conflict. I expressed the hope that the intricate fretsaw work, the stained glass, the elegant mansard roof and the soaring central tower would remain mute witnesses to the martial glory of Eleusis, and not fall victim to the 'remodeling' craze.
Dr. Mord, with his characteristic smile (its first effect is unsettling, I confess, but when one later learns of the kindly intentions behind it, one grows accustomed to his face) replied somewhat irrelevantly by asking whether I had any dependents. He proceeded to a rather searching inquiry, explaining that as a man of science he liked to be sure of his facts. I advised him that I understood, diffidently mentioning that I was no stranger to scientific rigor, my own grandfather having published a massive Evidences for the Phlogiston Theory of Heat.* Somehow the interview concluded with Dr. Mord asking: 'Mr. Spoynte, what do you consider your greatest contribution to human knowledge and welfare, and do you suppose that you will ever surpass that contribution?'
*Generally considered the last word on the subject though, as I
••demand it, somewhat eclipsed at present by the flashy and mystical
'molecular theory' of the notorious Tory sympathizer and renegade Benjamin Thompson, styled 'Count' Rumford. 'A fool can alays find a bigger fool to admire him.' [Quote in orig. French? Check source and exact text HS]
I replied after consideration that no doubt my 'high water mark' was my discovery of the 1777 Order Book of the Wyalusing Militia Company in the basement of the Spodder Memorial Library, where it had been lost to sight for thirty-eight years after being rhisfiled under 'Indian Religions (Local).' To the second part of his question I could only answer that it was given to few men twice to perform so momentous a service to scholarship.
On this odd note we parted; it occurred to me as I wended my way home that I had not succeeded in eliciting from the doctor a reply as to his intentions of preserving intact die Haddam house! But he 'struck'
me as an innately conservative person, and I had little real fear of the remodeler's ruthless hammer and saw.
This impression was reinforced during the subsequent month, for the doctor intimated that he would be pleased to have me call on him Thursday evenings for a chat over the coffee cups.
These chats were the customary conversations of two teamed men of the world, skimming lightly over knowledge's whole domain. Once, for example, Dr. Mord amusingly theorized that one of the most difficult things in the world for a private person to do was to find a completely useless human being. The bad men were in prison or hiding, he explained, and when one investigated the others it always turned out Aat they had some redeeming quality or usefulness to somebody.
'Almost always,' he amended with a laugh. At other Hoes he would question me deeply about my life and activist*, now and then muttering: 'I must be sure; I must be sure'—typical of his scientist's passion for precision. Yet again, he would speak of the glorious Age of Pericles, saying fervently: 'Spoynte, I would give anything, do anything, to look upon ancient Athens in its flower!'
Now, I claim no genius inspired my rejoinder. I was merely 'the right man in the right place.' I replied: 'Dr. Mord, your wish to visit ancient Athens could be no more fervent than mine to visit Major Waiting's horse barn at milking time the evening of July 17, 1789.'
I must, at this point, [confound it! I am sure Dr. M. would give permission to elaborate if he were only here! HS] drop an impenetrable veil of secrecy over certain episodes, for reasons which I have already stated.
I am, however, in a position to state with absolute authority that there was no apparition at Major Watling's horse barn at milking time the evening of—
[Steady on, Hardeign. Think. Think. Major W. turned. I looked about No apparitions, spooks, goblins. Just Major W. and myself. He looked at me and made a curious sort of face. No. Nonono. Can't be. Oh, my God! I was the— Fault all mine. Duel, feud. Traitor to dear Eleusis. Feel sick…
. HS]
Being a note delivered by Mrs. Irving McGuinness, Domestic, to Miss Agnes DeW. Stolp, President, the Tuscarora Township Historical Society
'The Elms'
Wednesday Dear Miss Stolp,
Pray forgive my failure to attend the last meeting of the Society to read my paper. I was writing the last words when —I can tell you no more.
Young Dr. Scantt has been in constant attendance at my bedside, and my temperature has not fallen below 99.8 degrees in the past 48 hours.
I have been, I am, a sick and suffering man. I abjectly hope that you and everybody in Eleusis will bear this in mind if certain facts should come to your attention.
I cannot close without a warning against that rascal, 'Dr.' Caspar Mord.
A pledge prevents me from entering into details, but I urge you, should he dare to rear his head in Eleusis again, to hound him out of town as he was hounded out of Peoria in 1929. Verbum sapientibus satifc.
Hardeign Spoynte
King Cole of Pluto
1 Leigh Salvage, Incorporated
Sunlight gleamed on the squat, stubby spaceship. Its rocket exhaust flared once; then paled into nothing. It was drifting through the meteor zone though not the undirected object it seemed to be. Captain Jerry Leigh had his scow under control; the control of a man who was born in the space-lanes, and knew them like his own face.
Captain Jerry was in the cramped cabin of the ship, scribbling at endless computations. 'Allowing for Black's constant,' he muttered,
'plus drift, plus impetus, less inertia …' He turned to a calculator, stabbed at its keys, and read the result. He yanked a bell pull and a clangor sounded through the ship. Men filed in—a full crew meeting.
Jerry rose.
'As I estimate it,' he said, 'the Argol lies in quadrant III of the meteor belt. Its coordinates are alpha—point oh oh four; beta—seven point three oh two; gamma—zero!' There was a shocked pause, and a big man stepped out of the crew. 'Will we go through with it, Captain?
Gamma—zero is a small margin of profit, to say nothing of safety.' He spoke slowly and precisely; the flat 'a' of his English indicated that his tongue had once been more used to the Scandinavian languages.
Jerry smiled: 'Sven, caution is caution, and maybe the salvage money isn't worth the risk.' His face hardened. 'But I'm not working for money alone, and I hope that none of you others are.'
A voice spoke from the floor, 'Glory's glory, but space-bloat is a damned nasty way to die!'
Jerry frowned. There were troublemakers everywhere and all the time.
'Wylie,' he said, 'if you've ever seen a wrecked liner you'll know what we're here for, and what our job is. We salvage and tow the ships wrecked by meteors or mechanical flaws, and we get paid for it. But—
and it's a big but—if we didn't do our job, those ships would run wild.
With no crew, tearing through space at the whim of the governor, plowing through the shipping lanes, never twice in the same place, and finally coming to rest as permanent menaces to trade and life—that's our job! They carry water condensers to Mars; they carry radium to Earth. Para-morphium from Venus, and iridium from Neptune. Without us salvagers there would be no shipping; without shipping the structure of the interplanetary union would topple and fall. This isn't a job or even a career—it's a sacred duty that we do for each and all of the nine worlds of the solar system!
'Coordinates, I said, are alpha—point oh oh four; beta—seven point three oh two; gamma—zero. Carry on; full speed ahead.'
The exhausts flamed; the stubby, rusted prow turned once more—into the meteor zone!
Jerry droned figures to the helmsman with his eyes glued at the vision plate of pure fused quartz. 'Meteor in
