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Blacks in Oregon (essay)
Periodically, newspaper or magazine articles appear proclaiming amazement at how white the population of Oregon and the City of Portland is compared to other parts of the country. It is not possible to argue with the figures—in 2017, there were an estimated 91,000 Blacks in Oregon, about 2 percent of the population—but it is a profound mistake to think that these stories and statistics tell the story of the state's racial past. In fact, issues of race and the status and circumstances of Black life in Oregon are central to understanding the history of the state, and perhaps its future as well.
Early Contact and Settlement
The first well-documented Black in Oregon is Markus Lopius, a crewmember of the American ship Lady Washington, captained by Robert Gray in 1788. He was added to the crew when the ship stopped at the Cape Verde Islands in the Atlantic, off the Africa coast. Lopius, described as a young Black man, was hired as Gray's "servant," but he also performed the same jobs and duties as other crew members. At Tillamook Bay on the present-day Oregon Coast, Lopius was on shore cutting grass for the ship's stock when a local Native ran off with his cutlass. Lopius caught the thief, upon which other Indians attacked him with knives and spears. He was finally felled by a flight of arrows as he tried to reach his fellow crew members.
Even more information is available about York, the next documented Black to arrive in Oregon. In 1805, the Lewis and Clark Expedition traveled down the Columbia River on the last leg of its journey to the Pacific Ocean. York, William Clark's slave, was a member of the expedition. He played a significant role in the success of the enterprise, transporting supplies, hunting for food, participating in scouting and side trips, and constructing forts and shelters. He was also the first Black person that some of the Natives they encountered had ever seen, making him an important diplomatic asset in establishing relationships with resident populations. When the expedition was near starvation on the return trip in 1806, York was able to secure needed provisions as an emissary to people who lived along the way.
In the years that followed, the development of the fur trade in the Pacific Northwest attracted a group known as mountain men, who worked with local Natives to supply beaver and other furs to the Hudson's Bay Company and other companies. Traders such as Jedediah Smith used Black slave labor in their work; and some free Black mountain men, such as Moses "Black" Harris, became legendary figures in the fur trade and later worked as sought-after wagon train guides.
James Douglas, known as "Black Douglas," served with distinction as chief factor at Fort Vancouver in the 1840s. Douglas was born in Demerara, British Guiana, in 1803. His father, John Douglas, was a Scottish merchant who managed a family sugar plantation, and his mother, Martha Ann Ritchie, was a free "coloured" woman from Barbados. Douglas's parents never married, but his father took him to Glasgow in 1812. In 1819, James Douglas entered the North American fur trade as an indentured worker with the North West Company. After many years of working for the Hudson's Bay Company, he reached the pinnacle of his power in the 1850s and 1860s when he served concurrently as the second governor of Vancouver Island and the first governor of British Columbia. For his service, Douglas was knighted by Queen Victoria.
Exclusion Laws
During the wagon train era, from 1840 to 1860, Black participation in overland trail migration was kept small by both national and local public policy. Nationally, over three million Blacks in the American South were restrained by their status as slaves held by white owners. The provisional and territorial governments in Oregon banned slavery, but some settlers were determined to create a white homeland by making Black residence of any kind illegal. To do so, it was necessary to exclude both slave and free Blacks.
The first Black exclusion law in Oregon, adopted in 1844 by the Provisional Government, mandated that Blacks attempting to settle in Oregon would be publicly whipped—thirty-nine lashes, repeated every six months—until they departed. There is no documented record of any official whipping—the law was written with a grace period, and it was repealed before it had expired—but the concept was clear. In 1849, the Oregon Territorial Government adopted a second Black exclusion law, which was repealed in 1853.
The Oregon constitution, adopted in 1857, banned slavery but also excluded Blacks from legal residence. It made it illegal for Blacks to be in Oregon or to own real estate, make contracts, vote, or use the legal system. Like earlier exclusion laws, the constitutional ban, which took effect when Oregon became a state in 1859, was not retroactive, which meant that it did not apply to Blacks who were legally in Oregon before the ban was adopted.
