Never before had I realized what it meant to be in the public eye. Our
family privacy, held virtually sacred, was no longer so. We really had
less privacy at the castle during the days and weeks following the
discovery of the rocket from Mars on the beach than the hippopotami at
the Central Park Zoo. It was not unusual for me to find scientists,
explorers, college professors, high school teachers and reporters,
wandering in groups about the place, as though it were some museum, and
staring at me as if I were a recently acquired Egyptian mummy at the
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
And never before had I believed it possible to make a man out of a
monkey, a gentleman out of a chimpanzee, no more than one can make a
silk purse out of a sow's ear. But that is precisely what had happened.
It was now the first of November, and plenty out of the ordinary had
been happening. And everything that did occur had failed to arouse
either surprise or wonder in me. I had become so satiated with
unusual, stirring, hair-raising occurrences that I had begun to wear
a hard-boiled look on my face, like a hardened criminal, fed up with
cracking safes, kidnapping rich children for ransom, and bumping people
off; and this cultivated look of mine really expressed more than
anything else my patient acceptance of the fact that one never knows
what is going to happen next in this world.
The only strange note at the castle around November first was Mr.
Zzyx, our guest from Mars, a village policeman on guard in front of it,
and a cameraman lurking somewhere about, waiting to get a picture of
the man-ape, should he go out on the terrace with Niki for a stroll, or
drive off with Henry, to keep a dinner engagement.
We--that is, Jane, Pat and I--no longer exhibited any outward signs
of objecting to Mr. Zzyx's presence in the castle. What was the use?
Henry was master, and what he decreed was law. Confidence, to some
degree, had been restored in our domestic affairs. The servants, who
had been scared off from fright, had returned to their old jobs; even
Mamie Sparks, our colored laundress, had come back. I burst into a
roar of laughter one day when, coming into the servants' quarters, and
remembering Mamie's strange experience with me on the first night we
had harbored Mr. Zzyx, I found her carefully, and proudly, ironing his
enormous shirts and underthings, which seemed more suitably fitted for
a baby elephant.
My mind reverts to that early morning when Prince Matani left us so
suddenly after his mysterious and unfortunate encounter with our guest
from Mars. Perhaps I am oversuspicious as I look back, but it did not
ring true, that story of the Prince's as he had told it to me on the
telephone on the day following his departure.
The condition in which we had found him in Mr. Zzyx's bedroom was not
caused by shock or fright, he said; he had been suffering of late from
dizzy spells, and had simply fainted. I don't suppose we'll ever know
the truth about it. At any rate, the incident had given him a good
excuse to spend a month or so in California for his health, from which
I gathered that he was hell bent for Hollywood and a film career. After
he had gone, Pat saw a great deal more of McGinity, I noticed, without
Henry suspecting it.
Apart from McGinity's valuable services in directing Henry's publicity,
and keeping the public's interest keyed up to the highest pitch by his
daily newspaper articles, I believe he had as much to do as Henry in
the transformation that took place in our Martian visitor.
It is important to say here that at the beginning the public had
accepted all these strange revelations from outer space without
suspicion, and Henry had won the confidence of the people by stating
that he was just as much puzzled about the different occurrences as
they were.
But however things happened, three things were sure--facts. First,
every one, practically the world over, had listened in to the
deciphering of the mysterious dots and dashes on their radios, in the
globe-encircling hook-up, that fateful Tuesday night; and this message
was generally accepted as coming from Mars, which was then at its
closest point to the earth in a hundred years.
Then the rocket, most curiously constructed, had reached the earth in a
shower of meteors, which may or may not have been a part of the cosmic
bodies which the radio message from Mars had reported as streaming over
the planet, a fortnight before the projectile landed here. Lastly, a
strange man-beast, totally unlike any living creature on the earth, and
strongly resembling the Cro-Magnons, cavemen of 30,000 years ago, had
been discovered in the rocket.
The creature in the rocket, Henry always contended, was incidental, but
the reason for the rocket was vital. It was vital, he argued, because
it carried a history, in code, of Mars and its inhabitants. This code,
Olinski was still laboring over, day and night; and he had reported
it was as cunning and mysterious a piece of work as he had ever seen.
But the end was in sight. Any day now, and Henry could spring the
glad tidings that the riddle of Mars had been solved. And in this new
knowledge of life and conditions on the planet, he saw a means to dam
the curious wave of doubt and suspicion regarding his claims that was
threatening to engulf him and his theories.
What did matter, and it was almost fatal in that it gave impetus
to this slowly rising tide of mistrust, was that no further radio
messages from Mars had been received, following that Tuesday night
demonstration. Both Henry and Olinski had made frantic efforts to
re-contact the planet, but without result; and every known method to
get understandable messages through to Mars was tried. The powerful
radio stations of both the Army and Navy had stood by every night,
for weeks, to listen in for possible signals from the planet, without
success.
