The Night Wire

"New York,September 30 CP FLASH

"Ambassador Holliwell died here today. The end came
suddenly as the ambassador was alone in his study...."

There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You situp here on
the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a
civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore --they're your
next-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the worldhas gone to
sleep.

Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receivingoperators doze
over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disastersand suicides.
Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with acasualty list
as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almost inhis sleep,
picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.

Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You'veheard of some
one you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybethey've been
promoted, but more probably they've been murdered or drowned.Perhaps they
just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made itinteresting
enough to get in the news.

But that doesn't happen often. Most of the time you sit and dozeand tap,
tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.

Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night,and I
haven't got over it yet. I wish I could.

You see, I handle the night manager's desk in a western seaporttown; what
the name is, doesn't matter.

There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, afellow named
John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a sober,
hard-working sort.

He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a"double"
man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and typethe stories
on different typewriters at the same time. He was one of thethree men I
ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after hour, andnever make a
mistake.

Generally, we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when itwas late
and the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stationswould open a
second wire, and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a wizard,a
mechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but waswithout
imagination.

On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. Itwas the
first and last time I had ever heard him say a word abouthimself, and I had
known him for three years.

It was just three o'clock and we were running only one wire. Iwas nodding
over the reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him,when he
spoke.

"Jim," he said, "does it feel close in here toyou?"

"Why, no, John," I answered, "but I'll open awindow if you like."

"Never mind," he said. "I reckon I'm just a littletired."

That was all that was said, and I went on working. Every tenminutes or so I
would walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked upneatly beside
the typewriter as the messages were printed out in triplicate.

It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed hehad opened
up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought itwas a little
unusual, as there was nothing very "hot" coming in. Onmy next trip I picked
up the copy from both machines and took it back to my desk tosort out the
duplicates.

The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I justlooked
over it hurriedly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. Iremembered it
particularly because the story was from a town I had never heardof:
"Xebico." Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate ofit from our files:

"Xebico, Sept 16 CP BULLETIN

"The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over
the town at 4 o'clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic has
stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights
of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is
constantly growing heavier.

"Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and
the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred
before in the history of the city.

"At 7 P.M. last night the municipal authorities...

(more)

That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureau
headquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of thename of the
town.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over foranother batch
of copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switchedhis green
electric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and hitonly the top
of the two typewriters.

Only the usual stuff was in the righthand pile, but the lefthandbatch
carried another story from Xebico. All press dispatches come in"takes,"
meaning that parts of many different stories are strung alongtogether,
perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming through at atime. This
second story was marked "add fog." Here is the copy:

"At 7 P.M. the fog had increased noticeably. All lights
were now invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness.

"As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompanied
by a sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experienced
here."

Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and theinitials
of the operator, JM.

There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire.Here it is:

"2nd add Xebico Fog.

"Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly.
Among the most unusual is that of the sexton of the local
church, who groped his way to headquarters in a hysterical
condition and declared that the fog originated in the village
churchyard.

"'It was first visible as a soft gray blanket clinging to
the earth above the graves,' he stated. 'Then it began to rise,
higher and higher. A subterranean breeze seemed to blow it in
billows, which split up and then joined together again.

"'Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist into
queer forms and figures. And then, in the very thick midst of
the mass, something moved.

"'I turned and ran from the accursed spot. Behind me I
heard screams coming from the houses bordering on the
graveyard.'

"Although the sexton's story is generally discredited, a
party has left to investigate. Immediately after telling his
story, the sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital,
unconscious."

Queer story, wasn't it. Not that we aren't used to it, for a lotof unusual
stories come in over the wire. But for some reason or other,perhaps because
it was so quiet that night, the report of the fog made a greatimpression on
me.

It was almost with dread that I went over to the waiting piles ofcopy.
Morgan did not move, and the only sound in the room was the tap-tapof the
sounders. It was ominous, nerve- racking.

There was another story from Xebico in the pile of copy. I seizedon it
anxiously.

"New Lead Xebico Fog CP

"The rescue party which went out at 11 P.M. to investigate
a weird story of the origin of a fog which, since late
yesterday, has shrouded the city in darkness has failed to
return. Another and larger party has been dispatched.

"Meanwhile, the fog has, if possible, grown heavier. It
seeps through the cracks in the doors and fills the atmosphere
with a depressing odor of decay. It is oppressive, terrifying,
bearing with it a subtle impression of things long dead.

"Residents of the city have left their homes and gathered
in the local church, where the priests are holding services of
prayer. The scene is beyond description. Grown folk and
children are alike terrified and many are almost beside
themselves with fear.

"Amid the whisps of vapor which partly veil the church
auditorium, an old priest is praying for the welfare of his
flock. They alternately wail and cross themselves.

"From the outskirts of the city may be heard cries of
unknown voices. They echo through the fog in queer uncadenced
minor keys. The sounds resemble nothing so much as wind
whistling through a gigantic tunnel. But the night is calm and
there is no wind. The second rescue party... (more)"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am a calm man and never in a dozen years spent with the wires,have I been
known to become excited, but despite myself I rose from my chairand walked
to the window.

