Otis Adelbert Kline - Man from the Moon

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Man from the Moon

By Otis Adelbert Kline

LOOKING forward is always an interesting occupation, for the imagination can be given

absolute free play and so many seemingly fantastic pictures may be called into being. But

equally absorbing can be the process of looking backward, though it must be done with

considerably less freedom of imagination. What was the origin of races? Did all of us –

Yellow, Black and White – start our generations in similar manner? How far afield of the

truth are anthropologists? Otis Adelbert Kline has pondered on these questions and, being

a writer of no mean ability, it naturally follows that his story is well worth serious

consideration. Therefore me recommend it heartily, knowing that you will agree with us.

E stood on the eastern rim of Crater

Mound – my friend Professor

Thompson, the noted selenographer,

and I. Dusky shadows lengthened and

grew more intense in the great, deep basin before

us, as the Sun, his face reddened as if from his

day’s exertions, sank slowly beyond the western

rim.

Behind us, Alamo Edwards, the dude

wrangler who had brought us out from Canyon

Diabolo two weeks before, was dividing his time

between the chuck wagon and our outdoor

cookstove in the preparation of our evening meal,

while our hobbled horses wandered about near-by,

searching out clumps of edible vegetation.

“How is the story progressing, Jim?” asked

the professor, referring to a half finished novel I

had brought out with me to occupy my time with,

while my friend puttered among the stones and

rubble in the vicinity.

“I’ve reached an impasse –” I began.

“And so have I,” rejoined my friend

dejectedly, “but of the two, mine is far the worst,

for yours is in an imaginary situation, while mine

is real. You will eventually solve your problem by

using your imagination, which has no fixed

limitations. I can only solve mine by using my

reason, which is limited to deductions from facts.

If I do not find sufficient facts either to prove or

disprove my theory, what have I? A hypothesis,

ludicrously wobbling on one puny leg, neither able

to stand erect among established scientific truths

nor to fall to dissolution among the mistaken ideas

of the past.”

“What single, if weak, leg supports your

theory that the craters of the moon were caused by

meteorites?” I asked.

“You are standing on it,” replied the

professor. Then, seeing me look around in

perplexity, he added: “Crater Mound is the only

known Terrestrial formation that exactly resembles

in shape the great ring mountains of the moon. If

Crater Mound was caused by the impact of a

gigantic meteorite with the earth, there is a strong

probability that the numerous ringed craters of the

moon were created in a like manner.”

“But was it?” I asked.

“That is something I can neither prove nor

disprove,” he replied. “The evidence I have thus

far discovered leads me to believe that many

relatively small meteoric fragments have fallen

here. But they could not have fallen singly, or by

twos and threes to make this dent three-quarters of

a mile in diameter and more than four hundred feet

below the surrounding earth level, to say nothing

of throwing up the ring on which we now stand to

a mean height of a hundred and fifty feet above the

plain.”

“Then how could they have fallen?”

“If this great earthen bowl was caused by

them, they must have struck this plain in an

immense cluster at least a third of a mile in

diameter, probably more.”

“In that case, what has become of the

cluster?”

“Part of it is probably buried beneath the soil.

Part of it, exposed to the air, would have been

burned to a fine ash, having generated a terrific

heat in its passage through the atmosphere and still

Otis Adelbert Kline Man from the Moon Amazing Stories, October, 1930

having, before it cooled, an opportunity to unite

with oxygen. There should, however, be an

intermediary residue which I have been unable to

find.”

“Maybe it was carted off by prehistoric

Americans for the metals it contained,” I feebly

ventured to suggest.

“Improbable as that statement may seem,”

said the professor, “there is a small amount of

evidence in favor of it, for I have found a number

of meteoric fragments miles from the rim of the

crater. By Jove! We appear to have a visitor!”

