The Drink Tank 056 (2005).pdf

At Last: The Drink Tank 56-

The Issue About Days Gone By!

Edited by Christopher J. Garcia

garcia@computerhistory.org

Editorial Note

Hello, Gentle Readers. This issue will be one for the ages because it will

talk about...well, about the Ages, I guess. This one’s all about history: real

and imagined. There’s a fiction piece from Mike Swan that he sent to me for As

Of Yet Untitled that I’ll finally be using. There’s an article from Frank Wu

about his favourite historical strangenesses. I’ve got a couple of views of

historia, and there’s a look at what history can mean to someone on the edge

from the sisters MoreL.

In addition, I’ll be taking a few moments to consider the place in history

of a few folks in SF-doms (both fan- and pro-) and see how a historian in the fu-

ture might reject them or elevate them.

Plus...Well, if I told you everything you wouldn’t want to read the issue

now, would you?

Enjoy

Chris

A Strange and Distant City

in Honor of The Last Century’s Early Horror

Writers

Mike Swan

with the mule wearing victory laurels.

Why am I bothering with this? The Detective

asked himself. He had been of no help in finding

the seven others. The first was Ginny Martin, a girl

of nine whose mother said she walked to the high-

est point of their slightly twisting building and never

returned below for bed. Following that was Andrew

Hayen. There was a footprint on his roof, and a

matching one on the roof across the street, and a

streak of blood beside a third print a few wooden

buildings over, nearer to the Sacred City of the

Chinaman. The next three were closer, less than a

day between each, each taken when putting clothes

on line or drawing water from a rain collector. The

sixth was another boy. One moment he was in his

bed, asleep with dreams of cautious angels, and the

next he had left only a small spot of what might

have been saliva on the top cover.

Jesse’s name had been called across the al-

leys, from roof top to roof top in voices that seemed

to favour panic over reason. Mother voices. Father

voices. The neighbours’ voices that all seemed to

wonder aloud if they were wasting their breath.

No sound ever returned in answer, merely

a cacophony of questioning yells to the dark night

that returned to the asker through the hollow city

echo.

Jesse was not the first, and he would not

be found. Detective Lawrence knew what had

happened to him, knew that whatever pieces of a

puzzle he would

be asked to put

together, they

would all add up

simply to a young

boy who would

always be disap-

peared. He stood

on the roof top,

looking out over

the poorest parts

of San Francisco,

the towers built

in battles between

mule and man,

And now

he dealt with

Jesse.

“Detec-

tive,” the voice

of Marcus Dryer

had never seemed

clearer “there’s

something you

should see.”

The de-

tective walked

behind Dryer as

they came down

the series of stairs

that went from added level to the one below, show-

ing signs of forty years of growth without concern

for the fact that earthquakes had once rocked the

region.

The room where they arrive was well-pan-

elled, as if a gentleman had ordered it built and

then forgotten to tell anyone to leave the rest of the

house alone. Lawrence had spent years in the good

houses of The City, including time with the Stan-

fords, but here, here he felt as if the singular vision

of a man had built something beautiful only to al-

low it to be rolled in cheap wood additions.

A woman stood at the window, though she

had not opened it.

“Excuse me Miss.” The Detective said.

“You should bother, she’s mute, sir.” Dryer

told him as he walked to her.

Though they say that the loss of one abil-

ity will make itself up in acuity of the others, the

young woman had not noticed them arrive. Dryer’s

hand on her arm caused her to wordlessly job, then

speedily turn and walk across the room, up another

flight of stairs.

“We have to follow her. She did this last

time.”

Lawrence and Dryer followed her to another

set of stairs, this one going at a much different angle

into a building that neighboured. The roof must

have been much higher, for they used four differ-

ent sets of stairs to finally arrive at a roof with very

high clotheslines.

The young lady pointed upwards to the

highest line. It would have taken a ladder of nearly

twenty feet to reach that point, but there, hanging

down like a hunter’s recent kill, was an umbrella.

“Dryer, what’s this woman’s name?”

“She’s May Senter, Detective. She has al-

ready written out a statement for me, but she said

there was something you needed to see.”

Lawrence went to her as she pointed up.

“You can hear, can’t you, Miss Senter?”

She nodded strongly.

“When did this umbrella arrive? How many

nights ago?”

She slowly held up two fingers. Looking

around the roof area, there were several spots

where chalk drawings had been washed away by

various rains. Lawrence had not seen these marking

on any other roof and so assumed that this would

have been the location for the children to play.

Lawrence searched and saw that there was no lad-

der, but a long pole with a catch that the ladies must

have used to pin the clothes up to take advantage of

the drying wind of the higher points.

Taking the pole in his hands, Lawrence

worked to remove the umbrella. When he got it to

the level where they stood, the slatches of blood

and perhaps a piece of skin became evident.

“Did you know of this young man Jesse?”

Lawrence asked

Senter.

She nodded

in reply.

“Is this his

umbrella?”

Again, a

strong nod. Law-

rence looked it over,

saw that it was obvi-

ously been used in

play as evidenced by

the worn spots, the

chalk that marred

the handle and the

fabric near the spike. This clue was nothing that

could help them, but it did say that they’d not find

young Jesse alive.

by running the magnifying glass along the length,

then tracing it back.

“Well, it does seem to be reptilian, but not of

any practical reptile.” The herpatologist responded.

“Why is that?”

“The claws of a reptile are very distinct from

those of a mammal such as a bear or a puma. See,

this is a slice as opposed to a tear. Very precise, just

what a reptile’s claw are meant to do, though sel-

dom can they make such perfect cuts.”

“They can’t?”

