The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Record of Currupira, by Robert Abernathy
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: The Record of Currupira
Author: Robert Abernathy
Release Date: March 24, 2010 [EBook #31762]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RECORD OF CURRUPIRA ***
Produced by Greg Weeks, Barbara Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, January 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.
_This story contains what is, to us, at any rate, a novel
idea--that when we of Earth finally reach Mars we may find
there records of prehistoric Earth far surpassing those of our
paleontologists. Or, in other words, that creatures of Mars
may have visited this planet tens of thousands of years ago
and returned home with specimens for their science. A nice
idea well told._
THE RECORD OF CURRUPIRA
_by ... Robert Abernathy_
From ancient Martian records came the grim song of a creature
whose very existence was long forgotten.
James Dalton strode briskly through the main exhibit room of New
York's Martian Museum, hardly glancing to right or left though many
displays had been added since his last visit. The rockets were coming
home regularly now and their most valuable cargoes--at least from a
scientist's point of view--were the relics of an alien civilization
brought to light by the archeologists excavating the great dead
cities.
One new exhibit did catch Dalton's eye. He paused to read the label
with interest--
MAN FROM MARS:
_The body here preserved was found December 12, 2001, by an
exploring party from the spaceship NEVADA, in the Martian
city which we designate E-3. It rested in a case much like
this, in a building that had evidently been the municipal
museum. Around it, in other cases likewise undisturbed since a
period estimated at fifty thousand years ago, were a number of
Earthly artifacts. These finds prove beyond doubt that a
Martian scientific expedition visited Earth before the dawn of
our history._
On the label someone had painstakingly copied the Martian glyphs found
on the mummy's original case. Dalton's eyes traced the looping
ornamental script--he was one of the very few men who had put in the
years of work necessary to read inscriptional Martian--and he smiled
appreciation of a jest that had taken fifty thousand years to
ripen--the writing said simply, _Man From Earth_.
The mummy lying on a sculptured catafalque beyond the glass was
amazingly well preserved--far more lifelike and immensely older than
anything Egypt had yielded. Long-dead Martian embalmers had done a
good job even on what to them was the corpse of an other-world
monster.
He had been a small wiry man. His skin was dark though its color might
have been affected by mummification. His features suggested those of
the Forest Indian. Beside him lay his flaked-stone ax, his
bone-pointed spear and spear thrower, likewise preserved by a
marvelous chemistry.
Looking down at that ancient nameless ancestor, Dalton was moved to
solemn thoughts. This creature had been first of all human-kind to
make the tremendous crossing to Mars--had seen its lost race in living
glory, had died there and became a museum exhibit for the multiple
eyes of wise grey spiderish aliens.
"Interested in Oswald, sir?"
Dalton glanced up and saw an attendant. "I was just thinking--if he
could only talk! He does have a name, then?"
The guard grinned. "Well, we call him Oswald. Sort of inconvenient,
not having a name. When I worked at the Metropolitan we used to call
all the Pharaohs and Assyrian kings by their first names."
Dalton mentally classified another example of the deep human need for
verbal handles to lift unwieldy chunks of environment. The
professional thought recalled him to business and he glanced at his
watch.
"I'm supposed to meet Dr. Oliver Thwaite here this morning. Has he
come in yet?"
"The archeologist? He's here early and late when he's on Earth. He'll
be up in the cataloguing department now. Want me to show you--"
"I know the way," said Dalton. "Thanks all the same." He left the
elevator at the fourth floor and impatiently pushed open the main
cataloguing room's glazed door.
Inside cabinets and broad tables bore a wilderness of strange
artifacts, many still crusted with red Martian sand. Alone in the room
a trim-mustached man in a rough open-throated shirt looked up from an
object he had been cleaning with a soft brush.
"Dr. Thwaite? I'm Jim Dalton."
"Glad to meet you, Professor." Thwaite carefully laid down his work,
then rose to grip the visitor's hand. "You didn't lose any time."
"After you called last night I managed to get a seat on the
dawn-rocket out of Chicago. I hope I'm not interrupting?"
"Not at all. I've got some assistants coming in around nine. I was
just going over some stuff I don't like to trust to their
thumb-fingered mercies."
Dalton looked down at the thing the archeologist had been brushing. It
was a reed syrinx, the Pan's pipes of antiquity. "That's not a very
Martian-looking specimen," he commented.
