be the story of the “Professor,” reproduced above without emendations or omissions. It was written in a small book of the pattern of an ancient diary. This it was the creatures guarded with such abandoned ferocity, although not a word of it did they understand.
The manuscript has undoubtedly created many more problems than it has solved. What meaning can be attached to the fanciful anatomical references? What was “Munro-bagging”? These questions are still the subject of bitter debate among savants. Who were the sinister zoomen? Could it be that the Professor and his party turned out to be too hot to handle, in a biological sense, of course, and that the zoomen were forced to dump them on the first vacant planet? The pity is that the “Professor” did not continue his narrative. His writing materials must soon have become exhausted, for the above narrative almost fills his small diary.
It was the appearance of the creatures which misled the fifth expedition into thinking they were dealing with humanoids, not humans. It was the unique combination of flaming red hair with intense green, Mongoloid eyes. Did these characteristics become dominant in the mixed gene pool of the Professor’s party, or was the true explanation more direct and elementary?
Pym Makes His Point
“Geordie” Jones mopped his brow. He had been so nicknamed by Welsh relatives, scornful of his residence in one of the new T.V.-aerial-decked housing estates of Newcastle-on-Tyne. He finished his cup of tea and told his mate, Barney O’Connor—the only honest Irishman, according to himself—it was time she was moving. “She” was the Royal Scotsman. They walked the long platform of Waverley Street Station, Edinburgh, saying little except that it was bloody hot. Which was true, it was 95° F. or 35° C. It was exactly the same whichever way you looked at it, bloody hot. Come to think of it, why did the bloody newspapers and the bloody T.V. always go on about 35° C. or 95° F.? Geordie Jones had worked with steam engines all his life. He knew perfectly well about C. and F. Why did the bloody newspapers give themselves such airs, as if they were the only ones who knew anything at all?
In truth, it was both hot and humid. It was the sort of summer spell which few people outside the British Isles believe possible as far north as 55° latitude. It wasn’t quite as hot or as unpleasant as the East Coast of the United States can be in summer, ex-air-conditioning. But it was more than hot enough for the cabin of a big Diesel locomotive to be avoided by those in a position to avoid it. The sooner they were moving and picking up speed the better it would be, grunted Geordie.
They drove the old tub as hard as she would go east into Lothian. The miles flew by. In less than an hour they had turned southeast for Berwick. Quite suddenly, there was an enormous fall of temperature. Not ten degrees, not twenty, either F. or C., but right down as if they were running into-winter. Incredibly, snow flakes appeared on the windscreen and they had to start the wipers. Within ten minutes, Geordie Jones brought the train to a grinding, shrieking halt. Ahead of them was an enormous snowdrift. Looking out, Barney reported a blizzard to be raging. Fifteen minutes later, the train was entirely snowed in. To Geordie Jones, to Barney O’Connor, to every passenger on the train, it seemed as if the world had gone daft. It was bloody insane, but then neither Geordie Jones nor Barney O’Connor knew anything of the dealings of Professor Pym.
Pym was retired now from one of the smaller universities in the north of England. For twenty-five years he had worked hard to organize the department of physics for the benefit of his staff and for the sake of the apparently unending stream of undergraduates. He had struggled to do what research he could in spare moments, in the depths of vacations mostly. He had managed several useful pieces of work, although nothing at all
The manuscript has undoubtedly created many more problems than it has solved. What meaning can be attached to the fanciful anatomical references? What was “Munro-bagging”? These questions are still the subject of bitter debate among savants. Who were the sinister zoomen? Could it be that the Professor and his party turned out to be too hot to handle, in a biological sense, of course, and that the zoomen were forced to dump them on the first vacant planet? The pity is that the “Professor” did not continue his narrative. His writing materials must soon have become exhausted, for the above narrative almost fills his small diary.
It was the appearance of the creatures which misled the fifth expedition into thinking they were dealing with humanoids, not humans. It was the unique combination of flaming red hair with intense green, Mongoloid eyes. Did these characteristics become dominant in the mixed gene pool of the Professor’s party, or was the true explanation more direct and elementary?
Pym Makes His Point
“Geordie” Jones mopped his brow. He had been so nicknamed by Welsh relatives, scornful of his residence in one of the new T.V.-aerial-decked housing estates of Newcastle-on-Tyne. He finished his cup of tea and told his mate, Barney O’Connor—the only honest Irishman, according to himself—it was time she was moving. “She” was the Royal Scotsman. They walked the long platform of Waverley Street Station, Edinburgh, saying little except that it was bloody hot. Which was true, it was 95° F. or 35° C. It was exactly the same whichever way you looked at it, bloody hot. Come to think of it, why did the bloody newspapers and the bloody T.V. always go on about 35° C. or 95° F.? Geordie Jones had worked with steam engines all his life. He knew perfectly well about C. and F. Why did the bloody newspapers give themselves such airs, as if they were the only ones who knew anything at all?
In truth, it was both hot and humid. It was the sort of summer spell which few people outside the British Isles believe possible as far north as 55° latitude. It wasn’t quite as hot or as unpleasant as the East Coast of the United States can be in summer, ex-air-conditioning. But it was more than hot enough for the cabin of a big Diesel locomotive to be avoided by those in a position to avoid it. The sooner they were moving and picking up speed the better it would be, grunted Geordie.
They drove the old tub as hard as she would go east into Lothian. The miles flew by. In less than an hour they had turned southeast for Berwick. Quite suddenly, there was an enormous fall of temperature. Not ten degrees, not twenty, either F. or C., but right down as if they were running into-winter. Incredibly, snow flakes appeared on the windscreen and they had to start the wipers. Within ten minutes, Geordie Jones brought the train to a grinding, shrieking halt. Ahead of them was an enormous snowdrift. Looking out, Barney reported a blizzard to be raging. Fifteen minutes later, the train was entirely snowed in. To Geordie Jones, to Barney O’Connor, to every passenger on the train, it seemed as if the world had gone daft. It was bloody insane, but then neither Geordie Jones nor Barney O’Connor knew anything of the dealings of Professor Pym.
Pym was retired now from one of the smaller universities in the north of England. For twenty-five years he had worked hard to organize the department of physics for the benefit of his staff and for the sake of the apparently unending stream of undergraduates. He had struggled to do what research he could in spare moments, in the depths of vacations mostly. He had managed several useful pieces of work, although nothing at all
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