All this did not mean necessarily that people were losing interest. As
a matter of fact, Henry didn't care what anybody thought. Even if no
further messages came from Mars, he still had Mr. Zzyx, who was now
living a very active and interesting life. He went out with Henry to
clubs, to golf, to the homes of the very rich, and excellent dinners.
And wherever he went, the police emergency squads had to be called out
to handle the crowds.
The rocket was now reposing in a sealed glass case in the main lobby
of the New York Museum of Science. Already it had been viewed by five
million people, and they were still coming. Every day, from early
morning until closing time, there was a queue of two abreast of those
still eager to see the strange projectile that had hurtled through
space.
Henry and McGinity gave Jane and me the surprise of our lives
the first night they brought Mr. Zzyx downstairs for dinner. The
transformation they had wrought in the creature was so utterly
incredible that I burst out laughing. Equipped with an ample wardrobe,
fashioned by the smartest Fifth Avenue tailors, Mr. Zzyx, through
Henry's generosity, was now prepared to shine in the most brilliant and
fashionable circles. And yet, even in modern dress, there was still
something sinister and ominous about this huge, hairy beast that fairly
appalled me.
At my instigation, both Jane and Pat had put extra bolts and locks
on their bedroom doors. As for getting into my sleeping apartment,
it would have been much easier to get into the safe deposit vaults
of the National City Bank. Henry called such precautions "senseless
absurdity." Probably such provision against danger was unnecessary, but
Pat had had an adventure, shortly after Prince Matani's frightening
experience, that had caused the three of us to play safe.
It was easy to understand why Mr. Zzyx took such a fancy to Pat. During
his convalescence, she had tried to teach him the alphabet by means
of a primer; had shown him picture books, and built houses out of
vari-colored blocks, entertaining and amusing him in various ways.
That particular night--early in the evening--she had gone to Mr. Zzyx's
apartment with Henry. She happened to be carrying a new novel which she
was particularly anxious to begin reading that night. Mr. Zzyx took a
fancy to the book, probably on account of the picture of an African
jungle luridly depicted in colors on its cover. Pat refused to give it
to him, which put him in a bad temper.
She was in a dressing-gown and mules, when she discovered that, after
all her trouble in holding on to the book, she had left it behind in
Mr. Zzyx's apartment. She hurried back just as she was, and knocked at
the door. Niki answered her knock, and on her request, returned the
novel, and then closed the door. She went back to her own apartment,
and was just about to re-enter it, when she glanced back, down the hall.
Mr. Zzyx was peering out of the doorway of his bedroom. This gave her
quite a start, and she darted into her room, quickly locking the door
after her.
Her story of what followed was an odd one.
"I wasn't so awfully frightened when I saw Mr. Zzyx peeping out at me,"
she said, "or I would have gone straight into Aunt Jane's apartment,
the safest place in the castle. I had become so accustomed to Mr.
Zzyx's antics--he's just as playful as a child--I saw no reason why
I should become unduly alarmed. So I settled down, and read my novel
until about midnight. I went to sleep almost as soon as my head touched
the pillow.
"I don't know how long I'd been asleep when something aroused me. It
was a sound outside my bedroom door. I switched on the lights, slid out
of bed, caught up my dressing-gown and went to the door and listened.
I distinctly heard a scratching noise outside my door--a sound my pet
poodle makes when it wants to come into my room. Then I saw the brass
knob, inside my door, moving, and I got the impression that some one
was pressing his full weight against the door. Well, I was just too
scared to scream, so I started hammering on the door.
"Then I listened again, by placing my ear close against the door. I'm
sure I heard a stealthy movement outside, a soft, cat's-foot movement,
as though some one was moving away, down the hall; then everything
became quiet. Finally, I became more composed myself, and finding that
I had not aroused anyone by hammering on the door, I went back to bed.
But I never closed my eyes again that night."
When Pat recounted her adventure the next morning at breakfast, Henry
was inclined to dismiss it as trivial. "My dear, you had a nightmare,"
he said. "Who on earth would want to get into your apartment at that
hour of the night? As for Mr. Zzyx, why, he wouldn't hurt a fly."
Jane was stunned by Pat's story, and immediately added another bolt to
her bedroom door. For myself, I had heard no sound during the night,
and I'm a very light sleeper, and easy to waken. I felt, like Henry,
that perhaps Pat may have dreamed it.
At least, that was my opinion, until shortly after breakfast, while
examining the outside of her bedroom door, I found several distinct
marks, where the paint had been scratched, or clawed, off. Discovering
these marks, I felt it was not a nightmare of Pat's. So I questioned
Niki.
"You don't think it could have been Mr. Zzyx at Pat's door?" I asked
him.
Niki looked startled, then he grinned, and established a complete alibi
for our guest. "No," he said. "Mr. Zzyx never left his room last night."
I left him, my mind confused in many ways, but entirely clear on one
point. There was something at Pat's door, that was sure.
