The Illuminatus! Trilogy Part 19

"I'm beginning to feel that I've been left out of a lot," he said.

"Later," said Maldonado. He took a small jeweler's gla.s.s out of his pocket and approached the nearest statue. "This is where they got the idea for the great G.o.d Pan," he said. "But you can see the idea was more complicated twenty thousand years ago than two thousand." Fixing the jeweler's gla.s.s in his eye, he began a careful inspection of a glittering hoof.

At the end of an hour, Maldonado, with the help of a ladder, had gone over each of the four statues from bottom to top with fanatical care and had questioned George about the manner of their seizure as well as what little he knew of their history. He put his jeweler's gla.s.s away, turned to Drake and nodded.

"You got the four most valuable pieces of art in the world."

Drake nodded. "I surmised as much. Worth more than all the gold in all the Spanish treasure ships there ever were."

"If I have not been dosed with a hallucinogenic drug," said Richard Jung, "I gather you are all saying these statues come from Atlantis. I'll take your word for it that they're solid gold, and that means there's a lot of gold there."

"The value of the matter is not worth one one ten-thousandth the value of the form," said Drake.

"That I don't see," said Jung. "What is the value of Atlantean art if no reputable authority anywhere in the world believes in Atlantis?"

Maldonado smiled. "There are a few people in the world who know that Atlantis existed, and who know there is such a thing as Atlantean art. And believe me, Richard, those few got enough money to make it worth anyone's while who has a piece from the bottom of the sea. Any one of these statues could buy a middle-sized country."

Drake clapped his hands with an air of authority. "I'm satisfied if Don Federico is satisfied. For these and for four more like them-or the equivalent if four such statues simply don't exist-my hand is joined with the hand of the Discordian movement. Let us go back upstairs and sign the papers-in pen and ink. And then, George, we would like you to be our guest at dinner."

George didn't know if he had the authority to promise four more statues, and he was certain that total openness was the only safe approach with these men. As they were climbing the stairs, he said to Drake, who was above him, "I wasn't authorized by the man who sent me to promise anything more. And I don't believe he has any more at the moment, unless he has a collection of his own. I know these four statues are the only ones he captured on this trip."

Drake let out a small fart, an incredible thing, it seemed to George, for the leader of all organized crime in the United States to do. "Excuse me," he said. "The exertion of these stairs is too much for me. Would love to put in an elevator, but that wouldn't be as secure. One of these days my heart will give out, going up and down those stairs." The fart smelled moderately bad, and George was glad when he had climbed out of its neighborhood. He was surprised that a man of Drake's importance would acknowledge that he farted. Perhaps that kind of straightforwardness was a factor in Drake's success. George doubted that Maldonado would admit to a fart. The Don was too devious. He was not your earthy sort of Latin-he was paper-thin and paper-pale, like a Tuscan aristocrat of attenuated bloodline.

They reentered Drake's office, and Drake and Maldonado each signed the parchment scroll. After the phrase, "for valuable considerations received," Drake inserted the words, "and considerations of equal value yet to come." He smiled at George. "Since you can't guarantee the additional objects, I'll expect to hear from your boss within twenty-four hours after you leave here. This whole deal is contingent upon the additional payment from you."

o.r.g.a.s.m. HER BUBBIES FRITCHID BY THE GYNING DEEPSEADOODLER. All in a lewdercra.s.s chaste for a moulteeng fawkin. In fact, hearing Drake say that he was to be leaving the Syndicate fortress made George feel a bit better. He signed in behalf of the Discordians and Jung signed as a witness.

Drake said, "You understand, there is no way the organizations which Don Federico and I represent can be bound by anything we sign. What we agree to here is to use our influence with our many esteemed colleagues and to hope that they will grant us the favor of cooperation in the mutual enterprise."

Maldonado said, "I couldn't have said it better myself. We, of course, personally pledge our lives and our honor to further your purposes."

Robert Putney Drake took a cigar out of a silver humidor. Slapping George on the back, he shoved the cigar into his mouth. "You know, you're the first hippie I've ever done business with. I suppose you'd like to have some marijuana. I don't keep any around the house, and as you probably know we don't deal much in the stuff. Too bulky to transport, considering the amount you can make on it. Aside from that, I think you'll like the food and drink here. We'll have a big dinner and some entertainment."

The dinner was steak Diane, and it was served to the four men at a long table in a dining room hung with large, old paintings. They were waited on by a series of beautiful young women, and George wondered where the gang leaders kept their wives and mistresses. In some sort of purdah purdah, perhaps. There was something Arabic about this whole setup.

During the main course a blonde in a long white gown which left one breast bare played the harp in a corner of the room and sang. There was conversation with the coffee; four young women sat down briefly with the men and regaled them with witticisms and funny stories.

