The Circle of Zero, Stanley Grauman Weinbaum [books to read this summer TXT] 📗

the cracks of the marble pavements. Or it might have been only the grave and sad demeanor of the pale inhabitants. There was something that hinted of a doomed city and a dying race.

A strange thing happened when I tried to describe this particular memory to old de Neant. I stumbled over the details, of course—these visions from the unplumbed depths of eternity were curiously hard to fix between the rigid walls of words. They tended to grow vague, to elude the waking memory. Thus, in this description I had forgotten the name of the city.

‘It was called,’ I said hesitatingly, Termis or Termoplia, or …’

‘Termopolis!’ cried de Neant impatiently. ‘City of the End!’

I stared amazed. ‘That’s it! But how did you know?’ In the sleep of lethargy, I was sure, one never speaks.

A queer, cunning look flashed in his pale eyes. ‘I knew,’ he muttered. ‘I knew.’ He would say no more.

But I think I saw that city once again. It was when I wandered over a brown and treeless plain, not like that cold grey desert but apparently an arid and barren region of the earth. Dim on the western horizon was the circle of a great cool reddish sun. It had always been there, I remembered, and knew with some other part of my mind that the vast brake of the tides had at last slowed the earth’s rotation to a stop, that day and night no longer chased each other around the planet.

The air was biting cold and my companions and I—there were half a dozen of us—moved in a huddled group as if to lend each other warmth from our half-naked bodies. We were all of us thin-legged, skinny creatures with oddly deep chests and enormous, luminous eyes, and the one nearest me was again a woman who had something of Yvonne in her but very little. And I was not quite Jack Anders, either. But some remote fragment of me survived in that barbaric brain.

Beyond a hill was the surge of an oily sea. We crept circling about the mound and suddenly I perceived that sometime in the infinite past that hill had been a city. A few Gargantuan blocks of stone lay crumbling on it and one lonely fragment of a ruined wall rose gauntly to four or five times a man’s height. It was at this spectral remnant that the leader of our miserable crew gestured then spoke in sombre tones—not English words but I understood.

‘The Gods,’ he said—‘the Gods who piled stones upon stones are dead and harm us not who pass the place of their dwelling.’

I knew what that was meant to be. It was an incantation, a ritual—to protect us from the spirits that lurked among the ruins—the ruins, I believe, of a city built by our own ancestors thousands of generations before.

As we passed the wall I looked back at a flicker of movement and saw something hideously like a black rubber doormat flop itself around the angle of the wall. I drew closer to the woman beside me and we crept on down to the sea for water—yes, water, for with the cessation of the planet’s rotation rainfall had vanished also, and all life huddled near the edge of the undying sea and learned to drink its bitter brine.

I didn’t glance again at the hill which had been Termopolis, the City of the End. But I knew that some chance-born fragment of Jack Anders had been—or will be (what difference, if time is a circle?)—witness of an age close to the day of humanity’s doom.

It was early in December that I had the first memory of something that might have been suggestive of success. It was a simple and very sweet memory, just Yvonne and I in a garden that I knew was the inner grounds on one of the New Orleans’ old homes—one of those built in the Continental fashion about a court.

We sat on a stone bench beneath the oleanders and I slipped my arm very tenderly about her and murmured, ‘Are you happy, Yvonne?’

She looked at me with those tragic eyes of hers and smiled, and then answered, ‘As happy as I have ever been.’

And I kissed her.

That was all, but it was important. It was vastly important because it was definitely not a memory out of my own personal past. You see, I had never sat beside Yvonne in a garden sweet with oleanders in the Old Town of New Orleans and I had never kissed her until we met in New York.

Aurore de Neant was elated when I described this vision.

‘You see!’ he gloated. ‘There is evidence. You have remembered the future! Not your own future, of course, but that of another ghostly Jack Anders, who died trillions and quadrillions of years ago.’

‘But it doesn’t help us, does it?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it will come now! You wait. The thing we want will come.’

And it did, within a week. This memory was curiously bright and clear, and familiar in every detail. I remember the day. It was the eighth of December, 1929, and I had wandered aimlessly about in search of business during the morning. In the grip of that fascination I mentioned I drifted to de Neant’s apartment after lunch. Yvonne left us to ourselves, as was her custom, and we began.

This was, as I said, a sharply outlined memory—or dream. I was leaning over my desk in the company’s office, that too-seldom visited office. One of the other salesmen—Summers was his name—was leaning over my shoulder.

We were engaged in the quite customary pastime of scanning the final market reports in the evening paper. The print stood out, clear as reality itself. I glanced without surprise at the dateline. It was Thursday, April 27th, 1930—almost five months in the future!

Not that I realised that during the vision, of course. The day was merely the present to me. I was simply looking over the list of the day’s trading. Figures—familiar names. Telephone 210�—US Steel—161; Paramount, 68�.

