Ralph Banks raised his eyebrows, glanced at the note clipped to the title-page.

  Dear Sir:

  I have learned in the course of a long life that exaggerated modesty brings few rewards. Hence 1 will put on no face of humility … 1 will not “pull my punches” as the expression goes. The following document is a tremendous contribution to human knowledge. In fact it knocks the props from under the entire basis of our existence, the foundation of our moral order. The implications … indeed the bald facts … will come as a shock supreme in its devastation to all but a few. You will observe, and I need hardly emphasize, that this is a field not to be pursued lightly! I have therefore prefaced description of techniques with a brief account of my own findings in order to warn any who seek to satisfy a dilettante’s curiosity. You will wonder why I have chosen your periodical as an outlet for my work. I will be frank. Yours is a practical magazine; you are a practical man … and I submit the following as a practical guide. 1 may add, that certain other journals, edited by men less able than yourself, have returned my work with polite but obtuse notes.

  Yours sincerely,

  Angus McIlwaine

  c/o Archives, Smithsonian Institution Washington, D.C.

  An interesting letter, though Banks. The work of a crack-pot … but it gave off an interesting flavor … He glanced at the manuscript, thumbed through the pages. McIlwaine’s typography made a pretty show. The margins allowed two inches of pebbled beige space at either side. Passages in red interspersed the black paragraphs, and some of these were underlined in purple ink. Small green stars appeared in the left-hand margin from time to time, indicating further emphasis. The effect was colorful and dramatic.

  He turned pages, reading sentences, paragraphs.

  “I have had serious misgivings [read Banks] but I cannot countenance cowardice or retreat. It is no argument to say that Masquerayne is unrelieved evil. Masquerayne is knowledge and men must never shrink from knowledge. And who knows, it may lead to ultimate good. Fire has done more good than harm for mankind; so have explosives, and so ultimately, we may hope, will atomic eneigy. Therefore, as Einstein steeled himself against his qualms to write the equation E=mc2, so I will record my findings.”

  Banks grinned. A bona fide crack-pot, straight from the nuthatch. He frowned, “c/o Archives, Smithsonian Institution/’ An incongruity … He read on, skimming down the paragraphs, assimilating a line here, a sentence there.

  “ … a process of looking in, in, still further in; straining, forcing; then at the limits turning, as if in one’s tracks, and looking out … ”

  Banks looked up suddenly; the intercom buzzer. He pressed the key.

  Mr. Seth R. Framus is here, Mr. Banks,” came Lorraine’s voice.

  “Ask him to have a seat, please,” said Banks. ‘Til be with him in just one minute.”

  Lorraine, who had, “Please go right in, Mr. Framus,” formed on her lips, was startled. Mr. Framus himself looked a little surprised; nevertheless he took a seat with good grace, tapping at his knee with a folded newspaper. Banks returned to the manuscript.

  “Sometimes it is very quiet [he read] but only when the Ego can dodge behind these viscous milky pillars I have mentioned. It is easily possible to become lost here, in a very arcane manner. What could be more ludicrous, more tragic? A prisoner of self, so to speak!”

  Banks called through the intercom to Lorraine, ‘‘Get me the Smithsonian Institution.”

  “Yes, Mr. Banks,” said Lorraine, glancing to see if Seth R. Framus had heard. He had, and the tempo at which he tapped his knee with the newspaper increased.

  Banks leafed on through the pages.

  “Naturally this never halted me. I steeled myself; I composed my nerves, my stomach. 1 continued. And here, as a footnote, may I mention that it is quite possible to come and go, returning with several of the red devices, many of them still warm.”

  The telephone startled Banks. He answered with a trace of irritation: “Yes, Lorraine?”

  “The Smithsonian Institution, Mr. Banks.”

  “Oh … Hello? I’d like to speak to someone in the Department of Archives. Er … perhaps Mr. McIlwaine?”

  “Just a minute,” replied a female voice, ‘Til give you Mr. Crispin.”

  Mr. Crispin came on the line; Banks introduced himself. Mr. Crispin inquired how he could be of service.

