R. A. Lafferty - Stories 3

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MORE STORIES BY R.A. LAFFERTY

74. The Man Underneath

*76. Incased in Ancient Rind

*79. Boomer Flats

*81. World Abounding

*82. Groaning Hinges of the World

*83. Ishmael Into the Barrens

*84. Nor Limestone Islands

*85. Sky

86. When All the Lands Pour Out Again

91. Once On Aranea

*96 Eurema's Dam

*97. Dorg

*99. And Now Walk Gently Through the Fire

101. Parthen

104. Seven Story Dream

*106. The World As Will and Wallpaper

108. By the Seashore

*109. In Outraged Stone

111. Days of Grass, Days of Straw

THE MAN UNDERNEATH

Charles Chartel was not the most pleasant man in the world, and as the

Great Zambesi he was not the greatest magician. But he was a smart man and a

good magician. He had the magnetism of a faith healer, the spirit and

appearance of a rooster and a deadly seriousness. He had the patter and the

poise and he had learned all that was learnable.

Nor was he a mere pigeon-passer and card-caller. He had inherited, built

up, bought and assembled as full a repertoire as any Magic Man in the

business.

And, as each must have, he had his specialty: a simple and sound

disappearing act. It was nothing really startling; he seemed to underplay it.

But it was puzzling and it remained a puzzle even to those in the trade. This

one prime trick equated him with the Real Masters who in general technique

were a little out of his class. Actually, in the ultimate variation of it, it

was the greatest trick.

He put Veronica into a box. And when he opened the box again she was

gone. That is all there was to it. The same thing had been performed by dozens

of others in many variations.

But Charles (the Great Zambesi) Chartel did not use any of those

variations; not, certainly, the trap door-for he had once performed the trick

in a wire mesh twenty feet in the air. Besides, he was a cut above the

trap-door men.

After showing the empty box he would always take it apart board by

board, and pass the boards around for all to handle. He would then assemble it

once more into a box, clamp down the cover, unclamp it again, open it, and

Veronica would get out of the box.

The Great Boffo swore that the girl never stepped into the box at all.

The Great Boffo, however, could not duplicate the trick. Nor could the

Great Thaumaturgos, nor the Great Zebdo.

All of them could make girls disappear from boxes, of course, and could

do it in more showy fashion. But, though it was the same thing to the

audiences, it was not the same thing to themselves. Their tricks were known to

each other and were obvious to any magic man. The special trick of

Zambesi-Chartel was not understood and this gave him stature. The only men in

the world who do not secretly believe in magic are the magicians, but there

was something about the doings of the Great Zambesi that sowed doubt in them.

The Great Vespo, indeed, claimed that he knew how it was done. But Vespo,

though brilliant, was an old man and was given to extravagant claims.

The explanation that Charles (the Great Zambesi) Chartel gave to his

audiences will not be given here. Should we repeat it, we would not be

believed; we would be laughed at -- and we are sensitive. We have not the

magnetism of Zambesi to carry off such an outlandish claim as his even though

it should be true -- and it was. (Actually he said that he sent Veronica down

into the Ocean and that he called her back again from that Ocean.)

However, this isn't about the disappearance of Veronica; it is about a

matter quite the opposite. And the opposite of the disappearance of Veronica

was the appearance of someone who differed from her as much as possible.

This came about at the Tri-State Fair when the New Arena was quite new.

The crowd was spirited and the Great Zambesi was in full form. The lighting

was perfect and Veronica shone like a jewel set in gold as she stepped into

the box that was set up on blocks, clear of the stage. Zambesi closed the box

and the crowd had the true feeling of magic about to happen.

And then, with perfect timing, Zambesi-Chartel threw back the front

cover as to reveal the box -- empty.

We will be hornswitched if that box was empty!

But what rolled out of the box was not Veronica. It was the most

woebegone scarecrow of a clown ever seen, the saddest looking man who ever

stumbled over his own two feet.

"Holy hamadryads, cramoise, where did you come from?" Zambesi-Chartel

breathed without understanding his own words.

The man out of the box was a hobo from a hundred years ago. He wept and

wiped his nose with his hand. He had trouble with falling pants and broken

shoes and a coat whose sleeve avoided arm. The little clown was good and there

was real pathos in his silent humor.

"You've got to get out of here, cnaufer," Chartel hissed at the little

man again and again. "Who are you and how did you get here? Off with you now,

cathexis, you're fouling up the act." But the little man avoided Chartel who

would have killed him in all sincerity.

