by Robert Reed
instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they
depart . And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and
writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many
tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods . But
to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are
now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away;
and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-coloured panes;
and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him whose
foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock
of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which
reaches their ears who indulged in the more remote gaieties of the
other apartments .
But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them
beat feverishly the heart of life . And the revel went whirlingly on,
until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the
clock . And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, by Edgar Allan Poe | 662
of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation
of all things as before . But now there were twelve strokes to be
sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that
more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the
thoughtful among those who revelled . And thus too, it happened,
perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly
sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had
found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure
which had arrested the attention of no single individual before . And
the rumour of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly
around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or
murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally,
of terror, of horror, and of disgust .
In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well
be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such
sensation . In truth the masquerade licence of the night was nearly
unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and
gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite decorum.
There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be
touched without emotion . Even with the utterly lost, to whom life
and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be
made . The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that
in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propri-
ety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head
to foot in the habiliments of the grave . The mask which concealed
the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a
stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty
in detecting the cheat . And yet all this might have been endured, if
not approved, by the mad revellers around . But the mummer had
gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death . His vesture was
dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the
face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror .
When the eyes of the Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral im-
age (which, with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to
sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, by Edgar Allan Poe | 663
to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of
terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage .
“Who dares,”—he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood
near him—“who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery?
Seize him and unmask him—that we may know whom we have to
hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!”
It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince
Prospero as he uttered these words . They rang throughout the seven
rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince was a bold and robust man,
and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand .
It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of
pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight
rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who
at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and
stately step, made closer approach to the speaker . But from a certain
nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had
inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand
to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the
prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse,
shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way
uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which
had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to
the purple—through the purple to the green—through the green to
the orange—through this again to the white—and even thence to
the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him . It
was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage
and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly
through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a
deadly terror that had seized upon all . He bore aloft a drawn dagger,
and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four
feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the ex-
tremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his
pursuer . There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming
upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate
in death the Prince Prospero . Then, summoning the wild courage of
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, by Edgar Allan Poe | 664
despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the
black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood
erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped
in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like
mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by
any tangible form .
And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death . He
had come like a thief in the night . And one by one dropped the revel-
lers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the
despairing posture of his fall . And the life of the ebony clock went
out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods ex-
pired . And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable
dominion over all .
THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, by Edgar Allan Poe | 665
THE GREAT GRAY PLAGUE,
by Raymond F. Jones
Originally published in Analog Science Fact
and Science Fiction, February 1962.
Dr. William Baker was fifty and didn’t mind it a bit. Fifty was a
tremendously satisfying age . With that exact number of years behind
him a man had stature that c
ould be had in no other way . Younger
men, who achieve vast things at, say, thirty-five, are always spoken
of with their age as a factor . And no matter what the intent of the
connection, when a man’s accomplishments are linked to the num-
ber of years since he was born there is always a sense of apologia
about it .
But when a man is fifty his age is no longer mentioned. His name
stands alone on whatever foundation his achievements have pro-
vided. He has stature without apology, if the years have been profit-
ably spent .
William Baker considered his years had been very profitably
spent . He had achieved the Ph . D . and the D . Sc . degrees in the
widely separated fields of electronics and chemistry. He had been
responsible for some of the most important radar developments of
the World War II period . And now he held a post that was the crown-
ing achievement of those years of study and effort .
On this day of his fiftieth birthday he walked briskly along the
corridor of the Bureau building . He paused only when he came to
the glass door which was lettered in gold: National Bureau of Sci-
entific Development, Dr. William Baker, Director. He was unable to
regard that door without a sense of pride . But he was convinced the
pride was thoroughly justifiable.
THE GREAT GRAY PLAGUE, by Raymond F. Jones | 666
He turned the knob and stepped into the office. Then his brisk
stride came to a pause . He closed the door slowly and frowned . The
room was empty . Neither his receptionist nor his secretary, who
should have been visible in the adjoining room, were at their posts .
Through the other open door, at his left, he could see that his admin-
istrative assistant, Dr . James Pehrson, was not at his desk .
He had always expected his staff to be punctual . In annoyance
that took some of the glint off this day, he twisted the knob of his
own office door and strode in.
He stopped just inside the room, and a warm wave of affection
welled up within him . All nine members of his immediate staff were
gathered around the table in the center of his office. On the table was
a cake with pink frosting . A single golden candle burned brightly in
the middle of the inscription: Happy Birthday, Chief .
The staff broke into a frighteningly off-key rendition of “Happy
Birthday to You .” William Baker smiled fondly, catching the eye of
each of them as they badgered the song to its conclusion .
Afterward, he stood for a moment, aware of the moisture in his
own eyes, then said quietly, “Thank you . Thank you very much,
Family . This is most unexpected . None of you will ever know how
much I appreciate your thoughtfulness .”
“Don’t go away,” said Doris Quist, his blond and efficient secre-
tary . “There’s more . This is from all of us .”
He opened the package she offered him . A genuine leather brief
case . Of course, the Government didn’t approve of gifts like this . If
he observed the rules strictly, he ought to decline the gift, but he just
couldn’t do that . The faces of Doris and the others were glowing as
he held up the magnificent brief case. This was the first time such a
thing had occurred in his office, and a man hit fifty only once.
