This document contains two short stories written by the author. The first story is about a British physicist who is turned into a chicken while visiting Jerusalem. He must find a way to survive as a chicken and try to turn back into a human. The second story is from the perspective of the chicken, detailing his experience in the market and strategies for survival. The document also provides background on the author's reasons for including short stories in addition to critical essays.

1. SOME SHORT STORIES
I had better explain why I should devote space to short stories and other works
I have written in continuation of precious discussions. Whatever pretentions one
may or may not have to being a creative writer, the exercise of writing one’s own
stories, dramatic sketches and poems can do no harm and might bring benefits,
among them a humbling recognition of the true and acknowledged masterpieces
of literature. From the point of view of one who wishes to write a critical essay on
works of fiction, one has the advantage of an insider’s view on the processes
involved in writing at least those works one has written oneself. One may recall
what experience or circumstance provided the motive, stimulus or basic idea that
set the process of writing in motion. Having written a story or poem, one may
discover patterns and inferences that cannot be attributed to afore-sight or definite
purpose. The short stories I present in the following pages will help to show what I
mean.
Their settings are various: Jerusalem and its environs, a desert area in Saudi
Arabia, a country town in the West of England, a pub in London and the palatial
home of a retired Brigadier-General. In all but the last case these settings are found
in places that I have visited during the course of my life. Two recall elements of
literary tradition, one being time travel and the other the metamorphosei of a
human being who has been transformed into the shape of an animal. All veer on
the eerie side but in all but one case they do not insist that a supernatural event
must have taken place.. I leave it to readers to decide the relevance of these stories
to previous discussions. The same remains true in regard to sketches and poems
that follow the present chapter.

2. SOME CHICKEN!
'Hitler has said that he will wring Britain's neck like the neck of a chicken.
Some neck! Some chicken!'
Sir Winston Churchill
I am presently engaged in scientific research at the Hahn Foundation. My field is
high energy physics. I differ from my colleagues in one important respect.
I am a chicken.
That is: I look like a chicken. I have the external attributes of a chicken - beak,
feathers, wings and so on.
Being male, I sport a handsome comb. I eat chicken-feed.
The statement ‘I am a chicken’, does not convey the full truth, however. I don’t
think like a chicken. I don’t mix with other chickens socially. I know of no other
chicken doing research work into sub-atomic particles. I know of no other chicken
capable of expressing itself in English. By the way, I can’t really speak English, but I
can understand it and, as you may have gathered, I can write it. In fact I am now
using a special purpose-built typewriter. My speed isn’t very good yet. That
probably accounts for my style, my short, pithy sentences.
At one time I wasn’t a chicken. How come I’m a chicken? Your query, my problem.
I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.
I was born in England. I had an unexceptional middle class background. In the Sixth
Form I always came top in Physics. I read Physics and mathematics at Cambridge. I
was awarded a Double First. 1 became a Ph.D., often contributed articles and

3. learned papers and held lectures at international conferences. I became very well
known in my field.
One day I received an invitation to visit the Weizman Institute in Israel. I accepted.
All expenses were paid. I booked a flight and within a month I was in the Middle
East. I had just given my first series of lectures and had time on my hands. I was not
a chicken then. I decided to do some touring and see something of the country. I
was particularly intrigued by old Jerusalem. The Armenian quarter is full of
jewellery and antique shops. I was looking for a present for my mother. My eye was
attracted by an antique oriental lamp. It was like something out of A Thousand and
One Nights. Yes, that was it, it was just like Aladdin’s lamp.
Having bought it, I congratulated myself on the find. Jerusalem impressed me
deeply. All that history. I saw the Western or Wailing Wall, the Dome of the Rock
and the Holy Sepulcher. Outside the city wall I found a church that commemorated
Peter and the cock that crew three times. The priest was kind enough to show me
some excavations around the foundations of the church. Apparently, they used to
store corn in cavities hewn from the rock. It was so interesting.
Next day I went to a market town near Jerusalem. Roaming its streets, I came across
the old market area or Suq. The shops were all open, that is windowless (like some
fishmongers’ I know). Booths and stalls lined the streets. Nearly all the vendors
were in the food line vegetables, fruit, meat ( I’ll come on to that shortly ) and
spices.
And chickens! I’d never seen so many - dead or alive. First, I only saw dead ones.
They were either piled up on boards or stone slabs, or hung from beams and rails.
Their slit throats afforded no pretty sight, I can assure you. Having turned into a
narrow arcade, I could hear heart-rending clucking noises. Once round the corner,
I found myself in a street chock-full of crates containing chickens.
One after the other the crates were being winched up to overhead abattoirs. Once
a crateful had been done, a plastic crate was dumped into the street for re-use. Not
being a vegetarian, I felt no inclination to dwell on the way the chickens met their

4. end and allow myself to get maudlin, at first, that is. After a few minutes, if the
thought of the collective fate of the chickens may not have caused me undue
concern, I was at least able to feel pity for any individual chicken that happened to
attract my notice from the great mass.
Whenever a little nervous or worried, I always used to rub any object that I may
have been holding. As it I happened, I was holding that Aladdin’s lamp at the time.
I cast my eyes downwards, and what should I see on the ground but a cockroach
running along. A rivulet of blood lay in its path. This the cockroach forded without
a moment’s hesitation. Strange world, I thought. What has that cockroach got to
do with a Beethoven symphony, yet both could impinge on my consciousness at
the same moment. All things co-exist in the same spatial-temporal continuum,
funny..?
Just then I noticed this chicken looking up at me. It seemed to be pleading with me.
It was almost as if it knew what fate had in store for it. I felt sorry for that chicken
like I had never felt sorry for a chicken. Now it was fixing me with its sad, sad eyes.
Next moment I was on the borderline between very nervous and extremely
nervous. Not another guilt complex! My resistance was cracking. ‘If only there was
something I could do about all this," I thought.
The chicken cocked its head as though to suggest we swapped places. My degree
of nervousness was now at the other end of the ‘extremely nervous’ band, touching
on panic. I was shaking all over.
‘I wish I really knew what it was like to be in that chicken’s position,’ I thought,
mouthing the words audibly.
My wish was granted. I had only myself to blame.
I had become a chicken, and there was nothing I could do about it. Some kind of
transfer must have taken place. I saw the body of my earlier self wobble and cluck

5. down the street - like a frightened chicken. the lamp had fallen into the gutter. An
old man picked up my last hope and vanished behind a bale of straw.
Thus it was I came know what it was like being a chicken cooped up in a crate in
death row. No fun. My first thought was: ‘How did I get into this fix?’ My second
was: ‘How do I get out of it?’
And my third? Just panic.
As though all this wasn’t enough, I felt extremely uncomfortable. There were other
chickens in the crate, too many. I felt like having a cup of coffee and a piece of cake.
The prospect of getting them was bleak. The prospect of having my throat slit was
far from remote.
More panic.
I gave myself a peck. It’s just a nightmare, I thought. Roger Hercules, snap out of it!
I just had to wake up, and everything would be fine, just fine. People don’t turn into
chickens in real life. How did I get those feathers then?
This was no time for philosophizing. In such a situation the mind is wonderfully
concentrated. Nothing is taken for granted. You think fast and extremely lucidly.
We were up. I edged over to the end farthest from the enemy. My chances of
survival would increase, the more time I had to make observations. Then the enemy
seized one of the chickens, simultaneously grabbing its neck with one hand and its
feet the other. He held the chicken upside down, then cut its throat. As slaughtering
methods go, this one is doubtless quite humane. But at that point in time, I was in
no position to adopt such a sanguine, academic approach. After observing the
process a few times, I worked out a survival strategy.
Clearly, I would have to use my beak. I had to incapacitate the enemy long enough
for me to effect my escape. I remembered there was a pile of sacks on the ground