Finally Chartel in his despair closed the box loudly, then opened it

again and brought Veronica out of it. But that didn't get and of the little

tramp. He was still cavorting about the stage and he was good. Listen, he was

dressed in old black pants and a torn undershirt and one suspender and he

walked about the stage.

Then he had on a red sweater and a burglar's cap and black glasses. He

still walked about the stage and suddenly he was splendid in evening clothes

and monocle. Nobody had done that before.

He became Joe College; he became the man in the charcoal-tan suit; he

became an old rowdy-dow on the loose with pearl-gray vest and yellow gloves.

Then he became a hobo again-but of a different and worse vesture than before.

"Go away, cistugurium," Veronica whispered angrily, "please g~ away.

You're not supposed to be in the act. Who are you anyhow?"

Nobody else had ever completely changed his garb six times in a minute

and a half while hobbling about the stage with his hands in his pockets.

Nobody else transmuted his shoes from brown to black as be walked in them. The

expression of the little man was pathetic and many eyes misted as they watched

him. Then, before the act had begun to drag, the little man wobbled over and

fell flat on his face in the box. Zambesi-Chartel closed it and stood poised

over it in an intensity of fear and hope. Then he opened the box again. The

little man was gone.

Zambesi-Chartel took the box apart board by board and he left it apart.

Well, it had been a good act, with an added element. But Charles (the Great

Zambesi) Chartel didn't know how he had done it this time -- or if he was the

one who did it. The trick had always been to make Veronica disappear and

appear; there sure hadn't been any little clown in the act before.

"Damn that cressanges anyhow," Chartel grumbled. He was puzzled. He knew

that little man -- and yet he didn't.

Later that night at the Pepperpot some of the people ate and talked. There

were Chartel himself and Veronica; there was Captain Carter who had the

trained bears; there were the three Lemon sisters, Dolly, Molly, and Polly.

Then another one was with them-for the little man was sitting there and

sniffling. He hadn't been there before and he hadn't come in.

"Shall I order for you, claud?" Molly Lemon asked solicitously. But a

filled plate was already there and the little man began to eat. He grinned and

he grimaced. He was wearing horn-rim glasses and then he was wearing

pince-nez. He had a grin that came shyly as though he were trying it out for

the first time.

"Clarence is so cute," said Dolly Lemon. "We will adopt him into our act

if Chartel doesn't want him."

There was an empty five-cigar carton on the table. The little man picked

it up and it was full. Well, Chartel could duplicate that probably you could

yourself, but it would take prop and preparation. The little man pulled a

stogie from the carton, puffed on it and it was lit. This also could be done;

there are few tricks that cannot be duplicated.

If you are joining the act, cletus, and it seems as though you are,"

said Chartel wondering, "you will have to clean up a little."

Must I really?" asked curt but he obliged at once. He had become as

immaculate a dandy as anyone ever saw. "Captain Carter," he said, "I see from

your pocket bulge that you are a drinking man. I ask you to share it with us."

"It's empty an hour since," Captain Carter muttered sadly.

"It wasn't always empty," said cylix, the little man. "Let me see if I

can restore it."

"The last time a magician filled an empty whisky bottle for me -- and it

was none other than old Zambesi-Chartel here -- the stuff was not potable. It

was the most horrendous rock dew ever distilled."

"This will be potable," said celiter -- and the bottle filled.

Its content was gloriously potable. It put new life into the party and

all of them, except Chartel-Zambesi, had a wonderful time. And if you don't

think you can have fun with a reanimated bottle of whisky and Veronica and the

three Lemon sisters you must have a different and more staid definition of

fun.

"But all good things must end," said Captain Carter when the small hours

were half grown.

"All good things do not have to end," said cajetan, the little man, who

had been enjoying himself on Polly Lemon's lap. "The world shriveled when your

thought was first put into words. Good things can go on forever, except that

-- now and then -- they must be temporarily adjourned. As long as we

understand that partings are only temporary."

"Oh, we understand that, cuiller," said the three Lemon sisters. So they

temporarily adjourned the party.

But later -- and this was after the sun itself was up -- Chartel and

cyprian were finally alone.

"We will have to have an explanation," said Chartel. "Who are you?"

"You have no idea, Charles? Did you not take me out of the box? I

thought you would know. Did you not call me up?"