"The Martians, not having any lips, could hardly have had much use for
it," said Thwaite. "This is of Earthly manufacture--one of the
Martians' specimens from Earth, kept intact over all this time by a
preservative I wish we knew how to make. It's a nice find, man's
earliest known musical instrument--hardly as interesting as the record
though."
Dalton's eyes brightened. "Have you listened to the record yet?"
"No. We got the machine working last night and ran off some of the
Martian stuff. Clear as a bell. But I saved the main attraction for
when you got here." Thwaite turned to a side door, fishing a key from
his pocket. "The playback machine's in here."
The apparatus, squatting on a sturdy table in the small room beyond,
had the slightly haywire look of an experimental model. But it was
little short of a miracle to those who knew how it had been built--on
the basis of radioed descriptions of the ruined device the excavators
had dug up on Mars.
Even more intriguing, however, was the row of neatly labeled boxes on
a shelf. There in cushioned nests reposed little cylinders of
age-tarnished metal, on which a close observer could still trace the
faint engraved lines and whorls of Martian script. These were the
best-preserved specimens yet found of Martian record films.
Sound and pictures were on them, impressed there by a triumphant
science so long ago that the code of Hammurabi or the hieroglyphs of
Khufu seemed by comparison like yesterday's newspaper. Men of Earth
were ready now to evoke these ancient voices--but to reproduce the
stereoscopic images was still beyond human technology.
Dalton scrutinized one label intently. "Odd," he said. "I realize how
much the Martian archives may have to offer us when we master their
spoken language--but I still want most to hear _this_ record, the one
the Martians made right here on Earth."
Thwaite nodded comprehendingly. "The human race is a good deal like an
amnesia patient that wakes up at the age of forty and finds himself
with a fairly prosperous business, a wife and children and a mortgage,
but no recollection of his youth or infancy--and nobody around to tell
him how he got where he is.
"We invented writing so doggone late in the game. Now we get to Mars
and find the people there knew us before we knew ourselves--but they
died or maybe picked up and went, leaving just this behind." He used
both hands to lift the precious gray cylinder from its box. "And of
course you linguists in particular get a big charge out of this
discovery."
"_If_ it's a record of human speech it'll be the oldest ever found. It
may do for comparative-historical linguistics what the Rosetta Stone
did for Egyptology." Dalton grinned boyishly. "Some of us even nurse
the hope it may do something for our old headache--the problem of the
origin of language. That was one of the most important, maybe _the_
most important step in human progress--and we don't know how or when
or why!"
"I've heard of the bowwow theory and the dingdong theory," said
Thwaite, his hands busy with the machine.
"Pure speculations. The plain fact is we haven't even been able to
make an informed guess because the evidence, the written records, only
run back about six thousand years. That racial amnesia you spoke of.
"Personally, I have a weakness for the magical theory--that man
invented language in the search for magic formulae, words of power.
Unlike the other theories, that one assumes as the motive force not
merely passive imitativeness but an outgoing will.
"Even the speechless subman must have observed that he could affect
the behavior of animals of his own and other species by making
appropriate noises--a mating call or a terrifying shout, for instance.
Hence the perennial conviction you can get what you want if you just
hold your mouth right, _and_ you know the proper prayers or curses."
"A logical conclusion from the animistic viewpoint," said Thwaite. He
frowned over the delicate task of starting the film, inquired
offhandedly, "You got the photostat of the label inscription? What did
you make of it?"
"Not much more than Henderson did on Mars. There's the date of the
recording and the place--the longitude doesn't mean anything to us
because we still don't know where the Martians fixed their zero
meridian. But it was near the equator and, the text indicates, in a
tropical forest--probably in Africa or South America.
"Then there's the sentence Henderson couldn't make out. It's obscure and
rather badly defaced, but it's evidently a comment--unfavorable--on
the subject-matter of the recording. In it appears twice a sort of
interjection-adverb that in other contexts implies revulsion--something
like _ugh_!"
"Funny. Looks like the Martians saw something on Earth they didn't
like. Too bad we can't reproduce the visual record yet."
Dalton said soberly, "The Martian's vocabulary indicates that for all
their physical difference from us they had emotions very much like
human beings'. Whatever they saw must have been something we wouldn't
have liked either."
The reproducer hummed softly. Thwaite closed the motor switch and the
ancient film slid smoothly from its casing. Out of the speaker burst a
strange medley of whirrings, clicks, chirps, trills and modulated
drones and buzzings--a sound like the voice of grasshoppers in a
drought-stricken field of summer.
