Still, the Navy had accepted him as a consultant, calling upon his expertise as a marine geologist and hydrologist. He’d received a high security clearance and worked with naval personnel whenever he wasn’t busy teaching. He looked around, observing that nearly everyone in the room was young. Aurelia Blenheim had persuaded Marston to attend a meeting, but this looked more like a party. There were plates of snack food scattered around the room and bottles of soft drinks. There was a low, steady hum of conversation. Marston spotted only two girls among the crowd, discounting the acerbic Miss Sanderson. Outnumbered as they were by males, they were twin centres of constant attention and manoeuvring.
A fireplace dominated one end of the room. A young man of neurasthenic appearance wearing a baggy suit and hand-painted necktie had stationed himself in front of it. He held a brass bell and miniature hammer above his head and sounded the bell.
“The twelfth regular meeting of the New Deep Ones Society of the Pacific will come to order.” He looked around, clearly pleased with himself. Conversation had ceased and he was the target of all eyes. “We have a distinguished guest with us tonight, Professor Marston of the University of California. If anyone can shed light on the problem of the Deep Ones, I’m sure Professor Marston can.”
Now attention shifted from the young man to Del Marston. What a farce this was turning into. Marston mulled over suitable forms of revenge against Aurelia Blenheim.
“Professor Marston,” the young man was babbling on, “perhaps you’ll be willing to address our little group?”
Marston was holding a thick sandwich in one hand and a soft drink in the other. He put them on a table and said, “I’m afraid I’m not quite prepared for that. Maybe you’ll tell me a little bit about your group, starting with your name.”
“Albert Hartley, Dr. Marston. I’m the President of the New Deep Ones Society of the Pacific. Our members are dedicated to unravelling the mystery of the Deep Ones. Hence our name.” He giggled nervously, then resumed. “And Dr. Blenheim says that you’re the leading marine geologist in the region.”
“Dr. Blenheim flatters me. But tell me about your New Deep Ones Society. Does the name refer to the fact that you are all deep thinkers?”
“Now you flatter us,” Hartley replied. They had settled onto chairs and sofas by now, the boys clustering around the girls while Albert Hartley tried to hold their attention. “The Deep Ones,” (Marston could almost hear the capital letters) are strange creatures who live on the sea-bottoms of the world. People have known about them for thousands of years. They’re in Greek mythology, Sumerian mythology, African mythology. And in modern times authors keep writing about them. But nowadays they have to disguise their books as fiction.”
“Why?”
Hartley looked startled. The room was silent.
Then somebody else made an ostentatious demand for the floor. Del Marston recognised the new speaker as Charlie Einstein. The ponderous Einstein blew out a breath. “There are people in the government who don’t want us to know about the Deep Ones. People in every government. You wouldn’t think that the Nazis in Germany and the Reds in Russia and the Democrats in Washington could agree on anything while they’re fighting this huge war and all, but they have secret meetings in Switzerland, you know. The Japs are there, too.”
“You mean the war is a front for something else?” Marston asked. “Cities getting blown up, soldiers dying in foxholes, aerial and naval battles, people suffering all over the world—it’s all a put-up job?”
Einstein shook his head, his too-long, dirty-blond hair falling across his face. “Oh, the war is real enough, okay. My brother is in the Army, he was at Tobruk in North Africa and was wounded and he’s back in England now, in the hospital. The war is real, you bet, Dr. Marston. But the big shots who are running things still have their secret agreements. You’ll see, when it ends, nothing much will change. And they really don’t want us to know about the Deep Ones. Lovecraft wrote about them, too. In fact, he was writing about them even before that Czech guy, Karel Capek, wrote his book War with the Newts. They’re everywhere. Lovecraft was a New Englander and he knew about them, they have a big base at Innsmouth, in Massachusetts.”
“But that was just fiction.” Marston tried to calm the excited youngsters. “Foolish stories about monsters. As silly as Orson Welles’ radio play about Martians. There are problems enough in this world without having to invent more.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no.” Einstein shook his head. His fleshy jowls shook with emotion. “And another thing. There’s the 1890 Paradox.”
“The what?” Marston could barely keep from laughing.
“The 1890 Paradox,” Einstein repeated. “Karel Capek was born in 1890 in Bohemia, in what is now Czechoslovakia. Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born in Rhode Island. And Adolf Hitler was born in Linz, Austria. You can’t call that a coincidence, can you?”
“Of course I can.” Marston frowned. “Millions of people are born every year. You can pick any year out of history and find musicians, authors, politicians, scientists, generals, philosophers, all born that year. Of course it’s a coincidence.”
“Then what about their deaths? Lovecraft and Capek both wrote about the Deep Ones, both exposed their intentions, and both died within a matter of months! Explain that for me, if you can, Dr. Marston.”
“I can’t explain it. There’s no explaining to do. Out of all the millions of people born in 1890, I imagine that tens or hundreds of thousands would have died in—what year was it that your two writers passed on?”
“Lovecraft died in 1937, Capek in 1938.”
“And Hitler?”
“You know he’s still alive. That’s because the stars were right for those births in 1890, and they were right for the two deaths in 1937 and ’38. As for Hitler—he’s no menace to the Deep Ones. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s in league with them. Malignant beings have a long history of making alliances with humans willing to sell out their species for personal gain, like vampires offering their sort of undead immortality to their human servants. And the Deep Ones have a lot to offer their allies. Long, long life for one thing. And incredible pleasures obtained through their unspeakable rites. That’s what the Deep Ones have to offer.”
“And we believe they’re here, Dr. Marston.” This from Albert Hartley, taking back the centre of attention. He was interrupted by a middle-aged woman who entered the room wearing a housedress and apron. “There’s coffee and cocoa on the stove for anybody who wants them,” she announced.
Hartley looked exasperated. “Thanks, Mom. Not right now, please.”
The woman withdrew.
“They’re out in the Bay, even as we speak,” Hartley resumed. “They have a whole city down there. When people disappear, when you hear about people jumping off the new bridge to Marin, the Deep Ones are involved in that.”
Marston frowned. It was hard to take these kids seriously but he had promised Aurelia Blenheim and he was going to do his best. “I think the jumpers are suicides.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to think. The Deep Ones, they’re amphibians. Lovecraft said so in his writings. They look like regular people at first. They grow up among us, they could be anybody. Then as they get older they start to show their true nature. It’s called the Innsmouth Look. They start to resemble frogs or toads. Eventually they have to go back to the sea, to live with their own people.”
Marston picked up his abandoned sandwich and took a bite. Mom Hartley made good snacks, anyway. The sandwich was spiced salami and crisp lettuce with a really sharp mustard, served on hard-crusted sourdough. Marston had a good appetite, and besides, chewing earnestly away at Mom Hartley’s salami sandwich gave him an excuse not to answer young Albert Hartley’s wild assertions.