There were several periods between 1840 and 1860 when Blacks could establish legal residence in Oregon: (1) for about four years, before the adoption of the 1844 ban; (2) for about four years, after the repeal of the 1844 law and before the adoption of the 1849 law; and (3) for about six years, after the repeal of the 1849 law and before the constitutional ban of 1859. During those twenty years, therefore, there were more years when it was legal for Blacks to reside in Oregon than when it was illegal. Nevertheless, Oregonians made it clear that Blacks were not welcome, and few established residence in Oregon during this time.
The greatest impact of the exclusion laws was not in how many Blacks were whipped, sent out of the state, or stopped at the state line but in their deterrent effect on potential Black immigrants. The laws made it clear that Oregon was a hostile destination for Blacks contemplating a move west, and they proved to be remarkably effective. Potential Black immigrants who had the means and the motivation to go west simply chose to go elsewhere. The other factor that complicated issues of Black residence and slavery was the Dred Scott v. Sanford Supreme Court decision in 1857, which declared that slave masters had the right to take their slaves anywhere in the country. That ruling compromised all laws about race and slavery in Oregon at the time.
The Donation Land Act of 1850
The exclusion laws notwithstanding, by far the most devastating anti-Black law passed during this era was the federal Donation Land Act of 1850, which declared that land would only be granted to "every white settler...American half breed Indians included"; the second group was included to make eligible the offspring of early white male settlers and their Indian wives.
By removing most Indians to reservations and excluding all but white landownership, the vision of a white homeland in Oregon was embedded in public policy. In subsequent generations, the profits, power, and political influence that flowed from near exclusive white landownership were manifested in the construction of a racially stratified society in which white ascendancy was assured and nonwhite marginalization was profound. To understand later patterns of political, economic, and social inequality in Oregon, it is necessary to be aware of these early examples of race-based public policy that benefited only the state's white population.
The Civil War Years and Beyond
During the Civil War (1861-1865), the Oregon legislature approved additional anti-Black prohibitions, including a Black poll tax in 1862. The state also prohibited whites from marrying not only Blacks but also Chinese, South Pacific Islanders, and any person with more than half Indian parentage. The law, on the books until the 1950s, also punished the person who performed any such marriage ceremonies with a fine and prison. Like the exclusion and land laws, the most powerful effect of such laws was the message they sent that Oregon was a place where only whites were welcome.
In spite of this hostile environment, a small number of Blacks immigrated to the Oregon Country, where they made significant contributions. George Bush, for example, crossed the trail from Missouri in 1844 and established a successful frontier farm at present-day Tumwater, Washington. One of his sons would serve in the Washington territorial legislature before the turn of the twentieth century. George Washington, a person of mixed race, crossed the trail with his adopted white family in the early 1850s and established a homestead in western Washington, where he founded the town of Centralia in the 1870s. Significantly, both men settled north of the Columbia River in the part of the Oregon Country that had been under the control of the Hudson's Bay Company, where the influence of American racial policies was less pervasive.
In general, the hostile racial climate continued to retard the immigration of a significant Black population to Oregon between the Civil War and the turn of the twentieth century, and the status and security of those already in the state remained questionable. Blacks found it difficult to accumulate wealth and property, and it was virtually impossible for them to acquire political power and influence. Blacks who did settle in Oregon lived throughout the state, although in different concentrations and circumstances.
While the percentage of Blacks as a part of Oregon's total population was consistently small—less than one percent until as late as 1960—in absolute numbers, there were scores of Blacks in Oregon during the trail period, hundreds during the post Civil War era, and thousands during the twentieth century. In the early years, Blacks settled wherever whites did in Oregon, experiencing both harsh failures and impressive successes. Generally, their status depended on how they had arrived, who they were associated with, and how well they interacted with their neighbors in a frontier environment.
