"Nothing much! Indeed! This man Vanderhof deserves recognition! He captured those bandits himself—we'd have had to make good on every cent stolen if he hadn't. I still don't know how he did it, but—he did it. That's uVe important thing."
"Well,'' Vanderhof said, "I've been intending to talk to you about Vanderhof for some time. He's the smartest man we have. Candidly, I think he deserves promotion."
"Very well. What have you in mind?"
"Manager. At a corresponding salary."
Throckmorton said slowly, "You know, of course, that the manager of The Svelte Shop is responsible only to me. You will have no authority over Vanderhof if—"
"I know my limitations," Vanderhof shrugged. "Vanderhof needs no discipline."
"Very well," said Throckmorton, pressing a button. 'Til attend to it immediately."
"Uh—" Vanderhof stood up. "By the way—if I should change my mind—"
Steel glinted in Throckmorton's beady eyes. "Indeed! You should have thought of that before. Do you, or do you not, recommend Vancjrhof's promotion."
"I do."
"Then he's promoted. And the matter is now out of your hands—entirely!"
Vanderhof smiled and turned. He walked out on clouds. He did not even know that the elevator was taking him downstairs. Nuts to Walker. . . .
So engrossed was he in day-dreams that he forgot to resume his normal appearance by the time he reached the general offices —which was, save for one person, deserted. This person wore tweeds., and now turned a round, crimson face and a bristling mustache on Vanderhof. It was Colonel Quester.
"Hah!" the colonel bellowed gently. "There you are! I see you've kept me waiting again."
"Uh—"
"Silence!" said Colonel Quester, and the ceiling shook. "I have come for Model Forty-three. Mrs. Quester's still furious, but the gown will placate her, I am sure. Is it ready? It had better be."
"Yes," said Vanderhof faintly. "I—I'll get it."
He fled. He got Model Forty-three, And, looking into a nearby mirror, he saw that he still exactly resembled S. Horton Walker.
Carrying the gown over his arm, on the way back he met one of the models. "Why, there you are, Mr. Walker/' the girl said. "I thought you were in your office."
"I—uh—just stepped out for a minute."
So Walker was in his office! Vanderhof started to grin. He was beaming like
WEIRD TALES
a Cheshire cat when he entered the room where Colonel Quester waited, rumbling faintly like a miniature Vesuvius.
But the colonel softened at sight of the dress. "Ha!" he remarked. "A beauty! It is exclusive, you say?"
Vanderhof stepped back a pace. "The only one in existence," he remarked. "How do you like it, bottle-nose?"
THERE was a dead silence. Colonel Quester breathed through his nose. At last he asked, in a quiet voice, "What did you say?"
"Bottle-nose was the term," said Vanderhof happily. "Also, now that I think of it, you rather resemble a wart-hog."
"Brrrmph!" Quester rumbled warn-ingly.
Brrrmph to you," said Vanderhof. "You rhinocerous. So you want Model Forty-three, do you, fathead ? Well, look."
He held up Model Forty-three, and with a strong tug ripped the dress from top to bottom.
Quester turned magenta.
Vanderhof ripped the dress again.
Quester turned blue.
Vanderhof finished the job by ripping Model Forty-three into ribbons and throwing it into the colonel's face. Then he waited.
Colonel Quester was having difficulty in breathing. His mighty fists were clenched. "Wait," he promised. "Just wait till I control my blood-pressure. I'll break you for this—"
He took a step forward, and simultaneously Vanderhof dived for the inner office. He slipped through the door, held it shut behind him, and saw before him the blue-black thatch Or S. Horton Walker, who
was looking down at some papers on his desk.
Vanderhof asserted his will-power. Instantly he changed his shape.
Walker looked up. "Vanderhof?" he snapped. "I want to talk to you—"
"Just a minute. You have a caller."
"Wait!"
Vanderhof didn't wait. He stepped out of the office, carefully closing the door, and turned to confront Colonel Quester.
"Ah," he said. "What can I do for you, Colonel?"
"Get out of my way," said Quester, in a low, impassioned voice.
"With pleasure," Vanderhof smiled, stepping aside. "If you're looking for Mr. Walker, he's right inside."