With the brandy came Tarantella Serpentine. She was an amazingly tall woman, at least six feet two, with long blond hair that was piled high on her head and fell below her shoulders. She was wearing tinkling gold bracelets around her wrists and ankles, and there were diaphonous veils wrapped around her slender body, and nothing else. George could see pink nipples and dark crotch hair. When she strode through the door Banana-Nose Maldonado wiped his mouth with his napkin and began applauding gleefully. Robert Putney Drake smiled proudly and Richard Jung swallowed hard.

George just stared. "The star of our little rural retreat," said Drake by way of introduction. "Mav T present-Miss Tarantella Serpentine." Maldonado's applause continued, and George wondered if he should join in. Music, Oriental but with a touch of rock, flooded the room. The sound reproduction equipment was excellent, nigh perfect. Tarantella Serpentine began to dance. It was a strange, hybrid sort of dance, a synthesis of belly-dancing, go-go, and modern ballet. George licked his lips and he felt his face get warm and his p.e.n.i.s begin to throb and swell as he watched. Tarantella Serpentine's dance was even more sensuous than the dance Stella Maris had done when he was being initiated into the Discordian movement.

After she had done three dances, Tarantella bowed and left. "You must be tired, George," said Drake, resting his hand on George's shoulder.

Suddenly, George realized he had been going on almost no sleep except for the times he'd dozed off in the car on the way from Mad Dog to the Gulf. He had been under incredible physical, and even more important, emotional pressure.

He agreed that he was tired, and, praying that he would not be murdered in his sleep, he let Drake lead him to a bedroom.

The bed was an enormous fourposter with a cloth-of-gold canopy. Naked, George slid between cool, crisp sheets, and clutching the top sheet around his neck, lay flat on his back, shut his eyes tight and sighed. That morning he had been on a beach in the Gulf of Mexico watching naked Mavis m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e. He had f.u.c.ked an apple. He had been to Atlantis. And now he was lying on a downy-soft mattress in the home of the chief of all organised crime in America. If he closed his eyes he might find himself back in the Mad Dog jail. He shook his head. There was nothing to fear.

He heard the bedroom door open. There was nothing to fear. To prove it, he kept his eyes closed. He heard a board squeak. Squeaky boards in this place? Sure-to warn the sleeper that there was someone sneaking up on him. He opened his eyes.

Tarantella Serpentine was standing over the bed. "Bobby-baby sent me," she said.

George closed his eyes again. "Sweetheart," he said, "you are beautiful. You really are. You're beautiful. Make yourself comfortable."

She reached down and turned oft a bedside lamp. She was wearing a gold metallic bikini top with a short matching skirt. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were delightfully small, George thought. Although, on a five-foot-two girl they'd be ample. But Tarentella was built like a Vogue Vogue model. George liked her looks. He had always been partial to tall, slender boyish women. model. George liked her looks. He had always been partial to tall, slender boyish women.

"I'm not intruding on you, am I?" she asked. "You sure you wouldn't rather sleep?"

"Well it's not so much what I'd rather rather do," said George. "I doubt that I can do anything other than sleep. I have had a very trying day." m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed once, he thought, had one b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, and f.u.c.ked one apple. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. Plus been scared out of my wits 90 percent of the time. do," said George. "I doubt that I can do anything other than sleep. I have had a very trying day." m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed once, he thought, had one b.l.o.w. .j.o.b, and f.u.c.ked one apple. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. Plus been scared out of my wits 90 percent of the time.

Tarantella said, "My name is known in rarified circles for what I can achieve with men whose days are all all trying. Presidents, kings, Syndicate heads-naturally-rock stars, oil biilionnaires, people like that. My thing is, I can make men come. Over and over and over and trying. Presidents, kings, Syndicate heads-naturally-rock stars, oil biilionnaires, people like that. My thing is, I can make men come. Over and over and over and over over again. Ten times, sometimes even twenty times, no matter how old or how tired. I get paid a lot. Tonight, Bobby-baby is paying for my services, and I'm to service you. Which I like very much, because most of my clientele is on the middle-aged side, and you're nice and young and have a firm body." She gently pulled the sheet loose from George's grip--he had forgotten he was still holding it up around his neck-and caressed his bare shoulder. again. Ten times, sometimes even twenty times, no matter how old or how tired. I get paid a lot. Tonight, Bobby-baby is paying for my services, and I'm to service you. Which I like very much, because most of my clientele is on the middle-aged side, and you're nice and young and have a firm body." She gently pulled the sheet loose from George's grip--he had forgotten he was still holding it up around his neck-and caressed his bare shoulder.

"How old are you, George-twenty-two?"

"Twenty-three," said George. "But I don't want to disappoint you. I'm willing and I'm interested. In fact, I'm curious about what you do. But I'm pretty tired."

"Honey, you can't can't disappoint me. The more limp you are, the more I like it. The more of a challenge you are to me. Let me show you my specialty." disappoint me. The more limp you are, the more I like it. The more of a challenge you are to me. Let me show you my specialty."