"I doubt I did. Do not try to hoax an old hoaxer. Where did you come

from that first time? The stage was not trapped and you were not intruded with

my knowledge."

"Was I not? You told the audience how it was done. You said you called

me up out of the Ocean."

"That is my patter -- but it doesn't apply to you. Dammit, ching-hi,

where'd you get the Chinese robes and grow that little heard so fast? And how

do you make them both change colors so neat? No, chawan, I never called any

such fish as you out of the Ocean."

"In that case I will leave, since I am here through a misunderstanding."

"Stay a bit, cyfaill. In my patter that is the way I make the girl

disappear. How could it make you appear?"

"Charles, I've heard you explain the principle dozens of times. I was

not in the box. But in a little while I would be in the box. So we adjust the

box to a near moment in the future and I am in the box."

"There's a lacuna in your logic, clunis," Chartel said. "Hey, how can

you turn into a Hottentot so easily? And not into a real Hottentot either,

coya -- but into what I would call an old idea of a Hottentot."

"You did have a good imagination, Charles," said chabiari. He took up an

empty glass, shook it, and it was filled again.

"You're my master there, cosmos," said Chartel. "I couldn't duplicate

that without props and you've done it three times. How?"

"By our own theory that we worked out so long ago, Charles. I shift it

only a little in time and it is done. Anything that has once been full can be

filled again by taking it back to the time of its plenitude."

"Chester, you have a patter that won't quit. But, if it worked -- the

idea would be a good one."

"It does work, Charles. I thought we knew that. We have used it so

long.""You talk and talk, collard," said Chartel. "But I still do not know how

you can change your whole appearance so easily and often."

"Why, Charles, we are protean," said coilon. "That is the sort of man we

are."

It was later the same day that Finnerty, the manager of the show, spoke

to Chartel about the little man.

"Your brother from the old country has put new life into the act," he

said. "Keep him in it. We haven't mentioned money - and I am seldom the one to

bring up the subject -- but we can settle on a figure. Will it be payable to

him or to you?"

"It will be payable to me," said Charles (the Great Zambesi) Chartel.

Confused he was, but he always knew the top and bottom side of a dollar.

Finnerty and Chartel settled on a figure.

"You have been taken for my brother from the old country," Chartel told

cohn a bit later, "and I can see why. I wondered whom you reminded me of. Oh,

stop turning into a rooster. If you were shaved and comleed -- say, that was

quick, contumacel the resemblance would be, is, even closer. You do look like

me; you are an extremely handsome man. But I did not know that I had a

brother, compuesto, and I do not know what country the old country is -- since

I was born on Elm Street in St. Louis."

"Perhaps 'country' is a euphemism for something even closer, Charles;

and the 'old country' may have a special meaning for us. Is it not the name

for what is on the other side of your 'Ocean'?"

"Columkill, you are as phony as -- well, metaphor fails me -- you are as

phony as myself," said Charles Chartel.

Sometimes the little man was frightening in his wild actions. There

wasn't a mean bone in him, and he was almost universally LIKED. But he did act

on impulse.

For him, to think was to act. It was good that everybody liked hadn't they'd

have hanged him high.

And always he would multiply things. Chartel begged for his secret.

"We could be rich, cogsworth, really rich," Chartel would plead.

"But we are already rich, Charles. Nobody has ever had such a rich and

perfected personality as we have. You still do not appreciate the greatness of

our trick, Charles, though we thought about it for years before we were able

to do it. It's the noblest illusion of them all. Now we are citizens of an

abounding world and everything in it is ours. That is to be rich."

"Consuelo, you are a bleeding doctrinaire. I did not ask for a lecture.

I only ask that you show me how to make a hundred dollars grow where one grew

before. I say that is to be rich."

"I've shown you a hundred times, Charles, and you look for more than is

in it. You take a thin old wallet that once knew fatness. You restore it to

its old state, empty it and restore it again, and so you accumulate. But why

do you want money?"

"It is just that I have a passion for collecting it, courlis."

Collecting we can understand, but the true collector will have no desire

for duplicates. Understandably we might want a bill of each size -- a one, a

five, a ten, a fifty -- but we avoid that which once we prized -- the

ten-thousand dollar bill. The avid people have spoiled it for us. But you have

not the true collectors' spirit, Charles."

"I have the true money-collectors' spirit, clendon. Why cannot I

duplicate your feats in this?"

"The only reason I can figure, Charles, is that you're just too

duck-knuckled dum1~and it hurts me to say that about one of ourselves."

