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The Slithering Shadow/Chapter IV

Straining vainly at the silk cords which cut into her wrists, Natala sought to pierce the darkness beyond the radiant circle. Her tongue seemed frozen to the roof of her mouth. Into that blackness she had seen Conan vanish, locked in mortal combat with the unknown demon, and the only sounds that had come to her straining ears had been the panting gasps of the barbarian, the impact of struggling bodies, and the thud and rip of savage blows. These ceased, and Natala swayed dizzily on her cords, half fainting.

A footstep roused her out of her apathy of horror, to see Conan emerging from the darkness. At the sight she found her voice in a shriek which echoed down the vaulted tunnel. The manhandling the Cimmerian had received was appalling to behold. At every step he dripped blood. His face was skinned and bruised as if he had been beaten with a bludgeon. His lips were pulped, and blood oozed down his face from a wound in his scalp. There were deep gashes in his thighs, calves and forearms, and great bruises showed on his limbs and body from impacts against the stone floor. But his shoulders, back and upper-breast muscles had suffered most. The flesh was bruised, swollen and lacerated, the skin hanging in loose strips, as if he had been lashed with wire whips.

"Oh, Conan!" she sobbed. "What has happened to you?"

He had no breath for conversation, but his smashed lips writhed in what might have been grim humor as he approached her. His hairy breast, glistening with sweat and blood, heaved with his panting. Slowly and laboriously he reached up and cut her cords, then fell back against the wall and leaned there, his trembling legs braced wide. She scrambled up from where she had fallen and caught him in a frenzied embrace, sobbing hysterically.

"Oh, Conan, you are wounded unto death! Oh, what shall we do?"

"Well," he panted, "you can't fight a devil out of hell and come off with a whole skin!"

"Where is it?" she whispered. "Did you kill it?"

"I don't know. It fell into a pit. It was hanging in bloody shreds, but whether it can be killed by steel I know not."

"Oh, your poor back!" she wailed, wringing her hands.

"It lashed me with a tentacle," he grimaced, swearing as he moved. "It cut like wire and burned like poison. But it was its damnable squeezing that got my wind. It was worse than a python. If half my guts are not mashed out of place, I'm much mistaken."

"What shall we do?" she whimpered.

He glanced up. The trap was closed. No sound came from above.

"We can't go back through the secret door," he muttered. "That room is full of dead men, and doubtless warriors keep watch there. They must have thought my doom sealed when I plunged through the floor above, or else they dare not follow me into this tunnel.—Twist that radium gem off the wall.—As I groped my way back up the corridor I felt arches opening into other tunnels. We'll follow the first we come to. It may lead to another pit, or to the open air. We must chance it. We can't stay here and rot."

Natala obeyed, and holding the tiny point of light in his left hand and his bloody saber in his right, Conan started down the corridor. He went slowly, stiffly, only his animal vitality keeping him on his feet. There was a blank glare in his bloodshot eyes, and Natala saw him involuntarily lick his battered lips from time to time. She knew his suffering was ghastly, but with the stoicism of the wilds he made no complaint.

Presently the dim light shone on a black arch, and into this Conan turned. Natala cringed at what she might see, but the light revealed only a tunnel similar to that they had just left.

How far they went she had no idea, before they mounted a long stair and came upon a stone door, fastened with a golden bolt.

She hesitated, glancing at Conan. The barbarian was swaying on his feet, the light in his unsteady hand flinging fantastic shadows back and forth along the wall.

"Open the door, girl," he muttered thickly. "The men of Xuthal will be waiting for us, and I would not disappoint them. By Crom, the city has not seen such a sacrifice as I will make!"

She knew he was half delirious. No sound came from beyond the door. Taking the radium gem from his blood-stained hand, she threw the bolt and drew the panel inward. The inner side of a cloth-of-gold tapestry met her gaze and she drew it aside and peeked through, her heart in her mouth. She was looking into an empty chamber in the center of which a silvery fountain tinkled.

Conan's hand fell heavily on her naked shoulder.

"Stand aside, girl," he mumbled. "Now is the feasting of swords."

"There is no one in the chamber," she answered. "But there is water—"

"I hear it," he licked his blackened lips. "We will drink before we die."

He seemed blinded. She took his darkly stained hand and led him through the stone door. She went on tiptoe, expecting a rush of yellow figures through the arches at any instant.

"Drink while I keep watch," he muttered.

"No, I am not thirsty. Lie down beside the fountain and I will bathe your wounds."

"What of the swords of Xuthal?" He continually raked his arm across his eyes as if to clear his blurred sight.

"I hear no one. All is silent."

He sank down gropingly and plunged his face into the crystal jet, drinking as if he could not get enough. When he raised his head there was sanity in his bloodshot eyes and he stretched his massive limbs out on the marble floor as she requested, though he kept his saber in his hand, and his eyes continually roved toward the archways. She bathed his torn flesh and bandaged the deeper wounds with strips torn from a silk hanging. She shuddered at the appearance of his back; the flesh was discolored, mottled and spotted black and blue and a sickly yellow, where it was not raw. As she worked she sought frantically for a solution to their problem. If they stayed where they were, they would eventually be discovered. Whether the men of Xuthal were searching the palaces for them, or had returned to their dreams, she could not know.

As she finished her task, she froze. Under the hanging that partly concealed an alcove, she saw a hand's breadth of yellow flesh.

Saying nothing to Conan, she rose and crossed the chamber softly, grasping his poniard. Her heart pounded suffocatingly as she cautiously drew aside the hanging. On the dais lay a young yellow woman, naked and apparently lifeless. At her hand stood a jade jar nearly full of peculiar golden-colored liquid. Natala believed it to be the elixir described by Thalis, which lent vigor and vitality to the degenerate Xuthal. She leaned across the supine form and grasped the vessel, her poniard poised over the girl's bosom. The latter did not wake.

With the jar in her possession, Natala hesitated, realizing it would be the safer course to put the sleeping girl beyond the power of waking and raising an alarm. But she could not bring herself to plunge the Cimmerian poniard into that still bosom, and at last she drew back the hanging and returned to Conan, who lay where she had left him, seemingly only partly conscious.

She bent and placed the jar to his lips. He drank, mechanically at first, then with a suddenly roused interest. To her amazement he sat up and took the vessel from her hands. When he lifted his face, his eyes were clear and normal. Much of the drawn haggard look had gone from his features, and his voice was not the mumble of delirium.

"Crom! Where did you get this?"

She pointed. "From that alcove, where a yellow hussy is sleeping."

He thrust his muzzle again into the golden liquid.

"By Crom," he said with a deep sigh, "I feel new life and power rush like wildfire through my veins. Surely this is the very elixir of Life!"

"We had best go back into the corridor," Natala ventured nervously. "We shall be discovered if we stay here long. We can hide there until your wounds heal—"

"Not I," he grunted. "We are not rats, to hide in dark burrows. We leave this devil-city now, and let none seek to stop us."

"But your wounds!" she wailed.

"I do not feel them," he answered. "It may be a false strength this liquor has given me, but I swear I am aware of neither pain nor weakness."

