{"id":579,"date":"2018-01-31T00:32:18","date_gmt":"2018-01-31T05:32:18","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stories.astoundingoutpost.com\/?p=579"},"modified":"2018-01-31T00:32:18","modified_gmt":"2018-01-31T05:32:18","slug":"man-from-the-wrong-time-track","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/2018\/01\/31\/man-from-the-wrong-time-track\/","title":{"rendered":"MAN FROM THE WRONG TIME-TRACK"},"content":{"rendered":"

Uncanny Stories<\/em>, April 1941<\/p>\n

MAN FROM THE WRONG TIME-TRACK<\/h3>\n

 <\/p>\n

by Denis Plimmer<\/p>\n

Author of \u201cMen of the Solar Legion,\u201d etc.<\/em><\/p>\n

In midair the gigantic form seemed to stop!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
F<\/em><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

OR immediate release!<\/em><\/p>\n

The statement which follows concerns the entire world, and for that reason I, Paul Dicey of Irving Place, New York City, am sending copies of it to the world\u2019s leading newspapers. What I have to say herein must be considered carefully by all who can read, for in it may lie their salvation and the salvation of billions of their descendants yet unborn!<\/p>\n

For this is an account of the mysterious visitation of the stranger, Mok; of my meeting with Carlton Jervis, M.D., and of the enormous consequences thereof.<\/p>\n

I shall begin with the night of the great storm in mid-September, 1941.<\/p>\n

All that day heat hung sultry and ominous over Manhattan, and about ten that night the storm broke\u2014a wild weird electrical fury striking vicious blue tongues of lightning through the black and swollen sky.<\/p>\n

I slammed down my window as the driving rain broke against it in vicious inimical waves. Around the four walls of the old rooming-house on Irving Place the wind tore and rattled and clutched and scraped like a vast invisible giant with clawing importunate fingers. For the sake of coolness I had left my door open. Across the hallway was the only other room on the floor, a room at that time unoccupied.<\/p>\n

I was studying for my Doctorate in applied psychology and so deep was I in my books that at first I didn\u2019t hear footsteps mounting the crazy ancient staircase, so deep that I noticed nothing until a light glowed suddenly in the hall. Looking up, I saw Mrs. Rafferty, my old Irish landlady, emerge from the stairs. She was followed by a stranger. Unlocking the door of the vacant room, she switched on the light within and beckoned the stranger to follow her.<\/p>\n

In view of subsequent events, I have always been piqued at the thought that the new lodger did not strike me more vividly at the moment. As it was, in the uncertain light of the hall lamp I perceived only a tall, stooping heavy-set man with an indefinable air of shagginess about him. His back was turned to me the entire time so I had no glimpse of his face. But I did see wide muscular shoulders, long swinging arms, stained and rainsoaked clothing, and twining hair darkly tangled which escaped beneath his hat to cover his thick neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was the first time the cop had cut down a man from another Time-track\u2014it was the first time <\/em><\/strong>he\u2019d sent that kind of a corpse to the morgue!<\/em><\/strong><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

I returned to my work with hardly a thought for the newcomer. Minutes passed. The door across the hall closed. A hand touched my shoulder.<\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Dicey!\u201d<\/p>\n

It was my landlady who spoke so timidly and in such low tremulous tones.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I talk to you?\u201d she was pleading.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, Mrs. Rafferty.\u201d<\/p>\n

Furtively she locked the door. Her expression was a queer blend of fear and horror. She said:<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you see him?\u201d \u201cWhom?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe new roomer?\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at her, puzzled. \u201cOnly from the back, Mrs. Rafferty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
H<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

ER anxious eyes watched me.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen you didn\u2019t see his face?\u201d I shook my head.<\/p>\n

