DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939

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Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939

6 POLARIS

Prehistoric animals remotely resembling it in form. It stood on eight legs, short and squat. Head it had none, nor any outwardly visible organs. Upon the eight legs was a body, which was merely a round bell of some sort of fleshy armor--a poor enough description, certainly, and yet the only one I can give. It was a pet of the hut-dweller's--that is my only explanation for it. It followed him about like a dog--and when he disappeared on his strange absences, the most of the time it followed him. Certainly it was the more alien of the two.
     One day he showed me one of the books. Its binding was ordinary enough, though of some excellent grade of leathery substance that I could not imagine meeting in this out-of-the-way corner of earth. I opened it, and gasped at the marvelous interior.
     It was composed solely, save for a few lines at the bottom of each page in some strange writing, of pictures. But those pictures were of the most wonderful construction and technique I had ever seen. In full color, every one--each was the size of a page of the book. And there was nothing on the back of each picture; then I noted that the pages were removable.
     I noticed something odd also, then -- that the scenes were almost all of action, and almost without exception, humans figured in them. My host told me to examine them at my leisure, and i spent the next two days in so doing.
     Another thing must be mentioned. Though I am not a student of history, I know, perhaps, more of ancient times than does the ordinary man, and I saw that in many of his books the pictures were arranged in a kind of sequence--there was one set, for instance, that could have been nothing other than a marvelously executed, and most complete, series of illustrations of the principal events of the French Revolution.
     Asking him who the artist was, he merely smiled enigmatically.
     A few of the books -- very few--were blank--or rather, thought he pages were there, nothing was on them. These, I noted, were to one side in the case of the volumes; and it also finally dawned on me that the books were arranged in some sort of sequence--the ones to the top and left of the box being evidently very early reproductions, the meaning of which I could not, except in a few rare instances, fathom.
     But I have dwelt too long on this. I noticed, from the start, that at times, this strange man would be gone for periods of varying length, sometimes as long as half a day, leaving me to myself. Evidently he trusted me implicitly, but he almost never talked; and whenever I would question him about the things that were puzzling me, he would merely smile that curious smile.
     One night he returned from one of these disappearances, late, and I had lain down on that rude cot, and tried to sleep before he returned. But the questions of where I was, and who the man was, when I could return to civilization, kept beating through my brain like sledgehammers, and sleep would not come. It was then that he came back--and I noticed he had with him one of the pictures. Thinking I was asleep, he quietly drew one of th books from the case--one that I had never before inspected, and placed the illustration therein, the page somehow fitting tightly. I noticed that about half the pages of that book were blank--and all the other volumes were either full or empty completely.
     The next day -- which later proved to be the last of my stay

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6 POLARIS Prehistoric animals remotely resembling it in form. It stood on eight legs, short and squat. Head it had none, nor any outwardly visible organs. Upon the eight legs was a body, which was merely a round bell of some sort of fleshy armor--a poor enough description, certainly, and yet the only one I can give. It was a pet of the hut-dweller's--that is my only explanation for it. It followed him about like a dog--and when he disappeared on his strange absences, the most of the time it followed him. Certainly it was the more alien of the two. One day he showed me one of the books. Its binding was ordinary enough, though of some excellent grade of leathery substance that I could not imagine meeting in this out-of-the-way corner of earth. I opened it, and gasped at the marvelous interior. It was composed solely, save for a few lines at the bottom of each page in some strange writing, of pictures. But those pictures were of the most wonderful construction and technique I had ever seen. In full color, every one--each was the size of a page of the book. And there was nothing on the back of each picture; then I noted that the pages were removable. I noticed something odd also, then -- that the scenes were almost all of action, and almost without exception, humans figured in them. My host told me to examine them at my leisure, and i spent the next two days in so doing. Another thing must be mentioned. Though I am not a student of history, I know, perhaps, more of ancient times than does the ordinary man, and I saw that in many of his books the pictures were arranged in a kind of sequence--there was one set, for instance, that could have been nothing other than a marvelously executed, and most complete, series of illustrations of the principal events of the French Revolution. Asking him who the artist was, he merely smiled enigmatically. A few of the books -- very few--were blank--or rather, thought he pages were there, nothing was on them. These, I noted, were to one side in the case of the volumes; and it also finally dawned on me that the books were arranged in some sort of sequence--the ones to the top and left of the box being evidently very early reproductions, the meaning of which I could not, except in a few rare instances, fathom. But I have dwelt too long on this. I noticed, from the start, that at times, this strange man would be gone for periods of varying length, sometimes as long as half a day, leaving me to myself. Evidently he trusted me implicitly, but he almost never talked; and whenever I would question him about the things that were puzzling me, he would merely smile that curious smile. One night he returned from one of these disappearances, late, and I had lain down on that rude cot, and tried to sleep before he returned. But the questions of where I was, and who the man was, when I could return to civilization, kept beating through my brain like sledgehammers, and sleep would not come. It was then that he came back--and I noticed he had with him one of the pictures. Thinking I was asleep, he quietly drew one of th books from the case--one that I had never before inspected, and placed the illustration therein, the page somehow fitting tightly. I noticed that about half the pages of that book were blank--and all the other volumes were either full or empty completely. The next day -- which later proved to be the last of my stay