With sudden purpose he crossed the chamber to a window she had not noticed. Over his shoulder she looked out. A cool breeze tossed her tousled locks. Above was the dark velvet sky, clustered with stars. Below them stretched a vague expanse of sand.

"Thalis said the city was one great palace," said Conan. "Evidently some of the chambers are built like towers on the wall. This one is. Chance has led us well."

"What do you mean?" she asked, glancing apprehensively over her shoulder.

"There is a crystal jar on that ivory table," he answered. "Fill it with water and tie a strip of that torn hanging about its neck for a handle while I rip up this tapestry."

She obeyed without question, and when she turned from her task she saw Conan rapidly tying together the long tough strips of silk to make a rope, one end of which he fastened to the leg of the massive ivory table.

"We'll take our chance with the desert," said he. "Thalis spoke of an oasis a day's march to the south, and grasslands beyond that. If we reach the oasis we can rest until my wounds heal. This wine is like sorcery. A little while ago I was little more than a dead man; now I am ready for anything. Here is enough silk left for you to make a garment of."

Natala had forgotten her nudity. The mere fact caused her no qualms, but her delicate skin would need protection from the desert sun. As she knotted the silk length about her supple body, Conan turned to the window and with a contemptuous wrench tore away the soft gold bars that guarded it. Then, looping the loose end of his silk rope about Natala's hips, and cautioning her to hold on with both hands, he lifted her through the window and lowered her the thirty-odd feet to the earth. She stepped out of the loop, and drawing it back up, he made fast the vessels of water and wine, and lowered them to her. He followed them, sliding down swiftly, hand over hand.

As he reached her side, Natala gave a sigh of relief. They stood alone at the foot of the great wall, the paling stars overhead and the naked desert about them. What perils yet confronted them she could not know, but her heart sang with joy because they were out of that ghostly, unreal city.

"They may find the rope," grunted Conan, slinging the precious jars across his shoulders, wincing at the contact with his mangled flesh. "They may even pursue us, but from what Thalis said, I doubt it. That way is south," a bronze muscular arm indicated their course; "so somewhere in that direction lies the oasis. Come!"

Taking her hand with a thoughtfulness unusual for him, Conan strode out across the sands, suiting his stride to the shorter legs of his companion. He did not glance back at the silent city, brooding dreamily and ghostily behind them.

"Conan," Natala ventured finally, "when you fought the monster, and later, as you came up the corridor, did you see anything of—of Thalis?"

He shook his head. "It was dark in the corridor; but it was empty."

She shuddered. "She tortured me—yet I pity her."

"It was a hot welcome we got in that accursed city," he snarled. Then his grim humor returned. "Well, they'll remember our visit long enough, I'll wager. There are brains and guts and blood to be cleaned off the marble tiles, and if their god still lives, he carries more wounds than I. We got off light, after all: we have wine and water and a good chance of reaching a habitable country, though I look as if I've gone through a meatgrinder, and you have a sore—"

"It's all your fault," she interrupted. "If you had not looked so long and admiringly at that Stygian cat—"

"Crom and his devils!" he swore. "When the oceans drown the world, women will take time for jealousy. Devil take their conceit! Did I tell the Stygian to fall in love with me? After all, she was only human!"

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Declassified per Executive Order 13526, Section 3.3 NND Project Number: NND 63316. By: NWD Date: 2011 TOP SECRET – Sensitive Secondly, that government "should formally request that the United States assume responsibility for training ... forces and providing the military equipment, financial assistance and political advice necessary to insure internal stability." The Chiefs saw no role in training for the French; the third precondition called for complete French withdrawal from the country:

"Arrangements should be made with the French granting full independence to the Associated States and providing for the phased, orderly withdrawal of French forces, French officials and French advisors from Indochina in order to provide motivation and a sound basis for the establishment of national aimed forces. The United States from the beginning should insist on dealing directly with the governments of the respective Associated States, completely independent of French participation or control."

Finally, both "local military requirements and the over-all US interests should dictate the size and composition of indigenous forces."

 * b.

Of the four preconditions, only the second presented no problem. The State Department, notably Secretary Dulles, Walter F. Robertson, Assistant Secretary of State for the Far East, and Kenneth T. Young, head of an interdepartmental Vietnam Task Force, objected to the other three stipulations. Dulles outlined his thinking in a letter of August 18 to Defense Secretary Charles Wilson. Agreeing that the Diem government "is far from strong or stable" Dulles pointed out that reorganization and retraining of the army was "one of the most efficient means of enabling the Vietnamese Government to become strong. Calling this "the familiar hen-and-egg argument as to which comes first," Dulles made his preference clear. He saw two courses of action open to the United States:

"one, to strengthen the government by means of a political and economic nature and the other, to bolster that government by strengthening the army which supports it."

Dulles wished to adopt both courses.

As for the question of French presence or absence, Dulles said:

It would be militarily disastrous to demand the withdrawal of French forces from Vietnam before the creation Rh

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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Declassified per Executive Order 13526, Section 3.3 NND Project Number: NND 63316. By: NWD Date: 2011 TOP SECRET – Sensitive of a new National Army. However ... there would seem to be no insuperable objection to the U.S. undertaking a training program ... while at the same time the French Forces commence a gradual phasing out from that theater.

 * c.

Adoption of NSC 5429/2 indicates the U.S. Government found Dulles' views more persuasive than those of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. But while it was agreed to "work through the French only insofar as necessary" to build up indigenous forces, the program for bolstering the Vietnamese army was not developed for several months.

 * d.

On September 22, in a memorandum recommending establishment of a MAAG, Cambodia (if "all French advisors ultimately" are withdrawn, if the U.S. deals directly with Phnom Penh and if these caveats are written into a bilateral agreement with Cambodia), the JCS recommended against assignment of training responsibilities to the Saigon MAAG because of the "unstable political situation" in South Vietnam. Instability was noted "with concern" by the JCS in a second September 22 memorandum dealing with development of forces in Indochina, as was the cease-fire agreement (called "a major obstacle to the introduction of adequate US MAAG personnel and of additional arms and equipment"). Because of these factors, the Chiefs considered "this is not a propitious time to further indicate United States intentions with respect to the support and training of Vietnamese forces."

But the JCS had been directed by the NSC to address the question of Vietnamese force levels; against their best wishes, one supposes, this memorandum forwarded their views. A 234,000-man army was proposed for Vietnam; the annual cost of training and maintaining this force — assuming France turned over to the VNA aims and equipment furnished under the U.S. Military Development Assistance Program since 1950 — was put at $420 million. Another $23.5 million would be needed to train and equip the Navy and Air Forces. Further, the JCS wanted speedy relinquishment of French over-all command of the VNA and speedy withdrawal of French forces as the Vietnamese "are capable of exercising command of an effective force." Finally, the JCS requested "a definite agreement ... be obtained from the French Government with respect to the timing of their programmed phased withdrawal" before U.S. assumption of training responsibilities.

