Antonio Ribera - "The Deadly Planet" (1956)

INTRODUCTION

Antonio Ribera (15 Jan 1920 - 24 Sept 2001) was a prolific Spanish essayist, playwright, poet, translator and science fiction author, writing in Catalan and Spanish. For his science fiction output, he has one novel, "The Mystery of the Fish Men" (1955) and more than twenty stories, which have been republished over three short story collections.

"The Deadly Planet" appeared in the August 1956 issue (#39) of the Argentine magazine Más Allá (Beyond) and was illustrated by Eusevi. For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)" and "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures".

For complete scans of Más Allá, including the illustrations, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/

THE DEADLY PLANET

 
The planet lay in front of the spaceship, immense and brilliant. Zrill turned to Oinos, his companion.

- "Well, here we are," he said. "So far, everything has gone according to plan. We'll see what happens later."

Oinos kept silent. Then he slowly observed:

- "Yes, the voyage won't be the worst thing. We already know that. The voyage offered us nothing new. On the other hand..."

And he vaguely gestured toward the enormous virgin planet.

The spaceship silently glided through the void, heading toward a hypothetical point situated on the western side of the planet. Oinos and Zrill, settled in their seats, restricted themselves to gazing out of the large transparent dome, in which the stars looked like tiny, pinned, burning fireflies. The ship, governed by perfect electronic brains, navigated on autopilot, making the necessary course corrections to enter a landing ellipse. For some time now, its velocity was only supersonic. Superluminal velocity was only good for intergalactic navigation, or for use during short stretches of travel within a solar system. And they hadn't left the solar system that they were exploring.

In one corner of the cockpit, there was a dim shadow, some sort of rectangular, leaden box. Zrill looked at it, and his companion followed the direction of his gaze.

- "Let's see how it works," Oinos said, voicing his thoughts aloud. "If it fails, we'll return without any sort of protest. But if it succeeds, as we hope, we'll be able to offer a new planet to our government."

- "It worked perfectly in the atmospheres of three other planets," Zrill said. "Of course, they weren't atmospheres as deadly as this one. For this one, the device needs to completely change the atmospheric components and replace them with our own, the only ones suitable for intelligent life."

Oinos scanned the brilliant surface of the planet running beneath them.

- "It's a deadly planet. It's almost hard to conceive of its atmosphere. Nitrogen and oxygen! Although relatively small in proportion, the oxygen present is already sufficient for impeding all life."

- "Life will be possible when we've completely replaced it with methane," Zrill observed. "But what I'm most curious about is the presence of water in a liquid state! Imagine... and covering almost three quarters of the planet. Fortunately, we have means of protecting ourselves from excessive heat. This planet is too close to the star... for my taste. Anyway, I think we can make it habitable despite all that."

A moment of silence reigned between the two astronauts. Suddenly, Oinos shuddered.

- "Look, Zrill. What's that?" - and he pointed towards the planet. - "I mean those little white specks, that seem to be stuck to the surface."

Zrill focused the handheld analyzer on them.

- "It's water vapor floating in that cursed atmosphere," Oinos - and Zrill shuddered at the same time.

- "Water in a gaseous state! That's extraordinary, Zrill."

And Oinos stroked the corner of his fifth eye with his sixth right claw, a gesture that denoted great excitement.

Juan Pedro Edmunds - "Discovery" (1956)

INTRODUCTION

Juan Pedro Edmunds was a Mexican author, cited by Rachel Haywood Ferreira to be the only Mexican author to appear in the Argentinian magazine Más Allá. "Discovery" is the only story credited under his name, which appeared in the April 1956 issue of Más Allá (#35), and was illustrated by Olmos.

For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)" and "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures".

For complete scans of Más Allá, including the illustrations, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/

DISCOVERY

SUSPENDED in the blue-black of the stratosphere, the exploration spacecraft floated above the vast spheroid of the unknown planet, like a gigantic celestial finger raised in a sign of admonition.

Suddenly a discolored flame erupted from the exhaust, and with barely a murmur from its powerful engines, the ship executed a slow maneuver in the air, descending gently and landing tail-first on the unknown soil of the planet.

For some time, there was no movement. The spaceship, like a fantastic tower raised above the plain, reflected the weak reddish light of the sunset in the glow on its hull. Amid the profound ancient silence that reigned in that unknown world, the loud creaking and clicking sounds produced by the metal mass as it cooled resounded with increasing violence.

All of a sudden, a small motor began to hum inside the ship, and the heavy valve of an airlock in the lower part of the main hull opened. Through the black mouth of the airlock, a sort of metallic globe fitted with glass windows appeared, which descended lightly and silently, supported by two strong cables, until it touched the ground.

After a brief pause, during which not only the microcosm of the ship seemed to be waiting, but also all of that recently discovered world, the elevator door folded back, revealing two grotesque and extraordinary, bulky figures in thick atmospheric suits with enormous, transparent plastic helmets that completely covered their heads.

As if afraid of advancing and setting foot on land, thus so easily breaking the charm of the millennia of mystery or oblivion enclosed in the unknown planet, the two visitors from extreme space remained motionless for a while inside the elevator, looking at the sterile desert landscape of the new world that awaited them.

The land was flat, inhospitable, without trees, without elevation. Its monotonous plain extended uninterruptedly around the ship, until it was lost in the thick fog that covered the horizon and advanced slowly, carried by an imperceptible breeze. In the distance, the only variation in that uniform landscape that could be seen was the placid waters of a great lake or dead sea.

The faint crepuscular light was already fading, and only the glow of the stars remained to illuminate the panorama. The silence of that seemingly dead world was like a heavy blanket descending upon the two adventurers, crushing them, depressing them.

- "Did you notice that one detail?" - Wilyas's rough and humorous voice broke the silence - "This planet's much smaller than ours. You see? You can observe the curvature with the naked eye."

- "You're right" - Pers answered him seriously, fixing his gaze on the tranquil waters of the lake, which gleamed like a cape of obsidian under the illumination of the stars. - "Come on!" - he continued in a decisive tone. - "We have to do it."

The two of them stepped out of the elevator and onto the ground, the first to do so (was it possible?) in the entire history of the universe. Their heavy magnetic boots sank into the light ground, and they felt like the muscles in their bodies possessed much more strength than usual, due to the low gravity. They adjusted their enormous helmets, put a hand on their pistols, and stood for a moment listening and looking around them.

* * *

There was nothing to be heard. The plain and the lake remained devoid of any sign of life. A gust of mist, driven by the light breeze, passed over their feet, covering the ground.

It was the meeting of two worlds: one unknown, perhaps old, perhaps new; the other, well-known, modern, familiar, with its advanced technology that had discovered everything, invented everything already, completely eliminating the unknown, the hidden, and leaving nothing to the imagination. The two newcomers were the representatives of that old, familiar world, who with their cold, analytical gaze, came to tear the mysterious veil away, that had until then covered this new world. They were the advance troops of a civilization who came to conquer another little piece of the universe, discovering all its secrets and converting it into a dry shell of what it once was. They came under the banner of civilization to destroy enchantments, legends and dreams.

- "It seems to be quite desolate," Wilyas said, scanning the landscape. "What monstrous beings await us here?"

Pers smiled dryly. "I think you've read too many science fiction stories," he replied. "Perhaps there's no life on this planet. At least, judging by the silence, that's probably the case."

- "It's very possible," Wilyas admitted, "but there is some plant life. If I'm not mistaken, those dark patches over there to the left must be patches of grass or lichen."

- "We'll soon see," Pers replied. They began to walk towards the lake: two strange and grotesque figures in the bidimensional world of the plain, cautiously moving away from the imposing mass of the ship, which remained enshrouded in silence and gave no sign of any activity.

- "There's some elevation over there. Looks like a mountain range," said Wilyas, signalling with the metallic fingers of his glove to the dark mass of a hill or plateau that rose in the distance in the darkness.

- "Yes," Pers replied, "but let's go this way first. I see to find out if the lake contains water, and if so, whether or not it's potable. I'd imagine it should contain water, as there's not a lot of gravity here and the temperature's not high enough to allow large deposits of other substances in a liquid state."

- "Don't you think it'd be better to look for a source of fresh water in those mountains?" Wilyas asked. "It's more likely that..."

With an angry gesture, Pers pressed a button on the small transceiver's control panel he wore on his chest. Instantly, Wilyas stopped talking and began to howl in anguish, trying to hold his head with both hands through the thick transparent helmet. He staggered like a drunk, bending and straightening his body, then fell to his knees on the ground.

Pers pressed the transmitter's button again.

- "Let's go!" he said coldly. "I want to get to the lake without wasting any more time."

He resumed his march without noticing whether his companion was following him or not.

Wilyas stood up, shook his head, and quickly ran after him until he managed to catch up.

- "Forgive me, explorer," he said in a submissive voice. "I said it without thinking."

Pers instructs him without turning his head.

- "Instinctive obedience is an integral part of discipline, and the success of any exploration is dependent on discipline; therefore every aspiring explorer must be obedient and disciplined."

* * *

THEY continued walking in silence towards the edge of the lake.

- "I'm going to probe the atmosphere," Pers said suddenly, stopping again. "If it allows for normal breathing, we can take off our helmets."

- "With this cold, I think I'll stay as I am" - Wilyas smiled and patted the transparent globe that covered his head. "Uncomfortable but warm."

Pers, without answering, took a small plastic box from one of his voluminous pockets, fitted with a luminous dial and several graduated knobs attached to its cover. He made some adjustments to the knobs and studied the dial.