  “1’d like to speak to Mr. McIlwaine,” said Banks.

  Crispin asked in a puzzled voice, “McIlwaine? In what department?” “Archives, I believe.”

  “That’s odd … Of course we have a number of special projects going on … research teams and the like.”

  “Could you possibly make a check for me?”

  “Well, certainly, Mr. Banks, if it’s necessary.”

  “Will you do that please, and call me back collect? Or perhaps I can just hold the line.”

  “It’ll take five or ten minutes, at least.”

  “That’s perfectly all right.”

  Banks turned the key on the intercom. “Keep an ear on the line, Lorraine, let me know when Crispin gets back on.”

  Lorraine glanced sideways at Seth R. Framus, whose mouth was showing taut lines of petulance. “Very well, Mr. Banks.”

  Seth R. Framus spoke in a polite voice, “What’s Mr. Banks have going with the Smithsonian, if I may ask?”

  Lorraine said helplessly, “1’m really not sure, Mr. Framus … I guess it’s something pretty important; he gave me orders to show you right in.” “Mumph.” Mr. Framus opened his newspaper.

  Banks was now skimming the final pages:

  ‘And now … the inescapable conclusion. It is very simple; it can be seen that we are all victims of a gruesome joke … “

  He turned to the last page

  “To demonstrate for yourself … ”

  Lorraine buzzed him on the intercom. “Mr. Crispin is back on the line; and I think Mr. Framus is in a hurry, Mr. Banks.”

  I’ll be right with Mr. Framus,” said Banks. “Ask him to be good enough to wait just a moment.” He spoke into the telephone: “Hello, Mr. Crispin?”

  “Yes … I’m sorry, Mr. Banks; we just don’t have an Angus McIlwaine with us.”

  Banks thoughtfully scratched his head. “There’s the possibility he’s using a pseudonym for his correspondence.”

  “In that case, I assume that he wishes to preserve his anonymity,” Crispin responded politely.

  “Tell me this: suppose I wrote to Angus McIlwaine, care of the Archives, Smithsonian Institution. Who would get the letter?”

  Crispin laughed. “No one, Mr. Banks! You’d just get it back! Because we just don’t have any McIlwaines. Unless, of course, whoever it is has made special arrangements … No just a minute; maybe I do know your man. That is, if it’s really a pseudonym.” …

  “Fine. Will you connect me?”

  “Well, Mr. Banks, I think I’d better check first … Perhaps … well, after all, perhaps he wants to retain his anonymity.”

  “Would you be good enough to see if Angus McIlwaine is his pseudonym; and if so, have him call me collect?”

  “Yes. I can do that, Mr. Banks.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Banks hesitated by the intercom. He really should see Mr. Framus … but there wasn’t much left to the manuscript; he might as well skim through it … McIlwaine, whoever he was, was ripe for the funny-farm … but he had a flair; a compelling, urgent style. Banks had read a little … a very little … of abnormal psychology; he knew that hallucinations generated a frightening reality. McIlwaine doubtless had a dose of everything in the book … Well, thought Banks, just for fun, let’s see how he recommends unmasking this “grisly joke on humanity”; let’s check the directions for exploring Masque-rayne …

  “To demonstrate the whole shoddy terrible trick is the task of few minutes … simple and certain. If you are daring … let us say, reckless … if you would tear the silken tissue that binds your eyes, do then as I say.

  “First, obtain the following: a basin or carafe of clear water; six tumblers; six pins; a steel knitting needle; a four-foot square of dull black cardboard … ”

  Lorraine called in through the intercom. “Mr. Banks, Mr. Framus says … ”

  “Ask him to wait.” said Banks rapidly. “Take a list, Lorraine. I want a quart of water in a glass jug … six glasses… a steel knitting needle … a sheet of black cardboard; get this from Art, dull, not gloss … a piece of white chalk … a can of ether … ”

  “Did you say ether, Mr. Banks?”

  “Yes, I said ether?

  Lorraine made a hasty notation; Banks continued down the list of his needs. “I need some red oil and some yellow oil. Get these from Art too. A dozen new nails; big ones. A bottle of perfume, good and strong. And a pound of rice. Got that?”