Dulles objected to these proposals: Rh


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 for, after five centuries of prosperity under Venetian or Hungarian rule, an outbreak of plague in 1456 swept away the majority of the townsfolk, and ruined the survivors. Some of the old palaces are, nevertheless, of considerable interest; one especially as the birthplace of the celebrated philosopher, Marc Antonio de Dominis. Fishing and agriculture constitute the chief resources of the islanders, whose ancient silk industry is still maintained. In 1018 the yearly tribute due to Venice was fixed at ten pounds of silk or five pounds of gold. ARBELA (, i.e. “Four-god-city”), an ancient town in Adiabene, the capital in Assyrian and pre-Assyrian times of the country between the greater and lesser Zab, and seat of an important cult of Ishtar. The battle in which Alexander overthrew Darius in 331, though named in the old books after Arbela, was probably fought at Gaugamela, some 60 m. away (Yorck von Wartenburg, Kurze Übersicht der Feldzüge A. des Gr.). The modern town of Erbil or Arbil, in the vilayet of Mosul, is about 40 m. from Mosul on the road to Bagdad. The greater part of the town, which seems at one time to have been very large, is situated on an artificial mound about 150 ft. high. It became the seat of the Ayyūbite sultan Saladin in 1184; was bequeathed in 1233 to the caliphs of Bagdad; was plundered by the Mongols in 1236 and in 1393 by Timur, and was taken in 1732 by the Persians under Nadir Shah. In the 14th century the Christians were almost exterminated. The population, which varies from 2000 to 6000, is chiefly composed of Kurds.

The ruins of another (Irbid, Beth-Arbel) in Palestine, situated near the west shore of the Sea of Galilee, a little north of its centre, are not in themselves of high interest, but the site is noteworthy through its connexion with the neighbouring caves in the lofty flank of the Wadi Hamam, above which Arbela stood. These caves (called by the Arabs Kulat ibn Ma‘an) are apparently natural, but were enlarged and fortified. They were used by the inhabitants of Arbela as a place of refuge from the army of Bacchides, general of Demetrius III., king of Syria, and were the resort of bandits in the reign of Herod the Great. He laid siege to them, and his men could only gain access to the caves by being let down from above. The caves were also fortified against the Romans by Josephus. ARBER, EDWARD (1836–), English man of letters, was born in London on the 4th of December 1836. From 1854 to 1878 he was a clerk in the admiralty; from 1878 to 1881 lecturer on English, under Prof. H. Morley, at University College; and from 1881 to 1894 professor of English at Mason College, Birmingham. From 1894 he lived in London as emeritus professor, being also a fellow of King’s College. In 1905 he received the honorary degree of D. Litt. at Oxford. He married in 1869, and had two sons, one of them, E. A. N. Arber, becoming demonstrator in palaeobotany at Cambridge. As a scholarly editor Professor Arber’s services to English literature are memorable. His name is associated particularly with the series of “English Reprints” (1868–1880), by which an accurate text of the works of many English authors, formerly only accessible in rare or expensive editions, was placed within reach of the general public. Among the thirty volumes of the series were Gosson’s School of Abuse, Ascham’s Toxophilus, Tottel’s Miscellany, Naunton’s Fragmenta Regalia, &c. It was followed by the “English Scholar’s Library” (16 vols.) which included the Works (1884) of Captain John Smith, governor of Virginia, and the Poems (1882) of Richard Barnfield. In his English Garner (8 vols. 1877–1896) he made an admirable collection of rare old tracts and poems; in 1899–1901 he issued British Anthologies (10 vols.), and in 1907 began a series called A Christian Library. He also accomplished single-handed the editing of two vast, and invaluable, English bibliographies: A Transcript of the Registers of the Stationers’ Company, 1553–1640 (1875–1894), and The Term Catalogues, 1668–1709; with a number for Easter Term 1711 (1904–1906), edited from the quarterly lists of the booksellers. ARBITRAGE, the term applied to the system of equalizing prices in different commercial centres by buying in the cheaper market and selling in the dearer. These transactions, or their converse, are mainly confined to stocks and shares, foreign exchanges and bullion; and are for the most part carried on between London and other European capitals and largely with New York. When prices in London are affected by financial or political causes, all other markets are sooner or later influenced, as London is the banking and financial centre for the commerce of the world. It may, however, also occur that some local event of importance initiates a rise or fall in a particular market which must ultimately affect other countries. For instance, a crisis in France would immediately depress all French securities, and by exciting the fears of capitalists would stimulate transfers of funds and raise all the exchanges against France.

In ordinary times those engaged in arbitrage operate with a very small margin of profit. The great improvement in postal, telegraphic and telephonic communication enables operators to close transactions with amazing rapidity, while competition reduces the margin of profit to a minimum. Operations in American stocks and shares are carried on between London and New York on a vast scale, while transactions in African mining shares are undertaken to a considerable extent between London and Paris. The frequent fluctuations in the prices of the latter securities offer a large and fruitful field to bold operators possessed of large resources, while those who have small means often succumb in a commercial crisis. As regards foreign exchange and bullion, arbitrage operators stand on a fairly safe foundation, the fluctuations being slight and involving little or no risk, although they yield a very small margin of profit. Arbitrage operations are for these reasons resorted to frequently by one country in supplying the requirements of another. The slightest advantage in any market is put to profit, and as the margin in ordinary exchange transactions is minute, the ability to operate in this cross fashion renders business possible, which would otherwise be impracticable. To give concrete instances of the working of arbitrage the following may be cited:—

On the 21st of May 1906 the exchange on London in Vienna was telegraphed from that city 24 kronen 4 cents; London, requiring to purchase remittances, found that Antwerp had some Vienna to sell, and arranged to buy there. The transactions worked out as follows:—The direct exchange in Antwerp on London being 25·25, and Antwerp’s selling price of Vienna being 105 francs for 100 kronen, on dividing 25·25 by 105 an exchange of 24·05 was obtained or cent cheaper than the direct exchange between Vienna and London.

Again a portion of the proceeds of the Russian loan of 1906 had to be remitted to Berlin from Paris. Having exhausted local balances in Berlin, Paris on one side, and Berlin on the other, sought to prevent gold shipments from Berlin, and thus cause stringency in that money market. On the 21st of May 1906 Berlin was therefore seeking to sell Paris in London at 81·35 marks for 100 francs, and draw on London for the proceeds at 20·50. This transaction produced a parity between the exchanges of 25·20, which left a small margin in London.

Two instances of arbitrage of stocks are the following:—On the 24th of March 1906, Japanese exchequer bonds, series 2 and 3, were bought in Tokio at 93 and were paid for by telegraphic transfer at 24 pence per yen, and were sold in London the same day at 94 for payment on arrival of bonds. It took five weeks for the transmission of the bonds to London, where they were dealt in on the fixed basis of exchange, namely 24 pence per yen. The London price works out thus:

$93·25 × 24·375⁄24·50$＝92·77,

to which must be added the loss of interest, as the firm in London paid cash on the 24th of March for the telegraphic transfer, and did not recover payment until the arrival of the bonds from Tokio five weeks later. The following is a computation of the transaction:—

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Declassified per Executive Order 13526, Section 3.3 NND Project Number: NND 63316. By: NWD Date: 2011 TOP SECRET – Sensitive "It seems to me that the mission of the Vietnamese National Armed Forces should be to provide internal security. The manpower and cost estimates (of the JCS) would seem to be excessive in the above context."