He clapped his powerful binoculars to his

eyes, and looking in the direction in which they

pointed, I saw a tall, bent figure, apparently attired

in a robe or gown, leaning on a long staff and

carrying a bundle of poles under one arm, slowly

descending the slope opposite us.

“Seems to be a Chinaman,” he said, passing

the glasses to me. “What is your opinion?”

LOOKED and saw an undeniably Mongolian

face, with slanting eyes, prominent cheek bones,

and a long, thin moustache, the ends of which

drooped at least four inches below the chin. The

voluminous garments, though badly tattered, were

unquestionably Chinese, as was the cap with a

button in the center, which surmounted the broad

head.

“A Chinaman or an excellent makeup,” I

replied. “Wonder what he’s doing out here in his

native costume?”

Our speculations were interrupted by the

clarion supper call of Alamo from the camp behind

us:

“Come an’ get it, or I’ll feed it to the

coyotes.”

“You go down and eat,” said the professor.

“I’m not hungry, anyway, and I want to stay here

and watch this curious newcomer. Bring me a

bacon and egg sandwich and a bottle of coffee

when you have finished.”

Knowing my friend’s disposition – for once

he had made up his mind, a fleet of tractors could

not drag him from his purpose – I did not argue

with him, but descended to the camp.

While Alamo grumbled about dudes that were

too interested in rocks to come for their chow

while it was hot, I finished my evening meal. Then,

taking my binoculars, I carried his light snack to

the professor as requested.

The last pink glow of the sun was fading in

the west, and the moon was rising when I reached

the top of the ridge.

“Sit down here beside me,” whispered the

professor. “Our visitor seems to be preparing for a

religious ceremony of some sort, and I dislike

disturbing him.”

While my friend munched his sandwich and

sipped his coffee, I used my binoculars to watch

the Chinaman. He had erected four poles

supporting four others which formed a square

above a low, flat-topped rock near the center of the

crater. Suspended from the horizontal poles by

cords were many small objects which were

apparently very light in weight, for they stirred like

leaves in the breeze. A lighted taper stood in the

center of the flat rock, which was surrounded by a

ring of thin sticks that had been thrust into the

ground. The Oriental was on his knees before the

stone, immobile as the rock itself, his face turned

in our direction.

“Seems to be keeping his eyes on us,” I said.

“I think he is waiting for the moon to rise

above the crater rim,” replied the professor, once

more applying his eyes to his own binoculars.

My friend was right, for as soon as the first

shaft of moonlight entered the crater the kneeling

figure was galvanized into action.

Bursting into a singsong chant, quite audible,

if unintelligible to me, the Celestial applied the

flame of the taper to each of the thin sticks he had

planted around the stone, all of which were soon

glowing like burning punk. Then he stepped

beneath one of the objects suspended from a

horizontal pole, made a short speech in the

direction of the moon, and lighted it with the taper.

It burned out in a few seconds, casting a weird,

yellow light over the scene. Stepping beneath the

next suspended object he made another speech and

lighted that object also. This one burned with a

blue flame. He continued thus for several minutes

until all the dangling objects had been consumed –

each with a different colored flame. Then he

extinguished the taper and knelt once more before

the stone, resuming his chant, and prostrating

himself from time to time with his forehead

touching the stone. The breeze, blowing in our

direction, was laden with the sweet, heavy odor of

burning sandalwood and musk.

A half hour passed with no change in the

ceremony. Then the burning joss sticks winked

out, one by one. When the last went dark, the

Otis Adelbert Kline Man from the Moon Amazing Stories, October, 1930

kneeling man made a final obeisance, then rose,

took down his framework of poles,

tucked them under his arm, and leaning

heavily on his long staff departed toward the west.

“Show’s over,” I said. “Shall we go back to

camp?’

“Hardly,” replied my friend. “I’m going to

follow him. In this bright moonlight it should be

easy. By Jove! What has become of him? Why the

fellow just now disappeared before my eyes!”

“Maybe he fell into a ditch,” I hazarded.

