are we to get into that house in Piccadilly?”

“Any way!” I cried. “We shall break in if need be.”

“And your police; where will they be, and what will they say?”

I was staggered; but I knew that if he wished to delay he had a good reason for it. So I said, as quietly as I could:--

“Don’t wait more than need be; you know, I am sure, what torture I am in.”

“Ah, my child, that I do; and indeed there is no wish of me to add to your anguish. But just think, what can we do, until all the world be at movement. Then will come our time. I have thought and thought, and it seems to me that the simplest way is the best of all. Now we wish to get into the house, but we have no key; is it not so?” I nodded.

“Now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could not still get it; and think there was to you no conscience of the housebreaker, what would you do?”

“I should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the lock for me.”

“And your police, they would interfere, would they not?”

“Oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed.”

“Then,” he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, “all that is in doubt is the conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to whether or no that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. Your police must indeed be zealous men and clever—oh, so clever!—in reading the heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter. No, no, my friend Jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred empty house in this your London, or of any city in the world; and if you do it as such things are rightly done, and at the time such things are rightly done, no one will interfere. I have read of a gentleman who owned a so fine house in London, and when he went for months of summer to Switzerland and lock up his house, some burglar came and broke window at back and got in. Then he went and made open the shutters in front and walk out and in through the door, before the very eyes of the police. Then he have an auction in that house, and advertise it, and put up big notice; and when the day come he sell off by a great auctioneer all the goods of that other man who own them. Then he go to a builder, and he sell him that house, making an agreement that he pull it down and take all away within a certain time. And your police and other authority help him all they can. And when that owner come back from his holiday in Switzerland he find only an empty hole where his house had been. This was all done en règle; and in our work we shall be en règle too. We shall not go so early that the policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem it strange; but we shall go after ten o’clock, when there are many about, and such things would be done were we indeed owners of the house.”

I could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of Mina’s face became relaxed a thought; there was hope in such good counsel. Van Helsing went on:--

“When once within that house we may find more clues; at any rate some of us can remain there whilst the rest find the other places where there be more earth-boxes—at Bermondsey and Mile End.”

Lord Godalming stood up. “I can be of some use here,” he said. “I shall wire to my people to have horses and carriages where they will be most convenient.”

“Look here, old fellow,” said Morris, “it is a capital idea to have all ready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don’t you think that one of your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of Walworth or Mile End would attract too much attention for our purposes? It seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are going to.”

“Friend Quincey is right!” said the Professor. “His head is what you call in plane with the horizon. It is a difficult thing that we go to do, and we do not want no peoples to watch us if so it may.”

Mina took a growing interest in everything and I was rejoiced to see that the exigency of affairs was helping her to forget for a time the terrible experience of the night. She was very, very pale—almost ghastly, and so thin that her lips were drawn away, showing her teeth in somewhat of prominence. I did not mention this last, lest it should give her needless pain; but it made my blood run cold in my veins to think of what had occurred with poor Lucy when the Count had sucked her blood. As yet there was no sign of the teeth growing sharper; but the time as yet was short, and there was time for fear.

When we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of the disposition of our forces, there were new sources of doubt. It was finally agreed that before starting for Piccadilly we should destroy the Count’s lair close at hand. In case he should find it out too soon, we should thus be still ahead of him in our work of destruction; and his presence in his purely material shape, and at his weakest, might give us some new clue.

As to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the Professor that, after our visit to Carfax, we should all enter the house in Piccadilly; that the two doctors and I should remain there, whilst Lord Godalming and Quincey found the lairs at Walworth and Mile End and destroyed them. It was possible, if not likely, the Professor urged, that the Count might appear in Piccadilly during the day, and that if so we might be able to cope with him then and there. At any rate, we might be able to follow him in force. To this plan I strenuously objected, and so far as my going was concerned, for I said that I intended to stay and protect Mina, I thought that my mind was made up on the subject; but Mina would not listen to my objection. She said that there might be some law matter in which I could be useful; that amongst the Count’s papers might be some clue which I could understand out of my experience in Transylvania; and that, as it was, all the strength we could muster was required to cope with the Count’s extraordinary power. I had to give in, for Mina’s resolution was fixed; she said that it was the last hope for her that we should all work together. “As for me,” she said, “I have no fear. Things have been as bad as they can be; and whatever may happen must have in it some element of hope or comfort. Go, my husband! God can, if He wishes it, guard me as well alone as with any one present.” So I started up crying out: “Then in God’s name let us come at once, for we are losing time. The Count may come to Piccadilly earlier than we think.”

“Not so!” said Van Helsing, holding up his hand.

“But why?” I asked.

“Do you forget,” he said, with actually a smile, “that last night he banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?”

Did I forget! shall I ever—can I ever! Can any of us ever forget that terrible scene! Mina struggled hard to keep her brave countenance; but the pain overmastered her and she put her hands before her face, and shuddered whilst she moaned. Van Helsing had not intended to recall her frightful experience. He had simply lost sight of her and her part in the affair in his intellectual effort. When it struck him what he said, he was horrified at his thoughtlessness and tried to comfort her. “Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, “dear, dear Madam Mina, alas! that I of all who so reverence you should have said anything so forgetful. These stupid old lips of mine and this stupid old head do not deserve so; but you will forget it, will you not?” He bent low beside her as he spoke; she took his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said hoarsely:--

“No, I shall not forget, for it is well that I remember; and with it I have so much in memory of you that is sweet, that I take it all together. Now, you must all be going soon. Breakfast is ready, and we must all eat that we may be strong.”

Breakfast was a strange meal to us all. We tried to be cheerful and encourage each other, and Mina was the brightest and most cheerful of us. When it was over, Van Helsing stood up and said:--

“Now, my dear friends, we go forth to our terrible enterprise. Are we all armed, as we were on that night when first we visited our enemy’s lair; armed against ghostly as well as carnal attack?” We all assured him. “Then it is well. Now, Madam Mina, you are in any case quite safe here until the sunset; and before then we shall return—if—— We shall return! But before we go let me see you armed against personal attack. I have myself, since you came down, prepared your chamber by the placing of things of which we know, so that He may not enter. Now let me guard yourself. On your forehead I touch this piece of Sacred Wafer in the name of the Father, the Son, and——”

There was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. As he had placed the Wafer on Mina’s forehead, it had seared it—had burned into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. My poor darling’s brain had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as her nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. But the words to her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her knees on the floor in an agony of abasement. Pulling her beautiful hair over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out:--

“Unclean! Unclean! Even the Almighty shuns my polluted flesh! I must bear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the Judgment Day.” They all paused. I had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless grief, and putting my arms around held her tight. For a few minutes our sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away their eyes that ran tears silently. Then Van Helsing turned and said gravely; so gravely that I could not help feeling that he was in some way inspired, and was stating things outside himself:--

“It may be that you may have to bear that mark till God himself see fit, as He most surely shall, on the Judgment Day, to redress all wrongs of the earth and of His children that He has placed thereon. And oh, Madam Mina, my dear, my dear, may we who love you be there to see, when that red scar, the sign of God’s knowledge of what has been, shall pass away, and leave your forehead as pure as the heart we know. For so surely as we live, that scar shall pass away when God sees right to lift the burden that is hard upon us. Till then we bear our Cross, as His Son did in obedience to His Will. It may be that we are chosen instruments of His good pleasure, and that we ascend to His bidding as that other through stripes and shame; through tears and blood; through doubts and fears, and all that makes the difference between God and man.”

There was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation. Mina and I both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old man’s hands and bent over and kissed it. Then without a word we all knelt down together, and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each other. We men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help and guidance in the terrible task which lay before us.

It was then time to start. So I said farewell to Mina, a parting which neither of us shall forget to our dying day; and we set out.

To one thing I have made up my mind: if we find out that Mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. I suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks.

We entered Carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on the first occasion. It was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic surroundings of neglect and dust and decay there was any ground for such fear as already we knew. Had not our minds been made up, and had there not been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have proceeded with our task. We found no papers, or any sign of use in the house; and in the old chapel the great boxes looked just as we had seen them last. Dr. Van Helsing said to us solemnly as we stood before them:--

“And now, my friends, we have a duty here to do. We must sterilise this earth, so sacred of holy memories, that he has brought from a far distant land for such fell use. He has chosen this earth because it has been holy. Thus we defeat him with his own weapon, for we make it more holy still. It was sanctified to such use of man, now we sanctify it to God.” As he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a wrench, and very soon the top of one of the cases was thrown open. The earth smelled musty and close; but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our attention was concentrated on the Professor. Taking from his box a piece of the Sacred Wafer he laid it reverently on the earth, and then shutting down the lid began to screw it home, we aiding him as he worked.

One by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and left them as we had found them to all appearance; but in each was a portion of the Host.

When we closed the door behind us, the Professor said solemnly:--

“So much is already done. If it may be that with all the others we can be so successful, then the sunset of this evening may shine on Madam Mina’s forehead all white as ivory and with no stain!”

As we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our train we could see the front of the asylum. I looked eagerly, and in the window of my own room saw Mina. I waved my hand to her, and nodded to tell that our work there was successfully accomplished. She nodded in reply to show that she understood. The last I saw, she was waving her hand in farewell. It was with a heavy heart that we sought the station and just caught the train, which was steaming in as we reached the platform.

I have written this in the train.

 

Piccadilly, 12:30 o’clock.—Just before we reached Fenchurch Street Lord Godalming said to me:--

“Quincey and I will find a locksmith. You had better not come with us in case there should be any difficulty; for under the circumstances it wouldn’t seem so bad for us to break into an empty house. But you are a solicitor and the Incorporated Law Society might tell you that you should have known better.” I demurred as to my not sharing any danger even of odium, but he went on: “Besides, it will attract less attention if there are not too many of us. My title will make it all right with the locksmith, and with any policeman that may come along. You had better go with Jack and the Professor and stay in the Green Park, somewhere in sight of the house; and when you see the door opened and the smith has gone away, do you all come across. We shall be on the lookout for you, and shall let you in.”

“The advice is good!” said Van Helsing, so we said no more. Godalming and Morris hurried off in a cab, we following in another. At the corner of Arlington Street our contingent got out and strolled into the Green Park. My heart beat as I saw the house on which so much of our hope was centred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted condition amongst its more lively and spruce-looking neighbours. We sat down on a bench within good view, and began to smoke cigars so as to attract as little attention as possible. The minutes seemed to pass with leaden feet as we waited for the coming of the others.

At length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. Out of it, in leisurely fashion, got Lord Godalming and Morris; and down from the box descended a thick-set working man with his rush-woven basket of tools. Morris paid the cabman, who touched his hat and drove away. Together the two ascended the steps, and Lord Godalming pointed out what he wanted done. The workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on one of the spikes of the rail, saying something to a policeman who just then sauntered along. The policeman nodded acquiescence, and the man kneeling down placed his bag beside him. After searching through it, he took out a selection of tools which he produced to lay beside him in orderly fashion. Then he stood up, looked into the keyhole, blew into it, and turning to his employers, made some remark. Lord Godalming smiled, and the man lifted a good-sized bunch of keys; selecting one of them, he began to probe the lock, as if feeling his way with it. After fumbling about for a bit he tried a second, and then a third. All at once the door opened under a slight push from him, and he and the two others entered the hall. We sat still; my own cigar burnt furiously, but Van Helsing’s went cold altogether. We waited patiently as we saw the workman come out and bring in his bag. Then he held the door partly open, steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock. This he finally handed to Lord Godalming, who took out his purse and gave him something. The man touched his hat, took his bag, put on his coat and departed; not a soul took the slightest notice of the whole transaction.

When the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked at the door. It was immediately opened by Quincey Morris, beside whom stood Lord Godalming lighting a cigar.

“The place smells so vilely,” said the latter as we came in. It did indeed smell vilely—like the old chapel at Carfax—and with our previous experience it was plain to us that the Count had been using the place pretty freely. We moved to explore the house, all keeping together in case of attack; for we knew we had a strong and wily enemy to deal with, and as yet we did not know whether the Count might not be in the house. In the dining-room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found eight boxes of earth. Eight boxes only out of the nine, which we sought! Our work was not over, and would never be until we should have found the missing box. First we opened the shutters of the window which looked out across a narrow stone-flagged yard at the blank face of a stable, pointed to look like the front of a miniature house. There were no windows in it, so we were not afraid of being over-looked. We did not lose any time in examining the chests. With the tools which we had brought with us we opened them, one by one, and treated them as we had treated those others in the old chapel. It was evident to us that the Count was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for any of his effects.

After a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to attic, we came to the conclusion that the dining-room contained any effects which might belong to the Count; and so we proceeded to minutely examine them. They lay in a sort of orderly disorder on the great dining-room table. There were title deeds of the Piccadilly house in a great bundle; deeds of the purchase of the houses at Mile End and Bermondsey; note-paper, envelopes, and pens and ink. All were covered up in thin wrapping paper to keep them from the dust. There were also a clothes brush, a brush and comb, and a jug and basin—the latter containing dirty water which was reddened as if with blood. Last of all was a little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging to the other houses. When we had examined this last find, Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris taking accurate notes of the various addresses of the houses in the East and the South, took with them the keys in a great bunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in these places. The rest of us are, with what patience we can, waiting their return—or the coming of the Count.

CHAPTER XXIII

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

3 October.—The time seemed terrible long whilst we were waiting for the coming of Godalming and Quincey Morris. The Professor tried to keep our minds active by using them all the time. I could see his beneficent purpose, by the side glances which he threw from time to time at Harker. The poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to see. Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. To-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame. This may yet be his salvation, for, if all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then, in a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life. Poor fellow, I thought my own trouble was bad enough, but his——! The Professor knows this well enough, and is doing his best to keep his mind active. What he has been saying was, under the circumstances, of absorbing interest. So well as I can remember, here it is:--

“I have studied, over and over again since they came into my hands, all the papers relating to this monster; and the more I have studied, the greater seems the necessity to utterly stamp him out. All through there are signs of his advance; not only of his power, but of his knowledge of it. As I learned from the researches of my friend Arminus of Buda-Pesth, he was in life a most wonderful man. Soldier, statesman, and alchemist—which latter was the highest development of the science-knowledge of his time. He had a mighty brain, a learning beyond compare, and a heart that knew no fear and no remorse. He dared even to attend the Scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time that he did not essay. Well, in him the brain powers survived the physical death; though it would seem that memory was not all complete. In some faculties of mind he has been, and is, only a child; but he is growing, and some things that were childish at the first are now of man’s stature. He is experimenting, and doing it well; and if it had not been that we have crossed his path he would be yet—he may be yet if we fail—the father or furtherer of a new order of beings, whose road must lead through Death, not Life.”

Harker groaned and said, “And this is all arrayed against my darling! But how is he experimenting? The knowledge may help us to defeat him!”

“He has all along, since his coming, been trying his power, slowly but surely; that big child-brain of his is working. Well for us, it is, as yet, a child-brain; for had he dared, at the first, to attempt certain things he would long ago have been beyond our power. However, he means to succeed, and a man who has centuries before him can afford to wait and to go slow. Festina lente may well be his motto.”

“I fail to understand,” said Harker wearily. “Oh, do be more plain to me! Perhaps grief and trouble are dulling my brain.”

The Professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke:--

“Ah, my child, I will be plain. Do you not see how, of late, this monster has been creeping into knowledge experimentally. How he has been making use of the zoöphagous patient to effect his entry into friend John’s home; for your Vampire, though in all afterwards he can come when and how he will, must at the first make entry only when asked thereto by an inmate. But these are not his most important experiments. Do we not see how at the first all these so great boxes were moved by others. He knew not then but that must be so. But all the time that so great child-brain of his was growing, and he began to consider whether he might not himself move the box. So he began to help; and then, when he found that this be all-right, he try to move them all alone. And so he progress, and he scatter these graves of him; and none but he know where they are hidden. He may have intend to bury them deep in the ground. So that he only use them in the night, or at such time as he can change his form, they do him equal well; and none may know these are his hiding-place! But, my child, do not despair; this knowledge come to him just too late! Already all of his lairs but one be sterilise as for him; and before the sunset this shall be so. Then he have no place where he can move and hide. I delayed this morning that so we might be sure. Is there not more at stake for us than for him? Then why we not be even more careful than him? By my clock it is one hour and already, if all be well, friend Arthur and Quincey are on their way to us. To-day is our day, and we must go sure, if slow, and lose no chance. See! there are five of us when those absent ones return.”

Whilst he was speaking we were startled by a knock at the hall door, the double postman’s knock of the telegraph boy. We all moved out to the hall with one impulse, and Van Helsing, holding up his hand to us to keep silence, stepped to the door and opened it. The boy handed in a despatch. The Professor closed the door again, and, after looking at the direction, opened it and read aloud.

“Look out for D. He has just now, 12:45, come from Carfax hurriedly and hastened towards the South. He seems to be going the round and may want to see you: Mina.”

There was a pause, broken by Jonathan Harker’s voice:--

“Now, God be thanked, we shall soon meet!” Van Helsing turned to him quickly and said:--

“God will act in His own way and time. Do not fear, and do not rejoice as yet; for what we wish for at the moment may be our undoings.”

“I care for nothing now,” he answered hotly, “except to wipe out this brute from the face of creation. I would sell my soul to do it!”

“Oh, hush, hush, my child!” said Van Helsing. “God does not purchase souls in this wise; and the Devil, though he may purchase, does not keep faith. But God is merciful and just, and knows your pain and your devotion to that dear Madam Mina. Think you, how her pain would be doubled, did she but hear your wild words. Do not fear any of us, we are all devoted to this cause, and to-day shall see the end. The time is coming for action; to-day this Vampire is limit to the powers of man, and till sunset he may not change. It will take him time to arrive here—see, it is twenty minutes past one—and there are yet some times before he can hither come, be he never so quick. What we must hope for is that my Lord Arthur and Quincey arrive first.”

About half an hour after we had received Mrs. Harker’s telegram, there came a quiet, resolute knock at the hall door. It was just an ordinary knock, such as is given hourly by thousands of gentlemen, but it made the Professor’s heart and mine beat loudly. We looked at each other, and together moved out into the hall; we each held ready to use our various armaments—the spiritual in the left hand, the mortal in the right. Van Helsing pulled back the latch, and, holding the door half open, stood back, having both hands ready for action. The gladness of our hearts must have shown upon our faces when on the step, close to the door, we saw Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris. They came quickly in and closed the door behind them, the former saying, as they moved along the hall:--

“It is all right. We found both places; six boxes in each and we destroyed them all!”

“Destroyed?” asked the Professor.

“For him!” We were silent for a minute, and then Quincey said:--

“There’s nothing to do but to wait here. If, however, he doesn’t turn up by five o’clock, we must start off; for it won’t do to leave Mrs. Harker alone after sunset.”

“He will be here before long now,” said Van Helsing, who had been consulting his pocket-book. “Nota bene, in Madam’s telegram he went south from Carfax, that means he went to cross the river, and he could only do so at slack of tide, which should be something before one o’clock. That he went south has a meaning for us. He is as yet only suspicious; and he went from Carfax first to the place where he would suspect interference least. You must have been at Bermondsey only a short time before him. That he is not here already shows that he went to Mile End next. This took him some time; for he would then have to be carried over the river in some way. Believe me, my friends, we shall not have long to wait now. We should have ready some plan of attack, so that we may throw away no chance. Hush, there is no time now. Have all your arms! Be ready!” He held up a warning hand as he spoke, for we all could hear a key softly inserted in the lock of the hall door.

I could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a dominant spirit asserted itself. In all our hunting parties and adventures in different parts of the world, Quincey Morris had always been the one to arrange the plan of action, and Arthur and I had been accustomed to obey him implicitly. Now, the old habit seemed to be renewed instinctively. With a swift glance around the room, he at once laid out our plan of attack, and, without speaking a word, with a gesture, placed us each in position. Van Helsing, Harker, and I were just behind the door, so that when it was opened the Professor could guard it whilst we two stepped between the incomer and the door. Godalming behind and Quincey in front stood just out of sight ready to move in front of the window. We waited in a suspense that made the seconds pass with nightmare slowness. The slow, careful steps came along the hall; the Count was evidently prepared for some surprise—at least he feared it.

Suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room, winning a way past us before any of us could raise a hand to stay him. There was something so panther-like in the movement—something so unhuman, that it seemed to sober us all from the shock of his coming. The first to act was Harker, who, with a quick movement, threw himself before the door leading into the room in the front of the house. As the Count saw us, a horrible sort of snarl passed over his face, showing the eye-teeth long and pointed; but the evil smile as quickly passed into a cold stare of lion-like disdain. His expression again changed as, with a single impulse, we all advanced upon him. It was a pity that we had not some better organised plan of attack, for even at the moment I wondered what we were to do. I did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything. Harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great Kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. The blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the Count’s leap back saved him. A second less and the trenchant blade had shorne through his heart. As it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat, making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold fell out. The expression of the Count’s face was so hellish, that for a moment I feared for Harker, though I saw him throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke. Instinctively I moved forward with a protective impulse, holding the Crucifix and Wafer in my left hand. I felt a mighty power fly along my arm; and it was without surprise that I saw the monster cower back before a similar movement made spontaneously by each one of us. It would be impossible to describe the expression of hate and baffled malignity—of anger and hellish rage—which came over the Count’s face. His waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast of his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed on the pallid skin like a palpitating wound. The next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under Harker’s arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw himself at the window. Amid the crash and glitter of the falling glass, he tumbled into the flagged area below. Through the sound of the shivering glass I could hear the “ting” of the gold, as some of the sovereigns fell on the flagging.

We ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground. He, rushing up the steps, crossed the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door. There he turned and spoke to us:--

“You think to baffle me, you—with your pale faces all in a row, like sheep in a butcher’s. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you! You think you have left me without a place to rest; but I have more. My revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. Your girls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and others shall yet be mine—my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my jackals when I want to feed. Bah!” With a contemptuous sneer, he passed quickly through the door, and we heard the rusty bolt creak as he fastened it behind him. A door beyond opened and shut. The first of us to speak was the Professor, as, realising the difficulty of following him through the stable, we moved toward the hall.

“We have learnt something—much! Notwithstanding his brave words, he fears us; he fear time, he fear want! For if not, why he hurry so? His very tone betray him, or my ears deceive. Why take that money? You follow quick. You are hunters of wild beast, and understand it so. For me, I make sure that nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he return.” As he spoke he put the money remaining into his pocket; took the title-deeds in the bundle as Harker had left them, and swept the remaining things into the open fireplace, where he set fire to them with a match.

Godalming and Morris had rushed out into the yard, and Harker had lowered himself from the window to follow the Count. He had, however, bolted the stable door; and by the time they had forced it open there was no sign of him. Van Helsing and I tried to make inquiry at the back of the house; but the mews was deserted and no one had seen him depart.

It was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far off. We had to recognise that our game was up; with heavy hearts we agreed with the Professor when he said:--

“Let us go back to Madam Mina—poor, poor dear Madam Mina. All we can do just now is done; and we can there, at least, protect her. But we need not despair. There is but one more earth-box, and we must try to find it; when that is done all may yet be well.” I could see that he spoke as bravely as he could to comfort Harker. The poor fellow was quite broken down; now and again he gave a low groan which he could not suppress—he was thinking of his wife.

With sad hearts we came back to my house, where we found Mrs. Harker waiting us, with an appearance of cheerfulness which did honour to her bravery and unselfishness. When she saw our faces, her own became as pale as death: for a second or two her eyes were closed as if she were in secret prayer; and then she said cheerfully:--

“I can never thank you all enough. Oh, my poor darling!” As she spoke, she took her husband’s grey head in her hands and kissed it—“Lay your poor head here and rest it. All will yet be well, dear! God will protect us if He so will it in His good intent.” The poor fellow groaned. There was no place for words in his sublime misery.

We had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and I think it cheered us all up somewhat. It was, perhaps, the mere animal heat of food to hungry people—for none of us had eaten anything since breakfast—or the sense of companionship may have helped us; but anyhow we were all less miserable, and saw the morrow as not altogether without hope. True to our promise, we told Mrs. Harker everything which had passed; and although she grew snowy white at times when danger had seemed to threaten her husband, and red at others when his devotion to her was manifested, she listened bravely and with calmness. When we came to the part where Harker had rushed at the Count so recklessly, she clung to her husband’s arm, and held it tight as though her clinging could protect him from any harm that might come. She said nothing, however, till the narration was all done, and matters had been brought right up to the present time. Then without letting go her husband’s hand she stood up amongst us and spoke. Oh, that I could give any idea of the scene; of that sweet, sweet, good, good woman in all the radiant beauty of her youth and animation, with the red scar on her forehead, of which she was conscious, and which we saw with grinding of our teeth—remembering whence and how it came; her loving kindness against our grim hate; her tender faith against all our fears and doubting; and we, knowing that so far as symbols went, she with all her goodness and purity and faith, was outcast from God.

“Jonathan,” she said, and the word sounded like music on her lips it was so full of love and tenderness, “Jonathan dear, and you all my true, true friends, I want you to bear something in mind through all this dreadful time. I know that you must fight—that you must destroy even as you destroyed the false Lucy so that the true Lucy might live hereafter; but it is not a work of hate. That poor soul who has wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all. Just think what will be his joy when he, too, is destroyed in his worser part that his better part may have spiritual immortality. You must be pitiful to him, too, though it may not hold your hands from his destruction.”

As she spoke I could see her husband’s face darken and draw together, as though the passion in him were shrivelling his being to its core. Instinctively the clasp on his wife’s hand grew closer, till his knuckles looked white. She did not flinch from the pain which I knew she must have suffered, but looked at him with eyes that were more appealing than ever. As she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost tearing his hand from hers as he spoke:--

“May God give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that earthly life of him which we are aiming at. If beyond it I could send his soul for ever and ever to burning hell I would do it!”

“Oh, hush! oh, hush! in the name of the good God. Don’t say such things, Jonathan, my husband; or you will crush me with fear and horror. Just think, my dear—I have been thinking all this long, long day of it—that ... perhaps ... some day ... I, too, may need such pity; and that some other like you—and with equal cause for anger—may deny it to me! Oh, my husband! my husband, indeed I would have spared you such a thought had there been another way; but I pray that God may not have treasured your wild words, except as the heart-broken wail of a very loving and sorely stricken man. Oh, God, let these poor white hairs go in evidence of what he has suffered, who all his life has done no wrong, and on whom so many sorrows have come.”

We men were all in tears now. There was no resisting them, and we wept openly. She wept, too, to see that her sweeter counsels had prevailed. Her husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and putting his arms round her, hid his face in the folds of her dress. Van Helsing beckoned to us and we stole out of the room, leaving the two loving hearts alone with their God.

Before they retired the Professor fixed up the room against any coming of the Vampire, and assured Mrs. Harker that she might rest in peace. She tried to school herself to the belief, and, manifestly for her husband’s sake, tried to seem content. It was a brave struggle; and was, I think and believe, not without its reward. Van Helsing had placed at hand a bell which either of them was to sound in case of any emergency. When they had retired, Quincey, Godalming, and I arranged that we should sit up, dividing the night between us, and watch over the safety of the poor stricken lady. The first watch falls to Quincey, so the rest of us shall be off to bed as soon as we can. Godalming has already turned in, for his is the second watch. Now that my work is done I, too, shall go to bed.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

3-4 October, close to midnight.—I thought yesterday would never end. There was over me a yearning for sleep, in some sort of blind belief that to wake would be to find things changed, and that any change must now be for the better. Before we parted, we discussed what our next step was to be, but we could arrive at no result. All we knew was that one earth-box remained, and that the Count alone knew where it was. If he chooses to lie hidden, he may baffle us for years; and in the meantime!—the thought is too horrible, I dare not think of it even now. This I know: that if ever there was a woman who was all perfection, that one is my poor wronged darling. I love her a thousand times more for her sweet pity of last night, a pity that made my own hate of the monster seem despicable. Surely God will not permit the world to be the poorer by the loss of such a creature. This is hope to me. We are all drifting reefwards now, and faith is our only anchor. Thank God! Mina is sleeping, and sleeping without dreams. I fear what her dreams might be like, with such terrible memories to ground them in. She has not been so calm, within my seeing, since the sunset. Then, for a while, there came over her face a repose which was like spring after the blasts of March. I thought at the time that it was the softness of the red sunset on her face, but somehow now I think it has a deeper meaning. I am not sleepy myself, though I am weary—weary to death. However, I must try to sleep; for there is to-morrow to think of, and there is no rest for me until....

 

Later.—I must have fallen asleep, for I was awaked by Mina, who was sitting up in bed, with a startled look on her face. I could see easily, for we did not leave the room in darkness; she had placed a warning hand over my mouth, and now she whispered in my ear:--

“Hush! there is someone in the corridor!” I got up softly, and crossing the room, gently opened the door.

Just outside, stretched on a mattress, lay Mr. Morris, wide awake. He raised a warning hand for silence as he whispered to me:--

“Hush! go back to bed; it is all right. One of us will be here all night. We don’t mean to take any chances!”

His look and gesture forbade discussion, so I came back and told Mina. She sighed and positively a shadow of a smile stole over her poor, pale face as she put her arms round me and said softly:--

“Oh, thank God for good brave men!” With a sigh she sank back again to sleep. I write this now as I am not sleepy, though I must try again.

 

4 October, morning.—Once again during the night I was wakened by Mina. This time we had all had a good sleep, for the grey of the coming dawn was making the windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas flame was like a speck rather than a disc of light. She said to me hurriedly:--

“Go, call the Professor. I want to see him at once.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I have an idea. I suppose it must have come in the night, and matured without my knowing it. He must hypnotise me before the dawn, and then I shall be able to speak. Go quick, dearest; the time is getting close.” I went to the door. Dr. Seward was resting on the mattress, and, seeing me, he sprang to his feet.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked, in alarm.

“No,” I replied; “but Mina wants to see Dr. Van Helsing at once.”

“I will go,” he said, and hurried into the Professor’s room.

In two or three minutes later Van Helsing was in the room in his dressing-gown, and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming were with Dr. Seward at the door asking questions. When the Professor saw Mina a smile—a positive smile ousted the anxiety of his face; he rubbed his hands as he said:--

“Oh, my dear Madam Mina, this is indeed a change. See! friend Jonathan, we have got our dear Madam Mina, as of old, back to us to-day!” Then turning to her, he said, cheerfully: “And what am I do for you? For at this hour you do not want me for nothings.”

“I want you to hypnotise me!” she said. “Do it before the dawn, for I feel that then I can speak, and speak freely. Be quick, for the time is short!” Without a word he motioned her to sit up in bed.

Looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her, from over the top of her head downward, with each hand in turn. Mina gazed at him fixedly for a few minutes, during which my own heart beat like a trip hammer, for I felt that some crisis was at hand. Gradually her eyes closed, and she sat, stock still; only by the gentle heaving of her bosom could one know that she was alive. The Professor made a few more passes and then stopped, and I could see that his forehead was covered with great beads of perspiration. Mina opened her eyes; but she did not seem the same woman. There was a far-away look in her eyes, and her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me. Raising his hand to impose silence, the Professor motioned to me to bring the others in. They came on tip-toe, closing the door behind them, and stood at the foot of the bed, looking on. Mina appeared not to see them. The stillness was broken by Van Helsing’s voice speaking in a low level tone which would not break the current of her thoughts:--

“Where are you?” The answer came in a neutral way:--

“I do not know. Sleep has no place it can call its own.” For several minutes there was silence. Mina sat rigid, and the Professor stood staring at her fixedly; the rest of us hardly dared to breathe. The room was growing lighter; without taking his eyes from Mina’s face, Dr. Van Helsing motioned me to pull up the blind. I did so, and the day seemed just upon us. A red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to diffuse itself through the room. On the instant the Professor spoke again:--

“Where are you now?” The answer came dreamily, but with intention; it were as though she were interpreting something. I have heard her use the same tone when reading her shorthand notes.

“I do not know. It is all strange to me!”

“What do you see?”

“I can see nothing; it is all dark.”

“What do you hear?” I could detect the strain in the Professor’s patient voice.

“The lapping of water. It is gurgling by, and little waves leap. I can hear them on the outside.”

“Then you are on a ship?” We all looked at each other, trying to glean something each from the other. We were afraid to think. The answer came quick:--

“Oh, yes!”

“What else do you hear?”

“The sound of men stamping overhead as they run about. There is the creaking of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan falls into the rachet.”

“What are you doing?”

“I am still—oh, so still. It is like death!” The voice faded away into a deep breath as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again.

By this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of day. Dr. Van Helsing placed his hands on Mina’s shoulders, and laid her head down softly on her pillow. She lay like a sleeping child for a few moments, and then, with a long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder to see us all around her. “Have I been talking in my sleep?” was all she said. She seemed, however, to know the situation without telling, though she was eager to know what she had told. The Professor repeated the conversation, and she said:--

“Then there is not a moment to lose: it may not be yet too late!” Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming started for the door but the Professor’s calm voice called them back:--

“Stay, my friends. That ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor whilst she spoke. There are many ships weighing anchor at the moment in your so great Port of London. Which of them is it that you seek? God be thanked that we have once again a clue, though whither it may lead us we know not. We have been blind somewhat; blind after the manner of men, since when we can look back we see what we might have seen looking forward if we had been able to see what we might have seen! Alas, but that sentence is a puddle; is it not? We can know now what was in the Count’s mind, when he seize that money, though Jonathan’s so fierce knife put him in the danger that even he dread. He meant escape. Hear me, ESCAPE! He saw that with but one earth-box left, and a pack of men following like dogs after a fox, this London was no place for him. He have take his last earth-box on board a ship, and he leave the land. He think to escape, but no! we follow him. Tally Ho! as friend Arthur would say when he put on his red frock! Our old fox is wily; oh! so wily, and we must follow with wile. I, too, am wily and I think his mind in a little while. In meantime we may rest and in peace, for there are waters between us which he do not want to pass, and which he could not if he would—unless the ship were to touch the land, and then only at full or slack tide. See, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset is to us. Let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need, and which we can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with us.” Mina looked at him appealingly as she asked:--

“But why need we seek him further, when he is gone away from us?” He took her hand and patted it as he replied:--

“Ask me nothings as yet. When we have breakfast, then I answer all questions.” He would say no more, and we separated to dress.

After breakfast Mina repeated her question. He looked at her gravely for a minute and then said sorrowfully:--

“Because my dear, dear Madam Mina, now more than ever must we find him even if we have to follow him to the jaws of Hell!” She grew paler as she asked faintly:--

“Why?”

“Because,” he answered solemnly, “he can live for centuries, and you are but mortal woman. Time is now to be dreaded—since once he put that mark upon your throat.”

I was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint.

CHAPTER XXIV

DR. SEWARD’S PHONOGRAPH DIARY, SPOKEN BY VAN HELSING

THIS to Jonathan Harker.

You are to stay with your dear Madam Mina. We shall go to make our search—if I can call it so, for it is not search but knowing, and we seek confirmation only. But do you stay and take care of her to-day. This is your best and most holiest office. This day nothing can find him here. Let me tell you that so you will know what we four know already, for I have tell them. He, our enemy, have gone away; he have gone back to his Castle in Transylvania. I know it so well, as if a great hand of fire wrote it on the wall. He have prepare for this in some way, and that last earth-box was ready to ship somewheres. For this he took the money; for this he hurry at the last, lest we catch him before the sun go down. It was his last hope, save that he might hide in the tomb that he think poor Miss Lucy, being as he thought like him, keep open to him. But there was not of time. When that fail he make straight for his last resource—his last earth-work I might say did I wish double entente. He is clever, oh, so clever! he know that his game here was finish; and so he decide he go back home. He find ship going by the route he came, and he go in it. We go off now to find what ship, and whither bound; when we have discover that, we come back and tell you all. Then we will comfort you and poor dear Madam Mina with new hope. For it will be hope when you think it over: that all is not lost. This very creature that we pursue, he take hundreds of years to get so far as London; and yet in one day, when we know of the disposal of him we drive him out. He is finite, though he is powerful to do much harm and suffers not as we do. But we are strong, each in our purpose; and we are all more strong together. Take heart afresh, dear husband of Madam Mina. This battle is but begun, and in the end we shall win—so sure as that God sits on high to watch over His children. Therefore be of much comfort till we return.

Van Helsing.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

4 October.—When I read to Mina, Van Helsing’s message in the phonograph, the poor girl brightened up considerably. Already the certainty that the Count is out of the country has given her comfort; and comfort is strength to her. For my own part, now that his horrible danger is not face to face with us, it seems almost impossible to believe in it. Even my own terrible experiences in Castle Dracula seem like a long-forgotten dream. Here in the crisp autumn air in the bright sunlight—--

Alas! how can I disbelieve! In the midst of my thought my eye fell on the red scar on my poor darling’s white forehead. Whilst that lasts, there can be no disbelief. And afterwards the very memory of it will keep faith crystal clear. Mina and I fear to be idle, so we have been over all the diaries again and again. Somehow, although the reality seems greater each time, the pain and the fear seem less. There is something of a guiding purpose manifest throughout, which is comforting. Mina says that perhaps we are the instruments of ultimate good. It may be! I shall try to think as she does. We have never spoken to each other yet of the future. It is better to wait till we see the Professor and the others after their investigations.

The day is running by more quickly than I ever thought a day could run for me again. It is now three o’clock.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

5 October, 5 p. m.—Our meeting for report. Present: Professor Van Helsing, Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, Mr. Quincey Morris, Jonathan Harker, Mina Harker.

Dr. Van Helsing described what steps were taken during the day to discover on what boat and whither bound Count Dracula made his escape:--

“As I knew that he wanted to get back to Transylvania, I felt sure that he must go by the Danube mouth; or by somewhere in the Black Sea, since by that way he come. It was a dreary blank that was before us. Omne ignotum pro magnifico; and so with heavy hearts we start to find what ships leave for the Black Sea last night. He was in sailing ship, since Madam Mina tell of sails being set. These not so important as to go in your list of the shipping in the Times, and so we go, by suggestion of Lord Godalming, to your Lloyd’s, where are note of all ships that sail, however so small. There we find that only one Black-Sea-bound ship go out with the tide. She is the Czarina Catherine, and she sail from Doolittle’s Wharf for Varna, and thence on to other parts and up the Danube. ‘Soh!’ said I, ‘this is the ship whereon is the Count.’ So off we go to Doolittle’s Wharf, and there we find a man in an office of wood so small that the man look bigger than the office. From him we inquire of the goings of the Czarina Catherine. He swear much, and he red face and loud of voice, but he good fellow all the same; and when Quincey give him something from his pocket which crackle as he roll it up, and put it in a so small bag which he have hid deep in his clothing, he still better fellow and humble servant to us. He come with us, and ask many men who are rough and hot; these be better fellows too when they have been no more thirsty. They say much of blood and bloom, and of others which I comprehend not, though I guess what they mean; but nevertheless they tell us all things which we want to know.

“They make known to us among them, how last afternoon at about five o’clock comes a man so hurry. A tall man, thin and pale, with high nose and teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning. That he be all in black, except that he have a hat of straw which suit not him or the time. That he scatter his money in making quick inquiry as to what ship sails for the Black Sea and for where. Some took him to the office and then to the ship, where he will not go aboard but halt at shore end of gang-plank, and ask that the captain come to him. The captain come, when told that he will be pay well; and though he swear much at the first he agree to term. Then the thin man go and some one tell him where horse and cart can be hired. He go there and soon he come again, himself driving cart on which a great box; this he himself lift down, though it take several to put it on truck for the ship. He give much talk to captain as to how and where his box is to be place; but the captain like it not and swear at him in many tongues, and tell him that if he like he can come and see where it shall be. But he say ‘no’; that he come not yet, for that he have much to do. Whereupon the captain tell him that he had better be quick—with blood—for that his ship will leave the place—of blood—before the turn of the tide—with blood. Then the thin man smile and say that of course he must go when he think fit; but he will be surprise if he go quite so soon. The captain swear again, polyglot, and the thin man make him bow, and thank him, and say that he will so far intrude on his kindness as to come aboard before the sailing. Final the captain, more red than ever, and in more tongues tell him that he doesn’t want no Frenchmen—with bloom upon them and also with blood—in his ship—with blood on her also. And so, after asking where there might be close at hand a ship where he might purchase ship forms, he departed.

“No one knew where he went ‘or bloomin’ well cared,’ as they said, for they had something else to think of—well with blood again; for it soon became apparent to all that the Czarina Catherine would not sail as was expected. A thin mist began to creep up from the river, and it grew, and grew; till soon a dense fog enveloped the ship and all around her. The captain swore polyglot—very polyglot—polyglot with bloom and blood; but he could do nothing. The water rose and rose; and he began to fear that he would lose the tide altogether. He was in no friendly mood, when just at full tide, the thin man came up the gang-plank again and asked to see where his box had been stowed. Then the captain replied that he wished that he and his box—old and with much bloom and blood—were in hell. But the thin man did not be offend, and went down with the mate and saw where it was place, and came up and stood awhile on deck in fog. He must have come off by himself, for none notice him. Indeed they thought not of him; for soon the fog begin to melt away, and all was clear again. My friends of the thirst and the language that was of bloom and blood laughed, as they told how the captain’s swears exceeded even his usual polyglot, and was more than ever full of picturesque, when on questioning other mariners who were on movement up and down on the river that hour, he found that few of them had seen any of fog at all, except where it lay round the wharf. However, the ship went out on the ebb tide; and was doubtless by morning far down the river mouth. She was by then, when they told us, well out to sea.

“And so, my dear Madam Mina, it is that we have to rest for a time, for our enemy is on the sea, with the fog at his command, on his way to the Danube mouth. To sail a ship takes time, go she never so quick; and when we start we go on land more quick, and we meet him there. Our best hope is to come on him when in the box between sunrise and sunset; for then he can make no struggle, and we may deal with him as we should. There are days for us, in which we can make ready our plan. We know all about where he go; for we have seen the owner of the ship, who have shown us invoices and all papers that can be. The box we seek is to be landed in Varna, and to be given to an agent, one Ristics who will there present his credentials; and so our merchant friend will have done his part. When he ask if there be any wrong, for that so, he can telegraph and have inquiry made at Varna, we say ‘no’; for what is to be done is not for police or of the customs. It must be done by us alone and in our own way.”

When Dr. Van Helsing had done speaking, I asked him if he were certain that the Count had remained on board the ship. He replied: “We have the best proof of that: your own evidence, when in the hypnotic trance this morning.” I asked him again if it were really necessary that they should pursue the Count, for oh! I dread Jonathan leaving me, and I know that he would surely go if the others went. He answered in growing passion, at first quietly. As he went on, however, he grew more angry and more forceful, till in the end we could not but see wherein was at least some of that personal dominance which made him so long a master amongst men:--

“Yes, it is necessary—necessary—necessary! For your sake in the first, and then for the sake of humanity. This monster has done much harm already, in the narrow scope where he find himself, and in the short time when as yet he was only as a body groping his so small measure in darkness and not knowing. All this have I told these others; you, my dear Madam Mina, will learn it in the phonograph of my friend John, or in that of your husband. I have told them how the measure of leaving his own barren land—barren of peoples—and coming to a new land where life of man teems till they are like the multitude of standing corn, was the work of centuries. Were another of the Un-Dead, like him, to try to do what he has done, perhaps not all the centuries of the world that have been, or that will be, could aid him. With this one, all the forces of nature that are occult and deep and strong must have worked together in some wondrous way. The very place, where he have been alive, Un-Dead for all these centuries, is full of strangeness of the geologic and chemical world. There are deep caverns and fissures that reach none know whither. There have been volcanoes, some of whose openings still send out waters of strange properties, and gases that kill or make to vivify. Doubtless, there is something magnetic or electric in some of these combinations of occult forces which work for physical life in strange way; and in himself were from the first some great qualities. In a hard and warlike time he was celebrate that he have more iron nerve, more subtle brain, more braver heart, than any man. In him some vital principle have in strange way found their utmost; and as his body keep strong and grow and thrive, so his brain grow too. All this without that diabolic aid which is surely to him; for it have to yield to the powers that come from, and are, symbolic of good. And now this is what he is to us. He have infect you—oh, forgive me, my dear, that I must say such; but it is for good of you that I speak. He infect you in such wise, that even if he do no more, you have only to live—to live in your own old, sweet way; and so in time, death, which is of man’s common lot and with God’s sanction, shall make you like to him. This must not be! We have sworn together that it must not. Thus are we ministers of God’s own wish: that the world, and men for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters, whose very existence would defame Him. He have allowed us to redeem one soul already, and we go out as the old knights of the Cross to redeem more. Like them we shall travel towards the sunrise; and like them, if we fall, we fall in good cause.” He paused and I said:--

“But will not the Count take his rebuff wisely? Since he has been driven from England, will he not avoid it, as a tiger does the village from which he has been hunted?”

“Aha!” he said, “your simile of the tiger good, for me, and I shall adopt him. Your man-eater, as they of India call the tiger who has once tasted blood of the human, care no more for the other prey, but prowl unceasing till he get him. This that we hunt from our village is a tiger, too, a man-eater, and he never cease to prowl. Nay, in himself he is not one to retire and stay afar. In his life, his living life, he go over the Turkey frontier and attack his enemy on his own ground; he be beaten back, but did he stay? No! He come again, and again, and again. Look at his persistence and endurance. With the child-brain that was to him he have long since conceive the idea of coming to a great city. What does he do? He find out the place of all the world most of promise for him. Then he deliberately set himself down to prepare for the task. He find in patience just how is his strength, and what are his powers. He study new tongues. He learn new social life; new environment of old ways, the politic, the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new land and a new people who have come to be since he was. His glimpse that he have had, whet his appetite only and enkeen his desire. Nay, it help him to grow as to his brain; for it all prove to him how right he was at the first in his surmises. He have done this alone; all alone! from a ruin tomb in a forgotten land. What more may he not do when the greater world of thought is open to him. He that can smile at death, as we know him; who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole peoples. Oh, if such an one was to come from God, and not the Devil, what a force for good might he not be in this old world of ours. But we are pledged to set the world free. Our toil must be in silence, and our efforts all in secret; for in this enlightened age, when men believe not even what they see, the doubting of wise men would be his greatest strength. It would be at once his sheath and his armour, and his weapons to destroy us, his enemies, who are willing to peril even our own souls for the safety of one we love—for the good of mankind, and for the honour and glory of God.”

After a general discussion it was determined that for to-night nothing be definitely settled; that we should all sleep on the facts, and try to think out the proper conclusions. To-morrow, at breakfast, we are to meet again, and, after making our conclusions known to one another, we shall decide on some definite cause of action.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I feel a wonderful peace and rest to-night. It is as if some haunting presence were removed from me. Perhaps ...

My surmise was not finished, could not be; for I caught sight in the mirror of the red mark upon my forehead; and I knew that I was still unclean.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 October.—We all rose early, and I think that sleep did much for each and all of us. When we met at early breakfast there was more general cheerfulness than any of us had ever expected to experience again.

It is really wonderful how much resilience there is in human nature. Let any obstructing cause, no matter what, be removed in any way—even by death—and we fly back to first principles of hope and enjoyment. More than once as we sat around the table, my eyes opened in wonder whether the whole of the past days had not been a dream. It was only when I caught sight of the red blotch on Mrs. Harker’s forehead that I was brought back to reality. Even now, when I am gravely revolving the matter, it is almost impossible to realise that the cause of all our trouble is still existent. Even Mrs. Harker seems to lose sight of her trouble for whole spells; it is only now and again, when something recalls it to her mind, that she thinks of her terrible scar. We are to meet here in my study in half an hour and decide on our course of action. I see only one immediate difficulty, I know it by instinct rather than reason: we shall all have to speak frankly; and yet I fear that in some mysterious way poor Mrs. Harker’s tongue is tied. I know that she forms conclusions of her own, and from all that has been I can guess how brilliant and how true they must be; but she will not, or cannot, give them utterance. I have mentioned this to Van Helsing, and he and I are to talk it over when we are alone. I suppose it is some of that horrid poison which has got into her veins beginning to work. The Count had his own purposes when he gave her what Van Helsing called “the Vampire’s baptism of blood.” Well, there may be a poison that distils itself out of good things; in an age when the existence of ptomaines is a mystery we should not wonder at anything! One thing I know: that if my instinct be true regarding poor Mrs. Harker’s silences, then there is a terrible difficulty—an unknown danger—in the work before us. The same power that compels her silence may compel her speech. I dare not think further; for so I should in my thoughts dishonour a noble woman!

Van Helsing is coming to my study a little before the others. I shall try to open the subject with him.

 

Later.—When the Professor came in, we talked over the state of things. I could see that he had something on his mind which he wanted to say, but felt some hesitancy about broaching the subject. After beating about the bush a little, he said suddenly:--

“Friend John, there is something that you and I must talk of alone, just at the first at any rate. Later, we may have to take the others into our confidence”; then he stopped, so I waited; he went on:--

“Madam Mina, our poor, dear Madam Mina is changing.” A cold shiver ran through me to find my worst fears thus endorsed. Van Helsing continued:--

“With the sad experience of Miss Lucy, we must this time be warned before things go too far. Our task is now in reality more difficult than ever, and this new trouble makes every hour of the direst importance. I can see the characteristics of the vampire coming in her face. It is now but very, very slight; but it is to be seen if we have eyes to notice without to prejudge. Her teeth are some sharper, and at times her eyes are more hard. But these are not all, there is to her the silence now often; as so it was with Miss Lucy. She did not speak, even when she wrote that which she wished to be known later. Now my fear is this. If it be that she can, by our hypnotic trance, tell what the Count see and hear, is it not more true that he who have hypnotise her first, and who have drink of her very blood and make her drink of his, should, if he will, compel her mind to disclose to him that which she know?” I nodded acquiescence; he went on:--

“Then, what we must do is to prevent this; we must keep her ignorant of our intent, and so she cannot tell what she know not. This is a painful task! Oh, so painful that it heart-break me to think of; but it must be. When to-day we meet, I must tell her that for reason which we will not to speak she must not more be of our council, but be simply guarded by us.” He wiped his forehead, which had broken out in profuse perspiration at the thought of the pain which he might have to inflict upon the poor soul already so tortured. I knew that it would be some sort of comfort to him if I told him that I also had come to the same conclusion; for at any rate it would take away the pain of doubt. I told him, and the effect was as I expected.

It is now close to the time of our general gathering. Van Helsing has gone away to prepare for the meeting, and his painful part of it. I really believe his purpose is to be able to pray alone.

 

Later.—At the very outset of our meeting a great personal relief was experienced by both Van Helsing and myself. Mrs. Harker had sent a message by her husband to say that she would not join us at present, as she thought it better that we should be free to discuss our movements without her presence to embarrass us. The Professor and I looked at each other for an instant, and somehow we both seemed relieved. For my own part, I thought that if Mrs. Harker realised the danger herself, it was much pain as well as much danger averted. Under the circumstances we agreed, by a questioning look and answer, with finger on lip, to preserve silence in our suspicions, until we should have been able to confer alone again. We went at once into our Plan of Campaign. Van Helsing roughly put the facts before us first:--

“The Czarina Catherine left the Thames yesterday morning. It will take her at the quickest speed she has ever made at least three weeks to reach Varna; but we can travel overland to the same place in three days. Now, if we allow for two days less for the ship’s voyage, owing to such weather influences as we know that the Count can bring to bear; and if we allow a whole day and night for any delays which may occur to us, then we have a margin of nearly two weeks. Thus, in order to be quite safe, we must leave here on 17th at latest. Then we shall at any rate be in Varna a day before the ship arrives, and able to make such preparations as may be necessary. Of course we shall all go armed—armed against evil things, spiritual as well as physical.” Here Quincey Morris added:--

“I understand that the Count comes from a wolf country, and it may be that he shall get there before us. I propose that we add Winchesters to our armament. I have a kind of belief in a Winchester when there is any trouble of that sort around. Do you remember, Art, when we had the pack after us at Tobolsk? What wouldn’t we have given then for a repeater apiece!”

“Good!” said Van Helsing, “Winchesters it shall be. Quincey’s head is level at all times, but most so when there is to hunt, metaphor be more dishonour to science than wolves be of danger to man. In the meantime we can do nothing here; and as I think that Varna is not familiar to any of us, why not go there more soon? It is as long to wait here as there. To-night and to-morrow we can get ready, and then, if all be well, we four can set out on our journey.”

“We four?” said Harker interrogatively, looking from one to another of us.

“Of course!” answered the Professor quickly, “you must remain to take care of your so sweet wife!” Harker was silent for awhile and then said in a hollow voice:--

“Let us talk of that part of it in the morning. I want to consult with Mina.” I thought that now was the time for Van Helsing to warn him not to disclose our plans to her; but he took no notice. I looked at him significantly and coughed. For answer he put his finger on his lips and turned away.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

5 October, afternoon.—For some time after our meeting this morning I could not think. The new phases of things leave my mind in a state of wonder which allows no room for active thought. Mina’s determination not to take any part in the discussion set me thinking; and as I could not argue the matter with her, I could only guess. I am as far as ever from a solution now. The way the others received it, too, puzzled me; the last time we talked of the subject we agreed that there was to be no more concealment of anything amongst us. Mina is sleeping now, calmly and sweetly like a little child. Her lips are curved and her face beams with happiness. Thank God, there are such moments still for her.

 

Later.—How strange it all is. I sat watching Mina’s happy sleep, and came as near to being happy myself as I suppose I shall ever be. As the evening drew on, and the earth took its shadows from the sun sinking lower, the silence of the room grew more and more solemn to me. All at once Mina opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly, said:--

“Jonathan, I want you to promise me something on your word of honour. A promise made to me, but made holily in God’s hearing, and not to be broken though I should go down on my knees and implore you with bitter tears. Quick, you must make it to me at once.”

“Mina,” I said, “a promise like that, I cannot make at once. I may have no right to make it.”

“But, dear one,” she said, with such spiritual intensity that her eyes were like pole stars, “it is I who wish it; and it is not for myself. You can ask Dr. Van Helsing if I am not right; if he disagrees you may do as you will. Nay, more, if you all agree, later, you are absolved from the promise.”

“I promise!” I said, and for a moment she looked supremely happy; though to me all happiness for her was denied by the red scar on her forehead. She said:--

“Promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans formed for the campaign against the Count. Not by word, or inference, or implication; not at any time whilst this remains to me!” and she solemnly pointed to the scar. I saw that she was in earnest, and said solemnly:--

“I promise!” and as I said it I felt that from that instant a door had been shut between us.

 

Later, midnight.—Mina has been bright and cheerful all the evening. So much so that all the rest seemed to take courage, as if infected somewhat with her gaiety; as a result even I myself felt as if the pall of gloom which weighs us down were somewhat lifted. We all retired early. Mina is now sleeping like a little child; it is a wonderful thing that her faculty of sleep remains to her in the midst of her terrible trouble. Thank God for it, for then at least she can forget her care. Perhaps her example may affect me as her gaiety did to-night. I shall try it. Oh! for a dreamless sleep.

 

6 October, morning.—Another surprise. Mina woke me early, about the same time as yesterday, and asked me to bring Dr. Van Helsing. I thought that it was another occasion for hypnotism, and without question went for the Professor. He had evidently expected some such call, for I found him dressed in his room. His door was ajar, so that he could hear the opening of the door of our room. He came at once; as he passed into the room, he asked Mina if the others might come, too.

“No,” she said quite simply, “it will not be necessary. You can tell them just as well. I must go with you on your journey.”

Dr. Van Helsing was as startled as I was. After a moment’s pause he asked:--

“But why?”

“You must take me with you. I am safer with you, and you shall be safer, too.”

“But why, dear Madam Mina? You know that your safety is our solemnest duty. We go into danger, to which you are, or may be, more liable than any of us from—from circumstances—things that have been.” He paused, embarrassed.

As she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her forehead:--

“I know. That is why I must go. I can tell you now, whilst the sun is coming up; I may not be able again. I know that when the Count wills me I must go. I know that if he tells me to come in secret, I must come by wile; by any device to hoodwink—even Jonathan.” God saw the look that she turned on me as she spoke, and if there be indeed a Recording Angel that look is noted to her everlasting honour. I could only clasp her hand. I could not speak; my emotion was too great for even the relief of tears. She went on:--

“You men are brave and strong. You are strong in your numbers, for you can defy that which would break down the human endurance of one who had to guard alone. Besides, I may be of service, since you can hypnotise me and so learn that which even I myself do not know.” Dr. Van Helsing said very gravely:--

“Madam Mina, you are, as always, most wise. You shall with us come; and together we shall do that which we go forth to achieve.” When he had spoken, Mina’s long spell of silence made me look at her. She had fallen back on her pillow asleep; she did not even wake when I had pulled up the blind and let in the sunlight which flooded the room. Van Helsing motioned to me to come with him quietly. We went to his room, and within a minute Lord Godalming, Dr. Seward, and Mr. Morris were with us also. He told them what Mina had said, and went on:--

“In the morning we shall leave for Varna. We have now to deal with a new factor: Madam Mina. Oh, but her soul is true. It is to her an agony to tell us so much as she has done; but it is most right, and we are warned in time. There must be no chance lost, and in Varna we must be ready to act the instant when that ship arrives.”