But Zambesi-Chartel got a new set of ideas when he saw the trick that

cormorant did with an old hat. It was at a rummage sale at which charleroi

looked in out of curiosity-he was curious about everything.

"What a pixie must have worn this!" he exclaimed. "What a pixie!"

C held the hat in his hands. And then he held the head in his hands. It

was something like a pixie head and it was attached to the body of a young

lady. Cisailles kissed the young lady uncommonly about the temporal regions

and pressed her to his sternum -- for to him impulse was the same as action.

And she squealed.

"Not that I mind-but you did startle me," she chimed. "Who are you? Who,

may I ask, am I? And how in pigeon-toed perdition did I get here?"

"You are a pixie, young lady," said dough, "and as such you are likely

to turn up anywhere. I had your hat, so what more natural than that I should

call you up to fill it."

"I am only a part-time pixie, cartier, but I am a full-time housewife.

Supper will burn. How do I get back?"

The Man Underneath

"You already are," said callimachus. And she was. Or at least she was no

longer there.

And that was the beginning of the trouble; not for c, not for the young

pixie lady, but it was the beginning of the trouble for Charles (Great

Zambesi) Chartel.

Charles knew how it was done now. One cannot continue doing a basic

trick in the presence of such a sharpy as Charles Chartel without his learning

it. And once he had learned how it was done there was no stopping him.

Charles Chartel was not a bad man underneath, but on the surface he was

a rotter. The natural complement of healthy greed that is in every man began

to burgeon unnaturally in him. The hard core of meanness spread through his

whole being. The arrogance of the rooster became that of the tyrant and envy

and revenge burned in him with sulphurous fire.

Chartel now had the key to total wealth, a key that would not only

unlock all doors for him, but lock them against others. He set out to get

control of the show. To do this he had to break Finnerty, the owner-manager,

and buy him out after breaking him.

Business had been good and every night Finnerty had a full cash box. But

before a thing is full, it is half full. And before that, it is a quarter

full. Every night, just as Finnerty went to count the take, Zambesi-Chartel

would play a trick on that box. And it would be only a quarter full. That was

not enough to cover expenses.

Finnerty had never been a saving man. He had always trod the narrow

green edge between solvency and disaster. And in two weeks he was broke.

Finnerty sold the show and the bookings to Chartel for ten thousand

dollars. It made a nice wad in his pocket when he walked away from the show

that was no longer his.

But the meanness was running like a tide in Chartel and he wouldn't let

it go at that. He emptied the wallet of Finnerty again, taking it hack ten

minutes in time. Finnerty felt a certain lightness, and he knew what it was.

But he kept on walking.

"It's lucky he left me with my pants," said Finn, "if he has. I'm afraid

to look down."

A cloud came over the happy little family that was the show. Veronica

felt herself abused and it wasn't imagination. The three Lemon sisters

shivered to the chill of a harsh master. So did Carucehi the singer, and

Captain Carter and his bears. And c, the little man who was the unwitting

cause of it all, took to staying out of the way of the rampaging Chartel.

For Zambesi-Chartel was now avid for praise, for money, for all manner

of meanness. He accumulated coin by every variation of the new trick he had

learned. He robbed by it, he burgled the easy way. It is an awful and

sickening thing to see a good man grow rich and respected.

"But underneath he isn't a bad man at all," Veronica moaned. "Really he

isn't."

"No, underneath he is a fine man," said c, the little man of impulse.

"Who should know better than I?"

"Why, what do you mean, chadwick dear?" Veronica asked him.

"The same as you. Charles is only bad on the surface. Underneath he's a

tine fellow."

Well, that may have been. But on the surface, Zambesi-Chartel sure did

get rough. He demeaned the dignity of his fellow humans and made them eat dirt

by the ton. He went on adrenalin drunks and thrived on the hatred in his own

bloodstream. He became a martinet, a propagandist for the Hoop act. He

registered Democrat. He switched from perfectos to panatelas and from honest

whisky sours to perfidious martinis. He developed a snigger and horselaugh

that wilted pigweeds.

"011, chiot," said Veronica, "we must do something to save him from

himself. We are all involved with him."

"Who should know better than I?" conehylatus asked sadly.