Because they walk on their claws, they get

worn. This took almost no effort to enter, meaning

they were razor sharp, but no walking reptile, nor

any of those that swim, I’d imagine, would be able

to do this so cleanly.”

“Might it have been some scissor,

or perhaps a meat hook?”

“Never. This is absolutely a rep-

tile scratching.”

Dryer and Lawrence sat and

went over scratch patterns that the good

doctor had saved over the years. After

an hour, the two left with voluminous

thanks proffered to the master of repiles.

The papers ran the story in the masthead:

No child should be allowed alone on roof top.

Detective Lawrence had given answers to

questions, had formed simple scenarios where a

single gentleman, a mad man like London’s Jack,

had gone from roof top to roof top, finding children

and dragging them to their death. But this was quite

impossible. No man could have climbed to that

clothesline and no man could have gathered a child

so far quickly away without a sound. No, this was

not a single man. This was something else.

He spent days looking over

evidence: the photos of the footprints,

the blood smear, the umbrella. He had

searched the umbrella over and again,

and something had struck him as off

with one rip that he had associated with

damage from excessive play. It was long,

ragged, as if something had snagged

it, torn away fast. It also corresponded

with the some splash of blood. If young

Jesse had tried to defend himself from

the knife, this might have been the result,

though it was too ragged, as if a hook used for fish-

ing had snagged and been pulling so quickly down.

Or a claw.

No hints of future progress came

to them as they worked towards finding the killer.

No further ideas, and no further takings. Staring

at the iron work of the dome of the police head-

quarters, he imagined a Flying Crocodile preying

on children. A ridiculous piece of imagination, he

knew, but that would make a little sense. Looking

back down to the map of the incidents, something

struck him odd at the placement. It would have

seemed that the centre of the circle they described

was the building two over from the tower where the

umbrella had been found, but that was abandoned

and had been under near constant surveillance.

Lawrence looked at the map, then over the reports.

The photos showed nothing of interest, except for

one small detail.

In each photo, save for the one of the build-

ing where the umbrella had been found, a window

could be seen. A single window that seemed to look

into a darkened room. Or rather a room that was of

dark wood, perhaps. He knew the window, he knew

he had seen it from one side or the other. On that,

he returned to the tower of building that surround-

ed that fine wooded room.

Lawrence had asked Dryer to join him at the

Academy of Sciences. He had brought the umbrella

with him, since a biologist would be as unwelcome

at a police station as a pack of police officers would

be at a museum. They had set a meeting for noon

with Dr. Harvey Dennison, a specialist in reptiles.

Arriving, the Doctor seemed to be more scattered

than ever Dryer had imagined he would be.

“Welcome, Detective Lawrence, Officer

Dryer. I’m so glad to have you here. You said you

have a question about a claw-mark?”

Lawrence noticed that Dennison had a series

of long claw marks along one forearm.

“Here, on this umbrella.” Lawrence handed

it to him. “The long rip towards the handle. My

guess is it’s a claw that made it.”

The doctor took the umbrella and walked

across to his station where a magnifying glass stood

on a tripod. He examined it, tracing it from the start

Arriving at the home, he found Miss Senter

arranging flowers in vases. She looked horrible, as if

she hadn’t eaten in days.

“Hello, Miss Senter” he said as he pushed

open the door. She made no kind of greeting. “I

only need a moment to look around at your win-

dow.”

She stared at him and shook her head vio-

lently.

“Why may I not investigate your window,

Miss Senter.”

She did not answer, she only put down the

flowers and then stood on the line between the win-

dow and Detective Lawrence.

The Detective was about to throw a dozen

questions at her, he even prepared to get the pad

from his inner breast pocket when he looked at the

wallpaper near the window.

Tears, perfect and short, as if torn by perfect

and short reptilian

claws. These rips were

as immaculate as those

on the umbrella, the

umbrella that the mute

woman had pointed

out to them. The Um-

brella that she knew

belonged the to little

boy Jesse.

He took her by

the arms and moved

her aside, seeing that

there were more claw

marks on the sill, that

there were signs that

the window frame,

though nailed down

presently, had been

ripped open, pulling

nails with it, more

than once.

“Jesus, God!”

He said, turning to the

mute woman. “What

has gone on here?”

She seemed

near tears, but kept as

much of herself near

to the window.

“Answer me,

I know you must have some thought of what has

happened to these children.”

He pulled out the pad and a pencil, but the

young Miss Senter went into a fit, a fast jerk, then a

slow falling. Detective Lawrence, keen to keep her

from hitting her head, lunged and grabbed her be-

fore she made it to the floor. He lowered her slowly

so that she might convulse in relative comfort. He

watched as he throat seemed to seize, then expand,

then seize again. Remembering what he had been

taught of seizures in the academy, Detective Law-

rence went for a spoon, but was grabbed as he could

hear Miss Senter talking through her teeth.

“Run.” She said, he teeth tightly clenched

together.

“I’ll help you, ma’am.” He said “I just need

you to open your mouth.”

She would do no such thing, but Detective

Lawrence could tell that she was losing a battle for

consciousness. After a

few more seconds, she

slumped completely

against the ground,

still, save for her

throat, which seemed

to ripple.

“In Heaven’s

name?” The Detec-

tive said as he saw the

lower jaw forced open

and a scalpel claw

come forward.

Miss Mary

Senter returned to the

window, fresh and full

of new life. She fixed

the flowers which had

gone into an unexpect-

ed disarray and then

went to the window

which had been forced

open. She got the ham-

mers and nails and

pinned it shut again,

saying the silent prayer

that would allow her

to keep her mouth shut

and perhaps allow the

rest of the world to live.

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: