Part Three - 13 February 1951, 10:30 PM

I was making what seemed to be a strenuous effort to quiet my thoughts . . . or was it feelings? I wanted to appear, and indeed to be, very objective, very detached. If there was to be an "experiment," as Ramar had said, then I could observe as a scientist in his laboratory. The thought gave me for a moment a sense of aloof superiority. "I am the objective witness; I am not involved in whatever will happen . . . "
      The thought melted soon into the feeling of anguish. What if Emerald and Ron were to be hurt in some way! I had read, I suppose, too many stories of space-travel and time-displacement with fantastic endings not to be uncomfortably aware of dire possibilities. Both my companions seemed so eager. Had the wine they drank so happily already worked some magic? I dismissed the thought. Ramar did not seem to be that kind of man. And yet? Perhaps I too was being "conditioned," as our writers say in their futuristic stories.
      I heard Ramar ask Ron for his birthdate. April 5 was the answer. Ramar nodded. "I knew you had a strong Martian rhythm. You see, the time of birth is important in that the season of your birth — and I am not referring to what has come to be known popularly as "astrology" — establishes a fundamental contact between your organism — your body, your soul, your particular type of consciousness — and one of the planetary fields of forces. There is no mystery in it at all; simply a matter of resonance. Each season on earth has its own solar keynote of life-energy. Each year is a complete cycle of life on earth; first an outgoing, then an incoming tide of solar energy. This solar energy is both differentiated and focused by the planetary fields, and one of these fields is dominant each month. Your life-rhythms reveals a Mars dominance; the young lady shows clearly a Venus dominance."
      "What does it mean, actually?" questioned Ron. "Simply this, that you are basically in tune with the Mars type of vibratory energy, the Mars "phase" of the solar cycle. For this reason you can 'travel' — if you care to use this word — along the tide of Mars energy. This energy is predominant in your body. It animates particularly through your muscular system; it has a strong focus in the adrenals, above the kidneys — also in the generative organs. Likewise Venus is particularly strong in the young lady — may I call her Emerald? It is an interesting coincidence," he added.
      I felt something grip me . . . a sense of fatality, of impending events it was too late to stop. I struggled to intervene, knowing well it was futile. I could only say, "Why coincidence?"
      "Mars and Venus," Ramar went on, "are, as you know from mythology, polarities — man and woman, you might say. Astronomically, they are the nearest planets; Venus inside the earth's orbit, Mars outside. It so happens, besides, that they are today about to make a conjunction in the sky. You can see them after sunset — very near each other. Conditions in the solar system will make contact easier for our friends."
      "Did you know it would be so?" Emerald asked, opening her eyes still more widely.
      "I suspected it might be."
      "When?" I blurted.
      "When I met Ron, this morning."


There was a silence. This morning . . . But that was long before he had met Emerald, before I had known about him and my dinner appointment had been unexpectedly canceled! Was this man clairvoyant, or able to manipulate us and our lives? If so, what was his purpose? What did the whole thing mean?
      Ramar opened the drapery hanging against the wall. A narrow glass case was revealed, and on its few shelves a great number of objects of various shapes. The light was too dim for me to see exactly what they were. Quickly Ramar picked up two small chains of metal on which hung two oddly shaped pieces of apparently the same substance. He asked my friends to put these around their necks, explaining that one, for Emerald, was made of copper; the other, for Ron, of iron.
      "There is, as Paracelsus, Mesmer and many Greek and older European thinkers knew, a special affinity between the planets' electromagnetic fields and some metals on earth. The metals became thus, easily, 'receiving sets' for planetary energies. If properly magnetized at certain times of the year, pieces of metal like these anchor, as it were, the planetary fields in the body, activating the relationship between the planets and their corresponding centers in the human organism. They draw the force down, and thus the person's consciousness can more easily ascend — you might say — along the path of that force to the planet itself."
      "And then?" I couldn't help asking, uneasily.
      "Then," answered Ramar, "the Mars force in the body and the Mars force in the planet's orbit vibrate in unison, the consciousness of the person can know and experience Martian existence, not only in his earth-body where it has become immediately more active in a subtle electromagnetic sense, but as it is on the planet itself, where it is primarily effective."
      I still could not believe. Not that the whole idea of itself was really any more fantastic than traveling at a speed greater than light to Sirius in a rocketship, or moving about in time while sitting upon some strange mechanical contraption; but this was not science fiction, and not the kind of scientific thinking I was used to. I was there, awake, real. Emerald, the girl I loved, Ron, my assistant, were before me. They were real too. It was no fantasy, no dream. I could feel my heart beating nervously, as my friends hung the thin metal chains around their necks, the pendants reaching down to their hearts. I had to sit down. They too were sitting now, Ramar standing a few feet in front of them.