Tarantella doffed her bra, skirt, and panties quickly but deliberately enough to let George enjoy watching her. Smiling at him, she stood before him, her legs spread wide apart. Her fingernails tickled her nipples, and George watched them swell up. Then, her left hand playing with her left breast, her right hand snaked down to her groin and began ma.s.saging the golden-brown hairs of her mons, Her middle finger disappeared between her legs. After a few moments a scarlet flush spread over her face, neck, and chest, her body arched backward, and she gave a single, agonized cry. Her skin, from head to toe, was glowing with a fine coating of sweat.

After a momentary pause she smiled and looked at him. Her right hand caressed his cheek and he felt the wetness on his face and smelled the Lobster Newburg aroma of a young c.u.n.t. Her fingers drifted to the sheets, and with a sudden movement she stripped them away from George's body. She grinned down at his stiff c.o.c.k and in a moment was on top of him, holding his p.r.i.c.k, inserting it into herself. Two minutes of smooth pistonlike movements on her part brought him to an unexpectedly pleasant o.r.g.a.s.m.

"Baby," he said. "You could wake the dead."

He enjoyed his second o.r.g.a.s.m about a half hour later, and his third a half hour after that. The second time Tarantella lay on her back and George lay on top of her, and the third time she was on her stomach and he was straddling her from the rear. There was something about the mood Tarantella created that was crucial to what she called her "specialty." Though she had boasted about her ability to make a man come repeatedly, when it came right down to doing things she made him feel that it didn't really matter what happened with him. She was fun-loving, playful, carefree. He did not feel obligated in any sense to stiffen, to come. Tarantella might view men as a challenge, but she made it clear that George was not to see her as a challenge.

After a short nap, he woke to find her sucking his rapidly hardening p.e.n.i.s. It took much longer this time for him to come, but he enjoyed every second of mounting pleasure. After that they lay side by side and talked for a while. Then Tarantella went to the bedside table and took a tube of petroleum jelly out of a drawer. She began applying it to his p.e.n.i.s, which grew erect during the process. Then she rolled over and presented him with her rosy a.s.shole. It was the first time George had had a woman that way, and he came rather quickly after insertion from the novelty and excitement of it all.

They slept for a while and he awoke to find her masturbating him. Her fingers were very clever and seemed quickly to find their way to all the most sensitive parts of his p.e.n.i.s-with special attention to that area just behind the crown of the head. He opened his eyes wide when he came and saw, after a few seconds, a small, pale, pearl-like drop of s.e.m.e.n appear on the end of his d.i.c.k. A wonder there was any at all.

It was getting to be a trip. His ego went away somewhere, and he was all body, letting it all happen. If was f.u.c.king Tarantella, and If was coming-and, judging by the sounds she was making and the wetness in which his p.e.n.i.s was sloshing, she was coming, too.

There followed two more b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs. Then Tarantella pulled something that looked like an electric razor out of the bed-table drawer. She plugged it into the wall and began to stroke his p.e.n.i.s with its vibrating head, pausing every so often to lick and lubricate the areas she was working on.

George closed his eyes and rolled his hips from side to side as he felt yet another o.r.g.a.s.m coming on. From a great distance he heard Tarantella Serpentine say, "My greatness lies in the life I can generate in limp p.r.i.c.ks."

George's pelvis began to pump up and down. It was really going to be that supero.r.g.a.s.m Hemingway described. It began to happen. It was pure electricity. No juice-all energy pouring out like lightning through the magic wand at the center of his being. He wouldn't be surprised to discover that his b.a.l.l.s and c.o.c.k were disintegrating into whirling electrons. He screamed, and behind his tight-clenched eyes, he saw, very clearly, the smiling face of Mavis.

He awoke in the dark, and his instinctive groping motion told him that Tarantella was gone.

Instead, Mavis, in a white doctor's smock, stood at the foot of the bed, watching him with large bright eyes. The darkened Drake bedroom had turned into a hospital ward, and was suddenly brightly lit.

"How did you get here?" he blurted. "I mean-how did I get here?"

"Saul," she said kindly, "it's almost all over. You've come through it."

And suddenly he realized that he felt, not twenty-three, but sixty-three years old.

"You've won," he admitted, "I'm no longer sure who I am."

"You've won," Mavis contradicted. "You've gone through ego loss and now you're beginning to discover who you really are, poor old Saul."

He examined his hands: old man's. Wrinkled. Goodman's hands.

"There are two forms of ego loss," Mavis went on, "and the Illuminati are masters of both. One is schizophrenia, the other is illumination. They set you on the first track, and we switched you to the other. You had a time bomb in your head, but we defused it."

Malik's apartment. The Playboy Club. The submarine. And all the other past lives and lost years. "By G.o.d," Saul Goodman cried, "I've got it. I am am Saul Goodman, but I am all the other people, too." Saul Goodman, but I am all the other people, too."

"And all time is this time," Mavis added softly.