To this the colonel made no answer. He entered the inner office, and Vanderhof gently shut the door after him. There was a brief silence.
It was broken by a dull thud, and a short, sharp cry, mingled with a bellow of triumph. Other noises followed.
"Model Forty-three, hey?" a hoarse voice boomed. "By Gad, sir, you'll eat it!"
"Ah?" Vanderhof murmured, walking away. "That lace collar should make a tasty mouthful."
He dusted his hands delicately. He was thinking that he had managed to acquire a personality of his own, and that his weird power of metamorphosis would gradually fade and vanish of its own accord. He was no longer a jellyfish—a chameleon.
He was the manager of The Svelte Shop. A choked gurgle of stark anguish came faintly from the distance.
Tim Vanderhof lifted his eyebrows. "Heigh-ho," he observed. "It's five o'clock. Another day."
THE SHAPE OF THRILLS TO COME
ANOTHER LOVECRAFT THRILLER CLASSIC
pOR your next issue is scheduled yet another Lovecraft masterpiece—a
saga of unutterable horror and unimagined dread! It is a full-length
novelette that holds your interest all the way through, as it builds slowly—
but with terrible sureness—to its ghastly climax! And this novelette, titled
THE SHADOW OVER INNSMOUTH
has never before seen magazine publication.
What monstrousness overshadows the decayed seaport town of Innsmouth —a town which all normal folks shun like a plague? What gruesome bargain can have been made by the ancestors of Inns mouth's inhabitants? For these people, strangely fishlike in appearance, never die; they merely DISAPPEAR. . . . And it is whispered that, at the last, they go down into the sea—and there fulfill their ancient pact with Dagon, bestial fish-god of drowned Atlantis!
Be certain that you do not miss this novelette—a drama positively brimming over with menacing suspense—by the great Howard Phillips Lovecraft!
IN complete contrast is
WHO CAN ESCAPE. . . .
... a novelette by Seabury Quinn. It is the tale of a man whose soul is on the rack all the days of hisJife—and who passes, tortured, into eternity. For he had married for money; and it is a Western saying that he who marries for money must pay. Judson Talley pays—every penny of the cost to the withered phantom of his elderly, revengeful wife!
An Eastern saying, an Arab proverb, asks, "Who can escape what is written on his brow from the beginning?" And Judson Talley did not escape. . . .
Yet—murderer though he is!—you will feel great sympathy for this man.
Ushering in a new year of WEIRD TALES, the January issue carries a fine sifting of tales by your most favored anthors. They are stories chosen with the utmost care, to give you the ultimate in balance and variety.
Your JANUARY Number of WEIRD TALES Goes on Sale November 1st.
COMPLIMENTS OF SPECTRO
10?
Haunted Hour
rpHE sky is colored like a peacock's breast; -*• There Jiagers yet one thin, chill line of gold Down where the woods their somber branches hold In silhouette against the fading west. Dark leaves, dark earth, slow-breathing and at rest, Whence frail scents rise of dew-wet grass and mold. A single star gleams diamond-clear and cold, Like one sharp note from elfin viol wrest.
This is the haunted hour,—such woods surround Grey Merlin in his oak, adrouse with dwale;
In such a gloamin
g once the lorn knight found The faery woman in the river-vale;
And underneath mis star long, long ago
The Dark Tower heard a lonely slug-horn blow!
IUHIHHBHi
He was conjured back to life, this man, by magic half as old as Time, by a secret formula buried deep in the dusty pages of —
Vhe
/3ook
i
WHEN Eric Hanky left his coupe and started toward the house, Susan Blythe stepped out from the vine-covered arbor and called to him. "Mr. Hanley!"
He turned. "Yes, Miss Blythe?" "Would you mind?" she asked, mo-
106
tioning toward the arbor. "I want to talk to you about father—"
Hanley hesitated. His eyes went from the girl's face to the castle-like English house. She noted his hesitation and came a step closer.
"Please! I know he summoned you and it's that I want to talk to you about. I'm afraid—"
< "^FirEis'iiicr-iiis'sta
of the Dead
By
FRANK GRUBER
.--. mt;l ,. r ,,,.,,,.,:,,,,. . : , | .,-:,,,, : ,,,,^
Yes, she was afraid. Everything about her told Hanley that. Her wide eyes, the tautness of her face and the stiffness of her slender body. He moved toward the arbor.