Could I be mistaken, or far down in the canyons of the citybeneath me did I
see a faint trace of fog? Pshaw! It was all imagination.

In the pressroom the click of the sounders seemed to have raisedthe tempo
of their tune. Morgan alone had not stirred from his chair. Hishead sunk
between his shoulders, he tapped the dispatches out on thetypewriters with
one finger of each hand.

He looked asleep, but no; endlessly, efficiently, the twomachines rattled
off line after line, as relentlessly and effortlessly as deathitself. There
was something about the monotonous movement of the typewriterkeys that
fascinated me. I walked over and stood behind his chair, readingover his
shoulder the type as it came into being, word by word.

Ah, here was another:

"Flash Xebico CP

"There will be no more bulletins from this office. The
impossible has happened. No messages have come into this room
for twenty minutes. We are cut off from the outside and even
the streets below us.

"I will stay with the wire until the end.

"It is the end, indeed. Since 4 P.M. yesterday the fog has
hung over the city. Following reports from the sexton of the
local church, two rescue parties were sent out to investigate
conditions on the outskirts of the city. Neither party has ever
returned nor was any word received from them. It is quite
certain now that they will never return.

"From my instrument I can gaze down on the city beneath me.
From the position of this room on the thirteenth floor, nearly
the entire city can be seen. Now I can see only a thick blanket
of blackness where customarily are lights and life.

"I fear greatly that the wailing cries heard constantly
from the outskirts of the city are the death cries of the
inhabitants. They are constantly increasing in volume and are
approaching the center of the city.

"The fog yet hangs over everything. If possible, it is
even heavier than before, but the conditions have changed.
Instead of an opaque, impenetrable wall of odorous vapor, there
now swirls and writhes a shapeless mass in contortions of almost
human agony. Now and again the mass parts and I catch a brief
glimpse of the streets below.

"People are running to and fro, screaming in despair. A
vast bedlam of sound flies up to my window, and above all is the
immense whistling of unseen and unfelt winds.

"The fog has again swept over the city and the whistling is
coming closer and closer.

"It is now directly beneath me.

"God! An instant ago the mist opened and I caught a
glimpse of the streets below.

"The fog is not simply vapor -- it lives! By the side of
each moaning and weeping human is a companion figure, an aura of
strange and vari-colored hues. How the shapes cling! Each to a
living thing!

"The men and women are down. Flat on their faces. The fog
figures caress them lovingly. They are kneeling beside them.
They are -- but I dare not tell it.

"The prone and writhing bodies have been stripped of their
clothing. They are being consumed -- piecemeal.

"A merciful wall of hot, steaming vapor has swept over the
whole scene. I can see no more.

"Beneath me the wall of vapor is changing colors. It seems
to be lighted by internal fires. No, it isn't. I have made a
mistake. The colors are from above, reflections from the sky.

"Look up! Look up! The whole sky is in flames. Colors as
yet unseen by man or demon. The flames are moving; they have
started to intermix; the colors are rearranging themselves.
They are so brilliant that my eyes burn, they are a long
way off.

"Now they have begun to swirl, to circle in and out,
twisting in intricate designs and patterns. The lights are
racing each with each, a kaleidoscope of unearthly brilliance.

"I have made a discovery. There is nothing harmful in the
lights. They radiate force and friendliness, almost cheeriness.
But by their very strength, they hurt.

"As I look, they are swinging closer and closer, a million
miles at each jump. Millions of miles with the speed of light.
Aye, it is light of quintessence of all light. Beneath it the
fog melts into a jeweled mist radiant, rainbow-colored of a
thousand varied spectra.

"I can see the streets. Why, they are filled with people!
The lights are coming closer. They are all around me. I am
enveloped. I..."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The message stopped abruptly. The wire to Xebico was dead.Beneath my eyes
in the narrow circle of light from under the green lamp-shade,the black
printing no longer spun itself, letter by letter, across the page.

The room seemed filled with a solemn quiet, a silence vaguelyimpressive,
powerful.

I looked down at Morgan. His hands had dropped nervelessly at hissides,
while his body had hunched over peculiarly. I turned the lamp-shadeback,
throwing light squarely in his face. His eyes were staring, fixed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Filled with a sudden foreboding, I stepped beside him and calledChicago on
the wire. After a second the sounder clicked its answer.

Why? But there was something wrong. Chicago was reporting thatWire Two had
not been used throughout the evening.

"Morgan!" I shouted. "Morgan! Wake up, it isn'ttrue. Some one has been
hoaxing us. Why..." In my eagerness I grasped him by theshoulder.

His body was quite cold. Morgan had been dead for hours. Could itbe that
his sensitized brain and automatic fingers had continued torecord
impressions even after the end?

I shall never know, for I shall never again handle the nightshift. Search
in a world atlas discloses no town of Xebico. Whatever it wasthat killed
John Morgan will forever remain a mystery.