  “A pound of rice, yes sir.”

  “What in thunder does he want with all that junk now?” growled Framus. “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Lorraine a little breathlessly. “Will you excuse me, Mr. Framus? I’ve got to get this stuff.”

  She ran out of the room. Framus half-rose to his feet, undecided whether to stay or whether to stalk from the office. He slowly settled back, now slapping his knee with measured resonant blows. Fifteen more minutes!

  In the inner office, Banks came to the final sentence.

  “Following these instructions will take you past the barriers of Sight, Direction, Confusion, and the Fallacy of Pain. You will find twin channels … advisedly, I call them arteries … and either one will bring you safely inside the Cordon, and here you can watch the progressions, these events that fill you with disgust at the thought of returning, but from which you’ll recoil in worse disgust.”

  That was all. Finish. The rest of the page was blank.

  Lorraine came in with the equipment. A boy from the Art Department assisted her.

  “Mr. Banks,” said Lorraine, “maybe I shouldn’t mention this, but Mr. Framus is acting awful impatient.”

  “I’ll see him in just a minute,” muttered Banks. “One minute.”

  Lorraine returned to the outer office. Looking over her shoulder on the way out the door, she saw Banks pouring water into each of the glasses.

  Precisely fifteen minutes had passed. Seth R. Framus rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Miss … I simply can’t wait any longer.”

  “Mr. Banks said he’d only be a minute, Mr. Framus,” said Lorraine anxiously. “I think it’s some kind of demonstration …”

  Framus said with quiet force, “I’ll wait exactly one more minute.” He took his place, and sat gripping the paper.

  One minute passed, then another.

  “There’s a funny smell in here,” said Seth R. Framus.

  Lorraine sniffed the air, and looked embarrassed. “It must be something on the wind … from the river …”

  “What’s that noise?” asked Framus, staring at Banks’ door.

  “I don’t know” said Lorraine. “It doesn’t sound like Mr. Banks.” “Whatever it is,” said Framus, “I can’t wait.” He clapped his hat on his head. “Mr. Banks can call me when he’s free.”

  He left the office.

  Lorraine sat listening to the sounds from Banks’ office: a gurgling of water, mingled with a hissing, frying sound. Then came Banks’ voice, subdued and muffled; then a vague roaring sound, as if someone momentarily had opened the door into the engine room of a ship.

  Then a murmur, then quiet.

  The telephone rang. “Mr. Banks’ office,” said Lorraine.

  Mr. Crispin spoke. “Hello, please put Mr. Banks on the line. I’ve got the man he was looking for.”

  Lorraine buzzed Mr. Banks.

  “Hello, Mr. Banks?” a voice from Crispin’s end, the deepest, most melancholy voice Lorraine had ever heard.

  “He’s not on the line yet,” said Lorraine.

  “Tell him it’s Angus McIlwaine Hunter speaking.”

  “I will, Mr. Hunter, as soon as he comes on.” She buzzed again. “He doesn’t answer … I guess he’s stepped out for a minute.”

  “Well, it’s not too important. I wonder if he’s read my manuscript.”

  “I believe so, Mr. Hunter. He seemed fascinated with it.”

  “Good. Will you tell him that the last two pages will be along tomorrow? I foolishly omitted them, and they’re very important to the article … crucial if I may say so … In the nature of an antidote …”

  “I’ll tell him, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Lorraine once more buzzed Mr. Banks’ office, then went to the door, knocked, looked in. The stuff Mr. Banks had ordered was scattered around in an awful mess. Mr. Banks was gone. Probably stepped out for a cup of coffee.

  Lorraine went back to her desk, and sat waiting. After awhile she brought out a file and began to work on her nails.

  First Star I See Tonight

  I STOOD IN THE DARK in front of the observatory, watching the quick fiery meteor trails streaking down from Perseus. My plans were completed. I had been meticulous, systematic.