Dalton listened raptly, as if by sheer concentration he might even now
be able to guess at connections between the sounds of spoken
Martian--heard now for the first time--and the written symbols that he
had been working over for years. But he couldn't, of course--that
would require a painstaking correlation analysis.
"Evidently it's an introduction or commentary," said the archeologist.
"Our photocell examination showed the wave-patterns of the initial and
final portions of the film were typically Martian--but the middle part
isn't. The middle part is whatever they recorded here on Earth."
"If only that last part is a translation...." said Dalton hopefully.
Then the alien susurration ceased coming from the reproducer and he
closed his mouth abruptly and leaned forward.
For the space of a caught breath there was silence. Then another voice
came in, the voice of Earth hundreds of centuries dead.
It was not human. No more than the first had been--but the Martian
sounds had been merely alien and these were horrible.
It was like nothing so much as the croaking of some gigantic frog,
risen bellowing from a bottomless primeval swamp. It bayed of stinking
sunless pools and gurgled of black ooze. And its booming notes
descended to subsonic throbbings that gripped and wrung the nerves to
anguish.
Dalton was involuntarily on his feet, clawing for the switch. But he
stopped, reeling. His head spun and he could not see. Through his
dizzy brain the great voice roared and the mighty tones below hearing
hammered at the inmost fortress of the man's will.
On the heels of that deafening assault the voice began to change. The
numbing thunder rumbled back, repeating the pain and the threat--but
underneath something crooned and wheedled obscenely. It said,
"_Come ... come ... come...._" And the stunned prey came on stumbling
feet, shivering with a terror that could not break the spell.
Where the squat black machine had been was something that was also
squat and black and huge. It crouched motionless and blind in the mud
and from its pulsing expanded throat vibrated the demonic croaking. As
the victim swayed helplessly nearer the mouth opened wide upon long
rows of frightful teeth....
The monstrous song stopped suddenly. Then still another voice cried
briefly, thinly in agony and despair. That voice was human.
Each of the two men looked into a white strange face. They were
standing on opposite sides of the table and between them the playback
machine had fallen silent. Then it began to whir again in the locust
speech of the Martian commentator, explaining rapidly, unintelligibly.
Thwaite found the switch with wooden fingers. As if with one accord
they retreated from the black machine. Neither of them even tried to
make a false show of self-possession. Each knew, from his first
glimpse of the other's dilated staring eyes, that both had experienced
and seen the same.
Dalton sank shivering into a chair, the darkness still swirling
threateningly in his brain. Presently he said, "The expression of a
will--that much was true. But the will--was not of man."
* * * * *
James Dalton took a vacation. After a few days he went to a
psychiatrist, who observed the usual symptoms of overwork and worry
and recommended a change of scene--a rest in the country.
On the first night at a friend's secluded farm Dalton awoke drenched
in cold sweat. Through the open window from not far away came a
hellish serenade, the noise of frogs--the high nervous voices of
peepers punctuating the deep leisured booming of bullfrogs.
The linguist flung on his clothes and drove back at reckless speed to
where there were lights and the noises of men and their machines. He
spent the rest of his vacation burrowing under the clamor of the city
whose steel and pavements proclaimed man's victory over the very grass
that grew.
After awhile he felt better and needed work again. He took up his
planned study of the Martian recordings, correlating the spoken words
with the written ones he had already arduously learned to read.
The Martian Museum readily lent him the recordings he requested for
use in his work, including the one made on Earth. He studied the
Martian-language portion of this and succeeded in making a partial
translation--but carefully refrained from playing the middle section
of the film back again.
Came a day, though, when it occurred to him that he had heard not a
word from Thwaite. He made inquiries through the Museum and learned
that the archeologist had applied for a leave of absence and left
before it was granted. Gone where? The Museum people didn't know--but
Thwaite had not been trying to cover his trail. A call to Global Air
Transport brought the desired information.
A premonition ran up Dalton's spine--but he was surprised at how
calmly he thought and acted. He picked up the phone and called
Transport again--this time their booking department.
"When's the earliest time I can get passage to Belem?" he asked.
With no more than an hour to pack and catch the rocket he hurried to
the Museum. The place was more or less populated with sightseers,
which was annoying, because Dalton's plans now included larceny.