The Secretary called a French request of $330 million to support the French Expeditionary Corps, then expected to number 150,000 men through 1955, and the Vietnamese plan to keep 230,000 men under arms "... beyond what the United States should consider feasible to support for maintaining the security of free Indochina at this time." Instead, he called it "imperative" that the U.S. Government — e.g., the JCS — "prepare a firm position on the size of the forces we consider a minimum level to assure the internal security of Indochina."

A week later the Chiefs in turn objected. The idea of training the VNA for internal security contradicted NSC 162/2 which "envisages reliance on indigenous ground forces to the maximum extent possible" in territorial defense. Citing the threat from "considerable numbers of Viet Minh guerrillas and sympathizers ... known to be or suspected of being within the territory of free Vietnam" and the GVN "intention of requesting the phased withdrawal of the French forces by 1956" the Chiefs said:

"This would result in a complete military vacuum unless the Vietnamese are adequately prepared to take over progressively as the French withdraw."

The force levels recommended on September 22 were reaffirmed as "the minimum required ultimately to carry out the ... objectives" of the VNA, which should be "to attain and maintain internal security and to deter Viet Minh aggression by a limited defense of the Geneva Armistice demarkation line." The JCS pointed again to the unstable political situation in Vietnam, the 342-man MAAG ceiling and concluded:

"Under these conditions, US participation in training not only would probably have but limited beneficial effect but also would assume responsibility for any failure of the program. In light of the foregoing and from a military point of view, the Joint Chiefs of Staff consider that the United States should not participate in the training of Vietnamese forces in Indochina. However, if it is considered that political considerations are overriding, the Joint Chiefs of Staff would agree to the assignment of a training mission to MAAG, Saigon, with safeguards against French interference with the U.S. training effort."

Rh


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Arbela

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Arbela


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Arber, Edward


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 He caught one glimpse of innumerable people—terrifying to him, under the circumstances—ranged around the big room, and then fled through a doorway on his right. It was definitely no time to face giants, dwarfs, dog-faced boys, or wild men from Sumatra. Vanderhof wanted only peace and quiet.

E GOT neither.

He found himself in a small anteroom containing a mirror and a dwarf. The latter whirled and snapped. "Didn't you see the sign over the door? This is private! I-huh?"

He stopped talking, and presently resumed. "Say, that's a clever trick. Are you one of the boys? A magician, huh?"

"Yeah," said the now dwarfish Mr. Vanderhof. "I d-do it with mirrors."

"Damn good," returned the little man, whose name was Bingo. "Wait a minute. I want Ajax to see this."

"Don't bother," Vanderhof started, but he was too late. Bingo whistled, and immediately the room was darkened by the shadow of Ajax, who was seven feet nine inches tall, and would have had no need for snowshoes.

Vanderhof shut his eyes. He tried to assert his will-power, or what little remained of it, and was rewarded with pleased noises from giant and dwarf. "Clever!" said the latter. "Did you see that? He was little a minute ago. Now he isn't."

"That's right," the giant rumbled. "He looked like you, too, Bingo. Did you notice? Who are you, Mister?"'

"I wish I knew," Vanderhof gasped, feeling lost and helpless. He dared not open his eyes. He was again in his normal semblance, but the very sight of either Ajax or Bingo might cause another metamorphosis.

"You!" a new voice broke in—one familiar to Vanderhof as that of the drunk in the arcade. "I been looking for you. I want to punch you in the snoot."

Vanderhof, feeling set-upon, almost had a mad impulse to sock the drunk, but habit prevailed. He took refuge in flight, or tried to. Unfortunately, he ran into the mirror, bumped his nose, and turned, opening his eyes.

He saw Ajax and Bingo.

The drunk lunged forward, lifting his cane. Then he halted, and a scream of stark terror burst from his throat.

"Yaaaah!" he shrieked. Apparently considering this an insufficient comment, he threw up his hands and added, "Waaaah!"

He fled, leaving a memento in the form of his cane, which he flung at Vanderhof with unerring aim. Nose and cane collided.

Ajax and Bingo whistled in chorus: 'Wow!" said the latter. "Didja see that? Mister, you're good! You almost scared me."

Vanderhof, tears of pain in his eyes, turned to the mirror. "Yeah," he said in a shaky voice. "You may not believe it, but I'm scaring myself. Am I crazy, or do I look like both of you?"

"Well," the dwarf said judiciously, "the top part of you looks like me, but the bottom half looks like Ajax. I don't see how you do it. You must be on the big time."

Vanderhof was silent, considering the impossible reflection in the mirror. From the waist up he was Bingo, the dwarf. His lower extremities were those of a giant. The result was harrowing in the extreme. It was like putting a chameleon on Scotch plaid.

With a mighty effort he resumed his normal appearance. There were cries of amazement and appreciation from his companions. Leaving them to their simple pleasures, Vanderhof walked unsteadily back into the main show. He was bound for fresh air—lots of it. And peace.

Chameleons, however, do not lead


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 lives, contrary to the opinions of some. The unexpected is always happening.

As Vanderhof crossed the big room, he was trying to understand what had happened. He had assumed the outward appearance of two people at the same time—abnormal people at that. Things were getting worse. Ajax and Bingo. Bingo and Ajax. Giant and—

Whup! Vanderhof had entered another room, over the doorway of which was a sign reading, "Magic Mirrors," and paused, facing the only normal mirror in the place. He was looking at the same conglomeration of dwarf and giant that he had viewed before.

Good Lord! Could he change his shape by merely—thinking? The thought was appalling, yet it possessed a curious, perverse fascination for Vanderhof. Standing perfectly motionless, he concentrated on his own normal self.

And there was the reflection of Tim Vanderhof facing him!

That, at least, was a relief. But, feeling slightly safer now, Vanderhof didn't stop. He wanted to make sure. He thought of the side-show barker outside, and visualized him mentally. Derby hat, cigar, checkered suit.

The reflection in the glass showed the barker, though there was neither derby, cigar, nor checkered suit. Apparently only Vanderhof himself could change. His clothing remained unaltered. That was natural enough.

He returned to his normal self.

"You!" said a familiar voice. "I been looking for you! None of your tricks, now! I wanna punch your nose."

"Oh, my goodness!" Vanderhof said, turning. "You again!"

"Yeah!" said the drunk belligerently. "Wanna make something out of it?" He lifted the cane and advanced. Vanderhof, perforce, retreated into the room of Magic Mirrors. He found liimself being backed into a corner, his fascinated gaze riveted on the cane. Its metal tip looked extremely hard. The drunk had recovered it, or else acquired a new one. In any case, it seemed to be a dangerous weapon.