“What shall we do exactly?” asked Mr. Morris laconically. The Professor paused before replying:--

“We shall at the first board that ship; then, when we have identified the box, we shall place a branch of the wild rose on it. This we shall fasten, for when it is there none can emerge; so at least says the superstition. And to superstition must we trust at the first; it was man’s faith in the early, and it have its root in faith still. Then, when we get the opportunity that we seek, when none are near to see, we shall open the box, and—and all will be well.”

“I shall not wait for any opportunity,” said Morris. “When I see the box I shall open it and destroy the monster, though there were a thousand men looking on, and if I am to be wiped out for it the next moment!” I grasped his hand instinctively and found it as firm as a piece of steel. I think he understood my look; I hope he did.

“Good boy,” said Dr. Van Helsing. “Brave boy. Quincey is all man. God bless him for it. My child, believe me none of us shall lag behind or pause from any fear. I do but say what we may do—what we must do. But, indeed, indeed we cannot say what we shall do. There are so many things which may happen, and their ways and their ends are so various that until the moment we may not say. We shall all be armed, in all ways; and when the time for the end has come, our effort shall not be lack. Now let us to-day put all our affairs in order. Let all things which touch on others dear to us, and who on us depend, be complete; for none of us can tell what, or when, or how, the end may be. As for me, my own affairs are regulate; and as I have nothing else to do, I shall go make arrangements for the travel. I shall have all tickets and so forth for our journey.”

There was nothing further to be said, and we parted. I shall now settle up all my affairs of earth, and be ready for whatever may come....

 

Later.—It is all done; my will is made, and all complete. Mina if she survive is my sole heir. If it should not be so, then the others who have been so good to us shall have remainder.

It is now drawing towards the sunset; Mina’s uneasiness calls my attention to it. I am sure that there is something on her mind which the time of exact sunset will reveal. These occasions are becoming harrowing times for us all, for each sunrise and sunset opens up some new danger—some new pain, which, however, may in God’s will be means to a good end. I write all these things in the diary since my darling must not hear them now; but if it may be that she can see them again, they shall be ready.

She is calling to me.

CHAPTER XXV

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

11 October, Evening.—Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept.

I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs. Harker a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom; when her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing or restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or condition begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with the rays streaming above the horizon. At first there is a sort of negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute freedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom ceases the change-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of warning silence.

To-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the signs of an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. A very few minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself; then, motioning her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining, she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband’s hand in hers began:--

“We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know, dear; I know that you will always be with me to the end.” This was to her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon hers. “In the morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in store for any of us. You are going to be so good to me as to take me with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak woman, whose soul perhaps is lost—no, no, not yet, but is at any rate at stake—you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are. There is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake; and though I know there is one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!” She looked appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband.

“What is that way?” asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. “What is that way, which we must not—may not—take?”

“That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before the greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you did my poor Lucy’s. Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be done, is God’s will. Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!” We were all silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The faces of the others were set and Harker’s grew ashen grey; perhaps he guessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued:--

“This is what I can give into the hotch-pot.” I could not but note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all seriousness. “What will each of you give? Your lives I know,” she went on quickly, “that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God’s, and you can give them back to Him; but what will you give to me?” She looked again questioningly, but this time avoided her husband’s face. Quincey seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up. “Then I shall tell you plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this connection between us now. You must promise me, one and all—even you, my beloved husband—that, should the time come, you will kill me.”

“What is that time?” The voice was Quincey’s, but it was low and strained.

“When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that I die that I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will, without a moment’s delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head; or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!”

Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her and taking her hand in his said solemnly:--

“I’m only a rough fellow, who hasn’t, perhaps, lived as a man should to win such a distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty that you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall make all certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has come!”

“My true friend!” was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as, bending over, she kissed his hand.

“I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!” said Van Helsing.

“And I!” said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to take the oath. I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked:--

“And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?”

“You too, my dearest,” she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her voice and eyes. “You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all time. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more because those that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men’s duty towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy’s case to him who loved”—she stopped with a flying blush, and changed her phrase—“to him who had best right to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make it a happy memory of my husband’s life that it was his loving hand which set me free from the awful thrall upon me.”

“Again I swear!” came the Professor’s resonant voice. Mrs. Harker smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and said:--

“And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget: this time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a time I myself might be—nay! if the time ever comes, shall be—leagued with your enemy against you.”

“One more request;” she became very solemn as she said this, “it is not vital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for me, if you will.” We all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need to speak:--

“I want you to read the Burial Service.” She was interrupted by a deep groan from her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and continued: “You must read it over me some day. Whatever may be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory for ever—come what may!”

“But oh, my dear one,” he pleaded, “death is afar off from you.”

“Nay,” she said, holding up a warning hand. “I am deeper in death at this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!”

“Oh, my wife, must I read it?” he said, before he began.

“It would comfort me, my husband!” was all she said; and he began to read when she had got the book ready.

“How can I—how could any one—tell of that strange scene, its solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal, its sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of her husband’s voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial of the Dead. I—I cannot go on—words—and—v-voice—f-fail m-me!”

 

She was right in her instinct. Strange as it all was, bizarre as it may hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it comforted us much; and the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker’s coming relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any of us as we had dreaded.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

15 October, Varna.—We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th, got to Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the Orient Express. We travelled night and day, arriving here at about five o’clock. Lord Godalming went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel—“the Odessus.” The journey may have had incidents; I was, however, too eager to get on, to care for them. Until the Czarina Catherine comes into port there will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world. Thank God! Mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger; her colour is coming back. She sleeps a great deal; throughout the journey she slept nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very wakeful and alert; and it has become a habit for Van Helsing to hypnotise her at such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he had to make many passes; but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by habit, and scarcely any action is needed. He seems to have power at these particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts obey him. He always asks her what she can see and hear. She answers to the first:--

“Nothing; all is dark.” And to the second:--

“I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing by. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. The wind is high—I can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam.” It is evident that the Czarina Catherine is still at sea, hastening on her way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect: that the Czarina Catherine had not been reported to Lloyd’s from anywhere. He had arranged before leaving London that his agent should send him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported. He was to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he might be sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the wire.

We had dinner and went to bed early. To-morrow we are to see the Vice-Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship as soon as she arrives. Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get on the boat between sunrise and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and so cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man’s form without suspicion—which he evidently wishes to avoid—he must remain in the box. If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy; for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor Lucy, before he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us will not count for much. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the seamen. Thank God! this is the country where bribery can do anything, and we are well supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the ship cannot come into port between sunset and sunrise without our being warned, and we shall be safe. Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I think!

 

16 October.—Mina’s report still the same: lapping waves and rushing water, darkness and favouring winds. We are evidently in good time, and when we hear of the Czarina Catherine we shall be ready. As she must pass the Dardanelles we are sure to have some report.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

17 October.—Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome the Count on his return from his tour. Godalming told the shippers that he fancied that the box sent aboard might contain something stolen from a friend of his, and got a half consent that he might open it at his own risk. The owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to give him every facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship, and also a similar authorisation to his agent at Varna. We have seen the agent, who was much impressed with Godalming’s kindly manner to him, and we are all satisfied that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be done. We have already arranged what to do in case we get the box open. If the Count is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at once and drive a stake through his heart. Morris and Godalming and I shall prevent interference, even if we have to use the arms which we shall have ready. The Professor says that if we can so treat the Count’s body, it will soon after fall into dust. In such case there would be no evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were aroused. But even if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and perhaps some day this very script may be evidence to come between some of us and a rope. For myself, I should take the chance only too thankfully if it were to come. We mean to leave no stone unturned to carry out our intent. We have arranged with certain officials that the instant the Czarina Catherine is seen, we are to be informed by a special messenger.

 

24 October.—A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming, but only the same story: “Not yet reported.” Mina’s morning and evening hypnotic answer is unvaried: lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking masts.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

25 October.—How I miss my phonograph! To write diary with a pen is irksome to me; but Van Helsing says I must. We were all wild with excitement yesterday when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd’s. I know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard. Mrs. Harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After all, it is not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show any excitement when we were in her presence. In old days she would, I am sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it; but in this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is getting back some of her colour, Van Helsing and I are not satisfied. We talk of her often; we have not, however, said a word to the others. It would break poor Harker’s heart—certainly his nerve—if he knew that we had even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing examines, he tells me, her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for he says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active danger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be necessary to take steps!... We both know what those steps would have to be, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other. We should neither of us shrink from the task—awful though it be to contemplate. “Euthanasia” is an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to whoever invented it.

It is only about 24 hours’ sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the rate the Czarina Catherine has come from London. She should therefore arrive some time in the morning; but as she cannot possibly get in before then, we are all about to retire early. We shall get up at one o’clock, so as to be ready.

 

25 October, Noon.—No news yet of the ship’s arrival. Mrs. Harker’s hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible that we may get news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of excitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the Count if the edge of that “Kukri” ever touches his throat, driven by that stern, ice-cold hand!

Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker to-day. About noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like; although we kept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. She had been restless all the morning, so that we were at first glad to know that she was sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned casually that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to her room to see for ourselves. She was breathing naturally and looked so well and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than anything else. Poor girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good.

 

Later.—Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep of some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had been for days. At sunset she made the usual hypnotic report. Wherever he may be in the Black Sea, the Count is hurrying to his destination. To his doom, I trust!

 

26 October.—Another day and no tidings of the Czarina Catherine. She ought to be here by now. That she is still journeying somewhere is apparent, for Mrs. Harker’s hypnotic report at sunrise was still the same. It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog; some of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of fog both to north and south of the port. We must continue our watching, as the ship may now be signalled any moment.

 

27 October, Noon.—Most strange; no news yet of the ship we wait for. Mrs. Harker reported last night and this morning as usual: “lapping waves and rushing water,” though she added that “the waves were very faint.” The telegrams from London have been the same: “no further report.” Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he fears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly:--

“I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina’s. Souls and memories can do strange things during trance.” I was about to ask him more, but Harker just then came in, and he held up a warning hand. We must try to-night at sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state.

 

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

28 October.—When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been expected. True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would come; but I think we all expected that something strange would happen. The delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things would not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the change would occur. None the less, however, was it a surprise. I suppose that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if it be a will-o’-the-wisp to man. It was an odd experience and we all took it differently. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a moment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris tightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well; in our old wandering days it meant “action.” Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so that the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled—actually smiled—the dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of the great Kukri knife and rested there. “When does the next train start for Galatz?” said Van Helsing to us generally.

“At 6:30 to-morrow morning!” We all started, for the answer came from Mrs. Harker.

“How on earth do you know?” said Art.

“You forget—or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so does Dr. Van Helsing—that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I always used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of the time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn, as the only train to-morrow leaves as I say.”

“Wonderful woman!” murmured the Professor.

“Can’t we get a special?” asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his head: “I fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine; even if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our regular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must think. Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him letters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make search the ship just as it was here. Morris Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get his aid with his fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth, so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will stay with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so if time be long you may be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since I am here with Madam to make report.”

“And I,” said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she had been for many a long day, “shall try to be of use in all ways, and shall think and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting from me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have been of late!” The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to realise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and I, turning to each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the time, however.

When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs. Harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of Harker’s journal at the Castle. She went away to get it; when the door was shut upon her he said to me:--

“We mean the same! speak out!”

“There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may deceive us.”

“Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?”

“No!” said I, “unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone.”

“You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell you something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great—a terrible—risk; but I believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn then that we are here; for she have more to tell in her open life with eyes to see and ears to hear than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box. Now he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her not.

“He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call; but he cut her off—take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that so she come not to him. Ah! there I have hope that our man-brains that have been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of God, will come higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries, that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her of her trance! She know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when we want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great brain which is trained like man’s brain, but is of sweet woman and have a special power which the Count give her, and which he may not take away altogether—though he think not so. Hush! let me speak, and you shall learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never feared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! here she comes!”

I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics, just as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled himself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into the room, bright and happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly forgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of sheets of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face brightening up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and thumb he said:--

“Friend John, to you with so much of experience already—and you, too, dear Madam Mina, that are young—here is a lesson: do not fear ever to think. A half-thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to let him loose his wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to where that half-thought come from and I find that he be no half-thought at all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the “Ugly Duck” of my friend Hans Andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I read here what Jonathan have written:--

“That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought his forces over The Great River into Turkey Land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph.”

“What does this tell us? Not much? no! The Count’s child-thought see nothing; therefore he speak so free. Your man-thought see nothing; my man-thought see nothing, till just now. No! But there comes another word from some one who speak without thought because she, too, know not what it mean—what it might mean. Just as there are elements which rest, yet when in nature’s course they move on their way and they touch—then pouf! and there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill and destroy some; but that show up all earth below for leagues and leagues. Is it not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, have you ever study the philosophy of crime? ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ You, John, yes; for it is a study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina; for crime touch you not—not but once. Still, your mind works true, and argues not a particulari ad universale. There is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so constant, in all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much from philosophy, come to know it empirically, that it is. That is to be empiric. The criminal always work at one crime—that is the true criminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none other. This criminal has not full man-brain. He is clever and cunning and resourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to brain. He be of child-brain in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime also; he, too, have child-brain, and it is of the child to do what he have done. The little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not by principle, but empirically; and when he learn to do, then there is to him the ground to start from to do more. ‘Dos pou sto,’ said Archimedes. ‘Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!’ To do once, is the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-brain; and until he have the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time, just as he have done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are opened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues,” for Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled. He went on:--

“Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see with those so bright eyes.” He took her hand and held it whilst she spoke. His finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and unconsciously, as she spoke:--

“The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would so classify him, and quâ criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind. Thus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a clue, and the one page of it that we know—and that from his own lips—tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris would call a ‘tight place,’ he went back to his own country from the land he had tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself for a new effort. He came again better equipped for his work; and won. So he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over the sea to his home; just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube from Turkey Land.”

“Good, good! oh, you so clever lady!” said Van Helsing, enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he said to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick-room consultation:--

“Seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. I have hope.” Turning to her again, he said with keen expectation:--

“But go on. Go on! there is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid; John and I know. I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right. Speak, without fear!”

“I will try to; but you will forgive me if I seem egotistical.”

“Nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think.”

“Then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is small and his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one purpose. That purpose is remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube, leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being safe, careless of all. So his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that dreadful night. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul is freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that haunts me is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for his ends.” The Professor stood up:--

“He has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in Varna, whilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us. But his child-mind only saw so far; and it may be that, as ever is in God’s Providence, the very thing that the evil-doer most reckoned on for his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter is taken in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he is free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so many hours to him, then his selfish child-brain will whisper him to sleep. He think, too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind, there can be no knowledge of him to you; there is where he fail! That terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go to him in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the sun rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his; and this power to good of you and others, as you have won from your suffering at his hands. This is now all the more precious that he know it not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and we believe that God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark hours. We shall follow him; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril ourselves that we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great hour; and it have done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe and write him all down, so that when the others return from their work you can give it to them; then they shall know as we do.”

And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker has written with her typewriter all since she brought the MS. to us.

CHAPTER XXVI

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

29 October.—This is written in the train from Varna to Galatz. Last night we all assembled a little before the time of sunset. Each of us had done his work as well as he could; so far as thought, and endeavour, and opportunity go, we are prepared for the whole of our journey, and for our work when we get to Galatz. When the usual time came round Mrs. Harker prepared herself for her hypnotic effort; and after a longer and more serious effort on the part of Van Helsing than has been usually necessary, she sank into the trance. Usually she speaks on a hint; but this time the Professor had to ask her questions, and to ask them pretty resolutely, before we could learn anything; at last her answer came:--

“I can see nothing; we are still; there are no waves lapping, but only a steady swirl of water softly running against the hawser. I can hear men’s voices calling, near and far, and the roll and creak of oars in the rowlocks. A gun is fired somewhere; the echo of it seems far away. There is tramping of feet overhead, and ropes and chains are dragged along. What is this? There is a gleam of light; I can feel the air blowing upon me.”

Here she stopped. She had risen, as if impulsively, from where she lay on the sofa, and raised both her hands, palms upwards, as if lifting a weight. Van Helsing and I looked at each other with understanding. Quincey raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at her intently, whilst Harker’s hand instinctively closed round the hilt of his Kukri. There was a long pause. We all knew that the time when she could speak was passing; but we felt that it was useless to say anything. Suddenly she sat up, and, as she opened her eyes, said sweetly:--

“Would none of you like a cup of tea? You must all be so tired!” We could only make her happy, and so acquiesced. She bustled off to get tea; when she had gone Van Helsing said:--

“You see, my friends. He is close to land: he has left his earth-chest. But he has yet to get on shore. In the night he may lie hidden somewhere; but if he be not carried on shore, or if the ship do not touch it, he cannot achieve the land. In such case he can, if it be in the night, change his form and can jump or fly on shore, as he did at Whitby. But if the day come before he get on shore, then, unless he be carried he cannot escape. And if he be carried, then the customs men may discover what the box contain. Thus, in fine, if he escape not on shore to-night, or before dawn, there will be the whole day lost to him. We may then arrive in time; for if he escape not at night we shall come on him in daytime, boxed up and at our mercy; for he dare not be his true self, awake and visible, lest he be discovered.”

There was no more to be said, so we waited in patience until the dawn; at which time we might learn more from Mrs. Harker.

Early this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for her response in her trance. The hypnotic stage was even longer in coming than before; and when it came the time remaining until full sunrise was so short that we began to despair. Van Helsing seemed to throw his whole soul into the effort; at last, in obedience to his will she made reply:--

“All is dark. I hear lapping water, level with me, and some creaking as of wood on wood.” She paused, and the red sun shot up. We must wait till to-night.

And so it is that we are travelling towards Galatz in an agony of expectation. We are due to arrive between two and three in the morning; but already, at Bucharest, we are three hours late, so we cannot possibly get in till well after sun-up. Thus we shall have two more hypnotic messages from Mrs. Harker; either or both may possibly throw more light on what is happening.

 

Later.—Sunset has come and gone. Fortunately it came at a time when there was no distraction; for had it occurred whilst we were at a station, we might not have secured the necessary calm and isolation. Mrs. Harker yielded to the hypnotic influence even less readily than this morning. I am in fear that her power of reading the Count’s sensations may die away, just when we want it most. It seems to me that her imagination is beginning to work. Whilst she has been in the trance hitherto she has confined herself to the simplest of facts. If this goes on it may ultimately mislead us. If I thought that the Count’s power over her would die away equally with her power of knowledge it would be a happy thought; but I am afraid that it may not be so. When she did speak, her words were enigmatical:--

“Something is going out; I can feel it pass me like a cold wind. I can hear, far off, confused sounds—as of men talking in strange tongues, fierce-falling water, and the howling of wolves.” She stopped and a shudder ran through her, increasing in intensity for a few seconds, till, at the end, she shook as though in a palsy. She said no more, even in answer to the Professor’s imperative questioning. When she woke from the trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and languid; but her mind was all alert. She could not remember anything, but asked what she had said; when she was told, she pondered over it deeply for a long time and in silence.

 

30 October, 7 a. m.—We are near Galatz now, and I may not have time to write later. Sunrise this morning was anxiously looked for by us all. Knowing of the increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic trance, Van Helsing began his passes earlier than usual. They produced no effect, however, until the regular time, when she yielded with a still greater difficulty, only a minute before the sun rose. The Professor lost no time in his questioning; her answer came with equal quickness:--

“All is dark. I hear water swirling by, level with my ears, and the creaking of wood on wood. Cattle low far off. There is another sound, a queer one like——” She stopped and grew white, and whiter still.

“Go on; go on! Speak, I command you!” said Van Helsing in an agonised voice. At the same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen sun was reddening even Mrs. Harker’s pale face. She opened her eyes, and we all started as she said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost unconcern:--

“Oh, Professor, why ask me to do what you know I can’t? I don’t remember anything.” Then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces, she said, turning from one to the other with a troubled look:--

“What have I said? What have I done? I know nothing, only that I was lying here, half asleep, and heard you say go on! speak, I command you!’ It seemed so funny to hear you order me about, as if I were a bad child!”

“Oh, Madam Mina,” he said, sadly, “it is proof, if proof be needed, of how I love and honour you, when a word for your good, spoken more earnest than ever, can seem so strange because it is to order her whom I am proud to obey!”

The whistles are sounding; we are nearing Galatz. We are on fire with anxiety and eagerness.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

30 October.—Mr. Morris took me to the hotel where our rooms had been ordered by telegraph, he being the one who could best be spared, since he does not speak any foreign language. The forces were distributed much as they had been at Varna, except that Lord Godalming went to the Vice-Consul, as his rank might serve as an immediate guarantee of some sort to the official, we being in extreme hurry. Jonathan and the two doctors went to the shipping agent to learn particulars of the arrival of the Czarina Catherine.

 

Later.—Lord Godalming has returned. The Consul is away, and the Vice-Consul sick; so the routine work has been attended to by a clerk. He was very obliging, and offered to do anything in his power.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

30 October.—At nine o’clock Dr. Van Helsing, Dr. Seward, and I called on Messrs. Mackenzie & Steinkoff, the agents of the London firm of Hapgood. They had received a wire from London, in answer to Lord Godalming’s telegraphed request, asking us to show them any civility in their power. They were more than kind and courteous, and took us at once on board the Czarina Catherine, which lay at anchor out in the river harbour. There we saw the Captain, Donelson by name, who told us of his voyage. He said that in all his life he had never had so favourable a run.

“Man!” he said, “but it made us afeard, for we expeckit that we should have to pay for it wi’ some rare piece o’ ill luck, so as to keep up the average. It’s no canny to run frae London to the Black Sea wi’ a wind ahint ye, as though the Deil himself were blawin’ on yer sail for his ain purpose. An’ a’ the time we could no speer a thing. Gin we were nigh a ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell on us and travelled wi’ us, till when after it had lifted and we looked out, the deil a thing could we see. We ran by Gibraltar wi’oot bein’ able to signal; an’ till we came to the Dardanelles and had to wait to get our permit to pass, we never were within hail o’ aught. At first I inclined to slack off sail and beat about till the fog was lifted; but whiles, I thocht that if the Deil was minded to get us into the Black Sea quick, he was like to do it whether we would or no. If we had a quick voyage it would be no to our miscredit wi’ the owners, or no hurt to our traffic; an’ the Old Mon who had served his ain purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no hinderin’ him.” This mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition and commercial reasoning, aroused Van Helsing, who said:--

“Mine friend, that Devil is more clever than he is thought by some; and he know when he meet his match!” The skipper was not displeased with the compliment, and went on:--

“When we got past the Bosphorus the men began to grumble; some o’ them, the Roumanians, came and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had been put on board by a queer lookin’ old man just before we had started frae London. I had seen them speer at the fellow, and put out their twa fingers when they saw him, to guard against the evil eye. Man! but the supersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly rideeculous! I sent them aboot their business pretty quick; but as just after a fog closed in on us I felt a wee bit as they did anent something, though I wouldn’t say it was agin the big box. Well, on we went, and as the fog didn’t let up for five days I joost let the wind carry us; for if the Deil wanted to get somewheres—well, he would fetch it up a’reet. An’ if he didn’t, well, we’d keep a sharp lookout anyhow. Sure eneuch, we had a fair way and deep water all the time; and two days ago, when the mornin’ sun came through the fog, we found ourselves just in the river opposite Galatz. The Roumanians were wild, and wanted me right or wrong to take out the box and fling it in the river. I had to argy wi’ them aboot it wi’ a handspike; an’ when the last o’ them rose off the deck wi’ his head in his hand, I had convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the property and the trust of my owners were better in my hands than in the river Danube. They had, mind ye, taken the box on the deck ready to fling in, and as it was marked Galatz via Varna, I thocht I’d let it lie till we discharged in the port an’ get rid o’t althegither. We didn’t do much clearin’ that day, an’ had to remain the nicht at anchor; but in the mornin’, braw an’ airly, an hour before sun-up, a man came aboard wi’ an order, written to him from England, to receive a box marked for one Count Dracula. Sure eneuch the matter was one ready to his hand. He had his papers a’ reet, an’ glad I was to be rid o’ the dam’ thing, for I was beginnin’ masel’ to feel uneasy at it. If the Deil did have any luggage aboord the ship, I’m thinkin’ it was nane ither than that same!”

“What was the name of the man who took it?” asked Dr. Van Helsing with restrained eagerness.

“I’ll be tellin’ ye quick!” he answered, and, stepping down to his cabin, produced a receipt signed “Immanuel Hildesheim.” Burgen-strasse 16 was the address. We found out that this was all the Captain knew; so with thanks we came away.

We found Hildesheim in his office, a Hebrew of rather the Adelphi Theatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez. His arguments were pointed with specie—we doing the punctuation—and with a little bargaining he told us what he knew. This turned out to be simple but important. He had received a letter from Mr. de Ville of London, telling him to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a box which would arrive at Galatz in the Czarina Catherine. This he was to give in charge to a certain Petrof Skinsky, who dealt with the Slovaks who traded down the river to the port. He had been paid for his work by an English bank note, which had been duly cashed for gold at the Danube International Bank. When Skinsky had come to him, he had taken him to the ship and handed over the box, so as to save porterage. That was all he knew.

We then sought for Skinsky, but were unable to find him. One of his neighbours, who did not seem to bear him any affection, said that he had gone away two days before, no one knew whither. This was corroborated by his landlord, who had received by messenger the key of the house together with the rent due, in English money. This had been between ten and eleven o’clock last night. We were at a standstill again.

Whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out that the body of Skinsky had been found inside the wall of the churchyard of St. Peter, and that the throat had been torn open as if by some wild animal. Those we had been speaking with ran off to see the horror, the women crying out “This is the work of a Slovak!” We hurried away lest we should have been in some way drawn into the affair, and so detained.

As we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion. We were all convinced that the box was on its way, by water, to somewhere; but where that might be we would have to discover. With heavy hearts we came home to the hotel to Mina.

When we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking Mina again into our confidence. Things are getting desperate, and it is at least a chance, though a hazardous one. As a preliminary step, I was released from my promise to her.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

30 October, evening.—They were so tired and worn out and dispirited that there was nothing to be done till they had some rest; so I asked them all to lie down for half an hour whilst I should enter everything up to the moment. I feel so grateful to the man who invented the “Traveller’s” typewriter, and to Mr. Morris for getting this one for me. I should have felt quite; astray doing the work if I had to write with a pen....

It is all done; poor dear, dear Jonathan, what he must have suffered, what must he be suffering now. He lies on the sofa hardly seeming to breathe, and his whole body appears in collapse. His brows are knit; his face is drawn with pain. Poor fellow, maybe he is thinking, and I can see his face all wrinkled up with the concentration of his thoughts. Oh! if I could only help at all.... I shall do what I can.

I have asked Dr. Van Helsing, and he has got me all the papers that I have not yet seen.... Whilst they are resting, I shall go over all carefully, and perhaps I may arrive at some conclusion. I shall try to follow the Professor’s example, and think without prejudice on the facts before me....

 

I do believe that under God’s providence I have made a discovery. I shall get the maps and look over them....

 

I am more than ever sure that I am right. My new conclusion is ready, so I shall get our party together and read it. They can judge it; it is well to be accurate, and every minute is precious.

Mina Harker’s Memorandum.

(Entered in her Journal.)

Ground of inquiry.—Count Dracula’s problem is to get back to his own place.

(a) He must be brought back by some one. This is evident; for had he power to move himself as he wished he could go either as man, or wolf, or bat, or in some other way. He evidently fears discovery or interference, in the state of helplessness in which he must be—confined as he is between dawn and sunset in his wooden box.

(b) How is he to be taken?—Here a process of exclusions may help us. By road, by rail, by water?

1. By Road.—There are endless difficulties, especially in leaving the city.

(x) There are people; and people are curious, and investigate. A hint, a surmise, a doubt as to what might be in the box, would destroy him.

(y) There are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers to pass.

(z) His pursuers might follow. This is his highest fear; and in order to prevent his being betrayed he has repelled, so far as he can, even his victim—me!

2. By Rail.—There is no one in charge of the box. It would have to take its chance of being delayed; and delay would be fatal, with enemies on the track. True, he might escape at night; but what would he be, if left in a strange place with no refuge that he could fly to? This is not what he intends; and he does not mean to risk it.

3. By Water.—Here is the safest way, in one respect, but with most danger in another. On the water he is powerless except at night; even then he can only summon fog and storm and snow and his wolves. But were he wrecked, the living water would engulf him, helpless; and he would indeed be lost. He could have the vessel drive to land; but if it were unfriendly land, wherein he was not free to move, his position would still be desperate.

We know from the record that he was on the water; so what we have to do is to ascertain what water.

The first thing is to realise exactly what he has done as yet; we may, then, get a light on what his later task is to be.

Firstly.—We must differentiate between what he did in London as part of his general plan of action, when he was pressed for moments and had to arrange as best he could.

Secondly we must see, as well as we can surmise it from the facts we know of, what he has done here.

As to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at Galatz, and sent invoice to Varna to deceive us lest we should ascertain his means of exit from England; his immediate and sole purpose then was to escape. The proof of this, is the letter of instructions sent to Immanuel Hildesheim to clear and take away the box before sunrise. There is also the instruction to Petrof Skinsky. These we must only guess at; but there must have been some letter or message, since Skinsky came to Hildesheim.

That, so far, his plans were successful we know. The Czarina Catherine made a phenomenally quick journey—so much so that Captain Donelson’s suspicions were aroused; but his superstition united with his canniness played the Count’s game for him, and he ran with his favouring wind through fogs and all till he brought up blindfold at Galatz. That the Count’s arrangements were well made, has been proved. Hildesheim cleared the box, took it off, and gave it to Skinsky. Skinsky took it—and here we lose the trail. We only know that the box is somewhere on the water, moving along. The customs and the octroi, if there be any, have been avoided.

Now we come to what the Count must have done after his arrival--on land, at Galatz.

The box was given to Skinsky before sunrise. At sunrise the Count could appear in his own form. Here, we ask why Skinsky was chosen at all to aid in the work? In my husband’s diary, Skinsky is mentioned as dealing with the Slovaks who trade down the river to the port; and the man’s remark, that the murder was the work of a Slovak, showed the general feeling against his class. The Count wanted isolation.

My surmise is, this: that in London the Count decided to get back to his castle by water, as the most safe and secret way. He was brought from the castle by Szgany, and probably they delivered their cargo to Slovaks who took the boxes to Varna, for there they were shipped for London. Thus the Count had knowledge of the persons who could arrange this service. When the box was on land, before sunrise or after sunset, he came out from his box, met Skinsky and instructed him what to do as to arranging the carriage of the box up some river. When this was done, and he knew that all was in train, he blotted out his traces, as he thought, by murdering his agent.

I have examined the map and find that the river most suitable for the Slovaks to have ascended is either the Pruth or the Sereth. I read in the typescript that in my trance I heard cows low and water swirling level with my ears and the creaking of wood. The Count in his box, then, was on a river in an open boat—propelled probably either by oars or poles, for the banks are near and it is working against stream. There would be no such sound if floating down stream.

Of course it may not be either the Sereth or the Pruth, but we may possibly investigate further. Now of these two, the Pruth is the more easily navigated, but the Sereth is, at Fundu, joined by the Bistritza which runs up round the Borgo Pass. The loop it makes is manifestly as close to Dracula’s castle as can be got by water.

Mina Harker’s Journal—continued.

When I had done reading, Jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me. The others kept shaking me by both hands, and Dr. Van Helsing said:--

“Our dear Madam Mina is once more our teacher. Her eyes have been where we were blinded. Now we are on the track once again, and this time we may succeed. Our enemy is at his most helpless; and if we can come on him by day, on the water, our task will be over. He has a start, but he is powerless to hasten, as he may not leave his box lest those who carry him may suspect; for them to suspect would be to prompt them to throw him in the stream where he perish. This he knows, and will not. Now men, to our Council of War; for, here and now, we must plan what each and all shall do.”

“I shall get a steam launch and follow him,” said Lord Godalming.

“And I, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he land,” said Mr. Morris.

“Good!” said the Professor, “both good. But neither must go alone. There must be force to overcome force if need be; the Slovak is strong and rough, and he carries rude arms.” All the men smiled, for amongst them they carried a small arsenal. Said Mr. Morris:--

“I have brought some Winchesters; they are pretty handy in a crowd, and there may be wolves. The Count, if you remember, took some other precautions; he made some requisitions on others that Mrs. Harker could not quite hear or understand. We must be ready at all points.” Dr. Seward said:--

“I think I had better go with Quincey. We have been accustomed to hunt together, and we two, well armed, will be a match for whatever may come along. You must not be alone, Art. It may be necessary to fight the Slovaks, and a chance thrust—for I don’t suppose these fellows carry guns—would undo all our plans. There must be no chances, this time; we shall, not rest until the Count’s head and body have been separated, and we are sure that he cannot re-incarnate.” He looked at Jonathan as he spoke, and Jonathan looked at me. I could see that the poor dear was torn about in his mind. Of course he wanted to be with me; but then the boat service would, most likely, be the one which would destroy the ... the ... the ... Vampire. (Why did I hesitate to write the word?) He was silent awhile, and during his silence Dr. Van Helsing spoke:--

“Friend Jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons. First, because you are young and brave and can fight, and all energies may be needed at the last; and again that it is your right to destroy him—that—which has wrought such woe to you and yours. Be not afraid for Madam Mina; she will be my care, if I may. I am old. My legs are not so quick to run as once; and I am not used to ride so long or to pursue as need be, or to fight with lethal weapons. But I can be of other service; I can fight in other way. And I can die, if need be, as well as younger men. Now let me say that what I would is this: while you, my Lord Godalming and friend Jonathan go in your so swift little steamboat up the river, and whilst John and Quincey guard the bank where perchance he might be landed, I will take Madam Mina right into the heart of the enemy’s country. Whilst the old fox is tied in his box, floating on the running stream whence he cannot escape to land—where he dares not raise the lid of his coffin-box lest his Slovak carriers should in fear leave him to perish—we shall go in the track where Jonathan went,—from Bistritz over the Borgo, and find our way to the Castle of Dracula. Here, Madam Mina’s hypnotic power will surely help, and we shall find our way—all dark and unknown otherwise—after the first sunrise when we are near that fateful place. There is much to be done, and other places to be made sanctify, so that that nest of vipers be obliterated.” Here Jonathan interrupted him hotly:--

“Do you mean to say, Professor Van Helsing, that you would bring Mina, in her sad case and tainted as she is with that devil’s illness, right into the jaws of his death-trap? Not for the world! Not for Heaven or Hell!” He became almost speechless for a minute, and then went on:--

“Do you know what the place is? Have you seen that awful den of hellish infamy—with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every speck of dust that whirls in the wind a devouring monster in embryo? Have you felt the Vampire’s lips upon your throat?” Here he turned to me, and as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up his arms with a cry: “Oh, my God, what have we done to have this terror upon us!” and he sank down on the sofa in a collapse of misery. The Professor’s voice, as he spoke in clear, sweet tones, which seemed to vibrate in the air, calmed us all:--

“Oh, my friend, it is because I would save Madam Mina from that awful place that I would go. God forbid that I should take her into that place. There is work—wild work—to be done there, that her eyes may not see. We men here, all save Jonathan, have seen with their own eyes what is to be done before that place can be purify. Remember that we are in terrible straits. If the Count escape us this time—and he is strong and subtle and cunning—he may choose to sleep him for a century, and then in time our dear one”—he took my hand—“would come to him to keep him company, and would be as those others that you, Jonathan, saw. You have told us of their gloating lips; you heard their ribald laugh as they clutched the moving bag that the Count threw to them. You shudder; and well may it be. Forgive me that I make you so much pain, but it is necessary. My friend, is it not a dire need for the which I am giving, possibly my life? If it were that any one went into that place to stay, it is I who would have to go to keep them company.”

“Do as you will,” said Jonathan, with a sob that shook him all over, “we are in the hands of God!”

 

Later.—Oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave men worked. How can women help loving men when they are so earnest, and so true, and so brave! And, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of money! What can it not do when it is properly applied; and what might it do when basely used. I felt so thankful that Lord Godalming is rich, and that both he and Mr. Morris, who also has plenty of money, are willing to spend it so freely. For if they did not, our little expedition could not start, either so promptly or so well equipped, as it will within another hour. It is not three hours since it was arranged what part each of us was to do; and now Lord Godalming and Jonathan have a lovely steam launch, with steam up ready to start at a moment’s notice. Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris have half a dozen good horses, well appointed. We have all the maps and appliances of various kinds that can be had. Professor Van Helsing and I are to leave by the 11:40 train to-night for Veresti, where we are to get a carriage to drive to the Borgo Pass. We are bringing a good deal of ready money, as we are to buy a carriage and horses. We shall drive ourselves, for we have no one whom we can trust in the matter. The Professor knows something of a great many languages, so we shall get on all right. We have all got arms, even for me a large-bore revolver; Jonathan would not be happy unless I was armed like the rest. Alas! I cannot carry one arm that the rest do; the scar on my forehead forbids that. Dear Dr. Van Helsing comforts me by telling me that I am fully armed as there may be wolves; the weather is getting colder every hour, and there are snow-flurries which come and go as warnings.

 

Later.—It took all my courage to say good-bye to my darling. We may never meet again. Courage, Mina! the Professor is looking at you keenly; his look is a warning. There must be no tears now—unless it may be that God will let them fall in gladness.

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

October 30. Night.—I am writing this in the light from the furnace door of the steam launch: Lord Godalming is firing up. He is an experienced hand at the work, as he has had for years a launch of his own on the Thames, and another on the Norfolk Broads. Regarding our plans, we finally decided that Mina’s guess was correct, and that if any waterway was chosen for the Count’s escape back to his Castle, the Sereth and then the Bistritza at its junction, would be the one. We took it, that somewhere about the 47th degree, north latitude, would be the place chosen for the crossing the country between the river and the Carpathians. We have no fear in running at good speed up the river at night; there is plenty of water, and the banks are wide enough apart to make steaming, even in the dark, easy enough. Lord Godalming tells me to sleep for a while, as it is enough for the present for one to be on watch. But I cannot sleep—how can I with the terrible danger hanging over my darling, and her going out into that awful place.... My only comfort is that we are in the hands of God. Only for that faith it would be easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble. Mr. Morris and Dr. Seward were off on their long ride before we started; they are to keep up the right bank, far enough off to get on higher lands where they can see a good stretch of river and avoid the following of its curves. They have, for the first stages, two men to ride and lead their spare horses—four in all, so as not to excite curiosity. When they dismiss the men, which shall be shortly, they shall themselves look after the horses. It may be necessary for us to join forces; if so they can mount our whole party. One of the saddles has a movable horn, and can be easily adapted for Mina, if required.

It is a wild adventure we are on. Here, as we are rushing along through the darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike us; with all the mysterious voices of the night around us, it all comes home. We seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways; into a whole world of dark and dreadful things. Godalming is shutting the furnace door....

 

31 October.—Still hurrying along. The day has come, and Godalming is sleeping. I am on watch. The morning is bitterly cold; the furnace heat is grateful, though we have heavy fur coats. As yet we have passed only a few open boats, but none of them had on board any box or package of anything like the size of the one we seek. The men were scared every time we turned our electric lamp on them, and fell on their knees and prayed.

 

1 November, evening.—No news all day; we have found nothing of the kind we seek. We have now passed into the Bistritza; and if we are wrong in our surmise our chance is gone. We have over-hauled every boat, big and little. Early this morning, one crew took us for a Government boat, and treated us accordingly. We saw in this a way of smoothing matters, so at Fundu, where the Bistritza runs into the Sereth, we got a Roumanian flag which we now fly conspicuously. With every boat which we have over-hauled since then this trick has succeeded; we have had every deference shown to us, and not once any objection to whatever we chose to ask or do. Some of the Slovaks tell us that a big boat passed them, going at more than usual speed as she had a double crew on board. This was before they came to Fundu, so they could not tell us whether the boat turned into the Bistritza or continued on up the Sereth. At Fundu we could not hear of any such boat, so she must have passed there in the night. I am feeling very sleepy; the cold is perhaps beginning to tell upon me, and nature must have rest some time. Godalming insists that he shall keep the first watch. God bless him for all his goodness to poor dear Mina and me.

 

2 November, morning.—It is broad daylight. That good fellow would not wake me. He says it would have been a sin to, for I slept peacefully and was forgetting my trouble. It seems brutally selfish to me to have slept so long, and let him watch all night; but he was quite right. I am a new man this morning; and, as I sit here and watch him sleeping, I can do all that is necessary both as to minding the engine, steering, and keeping watch. I can feel that my strength and energy are coming back to me. I wonder where Mina is now, and Van Helsing. They should have got to Veresti about noon on Wednesday. It would take them some time to get the carriage and horses; so if they had started and travelled hard, they would be about now at the Borgo Pass. God guide and help them! I am afraid to think what may happen. If we could only go faster! but we cannot; the engines are throbbing and doing their utmost. I wonder how Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris are getting on. There seem to be endless streams running down the mountains into this river, but as none of them are very large—at present, at all events, though they are terrible doubtless in winter and when the snow melts—the horsemen may not have met much obstruction. I hope that before we get to Strasba we may see them; for if by that time we have not overtaken the Count, it may be necessary to take counsel together what to do next.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

2 November.—Three days on the road. No news, and no time to write it if there had been, for every moment is precious. We have had only the rest needful for the horses; but we are both bearing it wonderfully. Those adventurous days of ours are turning up useful. We must push on; we shall never feel happy till we get the launch in sight again.

 

3 November.—We heard at Fundu that the launch had gone up the Bistritza. I wish it wasn’t so cold. There are signs of snow coming; and if it falls heavy it will stop us. In such case we must get a sledge and go on, Russian fashion.

 

4 November.—To-day we heard of the launch having been detained by an accident when trying to force a way up the rapids. The Slovak boats get up all right, by aid of a rope and steering with knowledge. Some went up only a few hours before. Godalming is an amateur fitter himself, and evidently it was he who put the launch in trim again. Finally, they got up the rapids all right, with local help, and are off on the chase afresh. I fear that the boat is not any better for the accident; the peasantry tell us that after she got upon smooth water again, she kept stopping every now and again so long as she was in sight. We must push on harder than ever; our help may be wanted soon.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

31 October.—Arrived at Veresti at noon. The Professor tells me that this morning at dawn he could hardly hypnotise me at all, and that all I could say was: “dark and quiet.” He is off now buying a carriage and horses. He says that he will later on try to buy additional horses, so that we may be able to change them on the way. We have something more than 70 miles before us. The country is lovely, and most interesting; if only we were under different conditions, how delightful it would be to see it all. If Jonathan and I were driving through it alone what a pleasure it would be. To stop and see people, and learn something of their life, and to fill our minds and memories with all the colour and picturesqueness of the whole wild, beautiful country and the quaint people! But, alas!--

 

Later.—Dr. Van Helsing has returned. He has got the carriage and horses; we are to have some dinner, and to start in an hour. The landlady is putting us up a huge basket of provisions; it seems enough for a company of soldiers. The Professor encourages her, and whispers to me that it may be a week before we can get any good food again. He has been shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful lot of fur coats and wraps, and all sorts of warm things. There will not be any chance of our being cold.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

We shall soon be off. I am afraid to think what may happen to us. We are truly in the hands of God. He alone knows what may be, and I pray Him, with all the strength of my sad and humble soul, that He will watch over my beloved husband; that whatever may happen, Jonathan may know that I loved him and honoured him more than I can say, and that my latest and truest thought will be always for him.

CHAPTER XXVII

MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

1 November.—All day long we have travelled, and at a good speed. The horses seem to know that they are being kindly treated, for they go willingly their full stage at best speed. We have now had so many changes and find the same thing so constantly that we are encouraged to think that the journey will be an easy one. Dr. Van Helsing is laconic; he tells the farmers that he is hurrying to Bistritz, and pays them well to make the exchange of horses. We get hot soup, or coffee, or tea; and off we go. It is a lovely country; full of beauties of all imaginable kinds, and the people are brave, and strong, and simple, and seem full of nice qualities. They are very, very superstitious. In the first house where we stopped, when the woman who served us saw the scar on my forehead, she crossed herself and put out two fingers towards me, to keep off the evil eye. I believe they went to the trouble of putting an extra amount of garlic into our food; and I can’t abide garlic. Ever since then I have taken care not to take off my hat or veil, and so have escaped their suspicions. We are travelling fast, and as we have no driver with us to carry tales, we go ahead of scandal; but I daresay that fear of the evil eye will follow hard behind us all the way. The Professor seems tireless; all day he would not take any rest, though he made me sleep for a long spell. At sunset time he hypnotised me, and he says that I answered as usual “darkness, lapping water and creaking wood”; so our enemy is still on the river. I am afraid to think of Jonathan, but somehow I have now no fear for him, or for myself. I write this whilst we wait in a farmhouse for the horses to be got ready. Dr. Van Helsing is sleeping, Poor dear, he looks very tired and old and grey, but his mouth is set as firmly as a conqueror’s; even in his sleep he is instinct with resolution. When we have well started I must make him rest whilst I drive. I shall tell him that we have days before us, and we must not break down when most of all his strength will be needed.... All is ready; we are off shortly.

 

2 November, morning.—I was successful, and we took turns driving all night; now the day is on us, bright though cold. There is a strange heaviness in the air—I say heaviness for want of a better word; I mean that it oppresses us both. It is very cold, and only our warm furs keep us comfortable. At dawn Van Helsing hypnotised me; he says I answered “darkness, creaking wood and roaring water,” so the river is changing as they ascend. I do hope that my darling will not run any chance of danger—more than need be; but we are in God’s hands.

 

2 November, night.—All day long driving. The country gets wilder as we go, and the great spurs of the Carpathians, which at Veresti seemed so far from us and so low on the horizon, now seem to gather round us and tower in front. We both seem in good spirits; I think we make an effort each to cheer the other; in the doing so we cheer ourselves. Dr. Van Helsing says that by morning we shall reach the Borgo Pass. The houses are very few here now, and the Professor says that the last horse we got will have to go on with us, as we may not be able to change. He got two in addition to the two we changed, so that now we have a rude four-in-hand. The dear horses are patient and good, and they give us no trouble. We are not worried with other travellers, and so even I can drive. We shall get to the Pass in daylight; we do not want to arrive before. So we take it easy, and have each a long rest in turn. Oh, what will to-morrow bring to us? We go to seek the place where my poor darling suffered so much. God grant that we may be guided aright, and that He will deign to watch over my husband and those dear to us both, and who are in such deadly peril. As for me, I am not worthy in His sight. Alas! I am unclean to His eyes, and shall be until He may deign to let me stand forth in His sight as one of those who have not incurred His wrath.

Memorandum by Abraham Van Helsing.

4 November.—This to my old and true friend John Seward, M.D., of Purfleet, London, in case I may not see him. It may explain. It is morning, and I write by a fire which all the night I have kept alive—Madam Mina aiding me. It is cold, cold; so cold that the grey heavy sky is full of snow, which when it falls will settle for all winter as the ground is hardening to receive it. It seems to have affected Madam Mina; she has been so heavy of head all day that she was not like herself. She sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps! She who is usual so alert, have done literally nothing all the day; she even have lost her appetite. She make no entry into her little diary, she who write so faithful at every pause. Something whisper to me that all is not well. However, to-night she is more vif. Her long sleep all day have refresh and restore her, for now she is all sweet and bright as ever. At sunset I try to hypnotise her, but alas! with no effect; the power has grown less and less with each day, and to-night it fail me altogether. Well, God’s will be done—whatever it may be, and whithersoever it may lead!

Now to the historical, for as Madam Mina write not in her stenography, I must, in my cumbrous old fashion, that so each day of us may not go unrecorded.

We got to the Borgo Pass just after sunrise yesterday morning. When I saw the signs of the dawn I got ready for the hypnotism. We stopped our carriage, and got down so that there might be no disturbance. I made a couch with furs, and Madam Mina, lying down, yield herself as usual, but more slow and more short time than ever, to the hypnotic sleep. As before, came the answer: “darkness and the swirling of water.” Then she woke, bright and radiant and we go on our way and soon reach the Pass. At this time and place, she become all on fire with zeal; some new guiding power be in her manifested, for she point to a road and say:--

“This is the way.”

“How know you it?” I ask.

“Of course I know it,” she answer, and with a pause, add: “Have not my Jonathan travelled it and wrote of his travel?”

At first I think somewhat strange, but soon I see that there be only one such by-road. It is used but little, and very different from the coach road from the Bukovina to Bistritz, which is more wide and hard, and more of use.

So we came down this road; when we meet other ways—not always were we sure that they were roads at all, for they be neglect and light snow have fallen—the horses know and they only. I give rein to them, and they go on so patient. By-and-by we find all the things which Jonathan have note in that wonderful diary of him. Then we go on for long, long hours and hours. At the first, I tell Madam Mina to sleep; she try, and she succeed. She sleep all the time; till at the last, I feel myself to suspicious grow, and attempt to wake her. But she sleep on, and I may not wake her though I try. I do not wish to try too hard lest I harm her; for I know that she have suffer much, and sleep at times be all-in-all to her. I think I drowse myself, for all of sudden I feel guilt, as though I have done something; I find myself bolt up, with the reins in my hand, and the good horses go along jog, jog, just as ever. I look down and find Madam Mina still sleep. It is now not far off sunset time, and over the snow the light of the sun flow in big yellow flood, so that we throw great long shadow on where the mountain rise so steep. For we are going up, and up; and all is oh! so wild and rocky, as though it were the end of the world.

Then I arouse Madam Mina. This time she wake with not much trouble, and then I try to put her to hypnotic sleep. But she sleep not, being as though I were not. Still I try and try, till all at once I find her and myself in dark; so I look round, and find that the sun have gone down. Madam Mina laugh, and I turn and look at her. She is now quite awake, and look so well as I never saw her since that night at Carfax when we first enter the Count’s house. I am amaze, and not at ease then; but she is so bright and tender and thoughtful for me that I forget all fear. I light a fire, for we have brought supply of wood with us, and she prepare food while I undo the horses and set them, tethered in shelter, to feed. Then when I return to the fire she have my supper ready. I go to help her; but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already—that she was so hungry that she would not wait. I like it not, and I have grave doubts; but I fear to affright her, and so I am silent of it. She help me and I eat alone; and then we wrap in fur and lie beside the fire, and I tell her to sleep while I watch. But presently I forget all of watching; and when I sudden remember that I watch, I find her lying quiet, but awake, and looking at me with so bright eyes. Once, twice more the same occur, and I get much sleep till before morning. When I wake I try to hypnotise her; but alas! though she shut her eyes obedient, she may not sleep. The sun rise up, and up, and up; and then sleep come to her too late, but so heavy that she will not wake. I have to lift her up, and place her sleeping in the carriage when I have harnessed the horses and made all ready. Madam still sleep, and she look in her sleep more healthy and more redder than before. And I like it not. And I am afraid, afraid, afraid!—I am afraid of all things—even to think but I must go on my way. The stake we play for is life and death, or more than these, and we must not flinch.

 

5 November, morning.—Let me be accurate in everything, for though you and I have seen some strange things together, you may at the first think that I, Van Helsing, am mad—that the many horrors and the so long strain on nerves has at the last turn my brain.

All yesterday we travel, ever getting closer to the mountains, and moving into a more and more wild and desert land. There are great, frowning precipices and much falling water, and Nature seem to have held sometime her carnival. Madam Mina still sleep and sleep; and though I did have hunger and appeased it, I could not waken her—even for food. I began to fear that the fatal spell of the place was upon her, tainted as she is with that Vampire baptism. “Well,” said I to myself, “if it be that she sleep all the day, it shall also be that I do not sleep at night.” As we travel on the rough road, for a road of an ancient and imperfect kind there was, I held down my head and slept. Again I waked with a sense of guilt and of time passed, and found Madam Mina still sleeping, and the sun low down. But all was indeed changed; the frowning mountains seemed further away, and we were near the top of a steep-rising hill, on summit of which was such a castle as Jonathan tell of in his diary. At once I exulted and feared; for now, for good or ill, the end was near.

I woke Madam Mina, and again tried to hypnotise her; but alas! unavailing till too late. Then, ere the great dark came upon us—for even after down-sun the heavens reflected the gone sun on the snow, and all was for a time in a great twilight—I took out the horses and fed them in what shelter I could. Then I make a fire; and near it I make Madam Mina, now awake and more charming than ever, sit comfortable amid her rugs. I got ready food: but she would not eat, simply saying that she had not hunger. I did not press her, knowing her unavailingness. But I myself eat, for I must needs now be strong for all. Then, with the fear on me of what might be, I drew a ring so big for her comfort, round where Madam Mina sat; and over the ring I passed some of the wafer, and I broke it fine so that all was well guarded. She sat still all the time—so still as one dead; and she grew whiter and ever whiter till the snow was not more pale; and no word she said. But when I drew near, she clung to me, and I could know that the poor soul shook her from head to feet with a tremor that was pain to feel. I said to her presently, when she had grown more quiet:--

“Will you not come over to the fire?” for I wished to make a test of what she could. She rose obedient, but when she have made a step she stopped, and stood as one stricken.

“Why not go on?” I asked. She shook her head, and, coming back, sat down in her place. Then, looking at me with open eyes, as of one waked from sleep, she said simply:--

“I cannot!” and remained silent. I rejoiced, for I knew that what she could not, none of those that we dreaded could. Though there might be danger to her body, yet her soul was safe!

Presently the horses began to scream, and tore at their tethers till I came to them and quieted them. When they did feel my hands on them, they whinnied low as in joy, and licked at my hands and were quiet for a time. Many times through the night did I come to them, till it arrive to the cold hour when all nature is at lowest; and every time my coming was with quiet of them. In the cold hour the fire began to die, and I was about stepping forth to replenish it, for now the snow came in flying sweeps and with it a chill mist. Even in the dark there was a light of some kind, as there ever is over snow; and it seemed as though the snow-flurries and the wreaths of mist took shape as of women with trailing garments. All was in dead, grim silence only that the horses whinnied and cowered, as if in terror of the worst. I began to fear—horrible fears; but then came to me the sense of safety in that ring wherein I stood. I began, too, to think that my imaginings were of the night, and the gloom, and the unrest that I have gone through, and all the terrible anxiety. It was as though my memories of all Jonathan’s horrid experience were befooling me; for the snow flakes and the mist began to wheel and circle round, till I could get as though a shadowy glimpse of those women that would have kissed him. And then the horses cowered lower and lower, and moaned in terror as men do in pain. Even the madness of fright was not to them, so that they could break away. I feared for my dear Madam Mina when these weird figures drew near and circled round. I looked at her, but she sat calm, and smiled at me; when I would have stepped to the fire to replenish it, she caught me and held me back, and whispered, like a voice that one hears in a dream, so low it was:--

“No! No! Do not go without. Here you are safe!” I turned to her, and looking in her eyes, said:--

“But you? It is for you that I fear!” whereat she laughed—a laugh, low and unreal, and said:--

“Fear for me! Why fear for me? None safer in all the world from them than I am,” and as I wondered at the meaning of her words, a puff of wind made the flame leap up, and I see the red scar on her forehead. Then, alas! I knew. Did I not, I would soon have learned, for the wheeling figures of mist and snow came closer, but keeping ever without the Holy circle. Then they began to materialise till—if God have not take away my reason, for I saw it through my eyes—there were before me in actual flesh the same three women that Jonathan saw in the room, when they would have kissed his throat. I knew the swaying round forms, the bright hard eyes, the white teeth, the ruddy colour, the voluptuous lips. They smiled ever at poor dear Madam Mina; and as their laugh came through the silence of the night, they twined their arms and pointed to her, and said in those so sweet tingling tones that Jonathan said were of the intolerable sweetness of the water-glasses:--

“Come, sister. Come to us. Come! Come!” In fear I turned to my poor Madam Mina, and my heart with gladness leapt like flame; for oh! the terror in her sweet eyes, the repulsion, the horror, told a story to my heart that was all of hope. God be thanked she was not, yet, of them. I seized some of the firewood which was by me, and holding out some of the Wafer, advanced on them towards the fire. They drew back before me, and laughed their low horrid laugh. I fed the fire, and feared them not; for I knew that we were safe within our protections. They could not approach, me, whilst so armed, nor Madam Mina whilst she remained within the ring, which she could not leave no more than they could enter. The horses had ceased to moan, and lay still on the ground; the snow fell on them softly, and they grew whiter. I knew that there was for the poor beasts no more of terror.

And so we remained till the red of the dawn to fall through the snow-gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror; but when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again. At the first coming of the dawn the horrid figures melted in the whirling mist and snow; the wreaths of transparent gloom moved away towards the castle, and were lost.

Instinctively, with the dawn coming, I turned to Madam Mina, intending to hypnotise her; but she lay in a deep and sudden sleep, from which I could not wake her. I tried to hypnotise through her sleep, but she made no response, none at all; and the day broke. I fear yet to stir. I have made my fire and have seen the horses, they are all dead. To-day I have much to do here, and I keep waiting till the sun is up high; for there may be places where I must go, where that sunlight, though snow and mist obscure it, will be to me a safety.

I will strengthen me with breakfast, and then I will to my terrible work. Madam Mina still sleeps; and, God be thanked! she is calm in her sleep....

Jonathan Harker’s Journal.

