Foreword
The publication of the following narrative of Dr. Walter T. Goodwin has been authorized by the Executive Council of the International Association of Science.
First:
To end officially what is beginning to be called the Throckmartin Mystery and to kill the innuendo and scandalous suspicions which have threatened to stain the reputations of Dr. David Throckmartin, his youthful wife, and equally youthful associate Dr. Charles Stanton ever since a tardy despatch from Melbourne, Australia, reported the disappearance of the first from a ship sailing to that port, and the subsequent reports of the disappearance of his wife and associate from the camp of their expedition in the Caroline Islands.
Second:
Because the Executive Council have concluded that Dr. Goodwin's experiences in his wholly heroic effort to save the three, and the lessons and warnings within those experiences, are too important to humanity as a whole to be hidden away in scientific papers understandable only to the technically educated; or to be presented through the newspaper press in the abridged and fragmentary form which the space limitations of that vehicle make necessary.
For these reasons the Executive Council commissioned Mr. A. Merritt to transcribe into form to be readily understood by the layman the stenographic notes of Dr. Goodwin's own report to the Council, supplemented by further oral reminiscences and comments by Dr. Goodwin; this transcription, edited and censored by the Executive Council of the Association, forms the contents of this book.
Himself a member of the Council, Dr. Walter T. Goodwin, Ph.D., F.R.G.S. etc., is without cavil the foremost of American botanists, an observer of international reputation and the author of several epochal treaties upon his chosen branch of science. His story, amazing in the best sense of that word as it may be, is fully supported by proofs brought forward by him and accepted by the organization of which I have the honor to be president. What matter has been elided from this popular presentation—because of the excessively menacing potentialities it contains, which unrestricted dissemination might develop—will be dealt with in purely scientific pamphlets of carefully guarded circulation.
THE INTERNATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF SCIENCE
Per J. B. K., President
The Thing on the Moon Path
For two months I had been on the d'Entrecasteaux Islands data for the of my book upon the of the of the South Pacific. The day I had Port Moresby and had my safely on the Southern Queen. As I sat on the upper I thought, with mind, of the long me and Melbourne, and the longer ones Melbourne and New York.
It was one of Papua's yellow when she herself in her sombrest, most mood. The sky was ochre. Over the a sullen, alien, implacable, with the threat of latent, waiting to be unleashed. It an out of the untamed, of Papua herself—sinister when she smiles. And now and then, on the wind, came a from jungles, with odours, and menacing.
It is on such that Papua to you of her and of her power. And, as every white man must, I against her spell. While I I saw a tall the pier; a Kapa-Kapa boy a new valise. There was something familiar about the tall man. As he the he looked up into my eyes, for a moment, then his hand.
And now I him. It was Dr. David Throckmartin—"Throck" he was to me always, one of my friends and, as well, a mind of the water power and were for me a as they were, I know, for other.
Coincidentally with my came a of surprise, definitely—unpleasant. It was Throckmartin—but about him was something the man I had long so well and to and to little party I had less than a month I myself had for these seas. He had married only a before, Edith, the of Professor William Frazier, by at least a decade than he but at one with him in his and as much in love, if it were possible, as Throckmartin. By of her father's a assistant, by of her own sweet, a—I use the word in its sense—lover. With his Dr. Charles Stanton and a Swedish woman, Thora Halversen, who had been Edith Throckmartin's nurse from babyhood, they had set for the Nan-Matal, that group of along the of Ponape in the Carolines.
I that he had planned to at least a year among these ruins, not only of Ponape but of Lele—twin of a of humanity, a flower of that the of Egypt were sown; of we know little and of science nothing. He had with him complete for the work he had to do and which, he hoped, would be his monument.
What then had Throckmartin to Port Moresby, and what was that I had in him?
Hurrying to the I him with the purser. As I spoke he turned, out to me an hand—and then I saw what was that that had so moved me. He knew, of by my and the my closer look had me. His filled; he from the purser, hesitated—then off to his stateroom.
"'E looks queer—eh?" said the purser. "Know 'im well, sir? Seems to 'ave you a start."
I some reply and slowly up to my chair. There I sat, my mind and to what it was that had me so. Now it came to me. The old Throckmartin was on the of his just forty, lithe, erect, muscular; his one of enthusiasm, of keenness, of—what shall I say—expectant search. His always brain had its upon his face.
But the Throckmartin I had was one who had some of and horror; some that in its had remoulded, from within, his face, setting on it seal of and despair; as though these two had come to him hand in hand, taken of him and left behind, ineradicably, their shadows!
Yes—it was that which appalled. For how and horror, Heaven and Hell mix, hands—kiss?
Yet these were what in on Throckmartin's face!
Deep in thought, with relief, I the line behind; the touch of the wind of the free seas. I had hoped, and the was an that I would meet Throckmartin at lunch. He did not come down, and I was of my disappointment. All that I about but still he to his cabin—and me was no to him. Nor did he appear at dinner.
Dusk and night swiftly. I was warm and to my deck-chair. The Southern Queen was to a and I had the place to myself.