The horsey face bore a malignant expression. "I'm gonna smash you," it said, and thrust itself forward. Vanderhof backed away, feeling the cold surface of a mirror at his back. He was trapped. The room was empty. No use to call for help. The din from the next room, where a band was loudly playing, would drown any but the loudest shrieks.

BRUPTLY Vanderhof felt irritation. His stomach was still sore from the cane's tip, and his nose, too, was aching. He said, "Go away."

"No," the drunk growled. "I'm gonna smash you."

Sudden, violent rage boiled up in Vanderhof. He thought of Ajax and Bingo. If they were there, they'd help him. But—

Vanderhof thought diligently, visualizing giant and dwarf. From the startled look that came over the drunk, he realized that the metamorphosis had once again taken place.

He stepped forward, warily at first, and the horse-faced man retreated.

At that precise moment Vanderhof caught sight of himself in one of the mirrors that lined the place. The change was not quite the same as before. This time, from the waist down, Vanderhof was Bingo, the dwarf. His upper portion resembled Ajax the giant.

Nor was that the worst. The mirror that reflected the insane image was no normal one. It was a distorting mirror, designed to cause laughter by warping and twisting images. Concave, it reflected Vanderhof not only as a half-giant, half-dwarf, but as a swooping arc—a being bent like a bow, such as had never before existed on Earth.


text:
User:W163

This is the User page for the user id W163 which was my user id on the Michigan Terminal System (MTS) at the University of Michigan from 1974 until 1996.

My name is Jeff Ogden. I live in Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. I'm a retired computer programmer and manager. I spent most of my professional life working for the University of Michigan's academic Computing Center, Information Technology Division (ITD), Merit Network, Michigan Center for Biological Information (MCBI), and the DARPA sponsored Virtual Soldier Project (VSP). I've also worked for Interface Systems working with Xerox, General Motors Proving Grounds, the U.S. Navy, and GE's Carbide Division, as well as for Computerized Office Services Incorporated (COSI), Arbortext, and PTC.

Drafts
User:W163/Drafts/The Paging Game

title: User:W163


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/King, Henry Edward


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/King, John


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/King, Hon. John Charles


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/King, Hon. Philip Gidley


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/King, Rear-Admiral Phillip Parker


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/King, Thomas


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/King, Thomas Mulhall


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Kingsley, Henry


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Kingston, Hon. Charles Cameron


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Kingston, Hon. Sir George Strickland


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Kintore, Right Hon. Algernon Hawkins Thomond Keith-Falconer


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Knight, Godfrey C.


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Knight, John George


text:
Page:Weird Tales volume 36 number 02.djvu/94

 The drunk shrieked. "No, no!" he babbled. "Not that!"

Vanderhof realized that he had taken on the attributes of the distorted image. He glanced at the cowering horse-faced man, and felt a warm glow of triumph.

It faded as he was punched in the stomach by the cane.

Vanderhof got mad. He said, with slow emphasis, "Okay. You asked for it. Now you're going to—get it!"

The other showed his teeth.

Vanderhof looked at the nearest mirror. The result was shocking, but did not quite satisfy him. He looked at another, and then another, after that turning to confront his enemy.

Not even Samson could have faced the chaotic Vanderhof without screaming then. He looked like a piecemeal zombie assembled by someone with no knowledge of anatomy. One leg was six feet longer than the other. He had five arms. His chest was like a balloon, and his waist measured perhaps three inches around.

His head resembled a fried egg that had broken in the pan. The mouth was, oddly enough, in the forehead, and there was a tasty assortment of eyes scattered around them, all of these glaring furiously. He towered to the ceiling, and the horse-faced man, giving up all thought of hostility, skittered away like a rabbit.

"Go 'way!" he babbled. "Don't touch me! You're not human, that's what you ain't!"

"You don't get out of it that easily," Vanderhof snapped, barring the door with a fifteen-foot arm. "What do you think I am, anyhow?"

"The devil himself," said the drunk, with a flash of sudden insight. "Awrrrgh! Don't do that!"

"I'll do it again," Vanderhof announced, and a scream of pain from the drunk bore testimony to the fact that he had done it again. "Thus."

The wild and impassioned shrieks of the horse-faced man bore fruit. Vanderhof heard faint cries from behind him. He turned to see faces peering in through the door.

They went white and drew back. Someone cried, "A freak! He's gone mad!"

"He's murdering me!" the drunk announced. "Help!"

Heartened by reinforcements, he made the mistake of prodding Vanderhof from the rear with his cane. At this all semblance of sanity departed from Tim Vanderhof. Completely forgetting everything else, he bent all his energies to the task of reducing the horse-faced man to a state of babbling idiocy.

"Give me that cane!" he grated.

"So you can ram it down my throat?" came the prescient reply. "I won't."

At this Vanderhof looked in a mirror, sprouted another arm, grew two feet, and advanced toward his opponent. He got the cane and broke it into six pieces. One in each hand, he commenced to tattoo a rhythm on the drunk.

This wasn't quite satisfactory, so he gave it up, and concentrated on scaring the wretched man to death. Never was any revenge more horrifying or complete. Vanderhof felt a random sense of warning; it might be wiser, safer, to leave now, before more trouble arrived. But—what the hell!

He grinned, and the horse-faced man bellowed in anguish. "He's going to eat me!" he cried. "Don't let him eat me!"

"There they are," someone observed. "In there, Sergeant. It's a freak. Quite mad."

"It's a freak, all right," said a gruff voice. "But I'm thinking that I'm the looney one. Will you look at the horrid thing!"

"I've been looking at it for ten minutes," said the other voice. "Ever since I turned in the alarm. You've got your


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Knight, Maggie


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Knight, Thomas John


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Krichauff, Hon. Friedrich Edouard Heinrich Wulf


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Kyte, Ambrose


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Lackey, Hon. John


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Lalor, Hon. Peter


text:
Page:Weird Tales volume 36 number 02.djvu/95

 squad with you. Arrest him before he kills that man."

Vanderhof turned. The doorway held a burly, grizzled oldster in police uniform, and behind him a group of plainclothes men, their profession easily established by a glance at their feet. There were guns.

E WAS sent staggering. The horsefaced man had made a break for freedom. Vanderhof, boiling with rage, plunged in pursuit. There was chaos on the threshold; then Vanderhof was past, and racing after his victim.

A bullet whistled past his ear.

Oh-oh! This altered matters. Vanderhof, hidden momentarily behind the bandstand, paused, looking around. He saw no one —the horse-faced man had vanished—but heard voices.

"He went behind there—get him—guns ready, men!"

Vanderhof thought hard. He visualized the drunk. And, instantly, he assumed the appearance of the drunk.

He ran out from behind the bandstand, almost colliding with the sergeant and a plainclothes man with him.

"Hey—"

"He went that way!" Vanderhof cried. "After him! Don't let him get away!"

Without waiting for an answer, he ran for the exit. There was startled silence, and then the sergeant and his crew raced in pursuit.

Vanderhof leaped out into the open air, flattened himself against the wall of the building, and concentrated on the face of the plainclothes man who had accompanied the sergeant. And, of course, the inevitable happened.