4 November, evening.—The accident to the launch has been a terrible thing for us. Only for it we should have overtaken the boat long ago; and by now my dear Mina would have been free. I fear to think of her, off on the wolds near that horrid place. We have got horses, and we follow on the track. I note this whilst Godalming is getting ready. We have our arms. The Szgany must look out if they mean fight. Oh, if only Morris and Seward were with us. We must only hope! If I write no more Good-bye, Mina! God bless and keep you.

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

5 November.—With the dawn we saw the body of Szgany before us dashing away from the river with their leiter-wagon. They surrounded it in a cluster, and hurried along as though beset. The snow is falling lightly and there is a strange excitement in the air. It may be our own feelings, but the depression is strange. Far off I hear the howling of wolves; the snow brings them down from the mountains, and there are dangers to all of us, and from all sides. The horses are nearly ready, and we are soon off. We ride to death of some one. God alone knows who, or where, or what, or when, or how it may be....

Dr. Van Helsing’s Memorandum.

5 November, afternoon.—I am at least sane. Thank God for that mercy at all events, though the proving it has been dreadful. When I left Madam Mina sleeping within the Holy circle, I took my way to the castle. The blacksmith hammer which I took in the carriage from Veresti was useful; though the doors were all open I broke them off the rusty hinges, lest some ill-intent or ill-chance should close them, so that being entered I might not get out. Jonathan’s bitter experience served me here. By memory of his diary I found my way to the old chapel, for I knew that here my work lay. The air was oppressive; it seemed as if there was some sulphurous fume, which at times made me dizzy. Either there was a roaring in my ears or I heard afar off the howl of wolves. Then I bethought me of my dear Madam Mina, and I was in terrible plight. The dilemma had me between his horns.

Her, I had not dare to take into this place, but left safe from the Vampire in that Holy circle; and yet even there would be the wolf! I resolve me that my work lay here, and that as to the wolves we must submit, if it were God’s will. At any rate it was only death and freedom beyond. So did I choose for her. Had it but been for myself the choice had been easy, the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than the grave of the Vampire! So I make my choice to go on with my work.

I knew that there were at least three graves to find—graves that are inhabit; so I search, and search, and I find one of them. She lay in her Vampire sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty that I shudder as though I have come to do murder. Ah, I doubt not that in old time, when such things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as mine, found at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve. So he delay, and delay, and delay, till the mere beauty and the fascination of the wanton Un-Dead have hypnotise him; and he remain on and on, till sunset come, and the Vampire sleep be over. Then the beautiful eyes of the fair woman open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth present to a kiss—and man is weak. And there remain one more victim in the Vampire fold; one more to swell the grim and grisly ranks of the Un-Dead!...

There is some fascination, surely, when I am moved by the mere presence of such an one, even lying as she lay in a tomb fretted with age and heavy with the dust of centuries, though there be that horrid odour such as the lairs of the Count have had. Yes, I was moved—I, Van Helsing, with all my purpose and with my motive for hate—I was moved to a yearning for delay which seemed to paralyse my faculties and to clog my very soul. It may have been that the need of natural sleep, and the strange oppression of the air were beginning to overcome me. Certain it was that I was lapsing into sleep, the open-eyed sleep of one who yields to a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled air a long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the sound of a clarion. For it was the voice of my dear Madam Mina that I heard.

Then I braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching away tomb-tops one other of the sisters, the other dark one. I dared not pause to look on her as I had on her sister, lest once more I should begin to be enthrall; but I go on searching until, presently, I find in a high great tomb as if made to one much beloved that other fair sister which, like Jonathan I had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of the mist. She was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me, which calls some of my sex to love and to protect one of hers, made my head whirl with new emotion. But God be thanked, that soul-wail of my dear Madam Mina had not died out of my ears; and, before the spell could be wrought further upon me, I had nerved myself to my wild work. By this time I had searched all the tombs in the chapel, so far as I could tell; and as there had been only three of these Un-Dead phantoms around us in the night, I took it that there were no more of active Un-Dead existent. There was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and nobly proportioned. On it was but one word

DRACULA.

This then was the Un-Dead home of the King-Vampire, to whom so many more were due. Its emptiness spoke eloquent to make certain what I knew. Before I began to restore these women to their dead selves through my awful work, I laid in Dracula’s tomb some of the Wafer, and so banished him from it, Un-Dead, for ever.

Then began my terrible task, and I dreaded it. Had it been but one, it had been easy, comparative. But three! To begin twice more after I had been through a deed of horror; for if it was terrible with the sweet Miss Lucy, what would it not be with these strange ones who had survived through centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing of the years; who would, if they could, have fought for their foul lives....

Oh, my friend John, but it was butcher work; had I not been nerved by thoughts of other dead, and of the living over whom hung such a pall of fear, I could not have gone on. I tremble and tremble even yet, though till all was over, God be thanked, my nerve did stand. Had I not seen the repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole over it just ere the final dissolution came, as realisation that the soul had been won, I could not have gone further with my butchery. I could not have endured the horrid screeching as the stake drove home; the plunging of writhing form, and lips of bloody foam. I should have fled in terror and left my work undone. But it is over! And the poor souls, I can pity them now and weep, as I think of them placid each in her full sleep of death for a short moment ere fading. For, friend John, hardly had my knife severed the head of each, before the whole body began to melt away and crumble in to its native dust, as though the death that should have come centuries agone had at last assert himself and say at once and loud “I am here!”

Before I left the castle I so fixed its entrances that never more can the Count enter there Un-Dead.

When I stepped into the circle where Madam Mina slept, she woke from her sleep, and, seeing, me, cried out in pain that I had endured too much.

“Come!” she said, “come away from this awful place! Let us go to meet my husband who is, I know, coming towards us.” She was looking thin and pale and weak; but her eyes were pure and glowed with fervour. I was glad to see her paleness and her illness, for my mind was full of the fresh horror of that ruddy vampire sleep.

And so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go eastward to meet our friends—and him—whom Madam Mina tell me that she know are coming to meet us.

Mina Harker’s Journal.

6 November.—It was late in the afternoon when the Professor and I took our way towards the east whence I knew Jonathan was coming. We did not go fast, though the way was steeply downhill, for we had to take heavy rugs and wraps with us; we dared not face the possibility of being left without warmth in the cold and the snow. We had to take some of our provisions, too, for we were in a perfect desolation, and, so far as we could see through the snowfall, there was not even the sign of habitation. When we had gone about a mile, I was tired with the heavy walking and sat down to rest. Then we looked back and saw where the clear line of Dracula’s castle cut the sky; for we were so deep under the hill whereon it was set that the angle of perspective of the Carpathian mountains was far below it. We saw it in all its grandeur, perched a thousand feet on the summit of a sheer precipice, and with seemingly a great gap between it and the steep of the adjacent mountain on any side. There was something wild and uncanny about the place. We could hear the distant howling of wolves. They were far off, but the sound, even though coming muffled through the deadening snowfall, was full of terror. I knew from the way Dr. Van Helsing was searching about that he was trying to seek some strategic point, where we would be less exposed in case of attack. The rough roadway still led downwards; we could trace it through the drifted snow.

In a little while the Professor signalled to me, so I got up and joined him. He had found a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow in a rock, with an entrance like a doorway between two boulders. He took me by the hand and drew me in: “See!” he said, “here you will be in shelter; and if the wolves do come I can meet them one by one.” He brought in our furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some provisions and forced them upon me. But I could not eat; to even try to do so was repulsive to me, and, much as I would have liked to please him, I could not bring myself to the attempt. He looked very sad, but did not reproach me. Taking his field-glasses from the case, he stood on the top of the rock, and began to search the horizon. Suddenly he called out:--

“Look! Madam Mina, look! look!” I sprang up and stood beside him on the rock; he handed me his glasses and pointed. The snow was now falling more heavily, and swirled about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning to blow. However, there were times when there were pauses between the snow flurries and I could see a long way round. From the height where we were it was possible to see a great distance; and far off, beyond the white waste of snow, I could see the river lying like a black ribbon in kinks and curls as it wound its way. Straight in front of us and not far off—in fact, so near that I wondered we had not noticed before—came a group of mounted men hurrying along. In the midst of them was a cart, a long leiter-wagon which swept from side to side, like a dog’s tail wagging, with each stern inequality of the road. Outlined against the snow as they were, I could see from the men’s clothes that they were peasants or gypsies of some kind.

On the cart was a great square chest. My heart leaped as I saw it, for I felt that the end was coming. The evening was now drawing close, and well I knew that at sunset the Thing, which was till then imprisoned there, would take new freedom and could in any of many forms elude all pursuit. In fear I turned to the Professor; to my consternation, however, he was not there. An instant later, I saw him below me. Round the rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found shelter in last night. When he had completed it he stood beside me again, saying:--

“At least you shall be safe here from him!” He took the glasses from me, and at the next lull of the snow swept the whole space below us. “See,” he said, “they come quickly; they are flogging the horses, and galloping as hard as they can.” He paused and went on in a hollow voice:--

“They are racing for the sunset. We may be too late. God’s will be done!” Down came another blinding rush of driving snow, and the whole landscape was blotted out. It soon passed, however, and once more his glasses were fixed on the plain. Then came a sudden cry:--

“Look! Look! Look! See, two horsemen follow fast, coming up from the south. It must be Quincey and John. Take the glass. Look before the snow blots it all out!” I took it and looked. The two men might be Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris. I knew at all events that neither of them was Jonathan. At the same time I knew that Jonathan was not far off; looking around I saw on the north side of the coming party two other men, riding at break-neck speed. One of them I knew was Jonathan, and the other I took, of course, to be Lord Godalming. They, too, were pursuing the party with the cart. When I told the Professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy, and, after looking intently till a snow fall made sight impossible, he laid his Winchester rifle ready for use against the boulder at the opening of our shelter. “They are all converging,” he said. “When the time comes we shall have gypsies on all sides.” I got out my revolver ready to hand, for whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves came louder and closer. When the snow storm abated a moment we looked again. It was strange to see the snow falling in such heavy flakes close to us, and beyond, the sun shining more and more brightly as it sank down towards the far mountain tops. Sweeping the glass all around us I could see here and there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger numbers—the wolves were gathering for their prey.

Every instant seemed an age whilst we waited. The wind came now in fierce bursts, and the snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us in circling eddies. At times we could not see an arm’s length before us; but at others, as the hollow-sounding wind swept by us, it seemed to clear the air-space around us so that we could see afar off. We had of late been so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that we knew with fair accuracy when it would be; and we knew that before long the sun would set. It was hard to believe that by our watches it was less than an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before the various bodies began to converge close upon us. The wind came now with fiercer and more bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. It seemingly had driven the snow clouds from us, for, with only occasional bursts, the snow fell. We could distinguish clearly the individuals of each party, the pursued and the pursuers. Strangely enough those pursued did not seem to realise, or at least to care, that they were pursued; they seemed, however, to hasten with redoubled speed as the sun dropped lower and lower on the mountain tops.

Closer and closer they drew. The Professor and I crouched down behind our rock, and held our weapons ready; I could see that he was determined that they should not pass. One and all were quite unaware of our presence.

All at once two voices shouted out to: “Halt!” One was my Jonathan’s, raised in a high key of passion; the other Mr. Morris’ strong resolute tone of quiet command. The gypsies may not have known the language, but there was no mistaking the tone, in whatever tongue the words were spoken. Instinctively they reined in, and at the instant Lord Godalming and Jonathan dashed up at one side and Dr. Seward and Mr. Morris on the other. The leader of the gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his horse like a centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his companions some word to proceed. They lashed the horses which sprang forward; but the four men raised their Winchester rifles, and in an unmistakable way commanded them to stop. At the same moment Dr. Van Helsing and I rose behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them. Seeing that they were surrounded the men tightened their reins and drew up. The leader turned to them and gave a word at which every man of the gypsy party drew what weapon he carried, knife or pistol, and held himself in readiness to attack. Issue was joined in an instant.

The leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in front, and pointing first to the sun—now close down on the hill tops—and then to the castle, said something which I did not understand. For answer, all four men of our party threw themselves from their horses and dashed towards the cart. I should have felt terrible fear at seeing Jonathan in such danger, but that the ardour of battle must have been upon me as well as the rest of them; I felt no fear, but only a wild, surging desire to do something. Seeing the quick movement of our parties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command; his men instantly formed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavour, each one shouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry out the order.

In the midst of this I could see that Jonathan on one side of the ring of men, and Quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart; it was evident that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun should set. Nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them. Neither the levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their attention. Jonathan’s impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him; instinctively they cowered, aside and let him pass. In an instant he had jumped upon the cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. In the meantime, Mr. Morris had had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of Szgany. All the time I had been breathlessly watching Jonathan I had, with the tail of my eye, seen him pressing desperately forward, and had seen the knives of the gypsies flash as he won a way through them, and they cut at him. He had parried with his great bowie knife, and at first I thought that he too had come through in safety; but as he sprang beside Jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, I could see that with his left hand he was clutching at his side, and that the blood was spurting through his fingers. He did not delay notwithstanding this, for as Jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked one end of the chest, attempting to prize off the lid with his great Kukri knife, he attacked the other frantically with his bowie. Under the efforts of both men the lid began to yield; the nails drew with a quick screeching sound, and the top of the box was thrown back.

By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters, and at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made no resistance. The sun was almost down on the mountain tops, and the shadows of the whole group fell long upon the snow. I saw the Count lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I knew too well.

As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to triumph.

But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great knife. I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris’s bowie knife plunged into the heart.

It was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumble into dust and passed from our sight.

I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there.

The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun.

The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as if for their lives. Those who were unmounted jumped upon the leiter-wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them. The wolves, which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving us alone.

Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his hand pressed to his side; the blood still gushed through his fingers. I flew to him, for the Holy circle did not now keep me back; so did the two doctors. Jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his head on his shoulder. With a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand in that of his own which was unstained. He must have seen the anguish of my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said:--

“I am only too happy to have been of any service! Oh, God!” he cried suddenly, struggling up to a sitting posture and pointing to me, “It was worth for this to die! Look! look!”

The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. With one impulse the men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest “Amen” broke from all as their eyes followed the pointing of his finger. The dying man spoke:--

“Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! the snow is not more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!”

And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a gallant gentleman.

NOTE

Seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It is an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy’s birthday is the same day as that on which Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the secret belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has passed into him. His bundle of names links all our little band of men together; but we call him Quincey.

In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories. It was almost impossible to believe that the things which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were living truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out. The castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation.

When we got home we were talking of the old time—which we could all look back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily married. I took the papers from the safe where they had been ever since our return so long ago. We were struck with the fact, that in all the mass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one authentic document; nothing but a mass of typewriting, except the later note-books of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing’s memorandum. We could hardly ask any one, even did we wish to, to accept these as proofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he said, with our boy on his knee:--

“We want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! This boy will some day know what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her sweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.”

Jonathan Harker.

THE END

Inferno: Canto I


Midway upon the journey of our life
  I found myself within a forest dark,
  For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say
  What was this forest savage, rough, and stern,
  Which in the very thought renews the fear.

So bitter is it, death is little more;
  But of the good to treat, which there I found,
  Speak will I of the other things I saw there.

I cannot well repeat how there I entered,
  So full was I of slumber at the moment
  In which I had abandoned the true way.

But after I had reached a mountain's foot,
  At that point where the valley terminated,
  Which had with consternation pierced my heart,

Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders,
  Vested already with that planet's rays
  Which leadeth others right by every road.

Then was the fear a little quieted
  That in my heart's lake had endured throughout
  The night, which I had passed so piteously.

And even as he, who, with distressful breath,
  Forth issued from the sea upon the shore,
  Turns to the water perilous and gazes;

So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward,
  Turn itself back to re-behold the pass
  Which never yet a living person left.

After my weary body I had rested,
  The way resumed I on the desert slope,
  So that the firm foot ever was the lower.

And lo! almost where the ascent began,
  A panther light and swift exceedingly,
  Which with a spotted skin was covered o'er!

And never moved she from before my face,
  Nay, rather did impede so much my way,
  That many times I to return had turned.

The time was the beginning of the morning,
  And up the sun was mounting with those stars
  That with him were, what time the Love Divine

At first in motion set those beauteous things;
  So were to me occasion of good hope,
  The variegated skin of that wild beast,

The hour of time, and the delicious season;
  But not so much, that did not give me fear
  A lion's aspect which appeared to me.

He seemed as if against me he were coming
  With head uplifted, and with ravenous hunger,
  So that it seemed the air was afraid of him;

And a she-wolf, that with all hungerings
  Seemed to be laden in her meagreness,
  And many folk has caused to live forlorn!

She brought upon me so much heaviness,
  With the affright that from her aspect came,
  That I the hope relinquished of the height.

And as he is who willingly acquires,
  And the time comes that causes him to lose,
  Who weeps in all his thoughts and is despondent,

E'en such made me that beast withouten peace,
  Which, coming on against me by degrees
  Thrust me back thither where the sun is silent.

While I was rushing downward to the lowland,
  Before mine eyes did one present himself,
  Who seemed from long-continued silence hoarse.

When I beheld him in the desert vast,
  "Have pity on me," unto him I cried,
  "Whiche'er thou art, or shade or real man!"

He answered me: "Not man; man once I was,
  And both my parents were of Lombardy,
  And Mantuans by country both of them.

'Sub Julio' was I born, though it was late,
  And lived at Rome under the good Augustus,
  During the time of false and lying gods.

A poet was I, and I sang that just
  Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy,
  After that Ilion the superb was burned.

But thou, why goest thou back to such annoyance?
  Why climb'st thou not the Mount Delectable,
  Which is the source and cause of every joy?"

"Now, art thou that Virgilius and that fountain
  Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech?"
  I made response to him with bashful forehead.

"O, of the other poets honour and light,
  Avail me the long study and great love
  That have impelled me to explore thy volume!

Thou art my master, and my author thou,
  Thou art alone the one from whom I took
  The beautiful style that has done honour to me.

Behold the beast, for which I have turned back;
  Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage,
  For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble."

"Thee it behoves to take another road,"
  Responded he, when he beheld me weeping,
  "If from this savage place thou wouldst escape;

Because this beast, at which thou criest out,
  Suffers not any one to pass her way,
  But so doth harass him, that she destroys him;

And has a nature so malign and ruthless,
  That never doth she glut her greedy will,
  And after food is hungrier than before.

Many the animals with whom she weds,
  And more they shall be still, until the Greyhound
  Comes, who shall make her perish in her pain.

He shall not feed on either earth or pelf,
  But upon wisdom, and on love and virtue;
  'Twixt Feltro and Feltro shall his nation be;

Of that low Italy shall he be the saviour,
  On whose account the maid Camilla died,
  Euryalus, Turnus, Nisus, of their wounds;

Through every city shall he hunt her down,
  Until he shall have driven her back to Hell,
  There from whence envy first did let her loose.

Therefore I think and judge it for thy best
  Thou follow me, and I will be thy guide,
  And lead thee hence through the eternal place,

Where thou shalt hear the desperate lamentations,
  Shalt see the ancient spirits disconsolate,
  Who cry out each one for the second death;

And thou shalt see those who contented are
  Within the fire, because they hope to come,
  Whene'er it may be, to the blessed people;

To whom, then, if thou wishest to ascend,
  A soul shall be for that than I more worthy;
  With her at my departure I will leave thee;

Because that Emperor, who reigns above,
  In that I was rebellious to his law,
  Wills that through me none come into his city.

He governs everywhere, and there he reigns;
  There is his city and his lofty throne;
  O happy he whom thereto he elects!"

And I to him: "Poet, I thee entreat,
  By that same God whom thou didst never know,
  So that I may escape this woe and worse,

Thou wouldst conduct me there where thou hast said,
  That I may see the portal of Saint Peter,
  And those thou makest so disconsolate."

Then he moved on, and I behind him followed.



Inferno: Canto II


Day was departing, and the embrowned air
  Released the animals that are on earth
  From their fatigues; and I the only one

Made myself ready to sustain the war,
  Both of the way and likewise of the woe,
  Which memory that errs not shall retrace.

O Muses, O high genius, now assist me!
  O memory, that didst write down what I saw,
  Here thy nobility shall be manifest!

And I began: "Poet, who guidest me,
  Regard my manhood, if it be sufficient,
  Ere to the arduous pass thou dost confide me.

Thou sayest, that of Silvius the parent,
  While yet corruptible, unto the world
  Immortal went, and was there bodily.

But if the adversary of all evil
  Was courteous, thinking of the high effect
  That issue would from him, and who, and what,

To men of intellect unmeet it seems not;
  For he was of great Rome, and of her empire
  In the empyreal heaven as father chosen;

The which and what, wishing to speak the truth,
  Were stablished as the holy place, wherein
  Sits the successor of the greatest Peter.

Upon this journey, whence thou givest him vaunt,
  Things did he hear, which the occasion were
  Both of his victory and the papal mantle.

Thither went afterwards the Chosen Vessel,
  To bring back comfort thence unto that Faith,
  Which of salvation's way is the beginning.

But I, why thither come, or who concedes it?
  I not Aeneas am, I am not Paul,
  Nor I, nor others, think me worthy of it.

Therefore, if I resign myself to come,
  I fear the coming may be ill-advised;
  Thou'rt wise, and knowest better than I speak."

And as he is, who unwills what he willed,
  And by new thoughts doth his intention change,
  So that from his design he quite withdraws,

Such I became, upon that dark hillside,
  Because, in thinking, I consumed the emprise,
  Which was so very prompt in the beginning.

"If I have well thy language understood,"
  Replied that shade of the Magnanimous,
  "Thy soul attainted is with cowardice,

Which many times a man encumbers so,
  It turns him back from honoured enterprise,
  As false sight doth a beast, when he is shy.

That thou mayst free thee from this apprehension,
  I'll tell thee why I came, and what I heard
  At the first moment when I grieved for thee.

Among those was I who are in suspense,
  And a fair, saintly Lady called to me
  In such wise, I besought her to command me.

Her eyes where shining brighter than the Star;
  And she began to say, gentle and low,
  With voice angelical, in her own language:

'O spirit courteous of Mantua,
  Of whom the fame still in the world endures,
  And shall endure, long-lasting as the world;

A friend of mine, and not the friend of fortune,
  Upon the desert slope is so impeded
  Upon his way, that he has turned through terror,

And may, I fear, already be so lost,
  That I too late have risen to his succour,
  From that which I have heard of him in Heaven.

Bestir thee now, and with thy speech ornate,
  And with what needful is for his release,
  Assist him so, that I may be consoled.

Beatrice am I, who do bid thee go;
  I come from there, where I would fain return;
  Love moved me, which compelleth me to speak.

When I shall be in presence of my Lord,
  Full often will I praise thee unto him.'
  Then paused she, and thereafter I began:

'O Lady of virtue, thou alone through whom
  The human race exceedeth all contained
  Within the heaven that has the lesser circles,

So grateful unto me is thy commandment,
  To obey, if 'twere already done, were late;
  No farther need'st thou ope to me thy wish.

But the cause tell me why thou dost not shun
  The here descending down into this centre,
  From the vast place thou burnest to return to.'

'Since thou wouldst fain so inwardly discern,
  Briefly will I relate,' she answered me,
  'Why I am not afraid to enter here.

Of those things only should one be afraid
  Which have the power of doing others harm;
  Of the rest, no; because they are not fearful.

God in his mercy such created me
  That misery of yours attains me not,
  Nor any flame assails me of this burning.

A gentle Lady is in Heaven, who grieves
  At this impediment, to which I send thee,
  So that stern judgment there above is broken.

In her entreaty she besought Lucia,
  And said, "Thy faithful one now stands in need
  Of thee, and unto thee I recommend him."

Lucia, foe of all that cruel is,
  Hastened away, and came unto the place
  Where I was sitting with the ancient Rachel.

"Beatrice" said she, "the true praise of God,
  Why succourest thou not him, who loved thee so,
  For thee he issued from the vulgar herd?

Dost thou not hear the pity of his plaint?
  Dost thou not see the death that combats him
  Beside that flood, where ocean has no vaunt?"

Never were persons in the world so swift
  To work their weal and to escape their woe,
  As I, after such words as these were uttered,

Came hither downward from my blessed seat,
  Confiding in thy dignified discourse,
  Which honours thee, and those who've listened to it.'

After she thus had spoken unto me,
  Weeping, her shining eyes she turned away;
  Whereby she made me swifter in my coming;

And unto thee I came, as she desired;
  I have delivered thee from that wild beast,
  Which barred the beautiful mountain's short ascent.

What is it, then?  Why, why dost thou delay?
  Why is such baseness bedded in thy heart?
  Daring and hardihood why hast thou not,

Seeing that three such Ladies benedight
  Are caring for thee in the court of Heaven,
  And so much good my speech doth promise thee?"

Even as the flowerets, by nocturnal chill,
  Bowed down and closed, when the sun whitens them,
  Uplift themselves all open on their stems;

Such I became with my exhausted strength,
  And such good courage to my heart there coursed,
  That I began, like an intrepid person:

"O she compassionate, who succoured me,
  And courteous thou, who hast obeyed so soon
  The words of truth which she addressed to thee!

Thou hast my heart so with desire disposed
  To the adventure, with these words of thine,
  That to my first intent I have returned.

Now go, for one sole will is in us both,
  Thou Leader, and thou Lord, and Master thou."
  Thus said I to him; and when he had moved,

I entered on the deep and savage way.



Inferno: Canto III


"Through me the way is to the city dolent;
  Through me the way is to eternal dole;
  Through me the way among the people lost.

Justice incited my sublime Creator;
  Created me divine Omnipotence,
  The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.

Before me there were no created things,
  Only eterne, and I eternal last.
  All hope abandon, ye who enter in!"

These words in sombre colour I beheld
  Written upon the summit of a gate;
  Whence I: "Their sense is, Master, hard to me!"

And he to me, as one experienced:
  "Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,
  All cowardice must needs be here extinct.

We to the place have come, where I have told thee
  Thou shalt behold the people dolorous
  Who have foregone the good of intellect."

And after he had laid his hand on mine
  With joyful mien, whence I was comforted,
  He led me in among the secret things.

There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud
  Resounded through the air without a star,
  Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.

Languages diverse, horrible dialects,
  Accents of anger, words of agony,
  And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,

Made up a tumult that goes whirling on
  For ever in that air for ever black,
  Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes.

And I, who had my head with horror bound,
  Said: "Master, what is this which now I hear?
  What folk is this, which seems by pain so vanquished?"

And he to me: "This miserable mode
  Maintain the melancholy souls of those
  Who lived withouten infamy or praise.

Commingled are they with that caitiff choir
  Of Angels, who have not rebellious been,
  Nor faithful were to God, but were for self.

The heavens expelled them, not to be less fair;
  Nor them the nethermore abyss receives,
  For glory none the damned would have from them."

And I: "O Master, what so grievous is
  To these, that maketh them lament so sore?"
  He answered: "I will tell thee very briefly.

These have no longer any hope of death;
  And this blind life of theirs is so debased,
  They envious are of every other fate.

No fame of them the world permits to be;
  Misericord and Justice both disdain them.
  Let us not speak of them, but look, and pass."

And I, who looked again, beheld a banner,
  Which, whirling round, ran on so rapidly,
  That of all pause it seemed to me indignant;

And after it there came so long a train
  Of people, that I ne'er would have believed
  That ever Death so many had undone.

When some among them I had recognised,
  I looked, and I beheld the shade of him
  Who made through cowardice the great refusal.

Forthwith I comprehended, and was certain,
  That this the sect was of the caitiff wretches
  Hateful to God and to his enemies.

These miscreants, who never were alive,
  Were naked, and were stung exceedingly
  By gadflies and by hornets that were there.

These did their faces irrigate with blood,
  Which, with their tears commingled, at their feet
  By the disgusting worms was gathered up.

And when to gazing farther I betook me.
  People I saw on a great river's bank;
  Whence said I: "Master, now vouchsafe to me,

That I may know who these are, and what law
  Makes them appear so ready to pass over,
  As I discern athwart the dusky light."

And he to me: "These things shall all be known
  To thee, as soon as we our footsteps stay
  Upon the dismal shore of Acheron."

Then with mine eyes ashamed and downward cast,
  Fearing my words might irksome be to him,
  From speech refrained I till we reached the river.

And lo! towards us coming in a boat
  An old man, hoary with the hair of eld,
  Crying: "Woe unto you, ye souls depraved!

Hope nevermore to look upon the heavens;
  I come to lead you to the other shore,
  To the eternal shades in heat and frost.

And thou, that yonder standest, living soul,
  Withdraw thee from these people, who are dead!"
  But when he saw that I did not withdraw,

He said: "By other ways, by other ports
  Thou to the shore shalt come, not here, for passage;
  A lighter vessel needs must carry thee."

And unto him the Guide: "Vex thee not, Charon;
  It is so willed there where is power to do
  That which is willed; and farther question not."

Thereat were quieted the fleecy cheeks
  Of him the ferryman of the livid fen,
  Who round about his eyes had wheels of flame.

But all those souls who weary were and naked
  Their colour changed and gnashed their teeth together,
  As soon as they had heard those cruel words.

God they blasphemed and their progenitors,
  The human race, the place, the time, the seed
  Of their engendering and of their birth!

Thereafter all together they drew back,
  Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore,
  Which waiteth every man who fears not God.

Charon the demon, with the eyes of glede,
  Beckoning to them, collects them all together,
  Beats with his oar whoever lags behind.

As in the autumn-time the leaves fall off,
  First one and then another, till the branch
  Unto the earth surrenders all its spoils;

In similar wise the evil seed of Adam
  Throw themselves from that margin one by one,
  At signals, as a bird unto its lure.

So they depart across the dusky wave,
  And ere upon the other side they land,
  Again on this side a new troop assembles.

"My son," the courteous Master said to me,
  "All those who perish in the wrath of God
  Here meet together out of every land;

And ready are they to pass o'er the river,
  Because celestial Justice spurs them on,
  So that their fear is turned into desire.

This way there never passes a good soul;
  And hence if Charon doth complain of thee,
  Well mayst thou know now what his speech imports."

This being finished, all the dusk champaign
  Trembled so violently, that of that terror
  The recollection bathes me still with sweat.

The land of tears gave forth a blast of wind,
  And fulminated a vermilion light,
  Which overmastered in me every sense,

And as a man whom sleep hath seized I fell.



Inferno: Canto IV


Broke the deep lethargy within my head
  A heavy thunder, so that I upstarted,
  Like to a person who by force is wakened;

And round about I moved my rested eyes,
  Uprisen erect, and steadfastly I gazed,
  To recognise the place wherein I was.

True is it, that upon the verge I found me
  Of the abysmal valley dolorous,
  That gathers thunder of infinite ululations.

Obscure, profound it was, and nebulous,
  So that by fixing on its depths my sight
  Nothing whatever I discerned therein.

"Let us descend now into the blind world,"
  Began the Poet, pallid utterly;
  "I will be first, and thou shalt second be."

And I, who of his colour was aware,
  Said: "How shall I come, if thou art afraid,
  Who'rt wont to be a comfort to my fears?"

And he to me: "The anguish of the people
  Who are below here in my face depicts
  That pity which for terror thou hast taken.

Let us go on, for the long way impels us."
  Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter
  The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss.

There, as it seemed to me from listening,
  Were lamentations none, but only sighs,
  That tremble made the everlasting air.

And this arose from sorrow without torment,
  Which the crowds had, that many were and great,
  Of infants and of women and of men.

To me the Master good: "Thou dost not ask
  What spirits these, which thou beholdest, are?
  Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther,

That they sinned not; and if they merit had,
  'Tis not enough, because they had not baptism
  Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest;

And if they were before Christianity,
  In the right manner they adored not God;
  And among such as these am I myself.

For such defects, and not for other guilt,
  Lost are we and are only so far punished,
  That without hope we live on in desire."

Great grief seized on my heart when this I heard,
  Because some people of much worthiness
  I knew, who in that Limbo were suspended.

"Tell me, my Master, tell me, thou my Lord,"
  Began I, with desire of being certain
  Of that Faith which o'ercometh every error,

"Came any one by his own merit hence,
  Or by another's, who was blessed thereafter?"
  And he, who understood my covert speech,

Replied: "I was a novice in this state,
  When I saw hither come a Mighty One,
  With sign of victory incoronate.

Hence he drew forth the shade of the First Parent,
  And that of his son Abel, and of Noah,
  Of Moses the lawgiver, and the obedient

Abraham, patriarch, and David, king,
  Israel with his father and his children,
  And Rachel, for whose sake he did so much,

And others many, and he made them blessed;
  And thou must know, that earlier than these
  Never were any human spirits saved."

We ceased not to advance because he spake,
  But still were passing onward through the forest,
  The forest, say I, of thick-crowded ghosts.

Not very far as yet our way had gone
  This side the summit, when I saw a fire
  That overcame a hemisphere of darkness.

We were a little distant from it still,
  But not so far that I in part discerned not
  That honourable people held that place.

"O thou who honourest every art and science,
  Who may these be, which such great honour have,
  That from the fashion of the rest it parts them?"

And he to me: "The honourable name,
  That sounds of them above there in thy life,
  Wins grace in Heaven, that so advances them."

In the mean time a voice was heard by me:
  "All honour be to the pre-eminent Poet;
  His shade returns again, that was departed."

After the voice had ceased and quiet was,
  Four mighty shades I saw approaching us;
  Semblance had they nor sorrowful nor glad.

To say to me began my gracious Master:
  "Him with that falchion in his hand behold,
  Who comes before the three, even as their lord.

That one is Homer, Poet sovereign;
  He who comes next is Horace, the satirist;
  The third is Ovid, and the last is Lucan.

Because to each of these with me applies
  The name that solitary voice proclaimed,
  They do me honour, and in that do well."

Thus I beheld assemble the fair school
  Of that lord of the song pre-eminent,
  Who o'er the others like an eagle soars.

When they together had discoursed somewhat,
  They turned to me with signs of salutation,
  And on beholding this, my Master smiled;

And more of honour still, much more, they did me,
  In that they made me one of their own band;
  So that the sixth was I, 'mid so much wit.

Thus we went on as far as to the light,
  Things saying 'tis becoming to keep silent,
  As was the saying of them where I was.

We came unto a noble castle's foot,
  Seven times encompassed with lofty walls,
  Defended round by a fair rivulet;

This we passed over even as firm ground;
  Through portals seven I entered with these Sages;
  We came into a meadow of fresh verdure.

People were there with solemn eyes and slow,
  Of great authority in their countenance;
  They spake but seldom, and with gentle voices.

Thus we withdrew ourselves upon one side
  Into an opening luminous and lofty,
  So that they all of them were visible.

There opposite, upon the green enamel,
  Were pointed out to me the mighty spirits,
  Whom to have seen I feel myself exalted.

I saw Electra with companions many,
  'Mongst whom I knew both Hector and Aeneas,
  Caesar in armour with gerfalcon eyes;

I saw Camilla and Penthesilea
  On the other side, and saw the King Latinus,
  Who with Lavinia his daughter sat;

I saw that Brutus who drove Tarquin forth,
  Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia,
  And saw alone, apart, the Saladin.

When I had lifted up my brows a little,
  The Master I beheld of those who know,
  Sit with his philosophic family.

All gaze upon him, and all do him honour.
  There I beheld both Socrates and Plato,
  Who nearer him before the others stand;

Democritus, who puts the world on chance,
  Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales,
  Zeno, Empedocles, and Heraclitus;

Of qualities I saw the good collector,
  Hight Dioscorides; and Orpheus saw I,
  Tully and Livy, and moral Seneca,

Euclid, geometrician, and Ptolemy,
  Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicenna,
  Averroes, who the great Comment made.

I cannot all of them pourtray in full,
  Because so drives me onward the long theme,
  That many times the word comes short of fact.

The sixfold company in two divides;
  Another way my sapient Guide conducts me
  Forth from the quiet to the air that trembles;

And to a place I come where nothing shines.



Inferno: Canto V


Thus I descended out of the first circle
  Down to the second, that less space begirds,
  And so much greater dole, that goads to wailing.

There standeth Minos horribly, and snarls;
  Examines the transgressions at the entrance;
  Judges, and sends according as he girds him.

I say, that when the spirit evil-born
  Cometh before him, wholly it confesses;
  And this discriminator of transgressions

Seeth what place in Hell is meet for it;
  Girds himself with his tail as many times
  As grades he wishes it should be thrust down.

Always before him many of them stand;
  They go by turns each one unto the judgment;
  They speak, and hear, and then are downward hurled.

"O thou, that to this dolorous hostelry
  Comest," said Minos to me, when he saw me,
  Leaving the practice of so great an office,

"Look how thou enterest, and in whom thou trustest;
  Let not the portal's amplitude deceive thee."
  And unto him my Guide: "Why criest thou too?

Do not impede his journey fate-ordained;
  It is so willed there where is power to do
  That which is willed; and ask no further question."

And now begin the dolesome notes to grow
  Audible unto me; now am I come
  There where much lamentation strikes upon me.

I came into a place mute of all light,
  Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest,
  If by opposing winds 't is combated.

The infernal hurricane that never rests
  Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine;
  Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them.

When they arrive before the precipice,
  There are the shrieks, the plaints, and the laments,
  There they blaspheme the puissance divine.

I understood that unto such a torment
  The carnal malefactors were condemned,
  Who reason subjugate to appetite.

And as the wings of starlings bear them on
  In the cold season in large band and full,
  So doth that blast the spirits maledict;

It hither, thither, downward, upward, drives them;
  No hope doth comfort them for evermore,
  Not of repose, but even of lesser pain.

And as the cranes go chanting forth their lays,
  Making in air a long line of themselves,
  So saw I coming, uttering lamentations,

Shadows borne onward by the aforesaid stress.
  Whereupon said I: "Master, who are those
  People, whom the black air so castigates?"

"The first of those, of whom intelligence
  Thou fain wouldst have," then said he unto me,
  "The empress was of many languages.

To sensual vices she was so abandoned,
  That lustful she made licit in her law,
  To remove the blame to which she had been led.

She is Semiramis, of whom we read
  That she succeeded Ninus, and was his spouse;
  She held the land which now the Sultan rules.

The next is she who killed herself for love,
  And broke faith with the ashes of Sichaeus;
  Then Cleopatra the voluptuous."

Helen I saw, for whom so many ruthless
  Seasons revolved; and saw the great Achilles,
  Who at the last hour combated with Love.

Paris I saw, Tristan; and more than a thousand
  Shades did he name and point out with his finger,
  Whom Love had separated from our life.

After that I had listened to my Teacher,
  Naming the dames of eld and cavaliers,
  Pity prevailed, and I was nigh bewildered.

And I began: "O Poet, willingly
  Speak would I to those two, who go together,
  And seem upon the wind to be so light."

And, he to me: "Thou'lt mark, when they shall be
  Nearer to us; and then do thou implore them
  By love which leadeth them, and they will come."

Soon as the wind in our direction sways them,
  My voice uplift I: "O ye weary souls!
  Come speak to us, if no one interdicts it."

As turtle-doves, called onward by desire,
  With open and steady wings to the sweet nest
  Fly through the air by their volition borne,

So came they from the band where Dido is,
  Approaching us athwart the air malign,
  So strong was the affectionate appeal.

"O living creature gracious and benignant,
  Who visiting goest through the purple air
  Us, who have stained the world incarnadine,

If were the King of the Universe our friend,
  We would pray unto him to give thee peace,
  Since thou hast pity on our woe perverse.

Of what it pleases thee to hear and speak,
  That will we hear, and we will speak to you,
  While silent is the wind, as it is now.

Sitteth the city, wherein I was born,
  Upon the sea-shore where the Po descends
  To rest in peace with all his retinue.

Love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize,
  Seized this man for the person beautiful
  That was ta'en from me, and still the mode offends me.

Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving,
  Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly,
  That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me;

Love has conducted us unto one death;
  Caina waiteth him who quenched our life!"
  These words were borne along from them to us.

As soon as I had heard those souls tormented,
  I bowed my face, and so long held it down
  Until the Poet said to me: "What thinkest?"

When I made answer, I began: "Alas!
  How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire,
  Conducted these unto the dolorous pass!"

Then unto them I turned me, and I spake,
  And I began: "Thine agonies, Francesca,
  Sad and compassionate to weeping make me.

But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs,
  By what and in what manner Love conceded,
  That you should know your dubious desires?"

And she to me: "There is no greater sorrow
  Than to be mindful of the happy time
  In misery, and that thy Teacher knows.

But, if to recognise the earliest root
  Of love in us thou hast so great desire,
  I will do even as he who weeps and speaks.

One day we reading were for our delight
  Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthral.
  Alone we were and without any fear.

Full many a time our eyes together drew
  That reading, and drove the colour from our faces;
  But one point only was it that o'ercame us.

When as we read of the much-longed-for smile
  Being by such a noble lover kissed,
  This one, who ne'er from me shall be divided,

Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.
  Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it.
  That day no farther did we read therein."

And all the while one spirit uttered this,
  The other one did weep so, that, for pity,
  I swooned away as if I had been dying,

And fell, even as a dead body falls.



Inferno: Canto VI


At the return of consciousness, that closed
  Before the pity of those two relations,
  Which utterly with sadness had confused me,

New torments I behold, and new tormented
  Around me, whichsoever way I move,
  And whichsoever way I turn, and gaze.

In the third circle am I of the rain
  Eternal, maledict, and cold, and heavy;
  Its law and quality are never new.

Huge hail, and water sombre-hued, and snow,
  Athwart the tenebrous air pour down amain;
  Noisome the earth is, that receiveth this.

Cerberus, monster cruel and uncouth,
  With his three gullets like a dog is barking
  Over the people that are there submerged.

Red eyes he has, and unctuous beard and black,
  And belly large, and armed with claws his hands;
  He rends the spirits, flays, and quarters them.

Howl the rain maketh them like unto dogs;
  One side they make a shelter for the other;
  Oft turn themselves the wretched reprobates.

When Cerberus perceived us, the great worm!
   His mouths he opened, and displayed his tusks;
   Not a limb had he that was motionless.

And my Conductor, with his spans extended,
  Took of the earth, and with his fists well filled,
  He threw it into those rapacious gullets.

Such as that dog is, who by barking craves,
  And quiet grows soon as his food he gnaws,
  For to devour it he but thinks and struggles,

The like became those muzzles filth-begrimed
  Of Cerberus the demon, who so thunders
  Over the souls that they would fain be deaf.

We passed across the shadows, which subdues
  The heavy rain-storm, and we placed our feet
  Upon their vanity that person seems.

They all were lying prone upon the earth,
  Excepting one, who sat upright as soon
  As he beheld us passing on before him.

"O thou that art conducted through this Hell,"
  He said to me, "recall me, if thou canst;
  Thyself wast made before I was unmade."

And I to him: "The anguish which thou hast
  Perhaps doth draw thee out of my remembrance,
  So that it seems not I have ever seen thee.

But tell me who thou art, that in so doleful
  A place art put, and in such punishment,
  If some are greater, none is so displeasing."

And he to me: "Thy city, which is full
  Of envy so that now the sack runs over,
  Held me within it in the life serene.

You citizens were wont to call me Ciacco;
  For the pernicious sin of gluttony
  I, as thou seest, am battered by this rain.

And I, sad soul, am not the only one,
  For all these suffer the like penalty
  For the like sin;" and word no more spake he.

I answered him: "Ciacco, thy wretchedness
  Weighs on me so that it to weep invites me;
  But tell me, if thou knowest, to what shall come

The citizens of the divided city;
  If any there be just; and the occasion
  Tell me why so much discord has assailed it."

And he to me: "They, after long contention,
  Will come to bloodshed; and the rustic party
  Will drive the other out with much offence.

Then afterwards behoves it this one fall
  Within three suns, and rise again the other
  By force of him who now is on the coast.

High will it hold its forehead a long while,
  Keeping the other under heavy burdens,
  Howe'er it weeps thereat and is indignant.

The just are two, and are not understood there;
  Envy and Arrogance and Avarice
  Are the three sparks that have all hearts enkindled."

Here ended he his tearful utterance;
  And I to him: "I wish thee still to teach me,
  And make a gift to me of further speech.

Farinata and Tegghiaio, once so worthy,
  Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, and Mosca,
  And others who on good deeds set their thoughts,

Say where they are, and cause that I may know them;
  For great desire constraineth me to learn
  If Heaven doth sweeten them, or Hell envenom."

And he: "They are among the blacker souls;
  A different sin downweighs them to the bottom;
  If thou so far descendest, thou canst see them.

But when thou art again in the sweet world,
  I pray thee to the mind of others bring me;
  No more I tell thee and no more I answer."

Then his straightforward eyes he turned askance,
  Eyed me a little, and then bowed his head;
  He fell therewith prone like the other blind.

And the Guide said to me: "He wakes no more
  This side the sound of the angelic trumpet;
  When shall approach the hostile Potentate,

Each one shall find again his dismal tomb,
  Shall reassume his flesh and his own figure,
  Shall hear what through eternity re-echoes."

So we passed onward o'er the filthy mixture
  Of shadows and of rain with footsteps slow,
  Touching a little on the future life.

Wherefore I said: "Master, these torments here,
  Will they increase after the mighty sentence,
  Or lesser be, or will they be as burning?"

And he to me: "Return unto thy science,
  Which wills, that as the thing more perfect is,
  The more it feels of pleasure and of pain.

Albeit that this people maledict
  To true perfection never can attain,
  Hereafter more than now they look to be."

Round in a circle by that road we went,
  Speaking much more, which I do not repeat;
  We came unto the point where the descent is;

There we found Plutus the great enemy.



Inferno: Canto VII


"Pape Satan, Pape Satan, Aleppe!"
  Thus Plutus with his clucking voice began;
  And that benignant Sage, who all things knew,

Said, to encourage me: "Let not thy fear
  Harm thee; for any power that he may have
  Shall not prevent thy going down this crag."

Then he turned round unto that bloated lip,
  And said: "Be silent, thou accursed wolf;
  Consume within thyself with thine own rage.

Not causeless is this journey to the abyss;
  Thus is it willed on high, where Michael wrought
  Vengeance upon the proud adultery."

Even as the sails inflated by the wind
  Involved together fall when snaps the mast,
  So fell the cruel monster to the earth.

Thus we descended into the fourth chasm,
  Gaining still farther on the dolesome shore
  Which all the woe of the universe insacks.

Justice of God, ah! who heaps up so many
  New toils and sufferings as I beheld?
  And why doth our transgression waste us so?

As doth the billow there upon Charybdis,
  That breaks itself on that which it encounters,
  So here the folk must dance their roundelay.

Here saw I people, more than elsewhere, many,
  On one side and the other, with great howls,
  Rolling weights forward by main force of chest.

They clashed together, and then at that point
  Each one turned backward, rolling retrograde,
  Crying, "Why keepest?" and, "Why squanderest thou?"

Thus they returned along the lurid circle
  On either hand unto the opposite point,
  Shouting their shameful metre evermore.

Then each, when he arrived there, wheeled about
  Through his half-circle to another joust;
  And I, who had my heart pierced as it were,

Exclaimed: "My Master, now declare to me
  What people these are, and if all were clerks,
  These shaven crowns upon the left of us."

And he to me: "All of them were asquint
  In intellect in the first life, so much
  That there with measure they no spending made.

Clearly enough their voices bark it forth,
  Whene'er they reach the two points of the circle,
  Where sunders them the opposite defect.

Clerks those were who no hairy covering
  Have on the head, and Popes and Cardinals,
  In whom doth Avarice practise its excess."

And I: "My Master, among such as these
  I ought forsooth to recognise some few,
  Who were infected with these maladies."

And he to me: "Vain thought thou entertainest;
  The undiscerning life which made them sordid
  Now makes them unto all discernment dim.

Forever shall they come to these two buttings;
  These from the sepulchre shall rise again
  With the fist closed, and these with tresses shorn.

Ill giving and ill keeping the fair world
  Have ta'en from them, and placed them in this scuffle;
  Whate'er it be, no words adorn I for it.

Now canst thou, Son, behold the transient farce
  Of goods that are committed unto Fortune,
  For which the human race each other buffet;

For all the gold that is beneath the moon,
  Or ever has been, of these weary souls
  Could never make a single one repose."

"Master," I said to him, "now tell me also
  What is this Fortune which thou speakest of,
  That has the world's goods so within its clutches?"

And he to me: "O creatures imbecile,
  What ignorance is this which doth beset you?
  Now will I have thee learn my judgment of her.

He whose omniscience everything transcends
  The heavens created, and gave who should guide them,
  That every part to every part may shine,

Distributing the light in equal measure;
  He in like manner to the mundane splendours
  Ordained a general ministress and guide,

That she might change at times the empty treasures
  From race to race, from one blood to another,
  Beyond resistance of all human wisdom.

Therefore one people triumphs, and another
  Languishes, in pursuance of her judgment,
  Which hidden is, as in the grass a serpent.

Your knowledge has no counterstand against her;
  She makes provision, judges, and pursues
  Her governance, as theirs the other gods.

Her permutations have not any truce;
  Necessity makes her precipitate,
  So often cometh who his turn obtains.

And this is she who is so crucified
  Even by those who ought to give her praise,
  Giving her blame amiss, and bad repute.

But she is blissful, and she hears it not;
  Among the other primal creatures gladsome
  She turns her sphere, and blissful she rejoices.

Let us descend now unto greater woe;
  Already sinks each star that was ascending
  When I set out, and loitering is forbidden."

We crossed the circle to the other bank,
  Near to a fount that boils, and pours itself
  Along a gully that runs out of it.

The water was more sombre far than perse;
  And we, in company with the dusky waves,
  Made entrance downward by a path uncouth.

A marsh it makes, which has the name of Styx,
  This tristful brooklet, when it has descended
  Down to the foot of the malign gray shores.

And I, who stood intent upon beholding,
  Saw people mud-besprent in that lagoon,
  All of them naked and with angry look.

They smote each other not alone with hands,
  But with the head and with the breast and feet,
  Tearing each other piecemeal with their teeth.

Said the good Master: "Son, thou now beholdest
  The souls of those whom anger overcame;
  And likewise I would have thee know for certain

Beneath the water people are who sigh
  And make this water bubble at the surface,
  As the eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turns.

Fixed in the mire they say, 'We sullen were
  In the sweet air, which by the sun is gladdened,
  Bearing within ourselves the sluggish reek;

Now we are sullen in this sable mire.'
  This hymn do they keep gurgling in their throats,
  For with unbroken words they cannot say it."

Thus we went circling round the filthy fen
  A great arc 'twixt the dry bank and the swamp,
  With eyes turned unto those who gorge the mire;

Unto the foot of a tower we came at last.



Inferno: Canto VIII


I say, continuing, that long before
  We to the foot of that high tower had come,
  Our eyes went upward to the summit of it,

By reason of two flamelets we saw placed there,
  And from afar another answer them,
  So far, that hardly could the eye attain it.

And, to the sea of all discernment turned,
  I said: "What sayeth this, and what respondeth
  That other fire? and who are they that made it?"

And he to me: "Across the turbid waves
  What is expected thou canst now discern,
  If reek of the morass conceal it not."

Cord never shot an arrow from itself
  That sped away athwart the air so swift,
  As I beheld a very little boat

Come o'er the water tow'rds us at that moment,
  Under the guidance of a single pilot,
  Who shouted, "Now art thou arrived, fell soul?"

"Phlegyas, Phlegyas, thou criest out in vain
  For this once," said my Lord; "thou shalt not have us
  Longer than in the passing of the slough."

As he who listens to some great deceit
  That has been done to him, and then resents it,
  Such became Phlegyas, in his gathered wrath.

My Guide descended down into the boat,
  And then he made me enter after him,
  And only when I entered seemed it laden.

Soon as the Guide and I were in the boat,
  The antique prow goes on its way, dividing
  More of the water than 'tis wont with others.

While we were running through the dead canal,
  Uprose in front of me one full of mire,
  And said, "Who 'rt thou that comest ere the hour?"

And I to him: "Although I come, I stay not;
  But who art thou that hast become so squalid?"
  "Thou seest that I am one who weeps," he answered.

And I to him: "With weeping and with wailing,
  Thou spirit maledict, do thou remain;
  For thee I know, though thou art all defiled."

Then stretched he both his hands unto the boat;
  Whereat my wary Master thrust him back,
  Saying, "Away there with the other dogs!"

Thereafter with his arms he clasped my neck;
  He kissed my face, and said: "Disdainful soul,
  Blessed be she who bore thee in her bosom.

That was an arrogant person in the world;
  Goodness is none, that decks his memory;
  So likewise here his shade is furious.

How many are esteemed great kings up there,
  Who here shall be like unto swine in mire,
  Leaving behind them horrible dispraises!"

And I: "My Master, much should I be pleased,
  If I could see him soused into this broth,
  Before we issue forth out of the lake."

And he to me: "Ere unto thee the shore
  Reveal itself, thou shalt be satisfied;
  Such a desire 'tis meet thou shouldst enjoy."

A little after that, I saw such havoc
  Made of him by the people of the mire,
  That still I praise and thank my God for it.

They all were shouting, "At Philippo Argenti!"
  And that exasperate spirit Florentine
  Turned round upon himself with his own teeth.

We left him there, and more of him I tell not;
  But on mine ears there smote a lamentation,
  Whence forward I intent unbar mine eyes.

And the good Master said: "Even now, my Son,
  The city draweth near whose name is Dis,
  With the grave citizens, with the great throng."

And I: "Its mosques already, Master, clearly
  Within there in the valley I discern
  Vermilion, as if issuing from the fire

They were."  And he to me: "The fire eternal
  That kindles them within makes them look red,
  As thou beholdest in this nether Hell."

Then we arrived within the moats profound,
  That circumvallate that disconsolate city;
  The walls appeared to me to be of iron.

Not without making first a circuit wide,
  We came unto a place where loud the pilot
  Cried out to us, "Debark, here is the entrance."

More than a thousand at the gates I saw
  Out of the Heavens rained down, who angrily
  Were saying, "Who is this that without death

Goes through the kingdom of the people dead?"
  And my sagacious Master made a sign
  Of wishing secretly to speak with them.

A little then they quelled their great disdain,
  And said: "Come thou alone, and he begone
  Who has so boldly entered these dominions.

Let him return alone by his mad road;
  Try, if he can; for thou shalt here remain,
  Who hast escorted him through such dark regions."

Think, Reader, if I was discomforted
  At utterance of the accursed words;
  For never to return here I believed.

"O my dear Guide, who more than seven times
  Hast rendered me security, and drawn me
  From imminent peril that before me stood,

Do not desert me," said I, "thus undone;
  And if the going farther be denied us,
  Let us retrace our steps together swiftly."

And that Lord, who had led me thitherward,
  Said unto me: "Fear not; because our passage
  None can take from us, it by Such is given.

But here await me, and thy weary spirit
  Comfort and nourish with a better hope;
  For in this nether world I will not leave thee."

So onward goes and there abandons me
  My Father sweet, and I remain in doubt,
  For No and Yes within my head contend.

I could not hear what he proposed to them;
  But with them there he did not linger long,
  Ere each within in rivalry ran back.

They closed the portals, those our adversaries,
  On my Lord's breast, who had remained without
  And turned to me with footsteps far between.

His eyes cast down, his forehead shorn had he
  Of all its boldness, and he said, with sighs,
  "Who has denied to me the dolesome houses?"

And unto me: "Thou, because I am angry,
  Fear not, for I will conquer in the trial,
  Whatever for defence within be planned.

This arrogance of theirs is nothing new;
  For once they used it at less secret gate,
  Which finds itself without a fastening still.

O'er it didst thou behold the dead inscription;
  And now this side of it descends the steep,
  Passing across the circles without escort,

One by whose means the city shall be opened."



Inferno: Canto IX


That hue which cowardice brought out on me,
  Beholding my Conductor backward turn,
  Sooner repressed within him his new colour.

He stopped attentive, like a man who listens,
  Because the eye could not conduct him far
  Through the black air, and through the heavy fog.

"Still it behoveth us to win the fight,"
  Began he; "Else. . .Such offered us herself. . .
  O how I long that some one here arrive!"

Well I perceived, as soon as the beginning
  He covered up with what came afterward,
  That they were words quite different from the first;

But none the less his saying gave me fear,
  Because I carried out the broken phrase,
  Perhaps to a worse meaning than he had.

"Into this bottom of the doleful conch
  Doth any e'er descend from the first grade,
  Which for its pain has only hope cut off?"

This question put I; and he answered me:
  "Seldom it comes to pass that one of us
  Maketh the journey upon which I go.

True is it, once before I here below
  Was conjured by that pitiless Erictho,
  Who summoned back the shades unto their bodies.

Naked of me short while the flesh had been,
  Before within that wall she made me enter,
  To bring a spirit from the circle of Judas;

That is the lowest region and the darkest,
  And farthest from the heaven which circles all.
  Well know I the way; therefore be reassured.

This fen, which a prodigious stench exhales,
  Encompasses about the city dolent,
  Where now we cannot enter without anger."

And more he said, but not in mind I have it;
  Because mine eye had altogether drawn me
  Tow'rds the high tower with the red-flaming summit,

Where in a moment saw I swift uprisen
  The three infernal Furies stained with blood,
  Who had the limbs of women and their mien,

And with the greenest hydras were begirt;
  Small serpents and cerastes were their tresses,
  Wherewith their horrid temples were entwined.

And he who well the handmaids of the Queen
  Of everlasting lamentation knew,
  Said unto me: "Behold the fierce Erinnys.

This is Megaera, on the left-hand side;
  She who is weeping on the right, Alecto;
  Tisiphone is between;" and then was silent.

