And so Burl came back to his tribe. He had left it nearly naked, with but a wisp of moth-wing twisted about his middle, a timid, fearful, trembling creature. He returned in triumph, walking slowly and fearlessly down a broad lane of golden mushrooms toward the hiding place of his people.
Upon his shoulders was draped a great and many-colored cloak made from the whole of a moth's wing. Soft fur was about his middle. A spear was in his hand and a fierce club at his waist. He and Saya bore between them the dead body of a huge spider—aforetime the dread of the pink-skinned, naked men. But to Burl the most important thing of all was that Saya walked beside him openly, acknowledging him before all the tribe.
Argosy All-Story Weekly
May 14-June 18, 1921
THE BLIND SPOT
by Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint
The origin of The Blind Spot was researched by Forrest J. Ackerman in the only known interview with Austin Hall, published in the June, 1933, SCIENCE FICTION DIGEST. "One day when Hall was with Homer Eon Flint, Hall held his finger up before one of his eyes and said, 'Couldn't a story be written about that blind spot in the eye?' Not much was said about it until four days later at lunch; then Hall outlined the whole classic to Flint; asked him if he'd like to write it with him.
"When the tale was complete, it stood first eighteen chapters written by Hall; nineteen to twenty-eight by Flint; the rest by Hall. Those having read it know it is supposed to be told by three different characters. This arrangement gave it the differentness required."
Austin Hall gave the date of his birth as "early 1880's" and he died in 1933. His first story was Almost Immortal, written while working on a ranch. "One of the cowboys picked up a story half-written," Hall said, "made me finish it. Those same waddies carried it into town, had it typewritten, and sent it to the editor of the old ALL-STORY MAGAZINE. The editor called it the damnedest lie ever concocted, and bought it."
The redwood area of northern California was Hall's birthplace, and he claimed to have attended a string of schools: Ohio Northern, Ohio State, and the University of California. He became a newspaperman, then worked for a major electrical firm, but dissatisfied with the pay, shifted from place to place until the sale of Almost Immortal convinced him he should become a full-time writer.
Homer Eon Flint was four years younger than Austin Hall, and his last name was actually spelled Flindt. As a boy he read H. G. Wells avidly, and from his father received a deep interest in philosophical works.
When he sold his first story, The Planeteer, to ALL-STORY WEEKLY, Flint resided at 402 N. 13th Street, San Jose, California. He worked in an electric shoe repair shop and there met Austin Hall, who was to remain a close friend the remainder of his life. Homer Eon Flint's death in 1924 was violent and mysterious. He was found dead under an automobile that had evidently gone off the road. The rear wheel of the car had broken off, and the axle was sticking through his stomach. His gun was found fifty feet from the car, and a complete set of burglar tools was in the back seat, with a ball of silk similar to that used in a bank robbery six weeks previously, when three men got away with $350,000. The license plate of the car was that of a known gangster, several times in prison and two years later sent up for fifty years. When questioned, the gangster said that Flint had asked to be driven to Dublin's Canon and that a half-mile from the destination had forced him out at the point of a gun and driven off alone.
So many friends testified to Flint's integrity that the question of his involvement in crime was discarded, but there were other baffling facts, including three rings that had been removed from his fingers and found on the floor of the car.
"The last time I saw Homer alive," Hall said in a blurb accompanying the first installment of The Spot of Life, a sequel he had written alone to The Blind Spot, opening in ARGOSY, August 13, 1932, "we had just come back from a ride. It was a foggy night—two o'clock in the morning, weird and ghostly. Homer stepped away, into the mist—I can see him yet—his dim figure and his voice floating back to me: 'Well, so long. I'll speak to you from the Blind Spot.'"
Presented here are the first ten-thousand words of The Blind Spot, which almost makes a complete story in itself. Though the writing was done by Hall, the philosophical and medical aspects were believed to have been contributed by Homer Eon Flint.