The sergeant appeared. He cast a swift glance at Vanderhof.

"Where is he, Clancy?" he bellowed. "Which way did he go?"

"There!" said the pseudo-Clancy, and pointed. He was borne away in a mob of detectives who gushed out of the exit. All of them were busily searching for a freak with six arms and an impossible head—a freak who no longer existed!

Ten minutes later Vanderhof, in his normal guise, was on the train bound back for Manhattan. It had been easy to drift away from the detectives, who naturally suspected nothing. And, after that, Vanderhof wanted only to get away from Coney Island. His nerves were in bad shape. He needed a rest.

So, illogically enough, he went back to New York.

He was still angry about the horse-faced man. He would have dearly loved to have taken another poke at the guy. But the police had interrupted. Vanderhof's resentment wandered, and finally focused on a man with bristling blue-black hair and a vicious gleam in his eyes. The guy looked uncommonly like S. Horton Walker, president of The Svelte Shop.

Walker—nuts to Walker, Vanderhof thought. "Fire me, will he?" the chameleon man brooded. "Just on account of Colonel Quester! Tchah!" The fashion show would be going on soon, he remembered. And, simultaneously with the thought, Vanderhof grinned.

A singularly malicious and unpleasant grin....

"Fire me, will he?" he asked rhetorically, turning into Ajax for a brief moment. "I'll fix him!"

While making his way toward the Fifth Avenue store, he pondered. He was achieving some sort of mastery over his chameleon-like changes. If he visualized a person, he could become that person—though his clothing never altered. And, with an effort of will, he could resume his normal form. Good enough. What now?

The fashion show was in full swing when Vanderhof slipped quietly into The Svelte Shop, unobtrusively making his way behind the scenes. Dowagers and damsels


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/133

Rh Here mingling view the names of Sire and Son,

The one long grav'd, the other just begun:

These shall survive alike when Son and Sire,

Beneath one common stroke of fate expire;

Perhaps, their last memorial these alone,

Denied, in death, a monumental stone,

Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave

The sighing weeds, that hide their nameless grave.

And, here, my name, and many an early friend's,

Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends.

Though, still, our deeds amuse the youthful race,

Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,

Who young obeyed their lords in silent awe,

Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;

And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,

To rule, the little Tyrants of an hour;

Though sometimes, with the Tales of ancient day,

They pass the dreary Winter's eve away;

"And, thus, our former rulers stemm'd the tide,

And, thus, they dealt the combat, side by side;

Just in this place, the mouldering walls they scaled,

Nor bolts, nor bars, against their strength avail'd;


text:
Page:Studies in Letters and Life (Woodberry, 1890).djvu/125

Rh thinnest of shades; nor were they less insubstantial to most of the poets of the golden age than to us. The people gave the Carolingian myth to them as the burden of their stories; but, leaving Boiardo out of the account, they could not accept the conditions of that imaginative world and believe in it; nor could Boiardo, who had without doubt a real enthusiasm for chivalry, believe with Spenser's faith. Italy had no feudal past; how could the citizen Pulci feel any living sympathy with feudal ideals? The myth was emptied of its moral contents; how could Ariosto be earnest as Tennyson is? In dealing with deeds of knight-errantry, adventures in the lists and the forest, wizard springs and invincible armor, all the poets were conscious of something quixotic; to Ariosto it was the main element. He could not be serious; the mock gravity of irony was the most he could compass. This sense of unreality in the legend was not all that led the last poets of the age especially to play with their art. A more powerful reason was the hopelessness of society in their age, deep as that which in earlier times fell on their ancestors, who witnessed the barbarian incursions on Roman soil. Politically,


text:
Page:Weird Tales volume 36 number 02.djvu/96

 in tons of jewelry were sitting about, feeding on canapes and hors d'ouevreshors d'oeuvres [sic]. while all sorts and conditions of men waited uneasily upon their respective daughters, wives, and lady friends. Park Avenue had turned out in force for the initial showing of exclusive gowns by The Svelte Shop. Mannequins were gliding along the runways, and over all presided the figure of S. Horton Walker, resplendent in specially-tailored garments, and looking more than ever like a shaved ape.

"And Model Twelve?" a slightly decayed socialite inquired from above her tiers of chins. "The exclusive Model Twelve, Mr. Walker?"

"Soon," said Walker, rubbing his hands. "Very soon, Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe."

EERING through drapes of wine-colored fabric, Vanderhof sucked in his lower lip. Model Twelve was already famous.

It was super-exclusive. Only one gown on this model had been created. And, when it showed, the bidding would be high—almost like an auction, though, of course, most genteel. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe would probably get it. She was the wealthiest woman in New York, and cream on the elite's upper crust, to put it mildly.

"Nuts to you, Mr. Walker," Vanderhof said silently, and fled. He made his way to the dressing-rooms, pausing at sight of Susan Vail; the shop's loveliest model. The girl nodded, smiled, and went on her way.

Vanderhof visualized her. Suddenly he was gone. A perfect duplicate of Susan Vail stood in the passage, looking rather odd in Tim Vandcrhof's garments.

"Now for Model Twelve. It was carefully stored away, but Vanderhof knew where to look. Tenderly, almost reverently, he drew it from its hiding-place, and held up the gown. It was a gorgeous creation—one that would transform any woman.

"Why, Susan," a soft voice said, "what are you doing in those clothes?"

Vanderhof turned hurriedly, to confront a small brown-haired model with wide eyes. "I—"

"And what's the matter with your voice? Got a cold?"

"No," said Vanderhof shrilly. "It—it's just a gag." Seizing Model Twelve, he fled into the nearest dressing-room.

A few minutes later he came out, wearing the gown. Since he looked exactly like Susan Vail, it wasn't at all unbecoming. But his plans weren't finished yet. He wanted to perform an experiment.

He entered a room replete with tall mirrors, reflecting him from various angles. And he concentrated. If he could become two men at once, surely he could transform himself into two or more Susan Vails.

The results were beyond all expectations. From every angle Susan Vails materialized. They appeared like rabbits out of a hat. And all of them wore Model Twelve.

Meanwhile, Walker was preening himself as he made the announcement for which everyone was waiting.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the event of the afternoon. At great expense, we have secured an ultra-exclusive model—a veritable symphony. There is only one like it in the world."

"How do we know that?" asked a skeptical man with sideburns.

Walker turned a hurt stare upon him. "The Svelte Shop stands ready to guarantee my statement. Our integrity has never been questioned. And now—Model Twelve!"

He flung out an arm toward the runway. The curtains shook convulsively. Through them appeared Susan Vail. A soft gasp went up from the women at sight of Model Twelve.


text:
Page:Studies in Letters and Life (Woodberry, 1890).djvu/126

116 morally, and religiously, society was breaking up. What was there to be serious about? All that gives meaning to life was gone: the ties of family, country, and God were snapped. What better thing was there to do than to retire to the country, and let the world go "the primrose path"? The striking thing in all this is, that the sense of the pleasure to be derived from the refinements of culture excluded from the minds of nearly all the most gifted Italians that gloom, which would have wrapped a Northern nation, at the sight of an anarchy which, if less terrible with blood than the French Revolution, was more appalling to the spirit. The Italians, however, went to their villas, to hear Bandello tell stories and Berni read verses. The City of the Plague, from which Boccaccio's garden party fled, is the permanent background of this golden age.