6. which, provided that I fell from the left hand of the stage, would enable me to make
a soft landing.
Precisely when should I strike? When the enemy first put his hand in the crate? No,
for then he would trap me there, and I wouldn’t have a dog’s chance. I would have
to let him grab me by the legs and neck. If I appeared passive and apathetic, I might
be able to catch him off his guard. I had noticed that a period of two to three
seconds elapsed while the chicken was held dangling neck downwards while the
enemy grabbed his knife. I could just possibly strike then, but the timing would have
to be dead right. A second too soon or too late, and curtains.
I did get the timing right, I had to. I slashed his wrist. When he let me go, I darted
for the left side of the stage. I missed the sacks but landed on some empty crates.
Recovering from my fall I ran between people’s legs, under stalls and skirted walls
until I found relative security in a pile of refuse in an open space at the edge of the
market. At last I could have a breather. Under the circumstances I was prepared to
share my new habitat with lice, mice and cockroaches without demur. By this time
I was feeling distinctly peckish. After nightfall I would embark on a scavenging
expedition.
Now having survived the first physical crisis, I became painfully aware that I faced
a psychological dilemma which would prove no less daunting in its own way. The
problem involved the question of deciding who or what I now was : A man? A
chicken? Something in between?
First, arguments in favour of the proposition that I, all outward signs
notwithstanding, was a man: I experienced the thoughts and feelings of a man. My
memories were those of a human being.
Arguments against: I evinced all the external attributes of a chicken. Was I then
some kind of hybrid like a minotaur or a mermaid? This was an agonizing thought.
I wanted to know which side of the borderline I was. I couldn’t stand the idea of

7. being in a limbo. Therefore I purposed to think of myself only as a human being.
Human beings do not - repeat do not turn into chickens.
Hey man, how come them feathers? What makes you so damn sure?
Retort: This absurd conjecture runs counter to the total sum of all human
experience. It has never happened before. "There can always be a first time," an
insuppressible voice gave answer. Thus continued the interior dialogue:
The physical laws of the universe rule out the possibility of this supposed
metamorphosis. A freak reallocation of subatomic particles, the essential nature of
which still remains a mystery to modern science, might give rise to such a
phenomenon. The science of Paraphysics is very young. But the chances of such a
change coming about are infinitesimal, totally negligible in fact.
Same old question: How come you’re a chicken?
Obviously I had to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that I wasn’t a chicken
despite the apparent evidence of my sensory perceptions, which seemed to
suggest that the possibility of my being a chicken could not ruled out categorically.
So let’s get thinking on this one:
Sensory evidence points to the existence of a putative chicken, right? But we
receive sense impressions of a kind when we dream. In dreams the visual and
auditory impressions we receive do not correspond to events in real life. How do
we know? Hmm. The dreamer is not aware that he is dreaming during the dream
itself. He or she only recognizes a dream for what it is after the cessation of the
dream - on the point of waking. Until that point his or her critical faculties are in
abeyance. The sense impressions we receive during our waking hours, however,
convey a coherent and rationally verifiable whole. In dreams elements based on
memories of the real world, interact in a way which proves incompatible with our
experience of reality. If we wish to decipher the true significance of a dream, we
must consider the symbolic meaning it expresses, the synthesizing operations of

8. the subconscious, and so on. Yet my dream seemed to be inextricably involved in
my day-time experience of the real world.
Had I been dreaming when I bought the lamp in Jerusalem? Had I been dreaming
when I walked through the suq? Had I been dreaming when I felt pity for that
chicken just before my apparent metamorphosis? Perhaps my memories of
everything to that point had been real. But why should the change-over occur just
at that point? Might I have fallen asleep on my feet? But then, human beings don’t
do that kind of thing, even if chickens do. Perhaps I had walked on, spent the rest
of the day doing something other and finally gone to sleep in the usual way. My
subconscious had simply suppressed all memory of events after my meeting with
the chicken . So all I had to do was wait until I woke up. I waited and waited but I
remained a chicken.
Besides, I was conscious of being in full possession of my day-time critical faculties.
When we wake up these return to us; only then are we able to recognize that we
have been dreaming, as we can remember having woken from them. Perhaps I had
gone mad. Here the objections to the dream hypothesis would also apply.
Hallucinatory states are attended by a loss of one’s rational faculties. Hallucinations
can hardly continue for hours on end without the loss of their quasi- logical
coherence.
Finally, I sent up a prayer in the hope of striking a bargain with my Creator. Would
God change me back into human form, if I tithed my income for charitable purposes
and devoted the rest of my life to the quest for religious truth?
No deal. I remained a chicken.
In the given situation I had to devise some kind of strategy. I deliberated that three
approaches lay open to me.
A. Try to re-establish contact with the human world.
B. Go chicken.

9. C. Remain in splendid isolation.
Approach A would involve considerable physical risk. Would I have time to convince
the first human with whom I made contact that I wasn’t a chicken? Experimentation
with my vocal chords had established that I was unable to produce a sound much
different from that made by any other chicken. Given the tools, I would be able to
write but would I be given enough time to prove my skill? The B option was even
more problematical. Would other chickens accept me on equal terms? What
common language would we share? What intellectual stimulation was there to
expect? Even then, the danger of having my throat slit remained. No one feeds
chickens out of the goodness of his heart. Might I not be able to start some kind of
chicken’s lib movement? Little reflection was necessary to reveal the futility of that
ambition.
Willy-nilly, I would have to adopt course C, for the time being at least. I would
survive somehow hoping that something would turn up. I might be able to get out
of this mess the same way I got into it. If only I could lay my claws, talons, whatever,
on that lamp!
I would lie low during the day, forage and explore during the night. It was now dark,
and I was ready for my first meal. I waited until the sound of footsteps died down.
The moon was shining when I eventually came out. I pecked at anything that might
prove edible for a chicken. Sometimes I made a lucky strike, but more often than
not all I found was grit. The night was saved when I found a bag of chicken feed.
Having taken my fill, I returned to the refuse pile and lay low for the day. Next night
I went foraging again. This routine continued a few days longer. I couldn’t imagine
myself going on like this for ever. It was intellectual suicide.
The day arrived when they came to collect the refuse. I was sleeping at the time.
Despite the rude awakening I kept my cool. Slowly and deliberately I strutted into
the open. When one of the refuse collectors pointed at me, I did a sort of Charlie

10. Chaplin walking act. This had the desired effect of freezing the dustmen (garbage
collectors for my American readers) in their tracks.
Once I was off-side, I vamoosed from the scene and didn’t stop running till I found
the welcome protection of a thick bush. After nightfall I reconnoitered the area. I
came across a large chicken farm just off the road connecting two urban areas..I
squeezed my way through an opening in the wire fence. The chickens there were
still asleep. There was fresh water and chicken-feed galore to be had. After a good
meal I decided it was time to go. It was obvious that the chickens were being reared
to supply the market with eggs and meat. I got out the way I had come in.
My nocturnal visits to the chicken farm turned into something of a routine. Then
the inevitable happened. The farmer must have suspected that something strange
was up. It may have been my claw prints that gave the game away.
One night I got into the run, as usual, ate my fill, and it was time for me to leave.
You can imagine my consternation on finding that the opening in the fence had
been wired up. Thus I was trapped. My only hope lay in remaining as inconspicuous
as possible for as long as possible. Perhaps I would be able to construct a secret
tunnel.
The trouble was I was in a hen run. I didn’t particularly mind the hens amorously
brushing up against me; I felt threatened, though, by the presence of the other
cockerel (rooster) in the run. Apparently, his role in the set-up was to sire chicks.
He didn’t want any potential rival to challenge his monopoly of ruling the roost.
One day he strutted up to me, and it was obvious he was going to pick a fight. He
lunged his beak at me, made threatening gestures with his talons, flapped his wings
irately and crew for all he was worth. The shindy attracted the farmer’s attention.
The game was up. There was nothing for it but to do my Charlie Chaplin act.
The farmer scratched his head and called his wife. I then adopted more operatic
pose, holding one wing over my chest and slowly raising the other in time with the
crescendo of an aria. They took me indoors and-made phone calls. Soon a number

11. of gentlemen arrived. I did repeat performances. Then a van arrived. They put me
in a box and left for an unknown destination.
I was able to look out of a ventilation hole. All I could ascertain was that we were
heading south. After a forty minutes’ drive the van stopped. When I looked out, the
scene was strangely familiar. Then it came to me. I was back at the Weizman
Institute. What fate now awaited me? Dissection? Vivisection? Were they just
going to observe me for the benefit of animal behaviour research?
First they gave me liberal helpings of chicken-feed. Can’t be bad, I thought. I was
then replaced in my box and carried down a long corridor. I’d never seen so many
caged mice in all my life. There were literally thousands of them. I was taken into a
large laboratory and placed in a pen at the front end. A number of observers were
present.
They scrutinized my appearance, movements and behaviour. They expected a
performance. I gave them everything I had to give in my repertoire. They took down
notes assiduously. One of them smiled slightly when I did the Charlie Chaplin jig.
Some of the observers spoke to each other in English. I’d heard that American
accent before. Yes, it was one of Professor Kaufman’s colleagues. I had even had a
drink with him. Kaufman was a Boston physicist with whom I had exchanged notes
and findings. That gave me an idea.
When they left I found that I could scratch marks in the board of the floor of my
pen. What should I write though. It couldn’t be anything too long. Then had a
brainwave: ‘KAUFMAN’ - followed by a formula familiar to anyone engaged in
atomic research. When they came back, I pointed at the marks I’d made in the
boarding.
Only one man seemed to take note of them. The others were more interested in
my dancing talents. When the session was over, I gave the American a knowing
look. He stayed behind afterwards. I pointed at the barely legible writing again. He
nodded and left. Half an hour later both he and Kaufman entered the room. I

12. pointed at the formula. Kaufman’s face lit up. In the meantime I had added two
new words: ‘ PEN, INK ‘.
They left. Next day they took me out of the pen. I soon found myself in a small
laboratory which had been placed at Kaufman’s disposal during his stay at the
Institute. Pen and ink were waiting on the table. The rest was plain sailing.
I wrote: ‘ "YOU ASK, I WRITE, O.K?"
During the ensuing question and answer session, Kaufman soon came to realize
that I had an immense grasp of the subject. He seemed particularly intrigued by my
knowledge of subatomic particles.
He cottoned on. I could prove useful. I had read some of his papers. He was good,
but not that good. Being very ambitious, he needed all the help he could get. He
made a proposal, and I was in no position to turn it down.
Yes, we were going to collaborate.
I am presently his unofficial research assistant in the States. That is where you come
in. Just recently he has published a series of very interesting research papers which
have bowled over the scientific world.
What do I get out of it? As Kaufman once darkly intimated, Christmas time was just
around the corner. I would be game for anyone in the butchery line if ever I should
leave the security of his laboratory.
Reports of a wonder chicken that had leaked into press reports were subsequently
denied as a hoax. If anyone finds anything answering to the description of an
Aladdin’s lamp, will they please contact : Dr Gallicantu, P.O GAL 740, Boston, Mass.
Son I’m getting an e-mail address.
That’s my cover name. Kaufman’s secretary had to be let in on the secret. She
thinks I’m cute, and arranged for the P.O. box.

13. Bipeds of the World unite! Thanks. I would do the same for you. A chicken’s life is
a poultry thing.
FADING AWAY
Ratta-tat-tat - ratta-tat-tat.
The pulse of machine-gun fire was still throbbing in his ears, battering his
eardrums, when Brigadier-General Barnes-Fothergill awoke that morning. Not that
there was anything so special about that. Recurring dreams are quite common.
Barnes-Fothergill had only caught the tail-end of the first big show, back in the
days when he was only an eighteen-year-old. Even so he had experienced one or
two nasty scrapes. Once he and several comrades were out on night patrol, when
a flare went up. Instead of doing the proper thing and freezing, a couple of men ran
for cover. The patrol was fired on by an enemy machine-gun nest. Two were mown
down instantly and a couple more were wounded in the legs.. Barnes-Fothergill
managed to dive for cover into a shell crater and got away completely unscathed.
There he remained for an hour or so before sneaking back to friendly lines before
dawn.
The retired brigadier-general looked out of his bedroom window upon a
mournful prospect. A dense, sallow fog submerged every shape and contour. Not
even the branches of the nearby elm in the garden could be seen. Being somewhat
absent-minded, the old soldier was often unable to locate articles of clothing in the
morning. Last thing at night he was wont to undress wherever his whims dictated -
in the bathroom, in the hall or landing, in the kitchen, indeed in any of the
seventeen rooms that were part of his rambling mansion.
To complicate matters further, Miss Alley, the housekeeper, had a rather tedious
habit of tidying up after him with such ruthless efficiency that items of clothing