He waited before the building till the coast was clear, then, with
handkerchief-wrapped knuckles, broke the glass and tripped the lever
on the fire alarm. In minutes a wail of sirens and roar of arriving
motors was satisfyingly loud in the main exhibit room. Police and fire
department helicopters buzzed overhead. A wave of mingled fright and
curiosity swept visitors and attendants alike to the doors.
Dalton, lingering, found himself watched only by the millennially
sightless eyes of the man who lay in state in an airless glass tomb.
The stern face was inscrutable behind the silence of many thousand
years.
"Excuse me, Oswald," murmured Dalton. "I'd like to borrow something of
yours but I'm sure you won't mind."
The reed flute was in a long case devoted to Earthly specimens.
Unhesitatingly Dalton smashed the glass.
* * * * *
Brazil is a vast country, and it cost much trouble and time and
expense before Dalton caught up with Thwaite in a forlorn riverbank
town along the line where civilization hesitates on the shore of that
vast sea of vegetation called the _mato_. Night had just fallen when
Dalton arrived. He found Thwaite alone in a lighted room of the single
drab hotel--alone and very busy.
The archeologist was shaggily unshaven. He looked up and said
something that might have been a greeting devoid of surprise. Dalton
grimaced apologetically, set down his suitcase and pried the wax plugs
out of his ears, explaining with a gesture that included the world
outside, where the tree frogs sang deafeningly in the hot stirring
darkness of the near forest.
"How do you stand it?" he asked.
Thwaite's lips drew back from his teeth. "I'm fighting it," he said
shortly, picking up his work again. On the bed where he sat were
scattered steel cartridge clips. He was going through them with a
small file, carefully cutting a deep cross in the soft nose of every
bullet. Nearby a heavy-caliber rifle leaned against a wardrobe. Other
things were in evidence--boots, canteens, knapsacks, the tough
clothing a man needs in the _mato_.
"You're looking for _it_."
Thwaite's eyes burned feverishly. "Yes. Do you think I'm crazy?"
* * * * *
Dalton pulled a rickety chair toward him and sat down straddling it.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "_It_ was very likely a creature of
the last interglacial period. The ice may have finished its kind."
"The ice never touched these equatorial forests." Thwaite smiled
unpleasantly. "And the Indians and old settlers down here have
stories--about a thing that calls in the _mato_, that can paralyze a
man with fear. _Currupira_ is their name for it.
"When I remembered those stories they fell into place alongside a lot
of others from different countries and times--the Sirens, for
instance, and the Lorelei. Those legends are ancient. But perhaps here
in the Amazon basin, in the forests that have never been cut and the
swamps that have never been drained, the _currupira_ is still real and
alive. I _hope_ so!"
"Why?"
"I want to meet it. I want to show it that men can destroy it with all
its unholy power." Thwaite bore down viciously on the file and the
bright flakes of lead glittered to the floor beside his feet.
Dalton watched him with eyes of compassion. He heard the frog music
swelling outside, a harrowing reminder of ultimate blasphemous insult,
and he felt the futility of argument.
"Remember, I heard it too," Dalton said. "And I sensed what you did.
That voice or some combination of frequencies or overtones within it,
is resonant to the essence of evil--the fundamental life-hating
self-destroying evil in man--even to have glimpsed it, to have heard
the brainless beast mocking, was an outrage to humanity that a man
must...."
Dalton paused, got a grip on himself. "But, consider--the outrage was
wiped out, humanity won its victory over the monster a long time ago.
What if it isn't quite extinct? That record was fifty thousand years
old."
"What did you do with the record?" Thwaite looked up sharply.
"I obliterated that--the voice and the pictures that went with it from
the film before I returned it to the Museum."
Thwaite sighed deeply. "Good. I was damning myself for not doing that
before I left."
The linguist said, "I think it answered my question as much as I want
it answered. The origin of speech--lies in the will to power, the lust
to dominate other men by preying on the weakness or evil in them.
"Those first men didn't just guess that such power existed--they
_knew_ because the beast had taught them and they tried to imitate
it--the mystagogues and tyrants through the ages, with voices, with
tomtoms and bull-roarers and trumpets. What makes the memory of that
voice so hard to live with is just knowing that what it called to is a
part of man--isn't that it?"
Thwaite didn't answer. He had taken the heavy rifle across his knees
and was methodically testing the movement of the well-oiled breech
mechanism.
Dalton stood up wearily and picked up his suitcase. "I'll check into
the hotel. Suppose we talk this over some more in the morning. Maybe
things'll look different by daylight."