Suddenly she collapsed into an armchair.<\/p>\n

\u201cI shouldn\u2019t be tryin\u2019 to run this place alone, I shouldn\u2019t,\u201d she moaned. \u201cIt\u2019s not a woman\u2019s task!\u201d Fiercely she gripped my hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe wouldn\u2019t sign the register, Mr. Dicey! He wouldn\u2019t hardly speak a word. His English is funny. I can\u2019t think what country he\u2019s from. I don\u2019t know his name. Oh, Lord, I don\u2019t know anything about him!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen why did you let him in?\u201d Mrs. Rafferty stared at the carpet.<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause I was afraid,\u201d she breathed.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHis face.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Through Irving Place the wind screamed desolately. The rain washed over the screaming windowpanes.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the face of an animal!<\/em>\u201d I stared, saying, \u201cWhat kind of an animal?\u201d Mrs. Rafferty sucked in her breath.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know, Mr. Dicey. Some kind that don\u2019t know kindness nor gentleness, some kind that does things quiet and secret, that does them at night!\u201d<\/p>\n

To my instant suggestion that she have a policeman evict this obviously undesirable tenant, the old lady demurred. After all, she might be mistaken in her judgment and Lord knew she wouldn\u2019t turn a dog out into such a night as this . . .<\/p>\n

\u201cDid he pay you anything in advance?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mrs. Rafferty displayed a crushed five-dollar bill bunched up tightly in her palm.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell,\u201d I persisted, not having much desire to share a lonely top-floor with so bizarre a creature, \u201chow would it be, Mrs. Rafferty, if I went in and saw him? Maybe I could form an opinion of my own.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, don\u2019t, Mr. Dicey,\u201d she begged. \u201cPlease, don\u2019t! There\u2019s something about him tonight that warns me to leave him alone! I said he had a face like an animal. Well, tonight the animal\u2019s come far, he\u2019s hungry and tired, his temper is short! Let him alone, Mr. Dicey, let him alone!\u201d<\/p>\n

But by this time my curiosity was afire. I had already started for the door when, distant and faint, a shrill stabbing scream soared from the rainy street.<\/p>\n

\u201cEileen!\u201d Mrs. Rafferty gasped. \u201cThat\u2019s Eileen\u2019s voice!\u201d<\/p>\n

I dashed to the window and threw it up, leaning far out into the stormy night. What I saw drove me back and, followed closely by Mrs. Rafferty, I dashed down the shaky staircase. When we arrived in the street less than a minute later, Eileen Rafferty and a little rain-coated knot of passers-by were bending over a stricken form.<\/p>\n

Eileen was my landlady\u2019s granddaughter.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is it, child?\u201d cried the old lady.<\/p>\n

The rain-drenched girl indicated the huddled figure on the pavement.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s Delia,\u201d she explained in a quivering tone of raw fright. \u201cI think her throat\u2019s cut!\u201d<\/p>\n

I bent closer to look. Delia was the colored maid of the house. From her sepia throat a dark river of blood still poured, gradually mingling with the dancing rain.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019d left the house through the cellar twenty minutes ago,\u201d Eileen was narrating. \u201cWe\u2019d given her an advance on her salary. I think she was going to buy some shoes. She must have been caught in the cellar entrance. Afterwards, she managed to stagger out this far.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
M<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n
    \n
  1. RAFFERTY said, \u201cBut why didn\u2019t we hear her scream?\u201d<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n

    Eileen shook her head.<\/p>\n

    \u201cAll the doors and windows were shut, gran,\u201d she replied. \u201cThe storm was raisin\u2019 such a howl you couldn\u2019t have heard an army passin\u2019. Then the bell rang, remember, and you took the new fellow upstairs to show him the room.\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cAh yes,\u201d I said. \u201cThe new lodger. I\u2019m going to talk to him. Eileen, get the police.\u201d<\/p>\n

    And leaving the two women I hurried back up the stairs and knocked on the stranger\u2019s door. I heard a grunt, pushed the door open, and entered the room.<\/p>\n

    The new lodger sat with his back to me. His shaggy head drooped in his hands. Carelessly in the center of the floor lay his damp coat and hat. In one corner, muddied shoes and socks made a grotesque heap.<\/p>\n