Those who have read The Blind Spot in recent years find it difficult to determine the basis of its admitted popularity upon publication. The early portion with its emphasis on mystery rather than action, its gradual build-up of supernormal events involving several inexplicable disappearences, and its piecemeal introduction of related clues, pointing to a mind-staggering conclusion give it the same appeal as a detective story. Added to this is a pseudo-scientific explanation of another world on a separate plane, existing simultaneously with our own. Those interested in spiritualism interpreted the novel as the authors' attempt to confirm their faith, and from what little we know of Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint, they may have been close to the truth in that surmise. Both the approach and the concept were offbeat and original for that period and those factors were appreciated by the readers.
1. RHAMDA AVEC
ON A CERTAIN foggy morning in September, 1905, a tall man wearing a black overcoat and bearing in one hand a small satchel of dark-reddish leather, descended from a Geary Street car at the fool of Market Street, San Francisco. It was a damp morning; a mist was brooding over the city blurring all distinctness, and even from the center of the loop the buildings facing East Street blurred in a dim, uncertain line.
The man glanced about him; a tall man of certain trim lines and distinctness and a quick, decided step and bearing. In the shuffle of descending passengers he was outstanding, a certain inborn grace that without the blood will never come from training. Men noticed and women out of instinct cast curious furtive glances and then turned away; which was natural, inasmuch as the man was plainly old. But for all that many ventured a second glance—and wondered.
An old man with the poise of twenty, a strange face of remarkable features, swarthy, of an Eastern cast, perhaps Indian; whatever the certainty of the man's age there was still a lingering suggestion of splendid youth. If one persisted in a third or fourth look this suggestion took almost a certain tone, the man's age dwindled, years dropped from him, and the quizzical smile that played on the lips seemed almost foreboding of boyish laughter.
We say foreboding because in this case it is not mistaken diction. Foreboding suggests coming evil; the laughter of boys is whole-hearted. It was merely that things were not exactly as they should be; it was not natural that age should be so youthful. The fates were playing, and in this case for once in the world's history their play was crosswise.
It is a remarkable case from the beginning and we are stating from facts. The man crossed to the window of the Key Route and purchased a ticket for Berkeley, after which, with the throng, he passed the turnstile and on to the boat that was waiting. He took the lower deck, not from choice, apparently, but more because the majority of his fellow passengers, being men, were bound in his direction. The same chance brought him to the cigar-stand. The men about him purchased cigars and cigarettes, and, as is the habit of all smokers, strolled off with delighted relish. The man watched them. Had any one noticed his eyes he would have noted a peculiar color and a light of surprise. With the prim step that made him so distinctive he advanced to the news-stand.
"Pardon me; but I would like to purchase one of those." Though he spoke perfect English it was in a strange manner, after the fashion of one who has found something that he has just learned how to use. At the same time he made a suggestion with his tapered fingers indicating the tobacco in the case and that already lighted by his companions. The clerk looked up.
"A cigar, sir? Yes, sir. What will it be?"
"A cigar?" Again the strange articulation. "Ah, yes, that is it. Now I remember. And it has a little sister, the cigarette. I think I shall take a cigarette, if—if—if you will show me how to use it."<
br />
It was a strange request. The clerk was accustomed to all manner of men and their brands of humor; he was about to answer in kind when he looked up and into the man's eyes. He started.
"You mean," he asked, "that you have never before seen a cigar or cigarette; that you do not know how to use them? A man as old as you are."
The stranger laughed. It was rather resentful, but for all of that of a hearty taint of humor.
"So old? Would you say that I am as old as that; if you will look again—"
The young man did and what he beheld is something that he could not quite account for: the strange conviction of this remarkable man; of age melting into youth, of an uncertain freshness, the smile, not of sixty, but of twenty. The young man was not one to argue, whatever his wonder; he was first of all a lad of business; he could merely acquiesce.