Changing Labor Opportunities and Restrictions
Wherever a demand for specialized labor materialized, Black workers might be recruited elsewhere, imported to Oregon, and then often deported, by formal or informal means, after the need for their labor was exhausted. In the 1890s, for example, when coal deposits were found in the hills around Marshfield (present-day Coos Bay), hundreds of Blacks from Appalachia were brought to work in the mines. When the coal was gone, they were encouraged to leave. A few Black cowboys worked the ranches in the Pendleton area and became prominent in the rodeo culture in eastern Oregon during the 1910s. In northeastern Oregon, in the 1920s and 1930s, Black loggers worked the forest around Maxville until the yields were no longer profitable. After the arrival of the railroad in eastern Oregon, some Black families lived in small towns, such as La Grande, providing related services for the railroads.
Wartime and military activities often resulted in the creation of small Black colonies in unexpected places. The 555th Parachute Infantry Battalion, an all-Black unit known as the Triple Nickles, was stationed in Pendleton during World War II, and the U.S. Air Force base in Klamath Falls later attracted a small Black population. After the 1950s, every city or town in Oregon with a university or college had Black residents, often athletes but also scholars and students. In most of these situations, Blacks were expected to accept a subordinate place in Oregon life, forced by circumstances to accept an inferior status, but they did not discard the vision that things would be better for their children.
These relatively small groups of specialized Black labor, however, are not the main story of Black settlement and residence in Oregon. During the late nineteenth century, most Black Oregonians, effectively excluded from rural Oregon by land laws and racial hostility, gravitated to urban centers. Most went to Portland, where they worked for the railroads and related industries. Transcontinental rail service had reached Portland in the 1880s, and the Portland Hotel was built to service the growing business and travel-related needs of the city. While administrative, management, and most supervisory jobs were held by whites, Blacks staffed the visible and profitable restaurant and entertainment facilities and provided manual, domestic, and other types of labor. Employment in these two growing industries created the first recognizable Black neighborhood in Portland in what is now Old Town Chinatown and the Pearl District. Work on the railroad and in service—both commercial and domestic—became the economic pillars of Black community life.
Discrimination in the Early Twentieth Century
There was another, less savory economic component to Black Oregon life. When an entire population is prevented by law and social practice from achieving legitimate success through respectable labor and commerce, some members of that population turn to illegitimate activities. Portland was a wide-open town, where police and political corruption thrived well into the twentieth century. Consequently, the city's underworld of illicit entertainment and "forbidden pleasures"—including bootlegging, gambling, and prostitution—emerged as the most racially fluid and integrated aspect of Portland life. There were legitimate businesses as well, of course, many of them in the Williams Avenue, Vancouver Avenue, Broadway corridor, which became a popular entertainment center of Portland. Black-owned clubs, restaurants, and small businesses flourished in the neighborhood, protected by a well-lubricated system of bribes and kickbacks to local police and political powerbrokers.
Oregon had formalized the practice of racial discrimination early in the twentieth century. In 1904, Oliver Taylor sued a theater owner for refusing him a box seat because of his race; the trial judge dismissed the suit. Lawyer McCants Stewart won the case in appeal (Taylor v. Cohn) in the Oregon Supreme Court in 1906. A subsequent discrimination case argued by McCants in 1917, Allen v. People's Amusement Park, was identical in circumstances to Taylor v. Cohn, but lost in the Oregon Supreme Court, confirming and sanctioning the practice of racial segregation in public places and services—a ruling that would remain in place until the legislature passed an anti-discrimination law in 1953. Segregation was most widely and powerfully practiced in the real estate industry. Restrictive covenants, redlining, and prohibitions in the real estate handbook established the inner northeast section of the city for Blacks. Outside Portland, many rural towns with small or nonexistent Black populations enforced Sundown Laws that required Blacks to be out of town by nightfall or face hostile action by the police, private citizens, or both.