- "There's no chance," he said. "It's a very strange atmosphere, and it contains a measurable percentage of poisonous gases. We'd asphyxiate in a few minutes if we tried to breathe it. There we have it, that's why there are no signs of animal life on this planet. Perhaps there's aquatic life, but I don't think it would be very developed. Algae and amoebas would be the most advanced forms of life. This is a primitive world, born dead."

They began to walk again. The cold was intense; it penetrated through the plastic and metal fabrics of their thick spacesuits.

- "With your permission, I'd like to quicken my pace," said Wilyas, rubbing his arms to get the blood flowing.

- "I think that's a good idea," replied the other. "We need some physical exercise after being cooped up in the ship for six months."

The two of them began to run in tandem. Their heavy boots sank into the muddy ground, raising a small shower of dirt behind their rapid feet as they flew over the ground. They bent and straightened their legs effortlessly; each step they took was an enormous leap. Their bodies felt light, airy, as if they were in a vacuum.

Wilyas laughed, elated by the ease with which he moved his powerful body.

- "How marvelous!" he cried. "If I could run like this normally, I'd go into athletics. I'd be a champion, a phenomenon!"

- "No doubt," Pers replied dryly.

With some difficulty, they stopped walking when they reached the lake shore. Their breathing had become slightly labored.

Pers knelt down on the edge of the lake and extracted a second small plastic device from another of his pockets, with several metal cables hanging from it. Bending over the water, so that the ends of the cables were submerged, he made some adjustments to the control knobs and studied the luminous dial.

- "Good, that's one less problem" - he said after finishing these magical maneuvers - "This water is potable" - and he stood up again, putting the analyzer in his pocket.

- "Thank goodness," said Wilyas, who was following the operation with great interest. "Let's see if luck will be as favorable to us regarding the problem of finding food."

- "I think there's no hope for that," Pers replied, "but we have a year's supply of rations on the ship, and if we supplement these with the products of the artificial cultures that the biologist grows, there will be absolutely no problem."

He pressed a button on his transceiver and Wilyas saw that he was still moving his lips in conversation, but he didn't feel anything else. He must be reporting to the commander on the events of the exploration they conducted, he thought, without being surprised in the least.

While waiting for his companion to finish speaking, Wilyas began to walk slowly along the lake shore, under the huge inverted canopy of the star-studded night sky. To his left, the silent, deserted terrain stretched out to the horizon like a vast brown carpet, and to his right lay the calm basaltic waters of the lake. All was quiet and peaceful.

* * *

Suddenly he stopped and, bending down, began to scrutinize something he saw on the ground. Then he quickly stood up, turned his head towards his companion and began to call out to him:

- "Explorer, explorer, come here... come here..."

- "Don't shout," Pers' even voice replied. "Distance doesn't affect volume."

Running at full speed, he made three or four enormous leaps and arrived at his subordinate's side.

- "What's wrong?" - he asked.

- "Look," Wilyas said, pointing with his hand, a slight note of excitement in his voice. "They seem to be little bugs; little bugs of light."

- "Certainly," said Pers, crouching down and watching some lumiscent spots moving around on the ground at his feet. "Some species of firefly, no doubt."

- "Ouch!" Wilyas suddenly cried, slapping his calf hard with his hand.

- "What's wrong with you?" Pers asked, astonished.

- "Something bit me. Ouch! There it goes again. Damn, they're attacking me! Look!"

Pers reached for the flashlight attached to his belt and shone it on the spot where his feet were planted. He let out a gasp of surprise when he and his companion were surrounded by a swarming mass of miniscule beetle-like insects that were flying and crawling all around them.

At that precise instant, he felt a sharp sting on his leg. Stifling a curse under his breath, rapidly standing straight, he pressed the contact button on his transmitter and said hurriedly:

- "Hello, ship! Beacon, please! Beaa... con... !"

A second later, a brilliant beam of light, illuminating the entire scene with the intensity of a small sun, burst forth from the highest point of the spaceship, shining its bright light on the two explorers, who stood out in view like two grotesque monsters performing a strange ritual dance.

- "Good heavens!" Wilyas cried, waving his arms and beating himself like a maniac. "It's an anthill! Look!"

Sure enough, Pers' horrified eyes revealed that he and his companion were in the midst of a vast nest or hive of the little insects, teeming with thousands running and flying about them. Startled, like those who accidentally step on an ordinary anthill, Pers and Wilyas began to paw and stamp frantically, crushing hundreds of the insects with each step, leaving them crushed among the devastated branches of the huge nest.

They destroyed the city of Bahía Blanca in five minutes.

Juan Fernández Oviedo - "Professor Particular" (1953)

INTRODUCTION

Juan Fernández Oviedo was an Argentine author who also published a translation of the Tao Te Ching in 1976. "Professor Particular" was published in the September 1953 (#4) issue of Más Allá (Beyond) and was illustrated by Salva. For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)", "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures" and Carlos Abraham's "Las revistas argentinas de ciencia ficción".

For complete scans of Más Allá, including the illustrations, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/

PROFESSOR PARTICULAR

The fat woman opened the door decorated with the words: "Private Employment Agency - General Manager", and entered the luxurious office. The manager stood up to greet her with an elegant bow of his well-dressed body, and with a recently manicured hand, indicated an auto-anatomical chair to her:

- "At your service, madam" - he said in English, with a slight Spanish accent.

- "I loathe to bother you, Manager, sir," the woman replied, looking at his handsome features with approbation. The chair, meanwhile, adjusted with difficulty to her obese back and adjacencies until it provided her with maximum comfort. "The employee who attended to me said she couldn't answer me and said I should talk to you. Is she a... robot?"

This last bit was added with a slight grimace of displeasure.

- "Indeed, madam; our entire sales staff is composed of class B robots. That is why a case out of the ordinary, such as yours, is no longer within the reach of their limited electrobrains."

- "But, what's so strange about my case?" the woman protested. "I'm only looking for a good Spanish teacher for my son, since my husband hopes to remain an ambassador to the Republic of South America for many years to come."

* * *

The manager ran his hand across his chin before answering.

- "It's that here, madam, you can learn a language in fifteen days..."

- "Really?" she interrupted. "No wonder that they say South America is such an advanced country! But that's not a problem, on the contrary..."

- "I haven't explained myself well. A South American can learn, for example, English in fifteen days because they've already had a lengthy education in general linguistics: semantics, philology, syntax; and that, together with a solid foundation in anthropology, history and epistemology, which makes learning much easier. Your son, on the other hand, is a special case..."

* * *

The ambassador's wife impassively endured this explanation, which sounded like Greek to her; but the allusion to her son's ignorance made her reply:

- "It shall be as you say. But one of your super-geniuses will be able to teach my son Spanish using the old methods, right? Especially with the salary I'm willing to pay."

- "It cannot be, madam, I'm terribly sorry! Did you not know that human servitude has been abolished for many years in South America? That's what robots are for! We need to construct a special robot for your son."

- "A robot?" - she repeated in the tone of someone who wouldn't tolerate any stupid jokes. - "And you want me to believe that a machine can teach my son Spanish?"

- "Why not, madam? The employee who attended you before is a robot, and you only noticed because you had been informed of such, assuredly. In South America, robots are manufactured for all kinds of service: maids, cooks, gardeners... You only notice that they're not human if you talk to them about issues outside their specialty, or..."

- "Or what?" - the woman asked.

- "Or if you see them when they're feeding," the manager replied reluctantly, blushing slightly.

- "Indeed? Why is that? How do robots feed themselves? It never occurred to me that they needed to."

- "They have to replenish the energy they expend working somehow, madam. Instead of a stomach, they have a small atomic engine that runs on iron 62. This iron comes in pills that the robots take by..."

- "...mouth?" - the woman automatically completed the sentence.

- "No, through the navel. It's a much shorter route, and likewise, a human's serves in this purpose before one's birth..."

The ambassador's wife stood up from her chair, virtuously indignant.

- "What audacity! Where have you ever heard of such things being discussed in front of a lady? You are no gentleman!"

- "No, madam" - the manager admitted.

She walked across the office, and sent off with another reprimand from the door.

- "And, by the way, don't you think that you've fooled me with this story about robot language teachers! You South Americans can think of nothing better than deceiving foreigners with your lies, but I know you well. As if a machine could converse intelligently with a human!"

And she left intending to slam the door, which was thwarted by the door stopper.

* * *

The manager philosophically shrugged his shoulders as he pulled a small pill out of a box marked "Fe 62."

- "She didn't give me time to explain what class A robots are like" - he muttered.

And unbuttoning his shirt around his navel, he inserted the pill, gently pushing it in with his little finger.

Julio Aníbal Portas - "The Jump" (1955)

INTRODUCTION

Julio Aníbal Portas (8 Feb 1915 - 10 Dec 1984) was an Argentine fiction author, historian and bibliographer. For his science fiction output, he published four short stories that appeared in Más Allá ("Beyond"), an Argentinian science fiction magazine, three under the pseudonym Julián de Córdoba; the short stories "Raw Material" (#20, January 1955), "The Jump" (#22, March 1955) and the novella "Rino's Fantasies" (#46, April 1957), and one under the pseudonym Julio Almada, "Time Disintegrated" (#8, January 1954). "The Jump" was illustrated by Ornay.

For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)", "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures" and Carlos Abraham's "Las revistas argentinas de ciencia ficción".

For complete scans of Más Allá, including the illustrations, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/

THE JUMP

"The monster boarded the tram from the front platform and looked at the conductor. He stared through him to the back of his head with inhuman firmness. His brain waves, concentrated in a narrow, powerful beam, penetrated the man's cerebellum. The vehicle was about to come to a bend in the road. But it didn't follow the rail's curvature. Smoothly, without jolting, the tram, with the conductor, the guard and forty-eight seated passengers, continued its perfectly straight movement. Encountering a curvature in space, it didn't bend, and crossed the barrier that separated it from the other dimension..."