    \u201cPardon me,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

    For a moment the drooping figure remained still. Then\u2014slowly\u2014the head swung around. I choked back a cry of terror. The face was infinitely more horrible than Mrs. Rafferty had described it. Although basically feature for feature it was human, its expression of eyes and mouth was that of a wild, hungry man-driven ape, resting from pursuers in a cave under a desolate hill.<\/p>\n

    For a space we stared at each other stupidly. Several times the stranger opened his great maw of a mouth inarticulately. Finally:<\/p>\n

    \u201cYou want\u2014something?\u201d<\/p>\n

    The words were uttered with difficulty. The voice, as if unused to human speech, grated rustily.<\/p>\n

    \u201cYes,\u201d I replied. \u201cMrs. Rafferty tells me that you failed to sign her register.\u201d<\/p>\n

    Under their shadowy brows the harassed eyes roved about the room helplessly.<\/p>\n

    \u201cCannot\u2014write,\u201d the creature muttered finally.<\/p>\n

    \u201cYou haven\u2019t been taught to write?\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cNobody write. Forgot\u2014long ago. Five hundreds of\u2014years.\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cYour people haven\u2019t been able to write for five-hundred years? Why?\u201d<\/p>\n

    The monster stared at me. In its eyes a tiny red flame flickered, the same flame which glows in the eyes of a jungle beast goaded into a trap by its enemies.<\/p>\n

    \u201cOnly priests write,\u201d he said finally. \u201cWhy others\u2014learn?\u201d<\/p>\n

    From what country did the creature come? He shook his head. And his name?<\/p>\n

    \u201cMok.\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cWhat\u2019s your other name?\u201d<\/p>\n

    The response to this was unexpected. With lightning speed Mok heaved his giant bulk from the chair. Hands swinging ape-fashion, eyes red with rage, he tottered towards me.<\/p>\n

    \u201cTired,\u201d he bellowed, towering above my head. \u201cGo! Sleep! Tired! Sleep! Sleep! See?\u201d<\/p>\n

    Before this onslaught I fled to the hallway. The door slammed. A metallic fumbling within was accompanied by heavy breathing. The lock clicked. Something told me that locks were strange affairs to this outlandish animal.<\/p>\n

    \u201cSLEEP!\u201d<\/p>\n

    The word welled up within the room, spiraled through the house. Another grunt, and the bed groaned as that prodigious body fell upon it. Suddenly I realized that the thing called Mok had been unbelievably exhausted.<\/p>\n

    Downstairs the two women were pallid and trembling. Mrs. Rafferty, huddled in an armchair, was staring white-faced at Eileen. Delia had just been taken to the morgue. I told them of my experience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
    W<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

    HEN I had done, Mrs. Rafferty extended her hand. In it still lay the five-dollar bill.<\/p>\n

    \u201cLook at it, Mr. Dicey!\u201d Eileen whispered.<\/p>\n

    Wonderingly I unfolded the note, smoothing out the grimy creases. Of a sudden, nausea rose within me.<\/p>\n

    The bill\u2019s upper left-hand corner was bloodsoaked.<\/em><\/p>\n

    For a while the room was heavy with silence. I said:<\/p>\n

    \u201cEileen, did you give Delia a five-dollar bill?\u201d Eileen nodded dumbly.<\/p>\n

    \u201cThis <\/em>five-dollar bill?\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cI don\u2019t know. I\u2014I can\u2019t be sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

    I turned to the door, saying, \u201cI\u2019m going to take this to the police.\u201d<\/p>\n