But in the morning Thwaite was gone--upriver with a hired boatman,
said the natives. The note he had left said only, _Sorry. But it's no
use talking about humanity--this is personal._
Dalton crushed the note angrily, muttering under his breath, "The
fool! Didn't he realize I'd go with him?" He hurled the crumpled paper
aside and stalked out to look for a guide.
* * * * *
They chugged slowly westward up the forest-walled river, an obscure
tributary that flowed somewhere into the Xingú. After four days, they
had hopes of being close on the others' track. The brown-faced guide,
Joao, who held the tiller now, was a magician. He had conjured up an
ancient outboard motor for the scow-like boat Dalton had bought from a
fisherman.
The sun was setting murkily and the sluggish swell of the water ahead
was the color of witch's blood. Under its opaque surface _a mae
dágua_, the Mother of Water, ruled over creatures slimy and
razor-toothed. In the blackness beneath the great trees, where it was
dark even at noon, other beings had their kingdom.
Out of the forest came the crying grunting hooting voices of its life
that woke at nightfall, fiercer and more feverish than that of the
daytime. To the man from the north there seemed something indecent in
the fertile febrile swarming of life here. Compared to a temperate
woodland the _mato_ was like a metropolis against a sleepy village.
"What's that?" Dalton demanded sharply as a particularly hideous
squawk floated across the water.
"_Nao é nada. A bicharia agitase._" Joao shrugged. "The menagerie
agitates itself." His manner indicated that some _bichinho_ beneath
notice had made the noise.
But moments later the little brown man became rigid. He half rose to
his feet in the boat's stern, then stooped and shut off the popping
motor. In the relative silence the other heard what he had--far off
and indistinct, muttering deep in the black _mato_, a voice that
croaked of ravenous hunger in accents abominably known to him.
"_Currupira_," said Joao tensely. "_Currupira sai á caçada da noite._"
He watched the foreigner with eyes that gleamed in the fading light
like polished onyx.
"_Avante!_" snapped Dalton. "See if it comes closer to the river this
time."
It was not the first time they had heard that voice calling since they
had ventured deep into the unpeopled swampland about which the
downriver settlements had fearful stories to whisper.
Silently the guide spun the engine. The boat sputtered on. Dalton
strained his eyes, watching the darkening shore as he had watched
fruitlessly for so many miles.
But now, as they rounded a gentle bend, he glimpsed a small reddish
spark near the bank. Then, by the last glimmer of the swiftly fading
twilight, he made out a boat pulled up under gnarled tree-roots. That
was all he could see but the movement of the red spark told him a man
was sitting in the boat, smoking a cigarette.
"In there," he ordered in a low voice but Joao had seen already and
was steering toward the shore.
The cigarette arched into the water and hissed out and they heard a
scuffling and lap of water as the other boat swayed, which meant that
the man in it had stood up.
He sprang into visibility as a flashlight in Dalton's hand went on. A
squat, swarthy man with rugged features, a _caboclo_, of white and
Indian blood. He blinked expressionlessly at the light.
"Where is the American scientist?" demanded Dalton in Portuguese.
"_Quem sabe? Foi-se._"
"Which way did he go?"
"_Nao importa. O doutor é doido; nao ha-de-voltar_," said the man
suddenly. "It doesn't matter. The doctor is crazy--he won't come
back."
"Answer me, damn it! Which way?"
The _caboclo_ jerked his shoulders nervously and pointed.
"Come on!" said Dalton and scrambled ashore even as Joao was stopping
the motor and making the boat fast beside the other. "He's gone in
after it!"
The forest was a black labyrinth. Its tangled darkness seemed to drink
up the beam of the powerful flashlight Dalton had brought, its uneasy
rustlings and animal-noises pressed in to swallow the sound of human
movements for which he strained his ears, fearing to call out. He
pushed forward recklessly, carried on by a sort of inertia of
determination; behind him Joao followed, though he moved woodenly and
muttered prayers under his breath.
Then somewhere very near a great voice croaked briefly and was
silent--so close that it poured a wave of faintness over the hearer,
seemed to send numbing electricity tingling along his motor nerves.
Joao dropped to his knees and flung both arms about a tree-bole. His
brown face when the light fell on it was shiny with sweat, his eyes
dilated and blind-looking. Dalton slammed the heel of his hand against
the man's shoulder and got no response save for a tightening of the
grip on the treetrunk, and a pitiful whimper, "_Assombra-me_--it
overshadows me!"