By the 1920s, Oregon had a well-established and well-earned reputation as a hostile and dangerous place for Blacks. That reputation was solidified by the presence in the state of the largest Ku Klux Klan chapter west of the Mississippi River. The power of the Klan was based on the political influence of its leaders, the potential for economic coercion of whites who did not support Klan ideology, and the awareness that the Klan would not hesitate to use violence to enforce its dictates. During the 1920s, the primary targets of the KKK in Oregon were Catholics and Jews, not Blacks. The decades of exclusionary practices had been so successful in keeping the Black population small and isolated that Blacks were a secondary target. Still, the Klan was a visible and intimidating force in Oregon politics and society, and it was not uncommon for KKK members to parade through city streets in full regalia—displays that were often followed by torchlight rallies and public cross burnings. Walter Pierce was elected governor in 1923 with KKK support; from 1932 to 1942, he was Oregon's congressman in the U.S. House of Representatives.
Oregon Blacks resisted Klan activities and influence on multiple levels. The first NAACP chapter west of the Mississippi River was organized in Portland in 1913, and it fought KKK propaganda though educational campaigns and protest. When Blacks were denied access to white services and goods, individuals in the Black community filled the gap. Blacks owned hotels, restaurants, and other small businesses; and fraternal and social organizations and clubs provided both community and recreation. A Black weekly newspaper, the Advocate, owned and edited by activist Beatrice Morrow Cannady, provided communication and inspiration, and Black churches were places to associate, bond, and maintain spiritual and psychological strength.
The years of the Great Depression were a severe challenge to Portland's Black community, bringing higher unemployment as jobs formerly considered inappropriate for whites were sought after by whites desperate for work. Many Black businesses, chronically underfunded, failed, further fracturing the economic stability of the Black community. Surviving the Depression required all the ingenuity and strength people could muster.
World War II and Changing Demographics
Between the beginning of the twentieth century and World War II, there was a gradual change in the size and location of the Black community in Portland. In the early years, Blacks lived in outlying areas; but as the railroad industry boomed, they gravitated to the neighborhood around Union Station and Old Town. As the size of the community grew, it jumped the Willamette River to the inner northeast area, on Broadway, Williams Avenue, and Vancouver Avenue. By 1940, Oregon's principal Black community lived in Portland—small, geographically isolated, and artificially confined by the practices of the city's white power structure. Yet, it was also a cohesive, viable entity that provided what was needed for a fully functional community.
World War II changed the realities of race in Oregon and brought on the beginning of the modern Black experience in the state. Change was both dramatic and swift, as Portland became the center of a wartime shipbuilding industry. Portland's Black population exploded from about 2,000 in 1940 to a high of 22,000 in 1944, as Black shipyard workers, many of them with families, were recruited from other parts of the country and moved to Portland. A temporary federal housing project, the largest in the country, was built on the Columbia River to house wartime workers. About a quarter of the residents of the new city, named Vanport for its location between Portland and Vancouver, were Black. The major racial issue during this period involved the largest shipyard union, the Boilermakers, which prohibited Black membership, with the complicity of shipyard management. As a result, Black workers had the least skilled jobs in the yard, which made them more vulnerable than whites to layoffs and unemployment.
At the end of the war, many Blacks left the state as shipyard jobs disappeared, but many decided to stay. The postwar Black population stabilized at about six times the size of the prewar population. Most lived in Vanport, until a devastating flood on the Columbia in 1948 swept that city away. Finding a place for displaced Vanport Blacks to live became a racial crisis. The inner northeast area of Portland, known as the Albina District, was identified by the city's financial and political power structure as a target area for Black resettlement. The neighborhood was favored because of its older, less desirable housing and its proximity to both Vanport and the older Black community. Further, more and more whites were leaving the city for the suburbs, and creating a Black neighborhood in Albina did not interfere with or threaten that exodus.