Each one her breast was rending with her nails;
  They beat them with their palms, and cried so loud,
  That I for dread pressed close unto the Poet.

"Medusa come, so we to stone will change him!"
  All shouted looking down; "in evil hour
  Avenged we not on Theseus his assault!"

"Turn thyself round, and keep thine eyes close shut,
  For if the Gorgon appear, and thou shouldst see it,
  No more returning upward would there be."

Thus said the Master; and he turned me round
  Himself, and trusted not unto my hands
  So far as not to blind me with his own.

O ye who have undistempered intellects,
  Observe the doctrine that conceals itself
  Beneath the veil of the mysterious verses!

And now there came across the turbid waves
  The clangour of a sound with terror fraught,
  Because of which both of the margins trembled;

Not otherwise it was than of a wind
  Impetuous on account of adverse heats,
  That smites the forest, and, without restraint,

The branches rends, beats down, and bears away;
  Right onward, laden with dust, it goes superb,
  And puts to flight the wild beasts and the shepherds.

Mine eyes he loosed, and said: "Direct the nerve
  Of vision now along that ancient foam,
  There yonder where that smoke is most intense."

Even as the frogs before the hostile serpent
  Across the water scatter all abroad,
  Until each one is huddled in the earth.

More than a thousand ruined souls I saw,
  Thus fleeing from before one who on foot
  Was passing o'er the Styx with soles unwet.

From off his face he fanned that unctuous air,
  Waving his left hand oft in front of him,
  And only with that anguish seemed he weary.

Well I perceived one sent from Heaven was he,
  And to the Master turned; and he made sign
  That I should quiet stand, and bow before him.

Ah! how disdainful he appeared to me!
  He reached the gate, and with a little rod
  He opened it, for there was no resistance.

"O banished out of Heaven, people despised!"
  Thus he began upon the horrid threshold;
  "Whence is this arrogance within you couched?

Wherefore recalcitrate against that will,
  From which the end can never be cut off,
  And which has many times increased your pain?

What helpeth it to butt against the fates?
  Your Cerberus, if you remember well,
  For that still bears his chin and gullet peeled."

Then he returned along the miry road,
  And spake no word to us, but had the look
  Of one whom other care constrains and goads

Than that of him who in his presence is;
  And we our feet directed tow'rds the city,
  After those holy words all confident.

Within we entered without any contest;
  And I, who inclination had to see
  What the condition such a fortress holds,

Soon as I was within, cast round mine eye,
  And see on every hand an ample plain,
  Full of distress and torment terrible.

Even as at Arles, where stagnant grows the Rhone,
  Even as at Pola near to the Quarnaro,
  That shuts in Italy and bathes its borders,

The sepulchres make all the place uneven;
  So likewise did they there on every side,
  Saving that there the manner was more bitter;

For flames between the sepulchres were scattered,
  By which they so intensely heated were,
  That iron more so asks not any art.

All of their coverings uplifted were,
  And from them issued forth such dire laments,
  Sooth seemed they of the wretched and tormented.

And I: "My Master, what are all those people
  Who, having sepulture within those tombs,
  Make themselves audible by doleful sighs?"

And he to me: "Here are the Heresiarchs,
  With their disciples of all sects, and much
  More than thou thinkest laden are the tombs.

Here like together with its like is buried;
  And more and less the monuments are heated."
  And when he to the right had turned, we passed

Between the torments and high parapets.



Inferno: Canto X


Now onward goes, along a narrow path
  Between the torments and the city wall,
  My Master, and I follow at his back.

"O power supreme, that through these impious circles
  Turnest me," I began, "as pleases thee,
  Speak to me, and my longings satisfy;

The people who are lying in these tombs,
  Might they be seen? already are uplifted
  The covers all, and no one keepeth guard."

And he to me: "They all will be closed up
  When from Jehoshaphat they shall return
  Here with the bodies they have left above.

Their cemetery have upon this side
  With Epicurus all his followers,
  Who with the body mortal make the soul;

But in the question thou dost put to me,
  Within here shalt thou soon be satisfied,
  And likewise in the wish thou keepest silent."

And I: "Good Leader, I but keep concealed
  From thee my heart, that I may speak the less,
  Nor only now hast thou thereto disposed me."

"O Tuscan, thou who through the city of fire
  Goest alive, thus speaking modestly,
  Be pleased to stay thy footsteps in this place.

Thy mode of speaking makes thee manifest
  A native of that noble fatherland,
  To which perhaps I too molestful was."

Upon a sudden issued forth this sound
  From out one of the tombs; wherefore I pressed,
  Fearing, a little nearer to my Leader.

And unto me he said: "Turn thee; what dost thou?
  Behold there Farinata who has risen;
  From the waist upwards wholly shalt thou see him."

I had already fixed mine eyes on his,
  And he uprose erect with breast and front
  E'en as if Hell he had in great despite.

And with courageous hands and prompt my Leader
  Thrust me between the sepulchres towards him,
  Exclaiming, "Let thy words explicit be."

As soon as I was at the foot of his tomb
  Somewhat he eyed me, and, as if disdainful,
  Then asked of me, "Who were thine ancestors?"

I, who desirous of obeying was,
  Concealed it not, but all revealed to him;
  Whereat he raised his brows a little upward.

Then said he: "Fiercely adverse have they been
  To me, and to my fathers, and my party;
  So that two several times I scattered them."

"If they were banished, they returned on all sides,"
  I answered him, "the first time and the second;
  But yours have not acquired that art aright."

Then there uprose upon the sight, uncovered
  Down to the chin, a shadow at his side;
  I think that he had risen on his knees.

Round me he gazed, as if solicitude
  He had to see if some one else were with me,
  But after his suspicion was all spent,

Weeping, he said to me: "If through this blind
  Prison thou goest by loftiness of genius,
  Where is my son? and why is he not with thee?"

And I to him: "I come not of myself;
  He who is waiting yonder leads me here,
  Whom in disdain perhaps your Guido had."

His language and the mode of punishment
  Already unto me had read his name;
  On that account my answer was so full.

Up starting suddenly, he cried out: "How
  Saidst thou,--he had?  Is he not still alive?
  Does not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?"

When he became aware of some delay,
  Which I before my answer made, supine
  He fell again, and forth appeared no more.

But the other, magnanimous, at whose desire
  I had remained, did not his aspect change,
  Neither his neck he moved, nor bent his side.

"And if," continuing his first discourse,
  "They have that art," he said, "not learned aright,
  That more tormenteth me, than doth this bed.

But fifty times shall not rekindled be
  The countenance of the Lady who reigns here,
  Ere thou shalt know how heavy is that art;

And as thou wouldst to the sweet world return,
  Say why that people is so pitiless
  Against my race in each one of its laws?"

Whence I to him: "The slaughter and great carnage
  Which have with crimson stained the Arbia, cause
  Such orisons in our temple to be made."

After his head he with a sigh had shaken,
  "There I was not alone," he said, "nor surely
  Without a cause had with the others moved.

But there I was alone, where every one
  Consented to the laying waste of Florence,
  He who defended her with open face."

"Ah! so hereafter may your seed repose,"
  I him entreated, "solve for me that knot,
  Which has entangled my conceptions here.

It seems that you can see, if I hear rightly,
  Beforehand whatsoe'er time brings with it,
  And in the present have another mode."

"We see, like those who have imperfect sight,
  The things," he said, "that distant are from us;
  So much still shines on us the Sovereign Ruler.

When they draw near, or are, is wholly vain
  Our intellect, and if none brings it to us,
  Not anything know we of your human state.

Hence thou canst understand, that wholly dead
  Will be our knowledge from the moment when
  The portal of the future shall be closed."

Then I, as if compunctious for my fault,
  Said: "Now, then, you will tell that fallen one,
  That still his son is with the living joined.

And if just now, in answering, I was dumb,
  Tell him I did it because I was thinking
  Already of the error you have solved me."

And now my Master was recalling me,
  Wherefore more eagerly I prayed the spirit
  That he would tell me who was with him there.

He said: "With more than a thousand here I lie;
  Within here is the second Frederick,
  And the Cardinal, and of the rest I speak not."

Thereon he hid himself; and I towards
  The ancient poet turned my steps, reflecting
  Upon that saying, which seemed hostile to me.

He moved along; and afterward thus going,
  He said to me, "Why art thou so bewildered?"
  And I in his inquiry satisfied him.

"Let memory preserve what thou hast heard
  Against thyself," that Sage commanded me,
  "And now attend here;" and he raised his finger.

"When thou shalt be before the radiance sweet
  Of her whose beauteous eyes all things behold,
  From her thou'lt know the journey of thy life."

Unto the left hand then he turned his feet;
  We left the wall, and went towards the middle,
  Along a path that strikes into a valley,

Which even up there unpleasant made its stench.



Inferno: Canto XI


Upon the margin of a lofty bank
  Which great rocks broken in a circle made,
  We came upon a still more cruel throng;

And there, by reason of the horrible
  Excess of stench the deep abyss throws out,
  We drew ourselves aside behind the cover

Of a great tomb, whereon I saw a writing,
  Which said: "Pope Anastasius I hold,
  Whom out of the right way Photinus drew."

"Slow it behoveth our descent to be,
  So that the sense be first a little used
  To the sad blast, and then we shall not heed it."

The Master thus; and unto him I said,
  "Some compensation find, that the time pass not
  Idly;" and he: "Thou seest I think of that.

My son, upon the inside of these rocks,"
  Began he then to say, "are three small circles,
  From grade to grade, like those which thou art leaving.

They all are full of spirits maledict;
  But that hereafter sight alone suffice thee,
  Hear how and wherefore they are in constraint.

Of every malice that wins hate in Heaven,
  Injury is the end; and all such end
  Either by force or fraud afflicteth others.

But because fraud is man's peculiar vice,
  More it displeases God; and so stand lowest
  The fraudulent, and greater dole assails them.

All the first circle of the Violent is;
  But since force may be used against three persons,
  In three rounds 'tis divided and constructed.

To God, to ourselves, and to our neighbour can we
  Use force; I say on them and on their things,
  As thou shalt hear with reason manifest.

A death by violence, and painful wounds,
  Are to our neighbour given; and in his substance
  Ruin, and arson, and injurious levies;

Whence homicides, and he who smites unjustly,
  Marauders, and freebooters, the first round
  Tormenteth all in companies diverse.

Man may lay violent hands upon himself
  And his own goods; and therefore in the second
  Round must perforce without avail repent

Whoever of your world deprives himself,
  Who games, and dissipates his property,
  And weepeth there, where he should jocund be.

Violence can be done the Deity,
  In heart denying and blaspheming Him,
  And by disdaining Nature and her bounty.

And for this reason doth the smallest round
  Seal with its signet Sodom and Cahors,
  And who, disdaining God, speaks from the heart.

Fraud, wherewithal is every conscience stung,
  A man may practise upon him who trusts,
  And him who doth no confidence imburse.

This latter mode, it would appear, dissevers
  Only the bond of love which Nature makes;
  Wherefore within the second circle nestle

Hypocrisy, flattery, and who deals in magic,
  Falsification, theft, and simony,
  Panders, and barrators, and the like filth.

By the other mode, forgotten is that love
  Which Nature makes, and what is after added,
  From which there is a special faith engendered.

Hence in the smallest circle, where the point is
  Of the Universe, upon which Dis is seated,
  Whoe'er betrays for ever is consumed."

And I: "My Master, clear enough proceeds
  Thy reasoning, and full well distinguishes
  This cavern and the people who possess it.

But tell me, those within the fat lagoon,
  Whom the wind drives, and whom the rain doth beat,
  And who encounter with such bitter tongues,

Wherefore are they inside of the red city
  Not punished, if God has them in his wrath,
  And if he has not, wherefore in such fashion?"

And unto me he said: "Why wanders so
  Thine intellect from that which it is wont?
  Or, sooth, thy mind where is it elsewhere looking?

Hast thou no recollection of those words
  With which thine Ethics thoroughly discusses
  The dispositions three, that Heaven abides not,--

Incontinence, and Malice, and insane
  Bestiality? and how Incontinence
  Less God offendeth, and less blame attracts?

If thou regardest this conclusion well,
  And to thy mind recallest who they are
  That up outside are undergoing penance,

Clearly wilt thou perceive why from these felons
  They separated are, and why less wroth
  Justice divine doth smite them with its hammer."

"O Sun, that healest all distempered vision,
  Thou dost content me so, when thou resolvest,
  That doubting pleases me no less than knowing!

Once more a little backward turn thee," said I,
  "There where thou sayest that usury offends
  Goodness divine, and disengage the knot."

"Philosophy," he said, "to him who heeds it,
  Noteth, not only in one place alone,
  After what manner Nature takes her course

From Intellect Divine, and from its art;
  And if thy Physics carefully thou notest,
  After not many pages shalt thou find,

That this your art as far as possible
  Follows, as the disciple doth the master;
  So that your art is, as it were, God's grandchild.

From these two, if thou bringest to thy mind
  Genesis at the beginning, it behoves
  Mankind to gain their life and to advance;

And since the usurer takes another way,
  Nature herself and in her follower
  Disdains he, for elsewhere he puts his hope.

But follow, now, as I would fain go on,
  For quivering are the Fishes on the horizon,
  And the Wain wholly over Caurus lies,

And far beyond there we descend the crag."



Inferno: Canto XII


The place where to descend the bank we came
  Was alpine, and from what was there, moreover,
  Of such a kind that every eye would shun it.

Such as that ruin is which in the flank
  Smote, on this side of Trent, the Adige,
  Either by earthquake or by failing stay,

For from the mountain's top, from which it moved,
  Unto the plain the cliff is shattered so,
  Some path 'twould give to him who was above;

Even such was the descent of that ravine,
  And on the border of the broken chasm
  The infamy of Crete was stretched along,

Who was conceived in the fictitious cow;
  And when he us beheld, he bit himself,
  Even as one whom anger racks within.

My Sage towards him shouted: "Peradventure
  Thou think'st that here may be the Duke of Athens,
  Who in the world above brought death to thee?

Get thee gone, beast, for this one cometh not
  Instructed by thy sister, but he comes
  In order to behold your punishments."

As is that bull who breaks loose at the moment
  In which he has received the mortal blow,
  Who cannot walk, but staggers here and there,

The Minotaur beheld I do the like;
  And he, the wary, cried: "Run to the passage;
  While he wroth, 'tis well thou shouldst descend."

Thus down we took our way o'er that discharge
  Of stones, which oftentimes did move themselves
  Beneath my feet, from the unwonted burden.

Thoughtful I went; and he said: "Thou art thinking
  Perhaps upon this ruin, which is guarded
  By that brute anger which just now I quenched.

Now will I have thee know, the other time
  I here descended to the nether Hell,
  This precipice had not yet fallen down.

But truly, if I well discern, a little
  Before His coming who the mighty spoil
  Bore off from Dis, in the supernal circle,

Upon all sides the deep and loathsome valley
  Trembled so, that I thought the Universe
  Was thrilled with love, by which there are who think

The world ofttimes converted into chaos;
  And at that moment this primeval crag
  Both here and elsewhere made such overthrow.

But fix thine eyes below; for draweth near
  The river of blood, within which boiling is
  Whoe'er by violence doth injure others."

O blind cupidity, O wrath insane,
  That spurs us onward so in our short life,
  And in the eternal then so badly steeps us!

I saw an ample moat bent like a bow,
  As one which all the plain encompasses,
  Conformable to what my Guide had said.

And between this and the embankment's foot
  Centaurs in file were running, armed with arrows,
  As in the world they used the chase to follow.

Beholding us descend, each one stood still,
  And from the squadron three detached themselves,
  With bows and arrows in advance selected;

And from afar one cried: "Unto what torment
  Come ye, who down the hillside are descending?
  Tell us from there; if not, I draw the bow."

My Master said: "Our answer will we make
  To Chiron, near you there; in evil hour,
  That will of thine was evermore so hasty."

Then touched he me, and said: "This one is Nessus,
  Who perished for the lovely Dejanira,
  And for himself, himself did vengeance take.

And he in the midst, who at his breast is gazing,
  Is the great Chiron, who brought up Achilles;
  That other Pholus is, who was so wrathful.

Thousands and thousands go about the moat
  Shooting with shafts whatever soul emerges
  Out of the blood, more than his crime allots."

Near we approached unto those monsters fleet;
  Chiron an arrow took, and with the notch
  Backward upon his jaws he put his beard.

After he had uncovered his great mouth,
  He said to his companions: "Are you ware
  That he behind moveth whate'er he touches?

Thus are not wont to do the feet of dead men."
  And my good Guide, who now was at his breast,
  Where the two natures are together joined,

Replied: "Indeed he lives, and thus alone
  Me it behoves to show him the dark valley;
  Necessity, and not delight, impels us.

Some one withdrew from singing Halleluja,
  Who unto me committed this new office;
  No thief is he, nor I a thievish spirit.

But by that virtue through which I am moving
  My steps along this savage thoroughfare,
  Give us some one of thine, to be with us,

And who may show us where to pass the ford,
  And who may carry this one on his back;
  For 'tis no spirit that can walk the air."

Upon his right breast Chiron wheeled about,
  And said to Nessus: "Turn and do thou guide them,
  And warn aside, if other band may meet you."

We with our faithful escort onward moved
  Along the brink of the vermilion boiling,
  Wherein the boiled were uttering loud laments.

People I saw within up to the eyebrows,
  And the great Centaur said: "Tyrants are these,
  Who dealt in bloodshed and in pillaging.

Here they lament their pitiless mischiefs; here
  Is Alexander, and fierce Dionysius
  Who upon Sicily brought dolorous years.

That forehead there which has the hair so black
  Is Azzolin; and the other who is blond,
  Obizzo is of Esti, who, in truth,

Up in the world was by his stepson slain."
  Then turned I to the Poet; and he said,
  "Now he be first to thee, and second I."

A little farther on the Centaur stopped
  Above a folk, who far down as the throat
  Seemed from that boiling stream to issue forth.

A shade he showed us on one side alone,
  Saying: "He cleft asunder in God's bosom
  The heart that still upon the Thames is honoured."

Then people saw I, who from out the river
  Lifted their heads and also all the chest;
  And many among these I recognised.

Thus ever more and more grew shallower
  That blood, so that the feet alone it covered;
  And there across the moat our passage was.

"Even as thou here upon this side beholdest
  The boiling stream, that aye diminishes,"
  The Centaur said, "I wish thee to believe

That on this other more and more declines
  Its bed, until it reunites itself
  Where it behoveth tyranny to groan.

Justice divine, upon this side, is goading
  That Attila, who was a scourge on earth,
  And Pyrrhus, and Sextus; and for ever milks

The tears which with the boiling it unseals
  In Rinier da Corneto and Rinier Pazzo,
  Who made upon the highways so much war."

Then back he turned, and passed again the ford.



Inferno: Canto XIII


Not yet had Nessus reached the other side,
  When we had put ourselves within a wood,
  That was not marked by any path whatever.

Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour,
  Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled,
  Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison.

Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense,
  Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold
  'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places.

There do the hideous Harpies make their nests,
  Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades,
  With sad announcement of impending doom;

Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human,
  And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged;
  They make laments upon the wondrous trees.

And the good Master: "Ere thou enter farther,
  Know that thou art within the second round,"
  Thus he began to say, "and shalt be, till

Thou comest out upon the horrible sand;
  Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see
  Things that will credence give unto my speech."

I heard on all sides lamentations uttered,
  And person none beheld I who might make them,
  Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still.

I think he thought that I perhaps might think
  So many voices issued through those trunks
  From people who concealed themselves from us;

Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off
  Some little spray from any of these trees,
  The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain."

Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward,
  And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn;
  And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?"

After it had become embrowned with blood,
  It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me?
  Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever?

Men once we were, and now are changed to trees;
  Indeed, thy hand should be more pitiful,
  Even if the souls of serpents we had been."

As out of a green brand, that is on fire
  At one of the ends, and from the other drips
  And hisses with the wind that is escaping;

So from that splinter issued forth together
  Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip
  Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid.

"Had he been able sooner to believe,"
  My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul,
  What only in my verses he has seen,

Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand;
  Whereas the thing incredible has caused me
  To put him to an act which grieveth me.

But tell him who thou wast, so that by way
  Of some amends thy fame he may refresh
  Up in the world, to which he can return."

And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me,
  I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not,
  That I a little to discourse am tempted.

I am the one who both keys had in keeping
  Of Frederick's heart, and turned them to and fro
  So softly in unlocking and in locking,

That from his secrets most men I withheld;
  Fidelity I bore the glorious office
  So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses.

The courtesan who never from the dwelling
  Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes,
  Death universal and the vice of courts,

Inflamed against me all the other minds,
  And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus,
  That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings.

My spirit, in disdainful exultation,
  Thinking by dying to escape disdain,
  Made me unjust against myself, the just.

I, by the roots unwonted of this wood,
  Do swear to you that never broke I faith
  Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour;

And to the world if one of you return,
  Let him my memory comfort, which is lying
  Still prostrate from the blow that envy dealt it."

Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent,"
  The Poet said to me, "lose not the time,
  But speak, and question him, if more may please thee."

Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire
  Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me;
  For I cannot, such pity is in my heart."

Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man
  Do for thee freely what thy speech implores,
  Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased

To tell us in what way the soul is bound
  Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst,
  If any from such members e'er is freed."

Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward
  The wind was into such a voice converted:
  "With brevity shall be replied to you.

When the exasperated soul abandons
  The body whence it rent itself away,
  Minos consigns it to the seventh abyss.

It falls into the forest, and no part
  Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it,
  There like a grain of spelt it germinates.

It springs a sapling, and a forest tree;
  The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves,
  Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet.

Like others for our spoils shall we return;
  But not that any one may them revest,
  For 'tis not just to have what one casts off.

Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal
  Forest our bodies shall suspended be,
  Each to the thorn of his molested shade."

We were attentive still unto the trunk,
  Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us,
  When by a tumult we were overtaken,

In the same way as he is who perceives
  The boar and chase approaching to his stand,
  Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches;

And two behold! upon our left-hand side,
  Naked and scratched, fleeing so furiously,
  That of the forest, every fan they broke.

He who was in advance: "Now help, Death, help!"
  And the other one, who seemed to lag too much,
  Was shouting: "Lano, were not so alert

Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!"
  And then, perchance because his breath was failing,
  He grouped himself together with a bush.

Behind them was the forest full of black
  She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot
  As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain.

On him who had crouched down they set their teeth,
  And him they lacerated piece by piece,
  Thereafter bore away those aching members.

Thereat my Escort took me by the hand,
  And led me to the bush, that all in vain
  Was weeping from its bloody lacerations.

"O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea,
  What helped it thee of me to make a screen?
  What blame have I in thy nefarious life?"

When near him had the Master stayed his steps,
  He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many
  Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?"

And he to us: "O souls, that hither come
  To look upon the shameful massacre
  That has so rent away from me my leaves,

Gather them up beneath the dismal bush;
  I of that city was which to the Baptist
  Changed its first patron, wherefore he for this

Forever with his art will make it sad.
  And were it not that on the pass of Arno
  Some glimpses of him are remaining still,

Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it
  Upon the ashes left by Attila,
  In vain had caused their labour to be done.

Of my own house I made myself a gibbet."



Inferno: Canto XIV


Because the charity of my native place
  Constrained me, gathered I the scattered leaves,
  And gave them back to him, who now was hoarse.

Then came we to the confine, where disparted
  The second round is from the third, and where
  A horrible form of Justice is beheld.

Clearly to manifest these novel things,
  I say that we arrived upon a plain,
  Which from its bed rejecteth every plant;

The dolorous forest is a garland to it
  All round about, as the sad moat to that;
  There close upon the edge we stayed our feet.

The soil was of an arid and thick sand,
  Not of another fashion made than that
  Which by the feet of Cato once was pressed.

Vengeance of God, O how much oughtest thou
  By each one to be dreaded, who doth read
  That which was manifest unto mine eyes!

Of naked souls beheld I many herds,
  Who all were weeping very miserably,
  And over them seemed set a law diverse.

Supine upon the ground some folk were lying;
  And some were sitting all drawn up together,
  And others went about continually.

Those who were going round were far the more,
  And those were less who lay down to their torment,
  But had their tongues more loosed to lamentation.

O'er all the sand-waste, with a gradual fall,
  Were raining down dilated flakes of fire,
  As of the snow on Alp without a wind.

As Alexander, in those torrid parts
  Of India, beheld upon his host
  Flames fall unbroken till they reached the ground.

Whence he provided with his phalanxes
  To trample down the soil, because the vapour
  Better extinguished was while it was single;

Thus was descending the eternal heat,
  Whereby the sand was set on fire, like tinder
  Beneath the steel, for doubling of the dole.

Without repose forever was the dance
  Of miserable hands, now there, now here,
  Shaking away from off them the fresh gleeds.

"Master," began I, "thou who overcomest
  All things except the demons dire, that issued
  Against us at the entrance of the gate,

Who is that mighty one who seems to heed not
  The fire, and lieth lowering and disdainful,
  So that the rain seems not to ripen him?"

And he himself, who had become aware
  That I was questioning my Guide about him,
  Cried: "Such as I was living, am I, dead.

If Jove should weary out his smith, from whom
  He seized in anger the sharp thunderbolt,
  Wherewith upon the last day I was smitten,

And if he wearied out by turns the others
  In Mongibello at the swarthy forge,
  Vociferating, 'Help, good Vulcan, help!'

Even as he did there at the fight of Phlegra,
  And shot his bolts at me with all his might,
  He would not have thereby a joyous vengeance."

Then did my Leader speak with such great force,
  That I had never heard him speak so loud:
  "O Capaneus, in that is not extinguished

Thine arrogance, thou punished art the more;
  Not any torment, saving thine own rage,
  Would be unto thy fury pain complete."

Then he turned round to me with better lip,
  Saying: "One of the Seven Kings was he
  Who Thebes besieged, and held, and seems to hold

God in disdain, and little seems to prize him;
  But, as I said to him, his own despites
  Are for his breast the fittest ornaments.

Now follow me, and mind thou do not place
  As yet thy feet upon the burning sand,
  But always keep them close unto the wood."

Speaking no word, we came to where there gushes
  Forth from the wood a little rivulet,
  Whose redness makes my hair still stand on end.

As from the Bulicame springs the brooklet,
  The sinful women later share among them,
  So downward through the sand it went its way.

The bottom of it, and both sloping banks,
  Were made of stone, and the margins at the side;
  Whence I perceived that there the passage was.

"In all the rest which I have shown to thee
  Since we have entered in within the gate
  Whose threshold unto no one is denied,

Nothing has been discovered by thine eyes
  So notable as is the present river,
  Which all the little flames above it quenches."

These words were of my Leader; whence I prayed him
  That he would give me largess of the food,
  For which he had given me largess of desire.

"In the mid-sea there sits a wasted land,"
  Said he thereafterward, "whose name is Crete,
  Under whose king the world of old was chaste.

There is a mountain there, that once was glad
  With waters and with leaves, which was called Ida;
  Now 'tis deserted, as a thing worn out.

Rhea once chose it for the faithful cradle
  Of her own son; and to conceal him better,
  Whene'er he cried, she there had clamours made.

A grand old man stands in the mount erect,
  Who holds his shoulders turned tow'rds Damietta,
  And looks at Rome as if it were his mirror.

His head is fashioned of refined gold,
  And of pure silver are the arms and breast;
  Then he is brass as far down as the fork.

From that point downward all is chosen iron,
  Save that the right foot is of kiln-baked clay,
  And more he stands on that than on the other.

Each part, except the gold, is by a fissure
  Asunder cleft, that dripping is with tears,
  Which gathered together perforate that cavern.

From rock to rock they fall into this valley;
  Acheron, Styx, and Phlegethon they form;
  Then downward go along this narrow sluice

Unto that point where is no more descending.
  They form Cocytus; what that pool may be
  Thou shalt behold, so here 'tis not narrated."

And I to him: "If so the present runnel
  Doth take its rise in this way from our world,
  Why only on this verge appears it to us?"

And he to me: "Thou knowest the place is round,
  And notwithstanding thou hast journeyed far,
  Still to the left descending to the bottom,

Thou hast not yet through all the circle turned.
  Therefore if something new appear to us,
  It should not bring amazement to thy face."

And I again: "Master, where shall be found
  Lethe and Phlegethon, for of one thou'rt silent,
  And sayest the other of this rain is made?"

"In all thy questions truly thou dost please me,"
  Replied he; "but the boiling of the red
  Water might well solve one of them thou makest.

Thou shalt see Lethe, but outside this moat,
  There where the souls repair to lave themselves,
  When sin repented of has been removed."

Then said he: "It is time now to abandon
  The wood; take heed that thou come after me;
  A way the margins make that are not burning,

And over them all vapours are extinguished."



Inferno: Canto XV


Now bears us onward one of the hard margins,
  And so the brooklet's mist o'ershadows it,
  From fire it saves the water and the dikes.

Even as the Flemings, 'twixt Cadsand and Bruges,
  Fearing the flood that tow'rds them hurls itself,
  Their bulwarks build to put the sea to flight;

And as the Paduans along the Brenta,
  To guard their villas and their villages,
  Or ever Chiarentana feel the heat;

In such similitude had those been made,
  Albeit not so lofty nor so thick,
  Whoever he might be, the master made them.

Now were we from the forest so remote,
  I could not have discovered where it was,
  Even if backward I had turned myself,

When we a company of souls encountered,
  Who came beside the dike, and every one
  Gazed at us, as at evening we are wont

To eye each other under a new moon,
  And so towards us sharpened they their brows
  As an old tailor at the needle's eye.

Thus scrutinised by such a family,
  By some one I was recognised, who seized
  My garment's hem, and cried out, "What a marvel!"

And I, when he stretched forth his arm to me,
  On his baked aspect fastened so mine eyes,
  That the scorched countenance prevented not

His recognition by my intellect;
  And bowing down my face unto his own,
  I made reply, "Are you here, Ser Brunetto?"

And he: "May't not displease thee, O my son,
  If a brief space with thee Brunetto Latini
  Backward return and let the trail go on."

I said to him: "With all my power I ask it;
  And if you wish me to sit down with you,
  I will, if he please, for I go with him."

"O son," he said, "whoever of this herd
  A moment stops, lies then a hundred years,
  Nor fans himself when smiteth him the fire.

Therefore go on; I at thy skirts will come,
  And afterward will I rejoin my band,
  Which goes lamenting its eternal doom."

I did not dare to go down from the road
  Level to walk with him; but my head bowed
  I held as one who goeth reverently.

And he began: "What fortune or what fate
  Before the last day leadeth thee down here?
  And who is this that showeth thee the way?"

"Up there above us in the life serene,"
  I answered him, "I lost me in a valley,
  Or ever yet my age had been completed.

But yestermorn I turned my back upon it;
  This one appeared to me, returning thither,
  And homeward leadeth me along this road."

And he to me: "If thou thy star do follow,
  Thou canst not fail thee of a glorious port,
  If well I judged in the life beautiful.

And if I had not died so prematurely,
  Seeing Heaven thus benignant unto thee,
  I would have given thee comfort in the work.

But that ungrateful and malignant people,
  Which of old time from Fesole descended,
  And smacks still of the mountain and the granite,

Will make itself, for thy good deeds, thy foe;
  And it is right; for among crabbed sorbs
  It ill befits the sweet fig to bear fruit.

Old rumour in the world proclaims them blind;
  A people avaricious, envious, proud;
  Take heed that of their customs thou do cleanse thee.

Thy fortune so much honour doth reserve thee,
  One party and the other shall be hungry
  For thee; but far from goat shall be the grass.

Their litter let the beasts of Fesole
  Make of themselves, nor let them touch the plant,
  If any still upon their dunghill rise,

In which may yet revive the consecrated
  Seed of those Romans, who remained there when
  The nest of such great malice it became."

"If my entreaty wholly were fulfilled,"
  Replied I to him, "not yet would you be
  In banishment from human nature placed;

For in my mind is fixed, and touches now
  My heart the dear and good paternal image
  Of you, when in the world from hour to hour

You taught me how a man becomes eternal;
  And how much I am grateful, while I live
  Behoves that in my language be discerned.

What you narrate of my career I write,
  And keep it to be glossed with other text
  By a Lady who can do it, if I reach her.

This much will I have manifest to you;
  Provided that my conscience do not chide me,
  For whatsoever Fortune I am ready.

Such handsel is not new unto mine ears;
  Therefore let Fortune turn her wheel around
  As it may please her, and the churl his mattock."

My Master thereupon on his right cheek
  Did backward turn himself, and looked at me;
  Then said: "He listeneth well who noteth it."

Nor speaking less on that account, I go
  With Ser Brunetto, and I ask who are
  His most known and most eminent companions.

And he to me: "To know of some is well;
  Of others it were laudable to be silent,
  For short would be the time for so much speech.

Know them in sum, that all of them were clerks,
  And men of letters great and of great fame,
  In the world tainted with the selfsame sin.

Priscian goes yonder with that wretched crowd,
  And Francis of Accorso; and thou hadst seen there
  If thou hadst had a hankering for such scurf,

That one, who by the Servant of the Servants
  From Arno was transferred to Bacchiglione,
  Where he has left his sin-excited nerves.

More would I say, but coming and discoursing
  Can be no longer; for that I behold
  New smoke uprising yonder from the sand.

A people comes with whom I may not be;
  Commended unto thee be my Tesoro,
  In which I still live, and no more I ask."

Then he turned round, and seemed to be of those
  Who at Verona run for the Green Mantle
  Across the plain; and seemed to be among them

The one who wins, and not the one who loses.



Inferno: Canto XVI


Now was I where was heard the reverberation
  Of water falling into the next round,
  Like to that humming which the beehives make,

When shadows three together started forth,
  Running, from out a company that passed
  Beneath the rain of the sharp martyrdom.

Towards us came they, and each one cried out:
  "Stop, thou; for by thy garb to us thou seemest
  To be some one of our depraved city."

Ah me! what wounds I saw upon their limbs,
  Recent and ancient by the flames burnt in!
  It pains me still but to remember it.

Unto their cries my Teacher paused attentive;
  He turned his face towards me, and "Now wait,"
  He said; "to these we should be courteous.

And if it were not for the fire that darts
  The nature of this region, I should say
  That haste were more becoming thee than them."

As soon as we stood still, they recommenced
  The old refrain, and when they overtook us,
  Formed of themselves a wheel, all three of them.

As champions stripped and oiled are wont to do,
  Watching for their advantage and their hold,
  Before they come to blows and thrusts between them,

Thus, wheeling round, did every one his visage
  Direct to me, so that in opposite wise
  His neck and feet continual journey made.

And, "If the misery of this soft place
  Bring in disdain ourselves and our entreaties,"
  Began one, "and our aspect black and blistered,

Let the renown of us thy mind incline
  To tell us who thou art, who thus securely
  Thy living feet dost move along through Hell.

He in whose footprints thou dost see me treading,
  Naked and skinless though he now may go,
  Was of a greater rank than thou dost think;

He was the grandson of the good Gualdrada;
  His name was Guidoguerra, and in life
  Much did he with his wisdom and his sword.

The other, who close by me treads the sand,
  Tegghiaio Aldobrandi is, whose fame
  Above there in the world should welcome be.

And I, who with them on the cross am placed,
  Jacopo Rusticucci was; and truly
  My savage wife, more than aught else, doth harm me."

Could I have been protected from the fire,
  Below I should have thrown myself among them,
  And think the Teacher would have suffered it;

But as I should have burned and baked myself,
  My terror overmastered my good will,
  Which made me greedy of embracing them.

Then I began: "Sorrow and not disdain
  Did your condition fix within me so,
  That tardily it wholly is stripped off,

As soon as this my Lord said unto me
  Words, on account of which I thought within me
  That people such as you are were approaching.

I of your city am; and evermore
  Your labours and your honourable names
  I with affection have retraced and heard.

I leave the gall, and go for the sweet fruits
  Promised to me by the veracious Leader;
  But to the centre first I needs must plunge."

"So may the soul for a long while conduct
  Those limbs of thine," did he make answer then,
  "And so may thy renown shine after thee,

Valour and courtesy, say if they dwell
  Within our city, as they used to do,
  Or if they wholly have gone out of it;

For Guglielmo Borsier, who is in torment
  With us of late, and goes there with his comrades,
  Doth greatly mortify us with his words."

"The new inhabitants and the sudden gains,
  Pride and extravagance have in thee engendered,
  Florence, so that thou weep'st thereat already!"

In this wise I exclaimed with face uplifted;
  And the three, taking that for my reply,
  Looked at each other, as one looks at truth.

"If other times so little it doth cost thee,"
  Replied they all, "to satisfy another,
  Happy art thou, thus speaking at thy will!

Therefore, if thou escape from these dark places,
  And come to rebehold the beauteous stars,
  When it shall pleasure thee to say, 'I was,'

See that thou speak of us unto the people."
  Then they broke up the wheel, and in their flight
  It seemed as if their agile legs were wings.

Not an Amen could possibly be said
  So rapidly as they had disappeared;
  Wherefore the Master deemed best to depart.

I followed him, and little had we gone,
  Before the sound of water was so near us,
  That speaking we should hardly have been heard.

Even as that stream which holdeth its own course
  The first from Monte Veso tow'rds the East,
  Upon the left-hand slope of Apennine,

Which is above called Acquacheta, ere
  It down descendeth into its low bed,
  And at Forli is vacant of that name,

Reverberates there above San Benedetto
  From Alps, by falling at a single leap,
  Where for a thousand there were room enough;

Thus downward from a bank precipitate,
  We found resounding that dark-tinted water,
  So that it soon the ear would have offended.

I had a cord around about me girt,
  And therewithal I whilom had designed
  To take the panther with the painted skin.

After I this had all from me unloosed,
  As my Conductor had commanded me,
  I reached it to him, gathered up and coiled,

Whereat he turned himself to the right side,
  And at a little distance from the verge,
  He cast it down into that deep abyss.

"It must needs be some novelty respond,"
  I said within myself, "to the new signal
  The Master with his eye is following so."

Ah me! how very cautious men should be
  With those who not alone behold the act,
  But with their wisdom look into the thoughts!

He said to me: "Soon there will upward come
  What I await; and what thy thought is dreaming
  Must soon reveal itself unto thy sight."

Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood,
  A man should close his lips as far as may be,
  Because without his fault it causes shame;

But here I cannot; and, Reader, by the notes
  Of this my Comedy to thee I swear,
  So may they not be void of lasting favour,

Athwart that dense and darksome atmosphere
  I saw a figure swimming upward come,
  Marvellous unto every steadfast heart,

Even as he returns who goeth down
  Sometimes to clear an anchor, which has grappled
  Reef, or aught else that in the sea is hidden,

Who upward stretches, and draws in his feet.



Inferno: Canto XVII


"Behold the monster with the pointed tail,
  Who cleaves the hills, and breaketh walls and weapons,
  Behold him who infecteth all the world."

Thus unto me my Guide began to say,
  And beckoned him that he should come to shore,
  Near to the confine of the trodden marble;

And that uncleanly image of deceit
  Came up and thrust ashore its head and bust,
  But on the border did not drag its tail.

The face was as the face of a just man,
  Its semblance outwardly was so benign,
  And of a serpent all the trunk beside.

Two paws it had, hairy unto the armpits;
  The back, and breast, and both the sides it had
  Depicted o'er with nooses and with shields.

With colours more, groundwork or broidery
  Never in cloth did Tartars make nor Turks,
  Nor were such tissues by Arachne laid.

As sometimes wherries lie upon the shore,
  That part are in the water, part on land;
  And as among the guzzling Germans there,

The beaver plants himself to wage his war;
  So that vile monster lay upon the border,
  Which is of stone, and shutteth in the sand.

His tail was wholly quivering in the void,
  Contorting upwards the envenomed fork,
  That in the guise of scorpion armed its point.

The Guide said: "Now perforce must turn aside
  Our way a little, even to that beast
  Malevolent, that yonder coucheth him."

We therefore on the right side descended,
  And made ten steps upon the outer verge,
  Completely to avoid the sand and flame;

And after we are come to him, I see
  A little farther off upon the sand
  A people sitting near the hollow place.

Then said to me the Master: "So that full
  Experience of this round thou bear away,
  Now go and see what their condition is.

There let thy conversation be concise;
  Till thou returnest I will speak with him,
  That he concede to us his stalwart shoulders."

Thus farther still upon the outermost
  Head of that seventh circle all alone
  I went, where sat the melancholy folk.

Out of their eyes was gushing forth their woe;
  This way, that way, they helped them with their hands
  Now from the flames and now from the hot soil.

Not otherwise in summer do the dogs,
  Now with the foot, now with the muzzle, when
  By fleas, or flies, or gadflies, they are bitten.

When I had turned mine eyes upon the faces
  Of some, on whom the dolorous fire is falling,
  Not one of them I knew; but I perceived

That from the neck of each there hung a pouch,
  Which certain colour had, and certain blazon;
  And thereupon it seems their eyes are feeding.

And as I gazing round me come among them,
  Upon a yellow pouch I azure saw
  That had the face and posture of a lion.

Proceeding then the current of my sight,
  Another of them saw I, red as blood,
  Display a goose more white than butter is.

And one, who with an azure sow and gravid
  Emblazoned had his little pouch of white,
  Said unto me: "What dost thou in this moat?

Now get thee gone; and since thou'rt still alive,
  Know that a neighbour of mine, Vitaliano,
  Will have his seat here on my left-hand side.

A Paduan am I with these Florentines;
  Full many a time they thunder in mine ears,
  Exclaiming, 'Come the sovereign cavalier,

He who shall bring the satchel with three goats;'"
  Then twisted he his mouth, and forth he thrust
  His tongue, like to an ox that licks its nose.

And fearing lest my longer stay might vex
  Him who had warned me not to tarry long,
  Backward I turned me from those weary souls.

I found my Guide, who had already mounted
  Upon the back of that wild animal,
  And said to me: "Now be both strong and bold.

Now we descend by stairways such as these;
  Mount thou in front, for I will be midway,
  So that the tail may have no power to harm thee."

Such as he is who has so near the ague
  Of quartan that his nails are blue already,
  And trembles all, but looking at the shade;

Even such became I at those proffered words;
  But shame in me his menaces produced,
  Which maketh servant strong before good master.

I seated me upon those monstrous shoulders;
  I wished to say, and yet the voice came not
  As I believed, "Take heed that thou embrace me."

But he, who other times had rescued me
  In other peril, soon as I had mounted,
  Within his arms encircled and sustained me,

And said: "Now, Geryon, bestir thyself;
  The circles large, and the descent be little;
  Think of the novel burden which thou hast."

Even as the little vessel shoves from shore,
  Backward, still backward, so he thence withdrew;
  And when he wholly felt himself afloat,

There where his breast had been he turned his tail,
  And that extended like an eel he moved,
  And with his paws drew to himself the air.

A greater fear I do not think there was
  What time abandoned Phaeton the reins,
  Whereby the heavens, as still appears, were scorched;

Nor when the wretched Icarus his flanks
  Felt stripped of feathers by the melting wax,
  His father crying, "An ill way thou takest!"

Than was my own, when I perceived myself
  On all sides in the air, and saw extinguished
  The sight of everything but of the monster.

Onward he goeth, swimming slowly, slowly;
  Wheels and descends, but I perceive it only
  By wind upon my face and from below.

I heard already on the right the whirlpool
  Making a horrible crashing under us;
  Whence I thrust out my head with eyes cast downward.

Then was I still more fearful of the abyss;
  Because I fires beheld, and heard laments,
  Whereat I, trembling, all the closer cling.

I saw then, for before I had not seen it,
  The turning and descending, by great horrors
  That were approaching upon divers sides.

As falcon who has long been on the wing,
  Who, without seeing either lure or bird,
  Maketh the falconer say, "Ah me, thou stoopest,"

Descendeth weary, whence he started swiftly,
  Thorough a hundred circles, and alights
  Far from his master, sullen and disdainful;

Even thus did Geryon place us on the bottom,
  Close to the bases of the rough-hewn rock,
  And being disencumbered of our persons,

He sped away as arrow from the string.



Inferno: Canto XVIII


There is a place in Hell called Malebolge,
  Wholly of stone and of an iron colour,
  As is the circle that around it turns.

Right in the middle of the field malign
  There yawns a well exceeding wide and deep,
  Of which its place the structure will recount.

Round, then, is that enclosure which remains
  Between the well and foot of the high, hard bank,
  And has distinct in valleys ten its bottom.

As where for the protection of the walls
  Many and many moats surround the castles,
  The part in which they are a figure forms,

Just such an image those presented there;
  And as about such strongholds from their gates
  Unto the outer bank are little bridges,

So from the precipice's base did crags
  Project, which intersected dikes and moats,
  Unto the well that truncates and collects them.

Within this place, down shaken from the back
  Of Geryon, we found us; and the Poet
  Held to the left, and I moved on behind.

Upon my right hand I beheld new anguish,
  New torments, and new wielders of the lash,
  Wherewith the foremost Bolgia was replete.

Down at the bottom were the sinners naked;
  This side the middle came they facing us,
  Beyond it, with us, but with greater steps;

Even as the Romans, for the mighty host,
  The year of Jubilee, upon the bridge,
  Have chosen a mode to pass the people over;

For all upon one side towards the Castle
  Their faces have, and go unto St. Peter's;
  On the other side they go towards the Mountain.

This side and that, along the livid stone
  Beheld I horned demons with great scourges,
  Who cruelly were beating them behind.

Ah me! how they did make them lift their legs
  At the first blows! and sooth not any one
  The second waited for, nor for the third.

While I was going on, mine eyes by one
  Encountered were; and straight I said: "Already
  With sight of this one I am not unfed."

Therefore I stayed my feet to make him out,
  And with me the sweet Guide came to a stand,
  And to my going somewhat back assented;

And he, the scourged one, thought to hide himself,
  Lowering his face, but little it availed him;
  For said I: "Thou that castest down thine eyes,

If false are not the features which thou bearest,
  Thou art Venedico Caccianimico;
  But what doth bring thee to such pungent sauces?"

And he to me: "Unwillingly I tell it;
  But forces me thine utterance distinct,
  Which makes me recollect the ancient world.

I was the one who the fair Ghisola
  Induced to grant the wishes of the Marquis,
  Howe'er the shameless story may be told.

Not the sole Bolognese am I who weeps here;
  Nay, rather is this place so full of them,
  That not so many tongues to-day are taught

'Twixt Reno and Savena to say 'sipa;'
  And if thereof thou wishest pledge or proof,
  Bring to thy mind our avaricious heart."

While speaking in this manner, with his scourge
  A demon smote him, and said: "Get thee gone
  Pander, there are no women here for coin."

I joined myself again unto mine Escort;
  Thereafterward with footsteps few we came
  To where a crag projected from the bank.

This very easily did we ascend,
  And turning to the right along its ridge,
  From those eternal circles we departed.

When we were there, where it is hollowed out
  Beneath, to give a passage to the scourged,
  The Guide said: "Wait, and see that on thee strike

The vision of those others evil-born,
  Of whom thou hast not yet beheld the faces,
  Because together with us they have gone."

From the old bridge we looked upon the train
  Which tow'rds us came upon the other border,
  And which the scourges in like manner smite.

And the good Master, without my inquiring,
  Said to me: "See that tall one who is coming,
  And for his pain seems not to shed a tear;

Still what a royal aspect he retains!
  That Jason is, who by his heart and cunning
  The Colchians of the Ram made destitute.

He by the isle of Lemnos passed along
  After the daring women pitiless
  Had unto death devoted all their males.

There with his tokens and with ornate words
  Did he deceive Hypsipyle, the maiden
  Who first, herself, had all the rest deceived.

There did he leave her pregnant and forlorn;
  Such sin unto such punishment condemns him,
  And also for Medea is vengeance done.

With him go those who in such wise deceive;
  And this sufficient be of the first valley
  To know, and those that in its jaws it holds."

We were already where the narrow path
  Crosses athwart the second dike, and forms
  Of that a buttress for another arch.

Thence we heard people, who are making moan
  In the next Bolgia, snorting with their muzzles,
  And with their palms beating upon themselves

The margins were incrusted with a mould
  By exhalation from below, that sticks there,
  And with the eyes and nostrils wages war.

The bottom is so deep, no place suffices
  To give us sight of it, without ascending
  The arch's back, where most the crag impends.

Thither we came, and thence down in the moat
  I saw a people smothered in a filth
  That out of human privies seemed to flow;

And whilst below there with mine eye I search,
  I saw one with his head so foul with ordure,
  It was not clear if he were clerk or layman.

He screamed to me: "Wherefore art thou so eager
  To look at me more than the other foul ones?"
  And I to him: "Because, if I remember,

I have already seen thee with dry hair,
  And thou'rt Alessio Interminei of Lucca;
  Therefore I eye thee more than all the others."

And he thereon, belabouring his pumpkin:
  "The flatteries have submerged me here below,
  Wherewith my tongue was never surfeited."

Then said to me the Guide: "See that thou thrust
  Thy visage somewhat farther in advance,
  That with thine eyes thou well the face attain

Of that uncleanly and dishevelled drab,
  Who there doth scratch herself with filthy nails,
  And crouches now, and now on foot is standing.

Thais the harlot is it, who replied
  Unto her paramour, when he said, 'Have I
  Great gratitude from thee?'--'Nay, marvellous;'

And herewith let our sight be satisfied."



Inferno: Canto XIX


O Simon Magus, O forlorn disciples,
  Ye who the things of God, which ought to be
  The brides of holiness, rapaciously

For silver and for gold do prostitute,
  Now it behoves for you the trumpet sound,
  Because in this third Bolgia ye abide.

We had already on the following tomb
  Ascended to that portion of the crag
  Which o'er the middle of the moat hangs plumb.

Wisdom supreme, O how great art thou showest
  In heaven, in earth, and in the evil world,
  And with what justice doth thy power distribute!

I saw upon the sides and on the bottom
  The livid stone with perforations filled,
  All of one size, and every one was round.

To me less ample seemed they not, nor greater
  Than those that in my beautiful Saint John
  Are fashioned for the place of the baptisers,

And one of which, not many years ago,
  I broke for some one, who was drowning in it;
  Be this a seal all men to undeceive.

Out of the mouth of each one there protruded
  The feet of a transgressor, and the legs
  Up to the calf, the rest within remained.

In all of them the soles were both on fire;
  Wherefore the joints so violently quivered,
  They would have snapped asunder withes and bands.

Even as the flame of unctuous things is wont
  To move upon the outer surface only,
  So likewise was it there from heel to point.

"Master, who is that one who writhes himself,
  More than his other comrades quivering,"
  I said, "and whom a redder flame is sucking?"

And he to me: "If thou wilt have me bear thee
  Down there along that bank which lowest lies,
  From him thou'lt know his errors and himself."

And I: "What pleases thee, to me is pleasing;
  Thou art my Lord, and knowest that I depart not
  From thy desire, and knowest what is not spoken."

Straightway upon the fourth dike we arrived;
  We turned, and on the left-hand side descended
  Down to the bottom full of holes and narrow.

And the good Master yet from off his haunch
  Deposed me not, till to the hole he brought me
  Of him who so lamented with his shanks.

"Whoe'er thou art, that standest upside down,
  O doleful soul, implanted like a stake,"
  To say began I, "if thou canst, speak out."

I stood even as the friar who is confessing
  The false assassin, who, when he is fixed,
  Recalls him, so that death may be delayed.

And he cried out: "Dost thou stand there already,
  Dost thou stand there already, Boniface?
  By many years the record lied to me.

Art thou so early satiate with that wealth,
  For which thou didst not fear to take by fraud
  The beautiful Lady, and then work her woe?"

Such I became, as people are who stand,
  Not comprehending what is answered them,
  As if bemocked, and know not how to answer.

Then said Virgilius: "Say to him straightway,
  'I am not he, I am not he thou thinkest.'"
  And I replied as was imposed on me.

Whereat the spirit writhed with both his feet,
  Then, sighing, with a voice of lamentation
  Said to me: "Then what wantest thou of me?

If who I am thou carest so much to know,
  That thou on that account hast crossed the bank,
  Know that I vested was with the great mantle;

And truly was I son of the She-bear,
  So eager to advance the cubs, that wealth
  Above, and here myself, I pocketed.

Beneath my head the others are dragged down
  Who have preceded me in simony,
  Flattened along the fissure of the rock.

Below there I shall likewise fall, whenever
  That one shall come who I believed thou wast,
  What time the sudden question I proposed.

But longer I my feet already toast,
  And here have been in this way upside down,
  Than he will planted stay with reddened feet;

For after him shall come of fouler deed
  From tow'rds the west a Pastor without law,
  Such as befits to cover him and me.

New Jason will he be, of whom we read
  In Maccabees; and as his king was pliant,
  So he who governs France shall be to this one."

I do not know if I were here too bold,
  That him I answered only in this metre:
  "I pray thee tell me now how great a treasure

Our Lord demanded of Saint Peter first,
  Before he put the keys into his keeping?
  Truly he nothing asked but 'Follow me.'

Nor Peter nor the rest asked of Matthias
  Silver or gold, when he by lot was chosen
  Unto the place the guilty soul had lost.

Therefore stay here, for thou art justly punished,
  And keep safe guard o'er the ill-gotten money,
  Which caused thee to be valiant against Charles.

And were it not that still forbids it me
  The reverence for the keys superlative
  Thou hadst in keeping in the gladsome life,

I would make use of words more grievous still;
  Because your avarice afflicts the world,
  Trampling the good and lifting the depraved.

The Evangelist you Pastors had in mind,
  When she who sitteth upon many waters
  To fornicate with kings by him was seen;

The same who with the seven heads was born,
  And power and strength from the ten horns received,
  So long as virtue to her spouse was pleasing.

Ye have made yourselves a god of gold and silver;
  And from the idolater how differ ye,
  Save that he one, and ye a hundred worship?

Ah, Constantine! of how much ill was mother,
  Not thy conversion, but that marriage dower
  Which the first wealthy Father took from thee!"

And while I sang to him such notes as these,
  Either that anger or that conscience stung him,
  He struggled violently with both his feet.

I think in sooth that it my Leader pleased,
  With such contented lip he listened ever
  Unto the sound of the true words expressed.

Therefore with both his arms he took me up,
  And when he had me all upon his breast,
  Remounted by the way where he descended.

Nor did he tire to have me clasped to him;
  But bore me to the summit of the arch
  Which from the fourth dike to the fifth is passage.

There tenderly he laid his burden down,
  Tenderly on the crag uneven and steep,
  That would have been hard passage for the goats:

Thence was unveiled to me another valley.



Inferno: Canto XX


Of a new pain behoves me to make verses
  And give material to the twentieth canto
  Of the first song, which is of the submerged.

I was already thoroughly disposed
  To peer down into the uncovered depth,
  Which bathed itself with tears of agony;

And people saw I through the circular valley,
  Silent and weeping, coming at the pace
  Which in this world the Litanies assume.

As lower down my sight descended on them,
  Wondrously each one seemed to be distorted
  From chin to the beginning of the chest;

For tow'rds the reins the countenance was turned,
  And backward it behoved them to advance,
  As to look forward had been taken from them.

Perchance indeed by violence of palsy
  Some one has been thus wholly turned awry;
  But I ne'er saw it, nor believe it can be.

As God may let thee, Reader, gather fruit
  From this thy reading, think now for thyself
  How I could ever keep my face unmoistened,

When our own image near me I beheld
  Distorted so, the weeping of the eyes
  Along the fissure bathed the hinder parts.

Truly I wept, leaning upon a peak
  Of the hard crag, so that my Escort said
  To me: "Art thou, too, of the other fools?

Here pity lives when it is wholly dead;
  Who is a greater reprobate than he
  Who feels compassion at the doom divine?

Lift up, lift up thy head, and see for whom
  Opened the earth before the Thebans' eyes;
  Wherefore they all cried: 'Whither rushest thou,

Amphiaraus?  Why dost leave the war?'
  And downward ceased he not to fall amain
  As far as Minos, who lays hold on all.

See, he has made a bosom of his shoulders!
  Because he wished to see too far before him
  Behind he looks, and backward goes his way:

Behold Tiresias, who his semblance changed,
  When from a male a female he became,
  His members being all of them transformed;

And afterwards was forced to strike once more
  The two entangled serpents with his rod,
  Ere he could have again his manly plumes.

That Aruns is, who backs the other's belly,
  Who in the hills of Luni, there where grubs
  The Carrarese who houses underneath,

Among the marbles white a cavern had
  For his abode; whence to behold the stars
  And sea, the view was not cut off from him.

And she there, who is covering up her breasts,
  Which thou beholdest not, with loosened tresses,
  And on that side has all the hairy skin,

Was Manto, who made quest through many lands,
  Afterwards tarried there where I was born;
  Whereof I would thou list to me a little.

After her father had from life departed,
  And the city of Bacchus had become enslaved,
  She a long season wandered through the world.

Above in beauteous Italy lies a lake
  At the Alp's foot that shuts in Germany
  Over Tyrol, and has the name Benaco.

By a thousand springs, I think, and more, is bathed,
  'Twixt Garda and Val Camonica, Pennino,
  With water that grows stagnant in that lake.

Midway a place is where the Trentine Pastor,
  And he of Brescia, and the Veronese
  Might give his blessing, if he passed that way.

Sitteth Peschiera, fortress fair and strong,
  To front the Brescians and the Bergamasks,
  Where round about the bank descendeth lowest.

