Page:Weird Tales v41n04 (1949-05).djvu/43
could see the rising and falling of his chest. His eyes were different from any other eyes I had ever seen. They seemed, in some odd way, to coruscate. Not like neon signs, yet it would be foolish to call them little suns. But what else? They were perhaps larger than the average human eyes, golden in their centers. They emitted light; there is no other way to say it. This man could see, then, in the most stygian darkness. He saw me there, in my ebon-dark room. I saw him, not by my Light, but by his.
His clothing was ordinary. He wore a business suit which looked gray, a white shirt with a black bow tie, a vest with a chain running, across the breast, a single-breasted coat, no hat or cap, yellow capped shoes. But he wore them as one unaccustomed to clothing of this kind, as a disguise. Just so might a Mongol wear American clothes, trying to hide among us. The shape of him inside them appeared to be human enough, yet when I looked at his head I knew there must be a difference.
His head was bulbous, high-domed forehead, covered t with a jungle of glowing hair, reminding me of ripe wheat in the sun. The hair, then, was part of his light. His face curved down to a square but truncated chin. There was no hair on his face. I thought again: "super intellectual." I didn't believe that hint came from Gars.
He stood there beside my bed, his hands clasped in front of him. His hands were shapely, his fingers long, slender, physician's fingers. I was struck by his hands not only because of their shapeliness but because he wore so many rings. Until I saw the rings I did not think of him as being a vain man.
"Nor am I vain!" he said, in rusty but perfect English, as if he had always known the tongue but had not spoken it for years on end. "It is only today that rings have degenerated into vanity. Come, Painter," he went on. My name is Gail Painter, anthropologist and archeologist, "Come, for we must be about our business."
"Who and what are you?" I demanded. I noticed that I could see through him, though I knew he was no spook. I knew also that I could only see through him when he wished me to.
"What I am does not matter yet," he said softly, his voice clear yet sounding as if it came from a far distance. "What you are is most important. You have been chosen as one having understanding, one capable of teaching. I am here to be taught. Others are here, too, surfacing, to be taught—against the day of conjunction."
"Surfacing? Conjunction?" I said stupidly. "You haven't answered my question yet."
"If I told you how who and what I am you would not believe it. You need to see, hear, and realize.”
"You're like no human being I know, or spook. If I believed in such nonsense I'd ask you if you are from Mars, Venus, Pluto, Merc. . ."
He chuckled softly, interrupting me.
"I'm not from Outside, Painter," he said. "Quite the contrary. I am an Earthman, like {{..}} like . . . I was about to say like you, but that is no longer true. Let me put it this way: once, ages ago, you and your kind were like me and my kind.”
"Time traveler!" I ejaculated, slipping into my clothes, though he had not bidden me to do anything of the kind.
"In a sense," he haid, "yes. But I belong to your era, to 1949, Year of Our Lord. I'm not out of Eden, or any place like that . . . well, exactly like that. Come, Painter, I am not here to mystify you, but to work with you. And there may be very little time."
I was putting on my shoes, having difficulty with the laces in the dark.
"How did you get in here?" I asked. "I locked the door."
"It is still locked,” he retorted. "I came in thus!"
He turned, paused, held up his right hand as if signaling, stepped through the wall which bordered a hallway of my apartment house, and vanished from sight. I stared at the blank wall through which he had gone. As I stared he walked back through it. Behind him the wall was undisturbed.
"Spook!" I couldn't help saying it.
"No! As human as you are, perhaps more so! Are you ready, Painter?"
"Where are we going?"
"Not far, a few minutes travel—Russia!