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The circumstances of these demographic changes pushed Portland in new directions in racial matters as Oregon entered the 1950s. The war against racism overseas during World War II had revealed some unpleasant racial practices and realities in the United States. The most blatant example was the internment of innocent Japanese American citizens in concentration camps without due process. Some German and Italian nationals and citizens were incarcerated, but in much smaller numbers than the Japanese. The war years had also focused attention on the long-standing issues of racism directed at Black Americans.
After the war, most Blacks in the South were still prevented from voting, holding public office, getting a quality education, and having access to financial and economic success. Blacks in the South could not even be said to have a right to life under Southern racial traditions. This system of white supremacy was maintained by the willingness of racist police and terrorist organizations like the KKK to use racial violence to protect the status quo. In the North and the West, Blacks were not generally in as much danger, but they did suffer from systematic repression. Employment discrimination, racial quota systems in higher education, de facto segregation in schools, discrimination in banking and financial services, real estate prohibitions, police brutality, and policies that forced most Blacks to live in segregated circumstances were all routinely a part of Black life in the West. Popular culture projected negative racial stereotypes on Blacks, and then used the stereotypes to justify discriminatory treatment.
After World War II, however, racial and civic reform movements began to gain energy and support from a growing number of whites. In Oregon, this activist element combined with persistent historic efforts by Blacks to achieve a series of progressive advances and victories—a fair employment law (1949), a public accommodations law (1953), and a fair housing law (1957). Although the new laws did not automatically change prevailing racist practices, they did represent a counterpoint to Oregon's and the nation's anti-Black traditions.
Schools, Community-Police Relations, and Activism
In 1954, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Brown v. Board of Education that racial segregation in public schools was unconstitutional. By the 1960s, Portland and many other communities in the country were struggling with how to integrate schools in a segregated city—a legacy of the housing restrictions placed on Blacks in the past. The NAACP pushed hard for the integration of Portland schools, but stiff resistance from the city's educational and political elites, including the school board and conservative-leaning politicians and residents, led to the Blanchard Plan, named after the superintendent of Portland schools, Robert Blanchard. The plan, to be implemented in 1970, called for busing Black students to white schools and systematically closing schools in Black neighborhoods. By the mid-1970s, the school board had voted to close Jefferson High School, which served most of the city's Black community.
Under the Blanchard Plan, a grade level in schools in Black neighborhoods were to be closed each year—that is, eighth grade one year, seventh grade the next, and so on. Black students in that grade would have no option but to attend a white school. In 1979, for example, the 450 Black students who could no longer attend King Elementary School were scheduled to be sent to forty-two different schools in outlying white neighborhoods. The capstone of the Blanchard Plan was to be the closure of Jefferson High School, and many Blacks at the time considered both Blanchard and Newman to be educational villains for their dogged determination to close the schools in Black neighborhoods. In 1979, school board chairman Jonathan Newman resigned when a longtime critic of the Blanchard Plan was appointed to the board. In 1980, Blanchard was fired in an acrimonious end to his eleven-year tenure as superintendent. Jefferson High School remained open.
Much of the turmoil had been caused by the board's refusal to embrace the findings and recommendations of the Community Coalition for School Integration, a broad-based collection of twenty-eight organizations that opposed closing Jefferson High School. After the board disbanded in frustration, the Black United Front emerged as the principal opponent of the school board. Firmly based in the Black community and under the leadership of co-chairs Rev. John Jackson and Ron Herndon, the Front challenged the board with an aggressive array of tactics, which included heated rhetoric, boardroom invasions, community rallies, street protests, and threatened school boycotts.
Eventually, Front-advocated approaches became a battlefield in the so-called culture wars that raged as the neoconservative movement became more powerful in the nation. New approaches and new strategies would be tried over the coming decades, but problems like the achievement gap between Black and white students, uneven application of discipline to students of color, and graduation rates continue to be unsolved in the twenty-first century.
