My mind reverts to that early morning when Prince Matani left us so suddenly after his mysterious and unfortunate encounter with our guest from Mars. Perhaps I am oversuspicious as I look back, but it did not ring true, that story of the Prince's as he had told it to me on the telephone on the day following his departure.
The condition in which we had found him in Mr. Zzyx's bedroom was not caused by shock or fright, he said; he had been suffering of late from dizzy spells, and had simply fainted. I don't suppose we'll ever know the truth about it. At any rate, the incident had given him a good excuse to spend a month or so in California for his health, from which I gathered that he was hell bent for Hollywood and a film career. After he had gone, Pat saw a great deal more of McGinity, I noticed, without Henry suspecting it.
Apart from McGinity's valuable services in directing Henry's publicity, and keeping the public's interest keyed up to the highest pitch by his daily newspaper articles, I believe he had as much to do as Henry in the transformation that took place in our Martian visitor.
It is important to say here that at the beginning the public had accepted all these strange revelations from outer space without suspicion, and Henry had won the confidence of the people by stating that he was just as much puzzled about the different occurrences as they were.
But however things happened, three things were sure—facts. First, every one, practically the world over, had listened in to the deciphering of the mysterious dots and dashes on their radios, in the globe-encircling hook-up, that fateful Tuesday night; and this message was generally accepted as coming from Mars, which was then at its closest point to the earth in a hundred years.
Then the rocket, most curiously constructed, had reached the earth in a shower of meteors, which may or may not have been a part of the cosmic bodies which the radio message from Mars had reported as streaming over the planet, a fortnight before the projectile landed here. Lastly, a strange man-beast, totally unlike any living creature on the earth, and strongly resembling the Cro-Magnons, cavemen of 30,000 years ago, had been discovered in the rocket.
The creature in the rocket, Henry always contended, was incidental, but the reason for the rocket was vital. It was vital, he argued, because it carried a history, in code, of Mars and its inhabitants. This code, Olinski was still laboring over, day and night; and he had reported it was as cunning and mysterious a piece of work as he had ever seen. But the end was in sight. Any day now, and Henry could spring the glad tidings that the riddle of Mars had been solved. And in this new knowledge of life and conditions on the planet, he saw a means to dam the curious wave of doubt and suspicion regarding his claims that was threatening to engulf him and his theories.
What did matter, and it was almost fatal in that it gave impetus to this slowly rising tide of mistrust, was that no further radio messages from Mars had been received, following that Tuesday night demonstration. Both Henry and Olinski had made frantic efforts to re-contact the planet, but without result; and every known method to get understandable messages through to Mars was tried. The powerful radio stations of both the Army and Navy had stood by every night, for weeks, to listen in for possible signals from the planet, without success.
All this did not mean necessarily that people were losing interest. As a matter of fact, Henry didn't care what anybody thought. Even if no further messages came from Mars, he still had Mr. Zzyx, who was now living a very active and interesting life. He went out with Henry to clubs, to golf, to the homes of the very rich, and excellent dinners. And wherever he went, the police emergency squads had to be called out to handle the crowds.
The rocket was now reposing in a sealed glass case in the main lobby of the New York Museum of Science. Already it had been viewed by five million people, and they were still coming. Every day, from early morning until closing time, there was a queue of two abreast of those still eager to see the strange projectile that had hurtled through space.
Henry and McGinity gave Jane and me the surprise of our lives the first night they brought Mr. Zzyx downstairs for dinner. The transformation they had wrought in the creature was so utterly incredible that I burst out laughing. Equipped with an ample wardrobe, fashioned by the smartest Fifth Avenue tailors, Mr. Zzyx, through Henry's generosity, was now prepared to shine in the most brilliant and fashionable circles. And yet, even in modern dress, there was still something sinister and ominous about this huge, hairy beast that fairly appalled me.
At my instigation, both Jane and Pat had put extra bolts and locks on their bedroom doors. As for getting into my sleeping apartment, it would have been much easier to get into the safe deposit vaults of the National City Bank. Henry called such precautions "senseless absurdity." Probably such provision against danger was unnecessary, but Pat had had an adventure, shortly after Prince Matani's frightening experience, that had caused the three of us to play safe.
It was easy to understand why Mr. Zzyx took such a fancy to Pat. During his convalescence, she had tried to teach him the alphabet by means of a primer; had shown him picture books, and built houses out of vari-colored blocks, entertaining and amusing him in various ways.
That particular night—early in the evening—she had gone to Mr. Zzyx's apartment with Henry. She happened to be carrying a new novel which she was particularly anxious to begin reading that night. Mr. Zzyx took a fancy to the book, probably on account of the picture of an African jungle luridly depicted in colors on its cover. Pat refused to give it to him, which put him in a bad temper.
She was in a dressing-gown and mules, when she discovered that, after all her trouble in holding on to the book, she had left it behind in Mr. Zzyx's apartment. She hurried back just as she was, and knocked at the door. Niki answered her knock, and on her request, returned the novel, and then closed the door. She went back to her own apartment, and was just about to re-enter it, when she glanced back, down the hall.
Mr. Zzyx was peering out of the doorway of his bedroom. This gave her quite a start, and she darted into her room, quickly locking the door after her.
Her story of what followed was an odd one.
"I wasn't so awfully frightened when I saw Mr. Zzyx peeping out at me," she said, "or I would have gone straight into Aunt Jane's apartment, the safest place in the castle. I had become so accustomed to Mr. Zzyx's antics—he's just as playful as a child—I saw no reason why I should become unduly alarmed. So I settled down, and read my novel until about midnight. I went to sleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.
"I don't know how long I'd been asleep when something aroused me. It was a sound outside my bedroom door. I switched on the lights, slid out of bed, caught up my dressing-gown and went to the door and listened. I distinctly heard a scratching noise outside my door—a sound my pet poodle makes when it wants to come into my room. Then I saw the brass knob, inside my door, moving, and I got the impression that some one was pressing his full weight against the door. Well, I was just too scared to scream, so I started hammering on the door.
"Then I listened again, by placing my ear close against the door. I'm sure I heard a stealthy movement outside, a soft, cat's-foot movement, as though some one was moving away, down the hall; then everything became quiet. Finally, I became more composed myself, and finding that I had not aroused anyone by hammering on the door, I went back to bed. But I never closed my eyes again that night."
When Pat recounted her adventure the next morning at breakfast, Henry was inclined to dismiss it as trivial. "My dear, you had a nightmare," he said. "Who on earth would want to get into your apartment at that hour of the night? As for Mr. Zzyx, why, he wouldn't hurt a fly."
Jane was stunned by Pat's story, and immediately added another bolt to her bedroom door. For myself, I had heard no sound during the night, and I'm a very light sleeper, and easy to waken. I felt, like Henry, that perhaps Pat may have dreamed it.
At least, that was my opinion, until shortly after breakfast, while examining the outside of her bedroom door, I found several distinct marks, where the paint had been scratched, or clawed, off. Discovering these marks, I felt it was not a nightmare of Pat's. So I questioned Niki.
"You don't think it could have been Mr. Zzyx at Pat's door?" I asked him.
Niki looked startled, then he grinned, and established a complete alibi for our guest. "No," he said. "Mr. Zzyx never left his room last night."
I left him, my mind confused in many ways, but entirely clear on one point. There was something at Pat's door, that was sure.