Chartel began to drink tea. He started to call a napkin a serviette and

to omit every single syllable in "extraordinary." He switched allegiance from

the noble National League to the sniveling American. He defrauded his laborers

of their wages, he used scent, he ate vegetarian lunches, he read Walter

Lippmann posthumously, he switched from Gumbo Hair Oil to Brilliantine. Once a

character begins to deteriorate it goes all the way and in every detail.

Chartel had the Green Sickness, the inordinate love of money.

He obtained the stuff, first by all means fair and foul, then by foul

means only. But obtain it he did and it made a sniveling devil out of him.

But the man underneath isn't bad at all," Veronica insisted.

Who should know better than I?" caoine said.

The Grand Canyon began with a prairie dog burrow and once it was started

there was no stopping it. The downfall of Zambesi. Chartel began over a nickel

and then the whole apparatus came down: his wealth, real and phantom -- his

reputation -- the whole blamed complex of the man.

It started with a fist fight he had with a blind newsdealer over a

nickel. It ended with Chartel in jail, indicted, despised, shamed, despondent.

Moreover, public feeling was strongly against him.

Chartel was up on more than twenty counts of theft and pilfering and the

nickel stolen from the blind man was by no means the least of them. He was up

on a dozen counts of wage fraud. He was charged with multiplex pickpocketing

"by device not understood." They had him on faked bill of sale, dishonest

conveyance, simple and compounded larceny, possession of stolen goods,

barratry.

"Looks like we have you on everything but chicken-stealing," the judge

said at the hearing.

"We have him on that, too," said the bailiff. "Five counts of it."

"You would gag a gannet and make a buzzard belch," said the judge. "I'd

crop your ears if that law still obtained. And if we can find a capital

offense in all this offensiveness I'll have your head. It is hard to believe

that you were once human."

Chartel was shamed and sick of heart and felt himself friendless. That

night he attempted to hang himself in his cell. The attempt failed for reasons

that are not clear but not for any lack of effort on his part. It is worthy of

note that the only persons who ever attempt to take their own lives are rather

serious persons.

"We will have to go to him at once, cristophe," said Veronica. "We must

show him that we still love him. He'd sicken a jackal the way he's behaving,

but he isn't really like that. The man underneath --"

"Hush, Veronica, you embarrass me when you talk like that," said

ciahhach. "I know what a prince is the man underneath."

Little C went to visit the Great Zambesi-Chartel in his cell.

"It is time we had a talk," he said.

"No, no, it's too late for talk," said Charles Chartel.

"You have disgraced us both, Charles," said celach. "It goes very deeply

when it touches me."

"I never even knew who you were, little c. You are protean and you are

not at all plausible."

"You called me up and you still don't know who I am, Charles? But this

was our finest trick, our greatest illusion on which we worked subconsciously

for years. We are our own masterpiece, Charles. And you didn't recognize it

when it happened. You are the Magic Man but I am the Magic Man run wild. Aye,

Charles, he's best when he runs wild."

"Tell me, cicerone, who are you? Who am I?" Chartel begged.

"What is my difficulty?"

"Our difficulty, Charles, is that one of us became too serious,"

Camefice tried to explain. "To be serious is the only capital crime. For

that, one of us will have to die -- but it isn't as though it were a serious

matter. Every man is at least two men, but ordinarily the two are not at the

same time bodied arid apparent. Now you have marred our greatest trick -- but

it was fun while it lasted."

He signaled to Veronica and she came down the corridor with a bunch of

boards under her arm. She was admitted to the cell by the puzzled jailor.

One of us will have to leave forever," coquelicot told Charles Chartel.

"It isn't right for both of us to be around."

"Ah, I will be sorry to see you go, chandos," said Chartel. "But who are you?

I never could remember your name properly and there is something weird about

that. You change forever in appearance and name. Who are you, little c?"

"Only that. Just little c. Or shall we say sube? But we are too clever to be

hounded into a hole like this, Charles. Remember! We were our own greatest

trick, even if it failed."

"What must we do now?" Chartel asked dully.

"A simple transference," cogne said. He was building the box board by

board."I'm not a bad man underneath," Chartel sniveled. "I'm misunderstood."

"No, we're a fine man underneath, Charles. I am the man underneath,"

said dud. "Get in the box."

"I get in? I am Charles (the Great Zamheei) Chartel. You are only little

c, sube, an aspect of myself. I will not get into the box!"

"Get in, Charles," said cistercium. "It was a mix-up from the beginning.

You were never meant to see the light of day. The wrong one of us has been

running loose."

"I'll light, Ill claw, I'll rant!"