Dalton swung the flashlight beam ahead and saw nothing. Then all at
once, not fifty yards away, a single glowing eye sprang out of the
darkness, arched through the air and hit the ground to blaze into
searing brilliance and white smoke. The clearing in which it burned
grew bright as day, and Dalton saw a silhouetted figure clutching a
rifle and turning its head from side to side.
He plunged headlong toward the light of the flare, shouting, "Thwaite,
you idiot! You can't--"
And then the _currupira_ spoke.
Its bellowing seemed to come from all around, from the ground, the
trees, the air. It smote like a blow in the stomach that drives out
wind and fight. And it roared on, lashing at the wills of those who
heard it, beating and stamping them out like sparks of a scattered
fire.
Dalton groped with one hand for his pocket but his hand kept slipping
away into a matterless void as his vision threatened to slip into
blindness. Dimly he saw Thwaite, a stone's throw ahead of him, start
to lift his weapon and then stand frozen, swaying a little on his feet
as if buffeted by waves of sound.
Already the second theme was coming in--the insidious obbligato of
invitation to death, wheedling that _this way ... this way ..._ was
the path from the torment and terror that the monstrous voice flooded
over them.
Thwaite took a stiff step, then another and another, toward the black
wall of the _mato_ that rose beyond the clearing. With an
indescribable shudder Dalton realized that he too had moved an
involuntary step forward. The _currupira's_ voice rose triumphantly.
With a mighty effort of will Dalton closed fingers he could not feel
on the object in his pocket. Like a man lifting a mountain he lifted
it to his lips.
A high sweet note cut like a knife through the roll of nightmare
drums. With terrible concentration Dalton shifted his fingers and blew
and blew....
Piercing and lingering, the tones of the pipes flowed into his veins,
tingling, warring with the numbing poison of the _currupira's_ song.
Dalton was no musician but it seemed to him then that an ancestral
instinct was with him, guiding his breath and his fingers. The powers
of the monster were darkness and cold and weariness of living, the
death-urge recoiling from life into nothingness.
But the powers of the pipes were life and light and warmth, life
returning when the winter is gone, greenness and laughter and love.
Life was in them, life of men dead these thousand generations, life
even of the craftsmen on an alien planet who had preserved their form
and their meaning for this moment.
Dalton advanced of his own will until he stood beside Thwaite--but the
other remained unstirring and Dalton did not dare pause for a moment,
while the monster yet bellowed in the blackness before them. The light
of the flare was reddening, dying....
After a seeming eternity he saw motion, saw the rifle muzzle swing up.
The shot was deafening in his ear, but it was an immeasurable relief.
As it echoed the _currupira's_ voice was abruptly silent. In the
bushes ahead there was a rending of branches, a frantic slithering
movement of a huge body.
They followed the noises in a sort of frenzy, plunging toward them
heedless of thorns and whipping branches. The flashlight stabbed and
revealed nothing. Out of the shadows a bass croaking came again, and
Thwaite fired twice at the sound and there was silence save for a
renewed flurry of cracking twigs.
Along the water's edge, obscured by the trees between, moved something
black and huge, that shone wetly. Thwaite dropped to one knee and
began firing at it, emptying the magazine.
They pressed forward to the margin of the slough, feet squishing in
the deep muck. Dalton played his flashlight on the water's surface and
the still-moving ripples seemed to reflect redly.
Thwaite was first to break the silence. He said grimly, "Damned lucky
for me you got here when you did. It--_had_ me."
Dalton nodded without speaking.
"But how did you know what to do?" Thwaite asked.
"It wasn't my discovery," said the linguist soberly. "Our remote
ancestors met this threat and invented a weapon against it. Otherwise
man might not have survived. I learned the details from the Martian
records when I succeeded in translating them. Fortunately the Martians
also preserved a specimen of the weapon our ancestors invented."
He held up the little reed flute and the archeologist's eyes widened
with recognition.
Dalton looked out across the dark swamp-water, where the ripples were
fading out. "In the beginning there was the voice of evil--but there
was also the music of good, created to combat it. Thank God that in
mankind's makeup there's more than one fundamental note!"
End of Project Gutenberg's The Record of Currupira, by Robert Abernathy
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RECORD OF CURRUPIRA ***
***** This file should be named 31762-8.txt or 31762-8.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/7/6/31762/
Produced by Greg Weeks, Barbara Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
https://gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
[email protected]. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at https://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
[email protected]
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit https://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
https://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