Saul sat upright, tears gleaming in his eyes. "I've killed men. I've sent them to the electric chair. Seventeen times. Seventeen suicides. The savages who cut off fingers or toes or ears for their G.o.ds are more sensible. We cut off whole egos, thinking they are not ourselves but separate. G.o.d G.o.d G.o.d," and he burst in sobs.

Mavis rushed forward and held him, cradling his head to her breast. "Let it out," she said. "Let it all out. It's not true unless it makes you laugh, but you don't understand until it makes you weep."

queens. Psychoa.n.a.lysts in living cells, moving in military ordure, and a s.h.i.tty outlook on life and s.e.x, dancing coins in harry's krishna. It all coheres, even if you approach it ba.s.s ackwards. It coheres.

"Gruad the grayface!" Saul screamed, weeping, beating his fist against the pillow as Mavis held his head, stroked his hair. "Gruad the d.a.m.ned! And I have been his servant, his puppet, sacrificing myselves on his electric altars as burnt offerings."

"Yes, yes," Mavis cooed in his ear. "We must learn to give up our sacrifices, not our joys. They have taught us to give up everything except our sacrifices, and those are what we must give up. We must sacrifice our sacrifices."

"The Grayface, the lifehater!" Saul shrieked. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d motherf.u.c.ker! Osiris, Quetzalcoatl, I know him under all his aliases. Grayface, Grayface, Grayface! I know his wars and his prisons, the young boys he shafts up the a.s.s, the George Dorns he tries to turn into killers like himself. And I have served him all my life. I have sacrificed men on his b.l.o.o.d.y pyramid!"

"Let it out," Mavis repeated, holding the old man's trembling body "Let it all out, baby.... "

NOTHUNG. Woden you gnaw it, when you herd those flying sheeps with wagner's loopy howls? Ha.s.san walked this loony valley, he had to wake up by himself. August 23, 1966: before he ever heard of the SSS, the Discordians, the JAMs or the Illuminati: stoned and beatific, Simon Moon is browsing in a Consumer Discount store on North Clark street, digging the colors, not really intending to buy anything. He stops in a frieze, mesmerized by a sign above the timeclock: NO EMPLOYEE MAY, UNDER ANY CIRc.u.mSTANCES, PUNCH THE TIME CARD FOR ANY OTHER EMPLOYEE. ANY DEVIATION WILL RESULT IN TERMINATION. THE MGT.

"G.o.d's pajamas," Simon mutters, incredulous.

"Pajamas? Aisle seven," a clerk says helpfully.

"Yes. Thanks," Simon speaks very distinctly, edging away, hiding his high. G.o.d's pajamas and spats pajamas and spats, he thinks in a half-illuminated trance, either I'm more stoned than I think or that sign is absolutely the whole clue to how the show runs.

RAGS. Hail Ghoulumbia, her monadmen are fled and all she's left now is a b.l.o.o.d.y period. "The funny part," Saul said, smiling while a few tears still flowed, "is that I'm not ashamed of this. Two days ago I would have rather died than be seen weeping-especially by a woman."

"Yes," Mavis said, "especially by a woman." "especially by a woman."

"That's it-isn't it?" Saul gasped. "That's their whole gimmick. I couldn't see you without seeing a woman woman. I couldn't see that editor, Jackson, without seeing a Negro Negro. I couldn't see anybody without seeing the attached label and cla.s.sification."

"That's how they keep us apart," Mavis said gently. "And that's how they train us to keep our masks on. Love was the hardest bond for them to smash, so they had to create patriarchy, male supremacy, and ail that c.r.a.p-and the 'masculine protest' and 'p.e.n.i.s envy' in women came in as a result-so even lovers couldn't look at one another without seeing a separate category."

"O my G.o.d, my G.o.d," Saul moaned, beginning to weep heavily again. "'A rag, a bone, a hank of hair.' O my G.o.d. And you were with them!" And you were with them!" he cried suddenly, raising his head. "You're a former Illuminatus-that's why you're so important to Hagbard's plan. And that's why you have that tattoo!" he cried suddenly, raising his head. "You're a former Illuminatus-that's why you're so important to Hagbard's plan. And that's why you have that tattoo!"

"I was one of the Five who run the U.S.," Mavis nodded. "One of the Insiders, as Robert Welch calls them. I've been replaced now by Atlanta Hope, the leader of G.o.d's Lightning."

"I've got it, I've got it!" Saul said, laughing. "I looked every way but the right way before. He's He's inside the Pentagon. That's why they build it in that shape, so inside the Pentagon. That's why they build it in that shape, so he he couldn't escape. The Aztecs, the n.a.z.is ... and now us ..." couldn't escape. The Aztecs, the n.a.z.is ... and now us ..."

"Yes," Mavis said grimly. "That's why thirty thousand Americans disappear every year, without trace, and their cases end up in the unsolved files. He He has to be fed." has to be fed."

"'A man, though naked, may be in rags.'" Saul quoted. "Ambrose Bierce knew about it."