"The first time! This is the first time you have ever seen a cigar or cigarette?"
The stranger nodded.
"The first time. I have never beheld one of them before this morning. If you will allow me?" He indicated a package. "I think I shall take one of these."
The clerk took up the package, opened the end, and shook out a single cigarette. The man rolled it in his hand after the manner of the others; then he lighted it and, as the smoke poured out of his mouth, held the cigarette tentatively in his fingers.
"Like it?" It was the clerk who asked.
The other did not answer, his whole face was the expression of having just discovered one of the senses. He was a splendid man and, if the word may be employed of the sterner sex, one of beauty. His features were even: that is to be noted, his nose chiseled straight and to perfection, the eyes of a peculiar somberness and luster almost burning, of a black of such intensity as to verge into red and to be devoid of pupils, and yet, for all of that, of a glow and softness. After a moment he turned to the clerk.
"You are young, my lad."
"Twenty-one, sir."
"You are fortunate. You live in a wonderful age. It is as wonderful as your tobacco. And you still have many great things before you."
"Yes, sir."
The man walked on to the forward part of the boat; leaving the lad, who had been in a sort of daze, watching. But it was not for long. The whole thing had been strange and to the lad almost inexplicable. The man was not insane, he was certain; and he was just as sure that he had not been joking. From the start he had been taken by the man's refinement; he was one of intellect and education; he was positive that he had been sincere. Yet—
The ferry detective happened at that moment to be passing. The clerk made an indication with his thumb.
"That man yonder," he spoke, "the one in black. Watch him." Then he told his story. Whereat the detective laughed and walked forward.
It is a most fortunate incident. It was a strange case. That mere act of the cigar clerk placed the police on the track and gave to the world the only clue that it holds of the Blind Spot.
The detective had laughed at the lad's recital—most any one had a patent for being queer—and if this gentleman had a whim for a certain brand of humor that was his business. Nevertheless, he would stroll forward.
The man was not hard to distinguish; he was standing on the forward deck facing the wind and peering through the mist at the gray, heavy heave of the water. Alongside of them the dim shadow of a sister ferry screamed its way through the fogbank. That he was a landsman was evidenced by his way of standing; he was uncertain; at every heave of the boat he would shift sidewise. An unusually heavy roll caught him slightly off-balance and jostled him against the detective. The latter held up his hand and caught him by the arm.
"A bad morning," spoke the officer. "B-r-r-r! Did you notice the Yerba Buenna yonder? She just grazed us. A bad morning."
The stranger turned. As the detective caught the splendid face, the glowing eyes and the youthful smile, he started much as had done the cigar clerk. The same effect of age melting into youth and—the officer being much more accustomed to reading men—a queer sense of latent and potent vision. The eyes were soft and receptive, but for all that of the delicate strength and color that comes from abnormal intellect. He noted the pupils, black, glowing, of great size, almost filling the iris and the whole melting into intensity that verged into red. Either the man had been long without sleep or he was one of unusual intelligence and vitality.
"A nasty morning," repeated the officer.
"Ah! Er, yes—did you say it was a nasty morning? Indeed, I do not know, sir. However, it is very interesting."
"Stranger in San Francisco?"
"Well, yes. At least, I have never seen it."
"H-m!" The detective was a bit nonplussed by the man's evident evasion. "Well, if you are a stranger 1 suppose it is up to me to come to the defense of my city. This is one of Frisco's fogs. We have them occasionally. Sometimes they last for days. This one is a low one. It will lift presently. Then you will see the sun. Have you ever seen Frisco's sun?"
"My dear sir"—this same slow articulation—"1 have never seen your sun nor any other."
"Hum!"