Jane was naturally upset and uncomfortable the first night Mr. Zzyx dined formally with us. We were both dressed for dinner, and waiting in the entrance hall for the others to come down. She had just been telling me of her resolve not to close the castle on November first, and open our town house, a custom we had rigidly followed for so many years, when she happened to glance up the grand staircase. Clutching my arm suddenly, she whispered: "My God, Livingston! Look!"
I turned, and gave one look, and then I burst out laughing, the sight that met my eyes was so incredulous. Marching down the staircase, three abreast, came Henry and McGinity, with Mr. Zzyx between them, all three in immaculate dinner dress and enveloped in an atmosphere of complete dignity. Henry seemed more astounded than affronted at my mirth. Before he could voice his sentiments one way or the other, an excited murmur came from Pat, who had just entered the hall from the drawing room.
"Good work, Uncle Henry!" she exclaimed, rushing over to the foot of the staircase. "And Mr. Zzyx! He looks as smart as they make them!"
Mr. Zzyx seemed pleased at the furore he was causing, and proud of his tailed dinner clothes. He kept drawing our attention to his pearl shirt-studs and cuff-links.
"Now, I suppose Mr. Zzyx will be expected to escort me into dinner," said Pat.
"Not a chance," said McGinity, moving quickly to her side; "unless he's smarter than I think."
As Mr. Zzyx advanced towards Jane, she walked away. She stopped when Henry said: "Don't be afraid, Jane. Mr. Zzyx has no idea of hurting anyone. What interests him is that gold-beaded bag you're carrying."
"Oh!" said Jane, flushing. Then she handed the bag to Mr. Zzyx, who inspected it closely, smelt it, and then gave it back to her.
"Really!" she exclaimed. "He acts almost human!"
At this stage of the proceedings, Schweizer appeared on the scene, to announce that dinner was served. And to my dying day, I shall never forget the mingled look of amazement and horror that spread over the butler's rotund face as his eyes fell on Mr. Zzyx.
And one couldn't blame him. It was enough to give any one the jitters to see this half-human creature in smart evening dress, his heavy animal fur framing a human face, and his hairy hands and forearms protruding from the white cuffs of a stiff-bosomed shirt.
We had not been seated long at the table before I realized that Mr. Zzyx, despite his repulsive appearance, possessed the mentality and playful urge of a child. This was evident during the entrée course, when he began to make wig-wag signals with his napkin, in an effort to attract the butler's attention. What possible motive could he have? Then, suddenly, the truth dawned on me. It was Schweizer who served the dinner, and it was the food he brought that interested Mr. Zzyx most. He had a most voracious appetite.
He sat between Henry and McGinity, in a great throne-chair which Henry had brought from Europe. I must admit Niki had accomplished wonders in teaching him how to handle his knife, fork and spoon. He ate everything that was set before him, and showed a great fondness for Henry's choice wines and champagne. Now and then, he would pause in his eating, and look round the table, his sharp black eyes taking us all in, one at a time; then he would chatter something unintelligible, and resume his eating.
Henry noted this, and remarked: "Of course, we all appear very strange to our honored guest, as it would be if we, ourselves, were catapulted to Mars in a rocket, and suddenly found ourselves dining with a group of Martians. In time, I hope he will be able to speak our language."
"And then we'll know what he thinks about us," McGinity suggested. "But he must realize by this time, how much we all think of him." Turning to Mr. Zzyx, he patted him on the arm, and added: "You're in pretty soft, aren't you, young fellow?"
And to out utter amazement, Mr. Zzyx turned to McGinity and spoke—actually spoke for the first time. He distinctly mouthed a word that sounded like "Spaghet!" with emphasis on the last syllable. He sort of hissed the word.
"There you are!" exclaimed Henry. "I thought all along he had the power of speech. I shall engage a tutor for him the very first thing tomorrow morning."
"He certainly said something," McGinity observed; "sounded like Latin to me."
And then Pat distinguished herself. "My opinion is that he tried to say 'spaghetti'," she offered. "That has some Latin connection, hasn't it? Niki says he's terribly fond of it."
After dinner, Mr. Zzyx lounged indolently in the largest easy chair in the library, while Schweizer served coffee. He smoked one cigarette after another with evident enjoyment. When Henry first offered him one of his big cigars, he surprised and amused us by biting off the end of it, and then throwing the cigar away. The end he thrust in his mouth and began chewing it.
A little later, as I placed my empty coffee cup on the butler's tray—this was after Niki had taken Mr. Zzyx upstairs, to undress him and put him to bed—Schweizer whispered: "I beg pardon, sir, but I don't like the looks of that fellow!"
"I'm afraid, Schweizer," I rejoined, "that you'll be seeing a good deal of this 'fellow' from now on."
The butler reflected a moment in silence on this information, and then walked away, muttering: "I don't like his looks—I don't like his looks!"
XVIII
The following morning, while Henry was making arrangements about engaging a tutor for Mr. Zzyx, and McGinity busied himself in giving proper publicity to our guest's first attempt at speech, Pat and I strolled down to our dock. We went there on Niki's pressing invitation to see the progress Mr. Zzyx was making in operating a runabout Henry had recently acquired.
When we arrived at the dock, Mr. Zzyx was seated in the bow, at the steering-wheel, looking very nautical and important in a blue worsted suit, a white, soft-collar shirt, with a blue and white polka dot tie, and a smart yachting cap. He beckoned at once to Pat to come down and get into the boat.
"Oh, no! Thanks!" she called down to him.
He looked up at Pat and me imploringly. "I guess he wants us both to come for a ride," I said. But Pat said she didn't want to go.
What happened, then and there, was an exhibition of handling a runabout I didn't believe possible in a creature of such low mental caliber. He seemed to take to it instinctively. Knowing there was a great scarcity of water on Mars, I wondered how it came to him so easily.
At Niki's word of command, he started the engine, and then steered the boat, as unerringly as an arrow, in a swift and successful quarter-mile run between the dock and our tiny island of rock, on which stands the ruins of the old, stone lighthouse.
Pat and I applauded his feat on his return. In fact, Pat became so enthusiastic over his expertness in steering the boat, that she took her courage in hand, and ran down the steps, and jumped into the runabout. "Now, Mr. Zzyx," I heard her say, "please give me a ride to the island, and back."
Before I could voice my objection, Niki hopped out, and I was horrified to see the boat race off again towards the island. While I was protesting to Niki, I was keeping my eyes trained on the runabout, which had now reached the island. Even from that distance, I could see Mr. Zzyx doing a peculiar thing.
He had pulled up alongside the small dock; the engine was still running, and the propeller kicking up a lot of foam. Apparently, he didn't know how to tie up the boat. He was standing up, and making funny motions to Pat, who seemed to be protesting by gestures. To say I was not only puzzled but frightened is rather to understate the situation.
If I had any coherent thoughts at all, they were that Mr. Zzyx wanted Pat to go ashore with him and explore the island; he had an abnormal sense of curiosity. There was really nothing of interest to see there. It was all rock, devoid of trees and grass. The only habitable building was a small shanty, which the Government had used for storage purposes before Henry purchased the island.
"Why, in heaven's name, did you let him take Pat off like that?" I protested to Niki. "Why didn't you stay aboard? He's dangerous."
