Memoirs of a Space Traveler

Running from tree to tree, and soaked to the skin, I came out onto a gravel path, which led to a road long unused and overgrown with weeds. The road went to an estate surrounded by a wall. On the gate, once painted green but now rusty, hung a wood sign with the barely legible inscription BEWARE OF THE DOG. I was not eager to encounter a vicious animal, but with the rain I had no choice; so, cutting a hefty stick from a nearby bush to arm myself, I tackled the gate. I say “tackled” because I had to strain every muscle before it opened, finally, with an infernal creaking. I found myself in a garden so choked with weeds that it was hard to tell where the paths were. Far in the rear, behind trees swaying in the rain, stood a high, dark house with a steep roof. Three upstairs windows, covered by white shades, were lit. It was still early, but darkening clouds scudded across the sky. At forty or fifty paces from the house I noticed two rows of trees flanking the approach to the veranda. White cedars, graveyard cedars. The occupant of this house, I thought, must have a gloomy disposition. I saw no dog, however, despite the warning on the gate. I went up the steps and, partly shielded from the rain by the lintel, rang the bell. The tinkle within was answered by a dead silence. After a long while I rang again, with the same result; so I began to knock, then pounded more and more vigorously. Only then did I hear shuffling steps come from the interior of the house and an unpleasant, raspy voice ask: “Who’s there?”

I gave my name, in the faint hope that it might not be unknown. The person seemed to deliberate. Finally, a chain rattled, heavy bolts were pushed aside, and there, in the light of a chandelier high above the hallway, stood a near-dwarf. I recognized him, although I had seen his picture only once — I forget where, but the picture would have been hard to forget. The man was almost bald. On the side of his skull, above the ear, ran a bright-red scar like a saber gash. Gold pince-nez sat crookedly on his nose. He blinked as if he had just emerged from the dark. I apologized, using the formulas customary in such circumstances, then fell silent. He remained in front of me, as if not intending to let me one step farther into that large, dark, silent house.

“You are Zazul, Professor Zazul, aren’t you?” I asked.

“How do you know me?” he growled.

I made some trite remark to the effect that it was hard not to know such an outstanding scientist.

He received this with a scornful sneer on his froglike lips.

“A storm?” he said, for I had mentioned it. “I hear it. So? Go somewhere else.”

I said that I understood perfectly and had no intention of disturbing him. A chair or a stool in the hall would do; I would wait out the worst of the storm and be on my way.

The rain had really started coming down in buckets. Standing in the high hall as if at the bottom of a huge shell, I heard it pelt the house on all sides. It made an alarming racket.

“A chair?” he said. I might have asked for a golden throne. “A chair, really! I have no chair for you, Mr. Tichy. No chair to spare. I think, yes, I think it would be best for both of us if you left.”

Looking over my shoulder into the garden — the door was still open — I saw that the trees, bushes, everything had merged into one mass that shook violently in the wind and the streams of water. My eyes returned to the hunchback. I had encountered rudeness in my life, but never anything like this. I began to lose my temper. Dispensing with the social amenities, I said:

“I’ll leave if you can throw me out. But I warn you, I am no weakling.”

“What?” he screeched. “The gall! How dare you, in my own house!”

“You have provoked me,” I replied icily. And added, in my anger and because of his grating voice, “There are some kinds of behavior, Zazul, for which a man can be thrashed even in his own house!”

“Scoundrel!” he shrieked, even louder.

I seized his arm, which felt as though it had been whittled from a rotten branch, and hissed: “I will not tolerate abuse. Understand? One more insult and you will remember me as long as you live!”

For a second or two it seemed that we really would come to blows, and I felt shame — how could I raise my hand against a hunchback? Then the unexpected happened. The professor stepped back, freed his arm from my grip, and, with his head twisted even lower, accentuating the hump, began to giggle in a revolting, high-pitched voice. As if I had regaled him with a rare joke.

“Well, well,” he said, taking off his pince-nez. “You are a tough one, Tichy.”

With the tip of a long, nicotine-stained finger he wiped a tear from his eye.

“Good,” he rasped. “I like that. Can’t stand manners, mealy-mouthed talk, but you said what you thought. I hate you, you hate me, fine, we’re even, everything’s clear. You can follow me. Yes, Tichy, you surprised me…”