"And Arthur Machen," Mavis added. "And Lovecraft. But they had to write in code. Even so, Lovecraft went too far, mentioning the Necronomicon Necronomicon by name. That's why he died so suddenly when he was only forty-seven. And his literary executor, August Derleth, was persuaded to insert a note in every edition of Lovecraft's works, claiming that the by name. That's why he died so suddenly when he was only forty-seven. And his literary executor, August Derleth, was persuaded to insert a note in every edition of Lovecraft's works, claiming that the Necronomicon Necronomicon doesn't exist and was just part of Lovecraft's fantasy." doesn't exist and was just part of Lovecraft's fantasy."

"And the Lloigor?" Lloigor?" Saul asked. "And the Saul asked. "And the dois?" dois?"

"Real," Mavis said. "All real. That's what causes bad acid trips and schizophrenia. Psychic contact with them them when the ego wall breaks. That's where the Illuminati were sending you when we raided their fake Playboy Club and short-circuited the process." when the ego wall breaks. That's where the Illuminati were sending you when we raided their fake Playboy Club and short-circuited the process."

"Du hexen Hose," Saul quoted. And he began to tremble. Saul quoted. And he began to tremble.

UNHEIMLICH. Urvater whose art's uneven, horrid be thine aim. Harpoons in him, corpus whalem: take ye and hate.

Fernando Poo was given prominent attention in the world press only once before the notorious Fernando Poo Incident. It occurred in the early 1970s (while Captain Tequilla y Mota was first studying the art of the Coup d'Etat and laying his first plans,) and was occasioned by the outrageous claims of the anthropologist J. N. Marsh, of Miskatonic University, that artifacts he had found on Fernando Poo proved the existence of the lost continent of Atlantis. Although Professor Marsh had an impeccable reputation for scholarly caution and scientific rigor before this, his last published book, Atlantis and Its G.o.ds Atlantis and Its G.o.ds, was greeted with mockery and derision by his professional colleagues, especially after his theories were picked up and sensationalized by the press. Many of the old man's friends, in fact, blame this campaign of ridicule for his disappearance a few months later, which they suspect was the suicide of a broken-hearted and sincere searcher after truth.

Not only were Marsh's theories now beyond all scientific credibility, but his methods-such as quoting Allegro's The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross or Graves' or Graves' The White G.o.ddess The White G.o.ddess as if they were as reputable as Boas, Mead, or Frazer-seemed to indicate senility. This impression was increased by the eccentric dedication "To Ezra Pound, Jacques De Molay and Emperor Norton I." The real scientific scandal was not the theory of Atlantis (that was a bee that had haunted many a scholarly bonnet) but Marsh's claim that the G.o.ds of Atlantis actually existed; not as supernatural beings, of course, but as a superior cla.s.s of life, now extinct, which had preexisted mankind and duped the earliest civilization into worshiping them as divine and offering terrible sacrifices at their altars. That there was absolutely no archaeological or paleontological evidence that such beings ever existed, was the mildest of the scholarly criticisms aimed at this hypothesis. as if they were as reputable as Boas, Mead, or Frazer-seemed to indicate senility. This impression was increased by the eccentric dedication "To Ezra Pound, Jacques De Molay and Emperor Norton I." The real scientific scandal was not the theory of Atlantis (that was a bee that had haunted many a scholarly bonnet) but Marsh's claim that the G.o.ds of Atlantis actually existed; not as supernatural beings, of course, but as a superior cla.s.s of life, now extinct, which had preexisted mankind and duped the earliest civilization into worshiping them as divine and offering terrible sacrifices at their altars. That there was absolutely no archaeological or paleontological evidence that such beings ever existed, was the mildest of the scholarly criticisms aimed at this hypothesis.

Professor Marsh's rapid decline, in the few months between the book's unanimous rejection by the learned world and his sudden disappearance, caused great pain to colleagues at Miskatonic. Many recognized that he had acquired some of his notions from Dr. Henry Armitage, generally regarded as having gone somewhat bananas after too many years devoted to puzzling out the obscene metaphysics of the Necronomicon Necronomicon. When the librarian Miss Horus mentioned at a faculty tea shortly after the disappearance that Marsh had spent much of the past month with that volume, one Catholic professor urged, only half-jokingly, that Miskatonic should rid itself of scandals once and for all by presenting "that d.a.m.ned book" (he emphasized the word very deliberately) to Harvard.