There of necessity must fall whatever
  In bosom of Benaco cannot stay,
  And grows a river down through verdant pastures.

Soon as the water doth begin to run,
  No more Benaco is it called, but Mincio,
  Far as Governo, where it falls in Po.

Not far it runs before it finds a plain
  In which it spreads itself, and makes it marshy,
  And oft 'tis wont in summer to be sickly.

Passing that way the virgin pitiless
  Land in the middle of the fen descried,
  Untilled and naked of inhabitants;

There to escape all human intercourse,
  She with her servants stayed, her arts to practise
  And lived, and left her empty body there.

The men, thereafter, who were scattered round,
  Collected in that place, which was made strong
  By the lagoon it had on every side;

They built their city over those dead bones,
  And, after her who first the place selected,
  Mantua named it, without other omen.

Its people once within more crowded were,
  Ere the stupidity of Casalodi
  From Pinamonte had received deceit.

Therefore I caution thee, if e'er thou hearest
  Originate my city otherwise,
  No falsehood may the verity defraud."

And I: "My Master, thy discourses are
  To me so certain, and so take my faith,
  That unto me the rest would be spent coals.

But tell me of the people who are passing,
  If any one note-worthy thou beholdest,
  For only unto that my mind reverts."

Then said he to me: "He who from the cheek
  Thrusts out his beard upon his swarthy shoulders
  Was, at the time when Greece was void of males,

So that there scarce remained one in the cradle,
  An augur, and with Calchas gave the moment,
  In Aulis, when to sever the first cable.

Eryphylus his name was, and so sings
  My lofty Tragedy in some part or other;
  That knowest thou well, who knowest the whole of it.

The next, who is so slender in the flanks,
  Was Michael Scott, who of a verity
  Of magical illusions knew the game.

Behold Guido Bonatti, behold Asdente,
  Who now unto his leather and his thread
  Would fain have stuck, but he too late repents.

Behold the wretched ones, who left the needle,
  The spool and rock, and made them fortune-tellers;
  They wrought their magic spells with herb and image.

But come now, for already holds the confines
  Of both the hemispheres, and under Seville
  Touches the ocean-wave, Cain and the thorns,

And yesternight the moon was round already;
  Thou shouldst remember well it did not harm thee
  From time to time within the forest deep."

Thus spake he to me, and we walked the while.



Inferno: Canto XXI


From bridge to bridge thus, speaking other things
  Of which my Comedy cares not to sing,
  We came along, and held the summit, when

We halted to behold another fissure
  Of Malebolge and other vain laments;
  And I beheld it marvellously dark.

As in the Arsenal of the Venetians
  Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch
  To smear their unsound vessels o'er again,

For sail they cannot; and instead thereof
  One makes his vessel new, and one recaulks
  The ribs of that which many a voyage has made;

One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,
  This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,
  Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen;

Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine,
  Was boiling down below there a dense pitch
  Which upon every side the bank belimed.

I saw it, but I did not see within it
  Aught but the bubbles that the boiling raised,
  And all swell up and resubside compressed.

The while below there fixedly I gazed,
  My Leader, crying out: "Beware, beware!"
  Drew me unto himself from where I stood.

Then I turned round, as one who is impatient
  To see what it behoves him to escape,
  And whom a sudden terror doth unman,

Who, while he looks, delays not his departure;
  And I beheld behind us a black devil,
  Running along upon the crag, approach.

Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect!
  And how he seemed to me in action ruthless,
  With open wings and light upon his feet!

His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high,
  A sinner did encumber with both haunches,
  And he held clutched the sinews of the feet.

From off our bridge, he said: "O Malebranche,
  Behold one of the elders of Saint Zita;
  Plunge him beneath, for I return for others

Unto that town, which is well furnished with them.
  All there are barrators, except Bonturo;
  No into Yes for money there is changed."

He hurled him down, and over the hard crag
  Turned round, and never was a mastiff loosened
  In so much hurry to pursue a thief.

The other sank, and rose again face downward;
  But the demons, under cover of the bridge,
  Cried: "Here the Santo Volto has no place!

Here swims one otherwise than in the Serchio;
  Therefore, if for our gaffs thou wishest not,
  Do not uplift thyself above the pitch."

They seized him then with more than a hundred rakes;
  They said: "It here behoves thee to dance covered,
  That, if thou canst, thou secretly mayest pilfer."

Not otherwise the cooks their scullions make
  Immerse into the middle of the caldron
  The meat with hooks, so that it may not float.

Said the good Master to me: "That it be not
  Apparent thou art here, crouch thyself down
  Behind a jag, that thou mayest have some screen;

And for no outrage that is done to me
  Be thou afraid, because these things I know,
  For once before was I in such a scuffle."

Then he passed on beyond the bridge's head,
  And as upon the sixth bank he arrived,
  Need was for him to have a steadfast front.

With the same fury, and the same uproar,
  As dogs leap out upon a mendicant,
  Who on a sudden begs, where'er he stops,

They issued from beneath the little bridge,
  And turned against him all their grappling-irons;
  But he cried out: "Be none of you malignant!

Before those hooks of yours lay hold of me,
  Let one of you step forward, who may hear me,
  And then take counsel as to grappling me."

They all cried out: "Let Malacoda go;"
  Whereat one started, and the rest stood still,
  And he came to him, saying: "What avails it?"

"Thinkest thou, Malacoda, to behold me
  Advanced into this place," my Master said,
  "Safe hitherto from all your skill of fence,

Without the will divine, and fate auspicious?
  Let me go on, for it in Heaven is willed
  That I another show this savage road."

Then was his arrogance so humbled in him,
  That he let fall his grapnel at his feet,
  And to the others said: "Now strike him not."

And unto me my Guide: "O thou, who sittest
  Among the splinters of the bridge crouched down,
  Securely now return to me again."

Wherefore I started and came swiftly to him;
  And all the devils forward thrust themselves,
  So that I feared they would not keep their compact.

And thus beheld I once afraid the soldiers
  Who issued under safeguard from Caprona,
  Seeing themselves among so many foes.

Close did I press myself with all my person
  Beside my Leader, and turned not mine eyes
  From off their countenance, which was not good.

They lowered their rakes, and "Wilt thou have me hit him,"
  They said to one another, "on the rump?"
  And answered: "Yes; see that thou nick him with it."

But the same demon who was holding parley
  With my Conductor turned him very quickly,
  And said: "Be quiet, be quiet, Scarmiglione;"

Then said to us: "You can no farther go
  Forward upon this crag, because is lying
  All shattered, at the bottom, the sixth arch.

And if it still doth please you to go onward,
  Pursue your way along upon this rock;
  Near is another crag that yields a path.

Yesterday, five hours later than this hour,
  One thousand and two hundred sixty-six
  Years were complete, that here the way was broken.

I send in that direction some of mine
  To see if any one doth air himself;
  Go ye with them; for they will not be vicious.

Step forward, Alichino and Calcabrina,"
  Began he to cry out, "and thou, Cagnazzo;
  And Barbariccia, do thou guide the ten.

Come forward, Libicocco and Draghignazzo,
  And tusked Ciriatto and Graffiacane,
  And Farfarello and mad Rubicante;

Search ye all round about the boiling pitch;
  Let these be safe as far as the next crag,
  That all unbroken passes o'er the dens."

"O me! what is it, Master, that I see?
  Pray let us go," I said, "without an escort,
  If thou knowest how, since for myself I ask none.

If thou art as observant as thy wont is,
  Dost thou not see that they do gnash their teeth,
  And with their brows are threatening woe to us?"

And he to me: "I will not have thee fear;
  Let them gnash on, according to their fancy,
  Because they do it for those boiling wretches."

Along the left-hand dike they wheeled about;
  But first had each one thrust his tongue between
  His teeth towards their leader for a signal;

And he had made a trumpet of his rump.



Inferno: Canto XXII


I have erewhile seen horsemen moving camp,
  Begin the storming, and their muster make,
  And sometimes starting off for their escape;

Vaunt-couriers have I seen upon your land,
  O Aretines, and foragers go forth,
  Tournaments stricken, and the joustings run,

Sometimes with trumpets and sometimes with bells,
  With kettle-drums, and signals of the castles,
  And with our own, and with outlandish things,

But never yet with bagpipe so uncouth
  Did I see horsemen move, nor infantry,
  Nor ship by any sign of land or star.

We went upon our way with the ten demons;
  Ah, savage company! but in the church
  With saints, and in the tavern with the gluttons!

Ever upon the pitch was my intent,
  To see the whole condition of that Bolgia,
  And of the people who therein were burned.

Even as the dolphins, when they make a sign
  To mariners by arching of the back,
  That they should counsel take to save their vessel,

Thus sometimes, to alleviate his pain,
  One of the sinners would display his back,
  And in less time conceal it than it lightens.

As on the brink of water in a ditch
  The frogs stand only with their muzzles out,
  So that they hide their feet and other bulk,

So upon every side the sinners stood;
  But ever as Barbariccia near them came,
  Thus underneath the boiling they withdrew.

I saw, and still my heart doth shudder at it,
  One waiting thus, even as it comes to pass
  One frog remains, and down another dives;

And Graffiacan, who most confronted him,
  Grappled him by his tresses smeared with pitch,
  And drew him up, so that he seemed an otter.

I knew, before, the names of all of them,
  So had I noted them when they were chosen,
  And when they called each other, listened how.

"O Rubicante, see that thou do lay
  Thy claws upon him, so that thou mayst flay him,"
  Cried all together the accursed ones.

And I: "My Master, see to it, if thou canst,
  That thou mayst know who is the luckless wight,
  Thus come into his adversaries' hands."

Near to the side of him my Leader drew,
  Asked of him whence he was; and he replied:
  "I in the kingdom of Navarre was born;

My mother placed me servant to a lord,
  For she had borne me to a ribald knave,
  Destroyer of himself and of his things.

Then I domestic was of good King Thibault;
  I set me there to practise barratry,
  For which I pay the reckoning in this heat."

And Ciriatto, from whose mouth projected,
  On either side, a tusk, as in a boar,
  Caused him to feel how one of them could rip.

Among malicious cats the mouse had come;
  But Barbariccia clasped him in his arms,
  And said: "Stand ye aside, while I enfork him."

And to my Master he turned round his head;
  "Ask him again," he said, "if more thou wish
  To know from him, before some one destroy him."

The Guide: "Now tell then of the other culprits;
  Knowest thou any one who is a Latian,
  Under the pitch?"  And he: "I separated

Lately from one who was a neighbour to it;
  Would that I still were covered up with him,
  For I should fear not either claw nor hook!"

And Libicocco: "We have borne too much;"
  And with his grapnel seized him by the arm,
  So that, by rending, he tore off a tendon.

Eke Draghignazzo wished to pounce upon him
  Down at the legs; whence their Decurion
  Turned round and round about with evil look.

When they again somewhat were pacified,
  Of him, who still was looking at his wound,
  Demanded my Conductor without stay:

"Who was that one, from whom a luckless parting
  Thou sayest thou hast made, to come ashore?"
  And he replied: "It was the Friar Gomita,

He of Gallura, vessel of all fraud,
  Who had the enemies of his Lord in hand,
  And dealt so with them each exults thereat;

Money he took, and let them smoothly off,
  As he says; and in other offices
  A barrator was he, not mean but sovereign.

Foregathers with him one Don Michael Zanche
  Of Logodoro; and of Sardinia
  To gossip never do their tongues feel tired.

O me! see that one, how he grinds his teeth;
  Still farther would I speak, but am afraid
  Lest he to scratch my itch be making ready."

And the grand Provost, turned to Farfarello,
  Who rolled his eyes about as if to strike,
  Said: "Stand aside there, thou malicious bird."

"If you desire either to see or hear,"
  The terror-stricken recommenced thereon,
  "Tuscans or Lombards, I will make them come.

But let the Malebranche cease a little,
  So that these may not their revenges fear,
  And I, down sitting in this very place,

For one that I am will make seven come,
  When I shall whistle, as our custom is
  To do whenever one of us comes out."

Cagnazzo at these words his muzzle lifted,
  Shaking his head, and said: "Just hear the trick
  Which he has thought of, down to throw himself!"

Whence he, who snares in great abundance had,
  Responded: "I by far too cunning am,
  When I procure for mine a greater sadness."

Alichin held not in, but running counter
  Unto the rest, said to him: "If thou dive,
  I will not follow thee upon the gallop,

But I will beat my wings above the pitch;
  The height be left, and be the bank a shield
  To see if thou alone dost countervail us."

O thou who readest, thou shalt hear new sport!
  Each to the other side his eyes averted;
  He first, who most reluctant was to do it.

The Navarrese selected well his time;
  Planted his feet on land, and in a moment
  Leaped, and released himself from their design.

Whereat each one was suddenly stung with shame,
  But he most who was cause of the defeat;
  Therefore he moved, and cried: "Thou art o'ertakern."

But little it availed, for wings could not
  Outstrip the fear; the other one went under,
  And, flying, upward he his breast directed;

Not otherwise the duck upon a sudden
  Dives under, when the falcon is approaching,
  And upward he returneth cross and weary.

Infuriate at the mockery, Calcabrina
  Flying behind him followed close, desirous
  The other should escape, to have a quarrel.

And when the barrator had disappeared,
  He turned his talons upon his companion,
  And grappled with him right above the moat.

But sooth the other was a doughty sparhawk
  To clapperclaw him well; and both of them
  Fell in the middle of the boiling pond.

A sudden intercessor was the heat;
  But ne'ertheless of rising there was naught,
  To such degree they had their wings belimed.

Lamenting with the others, Barbariccia
  Made four of them fly to the other side
  With all their gaffs, and very speedily

This side and that they to their posts descended;
  They stretched their hooks towards the pitch-ensnared,
  Who were already baked within the crust,

And in this manner busied did we leave them.



Inferno: Canto XXIII


Silent, alone, and without company
  We went, the one in front, the other after,
  As go the Minor Friars along their way.

Upon the fable of Aesop was directed
  My thought, by reason of the present quarrel,
  Where he has spoken of the frog and mouse;

For 'mo' and 'issa' are not more alike
  Than this one is to that, if well we couple
  End and beginning with a steadfast mind.

And even as one thought from another springs,
  So afterward from that was born another,
  Which the first fear within me double made.

Thus did I ponder: "These on our account
  Are laughed to scorn, with injury and scoff
  So great, that much I think it must annoy them.

If anger be engrafted on ill-will,
  They will come after us more merciless
  Than dog upon the leveret which he seizes,"

I felt my hair stand all on end already
  With terror, and stood backwardly intent,
  When said I: "Master, if thou hidest not

Thyself and me forthwith, of Malebranche
  I am in dread; we have them now behind us;
  I so imagine them, I already feel them."

And he: "If I were made of leaded glass,
  Thine outward image I should not attract
  Sooner to me than I imprint the inner.

Just now thy thoughts came in among my own,
  With similar attitude and similar face,
  So that of both one counsel sole I made.

If peradventure the right bank so slope
  That we to the next Bolgia can descend,
  We shall escape from the imagined chase."

Not yet he finished rendering such opinion,
  When I beheld them come with outstretched wings,
  Not far remote, with will to seize upon us.

My Leader on a sudden seized me up,
  Even as a mother who by noise is wakened,
  And close beside her sees the enkindled flames,

Who takes her son, and flies, and does not stop,
  Having more care of him than of herself,
  So that she clothes her only with a shift;

And downward from the top of the hard bank
  Supine he gave him to the pendent rock,
  That one side of the other Bolgia walls.

Ne'er ran so swiftly water through a sluice
  To turn the wheel of any land-built mill,
  When nearest to the paddles it approaches,

As did my Master down along that border,
  Bearing me with him on his breast away,
  As his own son, and not as a companion.

Hardly the bed of the ravine below
  His feet had reached, ere they had reached the hill
  Right over us; but he was not afraid;

For the high Providence, which had ordained
  To place them ministers of the fifth moat,
  The power of thence departing took from all.

A painted people there below we found,
  Who went about with footsteps very slow,
  Weeping and in their semblance tired and vanquished.

They had on mantles with the hoods low down
  Before their eyes, and fashioned of the cut
  That in Cologne they for the monks are made.

Without, they gilded are so that it dazzles;
  But inwardly all leaden and so heavy
  That Frederick used to put them on of straw.

O everlastingly fatiguing mantle!
  Again we turned us, still to the left hand
  Along with them, intent on their sad plaint;

But owing to the weight, that weary folk
  Came on so tardily, that we were new
  In company at each motion of the haunch.

Whence I unto my Leader: "See thou find
  Some one who may by deed or name be known,
  And thus in going move thine eye about."

And one, who understood the Tuscan speech,
  Cried to us from behind: "Stay ye your feet,
  Ye, who so run athwart the dusky air!

Perhaps thou'lt have from me what thou demandest."
  Whereat the Leader turned him, and said: "Wait,
  And then according to his pace proceed."

I stopped, and two beheld I show great haste
  Of spirit, in their faces, to be with me;
  But the burden and the narrow way delayed them.

When they came up, long with an eye askance
  They scanned me without uttering a word.
  Then to each other turned, and said together:

"He by the action of his throat seems living;
  And if they dead are, by what privilege
  Go they uncovered by the heavy stole?"

Then said to me: "Tuscan, who to the college
  Of miserable hypocrites art come,
  Do not disdain to tell us who thou art."

And I to them: "Born was I, and grew up
  In the great town on the fair river of Arno,
  And with the body am I've always had.

But who are ye, in whom there trickles down
  Along your cheeks such grief as I behold?
  And what pain is upon you, that so sparkles?"

And one replied to me: "These orange cloaks
  Are made of lead so heavy, that the weights
  Cause in this way their balances to creak.

Frati Gaudenti were we, and Bolognese;
  I Catalano, and he Loderingo
  Named, and together taken by thy city,

As the wont is to take one man alone,
  For maintenance of its peace; and we were such
  That still it is apparent round Gardingo."

"O Friars," began I, "your iniquitous. . ."
  But said no more; for to mine eyes there rushed
  One crucified with three stakes on the ground.

When me he saw, he writhed himself all over,
  Blowing into his beard with suspirations;
  And the Friar Catalan, who noticed this,

Said to me: "This transfixed one, whom thou seest,
  Counselled the Pharisees that it was meet
  To put one man to torture for the people.

Crosswise and naked is he on the path,
  As thou perceivest; and he needs must feel,
  Whoever passes, first how much he weighs;

And in like mode his father-in-law is punished
  Within this moat, and the others of the council,
  Which for the Jews was a malignant seed."

And thereupon I saw Virgilius marvel
  O'er him who was extended on the cross
  So vilely in eternal banishment.

Then he directed to the Friar this voice:
  "Be not displeased, if granted thee, to tell us
  If to the right hand any pass slope down

By which we two may issue forth from here,
  Without constraining some of the black angels
  To come and extricate us from this deep."

Then he made answer: "Nearer than thou hopest
  There is a rock, that forth from the great circle
  Proceeds, and crosses all the cruel valleys,

Save that at this 'tis broken, and does not bridge it;
  You will be able to mount up the ruin,
  That sidelong slopes and at the bottom rises."

The Leader stood awhile with head bowed down;
  Then said: "The business badly he recounted
  Who grapples with his hook the sinners yonder."

And the Friar: "Many of the Devil's vices
  Once heard I at Bologna, and among them,
  That he's a liar and the father of lies."

Thereat my Leader with great strides went on,
  Somewhat disturbed with anger in his looks;
  Whence from the heavy-laden I departed

After the prints of his beloved feet.



Inferno: Canto XXIV


In that part of the youthful year wherein
  The Sun his locks beneath Aquarius tempers,
  And now the nights draw near to half the day,

What time the hoar-frost copies on the ground
  The outward semblance of her sister white,
  But little lasts the temper of her pen,

The husbandman, whose forage faileth him,
  Rises, and looks, and seeth the champaign
  All gleaming white, whereat he beats his flank,

Returns in doors, and up and down laments,
  Like a poor wretch, who knows not what to do;
  Then he returns and hope revives again,

Seeing the world has changed its countenance
  In little time, and takes his shepherd's crook,
  And forth the little lambs to pasture drives.

Thus did the Master fill me with alarm,
  When I beheld his forehead so disturbed,
  And to the ailment came as soon the plaster.

For as we came unto the ruined bridge,
  The Leader turned to me with that sweet look
  Which at the mountain's foot I first beheld.

His arms he opened, after some advisement
  Within himself elected, looking first
  Well at the ruin, and laid hold of me.

And even as he who acts and meditates,
  For aye it seems that he provides beforehand,
  So upward lifting me towards the summit

Of a huge rock, he scanned another crag,
  Saying: "To that one grapple afterwards,
  But try first if 'tis such that it will hold thee."

This was no way for one clothed with a cloak;
  For hardly we, he light, and I pushed upward,
  Were able to ascend from jag to jag.

And had it not been, that upon that precinct
  Shorter was the ascent than on the other,
  He I know not, but I had been dead beat.

But because Malebolge tow'rds the mouth
  Of the profoundest well is all inclining,
  The structure of each valley doth import

That one bank rises and the other sinks.
  Still we arrived at length upon the point
  Wherefrom the last stone breaks itself asunder.

The breath was from my lungs so milked away,
  When I was up, that I could go no farther,
  Nay, I sat down upon my first arrival.

"Now it behoves thee thus to put off sloth,"
  My Master said; "for sitting upon down,
  Or under quilt, one cometh not to fame,

Withouten which whoso his life consumes
  Such vestige leaveth of himself on earth,
  As smoke in air or in the water foam.

And therefore raise thee up, o'ercome the anguish
  With spirit that o'ercometh every battle,
  If with its heavy body it sink not.

A longer stairway it behoves thee mount;
  'Tis not enough from these to have departed;
  Let it avail thee, if thou understand me."

Then I uprose, showing myself provided
  Better with breath than I did feel myself,
  And said: "Go on, for I am strong and bold."

Upward we took our way along the crag,
  Which jagged was, and narrow, and difficult,
  And more precipitous far than that before.

Speaking I went, not to appear exhausted;
  Whereat a voice from the next moat came forth,
  Not well adapted to articulate words.

I know not what it said, though o'er the back
  I now was of the arch that passes there;
  But he seemed moved to anger who was speaking.

I was bent downward, but my living eyes
  Could not attain the bottom, for the dark;
  Wherefore I: "Master, see that thou arrive

At the next round, and let us descend the wall;
  For as from hence I hear and understand not,
  So I look down and nothing I distinguish."

"Other response," he said, "I make thee not,
  Except the doing; for the modest asking
  Ought to be followed by the deed in silence."

We from the bridge descended at its head,
  Where it connects itself with the eighth bank,
  And then was manifest to me the Bolgia;

And I beheld therein a terrible throng
  Of serpents, and of such a monstrous kind,
  That the remembrance still congeals my blood

Let Libya boast no longer with her sand;
  For if Chelydri, Jaculi, and Phareae
  She breeds, with Cenchri and with Amphisbaena,

Neither so many plagues nor so malignant
  E'er showed she with all Ethiopia,
  Nor with whatever on the Red Sea is!

Among this cruel and most dismal throng
  People were running naked and affrighted.
  Without the hope of hole or heliotrope.

They had their hands with serpents bound behind them;
  These riveted upon their reins the tail
  And head, and were in front of them entwined.

And lo! at one who was upon our side
  There darted forth a serpent, which transfixed him
  There where the neck is knotted to the shoulders.

Nor 'O' so quickly e'er, nor 'I' was written,
  As he took fire, and burned; and ashes wholly
  Behoved it that in falling he became.

And when he on the ground was thus destroyed,
  The ashes drew together, and of themselves
  Into himself they instantly returned.

Even thus by the great sages 'tis confessed
  The phoenix dies, and then is born again,
  When it approaches its five-hundredth year;

On herb or grain it feeds not in its life,
  But only on tears of incense and amomum,
  And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet.

And as he is who falls, and knows not how,
  By force of demons who to earth down drag him,
  Or other oppilation that binds man,

When he arises and around him looks,
  Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish
  Which he has suffered, and in looking sighs;

Such was that sinner after he had risen.
  Justice of God! O how severe it is,
  That blows like these in vengeance poureth down!

The Guide thereafter asked him who he was;
  Whence he replied: "I rained from Tuscany
  A short time since into this cruel gorge.

A bestial life, and not a human, pleased me,
  Even as the mule I was; I'm Vanni Fucci,
  Beast, and Pistoia was my worthy den."

And I unto the Guide: "Tell him to stir not,
  And ask what crime has thrust him here below,
  For once a man of blood and wrath I saw him."

And the sinner, who had heard, dissembled not,
  But unto me directed mind and face,
  And with a melancholy shame was painted.

Then said: "It pains me more that thou hast caught me
  Amid this misery where thou seest me,
  Than when I from the other life was taken.

What thou demandest I cannot deny;
  So low am I put down because I robbed
  The sacristy of the fair ornaments,

And falsely once 'twas laid upon another;
  But that thou mayst not such a sight enjoy,
  If thou shalt e'er be out of the dark places,

Thine ears to my announcement ope and hear:
  Pistoia first of Neri groweth meagre;
  Then Florence doth renew her men and manners;

Mars draws a vapour up from Val di Magra,
  Which is with turbid clouds enveloped round,
  And with impetuous and bitter tempest

Over Campo Picen shall be the battle;
  When it shall suddenly rend the mist asunder,
  So that each Bianco shall thereby be smitten.

And this I've said that it may give thee pain."



Inferno: Canto XXV


At the conclusion of his words, the thief
  Lifted his hands aloft with both the figs,
  Crying: "Take that, God, for at thee I aim them."

From that time forth the serpents were my friends;
  For one entwined itself about his neck
  As if it said: "I will not thou speak more;"

And round his arms another, and rebound him,
  Clinching itself together so in front,
  That with them he could not a motion make.

Pistoia, ah, Pistoia! why resolve not
  To burn thyself to ashes and so perish,
  Since in ill-doing thou thy seed excellest?

Through all the sombre circles of this Hell,
  Spirit I saw not against God so proud,
  Not he who fell at Thebes down from the walls!

He fled away, and spake no further word;
  And I beheld a Centaur full of rage
  Come crying out: "Where is, where is the scoffer?"

I do not think Maremma has so many
  Serpents as he had all along his back,
  As far as where our countenance begins.

Upon the shoulders, just behind the nape,
  With wings wide open was a dragon lying,
  And he sets fire to all that he encounters.

My Master said: "That one is Cacus, who
  Beneath the rock upon Mount Aventine
  Created oftentimes a lake of blood.

He goes not on the same road with his brothers,
  By reason of the fraudulent theft he made
  Of the great herd, which he had near to him;

Whereat his tortuous actions ceased beneath
  The mace of Hercules, who peradventure
  Gave him a hundred, and he felt not ten."

While he was speaking thus, he had passed by,
  And spirits three had underneath us come,
  Of which nor I aware was, nor my Leader,

Until what time they shouted: "Who are you?"
  On which account our story made a halt,
  And then we were intent on them alone.

I did not know them; but it came to pass,
  As it is wont to happen by some chance,
  That one to name the other was compelled,

Exclaiming: "Where can Cianfa have remained?"
  Whence I, so that the Leader might attend,
  Upward from chin to nose my finger laid.

If thou art, Reader, slow now to believe
  What I shall say, it will no marvel be,
  For I who saw it hardly can admit it.

As I was holding raised on them my brows,
  Behold! a serpent with six feet darts forth
  In front of one, and fastens wholly on him.

With middle feet it bound him round the paunch,
  And with the forward ones his arms it seized;
  Then thrust its teeth through one cheek and the other;

The hindermost it stretched upon his thighs,
  And put its tail through in between the two,
  And up behind along the reins outspread it.

Ivy was never fastened by its barbs
  Unto a tree so, as this horrible reptile
  Upon the other's limbs entwined its own.

Then they stuck close, as if of heated wax
  They had been made, and intermixed their colour;
  Nor one nor other seemed now what he was;

E'en as proceedeth on before the flame
  Upward along the paper a brown colour,
  Which is not black as yet, and the white dies.

The other two looked on, and each of them
  Cried out: "O me, Agnello, how thou changest!
  Behold, thou now art neither two nor one."

Already the two heads had one become,
  When there appeared to us two figures mingled
  Into one face, wherein the two were lost.

Of the four lists were fashioned the two arms,
  The thighs and legs, the belly and the chest
  Members became that never yet were seen.

Every original aspect there was cancelled;
  Two and yet none did the perverted image
  Appear, and such departed with slow pace.

Even as a lizard, under the great scourge
  Of days canicular, exchanging hedge,
  Lightning appeareth if the road it cross;

Thus did appear, coming towards the bellies
  Of the two others, a small fiery serpent,
  Livid and black as is a peppercorn.

And in that part whereat is first received
  Our aliment, it one of them transfixed;
  Then downward fell in front of him extended.

The one transfixed looked at it, but said naught;
  Nay, rather with feet motionless he yawned,
  Just as if sleep or fever had assailed him.

He at the serpent gazed, and it at him;
  One through the wound, the other through the mouth
  Smoked violently, and the smoke commingled.

Henceforth be silent Lucan, where he mentions
  Wretched Sabellus and Nassidius,
  And wait to hear what now shall be shot forth.

Be silent Ovid, of Cadmus and Arethusa;
  For if him to a snake, her to fountain,
  Converts he fabling, that I grudge him not;

Because two natures never front to front
  Has he transmuted, so that both the forms
  To interchange their matter ready were.

Together they responded in such wise,
  That to a fork the serpent cleft his tail,
  And eke the wounded drew his feet together.

The legs together with the thighs themselves
  Adhered so, that in little time the juncture
  No sign whatever made that was apparent.

He with the cloven tail assumed the figure
  The other one was losing, and his skin
  Became elastic, and the other's hard.

I saw the arms draw inward at the armpits,
  And both feet of the reptile, that were short,
  Lengthen as much as those contracted were.

Thereafter the hind feet, together twisted,
  Became the member that a man conceals,
  And of his own the wretch had two created.

While both of them the exhalation veils
  With a new colour, and engenders hair
  On one of them and depilates the other,

The one uprose and down the other fell,
  Though turning not away their impious lamps,
  Underneath which each one his muzzle changed.

He who was standing drew it tow'rds the temples,
  And from excess of matter, which came thither,
  Issued the ears from out the hollow cheeks;

What did not backward run and was retained
  Of that excess made to the face a nose,
  And the lips thickened far as was befitting.

He who lay prostrate thrusts his muzzle forward,
  And backward draws the ears into his head,
  In the same manner as the snail its horns;

And so the tongue, which was entire and apt
  For speech before, is cleft, and the bi-forked
  In the other closes up, and the smoke ceases.

The soul, which to a reptile had been changed,
  Along the valley hissing takes to flight,
  And after him the other speaking sputters.

Then did he turn upon him his new shoulders,
  And said to the other: "I'll have Buoso run,
  Crawling as I have done, along this road."

In this way I beheld the seventh ballast
  Shift and reshift, and here be my excuse
  The novelty, if aught my pen transgress.

And notwithstanding that mine eyes might be
  Somewhat bewildered, and my mind dismayed,
  They could not flee away so secretly

But that I plainly saw Puccio Sciancato;
  And he it was who sole of three companions,
  Which came in the beginning, was not changed;

The other was he whom thou, Gaville, weepest.



Inferno: Canto XXVI


Rejoice, O Florence, since thou art so great,
  That over sea and land thou beatest thy wings,
  And throughout Hell thy name is spread abroad!

Among the thieves five citizens of thine
  Like these I found, whence shame comes unto me,
  And thou thereby to no great honour risest.

But if when morn is near our dreams are true,
  Feel shalt thou in a little time from now
  What Prato, if none other, craves for thee.

And if it now were, it were not too soon;
  Would that it were, seeing it needs must be,
  For 'twill aggrieve me more the more I age.

We went our way, and up along the stairs
  The bourns had made us to descend before,
  Remounted my Conductor and drew me.

And following the solitary path
  Among the rocks and ridges of the crag,
  The foot without the hand sped not at all.

Then sorrowed I, and sorrow now again,
  When I direct my mind to what I saw,
  And more my genius curb than I am wont,

That it may run not unless virtue guide it;
  So that if some good star, or better thing,
  Have given me good, I may myself not grudge it.

As many as the hind (who on the hill
  Rests at the time when he who lights the world
  His countenance keeps least concealed from us,

While as the fly gives place unto the gnat)
  Seeth the glow-worms down along the valley,
  Perchance there where he ploughs and makes his vintage;

With flames as manifold resplendent all
  Was the eighth Bolgia, as I grew aware
  As soon as I was where the depth appeared.

And such as he who with the bears avenged him
  Beheld Elijah's chariot at departing,
  What time the steeds to heaven erect uprose,

For with his eye he could not follow it
  So as to see aught else than flame alone,
  Even as a little cloud ascending upward,

Thus each along the gorge of the intrenchment
  Was moving; for not one reveals the theft,
  And every flame a sinner steals away.

I stood upon the bridge uprisen to see,
  So that, if I had seized not on a rock,
  Down had I fallen without being pushed.

And the Leader, who beheld me so attent,
  Exclaimed: "Within the fires the spirits are;
  Each swathes himself with that wherewith he burns."

"My Master," I replied, "by hearing thee
  I am more sure; but I surmised already
  It might be so, and already wished to ask thee

Who is within that fire, which comes so cleft
  At top, it seems uprising from the pyre
  Where was Eteocles with his brother placed."

He answered me: "Within there are tormented
  Ulysses and Diomed, and thus together
  They unto vengeance run as unto wrath.

And there within their flame do they lament
  The ambush of the horse, which made the door
  Whence issued forth the Romans' gentle seed;

Therein is wept the craft, for which being dead
  Deidamia still deplores Achilles,
  And pain for the Palladium there is borne."

"If they within those sparks possess the power
  To speak," I said, "thee, Master, much I pray,
  And re-pray, that the prayer be worth a thousand,

That thou make no denial of awaiting
  Until the horned flame shall hither come;
  Thou seest that with desire I lean towards it."

And he to me: "Worthy is thy entreaty
  Of much applause, and therefore I accept it;
  But take heed that thy tongue restrain itself.

Leave me to speak, because I have conceived
  That which thou wishest; for they might disdain
  Perchance, since they were Greeks, discourse of thine."

When now the flame had come unto that point,
  Where to my Leader it seemed time and place,
  After this fashion did I hear him speak:

"O ye, who are twofold within one fire,
  If I deserved of you, while I was living,
  If I deserved of you or much or little

When in the world I wrote the lofty verses,
  Do not move on, but one of you declare
  Whither, being lost, he went away to die."

Then of the antique flame the greater horn,
  Murmuring, began to wave itself about
  Even as a flame doth which the wind fatigues.

Thereafterward, the summit to and fro
  Moving as if it were the tongue that spake,
  It uttered forth a voice, and said: "When I

From Circe had departed, who concealed me
  More than a year there near unto Gaeta,
  Or ever yet Aeneas named it so,

Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence
  For my old father, nor the due affection
  Which joyous should have made Penelope,

Could overcome within me the desire
  I had to be experienced of the world,
  And of the vice and virtue of mankind;

But I put forth on the high open sea
  With one sole ship, and that small company
  By which I never had deserted been.

Both of the shores I saw as far as Spain,
  Far as Morocco, and the isle of Sardes,
  And the others which that sea bathes round about.

I and my company were old and slow
  When at that narrow passage we arrived
  Where Hercules his landmarks set as signals,

That man no farther onward should adventure.
  On the right hand behind me left I Seville,
  And on the other already had left Ceuta.

'O brothers, who amid a hundred thousand
  Perils,' I said, 'have come unto the West,
  To this so inconsiderable vigil

Which is remaining of your senses still
  Be ye unwilling to deny the knowledge,
  Following the sun, of the unpeopled world.

Consider ye the seed from which ye sprang;
  Ye were not made to live like unto brutes,
  But for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.'

So eager did I render my companions,
  With this brief exhortation, for the voyage,
  That then I hardly could have held them back.

And having turned our stern unto the morning,
  We of the oars made wings for our mad flight,
  Evermore gaining on the larboard side.

Already all the stars of the other pole
  The night beheld, and ours so very low
  It did not rise above the ocean floor.

Five times rekindled and as many quenched
  Had been the splendour underneath the moon,
  Since we had entered into the deep pass,

When there appeared to us a mountain, dim
  From distance, and it seemed to me so high
  As I had never any one beheld.

Joyful were we, and soon it turned to weeping;
  For out of the new land a whirlwind rose,
  And smote upon the fore part of the ship.

Three times it made her whirl with all the waters,
  At the fourth time it made the stern uplift,
  And the prow downward go, as pleased Another,

Until the sea above us closed again."



Inferno: Canto XXVII


Already was the flame erect and quiet,
  To speak no more, and now departed from us
  With the permission of the gentle Poet;

When yet another, which behind it came,
  Caused us to turn our eyes upon its top
  By a confused sound that issued from it.

As the Sicilian bull (that bellowed first
  With the lament of him, and that was right,
  Who with his file had modulated it)

Bellowed so with the voice of the afflicted,
  That, notwithstanding it was made of brass,
  Still it appeared with agony transfixed;

Thus, by not having any way or issue
  At first from out the fire, to its own language
  Converted were the melancholy words.

But afterwards, when they had gathered way
  Up through the point, giving it that vibration
  The tongue had given them in their passage out,

We heard it said: "O thou, at whom I aim
  My voice, and who but now wast speaking Lombard,
  Saying, 'Now go thy way, no more I urge thee,'

Because I come perchance a little late,
  To stay and speak with me let it not irk thee;
  Thou seest it irks not me, and I am burning.

If thou but lately into this blind world
  Hast fallen down from that sweet Latian land,
  Wherefrom I bring the whole of my transgression,

Say, if the Romagnuols have peace or war,
  For I was from the mountains there between
  Urbino and the yoke whence Tiber bursts."

I still was downward bent and listening,
  When my Conductor touched me on the side,
  Saying: "Speak thou: this one a Latian is."

And I, who had beforehand my reply
  In readiness, forthwith began to speak:
  "O soul, that down below there art concealed,

Romagna thine is not and never has been
  Without war in the bosom of its tyrants;
  But open war I none have left there now.

Ravenna stands as it long years has stood;
  The Eagle of Polenta there is brooding,
  So that she covers Cervia with her vans.

The city which once made the long resistance,
  And of the French a sanguinary heap,
  Beneath the Green Paws finds itself again;

Verrucchio's ancient Mastiff and the new,
  Who made such bad disposal of Montagna,
  Where they are wont make wimbles of their teeth.

The cities of Lamone and Santerno
  Governs the Lioncel of the white lair,
  Who changes sides 'twixt summer-time and winter;

And that of which the Savio bathes the flank,
  Even as it lies between the plain and mountain,
  Lives between tyranny and a free state.

Now I entreat thee tell us who thou art;
  Be not more stubborn than the rest have been,
  So may thy name hold front there in the world."

After the fire a little more had roared
  In its own fashion, the sharp point it moved
  This way and that, and then gave forth such breath:

"If I believed that my reply were made
  To one who to the world would e'er return,
  This flame without more flickering would stand still;

But inasmuch as never from this depth
  Did any one return, if I hear true,
  Without the fear of infamy I answer,

I was a man of arms, then Cordelier,
  Believing thus begirt to make amends;
  And truly my belief had been fulfilled

But for the High Priest, whom may ill betide,
  Who put me back into my former sins;
  And how and wherefore I will have thee hear.

While I was still the form of bone and pulp
  My mother gave to me, the deeds I did
  Were not those of a lion, but a fox.

The machinations and the covert ways
  I knew them all, and practised so their craft,
  That to the ends of earth the sound went forth.

When now unto that portion of mine age
  I saw myself arrived, when each one ought
  To lower the sails, and coil away the ropes,

That which before had pleased me then displeased me;
  And penitent and confessing I surrendered,
  Ah woe is me! and it would have bestead me;

The Leader of the modern Pharisees
  Having a war near unto Lateran,
  And not with Saracens nor with the Jews,

For each one of his enemies was Christian,
  And none of them had been to conquer Acre,
  Nor merchandising in the Sultan's land,

Nor the high office, nor the sacred orders,
  In him regarded, nor in me that cord
  Which used to make those girt with it more meagre;

But even as Constantine sought out Sylvester
  To cure his leprosy, within Soracte,
  So this one sought me out as an adept

To cure him of the fever of his pride.
  Counsel he asked of me, and I was silent,
  Because his words appeared inebriate.

And then he said: 'Be not thy heart afraid;
  Henceforth I thee absolve; and thou instruct me
  How to raze Palestrina to the ground.

Heaven have I power to lock and to unlock,
  As thou dost know; therefore the keys are two,
  The which my predecessor held not dear.'

Then urged me on his weighty arguments
  There, where my silence was the worst advice;
  And said I: 'Father, since thou washest me

Of that sin into which I now must fall,
  The promise long with the fulfilment short
  Will make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.'

Francis came afterward, when I was dead,
  For me; but one of the black Cherubim
  Said to him: 'Take him not; do me no wrong;

He must come down among my servitors,
  Because he gave the fraudulent advice
  From which time forth I have been at his hair;

For who repents not cannot be absolved,
  Nor can one both repent and will at once,
  Because of the contradiction which consents not.'

O miserable me! how I did shudder
  When he seized on me, saying: 'Peradventure
  Thou didst not think that I was a logician!'

He bore me unto Minos, who entwined
  Eight times his tail about his stubborn back,
  And after he had bitten it in great rage,

Said: 'Of the thievish fire a culprit this;'
  Wherefore, here where thou seest, am I lost,
  And vested thus in going I bemoan me."

When it had thus completed its recital,
  The flame departed uttering lamentations,
  Writhing and flapping its sharp-pointed horn.

Onward we passed, both I and my Conductor,
  Up o'er the crag above another arch,
  Which the moat covers, where is paid the fee

By those who, sowing discord, win their burden.



Inferno: Canto XXVIII


Who ever could, e'en with untrammelled words,
  Tell of the blood and of the wounds in full
  Which now I saw, by many times narrating?

Each tongue would for a certainty fall short
  By reason of our speech and memory,
  That have small room to comprehend so much.

If were again assembled all the people
  Which formerly upon the fateful land
  Of Puglia were lamenting for their blood

Shed by the Romans and the lingering war
  That of the rings made such illustrious spoils,
  As Livy has recorded, who errs not,

With those who felt the agony of blows
  By making counterstand to Robert Guiscard,
  And all the rest, whose bones are gathered still

At Ceperano, where a renegade
  Was each Apulian, and at Tagliacozzo,
  Where without arms the old Alardo conquered,

And one his limb transpierced, and one lopped off,
  Should show, it would be nothing to compare
  With the disgusting mode of the ninth Bolgia.

A cask by losing centre-piece or cant
  Was never shattered so, as I saw one
  Rent from the chin to where one breaketh wind.

Between his legs were hanging down his entrails;
  His heart was visible, and the dismal sack
  That maketh excrement of what is eaten.

While I was all absorbed in seeing him,
  He looked at me, and opened with his hands
  His bosom, saying: "See now how I rend me;

How mutilated, see, is Mahomet;
  In front of me doth Ali weeping go,
  Cleft in the face from forelock unto chin;

And all the others whom thou here beholdest,
  Disseminators of scandal and of schism
  While living were, and therefore are cleft thus.

A devil is behind here, who doth cleave us
  Thus cruelly, unto the falchion's edge
  Putting again each one of all this ream,

When we have gone around the doleful road;
  By reason that our wounds are closed again
  Ere any one in front of him repass.

But who art thou, that musest on the crag,
  Perchance to postpone going to the pain
  That is adjudged upon thine accusations?"

"Nor death hath reached him yet, nor guilt doth bring him,"
  My Master made reply, "to be tormented;
  But to procure him full experience,

Me, who am dead, behoves it to conduct him
  Down here through Hell, from circle unto circle;
  And this is true as that I speak to thee."

More than a hundred were there when they heard him,
  Who in the moat stood still to look at me,
  Through wonderment oblivious of their torture.

"Now say to Fra Dolcino, then, to arm him,
  Thou, who perhaps wilt shortly see the sun,
  If soon he wish not here to follow me,

So with provisions, that no stress of snow
  May give the victory to the Novarese,
  Which otherwise to gain would not be easy."

After one foot to go away he lifted,
  This word did Mahomet say unto me,
  Then to depart upon the ground he stretched it.

Another one, who had his throat pierced through,
  And nose cut off close underneath the brows,
  And had no longer but a single ear,

Staying to look in wonder with the others,
  Before the others did his gullet open,
  Which outwardly was red in every part,

And said: "O thou, whom guilt doth not condemn,
  And whom I once saw up in Latian land,
  Unless too great similitude deceive me,

Call to remembrance Pier da Medicina,
  If e'er thou see again the lovely plain
  That from Vercelli slopes to Marcabo,

And make it known to the best two of Fano,
  To Messer Guido and Angiolello likewise,
  That if foreseeing here be not in vain,

Cast over from their vessel shall they be,
  And drowned near unto the Cattolica,
  By the betrayal of a tyrant fell.

Between the isles of Cyprus and Majorca
  Neptune ne'er yet beheld so great a crime,
  Neither of pirates nor Argolic people.

That traitor, who sees only with one eye,
  And holds the land, which some one here with me
  Would fain be fasting from the vision of,

Will make them come unto a parley with him;
  Then will do so, that to Focara's wind
  They will not stand in need of vow or prayer."

And I to him: "Show to me and declare,
  If thou wouldst have me bear up news of thee,
  Who is this person of the bitter vision."

Then did he lay his hand upon the jaw
  Of one of his companions, and his mouth
  Oped, crying: "This is he, and he speaks not.

This one, being banished, every doubt submerged
  In Caesar by affirming the forearmed
  Always with detriment allowed delay."

O how bewildered unto me appeared,
  With tongue asunder in his windpipe slit,
  Curio, who in speaking was so bold!

And one, who both his hands dissevered had,
  The stumps uplifting through the murky air,
  So that the blood made horrible his face,

Cried out: "Thou shalt remember Mosca also,
  Who said, alas! 'A thing done has an end!'
  Which was an ill seed for the Tuscan people."

"And death unto thy race," thereto I added;
  Whence he, accumulating woe on woe,
  Departed, like a person sad and crazed.

But I remained to look upon the crowd;
  And saw a thing which I should be afraid,
  Without some further proof, even to recount,

If it were not that conscience reassures me,
  That good companion which emboldens man
  Beneath the hauberk of its feeling pure.

I truly saw, and still I seem to see it,
  A trunk without a head walk in like manner
  As walked the others of the mournful herd.

And by the hair it held the head dissevered,
  Hung from the hand in fashion of a lantern,
  And that upon us gazed and said: "O me!"

It of itself made to itself a lamp,
  And they were two in one, and one in two;
  How that can be, He knows who so ordains it.

When it was come close to the bridge's foot,
  It lifted high its arm with all the head,
  To bring more closely unto us its words,

Which were: "Behold now the sore penalty,
  Thou, who dost breathing go the dead beholding;
  Behold if any be as great as this.

And so that thou may carry news of me,
  Know that Bertram de Born am I, the same
  Who gave to the Young King the evil comfort.

I made the father and the son rebellious;
  Achitophel not more with Absalom
  And David did with his accursed goadings.

Because I parted persons so united,
  Parted do I now bear my brain, alas!
  From its beginning, which is in this trunk.

Thus is observed in me the counterpoise."



Inferno: Canto XXIX


The many people and the divers wounds
  These eyes of mine had so inebriated,
  That they were wishful to stand still and weep;

But said Virgilius: "What dost thou still gaze at?
  Why is thy sight still riveted down there
  Among the mournful, mutilated shades?

Thou hast not done so at the other Bolge;
  Consider, if to count them thou believest,
  That two-and-twenty miles the valley winds,

And now the moon is underneath our feet;
  Henceforth the time allotted us is brief,
  And more is to be seen than what thou seest."

"If thou hadst," I made answer thereupon,
  "Attended to the cause for which I looked,
  Perhaps a longer stay thou wouldst have pardoned."

Meanwhile my Guide departed, and behind him
  I went, already making my reply,
  And superadding: "In that cavern where

I held mine eyes with such attention fixed,
  I think a spirit of my blood laments
  The sin which down below there costs so much."

Then said the Master: "Be no longer broken
  Thy thought from this time forward upon him;
  Attend elsewhere, and there let him remain;

For him I saw below the little bridge,
  Pointing at thee, and threatening with his finger
  Fiercely, and heard him called Geri del Bello.

So wholly at that time wast thou impeded
  By him who formerly held Altaforte,
  Thou didst not look that way; so he departed."

"O my Conductor, his own violent death,
  Which is not yet avenged for him," I said,
  "By any who is sharer in the shame,

Made him disdainful; whence he went away,
  As I imagine, without speaking to me,
  And thereby made me pity him the more."

Thus did we speak as far as the first place
  Upon the crag, which the next valley shows
  Down to the bottom, if there were more light.

When we were now right over the last cloister
  Of Malebolge, so that its lay-brothers
  Could manifest themselves unto our sight,

Divers lamentings pierced me through and through,
  Which with compassion had their arrows barbed,
  Whereat mine ears I covered with my hands.

What pain would be, if from the hospitals
  Of Valdichiana, 'twixt July and September,
  And of Maremma and Sardinia

All the diseases in one moat were gathered,
  Such was it here, and such a stench came from it
  As from putrescent limbs is wont to issue.

We had descended on the furthest bank
  From the long crag, upon the left hand still,
  And then more vivid was my power of sight

Down tow'rds the bottom, where the ministress
  Of the high Lord, Justice infallible,
  Punishes forgers, which she here records.

I do not think a sadder sight to see
  Was in Aegina the whole people sick,
  (When was the air so full of pestilence,

The animals, down to the little worm,
  All fell, and afterwards the ancient people,
  According as the poets have affirmed,

Were from the seed of ants restored again,)
  Than was it to behold through that dark valley
  The spirits languishing in divers heaps.

This on the belly, that upon the back
  One of the other lay, and others crawling
  Shifted themselves along the dismal road.

We step by step went onward without speech,
  Gazing upon and listening to the sick
  Who had not strength enough to lift their bodies.

I saw two sitting leaned against each other,
  As leans in heating platter against platter,
  From head to foot bespotted o'er with scabs;

And never saw I plied a currycomb
  By stable-boy for whom his master waits,
  Or him who keeps awake unwillingly,

As every one was plying fast the bite
  Of nails upon himself, for the great rage
  Of itching which no other succour had.

And the nails downward with them dragged the scab,
  In fashion as a knife the scales of bream,
  Or any other fish that has them largest.

"O thou, that with thy fingers dost dismail thee,"
  Began my Leader unto one of them,
  "And makest of them pincers now and then,

Tell me if any Latian is with those
  Who are herein; so may thy nails suffice thee
  To all eternity unto this work."

"Latians are we, whom thou so wasted seest,
  Both of us here," one weeping made reply;
  "But who art thou, that questionest about us?"

And said the Guide: "One am I who descends
  Down with this living man from cliff to cliff,
  And I intend to show Hell unto him."

Then broken was their mutual support,
  And trembling each one turned himself to me,
  With others who had heard him by rebound.

Wholly to me did the good Master gather,
  Saying: "Say unto them whate'er thou wishest."
  And I began, since he would have it so:

"So may your memory not steal away
  In the first world from out the minds of men,
  But so may it survive 'neath many suns,

Say to me who ye are, and of what people;
  Let not your foul and loathsome punishment
  Make you afraid to show yourselves to me."

"I of Arezzo was," one made reply,
  "And Albert of Siena had me burned;
  But what I died for does not bring me here.

'Tis true I said to him, speaking in jest,
  That I could rise by flight into the air,
  And he who had conceit, but little wit,

Would have me show to him the art; and only
  Because no Daedalus I made him, made me
  Be burned by one who held him as his son.

But unto the last Bolgia of the ten,
  For alchemy, which in the world I practised,
  Minos, who cannot err, has me condemned."

And to the Poet said I: "Now was ever
  So vain a people as the Sienese?
  Not for a certainty the French by far."

Whereat the other leper, who had heard me,
  Replied unto my speech: "Taking out Stricca,
  Who knew the art of moderate expenses,

And Niccolo, who the luxurious use
  Of cloves discovered earliest of all
  Within that garden where such seed takes root;

And taking out the band, among whom squandered
  Caccia d'Ascian his vineyards and vast woods,
  And where his wit the Abbagliato proffered!

But, that thou know who thus doth second thee
  Against the Sienese, make sharp thine eye
  Tow'rds me, so that my face well answer thee,

And thou shalt see I am Capocchio's shade,
  Who metals falsified by alchemy;
  Thou must remember, if I well descry thee,

How I a skilful ape of nature was."



Inferno: Canto XXX


'Twas at the time when Juno was enraged,
  For Semele, against the Theban blood,
  As she already more than once had shown,

So reft of reason Athamas became,
  That, seeing his own wife with children twain
  Walking encumbered upon either hand,

He cried: "Spread out the nets, that I may take
  The lioness and her whelps upon the passage;"
  And then extended his unpitying claws,

Seizing the first, who had the name Learchus,
  And whirled him round, and dashed him on a rock;
  And she, with the other burthen, drowned herself;--

And at the time when fortune downward hurled
  The Trojan's arrogance, that all things dared,
  So that the king was with his kingdom crushed,

Hecuba sad, disconsolate, and captive,
  When lifeless she beheld Polyxena,
  And of her Polydorus on the shore

Of ocean was the dolorous one aware,
  Out of her senses like a dog she barked,
  So much the anguish had her mind distorted;

But not of Thebes the furies nor the Trojan
  Were ever seen in any one so cruel
  In goading beasts, and much more human members,

As I beheld two shadows pale and naked,
  Who, biting, in the manner ran along
  That a boar does, when from the sty turned loose.

One to Capocchio came, and by the nape
  Seized with its teeth his neck, so that in dragging
  It made his belly grate the solid bottom.

And the Aretine, who trembling had remained,
  Said to me: "That mad sprite is Gianni Schicchi,
  And raving goes thus harrying other people."

"O," said I to him, "so may not the other
  Set teeth on thee, let it not weary thee
  To tell us who it is, ere it dart hence."

And he to me: "That is the ancient ghost
  Of the nefarious Myrrha, who became
  Beyond all rightful love her father's lover.

She came to sin with him after this manner,
  By counterfeiting of another's form;
  As he who goeth yonder undertook,

That he might gain the lady of the herd,
  To counterfeit in himself Buoso Donati,
  Making a will and giving it due form."

And after the two maniacs had passed
  On whom I held mine eye, I turned it back
  To look upon the other evil-born.

I saw one made in fashion of a lute,
  If he had only had the groin cut off
  Just at the point at which a man is forked.

The heavy dropsy, that so disproportions
  The limbs with humours, which it ill concocts,
  That the face corresponds not to the belly,

Compelled him so to hold his lips apart
  As does the hectic, who because of thirst
  One tow'rds the chin, the other upward turns.

"O ye, who without any torment are,
  And why I know not, in the world of woe,"
  He said to us, "behold, and be attentive

Unto the misery of Master Adam;
  I had while living much of what I wished,
  And now, alas! a drop of water crave.

The rivulets, that from the verdant hills
  Of Cassentin descend down into Arno,
  Making their channels to be cold and moist,

Ever before me stand, and not in vain;
  For far more doth their image dry me up
  Than the disease which strips my face of flesh.

The rigid justice that chastises me
  Draweth occasion from the place in which
  I sinned, to put the more my sighs in flight.

There is Romena, where I counterfeited
  The currency imprinted with the Baptist,
  For which I left my body burned above.

But if I here could see the tristful soul
  Of Guido, or Alessandro, or their brother,
  For Branda's fount I would not give the sight.

One is within already, if the raving
  Shades that are going round about speak truth;
  But what avails it me, whose limbs are tied?

If I were only still so light, that in
  A hundred years I could advance one inch,
  I had already started on the way,

Seeking him out among this squalid folk,
  Although the circuit be eleven miles,
  And be not less than half a mile across.

For them am I in such a family;
  They did induce me into coining florins,
  Which had three carats of impurity."

And I to him: "Who are the two poor wretches
  That smoke like unto a wet hand in winter,
  Lying there close upon thy right-hand confines?"

"I found them here," replied he, "when I rained
  Into this chasm, and since they have not turned,
  Nor do I think they will for evermore.

One the false woman is who accused Joseph,
  The other the false Sinon, Greek of Troy;
  From acute fever they send forth such reek."

And one of them, who felt himself annoyed
  At being, peradventure, named so darkly,
  Smote with the fist upon his hardened paunch.

It gave a sound, as if it were a drum;
  And Master Adam smote him in the face,
  With arm that did not seem to be less hard,

Saying to him: "Although be taken from me
  All motion, for my limbs that heavy are,
  I have an arm unfettered for such need."

Whereat he answer made: "When thou didst go
  Unto the fire, thou hadst it not so ready:
  But hadst it so and more when thou wast coining."

The dropsical: "Thou sayest true in that;
  But thou wast not so true a witness there,
  Where thou wast questioned of the truth at Troy."

"If I spake false, thou falsifiedst the coin,"
  Said Sinon; "and for one fault I am here,
  And thou for more than any other demon."

"Remember, perjurer, about the horse,"
  He made reply who had the swollen belly,
  "And rueful be it thee the whole world knows it."