Over the was a of cloud, and to the moon it. There was much phosphorescence. Fitfully the ship and at her those little of that up from the Southern Ocean like of sea monsters, for an and disappear.
Suddenly the door opened and through it came Throckmartin. He paused uncertainly, looked up at the sky with a eager, gaze, hesitated, then closed the door him.
"Throck," I called. "Come! It's Goodwin."
He his way to me.
"Throck," I said, no time in preliminaries. "What's wrong? Can I help you?"
I his tense.
"I'm going to Melbourne, Goodwin," he answered. "I need a things—need them urgently. And more men—white men—"
He stopped abruptly; rose from his chair, toward the north. I his gaze. Far, away the moon had through the clouds. Almost on the horizon, you see the of it upon the sea. The of light and shook. The clouds again and it was gone. The ship on southward, swiftly.
Throckmartin into his chair. He a cigarette with a hand that trembled; then to me with resolution.
"Goodwin," he said. "I do need help. If man needed it, I do. Goodwin—can you in another world, alien, unfamiliar, a world of terror, unknown is its terror of all; you all alone there, a stranger! As such a man would need help, so I need—"
He paused and arose; the cigarette from his fingers. The moon had again through the clouds, and this time much nearer. Not a mile away was the of light that it upon the waves. Back of it, to the of the sea was a of moonlight; a over the of the world and surely toward the ship.
Throckmartin to it as a to a covey. To me from him a of horror—but with an unfamiliar, an joy. It came to me and passed away—leaving me with its of sweet.
He forward, all his in his eyes. The moon path closer, closer still. It was now less than a mile away. From it the ship fled—almost as though pursued. Down upon it, and straight, a the waves, the moon stream.
"Good God!" Throckmartin, and if the were a prayer and an they were.
And then, for the time—I saw—it!
The moon path to the and was by darkness. It was as though the clouds above had been to a lane-drawn like or as the of the Red Sea were to let the of Israel through. On each of the was the black by the of the high And as a road the gleamed, shimmered, and the shining, racing, of the moonlight.
Far, it far, along this of fire I sensed, than saw, something coming. It into as a the light. On and on it toward us—an that with the of some in flight. Dimly there into my mind memory of the Dyak of the messenger of Buddha—the Akla bird are of the moon rays, is a opal, in echo the clear music of the white stars—but is of and the of unbelievers.
Closer it and now there came to me sweet, tinklings—like on of glass; clear; diamonds melting into sounds!
Now the Thing was close to the end of the white path; close up to the of still the ship and the of the moon stream. Now it up against that as a bird against the of its cage. It with plumes, with of light, with of vapour. It it odd, as of shifting mother-of-pearl. Coruscations and through it as though it them from the that it.
Nearer and nearer it came, on the waves, and the protecting of it and us. Within the was a core, a of light—veined, opaline, effulgent, alive. And above it, in the and that and were seven lights.
Through all the but ordered movement of the—thing—these lights and steady. They were seven—like seven little moons. One was of a pink, one of a blue, one of saffron, one of the you see in the of isles; a white; a amethyst; and one of the that is only when the fish the moon.
The music was louder still. It the ears with a of lances; it the jubilantly—and it dolorously. It closed the with a of and it tight with the hand of sorrow!
Came to me now a cry, the notes. It was articulate—but as though from something to this world. The ear took the and with into the of earth. And as it compassed, the brain from it irresistibly, and it toward it with eagerness.
Throckmartin toward the of the deck, toward the vision, now but a yards away from the stern. His had all semblance. Utter and ecstasy—there they were by side, not each other; into a look that none of God's should wear—and deep, as his soul! A and a God by side! So must Satan, newly fallen, still divine, and hell, have appeared.
And then—swiftly the moon path faded! The clouds over the sky as though a hand had them together. Up from the south came a squall. As the moon what I had with it—blotted out as an image on a magic lantern; the abruptly—leaving a like that which an clap. There was nothing about us but and blackness!
Through me passed a as one who has on the very of the the men of the Louisades says the of the of men, and has been by chance.
Throckmartin passed an arm around me.
"It is as I thought," he said. In his voice was a new note; the that has a waiting terror of the unknown. "Now I know! Come with me to my cabin, old friend. For now that you too have I can tell you"—he hesitated—"what it was you saw," he ended.
As we passed through the door we met the ship's officer. Throckmartin his into at least a of normality.
"Going to have much of a storm?" he asked.
"Yes," said the mate. "Probably all the way to Melbourne."
Throckmartin as though with a new thought. He the officer's eagerly.
"You at least cloudy weather—for"—he hesitated—"for the next three nights, say?"
"And for three more," the mate.
"Thank God!" Throckmartin, and I think I such and as was in his voice.
The amazed. "Thank God?" he repeated. "Thank—what d'ye mean?"
But Throckmartin was moving to his cabin. I started to follow. The officer stopped me.
"Your friend," he said, "is he ill?"
"The sea!" I answered hurriedly. "He's not used to it. I am going to look after him."
Doubt and were plain in the seaman's but I on. For I now that Throckmartin was indeed—but with a the ship's doctor any other heal.
