Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📖
- Author: Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall
Book online «The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📖». Author Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall
“What will it be?” inquired Watson. “Name your choice of destruction.”
But the Bar shook his head.
“Not so, Sir Phantom. You shall choose the manner of your death, not I. Particular I am not, nor selfish.”
“Make it wrestling, then,” in his most off-hand manner. He was a good wrestler, and scientific.
“Good. Are you ready?”
“Quite.”
“Very well, Sir Phantom. I shall walk to the edge of the Spot and turn around. I would take no unfair advantage. Now!”
Chick turned at the same moment and strode to his edge. He turned, and it happened; just what, Chick never knew. He remembered seeing his opponent turn slowly about, and in the next split second he was spinning in the clutch of a tiger. Even before they struck the stone, Chick could feel the Senestro reaching for a death-hold.
And in that one second Watson knew that he was in the grip of his master.
His mind functioned like lightning. His legs and arms flashed for the counterhold that would save him. They struck the Spot and rolled over and over. Chick caught his hold, but the Senestro broke it almost instantly. Yet it had saved him; for a minute they spun around like a pair of whirligigs. Watson kept on the defensive. He had not the speed and skill of the other. It was no mere test to touch his shoulders; it was a fight to the death; he was at a disadvantage. He worked desperately.
When a man fights for his life he becomes superhuman. Watson was put to something more than his skill; the sheer spirit of the Bar broke hold after hold; he was like lightning, panther-like, subtle, vicious. Time after time he spun Chick out of his defense and bore him down into a hold of death. And each time Chick somehow wriggled out, and saved himself by a new hold. The struggle became a blur—muscle, legs, the lust for killing—and hatred. Twice Watson essayed the offensive; first he got a hammer lock, and then a half-Nelson. The Bar broke both holds immediately.
Whatever Chick knew of wrestling, the Senestro knew just a bit more. It was a whirling mass of legs and bodies in continuous convulsion, silent except for the terrible panting of the men, and the low, stifled exclamations of the onlookers.
And then—
Watson grew weak. He tried once more. They spun to their feet. But before he could act the Senestro had caught him in the same flying rush as in the beginning, and had whirled him off his feet. And when he came down the Bar had an unbreakable hold.
Chick struggled in vain. The Bar tightened his grip. A spasm of pain shot through Chick's torso; he could feel his bones giving way. His strength was gone; he could see death. Another moment would have been the end.
But something happened. The Senestro miraculously let go his hold. Chick felt something soft brush against his cheek. He heard a queer snapping, and shouts of wonder, and a dreadful choking sound from the Bar. He raised dizzily on one arm. His eyes cleared a bit.
The great Bar was on his back; and at his throat was a snarling thing—the creature that Chick had seen in the clover leaf of the Jarados.
It was a living dog.
XLII. — PAT MACPHERSON'S STORY
To Watson it was all a blur. He was too weak and too broken to remember distinctly. He was conscious only of an uproar, of a torrent of multitudinous sound. And then—the deep, enveloping tone of a bell.
Some time, somewhere, Chick had heard that bell before. In his present condition his memory refused to serve him. He was covered with blood; he tried to rise, to crawl to this snarling animal that was throttling the Senestro. But something seemed to snap within him, and all went black.
When he opened his eyes again all had changed. He was lying on a couch with a number of people about. It was a minute before he recognized the Jan Lucar, then the Geos, and lastly the nurse whom he had first seen when he awoke in the Blind Spot. Evidently he was in the hands of his friends, although there was a new one, a red-headed man, clad in the blue uniform of a high Bar.
He sat up. The nurse held a goblet of the green liquid to his lips. The Bar in blue turned.
“Aye,” he said. “Give him some of the liquor; it will do him good. It will put the old energy back in his bones.”
The voice rang oddly familiar in Watson's ears. The words were Thomahlian; not until Chick had drained his glass did he comprehend their significance.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The Bar with the red hair grinned.
“Whist, me lad,” using Chick's own tongue. “Get rid of these Thomahlians. 'Tis a square game we're playin', but we're takin' no chances. Get 'em out of the way so we kin talk.”
Watson turned to the others. He made the request in his adopted tongue. They bowed, reverently, and withdrew.
“Who are you?” Chick asked again.
“Oi'm Pat MacPherson.”
“How did you get here?”
The other sat on the edge of the bed. “Faith, how kin Oi tell ye? 'Twas a drink, sor; a new kind av a high-ball, th' trickery av a friend an' th' ould Witch av Endor put togither.”
Obviously Watson did not understand. The stranger continued: “Faith, sor, an' no more do Oi. There's no one as does, 'cept th' ould doc hisself.”
“The old doc! You mean Dr. Holcomb?”
Watson sat up in his bed. “Where is he?”
“In a safe place, me lad. Dinna fear for th' doctor. 'Twas him as saved ye—him an' your humble sarvant, Pat MacPherson, bedad.”
“He—and you—saved me?”
“Aye—there on th' Spot of Life. A bit of a thrick as th' ould doc dug oot o' his wisdom. Sure, she dinna work jist loike he said it, but 'twas a plenty t' oopset th' pretty Senestro!”
Watson asked, “What became of the Senestro?”
“Sure, they pulled him oot. Th' wee doggie jist aboot had him done for. Bedad, she's a good pup!”
“What kind of a dog?”
“A foine wan, sor, wit a bit stub av a tail. An' she's that intelligent, she kin jist about talk Frinch. Th' Thomahlians all called her th' Four-footed, an' if they kape
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