Metamorphosis

by Sesh Heri

  “We’re satisfied!” said a rigger. “You can’t get out.”

  “He can’t get out!” Jack declared to the audience.

  “Then— I begin!” I shouted.

  I was thinking of my escape from the ropes as I sat in the booth at the Saddlerock later with Jack, Charmian, and Bess. I could still feel the rope burns on my wrist.

  “How did you ever learn to use your toes like that?” Charmian asked. “They looked like a second pair of hands up there.”

  I realized Charmian knew I was thinking about the rope escape; she had seen me rubbing my wrists.

  “I’ve been able to do that ever since I was a boy,” I said. “That’s how I started out, as a contortionist.”

  “The rope escape I can understand,” Jack said. “But the Torture Cell— that I cannot fathom. I know it is a trick, but it is uncanny. You are uncanny. When you are up there in that thing, it seems you are another person, truly a man with supernatural powers. What a stunning creation. One constantly asks is this magic or mechanism? And even if magic— will the magic run out when needed most? This is the question that grips the audience in its spell. And tonight, tonight…you had me. I admit you had me.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Inside the tank,” Jack said. “I thought something had gone wrong.”

  “That’s the real secret of the trick,” I said. “Making them think that something has gone wrong. That’s what they want to see.”

  “The noseless one,” Jack said.

  “Hmm?” I asked.

  “The hooded specter— death.” Jack said.

  I looked over to Bess. Her head was bowed down. She didn’t move.

  “That specter awaits us all,” I said.

  Jack said, “It is the fundamental truth about life which both terrifies and fascinates the human mind— the primary deduction of the pure, white logic: there is no escaping death, the hooded specter, the noseless one.”

  “I won’t run from him,” I said.

  “I won’t wait for him,” Jack said. “I’m too busy, having the time of my life! What do you say, Bess? Shall you and I drink to that?”

  Bess looked up at Jack, and then over to me. I gave her a little nod. She smiled and raised her glass to Jack’s.

  “To life,” Bess said.

  “To life,” we all said, touching our glasses together.

  We all drank from our wine glasses— even I took a sip out of mine; Bess drained her glass until it was empty.

  “Life,” I said. “There’s a fine line between life and death. Few people realize that, and even when they do, they don’t want to admit it. But sometimes a danger-filled spectacle reminds them that nothing in their lives is guaranteed, a spectacle such as I present. Then they are awakened to the reality of that fine line that runs between life and death— even fascinated with the reality of it— that fine line. It’s that fine line the public wants to see me on.”

  Bess filled her wine glass again and drank from it deeply. Jack watched her, and then glanced back to me.

  “How would you and Bess like to see the other side of that fine line— life, vertiginous life in all its glory? Charmian and I have found it up in Glen Ellen on our Beauty Ranch.”

  “It sounds simply charming,” Bess said.

  “You say you do not have to be in Los Angeles until Monday night,” Jack said to me. “Why not come on up with us to the ranch on Sunday? Even at this time of year, the Sonoma Valley is a place of peace and inspiration. I can show you what Charmian and I have done up there— and what we plan to do. Beauty Ranch in Sonoma Valley is unique in the world. If you come up with us, it will be an experience you will not ever forget.”

  I looked over to Bess, and asked, “How can we refuse such a gracious offer? What do you say?”

  “I’d love to!” Bess gasped.

  “Then it’s settled,” Jack said. “Sunday morning we strike out for Beauty Ranch!”

  Jack held his wine glass aloft again, and we all made another toast.

  Late that night as Bess and I prepared to retire for the evening in our hotel room, I heard a knock. I went into the parlor and opened the door. Jack was standing in the threshold. He had on his hat and Charmian was not with him. Also, his characteristic smile was absent.

  “How would you like to see my yacht, the Roamer?” Jack asked.

  “Tonight?” I asked.

  “Tonight,” Jack said. “Right now.”

  “I’m not sure Bess— “

  “Just you and me,” Jack said quickly.

  “Let me speak to the Boss,” I said.

  I went to the door of our bedroom.

  “Bess?” I called quietly.

  I heard her soft murmur from the bed.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I said.

  “Wear your coat,” Bess called. “Sunny California’s very cold this time of year.”

  “Good night, dear,” I called. I got my coat and slipped it on.

  “Good night, young man,” Bess called back.

  I put on my hat and started toward the open door where Jack still stood.

  “Say ‘good night’ to Jack for me, too,” Bess called.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  “Caught,” I said.

  Jack laughed, and called out, “Good night, Bess!”

  I went out the door with Jack and I closed it behind me. As soon as I did so, Jack’s smile faded.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Business,” Jack said. “Heavy, heavy business.”

  “We’re not seeing your boat?” I asked.

  “You’ll see it— and a whole lot more,” Jack said. “Come on. We’ll talk down in the car.”

  We descended the stairs. Out front a big, black Ford sedan stood at the curb with its motor running, but with its headlights off.

  I opened the door and got in the back seat. A man was seated back there, a tall, lean man, wearing a gray fedora. He turned his head as I got in, and I saw his face.

  “George!” I exclaimed.