14. were often spirited away for hours, sometimes even days and weeks, before
resurfacing somewhere or other. Miss Alley, who lived as a tenant in what had been
the gamekeeper's lodge, had the run of the mansion and would usually have
completed her tidying and mopping up operations by the time the brigadier-
general roused from his sleep. At such time she was normally doing shopping in the
village or having coffee at the vicarage. She would be back at the mansion between
half-past ten and eleven to make breakfast. This meant that the brigadier-general
would often have to mope around the mansion in his shroud-like night-gown, make
his own tea or continue looking for lost articles of clothing, muttering: "It was never
like this when Smithers was my batman."
As he descended the staircase that morning, the creaky boards seemed to creak
more loudly that they usually did. In the hall he noticed that the grandfather clock
had stopped in the night, around midnight evidently. The Times was on the coffee-
table in the lounge, an indication that it was later than half-past nine, the time it
was usually delivered. Miss Ayley must have placed it there for his benefit to allow
him to peruse its pages before breakfast.
The brigadier-general thought about making himself a cozy pot of tea before
settling down to a good old read. But no, first he would have a dekko at the obituary
column, unquestionably the greatest imperative of the mid-morning period. He
turned the light switch, it being rather dim in the room.
Drat! Not another power cut. Damned nationalization. But as there was just
enough light to read by, he would bother with technicalities later. Yet there was
balm in Gilead, now for the obituary column!
A certain Very Reverend Ewart-Fraser of Perth headed the list. Apparently he
had written voluminously on such doctrinal matters as Perseverance and the
Perfection of Saints and had otherwise distinguished himself in the penning of
numerous works of devotional value. Second place was claimed by one Lord Albert
Dick Turner of Sidcup, who had been made a life peer during Harold Wilson's period
of leadership. An eminent scientist came third. But then! The old soldier could
hardly believe his eyes, but there it was in black and white: "General Arthur
Stanmore-Phipps."
" Poor old Stanners, " the all but incredulous brigadier-general muttered to
himself, scratching his left ear-lobe. "Copped it, eh? Funny, gave him a buzz not

15. long ago. Said he was feeling a bit under the weather. How we used to chide each
other on who would be first to snuff it!"
The brigadier-general raised a chuckle when he read one of the more absurd
purple passages in the when he read one of the more absurd purple passages in
the laudation. The bit that really made him snort was this one: "It is indisputably
and unshakably true that the General possessed an immensely impressive mastery
of tactics as well as unfathomable reserves of courage, both moral and physical.
Nowhere was proof of these virtues more evident than in the African theatre."
The brigadier-general was one of the few insiders who knew the true story. He
knew what lay behind the miracle, so-called, of "Ain-esh-Sheikh." Stanners, was in
command of a light armoured division at the time, had completely lost his bearings.
In fact, he was a good twenty-five miles due west of where he thought he was,
virtually out of ammo and petrol too. He then made out a none too well
camouflaged supply dump near a small oasis. He mistakenly took this to be manned
by Brits. When the Germans, caught with their trousers down, saw British armour
heading straight for them at full throttle, they could only conclude that a hitherto
ingeniously concealed spearhead, doubtless packed with all the punch Monty could
muster, was appearing before their very eyes like the tip of a deadly iceberg. Having
been under the impression that the supply situation would not give the British the
necessary range to mount an attack, the German commander was totally
unprepared to repulse Stanner's advance, and in panic ordered a retreat.
The dust thrown up by the German track vehicles gave away their position to
our RAF and long-range gunner chappies, and there was a helluva rout. Fortunately
for Stanners and his men, the vehicles under his command ran out of fuel before
entering a defensive mine-field. Fortunately indeed, because these would not only
have had the mines to contend with but also with no small measure of "friendly
fire."
His Esprit du Corps and sense of fairness had just about prevented the brigadier-
general's half- suppressed chortles from breaking out into a loud guffaw, but then
... as his eyes wandered down to the bottom of the obituary column, a much
greater shock than any he had previously sustained awaited him in the heading:
“Brigadier-General Reginald Barnes-Fothergill"

16. Once the brigadier-general had recovered somewhat from the initial impact of
so strange a recognition, it dawned on him that he was the victim of a most
unpardonable injustice. Stanner's life had received about three times as much
column space as than devoted to his own, and nowhere in the obituary was there
the slightest mention of his brilliant excellence in the martial arts, his notable feats
in the military theatre, his exemplary devotion to duty. Had not Eisenhower praised
his cool- headed caution in Normandy and his judicious restraint and timing in the
Ardennes. And Churchill, had he not commended his alertness to danger during the
retreat from Dunkirk, the speed with which he got his men out of the Pas de Calais?
Compared to such deplorable omissions, the mere fact that he had been
included in the obituary column dwindled in importance to that of a mere clerical
error, the most venial of aberrations. And then that insipid end!
"The Brigadier-General, who had led a secluded and uneventful life in recent
years, passed away during the early hours of January 19th at his Surrey
home. No flowers."
He dialed The Times, but the lines were dead. He tried one or two other
numbers, but with no greater success. With such an affront weighing on his mind,
he just had to get through to somebody and let off steam. Hardly conscious of what
he was doing, he nervously fingered the dial as though under the force of habit.
This time he did get through to somebody. A voice at the other end answered in a
thin and rather odd timbre:
"General Arthur Stanmore-Phipps, V.C., O.B.E., speaking."
"You, Stanners, I thought you were dead!"
"You, Dodder-Guts! But surely you've gone for a burton, too! Been trying to get
through to The Times all morning, but the line was dead. Scuse, old man, think
somebody's knocking at the door."
The brigadier-general waited and waited, but the general did not return to
resume the conversation.

17. Just as he decided there was no point in holding the line any longer, he heard a
sound.
Ratta-tat-tat, ratta-tat-tat ...
Who would come knocking on the door like that, the brigadier-general thought.
He paused, and made a strange gesture, as though he had a shrewd idea as to who
his visitor might be. He clenched his teeth, just as he did the first time he went over
the top. He cast a downward glance, much as he did when the flare went up. He
unfastened the door-latch and opened the door.
Outside there was nothing to see but the dense, sallow fog. He moved one step
forward. If anyone had stood by the door at that moment, that observer would
have just about made out a faint silhouette once the old soldier had taken his
second step. Upon his third, he vanished. Perhaps there is some truth in that saying
about old soldiers and all.
ON FINDING A LOVED ONE
Chipping Bumpstead is a small and rather insignificant market town somewhere
in the West of England. It is the sort of place that might get a brief mention in a
motorist's guide: "Tucked away in a pleasant rural area, this unassuming little
place seems to capture the soul of Merry Old England."
For centuries nothing ever happened there - nothing, that is, apart from what
always happens everywhere with people being born, people growing up, people
marrying and having families, people eating and drinking, people dying, people
being people.
The notice read:

18. "Is death the end?
Come to the Town Community Centre at 8 p.m. on Wednesday, and find
out."
Next day a further notice was attached to the first, and this read:
"If you wish to communicate with a loved one, a close relative or dear
friend, who has passed away leaving this world of tears and toll, then bring
something of great sentimental value to that person with you, anything
from an old photograph to a diamond ring."
Some people, naturally enough, raised their eyebrows at all this, while others
treated the whole thing as a joke, hardly a joke in very good taste either.
On Wednesday night the hall was packed. As the church clock struck eight, a
middle- aged lady dressed in black entered and made for a large chair placed
prominently at the front of the hall. Before sitting down she addressed her
audience of several hundred with the following words (as translated from the
French by an interpreter who stood at her side).
"May I introduce myself. My name is Madame Clarence. I am an ordinary person
like everyone else here, but I may differ from you in one particular respect. You
see, I was born with a special gift. Of course, God has given each of us a
particular gift, whether it be the gift of a beautiful voice to sing with or clever
hands to make things with. Mine happens to be the gift of 'clairvoyance'. Through
people like me - we are known as mediums - the dead can communicate with the
living and vice versa. No, death is not the end! How could it be! Have we been
placed on this earth for a few brief years simply to die and become nothing? Did
the Maker of the universe give us our faculties, our talents and our ability to love
simply that these should finally be discarded like so much rubbish? No, deep in
your hearts, you know, as I know, that this life is the beginning, not the end."