"That's what a healthy subconscious is supposed to do," cludok said.

"Get in!"

"It's murder! I won't got It's oblivion!"

"No such thing, Charles. It isn't as though we weren't the same person.

I'll still be here."

Then little c and Veronica shoved the Great Zambesi Charles Chartel down

into the box and closed the lid. In doing so, little c became himself the

Great Zambesi. For, when he opened the box again, it was empty. And he took it

apart board by board. The jailor said that he had to have his prisoner and

Veronica gave him the boards.

"There, there, doll," she said. "Make one out of them. Try real hard."

And Veronica and the Great Zambesi left that place.

We won't say that Zambesi wasn't the greatest magician in the world. He may

have become the greatest, after he began to treat it lightly. People, he was

good! There was never any act with such variety and fun in it. After his

strange mid-life hiatus he achieved new heights.

"And I'm certainly glad you overcame your personality difficulties," the

loving Veronica told him later. "For a while there -- whoof! But I always knew

you were a fine man underneath."

INCASED IN ANCIENT RIND

The eye is robbed of impetus

By Fogs that stand and shout:

And swiftness all goes out from us

And all the stars go out.

Lost Skies -- O'Hanlon

"Wear a mask or die," the alarmists had been saying louder and louder;

and now they were saying "Wear a mask and die anyhow." And why do we so often

hold the alarmists in contempt? It isn't always a false alarm they sound, and

this one wasn't. The pollution of air and water and land had nearly brought

the world to a death halt, and crisis was at hand as the stifling poison

neared critical mass.

"Aw, dog dirt, not another air pollution piece," you say.

Oh, come off of it. You know us better than that. This is not such an

account as you might suppose. It will not be stereotype, though it may be

stereopticon.

"The lights are burning very brightly," said Harry Baldachin, "this club

room is sealed off as tightly as science can seal it, the air conditioning

labors faithfully, the filters are the latest perfection, this is the clearest

day in a week (likely a clearer day than any that will ever follow), yet we

have great difficulty in seeing each other's face across the table. And we are

in Mountain Top Club out in the high windy country beyond the cities. It is

quite bad in the towns, they say. Suffocation victims are still lying unburied

in heaps."

"There's a curious thing about that though," Clement Flood said. "The

people are making much progress on the unburied heaps. People aren't dying as

fast as they were even a month ago. Why aren't they?"

"Don't be so truculent about it, Clement," Harry said. "The people will

die soon enough. All the weaker ones have already died, I believe, ar~d the

strong ones linger awhile; but I don't see how any of us can have lungs left.

There'll be another wave of deaths, and then another and another. And all of

us will go with it."

"I won't," said Sally Strumpet. "I will live forever. It doesn't bother

me very much at all. just makes my nose and eyes itch a little bit. What

worries me, though, is that I don't test fertile yet. Do you suppose that the

pollution has anything to do with my not being fertile?"

"What are you chattering about, little girl?" Charles Broadman asked.

"Well, it is something to think about. Gathering disasters usually increase

fertility, as did the pollution disaster at first. It has always been as

though some cosmic wisdom was saying 'Fast and heavy fruit now for the

fruitless days ahead.' But now it seems as if the cosmic wisdom is saying

'Forget it, this is too overmuch.' But fertility now is not so much inhibited

as delayed," Broadman continued almost as if he knew what he was talking

about.Sally Strumpet was a bright-eyed (presently red-eyed) seventeen-year-old

actress, and that was her stage name only. Her real name was Joan Struthio,

and she was met for club dinner with Harry Baldachin, Clement Flood, and

Charles Broadman, all outstanding in the mentality set, because she had a

publicity man who arranged such things. Sally herself belonged to the

mentality set by natural right, but not many suspected this fact: only Charles

Broadman of those present, only one in a hundred of those who were entranced

by Sally's rather lively simpering, hardly any of the mucous-lunged people.

"This may be the last of our weekly dinners that I am able to attend,"

Harry Baldachin coughed. "I'd have taken to my bed long ago except that I

can't breathe at all lying down any more. I'm a dying man now, as are all of

us." "I'm not, neither the one nor the other," Sally said. "Neither is

Harry," Charles Broadman smiled snakishly, "not the first, surely, and popular

doubt has been cast on the second. You're not dying, Harry. You'll live till

you're sick of it."

"I'm sick of it now. By my voice you know that I'm dying."