"Rueful to thee the thirst be wherewith cracks
  Thy tongue," the Greek said, "and the putrid water
  That hedges so thy paunch before thine eyes."

Then the false-coiner: "So is gaping wide
  Thy mouth for speaking evil, as 'tis wont;
  Because if I have thirst, and humour stuff me

Thou hast the burning and the head that aches,
  And to lick up the mirror of Narcissus
  Thou wouldst not want words many to invite thee."

In listening to them was I wholly fixed,
  When said the Master to me: "Now just look,
  For little wants it that I quarrel with thee."

When him I heard in anger speak to me,
  I turned me round towards him with such shame
  That still it eddies through my memory.

And as he is who dreams of his own harm,
  Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream,
  So that he craves what is, as if it were not;

Such I became, not having power to speak,
  For to excuse myself I wished, and still
  Excused myself, and did not think I did it.

"Less shame doth wash away a greater fault,"
  The Master said, "than this of thine has been;
  Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness,

And make account that I am aye beside thee,
  If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee
  Where there are people in a like dispute;

For a base wish it is to wish to hear it."



Inferno: Canto XXXI


One and the selfsame tongue first wounded me,
  So that it tinged the one cheek and the other,
  And then held out to me the medicine;

Thus do I hear that once Achilles' spear,
  His and his father's, used to be the cause
  First of a sad and then a gracious boon.

We turned our backs upon the wretched valley,
  Upon the bank that girds it round about,
  Going across it without any speech.

There it was less than night, and less than day,
  So that my sight went little in advance;
  But I could hear the blare of a loud horn,

So loud it would have made each thunder faint,
  Which, counter to it following its way,
  Mine eyes directed wholly to one place.

After the dolorous discomfiture
  When Charlemagne the holy emprise lost,
  So terribly Orlando sounded not.

Short while my head turned thitherward I held
  When many lofty towers I seemed to see,
  Whereat I: "Master, say, what town is this?"

And he to me: "Because thou peerest forth
  Athwart the darkness at too great a distance,
  It happens that thou errest in thy fancy.

Well shalt thou see, if thou arrivest there,
  How much the sense deceives itself by distance;
  Therefore a little faster spur thee on."

Then tenderly he took me by the hand,
  And said: "Before we farther have advanced,
  That the reality may seem to thee

Less strange, know that these are not towers, but giants,
  And they are in the well, around the bank,
  From navel downward, one and all of them."

As, when the fog is vanishing away,
  Little by little doth the sight refigure
  Whate'er the mist that crowds the air conceals,

So, piercing through the dense and darksome air,
  More and more near approaching tow'rd the verge,
  My error fled, and fear came over me;

Because as on its circular parapets
  Montereggione crowns itself with towers,
  E'en thus the margin which surrounds the well

With one half of their bodies turreted
  The horrible giants, whom Jove menaces
  E'en now from out the heavens when he thunders.

And I of one already saw the face,
  Shoulders, and breast, and great part of the belly,
  And down along his sides both of the arms.

Certainly Nature, when she left the making
  Of animals like these, did well indeed,
  By taking such executors from Mars;

And if of elephants and whales she doth not
  Repent her, whosoever looketh subtly
  More just and more discreet will hold her for it;

For where the argument of intellect
  Is added unto evil will and power,
  No rampart can the people make against it.

His face appeared to me as long and large
  As is at Rome the pine-cone of Saint Peter's,
  And in proportion were the other bones;

So that the margin, which an apron was
  Down from the middle, showed so much of him
  Above it, that to reach up to his hair

Three Frieslanders in vain had vaunted them;
  For I beheld thirty great palms of him
  Down from the place where man his mantle buckles.

"Raphael mai amech izabi almi,"
  Began to clamour the ferocious mouth,
  To which were not befitting sweeter psalms.

And unto him my Guide: "Soul idiotic,
  Keep to thy horn, and vent thyself with that,
  When wrath or other passion touches thee.

Search round thy neck, and thou wilt find the belt
  Which keeps it fastened, O bewildered soul,
  And see it, where it bars thy mighty breast."

Then said to me: "He doth himself accuse;
  This one is Nimrod, by whose evil thought
  One language in the world is not still used.

Here let us leave him and not speak in vain;
  For even such to him is every language
  As his to others, which to none is known."

Therefore a longer journey did we make,
  Turned to the left, and a crossbow-shot oft
  We found another far more fierce and large.

In binding him, who might the master be
  I cannot say; but he had pinioned close
  Behind the right arm, and in front the other,

With chains, that held him so begirt about
  From the neck down, that on the part uncovered
  It wound itself as far as the fifth gyre.

"This proud one wished to make experiment
  Of his own power against the Supreme Jove,"
  My Leader said, "whence he has such a guerdon.

Ephialtes is his name; he showed great prowess.
  What time the giants terrified the gods;
  The arms he wielded never more he moves."

And I to him: "If possible, I should wish
  That of the measureless Briareus
  These eyes of mine might have experience."

Whence he replied: "Thou shalt behold Antaeus
  Close by here, who can speak and is unbound,
  Who at the bottom of all crime shall place us.

Much farther yon is he whom thou wouldst see,
  And he is bound, and fashioned like to this one,
  Save that he seems in aspect more ferocious."

There never was an earthquake of such might
  That it could shake a tower so violently,
  As Ephialtes suddenly shook himself.

Then was I more afraid of death than ever,
  For nothing more was needful than the fear,
  If I had not beheld the manacles.

Then we proceeded farther in advance,
  And to Antaeus came, who, full five ells
  Without the head, forth issued from the cavern.

"O thou, who in the valley fortunate,
  Which Scipio the heir of glory made,
  When Hannibal turned back with all his hosts,

Once brought'st a thousand lions for thy prey,
  And who, hadst thou been at the mighty war
  Among thy brothers, some it seems still think

The sons of Earth the victory would have gained:
  Place us below, nor be disdainful of it,
  There where the cold doth lock Cocytus up.

Make us not go to Tityus nor Typhoeus;
  This one can give of that which here is longed for;
  Therefore stoop down, and do not curl thy lip.

Still in the world can he restore thy fame;
  Because he lives, and still expects long life,
  If to itself Grace call him not untimely."

So said the Master; and in haste the other
  His hands extended and took up my Guide,--
  Hands whose great pressure Hercules once felt.

Virgilius, when he felt himself embraced,
  Said unto me: "Draw nigh, that I may take thee;"
  Then of himself and me one bundle made.

As seems the Carisenda, to behold
  Beneath the leaning side, when goes a cloud
  Above it so that opposite it hangs;

Such did Antaeus seem to me, who stood
  Watching to see him stoop, and then it was
  I could have wished to go some other way.

But lightly in the abyss, which swallows up
  Judas with Lucifer, he put us down;
  Nor thus bowed downward made he there delay,

But, as a mast does in a ship, uprose.



Inferno: Canto XXXII


If I had rhymes both rough and stridulous,
  As were appropriate to the dismal hole
  Down upon which thrust all the other rocks,

I would press out the juice of my conception
  More fully; but because I have them not,
  Not without fear I bring myself to speak;

For 'tis no enterprise to take in jest,
  To sketch the bottom of all the universe,
  Nor for a tongue that cries Mamma and Babbo.

But may those Ladies help this verse of mine,
  Who helped Amphion in enclosing Thebes,
  That from the fact the word be not diverse.

O rabble ill-begotten above all,
  Who're in the place to speak of which is hard,
  'Twere better ye had here been sheep or goats!

When we were down within the darksome well,
  Beneath the giant's feet, but lower far,
  And I was scanning still the lofty wall,

I heard it said to me: "Look how thou steppest!
  Take heed thou do not trample with thy feet
  The heads of the tired, miserable brothers!"

Whereat I turned me round, and saw before me
  And underfoot a lake, that from the frost
  The semblance had of glass, and not of water.

So thick a veil ne'er made upon its current
  In winter-time Danube in Austria,
  Nor there beneath the frigid sky the Don,

As there was here; so that if Tambernich
  Had fallen upon it, or Pietrapana,
  E'en at the edge 'twould not have given a creak.

And as to croak the frog doth place himself
  With muzzle out of water,--when is dreaming
  Of gleaning oftentimes the peasant-girl,--

Livid, as far down as where shame appears,
  Were the disconsolate shades within the ice,
  Setting their teeth unto the note of storks.

Each one his countenance held downward bent;
  From mouth the cold, from eyes the doleful heart
  Among them witness of itself procures.

When round about me somewhat I had looked,
  I downward turned me, and saw two so close,
  The hair upon their heads together mingled.

"Ye who so strain your breasts together, tell me,"
  I said, "who are you;" and they bent their necks,
  And when to me their faces they had lifted,

Their eyes, which first were only moist within,
  Gushed o'er the eyelids, and the frost congealed
  The tears between, and locked them up again.

Clamp never bound together wood with wood
  So strongly; whereat they, like two he-goats,
  Butted together, so much wrath o'ercame them.

And one, who had by reason of the cold
  Lost both his ears, still with his visage downward,
  Said: "Why dost thou so mirror thyself in us?

If thou desire to know who these two are,
  The valley whence Bisenzio descends
  Belonged to them and to their father Albert.

They from one body came, and all Caina
  Thou shalt search through, and shalt not find a shade
  More worthy to be fixed in gelatine;

Not he in whom were broken breast and shadow
  At one and the same blow by Arthur's hand;
  Focaccia not; not he who me encumbers

So with his head I see no farther forward,
  And bore the name of Sassol Mascheroni;
  Well knowest thou who he was, if thou art Tuscan.

And that thou put me not to further speech,
  Know that I Camicion de' Pazzi was,
  And wait Carlino to exonerate me."

Then I beheld a thousand faces, made
  Purple with cold; whence o'er me comes a shudder,
  And evermore will come, at frozen ponds.

And while we were advancing tow'rds the middle,
  Where everything of weight unites together,
  And I was shivering in the eternal shade,

Whether 'twere will, or destiny, or chance,
  I know not; but in walking 'mong the heads
  I struck my foot hard in the face of one.

Weeping he growled: "Why dost thou trample me?
  Unless thou comest to increase the vengeance
  of Montaperti, why dost thou molest me?"

And I: "My Master, now wait here for me,
  That I through him may issue from a doubt;
  Then thou mayst hurry me, as thou shalt wish."

The Leader stopped; and to that one I said
  Who was blaspheming vehemently still:
  "Who art thou, that thus reprehendest others?"

"Now who art thou, that goest through Antenora
  Smiting," replied he, "other people's cheeks,
  So that, if thou wert living, 'twere too much?"

"Living I am, and dear to thee it may be,"
  Was my response, "if thou demandest fame,
  That 'mid the other notes thy name I place."

And he to me: "For the reverse I long;
  Take thyself hence, and give me no more trouble;
  For ill thou knowest to flatter in this hollow."

Then by the scalp behind I seized upon him,
  And said: "It must needs be thou name thyself,
  Or not a hair remain upon thee here."

Whence he to me: "Though thou strip off my hair,
  I will not tell thee who I am, nor show thee,
  If on my head a thousand times thou fall."

I had his hair in hand already twisted,
  And more than one shock of it had pulled out,
  He barking, with his eyes held firmly down,

When cried another: "What doth ail thee, Bocca?
  Is't not enough to clatter with thy jaws,
  But thou must bark? what devil touches thee?"

"Now," said I, "I care not to have thee speak,
  Accursed traitor; for unto thy shame
  I will report of thee veracious news."

"Begone," replied he, "and tell what thou wilt,
  But be not silent, if thou issue hence,
  Of him who had just now his tongue so prompt;

He weepeth here the silver of the French;
  'I saw,' thus canst thou phrase it, 'him of Duera
  There where the sinners stand out in the cold.'

If thou shouldst questioned be who else was there,
  Thou hast beside thee him of Beccaria,
  Of whom the gorget Florence slit asunder;

Gianni del Soldanier, I think, may be
  Yonder with Ganellon, and Tebaldello
  Who oped Faenza when the people slep."

Already we had gone away from him,
  When I beheld two frozen in one hole,
  So that one head a hood was to the other;

And even as bread through hunger is devoured,
  The uppermost on the other set his teeth,
  There where the brain is to the nape united.

Not in another fashion Tydeus gnawed
  The temples of Menalippus in disdain,
  Than that one did the skull and the other things.

"O thou, who showest by such bestial sign
  Thy hatred against him whom thou art eating,
  Tell me the wherefore," said I, "with this compact,

That if thou rightfully of him complain,
  In knowing who ye are, and his transgression,
  I in the world above repay thee for it,

If that wherewith I speak be not dried up."



Inferno: Canto XXXIII


His mouth uplifted from his grim repast,
  That sinner, wiping it upon the hair
  Of the same head that he behind had wasted.

Then he began: "Thou wilt that I renew
  The desperate grief, which wrings my heart already
  To think of only, ere I speak of it;

But if my words be seed that may bear fruit
  Of infamy to the traitor whom I gnaw,
  Speaking and weeping shalt thou see together.

I know not who thou art, nor by what mode
  Thou hast come down here; but a Florentine
  Thou seemest to me truly, when I hear thee.

Thou hast to know I was Count Ugolino,
  And this one was Ruggieri the Archbishop;
  Now I will tell thee why I am such a neighbour.

That, by effect of his malicious thoughts,
  Trusting in him I was made prisoner,
  And after put to death, I need not say;

 But ne'ertheless what thou canst not have heard,
  That is to say, how cruel was my death,
  Hear shalt thou, and shalt know if he has wronged me.

A narrow perforation in the mew,
  Which bears because of me the title of Famine,
  And in which others still must be locked up,

Had shown me through its opening many moons
  Already, when I dreamed the evil dream
  Which of the future rent for me the veil.

This one appeared to me as lord and master,
  Hunting the wolf and whelps upon the mountain
  For which the Pisans cannot Lucca see.

With sleuth-hounds gaunt, and eager, and well trained,
  Gualandi with Sismondi and Lanfianchi
  He had sent out before him to the front.

After brief course seemed unto me forespent
  The father and the sons, and with sharp tushes
  It seemed to me I saw their flanks ripped open.

When I before the morrow was awake,
  Moaning amid their sleep I heard my sons
  Who with me were, and asking after bread.

Cruel indeed art thou, if yet thou grieve not,
  Thinking of what my heart foreboded me,
  And weep'st thou not, what art thou wont to weep at?

They were awake now, and the hour drew nigh
  At which our food used to be brought to us,
  And through his dream was each one apprehensive;

And I heard locking up the under door
  Of the horrible tower; whereat without a word
  I gazed into the faces of my sons.

I wept not, I within so turned to stone;
  They wept; and darling little Anselm mine
  Said: 'Thou dost gaze so, father, what doth ail thee?'

Still not a tear I shed, nor answer made
  All of that day, nor yet the night thereafter,
  Until another sun rose on the world.

As now a little glimmer made its way
  Into the dolorous prison, and I saw
  Upon four faces my own very aspect,

Both of my hands in agony I bit;
  And, thinking that I did it from desire
  Of eating, on a sudden they uprose,

And said they: 'Father, much less pain 'twill give us
  If thou do eat of us; thyself didst clothe us
  With this poor flesh, and do thou strip it off.'

I calmed me then, not to make them more sad.
  That day we all were silent, and the next.
  Ah! obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open?

When we had come unto the fourth day, Gaddo
  Threw himself down outstretched before my feet,
  Saying, 'My father, why dost thou not help me?'

And there he died; and, as thou seest me,
  I saw the three fall, one by one, between
  The fifth day and the sixth; whence I betook me,

Already blind, to groping over each,
  And three days called them after they were dead;
  Then hunger did what sorrow could not do."

When he had said this, with his eyes distorted,
  The wretched skull resumed he with his teeth,
  Which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong.

Ah! Pisa, thou opprobrium of the people
  Of the fair land there where the 'Si' doth sound,
  Since slow to punish thee thy neighbours are,

Let the Capraia and Gorgona move,
  And make a hedge across the mouth of Arno
  That every person in thee it may drown!

For if Count Ugolino had the fame
  Of having in thy castles thee betrayed,
  Thou shouldst not on such cross have put his sons.

Guiltless of any crime, thou modern Thebes!
  Their youth made Uguccione and Brigata,
  And the other two my song doth name above!

We passed still farther onward, where the ice
  Another people ruggedly enswathes,
  Not downward turned, but all of them reversed.

Weeping itself there does not let them weep,
  And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes
  Turns itself inward to increase the anguish;

Because the earliest tears a cluster form,
  And, in the manner of a crystal visor,
  Fill all the cup beneath the eyebrow full.

And notwithstanding that, as in a callus,
  Because of cold all sensibility
  Its station had abandoned in my face,

Still it appeared to me I felt some wind;
  Whence I: "My Master, who sets this in motion?
  Is not below here every vapour quenched?"

Whence he to me: "Full soon shalt thou be where
  Thine eye shall answer make to thee of this,
  Seeing the cause which raineth down the blast."

And one of the wretches of the frozen crust
  Cried out to us: "O souls so merciless
  That the last post is given unto you,

Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I
  May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart
  A little, e'er the weeping recongeal."

Whence I to him: "If thou wouldst have me help thee
  Say who thou wast; and if I free thee not,
  May I go to the bottom of the ice."

Then he replied: "I am Friar Alberigo;
  He am I of the fruit of the bad garden,
  Who here a date am getting for my fig."

"O," said I to him, "now art thou, too, dead?"
  And he to me: "How may my body fare
  Up in the world, no knowledge I possess.

Such an advantage has this Ptolomaea,
  That oftentimes the soul descendeth here
  Sooner than Atropos in motion sets it.

And, that thou mayest more willingly remove
  From off my countenance these glassy tears,
  Know that as soon as any soul betrays

As I have done, his body by a demon
  Is taken from him, who thereafter rules it,
  Until his time has wholly been revolved.

Itself down rushes into such a cistern;
  And still perchance above appears the body
  Of yonder shade, that winters here behind me.

This thou shouldst know, if thou hast just come down;
  It is Ser Branca d' Oria, and many years
  Have passed away since he was thus locked up."

"I think," said I to him, "thou dost deceive me;
  For Branca d' Oria is not dead as yet,
  And eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and puts on clothes."

"In moat above," said he, "of Malebranche,
  There where is boiling the tenacious pitch,
  As yet had Michel Zanche not arrived,

When this one left a devil in his stead
  In his own body and one near of kin,
  Who made together with him the betrayal.

But hitherward stretch out thy hand forthwith,
  Open mine eyes;"--and open them I did not,
  And to be rude to him was courtesy.

Ah, Genoese! ye men at variance
  With every virtue, full of every vice
  Wherefore are ye not scattered from the world?

For with the vilest spirit of Romagna
  I found of you one such, who for his deeds
  In soul already in Cocytus bathes,

And still above in body seems alive!



Inferno: Canto XXXIV


"'Vexilla Regis prodeunt Inferni'
  Towards us; therefore look in front of thee,"
  My Master said, "if thou discernest him."

As, when there breathes a heavy fog, or when
  Our hemisphere is darkening into night,
  Appears far off a mill the wind is turning,

Methought that such a building then I saw;
  And, for the wind, I drew myself behind
  My Guide, because there was no other shelter.

Now was I, and with fear in verse I put it,
  There where the shades were wholly covered up,
  And glimmered through like unto straws in glass.

Some prone are lying, others stand erect,
  This with the head, and that one with the soles;
  Another, bow-like, face to feet inverts.

When in advance so far we had proceeded,
  That it my Master pleased to show to me
  The creature who once had the beauteous semblance,

He from before me moved and made me stop,
  Saying: "Behold Dis, and behold the place
  Where thou with fortitude must arm thyself."

How frozen I became and powerless then,
  Ask it not, Reader, for I write it not,
  Because all language would be insufficient.

I did not die, and I alive remained not;
  Think for thyself now, hast thou aught of wit,
  What I became, being of both deprived.

The Emperor of the kingdom dolorous
  From his mid-breast forth issued from the ice;
  And better with a giant I compare

Than do the giants with those arms of his;
  Consider now how great must be that whole,
  Which unto such a part conforms itself.

Were he as fair once, as he now is foul,
  And lifted up his brow against his Maker,
  Well may proceed from him all tribulation.

O, what a marvel it appeared to me,
  When I beheld three faces on his head!
  The one in front, and that vermilion was;

Two were the others, that were joined with this
  Above the middle part of either shoulder,
  And they were joined together at the crest;

And the right-hand one seemed 'twixt white and yellow;
  The left was such to look upon as those
  Who come from where the Nile falls valley-ward.

Underneath each came forth two mighty wings,
  Such as befitting were so great a bird;
  Sails of the sea I never saw so large.

 No feathers had they, but as of a bat
  Their fashion was; and he was waving them,
  So that three winds proceeded forth therefrom.

Thereby Cocytus wholly was congealed.
  With six eyes did he weep, and down three chins
  Trickled the tear-drops and the bloody drivel.

At every mouth he with his teeth was crunching
  A sinner, in the manner of a brake,
  So that he three of them tormented thus.

To him in front the biting was as naught
  Unto the clawing, for sometimes the spine
  Utterly stripped of all the skin remained.

"That soul up there which has the greatest pain,"
  The Master said, "is Judas Iscariot;
  With head inside, he plies his legs without.

Of the two others, who head downward are,
  The one who hangs from the black jowl is Brutus;
  See how he writhes himself, and speaks no word.

And the other, who so stalwart seems, is Cassius.
  But night is reascending, and 'tis time
  That we depart, for we have seen the whole."

As seemed him good, I clasped him round the neck,
  And he the vantage seized of time and place,
  And when the wings were opened wide apart,

He laid fast hold upon the shaggy sides;
  From fell to fell descended downward then
  Between the thick hair and the frozen crust.

When we were come to where the thigh revolves
  Exactly on the thickness of the haunch,
  The Guide, with labour and with hard-drawn breath,

Turned round his head where he had had his legs,
  And grappled to the hair, as one who mounts,
  So that to Hell I thought we were returning.

"Keep fast thy hold, for by such stairs as these,"
  The Master said, panting as one fatigued,
  "Must we perforce depart from so much evil."

Then through the opening of a rock he issued,
  And down upon the margin seated me;
  Then tow'rds me he outstretched his wary step.

I lifted up mine eyes and thought to see
  Lucifer in the same way I had left him;
  And I beheld him upward hold his legs.

And if I then became disquieted,
  Let stolid people think who do not see
  What the point is beyond which I had passed.

"Rise up," the Master said, "upon thy feet;
  The way is long, and difficult the road,
  And now the sun to middle-tierce returns."

It was not any palace corridor
  There where we were, but dungeon natural,
  With floor uneven and unease of light.

"Ere from the abyss I tear myself away,
  My Master," said I when I had arisen,
  "To draw me from an error speak a little;

Where is the ice? and how is this one fixed
  Thus upside down? and how in such short time
  From eve to morn has the sun made his transit?"

And he to me: "Thou still imaginest
  Thou art beyond the centre, where I grasped
  The hair of the fell worm, who mines the world.

That side thou wast, so long as I descended;
  When round I turned me, thou didst pass the point
  To which things heavy draw from every side,

And now beneath the hemisphere art come
  Opposite that which overhangs the vast
  Dry-land, and 'neath whose cope was put to death

The Man who without sin was born and lived.
  Thou hast thy feet upon the little sphere
  Which makes the other face of the Judecca.

Here it is morn when it is evening there;
  And he who with his hair a stairway made us
  Still fixed remaineth as he was before.

Upon this side he fell down out of heaven;
  And all the land, that whilom here emerged,
  For fear of him made of the sea a veil,

And came to our hemisphere; and peradventure
  To flee from him, what on this side appears
  Left the place vacant here, and back recoiled."

A place there is below, from Beelzebub
  As far receding as the tomb extends,
  Which not by sight is known, but by the sound

Of a small rivulet, that there descendeth
  Through chasm within the stone, which it has gnawed
  With course that winds about and slightly falls.

The Guide and I into that hidden road
  Now entered, to return to the bright world;
  And without care of having any rest

We mounted up, he first and I the second,
  Till I beheld through a round aperture
  Some of the beauteous things that Heaven doth bear;

Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars.

The Gilgamesh Epic is the most notable literary product of Babylonia as yet discovered in the mounds of Mesopotamia. It recounts the exploits and adventures of a favorite hero, and in its final form covers twelve tablets, each tablet consisting of six columns (three on the obverse and three on the reverse) of about 50 lines for each column, or a total of about 3600 lines. Of this total, however, barely more than one-half has been found among the remains of the great collection of cuneiform tablets gathered by King Ashurbanapal (668–626 B.C.) in his palace at Nineveh, and discovered by Layard in 18541 in the course of his excavations of the mound Kouyunjik (opposite Mosul). The fragments of the epic painfully gathered—chiefly by George Smith—from the circa 30,000 tablets and bits of tablets brought to the British Museum were published in model form by Professor Paul Haupt;2 and that edition still remains the primary source for our study of the Epic.[10]

For the sake of convenience we may call the form of the Epic in the fragments from the library of Ashurbanapal the Assyrian version, though like most of the literary productions in the library it not only reverts to a Babylonian original, but represents a late copy of a much older original. The absence of any reference to Assyria in the fragments recovered justifies us in assuming that the Assyrian version received its present form in Babylonia, perhaps in Erech; though it is of course possible that some of the late features, particularly the elaboration of the teachings of the theologians or schoolmen in the eleventh and twelfth tablets, may have been produced at least in part under Assyrian influence. A definite indication that the Gilgamesh Epic reverts to a period earlier than Hammurabi (or Hammurawi)3 i.e., beyond 2000 B. C., was furnished by the publication of a text clearly belonging to the first Babylonian dynasty (of which Hammurabi was the sixth member) in CT. VI, 5; which text Zimmern4 recognized as a part of the tale of Atra-ḫasis, one of the names given to the survivor of the deluge, recounted on the eleventh tablet of the Gilgamesh Epic.5 This was confirmed by the discovery6 of a [11]fragment of the deluge story dated in the eleventh year of Ammisaduka, i.e., c. 1967 B.C. In this text, likewise, the name of the deluge hero appears as Atra-ḫasis (col. VIII, 4).7 But while these two tablets do not belong to the Gilgamesh Epic and merely introduce an episode which has also been incorporated into the Epic, Dr. Bruno Meissner in 1902 published a tablet, dating, as the writing and the internal evidence showed, from the Hammurabi period, which undoubtedly is a portion of what by way of distinction we may call an old Babylonian version.8 It was picked up by Dr. Meissner at a dealer’s shop in Bagdad and acquired for the Berlin Museum. The tablet consists of four columns (two on the obverse and two on the reverse) and deals with the hero’s wanderings in search of a cure from disease with which he has been smitten after the death of his companion Enkidu. The hero fears that the disease will be fatal and longs to escape death. It corresponds to a portion of Tablet X of the Assyrian version. Unfortunately, only the lower portion of the obverse and the upper of the reverse have been preserved (57 lines in all); and in default of a colophon we do not know the numeration of the tablet in this old Babylonian edition. Its chief value, apart from its furnishing a proof for the existence of the Epic as early as 2000 B. C., lies (a) in the writing Gish instead of Gish-gi(n)-mash in the Assyrian version, for the name of the hero, (b) in the writing En-ki-dũ—abbreviated from dũg—() “Enki is good” for En-ki-dú () in the Assyrian version,9 and (c) in the remarkable address of the maiden Sabitum, dwelling at the seaside, to whom Gilgamesh comes in the course of his wanderings. From the Assyrian version we know that the hero tells the maiden of his grief for his lost companion, and of his longing to escape the dire fate of Enkidu. In the old Babylonian fragment the answer of Sabitum is given in full, and the sad note that it strikes, showing how hopeless it is for man to try to escape death which is in store for all mankind, is as remarkable as is the philosophy of “eat, drink and be merry” which Sabitum imparts. The address indicates how early the tendency arose to attach to ancient tales the current religious teachings.[12]

Such teachings, reminding us of the leading thought in the Biblical Book of Ecclesiastes,10 indicate the didactic character given to ancient tales that were of popular origin, but which were modified and elaborated under the influence of the schools which arose in connection with the Babylonian temples. The story itself belongs, therefore, to a still earlier period than the form it received in this old Babylonian version. The existence of this tendency at so early a date comes to us as a genuine surprise, and justifies the assumption that the attachment of a lesson to the deluge story in the Assyrian version, to wit, the limitation in attainment of immortality to those singled out by the gods as exceptions, dates likewise from the old Babylonian period. The same would apply to the twelfth tablet, which is almost entirely didactic, intended to illustrate the impossibility of learning anything of the fate of those who have passed out of this world. It also emphasizes the necessity of contenting oneself with the comfort that the care of the dead, by providing burial and food and drink offerings for them affords, as the only means of ensuring for them rest and freedom from the pangs of hunger and distress. However, it is of course possible that the twelfth tablet, which impresses one as a supplement to the adventures of Gilgamesh, ending with his return to Uruk (i.e., Erech) at the close of the eleventh tablet, may represent a later elaboration of the tendency to connect religious teachings with the exploits of a favorite hero.[13]

 

We now have further evidence both of the extreme antiquity of the literary form of the Gilgamesh Epic and also of the disposition to make the Epic the medium of illustrating aspects of life and the destiny of mankind. The discovery by Dr. Arno Poebel of a Sumerian form of the tale of the descent of Ishtar to the lower world and her release11—apparently a nature myth to illustrate the change of season from summer to winter and back again to spring—enables us to pass beyond the Akkadian (or Semitic) form of tales current in the Euphrates Valley to the Sumerian form. Furthermore, we are indebted to Dr. Langdon for the identification of two Sumerian fragments in the Nippur Collection which deal with the adventures of Gilgamesh, one in Constantinople,12 the other in the collection of the University of Pennsylvania Museum.13 The former, of which only 25 lines are preserved (19 on the obverse and 6 on the reverse), appears to be a description of the weapons of Gilgamesh with which he arms himself for an encounter—presumably the encounter with Ḫumbaba or Ḫuwawa, the ruler of the cedar forest in the mountain.14 The latter deals with the building operations of Gilgamesh in the city of Erech. A text in Zimmern’s Sumerische Kultlieder aus altbabylonischer Zeit (Leipzig, 1913), No. 196, appears likewise to be a fragment of the Sumerian version of the Gilgamesh Epic, bearing on the episode of Gilgamesh’s and Enkidu’s relations to the goddess Ishtar, covered in the sixth and seventh tablets of the Assyrian version.15

Until, however, further fragments shall have turned up, it would be hazardous to institute a comparison between the Sumerian and the Akkadian versions. All that can be said for the present is that there is every reason to believe in the existence of a literary form of the Epic in Sumerian which presumably antedated the Akkadian recension, [14]just as we have a Sumerian form of Ishtar’s descent into the nether world, and Sumerian versions of creation myths, as also of the Deluge tale.16 It does not follow, however, that the Akkadian versions of the Gilgamesh Epic are translations of the Sumerian, any more than that the Akkadian creation myths are translations of a Sumerian original. Indeed, in the case of the creation myths, the striking difference between the Sumerian and Akkadian views of creation17 points to the independent production of creation stories on the part of the Semitic settlers of the Euphrates Valley, though no doubt these were worked out in part under Sumerian literary influences. The same is probably true of Deluge tales, which would be given a distinctly Akkadian coloring in being reproduced and steadily elaborated by the Babylonian literati attached to the temples. The presumption is, therefore, in favor of an independent literary origin for the Semitic versions of the Gilgamesh Epic, though naturally with a duplication of the episodes, or at least of some of them, in the Sumerian narrative. Nor does the existence of a Sumerian form of the Epic necessarily prove that it originated with the Sumerians in their earliest home before they came to the Euphrates Valley. They may have adopted it after their conquest of southern Babylonia from the Semites who, there are now substantial grounds for believing, were the earlier settlers in the Euphrates Valley.18 We must distinguish, therefore, between the earliest literary form, which was undoubtedly Sumerian, and the origin of the episodes embodied in the Epic, including the chief actors, Gilgamesh and his companion Enkidu. It will be shown that one of the chief episodes, the encounter of the two heroes with a powerful guardian or ruler of a cedar forest, points to a western region, more specifically to Amurru, as the scene. The names of the two chief actors, moreover, appear to have been “Sumerianized” by an artificial process,19 and if this view turns out to be [15]correct, we would have a further ground for assuming the tale to have originated among the Akkadian settlers and to have been taken over from them by the Sumerians.

 

New light on the earliest Babylonian version of the Epic, as well as on the Assyrian version, has been shed by the recovery of two substantial fragments of the form which the Epic had assumed in Babylonia in the Hammurabi period. The study of this important new material also enables us to advance the interpretation of the Epic and to perfect the analysis into its component parts. In the spring of 1914, the Museum of the University of Pennsylvania acquired by purchase a large tablet, the writing of which as well as the style and the manner of spelling verbal forms and substantives pointed distinctly to the time of the first Babylonian dynasty. The tablet was identified by Dr. Arno Poebel as part of the Gilgamesh Epic; and, as the colophon showed, it formed the second tablet of the series. He copied it with a view to publication, but the outbreak of the war which found him in Germany—his native country—prevented him from carrying out this intention.20 He, however, utilized some of its contents in his discussion of the historical or semi-historical traditions about Gilgamesh, as revealed by the important list of partly mythical and partly historical dynasties, found among the tablets of the Nippur collection, in which Gilgamesh occurs21 as a King of an Erech dynasty, whose father was Â, a priest of Kulab.22

The publication of the tablet was then undertaken by Dr. Stephen Langdon in monograph form under the title, “The Epic of Gilgamish.”23 In a preliminary article on the tablet in the Museum Journal, Vol. VIII, pages 29–38, Dr. Langdon took the tablet to be of the late [16]Persian period (i.e., between the sixth and third century B. C.), but his attention having been called to this error of some 1500 years, he corrected it in his introduction to his edition of the text, though he neglected to change some of his notes in which he still refers to the text as “late.”24 In addition to a copy of the text, accompanied by a good photograph, Dr. Langdon furnished a transliteration and translation with some notes and a brief introduction. The text is unfortunately badly copied, being full of errors; and the translation is likewise very defective. A careful collation with the original tablet was made with the assistance of Dr. Edward Chiera, and as a consequence we are in a position to offer to scholars a correct text. We beg to acknowledge our obligations to Dr. Gordon, the Director of the Museum of the University of Pennsylvania, for kindly placing the tablet at our disposal. Instead of republishing the text, I content myself with giving a full list of corrections in the appendix to this volume which will enable scholars to control our readings, and which will, I believe, justify the translation in the numerous passages in which it deviates from Dr. Langdon’s rendering. While credit should be given to Dr. Langdon for having made this important tablet accessible, the interests of science demand that attention be called to his failure to grasp the many important data furnished by the tablet, which escaped him because of his erroneous readings and faulty translations.

The tablet, consisting of six columns (three on the obverse and three on the reverse), comprised, according to the colophon, 240 lines25 and formed the second tablet of the series. Of the total, 204 lines are preserved in full or in part, and of the missing thirty-six quite a number can be restored, so that we have a fairly complete tablet. The most serious break occurs at the top of the reverse, where about eight lines are missing. In consequence of this the connection between the end of the obverse (where about five lines are missing) and the beginning of the reverse is obscured, though not to the extent of our entirely losing the thread of the narrative.[17]

About the same time that the University of Pennsylvania Museum purchased this second tablet of the Gilgamesh Series, Yale University obtained a tablet from the same dealer, which turned out to be a continuation of the University of Pennsylvania tablet. That the two belong to the same edition of the Epic is shown by their agreement in the dark brown color of the clay, in the writing as well as in the size of the tablet, though the characters on the Yale tablet are somewhat cramped and in consequence more difficult to read. Both tablets consist of six columns, three on the obverse and three on the reverse. The measurements of both are about the same, the Pennsylvania tablet being estimated at about 7 inches high, as against 72/16 inches for the Yale tablet, while the width of both is 6½ inches. The Yale tablet is, however, more closely written and therefore has a larger number of lines than the Pennsylvania tablet. The colophon to the Yale tablet is unfortunately missing, but from internal evidence it is quite certain that the Yale tablet follows immediately upon the Pennsylvania tablet and, therefore, may be set down as the third of the series. The obverse is very badly preserved, so that only a general view of its contents can be secured. The reverse contains serious gaps in the first and second columns. The scribe evidently had a copy before him which he tried to follow exactly, but finding that he could not get all of the copy before him in the six columns, he continued the last column on the edge. In this way we obtain for the sixth column 64 lines as against 45 for column IV, and 47 for column V, and a total of 292 lines for the six columns. Subtracting the 16 lines written on the edge leaves us 276 lines for our tablet as against 240 for its companion. The width of each column being the same on both tablets, the difference of 36 lines is made up by the closer writing.

Both tablets have peculiar knobs at the sides, the purpose of which is evidently not to facilitate holding the tablet in one’s hand while writing or reading it, as Langdon assumed26 (it would be quite impracticable for this purpose), but simply to protect the tablet in its position on a shelf, where it would naturally be placed on the edge, just as we arrange books on a shelf. Finally be it noted that these two tablets of the old Babylonian version do not belong to the same edition as the Meissner tablet above described, for the latter consists [18]of two columns each on obverse and reverse, as against three columns each in the case of our two tablets. We thus have the interesting proof that as early as 2000 B.C. there were already several editions of the Epic. As to the provenance of our two tablets, there are no definite data, but it is likely that they were found by natives in the mounds at Warka, from which about the year 1913, many tablets came into the hands of dealers. It is likely that where two tablets of a series were found, others of the series were also dug up, and we may expect to find some further portions of this old Babylonian version turning up in the hands of other dealers or in museums.

 

Coming to the contents of the two tablets, the Pennsylvania tablet deals with the meeting of the two heroes, Gilgamesh and Enkidu, their conflict, followed by their reconciliation, while the Yale tablet in continuation takes up the preparations for the encounter of the two heroes with the guardian of the cedar forest, Ḫumbaba—but probably pronounced Ḫubaba27—or, as the name appears in the old Babylonian version, Ḫuwawa. The two tablets correspond, therefore, to portions of Tablets I to V of the Assyrian version;28 but, as will be shown in detail further on, the number of completely parallel passages is not large, and the Assyrian version shows an independence of the old Babylonian version that is larger than we had reason to expect. In general, it may be said that the Assyrian version is more elaborate, which points to its having received its present form at a considerably later period than the old Babylonian version.29 On the other hand, we already find in the Babylonian version the tendency towards repetition, which is characteristic of Babylonian-Assyrian tales in general. Through the two Babylonian tablets we are enabled to fill out certain details [19]of the two episodes with which they deal: (1) the meeting of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, and (2) the encounter with Ḫuwawa; while their greatest value consists in the light that they throw on the gradual growth of the Epic until it reached its definite form in the text represented by the fragments in Ashurbanapal’s Library. Let us now take up the detailed analysis, first of the Pennsylvania tablet and then of the Yale tablet. The Pennsylvania tablet begins with two dreams recounted by Gilgamesh to his mother, which the latter interprets as presaging the coming of Enkidu to Erech. In the one, something like a heavy meteor falls from heaven upon Gilgamesh and almost crushes him. With the help of the heroes of Erech, Gilgamesh carries the heavy burden to his mother Ninsun. The burden, his mother explains, symbolizes some one who, like Gilgamesh, is born in the mountains, to whom all will pay homage and of whom Gilgamesh will become enamoured with a love as strong as that for a woman. In a second dream, Gilgamesh sees some one who is like him, who brandishes an axe, and with whom he falls in love. This personage, the mother explains, is again Enkidu.

Langdon is of the opinion that these dreams are recounted to Enkidu by a woman with whom Enkidu cohabits for six days and seven nights and who weans Enkidu from association with animals. This, however, cannot be correct. The scene between Enkidu and the woman must have been recounted in detail in the first tablet, as in the Assyrian version,30 whereas here in the second tablet we have the continuation of the tale with Gilgamesh recounting his dreams directly to his mother. The story then continues with the description of the coming of Enkidu, conducted by the woman to the outskirts of Erech, where food is given him. The main feature of the incident is the conversion of Enkidu to civilized life. Enkidu, who hitherto had gone about naked, is clothed by the woman. Instead of sucking milk and drinking from a trough like an animal, food and strong drink are placed before him, and he is taught how to eat and drink in human fashion. In human fashion he also becomes drunk, and his “spree” is naïvely described: “His heart became glad and his face shone.”31 [20]Like an animal, Enkidu’s body had hitherto been covered with hair, which is now shaved off. He is anointed with oil, and clothed “like a man.” Enkidu becomes a shepherd, protecting the fold against wild beasts, and his exploit in dispatching lions is briefly told. At this point—the end of column 3 (on the obverse), i.e., line 117, and the beginning of column 4 (on the reverse), i.e., line 131—a gap of 13 lines—the tablet is obscure, but apparently the story of Enkidu’s gradual transformation from savagery to civilized life is continued, with stress upon his introduction to domestic ways with the wife chosen or decreed for him, and with work as part of his fate. All this has no connection with Gilgamesh, and it is evident that the tale of Enkidu was originally an independent tale to illustrate the evolution of man’s career and destiny, how through intercourse with a woman he awakens to the sense of human dignity, how he becomes accustomed to the ways of civilization, how he passes through the pastoral stage to higher walks of life, how the family is instituted, and how men come to be engaged in the labors associated with human activities. In order to connect this tale with the Gilgamesh story, the two heroes are brought together; the woman taking on herself, in addition to the rôle of civilizer, that of the medium through which Enkidu is brought to Gilgamesh. The woman leads Enkidu from the outskirts of Erech into the city itself, where the people on seeing him remark upon his likeness to Gilgamesh. He is the very counterpart of the latter, though somewhat smaller in stature. There follows the encounter between the two heroes in the streets of Erech, where they engage in a fierce combat. Gilgamesh is overcome by Enkidu and is enraged at being thrown to the ground. The tablet closes with the endeavor of Enkidu to pacify Gilgamesh. Enkidu declares that the mother of Gilgamesh has exalted her son above the ordinary mortal, and that Enlil himself has singled him out for royal prerogatives.

After this, we may assume, the two heroes become friends and together proceed to carry out certain exploits, the first of which is an attack upon the mighty guardian of the cedar forest. This is the main episode in the Yale tablet, which, therefore, forms the third tablet of the old Babylonian version.

In the first column of the obverse of the Yale tablet, which is badly preserved, it would appear that the elders of Erech (or perhaps the people) are endeavoring to dissuade Gilgamesh from making the [21]attempt to penetrate to the abode of Ḫuwawa. If this is correct, then the close of the first column may represent a conversation between these elders and the woman who accompanies Enkidu. It would be the elders who are represented as “reporting the speech to the woman,” which is presumably the determination of Gilgamesh to fight Ḫuwawa. The elders apparently desire Enkidu to accompany Gilgamesh in this perilous adventure, and with this in view appeal to the woman. In the second column after an obscure reference to the mother of Gilgamesh—perhaps appealing to the sun-god—we find Gilgamesh and Enkidu again face to face. From the reference to Enkidu’s eyes “filled with tears,” we may conclude that he is moved to pity at the thought of what will happen to Gilgamesh if he insists upon carrying out his purpose. Enkidu, also, tries to dissuade Gilgamesh. This appears to be the main purport of the dialogue between the two, which begins about the middle of the second column and extends to the end of the third column. Enkidu pleads that even his strength is insufficient,

Gilgamesh apparently asks for a description of the terrible tyrant who thus arouses the fear of Enkidu, and in reply Enkidu tells him how at one time, when he was roaming about with the cattle, he penetrated into the forest and heard the roar of Ḫuwawa which was like that of a deluge. The mouth of the tyrant emitted fire, and his breath was death. It is clear, as Professor Haupt has suggested,32 that Enkidu furnishes the description of a volcano in eruption, with its mighty roar, spitting forth fire and belching out a suffocating smoke. Gilgamesh is, however, undaunted and urges Enkidu to accompany him in the adventure.

“I will go down to the forest,” says Gilgamesh, if the conjectural restoration of the line in question (l. 126) is correct. Enkidu replies by again drawing a lurid picture of what will happen “When we go (together) to the forest…….” This speech of Enkidu is continued on the reverse. In reply Gilgamesh emphasizes his reliance upon the good will of Shamash and reproaches Enkidu with cowardice. He declares himself superior to Enkidu’s warning, and in bold terms [22]says that he prefers to perish in the attempt to overcome Ḫuwawa rather than abandon it.

There follows an interesting description of the forging of the weapons for the two heroes in preparation for the encounter.33 The elders of Erech when they see these preparations are stricken with fear. They learn of Ḫuwawa’s threat to annihilate Gilgamesh if he dares to enter the cedar forest, and once more try to dissuade Gilgamesh from the undertaking.

They try to frighten Gilgamesh by repeating the description of the terrible Ḫuwawa. Gilgamesh is still undaunted and prays to his patron deity Shamash, who apparently accords him a favorable “oracle” (têrtu). The two heroes arm themselves for the fray, and the elders of Erech, now reconciled to the perilous undertaking, counsel Gilgamesh to take provision along for the undertaking. They urge Gilgamesh to allow Enkidu to take the lead, for

The elders dismiss Gilgamesh with fervent wishes that Enkidu may track out the “closed path” for Gilgamesh, and commit him to the care of Lugalbanda—here perhaps an epithet of Shamash. They advise Gilgamesh to perform certain rites, to wash his feet in the stream of Ḫuwawa and to pour out a libation of water to Shamash. Enkidu follows in a speech likewise intended to encourage the hero; and with the actual beginning of the expedition against Ḫuwawa the tablet ends. The encounter itself, with the triumph of the two heroes, must have been described in the fourth tablet.[23]

 

Now before taking up the significance of the additions to our knowledge of the Epic gained through these two tablets, it will be well to discuss the forms in which the names of the two heroes and of the ruler of the cedar forest occur in our tablets.

As in the Meissner fragment, the chief hero is invariably designated as ^dGish in both the Pennsylvania and Yale tablets; and we may therefore conclude that this was the common form in the Hammurabi period, as against the writing ^dGish-gì(n)-mash34 in the Assyrian version. Similarly, as in the Meissner fragment, the second hero’s name is always written En-ki-dũ35 (abbreviated from dúg) as against En-ki-dú in the Assyrian version. Finally, we encounter in the Yale tablet for the first time the writing Ḫu-wa-wa as the name of the guardian of the cedar forest, as against Ḫum-ba-ba in the Assyrian version, though in the latter case, as we may now conclude from the Yale tablet, the name should rather be read Ḫu-ba-ba.36 The variation in the writing of the latter name is interesting as pointing to the aspirate pronunciation of the labial in both instances. The name would thus present a complete parallel to the Hebrew name Ḫowawa (or Ḫobab) who appears as the brother-in-law of Moses in the P document, Numbers 10, 29.37 Since the name also occurs, written precisely as in the Yale tablet, among the “Amoritic” names in the important lists published by Dr. Chiera,38 there can be no doubt that [24]Ḫuwawa or Ḫubaba is a West Semitic name. This important fact adds to the probability that the “cedar forest” in which Ḫuwawa dwells is none other than the Lebanon district, famed since early antiquity for its cedars. This explanation of the name Ḫuwawa disposes of suppositions hitherto brought forward for an Elamitic origin. Gressmann39 still favors such an origin, though realizing that the description of the cedar forest points to the Amanus or Lebanon range. In further confirmation of the West Semitic origin of the name, we have in Lucian, De Dea Syria, § 19, the name Kombabos40 (the guardian of Stratonika), which forms a perfect parallel to Ḫu(m)baba. Of the important bearings of this western character of the name Ḫuwawa on the interpretation and origin of the Gilgamesh Epic, suggesting that the episode of the encounter between the tyrant and the two heroes rests upon a tradition of an expedition against the West or Amurru land, we shall have more to say further on.

The variation in the writing of the name Enkidu is likewise interesting. It is evident that the form in the old Babylonian version with the sign dũ (i.e., dúg) is the original, for it furnishes us with a suitable etymology “Enki is good.” The writing with dúg, pronounced dū, also shows that the sign dú as the third element in the form which the name has in the Assyrian version is to be read dú, and that former readings like Ea-bani must be definitely abandoned.41 The form with dú is clearly a phonetic writing of the Sumerian name, the sign dú being chosen to indicate the pronunciation (not the ideograph) of the third element dúg. This is confirmed by the writing En-gi-dú in the syllabary CT XVIII, 30, 10. The phonetic writing is, therefore, a warning against any endeavor to read the name by an Akkadian transliteration of the signs. This would not of itself prove that Enkidu is of Sumerian origin, for it might well be that the writing En-ki-dú is an endeavor to give a Sumerian aspect to a name that may have been foreign. The element dúg corresponds to the Semitic ṭâbu, “good,” and En-ki being originally a designation of a deity as the “lord of the land,” which would be the Sumerian [25]manner of indicating a Semitic Baal, it is not at all impossible that En-ki-dúg may be the “Sumerianized” form of a Semitic בַּעל טזֹב “Baal is good.” It will be recalled that in the third column of the Yale tablet, Enkidu speaks of himself in his earlier period while still living with cattle, as wandering into the cedar forest of Ḫuwawa, while in another passage (ll. 252–253) he is described as “acquainted with the way … to the entrance of the forest.” This would clearly point to the West as the original home of Enkidu. We are thus led once more to Amurru—taken as a general designation of the West—as playing an important role in the Gilgamesh Epic.42 If Gilgamesh’s expedition against Ḫuwawa of the Lebanon district recalls a Babylonian campaign against Amurru, Enkidu’s coming from his home, where, as we read repeatedly in the Assyrian version,

may rest on a tradition of an Amorite invasion of Babylonia. The fight between Gilgamesh and Enkidu would fit in with this tradition, while the subsequent reconciliation would be the form in which the tradition would represent the enforced union between the invaders and the older settlers.

Leaving this aside for the present, let us proceed to a consideration of the relationship of the form ^dGish, for the chief personage in the Epic in the old Babylonian version, to ^dGish-gi(n)-mash in the Assyrian version. Of the meaning of Gish there is fortunately no doubt. It is clearly the equivalent to the Akkadian zikaru, “man” (Brünnow No. 5707), or possibly rabû, “great” (Brünnow No. 5704). Among various equivalents, the preference is to be given to itlu, “hero.” The determinative for deity stamps the person so designated as deified, or as in part divine, and this is in accord with the express statement in the Assyrian version of the Gilgamesh Epic which describes the hero as

[26]

Gish is, therefore, the hero-god par excellence; and this shows that we are not dealing with a genuine proper name, but rather with a descriptive attribute. Proper names are not formed in this way, either in Sumerian or Akkadian. Now what relation does this form Gish bear to

 

 

as the name of the hero is invariably written in the Assyrian version, the form which was at first read ^dIz-tu-bar or ^dGish-du-bar by scholars, until Pinches found in a neo-Babylonian syllabary45 the equation of it with Gi-il-ga-mesh? Pinches’ discovery pointed conclusively to the popular pronunciation of the hero’s name as Gilgamesh; and since Aelian (De natura Animalium XII, 2) mentions a Babylonian personage Gilgamos (though what he tells us of Gilgamos does not appear in our Epic, but seems to apply to Etana, another figure of Babylonian mythology), there seemed to be no further reason to question that the problem had been solved. Besides, in a later Syriac list of Babylonian kings found in the Scholia of Theodor bar Koni, the name גלמגום with a variant גמיגמוס occurs,46 and it is evident that we have here again the Gi-il-ga-mesh, discovered by Pinches. The existence of an old Babylonian hero Gilgamesh who was likewise a king is thus established, as well as his identification with

 

 

It is evident that we cannot read this name as Iz-tu-bar or Gish-du-bar, but that we must read the first sign as Gish and the third as Mash, while for the second we must assume a reading Gìn or Gi. This would give us Gish-gì(n)-mash which is clearly again (like En-ki-dú) not an etymological writing but a phonetic one, intended to convey an approach to the popular pronunciation. Gi-il-ga-mesh might well be merely a variant for Gish-ga-mesh, or vice versa, and this would come close to Gish-gi-mash. Now, when we have a name the pronunciation of which is not definite but approximate, and which is written in various ways, the probabilities are that the name is foreign. A foreign name might naturally be spelled in various ways. The [27]Epic in the Assyrian version clearly depicts ^dGish-gì(n)-mash as a conqueror of Erech, who forces the people into subjection, and whose autocratic rule leads the people of Erech to implore the goddess Aruru to create a rival to him who may withstand him. In response to this appeal ^dEnkidu is formed out of dust by Aruru and eventually brought to Erech.47 Gish-gì(n)-mash or Gilgamesh is therefore in all probability a foreigner; and the simplest solution suggested by the existence of the two forms (1) Gish in the old Babylonian version and (2) Gish-gì(n)-mash in the Assyrian version, is to regard the former as an abbreviation, which seemed appropriate, because the short name conveyed the idea of the “hero” par excellence. If Gish-gì(n)-mash is a foreign name, one would think in the first instance of Sumerian; but here we encounter a difficulty in the circumstance that outside of the Epic this conqueror and ruler of Erech appears in quite a different form, namely, as ^dGish-bil-ga-mesh, with ^dGish-gibil(or bìl)-ga-mesh and ^dGish-bil-ge-mesh as variants.48 In the remarkable list of partly mythological and partly historical dynasties, published by Poebel,49 the fifth member of the first dynasty of Erech appears as ^dGish-bil-ga-mesh; and similarly in an inscription of the days of Sin-gamil, ^dGish-bil-ga-mesh is mentioned as the builder of the wall of Erech.50 Moreover, in the several fragments of the Sumerian version of the Epic we have invariably the form ^dGish-bil-ga-mesh. It is evident, therefore, that this is the genuine form of the name in Sumerian and presumably, therefore, the oldest form. By way of further confirmation we have in the syllabary above referred to, CT, XVIII, 30, 6–8, three designations of our hero, viz:

• ^dGish-gibil(or bíl)-ga-mesh
• muḳ-tab-lu (“warrior”)
• a-lik pa-na (“leader”)

 

All three designations are set down as the equivalent of the Sumerian Esigga imin i.e., “the seven-fold hero.”[28]

Of the same general character is the equation in another syllabary:51

Furthermore, the name occurs frequently in “Temple” documents of the Ur dynasty in the form ^dGish-bil-ga-mesh52 with ^dGish-bil-gi(n)-mesh as a variant.53 In a list of deities (CT XXV, 28, K 7659) we likewise encounter ^dGish-gibil(or bíl)-ga-mesh, and lastly in a syllabary we have the equation54

The variant Gish-gibil for Gish-bil may be disposed of readily, in view of the frequent confusion or interchange of the two signs Bil (Brünnow No. 4566) and Gibil or Bíl (Brünnow No. 4642) which has also the value Gi (Brünnow 4641), so that we might also read Gish-gi-ga-mesh. Both signs convey the idea of “fire,” “renew,” etc.; both revert to the picture of flames of fire, in the one case with a bowl (or some such obiect) above it, in the other the flames issuing apparently from a torch.55 The meaning of the name is not affected whether we read ^dGish-bil-ga-mesh or ^dGish-gibil(or bíl)-ga-mesh, for the middle element in the latter case being identical with the fire-god, written ^dBil-gi and to be pronounced in the inverted form as Gibil with -ga (or ge) as the phonetic complement; it is equivalent, therefore, to the writing bil-ga in the former case. Now Gish-gibil or Gish-bíl conveys the idea of abu, “father” (Brünnow No. 5713), just as Bil (Brünnow No. 4579) has this meaning, while Pa-gibil-(ga) or Pa-bíl-ga is abu abi, “grandfather.”56 This meaning may be derived from Gibil, as also from Bíl = išatu, “fire,” then eššu, “new,” then abu, “father,” as the renewer or creator. Gish with Bíl or Gibil would, therefore, be “the father-man” or “the father-hero,” [29]i.e., again the hero par excellence, the original hero, just as in Hebrew and Arabic ab is used in this way.57 The syllable ga being a phonetic complement, the element mesh is to be taken by itself and to be explained, as Poebel suggested, as “hero” (itlu. Brünnow No. 5967).

We would thus obtain an entirely artificial combination, “man (or hero), father, hero,” which would simply convey in an emphatic manner the idea of the Ur-held, the original hero, the father of heroes as it were—practically the same idea, therefore, as the one conveyed by Gish alone, as the hero par excellence. Our investigation thus leads us to a substantial identity between Gish and the longer form Gish-bil(or bíl)-ga-mesh, and the former might, therefore, well be used as an abbreviation of the latter. Both the shorter and the longer forms are descriptive epithets based on naive folk etymology, rather than personal names, just as in the designation of our hero as muḳtablu, the “fighter,” or as âlik pâna, “the leader,” or as Esigga imin, “the seven-fold hero,” or Esigga tuk, “the one who is a hero,” are descriptive epithets, and as Atra-ḫasis, “the very wise one,” is such an epithet for the hero of the deluge story. The case is different with Gi-il-ga-mesh, or Gish-gì(n)-mash, which represent the popular and actual pronunciation of the name, or at least the approach to such pronunciation. Such forms, stripped as they are of all artificiality, impress one as genuine names. The conclusion to which we are thus led is that Gish-bil(or bíl)-ga-mesh is a play upon the genuine name, to convey to those to whom the real name, as that of a foreigner, would suggest no meaning an interpretation fitting in with his character. In other words, Gish-bil-ga-mesh is a “Sumerianized” form of the name, introduced into the Sumerian version of the tale which became a folk-possession in the Euphrates Valley. Such plays upon names to suggest the character of an individual or some incident are familiar to us from the narratives in Genesis.58 They do not constitute genuine etymologies and are rarely of use in leading to a correct etymology. Reuben, e.g., certainly does not mean “Yahweh has seen my affliction,” which the mother is supposed to have exclaimed at [30]the birth (Genesis 29, 32), with a play upon ben and be’onyi, any more than Judah means “I praise Yahweh” (v. 35), though it does contain the divine name (Y^ehô) as an element. The play on the name may be close or remote, as long as it fulfills its function of suggesting an etymology that is complimentary or appropriate.