"The appearance of the monster..."

- "Wait a minute" - I said to myself - "I need to properly define its appearance, so that what happened to me that one time I was talking about bony legs doesn't happen to me again, when it turned out that two pages earlier I described the intergalactic visitor as a nebulous and incorporeal being... When one dedicates oneself to writing science fiction stories, one has to be careful of these details."

- "What should this monster be like?"... - I muttered. - How are we going to describe our dear little monster? Because I'm never insulting. When I'm aggressive, I distribute diminutives.

It's more delicate and effective. Anyone can try it on a large man, one who's very muscular and virile. Just say to him: "poor little guy!" to be convinced of the effectiveness of my system...

If only I had an electronic superbrain at my disposal, a robot interloper, or some such gadget, the sort I've invented by the dozens, and explained in great detail to my readers!

The mild air of a beautiful summer night crept in through the half-open door. A locust crept in too. It flew, jumped, struck the walls with great force, jumped again, and lay motionless on my table.

It had bulging eyes. One section of its very long legs was a perfect saw. The shell of its...

- "Magnificent," I said to myself. "Beautiful big locust, you've saved me. There's no monster more monstrous than a genuine locust, if I can describe it with my colorful imagination."

I relegated the hatred I felt for orthopterans from the attic of my subconscious. That very day, a swarm of locusts had taken my garden for a restaurant. They came by the thousands, ate my plants and my flowers, and then left without paying.

The locust hadn't moved. Its inscrutable eyes remained fixed on my manuscript. I don't like a common locust who's only just arrived to be criticizing my works. With my index finger and thumb, I took it by the legs and began to examine it in detail. There were several elements that could be useful in my description of the monster. The shape of the massive head, the iridescent colors, the ethereal weave of the wings...

The monster... I mean the locust, lay motionless beneath my fingers. If I had grasped only one of its legs, it would probably have struggled free, abandoning a limb as spoils of war. Joints are these creatures' weak area. And that's their strength.

It looked at me. I thought I saw a glint of malevolence in its little eyes, but it's possible it was just my imagination. Imagination is my strong area. That's my weakness.

Were there thoughts inside that armored skull? Or were they just photographic visions of green foliage and beautiful single locusts? For a moment, I thought my prisoner was of the female sex. When we see an animal other than a cow or a chicken, we tend to assume it's a male creature. It's silly, but it's so.

I wondered if my langosto would be capable of having any opinions, for example, about my person, or only violent but confusing emotions, like a taxi driver during rush hour.[Translator's note: The word for locust, "langosta" is female in gender, in this sentence, the male form 'langosto' is used. This gendering is also used near the end of the story.]

- "If I could just get inside that little head for a moment", I said, filled with insane curiosity...

...my knees ached. I felt dull stabbing pains in my abdomen where my legs were pressing against me. I tried to move them, but I couldn't. Then I made an effort to open my eyes. That wasn't possible either; they were open.

Before my blurry vision, a huge mass rose. It looked like a monument in a London square, on a winter's day. But it couldn't be London, because I'm not stupid; I knew very well that I was in Argentina, and in the summer. In any case, it was probably Pisa, not London, because the monument was leaning visibly to one side. But in central Italy, there's no fog, and furthermore, the leaning tower doesn't have an egg-shaped pedestal. Little by little I could focus better and the fog disappeared.

The monument was a bombilla, and the pedestal, naturally, was a mate gourd. My mate. The one my great-aunt Amparo gave me. She sent it to me from Spain for my birthday. With straw and everything. 14K gold mouthpiece. "Made in Barcelona."

The impact was terrible. If my mate was so big, I must've been very small. More or less like... a locust...

Terrified, I tried to escape from reality and let my thoughts wander and I had visions of immense trees with flowers that looked like dahlias. Vast meadows that looked like pumpkin leaves. I again felt the sensation of intense pleasure that I experienced when I was wandering through that Eden. And the fear. The horrible terror that a gigantic being inspired in me, that shook the trees as I might shake a blade of grass. It shook them with the movable appendages of its long legs, so that I couldn't enjoy its succulent leaves.

It must have been a nightmare, because I was never attracted to dahlia leaves, no matter how big they are. I confess that I like grilled kidneys, sirloin steak with champignon sauce, and many other things, but not dahlia leaves. I swear.

To escape from the nightmare, I fell into another one. There stood the giant, with his legs outstretched. Two of his movable appendages held my knees. My vision had cleared and without moving my eyes I could see perfectly behind me.

The giant was looking at me. I thought I saw in his huge eyes, a flash of malevolence...

I was beginning to understand. And a shiver would've ran through me if an insect's circulatory system allowed it to feel shivers. My self, my individual personality, was locked in the locust's skull. I wanted this exact thing!

The memories, the primal instincts, the reflexes, were those of the insect, but the self was mine. And then, in my body would the locust's self be found?

I didn't want to think about it. If the locust decided to squeeze my hand, I was done for. If my human reflexes ordered me to apply more pressure to both fingers, I was done for, too.

My self had my memory, as well as the memory of the insect. So there was some intangible contact between my self and my brain. It was likely that the self of the locust that reigned over my body was operating the same way.

My fear was that the bug would remember the giant who pursued it. In its hatred, it might crush the body that was now sheltering it. My self would die, certainly, and the locust's self would remain master of my body forever. I imagined what would happen. They would lock me up, that is, they would lock it up in a mental asylum...

Suddenly I felt it, like a blow from a hammer. It wasn't hate. It was love. A love so primitive, so overwhelmingly grand, that it was almost cruel. I wish a woman would love me like that someday, with that intensity.

My small, cold body was filled with this love that tried to envelop me like an octopus envelops its prey. My conscience tried to escape the embrace and couldn't. I was cornered in that narrow brain.

That very acute feeling, who was it for?

It couldn't be anything else. It was for me!

The langosta was not a langosto. It was a señorita langosta. He who has never been loved by a locust cannot imagine how terrible it is.

Crazed with horror, I suddenly vaulted and was freed from my fingers. I felt the giant rise, probably to chase me.

With two well-aimed jumps, I got out through the half-open door and hid behind some leaves. It was a tomato plant. I recognized it and had an idea.

The giant, with his clumsy human senses, was still searching around the room for me.

My strong jaws began to gnaw at a stem, and, resisting the urge to devour the juicy pulp, I had soon snapped off a twig. It was enormous to me, but with superhuman strength (that of a locust) I dragged it inside. I dropped the vine on the ground and jumped back into the darkness of the garden. There I stayed, watching.

The giant, attracted by the movement, looked down and saw the tomato vine. Bending down, he quickly grabbed it and brought it to his mouth.

His locust conscience longed for the tasty delicacy, but his human palate rejected it in disgust.

Exactly as I planned it! The locust, for a moment, wished he were a locust to savor that morsel, and I took advantage of this brief instant.

The feeling of relief upon returning to my body was like breathing again after being underwater for three minutes.

I slammed the door shut and the locust was left outside in the darkness. Let it eat my garden. It would be welcome if it did!

Sometimes I think it was nothing more than a nightmare. I try to convince myself that it was nothing more, anyway. And I continue writing stories, because that's my profession and I have to live... But I assure you sometimes I get scared...

Jorge and Héctor Germán Oesterheld - "Boomerang" (1953)

INTRODUCTION

"Boomerang" was published under the pseudonym Jorge Mora, who according to Héctor Germán Oesterheld, was the pseudonym of his brother Jorge Oesterheld (1917-1994), and that Héctor helped in what Rachel Haywood Ferreira describes as "trimming down and focusing this story" for Jorge.

"Boomerang" was published in the December 1953 (#7) issue of the Argentine science fiction magazine "Más Allá" ("Beyond") and illustrated by Olmos. For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)" and "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures".

For complete scans of Más Allá, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/

BOOMERANG

WE HAVE two weeks of oxygen left, which means we'll live until our inexorable limit of 336 hours... And no more. Maybe a few extra minutes of agony for those who decide to wait until the end.

Spencer is pensively seated, staring into space through a small window of the spaceship. For a moment he seems overwhelmed by a feeling of renunciation, of failure. But only for a second, a mere flash of weakness. He immediately regains his usual calm composure.

Rocky, standing with his hands in his pockets, stares blankly at the complicated control panel. Something like contempt is evident in his expression.

I, Barry, am lying in my bunk, watching them absentmindedly. I think of the minutes we're losing; of time, which in this immutable stillness seems to be the only thing with a life of its own.

Total silence envelops us; impossible, material silence. In contrast, the slightest movement provokes a noise that alleviates the nerves.

But we can't constantly make noise. The moment comes when silence returns to dominate us, like a physical enemy. It seems to be an accomplice of Time. And it envelops us. And little by little, feeling more incapable of beating it, we resigned to accepting our defeat.

* * *

TODAY marks one month since we departed. Ours was the third human attempt to reach Mars. Nothing was ever heard from the previous two. Nothing will be heard from us either.

We left Mindex, near San Francisco, a month ago. The same place where Spencer joined me on my first voyage to the Moon; a perfect voyage, carried out with mathematical precision, without the slightest setback. That's how it seemed to us this time, at first, until we established our position.

And now we find ourselves condemned, enveloped by this void...

I look at my two comrades. As men of science, we are three friends, three brothers.

Spencer is already a veteran of these launches. He's made four voyages to the Moon, and is responsible for the most advanced calculations and projects which culminated in the recent establishment of a stable base on the satellite. He left his wife and three children on Earth.

Rocky is a debutante. This is his first voyage, and it will be his last. Fortunately for him, he has no family. But as a talented physicist, it will be a long time before anyone can replace him.