“Thanks so much for remembering,” Baker said . “Things like
this and people like you make it all worth while .”
When they were all gone he sat down at his desk to take up the
day’s routine . He felt a little twinge of guilt at the great satisfaction
that filled him. But he couldn’t help it. A fine family, an excellent
THE GREAT GRAY PLAGUE, by Raymond F. Jones | 667
professional position—a position of prominence and authority in the
field that interested him most—what more could a man want?
His meditation was interrupted by the buzzing of the interphone .
Pehrson was on the other end . “Just reminding you, Chief,” the
assistant said . “Dr . Fenwick will be in at nine-thirty regarding the
request for the Clearwater grant. Would you like to review the file
before he arrives?”
“Yes, please,” said Baker . “Bring everything in . There’s been no
change, no new information, I suppose?”
“I’m afraid not . The Index is hopelessly low . In view of that fact
there can be no answer but a negative one . I’m sorry .”
“It’s all right . I can make Fenwick understand, I’m sure . It may
take a little time, and he may erupt a bit, but it’ll work out .”
Baker cut off and waited while Pehrson came in silently and
laid the file folders of the offending case on the desk. Pehrson was
the epitome of owl-eyed efficiency, but now he showed sympathy
behind his great horn-rimmed spectacles as he considered Baker’s
plight. “I wish we could find some way to make the Clearwater re-
search grant,” he said . “With just a couple of good Ph . D .’s who had
published a few things, the Index would be high enough—”
“It doesn’t matter . Fenwick is capable of handling his own trou-
bles .” Pehrson was a good man, but this kind of solicitousness Baker
found annoying .
“I’ll send him in as soon as he comes,” Pehrson said as he closed
the door behind him .
Baker sighed as he glanced at the folder labeled, Clearwater Col-
lege . Jerkwater is what it should be, he thought . He almost wished
he had let Pehrson handle Fenwick . But one couldn’t neglect old
friends, even though there was nothing that could be done for short-
sighted ones .
Baker’s memories shifted . He and Fenwick had gone to school
together . Fenwick had always been one to get off into weird wide
alleys, mostly dead ended . Now he was involved in what was prob-
ably the most dead ended of all . For the last three years he had been
THE GREAT GRAY PLAGUE, by Raymond F. Jones | 668
president of little Jerkwater—Clearwater College, and he seemed to
have some hope that NBSD could help him out of the hole .
That was a mistake many people made . Baker sometimes felt
that half his time was spent in explaining that NBSD was not in the
business of helping people and institutions out of holes . It was in
the business of buying for the United States Government the best
scientific research available in the world.
Fenwick wanted help that would put Clearwater College on its
feet through a research contract in solid state physics . Fenwick,
thought Baker, was dreaming . But that was Fenwick .
The President of Clearwater College entered the outer office
promptly at nine-thirty . Pehrson greeted him, and Doris showed him
into Baker’s office.
Dr . John Fenwick didn’t look like a college president, and Baker,
unknowingly, held this vaguely against him, too . He looked more
like a prosperous small business man and gave the impression of
having just finished a brisk workout on the handball court, and a
cold shower . He was ruddy and robust and ill-equipped with aca-
demic dignity .
Baker pumped his hand as if genuinely gla
d to see him . “It’s
good to see you again, John . Come on over and sit down .”
“I’ll bet you hoped I’d break a leg on the way here,” said Fenwick .
He took a chair by the desk and glanced at the file folder, reading the
title, Clearwater College . “And you’ve been hoping my application
would get lost, and the whole thing would just disappear .”
“Now, look, John—” Baker took his own seat behind the desk .
Fenwick had always had a devilish knack for making him feel un-
comfortable .
“It’s all right,” said Fenwick, waving away Baker’s protests with
a vigorous flap of his hand. “I know Clearwater isn’t MIT or Cal
Tech, but we’ve got a real hot physics department, and you’re going
to see some sparks flying out of there if you’ll give us half a chance
in the finance department. What’s the good word, anyway? Do we
get the research grant?”
THE GREAT GRAY PLAGUE, by Raymond F. Jones | 669
Baker took a deep breath and settled his arms on the desk in front
of him, leaning on them for support . He wished Fenwick wasn’t so
abrupt about things .
“John,” Baker said slowly . “The head of your physics department
doesn’t even have a Ph . D . degree .”
Fenwick brightened . “He’s working on that, though! I told you
that in answer to the question in the application . Bill, I wish you’d
come down and see that boy . The things he can do with crystals
would absolutely knock your hat off . He can stack them just like
a kid stacking building blocks—crystals that nobody else has ever
been able to manipulate so far . And the electrical characteristics of
some of them—you wouldn’t believe the transistors he’s been able
to build!”
“John,” said Baker patiently . “The head of the physics depart-
ment in any institution receiving a grant must have a Ph . D . degree .
That is one absolutely minimum requirement .”
“You mean we’ve got to wait until George finishes his work for
his degree before we get the grant? That puts us in kind of a predica-
ment because the work that we hoped to have George do under the
grant would contribute towards his degree . Can’t you put it through
on the basis that he’ll have his degree just as soon as the present
series of experiments is completed?”