Part 13

He rose, took the bucket, and walked in the direction of the small spring at the northern end of the island. The moon had risen, large and white, and lit his path with dancing shadows from the stirring flowers along the way. His heart was heavy; Grunya’s strange sternness--almost coldness--weighed upon him. But then a lighter thought came. Each of us, he thought, has been subject to strain these past few days. Lord knows how I must have appeared to her! Just a few more days and they would find themselves aboard ship, and the captain could marry them. Man and wife! He filled the bucket and started back, whistling softly to himself.

The water butt was in the kitchen. He up-ended the bucket and poured; water overflowed, washing against his bare feet. The butt had been full. In sudden fear he threw the bucket down and dashed for the living room. Grunya was still working silently, but her cheeks were wet with tears. A sheaf of papers lay upon the table before her, curled and heavy under the lamp.

“Grunya, my dear! What....”

She attempted to continue her work but the tears streamed faster and faster until she flung the weaving from her and fell into his waiting arms.

“Oh, Winter...!”

“What is it? What is it, my darling?” Sudden suspicion came to him and he turned in the direction of Dragomiloff’s room. The room was dark, but the moonlight, streaming in at the open window, fell across the empty bed. He sprang for the door, but Grunya clutched his arm.

“No! You must not! Read this!”

He paused irresolutely, but the pressure of her hand upon his arm was demanding. Her eyes, raised to his, were filled with tears, but they were filled, also, with determination. Slowly he relaxed and reached for the sheaf of papers. Grunya watched his face as he read, her eyes roving from the broad forehead to the stern jaw, noting the marks of the man who would be her only refuge forever.

“Dear Children:

“I can wait no longer. Haas has not come and my hours are running out.

“You must try and understand me and--as Hall would call it--my madness. I speak now of the action I must take. As head of the Assassination Bureau I accepted a commission; this commission will be fulfilled. The Bureau has never failed and it will not fail now. To do so would negate everything it has ever stood for. I am sure that only death could have prevented Haas from accomplishing his mission, but in our organization the duty always passes to another. As the last member, I must accept it.

“But I do not accept it with sadness. The Bureau was my life, and as it vanishes, so must Ivan Dragomiloff vanish. Nor am I accepting it with shame; pride marks the step I shall take this night. Possibly we were wrong--at one time you, Hall, convinced me that we were. But we were never wrong for the wrong reasons--even in our wrongness there was a rightness.

“That we killed, and that many times, we do not deny. But the terrible thing in killing is not the quantity of victims, but the quality. The death of one Socrates is a far greater crime against humanity than the slaughter of endless hordes of the savages that Genghis Khan led on the brutal rape of Asia; but who truly believes it? The public--were they to know--would scream imprecation down at our Bureau, even as, with the same breath, they glorified to the heavens all forms of thoughtless and needless slaying.

“You doubt me? Walk through the parks of our great cities, and our squares, and our plazas. What monuments do you find to Aristotle? Or to Paine? Or Spinoza? No; these spaces are reserved for the demigods, sword in hand, who led us in all our slaughtering crusades since we raised ourselves from the apes. The late war with Spain will doubtless fill the few remaining spots, both here and in Spain, with horsed heroes, arms raised in bloody salute, commemorating in deathless bronze the victory of violence in the battle for men’s minds.

“Yet I allowed myself to be convinced that we were wrong. Why? Because in essence we _were_ wrong. The world must come to recognize the joint responsibility for justice; it can no longer remain the aim of a select--and self-selected--few. Even now, the rumblings that come from Europe foreshadow a greater catastrophe than mankind has yet endured, but the salvation must come from a larger morality than even we could offer. It must come from the growing moral fibre of the world itself.

“Yet, one doubt; one question. If that moral fibre be not forthcoming? Then, in some distant age, the Assassination Bureau may well be re-born. For of the deaths that can be laid at our doors, the following may be said: No man died who did not deserve it. No man died whose death did not benefit mankind. It is doubtful if the same will be said of those whose statues rise from the squares after the next ‘final’ war is fought.

“But time runs out. I ask you, Hall, to guard Grunya. She is the life I bequeath to this earth, the proof that no man, right or wrong, can pass without leaving his mark.

“One last kiss to my Grunya. One final handclasp to you, my friend.

“D.”

Hall lifted his eyes from the papers between his fingers; they sought the beautiful face of his loved one.

“You did not attempt to stop him?”

“No.” Her gaze was steady and brave. “All my life he has done everything for me. My slightest wish was granted.” Her eyes misted; her mouth quivered with an effort for control. “I love him so much! I had no other means of repaying him.”

Hall gathered her in his arms, wonder at her great strength flooding him. Suddenly the strain was too much; she burst into violent tears, clutching his arms with all her force.

“Oh, Winter, was I wrong? Was I wrong? Should I have begged him for his life?”

He held her tightly, soothingly. Through the open doorway his eyes sought the smooth sea reflected brightly in the brilliant moonlight. A shadow crossed his vision, a slight figure in the distance, bent easily over a paddle, moving quietly to the center of the channel to await the _Huhu Kai_. He did not know whether he saw it or imagined it, but suddenly one arm seemed to rise from the dwindling canoe in a happy salute.

“No,” he said fiercely, holding her tighter. “No, my darling. You were not wrong.”

THE END

[_Jack London stops and Mr. Fish begins on page 122_]

JACK LONDON’S NOTES FOR THE COMPLETION OF THE BOOK

You “sped the blow” before the truce up. Drago finds this out.

Alarm of Breen when he sees the point. “But I can’t stop it. Any attempt to stop it will immediately explode it.”

Drago: “I’ll help you out,” Breen grateful.

They prove to Breen that he set it in the truce.