The other major racial issue in Oregon during this period involved the relationship between the Black community and the police, as many Blacks charged the police with brutality and racism. In the summers of 1967 and 1969, race riots exploded along Northeast Union Avenue, the main thoroughfare of the Black community at the time. Police and their supporters attributed the riots to "outside agitators" and lawless militants. Many Blacks laid the blame on police incitement and the harassment of Black youth.
Beginning in the 1970s and through the 1980s, several high-profile police shootings of young Black men in Portland and questionable police practices created intense animosity toward the police. In 1981, two policemen admitted that they had placed four dead possums in front of the Burger Barn, a popular Black-owned, late-night hangout at 3962 Northeast Union Avenue. The incident escalated into a major confrontation and had a long-term effect on police community relations. The person in charge of the Portland Police Bureau was Black commissioner Charles Jordan, who received a vote of no confidence from the police union. Mayor Frank Ivancie fired the chief of police and removed the bureau from Jordan's portfolio, bringing it under his own supervision.
On November 2, 1982, the voters approved Ballot Measure 51, which established the first public police review committee in Portland. The committee of nine citizen volunteers appointed by the city council and three city council commissioners would review the results of all internal affairs cases in the bureau and make recommendations. One such case occurred in 1985, when Lloyd Stevenson, a Black man, was killed by a policeman using a choke hold. Neither of the two officers involved was disciplined. The case took a bizarre and controversial turn when on the day of Stevenson's funeral, two police officers sold t-shirts to fellow officers bearing the slogan "Don't Choke 'Em, Smoke 'Em." They were fired but were eventually reinstated with back pay.
By the last decades of the twentieth century, two other racial developments helped define Black-white relations in Portland. In the late 1980s, a violent skinhead movement identified Oregon, particularly Portland, as one of several locations in the Pacific Northwest suitable for white homeland, and Portland became a very real danger zone for Blacks. After the murder of Ethiopian exchange student Mulugeta Seraw in November 1988, Kenneth Mieske, a member of East Side White Pride, was convicted for the crime. Tom and John Metzger, neo-Nazis from California and founders of White Aryan Resistance (WAR), were convicted in a civil trial for encouraging Mieske and others to commit violence against Blacks.
The second development, one with more lasting consequences, had begun years earlier in the late 1950s and early 1960s, when the construction of Memorial Coliseum and Interstate 5 removed much of the Black community on the Northeast Broadway, Williams Avenue, Vancouver Avenue corridor. In the 1970s, the expansion of Emmanuel Hospital did the same to Black residents in the Williams Avenue, Vancouver Avenue, and Russell Street neighborhood. While the destruction had created hardships and generated hostility and suspicion toward white decision makers, there remained the belief that Portland would continue to have a geographically identifiable Black community.
That belief came under fire in the 1990s, when real estate developers and a resurgent interest in an urban lifestyle ushered in an era of gentrification that transformed traditional Black neighborhoods and forced many Blacks into low-income housing in suburbs like Gresham and Beaverton. Many Blacks were left to wonder if the threat of a white homeland had finally been realized in northeast Portland. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, Portland and Oregon continue to have a significant Black population that will be represented in whatever future lies ahead for the state.
BlackPast, The Online Reference Guide to African American History. www.blackpast.org
Millner, Darrell. "York of the Corps of Discovery." Oregon Historical Quarterly (Fall 2003).
Taylor, Quintard, Jr. In Search of the Racial Frontier: African American West, 1528-1990. New York: W.W. Norton, 1998.
Taylor, Quintard. "'There Was No Better Place to Go': The Transformation Thesis Revisited, African American Migration to the Pacific Northwest, 1940-1950." In Paul Hirt, ed., Terra Pacific: People and Place in Northwest America and Western Canada. Pullman: Washington State University Press, 1998.
McLagan, Elizabeth. Peculiar Paradise: A History of Blacks in Oregon, 1788-1940. Athens, GA: Georgian Press, 1980.