Niki shrugged rather insolently at my fears. Since receiving a liberal payment from Henry on the reward he had earned by first discovering the rocket, he had become rather impudent. "Mr. Zzyx is not dangerous, Meester Livingston," he countered. "He only likes fun—like a leetle kitten!"
"When I say he's dangerous I mean that he is," I replied, with vehemence. Then, profoundly shaken over Pat's security, I cried: "Oh, what shall I do?" and turned round to run back to the castle. The next moment, I had run full tilt into McGinity.
McGinity's reaction to the situation was typical. "That bird is too dangerous to trifle with," he said; and within a few minutes he was in one of our row-boats, heading for the island.
To my amazement, the next thing I saw was Mr. Zzyx bringing the speed-boat back to the dock. I had pulled myself together somewhat when he returned. I was surprised to see Pat, lolling comfortably among some cushions, a cigarette in her hand and a cool smile on her face. By that time, McGinity had put back to the dock. He arrived in time to help Pat out of the runabout.
"What's all the trouble?" she asked him, a little sharply.
"Oh, I don't know," he replied, vaguely. "We just thought you might be stuck over there, and couldn't get back."
"No fear," she returned, and laughed a little. "Mr. Zzyx has too much common sense for that. The way he handles the boat is simply marvelous. It was real excitement. I wouldn't have missed the ride—not for anything!"
"All the same," McGinity remarked, "it was lucky for you, perhaps, that I got here in time—that is, in case anything did happen."
Pat waved that off with a light gesture, and turned to me. "How does Uncle Livingston feel about it?" she inquired.
"I was pretty well excited myself, Pat," I replied; "uneasy-like."
"I simply wanted to show Mr. Zzyx that I'm not afraid to be alone with him, and that I'm a good sport besides," Pat explained.
"It's bad business," said McGinity, "any way you look at it. Matter of fact, I think Mr. Zzyx is bad business."
"I don't see it," Pat retorted.
It was not until an hour later, when I found myself alone with Pat, that I learned the truth about the situation, although I was convinced from the first that she had deliberately overplayed her attitude of indifference to danger.
"I was nearly scared to death," she confessed. "I did not miss Niki until we were well on our way to the island. Mr. Zzyx showed by his actions that he wanted me to tie up the boat, and go ashore with him, but I wouldn't budge. If he had remained there, at the dock, a minute longer, I would have yelled, screamed—jumped overboard. But—" she concluded, as she tightened her grasp of my arm, "never mind what I felt—Bob mustn't suspect."
In other words, she was still concealing her fear of Mr. Zzyx lest something might happen to spoil McGinity's news stories, and remove him from our midst. For some weeks now, he had been assigned by his paper to "cover" Mr. Zzyx's every movement, and to report all the news developments in connection with Henry's theories about Mars. This necessitated his remaining at the castle.
The Daily Recorder, however, long since, had announced in its editorial columns that while it printed all the news concerning the recent Martian revelations, the publishers assumed no responsibility for their veracity, and their readers were left to render a verdict in accordance with the facts. This was a little raw on Henry, I thought.
Anyhow, the incident of the runabout was forgotten in the excitement of the following day, when the Swedish-born Mayor of New York, His Honor, Oscar Swenson, gave an official reception for Mr. Zzyx at the City Hall. And what happened there became local history.
There was a large crowd outside our lodge-gate as we drove off, in an open car; and all along the way, in the suburbs, and through the city, to the downtown district, police reserves had to be called out to control the vast throngs which lined our route.
It was a triumphal procession through the city. Mr. Zzyx waved to the people in response to their loud huzzas. From the clouds of ticker-tape and confetti that descended upon us, he collected a great quantity. He and Henry, sitting in the rear seat, were knee-deep in it by the time we reached the City Hall. On our way, while the procession was held up by cross-town traffic, I bought a raspberry lollypop from a street vendor for Mr. Zzyx. Henry frowned on this as very undignified, but Mr. Zzyx sucked it with great enjoyment. His actions reminded me of a small boy at his first circus.
The day was perfect—the air cool and crisp. We found City Hall plaza one vast sea of faces. As we passed through a barrage of cameramen, a Swedish chorus burst into song; and we had no sooner taken our places on the steps, beside the Mayor, scores of other city officials, and many notable invited guests, when several hundred Swedish gymnasts entertained us with feats of physical prowess.
I wished that Jane and Pat had come with us, but they both had elected to remain at home, and enjoy the happenings at the City Hall through the medium of the radio and television.
Mayor Swenson is a tall, gaunt, rosy-cheeked Swede, but his head only reached to the shoulders of Mr. Zzyx when they stepped in front of the microphone and television transmission instruments. Niki had accompanied us as the Martian's bodyguard, and never left his side. He carried an automatic pistol, ready for any emergency, as I learned afterwards.
It was not my first experience of an official reception at the City Hall, but many years had intervened since I attended the last one. Although I was very familiar with the great changes that had taken place, politically, in the city administration, this first close personal contact with the Mayor, the Board of Aldermen, and the various Commissioners, was in the nature of a shock. There was not one single Irishman in the Aldermanic board, nor even a Jew. The board was composed mostly of Chinese, Turks, Filipinos, and Bulgarians, and one Eskimo, who had entered politics after graduating with honors from Princeton University.
Amid this gathering of mixed nationalities, Mr. Zzyx was an outstanding figure. As time passed, he grew restless, and kept running a long, hairy finger around his immaculate collar as though it choked him. He was attired in a formal cutaway coat and striped trousers, topped with a silk hat, which he wore at an angle that gave him a rather rakish appearance. He looked to me exactly like a huge, over-stuffed piece of furniture, with the hair sticking out.
A breathless hush fell upon the thousands as the Mayor raised his hand to command silence. His voice sounded a bit squeaky through the loud speakers, not thunderous, as I had anticipated. I took notes of his speech, which follows:
"I t'ank it's about time I introduced the city's distinguished visitor from Mars." (A pause until the cheering had subsided.) "I bane t'anking as I stood here that Mr. Zzyx is probably the most unique visitor the great city of New York has ever welcomed, officially, yah?" (More applause.) "Some of you no doubt bane t'anking that he is a great fakir. My wife and me, we bane having an argument about this. My wife, she t'anks he's just a big monkey that's got loose from some zoo." (Laughter.) "When I ask our good friend, Mr. Henry Royce," (Mayor's voice lost in a tumult of cheers)—"when I ask him what he bane t'anking about Mr. Zzyx, and his coming in a rocket, on a beach out on Long Island, he only shakes his head, and says he knows next to noddings; and I t'ank he's just as much fooled as the rest of us. But whether our distinguished guest comes from Mars or the moon, I bane t'anking we must hold fast to our traditions, and bestow on him the key to our great city of fifteen million people—yah? Therefore, it is with the greatest pleasure that I confer such an honor upon Mr. Zzyx, the jungle man from Mars."
So saying, the Mayor handed an important-looking scroll to Mr. Zzyx, who took it, and immediately unfolded it and began to look for pictures. Not finding any, he passed it over to Henry, at whose signal, Niki stepped forward to superintend Mr. Zzyx's introduction at the microphone.
Our Martian visitor made a better showing at the microphone than I had expected. I did not know then that for several days previous to the reception, Niki had coached him in the use of the instrument. First, he peered curiously into it, then he stuck his finger in, as though he had seen some imprisoned insect inside.