Silence — deadly silence, I thought. Then it started. The crystal on the table was brilliantly glowing; two rays of light, coming seemingly from nowhere, were pulsating through it: one was red, the other green — green! — emerald green. I looked at Ramar. A golden sheen seemed to envelop him. From the side, I could see a golden light condensing around his chest — his heart, it must have been.
      I turned my glance to Emerald. She and Ron had closed their eyes. They seemed immensely at peace. And then I saw their bodies change slightly. Not the shapes, but an indefinable something happened inside of the bodies themselves. They filled with vibrations, with colored whirls. Ron's body was glowing with reddish light; Emerald's with an unearthly vibrant green like no green I have ever seen. The light was ebbing and flowing through their bodies, while at the same time it seemed to be condensed in slowly moving eddies of almost solid color at definite points. I noticed especially a strong concentration around Emerald's neck.
      As I think of it now, it may have been centered in the thyroid gland. Other condensations were distinguishable in the abdominal region — perhaps in the location of the ovaries. Between these three centers paths of lights suggested the outline of a triangle. I watched the moving light with a fascination mixed with fear. What was happening? Would the body stand the strain — whatever it was? I wanted to ask questions, but I could not. I felt almost paralyzed, yet extraordinarily alive mentally. I wondered for an instant if I too was showing such a change. But as I tried to look down at my body, Ron's voice came out, very weak, yet distinct — from very far, it seemed.
      "Wonderful . . . so wonderful . . . Oh, I feel so strong, so vast . . . great forms moving . . . everything is so intense, so clear — all moving, big waves of motion . . . heaving, like the sea. But it is not the sea — it is power, waves of power. Some are dark, falling back; some like flames . . . no, not flames . . . pure energy. Oh, I understand now. Waves of desire, yes, desire! Everything is pure desire, pure motion. Everything surges with desire . . ."
      Ron's voice grew stronger, more excited. "Everything is struggle, conflict of desire. And all these are beings! Some reach up in great brilliant spirals. Others are caught short, break down. What makes them break down? Oh, I see; it is fear. Fear enters. The surging light collapses. Fear . . . Oh, my God!" He breathed heavily, slumped a little. Ramar moved quickly to him, touched him on the forehead. Ron became calm again.
      Emerald too had stirred. A peculiar kind of hum seemed to rise from her whole body. Her lips were closed. It was not voice. It was like a breeze in tall pines; the needles quiver, they sing to the wind.
      I managed to say "Emerald." I don't think she heard me. Ramar turned to me quickly, his finger on his lips silencing me. Then he looked at me intently. He asked, "Do you want to get a glimpse of what Ron feels? It won't be as real; only the shadow of his experience upon your brain centers."


Almost before I assented, I felt his hand touching the back of my head. Something suddenly seemed to snap inside of my brain. The pit of my stomach ached as if it had caved in. Shivers ran up my spine. I was aware of heat, of a tremor through my entire body. I was forced to close my eyes. And suddenly, in front of them there was something like a huge T.V. screen. On it whirls of color were dancing — not really dancing, but surging on, as if deliberately striving, deliberately seeking some goal.
      Some of these dynamic forms moved forward; they were red- orange mostly, but with many added hues. Others seemed greenish- blue — perhaps the complementary color of the first ones — and gave the impression of falling or sliding. I watched, amazed; for these whirls seemed alive, sentiment — perhaps intelligent, aware of each other, no doubt.
      I watched — becoming more accustomed to the incredible scene beyond all human dreaming. I sensed that the whirls were far more definite than I had noticed at first. Were they "bodies" of a totally different kind from ours? In some cases, the shape suggested a funnel-like tornado moving capriciously across the plains of Kansas, moving with non-human will. As the scene shifted, I saw what looked almost like Northern Lights shimmering, not in the sky, but on what now seemed to me as "soil" — if one could compare to our soil what appeared to be rather a dead level of effort, a plane of motion.
      And then these iridescent lights condensed. They looked like an army on march; an army of intensely alive mist-forms. I tried to follow their movements. Then I realized that underneath the seemingly erratic motions there were geometrical patterns of great precision — tides of energy-in-motion, reaching center and radiating out. The blue-green forms seemed to follow particularly clear patterns in their downward (or was it inward?) motion. The red-orange whirls were freer, bolder, spreading widely, sometimes in mass formations which spread over much of the scene I could see. I felt they spread far and wide in a space which did not appear curved, as ours.
      Suddenly, there was stillness. A gathering of effort, will, or whatever it was, among a group of reddish shapes slowly circling around an empty space. One of these light-forms condensed heavily, glittering with many sub-colors. The whole wide vista was sucked down into it. It shot out of space, as if toward my vision, I started, opened my eyes, my body quivering. Ramar was still near me, at my side now — but I could hardly see his face. From the region of his heart a globe of golden light was pulsating, immense. I felt almost enveloped in its radiance.
      Ramar spoke, softly, "Look ahead." From the body of Ron a flame-like substance radiated, larger than his body, pervading, yet somehow behind his body. I recognized the form. I was what I had just seen with my eyes closed. Many colors vibrated through it. The form changed; it reached up. It reached . . . Oh, God! From Emerald's body a more geometrical, softer shape of light was joined with the other. Both shapes stood, shimmering. A burst of light seemed to spread from the crystal to my right. Somewhere there was a tone vibrating, deep, gong-like. A deep sigh, almost a cry, made me tremble from head to foot. One thought raced through my dazed mind: Emerald! I must save Emerald. I must take her away.
      I tried to move. The lights faded out. I cried aloud, "Emerald! Come! Let's go!" I think I cried aloud . . . perhaps I didn't. In such a state one doesn't know really. What is real? What is dream? What is joy? What is pain?
      It must have been pain that gripped my heart. I stumbled over a chair, would have fallen probably, if Ramar hadn't caught me with a steel-like hand. I heard him say, "You must not disturb them. Be calm. There is no danger." I tried to be calm; but my thoughts were in a vast brawl. It became dark, very dark — inside.
      How long we hung in the silence, I could not tell. Emerald's voice called me back to awareness. "Ron, are you here?"
      "Emerald!" His voice was trembling, as one who wakes up at long last from an incomprehensible shock.
      I looked at them. The brilliant light-shapes were gone. Everything was as before. Everything? Ha! What a joke! Ron and Emerald were staring at each other — bewilderment, ecstasy, tragedy; I could not know. But as long as I live I shall never forget that look.
      It is there now in front of me — a year later. It is burnt into the whole of me. Nothing can ever be the same, since I have seen that look — that look in the girl I loved . . .