Missing Persons Department of the Arkham police a.s.signed the Marsh case to a young detective who had previously distinguished himself by tracing several missing infants to one of the particularly vile Satanist cults that have festered in that town since the witch-hunting days of 1692. His first act was to examine the ma.n.u.script on which the old man had been working since the completion of "Atlantis and Its G.o.ds." "Atlantis and Its G.o.ds." It seemed to be a shortish essay, intended for an anthropological magazine, and was quite conservative in tone and concept, as if the professor regretted the boldness of his previous speculations. Only one footnote, expressing guarded and qualified endors.e.m.e.nt of Urqhuart's theory about Wales being settled by survivors from Mu, showed the bizarre preoccupations of the Atlantis book. However, the final sheet was not related to this article at all and seemed to be notes for a piece which the Professor evidently intended to submit, brazenly and in total contempt of academic opinion, to a pulp publication devoted to flying saucers and occultism. The detective puzzled over these notes for a long time: It seemed to be a shortish essay, intended for an anthropological magazine, and was quite conservative in tone and concept, as if the professor regretted the boldness of his previous speculations. Only one footnote, expressing guarded and qualified endors.e.m.e.nt of Urqhuart's theory about Wales being settled by survivors from Mu, showed the bizarre preoccupations of the Atlantis book. However, the final sheet was not related to this article at all and seemed to be notes for a piece which the Professor evidently intended to submit, brazenly and in total contempt of academic opinion, to a pulp publication devoted to flying saucers and occultism. The detective puzzled over these notes for a long time: The usual hoax: fiction presented as fact. This hoax described here opposite to this: fact presented as fiction.Huysmans' La-Bos started it, turns the Satanist into hero.Machen in Paris 1880s, met with Huysman's circle."Dois" and "Aklo letters" in Machen's subsequent "fiction." Same years: Bierce and Chambers both mention Lake of Hali and Carcosa. Allegedly, coincidence.Crowley recruiting his occult circle after 1900.Bierce disappears in 1913.Lovecraft introduces Hali, dois, Aklo, Cthulhu after 1923.Lovecraft dies unexpectedly, 1937.Seabrook discusses Crowley, Machen, etc. in his "Witchcraft," 1940.Seabrook's "suicide," 1942.Emphasize: Bierce describes Oedipus Complex in "Death of Halpin Frazer," BEFORE Freud, and relativity in "Inhabitant of Carcosa," BEFORE Einstein. Lovecraffs ambiguous descriptions of Azathoth as "blind idiot-G.o.d" "Demon-Sultan" and "nuclear chaos" circa 1930: fifteen years before Hiroshima.Direct drug references in Chambers' "King in Yellow" Machen's "White Powder" Lovecraffs "Beyond the Wall of Sleep" and "Mountains of Madness"The appet.i.tes of the Lloigor or Old Ones in Bierce's "d.a.m.ned Thing" Machen's "Black Stone" Love-craft (constantly.)Atlantis known as Thule both in German and Panama Indian lore, and of course, "coincidence" again the accepted explanation. Opening sentence for article: "The more frequently one uses the word 'coincidence' to explain bizarre happenings, the more obvious it becomes that one is not seeking, but evading, the real explanation" Or, shorter: "The belief in coincidence is the prevalent superst.i.tion of the Age of Science"

The detective then spent an afternoon at Miskatonic library, browsing through the writings of Ambrose Bierce, J-K Huysmans, Arthur Machen, Robert W. Chambers, and H. P. Lovecraft. He found that all repeated certain key words; dealt with lost continents or lost cities; described superhuman beings trying to misuse or victimize mankind in some unspecified manner; suggested that there was a cult, or group of cults, among mankind who served these beings; and described certain books (usually not giving their t.i.tles: Lovecraft was an exception) that reveal the secrets of these beings. With a little further research, he found that the occult and Satanist circles in Paris in the 1880s had influenced the fiction of both Huysmans and Machen, as well as the career of the egregious Aleistair Crowley, and that Seabrook (who knew Crowley) hinted at more than he stated outright in his book on Witchcraft, published two years before his suicide. He then wrote a little table: Huysmans-hysteria, complaints about occult attacks, final seclusion in a monastery.Chambers-abandons such subjects, turns to light romantic fiction.Bierce-disappears mysteriously. Lovecraft-dead at an early age.Crowley-hounded into silence and obscurity.Machen-becomes a devout Catholic. (Huysmans' escape?)Seabrook-alleged suicide.

The detective then went back and reread, not skimming this time, the stories by these writers in which drugs were specifically mentioned, according to Marsh's notes. He now had a hypothesis: the old man had been lured into a drug cult, as had these writers, and had been terrified by his own hallucinations, finally ending his own life to escape the phantoms his own narcotic-fogged brain had created. It was a good enough theory to start with, and the detective conscientiously set about interviewing every friend on campus of old Marsh, leading into the subject of gra.s.s and LSD very slowly and indirectly. He made no headway and was beginning to lose his conviction when good fortune struck, in the form of a remark by another anthropology professor about Marsh's preoccupation in recent years with amanita muscaria amanita muscaria, the hallucinogenic mushroom used in ancient Near Eastern religions.