In this way, an artificial division and at the same time a distortion of a foreign name like Gilgamesh into several elements, Gish-bil-ga-mesh, is no more violent than, for example, the explanation of Issachar or rather Issaschar as “God has given my hire” (Genesis 30, 18) with a play upon the element s^echar, and as though the name were to be divided into Yah (“God”) and s^echar (“hire”); or the popular name of Alexander among the Arabs as Zu’l Karnaini, “the possessor of the two horns.” with a suggestion of his conquest of two hemispheres, or what not.59 The element Gil in Gilgamesh would be regarded as a contraction of Gish-bil or gi-bil, in order to furnish the meaning “father-hero,” or Gil might be looked upon as a variant for Gish, which would give us the “phonetic” form in the Assyrian version ^dGish-gi-mash,60 as well as such a variant writing ^dGish-gi-mas-(si). Now a name like Gilgamesh, upon which we may definitely settle as coming closest to the genuine form, certainly impresses one as foreign, i.e., it is neither Sumerian nor Akkadian; and we have already suggested that the circumstance that the hero of the Epic is portrayed as a conqueror of Erech, and a rather ruthless one at that, points to a tradition of an invasion of the Euphrates Valley as the background for the episode in the first tablet of the series. Now it is significant that many of the names in the “mythical” dynasties, as they appear in Poebel’s list,61 are likewise foreign, such as Mes-ki-in-ga-še-ir, son of the god Shamash (and the founder of the “mythical” dynasty of Erech of which ^dGish-bil-ga-mesh is the fifth member),62 and En-me-ir-kár his son. In a still earlier “mythical” dynasty, we encounter names like Ga-lu-mu-um, Zu-ga-gi-ib, Ar-pi, [31]E-ta-na,63 which are distinctly foreign, while such names as En-me(n)-nun-na and Bar-sal-nun-na strike one again as “Sumerianized” names rather than as genuine Sumerian formations.64

Some of these names, as Galumum, Arpi and Etana, are so Amoritic in appearance, that one may hazard the conjecture of their western origin. May Gilgamesh likewise belong to the Amurru65 region, or does he represent a foreigner from the East in contrast to Enkidu, whose name, we have seen, may have been Baal-Ṭôb in the West, with which region he is according to the Epic so familiar? It must be confessed that the second element ga-mesh would fit in well with a Semitic origin for the name, for the element impresses one as the participial form of a Semitic stem g-m-š, just as in the second element of Meskin-gašer we have such a form. Gil might then be the name of a West-Semitic deity. Such conjectures, however, can for the present not be substantiated, and we must content ourselves with the conclusion that Gilgamesh as the real name of the hero, or at least the form which comes closest to the real name, points to a foreign origin for the hero, and that such forms as ^dGish-bil-ga-mesh and ^dGish-bíl-gi-mesh and other variants are “Sumerianized” forms for which an artificial etymology was brought forward to convey the [32]idea of the “original hero” or the hero par excellence. By means of this “play” on the name, which reverts to the compilers of the Sumerian version of the Epic, Gilgamesh was converted into a Sumerian figure, just as the name Enkidu may have been introduced as a Sumerian translation of his Amoritic name. ^dGish at all events is an abbreviated form of the “Sumerianized” name, introduced by the compilers of the earliest Akkadian version, which was produced naturally under the influence of the Sumerian version. Later, as the Epic continued to grow, a phonetic writing was introduced, ^dGish-gi-mash, which is in a measure a compromise between the genuine name and the “Sumerianized” form, but at the same time an approach to the real pronunciation.

 

Next to the new light thrown upon the names and original character of the two main figures of the Epic, one of the chief points of interest in the Pennsylvania fragment is the proof that it furnishes for a striking resemblance of the two heroes, Gish and Enkidu, to one another. In interpreting the dream of Gish, his mother. Ninsun, lays stress upon the fact that the dream portends the coming of someone who is like Gish, “born in the field and reared in the mountain” (lines 18–19). Both, therefore, are shown by this description to have come to Babylonia from a mountainous region, i.e., they are foreigners; and in the case of Enkidu we have seen that the mountain in all probability refers to a region in the West, while the same may also be the case with Gish. The resemblance of the two heroes to one another extends to their personal appearance. When Enkidu appears on the streets of Erech, the people are struck by this resemblance. They remark that he is “like Gish,” though “shorter in stature” (lines 179–180). Enkidu is described as a rival or counterpart.66

This relationship between the two is suggested also by the Assyrian version. In the creation of Enkidu by Aruru, the people urge the goddess to create the “counterpart” (zikru) of Gilgamesh, someone who will be like him (ma-ši-il) (Tablet I, 2, 31). Enkidu not only comes from the mountain,67 but the mountain is specifically designated [33]as his birth-place (I, 4, 2), precisely as in the Pennsylvania tablet, while in another passage he is also described, as in our tablet, as “born in the field.”68 Still more significant is the designation of Gilgamesh as the talimu, “younger brother,” of Enkidu.69 In accord with this, we find Gilgamesh in his lament over Enkidu describing him as a “younger brother” (ku-ta-ni);70 and again in the last tablet of the Epic, Gilgamesh is referred to as the “brother” of Enkidu.71 This close relationship reverts to the Sumerian version, for the Constantinople fragment (Langdon, above, p. 13) begins with the designation of Gish-bil-ga-mesh as “his brother.” By “his” no doubt Enkidu is meant. Likewise in the Sumerian text published by Zimmern (above, p. 13) Gilgamesh appears as the brother of Enkidu (rev. 1, 17).

Turning to the numerous representations of Gilgamesh and Enkidu on Seal Cylinders,72 we find this resemblance of the two heroes to each other strikingly confirmed. Both are represented as bearded, with the strands arranged in the same fashion. The face in both cases is broad, with curls protruding at the side of the head, though at times these curls are lacking in the case of Enkidu. What is particularly striking is to find Gilgamesh generally a little taller than Enkidu, thus bearing out the statement in the Pennsylvania tablet that Enkidu is “shorter in stature.” There are, to be sure, also some distinguishing marks between the two. Thus Enkidu is generally represented with animal hoofs, but not always.73 Enkidu is commonly portrayed with the horns of a bison, but again this sign is wanting in quite a number of instances.74 The hoofs and the horns mark the period when Enkidu lived with animals and much like an [34]animal. Most remarkable, however, of all are cylinders on which we find the two heroes almost exactly alike as, for example, Ward No. 199 where two figures, the one a duplicate of the other (except that one is just a shade taller), are in conflict with each other. Dr. Ward was puzzled by this representation and sets it down as a “fantastic” scene in which “each Gilgamesh is stabbing the other.” In the light of the Pennsylvania tablet, this scene is clearly the conflict between the two heroes described in column 6, preliminary to their forming a friendship. Even in the realm of myth the human experience holds good that there is nothing like a good fight as a basis for a subsequent alliance. The fragment describes this conflict as a furious one in which Gilgamesh is worsted, and his wounded pride assuaged by the generous victor, who comforts his vanquished enemy by the assurance that he was destined for something higher than to be a mere “Hercules.” He was singled out for the exercise of royal authority. True to the description of the two heroes in the Pennsylvania tablet as alike, one the counterpart of the other, the seal cylinder portrays them almost exactly alike, as alike as two brothers could possibly be; with just enough distinction to make it clear on close inspection that two figures are intended and not one repeated for the sake of symmetry. There are slight variations in the manner in which the hair is worn, and slightly varying expressions of the face, just enough to make it evident that the one is intended for Gilgamesh and the other for Enkidu. When, therefore, in another specimen, No. 173, we find a Gilgamesh holding his counterpart by the legs, it is merely another aspect of the fight between the two heroes, one of whom is intended to represent Enkidu, and not, as Dr. Ward supposed, a grotesque repetition of Gilgamesh.75

The description of Enkidu in the Pennsylvania tablet as a parallel figure to Gilgamesh leads us to a consideration of the relationship of the two figures to one another. Many years ago it was pointed out that the Gilgamesh Epic was a composite tale in which various stories of an independent origin had been combined and brought into more or less artificial connection with the heros eponymos of southern Babylonia.76 We may now go a step further and point out that not [35]only is Enkidu originally an entirely independent figure, having no connection with Gish or Gilgamesh, but that the latter is really depicted in the Epic as the counterpart of Enkidu, a reflection who has been given the traits of extraordinary physical power that belong to Enkidu. This is shown in the first place by the fact that in the encounter it is Enkidu who triumphs over Gilgamesh. The entire analysis of the episode of the meeting between the two heroes as given by Gressmann77 must be revised. It is not Enkidu who is terrified and who is warned against the encounter. It is Gilgamesh who, during the night on his way from the house in which the goddess Ishḫara lies, encounters Enkidu on the highway. Enkidu “blocks the path”78 of Gilgamesh. He prevents Gilgamesh from re-entering the house,79 and the two attack each other “like oxen.”80 They grapple with each other, and Enkidu forces Gilgamesh to the ground. Enkidu is, therefore, the real hero whose traits of physical prowess are afterwards transferred to Gilgamesh.

Similarly in the next episode, the struggle against Ḫuwawa, the Yale tablet makes it clear that in the original form of the tale Enkidu is the real hero. All warn Gish against the undertaking—the elders of Erech, Enkidu, and also the workmen. “Why dost thou desire to do this?”81 they say to him. “Thou art young, and thy heart carries thee away. Thou knowest not what thou proposest to do.”82 This part of the incident is now better known to us through the latest fragment of the Assyrian version discovered and published by King.83 The elders say to Gilgamesh:

Gilgamesh is sufficiently impressed by this warning to invite Enkidu to accompany him on a visit to his mother, Ninsun, for the purpose of receiving her counsel.86

It is only after Enkidu, who himself hesitates and tries to dissuade Gish, decides to accompany the latter that the elders of Erech are reconciled and encourage Gish for the fray. The two in concert proceed against Ḫuwawa. Gilgamesh alone cannot carry out the plan. Now when a tale thus associates two figures in one deed, one of the two has been added to the original tale. In the present case there can be little doubt that Enkidu, without whom Gish cannot proceed, who is specifically described as “acquainted with the way … to the entrance of the forest”87 in which Ḫuwawa dwells is the original vanquisher. Naturally, the Epic aims to conceal this fact as much as possible ad majorem gloriam of Gilgamesh. It tries to put the one who became the favorite hero into the foreground. Therefore, in both the Babylonian and the Assyrian version Enkidu is represented as hesitating, and Gilgamesh as determined to go ahead. Gilgamesh, in fact, accuses Enkidu of cowardice and boldly declares that he will proceed even though failure stare him in the face.88 Traces of the older view, however, in which Gilgamesh is the one for whom one fears the outcome, crop out; as, for example, in the complaint of Gilgamesh’s mother to Shamash that the latter has stirred the heart of her son to take the distant way to Ḫu(m)baba,

Ninsun evidently fears the consequences when her son informs her of his intention and asks her counsel. The answer of Shamash is not preserved, but no doubt it was of a reassuring character, as was the answer of the Sun-god to Gish’s appeal and prayer as set forth in the Yale tablet.90[37]

Again, as a further indication that Enkidu is the real conqueror of Ḫuwawa, we find the coming contest revealed to Enkidu no less than three times in dreams, which Gilgamesh interprets.91 Since the person who dreams is always the one to whom the dream applies, we may see in these dreams a further trace of the primary rôle originally assigned to Enkidu.

Another exploit which, according to the Assyrian version, the two heroes perform in concert is the killing of a bull, sent by Anu at the instance of Ishtar to avenge an insult offered to the goddess by Gilgamesh, who rejects her offer of marriage. In the fragmentary description of the contest with the bull, we find Enkidu “seizing” the monster by “its tail.”92

That Enkidu originally played the part of the slayer is also shown by the statement that it is he who insults Ishtar by throwing a piece of the carcass into the goddess’ face,93 adding also an insulting speech; and this despite the fact that Ishtar in her rage accuses Gilgamesh of killing the bull.94 It is thus evident that the Epic alters the original character of the episodes in order to find a place for Gilgamesh, with the further desire to assign to the latter the chief rôle. Be it noted also that Enkidu, not Gilgamesh, is punished for the insult to Ishtar. Enkidu must therefore in the original form of the episode have been the guilty party, who is stricken with mortal disease as a punishment to which after twelve days he succumbs.95 In view of this, we may supply the name of Enkidu in the little song introduced at the close of the encounter with the bull, and not Gilgamesh as has hitherto been done.

[38]

Finally, the killing of lions is directly ascribed to Enkidu in the Pennsylvania tablet:

whereas Gilgamesh appears to be afraid of lions. On his long search for Utnapishtim he says:

He prays to Sin and Ishtar to protect and save him. When, therefore, in another passage some one celebrates Gilgamesh as the one who overcame the “guardian,” who dispatched Ḫu(m)baba in the cedar forest, who killed lions and overthrew the bull,99 we have the completion of the process which transferred to Gilgamesh exploits and powers which originally belonged to Enkidu, though ordinarily the process stops short at making Gilgamesh a sharer in the exploits; with the natural tendency, to be sure, to enlarge the share of the favorite.

We can now understand why the two heroes are described in the Pennsylvania tablet as alike, as born in the same place, aye, as brothers. Gilgamesh in the Epic is merely a reflex of Enkidu. The latter is the real hero and presumably, therefore, the older figure.100 Gilgamesh resembles Enkidu, because he is originally Enkidu. The “resemblance” motif is merely the manner in which in the course of the partly popular, partly literary transfer, the recollection is preserved that Enkidu is the original, and Gilgamesh the copy.

The artificiality of the process which brings the two heroes together is apparent in the dreams of Gilgamesh which are interpreted by his mother as portending the coming of Enkidu. Not the conflict is foreseen, but the subsequent close association, naïvely described as due to the personal charm which Enkidu exercises, which will lead Gilgamesh to fall in love with the one whom he is to meet. The two will become one, like man and wife.[39]

On the basis of our investigations, we are now in a position to reconstruct in part the cycle of episodes that once formed part of an Enkidu Epic. The fight between Enkidu and Gilgamesh, in which the former is the victor, is typical of the kind of tales told of Enkidu. He is the real prototype of the Greek Hercules. He slays lions, he overcomes a powerful opponent dwelling in the forests of Lebanon, he kills the bull, and he finally succumbs to disease sent as a punishment by an angry goddess. The death of Enkidu naturally formed the close of the Enkidu Epic, which in its original form may, of course, have included other exploits besides those taken over into the Gilgamesh Epic.

 

There is another aspect of the figure of Enkidu which is brought forward in the Pennsylvania tablet more clearly than had hitherto been the case. Many years ago attention was called to certain striking resemblances between Enkidu and the figure of the first man as described in the early chapters of Genesis.101 At that time we had merely the Assyrian version of the Gilgamesh Epic at our disposal, and the main point of contact was the description of Enkidu living with the animals, drinking and feeding like an animal, until a woman is brought to him with whom he engages in sexual intercourse. This suggested that Enkidu was a picture of primeval man, while the woman reminded one of Eve, who when she is brought to Adam becomes his helpmate and inseparable companion. The Biblical tale stands, of course, on a much higher level, and is introduced, as are other traditions and tales of primitive times, in the style of a parable to convey certain religious teachings. For all that, suggestions of earlier conceptions crop out in the picture of Adam surrounded by animals to which he assigns names. Such a phrase as “there was no helpmate corresponding to him” becomes intelligible on the supposition of an existing tradition or belief, that man once lived and, indeed, cohabited with animals. The tales in the early chapters of Genesis must rest on very early popular traditions, which have been cleared of mythological and other objectionable features in order to adapt them to the purpose of the Hebrew compilers, to serve as a medium for illustrating [40]certain religious teachings regarding man’s place in nature and his higher destiny. From the resemblance between Enkidu and Adam it does not, of course, follow that the latter is modelled upon the former, but only that both rest on similar traditions of the condition under which men lived in primeval days prior to the beginnings of human culture.

We may now pass beyond these general indications and recognize in the story of Enkidu as revealed by the Pennsylvania tablet an attempt to trace the evolution of primitive man from low beginnings to the regular and orderly family life associated with advanced culture. The new tablet furnishes a further illustration for the surprisingly early tendency among the Babylonian literati to connect with popular tales teachings of a religious or ethical character. Just as the episode between Gilgamesh and the maiden Sabitum is made the occasion for introducing reflections on the inevitable fate of man to encounter death, so the meeting of Enkidu with the woman becomes the medium of impressing the lesson of human progress through the substitution of bread and wine for milk and water, through the institution of the family, and through work and the laying up of resources. This is the significance of the address to Enkidu in column 4 of the Pennsylvania tablet, even though certain expressions in it are somewhat obscure. The connection of the entire episode of Enkidu and the woman with Gilgamesh is very artificial; and it becomes much more intelligible if we disassociate it from its present entanglement in the Epic. In Gilgamesh’s dream, portending the meeting with Enkidu, nothing is said of the woman who is the companion of the latter. The passage in which Enkidu is created by Aruru to oppose Gilgamesh102 betrays evidence of having been worked over in order to bring Enkidu into association with the longing of the people of Erech to get rid of a tyrannical character. The people in their distress appeal to Aruru to create a rival to Gilgamesh. In response,

Now this “man of Anu” cannot possibly be Enkidu, for the sufficient reason that a few lines further on Enkidu is described as an [41]offspring of Ninib. Moreover, the being created is not a “counterpart” of Gilgamesh, but an animal-man, as the description that follows shows. We must separate lines 30–33 in which the creation of the “Anu man” is described from lines 34–41 in which the creation of Enkidu is narrated. Indeed, these lines strike one as the proper beginning of the original Enkidu story, which would naturally start out with his birth and end with his death. The description is clearly an account of the creation of the first man, in which capacity Enkidu is brought forward.

The description of Enkidu follows, with his body covered with hair like an animal, and eating and drinking with the animals. There follows an episode105 which has no connection whatsoever with the Gilgamesh Epic, but which is clearly intended to illustrate how Enkidu came to abandon the life with the animals. A hunter sees Enkidu and is amazed at the strange sight—an animal and yet a man. Enkidu, as though resenting his condition, becomes enraged at the sight of the hunter, and the latter goes to his father and tells him of the strange creature whom he is unable to catch. In reply, the father advises his son to take a woman with him when next he goes out on his pursuit, and to have the woman remove her dress in the presence of Enkidu, who will then approach her, and after intercourse with her will abandon the animals among whom he lives. By this device he will catch the strange creature. Lines 14–18 of column 3 in the first tablet in which the father of the hunter refers to Gilgamesh must be regarded as a later insertion, a part of the reconstruction of the tale to connect the episode with Gilgamesh. The advice of the father to his son, the hunter, begins, line 19,

[42]

In the reconstructed tale, the father tells his son to go to Gilgamesh to relate to him the strange appearance of the animal-man; but there is clearly no purpose in this, as is shown by the fact that when the hunter does so, Gilgamesh makes precisely the same speech as does the father of the hunter. Lines 40–44 of column 3, in which Gilgamesh is represented as speaking to the hunter form a complete doublet to lines 19–24, beginning

and similarly the description of Enkidu appears twice, lines 2–12 in an address of the hunter to his father, and lines 29–39 in the address of the hunter to Gilgamesh.

The artificiality of the process of introducing Gilgamesh into the episode is revealed by this awkward and entirely meaningless repetition. We may therefore reconstruct the first two scenes in the Enkidu Epic as follows:106

Tablet I, col. 2, 34–35: Creation of Enkidu by Aruru.

36–41: Description of Enkidu’s hairy body and of his life with the animals.

42–50: The hunter sees Enkidu, who shows his anger, as also his woe, at his condition.

3, 1–12: The hunter tells his father of the strange being who pulls up the traps which the hunter digs, and who tears the nets so that the hunter is unable to catch him or the animals.

19–24: The father of the hunter advises his son on his next expedition to take a woman with him in order to lure the strange being from his life with the animals.

Line 25, beginning “On the advice of his father,” must have set forth, in the original form of the episode, how the hunter procured the woman and took her with him to meet Enkidu.

Column 4 gives in detail the meeting between the two, and naïvely describes how the woman exposes her charms to Enkidu, who is captivated by her and stays with her six days and seven nights. The animals see the change in Enkidu and run away from him. [43]He has been transformed through the woman. So far the episode. In the Assyrian version there follows an address of the woman to Enkidu beginning (col. 4, 34):

We find her urging him to go with her to Erech, there to meet Gilgamesh and to enjoy the pleasures of city life with plenty of beautiful maidens. Gilgamesh, she adds, will expect Enkidu, for the coming of the latter to Erech has been foretold in a dream. It is evident that here we have again the later transformation of the Enkidu Epic in order to bring the two heroes together. Will it be considered too bold if we assume that in the original form the address of the woman and the construction of the episode were such as we find preserved in part in columns 2 to 4 of the Pennsylvania tablet, which forms part of the new material that can now be added to the Epic? The address of the woman begins in line 51 of the Pennsylvania tablet:

This corresponds to the line in the Assyrian version (I, 4, 34) as given above, just as lines 52–53:

correspond to I, 4, 35, of the Assyrian version. There follows in both the old Babylonian and the Assyrian version the appeal of the woman to Enkidu, to allow her to lead him to Erech where Gilgamesh dwells (Pennsylvania tablet lines 54–61 = Assyrian version I, 4, 36–39); but in the Pennsylvania tablet we now have a second speech (lines 62–63) beginning like the first one with al-ka, “come:”

Enkidu consents, and now the woman takes off her garments and clothes the naked Enkidu, while putting another garment on herself. She takes hold of his hand and leads him to the sheepfolds (not to Erech!!), where bread and wine are placed before him. Accustomed hitherto to sucking milk with cattle, Enkidu does not know what to do with the strange food until encouraged and instructed by the woman. The entire third column is taken up with this introduction [44]of Enkidu to civilized life in a pastoral community, and the scene ends with Enkidu becoming a guardian of flocks. Now all this has nothing to do with Gilgamesh, and clearly sets forth an entirely different idea from the one embodied in the meeting of the two heroes. In the original Enkidu tale, the animal-man is looked upon as the type of a primitive savage, and the point of the tale is to illustrate in the naïve manner characteristic of folklore the evolution to the higher form of pastoral life. This aspect of the incident is, therefore, to be separated from the other phase which has as its chief motif the bringing of the two heroes together.

We now obtain, thanks to the new section revealed by the Pennsylvania tablet, a further analogy107 with the story of Adam and Eve, but with this striking difference, that whereas in the Babylonian tale the woman is the medium leading man to the higher life, in the Biblical story the woman is the tempter who brings misfortune to man. This contrast is, however, not inherent in the Biblical story, but due to the point of view of the Biblical writer, who is somewhat pessimistically inclined and looks upon primitive life, when man went naked and lived in a garden, eating of fruits that grew of themselves, as the blessed life in contrast to advanced culture which leads to agriculture and necessitates hard work as the means of securing one’s substance. Hence the woman through whom Adam eats of the tree of knowledge and becomes conscious of being naked is looked upon as an evil tempter, entailing the loss of the primeval life of bliss in a gorgeous Paradise. The Babylonian point of view is optimistic. The change to civilized life—involving the wearing of clothes and the eating of food that is cultivated (bread and wine) is looked upon as an advance. Hence the woman is viewed as the medium of raising man to a higher level. The feature common to the Biblical and Babylonian tales is the attachment of a lesson to early folk-tales. The story of Adam and Eve,108 as the story of Enkidu and the woman, is told with a purpose. Starting with early traditions of men’s primitive life on earth, that may have arisen independently, Hebrew and [45]Babylonian writers diverged, each group going its own way, each reflecting the particular point of view from which the evolution of human society was viewed.

Leaving the analogy between the Biblical and Babylonian tales aside, the main point of value for us in the Babylonian story of Enkidu and the woman is the proof furnished by the analysis, made possible through the Pennsylvania tablet, that the tale can be separated from its subsequent connection with Gilgamesh. We can continue this process of separation in the fourth column, where the woman instructs Enkidu in the further duty of living his life with the woman decreed for him, to raise a family, to engage in work, to build cities and to gather resources. All this is looked upon in the same optimistic spirit as marking progress, whereas the Biblical writer, consistent with his point of view, looks upon work as a curse, and makes Cain, the murderer, also the founder of cities. The step to the higher forms of life is not an advance according to the J document. It is interesting to note that even the phrase the “cursed ground” occurs in both the Babylonian and Biblical tales; but whereas in the latter (Gen. 3, 17) it is because of the hard work entailed in raising the products of the earth that the ground is cursed, in the former (lines 62–63) it is the place in which Enkidu lives before he advances to the dignity of human life that is “cursed,” and which he is asked to leave. Adam is expelled from Paradise as a punishment, whereas Enkidu is implored to leave it as a necessary step towards progress to a higher form of existence. The contrast between the Babylonian and the Biblical writer extends to the view taken of viniculture. The Biblical writer (again the J document) looks upon Noah’s drunkenness as a disgrace. Noah loses his sense of shame and uncovers himself (Genesis 9, 21), whereas in the Babylonian description Enkidu’s jolly spirit after he has drunk seven jars of wine meets with approval. The Biblical point of view is that he who drinks wine becomes drunk;109 the Babylonian says, if you drink wine you become happy.110

If the thesis here set forth of the original character and import of the episode of Enkidu with the woman is correct, we may again regard lines 149–153 of the Pennsylvania tablet, in which Gilgamesh is introduced, as a later addition to bring the two heroes into association. [46]The episode in its original form ended with the introduction of Enkidu first to pastoral life, and then to the still higher city life with regulated forms of social existence.

Now, to be sure, this Enkidu has little in common with the Enkidu who is described as a powerful warrior, a Hercules, who kills lions, overcomes the giant Ḫuwawa, and dispatches a great bull, but it is the nature of folklore everywhere to attach to traditions about a favorite hero all kinds of tales with which originally he had nothing to do. Enkidu, as such a favorite, is viewed also as the type of primitive man,111 and so there arose gradually an Epic which began with his birth, pictured him as half-animal half-man, told how he emerged from this state, how he became civilized, was clothed, learned to eat food and drink wine, how he shaved off the hair with which his body was covered,112 anointed himself—in short,

Thereupon he is taught his duties as a husband, is introduced to the work of building, and to laying aside supplies, and the like. The fully-developed and full-fledged hero then engages in various exploits, of which some are now embodied in the Gilgamesh Epic. Who this Enkidu was, we are not in a position to determine, but the suggestion has been thrown out above that he is a personage foreign to Babylonia, that his home appears to be in the undefined Amurru district, and that he conquers that district. The original tale of Enkidu, if this view be correct, must therefore have been carried to the Euphrates Valley, at a very remote period, with one of the migratory waves that brought a western people as invaders into Babylonia. Here the tale was combined with stories current of another hero, Gilgamesh—perhaps also of Western origin—whose conquest of Erech likewise represents an invasion of Babylonia. The center of the Gilgamesh tale was Erech, and in the process of combining the stories of Enkidu and Gilgamesh, Enkidu is brought to Erech and the two perform exploits [47]in common. In such a combination, the aim would be to utilize all the incidents of both tales. The woman who accompanies Enkidu, therefore, becomes the medium of bringing the two heroes together. The story of the evolution of primitive man to civilized life is transformed into the tale of Enkidu’s removal to Erech, and elaborated with all kinds of details, among which we have, as perhaps embodying a genuine historical tradition, the encounter of the two heroes.

Before passing on, we have merely to note the very large part taken in both the old Babylonian and the Assyrian version by the struggle against Ḫuwawa. The entire Yale tablet—forming, as we have seen, the third of the series—is taken up with the preparation for the struggle, and with the repeated warnings given to Gilgamesh against the dangerous undertaking. The fourth tablet must have recounted the struggle itself, and it is not improbable that this episode extended into the fifth tablet, since in the Assyrian version this is the case. The elaboration of the story is in itself an argument in favor of assuming some historical background for it—the recollection of the conquest of Amurru by some powerful warrior; and we have seen that this conquest must be ascribed to Enkidu and not to Gilgamesh.

 

If, now, Enkidu is not only the older figure but the one who is the real hero of the most notable episode in the Gilgamesh Epic; if, furthermore, Enkidu is the Hercules who kills lions and dispatches the bull sent by an enraged goddess, what becomes of Gilgamesh? What is left for him?

In the first place, he is definitely the conqueror of Erech. He builds the wall of Erech,114 and we may assume that the designation of the city as Uruk supûri, “the walled Erech,”115 rests upon this tradition. He is also associated with the great temple Eanna, “the heavenly house,” in Erech. To Gilgamesh belongs also the unenviable tradition of having exercised his rule in Erech so harshly that the people are impelled to implore Aruru to create a rival who may rid [48]the district of the cruel tyrant, who is described as snatching sons and daughters from their families, and in other ways terrifying the population—an early example of “Schrecklichkeit.” Tablets II to V inclusive of the Assyrian version being taken up with the Ḫuwawa episode, modified with a view of bringing the two heroes together, we come at once to the sixth tablet, which tells the story of how the goddess Ishtar wooed Gilgamesh, and of the latter’s rejection of her advances. This tale is distinctly a nature myth. The attempt of Gressmann116 to find some historical background to the episode is a failure. The goddess Ishtar symbolizes the earth which woos the sun in the spring, but whose love is fatal, for after a few months the sun’s power begins to wane. Gilgamesh, who in incantation hymns is invoked in terms which show that he was conceived as a sun-god,117 recalls to the goddess how she changed her lovers into animals, like Circe of Greek mythology, and brought them to grief. Enraged at Gilgamesh’s insult to her vanity, she flies to her father Anu and cries for revenge. At this point the episode of the creation of the bull is introduced, but if the analysis above given is correct it is Enkidu who is the hero in dispatching the bull, and we must assume that the sickness with which Gilgamesh is smitten is the punishment sent by Anu to avenge the insult to his daughter. This sickness symbolizes the waning strength of the sun after midsummer is past. The sun recedes from the earth, and this was pictured in the myth as the sun-god’s rejection of Ishtar; Gilgamesh’s fear of death marks the approach of the winter season, when the sun appears to have lost its vigor completely and is near to death. The entire episode is, therefore, a nature myth, symbolical of the passing of spring to midsummer and then to the bare season. The myth has been attached to Gilgamesh as a favorite figure, and then woven into a pattern with the episode of Enkidu and the bull. The bull episode can be detached from the nature myth without any loss to the symbolism of the tale of Ishtar and Gilgamesh.

As already suggested, with Enkidu’s death after this conquest of the bull the original Enkidu Epic came to an end. In order to connect Gilgamesh with Enkidu, the former is represented as sharing [49]in the struggle against the bull. Enkidu is punished with death, while Gilgamesh is smitten with disease. Since both shared equally in the guilt, the punishment should have been the same for both. The differentiation may be taken as an indication that Gilgamesh’s disease has nothing to do with the bull episode, but is merely part of the nature myth.

Gilgamesh now begins a series of wanderings in search of the restoration of his vigor, and this motif is evidently a continuation of the nature myth to symbolize the sun’s wanderings during the dark winter in the hope of renewed vigor with the coming of the spring. Professor Haupt’s view is that the disease from which Gilgamesh is supposed to be suffering is of a venereal character, affecting the organs of reproduction. This would confirm the position here taken that the myth symbolizes the loss of the sun’s vigor. The sun’s rays are no longer strong enough to fertilize the earth. In accord with this, Gilgamesh’s search for healing leads him to the dark regions118 in which the scorpion-men dwell. The terrors of the region symbolize the gloom of the winter season. At last Gilgamesh reaches a region of light again, described as a landscape situated at the sea. The maiden in control of this region bolts the gate against Gilgamesh’s approach, but the latter forces his entrance. It is the picture of the sun-god bursting through the darkness, to emerge as the youthful reinvigorated sun-god of the spring.

Now with the tendency to attach to popular tales and nature myths lessons illustrative of current beliefs and aspirations, Gilgamesh’s search for renewal of life is viewed as man’s longing for eternal life. The sun-god’s waning power after midsummer is past suggests man’s growing weakness after the meridian of life has been left behind. Winter is death, and man longs to escape it. Gilgamesh’s wanderings are used as illustration of this longing, and accordingly the search for life becomes also the quest for immortality. Can the precious boon of eternal life be achieved? Popular fancy created the figure of a favorite of the gods who had escaped a destructive deluge in which all mankind had perished.119 Gilgamesh hears [50]of this favorite and determines to seek him out and learn from him the secret of eternal life. The deluge story, again a pure nature myth, symbolical of the rainy season which destroys all life in nature, is thus attached to the Epic. Gilgamesh after many adventures finds himself in the presence of the survivor of the Deluge who, although human, enjoys immortal life among the gods. He asks the survivor how he came to escape the common fate of mankind, and in reply Utnapishtim tells the story of the catastrophe that brought about universal destruction. The moral of the tale is obvious. Only those singled out by the special favor of the gods can hope to be removed to the distant “source of the streams” and live forever. The rest of mankind must face death as the end of life.

That the story of the Deluge is told in the eleventh tablet of the series, corresponding to the eleventh month, known as the month of “rain curse”120 and marking the height of the rainy season, may be intentional, just as it may not be accidental that Gilgamesh’s rejection of Ishtar is recounted in the sixth tablet, corresponding to the sixth month,121 which marks the end of the summer season. The two tales may have formed part of a cycle of myths, distributed among the months of the year. The Gilgamesh Epic, however, does not form such a cycle. Both myths have been artificially attached to the adventures of the hero. For the deluge story we now have the definite proof for its independent existence, through Dr. Poebel’s publication of a Sumerian text which embodies the tale,122 and without any reference [51]to Gilgamesh. Similarly, Scheil and Hilprecht have published fragments of deluge stories written in Akkadian and likewise without any connection with the Gilgamesh Epic.123

In the Epic the story leads to another episode attached to Gilgamesh, namely, the search for a magic plant growing in deep water, which has the power of restoring old age to youth. Utnapishtim, the survivor of the deluge, is moved through pity for Gilgamesh, worn out by his long wanderings. At the request of his wife, Utnapishtim decides to tell Gilgamesh of this plant, and he succeeds in finding it. He plucks it and decides to take it back to Erech so that all may enjoy the benefit, but on his way stops to bathe in a cool cistern. A serpent comes along and snatches the plant from him, and he is forced to return to Erech with his purpose unachieved. Man cannot hope, when old age comes on, to escape death as the end of everything.

Lastly, the twelfth tablet of the Assyrian version of the Gilgamesh Epic is of a purely didactic character, bearing evidence of having been added as a further illustration of the current belief that there is no escape from the nether world to which all must go after life has come to an end. Proper burial and suitable care of the dead represent all that can be done in order to secure a fairly comfortable rest for those who have passed out of this world. Enkidu is once more introduced into this episode. His shade is invoked by Gilgamesh and rises up out of the lower world to give a discouraging reply to Gilgamesh’s request,

The mournful message comes back:

Death is a mystery and must always remain such. The historical Gilgamesh has clearly no connection with the figure introduced into [52]this twelfth tablet. Indeed, as already suggested, the Gilgamesh Epic must have ended with the return to Erech, as related at the close of the eleventh tablet. The twelfth tablet was added by some school-men of Babylonia (or perhaps of Assyria), purely for the purpose of conveying a summary of the teachings in regard to the fate of the dead. Whether these six episodes covering the sixth to the twelfth tablets, (1) the nature myth, (2) the killing of the divine bull, (3) the punishment of Gilgamesh and the death of Enkidu, (4) Gilgamesh’s wanderings, (5) the Deluge, (6) the search for immortality, were all included at the time that the old Babylonian version was compiled cannot, of course, be determined until we have that version in a more complete form. Since the two tablets thus far recovered show that as early as 2000 B.C. the Enkidu tale had already been amalgamated with the current stories about Gilgamesh, and the endeavor made to transfer the traits of the former to the latter, it is eminently likely that the story of Ishtar’s unhappy love adventure with Gilgamesh was included, as well as Gilgamesh’s punishment and the death of Enkidu. With the evidence furnished by Meissner’s fragment of a version of the old Babylonian revision and by our two tablets, of the early disposition to make popular tales the medium of illustrating current beliefs and the teachings of the temple schools, it may furthermore be concluded that the death of Enkidu and the punishment of Gilgamesh were utilized for didactic purposes in the old Babylonian version. On the other hand, the proof for the existence of the deluge story in the Hammurabi period and some centuries later, independent of any connection with the Gilgamesh Epic, raises the question whether in the old Babylonian version, of which our two tablets form a part, the deluge tale was already woven into the pattern of the Epic. At all events, till proof to the contrary is forthcoming, we may assume that the twelfth tablet of the Assyrian version, though also reverting to a Babylonian original, dates as the latest addition to the Epic from a period subsequent to 2000 B.C.; and that the same is probably the case with the eleventh tablet.

 

To sum up, there are four main currents that flow together in the Gilgamesh Epic even in its old Babylonian form: (1) the adventures of a mighty warrior Enkidu, resting perhaps on a faint tradition [53]of the conquest of Amurru by the hero; (2) the more definite recollection of the exploits of a foreign invader of Babylonia by the name of Gilgamesh, whose home appears likewise to have been in the West;124 (3) nature myths and didactic tales transferred to Enkidu and Gilgamesh as popular figures; and (4) the process of weaving the traditions, exploits, myths and didactic tales together, in the course of which process Gilgamesh becomes the main hero, and Enkidu his companion.

Furthermore, our investigation has shown that to Enkidu belongs the episode with the woman, used to illustrate the evolution of primitive man to the ways and conditions of civilized life, the conquest of Ḫuwawa in the land of Amurru, the killing of lions and also of the bull, while Gilgamesh is the hero who conquers Erech. Identified with the sun-god, the nature myth of the union of the sun with the earth and the subsequent separation of the two is also transferred to him. The wanderings of the hero, smitten with disease, are a continuation of the nature myth, symbolizing the waning vigor of the sun with the approach of the wintry season.

The details of the process which led to making Gilgamesh the favorite figure, to whom the traits and exploits of Enkidu and of the sun-god are transferred, escape us, but of the fact that Enkidu is the older figure, of whom certain adventures were set forth in a tale that once had an independent existence, there can now be little doubt in the face of the evidence furnished by the two tablets of the old Babylonian version; just as the study of these tablets shows that in the combination of the tales of Enkidu and Gilgamesh, the former is the prototype of which Gilgamesh is the copy. If the two are regarded as brothers, as born in the same place, even resembling one another in appearance and carrying out their adventures in common, it is because in the process of combination Gilgamesh becomes the reflex of Enkidu. That Enkidu is not the figure created by Aruru to relieve Erech of its tyrannical ruler is also shown by the fact that Gilgamesh remains in control of Erech. It is to Erech that he returns when he fails of his purpose to learn the secret of escape from old age and death. Erech is, therefore, not relieved of the presence of the ruthless ruler through Enkidu. The “Man of Anu” formed by Aruru as a deliverer is confused in the course of the growth of the [54]Epic with Enkidu, the offspring of Ninib, and in this way we obtain the strange contradiction of Enkidu and Gilgamesh appearing first as bitter rivals and then as close and inseparable friends. It is of the nature of Epic compositions everywhere to eliminate unnecessary figures by concentrating on one favorite the traits belonging to another or to several others.

The close association of Enkidu and Gilgamesh which becomes one of the striking features in the combination of the tales of these two heroes naturally recalls the “Heavenly Twins” motif, which has been so fully and so suggestively treated by Professor J. Rendell Harris in his Cult of the Heavenly Twins, (London, 1906). Professor Harris has conclusively shown how widespread the tendency is to associate two divine or semi-divine beings in myths and legends as inseparable companions125 or twins, like Castor and Pollux, Romulus and Remus,126 the Acvins in the Rig-Veda,127 Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau in the Old Testament, the Kabiri of the Phoenicians,128 Herakles and Iphikles in Greek mythology, Ambrica and Fidelio in Teutonic mythology, Patollo and Potrimpo in old Prussian mythology, Cautes and Cautopates in Mithraism, Jesus and Thomas (according to the Syriac Acts of Thomas), and the various illustrations of “Dioscuri in Christian Legends,” set forth by Dr. Harris in his work under this title, which carries the motif far down into the period of legends about Christian Saints who appear in pairs, including the reference to such a pair in Shakespeare’s Henry V:

There are indeed certain parallels which suggest that Enkidu-Gilgamesh may represent a Babylonian counterpart to the “Heavenly [55]Twins.” In the Indo-Iranian, Greek and Roman mythology, the twins almost invariably act together. In unison they proceed on expeditions to punish enemies.129

But after all, the parallels are of too general a character to be of much moment; and moreover the parallels stop short at the critical point, for Gilgamesh though worsted is not killed by Enkidu, whereas one of the “Heavenly Twins” is always killed by the brother, as Abel is by Cain, and Iphikles by his twin brother Herakles. Even the trait which is frequent in the earliest forms of the “Heavenly Twins,” according to which one is immortal and the other is mortal, though applying in a measure to Enkidu who is killed by Ishtar, while Gilgamesh the offspring of a divine pair is only smitten with disease, is too unsubstantial to warrant more than a general comparison between the Enkidu-Gilgamesh pair and the various forms of the “twin” motif found throughout the ancient world. For all that, the point is of some interest that in the Gilgamesh Epic we should encounter two figures who are portrayed as possessing the same traits and accomplishing feats in common, which suggest a partial parallel to the various forms in which the twin-motif appears in the mythologies, folk-lore and legends of many nations; and it may be that in some of these instances the duplication is due, as in the case of Enkidu and Gilgamesh, to an actual transfer of the traits of one figure to another who usurped his place.

 

In concluding this study of the two recently discovered tablets of the old Babylonian version of the Gilgamesh Epic which has brought us several steps further in the interpretation and in our understanding of the method of composition of the most notable literary production of ancient Babylonia, it will be proper to consider the literary relationship of the old Babylonian to the Assyrian version.

We have already referred to the different form in which the names of the chief figures appear in the old Babylonian version, ^dGish as against ^dGish-gì(n)-mash, ^dEn-ki-dũ as against ^dEn-ki-dú, Ḫu-wa-wa as against Ḫu(m)-ba-ba. Erech appears as Uruk ribîtim, “Erech of [56]the Plazas,” as against Uruk supûri, “walled Erech” (or “Erech within the walls”), in the Assyrian version.130 These variations point to an independent recension for the Assyrian revision; and this conclusion is confirmed by a comparison of parallel passages in our two tablets with the Assyrian version, for such parallels rarely extend to verbal agreements in details, and, moreover, show that the Assyrian version has been elaborated.

Beginning with the Pennsylvania tablet, column I is covered in the Assyrian version by tablet I, 5, 25, to 6, 33, though, as pointed out above, in the Assyrian version we have the anticipation of the dreams of Gilgamesh and their interpretation through their recital to Enkidu by his female companion, whereas in the old Babylonian version we have the dreams directly given in a conversation between Gilgamesh and his mother. In the anticipation, there would naturally be some omissions. So lines 4–5 and 12–13 of the Pennsylvania tablet do not appear in the Assyrian version, but in their place is a line (I, 5, 35), to be restored to

which occurs in the old Babylonian version only in connection with the second dream. The point is of importance as showing that in the Babylonian version the first dream lays stress upon the omen of the falling meteor, as symbolizing the coming of Enkidu, whereas the second dream more specifically reveals Enkidu as a man,131 of whom Gilgamesh is instantly enamored. Strikingly variant lines, though conveying the same idea, are frequent. Thus line 14 of the Babylonian version reads

and appears in the Assyrian version (I, 5, 35^b supplied from 6, 26)

[57]

with an additional line in elaboration

which anticipates the speech of the mother

Line 10 of the Pennsylvania tablet has pa-ḫi-ir as against iz-za-az I, 5, 31.

Line 8 has ik-ta-bi-it as against da-an in the Assyrian version I, 5, 29.

More significant is the variant to line 9

as against I, 5, 30.

The important lines 31–36 are not found in the Assyrian version, with the exception of I, 6, 27, which corresponds to lines 33–34, but this lack of correspondence is probably due to the fact that the Assyrian version represents the anticipation of the dreams which, as already suggested, might well omit some details. As against this we have in the Assyrian version I, 6, 23–25, an elaboration of line 30 in the Pennsylvania tablet and taken over from the recital of the first dream. Through the Assyrian version I, 6, 31–32, we can restore the closing lines of column I of the Pennsylvania tablet, while with line 33 = line 45 of the Pennsylvania tablet, the parallel between the two versions comes to an end. Lines 34–43 of the Assyrian version (bringing tablet I to a close)135 represent an elaboration of the speech of Ninsun, followed by a further address of Gilgamesh to his mother, and by the determination of Gilgamesh to seek out Enkidu.136 Nothing of this sort appears to have been included in the old Babylonian version.[58]Our text proceeds with the scene between Enkidu and the woman, in which the latter by her charms and her appeal endeavors to lead Enkidu away from his life with the animals. From the abrupt manner in which the scene is introduced in line 43 of the Pennsylvania tablet, it is evident that this cannot be the first mention of the woman. The meeting must have been recounted in the first tablet, as is the case in the Assyrian version.137 The second tablet takes up the direct recital of the dreams of Gilgamesh and then continues the narrative. Whether in the old Babylonian version the scene between Enkidu and the woman was described with the same naïve details, as in the Assyrian version, of the sexual intercourse between the two for six days and seven nights cannot of course be determined, though presumably the Assyrian version, with the tendency of epics to become more elaborate as they pass from age to age, added some realistic touches. Assuming that lines 44–63 of the Pennsylvania tablet—the cohabitation of Enkidu and the address of the woman—is a repetition of what was already described in the first tablet, the comparison with the Assyrian version I, 4, 16–41, not only points to the elaboration of the later version, but likewise to an independent recension, even where parallel lines can be picked out. Only lines 46–48 of the Pennsylvania tablet form a complete parallel to line 21 of column 4 of the Assyrian version. The description in lines 22–32 of column 4 is missing, though it may, of course, have been included in part in the recital in the first tablet of the old Babylonian version. Lines 49–59 of the Pennsylvania tablet are covered by 33–39, the only slight difference being the specific mention in line 58 of the Pennsylvania tablet of Eanna, the temple in Erech, described as “the dwelling of Anu,” whereas in the Assyrian version Eanna is merely referred to as the “holy house” and described as “the dwelling of Anu and Ishtar,” where Ishtar is clearly a later addition.

Leaving aside lines 60–61, which may be merely a variant (though independent) of line 39 of column 4 of the Assyrian version, we now have in the Pennsylvania tablet a second speech of the woman to Enkidu (not represented in the Assyrian version) beginning like the first one with alka, “Come” (lines 62–63), in which she asks Enkidu to leave the “accursed ground” in which he dwells. This speech, as the description which follows, extending into columns 3–4, [59]and telling how the woman clothed Enkidu, how she brought him to the sheep folds, how she taught him to eat bread and to drink wine, and how she instructed him in the ways of civilization, must have been included in the second tablet of the Assyrian version which has come down to us in a very imperfect form. Nor is the scene in which Enkidu and Gilgamesh have their encounter found in the preserved portions of the second (or possibly the third) tablet of the Assyrian version, but only a brief reference to it in the fourth tablet,138 in which in Epic style the story is repeated, leading up to the second exploit—the joint campaign of Enkidu and Gilgamesh against Ḫuwawa. This reference, covering only seven lines, corresponds to lines 192–231 of the Pennsylvania tablet; but the former being the repetition and the latter the original recital, the comparison to be instituted merely reveals again the independence of the Assyrian version, as shown in the use of kibsu, “tread” (IV, 2, 46), for šêpu, “foot” (l. 216), i-na-uš, “quake” (line 5C), as against ir-tu-tu (ll. 221 and 226).

Such variants as

against

and again

against

all point once more to the literary independence of the Assyrian version. The end of the conflict and the reconciliation of the two heroes is likewise missing in the Assyrian version. It may have been referred to at the beginning of column 3139 of Tablet IV.

Coming to the Yale tablet, the few passages in which a comparison [60]may be instituted with the fourth tablet of the Assyrian version, to which in a general way it must correspond, are not sufficient to warrant any conclusions, beyond the confirmation of the literary independence of the Assyrian version. The section comprised within lines 72–89, where Enkidu’s grief at his friend’s decision to fight Ḫuwawa is described140, and he makes confession of his own physical exhaustion, may correspond to Tablet IV, column 4, of the Assyrian version. This would fit in with the beginning of the reverse, the first two lines of which (136–137) correspond to column 5 of the fourth tablet of the Assyrian version, with a variation “seven-fold fear”141 as against “fear of men” in the Assyrian version. If lines 138–139 (in column 4) of the Yale tablet correspond to line 7 of column 5 of Tablet IV of the Assyrian version, we would again have an illustration of the elaboration of the later version by the addition of lines 3–6. But beyond this we have merely the comparison of the description of Ḫuwawa

which occurs twice in the Yale tablet (lines 110–111 and 196–197), with the same phrase in the Assyrian version Tablet IV, 5, 3—but here, as just pointed out, with an elaboration.

Practically, therefore, the entire Yale tablet represents an addition to our knowledge of the Ḫuwawa episode, and until we are fortunate enough to discover more fragments of the fourth tablet of the Assyrian version, we must content ourselves with the conclusions reached from a comparison of the Pennsylvania tablet with the parallels in the Assyrian version.

It may be noted as a general point of resemblance in the exterior form of the old Babylonian and Assyrian versions that both were inscribed on tablets containing six columns, three on the obverse and three on the reverse; and that the length of the tablets—an average of 40 to 50 lines—was about the same, thus revealing in the external form a conventiona1 size for the tablets in the older period, which was carried over into later times.[61]

 

Pennsylvania Tablet

The 240 lines of the six columns of the text are enumerated in succession, with an indication on the margin where a new column begins. This method, followed also in the case of the Yale tablet, seems preferable to Langdon’s breaking up of the text into Obverse and Reverse, with a separate enumeration for each of the six columns. In order, however, to facilitate a comparison with Langdon’s edition, a table is added:

Obverse Col.	I, 1	= Line	1 of our text.
,,	I, 5	= ,,	5 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 10	= ,,	10 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 15	= ,,	15 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 20	= ,,	20 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 25	= ,,	25 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 30	= ,,	30 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 35	= ,,	35 ,, ,, ,,
Col.	II, 1	= Line	41 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 5	= ,,	45 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 10	= ,,	50 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 15	= ,,	55 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 20	= ,,	60 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 25	= ,,	65 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 30	= ,,	70 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 35	= ,,	75 ,, ,, ,,
Col.	III, 1	= Line	81 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 5	= ,,	85 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 10	= ,,	90 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 15	= ,,	95 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 26	= ,,	100 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 25	= ,,	105 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 30	= ,,	110 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 35	= ,,	115 ,, ,, ,,
Reverse Col.	I, 1 (= Col. IV)	= Line	131 of our text.
,,	I, 5	= ,,	135 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 10	= ,,	140 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 15	= ,,	145 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 20	= ,,	150 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 25	= ,,	155 ,, ,, ,,
,,	I, 30	= ,,	160 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 1 (= Col. V)	= Line	171 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 5	= ,,	175 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 10	= ,,	180 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 15	= ,,	185 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 20	= ,,	190 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 25	= ,,	195 ,, ,, ,,
,,	II, 30	= ,,	200 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 1 (= Col. VI)	= Line	208 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 5	= ,,	212 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 10	= ,,	217 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 15	= ,,	222 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 20	= ,,	227 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 25	= ,,	232 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 30	= ,,	237 ,, ,, ,,
,,	III, 33	= ,,	240 ,, ,, ,,

[62]

 

Pennsylvania Tablet.

 

Transliteration.

 

Col. I.

 

Col. II.

(Perhaps one additional line missing.)

 

Col. III.

(About five lines missing.)

 

Col. IV.

(About eight lines missing.)

(About three lines missing.)[67]

 

Col. V.

(About six lines missing.)

(About three lines missing.)[68]

 

Col. VI.

(About four lines missing.)

[62]

 

Translation.

 

Col. I.

 

Col II.

(Perhaps one additional line missing.)

 

Col. III.

(About five lines missing.)

 

Col. IV.

(About eight lines missing.)

(About three lines missing.)[67]

 

Col. V.

(About six lines missing.)

(About three lines missing.)[68]

 

Col. VI.

(About four lines missing.)

[69]

 

Commentary on the Pennsylvania Tablet.

Line 1. The verb tibû with pašâru expresses the aim of Gish to secure an interpretation for his dream. This disposes of Langdon’s note 1 on page 211 of his edition, in which he also erroneously speaks of our text as “late.” Pašâru is not a variant of zakâru. Both verbs occur just as here in the Assyrian version I, 5, 25.

Line 3. ina šât mušitia, “in this my night,” i.e., in the course of this night of mine. A curious way of putting it, but the expression occurs also in the Assyrian version, e.g., I, 5, 26 (parallel passage to ours) and II, 4^a, 14. In the Yale tablet we find, similarly, mu-ši-it-ka (l. 262), “thy night,” i.e., “at night to thee.”

Line 5. Before Langdon put down the strange statement of Gish “wandering about in the midst of omens” (misreading id-da-tim for it-lu-tim), he might have asked himself the question, what it could possibly mean. How can one walk among omens?

Line 6. ka-ka-bu šá-ma-i must be taken as a compound term for “starry heaven.” The parallel passage in the Assyrian version (Tablet I, 5, 27) has the ideograph for star, with the plural sign as a variant. Literally, therefore, “The starry heaven (or “the stars in heaven”) was there,” etc. Langdon’s note 2 on page 211 rests on an erroneous reading.

Line 7. kiṣru šá Anim, “mass of Anu,” appears to be the designation of a meteor, which might well be described as a “mass” coming from Anu, i.e., from the god of heaven who becomes the personification of the heavens in general. In the Assyrian version (I, 5, 28) we have kima ki-iṣ-rù, i.e., “something like a mass of heaven.” Note also I, 3, 16, where in a description of Gilgamesh, his strength is said to be “strong like a mass (i.e., a meteor) of heaven.”

Line 9. For nuššašu ûl iltê we have a parallel in the Hebrew phrase נלְַפָסֵתִי נשַׂפָס (Isaiah 1, 14).

Line 10. Uruk mâtum, as the designation for the district of Erech, occurs in the Assyrian version, e.g., I, 5, 31, and IV, 2, 38; also to be supplied, I, 6, 23.

For paḫir the parallel in the Assyrian version has iz-za-az (I, 5, 31), but VI, 197, we find paḫ-ru and paḫ-ra.

Line 17. mi-in-di does not mean “truly” as Langdon translates, but “some one.” It occurs also in the Assyrian version X, 1, 13, mi-in-di-e ma-an-nu-ṵ, “this is some one who,” etc.[70]

Line 18. Cf. Assyrian version I, 5, 3, and IV, 4, 7, ina ṣiri âlid—both passages referring to Enkidu.

Line 21. Cf. Assyrian version II, 3^b, 38, with malkê, “kings,” as a synonym of itlutum.

Line 23. ta-tar-ra-as-sú from tarâṣu, “direct,” “guide,” etc.

Line 24. I take uš-ti-nim-ma as III, 2, from išênu (יָשֵׁן), the verb underlying šittu, “sleep,” and šuttu, “dream.”

Line 26. Cf. Assyrian version I, 6, 21—a complete parallel.

Line 28. Uruk ri-bi-tim, the standing phrase in both tablets of the old Babylonian version, for which in the Assyrian version we have Uruk su-pu-ri. The former term suggests the “broad space” outside of the city or the “common” in a village community, while supûri, “enclosed,” would refer to the city within the walls. Dr. W. F. Albright (in a private communication) suggests “Erech of the plazas” as a suitable translation for Uruk ribîtim. A third term, Uruk mâtum (see above, note to line 10), though designating rather the district of which Erech was the capital, appears to be used as a synonym to Uruk ribîtim, as may be concluded from the phrase i-na ri-bi-tum ma-ti (l. 214 of the Pennsylvania tablet), which clearly means the “plaza” of the city. One naturally thinks of רְחֹבֹת עִיר in Genesis 10, 11—the equivalent of Babylonian ri-bi-tu âli—which can hardly be the name of a city. It appears to be a gloss, as is הִיַפָס הָעִיּר הַגְּדֹלָה at the end of v. 12. The latter gloss is misplaced, since it clearly describes “Nineveh,” mentioned in v. 11. Inasmuch as רְחֹבֹת עִיר immediately follows the mention of Nineveh, it seems simplest to take the phrase as designating the “outside” or “suburbs” of the city, a complete parallel, therefore, to ri-bi-tu mâti in our text. Nineveh, together with the “suburbs,” forms the “great city.” Uruk ribîtim is, therefore, a designation for “greater Erech,” proper to a capital city, which by its gradual growth would take in more than its original confines. “Erech of the plazas” must have come to be used as a honorific designation of this important center as early as 2000 B. C., whereas later, perhaps because of its decline, the epithet no longer seemed appropriate and was replaced by the more modest designation of “walled Erech,” with an allusion to the tradition which ascribed the building of the wall of the city to Gilgamesh. At all [71]events, all three expressions, “Erech of the plazas,” “Erech walled” and “Erech land,” are to be regarded as synonymous. The position once held by Erech follows also from its ideographic designation (Brünnow No. 4796) by the sign “house” with a “gunufied” extension, which conveys the idea of Unu = šubtu, or “dwelling” par excellence. The pronunciation Unug or Unuk (see the gloss u-nu-uk, VR 23, 8^a), composed of unu, “dwelling,” and ki, “place,” is hardly to be regarded as older than Uruk, which is to be resolved into uru, “city,” and ki, “place,” but rather as a play upon the name, both Unu + ki and Uru + ki conveying the same idea of the city or the dwelling place par excellence. As the seat of the second oldest dynasty according to Babylonian traditions (see Poebel’s list in Historical and Grammatical Texts No. 2), Erech no doubt was regarded as having been at one time “the city,” i.e., the capital of the entire Euphrates Valley.

