Is it desolate and terrible?”
“Very desolate, very terrible!”
“The walls are — bleak?”
“Amazingly so!”
“The tarn, is it «black and lurid» enough?”
“Most incredibly black and lurid.”
“And the sedge — we’ve dyed it, you know — is it the proper gray and ebon?”
“Hideous!”
Mr. Bigelow consulted his architectural plans.
From these he quoted in part:
“Does the whole structure cause an ’iciness, a sickening of the heart, a dreariness of thought’?
The House, the lake, the land, Mr. Stendahl?”
“Mr. Bigelow, it’s worth every penny!
My God, it’s beautiful!”
“Thank you.
I had to work in total ignorance.
Thank the Lord you had your own private rockets or we’d never have been allowed to bring most of the equipment through.
You notice, it’s always twilight here, this land, always October, barren, sterile, dead.
It took a bit of doing.
We killed everything.
Ten thousand tons of DDT.
Not a snake, frog, or Martian fly left!
Twilight always, Mr. Stendahl; I’m proud of that.
There are machines, hidden, which blot out the sun.
It’s always properly «dreary».”
Stendahl drank it in, the dreariness, the oppression, the fetid vapors, the whole “atmosphere,” so delicately contrived and fitted.
And that House!
That crumbling horror, that evil lake, the fungi, the extensive decay!
Plastic or otherwise, who could guess?
He looked at the autumn sky.
Somewhere above, beyond, far off, was the sun.
Somewhere it was the month of April on the planet Mars, a yellow month with a blue sky.
Somewhere above, the rockets burned down to civilize a beautifully dead planet.
The sound of their screaming passage was muffled by this dim, soundproofed world, this ancient autumn world.
“Now that my job’s done,” said Mr. Bigelow uneasily, “I feel free to ask what you’re going to do with all this.”
“With Usher?
Haven’t you guessed?”
“No.”
“Does the name Usher mean nothing to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, what about this name: Edgar Allan Poe?”
Mr. Bigelow shook his head.
“Of course.”
Stendahl snorted delicately, a combination of dismay and contempt.
“How could I expect you to know blessed Mr. Poe?
He died a long while ago, before Lincoln.
All of his books were burned in the Great Fire.
That’s thirty years ago — 1975.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Bigelow wisely.
“One of those!”