  Jack got into the car behind me and slammed the door. The driver up front started off with no word from Jack. It suddenly occurred to me that we were not in a taxi cab.

  “I mean, uh, Mr. Ade,” I said.

  “That’s all right,” George Ade said in his smooth, even voice. “Jack knows that you know me.”

  I turned and looked at Jack; he looked back at me with no smile, only a slow nod. I looked back to George.

  “What— what are you doing here?” I asked. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

  “The Martians,” George said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “They’ve returned.”

  I knew that our secret war with the Martians continued. But since about 1905, the Martians’ advances on our world had diminished. The best intelligence estimates delivered to Majestic Seven had concluded that a civil war was being waged on Mars, and that this had exhausted their resources. We were to find that this estimate was only partially accurate. The Martians had continued their assault upon our world, only now it was more sophisticated, more insidious— and more invisible than ever.

  “All right, Jack,” I said, “you’ve got me, I admit you’ve got me. You’re with Majestic Seven?”

  “Not officially,” Jack said. “I came in through the back door, as I usually do. Or maybe I should say Majestic Seven came in through my back door.”

  Our car sped down the rainy streets toward the Oakland pier.

  “Jack has been in contact with Nikola Tesla for a few years,” George Ade said.

  “Two years,” Jack said.

  “Oh, Jack,” I said, “you are full of surprises.”

  “So are you,” Jack said.

  I turned to George Ade, and said, “I talked to both Theodore Roosevelt and President Wilson last year. They both expressed the opinion to me that the Martians have retreated back to their planet. They told me that some kind of civil war is being fought on Mars.”

&nb
sp; “That was last year,” George Ade said. “A lot has happened since then. In fact, a lot has happened since you’ve arrived in town. I wanted to contact you earlier, but you’ve been followed so closely…”

  “Followed?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ve been shadowed all week,” Jack said. “We really ran them a merry chase through the fairgrounds the other day.”

  “Them?” I asked.

  “Germans,” George Ade said. “And Martians. Both of them.”

  “Both of them?” I asked. “Are they working separately— or together?”

  “That, we don’t know for sure,” George Ade said, “but, personally, I’d bet that the Germans and the Martians have formed an alliance.”

  “If that’s so,” I said, “we’re in very bad trouble.”

  “If it isn’t so, we’re in very bad trouble,” George Ade said.

  We had reached the pier.

  The driver stopped the car, and turned off the engine and the headlights. He picked up a telephone receiver and adjusted a knob on the dash of the car.

  “Red light, Mr. Ade,” the driver said.

  “They’re following us again,” George Ade said. “So be it. They can’t follow us out to the bay without showing themselves. Once we get out into the fog they won’t be able to see very well what we’re doing.”

  Jack opened the car door, and got out. I got out next and then George Ade slid out, stood up, and shut the car door.

  “Down this ramp,” Jack said.

  We followed Jack down to where his yacht was tied up on the pier. The three of us stepped aboard and Jack led us down below decks. George Ade carried a leather case with him. He now opened it up, took out a map, and spread it out on the table.

  George Ade said, “Mr. Tesla has been monitoring electrical disturbances at these points on the earth’s surface for the last several years. They come and go. No clear pattern has yet emerged. But these disturbances, when they do emerge, distort space and time.”

  Jack said, “When I was in the Solomon Islands some years ago, I detected an actual slowing and reversal of time at this point in the Pacific.”

  Jack pointed out a spot on the map.

  “I thought I had a problem with my instruments,” Jack said. “It was only after I met Mr. Tesla that I realized that we had experienced a real time distortion out there.”

  “And Mr. Tesla thinks the Martians are responsible for these time distortions?” I asked.

  “He’s certain of it,” George Ade said.

  I turned to Jack, and asked, “How did you get involved with all this?”

  “I just happened to have a ranch that is located on top of a time machine,” Jack replied.

  “For the last couple of years Jack has been secretly reporting to Mr. Tesla what has been going on up there in the Valley of the Moon.” George said.

  “Valley of the Moon?” I asked.

  “The native Indians named it that, with good reason,” Jack said. “I’ll show you why, if we get the chance.”

  “What’s been happening up there?” I asked.

  “Time distortions, space distortions,” Jack said. “How would you like to see a woolly mammoth walk across your alfalfa field?”

  “Well, my recent experiences pale in comparison to yours,” I said.

  “Recent experiences?” George asked.

  “Involving a duplicate hat and a duplicate man,” I said. “A duplicate of my own hat came into my possession the other day and then mysteriously disappeared from the table in my bedroom. And I also encountered a man who was the exact double of another man who was a slight acquaintance whom I had not seen in years. Also: I was nearly killed.”

  “Killed?” Jack asked.

  “A stage hand attacked me,” I said. “It was most peculiar. He was wearing a kind of thick greasepaint on his face and hands. It rubbed off on me— and on my assistants. We tried to take hold of him, but he escaped us.”

  “That stage hand was a Martian,” George Ade said. “They wear that thick make-up to protect their skin from the sun.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” I said. “But this stage hand— this Martian— he escaped in an automobile that was waiting for him. It was like he knew what was going to happen. All these events taken together formed a very confusing episode that day, and I’ve been wondering if they all might have something to do with a possible time distortion.”

