The Metal Monster | Page 4

of a popular
presentation, Dr. Goodwin had left America. He had explained that he was still too
shaken, too depressed, to be able to recall experiences that must inevitably carry with
them freshened memories of those whom he loved so well and from whom, he felt, he
was separated in all probability forever.

I had understood that he had gone to some remote part of Asia to pursue certain botanical
studies, and it was therefore with the liveliest surprise and interest that I received a
summons from the President of the Association to meet Dr. Goodwin at a designated
place and hour.
Through my close study of the Moon Pool papers I had formed a mental image of their
writer. I had read, too, those volumes of botanical research which have set him high
above all other American scientists in this field, gleaning from their curious mingling of
extremely technical observations and minutely accurate but extraordinarily poetic
descriptions, hints to amplify my picture of him. It gratified me to find I had drawn a
pretty good one.
The man to whom the President of the Association introduced me was sturdy, well-knit, a
little under average height. He had a broad but rather low forehead that reminded me
somewhat of the late electrical wizard Steinmetz. Under level black brows shone eyes of
clear hazel, kindly, shrewd, a little wistful, lightly humorous; the eyes both of a doer and
a dreamer.
Not more than forty I judged him to be. A close-trimmed, pointed beard did not hide the
firm chin and the clean-cut mouth. His hair was thick and black and oddly sprinkled with
white; small streaks and dots of gleaming silver that shone with a curiously metallic
luster.
His right arm was closely bound to his breast. His manner as he greeted me was tinged
with shyness. He extended his left hand in greeting, and as I clasped the fingers I was
struck by their peculiar, pronounced, yet pleasant warmth; a sensation, indeed, curiously
electric.
The Association's President forced him gently back into his chair.
"Dr. Goodwin," he said, turning to me, "is not entirely recovered as yet from certain
consequences of his adventures. He will explain to you later what these are. In the
meantime, Mr. Merritt, will you read this?"
I took the sheets he handed me, and as I read them felt the gaze of Dr. Goodwin full upon
me, searching, weighing, estimating. When I raised my eyes from the letter I found in his
a new expression. The shyness was gone; they were filled with complete friendliness.
Evidently I had passed muster.
"You will accept, sir?" It was the president's gravely courteous tone.
"Accept!" I exclaimed. "Why, of course, I accept. It is not only one of the greatest honors,
but to me one of the greatest delights to act as a collaborator with Dr. Goodwin."
The president smiled.
"In that case, sir, there is no need for me to remain longer," he said. "Dr. Goodwin has
with him his manuscript as far as he has progressed with it. I will leave you two alone for

your discussion."
He bowed to us and, picking up his old-fashioned bell-crowned silk hat and his quaint,
heavy cane of ebony, withdrew. Dr. Goodwin turned to me.
"I will start," he said, after a little pause, "from when I met Richard Drake on the field of
blue poppies that are like a great prayer-rug at the gray feet of the nameless mountain."
The sun sank, the shadows fell, the lights of the city sparkled out, for hours New York
roared about me unheeded while I listened to the tale of that utterly weird, stupendous
drama of an unknown life, of unknown creatures, unknown forces, and of unconquerable
human heroism played among the hidden gorges of unknown Asia.
It was dawn when I left him for my own home. Nor was it for many hours after that I laid
his then incomplete manuscript down and sought sleep--and found a troubled sleep.
A. MERRITT

CHAPTER I
VALLEY OF THE BLUE POPPIES
In this great crucible of life we call the world--in the vaster one we call the universe--the
mysteries lie close packed, uncountable as grains of sand on ocean's shores. They thread
gigantic, the star-flung spaces; they creep, atomic, beneath the microscope's peering eye.
They walk beside us, unseen and unheard, calling out to us, asking why we are deaf to
their crying, blind to their wonder.
Sometimes the veils drop from a man's eyes, and he sees --and speaks of his vision. Then
those who have not seen pass him by with the lifted brows of disbelief, or they mock him,
or if his vision has been great enough they fall upon and destroy him.
For the greater the mystery, the more bitterly