It was an answer altogether unexpected. Again the officer found himself gazing into the strange, refined face and wonderful eyes. The man was not blind, of that he was certain. Neither was his voice harsh nor testy. Rather was it soft and polite, of one merely stating a fact. Yet how could it be? He remembered the cigar clerk. Neither cigar nor sun! Of what manner of land could the man come from? A detective has a certain gift of intuition. Though on the face of it, outside of the man's personality, there could be nothing to it but a joke, he chose to act upon the impulse. He pulled back the door which had been closed behind them and reentered the boat. When he returned the boat arrived at the pier.
"You are going to Oakland?"
It was a chance question.
"No, to Berkeley. I take a train here, I understand. Do all the trains go to Berkeley?"
"By no means. I am going to Berkeley myself. We can ride together. My name is Jerome. Albert Jerome."
"Thanks. Mine is Avec. Rhamda Avec. I am much obliged. Your company may be instructive."
He did not say more; but watched with unrestrained interest their maneuver into the slip. A moment later they were marching with the others through the ways to the trains that were waiting. Just as they were seated and the electric was pulling out of the pier the sun breaking through the mist blazed with splendid light through the cloud rifts. The stranger was next to the window where he could look out over the water and beyond at the citied shoreline, whose sea of housetops extended and serried to the peaks of the first foot-hills. The sun was just coming over the mountains.
The detective watched. There was sincerity in the man's actions. It was not acting. When the light first broke he turned his eyes full into the radiance. It was the act of a child and, so it struck the officer, of the same trust and simplicity—and likewise the same effect. He drew away quickly; for a moment blinded.
"Ah!" he said. "It is so. This is the sun. Your sun is wonderful!"
"Indeed it is," returned the other. "But rather common. We see it every day. It's the whole works, but we get used to it. For myself I cannot see anything strange in the 'sun's still shining.' You have been blind, Mr. Avec? Pardon the question. But I must naturally infer. You say you have never seen the sun. I suppose—"
He stopped because of the other's smile; somehow it seemed a very superior one, as if predicting a wealth of wisdom.
"My dear Mr. Jerome," he spoke, "I have never been blind in my life. I say it is wonderful! It is glorious and past describing. So is it all, your water, your boats, your ocean. But I see there is one thing even stranger Mill. It is yourselves. With all your greatness you are only part of your surroundings. Do you know what is your sun?"
"Search me," returned the officer. "I'm no astronomer. I understand I hey don't know themselves. Fire, I suppose, and a hell of a hot one! Hut there is one thing that I can tell."
"And this—"
> "Is the truth."
If he meant it for insinuation it was ineffective. The other smiled kindly. In the fine effect of the delicate features, and most of all in the eyes was sincerity. In that face was the mark of genius—he felt it—and of a potent superior intelligence. Most of all did he note the beauty and 1 he soft, silky superluster of the eyes.
We have the whole thing from Jerome, at least this part of it; and our interest being retrospect is multiplied far above that of the detective. The stranger had a certain call of character and of appearance, not to say magnetism. The officer felt himself almost believing and yet restraining himself into caution of unbelief. It was a remark preposterous on the lace of it. What puzzled Jerome was the purpose; he could think of nothing that would necessitate such statements and acting. He was certain that the man was sane.
In the light of what came after great stress has been laid by a certain class upon this incident. We may say that we lean neither way. We have merely given it in some detail because of that importance. We have yet no proof of the mystic and, until it is proved, we must lean, like Jerome, upon the cold material. We have the mystery, but, even at that, we have not the certainty of murder.
Understand, it was intuition that led Jerome into that memorable trip to Berkeley; he happened to be going off duty and was drawn to the man by a chance incident and the fact of his personality. At this minute, however, he thought no more of him than as an eccentric, as some refined, strange, wonderful gentleman with a whim for his own brand of humor.
Only that could explain it. The man had an evident curiosity for everything about him, the buildings, the street, the cars, and the people. Frequently he would mutter: "Wonderful, wonderful, and all the time we have never known it. Wonderful!"
Under the Moons of Mars: A History and Anthology of the Scientific Romance in the Munsey Magazines, 1912-1920 Page 38
