by Various
When they looked back toward the valley and the distant Gardner place at the bottom they saw a fearsome sight. All the farm was shining with the hideous unknown blend of colour; trees, buildings, and even such grass and herbage as had not been wholly changed to lethal grey brittleness. The boughs were all straining skyward, tipped with tongues of foul flame, and lambent tricklings of the same monstrous fire were creeping about the ridgepoles of the house, barn and sheds. It was a scene from a vision of Fuseli, and over all the rest reigned that riot of luminous amorphousness, that alien and undimensioned rainbow of cryptic poison from the well—seething, feeling, lapping, reaching, scintillating, straining, and malignly bubbling in its cosmic and unrecognizable chromaticism.
Then without warning the hideous thing shot vertically up toward the sky like a rocket or meteor, leaving behind no trail and disappearing through a round and curiously regular hole in the clouds before any man could gasp or cry out. No watcher can ever forget that sight, and Ammi stared blankly at the stars of Cygnus, Deneb twinkling above the others, where the unknown colour had melted into the Milky Way. But his gaze was the next moment called swiftly to earth by the crackling in the valley. It was just that. Only a wooden ripping and crackling, and not an explosion, as so many others of the party vowed. Yet the outcome was the same, for in one feverish kaleidoscopic instant there burst up from that doomed and accursed farm a gleamingly eruptive cataclysm of unnatural sparks and substance; blurring the glance of the few who saw it, and sending forth to the zenith a bombarding cloudburst of such coloured and fantastic fragments as our universe must needs disown. Through quickly re-closing vapours they followed the great morbidity that had vanished, and in another second they had vanished too. Behind and below was only a darkness to which the men dared not return, and all about was a mounting wind which seemed to sweep down in black, frore gusts from interstellar space. It shrieked and howled, and lashed the fields and distorted woods in a mad cosmic frenzy, till soon the trembling party realized it would be no use waiting for the moon to shew what was left down there at Nahum's.
Too awed even to hint theories, the seven shaking men trudged back toward Arkham by the north road. Ammi was worse than his fellows, and begged them to see him inside his own kitchen, instead of keeping straight on to town. He did not wish to cross the blighted, wind-whipped woods alone to his home on the main road. For he had had an added shock that the others were spared, and was crushed forever with a brooding fear he dared not even mention for many years to come. As the rest of the watchers on that tempestuous hill had stolidly set their faces toward the road, Ammi had looked back an instant at the shadowed valley of desolation so lately sheltering his ill-starred friend. And from that stricken, far-away spot he had seen something feebly rise, only to sink down again upon the place from which the great shapeless horror had shot into the sky. It was just a colour—but not any colour of our earth or heavens. And because Ammi recognized that colour, and knew that this last faint remnant must still lurk down there in the well, he has never been quite right since.
Ammi would never go near the place again. It is forty-four years now since the horror happened, but he has never been there, and will be glad when the new reservoir blots it out. I shall be glad, too, for I do not like the way the sunlight changed colour around the mouth of that abandoned well I passed. I hope the water will always be very deep—but even so, I shall never drink it. I do not think I shall visit the Arkham country hereafter. Three of the men who had been with Ammi returned the next morning to see the ruins by daylight, but there were not any real ruins. Only the bricks of the chimney, the stones of the cellar, some mineral and metallic litter here and there, and the rim of that nefandous well. Save for Ammi's dead horse, which they towed away and buried, and the buggy which they shortly returned to him, everything that had ever been living had gone. Five eldritch acres of dusty grey desert remained, nor has anything ever grown there since. To this day it sprawls open to the sky like a great spot eaten by acid in the woods and fields, and the few who have ever dared glimpse it in spite of the rural tales have named it "the blasted heath."
The rural tales are queer. They might be even queerer if city men and college chemists could be interested enough to analyze the water from that disused well, or the grey dust that no wind seems ever to disperse. Botanists, too, ought to study the stunted flora on the borders of that spot, for they might shed light on the country notion that the blight is spreading—little by little, perhaps an inch a year. People say the colour of the neighboring herbage is not quite right in the spring, and that wild things leave queer prints in the light winter snow. Snow never seems quite so heavy on the blasted heath as it is elsewhere. Horses—the few that are left in this motor age—grow skittish in the silent valley; and hunters cannot depend on their dogs too near the splotch of greyish dust.
They say the mental influences are very bad, too; numbers went queer in the years after Nahum's taking, and always they lacked the power to get away. Then the stronger-minded folk all left the region, and only the foreigners tried to live in the crumbling old homesteads. They could not stay, though; and one sometimes wonders what insight beyond ours their wild, weird stories of whispered magic have given them. Their dreams at night, they protest, are very horrible in that grotesque country; and surely the very look of the dark realm is enough to stir a morbid fancy. No traveler has ever escaped a sense of strangeness in those deep ravines, and artists shiver as they paint thick woods whose mystery is as much of the spirit as of the eye. I myself am curious about the sensation I derived from my one lone walk before Ammi told me his tale. When twilight came I had vaguely wished some clouds would gather, for an odd timidity about the deep skyey voids above had crept into my soul.
