Everything proved to be in perfect order, so our fears were allayed. But John continued to rehearse scare stories of carbon monoxide poisoning, such as the tragic end of Andre’s balloon expedition to the Arctic, and remained fidgety and restless—and all of a sudden he decided to snowshoe into Terrestrial for some spare radio parts and other unnecessary oddments. I asked him wasn’t the bi-weekly trudge down to meet the farmer’s car enough for him, and why in any case pick the coldest day of the year? But he merely snorted, “That all you know about our weather?” and set out. I’m a bit bothered, though he certainly must know how to take care of himself.
Maybe my presence does upset him. After all, he’s lived alone here for years, except for infrequent trips—practically a hermit. Having someone living with him may very well disorder his routine of existence—and of creative work—completely. Added to that, I’m another writer—a dangerous combination. It’s quite possible that, despite our friendship (friendship would have nothing to do with it), I get on his nerves. I must have a long talk with him when he returns and sound him out on this—indirectly, of course.
But now to my monsters. They have a scene that is crying out in my brain to be expressed.
Later: The snag in my writing is developing into a brick wall. I can’t seem to figure out any plausible way of getting my monsters to Earth. There’s a block in my mind whenever I try to think in that direction. I certainly hope it’s not going to be the way it was with so many of my early stories—magnificently atmospheric prologues that bogged down completely as soon as I was forced to work out the mechanics of the plot; and the more impressive and evocative the beginning, the more crushing the fall—and the more likely it would be to hinge on some trifling detail that persisted in thwarting my inventiveness, such as how to get two characters introduced to each other or how does the hero make a living.
Well, I won’t let it defeat me this time! I’ll go right ahead with the later portion of the story, and then sooner or later I’ll just have to think through the snag.
I thought I had the thing licked when I started this noon. I pictured the monsters with a secret outpost established on Earth. Using Earth’s energy resources, they are eventually able to work out a means of transporting their entire race here—or else dragging off the Earth and Sun to their own dead solar system and sacred home planet across the trackless light-years of interstellar space, like Prometheus stealing fire from heaven, humanity being wiped out in the process.
But, as should have been obvious to me, that still leaves the problem of getting the outpost here.
The section about the outpost looks very good though. Of course the pioneer monsters will have to keep their presence hidden from humanity while they “try out” our planet, become acclimated to Earth, develop resistance to inimical bacteria strains, et cetera, and measure up man from close range, deciding on the best weapons to use against him when the time for extermination arrives.
For it won’t be entirely a one-sided struggle. Man won’t be completely powerless against these creatures. For instance, he could probably wipe out the outpost if he ever discovered its existence. But of course that won’t happen.
I envisage a number of shivery scenes—people getting glimpses of the monsters in far, lonely places—seeing spidery, shadowy shapes in deep forests—coming on hurriedly deserted mountain lairs or encampments that disturbingly suggest neither human beings nor animals—strange black swimmers noted by boats off the usual steamship lanes—engineers and scientists bothered by inexplicable drains on power lines and peculiar thefts of equipment—a vague but mounting general dread—the “irrational” conviction that we are being listened to and spied on, “measured for our coffins”—eventually, as the creatures grow bolder, dark polypous forms momentarily seen scuttling across city roofs or clinging to high walls in the more poorly lighted sections, at night—black furry masks pressed for an instant against windowpanes—
Yes, it should work out very nicely.
I wish John would get back though. It’s almost dark, and still no sign of him. I’ve popped out several times for a look-see, but there’s nothing except his snowshoe tracks going over the hill. I confess I’m getting a bit edgy. I suppose I’ve frightened myself with my own story—it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to a writer. I find myself looking quickly at the window, or listening for strange sounds, and my imagination insists on playing around unpleasantly with the “odd phenomena” of the past few days—the violet auroral beam, the queer patterns in the frost, my silly notions about telepathic powers. My mental state is extraordinarily heightened and I have the illusion, both pleasurable and frightening, of standing at the doorway of an unknown alien realm and being able to rend the filmy curtain with a twitch of my finger if I choose.
But such nervousness is only natural, considering the isolation of the place and John’s delay. I certainly hope he isn’t going to snowshoe back in the dark—at a temperature like this any accident or misjudgement might have fatal consequences. And if he did get into trouble I wouldn’t be any help to him.
As I get things ready for supper, I keep the radio going. It provides a not unpleasant companionship.
Jan. 12: We had quite a high old time last night. John popped in well past the supper hour—he’d gotten a ride with his farmer. He had a bottle of fantastically high-proof rum with him (he says when you have to pack your liquor, you want as much alcohol and as little water as possible) and after supper we settled down for a long palaver. Oddly I had trouble getting into the spirit of the evening. I was restless and wanted to be fiddling with my writing, or the radio, or something. But the liquor helped to lull such nervous impulses, and after a while we opened our minds to each other and talked about everything under the sun.
One thing I’m glad we settled: any ideas I had about my presence annoying John are pure moonshine. He’s pleased to have a comrade out here, and the fact that he’s doing me a big favor really makes him feel swell. (It’s up to me not to disappoint his generosity.) And if any further proof were needed, he’s started a new story this morning (said he’s been mulling it in his mind the past couple of days—hence his restlessness) and is typing away at it like sixty!
I feel very normal and down-to-earth this morning. I realize now that during the past few days I have been extraordinarily keyed up, both mentally and imaginatively. It’s rather a relief to get over a mental binge like that (with the aid of physical binge!) but also faintly depressing—a strange bloom rubbed off things. I find my mind turning to practical matters, such as where am I going to sell my stories and how am I going to earn a living writing when my small savings give out? John and I talked about it for quite a while.
Well, I suppose I should be getting to my writing, though for once I’d rather knock around in the snow with John. The weather’s moderated.
Jan. 13—evening: Got to face it—my writing has bogged down completely. It’s not just the snag—I can’t write anything on the story. I’ve torn up so damn many half pages! Not a single word rings true, or even feels true while I’m writing it—it’s all fakey. My monsters are miserable puppets or papier-mâch and moth-eaten black fur.