    Instantly Mrs. Rafferty clutched my arm.<\/p>\n

    \u201cYou can\u2019t, Mr. Dicey,\u201d she begged. \u201cI won\u2019t let you!\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cBut this is brutal murder. That thing upstairs may be a homicidal maniac. God knows he looks<\/p>\n

    it!\u201d<\/p>\n

    Mrs. Rafferty sobbed.<\/p>\n

    \u201cI don\u2019t care. I\u2019ve got the reputation of my house to keep. I can\u2019t afford to involve one of my lodgers in a murder case. Not unless I\u2019m sure he\u2019s guilty. If the police are good for anything, they\u2019ll get him some other way. This can\u2019t be the only <\/em>clue!\u201d<\/p>\n

    Slowly I turned back. Although I hated the idea of sharing a lonely top-floor with a possible criminal, I appreciated Mrs. Rafferty\u2019s viewpoint.<\/p>\n

    \u201cAll right,\u201d I conceded. \u201cWe\u2019ll say nothing\u2014 yet.\u201d<\/p>\n

    So did I leave the two terrified women.<\/p>\n

    The next day I passed at the university. On my return that evening I found my landlady seated quietly in her basement parlor. What of the new lodger?<\/p>\n

    \u201cI haven\u2019t set eyes on him,\u201d Mrs. Rafferty replied. \u201cWhat sort of weird animal he is I don\u2019t know, but he has no regular job, and he seems satisfied to sit in his room all day alone. He hasn\u2019t even been out to eat. I\u2019ve been watching for him, believe me!\u201d<\/p>\n

    The main entrance to the old building lay just outside Mrs. Rafferty\u2019s sub-sidewalk window. My eye wandered to it and when she finished speaking I put my finger to my lips. Just outside, the thing called Mok was slowly descending the steps. As we watched, he disappeared down the darkening street.<\/p>\n

    \u201cThat\u2019s the first breath of air he\u2019s had all day, so help me!\u201d the old landlady whispered. We sat there in the gathering dusk for a quarter of an hour until Mok returned, shambling down the street and into the house. We heard him climbing the stairs.<\/p>\n

    I sat there a few moments longer. Then I went to my room.<\/p>\n

    The next three hours passed in study. I have fortunately taught myself concentration but, as the clock checked off the minutes, unbidden thoughts kept scattering through my brain. I thought of Delia lying on the gleaming pavement with her throat gaping redly, of Eileen\u2019s tormented face, and of the grim lodger a few feet down the hall. And I fell to examining his strange remarks, to analyzing them, to attempting some sort of a coherent integration of them.<\/p>\n

    Apparently he was unfamiliar with America, had come a long distance, was poor and exhausted. The land he came from was priest-ridden and during the past five hundred years illiteracy had been the rule. The stranger was white. For a while I considered the strange rumors of vanished white races said to be hidden away in the hearts of Asia and Africa. Even these hardly seemed to fit the case. Besides, they smacked too much of travelers\u2019 tales to elicit much belief from me. In the final analysis, his land of origin sounded much like Europe before the year One-thousand. But it certainly resembled no modern country that I had ever heard of.<\/p>\n

    Instinct suddenly made me look up. In my doorway was Mok!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
    T<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

    HE sight of that huge bulk of bestial life sent a chill through my body. Striving to hide my terror, I said:<\/p>\n

    \u201cWhat is it, Mok?\u201d<\/p>\n

    Slowly he lifted his hand. From the hairy paw dangled an absurd piece of gaily-spotted material. A man\u2019s bow-tie.<\/p>\n

    Mok gulped. His cruel face underwent an odd change which I interpreted as an apologetic grin.<\/p>\n

    He held the tie towards me.<\/p>\n

    \u201cYou fix\u2014yes?\u201d<\/p>\n

    For a moment I was speechless. Then it dawned upon me that he had in some way acquired a bowtie and would now like to wear it as he had seen others do.<\/p>\n

    Threading the garish thing through his collar, I tied it in a rakish butterfly knot. The effect was grotesque. The spectacle of that ugly simian face crowning the ridiculous little splash of colored cloth made me chuckle in spite of my fear. I held up a mirror before the monster. Wonderingly, he studied his reflection.<\/p>\n