“You’re right. I almost was guilty of wrong. Disconnect it--I can’t. That was the device I mentioned. The beauty of this machine is that it is like a decree of the Bureau. Once set, as it is set, no power on earth can stop it. Automatic locking device. A blacksmith could not now remove the clockwork.”

Take it down and throw it in the Bay.

“Friends, lunatics--will you permit this?”

“They can’t stop it,” Hanover chuckled. “The irrefragable logic of the elements! The irrefragable logic of the elements!”

“Are you going to stay here and be blown up?” Hall demanded angrily.

“Certainly not. But, as Breen says, there is plenty of time. Ten minutes will remove the slowest of us outside the area of destruction. In the meantime consider the marvel of it!”

Hall considers other people.

Breen: “I broke down in my reasoning. That shows fallibility of human reason. But, Hanover, you see no breakdown in the reasoning of the elements. Can’t break.”

So absorbed, all forgot the flight of time, Drago stood up, and put an affectionate hand on Lucoville’s shoulder--near to the neck.

Speaks pleasantly.--swift--spasmodic--hand.

Death-touch of Japanese. Caught hat and coat. Slips out--Haas springing like a tiger, collided with servant--crash of dishes.

“Dear friend Lucoville,” says Hanover, peering through spectacles. “You will never reply.”

The Chief truly had the last word.

* * * * *

Next day’s papers--_San Francisco Examiner_--mysterious explosion in Bay--dead fish. No clue.

Drago’s message: “Going to Los Angeles. Shall remain some time. Come and get me.”

At dinner when Drago had exalted adventure path--they accused him of being a sentimentalist, an Epicurean (sneered).

* * * * *

“Gentlemen!” Hall cried desperately, “I appeal to you as mathematicians. Ethics can be reduced to science. Why give all your lives for his?

“Gentlemen, fellow madmen--reflect. Cast this situation in terms of an equation. It is unscientific, irrational. More, it is unmoral. As high ethicists it would be a wanton act, etc.”

They debate. They give in.

Drago: “Wisely done. And now, a truce. I believe we are the only group in the United States or the world who so trust.” Pulls out watch. “It is 9:30. Let us go and have dinner. 2 hours truce. After that, if nothing is determined or deranged, let the status quo continue.”

* * * * *

Hall loses Grunya, who saves Drago, and escapes with him. Then Hall, telegrams, traces them through Mexico, West Indies, Panama, Ecuador--cables big (5 times) sum to Drago, and starts in pursuit.

Arrives; finds them gone. Encounters Haas, and follows him. Sail on same windjammer for Australia. There loses Haas.

Himself, cabling, locates them as headed for Tahiti.

Meets them in Tahiti. Marries Grunya. Appearance of Haas.

The three, Drago, Grunya and Hall (married) live in Tahiti until assassins arrive. Then Drago sneaks in cutter for Taiohae.

Drago assures others of his sanity; they’re not even insane. They’re stupid. They cannot understand the transvaluation of values he has achieved.

On a sandy islet, Dragomiloff manages to blow up the whole group except Haas who is too avidly clever. House mined.

Drago, in Nuka Island, village Taiohae, Marquesas. There is a wrecked cutter and assassin (Haas) is thrown up on beach where Melville escaped nearly a century earlier. While Drago is off exploring Typee Valley on this island, Hall and Grunya play off the assassin Haas, and think are rid of him.

Drago dies triumphantly: Weak, helpless, on Marquesas island, by accident of wreck is discovered by appointed slayer--Haas. Only by accident, however. “In truth I have outwitted organization.” Slayer and he discuss way he is to die. Drago has a slow, painless poison. Agrees to take. Takes. Will be an hour in dying.

Drago: “Now, let us discuss the wrongness of the organization which must be disbanded.”

Grunya and Hall arrive. Schooner lying on and off. They come ashore in whaleboat, in time for his end.

After all dead but Haas, Hall cleaned up the affairs of the Bureau. $117,000 was turned over to him. Stored books and furniture of Drago. Sent mute to be caretaker of the bungalow at Edge Moor.

ENDING AS OUTLINED BY CHARMIAN LONDON

The small yacht sailing, spinnaker winged out, day and night, for many days and nights. The saturnalia of destruction--splendid description of the bonita--by the hundreds of thousands. The great hunting. The miles wide swatch of destruction. The gunies, bosuns, frigate birds, etc., increasing--tens of thousands. All after flying fish. When flying fish come aboard, they, too, rush to catch them. Saturnalia of killing gets on their nerves. Birds break wings against rigging, fall overboard, torn to pieces by bonita and attacked from above by their fluttering kind--frigate birds, bosuns, etc. Native sailors catch bonita to eat raw--as haul in, caught-bonita are attacked by their fellows. Sailors catch a shark--cut it clean open, none of its parts left. Beating heart in a man’s hand--shark heaved overboard, swims and swims, snapping with jaws as the bonita hosts flit by in the sun-flooded brine--beating heart shock to Grunya. Finally the madness of the tropic sun, etc. Here begin to shoot birds, fish, etc., with small automatic rifle, and she looks up and applauds. All killed or injured are immediately eaten by others. Once the Irish terrier goes overboard and is torn to pieces by bonita. Once, her scarf, red, struck and dragged down, etc., etc. Nothing can escape.

And so the end, tragic foredoomed, as they go ashore, sharks snap at their oar blades. And on the beach, a school of small fish, discovered, rush upon the beach. They wade ashore through this silvery surf of perished life, and find--Dragomiloff dying.

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.

According to the note at the end of the story (page 179), the transition of authors from Jack London to Robert Fish occurs on page 122. The first full paragraph on that page reads: “Do something!” Grunya entreated Hall. “You must do something.”

Page 33: “you ever fail” was printed as “you every fail”. Changed here.