And I, Barry, am the inventor of the procedure for regulating the rate of disintegration of new uranium 313 atoms. Every starship to date uses this power source for its initial thrust. What I call my family is reduced to Fadi, my dog, and Adams, my assistant. I miss both them in their absence and I think of Spencer.

* * *

WE EAT. Nature continues to impose its will.

We exchange few words. The worst thing is the inactivity, combined with the certainty of being prisoners and hopelessly condemned to death within a fixed term...

Now Rocky is writing, scribbling at great speed in his notebook.

Spencer amuses himself by playing like a child, monotonously throwing a sharp paper knife, which sticks, shaking, into a board.

I, always lying down, am thinking. On Earth everyone dreams about space; now, here, my thoughts always go back...

* * *

WE didn't realize it. I had thought about it too, but I didn't think it was possible for any of my comrades. And I was just sitting there writing...

His death was instantaneous. He must have foreseen that this might happen and brought a suicide capsule with him.

We clearly heard his death rattle. When we got him up, he was already dead.

In a note he told us: "Friends, goodbye forever! I'm leaving you and giving you both seven days of life. I've calculated our updated position and discovered we were wrong. We'll begin to feel Mars' attraction and will be diverted from the dead, drifting orbit that we're in. According to my new calculations, we'll make it to Mars in 612 hours, 35 minutes. Unfortunately, you both have 504 hours, or 21 days now to live, and that's not enough for you to arrive together. Instead, *just one* will be able to land on Mars on day 26 following this trajectory, starting today. I'll leave the problem to you. I've solved mine. Rocky."

* * *

WE looked at each other in silence. Words failed us. Death immediately proposed itself to us in order to save our comrade's life.

I never for a moment thought about his death. And I'm sure he never thought about mine either. But...

- "Wait a minute, Barry," Spencer said in his deep, calm voice, "let's leave 'that' for later. Let's verify Rocky's claim first."

We laid our friend down and set ourselves up at the work table.

After a minute, I caught a quick glance from Spencer and saw the sharp paper knife, stuck there on the table, within reach of his hand... A suspicion crossed my mind, disturbing my thoughts...

The calculation we were about to do normally takes fifteen minutes. At his request, we agreed to do it separately in order to compare the results. But my thoughts were gone. My instinct for self-preservation was screaming, warning me...

I no longer thought of dying by my own hand to save him. The conviction crept into my mind that the same petty instinct of self-preservation was gnawing, like a worm, at my comrade's noble soul. At times, I began to feel the fatal blow in my body...

It's obstructing my work. It's poor. I start over. And Spencer seems to be finished already... Will I let him kill me? But why?... What if I... I'm struggling with the evil that wants to envelop me... I'm exhausted, there, trembling, while he... Now he's made a very slight movement; I feel his gaze upon me... I slowly close my eyes... My body would like to defend itself, but no... no...

And suddenly I felt the blow.

I saw him fall, still holding the dagger that was stuck in his chest. He looked at me smiling, with infinite peace in his expression.

- "Go on, Barry; I didn't do the calculations... it wasn't worth it. And you'll get to Mars... You'll be the first..."

* * *

SPENCER'S ultimate sacrifice had been in vain.

Rocky was wrong. I'll come close to Mars, but passing tangentially through its zone of attraction. Due to the enormous velocity, my course will be only deviated by almost 30°, and I'll continue onwards, towards the unfathomable mystery, incorporated into a fixed orbit around the Sun.

* * *

TWO days have passed. Or should I say, 48 hours, as in this monotonous solitude there aren't even nights.

Still under this impression, I've periodically repeated the position calculations and finally discovered a deficiency in the automatic pilot control apparatus. As we had suspected, there must have been a fault at the start, which set the voyage back by several days. The initial thrust was insufficient and our subsequent efforts exhausted the reserves and weren't enough to compensate for them. Because of the delay, our expected landing will never take place.

* * *

EVERYTHING happened as I've predicted. I passed close to Mars and with my telescope, I could see its immense cities, its fantastic canals and the great inhabited expanses, but covered by eternal ice.

Then I started to fly away. And powerless to avoid it, I verified a deviation of 28° 55' 37" and a fraction.

* * *

I have barely an hour left to live.

For several days, to distract myself, I've been doing calculations, and more calculations, and I've arrived at an incredible result: in 1,478 years, my orbit will cross that of Earth's. By an irony of fate, I'll return to my departure point. Although a little late...

Perhaps by that distant time, my dream will come true from my nights spent looking at the stars. In my beloved garden, there, in the suburbs of San Francisco, I dreamt of a time in the future when spaceships will depart daily to these regions, following fixed routes with the utmost safety.

Was I right?

Goodbye!! See you later!!

* * *

This diary was found next to a perfectly preserved body, in the interior of an ancient spaceship that landed on Earth in 3463, thanks to its automatic braking device.

As if prepared for a long journey, the body was lying on a bunk bed, fastened in with a seat belt. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Perhaps he didn't want to hope either...

Luis Rodríguez Torres - "Nothing But Earthlings" (1956)

INTRODUCTION

Carlos Abraham in "Las revistas argentinas de ciencia ficción" believes Luis Rodríguez Torres is a pseudonym, possibly of a Spanish author. "Nothing but Earthlings" was published in the June 1956 issue of Más Allá ("Beyond") (#37) and was illustrated by Eusevi. For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)" and "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures".

For complete scans of Más Allá, including the illustrations, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/

NOTHING BUT EARTHLINGS

OUTSIDE, the stars were shining. Inside, in the central chamber, there were three beings. One of them was referred to as a trilobe. The others were simple. They were inside the acceleration tanks, submerged in a colorless liquid. Only their vibrating membranes were slightly visible.

- "I didn't like that treaty with the colony," said the trilobe; "I didn't like it from the first moment."

- "But it's like they didn't really know what it was, or what it meant to us."

- "Yes. They knew it, Two-Three. The thing is, they just think themselves very clever."

- "They think themselves very superior," said Seven-Three.

- "That's right, but they're not."

- "Oh no! They're just some earthling swine."

- "Swine, you say?" asked Two-Three.

- "Yes. And filthy, too."

Two-Three briefly fluttered his upper vibrapods.

- "I don't understand," he said.

- "It's a metaphor," the trilobe explained.

- "A terrestrial metaphor, I suppose, right?"

- "Yes, terrestrial. They use a very peculiar language, don't you think?"

- "Very peculiar indeed," said Seven-Three, without fluttering his vibrapods, though he had a hard time containing himself.

A light flashed on the dashboard.

- "Engines," a voice announced. "Coordinates C-H-M."

The light went out.

- "Give me gyrocontrol," the trilobe ordered.

Two-Three turned a dial. A light flashed on the dashboard.

- "Gyrocontrol," someone said.

- "Set for JS," the trilobe ordered.

The light went out. The acceleration tanks tilted as gravity shifted to what had been a wall.

- "Give me engines, Two-Three."

A light flashed.

- "Engines."

- "Accelerate to zw, coordinates C-L-M."

The light went out. The colorless liquid briefly covered the membranes in the acceleration tanks. When it returned to its normal level, Two-Three asked:

- "Have you been there, Sicos?"

- "Yes" - the trilobe said - "I was there after Dietz."

- "That Dietz was as much of a swine as the others," said Seven-Three.

- "No, not that much. He was a swine, but he was smart."

- "Yes, very smart to do what he did."

- "It wasn't his fault. He didn't know it was a colony," said Two-Three.

- "No, of course he didn't. He'll know now, won't he, Sicos?"

- "Yes," said Sicos, "I think so."

The others fluttered their vibrapods. They were very amused.

- "Filthy earthlings!" said Seven-Three.

- "I can't get used to them."

- "I've already explained to you that was a metaphor, Two-Three" - said Sicos.

- "I know; but I can't get used to it. It disgusts me."

- "Yes, all of them disgust me."

- "It's just that they're distinct. You'll never get used to being different. Remember, Two-Three, that everything is different and that nothing is the same, or even similar. Much less two races."

- "Yes, but all this disgusts me. I can't stand it."

- "Me neither," said Seven-Three, "ever since I've seen them."

- "They're different, that's all," said Sicos. "They don't understand it. But we can't stand them. That time, after the one with Dietz, we could hardly speak."

- "Are they really that disgusting?" Two-Three asked.

- "Much more so," Seven-Three said, trying to restrain his vibrapods with difficulty.

- "Especially that which they value most."

- "What's that?"

- "Women" - said Sicos - "That's what they call them: women."

- "It's very interesting, Two-Three. They're a vital phenomenon for them. They need them."

- "To reproduce, you know? - explained Sicos.

- "Exactly. They're always with women. They're like themselves, and I can't explain any difference that there may be. They're always mixed, earthlings and women.

- "Stop" - said Two-Three.

- "Oh, you don't like it!" Seven-Three continued, unfurling a vibrapod and bending it gracefully. "Look, women and earthlings are always together. It's very interesting and vital."

- "It's disgusting. Stop, Seven-Three. Don't say such things."

- "Don't you understand, Two-Three? They consider it natural. It's vital."

- "It's disgusting. How can one live without a prudent separation between individuals? I don't understand. Vital, you say? It's disgusting! Stop, Seven-Three."

- "It's vital for them. If you think about it that way, you won't find it so disgusting. It's simply vital. Think about how vital it is. Look: women and earthlings always together; very close together, Two-Three; very close together, almost without any separation."

- "Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!"

- "It's fine, Two-Three. I was just trying to explain how vital it is to them. They're always together; women and earthlings; although they're the same thing and there's no difference."

- "Stop."

- "They're all earthlings! How vital!... very vital; essential."

- "Stop! I can't stand it! Oh, enough already!" - Two-Three fluttered in the liquid, his vibrapods curling spasmodically.

