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Rocket, v. 1, issue 1, March 1940
Page 13
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13 By Walt Daugherty Out of the shadows of the past, there gleams a light exemplification in Hilton's " Lost Horizon ". From the secretive bed of mother earth comes forth a story of the past, dazzling in its brilliance of treasure, enlighting in its historical background, but more interesting in the underlieing veil of mystery which prevails above all when one hears of the tomb of Tut-Ankh-Amen. Being an archaeologist of little note, I am still so scientifically versed as to lay small credulity to the story I am about to unfold, however under the circumstances, receiving the story of the manner in which I did, I believe it necessary to print it in one form or another. My publishers positively refused to do so, declaring that what little reputation I had gained, would be entirely lost if I signed my name to such a fantastic lot of rubbish. I have turned to science fiction as my only hope. Read it over and compare it with fact and I believe you will stop and consider it several times before you cast it aside as a " lot of fantastic rubbish ". It all started in a small cabas, comparable with out U.S. slum cafes, on a back street in the native cestion of Cairo,Egypt. Having been given the position of supervisor of the loading of artifacts recovered by my superiors in the Metropolitan Museum on the America bound boat, I found myself, during my spare moments, greatly attracted by this nomadic section of the Egyptian metropolis. I was much as I hate to admit to my cultured side, gawlking, open mouthed at the disreputable looking interior of the aforementioned cabas when my eyes focused upon a table covered with a small profusion of funerary scarabs and amulets, my practised eyes assuring me of their athenticity. Seated at the table scanning the artifacts as a man of perhaps forty-five or fifty. His age was hard to ascertain as he was convered with a mingling of desert mud and Nile sand to that point where it would be hard for even a close friend to recognize him. However, the cut of his clothes was my main point of assumption. He wore close fitting, well-shaped English riding trousers with officer's dress boots of fine grain. Though badly worn from severe use, they were still well topped. Most noticable of all was the jacket he wore that hung, though badly tatered, from his shoulders in well-tailored lines. Rich threads of silk shown through the dust covering his upper left hand pocket, revealing a crest of high British Nobility. A tropical pith helmet lay on the chair beside him, almost a dark tan, denoting a great deal of use under the desert sun. I don't know whether it was curiosity regarding the character or the desire to purchase a few of those artifacts for my own private collection that pushed me straight over to his table. But, whatever my motive, the manner in which I approached him was far from what my American friends would call ethical. I walked directly to his table, reached out and removed his helmet to a convenient spot on the table covering, and planted myself in its place, casting him a well coined American phrase. "Well, fancy meeting you here." With a startled look that seemed to mirror a trace of fear, he grabbed his head peice and started to throw his minute treasures in it, much the same as if he would have to fight to retain them. However, after grappling with two insufficient handfuls, he seemed to regain a sudden control of himself. He let the articles gently slip
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13 By Walt Daugherty Out of the shadows of the past, there gleams a light exemplification in Hilton's " Lost Horizon ". From the secretive bed of mother earth comes forth a story of the past, dazzling in its brilliance of treasure, enlighting in its historical background, but more interesting in the underlieing veil of mystery which prevails above all when one hears of the tomb of Tut-Ankh-Amen. Being an archaeologist of little note, I am still so scientifically versed as to lay small credulity to the story I am about to unfold, however under the circumstances, receiving the story of the manner in which I did, I believe it necessary to print it in one form or another. My publishers positively refused to do so, declaring that what little reputation I had gained, would be entirely lost if I signed my name to such a fantastic lot of rubbish. I have turned to science fiction as my only hope. Read it over and compare it with fact and I believe you will stop and consider it several times before you cast it aside as a " lot of fantastic rubbish ". It all started in a small cabas, comparable with out U.S. slum cafes, on a back street in the native cestion of Cairo,Egypt. Having been given the position of supervisor of the loading of artifacts recovered by my superiors in the Metropolitan Museum on the America bound boat, I found myself, during my spare moments, greatly attracted by this nomadic section of the Egyptian metropolis. I was much as I hate to admit to my cultured side, gawlking, open mouthed at the disreputable looking interior of the aforementioned cabas when my eyes focused upon a table covered with a small profusion of funerary scarabs and amulets, my practised eyes assuring me of their athenticity. Seated at the table scanning the artifacts as a man of perhaps forty-five or fifty. His age was hard to ascertain as he was convered with a mingling of desert mud and Nile sand to that point where it would be hard for even a close friend to recognize him. However, the cut of his clothes was my main point of assumption. He wore close fitting, well-shaped English riding trousers with officer's dress boots of fine grain. Though badly worn from severe use, they were still well topped. Most noticable of all was the jacket he wore that hung, though badly tatered, from his shoulders in well-tailored lines. Rich threads of silk shown through the dust covering his upper left hand pocket, revealing a crest of high British Nobility. A tropical pith helmet lay on the chair beside him, almost a dark tan, denoting a great deal of use under the desert sun. I don't know whether it was curiosity regarding the character or the desire to purchase a few of those artifacts for my own private collection that pushed me straight over to his table. But, whatever my motive, the manner in which I approached him was far from what my American friends would call ethical. I walked directly to his table, reached out and removed his helmet to a convenient spot on the table covering, and planted myself in its place, casting him a well coined American phrase. "Well, fancy meeting you here." With a startled look that seemed to mirror a trace of fear, he grabbed his head peice and started to throw his minute treasures in it, much the same as if he would have to fight to retain them. However, after grappling with two insufficient handfuls, he seemed to regain a sudden control of himself. He let the articles gently slip
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