19. Already the mood had changed. Those giggling girls in the back row had ceased
to giggle, those careless youths, who were also at the back of the hall, had
become quiet and thoughtful. After explaining the general principles of
spiritualism, Madame Clarence requested and received a number of articles of
the kind specified on the notice.
Soon the séance began in earnest. Electricity gave place to the flicker of
candlelight. Haunting music emanated from a hidden source. From what he said
on a later occasion, it would appear that Sam Pringle, the local radio and
television dealer, was still in sufficient command of his critical faculties to note
that the lower octaves of the celestial music were subject to much the same
'crackle and buzz' that one hears when playing back an overused tape. The music
eventually died away and total silence ensued, but this silence did not remain
unbroken for long.
"Bertie, Bertie! I am calling you!"
After five shattering seconds, a feeble voice from somewhere in the middle rows
responded:
"Y-Yes, Aunt M-able?"
The voice, recognizably that of an elderly lady despite its unearthly and eerie
quality, continued:
"Yes, Bertie, I've been keeping an eye on you!"
"On me!?", the feeble voice rasped.

20. "Yes, Bertie, on you! I'll get straight to the point. Is it a sin to borrow money and
never repay it? Is it wrong to borrow anything, even an old book or a cupful of
sugar and never return what is borrowed?"
"It most certainly is, Auntie. Y-You mean the three pounds I was going to pay
back ..."
"That and all the other times, Bertie. Repay all your debts to those who are still
alive, but to those who are not, there must still be recompense - either in the
present life or in that which is to come."
"Auntie, believe me, I tried to send you back the five pounds I owed you, but your
illness was so sudden and short. In any case, I didn't think money mattered very
much in the next world."
"You didn't think money mattered very much in the next world! Do you want to
wake up in the next life only to be confronted by a queue of ghostly creditors?
Everything in the earthly realm has its equivalent in the spiritual, money
included!"
"Oh, Auntie, if I ever had a chance of repaying the ten pounds... "
"You have that chance, " Auntie Mable boomed, "For Madame Clarence not only
has the power of transforming sounds and messages between your world and
mine. She can also transfer earthly money into an otherworldly bank account."
"You mean, all I need do is hand the money to Madame Clarence and she'll see
to the rest?"
"Yes, my child, that is precisely what I mean, and you can also repay your debts
to anyone else over here while you're about it."

21. "G-Good, " stammered Bertie, "W-will a ch-cheque do?"
At this point Aunt Mable's voice, which had hitherto maintained a composed and
serene unearthly quality, turned strangely human, almost savage:
"Where I come from the terms are strictly cash!"
Bertie staggered towards Madame Clarence, his progress painfully slow,
hindered as it was by the convulsions of a man in the grips of mortal fear.
Madame Clarence's facial expression, like that of a Grecian statue, was timeless
and serene. Her right arm was outstretched and her index finger pointed fixedly
at a large black bag of silk that lay on the table in front of her. Scarcely had he
paid his debt than a most remarkable occurrence took place.
A young man, his wan face replete with a bushy upturned moustache, stood up
in the third row from the front. His shaking hand betrayed a fear that only great
courage could have mastered. His eyes burned with moral indignation, his whole
stance was accusatory:
"Can't you see? She's tricking you, she's after your money, she's exploiting your
personal sorrows, your fears, just to get your money. She's nothing but a ...."
The sound that followed defies description. To refer to it as a scream, shriek or
gurgle would be to do that sound or noise a great injustice. If ever pharynx may
convey to mortal ears reverberations from the pit which is bottomless, if ever
uvula trilled to render the human mind, though it were only for a moment, the
anguish of Dives, then it was that 'noise' on that night in Chipping Bumpstead.
As though the coils of a constricting serpent had been about his throat, the
young man staggered towards the exit, uttering as he did so a word that some
present on that occasion took to be 'mercy.' Once outside the door, the young

22. man gave one final yell of pain of deep remorse, perhaps. He then seemed to
dissolve into the outer darkness.
From her expression it seemed that Madame Clarence shared in the
consternation of her audience, an audience petrified, as silent as the grave. Her
eyes were moist and ruddy, like the eyes of a mother made disconsolate by the
forward ways of a lost son. The black lace about her face vibrated as she once
more became the centre of everybody's attention.
"Fooleesh boy, poor boy! 'E should not 'ave dane zat." As emotion had loosened
her tentative grip on the English language, she used the good offices of her
interpreter to say:
"It is a dangerous and most fearful thing to trifle with the powers beyond, as the
fate of the young stranger should have revealed even to the most hardened
scoffer.
"Now that your heart strings are vibrant with awe and compassion, repay your
debts to those who have passed on, nay, give in generous abundance more than
the law demands, give in such measure that departed friends and relatives
should enjoy independence and comfort, a few luxuries perhaps. Mere solvency
is not enough."
Stewards passed round collection bags, and even in that poorly hall, many a
multi-coloured glitter bore witness to the fact that this mysterious transaction
between the earthly and the spiritual realms involved more than items of cheap
junk, an impression later corroborated by the findings of a questionnaire
circulated by the CID. This revealed that a conservatively estimated sum of fifty
thousand pounds, jewellery being assessed on its resale value must have been
collected. The stewards ceremoniously brought the bags to the front of the hall
and deposited them on the table where Madame Clarence was sitting.

23. "I can assure you all that your repayments and gifts will be greatly appreciated.
You yourselves shall not go unrewarded, if you believe my words. In a moment
complete darkness shall supervene. Do not fear, but heed my words. Wait, and
consolation shall be yours."
Sure enough, the hall was plunged into darkness and for the next fifteen minutes
no one ventured to say or do anything. At last somebody said:
"It's a con! Get the police."
Within five minutes the hall was empty. No one switched the lights and one can
only speculate as to the reason. Shame at being thought a fool? Did I say empty?
Almost empty?
One person remained, Mrs. Margery Chapman. She believed deep in her heart
that she had to wait. Perhaps it was the word 'consolation' that had appealed so
deeply to her innermost feelings. She waited half an hour, an hour, two hours,
three hours. Was she immune from the gnawing doubt that she was the most
inveterate dupe in a community of dupes? If she entertained such a thought, she
most certainly succeeded in suppressing it, and would doubtless have sat there
until daybreak - to the detriment of her none too perfect health, if deliverance
had not come. All of a sudden she sensed that a door had been opened, that a
loved one was in her presence, that heaven had not been deaf to the plea of her
heart.
"Cecil, Cecil! Is it you?"
"Cecil?" came an answer out of the darkness, "Not blimmin' likely. This is Fred
Jackson come to lock up. 'Ere, ain't that spooky lark over yit?!"