Life was something left behind, but art remained; and for the purposes of art, whose function was entertainment, the adventures of Orlando and his like were sufficiently serviceable. Such myths afforded opportunity for inexhaustible invention of incident, for the play of fancy, and the exhibition of the courtesies and humors of life;


text:
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 Then another gasp went up. Another Susan Vail had slipped through the curtains and was following in the track of the first. She, too, wore Model Twelve.

"Hey—" said the skeptical man with sideburns.

He stopped. A third Model Twelve was coming.

Then another. And another!

"My God!" the skeptical man gasped. "Quintuplets!"

Walker had turned a delicate shade of mauve. Cries of outraged fury went up from the audience. "Exclusive model," somebody snapped. "Hah!"

Meanwhile the army of Model Twelves was marching steadily through the curtains. The room was filled with them. Walker was clawing at his hair and making gurgling sounds. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe arose, waggled her chins haughtily, and departed.

"One might as well shop in the five-and-ten," she observed.

"It's sabotage! " Walker whispered faintly. "B-boring from within—"

His eyes brightened a trifle. Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe had reconsidered. She wasn't leaving, after all. She was returning, her eyes very wide, and behind her was a large, bulky man with a mask on his face.

Other men arrived. Five of them. And they had guns, and were masked.

"This," said the leader, "is a stick-up. Squat, beetle-puss." He pushed Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe into a chair. "And keep your trap shut. That goes for all of you." He waved a gleaming automatic. "Cover the exits, boys."

The boys obeyed. The guests sat, frozen with horror. One dowager attempted to swallow her diamonds, but was dissuaded. Walker gasped for air.

"This will ruin me!" he squawked. "My customers—my clients, I mean—"

"Shaddap," remarked the big man. "Or I'll let you have it. Don't anybody move. Frisk 'em, boys."

One of the boys produced a canvas bag and made the rounds, collecting whatever and money he could unearth. A pearl necklace, the existence of which had heretofore gone unsuspected, was revealed when Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe was compelled to stare ceiling-ward.

"Hey!" said one of the boys. "What the hell—what—ulp!"

"Lcok!" he finished. "Jeez, boos—look!"

The big man looked. He, too, stared. Model Twelve was in action.

HERE were about twenty Susan Vails lined up on the runway. The last of them had stepped forward and—merged—with the one in front of her. This, Vanderhof had found, was the only way of consolidating his various images. He merely had to walk into himself.

The nineteenth Susan Vail merged with the eighteenth. And the eighteenth stepped forward—

Nobody else moved.

There was a stricken silence as the fifteenth Susan Vail became the fourteenth—and so on—the third became the second; there was only one Susan Vail now.

She hurried toward the exit.

But now the stasis broke. One of the thugs barred her path, lifting his gun menacingly.

Susan Vail—or Vanderhof—veered aside, toward an ante-room lined with mirrors. She ducked into it and slid die curtain in place after her.

The leader snapped, "Get her, Phil."

Phil said reluctantly, "There ain't no way for her to get outa there."

"I said—"

"Okay," Phil placated. "Just gimme time. That dame ain't normal."

He moved forward, gun lifted. His hand touched the curtain. Then he turned.


text:
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 "Boss, there ain't nothing in there but a lot of mirrors. What's the use—"

"You heard me!" the boss yelped.

"Okay," said Phil, and yanked the curtain aside.

Apparently there was another way out of the ante-room, for Susan Vail wasn't there any more. Instead, there were fifteen men, and they all looked exactly like Tim Vanderhof. Oddly enough, they all wore Model Twelve.

"Yaah!" said Phil shrilly, staggering back.

Two Tim Vanderhof s sprang upon him. One struck the gun from his hand, while the other planted a hard fist on Phil's jaw. The thug folded up limply.

One Vanderhof had pulled the curtain back into place, but Vanderhofs were emerging through it in twos, threes, and dozens. The room was suddenly flooded with Vanderhofs, all wearing Model Twelve. It was as though the ante-room had suddenly decided to give birth. It erupted Vanderhofs. It spewed them forth, and as fast as they emerged new ones followed. For there were many mirrors in that little room.

HE element of surprise was in Vanderhof's favor. The crooks were struck dumb by this insane manifestation of men in evening gowns. Before they could recover, each one found himself borne down under a tangle of slugging, punching, kicking, homicidally-active Vanderhofs.

Mrs. Smythe-Kennicott-Smythe threw up her hands in hob horror. A Vanderhof paused to chuck her under the chins. "Keep your shirt on, babe," he advised. "I'll get your jewels back."

The lady fainted.

Not all the Vanderhofs were engaged in taking care of the crooks. Twenty of them had mounted the runway and were delicately parading, showing off Model Twelve, which, to say the least, looked rather startling on Tim Vanderhofs masculine figure. A half-dozen more had surrounded the pallid, paralyzed Walker and were engaged in making horrific faces at him. Another group of Vanderhofs were holding an impromptu jam session in a corner, while still another had recaptured the canvas bag and was strewing its contents around the room, shouting, "Pig pig pig pig" in a hoarse voice. The clients were on hands and knees, scrambling after their stolen property.

It was a scene of utter chaos.

And Tim Vanderhof was—or were—having a glorious time. He hadn't enjoyed himself so much in years. He was doing a dozen different things, all at the same time, and the most delightful one of all dealt with the thugs, who by this time were trying only to escape from the veritable army that was assailing them.

Someone cried, "The police!"

That brought Vanderhof bade to sanity. He hurriedly knocked out the thugs—not a difficult task, since they were already nearly smothered by sheer weight of numbers—and then fled in a body, leaving confusion in his wake.

When the police arrived, they found six unconscious gangsters and a horde of socialites on hands and knees, squabbling over the division of their property. Walker was counting his fingers, with a vague air of skeptical disbelief. And there was no sign of a Vanderhof.

Indeed, there was only one Vanderhof by that time. The process of assimilation had again taken place, and the resultant single Vanderhof had removed Model Twelve—now torn into shreds—and resumed his own clothing. He didn't wait for events to happen, though. He took them into his own hands.

The elevator lifted him fifteen stories above Fifth Avenue, letting him out at the private office of Enoch Throckmorton, the actual owner of The Svelte Shop, as well


text:
Page:Weird Tales volume 36 number 02.djvu/99

 as a number of other enterprises. Vanderhof had never seen Throckmorton; there were vague rumors of his existence on some Olympian height. Walker sometimes visited the man, and even dined with him on occasion. Now, leaving the elevator, Vanderhof thought of Walker, and visualized the man, blue-black hair, flashing eyes, and apish face.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walker," said the receptionist. "Go right in."

Vanderhof nodded and opened a door, facing a glass-brick desk about a mile long. Behind it sat a shriveled little fellow who was chewing a cigar.

This was Enoch Throckmorton.