“Ditch, fiddlesticks!” snapped the professor.

“I’ve explored every square foot of this crater and

know there is no depression of any kind where he

was walking.”

“Eastern magic,” I ventured. “Now you see it,

now you don’t.”

“Rot! You stay here and watch the western

slope with your binoculars. I’m going down to

investigate.”

I watched, while the professor stumbled

hastily across the crater and frantically searched

the vicinity of the place where he had declared the

Celestial had disappeared. After a twenty minute

hunt, he gave it up and came back.

“Queer,” he panted as he came up beside me.

“Deucedly queer. I couldn’t find hide nor hair of

the fellow – not even the burnt ends of his joss

sticks. Must have taken everything with him.”

We returned to camp, squatted beside the fire,

and lighted our pipes.

Alamo had stacked the dishes, putting off to

the last the one camp job he hated – washing them

– and was picketing the horses. Suddenly we heard

him sing out:

“Well, look who’s here! Hello, Charlie. You

wantee come along washee dishee, gettee all same

plenty much chow?”

Looking up in surprise, I saw the tall, ragged

Oriental who had disappeared so mysteriously a

few moments before, coming toward us. He was

still leaning on his long staff, but minus the poles

he had previously carried,

HE professor and I both leaped to our feet

from places beside the fire.

The Chinaman paused and looked at

Alamo in evident bewilderment.

“I beg a thousand pardons,” he said in

excellent English, “but your speech is quite

unintelligible to me.”

“Well I’ll be damned!” Alamo tilted his broad

Stetson to one side and scratched his head in

amazement.

By this time my excited friend had reached

the side of our Celestial visitor.

“He was only inviting you to sup with us, in

the patois of the West,” explained the professor.

The Chinaman bowed gravely to Alamo.

“Your magnificent hospitality is duly

appreciated,” he said, “but I beg to be excused, as I

may not partake of food in the presence of the

mighty Magong.” As he uttered the last word he

extended his left hand toward the moon, then

touched his forehead as if in salute. There was

something majestic about his bearing that made

one forget the tattered rags in which he was clad.

“We accept your excuse without question,”

said the professor, quickly. “Permit me to welcome

you to our campfire circle.”

Our guest bowed low, moved into the circle of

firelight, and laying his staff on the ground,

squatted before the fire. Then he took a long

stemmed pipe with a small, brass bowl, from one

of his capacious sleeves, and the professor and I

both proffered our tobacco pouches.

“I’ll use my own, with your indulgence,” said

our visitor, filling his pipe from a small lacquered

box he carried. Before closing the box, he threw a

pinch of tobacco into the fire, raised his left hand

toward the moon, and muttered a few words

unintelligible to me. Then, after touching his

forehead, he lighted his pipe with the glowing end

of a stick from the fire.

After puffing in meditative silence for a few

minutes, he said:

“As I have thanksgiving devotions to perform,

my time is limited. I will therefore, as briefly as

possible, explain the reason for my visit, and

convey to you the communication of the great one,

whose humble messenger I am.

“Twenty years ago I was a Buddhist priest in

T’ainfu. It was expected of every member of our

order that at least once during his lifetime he

should make a pilgrimage to a certain monastery in

Tibet, there to perform mystic rites in a secret

sanctuary, where a sacred stone of immemorable

antiquity was kept. I made the pilgrimage, fully

expecting to return to T’ainfu, as my brother

priests had done and take up the duties of my

humdrum existence there for the term of my

natural life.

Otis Adelbert Kline Man from the Moon Amazing Stories, October, 1930

“There are things which I may tell you, and

things which I may not disclose, so let me explain,

briefly, that the whole course of my life was

changed when first I viewed the sacred stone. It

was graven with mystic characters, similar to, yet

unlike Chinese writing. According to tradition,

none but a living Buddha could decipher this

sacred writing, which might not be transmitted to

any of his followers, however great or wise.