Line 31. A difficult line for which Langdon proposes the translation: “Another axe seemed his visage”!!—which may be picturesque, but hardly a description befitting a hero. How can a man’s face seem to be an axe? Langdon attaches šá-ni in the sense of “second” to the preceding word “axe,” whereas šanî bunušu, “change of his countenance” or “his countenance being changed,” is to be taken as a phrase to convey the idea of “being disturbed,” “displeased” or “angry.” The phrase is of the same kind as the well-known šunnu ṭêmu, “changing of reason,” to denote “insanity.” See the passages in Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, pp. 355 and 1068. In Hebrew, too, we have the same two phrases, e.g., וַיְשַׁנֹּו ַפָסֶת־טַעְמֹו (I Sam. 21, 14 = Ps. 34, 1), “and he changed his reason,” i.e., feigned insanity and מְשַׁנֶּה פָּנָיו (Job 14, 20), “changing his face,” to indicate a radical alteration in the frame of mind. There is a still closer parallel in Biblical Aramaic: Dan. 3, 19, “The form of his visage was changed,” meaning “he was enraged.” Fortunately, the same phrase occurs also in the Yale tablet (l. 192), šá-nu-ú bu-nu-šú, in a connection which leaves no doubt that the aroused fury of the tyrant Ḫuwawa is described by it:

precisely, therefore, as we should say—following Biblical usage—“his countenance fell.” Cf. also the phrase pânušu arpu, “his countenance [72]was darkened” (Assyrian version I, 2, 48), to express “anger.” The line, therefore, in the Pennsylvania tablet must describe Enkidu’s anger. With the brandishing of the axe the hero’s anger was also stirred up. The touch was added to prepare us for the continuation in which Gish describes how, despite this (or perhaps just because of it), Enkidu seemed so attractive that Gish instantly fell in love with him. May perhaps the emphatic form ḫaṣinumma (line 31) against ḫaṣinu (line 29) have been used to indicate “The axe it was,” or “because of the axe?” It would be worth while to examine other texts of the Hammurabi period with a view of determining the scope in the use and meaning of the emphatic ma when added to a substantive.

Line 32. The combination amur ù aḫtadu occurs also in the El-Amarna Letters, No. 18, 12.

Line 34. In view of the common Hebrew, Syriac and Arabic חָבַב “to love,” it seems preferable to read here, as in the other passages in the Assyrian versions (I, 4, 15; 4, 35; 6, 27, etc.), a-ḫa-ab-bu-ub, aḫ-bu-ub, iḫ-bu-bu, etc. (instead of with p), and to render “embrace.”

Lines 38–40, completing the column, may be supplied from the Assyrian version I, 6, 30–32, in conjunction with lines 33–34 of our text. The beginning of line 32 in Jensen’s version is therefore to be filled out [ta-ra-am-šú ki]-i.

Line 43. The restoration at the beginning of this line

enables us to restore also the beginning of the second tablet of the Assyrian version (cf. the colophon of the fragment 81, 7–27, 93, in Jeremias, Izdubar-Nimrod, plate IV = Jensen, p. 134),

Line 44. The restoration of this line is largely conjectural, based on the supposition that its contents correspond in a general way to I, 4, 16, of the Assyrian version. The reading di-da is quite certain, as is also ip-ti-[e]; and since both words occur in the line of the Assyrian version in question, it is tempting to supply at the beginning ur-[šá] = “her loins” (cf. Holma, Namen der Körperteile, etc., p. 101), which is likewise found in the same line of the Assyrian version. At all events the line describes the fascination exercised [73]upon Enkidu by the woman’s bodily charms, which make him forget everything else.

Lines 46–47 form a parallel to I, 4, 21, of the Assyrian version. The form šamkatu, “courtesan,” is constant in the old Babylonian version (ll. 135 and 172), as against šamḫatu in the Assyrian version (I, 3, 19, 40, 45; 4, 16), which also uses the plural šam-ḫa-a-ti (II, 3^b, 40). The interchange between ḫ and k is not without precedent (cf. Meissner, Altbabylonisches Privatrecht, page 107, note 2, and more particularly Chiera, List of Personal Names, page 37).

In view of the evidence, set forth in the Introduction, for the assumption that the Enkidu story has been combined with a tale of the evolution of primitive man to civilized life, it is reasonable to suggest that in the original Enkidu story the female companion was called šamkatu, “courtesan,” whereas in the tale of the primitive man, which was transferred to Enkidu, the associate was ḫarimtu, a “woman,” just as in the Genesis tale, the companion of Adam is simply called ishshâ, “woman.” Note that in the Assyrian parallel (Tablet I, 4, 26) we have two readings, ir-ḫi (imperf.) and a variant i-ri-ḫi (present). The former is the better reading, as our tablet shows.

Lines 49–59 run parallel to the Assyrian version I, 4, 33–38, with slight variations which have been discussed above, p. 58, and from which we may conclude that the Assyrian version represents an independent redaction. Since in our tablet we have presumably the repetition of what may have been in part at least set forth in the first tablet of the old Babylonian version, we must not press the parallelism with the first tablet of the Assyrian version too far; but it is noticeable nevertheless (1) that our tablet contains lines 57–58 which are not represented in the Assyrian version, and (2) that the second speech of the “woman” beginning, line 62, with al-ka, “come” (just as the first speech, line 54), is likewise not found in the first tablet of the Assyrian version; which on the other hand contains a line (39) not in the Babylonian version, besides the detailed answer of Enkidu (I 4, 42–5, 5). Line 6, which reads “Enkidu and the woman went (il-li-ku) to walled Erech,” is also not found in the second tablet of the old Babylonian version.

Line 63. For magrû, “accursed,” see the frequent use in Astrological texts (Jastrow, Religion Babyloniens und Assyriens II, page [74]450, note 2). Langdon, by his strange error in separating ma-a-ag-ri-im into two words ma-a-ak and ri-i-im, with a still stranger rendering: “unto the place yonder of the shepherds!!”, naturally misses the point of this important speech.

Line 64 corresponds to I, 4, 40, of the Assyrian version, which has an additional line, leading to the answer of Enkidu. From here on, our tablet furnishes material not represented in the Assyrian version, but which was no doubt included in the second tablet of that version of which we have only a few fragments.

Line 70 must be interpreted as indicating that the woman kept one garment for herself. Ittalbaš would accordingly mean, “she kept on.” The female dress appears to have consisted of an upper and a lower garment.

Line 72. The restoration “like a god” is favored by line 51, where Enkidu is likened to a god, and is further confirmed by l. 190.

Line 73. gupru is identical with gu-up-ri (Thompson, Reports of the Magicians and Astrologers, etc., 223 rev. 2 and 223^a rev. 8), and must be correlated to gipâru (Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, p. 229^a), “planted field,” “meadow,” and the like. Thompson’s translation “men” (as though a synonym of gabru) is to be corrected accordingly.

Line 74. There is nothing missing between a-šar and tar-ba-ṣi-im.

Line 75. ri-ia-ú, which Langdon renders “shepherd,” is the equivalent of the Arabic riʿy and Hebrew רְעִי “pasturage,” “fodder.” We have usually the feminine form ri-i-tu (Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, p. 990^b). The break at the end of the second column is not serious. Evidently Enkidu, still accustomed to live like an animal, is first led to the sheepfolds, and this suggests a repetition of the description of his former life. Of the four or five lines missing, we may conjecturally restore four, on the basis of the Assyrian version, Tablet I, 4, 2–5, or I, 2, 39–41. This would then join on well to the beginning of column 3.

Line 81. Both here and in l. 52 our text has na-ma-áš-te-e, as against nam-maš-ši-i in the Assyrian version, e.g., Tablet I, 2, 41; 4, 5, etc.,—the feminine form, therefore, as against the masculine. Langdon’s note 3 on page 213 is misleading. In astrological texts we also find nam-maš-te; e.g., Thompson, Reports of the Magicians and Astrologers, etc., No. 200, Obv. 2.[75]

Line 93. zi-ma-at (for simat) ba-la-ṭi-im is not “conformity of life” as Langdon renders, but that which “belongs to life” like si-mat pag-ri-šá, “belonging to her body,” in the Assyrian version III, 2^a, 3 (Jensen, page 146). “Food,” says the woman, “is the staff of life.”

Line 94. Langdon’s strange rendering “of the conditions and fate of the land” rests upon an erroneous reading (see the corrections, Appendix I), which is the more inexcusable because in line 97 the same ideogram, Kàš = šikaru, “wine,” occurs, and is correctly rendered by him. Šimti mâti is not the “fate of the land,” but the “fixed custom of the land.”

Line 98. aṣ-ṣa-mi-im (plural of aṣṣamu), which Langdon takes as an adverb in the sense of “times,” is a well-known word for a large “goblet,” which occurs in Incantation texts, e.g., CT XVI, 24, obv. 1, 19, mê a-ṣa-am-mi-e šú-puk, “pour out goblets of water.” Line 18 of the passage shoves that aṣammu is a Sumerian loan word.

Line 99. it-tap-šar, I, 2, from pašâru, “loosen.” In combination with kabtatum (from kabitatum, yielding two forms: kabtatum, by elision of i, and kabittu, by elision of a), “liver,” pašâru has the force of becoming cheerful. Cf. ka-bit-ta-ki lip-pa-šir (ZA V., p. 67, line 14).

Line 100, note the customary combination of “liver” (kabtatum) and “heart” (libbu) for “disposition” and “mind,” just as in the standing phrase in penitential prayers: “May thy liver be appeased, thy heart be quieted.”

Line 102. The restoration [^lùŠÚ]-I = gallabu “barber” (Delitzsch, Sumer. Glossar, p. 267) was suggested to me by Dr. H. F. Lutz. The ideographic writing “raising the hand” is interesting as recalling the gesture of shaving or cutting. Cf. a reference to a barber in Lutz, Early Babylonian Letters from Larsa, No. 109, 6.

Line 103. Langdon has correctly rendered šuḫuru as “hair,” and has seen that we have here a loan-word from the Sumerian Suḫur = kimmatu, “hair,” according to the Syllabary S^b 357 (cf. Delitzsch, Sumer. Glossar., p. 253). For kimmatu, “hair,” more specifically hair of the head and face, see Holma, Namen der Körperteile, page 3. The same sign Suḫur or Suḫ (Brünnow No. 8615), with Lal, i.e., “hanging hair,” designates the “beard” (ziḳnu, cf. Brünnow, No. 8620, and Holma, l. c., p. 36), and it is interesting to [76]note that we have šuḫuru (introduced as a loan-word) for the barbershop, according to II R, 21, 27^c (= CT XII, 41).

In view of all this, we may regard as assured Holma’s conjecture to read šú-[ḫur-ma-šú] in the list 93074 obv. (MVAG 1904, p. 203; and Holma, Beiträge z. Assyr. Lexikon, p. 36), as the Akkadian equivalent to Suḫur-Maš-Ḫa and the name of a fish, so called because it appeared to have a double “beard” (cf. Holma, Namen der Körperteile). One is tempted, furthermore, to see in the difficult word שכירה (Isaiah 7, 20) a loan-word from our šuḫuru, and to take the words ַפָסֶת־הָרַֹפָסשׁ וְשַׂעַר הָרַגְלַיִם “the head and hair of the feet” (euphemistic for the hair around the privates), as an explanatory gloss to the rare word שכירה for “hair” of the body in general—just as in the passage in the Pennsylvania tablet. The verse in Isaiah would then read, “The Lord on that day will shave with the razor the hair (השכירה), and even the beard will be removed.” The rest of the verse would represent a series of explanatory glosses: (a) “Beyond the river” (i.e., Assyria), a gloss to יְגַלַּח (b) “with the king of Assyria,” a gloss to בְּתַעַר “with a razor;” and (c) “the hair of the head and hair of the feet,” a gloss to השכירה. For “hair of the feet” we have an interesting equivalent in Babylonian šu-ḫur (and šú-ḫu-ur) šêpi (CT XII, 41, 23–24 c-d). Cf. also Boissier, Documents Assyriens relatifs aux Présages, p. 258, 4–5. The Babylonian phrase is like the Hebrew one to be interpreted as a euphemism for the hair around the male or female organ. To be sure, the change from ה to כ in השכירה constitutes an objection, but not a serious one in the case of a loan-word, which would aim to give the pronunciation of the original word, rather than the correct etymological equivalent. The writing with aspirated כ fulfills this condition. (Cf. šamkatum and šamḫatum, above p. 73). The passage in Isaiah being a reference to Assyria, the prophet might be tempted to use a foreign word to make his point more emphatic. To take השכירה as “hired,” as has hitherto been done, and to translate “with a hired razor,” is not only to suppose a very wooden metaphor, but is grammatically difficult, since השכירח would be a feminine adjective attached to a masculine substantive.

Coming back to our passage in the Pennsylvania tablet, it is to [77]be noted that Enkidu is described as covered “all over his body with hair” (Assyrian version, Tablet I, 2, 36) like an animal. To convert him into a civilized man, the hair is removed.

Line 107. mutu does not mean “husband” here, as Langdon supposes, but must be taken as in l. 238 in the more general sense of “man,” for which there is good evidence.

Line 109. la-bi (plural form) are “lions”—not “panthers” as Langdon has it. The verb ú-gi-ir-ri is from gâru, “to attack.” Langdon by separating ú from gi-ir-ri gets a totally wrong and indeed absurd meaning. See the corrections in the Appendix. He takes the sign ú for the copula (!!) which of course is impossible.

Line 110. Read uš-sa-ak-pu, III, 1, of sakâpu, which is frequently used for “lying down” and is in fact a synonym of ṣalâlu. See Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, page 758^a. The original has very clearly Síb (= rê’u, “shepherd”) with the plural sign. The “shepherds of the night,” who could now rest since Enkidu had killed the lions, are of course the shepherds who were accustomed to watch the flocks during the night.

Line 111. ut-tap-pi-iš is II, 2, napâšu, “to make a hole,” hence “to plunge” in connection with a weapon. Šib-ba-ri is, of course, not “mountain goats,” as Langdon renders, but a by-form to šibbiru, “stick,” and designates some special weapon. Since on seal cylinders depicting Enkidu killing lions and other animals the hero is armed with a dagger, this is presumably the weapon šibbaru.

Line 113. Langdon’s translation is again out of the question and purely fanciful. The traces favor the restoration na-ki-[di-e], “shepherds,” and since the line appears to be a parallel to line 110, I venture to suggest at the beginning [it-ti]-lu from na’âlu, “lie down”—a synonym, therefore, to sakâpu in line 110. The shepherds can sleep quietly after Enkidu has become the “guardian” of the flocks. In the Assyrian version (tablet II, 3^a, 4) Enkidu is called a na-kid, “shepherd,” and in the preceding line we likewise have ^lùNa-Kid with the plural sign, i.e., “shepherds.” This would point to nakidu being a Sumerian loan-word, unless it is vice versa, a word that has gone over into the Sumerian from Akkadian. Is perhaps the fragment in question (K 8574) in the Assyrian version (Haupt’s ed. No. 25) the parallel to our passage? If in line 4 of this fragment we could read šú for sa, i.e., na-kid-šú-nu, “their shepherd, we would have a [78]parallel to line 114 of the Pennsylvania tablet, with na-kid as a synonym to maṣṣaru, “protector.” The preceding line would then be completed as follows:

(or perhaps only it-ti-lu-ma, since the nim is not certain) and would correspond to line 113 of the Pennsylvania tablet. Inasmuch as the writing on the tiny fragment is very much blurred, it is quite possible that in line 2 we must read šib-ba-ri (instead of bar-ba-ri), which would furnish a parallel to line 111 of the Pennsylvania tablet. The difference between Bar and Šib is slight, and the one sign might easily be mistaken for the other in the case of close writing. The continuation of line 2 of the fragment would then correspond to line 112 of the Pennsylvania tablet, while line 1 of the fragment might be completed [re-e]-u-ti(?) šá [mu-ši-a-tim], though this is by no means certain.

The break at the close of column 3 (about 5 lines) and the top of column 4 (about 8 lines) is a most serious interruption in the narrative, and makes it difficult to pick up the thread where the tablet again becomes readable. We cannot be certain whether the “strong man, the unique hero” who addresses some one (lines 115–117) is Enkidu or Gish or some other personage, but presumably Gish is meant. In the Assyrian version, Tablet I, 3, 2 and 29, we find Gilgamesh described as the “unique hero” and in l. 234 of the Pennsylvania tablet Gish is called “unique,” while again, in the Assyrian version, Tablet I, 2, 15 and 26, he is designated as gašru as in our text. Assuming this, whom does he address? Perhaps the shepherds? In either case he receives an answer that rejoices him. If the fragment of the Assyrian version (K 8574) above discussed is the equivalent to the close of column 3 of the Pennsylvania tablet, we may go one step further, and with some measure of assurance assume that Gish is told of Enkidu’s exploits and that the latter is approaching Erech. This pleases Gish, but Enkidu when he sees Gish(?) is stirred to anger and wants to annihilate him. At this point, the “man” (who is probably Gish, though the possibility of a third personage must be admitted) intervenes and in a long speech sets forth the destiny and higher aims of mankind. The contrast between Enkidu and Gish (or the third party) is that between the primitive [79]savage and the civilized being. The contrast is put in the form of an opposition between the two. The primitive man is the stronger and wishes to destroy the one whom he regards as a natural foe and rival. On the other hand, the one who stands on a higher plane wants to lift his fellow up. The whole of column 4, therefore, forms part of the lesson attached to the story of Enkidu, who, identified with man in a primitive stage, is made the medium of illustrating how the higher plane is reached through the guiding influences of the woman’s hold on man, an influence exercised, to be sure, with the help of her bodily charms.

Line 135. uk-ki-ši (imperative form) does not mean “take away,” as Langdon (who entirely misses the point of the whole passage) renders, but on the contrary, “lure him on,” “entrap him,” and the like. The verb occurs also in the Yale tablet, ll. 183 and 186.

Line 137. Langdon’s note to lu-uš-šú had better be passed over in silence. The form is II. 1, from ešû, “destroy.”

Line 139. Since the man whom the woman calls approaches Enkidu, the subject of both verbs is the man, and the object is Enkidu; i.e., therefore, “The man approaches Enkidu and beholds him.”

Line 140. Langdon’s interpretation of this line again is purely fanciful. E-di-il cannot, of course, be a “phonetic variant” of edir; and certainly the line does not describe the state of mind of the woman. Lines 140–141 are to be taken as an expression of amazement at Enkidu’s appearance. The first word appears to be an imperative in the sense of “Be off,” “Away,” from dâlu, “move, roam.” The second word e-eš, “why,” occurs with the same verb dâlu in the Meissner fragment: e-eš ta-da-al (column 3, 1), “why dost thou roam about?” The verb at the end of the line may perhaps be completed to ta-ḫi-il-la-am. The last sign appears to be am, but may be ma, in which case we should have to complete simply ta-ḫi-il-ma. Taḫîl would be the second person present of ḫîlu. Cf. i-ḫi-il, frequently in astrological texts, e.g., Virolleaud, Adad No. 3, lines 21 and 33.

Line 141. The reading lim-nu at the beginning, instead of Langdon’s mi-nu, is quite certain, as is also ma-na-aḫ-ti-ka instead of what Langdon proposes, which gives no sense whatever. Manaḫtu in the sense of the “toil” and “activity of life” (like עָמָל throughout the Book of Ecclesiastes) occurs in the introductory lines to [80]the Assyrian version of the Epic I, 1, 8, ka-lu ma-na-aḫ-ti-[šu], “all of his toil,” i.e., all of his career.

Line 142. The subject of the verb cannot be the woman, as Langdon supposes, for the text in that case, e.g., line 49, would have said pi-šá (“her mouth”) not pi-šú (“his mouth”). The long speech, detailing the function and destiny of civilized man, is placed in the mouth of the man who meets Enkidu.

In the Introduction it has been pointed out that lines 149 and 151 of the speech appear to be due to later modifications of the speech designed to connect the episode with Gish. Assuming this to be the case, the speech sets forth the following five distinct aims of human life: (1) establishing a home (line 144), (2) work (line 147), (3) storing up resources (line 148), (4) marriage (line 150), (5) monogamy (line 154); all of which is put down as established for all time by divine decree (lines 155–157), and as man’s fate from his birth (lines 158–159).

Line 144. bi-ti-iš e-mu-ti is for bîti šá e-mu-ti, just as ḳab-lu-uš Ti-a-ma-ti (Assyrian Creation Myth, IV, 65) stands for ḳablu šá Tiamti. Cf. bît e-mu-ti (Assyrian version, IV, 2, 46 and 48). The end of the line is lost beyond recovery, but the general sense is clear.

Line 146. tu-a-ar is a possible reading. It may be the construct of tu-a-ru, of frequent occurrence in legal texts and having some such meaning as “right,” “claim” or “prerogative.” See the passages given by Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, p. 1139^b.

Line 148. The reading uk-la-at, “food,” and then in the wider sense “food supply,” “provisions,” is quite certain. The fourth sign looks like the one for “city.” E-mi-sa may stand for e-mid-sa, “place it.” The general sense of the line, at all events, is clear, as giving the advice to gather resources. It fits in with the Babylonian outlook on life to regard work and wealth as the fruits of work and as a proper purpose in life.

Line 150 (repeated lines 152–153) is a puzzling line. To render piti pûk epši (or epiši), as Langdon proposes, “open, addressing thy speech,” is philologically and in every other respect inadmissible. The word pu-uk (which Langdon takes for “thy mouth”!!) can, of course, be nothing but the construct form of pukku, which occurs in the Assyrian version in the sense of “net” (pu-uk-ku I, 2, 9 and 21, and also in the colophon to the eleventh tablet furnishing the [81]beginning of the twelfth tablet (Haupt’s edition No. 56), as well as in column 2, 29, and column 3, 6, of this twelfth tablet). In the two last named passages pukku is a synonym of mekû, which from the general meaning of “enclosure” comes to be a euphemistic expression for the female organ. So, for example, in the Assyrian Creation Myth, Tablet IV, 66 (synonym of ḳablu, “waist,” etc.). See Holma, Namen der Körperteile, page 158. Our word pukku must be taken in this same sense as a designation of the female organ—perhaps more specifically the “hymen” as the “net,” though the womb in general might also be designated as a “net” or “enclosure.” Kak-(ši) is no doubt to be read epši, as Langdon correctly saw; or perhaps better, epiši. An expression like ip-ši-šú lul-la-a (Assyrian version, I, 4, 13; also line 19, i-pu-us-su-ma lul-la-a), with the explanation šipir zinništi, “the work of woman” (i.e., after the fashion of woman), shows that epêšu is used in connection with the sexual act. The phrase pitî pûk epiši a-na ḫa-a-a-ri, literally “open the net, perform the act for marriage,” therefore designates the fulfillment of the marriage act, and the line is intended to point to marriage with the accompanying sexual intercourse as one of the duties of man. While the general meaning is thus clear, the introduction of Gish is puzzling, except on the supposition that lines 149 and 151 represent later additions to connect the speech, detailing the advance to civilized life, with the hero. See above, p. 45 seq.

Line 154. aššat šimâtim is the “legitimate wife,” and the line inculcates monogamy as against promiscuous sexual intercourse. We know that monogamy was the rule in Babylonia, though a man could in addition to the wife recognized as the legalized spouse take a concubine, or his wife could give her husband a slave as a concubine. Even in that case, according to the Hammurabi Code, §§145–146, the wife retained her status. The Code throughout assumes that a man has only one wife—the aššat šimâtim of our text. The phrase “so” (or “that”) before “as afterwards” is to be taken as an idiomatic expression—“so it was and so it should be for all times”—somewhat like the phrase maḫriam ù arkiam, “for all times,” in legal documents (CT VIII, 38^c, 22–23). For the use of mûk see Behrens, Assyrisch-Babylonische Briefe, p. 3.

Line 158. i-na bi-ti-iḳ a-bu-un-na-ti-šú. Another puzzling line, for which Langdon proposes “in the work of his presence,” which [82]is as obscure as the original. In a note he says that apunnâti means “nostrils,” which is certainly wrong. There has been considerable discussion about this term (see Holma, Namen der Körperteile, pages 150 and 157), the meaning of which has been advanced by Christian’s discussion in OLZ 1914, p. 397. From this it appears that it must designate a part of the body which could acquire a wider significance so as to be used as a synonym for “totality,” since it appears in a list of equivalent for Dur = nap-ḫa-ru, “totality,” ka-lu-ma, “all,” a-bu-un-na-tum e-ṣi-im-tum, “bony structure,” and kul-la-tum, “totality” (CT XII, 10, 7–10). Christian shows that it may be the “navel,” which could well acquire a wider significance for the body in general; but we may go a step further and specify the “umbilical cord” (tentatively suggested also by Christian) as the primary meaning, then the “navel,” and from this the “body” in general. The structure of the umbilical cord as a series of strands would account for designating it by a plural form abunnâti, as also for the fact that one could speak of a right and left side of the appunnâti. To distinguish between the “umbilical cord” and the “navel,” the ideograph Dur (the common meaning of which is riksu, “bond” [Delitzsch, Sumer. Glossar., p. 150]), was used for the former, while for the latter Li Dur was employed, though the reading in Akkadian in both cases was the same. The expression “with (or at) the cutting of his umbilical cord” would mean, therefore, “from his birth”—since the cutting of the cord which united the child with the mother marks the beginning of the separate life. Lines 158–159, therefore, in concluding the address to Enkidu, emphasize in a picturesque way that what has been set forth is man’s fate for which he has been destined from birth. [See now Albright’s remarks on abunnatu in the Revue d’Assyriologie 16, pp. 173–175, with whose conclusion, however, that it means primarily “backbone” and then “stature,” I cannot agree.]

In the break of about three lines at the bottom of column 4, and of about six at the beginning of column 5, there must have been set forth the effect of the address on Enkidu and the indication of his readiness to accept the advice; as in a former passage (line 64), Enkidu showed himself willing to follow the woman. At all events the two now proceed to the heart of the city. Enkidu is in front [83]and the woman behind him. The scene up to this point must have taken place outside of Erech—in the suburbs or approaches to the city, where the meadows and the sheepfolds were situated.

Line 174. um-ma-nu-um are not the “artisans,” as Langdon supposes, but the “people” of Erech, just as in the Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 1, 40, where the word occurs in connection with i-dip-pi-ir, which is perhaps to be taken as a synonym of paḫâru, “gather;” so also i-dip-pir (Tablet I, 2, 40) “gathers with the flock.”

Lines 180–182 must have contained the description of Enkidu’s resemblance to Gish, but the lines are too mutilated to permit of any certain restoration. See the corrections (Appendix) for a suggested reading for the end of line 181.

Line 183 can be restored with considerable probability on the basis of the Assyrian version, Tablet I, 3, 3 and 30, where Enkidu is described as one “whose power is strong in the land.”

Lines 186–187. The puzzling word, to be read apparently kak-ki-a-tum, can hardly mean “weapons,” as Langdon proposes. In that case we should expect kakkê; and, moreover, to so render gives no sense, especially since the verb ú-te-el-li-lu is without much question to be rendered “rejoiced,” and not “purified.” Kakkiatum—if this be the correct reading—may be a designation of Erech like ribîtim.

Lines 188–189 are again entirely misunderstood by Langdon, owing to erroneous readings. See the corrections in the Appendix.

Line 190. i-li-im in this line is used like Hebrew Elohîm, “God.”

Line 191. šakiššum = šakin-šum, as correctly explained by Langdon.

Line 192. With this line a new episode begins which, owing to the gap at the beginning of column 6, is somewhat obscure. The episode leads to the hostile encounter between Gish and Enkidu. It is referred to in column 2 of the fourth tablet of the Assyrian version. Lines 35–50—all that is preserved of this column—form in part a parallel to columns 5–6 of the Pennsylvania tablet, but in much briefer form, since what on the Pennsylvania tablet is the incident itself is on the fourth tablet of the Assyrian version merely a repeated summary of the relationship between the two heroes, leading up to the expedition against Ḫu(m)baba. Lines 38–40 of [84]column 2 of the Assyrian version correspond to lines 174–177 of the Pennsylvania tablet, and lines 44–50 to lines 192–221. It would seem that Gish proceeds stealthily at night to go to the goddess Ishḫara, who lies on a couch in the bît êmuti , the “family house” Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 2. 46–48). He encounters Enkidu in the street, and the latter blocks Gish’s path, puts his foot in the gate leading to the house where the goddess is, and thus prevents Gish from entering. Thereupon the two have a fierce encounter in which Gish is worsted. The meaning of the episode itself is not clear. Does Enkidu propose to deprive Gish, here viewed as a god (cf. line 190 of the Pennsylvania tablet = Assyrian version, Tablet I, 4, 45, “like a god”), of his spouse, the goddess Ishḫara—another form of Ishtar? Or are the two heroes, the one a counterpart of the other, contesting for the possession of a goddess? Is it in this scene that Enkidu becomes the “rival” (me-iḫ-rù, line 191 of the Pennsylvania tablet) of the divine Gish? We must content ourself with having obtained through the Pennsylvania tablet a clearer indication of the occasion of the fight between the two heroes, and leave the further explanation of the episode till a fortunate chance may throw additional light upon it. There is perhaps a reference to the episode in the Assyrian version, Tablet II, 3^b, 35–36.

Line 196. For i-na-ag-šá-am (from nagâšu), Langdon proposes the purely fanciful “embracing her in sleep,” whereas it clearly means “he approaches.” Cf. Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, page 645^a.

Lines 197–200 appear to correspond to Tablet IV, 2, 35–37, of the Assyrian version, though not forming a complete parallel. We may therefore supply at the beginning of line 35 of the Assyrian version [ittaziz] Enkidu, corresponding to line 197 of the Pennsylvania tablet. Line 36 of IV, 2, certainly appears to correspond to line 200 (dan-nu-ti = da-na-ni-iš-šú).

Line 208. The first sign looks more like šar, though ur is possible.

Line 211 is clearly a description of Enkidu, as is shown by a comparison with the Assyrian version I, 2, 37: [pi]-ti-ik pi-ir-ti-šú uḫ-tan-na-ba kima ^dNidaba, “The form of his hair sprouted like wheat.” We must therefore supply Enkidu in the preceding line. Tablet IV, 4, 6, of the Assyrian version also contains a reference to the flowing hair of Enkidu.[85]

Line 212. For the completion of the line cf. Harper, Assyrian and Babylonian Letters, No. 214.

Line 214. For ribîtu mâti see the note above to line 28 of column 1.

Lines 215–217 correspond almost entirely to the Assyrian version IV, 2, 46–48. The variations ki-ib-su in place of šêpu, and kima lîm, “like oxen,” instead of ina bâb êmuti (repeated from line 46), ana šurûbi for êribam, are slight though interesting. The Assyrian version shows that the “gate” in line 215 is “the gate of the family house” in which the goddess Ishḫara lies.

Lines 218–228. The detailed description of the fight between the two heroes is only partially preserved in the Assyrian version.

Line 218. li-i-im is evidently to be taken as plural here as in line 224, just as su-ḳi-im (lines 27 and 175), ri-bi-tim (lines 4, 28, etc.), tarbaṣim (line 74), aṣṣamim (line 98) are plural forms. Our text furnishes, as does also the Yale tablet, an interesting illustration of the vacillation in the Hammurabi period in the twofold use of im: (a) as an indication of the plural (as in Hebrew), and (b) as a mere emphatic ending (lines 63, 73, and 232), which becomes predominant in the post-Hammurabi age.

Line 227. Gilgamesh is often represented on seal cylinders as kneeling, e.g., Ward Seal Cylinders Nos. 159, 160, 165. Cf. also Assyrian version V, 3, 6, where Gilgamesh is described as kneeling, though here in prayer. See further the commentary to the Yale tablet, line 215.

Line 229. We must of course read uz-za-šú, “his anger,” and not uṣ-ṣa-šú, “his javelin,” as Langdon does, which gives no sense.

Line 231. Langdon’s note is erroneous. He again misses the point. The stem of the verb here as in line 230 (i-ni-iḫ) is the common nâḫu, used so constantly in connection with pašâḫu, to designate the cessation of anger.

Line 234. ištên applied to Gish designates him of course as “unique,” not as “an ordinary man,” as Langdon supposes.

Line 236. On this title “wild cow of the stall” for Ninsun, see Poebel in OLZ 1914, page 6, to whom we owe the correct view regarding the name of Gilgamesh’s mother.

Line 238. mu-ti here cannot mean “husband,” but “man” in [86]general. See above note to line 107. Langdon’s strange misreading ri-eš-su for ri-eš-ka (“thy head”) leads him again to miss the point, namely that Enkidu comforts his rival by telling him that he is destined for a career above that of the ordinary man. He is to be more than a mere prize fighter; he is to be a king, and no doubt in the ancient sense, as the representative of the deity. This is indicated by the statement that the kingship is decreed for him by Enlil. Similarly, Ḫu(m)baba or Ḫuwawa is designated by Enlil to inspire terror among men (Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 5, 2 and 5), i-šim-šú ^dEnlil = Yale tablet, l. 137, where this is to be supplied. This position accorded to Enlil is an important index for the origin of the Epic, which is thus shown to date from a period when the patron deity of Nippur was acknowledged as the general head of the pantheon. This justifies us in going back several centuries at least before Hammurabi for the beginning of the Gilgamesh story. If it had originated in the Hammurabi period, we should have had Marduk introduced instead of Enlil.

Line 242. As has been pointed out in the corrections to the text (Appendix), šú-tu-ur can only be III, 1, from atâru, “to be in excess of.” It is a pity that the balance of the line is broken off, since this is the first instance of a colophon beginning with the term in question. In some way šutûr must indicate that the copy of the text has been “enlarged.” It is tempting to fill out the line šú-tu-ur e-li [duppi labiri], and to render “enlarged from an original,” as an indication of an independent recension of the Epic in the Hammurabi period. All this, however, is purely conjectural, and we must patiently hope for more tablets of the Old Babylonian version to turn up. The chances are that some portions of the same edition as the Yale and Pennsylvania tablets are in the hands of dealers at present or have been sold to European museums. The war has seriously interfered with the possibility of tracing the whereabouts of groups of tablets that ought never to have been separated.[87]

 

Yale Tablet.

 

Transliteration.

(About ten lines missing.)

 

Col. I.

(About 17 lines missing.)

 

Col. II.

(About eleven lines missing.)

(About four lines missing.)

(About four lines missing.)

 

Col. III.

 

Col. IV.

 

Col. V.

(About five lines missing.)

(About two lines missing.)

 

Col. VI.

(Three lines missing.)

 

L.E.

[87]

 

Translation.

(About ten lines missing.)

 

Col. I.

(About 17 lines missing.)

 

Col. II.

(About eleven lines missing.)

(About four lines missing.)

(About four lines missing.)

 

Col. III.

 

Col. IV.

 

Col. V.

(About five lines missing.)

(About two lines missing.)

 

Col. VI.

(Three lines missing.)

 

L.E.

[96]

Lines 13–14 (also line 16). See for the restoration, lines 112–13.

Line 62. For the restoration, see Jensen, p. 146 (Tablet III, 2^a,9.)

Lines 64–66. Restored on the basis of the Assyrian version, ib. line 10.

Line 72. Cf. Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 4, 10, and restore at the end of this line di-im-tam as in our text, instead of Jensen’s conjecture.

Lines 74, 77 and 83. The restoration zar-biš, suggested by the Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 4, 4.

Lines 76 and 82. Cf. Assyrian version, Tablet VIII, 3, 18.

Line 78. (ú-ta-ab-bil from abâlu, “grieve” or “darkened.” Cf. uš-ta-kal (Assyrian version, ib. line 9), where, perhaps, we are to restore it-ta-[bil pa-ni-šú].

Line 87. uš-ta-li-pa from elêpu, “exhaust.” See Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, p. 49a.

Line 89. Cf. Assyrian version, ib. line 11, and restore the end of the line there to i-ni-iš, as in our text.

Line 96. For dapinu as an epithet of Ḫuwawa, see Assyrian version, Tablet III, 2a, 17, and 3a, 12. Dapinu occurs also as a description of an ox (Rm 618, Bezold, Catalogue of the Kouyunjik Tablets, etc., p. 1627).

Line 98. The restoration on the basis of ib. III, 2a, 18.

Lines 96–98 may possibly form a parallel to ib. lines 17–18, which would then read about as follows: “Until I overcome Ḫuwawa, the terrible, and all the evil in the land I shall have destroyed.” At the same time, it is possible that we are to restore [lu-ul]-li-ik at the end of line 98.

Line 101. lilissu occurs in the Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 6, 36.

Line 100. For ḫalbu, “jungle,” see Assyrian version, Tablet V, 3, 39 (p. 160).

Lines 109–111. These lines enable us properly to restore Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 5, 3 = Haupt’s edition, p. 83 (col. 5, 3). No doubt the text read as ours mu-tum (or mu-u-tum) na-pis-su.

Line 115. šupatu, which occurs again in line 199 and also line 275.šú-pa-as-su (= šupat-su) must have some such meaning as [97]“dwelling,” demanded by the context. [Dhorme refers me to OLZ 1916, p. 145].

Line 129. Restored on the basis of the Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 6, 38.

Line 131. The restoration muḳtablu, tentatively suggested on the basis of CT XVIII, 30, 7b, where muḳtablu, “warrior,” appears as one of the designations of Gilgamesh, followed by a-lik pa-na, “the one who goes in advance,” or “leader”—the phrase so constantly used in the Ḫuwawa episode.

Line 132. Cf. Assyrian version, Tablet I, 5, 18–19.

Lines 136–137. These two lines restored on the basis of Jensen IV, 5, 2 and 5. The variant in the Assyrian version, šá niše (written Uku^meš in one case and Lu^meš in the other), for the numeral 7 in our text to designate a terror of the largest and most widespread character, is interesting. The number 7 is similarly used as a designation of Gilgamesh, who is called Esigga imin, “seven-fold strong,” i.e., supremely strong (CT XVIII, 30, 6–8). Similarly, Enkidu, ib. line 10, is designated a-rá imina, “seven-fold.”

Line 149. A difficult line because of the uncertainty of the reading at the beginning of the following line. The most obvious meaning of mi-it-tu is “corpse,” though in the Assyrian version šalamtu is used (Assyrian version, Tablet V, 2, 42). On the other hand, it is possible—as Dr. Lutz suggested to me—that mittu, despite the manner of writing, is identical with miṭṭú, the name of a divine weapon, well-known from the Assyrian creation myth (Tablet IV, 130), and other passages. The combination miṭ-ṭu šá-ḳu-ú-, “lofty weapon,” in the Bilingual text IV, R², 18 No. 3, 31–32, would favor the meaning “weapon” in our passage, since [šá]-ḳu-tu is a possible restoration at the beginning of line 150. However, the writing mi-it-ti points too distinctly to a derivative of the stem mâtu, and until a satisfactory explanation of lines 150–152 is forthcoming, we must stick to the meaning “corpse” and read the verb il-ḳu-ut.

Line 152. The context suggests “lion” for the puzzling la-bu.

Line 156. Another puzzling line. Dr. Clay’s copy is an accurate reproduction of what is distinguishable. At the close of the line there appears to be a sign written over an erasure.

Line 158. [ga-ti lu-]uš-kun as in line 186, literally, “I will place my hand,” i.e., I purpose, I am determined.[98]

Line 160. The restoration on the basis of the parallel line 187. Note the interesting phrase, “writing a name” in the sense of acquiring “fame.”

Line 161. The kiškattê, “artisans,” are introduced also in the Assyrian version, Tablet VI, 187, to look at the enormous size and weight of the horns of the slain divine bull. See for other passages Muss-Arnolt Assyrian Dictionary, p. 450^b. At the beginning of this line, we must seek for the same word as in line 163.

Line 162. While the restoration belê, “weapon,” is purely conjectural, the context clearly demands some such word. I choose belê in preference to kakkê, in view of the Assyrian version, Tablet VI, 1.

Line 163. Putuku (or putukku) from patâku would be an appropriate word for the fabrication of weapons.

Line 165. The rabûtim here, as in line 167, I take as the “master mechanics” as contrasted with the ummianu, “common workmen,” or journeymen. A parallel to this forging of the weapons for the two heroes is to be found in the Sumerian fragment of the Gilgamesh Epic published by Langdon, Historical and Religious Texts from the Temple Library of Nippur (Munich, 1914), No. 55, 1–15.

Lines 168–170 describe the forging of the various parts of the lances for the two heroes. The ṣipru is the spear point Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, p. 886^b; the išid paṭri is clearly the “hilt,” and the mešelitum I therefore take as the “blade” proper. The word occurs here for the first time, so far as I can see. For 30 minas, see Assyrian version, Tablet VI, 189, as the weight of the two horns of the divine bull. Each axe weighing 3 biltu, and the lance with point and hilt 3 biltu we would have to assume 4 biltu for each pašu, so as to get a total of 10 biltu as the weight of the weapons for each hero. The lance is depicted on seal cylinders representing Gilgamesh and Enkidu, for example, Ward, Seal Cylinders, No. 199, and also in Nos. 184 and 191 in the field, with the broad hilt; and in an enlarged form in No. 648. Note the clear indication of the hilt. The two figures are Gilgamesh and Enkidu—not two Gilgameshes, as Ward assumed. See above, page 34. A different weapon is the club or mace, as seen in Ward, Nos. 170 and 173. This appears also to be the weapon which Gilgamesh holds in his hand on the colossal figure from the palace of Sargon (Jastrow, Civilization of [99]Babylonia and Assyria, Pl. LVII), though it has been given a somewhat grotesque character by a perhaps intentional approach to the scimitar, associated with Marduk (see Ward, Seal Cylinders, Chap. XXVII). The exact determination of the various weapons depicted on seal-cylinders merits a special study.

Line 181. Begins a speech of Ḫuwawa, extending to line 187, reported to Gish by the elders (line 188–189), who add a further warning to the youthful and impetuous hero.

Line 183. lu-uk-šú-su (also l. 186), from akâšu, “drive on” or “lure on,” occurs on the Pennsylvania tablet, line 135, uk-ki-ši, “lure on” or “entrap,” which Langdon erroneously renders “take away” and thereby misses the point completely. See the comment to the line of the Pennsylvania tablet in question.

Line 192. On the phrase šanû bunu, “change of countenance,” in the sense of “enraged,” see the note to the Pennsylvania tablet, l.31.

Line 194. nu-ma-at occurs in a tablet published by Meissner, Altbabyl. Privatrecht, No. 100, with bît abi, which shows that the total confine of a property is meant; here, therefore, the “interior” of the forest or heart. It is hardly a “by-form” of nuptum as Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, p. 690^b, and others have supposed, though nu-um-tum in one passage quoted by Muss-Arnolt, ib. p. 705^a, may have arisen from an aspirate pronunciation of the p in nubtum.

Line 215. The kneeling attitude of prayer is an interesting touch. It symbolizes submission, as is shown by the description of Gilgamesh’s defeat in the encounter with Enkidu (Pennsylvania tablet, l. 227), where Gilgamesh is represented as forced to “kneel” to the ground. Again in the Assyrian version, Tablet V, 4, 6, Gilgamesh kneels down (though the reading ka-mis is not certain) and has a vision.

Line 229. It is much to be regretted that this line is so badly preserved, for it would have enabled us definitely to restore the opening line of the Assyrian version of the Gilgamesh Epic. The fragment published by Jeremias in his appendix to his Izdubar-Nimrod, Plate IV, gives us the end of the colophon line to the Epic, reading ……… di ma-a-ti (cf. ib., Pl. I, 1. … a-ti). Our text evidently reproduces the same phrase and enables us to supply ka, as well as [100]the name of the hero Gišh of which there are distinct traces. The missing word, therefore, describes the hero as the ruler, or controller of the land. But what are the two signs before ka? A participial form from pakâdu, which one naturally thinks of, is impossible because of the ka, and for the same reason one cannot supply the word for shepherd (nakidu). One might think of ka-ak-ka-du, except that kakkadu is not used for “head” in the sense of “chief” of the land. I venture to restore [i-ik-]ka-di, “strong one.” Our text at all events disposes of Haupt’s conjecture iš-di ma-a-ti (JAOS 22, p. 11), “Bottom of the earth,” as also of Ungnad’s proposed [a-di pa]-a-ti, “to the ends” (Ungnad-Gressmann, Gilgamesch-Epos, p. 6, note), or a reading di-ma-a-ti, “pillars.” The first line of the Assyrian version would now read

i.e., “The one who saw everything, Gilgamesh the strong one (?) of the land.”

We may at all events be quite certain that the name of the hero occurred in the first line and that he was described by some epithet indicating his superior position.

Lines 229–235 are again an address of Gilgamesh to the sun-god, after having received a favorable “oracle” from the god (line 222). The hero promises to honor and to celebrate the god, by erecting thrones for him.

Lines 237–244 describe the arming of the hero by the “master” craftsman. In addition to the pašu and paṭru, the bow (?) and quiver are given to him.

Line 249 is paralleled in the new fragment of the Assyrian version published by King in PSBA 1914, page 66 (col. 1, 2), except that this fragment adds gi-mir to e-mu-ḳi-ka.

Lines 251–252 correspond to column 1, 6–8, of King’s fragment, with interesting variations “battle” and “fight” instead of “way” and “road,” which show that in the interval between the old Babylonian and the Assyrian version, the real reason why Enkidu should lead the way, namely, because he knows the country in which Ḫuwawa dwells (lines 252–253), was supplemented by describing Enkidu also as being more experienced in battle than Gilgamesh.

Line 254. I am unable to furnish a satisfactory rendering for this line, owing to the uncertainty of the word at the end. Can it [101]be “his household,” from the stem which in Hebrew gives us מִשְׁפָּחָה “family?”

Line 255. Is paralleled by col. 1, 4, of King’s new fragment. The episode of Gišh and Enkidu proceeding to Ninsun, the mother of Gish, to obtain her counsel, which follows in King’s fragment, appears to have been omitted in the old Babylonian version. Such an elaboration of the tale is exactly what we should expect as it passed down the ages.

Line 257. Our text shows that irnittu (lines 257, 264, 265) means primarily “endeavor,” and then success in one’s endeavor, or “triumph.”

Lines 266–270. Do not appear to refer to rites performed after a victory, as might at a first glance appear, but merely voice the hope that Gišh will completely take possession of Ḫuwawa’s territory, so as to wash up after the fight in Ḫuwawa’s own stream; and the hope is also expressed that he may find pure water in Ḫuwawa’s land in abundance, to offer a libation to Šhamašh.

Line 275. On šú-pa-as-su = šupat-su, see above, to l. 115.

[Note on Sabitum (above, p. 11)

In a communication before the Oriental Club of Philadelphia (Feb. 10, 1920), Prof. Haupt made the suggestion that sa-bi-tum (or tu), hitherto regarded as a proper name, is an epithet describing the woman who dwells at the seashore which Gilgamesh in the course of his wanderings reaches, as an “innkeeper”. It is noticeable that the term always appears without the determinative placed before proper names; and since in the old Babylonian version (so far as preserved) and in the Assyrian version, the determinative is invariably used, its consistent absence in the case of sabitum (Assyrian Version, Tablet X, 1, 1, 10, 15, 20; 2, 15–16 [sa-bit]; Meissner fragment col. 2, 11–12) speaks in favor of Professor Haupt’s suggestion. The meaning “innkeeper”, while not as yet found in Babylonian-Assyrian literature is most plausible, since we have sabū as a general name for ’drink’, though originally designating perhaps more specifically sesame wine (Muss-Arnolt, Assyrian Dictionary, p. 745^b) or distilled brandy, according to Prof. Haupt. Similarly, in the Aramaic dialects, s^eb^ha is used for “to drink” and in the Pael to “furnish drink”. Muss-Arnolt in [102]his Assyrian Dictionary, 746^b, has also recognized that sabitum was originally an epithet and compares the Aramaic s^eb^hoyâthâ(p1) “barmaids”. In view of the bad reputation of inns in ancient Babylonia as brothels, it would be natural for an epithet like sabitum to become the equivalent to “public” women, just as the inn was a “public” house. Sabitum would, therefore, have the same force as šamḫatu (the “harlot”), used in the Gilgamesh Epic by the side of ḫarimtu “woman” (see the note to line 46 of Pennsylvania Tablet). The Sumerian term for the female innkeeper is Sal Geštinna “the woman of the wine,” known to us from the Hammurabi Code §§108–111. The bad reputation of inns is confirmed by these statutes, for the house of the Sal Geštinna is a gathering place for outlaws. The punishment of a female devotee who enters the “house of a wine woman” (bît Sal Geštinna §110) is death. It was not “prohibition” that prompted so severe a punishment, but the recognition of the purpose for which a devotee would enter such a house of ill repute. The speech of the sabitum or innkeeper to Gilgamesh (above, p. 12) was, therefore, an invitation to stay with her, instead of seeking for life elsewhere. Viewed as coming from a “public woman” the address becomes significant. The invitation would be parallel to the temptation offered by the ḫarimtu in the first tablet of the Enkidu, and to which Enkidu succumbs. The incident in the tablet would, therefore, form a parallel in the adventures of Gilgamesh to the one that originally belonged to the Enkidu cycle. Finally, it is quite possible that sabitum is actually the Akkadian equivalent of the Sumerian Sal Geštinna, though naturally until this equation is confirmed by a syllabary or by other direct evidence, it remains a conjecture. See now also Albright’s remarks on Sabitum in the A. J. S. L. 36, pp. 269 seq.][103]

 

Corrections to the Text of Langdon’s Edition of the Pennsylvania Tablet.1

 

Column 1.

5. Read it-lu-tim (“heroes”) instead of id-da-tim (“omens”).

6. Read ka-ka-bu instead of ka-ka-’a. This disposes of Langdon’s note 2 on p. 211.

9 Read ú-ni-iš-šú-ma, “I became weak” (from enêšu, “weak”) instead of ilam iš-šú-ma, “He bore a net”(!). This disposes of Langdon’s note 5 on page 211.

10. Read Uruk^ki instead of ad-ki. Langdon’s note 7 is wrong.

12. Langdon’s note 8 is wrong. ú-um-mid-ma pu-ti does not mean “he attained my front.”

14. Read ab-ba-la-áš-šú instead of at-ba-la-áš-šú.

15. Read mu-di-a-at instead of mu-u-da-a-at.

20. Read ta-ḫa-du instead of an impossible [sa]-ah-ḫa-ta—two mistakes in one word. Supply kima Sal before taḫadu.

22. Read áš-šú instead of šú; and at the end of the line read [tu-ut]-tu-ú-ma instead of šú-ú-zu.

23. Read ta-tar-ra-[as-su].

24. Read [uš]-ti-nim-ma instead of [iš]-ti-lam-ma.

28. Read at the beginning šá instead of ina.

29. Langdon’s text and transliteration of the first word do not tally. Read ḫa-aṣ-ṣi-nu, just as in line 31.

32. Read aḫ-ta-du (“I rejoiced”) instead of aḫ-ta-ta.

 

Column 2.

4. Read at the end of the line di-da-šá(?) ip-tí-[e] instead of Di-?-al-lu-un (!).

5. Supply ^dEn-ki-dū at the beginning. Traces point to this reading.

19. Read [gi]-it-ma-[lu] after ^dGiš, as suggested by the Assyrian version, Tablet I, 4, 38, where emûḳu (“strength”) replaces nepištu of our text.

20. Read at-[ta kima Sal ta-ḫa]-bu-[ub]-šú.

21. Read ta-[ra-am-šú ki-ma].[104]

23. Read as one word ma-a-ag-ri-i-im (“accursed”), spelled in characteristic Hammurabi fashion, instead of dividing into two words ma-a-ak and ri-i-im, as Langdon does, who suggests as a translation “unto the place yonder(?) of the shepherd”(!).

24. Read im-ta-ḫar instead of im-ta-gar.

32. Supply ili(?) after ki-ma.

33. Read šá-ri-i-im as one word.

35. Read i-na [áš]-ri-šú [im]-ḫu-ru.

36. Traces at beginning point to either ù or ki (= itti). Restoration of lines 36–39 (perhaps to be distributed into five lines) on the basis of the Assyrian version, Tablet I, 4, 2–5.

 

Column 3.

14. Read Kàš (= šikaram, “wine”) ši-ti, “drink,” as in line 17, instead of bi-iš-ti, which leads Langdon to render this perfectly simple line “of the conditions and the fate of the land”(!).

21. Read it-tam-ru instead of it-ta-bir-ru.

22. Supply [^lùŠú]-I.

29. Read ú-gi-ir-ri from garû (“attack), instead of separating into ú and gi-ir-ri, as Langdon does, who translates “and the lion.” The sign used can never stand for the copula! Nor is girru, “lion!”

30. Read Síb^meš, “shepherds,” instead of šab-[ši]-eš!

31. šib-ba-ri is not “mountain goat,” nor can ut-tap-pi-iš mean “capture.” The first word means “dagger,” and the second “he drew out.”

33. Read it-ti-[lu] na-ki-[di-e], instead of itti immer nakie which yields no sense. Langdon’s rendering, even on the basis of his reading of the line, is a grammatical monstrosity.

35. Read giš instead of wa.

37. Read perhaps a-na [na-ki-di-e i]- za-ak-ki-ir.

 

Column 4.

4. The first sign is clearly iz, not ta, as Langdon has it in note 1 on page 216.

9. The fourth sign is su, not šú.

10. Separate e-eš (“why”) from the following. Read ta-ḫi-[il], followed, perhaps, by la. The last sign is not certain; it may be ma.[105]

11. Read lim-nu instead of mi-nu. In the same line read a-la-ku ma-na-aḫ-[ti]-ka instead of a-la-ku-zu(!) na-aḫ … ma, which, naturally, Langdon cannot translate.

16. Read e-lu-tim instead of pa-a-ta-tim. The first sign of the line, tu, is not certain, because apparently written over an erasure. The second sign may be a. Some one has scratched the tablet at this point.

18. Read uk-la-at âli (?) instead of ug-ad-ad-lil, which gives no possible sense!

 

Column 5.

2. Read [wa]-ar-ki-šú.

8. Read i-ta-wa-a instead of i-ta-me-a. The word pi-it-tam belongs to line 9! The sign pi is unmistakable. This disposes of note 1 on p. 218.

9. Read Mi = ṣalmu, “image.” This disposes of Langdon’s note 2 on page 218. Of six notes on this page, four are wrong.

11. The first sign appears to be si and the second ma. At the end we are perhaps to supply [šá-ki-i pu]-uk-ku-ul, on the basis of the Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 2, 45, šá-ki-i pu-[uk-ku-ul].

12. Traces at end of line suggest i-pa(?)-ka-du.

13. Read i-[na mâti da-an e-mu]-ki i-wa.

18. Read ur-šá-nu instead of ip-šá-nu.

19. Read i-šá-ru instead of i-tu-ru.

24. The reading it-ti after ^dGiš is suggested by the traces.

25. Read in-ni-[ib-bi-it] at the end of the line.

28. Read ip-ta-ra-[aṣ a-la]-ak-tam at the end of the line, as in the Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 2, 37.

30. The conjectural restoration is based on the Assyrian version, Tablet IV, 2, 36.

 

Column 6.

3. Read i-na ṣi-ri-[šú].

5. Supply [il-li-ik].

21. Langdon’s text has a superfluous ga.

22. Read uz-za-šú, “his anger,” instead of uṣ-ṣa-šú, “his javelin” (!).

23. Read i-ni-iḫ i-ra-as-su, i.e., “his breast was quieted,” in the sense of “his anger was appeased.”

31. Read ri-eš-ka instead of ri-eš-su.[106]

In general, it should be noted that the indications of the number of lines missing at the bottom of columns 1–3 and at the top of columns 4–6 as given by Langdon are misleading. Nor should he have drawn any lines at the bottom of columns 1–3 as though the tablet were complete. Besides in very many cases the space indications of what is missing within a line are inaccurate. Dr. Langdon also omitted to copy the statement on the edge: 4 šú-ši, i.e., “240 lines;” and in the colophon he mistranslates šú-tu-ur, “written,” as though from šaṭâru, “write,” whereas the form is the permansive III, 1, of atâru, “to be in excess of.” The sign tu never has the value ṭu! In all, Langdon has misread the text or mistransliterated it in over forty places, and of the 204 preserved lines he has mistranslated about one-half.

 

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