Short Fiction Stanley G. Weinbaum (read 50 shades of grey TXT) 📖

glowed out of the vanishing fumes of alcohol. “Why not?” he grunted.

He rose; Ludwig, standing, came scarcely to his shoulder. A queer gnomelike old man, Dan thought as he followed him across the park and into one of the scores of apartment hotels in the vicinity.

In his room Ludwig fumbled in a bag, producing a device vaguely reminiscent of a gas mask. There were goggles and a rubber mouthpiece; Dan examined it curiously, while the little bearded professor brandished a bottle of watery liquid.

“Here it is!” he gloated. “My liquid positive, the story. Hard photography⁠—infernally hard, therefore the simplest story. A Utopia⁠—just two characters and you, the audience. Now, put the spectacles on. Put them on and tell me what fools the Westman people are!” He decanted some of the liquid into the mask, and trailed a twisted wire to a device on the table. “A rectifier,” he explained. “For the electrolysis.”

“Must you use all the liquid?” asked Dan. “If you use part, do you see only part of the story? And which part?”

“Every drop has all of it, but you must fill the eyepieces.” Then as Dan slipped the device gingerly on, “So! Now what do you see?”

“Not a damn thing. Just the windows and the lights across the street.”

“Of course. But now I start the electrolysis. Now!”

There was a moment of chaos. The liquid before Dan’s eyes clouded suddenly white, and formless sounds buzzed. He moved to tear the device from his head, but emerging forms in the mistiness caught his interest. Giant things were writhing there.

The scene steadied; the whiteness was dissipating like mist in summer. Unbelieving, still gripping the arms of that unseen chair, he was staring at a forest. But what a forest! Incredible, unearthly, beautiful! Smooth boles ascended inconceivably toward a brightening sky, trees bizarre as the forests of the Carboniferous age. Infinitely overhead swayed misty fronds, and the verdure showed brown and green in the heights. And there were birds⁠—at least, curiously lovely pipings and twitterings were all about him though he saw no creatures⁠—thin elfin whistlings like fairy bugles sounded softly.

He sat frozen, entranced. A louder fragment of melody drifted down to him, mounting in exquisite, ecstatic bursts, now clear as sounding metal, now soft as remembered music. For a moment he forgot the chair whose arms he gripped, the miserable hotel room invisibly about him, old Ludwig, his aching head. He imagined himself alone in the midst of that lovely glade. “Eden!” he muttered, and the swelling music of unseen voices answered.

Some measure of reason returned. “Illusion!” he told himself. Clever optical devices, not reality. He groped for the chair’s arm, found it, and clung to it; he scraped his feet and found again an inconsistency. To his eyes the ground was mossy verdure; to his touch it was merely a thin hotel carpet.

The elfin buglings sounded gently. A faint, deliciously sweet perfume breathed against him; he glanced up to watch the opening of a great crimson blossom on the nearest tree, and a tiny reddish sun edged into the circle of sky above him. The fairy orchestra swelled louder in its light, and the notes sent a thrill of wistfulness through him. Illusion? If it were, it made reality almost unbearable; he wanted to believe that somewhere⁠—somewhere this side of dreams, there actually existed this region of loveliness. An outpost of Paradise? Perhaps.

And then⁠—far through the softening mists, he caught a movement that was not the swaying of verdure, a shimmer of silver more solid than mist. Something approached. He watched the figure as it moved, now visible, now hidden by trees; very soon he perceived that it was human, but it was almost upon him before he realized that it was a girl.

She wore a robe of silvery, half-translucent stuff, luminous as starbeams; a thin band of silver bound glowing black hair about her forehead, and other garment or ornament she had none. Her tiny white feet were bare to the mossy forest floor as she stood no more than a pace from him, staring dark-eyed. The thin music sounded again; she smiled.

Dan summoned stumbling thoughts. Was this being also⁠—illusion? Had she no more reality than the loveliness of the forest? He opened his lips to speak, but a strained excited voice sounded in his ears. “Who are you?” Had he spoken? The voice had come as if from another, like the sound of one’s words in fever.

The girl smiled again. “English!” she said in queer soft tones. “I can speak a little English.” She spoke slowly, carefully. “I learned it from”⁠—she hesitated⁠—“my mother’s father, whom they call the Grey Weaver.”

Again came the voice in Dan’s ears. “Who are you?”

“I am called Galatea,” she said. “I came to find you.”

“To find me?” echoed the voice that was Dan’s.

“Leucon, who is called the Grey Weaver, told me,” she explained smiling. “He said you will stay with us until the second noon from this.” She cast a quick slanting glance at the pale sun now full above the clearing, then stepped closer. “What are you called?”

“Dan,” he muttered. His voice sounded oddly different.

“What a strange name!” said the girl. She stretched out her bare arm. “Come,” she smiled.

Dan touched her extended hand, feeling without any surprise the living warmth of her fingers. He had forgotten the paradoxes of illusion; this was no longer illusion to him, but reality itself. It seemed to him that he followed her, walking over the shadowed turf that gave with springy crunch beneath his tread, though Galatea left hardly an imprint. He glanced down, noting that he himself wore a silver garment, and that his feet were bare; with the glance he felt a feathery breeze on his body and a sense of mossy earth on his feet.

“Galatea,” said his voice. “Galatea, what place is this? What language do you speak?”

She glanced back laughing. “Why, this is Paracosma, of course, and this is our language.”

“Paracosma,” muttered Dan. “Para⁠—cosma!” A fragment of Greek that had survived somehow