I managed to shake myself and get up. Ramar was standing near Emerald, looking at her steadily. Ron slowly rose from his chair. He seemed dazed. He was frowning, as if desperately trying to keep hold of something which was slipping away.
      "How about a drink of water?" Ramar asked; and reaching out to the side of the table, he poured water into glasses. Ron and Emerald drank, as men who have crossed deserts through torrid heat. I hesitated. But my throat felt parched — a strange feverishness forced me to drink. Plain water, apparently. It was cold. It soothed my tense body. I breathed deeply.
      I had to say something. The silence had become unbearable to me. I forced myself — I forced so hard I supposed my words must have exploded. Exploded! Yes, I wanted to shatter something. I wanted to talk loud, to say crazy things. I wanted to rage, to explode. What had been done to us? What had been done to Emerald, to Ron? Oh, that look, that look between them!
      "Most interesting, indeed. But what happened, really? Will you explain to us? What did you make me see? What were those forms?" My voice was undoubtedly raspy, tense. I knew that what I said was stupid, meaningless. I knew. But I simply couldn't help it. I had to say something. I had to shatter something. Something. What, exactly? I was not sure. But I felt hollow, deprived. I felt immensely lonely.
      Ramar's voice was calm and gentle. He turned to me. I sensed compassion. It hurt me. Why should anyone pity me? "There are experiences, my friend, which cannot bear being explained. What you have seen through Ron's mind — what he and Emerald have experienced — yes, it was real. Some day, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps many years hence, you will understand. They understand . . . or at least they have felt."
      "Felt what?" I cried out anxiously, my eyes searching Emerald's. But she avoided me; she was looking self-consciously at the pendant she was still wearing, fingering it.
      "Life, power — beyond the narrow limits of their earth- bound egos. An aspect of their total beings, as it exists in true cosmic status; yes, the soul."
      "As soul?" I exclaimed. "This is insane. Why, do we have our souls on other planets? What an idea! Who could believe this?"
      "I believe." Ron's voice was firm, very quiet, very vibrant. I had never felt him so still, so seemingly in control of himself. Ramar smiled.
      "But, look," I said pleadingly, my head bursting, "We came here to find out about space-travel, going to planets, new angles for stories . . . What is this all about? Hypnotism, black magic, enchantment?"
      "Oh, Dick, Dick!" Now Emerald looked at me. She seemed ready to cry. She sat down. Her head bent. She held it tight. "Please. Can't you understand? If only you could feel what I have seen, what I know . . ."
      Ramar turned to me. "Mr. Probeck, I realize that this is disconcerting to you. You were curious — intellectually curious. Your mind has been accustomed to think of the universe in a certain way; let's say the modern way. It is a very worthwhile way. It pays huge dividends, in physical comfort, in technical skill, in concrete material achievements. I do not criticize or question your beliefs, your attitude. They are those of your time. There are, however," he paused awhile, "a few, a very few who are unwilling to be bound to their time, and their time's philosophy. Something in them calls for vaster knowledge, deeper feelings, love . . . shall I say, more 'cosmic'? And, my friend, did not our great Teacher, Christ, tell us, 'Ask and you shall receive.' No one who calls sincerely, utterly, goes unanswered."
      Obstinately I clung to my question. "What has it to do with traveling to planets?"
      "The planets you study through your telescopes are not the whole planets. You are not merely your flesh and bones, either. Will you concede this?"
      I grumbled my acquiescence.
      "If this is true here on earth which is the most material planet of the whole system, how much more true of beings on Mars, Venus, or Mercury! These planets are material, of course, but mostly to your eyes and your intellectual understanding. The stuff they are made of, essentially, is quite different. You interpret what you observe and measure astronomically, as if this stuff were as material as the rocks on earth. Why should it be? You have had a glimpse of how different life, motion, form is on Mars."
      "And so I have traveled to Mars, have I." I snapped back.
      Ramar shook his head. "Ron has. You only watched the pictures on his brain-consciousness."
      "But how can I know it was not a hallucination?" I cried.
      Ron had been walking restlessly to and fro. He stopped. "Dick! I know it was real. There never was, in my life, anything more real, more vivid. I know it. I know it in my body, in my mind, in . . ."
      "Your soul, I suppose?" I felt angry, bitter, alone. They all "knew," it seemed; I didn't. I was the doubter, the man of the crowd unwilling to become free from the thoughts of the time; the failure, no doubt! Irritation seemed to mount within me. I walked out into the studio. The fire had died down in the fireplace. But the sun-symbol above the mantelpiece was particularly luminous. I drew away from it. I turned and Emerald was facing me. She stretched her hand toward me. I took it. "Oh Emerald! Emerald! What have they done to you? I loved you."
      I stopped, stunned. Why had I said "I loved you?" Why the past tense.?
      Tears had come to her eyes. She said nothing, but her hand was warm, feverish.
      Ramar was showing Ron some of the objects behind the curtain of the alcove.
      "Emerald! Emerald . . .!" I didn't know what to say. Something had happened. What had happened? What were those great forms of light, reddish and green, which had appeared behind Ron and her, which had become joined, it seemed, incomprehensibly?
      In my mind, words formed themselves. "Their soul-essences . . . Each human being is a vast chord of energies . . . each planet is a tone . . . every man a solar system." I thought that I heard Ramar's voice again as he had answered Emerald earlier that evening. "You are Venus." I seemed to know suddenly what he had meant. "You, the essential You, the You that is power, the cosmic You is centered in Venus. There is its home; here, only an outpost in earth-matter." She had found it perhaps, the cosmic self of power, this soul-essence . . . her Venus-being.
      How long I stood holding Emerald's hand I have no idea now. I had no idea, then. I am not even sure I thought these thoughts. Now I feel I must have, though many weeks and months afterwards I certainly would have denied it, if anyone had told me. I fought so hard, afterwards. Oh, how bitterly I have fought! I can't fight any longer.
      Ron and Ramar joined us. I let go of Emerald's hand. She turned, looked at her wrist-watch. "Oh, how late it is! We must go." It was past one o'clock.
      There was nothing to say — nothing I, at least, could say to our host. He helped us with our coats. His hands reached to ours, gently, firmly.
      Ron's voice sounded eager, pleading. "Will we see you again? Soon? There is so much . . ."
      "Will we?" echoed Emerald.
      Ramar smiled. "It is for you to say — but, not now . . ."