"By your voice I know that there's a thickening of the pharynx," Charles

said. "By your swollen hands I know that there is already a thickening of the

metacarpals and phalanges, not to mention the carpals themselves. Your eyes

seem unnaturally deep-set now as though they had decided to withdraw into some

interior cave. But I believe that it is the thickening of your brow ridges

that makes them seem so, and the new bulbosity of your nose. You've been

gaining weight, have you not?"

"I have, yes, Broadman. Every pound of poison that I take in adds a

pound to my weight. I'm dying, and we're all dying."

"Why Harry, you're coming along amazingly well. I thought I would be the

first of us to show the new signs, and instead it is yourself. No, you will be

a very, very long time dying."

"The whole face of the earth is dying," Harry Baldachin maintained.

"Not dying. Thickening and changing," said Charles Broadman.

"There's a mortal poison on everything," Clement Flood moaned. "When

last was a lake fish seen not floating belly upward? The cattle are poisoned

and all the plants, all dying."

"Not dying. Growing larger and weirder," said Broad-man.

"I am like a dish that is broken," said the Psalmist, my strength has

failed through affliction, and my bones are consumed. I am forgotten like the

unremembered dead."

"Your dish is made thicker and grosser, but it is not broken," Broadman

insisted. "Your bones are not consumed but altered. And you are forgotten only

if you forget."

"Poor Psalmist," said Sally. This was startling, for the Psalmist had

always been a private joke of Charles Broadman, but now Sally was aware of him

also. "Why, your strength hasn't failed at all," she said. "You come on pretty

strong to me. But my own nose is always itching, that's the only bad part of

it. I feel as though I were growing a new nose. When can I come to another

club supper with you gentlemen?"

"There will be no more," Harry Baldachin hacked through his thickened

pharynx; "We'll all likely be dead by next week. This is the last of our

meetings."

"Yes, we had better call our dinners off," Clement Flood choked. "We

surely can't hold them every week now.

"Not every week," said Charles Broadman, "but we will still hold them.

This all happened before, you know."

"I want to come however often they are," Sally insisted

"How often will we hold them, dreamer, and we all near dead?" Harry

asked. "You say that this has happened before, Broadman? Well then, didn't we

all die with it before?"

"No. We lived an immeasurably long time with it before," Charles

Broadman stated. "What, can you not read the signs in the soot yet, Harry?"

"Just how often would you suggest that we meet then, Charles?" Clement

Flood asked with weary sarcasm.

"Oh, how about once every hundred years, gentlemen and Sally. Would that

be too often?"

"Fool," Harry Baldachin wheezed and peered out from under his thickening

orbital ridges.

"Idiot," Clement Flood growled from his thickening throat.

"Why, I think a hundred years from today would be perfect," Sally cried.

"That will be a wednesday, will it not?"

"That was fast," Broadman admired. "Yes, it will be a wednesday, Sally.

Do be here, Sally, and we will talk some more of these matters. Interesting

things will have happened in the meanwhile. And you two gentlemen will be

here?""No, don't refuse," Sally cut in. "You are so unimaginative about all

this. Mr. Baldachin, say that you will dine with us here one hundred years

from today if you are alive and well."

"By the emphyseman God that afflicts us, and me dying and gone, yes, I

will be here one hundred years from today if I am alive and well," Harry

Baldachin said angrily. "But I will not be alive this time next week."

"And you say it also, Mr. Flood," Sally insisted.

"Oh, stop putting fools' words in peoples' mouths, little girl. Let me

die in my own phlegm."

"Say it, Mr. Flood," Sally insisted again, "say that you will dine with

us all here one hundred years from this evening if you are alive and well."

"Oh, all right," Clement Flood mumbled as he bled from his rheumy eyes.

"Under those improbable conditions I will be here."

But only Sally and Charles Broadman had the quick wisdom to understand

that the thing was possible.

Fog, smog, and grog, and the people perished. And the more stubborn ones

took a longer time about perishing than the others. But a lethal mantle

wrapped the whole globe now. It was poison utterly compounded, and no life

could stand against it. There was no possibility of improvement, there was no

hope of anything. It could only get worse. Something drastic had to happen.

And of course it got worse. And of course something drastic happened.

The carbon pollution on earth reached trigger mass. But it didn't work out

quite as some had supposed that it might.

We shamble thorough our longish terms

Of Levallosian mind

Till we be ponderous Pachyderms

Incased in ancient rind.

Lost Skies -- O'Hanlon

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