Jane was naturally upset and uncomfortable the first night Mr. Zzyx
dined formally with us. We were both dressed for dinner, and waiting
in the entrance hall for the others to come down. She had just been
telling me of her resolve not to close the castle on November first,
and open our town house, a custom we had rigidly followed for so many
years, when she happened to glance up the grand staircase. Clutching my
arm suddenly, she whispered: "My God, Livingston! Look!"
I turned, and gave one look, and then I burst out laughing, the sight
that met my eyes was so incredulous. Marching down the staircase, three
abreast, came Henry and McGinity, with Mr. Zzyx between them, all three
in immaculate dinner dress and enveloped in an atmosphere of complete
dignity. Henry seemed more astounded than affronted at my mirth. Before
he could voice his sentiments one way or the other, an excited murmur
came from Pat, who had just entered the hall from the drawing room.
"Good work, Uncle Henry!" she exclaimed, rushing over to the foot of
the staircase. "And Mr. Zzyx! He looks as smart as they make them!"
Mr. Zzyx seemed pleased at the furore he was causing, and proud of
his tailed dinner clothes. He kept drawing our attention to his pearl
shirt-studs and cuff-links.
"Now, I suppose Mr. Zzyx will be expected to escort me into dinner,"
said Pat.
"Not a chance," said McGinity, moving quickly to her side; "unless he's
smarter than I think."
As Mr. Zzyx advanced towards Jane, she walked away. She stopped when
Henry said: "Don't be afraid, Jane. Mr. Zzyx has no idea of hurting
anyone. What interests him is that gold-beaded bag you're carrying."
"Oh!" said Jane, flushing. Then she handed the bag to Mr. Zzyx, who
inspected it closely, smelt it, and then gave it back to her.
"Really!" she exclaimed. "He acts almost human!"
At this stage of the proceedings, Schweizer appeared on the scene, to
announce that dinner was served. And to my dying day, I shall never
forget the mingled look of amazement and horror that spread over the
butler's rotund face as his eyes fell on Mr. Zzyx.
And one couldn't blame him. It was enough to give any one the jitters
to see this half-human creature in smart evening dress, his heavy
animal fur framing a human face, and his hairy hands and forearms
protruding from the white cuffs of a stiff-bosomed shirt.
We had not been seated long at the table before I realized that Mr.
Zzyx, despite his repulsive appearance, possessed the mentality and
playful urge of a child. This was evident during the entrée course,
when he began to make wig-wag signals with his napkin, in an effort to
attract the butler's attention. What possible motive could he have?
Then, suddenly, the truth dawned on me. It was Schweizer who served the
dinner, and it was the food he brought that interested Mr. Zzyx most.
He had a most voracious appetite.
He sat between Henry and McGinity, in a great throne-chair which Henry
had brought from Europe. I must admit Niki had accomplished wonders in
teaching him how to handle his knife, fork and spoon. He ate everything
that was set before him, and showed a great fondness for Henry's choice
wines and champagne. Now and then, he would pause in his eating, and
look round the table, his sharp black eyes taking us all in, one at a
time; then he would chatter something unintelligible, and resume his
eating.
Henry noted this, and remarked: "Of course, we all appear very strange
to our honored guest, as it would be if we, ourselves, were catapulted
to Mars in a rocket, and suddenly found ourselves dining with a group
of Martians. In time, I hope he will be able to speak our language."
"And then we'll know what he thinks about us," McGinity suggested. "But
he must realize by this time, how much we all think of him." Turning to
Mr. Zzyx, he patted him on the arm, and added: "You're in pretty soft,
aren't you, young fellow?"
And to out utter amazement, Mr. Zzyx turned to McGinity and
spoke--actually spoke for the first time. He distinctly mouthed a word
that sounded like "Spaghet!" with emphasis on the last syllable. He
sort of hissed the word.
"There you are!" exclaimed Henry. "I thought all along he had the power
of speech. I shall engage a tutor for him the very first thing tomorrow
morning."
"He certainly said something," McGinity observed; "sounded like Latin
to me."
And then Pat distinguished herself. "My opinion is that he tried to say
'spaghetti'," she offered. "That has some Latin connection, hasn't it?
Niki says he's terribly fond of it."
After dinner, Mr. Zzyx lounged indolently in the largest easy chair in
the library, while Schweizer served coffee. He smoked one cigarette
after another with evident enjoyment. When Henry first offered him one
of his big cigars, he surprised and amused us by biting off the end of
it, and then throwing the cigar away. The end he thrust in his mouth
and began chewing it.
A little later, as I placed my empty coffee cup on the butler's
tray--this was after Niki had taken Mr. Zzyx upstairs, to undress him
and put him to bed--Schweizer whispered: "I beg pardon, sir, but I
don't like the looks of that fellow!"
"I'm afraid, Schweizer," I rejoined, "that you'll be seeing a good deal
of this 'fellow' from now on."
The butler reflected a moment in silence on this information, and then
walked away, muttering: "I don't like his looks--I don't like his
looks!"