Suddenly, he began to chatter, and then, just as suddenly, he stopped. Hearing his own voice amplified through the loud speakers seemed to have startled him. After Niki had patted him reassuringly on the arm, he burst into chatter again, concluding with the only word he could pronounce—"Spaghet!" He seemed to spit the word into the microphone, which sent the crowd into convulsions of laughter and cheers.
That practically ended the official city reception. After stepping into our car, Mr. Zzyx further amused the crowd by smoking a cigarette, and tipping his hat to the ladies, another trick Niki had taught him. On the return trip to Long Island, he was greeted with even greater acclaim than had been shown him earlier in the day.
We found Pat in a state of excitement. Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk, she said, had telephoned during our absence, to announce that she was giving a dinner for Mr. Zzyx on the following Monday. After dinner, she planned to take Mr. Zzyx to the opening performance of the winter season at the Metropolitan-Civic Opera House.
Naturally, Pat was excited about this; we all were. Mrs. Van Dyk is the last word in fashionable exclusiveness in New York society; even European royalty is more accessible.
XIX
Mr. Zzyx behaved beautifully at the very brilliant dinner given in his honor by Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk at her town residence, the last red brick mansion of a remote period, except our own, still left standing in Washington Square. A dinner made more memorable than it otherwise would have been by the distinguished array of guests. Among them, Henry's beloved and revered old friend, the venerable Episcopalian prelate, Bishop William Buckingham, who had grown a bit queer in his dotage.
"A very novel idea on the part of our hostess," the Bishop remarked to Henry after dinner, in the smoking-room, while I sat by, listening and silent. "This sort of thing was done, years ago, at Newport, a monkey-dinner, as I recall reading about it, and the clergy and the newspapers made an awful row. Certainly times have changed when we can sit down to dinner with a man-ape without the flicker of an eye-lash. After this, I shan't be at all surprised to have one of my old parishioners invite me to dine with a white rabbit. Mrs. Van Dyk sets the fashions in New York, you know."
"After all," remarked Henry, "brutes and humans really belong to one great family by common descent."
"Hold your miserable tongue, sir!" the Bishop responded, perkily.
"Not until I've extended an invitation to your reverence, to attend the banquet the Exploration Club is giving for Mr. Zzyx on November thirtieth," Henry rejoined.
"The Exploration Club! How extraordinary!" the Bishop exclaimed. "The most exclusive club of its kind in the city. What's up?"
"Oh, just another revelation concerning Mars," Henry replied, nonchalantly. "You will come, won't you?"
"Do my best to oblige," the Bishop replied.
At that, I felt my ears pricking. I already knew that Henry, Olinski and McGinity, had something new about Mars up their sleeves, which was to be disclosed at the banquet at the Exploration Club. What it was, I had no idea. And I found out nothing that night. The conversation between the Bishop and Henry was cut short by the return of Mr. Zzyx and Niki, who had taken our Martian visitor to the lavatory immediately after dinner, to tidy him up a bit before we left for the opera.
A few moments later, we joined Mrs. Van Dyk, and her house guest, Lady Gwynne of London, in the drawing room. The other dinner guests had gone. Both were ready for the opera, Mrs. Van Dyk in a stunning ermine wrap, and Lady Gwynne in sables.
We had no sooner entered the room, when, to my horror, Mr. Zzyx went straight up to our hostess, and began to chatter, and stroke her ermine coat. Then he walked over to Lady Gwynne, and repeated the action on the sable wrap. I could see that they were both terribly frightened.
Henry took the matter in hand at once, and drew Mr. Zzyx aside, tenderly, as a father would treat a child of doubtful sanity. After quieting him with a cigarette, he left him in Niki's care, and approached Mrs. Van Dyk.
"A bad break, I'm afraid," he said to her, "and I apologize for this breach of propriety. After all, Mr. Zzyx is part animal, and I'm afraid the high instinctive animalism in him was beguiled by the sight and smell of ermine and sable."
"A gesture of Martian jungle courtship," Lady Gwynne suggested.
Henry shook his head. "No; I don't think so," he said. "Mr. Olinski, my associate, and I, have definitely proved that he is not influenced in any way by what we mortals call sex appeal. Otherwise, he would be very objectionable to have about. Pretty clothes, sparkling gems and furs attract him just as toys intrigue small children. While instinctively curious, and perhaps a little bold, he means no harm."
"Let's hope he'll keep up this high standard of behavior," the Bishop remarked. "Undoubtedly a tremendous brute force lies sleeping under his apparent docility. A pretty go, if this brute force is ever aroused in him."
"I hope to God that'll never happen," said Henry, gravely.
And then Mrs. Van Dyk spoke. "We can't expect him to measure up to Park Avenue social standards," she said. "A little clowning now and then is relished by the best of men. Indeed, I've known men in my own set to go much further than the mere stroking of a lady's fur coat."
"Exquisite!" laughed the Bishop.
"How droll!" Lady Gwynne commented.
"As a creature from another planet," Mrs. Van Dyk continued, "I feel very honored in having Mr. Zzyx as a guest in my house."
Henry sighed gustily, and said: "Very friendly of you, Mrs. Van Dyk."
And then the Bishop said: "Well, let's push on to the opera."
The Metropolitan-Civic Opera House was packed that night with one of the largest crowds in its history. I was convinced upon our arrival that the throng was there, not to hear Verdi's opera "Otello," but to see Mr. Zzyx. The evening newspapers had heralded our coming, and we encountered a large crowd outside the opera house, and were met by a barrage of cameramen's flashlights as we entered. Once inside, the crush about us was so great, we had considerable difficulty in reaching Mrs. Van Dyk's box, in the parterre. Although grand opera now was democratized, the "diamond horseshoe" still remained. Opera, I'm afraid, will always remain the pet hobby of the fashionably rich, just as racing will ever be regarded as the sport of kings.
Two uniformed city policemen stood on guard, in the corridor, outside the box. Mrs. Van Dyk, regal in black velvet and sparkling with jewels, occupied the corner nearest the stage. Mr. Zzyx sat in the other corner, with Henry sitting between. Behind them, Bishop Buckingham was sandwiched between Lady Gwynne and Jane, while I hovered, standing, in the rear, too nervous to sit down. Niki was at my elbow.
We had missed the first act. Five minutes after we had settled ourselves in the box, the curtain rose on the second act. Fashionable women, like Mrs. Van Dyk, seem to make it a point to be late at the opera. I doubt if our hostess had ever heard the first act of any opera in the entire Metropolitan-Civic repertoire, during her long ownership and occupancy of the box.
During that five minutes, every eye in the house appeared to be turned on Mr. Zzyx, who, fortunately, was now in a state of lassitude, which always overtook him after a heavy dinner. Apparently undisturbed by the sensation he was causing, he devoted himself, first, to a curious scrutiny of the packed masses in the balconies, then he looked down at the arena below, and, finally, rested his gaze on the two rows of boxes, filled with superbly gowned and bejeweled women.
I was curious to see what effect grand opera music would have upon him. What little music he had heard at the castle had come from our radio, and in this he had displayed only a mild interest. His attitude toward such music as he had heard rather dispelled the theory that had been advanced, that if direct radio communication was ever established between the earth and Mars, the interchange of ideas would necessarily have to be through the medium of music, on account of the lack of a common language.