Davenport, T. W. "Slavery Question in Oregon." Oregon Historical Quarterly 9.3 (September 1908): 189-253.
De Graaf, Lawrence B. "Race, Sex, and Region: Black Women in the American West, 1850-1920." Pacific Historical Review 49.1 (February 1980): 285-314.
Savage, W. Sherman. Blacks in the West. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1976.
Toll, William. "Black Families and Migration to a Multiracial Society: Portland, Oregon, 1900-1924." Journal of American Ethnic History 17.3 (Spring, 1998): 38-70.
Darrell Millner
York (ca. 1770-?)
YMCA children's band
YMCA children's band in Portland. Photo by Elizabeth Hall.
Courtesy Oreg. Hist. Soc. Research Lib.
Sybil Harber, c. 1900
Sybil Harber, midwife in Lakeview, Oregon.
Courtesy Oreg. Hist. Soc. Research Lib., 10690
Officer George Hardin
Officer George Hardin, first black police officer in Portland, 1894-1915.
Courtesy Oreg. Hist. Soc. Research Lib., OrHi81769
Unidentified woman living in Oregon, c. 1890
Matilda Booth Thatcher
Matilda Booth Thatcher, matriarch of the Thatcher-Flowers family, Portland. Her family owned land around Mt. Scott.
Loggers in Clatsop County
Hegpeth Restaurant, Portland
Hegpeth Restaurant on Flanders Ave., Portland
Willamette Orchestra
(L-R) George Morgan, Wyatt Williams, Mrs. Edward Cannady (Beatrice), Miss Holbert (no first name listed), Raymond Cage (seated).
Courtesy Oreg. Hist. Soc. Research Lib., org lot 679010
Webb's Orchestra
Courtesy Oreg. Hist. Soc. Research Lib., OrHi101260
Employees on the S&P railroad, 1919
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Vanport
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William A. Hilliard (1927-2017)
William A. Hilliard was the first African American editor of the Oregonian and one of the few to serve as the editor of a major newspaper. Growing up in Portland, he was refused a paper route for the Oregonian for fear that white subscribers would resent it, and he …
Willie Mae Young Hart (1915-2017)
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This entry was last updated on Oct. 14, 2020


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Fieux – miejscowość i gmina we Francji, w regionie Nowa Akwitania, w departamencie Lot i Garonna.

Według danych na rok 1990 gminę zamieszkiwało 308 osób, a gęstość zaludnienia wynosiła 21 osób/km² (wśród 2290 gmin Akwitanii Fieux plasuje się na 872. miejscu pod względem liczby ludności, natomiast pod względem powierzchni na miejscu 775.).

Bibliografia

Miejscowości w departamencie Lot i Garonna

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


text:
van Vogt >
2. Stories >
"M33 in Andromeda" (1943) by A. E. van Vogt
Thursday 2 February 2017 (actualisé le 9 April 2021 ) by A. E. van Vogt
M33 in Andromeda, first published in the August 1943 issue of Astounding Science Fiction, was the third of van Vogt's great series of stories, after Black Destroyer and Discord in Scarlet, about the adventures of the spaceship The Space Beagle on man's first trip of scientific discovery outside of his own Milky Way galaxy.
Quite up to the remarkable level of those other two famous stories, it became a key part of van Vogt's masterful novel The Voyage of the Space Beagle (1950), albeit with a not inconsiderable number of text changes, the later novel emphasising throughout the central role of the "Nexialist" scientist Elliott Grosvenor, who in the magazine version of the saga only appeared for the first time here in this episode.
This is the 1943 version of the story, with the original artwork by Williams and magazine cover by Timmins.
e-book versions are available for downloading below.
It wasn't intelligence that permitted the creature to rule a galaxy. It had other ways of accomplishing that—and of making life exceedingly precarious for interstellar explorers.
The night whispered, the immense night of space that pressed against the hurtling ship. Voiceless susurration it was, yet somehow coherent, alive, deadly.