24. Yes, it was indeed none other than Frederick Jackson, a retired London publican
whose part-time job it now was to lock up the Community Hall after hours.
Time passed. Madame Clarence was apprehended on a charge of acquiring
money and jewellery by false pretences. Her defence was hard put to make out a
defence. The Crown had its problems too, as only a minute proportion of the
missing money and jewellery was recovered. Madame Clarence's explanation was
simple. How could anyone expect to find what had been 'transspiritualized' into
the realm beyond? The Defence Counsel argued, possibly with tongue in cheek,
that if nothing else Madame Clarence's alibi had the merit of being 'consistent
within a certain frame of reference.
Furthermore: "Madame Clarence's assertion does not allow itself to be
circumscribed by the limits of normal rationality." As Defence Counsel also
pointed out, no one in the audience had been forced to give anything. It could
not be proved that Madame Clarence intended to deceive her listeners, only that
she enjoined them to make a somewhat surprising leap of faith, to act in
accordance with "a very bold metaphysical assertion".'
All this promised to mark a notch in legal history, but for a very sad and
unexpected event, Madame Clarence's sudden death.
On the very day of her funeral, wedding bells were ringing from the steeple of
Chipping Bumpstead Parish Church.
"Another slice of wedding cake, Freddie darling?" asked the bride, from that day
Mrs. Margery Jackson (née Higgins, Mrs. Chapman by her first marriage).
"Don't mind if I do" said Freddie.

25. Despite all the small talk, Mrs. Jackson could hear some of the guests in the
background talking about Madame Clarence, such snatches as:
"If you were so convinced that she was a con-woman, why didn't you do
something to stop her before it was too late?"
"I supposed I was hypnotized somehow, like everybody else."
And from another quarter: "What surprises me is that so many of my
parishioners went along to that thing. They must have heard me preach on the
witch of Endor on some occasion or other."
"Anyway, she got her comeuppance in the end."
"You're right there, poor woman."
"I say, if you've been taken in, you've none to blame but yourself, is what I always
say."
But now all that Mrs. Jackson could hear was an undifferentiated buzz. Having
surrendered to a sudden impulse, she clasped her bridegroom by the hand and
was looking into his eyes with a serene and yet intense smile. She remembered
what Madame Clarence had said:
-
"Wait and consolation shall be yours."
Those were her words, and she knew those words were true.

26. SANDS AND DATE PALMS
Derek's letter
Dharan, Arabian Gulf, 17th Nov. 1979
Dear Joe,
Many thanks for your last letter. It was good to learn that you've settled down
nicely in your new job. For my part, it's been the same old grind working on the
rigs and pipelines, and I certainly have no wish to bore you with all the details.
You were always a one for telling anecdotes, so why don't you add this one to
your cocktail party repertoire?
A few months back I got to hear about this Arab fellow - Rab ibn Heinkhal -
who'd been admitted to the clinic for nervous disorders at a local hospital. Believe
it or not, he had to get certified a s insane if he was to escape a public beating.
Apparently he'd been caught drinking water during daylight hours in the month
of Ramadan, the month of fasting in the Moslem calendar. Anyway, his defence
was that, though he fully appreciated that drinking during daylight hours in
Ramadan was against the law, exception might be made if a person had been
fasting solidly for a couple of hundred years Need I say more?
The doctors reached much the same conclusion as far as the general nature of
his condition was concerned. They were not unanimous in the question of the
cause of his condition, however. He could speak quite coherently about some
things, but in others... well! At first he seemed completely ignorant of the basic
facts of twentieth century life (or the newly born fifteenth century in terms of the
Moslem era).

27. It seemed that he was suffering from selective amnesia. On the other hand, he
did evince a lively interest in the developments of the modern world after being
initiated into the basic events of recent history, and would incessantly ask
questions about the oil crisis, how the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia had come to be
established after the break-up of the Ottoman Empire, the Arab Israeli conflict
and the rivalry of the superpowers.
All the same, he consistently viewed everything from a most idiosyncratic
perspective:
In his view the excessive consumption of two liquids had brought mankind to
the brink of disaster. The one was in bottles, and addiction to it ruined a man's
health and rotted his moral fibre. The other, a foul broth as black as sin, had
intoxicated peoples, corrupted nations and undermined world peace. He was
some kind of crank, evidently.
Some inferred from his doting on a miniature portrait inlaid with enamel showing
a beautiful young woman that he was lovelorn, but then he was as old as
Methuselah, give or take a few years. Again, this miniature dated from the late
eighteenth century, so an expert in antiques said. One wag from New York was
heard to remark:
"Either you drink Sadiki juice or you read Washington Irving, you do not do
both."
Sadiki juice, by the way, is a form of alcoholic spirits distilled and consumed by
resident Westerners.
So this is what I did. I went along to the clinic equipped with my old tape recorder
and had Rab tell his own tale. With the help of an interpreter friend of mine, I
got his story translated into English. I enclose a copy for your edification.

28. Go steady on the booze.
Love to Sheila and the kids,
Derek
Translation
After selah1 I turned left on leaving the mosque. Soon I was jostling through the
busy suq. At my every third or fourth step a familiar face bobbed up at me out
of the sea of humanity through which I plied.
"Salaam aleikum, Rab ibn Heinkhal." "Wa aleikum salaam, Walid ibn Hussein.
Peace unto you, Rab ibn Heinkhal."
"And unto you peace, Mustapha Alhabbal."
"Peace unto you, Ibrahim."
"And unto you peace, Rab."
Then, just as I was leaving the suq, a little girl in a saffron dress came up to me
and tugged at my thaub.2
"Uncle Rab! It's me, Sarah!"
1
Prayer time five times daily in the religion of Islam
2
Flowing usually white robe worn in Arabia.

29. "Sarah, my pearl, my little rose, my jewel! What in heaven's name are you doing
in the suq all alone?"
"Uncle, my brother Ahmed is with me. At the moment he's buying bread at the
shop of Hadj the baker."
"I see, my dear, but don't you think you ought to help him? Give my love to your
mother and father. Tell them I shall not forget to bring them some presents from
the Nedj. I won't forget you and Ahmed, either. A lovely dress for you and a bedu
headscarf for Ahmed."
"When will you be back, Uncle?"
"Before the end of Muharram I expect. I have to settle a very important matter.
Must be getting a move on to make sure that everything is ready. Hope to reach
the Wadi of Date Palms by nightfall. May the All-Merciful be your guardian,
Sarah."
"And yours, too, Uncle Rab, " my niece said with a look of sadness as though i t
were our final parting.
Just then Ahmed appeared, his face all beams as usual with three loaves under
his arm.
"I was just saying farewell to your sister. I'll be spending several weeks in the
Nedj3 . on business." Ahmed gave a knowing smile.
"To negotiate terms with Abu Bakr, father of Yasmin the fair, eh?"
3
The region of central Arabia where Riyadh is situated

