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Fan-Atic, v. 1, issue 3, May 1941

Page 20

FAN-ATIC,  Vol 1, No3.   May 1941.   Page 20.
THE ULTIMATE
Continued.     by Joe Gilbert

tape started coming out.  I --- well, I got scared and cut it off and phoned up Pageant and he insisted on calling the rest of you in on this.  Can't say I admire his taste in friends."  This last with another smoking glare at Sparks.
   Sparks chuckled cynically.  "Now if everyone will kindly go into a trance and Professor Pageant will darken the room, I'm sure we can persuade our astral friends to manifest themselves.  Feed the juice to her, old snatcher-of-bread-from-the-mouths-of-widows-and-orphans, and let's get this farce over with."
   The machine stood on a small metal table, a large box of an affair about two feet long and half that wide, built of some shiny metal that made it look very heavy.  There was a cylinder at one end of the box that had a crackle finish, and at the end of the cylinder was a horizontal slit.  Through this jutted an inch of tape.  It was blank.  On the top of the box was a small throw-switch, a dial, and a composition knob that probably regulated the current.
   Van Lucre threw the switch.  The box began to hum a little song of power to itself, and the finger on the dial broke into a frantic St. Vitus dance and wirled toward the red sector of the dial.  Van Lucre swore softly to himself, jerked up the switch, and turned the knob backwards.  Then he cut in the switch again and fiddled with the knob until the positioni of the needle on the dial satisfied him.  He straightened up.
   "Takes a few minutes to warm up," he said.  "Watch it now."
   They watched, staring intently at the small box.  The world was dead.  Nothing existed anywhere save the contented purr of that shiny box and their heavy breathing.  Seconds flew by.  Then minutes.  And nothing happened.
   Sparks broke the tensely expectant web that held him.  "This is a lot of ---"  He stopped.  Stopped very abruptly.  For there was queer light feeling in his stomach and each thump, thump, of his heart shook him physically.
   The tape was moving.
   It came out of the machine like a thin white worm and curled itself up on the floor.  And it continued to come and there were words on it.
   "God," said Pageant, and it was a prayer.  "God in Heaven."
   Van Lucre tried to say something and it stuck in his throat.  He gathered up the tape and ran it through his fingers, reading it, passing it on with unsteady hands.
   It was not a ghost message.  It was something bigger.  It was from a product of life that had evolved and evolved and evolved until a tired nature could do no more.  It was from the Ultimate; from an entity that was the last of its kind, from one who had all wisdom, all knowledge, knew all secrets save one.  A being of pure mentality, pure energy, or perhaps . . . even more.  A being who saw their world as they saw the world of an ant.  And this being was amusing itself by observing them as a scientist observes the habits of an ant, and talking to them with the same tolerant amusement a scientist would speak to that ant had he the way of doing so.  For the last Eternal was restless, weary of life, tired of its immortality, and of knowing all things.  So it played with its toys.     (Next page.)

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FAN-ATIC, Vol 1, No3. May 1941. Page 20. THE ULTIMATE Continued. by Joe Gilbert tape started coming out. I --- well, I got scared and cut it off and phoned up Pageant and he insisted on calling the rest of you in on this. Can't say I admire his taste in friends." This last with another smoking glare at Sparks. Sparks chuckled cynically. "Now if everyone will kindly go into a trance and Professor Pageant will darken the room, I'm sure we can persuade our astral friends to manifest themselves. Feed the juice to her, old snatcher-of-bread-from-the-mouths-of-widows-and-orphans, and let's get this farce over with." The machine stood on a small metal table, a large box of an affair about two feet long and half that wide, built of some shiny metal that made it look very heavy. There was a cylinder at one end of the box that had a crackle finish, and at the end of the cylinder was a horizontal slit. Through this jutted an inch of tape. It was blank. On the top of the box was a small throw-switch, a dial, and a composition knob that probably regulated the current. Van Lucre threw the switch. The box began to hum a little song of power to itself, and the finger on the dial broke into a frantic St. Vitus dance and wirled toward the red sector of the dial. Van Lucre swore softly to himself, jerked up the switch, and turned the knob backwards. Then he cut in the switch again and fiddled with the knob until the positioni of the needle on the dial satisfied him. He straightened up. "Takes a few minutes to warm up," he said. "Watch it now." They watched, staring intently at the small box. The world was dead. Nothing existed anywhere save the contented purr of that shiny box and their heavy breathing. Seconds flew by. Then minutes. And nothing happened. Sparks broke the tensely expectant web that held him. "This is a lot of ---" He stopped. Stopped very abruptly. For there was queer light feeling in his stomach and each thump, thump, of his heart shook him physically. The tape was moving. It came out of the machine like a thin white worm and curled itself up on the floor. And it continued to come and there were words on it. "God," said Pageant, and it was a prayer. "God in Heaven." Van Lucre tried to say something and it stuck in his throat. He gathered up the tape and ran it through his fingers, reading it, passing it on with unsteady hands. It was not a ghost message. It was something bigger. It was from a product of life that had evolved and evolved and evolved until a tired nature could do no more. It was from the Ultimate; from an entity that was the last of its kind, from one who had all wisdom, all knowledge, knew all secrets save one. A being of pure mentality, pure energy, or perhaps . . . even more. A being who saw their world as they saw the world of an ant. And this being was amusing itself by observing them as a scientist observes the habits of an ant, and talking to them with the same tolerant amusement a scientist would speak to that ant had he the way of doing so. For the last Eternal was restless, weary of life, tired of its immortality, and of knowing all things. So it played with its toys. (Next page.)