"What is it? I know your father's been overworking, but—"
"It's not the overwork; well, perhaps it is. You were with him in Egypt. I—I
want you to tell me what you found there, what it is that has changed him so."
"Hasn't he told you? Of his discovery?"
She shook her head. "No, but I know it's something important. He's locked himself in his work room for more than two weeks now. He won't let anyone in —and he won't come out. Martha has to
WEIRD TALES
leave his food at the door and when he does think to eat it, he sets the dishes outside the door again. He won't even let me talk to him. He won't see anyone, except Professor Shepard."
"Shepard!" exclaimed Hanley. "I didn't think he would have anything to do with Shepard."
A little shiver seemd to ripple through Susan Blythe. "I don't like Professor Shepard. His eyes—"
Hanley"s face hardened, but he withheld his opinion of Professor Martin Shepard.
It would only have worried Susan Blythe more, for Hanley had been cjuite sure the last time he had seen Professor Shepard that the man was mad. That had been three years ago.
He said: "I'm surprised your father's taken up with Professor Shepard." Vet the moment the words were out, he realized that he wasn't surprised at all. Two weeks ago, he had quarreled with Professor Blythe. "Alt right," Blythe had snapped at him, "if you won't help me, I'll get someone who will."
A frown creased Hanley's forehead and Susan Blythe saw it. "It's true, then, what I've suspected. He's engaged in an experiment. Something—evil—?"
The girl's guess caused Hanley to blink in surprise. His difference with Professor Blythe had been because of something that might be construed by an outsider as— evil!
He took a step away from the arbor. "Perhaps I'd better talk to your father—"
"I want you to, but I want you to promise that you'll tell me what he's doing when you come out. Will you do that?"
Hanley bit his lower lip, uneasily, "I may be forced to give my word to him, in which case—"
"Don't promise him!" exclaimed Susan
Blythe. "If it's unreasonable, don't prom-
thing. Please—!" Her eyes were
bright with tears that threatened to cascade down her face.
"I'll try—" Hanley mumbled and then backed hurriedly away from her. He almost ran to the big English house.
OLD Martha, grown gray in the service of the Blythes let Mm into the house. "Professor Blythe telephoned me to come and see him, Martha," Hanley told the housekeeper.
"Thank the lord!" breathed Martha. "Maybe you can make him stop that awful work he's doing."
"Awful, Martha?"
The housekeeper shuddered. "T h e smells that come from the lab'ratory. You'd think he was embalming some—"
Hanley left her in the hall. He hurried through the house to the door of the laboratory at the rear. When he reached it, he raised his fist and knocked loudly. He had to repeat the knock before an irascible voice inside, snapped: "What the devil do you want? I told you not to disturb me."
"It's Eric Hanley, Professor!"
Hanley heard an exclamation inside the laboratory, then after a moment the door was pulled inward.
The overpowering smell that struck Hanley caused him to reel back. Profes sor Blythe's lean hand reached through the aperture and catching Hanley's wrist pulled him into the room.
"Come in, come in," he snarled. "We haven't got all day."
"Ah," said another voice, "the brilliant young Egyptologist, Mr. Hanley!"
Hanley glowered at Professor Shepard, under whom he had studied twelve years before. Even then, Shepard had been eccentric. It was, in fact, but a year after Hanley's graduation from the university that Shepard himself had resigned—at the insistence of the university board, it was rumored at the time.
THE BOOK OF THE DEAD
109
Behind Hanky, Professor Blythe was bolting the laboratory door.
Hanley, turning, said: "You went on, Professor Blythe. Why did you call me then? You know what I said—"
"I know what you said," Blythe said, harshly. "I know what I said, too. That I was on the verge of a discovery that would rock the world and I would be false to my calling if I did not pursue it to the ultimate conclusion. Well—I have, Hanley."