    Then from out that muscled cavernous throat great laughter welled. With thick and clumsy fingers he touched the bow. Then turning to me he reached forth his hand. At first I started back. Then I stopped. The hand was affectionately stroking my hair.<\/p>\n

    Mok was pleased!<\/p>\n

    \u201cWhere you come from,\u201d said I, \u201cdon\u2019t they have bow-ties?\u201d<\/p>\n

    He shook his head.<\/p>\n

    \u201cWhat do you live in?\u201d I pursued hopefully.<\/p>\n

    \u201cHut. Hut from\u2014big\u2014stones.\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cHow long have you lived in these huts?\u201d<\/p>\n

    Slowly through the tortuous labyrinth of Mok\u2019s intelligence my words filtered.<\/p>\n

    \u201cAlways,\u201d he answered finally. \u201cSince big war.\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cWhat war?\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cWar of giants\u2014long ago!\u201d<\/p>\n

    Again his fingers strayed to the tie beneath his chin. Again the happy smile crinkled his face. With a final pat on my head, he ambled back to his room.<\/p>\n

    For a while I pondered this new facet, a facet showing childlike vanity quite touching and distinctly appealing. It seemed hard to picture this great grinning thing slitting Delia\u2019s ebony throat. I continued my speculations concerning the land of his birth. A land in which bow-ties were unknown, where many years ago there had been a war. Something in the way he mentioned this made me feel that it had occurred generations back, long before Mok or his father or his father\u2019s father had been born. He referred to it much as moderns refer to the discovery of America, as an event of antiquity, almost a milestone of tradition.<\/p>\n

    I was just preparing for bed when Mrs. Rafferty knocked softly. I admitted her. As on the previous night, she locked the door.<\/p>\n

    \u201cMr. Dicey,\u201d she whispered \u201cI don\u2019t feel right about letting you sleep up here so near to him.\u201d<\/p>\n

    Remembering the incident of the tie, I smiled.<\/p>\n

    \u201cHe never killed Delia, Mrs. Rafferty. He\u2019s too good-natured.\u201d<\/p>\n

    She compressed her lips. Her eyes held mine.<\/p>\n

    \u201cThe body of an old man has been found behind a signboard in a vacant lot three blocks away. Mr.<\/p>\n

    Dicey, his neck was broke . . .\u201d Suddenly I went cold.<\/p>\n

    \u201cWho was he?\u201d<\/p>\n

    Mrs. Rafferty shook her head.<\/p>\n

    \u201cNo one I ever saw. A nice-looking weak little old man. His poor thin neck was all twisted like a dead chicken\u2019s. It was horrible! And the queer thing was\u201d\u2014she lowered her voice\u2014\u201cthat he was fully dressed except for one thing. He had no tie!<\/em>\u201d She unlocked the door. \u201cYou\u2019ve been warned, sir. Bolt yourself in tonight. I\u2019m going to!\u201d<\/p>\n

    Before I could speak, she was gone. I could hear her scurrying down the dark stairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
    D<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

    IGGING my nails into the palms of my hands,<\/p>\n

    I fought to keep my head. The ghastly picture was bright in my brain of Mok trailing the little old man, getting him into a dark garbage-strewn lot, and wringing his neck\u2014for a gay piece of cloth!<\/p>\n

    Suddenly I saw how in character the murder was. It had elements of the bizarre, the horrible, the grotesque. A useless senseless slaughter for a thing of adornment, but it was right. . . . It was what Mok would do!<\/p>\n

    I jumped to my feet. A sound had reached me\u2014 the sound of a nearby door slamming, of heavy feet descending the stairs. How long I stood there frozen I don\u2019t know, but the blood surged in my veins at the sound of a low cry from the depths of the building, the cry of a woman in mortal terror. With a single leap I was through the door. As I descended the stairs, the low cry was repeated. My flying feet drowned it out. Panting, I reached Mrs. Rafferty\u2019s door.<\/p>\n