- "Enough!" he said. "Enough, Seven-Three! You're overstepping your bounds."

- "Enough already, Seven-Three," said Sicos. "You already know it, Two-Three. Are you aware?"

- "I'm aware, Sicos. Now I understand why we're going there."

- "To explain to them that they mustn't destroy our colonies," said Seven-Three. "Filthy earthlings!"

- "Don't say it like that."

- "It's just a metaphor; you know that."

- "It's disgusting."

- "I believe it already! I was there with Sicos, after Dietz, right, Sicos?"

- "Yes. I believe we were there after Dietz."

The others rejoiced and fluttered their vibrapods. Two-Three was very happy and had unfurled almost all of his vibrapods.

A light started flashing.

- "Servocontrol" - a voice announced-. "Meteor cloud."

The light went out, and a buzzer sounded. Liquid covered the vibrating membranes, and the acceleration tanks shifted. The colorless liquid stirred a little. Then, the gravity was as it was before, and the liquid returned to its normal level.

The light flashed again.

- "Servocontrol. En route," the voice announced.

- "That's efficiency, said Seven-Three. "Almost earthling efficiency."

- "Almost," said Sicos.

The others fluttered their vibrapods. They were very amused.

- "They're very curious and they control each other with a very special control system" - said Sicos.

- "Do you mean that they control others amongst themselves? - asked Two-Three."

- "Exactly. It's not quite control, but it could be considered as such."

- "That's terrible!"

- "For them it's not," - Seven-Three explained. - "Look, you control someone else. But I'm stronger, so I can control both of you. Do you understand?"

- "It's astonishing."

- "They don't consider it to be." - said Sicos-. "They're used to it. The strongest always controls."

- "It's terrible! And don't they notice the capabilities of each person, their ideas, their mental control, their lobes?"

- "Oh, no!" said Seven-Three. "They're just earthlings. They don't notice anything. The strongest is always in control. If someone, through his abilities or his ideas, tries to control someone, someone stronger always comes along and controls him in turn. Two or more will also unite to control those who are weak."

- "I don't understand."

- "It can't be understood," said Sicos. "Suppose you, Two-Three, that you join with Seven-Three against me."

Two-Three fluttered his vibrapods.

- "Against you, Sicos?"

- "Yes. Let's suppose, I said."

- "Impossible. It couldn't be."

- "They do it," Seven-Three said. Two-Three did not answer. His vibrapods submerged into the acceleration tank. Everyone was silent for a moment, only the faint hum of the engines could be heard.

- "Several join together, and that makes them strong" - explained Sicos - "You, Two-Three, could join together with Seven-Three against me."

- "Stop, Sicos; it disgusts me!"

- "It's like that, Two-Three, it's like that."

- "We're going to have to explain ourselves to them very well" - said Seven-Three.

- "I think so" - said Sicos-. "I'm almost sure of it."

The others fluttered their vibrapods. Sicos knew how to keep them in a permanent state of joy. They felt very happy and content to be with Sicos. He always had phrases that produced a great deal of joy in them. He was very comical.

- "I suppose they have Colonies, too," said Two-Three.

- "Yes, they have them on the planets of their star."

- "Are we going to use the weapon against their planet?"

- "Ask Seven-Three."

- "The weapon against their planet?" Seven-Three said, forgetting to control his vibrapods. "Against their planet, you say? Look here: you and Sicos are a couple of filthy earthlings!"

Sicos and Two-Three fluttered their vibrapods happily. They were very amused and happy.

- "You're a filthy earthling; and you, Sicos, are what the earthlings call a captain!"

The others were becoming more and more amused; they got along very well with each other, it's true, and Two-Three had unfurled all his vibrapods.

- "Very good," said Sicos. "Very good, Seven-Three. I'm a captain, but you're a lieutenant."

Seven-Three suddenly lost control. He was so amused that he couldn't answer anything.

- "And me?" asked Two-Three, without lowering his vibrapods for a moment.

- "You?" said Seven-Three, getting a reaction. "You're just a filthy earthling!"

Sicos and Two-Three felt very satisfied. Two-Three was no longer impressed by the term and forgot to lower his vibrapods.

- "Very good!" said Sicos. "And so, Lieutenant, you're not in favor of using the weapon against the planet, are you?"

- "No, Captain, I'm not in favor of it at all. I'm going to use the weapon against the star."

- "Against the star?" - said Two-Three.

- "Yes, filthy earthling. Remember that they have colonies on some planets."

- "But they won't be able to live long in their colonies, will they? Seven-Three?"

- "No, filthy earthling, they won't be able to live after their star is gone."

- "Very good, lieutenant" - said Sicos-. "Use your weapon as you wish."

- "Yes, captain; as I wish."

A light flashed.

- "Engines" - announced a voice. - "Coordinates C - L - M."

The light went out.

- "Give me observation" - Sicos ordered.

- "Yes, Captain," said Two-Three.

- "Observation," someone said.

- "Connect to the central chamber."

The lights dimmed, and the acceleration tanks spun on their axis. A screen lit up, presenting a view of outer space thick with stars.

- "Filthy earthling" - Sicos ordered -, "give me gyrocontrol."

- "Gyrocontrol" - a voice said.

- "Full rotation."

The stars began to move on the screen.

- "Observation, filthy earthling."

A light flashed.

- "Observation."

- "Locate the star," Sicos said.

The stars spun. Suddenly a bright glow illuminated the chamber.

- "Give me gyrocontrol" - Sicos ordered.

- "Gyrocontrol."

- "Cease rotation! There you have it; it's yours, Lieutenant."

- "Very good, give me engines, filthy earthling" - said Seven-Three.

A light flashed.

- "Engines" - a voice announced.

- "To a critical distance. Advance."

The tanks turned, and the star began to slowly enlarge.

A light flashed, and the star stopped approaching.

- "Engines," the voice said. "Critical distance."

- "Very interesting, Lieutenant."

- "Yes, Captain. But it will be much more interesting very soon."

Sicos and Two-Three fluttered their vibrapods. Their happiness was very contagious. Seven-Three couldn't control himself and unfurled almost all of his vibrapods.

- "Give me power," he said to Two-Three.

A light flashed.

- "Power," someone said.

- "You talk like an earthling."

- "What did you say?"

- "Nothing. Ready weapons!"

Another light flashed.

- "Power" - the voice announced -. "Ready to make contact."

- "Wait a minute."

The lights went out.

- "Very interesting, Lieutenant. What are you waiting for?"

- "Your order, Captain. You're in command."

- "Ah! I've forgotten. Whenever you like, Lieutenant."

- "Yes, Captain. Filthy earthling!"

- "Lieutenant?"

- "Give me power."

The lights flashed.

- "Power. Ready to make contact."

- "Still talking like an earthling?"

- "What do you mean?"

- "Nothing. Contact!"

The lights went out. On the screen, the star began to glow more and more intensely, until it extinguished the others with its brightness.

- "Give me observation" - Sicos ordered.

- "Observation" - a voice announced.

- "Disconnect."

The light went out. An instant later the screen went dark, and the chamber lights flashed normally.

- "What a disgusting glow!" said Seven-Three. "It seems that everything about them is disgusting."

- "Filthy earthling!"

- "Captain?"

- "Give me engines."

- "Engines," someone said.

- "Accelerate to zw, coordinates C-H-M."

The liquid briefly covered the membranes. When it returned to its normal level, Seven-Three said:

- "I suppose you liked it, filthy earthlings."

The others fluttered their vibrapods happily.

- "I can't get used to the glow," said Two-Three.

- "Yes, Lieutenant; a bit too strong, this glow."

- "Disgusting. It seems like everything about them was disgusting. In every way they're always the same."

- "Do you think so?" said Sicos. "Remember that there's nothing that's equal, not even similar."

- "I'd like to know what they must have thought," said Two-Three.

Seven-Three could hardly control himself.

- "Can you imagine one time they actually ever thought?" he said before lowering his vibrapods.

Pablo Capanna - "Incomprehension" (1956)

INTRODUCTION

Pablo Capanna was born in Florence, Italy on February 16th, 1939 and has lived in Argentina since he was ten years old. He is a professor of philosophy and a lifelong science fiction scholar, writing extensively on Philip K. Dick, J.G. Ballard, Andrey Tarkovsky and Cordwainer Smith.

Capanna wrote three short stories, "Incomprehension" (1956), "Acronia" (1968), and "From Eutopia to Technopolis" ("De Eutopia a Tecnópolis") (1998). "Incomprehension" was published in the June 1956 issue of Más Allá and was illustrated by Eusevi.

For further information on this era of Argentine science fiction, see Rachel Haywood Ferreira's "Más Allá, El Eternauta, and the Dawn of the Golden Age of Latin American Science Fiction (1953-59)" and "How Latin America Saved the World and Other Forgotten Futures".

For complete scans of Más Allá, including the illustrations, see: https://ahira.com.ar/revistas/mas-alla-de-la-ciencia-y-de-la-fantasia/

INCOMPREHENSION

HE LOOKED UP FROM THE GROUND; far away, near the horizon, he heard something resonate like a confused thunderclap. Scanning the distance carefully: as far as he could see, everything was calm. Tall cornfields swayed in the evening breeze, covering the gentle slope in step-like formations and framing the tiny village in green.

No, he had been deceived by the spirits, as solitary wanderers often were; he wiped his brow with the back of his hand and, picking up the heavy hoe, prepared to continue his work.

Not five seconds passed when another sound, something like a sharp ascending note, distracted him again.

Between anger and curiosity, he looked up again, expecting it to die out like the previous time. No; this time it didn't die out, and the astonished farmer had to rub his eyes several times to believe what he was seeing.