I jabbed a finger at Steel. ‘I bought that at 72,’ I said over my shoulder to Summers. ‘I sold out everything today. Every stock I own. I’m getting out before there’s a secondary crash.’

‘Lucky stiff!’ he murmured. ‘Buy at the December lows and sell out now! Wish I’d had money to do it.’ He paused, ‘What you gonna do? Stay with the company?’

‘No, I’ve enough to live on. I’m going to stick it in Governments and paid-up insurance and live on the income. I’ve had enough of gambling.’

‘You lucky stiff!’ he said again. ‘I’m sick of the Street too. Staying in New York?’

‘For a while. Just till I get my stuff invested properly; Yvonne and I are going to New Orleans for the winter.’ I paused. ‘She’s had a tough time of it. I’m glad we’re where we are.’

‘Who wouldn’t be?’ asked Summers, and then again, ‘You lucky stiff!’

De Neant was frantically excited when I described this to him.

That’s it!’ he screamed. ‘We buy! We buy tomorrow! We sell on the twenty-seventh of May and then—New Orleans!’

Of course I was nearly equally enthusiastic. ‘By heaven!’ I said. ‘It’s worth the risk! We’ll do it!’ And then a sudden hopeless thought. ‘Do it? Do it with what? I have less than a hundred dollars to my name. And you …’

The old man groaned. ‘I have nothing,’ he said in abrupt gloom. ‘Only the annuity we live on. One can’t borrow on that.’ Again a gleam of hope. ‘The banks. We’ll borrow from them!’

I had to laugh, although it was a bitter laugh. ‘What bank would lend us money on a story like this? They wouldn’t lend Rockefeller himself money to play this sick market, not without security. We’re sunk, that’s all.’

I looked at his pale, worried eyes. ‘Sunk,’ he echoed dully. Then again that wild gleam. ‘Not sunk!’ he yelled. ‘How can we be? We did do it! You remembered our doing it! We must have found the way!’

I gazed speechless. Suddenly a queer, mad thought flashed over me. This other Jack Anders, this ghost of quadrillions of centuries past—or future—he too must be watching, or had watched, or yet would watch, me—the Jack Anders of this cycle of eternity.

He must be watching as anxiously as I to discover the means. Each of us watching the other—neither of us knowing the answer. The blind leading the blind! I laughed at the irony.

But old de Neant was not laughing. The strangest expression I have ever seen in a man’s eyes was in his as he repeated very softly, ‘We must have found the way because it was done. At least you and Yvonne found the way.’

‘Then all of us must,’ I answered sourly.

‘Yes. Oh, yes. Listen to me, Jack. I am an old man, old Aurore de Neant. I am old Dawn of Nothingness and my mind is cracking. Don’t shake your head!’ he snapped. ‘I am not mad. I am simply misunderstood. None of you understand.

‘Why, I have a theory that trees, grass and people do not grow taller at all. They grow by pushing the earth away from them, which is why you keep hearing that the earth is getting smaller every day. But you don’t understand—Yvonne doesn’t understand.’

The girl must have been listening. Without my seeing her, she had slipped into the room and put her arms gently about her father’s shoulders, while she gazed across at me with anxious eyes.

The Bitter Fruit

There was one more vision, irrelevant in a way, yet vitally important in another way. It was the next evening. An early December snowfall was dropping its silent white beyond the windows and the ill-heated apartment of the de Neants was draughty and chill.

I saw Yvonne shiver as she greeted me and again as she left the room. I noticed that old de Neant followed her to the door with his thin arms about her and that he returned with very worried eyes.

‘She is New Orleans born,’ he murmured. ‘This dreadful Arctic climate will destroy her. We must find a way at once.’

That vision was a sombre one. I stood on a cold, wet, snowy ground—just myself and Yvonne and one who stood beside an open grave. Behind us stretched rows of crosses and white tomb stones, but in our corner the place was ragged, untended, unconsecrated. The priest was saying, ‘And these are things that only God understands.’

I slipped a comforting arm about Yvonne. She raised her dark, tragic eyes and whispered, ‘It was yesterday, Jack—just yesterday—that he said to me, “Next winter you shall spend in New Orleans, Yvonne.” Just yesterday!’

I tried a wretched smile, but I could only stare mournfully at her forlorn face, watching a tear that rolled slowly down her right cheek, hung glistening there a moment, then was joined by another to splash unregarded on the black bosom of her dress.

That was all but how could I describe that vision to old de Neant? I tried to evade. He kept insisting.

‘There wasn’t any hint of the way,’ I told him. Useless—at last I had to tell anyway.

He was very silent for a full minute. ‘Jack,’ he said finally, ‘do you know when I said that to her about New Orleans? This morning when we watched the snow. This morning!’

I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly this whole concept of remembering the future seemed mad, insane. In all my memories there had been not a single spark of real proof, not a single hint of prophecy.

So I did nothing at all but simply gazed silently as old Aurore de Neant walked