    As I did so, it flew open with a deafening crash. With express-train speed a giant figure shot out, starting up the stairs in great animal-like hops. I ran into the room. Mrs. Rafferty, chalk-white and shaking, cowered in the. corner.<\/p>\n

    \u201cI was eating a piece of bread,\u201d she gasped. \u201cHe knocked me down and took it from me. He was hungry!\u201d<\/p>\n

    A burly policeman attracted by the screams entered. Briefly I explained the situation. Together we started up the stairs. Halfway up the officer shouted to Mok to surrender. The answer was violent. A light chair spun down the stairwell, splintering and crashing. We dodged. The missile hurtled by harmlessly. Mingled with the stamping of feet, we heard Mok\u2019s mumbled incoherencies. The bullet-like crack of a slammed door echoed.<\/p>\n

    A few more steps carried us to the top floor. Mok\u2019s door faced us. Within the creature panted heavily.<\/p>\n

    \u201cMok,\u201d I shouted, \u201ccome out!\u201d<\/p>\n

    The only reply was a guttural monosyllable.<\/p>\n

    The policeman beat upon the thin panel of the door with his nightstick.<\/p>\n

    \u201cOpen up!\u201d<\/p>\n

    Drawing his pistol, he sent two slugs tearing through the flimsy lock. A guttering howl of pain arose. The door fell open. Across the room Mok was clambering through the window. We rushed him but he was quick. Swinging out onto a fireladder, he mounted to the roof. Cursing, the patrolman followed, I at his heels. Striving not to look down at the distant street, I climbed the rusted rungs and swung myself over the lip of the roof. A gigantic moonlit form loped across its tarred surface, thrusting the sturdy patrolman aside as if he had been a child.<\/p>\n

    With a single clean leap Mok gained the high coping. Barely eight feet separated the top of Mrs. Rafferty\u2019s house from the roof of a neighboring building. Tensing his iron muscles, Mok launched himself into dizzy space. A straight arrow of flame from the revolver\u2019s mouth split the darkness. In midair the gigantic form seemed to stop, hanging for a breathless instant on the jet bosom of Night.<\/p>\n

    Then with a piteous animal-like cry, he fell sprawling and clutching through the empty air. The policeman and I leaned over the roof\u2019s rim just as the body struck. It bounced on the hard sidewalk, lurched, and landed scarecrow-postured across the curb. Even as we watched, the dark shadows of the curious began to encircle the body like jackals about a slain tiger.<\/p>\n

    When we reached the street, a pale slender man was just rising from a scrutiny of the remains of Mok!<\/p>\n

    \u201cMy name is Jervis, officer,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cI\u2019m a doctor. This\u2014man\u2014is dead.\u201d<\/p>\n

    There was something strange in the hesitation before man<\/em>. The doctor noted my look of inquiry and explained gravely:<\/p>\n

    \u201cI say man <\/em>for want of a more apt word.\u201d<\/p>\n

    We stared at the body, then with a common accord leaned closer.<\/p>\n

    For something was happening to it!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
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    EVER shall I be able adequately to describe what followed. As we watched a miracle took place. In swift metamorphoses the brutish face of the dead Mok was changing, growing younger. The beard lightened and disappeared, the heavy lines around the eyes melted, the rugged contours of the jaw softened. Before us was the face of youth. Simultaneously the huge body appeared slimmer, almost\u2014adolescent . . .<\/p>\n

    Beneath our fascinated eyes the process continued inexorably. Young manhood yielded to boyishness, boyishness to childhood, with a corresponding change in the bulk beneath the clothes. With a lightning movement the doctor tore the already loose shirt aside, exposing the frail delicacy of a youngster\u2019s body.<\/p>\n

    And still the alteration proceeded until in the cold light of the street lamp the corpse of a baby lay before us. Even that diminished. Teeth vanished, hair; muscular hands became pudgy and dimpled.<\/p>\n