Cleaving through the monotony of a colorless sky, swift and yet majestic, a whirlwind of blinding light advanced, followed by a brilliant trail of fire.

Further on, it took on a strange purple color and dissolved, falling slowly onto the heated dunes.

The savage, first frozen with terror, then incapable of understanding, could do nothing but flee madly, uttering a howl of terror.

Behind him, "something" was slowly settling on one of the dunes.

.. .... .... .... .... .... ..

From the height of his watchtower, the sentinel was contemplating the whole of the drowsy village, which, like a grotesque house of cards, stretched out against the hill. Suddenly, something caught his attention: What was that man who entered through the western gate doing? He appeared to be heading toward the Kiva, the underground location where the tribe elders gathered.

Everyone asked the same question: the women pounding corn between chunks of hardened lava, the old men telling stories to their grandchildren, the potters manipulating their rudimentary wheels; the entire tribe was waiting in anticipation.

Sweaty, exhausted, breathing unevenly, the man entered the Kiva and before falling prostrate before the chieftain he managed to utter a few words:

- "The Sun God... our god has fallen to earth!"

Curious, the chief ordered him to be helped up, and as two robust warriors handed him a gourd of water, he was able to explain himself more clearly:

- "Oh, great chief of the desert tribes! It all happened just a few minutes ago, while I was working in the corn fields, when I heard a noise a thousand times louder than that of a hurricane, and when I looked up at the sky I saw falling, enveloped in flames, our god... the Sun!"

The man was silent and those present looked at each other, seized by superstitious terror. The chieftain was unable to say anything; he quickly climbed the ladder and looked outside for a few moments. Then, addressing his men who were waiting anxiously, he said, unable to avoid shuddering:

- "We must consult the sorcerers! Our god has been cast out of heaven by the storm demons and now it is they who reign!"

.. .... .... .... .... .... ..

Dark rain-laden clouds danced in the furious sky, assuming vague shapes.

At times, the lightning shook the silver threads of the rain with its fiery fingers, while, with the dull rumble of a timpani, the thunder let its hoarse voice be heard.

Down below, lashed by the continuous bursts of rain that fell mercilessly upon them, a strange procession advanced over the flooded plain.

Men were in search of the sun, which fell down to earth, the work of the forces of evil. They were fearful, ill-humored, and doubtful of the success of their undertaking.

It was in vain that the sorcerers offered sacrifices to the storm demons to drive them away from the fallen sun.

In vain they tried to impose their virility: all their valor crashed against an atavistic fear, as old as the world, which was inevitably seizing their hearts.

It was the fear of a man who knows the limitations of his powers and has lost faith in the supernatural.

A shower of rain in the Arizona desert was as rare among the pueblos of pre-Columbian America as it is among us now, and they knew it very well. Furthermore, they were unable to stop thinking about that vision, which, in their eyes, confirmed the advent of extraordinary events; the hour of the gods arrived and everything they could do to prevent it was useless.

And when finally, the guides who preceded the caravan discovered an inexplicable furrow which, as if caused by a very high temperature, was full of glass fragments and always advanced in a straight line, without worrying about elevation, the desire to escape from everything there became irresistible. But fate had another surprise in store for them yet: as they went around a dune, the strange furrow ended, and at its terminus the strangest thing they could imagine awaited them. It was an enormous biconvex disk of a strange, almost transparent material which, illuminated by the dim glow of the lightning it reflected like a mirror, was resting on its side, as if waiting for someone to discover it.

Slowly, not daring to break the silence, the timorous aborigines surrounded it and were observing the curious device from all sides until one of them, the most audacious, dared to touch it. Seeing that nothing happened to him, calm was restored and, fascinated by this strange spectacle, they hardly heard their chief, who in an exalted tone indicated to them what, to him, was the sun extinguished by the work of evil spirits.

When he finally ordered them to search for the place where the demons had entered, they reluctantly agreed and, climbing up the polished surface, began their task.

It wasn't long before a cry of triumph signaled the discovery of a fine incision that separated what appeared to be a small circular cover from the rest of the disk.

Shortly thereafter, several spears were locked in a fierce struggle with the hard material, while strong flint axes dealt it violent blows.

Within a few minutes the opalescent body, without a single dent, seemed to mock them, while broken spears and pieces of stone were scattered around, a testament to all their effort's results.

It was impossible to continue; the natives gathered at one side of the disk to discuss matters and, fearful, tried to convince their chief and the witch doctors to abandon such a crazy enterprise: they were soaked to the bone and there was no path to success.

Suddenly all discussion ceased: all eyes, as if drawn by a magnet, were simultaneously directed towards the disk, where faint crackling sounds were emerging from within.

Slowly, while an irresistible terror seized everyone, the upper part of the supposed sun rose until it stood firm against the sullen sky. A confused shadow emerged from its interior, at times illuminated by the purple flashes of lightning.

Pale with terror, the natives retreated, as the strangest being they could ever have imagined was slowly advancing over the surface of the disk; although the figure was vaguely human, its appearance was more reminiscent of a saurian. Its large eyes, triangular mouth, and excessively long neck, together with the pale green tone of its skin, gave it a bucolic and spectral appearance that evoked terror.

Hesitating, with sinuous movements, it advanced wrapped in tight clothing, waving his long hands with three unique and sharp fingers.

Perhaps his gestures were friendly, but terror is irrational and destroys one's will; his spectators began to retreat insensibly; then they did so more and more rapidly, when at last it all turned into a mad flight.

Syss remained in silence, enraptured in contemplation of the Creator's work; it did not look like Home, but it had a wild beauty that made it captivating.

On his world, water molecules were never seen to fall in such large quantities; the precious liquid was already scarce there, and stories were told of other times when it periodically rained: he himself heard them, but didn't want to believe them.

Everything was strangely new to him: the strong gravity that hampered his movements, the air that circulated in his body, refreshing and intoxicating in its richness of oxygen, the enormous silver disk of its satellite, everything.

With an effort of will, he overcame the momentary neural distortion and, raising his mental level, sent out a call to his companion; after all, if they had been lucky enough to participate in the first voyage to the third planet, they should take visual, sonic, physical and chemical records to serve for future explorers, since they didn't have enough fuel for exploration at the moment.

Perhaps one day there would be cultural exchange with those curious bipeds who had fled at his appearance. Why had they done so? Their appearance indicated that they were intelligent and perhaps somewhat civilized.

He suddenly stopped all his reflections and, approaching the instrument compartment, activated the photoelectric lock that gave him access.

.................................

- "The children of the sun can't be defeated like this, by a few demons fallen from the sky!" - the painted witch doctor jumped up and down, berating the warriors. "It was enough for you to see just one of them and you fled like frightened children!" He paused so that his embarrassed listeners could understand the meaning of the sentence. Then he continued: "But you can still redeem yourselves: go back there, kill them, and the sun will shine again forever over the fields and villages!"

There were some murmurs of discontent, but when one determined party took up arms, the others, though not very pleased, followed them: after all, they'd seen only one of the demons, and it had done them no harm: it was foolish to risk a reputation of valor for so little.

From a small hill near their target, they observed the scene: the strange being, who had just assembled a set of multicolored spheres mounted on a tripod, was manipulating a triangular box filled with strange lights, from which a translucent globe was emerging, slowly inflating. Bent over his instruments, he didn't suspect what was about to happen to him, until a sharp crack caught his attention. What was happening? He only managed to see the globe by his side shattered by a well-aimed arrow, and a howling horde descending rapidly down the slope, bellicosely waving their feathered clubs. With a quick gesture, he put his instruments inside the disk and, with open arms, prepared to receive them.

A human avalanche fell upon him: with his hissing little voice he shouted something incomprehensible, trying to hold them back until a violent blow brusquely made him silent. Everything happened quickly: nothing could be distinguished in the confused agglomeration, blows fell upon him with ferocious rage while a green lymph flowed from his numerous wounds.

In a last vestige of life, fatigued, he climbed up the side of the disk, and before sinking inside he rebuked them with his clenched fist; then, defeated, he collapsed, closing the hatch, while a shower of arrows fell upon it.

Satisfied with their feat, the primitives sang a hymn of praise to the sun, while prostrating themselves in worship. And suddenly, the entire disk seemed to burn as it began to spin rapidly, enveloped in sharp whistling sounds.

The warriors, terrified, began to retreat as the machine, perched on a column of fire rising from its interior, began to sway, slowly ascending through the air.

It progressively increased its speed, until, leaving a trail of light, was lost in the immensity.

...............................

The psychological analysis of the behavior of the beings from the third planet was conclusive: the bloody attack, baselessly mounted against the members of the first expedition, was inexplicable of anyone from a scientific canon and was worthy only of inferior beings.

No matter how much they may evolve, those beings had cruel and irrational instincts that would never, even with centuries of continual civilization, be completely erased.

If there was at least some motive in their actions, the decision would have been less drastic. But it was dangerous to take the risk: the Power decreed that spaceships should never land on the third planet; any contact with beings with such instincts would be dangerous for the race and could lead to its destruction.

.....................................

The storm had passed. That night in the village, there would be dancing and singing around the fire in homage to the sun.

High above, the pale moon, its companion, was already shining, announcing a reign of peace and tranquility.

For many years the warriors, full of pride, would tell their grandchildren how they had answered the call of the Sun God and killed one of the "green demons" cast down from the heavens.

Then, as the years went by, the same legend would be lost in the mists of time and would be forgotten by all.

Centuries later, when the Hopi and Zuni villages in the Arizona desert were already an archaeological curiosity sunken in the sand, other men would inhabit that area.

And those men, seeing the mysterious "flying saucers" surging through the air at insane velocities, would wonder why their crews avoided them and never landed.