Here, at last, was a chance to try music at its best on an inhabitant of Mars. I wondered what the reaction would be. Mr. Zzyx watched the musicians curiously as they trickled into the pit, and the noise of the tuning up seemed to interest him immensely. Finally, when the house went dark, he appeared quite excited. Then the baton of the conductor rose, and the first crash of the orchestra came like a thunder-clap.
Mr. Zzyx leapt to his feet, and started to climb over the edge of the box. For a frenzied moment, I thought he was going to dive head first into the midst of the spectators below. But Henry quickly grabbed him by his swallow-tails, and pulled him back into his chair. The incident did not attract the general attention it might have done if the auditorium had not been darkened.
While Henry patted Mr. Zzyx on the shoulder to quiet him, Mrs. Van Dyk leaned over, and said: "I don't wonder at him trying to jump out of the box. To many, grand opera is a perfect hullabaloo, and devastating. That's why so many people go out between acts for a cocktail."
Presently Mr. Zzyx fell to listening, with his mouth open. At first, I thought he was wholly lost in the delight of the orchestral movement—drums and horns were silent now—and the beautiful singing on the stage. Then, like a flash, it occurred to me that it was the dark-skinned Otello who was claiming his attention, not the music or singing.
I watched him, studied him attentively, as the opera swept on to its violent climax—the smothering to death of Desdemona—by the enraged Otello. After the final curtain, while the audience was recalling and applauding the singers, I noticed he looked a little wild about the eyes; a sort of inward brooding.
Was it possible that he had grasped the significance of the story, as it had been unfolded before him on the stage? Could the climax of the opera put ideas into his head beyond his purely natural instincts? The force of ideas even stronger than his own inherent brute force, which might quicken him to the fury of some deed of incredible violence?
But I had no time for surmises. Yet, as we passed out of the opera house, in an atmosphere of acclaim and some disorder, almost mechanically, I jotted down the details in my memory of what I had observed in him. From the look in his eyes, I felt some terrific instinct had been aroused. It gave me a strange and eerie feeling, but I made no mention of it to Henry.
Within ten days I was glad to have paid attention to such details. Little did I suspect then that a black, threatening cloud was gathering over our heads, or that more mystery, intrigue—even death—was closing in about us.
XX
Life at the castle followed its usual routine during the interval between Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk's dinner and opera party, and the banquet at the Exploration Club, in Mr. Zzyx's honor, with one exception, which I shall mention further on.
I was delighted to see that McGinity shared the place of honor allotted to our family group at the banquet, and justly so, because he had put Henry's discoveries and theories over in the biggest possible way. Later in the evening, I found he had other honors accruing to him.
It was not until I was seated with the family party at the head of the long U-shaped table, that I noticed the motion picture screen at the far end of the dining room. Then the full significance of those secret visits to a large film studio in Long Island City, on the part of Henry, Olinski and McGinity, began to dawn upon me.
Gradually worming the secret out of McGinity, who sat on my left (Jane was on my right) I was in possession of the complete facts of the Martian revelations, shortly to be disclosed to this most highly honored body of explorers and scientists, by the time the soup course was over.
After Olinski had deciphered the Martian written message contained in the mysterious scroll, found in the rocket, McGinity had put the information contained therein into scenario form. A screen production, backed by Henry's money, had been staged by one of the largest and most progressive film corporations, at its Long Island City studio, with Henry and Olinski acting in an advisory capacity.
I am telling this circumstantially, because the part McGinity played in writing the scenario made the first real contribution to the solving of the strange mysteries that enveloped us, and because it explains how I myself in a small way became involved in the untangling of the web.
As we sat placidly at the banquet table, my last thought was that within twenty-four hours we would be plunged into a series of events, which savored of the sort of thing associated with sensational fiction, or exciting melodrama on the screen.
At odd moments, I cast my eye across the table at Mr. Zzyx. His prolonged sojourn under our roof had become a "beastly vulgar business," quoting Jane's own words. Daily, we were growing more resentful of his impenetrable stupidity, and utterly bored with his gross and ugly presence. Often I felt myself in the mood to wring his neck.
It was also perfectly clear to me that Henry was beginning to tire of shouldering the responsibility of this big, lumbering creature, but so far he had kept it to himself. I felt angrier with him that I had ever been in my life, yet I was angry rather for him than with him. It was so utterly unlike him to allow the family's unpleasant associations with Mr. Zzyx to continue, when a word from him would have ended it.
The exception to our usual routine at the castle, during the week, related to our guest from Mars. He was beginning to act very queerly. I was of the opinion that a sort of madness was creeping on him, brought on by the unnatural state in which he was living, the strange food he ate so ravenously, and the constant excitement to which he was subjected. One of the spookiest things he did was to move about the castle during the night. Niki might be on guard, and Mr. Zzyx's own bedroom door locked and bolted, but with uncanny skill both were circumvented.
His first real outburst had come on the Friday night, preceding the banquet. He began throwing things at Niki, and did considerable damage to the furniture, pictures and walls in the State Apartment. When I questioned Niki, he had dismissed the affair lightly, with the excuse that Mr. Zzyx had been suffering from insomnia, and was not himself.
Certainly he was not himself at the Exploration Club banquet. During the dessert course, I saw that he had not touched his charlotte russe, and was making holes in the table-cloth with his fork. His pet hobby, while dining, was to roll his bread into little balls, toss them up in the air, and then catch them in his mouth as they fell, something I considered inexpressibly vulgar and disgusting.
I was astonished that Henry, or Bishop Buckingham, who was a member of our party, did not rebuke him for making holes in the cloth; but both seemed preoccupied. In a state of anxiety, I glanced around at Pat, who was sitting on McGinity's left. It was not strange to find that they both were practically oblivious to their surroundings.
The speech-making was now going on, having begun shortly before coffee was served. The speakers were long-winded and tiresome. I am neither a student, nor a philosopher, but I would like some exponent of the doctrine of psychology to explain why men talk so much and at such great length at banquets. I've often wished that some bright person would organize a society for the suppression of after-dinner speakers.
For fully half an hour, now, a little, rabbit sort of man, with big ears and completely bald, and wearing tortoise-shell spectacles, had been telling of his pursuit of prey, biped and quadruped, in distant places, with minute detail of how he had killed one of every species of beast and bird and fish in the world. The guests were showing signs of impatience. Mr. Zzyx began making horrible grimaces, when Henry tapped him warningly on the arm. Then he started to amuse himself making those little bread balls. I became uneasy myself for fear he might throw one of them at the speaker, something I wanted to do myself but did not dare.
Then, suddenly, to my stunned astonishment, Mr. Zzyx picked up the untasted charlotte russe, which is custard in a form made of sponge cake, and hurled it at the speaker, who was directly opposite him. His aim was true, and the little rabbit man got the charlotte russe full in the face.
The guests roared with delight as the mighty hunter dug his features out of the spattering custard, while Henry shook Mr. Zzyx sternly by the arm, and whispered: "You ought to know better!"
Bubbling with mirth, I leaned over to McGinity, and said: "Too bad he got it in the face." To this, the reporter replied: "The main thing is that he got it."
After the bespattered speaker had gone to the lavatory to wash his face, the toastmaster rose, and said: "Now that Mr. Zzyx, our honored guest from Mars, has enlivened our dinner, we shall proceed to the surprise event of the evening.