  The night was remarkable: clear and limpid … a perfect night for what we had arranged, the cosmos and I. And here came Dr. Patcher … old “Dog” Patcher, as the students called him … the lights of his staid sedan sniffing out the road up the hill. I looked at my watch; ten-fifteen. The old rascal was late, probably had spent an extra three minutes shining his high-top shoes, or punctiliously brushing the coarse white plume of his hair.

  The car nosed up over the hill, the head-lights sent scurrying yellow shapes and shadows past my feet. I heard the motor thankfully gasp and die, and after a sedate moment, the slam of the door, the crush-crush of Dr. Patcher’s feet across the gravel. He seemed surprised to see me standing in the doorway, and looked at me sharply, as much as to say, “Nothing better to do, Sisley?”

  “Good evening, Dr. Patcher,” I said smoothly. “It’s a lovely night. The Perseids are showing very well … Ah! There’s one now.” I pointed at one of the instant white meteor streaks.

  Dr. Patcher shook his head with that mulish precision, that officious, precarious nicety which has infuriated me from the moment I first laid eyes on him. “Sorry, Sisley, I can’t waste a moment of this wonderful seeing.” He pushed past me, remarking over his shoulder, “I hope that everything is in order.”

  I remained silent. I could hardly say “no”; if I said “yes,” he would pry and poke until he found something … anything … at which he could raise his eyebrows: a smudge of oil, the roof opening not precisely symmetrical to the telescope, a cigarette butt on the floor. Anything. Then I would hear a snort of disparagement; a quick gleam of a glance would flick in my direction; the deficiency would be ostentatiously remedied. And at last he would get busy with his work … if work it could be called. Myself, I considered it trivial, a piddling waste of time, a repetition of what better men at better instruments had already accomplished. Dr. Patcher was seeking comets. He would not be satisfied until a comet bore his name … “Patcher’s Comet.” And night after night, when the seeing was best, Dr. Patcher had crowded me away from the telescope, I who had research that was significant and important. Tonight I would show Dr. Patcher a comet indeed.

  He was inside now, rustling and probing; tonight he would find nothing a millimeter out of place. I was wrong. “Oh, Sisley,” came his silky voice, “are you busy?”

  I hurried inside. Patcher was standing by the senior faculty closet with his old tweed coat already carefully arranged on a hanger. Instantly I knew his complaint. Patcher affected a white laboratory coat, which he called his “duster.” About twice a month the janitor, in cleaning out the senior faculty closet, would remove the duster and replace it in the junior closet … whether as an act of crafty malice or sheer wool-gathering I had never made up my mind. In any event the ritual ran its course predictably, “Have you seen my duster, Sisley? It’s not in the clothes closet where it should be.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to retort, “Dr. Patcher, I am a professor of astronomy, not your valet.” To which he would make the carping correction, “Assistant professor, my dear Sisley,” thus enraging me. But tonight of all nights a state of normality must be assured, since what was to happen would be so curious and unique that only a framework of absolute humdrum routine would make the circumstances convincing.

  So I swallowed my temper and, opening the junior closet, handed Patcher his duster. “Well, well,” said Patcher as usual, “what on earth is it doing in there?”

  “I suppose the janitor has been careless.”

  “We’ll have to bring him up short,” said Patcher. “One place where carelessness can never be tolerated is an observatory.”

  “I agree whole-heartedly,” I said, as indeed I did. I am a systematic man, with every aspect of my life conducted along lines of the most rigorous efficiency.

  Buttoning his duster, Dr. Patcher looked me up and down. “You seem restless tonight, Sisley.”

  “I? Certainly not. Perhaps a little tired, a little fatigued. I was prospecting up Mount Tinsley today and found several excellent specimens of sphalerite.” Perhaps I should mention that my hobby is mineralogy, that I am an assiduous “rock-hound,” and devote a good deal of time to my collection of rocks, minerals, and crystals.

  Dr. Patcher shook his head a little. “I personally could not afford to dilute my energy to such an extent. I feel that every ounce of my attention belongs to my work.”

  This was a provocative misstatement. Dr. Patcher was an ardent horticulturalist and had gone so far as to plant a border of roses around the observatory.