  George and Jack exchanged glances.

  “When did these confusing episodes occur?” George asked.

  “Several days ago,” I said, reflecting. “It was on last Sunday, my first full day here in Oakland.”

  “Last Sunday,” George said. “That makes sense, unfortunately.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “It was last Sunday that the time distortions we have been monitoring off the coast greatly increased their intensity,” George said. “Mr. Tesla has been able to decode the energy pulsations of this particular spot, and so was able to predict when it would become active again. His prediction was pretty accurate. We wanted to get you down there on the ocean bottom to see what’s generating the time distortion. That’s why you’re here in Oakland.”

  “I’m here on a vaudeville tour,” I said.

  “Yes,” George said, “but your vaudeville tour was arranged so that you could come out here and look at this time distortion. Majestic Seven has decided you’re the man to go down to the bottom of the ocean and photograph what Mr. Tesla suspects is a Martian time machine. So they pulled some strings to bring you out here to Oakland.”

  “And I thought all the time I was running my show,” I said.

  “Mr. Tesla needs somebody to go down there and photograph the time machine,” George said. “From what Mr. Tesla has taught me about time, I suspect that those confusing episodes you experienced the other day were temporal feedbacks coming from what you are about to do tonight. I might even speculate that the Martian who attacked you came from the future. That’s how he would’ve known what was going to happen. He might’ve made several attempts on your life in parallel time-loops before you encountered him last Sunday. My guess is that you’re already keyed into a fracture in time. You’re going to have to get pretty close to the machine out there in the Pacific, and that could create time distortion effects around and in your body. You may already be experiencing some of those effects through a time-reversed energy wave. That may be why you came into possession of a duplicate hat and encountered that duplicate man. What was the man’s name?”

  “Dr. Nathan Flowers,” I said. “He was an old acquaintance through my sister. But earlier in the day, a man who was his double mistook me for a Dr. Nathan Flowers.”

  “That could’ve been a temporal cross-over,” George Ade said. “On a parallel time-track you could be a Dr. Nathan Flowers. A temporary time-flux crossed the two time-lines. That’s why the duplicate of your hat disappeared. It could’ve gone back to its own time when the flux separated.”

  “Am I going to be plagued with events like this for the rest of my life?” I asked.

  “I hope not,” George Ade said. “It’s possible that such crossing of time-lines occurs naturally upon occasion, but it escapes our awareness unless we are particularly alert. We’re going to do everything to prevent or at least minimize your experiencing such temporal distortions. We have a special dry suit for your dive, but what we’re asking you to do is still an extremely dangerous operation. This is where I’m supposed to say you can back out of the whole thing if you want to.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Had to make the offer,” George said. “This is an entirely voluntary effort on your part.”

  “What do we do next?” I asked.

  “We go out to the middle of the bay,” George said.

  “In this yacht?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” Jack said. “Not in this weather. We have a tug waiting for us down at the end of the pier.” />
  The three of us went back up top, stepped over the railing of the Roamer, and went down to the end of the pier and boarded a tugboat. Jack cast off the line mooring the tugboat to the pier, and then went over and started the boat’s engine. In a moment Jack had us gliding away from the pier and into the channel that led directly into San Francisco Bay.

  “Let them try to follow us into this fog,” Ade said.

  We got well into the channel, and soon left Oakland behind. I looked about, trying to see some landmark. The fog had wrapped us in a black blanket of night. Somewhere far away a foghorn sounded. Jack steered the tugboat onward through what seemed to be pure nothingness. At some point he brought the boat to a stop, but I couldn’t tell when because there was no point of visual reference around us. I knew we had stopped when Jack turned off the engine, and came over to the side of the boat and lowered the anchor. Then he started to light up a cigarette.

  “No lights,” George Ade said. “Light that cigarette, and you might as well set a whole bonfire.”

  Jack slipped his cigarette back into its case, and pocketed it.

  “They’ve got good eyes,” Jack said.

  “Very good eyes,” George said. “Especially the Martians.”

  The three of us stepped to the railing of the boat.

  “Any second,” George Ade said, looking down over the side.

  I looked down and saw nothing but the water of the bay. ‘Any second’ was right— another moment later the surface of the water stirred, bubbled, frothed, and then a black shape broke the surface with a splash— a thing with a back like a whale. It wasn’t a whale.

  It was a submarine.

  “The U.S.S. Cypher,” George said. “Our taxi service has arrived.”

  The submarine completely surfaced next to Jack’s boat. It was a long, black cylinder. Unlike an ordinary submarine, it had no conning tower, nor any kind of bridge or on-deck pilot’s controls. A hatch opened on top of the deck and a sailor climbed out. I saw another sailor’s hand push up a coil of rope from below. The sailor on the deck took hold of the coil and pulled it on up. One end of the rope had a grappling hook on it, and he threw this end over the side of the tugboat, and then pulled back on the rope until the grappling hook caught on the tugboat’s railing. As the sailor tightened the rope and secured its other end to the deck of the Cypher, I could see that what had appeared to be a single rope was actually a rope ladder.