"No one is asked to accept these new disclosures about Mars which our friend, Mr. Olinski, decoded from the mysterious writings of the scroll, discovered in the rocket, as infallible," he continued. "Even our fellow-scientist, Mr. Royce, who is accountable for this, and other recent events of a scientific nature, which literally have rocked the world, declares an uncertainty still exists in his own mind, and that he is simply making public the information that has fallen into his hands, from strange and unknown sources. In other words, he wishes me to make clear to you all that he's not trying to put something over on us. So, now, let's see what we shall see!"
The film, in four reels, was in the nature of a travelogue, beautifully colored, and interspersed with sound and music. Henry was the pictorial lecturer. McGinity's clever hand was seen in the numerous whimsies and dramatic highlights. Many scenes were genuinely stirring.
Mr. Zzyx, closely guarded by Niki in the darkened dining room, watched the picture unfold with fascinated interest. At times, he would gesticulate, strangely, like one familiar with the subject matter, and utter primitive sounds, as though he wanted to speak, and tell us more startling things about his home planet.
This newly acquired and first-hand information of present day life on Mars, presented in picture form, supplemented by the free play of imagination on the part of the director, proved infinitely more valuable as educational entertainment than the cold facts would have been if delivered from the lecture-platform.
The picture divulged, first of all, that life on Mars had originated and evolved the same as on the earth, with the white division of the human species exercising supreme authority over the affairs of the planet.
Secondly, it showed that the strange, geometric markings on the planet, as studied by astronomers on earth, are not a canal system, or even man-made. The lines, or bands, which some of our astronomers believed to be canals, constituting a system of irrigation, are really deep wide canyons, ten to twelve miles in width at the rim, and descending 2,000-3,000 feet below the sterile plateau-surface of the planet, with cultivated vegetation in the bottom-lands.
The rims of these canyons are fortified with very high and very wide stone walls, a military defensive work, with watch-towers, designed as a protection for the white people who inhabit the canyons from attack by their ancient enemy, the ape-men, who swarm over the tropical regions in countless numbers.
These fortifications somewhat resemble the Great Wall of China, and create a distinct boundary line. Following the course of the canyons, and extending over the surface for many thousands of miles, like a network, it is easy to understand how they were mistaken for the lines of canals, or waterways, as viewed from the earth through our great telescopes. Apparently these canyons were formed by volcanic disturbances in the early ages of the planet, which shivered and rent its surface into these stupendous fissures in the rock.
As a refuge from the bitterly cold nights peculiar to Mars, and the constant cyclonic sand-storms, the canyons make an ideal place of abode. The wind, it seems, blows eternally on Mars, kicking up a fearful dust from the reddish deserts, and making the planet a veritable dustbowl.
I must give Schiaparelli credit, however, for his discovery of the canals, in 1877, for these canyons do really serve as water routes. Running through them are great aqueducts which tap the arctic and antarctic regions, into which the Martians pump water from the melting snow and ice caps. As there are no seas on the planet, and very little rainfall, this water is stored in huge reservoirs, and used largely for irrigating the bottom-land of the canyons, thus rendering them extremely fertile.
Around these reservoirs the white inhabitants cluster, not in cities, but in vast cliff-dwelling communities, the sides of the canyons being honey-combed with homes. The wind-power of the planet is converted into electrical energy in immense funneled power-houses, just as we harness water-power on the earth. The current generated by this method is used to turn the wheels of industry, propel the passenger and freight trains which rumble through the tunnels in the cliffs, connecting the various communities, operate the elevators and escalators uniting the tiers of cliff homes with the fortifications at the rim and the bottom-lands, as well as supplying light and heat for all of the inhabitants.
I have always been puzzled as to how the Martians looked and dressed. The picture interpretation of their daily life revealed tall, stalwart men, with leathery complexions, owing to the lack of moisture in the atmosphere, and graceful, really beautiful women, with classic features, enveloped in veils from head to toe as a protection against the climate. Men, women and children, all garbed and living as the ancient Grecians, with the difference that to their colorful spectacle of life is added the enjoyment of the benefits of scientific inventions.
I marveled at their magnificent temples, set in great plazas, in the bottom-land of the canyons, over thermal springs. Temples largely of glass construction, with airspace between the double walls, which are lined with a transparent substance, resembling cellophane, evidently to keep out the stinging cold of the nights. Grouped about each temple were universities, libraries, museums and coliseums, also of glass, and modeled after the highest forms of what we, on earth, call modernistic art, but which is now regarded on Mars as a relic of ancient art.
As I gazed at the swift moving scenes, I was deeply impressed by the similarity between Mars and Thibet, in Asia, in point of rarity of air, climatic severity, and the superiority and authority of priests. Since the Martians worship fire and water, and venerate as twin goddesses their two tiny moons, which revolve so closely to their planet, I could see how this excessive number of priests was really necessary for the propagation of the State religion. Furthermore, the entire intellectual and cultural life of Mars is vested in the priesthood, and naturally all education and refinement center in the temple areas, just as the industrial and agricultural activities seem to converge at the great reservoirs.
All products, watered by irrigation, are grown under glass; and stored summer sunlight, a process as yet unknown to science on the earth, is used to melt the nightly deposits of frost which accumulate the year round. Horses, cattle and sheep were shown peacefully grazing in glass-enclosed corrals, which are electrically heated at night.
I observed particularly how all the homes in the sides of the canyons had glass fronts, which made the towering steep rocks look like the façade of a modern New York skyscraper. The power of the sun is not so great on Mars as on the earth, consequently the practical utilization of glass for living purposes is quite necessary for the conservation of the sun's light and heat. The materials of which glass is made abound on Mars, the great plateaus having a natural bed of glassy volcanic rock.
If I were here sedulously to outline all of the startling revelations concerning Mars I saw in this picture, it would take many pages; much easier it will be to outline just a few more of the more important disclosures. Unfortunately, there are a few taboos as far as the moral law of our earthly civilization is concerned.
For instance, a specialized offspring is being produced on Mars to save the white race from extinction. Respiratory diseases and their frightening toll of lives, caused by the climatic extremes and the particles of sand in the air, have long been a national calamity. For the begetting and production of the young, the healthiest and most beautiful women of the planet give themselves up to the State as a patriotic duty. Their mates are carefully selected for their mental and physical fitness.
These eugenic babies are born in special establishments attached to the temples, and reared at the expense of the State. The unmarried mothers were shown as they took part in the ceremonials of the temples; some appeared as dancers, while others attended the sacred fire and water shrines, also engaging in the weaving of fine tapestries and in rich embroidery work.
As this strange phase of Martian life was unrolled to our view, I suddenly remembered Jane, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but the room was too dark to observe what effect this scene was having upon her. I must say that at no time did it seem vulgar and lewd; everything was conducted in perfect good taste and propriety.
I was surprised to find that the Martians are ruled by a dictator, a form of government of which I very much disapprove. A very despotic dictator, who has the supreme power to frame the laws and order punishment. And instead of labor unions, they have labor units—units of agriculture, engineering, science, and so on, each with a leader responsible to the dictator.
There's this to say about the Martians. Despite all the handicaps imposed by nature, they manage to enjoy themselves. Fête days in the temple areas are very frequent. In the coliseums they hold thrilling chariot races and gladiatorial combats between trained ape-men from the jungles, who use short swords.