Do not ask me for my opinion. I do not know—that is all. There was no one but Ammi to question; for Arkham people will not talk about the strange days, and all three professors who saw the aërolite and its coloured globule are dead. There were other globules—depend upon that. One must have fed itself and escaped, and probably there was another which was too late. No doubt it is still down the well—I know there was something wrong with the sunlight I saw above that miasmal brink. The rustics say the blight creeps an inch a year, so perhaps there is a kind of growth or nourishment even now. But whatever demon hatchling is there, it must be tethered to something or else it would quickly spread. Is it fastened to the roots of those trees that claw the air? One of the current Arkham tales is about fat oaks that shine and move as they ought not to do at night.
What it is, only God knows. In terms of matter I suppose the thing Ammi described would be called a gas, but this gas obeyed laws that are not of our cosmos. This was no fruit of such worlds and suns as shine on the telescopes and photographic plates of our observatories. This was no breath from the skies whose motions and dimensions our astronomers measure or deem too vast to measure. It was just a colour out of space—a frightful messenger from unformed realms of infinity beyond all Nature as we know it; from realms whose mere existence stuns the brain and numbs us with the black extra-cosmic gulfs it throws open before our frenzied eyes.
I doubt very much if Ammi consciously lied to me, and I do not think his tale was all a freak of madness as the townfolk had forewarned. Something terrible came to the hills and valleys on that meteor, and something terrible—though I know not in what proportion—still remains. I shall be glad to see the water come. Meanwhile I hope nothing will happen to Ammi. He saw so much of the thing—and its influence was so insidious. Why has he never been able to move away? How clearly he recalled those dying words of Nahum's—"Can't git away . . . draws ye . . . ye know summ'at's comin' but tain't no use. . . ." Ammi is such a good old man—when the reservoir gang gets to work I must write the chief engineer to keep a sharp watch on him. I would hate to think of him as the grey, twisted, brittle monstrosity which persists more and more in troubling my sleep.
* * *
Contents
WHEN I GROW UP
by Richard E. Lowe
The two professors couldn't agree on the fundamentals of child behavior. But that was before they met little Herbux!
The University sprawled casually, unashamed of its disordered ranks, over a hundred thousand acres of grassy, rolling countryside. It was the year A.D. 3896, and the vast assemblage of schools and colleges and laboratories had been growing on this site for more than two thousand years.
It had survived political and industrial revolutions, local insurrections, global, inter-terrestrial and nuclear wars, and it had become the acknowledged center of learning for the entire known universe.
No subject was too small to escape attention at the University. None was too large to be attacked by the fearless, probing fingers of curiosity, or to in any way over-awe students and teachers in this great institution of learning.
No book was ever closed in the University and no clue, however tiny, was discarded as useless in the ceaseless search for knowledge which was the University's prime and overriding goal.
For no matter how fast and far the spaceships might fly, or what strange creatures might be brought back across the great curve of the universe or how deeply the past was resurrected or the future probed, of one thing only was the University quite sure--man did not know enough.
All manner of schools had come into being at the University, and often they functioned in pairs, one devoted to proving a proposition, and the other to disproving it. And among these pairs of schools two, in particular, seemed to exist on a most tenuous basis. Their avowed mission was to settle the age-old argument concerning the relative influences of heredity and environment.
One, headed by Professor Miltcheck von Possenfeller, worked tirelessly to prove that there was no such determining factor as heredity, and that environment alone was the governing influence in human behavior.
The other, under the direction of Dr. Arthur D. Smithlawn, was dedicated to the task of proving that environment meant nothing, and that only heredity was important.
Success, in short, could only come to those who were born with the genes of success in their bodies, and failure was as preordained for the rest as was ultimate death for all.
Over a period of more than two hundred years the School of Environment had been taking babies from among the thousands of homeless waifs gathered in throughout the universe, and raising them carefully in a closely supervised, cultural atmosphere.
The School of Heredity, on the other hand, was more select. Its pupils came only from families whose genealogy could be traced back for at least a thousand years. Freedom of choice and expression was the rule here, since the school was attempting to prove that a child's inherited tendencies will send it inevitably along a predetermined path, completely uninfluenced by outside help or hindrance.
In two centuries neither school had been able to develop an overpowering case in support of its own theory. Hence they both thrived, and cheerfully ignored the discrepancies which existed in the case records of individuals who had not turned out according to the book.
Although they were zealous professional rivals, Prof. von Possenfeller and Dr. Smithlawn were devoted personal friends. They called each other Possy and Smithy and got together once a week to play chess and exchange views on the universe in general. Only one subject was taboo between them--their experimental work.
On this particular Saturday night, however, Smithy noticed that his good friend Possy was terribly agitated and disturbed, and had for the third time carelessly put his queen in jeopardy.
"My dear friend," exclaimed Possy, blindly moving his king into check. "Could you possibly be persuaded to ignore for the moment our ban on professional talk? There is something--"
Smithy, secretly, was only too anxious to talk at great length. But he pretended to give the request serious consideration.