A cold wind seemed to blow against Eric Hanley's spine. His eyes went to the sarcophagus that stood upright against the far wall. The hinged top was open and the sarcophagus was empty. His head swiv-eled automatically to the table that stood just behind Professor Shepard. There was a long, large object on the table and although it was covered with a sheet, Hanley knew what the object was.
Muscles stood out in bunches on his jaws. He shook his head, slowly. "It's impossible."
"Impossible?" cried Professor Shepard. "Why should it be impossible? Everyone knows that the ancient Egyptians knew more about embalming and preservation than the moderns. Witness the sarcophagi of—"
"Wait a minute, Shepard," Professor Blythe cut in. He came toward Hanley and the latter looking into his eyes, thought for a moment that Blythe was going to take up where they had let off several weeks ago. But after a moment, Professor Blythe's eyes hardened again.
He said, "Eric, you had no faith in the papyrus. You gave it ap because it was unintelligible."
"It was mere gibberish and you know it," Hanley declared. "I've studied the 18th Dynasty papyri in the Egyptian Museum at Cairo and I know that this one we found is either a forgery of a later period, of the work of a maniac or fool of the 18th
Dynasty. There were both in that period, you know," he finished with a note of irony.
Professor Blythe inhaled deeply. "And there are fools, today. You're one, Hanley. And I'll admit that I was, too, for awhile. Just because we found the papyrus in an 18th Dynasty tomb we took it for granted that it had to be of that period. That's where we were wrong, Hanley. We should have known from the accoutrements of the tomb that it had been prepared for a savant of that day—a great savant. His colleagues wanted to do him an especial honor. Perhaps—not an honor. An experiment. They buried with him—■ the original Book of the Dead!"
Hanley gasped. "What are you talking about? The Book of the Dead goes back to the 14th—"
"Farther than that, Eric; to the 4th Dynasty. Eighteen hundred years before Christ. That's why you thought the papyrus unintelligible. Well, I've read it—at last. And I give you my word that the text of it is entirely different from the late-Book of the Dead., which deals mainly with instructions for the soul of the dead in its journeys. This papyrus, my papyrus tells—"
"Don't!" cried Professor Shepard. "Don't tell him, Blythe. He's a scoffing upst
art, who wouldn't believe even if he saw it."
Eric Hanley's eyes glinted. "Let me see it; I'll believe my own eyes—"
PROFESSOR BLYTHE led him to a ■*- desk on which was spread out, held down at strategic points with weights, an ancient, brittle strip of papyrus.
Hanley leaned over the hieroglyphics and the smudged finger of Professor Blythe pointed out symbols to him. "That's where you made your mistake, Hanley. There were fifteen hundred years between those dynasties. Recall how much the me-
no
WEIRD TALES
dieval and modern languages changed in that many years. Compare your Latin of today with that of the time of the Roman empire. Compare your Chaucerian English with the English of today—"
"You have a translation of this papyrus?" Hanley asked, bluntly.
Professor Blythe hesitated, then reached under his tan smock and brought forth a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Hanley, who opened it and glanced at the typed transcript. He had read less than a paragraph when he exclaimed in amazement. "This is absurd. Surely, you're not—"
"OEHIND him Professor Shepard
J3
chuckled and Hanley whirled in time to
see the former let fall the edge of the sheet covering the long object on the table.
Hanley was conscious again of the acrid smells in the room and as the significance of it all struck him his face blanched.
"You're not contemplating—" He stared in bewilderment at Professor Shep-ard's evil face, then continued, "on bringing back to life the mummy?"
Professor Blythe came up beside him and gripped his arm. "You saw the sarcophagus, Eric. In fact, you helped me smuggle it out of Egypt. You knew that it was in an unusually splendid state of preservation. You attributed that to the dry locale in which we found the tomb. You didn't know about—the Book of the Dead."
"Let me have it straight," Hanley said, slowly. "I can't grasp it—"
"All right, my boy," said Professor Blythe in a more composed tone. "You've already guessed, but I'll verify your guess. The sarcophagi contained the mummy of an unusual person. A distinctive one for the 18th Dynasty. We knew that from the hieroglyphics and the accoutrements of the tomb. A king or noble, we thought at first. We were wrong. The mummy is the
Weird Tales volume 36 number 02 Page 17