There was incomprehension on both sides.

Álvaro de Laiglesia - "Commercial Spirit" (1953)

INTRODUCTION

Álvaro de Laiglesia (9 Sept 1922 - 1 Aug 1981) was a Spanish writer and humorist who had an incredibly prolific career, writing more than 40 novels from the 1940s to his death in 1981. "Commercial Spirit" was initially published in the July 25th, 1953 issue of ABC, then republished in the April 1954 issue of Los Cuentos Fantásticos (#45) and later republished in the short story anthology "Crying is prohibited" ("Se prohíbe llorar") (1963). This translation is composite of the version from "Crying is Prohibited" and the Los Cuentos Fantásticos text. The main difference between the two versions is that the nobility title of "viscount" was removed in the LCF version, and instead the figure referred to as "the owner of the house". Other differences have been pointed out in the text. Many thanks to Antonio from Proyecto F for supplying the LCF text.

COMMERCIAL SPIRIT

SOMEONE placed a cover over the only light bulb in the living room with a newspaper, and the dirty light that filtered through the printed paper was insufficient to see each other's noses. Which was something that we, those gathered around the table, were secretly glad about, because we must've looked like real fools. I then understood that darkness is not a measure adopted in spiritualist sessions to facilitate the capture of spirits, rather one to avoid the feeling of ridicule in those who take part in them. The spectacle of five very large men holding a very small table down with their fingertips would provoke such laughter during the gathering that it would ruin the experiment. Almost completely in shadow, however, the grotesque side of the scene is obscured, and one can even take a furtive nap while the Great Beyond keeps its appointment.

- "Silence!" we heard the host say, to stifle a giggle that escaped from time to time from one of the members of the group.

The little finger on my left hand was joined to the illustrious little finger of a magistrate, and on my right, to the fragile little finger of an industrialist. The remaining little fingers in the circle belonged to a professor and to the owner of the house, who had the title of viscount in high society. Another twenty minutes passed like this, with no happenings other than a few snores coming from the industrialist. A precise slap from the host, protected by the darkness, woke the culprit up. The wait was prolonged for another quarter of an hour and I began to notice a certain impatience in the adjoining little fingers.

- "No spirit is coming," the magistrate growled, drumming his fingers on the table.

- "It's natural that they're a little tardy," the viscount apologized. "The other world isn't right around the corner."

- "Maybe the spirits aren't working today," said the industrialist. "Since it's Saturday, maybe they're having an English week."

Contrary to his words, we noticed a strange tremor, which shook the table top.

- "It's already here!" exclaimed the host, starting off. And as master of the house, he prepared to do the honors to the visitor from beyond the grave. To do so, in his most resounding voice, he ordered: "If you are a spirit, manifest yourself."

The manifestation didn't hesitate in its appearance: the table suddenly rose to three hands distance from the ground and crashed into the magistrate's nose, making him bleed and look like a fool.

- "How beastly!" I shouted, unable to contain myself.

- "A little more respect for the dead, young man" - the viscount admonished me.

- "It must be the spirit of a porter," the magistrate grumbled, sucking the blood with the tip of his tongue, since he couldn't take his hands off the table and interrupt the psychic circuit.

- "Be quiet, you dandies!" the master of the house was angry. Then, raising his eyes to the ceiling, he addressed the spirit: "Do you want to tell us something?"

A rocking of the table, which almost crushed my foot, gave us the answer:

- "Yes."

- "Well, go ahead."

- "And hurry up, because we need a snack," added the professor, playing the fool so that the host would get the hint.

And through the crude alphabet of knocking (one knock, A; two, B; three, C...), the spirit transmitted its message to us. We all counted the oscillations from below, and at the end we sang the corresponding letters in chorus. Here is the first phrase that was composed:

"WHEN YOU WANT A COOKIE, MAKE IT A 'COQUETTE'."

Although we couldn't see each other, we looked at each other perplexed.

- "Unbelievable!" the magistrate said, his nose bleed instantly stopped with fright.

- "Is it possible that advertisements are also broadcasted in the afterlife?"

- "I don't think so," the industrialist said. "Besides, assuming that such a punishment exists, they'd advertise spiritual products that are manufactured in the Great Beyond, and not 'Coquette' cookies, which are sold at every store in the Great Here."

- "Maybe, instead of connecting with a spirit, we've connected with Radio Madrid" - the viscount thought, trying to find an explanation for this unusual event.[Translator's note: "Radio Mexico" in the LCF version.]

- "Impossible," I said. "You can hear a folk record in the background."

- "Let's ask the ghost to explain it to us," suggested the professor. Our ten little fingers rushed to the table, and we begged the invisible communicator to tell us something more. The unsteady little table began to move with the same speed as a transmission device operated by a telegrapher. Soon, the second sentence concluded, which produced just as much perplexity as the first:

"IT'S NO HURDLE FOR PLUMP GIRLS BEING THIN WITH MALACA GIRDLES."

- "It's enough to drive you crazy!" the host howled like a beast struck by lightning.

We couldn't believe our fingers. But without giving us time to come to any decision, the table continued to swing energetically, recommending that we buy "Cockatoo" raincoats, "Sweettongue" marmalade and "The Hoof" shoes. We serenely endured the storm of advertising, thanks to which we learned that "The Chubby Baby" condensed milk would raffle off a tricycle at the end of the month, and that "Paladin" cognac was willing to give away a helicopter to anyone brave enough to try it.

After finishing his surprising litany, the spirit fell silent. Us five spiritualists decided to interrogate him to find out the reasons for his unusual behavior. The conversation we started went off without a hitch, as he was an expert in talking to the living and handled the language of knocks with great ease. He answered our question clearly and without spelling mistakes:

- "I belong to the 'Posthumous' agency, which has the exclusive rights to publicity at every table on earth. It's a company recently founded to exploit the advertising possibilities of spiritualism. It's estimated that every day, two million people gather in different parts of the planet to listen to phantasms. This pastime, which began as a clandestine practice by a few audacious individuals, has become astonishingly popular. The number of aficionados, according to the latest statistics, is increasing by several thousand per month. This is largely due to the necessary reduction of entertainment in the family budget. As life becomes more expensive, many people cannot afford to attend pricey shows. That is why the six-tube 'radio' was so successful, and why the three-legged table is so successful now.[Translator's note: As in American vs British English regarding 'vacuum tube'/'valve', the technical word in Spanish is different in Mexican Spanish vs European Spanish and the word changes in the LCF version accordingly.] A spiritualist seance is a great way to have an interesting night without spending a cent.[Translator's note: Unit of currency changed from 'céntimo' to 'centavo' in LCF version.] There's no need to acquire a receiver to listen to the broadcasts, nor to use a single kilowatt of electricity. The only current used is psychic, not yet subject to the control of any meter. We don't charge anything for our work either, but that doesn't stop us from obediently responding as soon as we're called. Under these conditions, as you can understand, it's logical that we grow our audience with every session. And it's also logical that we intend to obtain some benefit by exploiting the advertising from a show that we offer completely free of charge. The 'Posthumous' agency was created for this purpose, and the advertisements I broadcast earlier are from our initial clients."

The spirit fell silent, a little tired from all the shaking of the table required to say all this.

- "But how do you manage to charge the trading houses for the advertising they commission?" - asked the industrialist, intrigued.

- "They pay it to our descendants on Earth. The advertisements I read, for example, are paid out to a great-great-grandson of mine. The poor man is loaded with children and this unexpected income has been a blessing for him. Thanks to me, he now lives comfortably, and he pays me back by praying a rosary for me on Sundays, or by having his parish offer masses for me.

- "How much do you charge for an advertisement?" the industrialist persisted, perhaps thinking of using the spiritual agency's services to promote his products.

- "It depends," the spirit tapped. "There's a wide range of prices. To say a phrase only once at a thousand different tables, we charge two hundred pesetas. For a small fee, the same advertisement can be translated into several languages and placed ​​on tables in various countries. We also contract entire sessions completely sponsored by a single firm, in which we incessantly repeat their most effective slogan. Apart from the number of insertions, the price is affected by the grade of spirits entrusted with transmitting the commercial message. If the advertiser wishes to have his advertisement broadcast by famous spirits, the fee increases in proportion to the celebrity of the broadcaster. The most costly spirit is that of Napoleon, who demands ten thousand pesetas for half a dozen mentions. It's expensive, I admit, but you have to take into account that he's the most sought-after spirit by all the world's spiritualist circles. And the effectiveness of an advertisement read by him is fantastic. Imagine the persuasive power of hearing the victor of so many battles, haranguing the public to acquire the acclaimed 'Pichuchi Shotguns'! Cleopatra, the beautiful girl who was antiquity's talk of the town, was hired exclusively by the 'Prettygorgeous' beauty cream. And Shakespeare has been made an offer, a very advantageous one, by the way, for the launch of a modern operetta entitled 'The Toasted Tights'." [Translator's note: 'The Spotted Birds.' in LCF version.]

- "What a shame!" the professor said indignantly. "At this rate, we'll see Cervantes writing 'serials' for the 'spirit listeners' soon."

- "It's natural," concluded our interlocutor from beyond the grave, "times are hard for everyone and spirits have to live too."

Rodolfo Jorge Walsh - "The Eyes of the Traitor" (1953)

INTRODUCTION

Rodolfo Jorge Walsh (9 Jan 1927 - 25 Mar 1977) was considered to be the founder of investigative journalism in Argentina. He worked at Leoplán, an Argentine literary and journalistic magazine, with Ignacio Covarrubias. He joined the Montoneros guerrilla group in 1973 and was murdered in a shootout with Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada soldiers on March 25, 1977, his body kidnapped and never recovered. His work is very well acclaimed, including "Variations in Red" ("Variaciones en Rojo") (1953), a collection of his short stories; the historical non-fiction novel "Operación Masacre" (1957); and "Who Killed Rosendo?" ("¿Quién Mató a Rosendo?") (1969).