"A very interesting fungus, amanita," amanita," this professor told the detective. "Some sensationalists without scholarly caution have claimed it was every magic potion in ancient lore: the soma of the Hindus, the sacrament used in the Dionysian and Eleusinian mysteries in Greece, even the Holy Communion of the earliest Christians and Gnostics. One chap in England even claims amanita, and not hashish, was the drug used by the a.s.sa.s.sins in the Middle Ages, and there's a psychiatrist in New York, Puharich, who claims it actually does induce telepathy. Most of that is rubbish, of course, but amanita certainly is the strongest mind-altering drug in the world. If the kids ever latch onto it, LSD will seem like a tempest in a teapot by comparison." this professor told the detective. "Some sensationalists without scholarly caution have claimed it was every magic potion in ancient lore: the soma of the Hindus, the sacrament used in the Dionysian and Eleusinian mysteries in Greece, even the Holy Communion of the earliest Christians and Gnostics. One chap in England even claims amanita, and not hashish, was the drug used by the a.s.sa.s.sins in the Middle Ages, and there's a psychiatrist in New York, Puharich, who claims it actually does induce telepathy. Most of that is rubbish, of course, but amanita certainly is the strongest mind-altering drug in the world. If the kids ever latch onto it, LSD will seem like a tempest in a teapot by comparison."

The detective now concentrated on finding somebody-anybody-who had actually seen old Marsh when he was stoned out of his gourd. The testimony finally came from a young black student named Pearson, who was majoring in anthropology and minoring in music. "Excited and euphoric? Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "I saw old Joshua that way once. It was in the library of all places-that's where my girl works-and the old man jumped up from a table grinning about a yard wide and said out loud, but talking to himself, you know, 'I saw them-I saw the fnords!' Then he ran out like Jesse Owens going to get his ashes hauled. I was curious and went over to peek at what he'd been reading. It was the New York Times New York Times editorial page, and not a picture on it, so he certainly didn't see the fnords, whatever the h.e.l.l they are, editorial page, and not a picture on it, so he certainly didn't see the fnords, whatever the h.e.l.l they are, there there. You think he was maybe bombed a little?"

"Maybe, maybe not," the detective said noncomittally, obeying the police rule of never accusing anyone of anything in hearing of a witness unless ready to make an arrest. But he was already quite sure that Professor Marsh would never reappear to be subject to arrest or any other hara.s.sment by those who had not entered his special world of lost civilizations, vanished cities, lloigors, dols, and fnords. To this day, the file on the Joshua N. Marsh case in the Arkham police department bears the closing line: "Probable cause of death: suicide during drug psychosis." n.o.body ever traced the change in Professor Marsh back to a KCUF meeting in Chicago and a strangely spiked punch; but the young detective, Daniel Pricefixer, always retained a nagging doubt and a shapeless disquiet about this particular investigation, and even after he moved to New York and went to work for Barney Muldoon, he was still addicted to reading books on pre-history and thinking strange thoughts.

SIMON MAGUS. You will come to know G.o.ds.

After the disappearance of Saul Goodman and Barney Muldoon, the FBI went over the Malik apartment with a fine-tooth comb. Everything was photographed, fingerprinted, a.n.a.lyzed, catalogued, and where possible shipped back to the crime laboratory in Washington. Among the items was a short note on the back of a Playboy Club lunch receipt, not in Malik's handwriting, which meant nothing to anybody and was included only for the sake of the completeness so loved by the Bureau.

The note said: "Machen's dols dols = Lovecraft's = Lovecraft's dholes?" dholes?"

VECTORS. You will come to no G.o.ds.

On April 25, most of New York was talking about the incredible event that had occurred shortly before dawn at the Long Island mansion of the nation's best-known philanthropist, Robert Putney Drake. Danny Pricefixer of the Bomb Squad, however, was almost oblivious of this bizarre occurrence, as he drove through heavy traffic from one part of Manhattan to another interviewing every witness who might have spoken to Joseph Malik in the week before the Confrontation Confrontation explosion. The results were uniformly disappointing: aside from the fact that Malik had grown increasingly secretive in recent years, none of the interviews seemed to provide any useful information. A killer smog had again settled on the city, for the seventh straight day, and Danny, a nonsmoker, was very aware of the wheeze in his chest, which did nothing to improve his mood. explosion. The results were uniformly disappointing: aside from the fact that Malik had grown increasingly secretive in recent years, none of the interviews seemed to provide any useful information. A killer smog had again settled on the city, for the seventh straight day, and Danny, a nonsmoker, was very aware of the wheeze in his chest, which did nothing to improve his mood.

Finally, at three in the afternoon, he left the office of o.r.g.a.s.m at 110 West Fortieth Street (an a.s.sociate editor there was an old friend of Malik's and frequently lunched with him, but had nothing substantial to offer in leads) and remembered that the main branch of the New York Public Library was only half a block away. The hunch had been in the back of his mind, he realized, ever since he glanced at Malik's weird Illuminati memos. What the h.e.l.l What the h.e.l.l, he thought, it'll only be a few more wasted minutes in a wasted day it'll only be a few more wasted minutes in a wasted day.