I was rather horrified to learn that slavery is common among them, which will account for the almost constant warfare between them and the ape-men. The herculean task of building their fortifications, which covered many centuries, was made possible by the employment of the ape-men as slaves. The process of evolution seems to have slowed up in the Martian tropics, leaving black, hairy creatures, in form and in intelligence intermediate between the highest ape and man. These ape-men worship the enormous wolf of the deserts, a war-like beast, in peculiar rites of sacrifice and the blood-covenant, which is an outspring of totemism, a stage in all human development.
In retaliation for the slave raids of the whites in the jungles, these ape-men move against them in vast armies, and with surprising agility, over the dead regions of the planet. When they leave their natural location, they live upon the fruits and berries which grow in the many oases scattered over the deserts, where thermal springs are found.
I could well imagine the frightful and devastating effect of these ape-men armies once they were victorious over the whites. The picture showed them attacking the fortifications, and being driven off with showers of bombs filled with deadly gases. When they succeed in plundering the temples, they carry off the cloistered white women as captives to their jungle lairs.
Besides the ape-men and the hazards of climate, the white population is also harassed continually by the foraging beasts, reptiles, birds and insects from the waste regions and the jungles, who destroy the plantations and devour the horses and cattle. To meet the perils of the marauders, the whites maintain a standing-army, scientifically-equipped. Quartered in the canyon fortifications, the army uses a system of wireless-signaling from the watch-towers, to warn the people when in danger of attack.
Getting a first view of these monsters of the Martian deserts and tropical zone, a chill ran down my spine. Many of them were what we term prehistoric monsters—the tapir, tree sloth, and dinosaur. I gasped in horror at the sight of the insects from the jungles—beetles having the bulk of baby elephants, and ants big and strong enough to carry a man on their backs. And what at first I believed to be an airplane, turned out to be an enormous, monstrous bat.
As the film moved swiftly onwards to its completion, the breathless interest of the assembled scientists and explorers was concentrated on the last episode, which proved to contain the most amazing revelation of all.
The rays from the motion picture projector now seemed to flash upon the silver screen like messages of hope. Hope for our white brethren, on a faraway star, beset on all sides by danger, and threatened with extinction. With increasing excitement, I watched, through a happy haze of light, the great transformation that was now taking place in that bright point of light that studs our darkling sky—the planet Mars.
XXI
There, fast unreeling before our eyes, were undeniable evidences of the changed conditions that our radio broadcasts had wrought on Mars. I had no misgivings now about our short wave programs reaching that planet. We saw the Martians listening in to our daily broadcasts, and becoming not only quite in sympathy with our American ideas but benefitting therefrom.
Intercepting musical and talking programs from New York, London, Paris, Rome, Bombay, Tokyo and Melbourne, and out of the strange babble of voices and senseless prattle, soon, presto! evolves a translation of the English language. Think of it!
But how, out of all this jumble of unintelligible words, which meant nothing to them at all, did they succeed in translating the English language? We shall see!
When the group of American scientists sent a message to Mars, in the International Morse code, by directing a powerful beam of light on the planet from the summit of the Jungfrau, in Switzerland, the beam was brought into the range of the telescope of a young priest-astronomer in one of the Martian temples. Having already made superficial translations of the English language, as it registered on the temple radio receiving set, this youthful Martian incarnation of an earthly Marconi, succeeded in deciphering the code as registered by this beam of light. The result was a rather crude transcription into the English language, but sufficiently intelligible to exchange radio communications, in code, with the earth.
Our short wave programs and code messages, it seems, have long been registering on Mars, but their source was unknown until this beam of light from the Jungfrau was picked up and decoded. The belief, long persisting among the priest-scientists, that there were human beings on the earth, known to them as the Blue Sphere, as intelligent as themselves, it was perfectly natural that they should begin at once to try and contact, by wireless, the planet from which they had caught the beam of light.
For some reason or other, not made clear, they had failed. Perhaps their signaling was mistaken for static on our radios, and was unrecognizable among the weird chattering and apparitions, which scientists claim are caused by the auroras and echoes of radio signals sent from the earth. Certainly no one had the sense, or intelligence, to pick them out of the static, and decode them, until Henry and Olinski began their experiments.
It amazed me to learn that the radio had been developed by the priest-scientists on Mars long before it became generally used on the earth. But it had never been popularized. Its use there had been confined solely to the temples in religious ceremonies, to awe the superstitious masses, as the voice of their unseen gods, and in linking up the various governmental and military outposts. The idea of making it an instrument of popular education and entertainment first came from the earth's music broadcasts, with the result that life on Mars has become almost completely revolutionized.
It was my theory, then, that this clever, young Martian priest-astronomer, who had first decoded the beam of light signals into English, was the originator of the rocket-to-earth idea, and the author and transmitter of the radio message, which had thrilled the world, on the night of the public demonstration in Radio Center. There was every likelihood, too, that he had composed and penned the cuneiform message contained in the scroll, which had been so skillfully translated to the screen for our entertainment and edification.
My amazement grew beyond bounds as the last episode of the travelogue progressed, and I realized how completely Americanized the Martians were becoming through the medium of our radio broadcasts. The short waves from the American stations seemed to register stronger on Mars than those of any other broadcasting stations in the world. And there was the stark truth, galvanized into life on the screen.
Martians flocking in thousands to the temple areas, to listen in, by means of loud speakers, to our educational broadcasts and national programs, as interpreted by their priests. Our school curriculum, talks on farming, science, finance and politics being discussed at symposiums. Applications of American rules of health and hygiene already in force, and largely decreasing the death rate.
Symphony orchestra concerts and grand opera broadcasts relayed from the temples to loud speakers in all public squares of the various communities. The younger generation learning to dance, with partners, to jazz music. Martian youngsters hearing bedtime stories for the first time in their lives—and learning of such important, earthly make-believe characters as Mother Goose and Mickey Mouse. Baseball rapidly displacing chariot racing and gladiatorial combats as a popular amusement.
Furthermore, the masses were beginning to enjoy luxuries hitherto unattainable; the Martian markets being flooded with soaps, tooth-paste, perfumes, hair dressings, cold cream, face powder and cigarettes, all patterned and manufactured after the American products, advertised so extensively in all short wave broadcasts reaching that planet. Martian women were being amazingly transformed into pinkly powdered persons, smartly rouged and lipsticked, slender lined, and giving out a fascinating scent.
The most astounding revelation was contained in the fact that the whole political, social and economic order of the planet was being threatened by the new ideas caught from the American short wave broadcasts. Armed with this new knowledge, the political order of the planet, a form of despotism, was facing disruption, the people actually demanding a democratic form of government, patterned after the American plan.
Even the State religion, the idolatrous worship of fire and water, and the twin moon goddesses, was being undermined. Flashing across the sidereal abyss that yawns between the earth and Mars, had come the first message of Christ. Christian cults were springing up in all parts of the planet despite the drastic action on the part of the State, to forestall the accomplishment of the people's designs, and the overthrow of their ancient religion. Hundreds of pagan priests had become converts to Christianity; they were deserting the temples, and sallying forth to preach a new gospel of salvation.
The slavery of the ape-men was being attacked by the Christians as inhuman. Thousands of slaves owned by the whites had actually been freed. Christian missionaries were penetrating the jungles. A truce had been declared in the warfare that had long been raging between the white race and the ape-men. Mediation was already in progress. A movement for peace and good will among men, and charity for all, was sweeping the planet. Better days were coming to Mars....