The door closed. We went mechanically to the elevator. We reached the street. Called a taxi. The sky was still clear. It was cold. I could feel Emerald shivering in her coat. I took her arm. Ron was staring at the sky through the taxi window as we sped south along the Hudson Parkway.
      My mind whirled with questions beating at my brain. What had they felt? What had they seen? Did they notice the luminous forms around them? How could they be sure they had not dreamt an exciting dream?
      But I could not form any words. I was desperately angry at myself for not having pressed Ramar, forced him to explain — at least for not having arranged, right then and there, another meeting. I felt hollow, empty, acutely frustrated.
      The taxi stopped in front of Emerald's building on East 10th Street. I could only say, "Will you be all right? Do you want us to stay with you?"
      She laughed. "All right? Why, of course! I bet I'll reach the office in the morning before you do."
      I accompanied her up the outside steps, slippery with thin ice. Ron had remained standing on the sidewalk. Before she went through the door which I held open, I watched her eyes seek Ron's glance, below us. What I felt, I can't explain. Every strand of me, every particle of my brain seemed to know no power on earth could undo what had been sealed. The irrevocable: the fact that will remain fact for all eternity — that not even God could erase . . .
      But it is man's nature, it seems, to fight and to beat his ego-will against the unalterable. It is man's nature to make a fool of himself, to slug himself or drug himself into un-remembering. And the wheel turns and turns — the tragic, hopeless turning of the wheel. Even pain feels good, after a while, when happiness has so long been gone.

Read Part Four