30. "That's none of your business, " I replied trying to suppress a smile of my own.
"Going alone, Uncle? Because if you are, don't stay too long near the caves that
border the Wadi of Date-Palms."
Scarcely had these words been said when his sister added, shaking her head
with due emphasis: "Travellers have passed that way never to be seen again."
"I have no fear, children. I can take good care of myself. No ghoul or djin 4can
prevent me from concluding my negotiations with Abu Bakr, father of Yasmin
the fair, " said I, and I do not doubt that my eyes twinkled as brightly as any star
when I uttered my final words.
As the children skipped off home, I turned into the narrow street that led to the
Western Gate. I inhaled the scents that came wafting from the stalls where
spices, sweet-smelling woods and rose water were offered for sale. If the
negotiations went my way, I might delay my return to Hoffuf 5for a few weeks
longer, a few months, years, centuries.
The scent of that rose water was making me feel distinctly heady. Once, when
on a business trip to Damascus, I had drunk wine. The feeling after a few glasses
was much the same, but oh the headache afterwards! Doubtless, the Prophet
had very good reasons for banning the stuff.
By the time I had reached the Western Gate, there were only three hours left
before sunset. One of the slaves of my fellow merchant Salman al Fauzi, had
seen to the necessary provisions. Baudwein, my trusty camel, was patiently
crouching beside him outside the city wall. If I got a move on, I should easily
4
Evil spirit.
5
A town near the coast of the Arabian-Persian Gulf beside an oasis and surrounded by
mountains

31. enough be able to catch up with the last caravan in the course of the following
day.
The camel had been watered, so there was no further impediment to my
immediate departure. Baudwein was in fine fettle, and we proceeded at a brisk
pace. Well over an hour had passed and the town was out of sight. I was still
confident that we should make the Wadi by sundown. I had not reckoned with a
sudden change in the weather. Hardly had I registered the fact that a sandstorm
was brewing up when I found myself in the middle of one that, it seemed, had
been whipped up by a wind from nowhere.
Eternally the optimist, I thought it would turn out to be just another of those
passing squalls that might obscure the horizon a little without seriously
impairing visibility in the middle distance. Should I stay put and adopt sand-
storm stations or return home? Neither, I decided. I would go on.
After a little time I had lost my bearings. The ground became hard and stony. It
was only with great difficulty that Baudwein negotiated the boulders that lay in
our path. Despite the poor visibility, I could just about make out what promised
to be a suitable resting-place for the night, the spot being level, free of stones
and protected on the farther side by a wall of rock into which a cave led. Clearly,
this sandstorm wasn't going to dissipate in a short time.
It was getting on for sundown, not that I was in any position to witness it myself.
Thus I was daunted by the prospect of being lost in a cheerless, moonless and
starless night. I experienced a strange feeling of timelessness. Indeed, how can
a person measure time, once deprived of the opportunity of detecting movement
and change. I found myself unable to ascertain the correct time for evening
prayers or the direction in which Mecca lay.
After prayers, I lit a fire, having been provident enough to take a sack of slow-

32. burning wood and a tinderbox with me in case I might need them. I could also
boil myself some qahweh.6 I enjoyed a repast of salted meat, bread and dates.
A sudden whim seized me. I placed twelve dates in a circle. Beginning with the
one at the top and proceeding from left to right, I devoured each in turn. I
replaced each date with a date stone. Having eaten the dates, I spent several
minutes blankly staring at a circle of twelve date-stones. Just as I was laying my
bedding down, my eye was attracted by the glint of some object near the entrance
of the cave.
On closer inspection I found this to be a glass vial containing a cloudy green
liquid. Some medicine left by a wayfarer, perhaps?
Suspiciously I withdrew the stopper and raised the neck of the bottle to within a
camel's hair of my nose. From the bottle there exuded a strange, exciting odour
reminiscent of the resins of the Yemen. More than that, it was intoxicating like
the wine I drank in Syria that time. Enough! This was no time to incur the wrath
of Allah by inhaling anything that suggested itself as haram.7
I tugged a leather thong that dangled round my neck and gazed at her image,
the portrait of Yasmin, my bride-to-be. When I first called on her father that time
- it was something to do with importing ornaments from Persia and India - she
retired to the women's quarters demurely, and when on subsequent visits she
served qahweh or fruit juice, how coquettishly she smiled through her very thin
yashmak.
What poise! Ah! The day she so surreptitiously dropped that package at my feet,
the package that contained her image. How I pressed that image to my lips the
66
Mokka style coffee.
7
Forbidden according to Islamic law

33. first time I beheld it. As then, I kissed her again and again, for to me, she and
her image were one. I yielded to an impulse that I now hold responsible for my
present pitiable state. Holding that vial in my trembling fingers, I inhaled the
vapours exuding from it, before - Oh, fateful deed! - imbibing its contents to the
very last drop.
In a moment's ecstasy I was swept up to the very gates of Paradise before
descending into a deep slumber. How deep let my following account reveal.
The Dream
This was my dream.
I opened my eyes. Everything was bright and clear. The sandstorm had passed
as though it had never been. Suddenly I sensed movement. A youth appeared
before me. His appearance was unfamiliar, foreign.
He was clothed in animal skins, his complexion was fair, his hair like fleece. Like
a shepherd tending his sheep, he piped a tune. I could not say where he came
from. Not from Arabia or from the lands that followed the religion of the Prophet,
nor was he like any Nazrani 8 I had met on my travels. He did not seem to belong
to my age but to a time in the golden past. Such music lay in his music that I
ceased to consider his origins. Indeed, his piping so wiled away the hours that a
whole day passed in the twinkling of an eye and ended with a final glow of golden
splendour. Scarcely had day yielded to night than three figures appeared at the
entrance of the cave. They then seemed to dance. As they came nearer, I could
make out a maiden and two women, one in the fullness of youth's bloom, the
other a crone whose wizened face shone with the wan pallor of the full moon.
They danced in a circle round him. I saw cords about their waists. These they
8
Christian, follower of Jesus of Nazareth.

34. unwound and used to bind him. The maiden produced a small sickle-shaped
knife from a leather pouch hanging at her side.
Gleefully the old woman clasped the youth's wavy locks and shore them off .
Then they bore him into the cave from whence they had come. As I pondered this
strange happening, I noticed something no less mysterious. The movement of
the stars became perceptible. I could actually see the celestial bodies move in
their course from horizon to horizon. The Great Bear moved like the spoke of a
wheel. Constellations rose and declined at an ever-increasing speed.
The eastern sky lit up, the sun rose to its zenith and declined, in the space of a
few moments.
Night, day, night, day, each shorter than the one before, passed by. My head
reeled, as the succession of day and night became so rapid that both yielded to
a flickering half-light. I sank back into my deep slumber.
My Awakening
Heat, intense heat was all I felt. I was sensible of being parched. The sun stood
at its highest point in the sky. I must have overslept, I thought. I'll never catch
up with the caravan now.
A sense of foreboding possessed me. It was my clothes, I think, that were the
first ominous indication. They were falling apart, coated with the dust of ages. I
must have fallen among thieves. Baudwein was nowhere to be seen. Where he
had been tethered lay the scattered bones of some poor creature or other, but
there was no sign of a living camel, none of Baudwein. Was this a nightmare
without end?
My beard, so painstakingly trimmed and shaped, was long and tousled - worse
still, it was white. No sign of my provisions, either. What I badly needed was
water, but there was none of that around. I clutched at my breast. Heaven be