The picture was over all too soon; enthusiasm ran high and oratory flowed freely. It marked the close of a great day in the life of Henry. The toastmaster moved his fellow-diners to thunderous applause when he declared: "This event will go down in scientific history as one of the greatest achievements of man." Subsequent speakers showered flowery encomiums on Henry, whose courage and capital had made the occasion possible. Even the sceptics conceded that it all seemed feasible.
The startling disclosures, together with the pictorial creation and grandeur of their interpretation, had held me spellbound. I was impressed as never before in my life; convinced now, in fact, that the information contained in the scroll of life on Mars, extraordinary and incredible as it seemed, was genuine. "Henry's a great man," I thought. My faith was pinned on him now; I didn't care what any one else thought. Transplanted for more than an hour, into a region of wide spaces, as I watched the film unroll, and grasping ultimately the idea that order and efficiency, among human beings like ourselves, could reign on another planet as well as our own, it took me several minutes to come out of my trance, after the close of the picture.
When I did, finally, just as the lights were turned on, I no longer saw a populous planet, with its strange and romantic people being dominated by American ideas, but Pat and McGinity hurriedly disengaging hands. I pretended to take no notice of them. Yet I smiled to myself. While the procession and pageantry of life, in a faraway world, had been weaving their patterns on the screen in astonishing illumination, these two had been holding hands under the table. New worlds might be created, and others grow dim and crumble, I thought, but love would go on just like that—holding hands under the table.
Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps McGinity was just patting Pat's hand to soothe her. She hadn't been well lately; her face had grown pale and anxious from the strain and excitement under which we were living.
McGinity turned to me. "Well, what d'you make of it?" he asked.
"Wonderful!" I replied.
"Oh, I wouldn't have missed seeing this, not for worlds!" Pat chimed in. "I feel as though I'd been up in the clouds, among the stars. It was so thrilling, so overpowering, I don't really feel let down yet. How do you feel?" she added, looking at McGinity.
"Me?" McGinity answered. "Oh, I feel as if I'd fallen down a couple of flights of stairs."
"I've seen great revelations in my time," I remarked, "but this is the most triumphant—" I stopped. The reporter's rather cryptic remark was puzzling me. I glanced at him quizzically. He did not look right, somehow; too much gravity and anxiousness in his pose and countenance, considering this crowning moment in his life. "Something displeased you?" I inquired. "You look worried."
His reply, though vague, immediately aroused my curiosity. "I'd like to see you, alone—tonight—after we return to the castle," he said, in a low voice. "I want to talk over something with you."
That ended our conversation. He excused himself, and hurried away to telephone to the Recorder. Newspapers, not only in New York but throughout the country, and the rest of the world as well, were prepared to devote columns to the momentous event; far more important, to my mind, than the radio message from Mars, and the landing of the Martian rocket, with its strange passenger, for here were actual revelations direct from the planet, proving conclusively that it was inhabited by human beings, who were subject to the same laws, the same temptations and passions which affect ordinary humanity.
It was amusing to see the small regiment of reporters present, rushing off to their different papers to write their stories, as soon as the picture had faded from the screen. McGinity, being more advantageously placed, was ahead of the rest of them in that he had filed his story for the Daily Recorder earlier in the evening. After he had telephoned to his office, and given word for its release, and told what had happened at the banquet table, excerpts from the speeches, etceteras, he was free to accompany us to Sands Cliff.
He had something to tell me. What? It might be nothing, and it might be a good deal. The time of surmising came to its end. Within a few minutes after our arrival at the castle, we were closeted together in his apartment. Middle of the night though it was, I felt excited and bouyant, and filled with a sense of adventure. Lighting a cigar, I settled down in an easy chair, and waited.
The reporter walked up and down the room with his hands plunged deep in his trousers' pockets, and his head bent downwards. He appeared to be tracing the designs in the rug beneath his restless feet. Suddenly, he pulled himself out of his concentrated mental effort, stopped dead, and turned to me.
"Mr. Royce," he said, "do you believe all this stuff that's been happening?"
"Yes," I replied, promptly. "That is, in a way. Why, what do you think?"
For a moment he stood gazing at me in silence, intently. Then he asked: "I wonder if you think what I think?"
"Well," I answered, "if you want to know, I think that if all this that's been happening was contrived and worked out by a human mind, then a human mind can discover what it's all about."
He stared thoughtfully at me a moment before he spoke. "It wouldn't surprise me a bit if you've hit on something," he said at last.
"Yes?" I said. "I'm afraid I don't see it yet. I'm just telling you what I think."
"Exactly," said McGinity. "Now, you think something, and I think something. Very good. If we're both convinced on one point, why not join hands, and follow a new line, which may lead us out of all this mystery to something in the way of solution?"
"That," I replied, instantly, "is just the very thing we shall do!"
"Of course, you must know, as well as I do, that it's all highly improbable, utterly impossible," the reporter observed.
"I suppose it is," I answered, "yet the Science Editor of the Times declared only last Sunday that radio signaling to Mars was 'technically possible.'"
"Granted," agreed McGinity; "but that's another question. What concerns us now is what has already occurred—to prove that it isn't true, without injuring your brother's standing as a scientist."
"I've never known a man so positive as Henry is on this Martian radio signaling and rocket business," I said. "He believes it's all true, and I see no reason whatever to think that it isn't. While there's considerable scepticism in the outside world, no one has yet come forward with a clue—not a single clue—to prove that Henry and Olinski are all wrong, or are being duped."
"Would it surprise you very much if I produced—a clue?" McGinity asked.
"It certainly would," I replied.
The reporter then did a most surprising thing, which gave a startling and dramatic turn to our conversation.
"I've been convinced all along," he said, as he walked over to a secretary, in which he unlocked and opened a drawer, "that there was a human agency—a master mind—at the bottom of all this. In what way, I didn't know—couldn't guess. But, now, I'm sure of it."
From an inner receptacle of the drawer, he produced the scroll, which was found in the rocket, the contents of which Olinski had so skillfully decoded, and he had put into scenario form. He laid it on the table before me.
"Take a look at that," he said.
Carefully unrolling the scroll, I inspected it closely through a reading glass. The tiny cuneiform writing was no more intelligible to me than the hieroglyphics on Cleopatra's Needle in Central Park. It was inscribed on what I judged to be papyrus, the writing-paper of the ancient Egyptians. No doubt the papyrus-plant also grew on Mars. As I looked it over carefully, I detected a curious, subtle scent, like some rare perfume. The roller, I took to be ebony.
I smiled dryly, and made a move to hand it back to the reporter. "I'm afraid I can't make anything out of it," I said; "at least, nothing suspicious, or in the way of a clue."
He waved it off. "You're not finished with it yet," he said. "Try holding it up against the light. Study it again—carefully."
I did as he directed, unrolling the scroll a little at a time, and looking through it, against the bright light of the reading lamp. Suddenly, I stopped—startled; my eyes seemed to pop.
McGinity's voice broke in on the silence.
"You see it?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered, my voice trembling. "I see it."
"Very well," he said. "Now, we know where we are."
XXII
There was not much to see when I unrolled the scroll, and inspected it against the lamplight, as McGinity had directed, but what there was assured me that the reporter was right when he said that he had made a find. Now, we knew something.