    Tinier and tinier grew the corpse at our feet. Feverishly the doctor ripped clothing aside to watch this wonder. Suddenly the baby\u2019s body curled, knees drawn up, hands folded inward, head contracted toward the breast. Before our eyes extremities lost shape; hands, feet, and head were engulfed in a vague roundness. Suddenly before us lay a tiny lump of indeterminate flesh, cushioned on the discarded clothing of the giant. The flesh dwindled to the size and shape of a large pearl. That was replaced by a glinting jewel of moisture which vanished before our awestruck gaze. Now nothing remained before us\u2014nothing but the crumpled outline of garments which once had clothed the savage stranger.<\/p>\n

    We had seen the mystic process of birth\u2014 reversed!<\/em><\/p>\n

    \u201cWhere is he?\u201d the dazed policeman muttered. Jervis looked up, smiling faintly.<\/p>\n

    \u201cSomewhere in Time, officer,\u201d was all he said.<\/p>\n

    The officer bent over. Gingerly he gathered up the heap of worn clothes.<\/p>\n

    \u201cWhat are you going to do with those?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

    He grinned sheepishly.<\/p>\n

    \u201cDamned if I know,\u201d he responded. \u201cIf I take \u2018em to the morgue, they\u2019ll say I\u2019m crazy. If I take \u2018em to headquarters, they\u2019ll say I\u2019m crazy. Any way you look at it, somebody\u2019ll say I\u2019m crazy!\u201d He shook his head. \u201cMaybe I am.\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cHere\u2019s my card,\u201d said Jervis. \u201cIf you need any help in your dilemma, just give me a ring.\u201d He retrieved a small object from the pavement. \u201cAnd here\u2019s final evidence that you shot a man and not a ghost.\u201d<\/p>\n

    His extended hand held a piece of metal.<\/p>\n

    \u201cMy bullet!\u201d exclaimed the policeman.<\/p>\n

    \u201cAnd,\u201d Jervis concluded, \u201cflattened on one side as all bullets are when they strike bone. Goodnight.\u201d<\/p>\n

    Mumbling to himself, the patrolman wandered down the street, the heap of discarded clothes cradled in his brawny arms.<\/p>\n

    I was anxious to discuss the whole affair, so I invited Jervis up to my room. A few minutes later, seated in my armchair, he was intently listening to my narration.<\/p>\n

    When I was through, he wrinkled his brow.<\/p>\n

    \u201cYou say, Mr. Dicey,\u201d he mused, \u201cthat Mok came from some land once ravaged by war in which for five-hundred years literacy had been a monopoly of the priesthood, in which the inhabitants lived in stone huts and were unfamiliar with bow-ties or locks, and whose basic impulses, unscreened by any civilized veneer, made them casual murderers?\u201d<\/p>\n

    \u201cAnd,\u201d I reminded him, \u201ca country of white men.\u201d<\/p>\n

    He nodded.<\/p>\n

    \u201cWhat conclusions do you draw?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
    I<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

    SAID, \u201cWell, doctor, I know of no modern nation which would fit those specifications, do<\/p>\n

    you?\u201d<\/p>\n

    He shook his head.<\/p>\n

    \u201cI can only think of the Dark Ages,\u201d I went on. \u201cThe British tribes for example lived in stone huts, they certainly wore no bow-ties, they were notoriously brutal in their attitude toward human life, they were ruled by a weird kind of priesthood, the Druids, they left few written remains, and they experienced wars of one kind or another almost incessantly. Of course I\u2019d never say it in public, but could it be possible\u2014philosophers say that all Time exists simultaneously\u2014that somehow Mok was an ancient Briton who by design or accident strayed into the wrong time-track and found himself in the 20th century? Then when he died, his body, following a natural course, grew younger, became embryonic, resolved itself into the seed of life, and finally vanished back into its own period?\u201d My words sounded crazy. Jervis bit his lip.<\/p>\n