35. praised! The image was still there, showing the same beautiful face, though just
a little faded. So enchanted was I by the beauty of that face that I didn't seem to
notice or mind that my palms were shrivelled and my fingers were withered to
the bone.
I had to drink. From the vantage point of a nearby rock I spied out the land.
The landscape itself was half-familiar. At least the old hills were there, but the
Wadi was parched as in late summer. I noticed something resembling a huge
belt or ribbon stretching from horizon to horizon. The part of it nearest to me
was within easy walking distance even in that heat. As I came closer, I discovered
that this ribbon was in fact a highway carpeted with something like pitch.
Hardly had I set foot on this highway than I heard something roar in the distance.
You cannot imagine what terror possessed me when I looked up. This thing was
coming straight at me, some kind of infernal monster, I was sure. What could I
do? Flee back to the hills? If, as I now feared, I had not only fallen among thieves
but had been killed in the process, and I was awaiting collection by the angels
charged with the task of accompanying the soul to its allotted place, it was
pointless trying to make a get-away. If I was still alive, I needed all the help I
could get - such is the courage of a desperate man.
The monster was getting horribly close. It roared and groaned like a camel in
labour, and from its hindquarters issued forth dust and smoke. I feared that if
this was a spirit coming to collect me, I was going to the other place. But no, the
thing had wheels; yes, it was some horseless means of conveyance.
Now I could see men inside. It stopped its progress just in front of me. Doors
opened and men in pantaloons got out. They hailed me in a dialect I could
understand. Had I got lost? I looked rather the worse for wear.

36. "Allah be praised!" I cried as I prostrated myself before them. "Could I have some
water?" I asked.
They said it was Ramadan.
"Ramadan!" I gasped. Then I had been asleep for months. But Ramadan would
fall in winter this year.9
"What time is it?" I asked.
First they told me the hour by the hands of their timepieces so much smaller
than any I had seen in Syria. Then they told me the date, the 1Oth of Ramadan.
After a few moments awkward silence, I ventured to ask with a squeak in my
voice: "...and the year?"
P.S. I'm not sure which broke down first, Rab or my old tape recorder. Sobbing
pitifully, he buried his face in the palms of his bony hands; then, raising his
head slightly, he mournfully cried (the Doctor noted his words):
"What conqueror has laid waste my habitation, has borne away captive Sarah
and Ahmed, and Yasmin, my bride never-to-be. 'Time' you will answer, but again
I ask: What is Time?"
WHAT ON EARTH BECAME OF WATKINS?
9
As the Islamic year is about 10 days shorter than the Gregorian year months such as Ramadan
gradually move through the seasons of the astronomical annual cycle.

37. Watkins was an odd sort of fellow. I say "'was'" assuming he is no longer alive,
which brings me to the moot-point of this private (and recently concluded)
investigation, for want of a better term: his apparent disappearance about seven
months ago. I can't really say that I knew the man. We chatted now again over a
beer - or something stronger - at the local. To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed his
company with mixed pleasure. He used to come up to the bar, slap you on the
back and say something like: "You're a better man. than I am Gunga Din" or
crack an insipid joke. I tried to laugh convincingly, though I now think I needn't
have gone to the bother. He hardly needed confirmation that he was the wittiest
man on earth. He called himself a 'City man', and offered insider tips on
forthcoming issues. He said he wasn't averse to a spot of gambling, usually on
the horses, but sometimes on the dogs, hence one of his common phrases:
"'Going to the dogs, you know."
One of his expressions didn't seem to fit his character: "Gambling is the Devil's
parody of faith, " though he did once remark that he had been through a religious
phase in his early adolescence. It had left him with a keen interest in the occult,
witches and black magic. Oh, he did develop another interest: computers. "If you
can't break 'em, join 'em" was something he said in connection with the effect
computers were having on the stock markets after the 'Big Bang'. There was
something about him I couldn't quite fathom. To put a phrase on it, he was
something of a 'dark horse'. I wasn't the only one to sense it either.
At some point or other he started going downhill. For one thing, his appearance
became more dishevelled. There were awkward silences in the flow of
conversation, and he started to mutter words under his breath. As he had
previously spoken about his wife in civil terms, I was surprised when he started
to use rather an odd word in apposition to references to her sounding something
like "itch, " though I wouldn't swear to the absence of a preceding consonant.
Then the word "damned" assumed a considerable magnitude in his current range

38. of vocabulary, usually in connection with competitors on the stock exchange,
politicians and financial obligations related to Ascot and Epsom.
When the Internet came along, his visits to the pub became less frequent. The
only time you could bet on his frequenting The Red Dragon was Saturday night.
"Damned intriguing the Internet. Spend hours at it. The perfect research tool."
He divulged that he had been "dabbling again" without actually referring to the
object of his investigation, though I inferred it had to do with paranormal
phenomena. About a year ago he became strangely taciturn, his eyes sort of
glassy.
About half a year ago I suddenly realized that I had not seen Watkins for a whole
month, not even of a Saturday night. So I asked Ted the barman whether
Watkins had been around. To my question, Ted replied:
"You didn't 'ear, guv? Big mystery. Done the bunk, or somefin'. The police came
rarnd askin' when 'e was last in."
In my youth I had tried my hand as a reporter. I found out his address. Armed
with a pocket recorder, I went to his house, a semi-detached on the Surrey
London border. There was a FOR SALE sign in the front garden. The woman who
opened the door did not at first want to unfasten the safety chain. Through the
open slit between door and doorpost I asked for information about her husband.
The lady, his wife as it later transpired, said she was indisposed, but just as I
was on the point of leaving she unexpectedly invited me in.
Here is a transcript from part of the ensuing interview.
"I can't figure it out, I don't have a clue what happened."
"Do you have any suspicions as to his present whereabouts" (my voice).

39. "Odd things had been happening before his final disappearance. In the three
months leading up to that event, he became very funny. Just came in from work,
gave me and little Debby a perfunctory kiss, went straight to his PC and locked
himself in for hours. 'What about me? What about Debby?' I asked, but he didn't
even react. On the night he disappeared, I went to bed early. I couldn't sleep
properly, and just as I was about to drop off I felt a terrible presence in the
bedroom attended by a kind of paralysis of all my limbs. I was kind of awake but
could not even raise a little finger. Once this strange feeling had worn off, I
mustered the strength to get up and call out 'Harry, Harry.' As I approached the
study, I felt goose pimples all over. I somehow knew something was wrong --
sobbing -- and there was a funny smell too - like bad eggs. When I finally did
have the nerve to open the door, I discovered an empty room and a thin layer of
some kind of bluish haze. When the police team came round, all they ascertained
a small sooty smudge on the wall. Could have been anything."
Apparently the only other evidence was a note with some kind of formula on it
with an message tagged on: "Download me if you dare." I noted the letters. Believe
it or not, the following strange event took place. In cavalier mood I intended to
take up the challenge. I was only three letters away from typing in the letters I
had written down. The room I was in turned horribly chill. I fancied I saw blue
smoke issuing from my PC. There was a funny smell like - bad eggs. I saw a face
on the screen for just a split second. What I think I saw was too hideous for
words.
All things considered I decided not to type in any further letters and discontinued
my attempt toget to the bottom of Watkins’ disappearance.
On video clips:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6-o8iaLrR0
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnxFM08Ofj0

40. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLqlo848Q40
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4g4oYoEtsnY
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuMg7RPs_n0
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYRLCb00LfA