"If it is really important," he said. "Yes, by all means. Go right ahead."
"Smithy," Possy plunged on, "I am nonplussed. I am really, terribly disturbed. I've never felt like this before."
Smithy waited patiently while Possy poured himself a large brandy and soda, hastily gulped it down, and made a face as he regretted the action.
"How much do you know about our methods of working in the School of Environment?" the professor asked, taking a new tack.
"Nothing, of course," replied Smithy. The statement was not precisely true, but Smithy was not yet ready to confess that he had spies in his friend's school.
"Well, then," said Possy, knowing full well that Smithy had been getting reports on his college for many years, and feeling secretly glad that he, in turn, had been spying.
"Well, then," he repeated, "you should be aware that we know absolutely nothing about the children we enroll. Most of them are infants. We do not know who their parents were, or where they were born. Except for the obvious clues which their bodies furnish, we do not even know their national or racial origins.
"We bring them up with absolutely equal treatment--the finest of everything. At the age of five we divide them arbitrarily into classes and begin training them for occupations. Some we educate as scholars, some laborers, some professional men. In me, dear friend, you see one of the triumphs of our methods. I myself was a foundling--raised and educated in the School of Environment. Whatever I may be, I owe to the School."
He paused to give Smithy a chance to digest the statement.
"Of course," Possy continued, "we take into consideration such factors as physical build and muscular development. We don't train undersized boys to be freight handlers. But in general the division is arbitrary. And you'd be amazed how they respond to it. To keep a check on things, we interview our students twice a year to see how much they have learned.
"We always ask them what they want to be when they grow up. That enables us to determine whether or not the training is really taking hold. Occasionally, it is true, we find a case where the schooling seems to run counter to natural aptitudes--"
Smithy could not resist interrupting. "Natural aptitudes? I am surprised to hear you use such an expression. I thought you furnished your students with aptitudes through environmental conditioning."
Stiffly, Possy retorted, "Sometime we will have a full, objective discussion of the matter. It is not pertinent at this moment. Of course I believe in natural, or instinctive aptitudes. But I do not believe that they are inherited from parents or even from remote ancestors."
"Cosmic rays, perhaps," needled Smithy, and became instantly sorry when his friend's face began to redden. Possy didn't believe in cosmic rays, obviously. Smithy apologized.
Possy sighed deeply and made a fresh start. "My friend," he said, "in your work, as I understand it, you learn everything you can about a student's past--and about his progenitors. By so doing you hope to be able to predict his future abilities, his likes and dislikes. But what course do you pursue when you find a boy who just doesn't prove out according to the prognostications?"
Smithy mumbled a few evasive words in reply, but refused to be drawn into giving a positive answer.
"Never mind," Possy said. "What would you say if you asked a boy what he liked, or what he wanted to do and his answer concerned something that never existed, or had never been dreamed of? Something horrible."
Smithy's eyebrows perked up. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that his interest had been aroused.
"What, precisely, do you mean?" he demanded.
"Just this," Possy said, leaning forward to give emphasis to his words. "We have a boy who is being trained as a space navigator. He is very bright. He is of medium build, as a spaceman must be, and he learns easily and willingly. We are sure now that he will be ready for pre-space school two years before he reaches the minimum age. Yet, whenever this boy is asked what he wants to do, he replies, 'I want to be a Destructor.'"
Smithy's lips parted. But for a moment he remained completely silent while his mind stumbled over the strange term.
"Destructor?" he repeated, at last.
&nbs
p; "Wait," said Possy, "and listen carefully. This boy is now ten years old. He first gave me that answer three days ago. He repeated it two days ago, then yesterday and again today. I had never interviewed him before. I never interview a student personally until the tenth year--so I quite naturally had his files double-checked. Smithy, he's been giving the same answer ever since he was five years old. Two interviews a year for six years--and three extra ones this week! Imagine! Fifteen times this boy has said he wants to be a Destructor--and no one even knows what a Destructor is."
"Well," Smithy said with a shrug, convinced that Possy was getting all excited over nothing, "I admit it seems strange--and highly single-minded for so young a boy. But don't you imagine it's some word he just made up?"
"I admitted that as a possibility until this morning. But look here."
Possy reached behind his chair and took up a small leather bag. Slowly he unzipped it and delved inside. Then, with a grim flourish, he brought forth the body of a cat.
As Smithy's eyes widened, Possy said dramatically: "Smithy, that boy killed this cat with a glance."
"With a--a what?"
"A glance! You heard me correctly. He just looked at the cat, and the beast dropped dead. And he did it to other things, too--a sparrow, a baby fox. Why, he even did it to a rat that had been cornered by this very cat.
"I tell you, I had never been so shaken by anything in all my life. I said to myself, 'Possy, have you got yourself a mutant?' 'No,' I replied. 'He's completely normal in every respect, physically and otherwise. He's a bit brighter than average, perhaps--ninety-eight six in his studies, including elementary astrophysics. He speaks brilliantly, composes poetry, even invents little gadgets. He's a genius, maybe, but not a mutant.' Then I asked myself, 'how do you account for the cat?'"