"The Eyes of the Traitor" was published in the May 1953 issue of "Los Cuentos Fantásticos" (#44) and has been republished in a collection of his stories, "'A Tale for Gamblers' and Other Detective Stories" ("Cuento para tahúres y otros relatos policiales") (1996), as well as in the "El terror argentino" anthology (2002) of Argentine horror stories. This translation is based off of the original Los Cuentos Fantásticos publication, which runs slightly longer than the later republication in the "A Tale for Gamblers" anthology. Many thanks to Antonio from Proyecto F for supplying the text.

THE EYES OF THE TRAITOR

On the 16th of February, 1945, Russian troops captured and occupied Budapest. On the 18th, I was arrested. On the 20th, I was released and returned to my duties in the Ophthalmology Department of the Central Hospital. I never knew the reason for my arrest. I also never knew why I was set free.

* * *

Two months later, I had an application in my hands signed by Alajos Endrey, a death row inmate awaiting the execution of his sentence. He offered to donate his eyes to the Institute of Sight Restoration, which I founded at the beginning of the war, and where I performed — although Istvan Vezer and his cabal of upstarts who slandered me and forced me into exile still deny it — eighteen corneal grafts on blind patients. Of these, sixteen were crowned with success. Patient number seventeen stubbornly refused to regain his sight, although the operation was technically perfect. (*)

(*) I think that in this case, psychology was the deciding factor. The patient actually does see, but he doesn't recognize it, because he's afraid to see, because he doesn't want to see, because he isn't used to seeing. There's no other explanation.

Case number eighteen is the subject of this story, which I write in order to pass the hours of my solitary exile, thousands of miles from my native Hungary.

I went to see Endrey. He was in a small, clean cell, where he incessantly paced like a caged beast. There was nothing remarkable about him that would capture the attention of a man of science. He was a small, irritable fellow, with a perpetual expression of harassment in his eyes. There were obvious signs of malnutrition. A quick examination revealed that his cornea was in good condition. I told him that his offer was accepted. I didn't inquire into his motives. I knew them well enough: last-minute sentimentality, perhaps a dark desire to persist, even a small part, incorporated into another man's life. I left through the gray stone corridors, flanked by the indifferent or hostile gazes of the guards.

The execution took place the 20th of September, 1945. I vaguely remember a procession of silent, half-asleep men, a dusty road advancing through some shrubbery, an inconsequential dawn. I improvised an operating table in a zinc-roofed hut fifty paces from the execution site. I thought, idly, that maybe I was the one being executed, that fate was absurd, that death was a trivial custom.

Carefully, I prepared the patient. He was blind since birth, due to a cone-shaped deformation of the cornea, and his name was Josef Pongracz. I stitched threads through the eyelids as to keep them open. During the process, I was surprised by the ghastly discharge.

Two soldiers brought the dead man on a stretcher. A quadruple star of blood decorated his chest. His pupils were dilated in a vague astonishment.

I removed the eye and cut the piece of the cornea intended for the graft. Then I removed the affected area of ​​the patient's cornea and replaced it with the graft (I'll omit the technical details so that my current enemies at the Institute can't claim them).

Ten days later, I removed the bandages. Normally, this is done in gradual stages to avoid making too strong an impression. But this time, Dr. Vendel Groesz from the Institute of Psychiatry was present, who he wanted to observe some the responses, with the patient's consent, of course. Josef stood up and took a couple of hesitant steps. I attentively observed him. His face took on an expression of inexpressible fear. He could see, yet was lost.

He looked around, searching for me among the objects that composed the operating room. When I spoke to him, he recognized me; he wanted to smile. Dr. Groesz ordered him to go over to the window. He hesitated, so I took him by the arm and guided him, as if he were a child. When I put him in front of the window, he closed his eyes, touched the sill, the frame, the glass, over and over again, endlessly. Then he opened his eyes and looked out into the distance.

- "It's getting dark," he said, and began to cry silently.

* * *

Two months later I received a visit from Dr. Groesz. Josef came to see him. He was, he told me, in a disastrous state, in a deep mental depression, aggravated by nightmares and hallucinations: schizophrenia seemed to loom over him.

Two days after the bandages were removed (Dr. Groesz told me) Josef dreamed of a vague panorama, almost devoid of detail: a hill, a road, a gray spectral light. The dream repeated for seven nights in a row. Despite the harmless nature of these representations, Josef always woke up overcome by a dark and unjustifiable terror.

Dr. Groesz consulted his notes.

"-It's if I had been there before, and something terrible was going to happen." These were his very words.

Dr. Groesz confessed that all the usual procedures failed in his case. Whatever Josef's complexes were, they couldn't be related to visual sensations or memories, since he was blind since birth. Since he regained his sight, he was admitted to the Convalescent Institute. He didn't leave the city. He was, therefore, strictly speaking, unaware of what a hill was, or what a dusty mountain road was, unless one could refer to the blind man's imprecise, dimensionless concept as awareness. The panorama that troubled Josef's dreams was not, therefore, a visual memory; nor a recent visual memory modified by peculiar dream symbolism, but an inexplicable, arbitrary product of the subconscious.

- "Dreams," Dr. Groesz said, "however far removed they may seem from experience, are always based on it. Where there's no previous experience, it's not possible to have dreams corresponding to that experience. Nihil est in intellectu quod non prius furit in sensu. This is why blind people don't dream, or at least, their dreams aren't made up of visual representations, but rather, tactile and auditory ones. [Translator's note: Latin, "nothing is in the intellect that was not first in the senses", a phrase that become widely associated with John Locke, but was previously used throughout the Renaissance, initially as a paraphase of Aristotle, according to Paul Cranefield, possibly as a result of a Renaissance-era translation of Arabic commentary on Aristotle.]

In this case, however, it was a dream of a visual character (whose repetition indicated its importance), prior to any experience of the same order.

Forced to look for an explanation, Dr. Groesz turned to the archetypes or primordial images in Jung - whose theories he rejected as fantastic - a sort of subconscious inheritance that we receive from our ancestors, which can suddenly burst into our dreams, even into our conscious life.

- "I am a man of science," Dr. Groesz unnecessarily explained, "but I can't go without any working hypothesis, however contrary it may be to my experience and my particular way of seeing things. But I had to discard that hypothesis too. You'll soon see why.

"A week later, the bare, stark panorama of the initial dreams began to fill in, like a photograph slowly developing. One night there was a peculiarly shaped stone; the next night, a hut with a zinc roof, sheltered by two gloomy and identical trees; then a sunless dawn; a dog wandering among the trees... Night by night, detail by detail, the picture began to complete itself. In half hour of lengthy disquisition, he was able to describe the exact shape of a tree, the exact shape of some of that tree's branches, and even the shape of some of the leaves. The picture always got perfected. No previous detail disappeared. I've tried him. Every day, I made him repeat the dream from the previous night. It's always the same, exactly, but with one additional detail.

"A week ago, for the first time, he mentioned the five figures to me that appeared in the picture. Five outlines, five dark silhouettes, outlined against the gray dawn. Four of them lined up, facing him; the fifth, off to one side, is in profile. The following night, the five figures were in uniform; the figure on the side held a sword. At first the faces were blurred, almost non-existent; then they became more precise."

Dr. Groesz consulted his notes once more.

— "The figure on the side, holding the sword, is a young, blond officer. The first soldier on the left is short and fat and his uniform is too small for him. The second one reminds him (note carefully: reminds him) of his younger brother; Josef told me, almost crying, that he doesn't have any brothers, he never had any, but this soldier reminds him of his younger brother. The third has a black moustache and a very worn uniform; he avoids looking at him; he has to look off to the side... The fourth is a gigantic man, with a scar running across the left side of his face from his ear to the corner of his mouth like a tortured violet river; a pack of cigarettes is sticking out of his jacket pocket."

Dr. Groesz took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow.

- "Yesterday," he said, and from the way he said "yesterday" I knew something terrible was coming, "yesterday Josef saw the whole picture. My God! My God!

"The soldiers were pointing rifles at him, with their fingers on the trigger, ready to fire.

"We immediately admitted him. He refuses to sleep, because he's afraid of dreaming about facing the firing squad, he's afraid of feeling that immediate and unprecedented horror of death. But the picture, which had only appeared in dreams before, now haunts him even when he is awake. He only has to close his eyes, even for a fleeting moment in blinking, to see it: the officer with his sword drawn, the four soldiers lined up in firing position, the four rifles aimed at his heart.

"This morning he pronounced a strange name. I asked him who it was, and he said it was him. He thinks he's someone else. A clear case of schizophrenia."

- "What was that name?" I asked.

- "Alajos Endrey," Dr. Groesz replied.

* * *

Through the recommendation of a high-ranking military officer – whose name, for obvious reasons, I will not mention – I managed to interview the official who directed the Alajos Endrey's execution. He didn't remember me. I, for my part, had barely glanced at him during our previous brief encounter. He agreed, with cold military courtesy, to my preposterous request.

A few minutes later, the four soldiers who formed the firing squad on that gray and near-forgotten September morning were lined up before me. I then saw the picture that the unfortunate Josef had seen through the eyes of the traitor Alajos Endrey:

The first soldier on the left was short and fat, and his uniform was too small for him; in the second I thought I perceived a vague resemblance to Endrey himself; the third had a black mustache and eyes that avoided looking straight ahead; his uniform was very worn. The fourth was a gigantic man, with a scar running down the left side of his face like a tortured, violet river...