“Now I had, from the days of my youth, made

a study of our ancient writings, and had learned the

meanings of many characters since wholly

obsolete, as well as the former meanings of those

whose significance had been entirely changed. I

firmly believed, with my fellow priests, that none

but the living Buddha might translate the writings

on the stone. You may judge, therefore, of my

surprise, when I found myself able to translate

several of the ideographs graven on its sacred

surface. I instantly believed myself the true

possessor of the karma of Buddha, and that the

living Buddha of my order was an impostor. On

attempting to translate other characters, I found the

majority of them unintelligible to me.

“One of the requirements of my pilgrimage

was that I was to spend four hours a day for a

period of seven days alone on my knees before the

sacred stone. A guard, posted outside the door, saw

to it that but one pilgrim was admitted at a time.

On the day following, I secreted writing materials

in my clothing, and spent the time allotted to me

on that day, and the five days following, in

carefully copying the writings on the stone.

“I carried my prize away without detection,

but did not return to T’ainfu. Instead, I wandered

from monastery to monastery, from temple to

temple, conversing with the learned men and

reading the ancient records to which I, as a pilgrim

priest, was usually given access without question.

The task of translation, which had at first appeared

easy, took me ten years to complete.

“When it was finished I knew that it had not

been written by God, as was supposed, but by the

first earthly ancestor of my race, and I found

myself charged with a trust which appeared as

difficult of fulfillment as the translation itself. The

crater which you have been investigating was

described to me – yet its location was unknown to

the writer. I was charged to find it and to find you.

It took me nine years to find the crater, during

which time I visited thousands, none of which

exactly fitted the description. It took me a year

more to find you and to receive the sign.”

“May I ask what sign you refer to?” inquired

the professor.

“My illustrious ancestor, who charged me

with the task of conveying his message to you, said

in the writing that his spirit would be watching me

from Magong. He prophesied that you would

appear at this place, and when you did, he would

flash a brilliant signal to me from his Celestial

abode.”

“And you have seen the signal?”

“I have and do, for it is still visible. Look!”

He pointed toward the full moon.

The professor looked, then raised his

binoculars to his eyes and focused them.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “You have

unusually sharp eyes. There is a brilliant, star-like

light in the crater, Aristarchus. A rare occurrence,

too.”

“I have studied Magong for many years,”

replied our guest, “and have trained my eyes to see

things hidden from the sight of ordinary mortals. I

could have used a telescope or binoculars, but for

my purpose I have no need of them.”

“Remarkable!” commented the professor.

“And this light fulfills the prophecy?”

“To the letter. Permit me to deliver my

message, therefore, and depart, for I have much to

do before Magong veils her face once more.”

Drawing a large, bulky envelope from his

pocket, the Oriental arose and handed it to the

professor with a profound bow.

Springing to his feet with alacrity, the

professor accepted it with a bow as low and

dignified as that of the donor.

“Man of science,” said our guest. “Use this

message as you will, for that is your privilege, but

you will confer a favor on the illustrious sender

and bring manifold blessings on yourself and your

descendants if you will use it to advance the

knowledge of mankind.”

“I will endeavor to use it as you ask,” replied

the professor, “and thank you for it, and for the

trust you have placed in me.”

“Do not thank me,” was the answer,

accompanied by a significant gesture skyward.

“Thank P’an-ku.”

“I will, and do. May we not have the pleasure

of your company tomorrow?”

“A thousand thanks, and as many regrets, but

my task will have ended when Magong veils her

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1ManfromtheMoonByOtisAdelbertKlineLOOKINGforwardisalwaysaninterestingoccupation,fortheimaginationcanbegivenabsolutefreeplayandsomanyseeminglyfantasticpicturesmaybecalledintobeing.Butequallyabsorbingcanbetheprocessoflookingbackward,thoughitmustbedonewithconsiderablylessfreedomofimagination.Whatwasthe...

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Otis Adelbert Kline - Man from the Moon

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