Or, better yet: This was—Enoch Throckmorton!

"Ha," said Throckmorton in a cracked voice, "sit down, Walker. I've just been getting a telephone call from downstairs. Quite a little fuss, eh?"

"Nothing much," Vanderhof shrugged, grinning to himself. Apparently his resemblance to Walker was so complete that even Throckmorton was deceived.

"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 the 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 Vanderhof'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


text: Index:Police report of the shipwreck of 'Geffrard'.jpg


text:
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 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?"

HERE 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 warningly.

"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 of 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."


text: Weird Tales/Volume 36/Issue 2/Chameleon Man


text: Weird Tales/Volume 36/Issue 2

title: Weird Tales/Volume 36/Issue 2


text:
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Rh and should there be a lapse into seriousness, there was room for satire on the clergy, and for sentiments of the Reformation. These tales, it is true, were products of culture separated from the realities of society, and neglectful of them; but they were not, as might have been anticipated, expressive of individual rather than national temperament. They are prominently characterized by the Italian love of incident, pictures, and fun. The incidents are invented for their own sake, not to develop character or exhibit it in action; they are only adventures, happenings, skillfully interwoven and rapidly passed; but amid them the conduct of the personages is true Italian, realistic. In presenting these incidents, and the scenes in which they take place, the poets, as Lessing complained, adopt pictorial methods: they describe the ladies piecemeal, the landscapes leaf by leaf. Possibly, as has been suggested, the habitual sight of pictures enables the Italian to succeed where the German fails; to harmonize the colors on the canvas and build up the fragments into a proportioned statue, and thus obtain a single mental impression. Whether this be so or not, the pictorial quality is a tribute exacted


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118 from literature by the ruling art, and illustrates the Italian proclivity to identify the mind's eye with the body's, to turn the things of the intellect into objects of sense. This realism, too, is shown as continuously in the frequent lapsing of Pulci's story, for example, into undisguised burlesque, low comedy, and broad fun; and more subtly in the prevailing irony of Ariosto. The poems thus constructed were an acceptable, usually a high, mode of amusement; they interested the fancy, delighted the senses, and stirred laughter. The Italians of the Renaissance asked no more.

In the prose tales, of which so many were written after the model of Boccaccio, the absorption of interest in simple incident is more plain, and the presence of contemporary manners more manifest. Various as they are, including every rank of life in their characters, and every phase of action in their events, they all bear a family resemblance. They are for the most part comedies of intrigue, arresting attention by romantic or piquant situations; usually immoral, not infrequently obscene. The crafty seducer is the text, the fool of a husband the comment; and when the gloss is read,


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Rh afforded by the lives of the cardinals and the wit of the capitoli, no ground remains for doubting that they hold the mirror up to society as it then was. If they have any other than a humorous or romantic interest, it is the interest of the tragedy of physical horror, as in our English Titus Andronicus. Of course there are many stories to which this broad and rapid generalization would not apply,—tales wholly innocent, or harmless at least, full of movement, fancy, and action, graceful and charming with the art of story-telling at its Italian best; but, as a whole, they must be described as exhibiting a masque of sin. They are of the town in taste and temper; the corruption they set forth is not of the court or the curia only, but of the citizens; the laugh with which they conclude is an echo from the lips of the trades-people. Their principal value now is historic; they are the clear record of that social decay which condemned Italy to centuries of degradation. To ask why they did not generate the novel or suggest the drama is to state a literary puzzle; but the hundred considerations which have been put forth to explain the abortive issue of the miracle plays apply here also. It would


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120 seem as if the laws of spiritual development were unperceived; as if the knowledge of right and wrong as indestructible agencies to build or shatter character did not exist; as if the spirit had stiffened into that senseless stupor in which evil is no longer recognized for itself. It was left for the dramatists of the Globe Theatre to take these external incidents and show the meaning they had for humanity; to transfer the interest from the momentary and outer act, and centre it upon the living soul within. The Italians could not work the mines they owned; the pure gold of poetry that the novels held in amalgamation was to be the treasure of England. The works of the last years do not differ from the original of Boccaccio except for the worse; his successors never equaled their master; nor have their works obtained currency, like his, among men, as a part of the general literature of the cultivated world.

As the novelists make more prominent the realistic element of the narrative poems, the idyllic writers develop more plainly the pure poetic quality; in reading them one willingly assents to the enthusiasm which names their works the literature of the


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Rh golden age. More than the epic or the novel, the idyl influenced the future. Arcadia is a well-known region in every great literature of Europe, and its atmosphere still hangs over the opera. The creator of this pastoral myth was the father of much beauty. Something was borrowed from the Garden of Eden, from the Virgilian fields, and from the Earthly Paradise; the religious, classical, and mediæval moods united in it; but essentially it was pure Italian,—Arcadia was an idealized Italy. The scene presented was the same country life that forms the background of all contemporary literature, but charmed, ennobled, and bathed in a softer than Italian air. There was little left in that age of ruin but delight in the natural beauty that was darkened by no shadow of humanity. The villa, the cultivated fields, the still, calm morning sky, were probably never more dear to the Italian heart than then, and it was this unsophisticated and keenly felt delight in nature that flowered in the idyl. To Northern nations Arcadia must always be a dream; to the Italians, then, at least, it was only the refinement of what was most real to them. It was because the idyl was so deeply rooted


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122 in a genuine emotion that it outlived the other modes of literature contemporary with it, and developed its final perfection only in the next age of the counter reformation in the art of Tasso and Guarini. But even in its earlier history the idyl shares with the best narrative poems that beauty of form which has conferred on both an immortality denied to the novel. The poets were all literary artists: they polished their verses with assiduous care; they expended many years in correction, elaboration, and adjustment; and they obtained that exquisite finish which, surface-like as it may seem, is adamant to the tooth of time. They achieved beauty, and won the delight that comes from its creation and contemplation; humor, too, they made their own, and gave it universal interest; they illustrated in practice the theory of art for art's sake; yet, after all, what is the judgment of posterity, we will not say on the men who were never suspected of being heroes, but on their works? They have left a literature, not of intellectual or moral weight, but of recreation; one that does not reveal, but amuses,—does not enlighten, inform, or guide life, but solaces and helps to while it away. This literature


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Rh enriched the Northern minds by making them more sensitive to beauty, and by sharpening their perception of artistic refinements; it has left no other mark on civilization. The interest which the golden age excites in cultivated minds seldom loses its dilettante character; the really serious interest is in the Italy of Dante and Giotto, or in the genius of isolated men who stand apart, like Michel Angelo.

The Renaissance was a movement of civilization not less important than the Reformation or the Revolution, and to Italy, as its source, the debt of the world is great. But the Renaissance was not conveyed to Europe by the literature of its corruption; it was conveyed in far different ways.


text: Author:Marcus Licinius Crassus

title: Author:Marcus Licinius Crassus


text: Author:Marcus Antonius

title: Author:Marcus Antonius


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The Ballads of Marko Kraljević/Marko Kraljević and Alil-Aga

Марко Краљевић и Алил-ага