DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939

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Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939

POLARIS 7

with him--I inspected that book, having mentally noted which it was the night before. I found the last picture--the one he had inserted the night before--was of a scene in a room: a scene of a brutal killing, with one man shooting the other through the head. Later I learned that during my stay the president of a certain South American country had been assassinated under identical circumstances. Where had he procured that photograph or picture? Had he been there?
     He came in as I was still poring over the other volumes. Just then I came to one scene that made me shudder a little, so realistic was it--a scene of a Procession--and for a moment, an awful moment, I wondered if this might not be the Jew whom the Savior had--
     He seemed to understand. "No," he said gently, "I am not he of whom you are thinking."
     "But--you were there?" I frenziedly asked.
     Of a sudden the room seemed to whirl about me, as if I were falling. Reaching to catch myself, I could find no support. When I regained consciousness, after what seemed eons, I was lying on a grassy knoll on a road. It looked vaguely familiar, this place--and when I heard a snatch of conversation from a young peasant couple, I knew I was in France. At a small village, not far from Paris, it was.
     That is the end of my story. Abrubt--pointless? Perhaps--sometimes I wonder too. Wonder if it might not have been all hallucinations I suffered--if I did not imagine it all--led an existence like Jekyll and Hude, with my conscious registering nothing of what was happening, and my subconscious taking care of my body. But even as I think of that, it seems ridiculous--more so than believing that all this actually happened.
     Furthermore, when I reached Paris, and took a thorough physical checkup--for my left arm was entirely normal, and I feared that it might have been fractured and not paining--the X-ray showed a small bring in the arm--healed now completely! And tha was but thirteen days after the day on which I crashed. When I reached civilization once more it had been only twelve since my landing in the jungle.
     I told my story to a few. None believed it--they were of the opinion, like me at times, that I had lost my reason. But still I can't believe it. There are too many little threads that persist in hanging together.
     I sometimes wonder why I never more need to shave.
     A few things I have not noted here, yet. For instance, how, after dusk each evening, the man who cared for me would take a thoroughly modern telescope, go outdoors, and look up into the sky--look up with the telescope. As nearly as I could judge he always centered his attention upon the third star in the handle of the Big Dipper. He seemed to be waiting.
     Sometimes I wish I could return.
     Those pictures. How did he obtain them? From various things in them it seems impossible that they could have been painted by hand--even though they resembled oil, the detail was too minute, the distinction too sharp. I had never seen him have paints, furthermore; he gave no indications of being an artist; and several times he ad been gone but a few hours before he returned--presumably with those likenesses each time. Of course, he might have received them from someone else, but--who could have painted such a

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POLARIS 7 with him--I inspected that book, having mentally noted which it was the night before. I found the last picture--the one he had inserted the night before--was of a scene in a room: a scene of a brutal killing, with one man shooting the other through the head. Later I learned that during my stay the president of a certain South American country had been assassinated under identical circumstances. Where had he procured that photograph or picture? Had he been there? He came in as I was still poring over the other volumes. Just then I came to one scene that made me shudder a little, so realistic was it--a scene of a Procession--and for a moment, an awful moment, I wondered if this might not be the Jew whom the Savior had-- He seemed to understand. "No," he said gently, "I am not he of whom you are thinking." "But--you were there?" I frenziedly asked. Of a sudden the room seemed to whirl about me, as if I were falling. Reaching to catch myself, I could find no support. When I regained consciousness, after what seemed eons, I was lying on a grassy knoll on a road. It looked vaguely familiar, this place--and when I heard a snatch of conversation from a young peasant couple, I knew I was in France. At a small village, not far from Paris, it was. That is the end of my story. Abrubt--pointless? Perhaps--sometimes I wonder too. Wonder if it might not have been all hallucinations I suffered--if I did not imagine it all--led an existence like Jekyll and Hude, with my conscious registering nothing of what was happening, and my subconscious taking care of my body. But even as I think of that, it seems ridiculous--more so than believing that all this actually happened. Furthermore, when I reached Paris, and took a thorough physical checkup--for my left arm was entirely normal, and I feared that it might have been fractured and not paining--the X-ray showed a small bring in the arm--healed now completely! And tha was but thirteen days after the day on which I crashed. When I reached civilization once more it had been only twelve since my landing in the jungle. I told my story to a few. None believed it--they were of the opinion, like me at times, that I had lost my reason. But still I can't believe it. There are too many little threads that persist in hanging together. I sometimes wonder why I never more need to shave. A few things I have not noted here, yet. For instance, how, after dusk each evening, the man who cared for me would take a thoroughly modern telescope, go outdoors, and look up into the sky--look up with the telescope. As nearly as I could judge he always centered his attention upon the third star in the handle of the Big Dipper. He seemed to be waiting. Sometimes I wish I could return. Those pictures. How did he obtain them? From various things in them it seems impossible that they could have been painted by hand--even though they resembled oil, the detail was too minute, the distinction too sharp. I had never seen him have paints, furthermore; he gave no indications of being an artist; and several times he ad been gone but a few hours before he returned--presumably with those likenesses each time. Of course, he might have received them from someone else, but--who could have painted such a