For once, the congestion at the window in the main reference room was not quite as bad as a Ca.n.a.l Street traffic jam. Atlantis and Its G.o.ds Atlantis and Its G.o.ds by Professor J. N. Marsh was delivered to him in seventeen minutes, and he began leafing through it looking for the pa.s.sage he vaguely remembered. At last, on page 123, he found it: by Professor J. N. Marsh was delivered to him in seventeen minutes, and he began leafing through it looking for the pa.s.sage he vaguely remembered. At last, on page 123, he found it: Hans Stefan Santesson points out the basic similarity of Mayan and Egyptian invest.i.ture rituals, as previously indicated in Colonel Churchward's insightful but wrongheaded books on the lost continent of Mu. As we have demonstrated, Churchward's obsession with the Pacific, based on his having received his first clues about our lost ancestors in an Asiatic temple, led him to attribute to the fict.i.tious Mu much of the real history of the actual Atlantis. But this pa.s.sage from Santesson's Understanding Mu Understanding Mu (Paperback Library, New York, 1970, page 117) needs little correction: (Paperback Library, New York, 1970, page 117) needs little correction:Next he was taken to the Throne of Regeneration of the Soul, and the Ceremony of Invest.i.ture or Illumination took place. Then he experienced further ordeals before attaining to the Chamber of the Orient, to the Throne of Ra, to become truly a Master. He could see for himself in the distance the uncreated light from which was pointed out the whole happiness of the future ... In other words, as Churchward puts it, both in Egypt and in Maya the initiate had to "sustain" (i.e., survive) "the fiery ordeal" to be approved as an adept. The adept had to become justified. The justified must then become illuminate.... The destruction of Mu was commemorated by the possibly symbolic House of Fire of the Quiche Mayas and by the relatively later Chamber of Central Fire of the Mysteries which we are told were celebrated in the Great Pyramid.Subst.i.tuting Atlantis for Mu, Churchward and Santesson are basically correct. The G.o.d, of course, could choose the shape in which He would appear in the final ordeal, and, since these G.o.ds, or lloigor lloigor in the Atlantean language, possessed telepathy, they would read the initiate's mind and manifest in the form most terrifying to the specific individual, although the in the Atlantean language, possessed telepathy, they would read the initiate's mind and manifest in the form most terrifying to the specific individual, although the shoggoth shoggoth form and the cla.s.sic Angry Giant form such as appears in Aztec statues of Tlaloc were most common. To employ an amusing conceit, if these beings had survived to our time, as some occultists claim, they would appear to the average American as, say, King Kong or, perhaps, Dracula or the Wolf-Man. form and the cla.s.sic Angry Giant form such as appears in Aztec statues of Tlaloc were most common. To employ an amusing conceit, if these beings had survived to our time, as some occultists claim, they would appear to the average American as, say, King Kong or, perhaps, Dracula or the Wolf-Man.The sacrifices demanded by these creatures evidently contributed significantly to the fall of Atlantis, and we can conjecture that the ma.s.s burnings practised by the Celts at Beltain and even the Aztec religion, which turned their altars into abbatoirs, were minor in comparison, being merely the result of persistent tradition after the real menace of the lloigor lloigor had vanished. We, of course, cannot fully understand the purpose of these b.l.o.o.d.y rituals, since we cannot fathom the nature, or even the sort of matter or energy, that comprised the had vanished. We, of course, cannot fully understand the purpose of these b.l.o.o.d.y rituals, since we cannot fathom the nature, or even the sort of matter or energy, that comprised the lloigor lloigor. That the chief of these beings, is known in the Pnakotic Ma.n.u.scripts Pnakotic Ma.n.u.scripts and the Eltdown Shards as Iok-Sotot, "Eater of Souls," suggests that it was some energy or psychic vibration of the dying victim that the and the Eltdown Shards as Iok-Sotot, "Eater of Souls," suggests that it was some energy or psychic vibration of the dying victim that the lloigor lloigor needed; the physical body was, as in the case of the corpse-eating cult of Leng, consumed by the priests themselves, or merely thrown away, as among the Thuggee of India. needed; the physical body was, as in the case of the corpse-eating cult of Leng, consumed by the priests themselves, or merely thrown away, as among the Thuggee of India.

Thoughtfully and quietly, Danny Pricefixer returned the book to the clerk at the checkout window. Thoughtfully and quietly, he walked out on Fifth Avenue and stood between the two guardian lions. Who was it, he wondered, who had asked, "Since n.o.body wants war, why do wars keep happening?" He looked at the killer smog around him and asked himself another riddle, "Since n.o.body wants air pollution, why does air pollution keep increasing?"

Professor Marsh's words came back to him: "if these beings had survived to our time, as some occultists claim "if these beings had survived to our time, as some occultists claim.... "

Walking toward his car, he pa.s.sed a newsstand and saw that the disaster at the Drake Mansion was still the biggest headline even in the afternoon editions. It was irrelevant to his problem, however, so he ignored it.