    \u201cMr. Dicey, anything is possible, and certainly your hypothesis seems to fit the case. One detail alone rings false! The language spoken by the ancient Britons, the pre-Beowulf tongue, had little connection with modern English. I should think it unlikely that Mok, therefore, could have learned even as much comprehensible language as he did during his brief stay in our century.\u201d<\/p>\n

    I asked the doctor for his own solution.<\/p>\n

    \u201cI think,\u201d he began, \u201cthat your time speculation was essentially right. Mok did <\/em>lose himself on the wrong time-track. But he did not come from the past!\u201d<\/p>\n

    I put the obvious question.<\/p>\n

    \u201cGo over the facts again,\u201d said Jervis. \u201cA certain land, say America, is devastated by war. Civilization is destroyed. Those who survive must live like savages in caves or huts. Learning dies, culture dies, the spoken word almost atrophies. However, modern English in a crudely abbreviated form still remains the basis for such conversation as is needed. As always in a primitive society, a learned circle springs up, possibly a circle numbering the few scientists and scholars left alive, and in their hands learning, a precarious flame, is kept feebly alight. But these men are in the minority, and in order to preserve their safety they call themselves priests and pass their knowledge down from generation to generation. Five hundred years later bow-ties are forgotten and English has been reduced to a scattering of vital nouns and verbs. Sleep, tired, hungry, hot, cold, run, fight, die, <\/em>and so on. Then perhaps one of the priesthood gets to work on the problem of Time. By a miracle he manages to crash through the veil separating age from age, and for the sake of experiment he sends Mok out and down the years as a courier. If all Time exists simultaneously on different levels, then<\/p>\n

    Caesar\u2019s    Rome    and    Charlemagne\u2019s    France,<\/p>\n

    Elizabeth\u2019s England and Lincoln\u2019s America are all still active, still going through their endless destined round of events like so many records on an automatic phonograph. And if the past coexists with the present, what follows?\u201d \u201cThat the future does also?\u201d Jervis nodded, saying:<\/p>\n

    \u201cI believe that Mok was an emissary from the Future. Through him you and I are privileged to know what the Future may be like, a time of bestiality and savagery where throats are cut and learning hides behind the walls of the temple. And this is to be brought about by some vast and devastating war, a war destroying all decency and all faith in God or man. Mr. Dicey, we stand on the threshold of this disaster. Perhaps we have been chosen as prophets for our time. Perhaps we can revise the Future and save mankind from annihilation. But for us the fight will be bitter. Two against the forces of darkness abroad in the world today. Are we partners, Mr. Dicey?\u201d<\/p>\n

    He had offered a lean nicotine-stained hand. I grasped it. For I had found a friend.<\/p>\n

    This brings my share in the world\u2019s warning to a close. Humanity now has its chance. The choice lies fairly in our hands. Dr. Jervis and I have done our best. Gentlemen, the rest is up to you!<\/p>\n

    Signed <\/em>Paul Dicey, A.B., A.M.<\/p>\n

    Signed <\/em>Carlton Jervis, M.D. (Witness<\/em>)<\/p>\n

    THE END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

    Uncanny Stories, April 1941 MAN FROM THE WRONG TIME-TRACK   by Denis Plimmer Author of \u201cMen of the Solar Legion,\u201d etc. In midair the gigantic form seemed to stop! F OR immediate release! The statement which follows concerns the entire world, and for that reason I, Paul Dicey of Irving Place, New York City, am…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_kad_post_transparent":"","_kad_post_title":"","_kad_post_layout":"","_kad_post_sidebar_id":"","_kad_post_content_style":"","_kad_post_vertical_padding":"","_kad_post_feature":"","_kad_post_feature_position":"","_kad_post_header":false,"_kad_post_footer":false,"_kad_post_classname":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[9,5,12],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-579","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-archives","category-pulp-classics","category-swords-socery-and-subway-cars"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/579","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=579"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/579\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=579"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=579"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/astoundingoutpost.com\/stories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=579"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}