SCOTLAND 1908
Jack Clayton hung suspended by his powerful hands from entwined limbs of two massive yew trees, two-hundred and nine feet above his immaculate estate.
Clayton swung his legs out and back twice and heaved his body upward. He tucked and then somersaulted gracefully onto the lower limbs, tier by tier until vaulting to the ground quiet as a jungle cat.
“I challenge you to race!” The shout came from behind him. The Norwegian’s baritone voice snapped Clayton out of his reverie. He knew that voice!
“Let me guess,” Clayton shouted, “I have to race on foot and you’ll be behind the wheel of that contraption!”
Roald Amundsen stood tall and gaunt in the long approach to the Manor house, arms akimbo next to his 120 horsepower Fiat #4. His deep set eyes gleamed.
“I had planned to race this beauty for the Vanderbilt Cup, but I caught a bug and my physician would never agree to give me clearance. How are you—what of that fever—any lasting effects?”
Clayton joined the Norwegian explorer in the front seat of the race car. Amundsen tediously explained every knob, lever and dial as they drove up to the main entrance of the Manor House. Clayton listened curiously, laughed loudly and spoke conspiratorially. “I’m unable to summon any memories of Mars at all. I hope it is temporary.”
Later at the Manor house, Clayton’s servant served and cleared away the evening meal. The men never paused in convivial conversation. They invested, each within the other, a special covenant and code beyond the rest of civilized society.
The evening faded well into night and Clayton dismissed his house servants, leading Amundsen into his library. Clayton had his chef prepare spumoni and champagne. They entered a vast library chamber with a sunken floor and vaulted ceiling. The shelves burgeoned with 3,000 leather bound tomes.
Nobile ran his hands over the spines of the books commenting on volumes he had read. Clayton spoke of elephants and gorillas and an escarpment in Africa.
Presently, Amundsen broached his purpose.
“I am mounting an expedition to Mars and I believe Umberto is in trouble and I must investigate. If Nobile is alive—he’ll have military intelligence to offer absolutely vital for our side’s advantage in a possible war with Mars.”
Jack Clayton jumped to his feet excitedly and began pacing to and fro in front of the fireplace. His eyes flashed as he spoke and he clenched his jaw purposefully.
“I’ve intuited this war—but tell me—who is the source? Who is privy to war plans on that planet?”
Amundsen stood sipping his drink with a mischievous smirk.
“Now don’t laugh, the source of the warning is a Pastor of pyramidology.”
Clayton chuckled and then hesitated—Amundsen obviously wasn’t joking. “Roosevelt has boot tops too high to step in that sort of muck. He wouldn’t listen to a lunatic—unless of course, you are holding something back.”
Amundsen smiled indulgently. His face was not built for it. But smile he did.
“Many men in power have spiritual advisors and T.R. is no different. Teddy and Pastor Charles Russell both stood deathwatch beside a mother dying of fever. They have bonded in that shared experience. But—I had the most influence.”
Clayton had been listening with mounting skepticism as a pragmatist who never gave a moment’s consideration to invisible things in heaven or hell. “What are you shoveling in my barn, Amundsen?”
“Just quiet that famous practical mind of yours and hear me out. My father use to tell me, ‘Roald, believe half what you see and nothing you hear.’ I live by that code and it has served me well.”
Clayton nodded empathetically. He relaxed and made himself comfortable. Amundsen paused and pondered his presentation carefully, and then spoke.
“This pyramid peddling Pastor pontificates pretty potent prognostications, Jack.”
Clayton laughed out loud—he and Amundsen shared a passion for Beowulf and the 3,182 alliterations concocted by its anonymous author.
“So you’re saying this Pastor possesses a mysterious means of cunning communication with a minion on Mars?” Jack riposted languishing on his leather couch, stretching his long limbs and rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
“I know you well enough to trust your instincts—but, you’re going to have to show me whatever proof there is.”
Amundsen excused himself and exited the library. He returned scarcely a minute later with a thick dossier bundled under his arm. He tossed it to Clayton like a medicine ball.
“You and I have had occasion to visit the Magic Circle in London. I was there when you and mister down-on-his-luck had your famous confrontation.”
“John Maskelyne—yes, I bribed him as I recall.”
“You did bribe him to divulge the secrets of his great illusions. He and that other magician seem to have invented all the great magic tricks—“
“George Alfred Cooke, yes—so they claimed. What is your point, Roald?”
“Patience, my friend; you demanded he debunk his own illusions. You were seeking facts to fit your preconception. That is confirmation bias. I need to point this out to you so you don’t make a mistake looking this material over. Be neutral, this time. Be open. Let the evidence take you where it will.”
“Roald—did you know John Maskelyne invented the pay toilet? My point being this: for money—any clever fellow can make shit appear and disappear.”
“I thought you Brits said shite; Americans say it that other way.”
“I’m a man of many contradictions. Now leave me in peace that I might flush the turds of out of this dossier.”
“Very well, my good fellow, but—one last thing; I know Maskelyne was a skeptic who made it his mission debunking fraudulent Spiritualists, con men, card sharps and flim-flam. He was no different than you in detesting imposters.”
“On the contrary—I admire the cleverness of a poseur. Think about it without your own bias, Roald. People want to believe there is something beyond living and dying. A masterful magician and a cunning clergyman eagerly exploit witless wankers willing to buy bullshit by the barrel.”
“More alliterations. I should never have loaned you my copy of Beowulf.”
“I have my own autographed copy on my library shelf, Roald.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? It must be worth a fortune!
“I’m lying. But see how readily I was able to exploit credulity?”
Amundsen reddened and shook his head. He chuckled good-naturedly.
“It is that easy, is it? Well, point taken.”
Clayton snatched the file in hand and leaned back on the couch.
“Now, good-night; I have work to do reading this without my sorry bias for fact.”