For it called, it beckoned and it warned. It trilled with a nameless happiness, then hissed with savage, unthinkable frustration.
It feared and it hungered. How it hungered! It died—and reveled in its death. And died again. It whispered of inconceivable things, wordless, all-enveloping, muttering flow, tremendous, articulate, threatening night.
"This is an opinion," said somebody behind Morton. "The ship ought to go back home."
Commander Morton did not turn from the eyepiece of the telescope through which he was peering. But he found himself waiting for others of the score of men in the control room to echo the empirical statement of him who had already spoken.
There was only silence. Very slowly, then. Morton forgot the spectators, and concentrated on the night ahead, from which the disturbing sibilation was coming, stronger with each passing minute.
Lights were out there, a great swirl of them, an entire galactic system. Lights still so far away that the electronic telescope could only brighten, could not begin to enlarge the needle-sharp points of brilliance that made up the myriad units of the wheel-shaped universe.
Morton grew conscious of Gunlie Lester turning away from the other eyepiece; the astronomer said in a blank tone:
"Nothing, absolutely nothing. Basically, that system of stars looks no different from our own great galaxy. The thing is incredible. Vibrations almost palpably strong, overflowing the entire space-time continuum of a galaxy with two billion suns."
He stopped, finished more quietly: "Commander, it seems to me this is not a problem for an astronomer."
Morton released his own eyepiece, said grimly: "Anything that embraces an entire galaxy comes under the category of astronomical phenomena. Or would you care to name the science that is involved?"
Gunlie Lester said nothing; and Morton turned toward the men who sat in the cluster of seats alongside the chromatic splendour that was the control board. He said :
"Someone suggested a few seconds ago that we turn around and go home. I would like whoever did so to give their reasons."
There was no reply; and, after a little, that was astounding. Morton frowned at the very idea that there was anyone aboard unwilling to acknowledge an opinion however briefly held, however quickly discarded.
He saw that the others were looking at him; and several of the faces had startled expressions on them. It was the long, thin, bony Smith who said finally, diffidently :
"When was this statement uttered, chief? I don't recall hearing it."
"Nor I !" echoed half a dozen voices.
"Eh!" said Morton sharply. Abruptly, he was tense, alert; his great shoulders squared; his eyes narrowed to steel-gray pin-points. His voice rapped across the silence :
"Let me get this straight. There was such a statement, or there wasn't. Who else heard it? Raise hands."
Not a hand came up; and Morton held himself stiff as a board, said tautly :
"The words spoken were, as I remember them : 'This is an opinion. The ship should go home.' Notice the unusual, the almost formal phrasing. There is suggestion in that wording of something alien striving to be casually human.
"I admit," he went on, "that is a great deal to deduce from such small evidence, but in moments of crisis quick opinions are better than none at all."
His gaze, steady and cold, swept the thoughtful faces before him. He finished quietly :
"I think, gentlemen, we had better face the fact that we have entered somebody else's stamping ground. And it's SOME somebody."
There was silence in the control room. But Morton noted with satisfaction that it was a silence of tight-lipped tensing against danger. He said softly :
"I am glad to see that no one is even looking as if we ought to turn back. That is all to the good. As servants of our government and our race, it is our duty to investigate the potentialities of a new galaxy, particularly now that be dominating power in the new system knows we exist. Its ability to project a thought into my mind indicates that it has already observed us, and, therefore, knows a great deal about us. We cannot permit that type of knowledge to be one-sided."
He finished on a harder tone: "I should say we were very wise indeed to spend seven months in the space between our galaxy and this one repairing the damage caused by that scarlet beast. There was some suggestion, I believe, of heading for a planet, and doing our fixing up in more congenial surroundings. In our wisdom, we played safe—But now, Kellie, as our sociologist, what do you think of the environment we're heading into?"
His gray gaze fixed on the bald-headed man, who adjusted his pince-nez, and said:
"That's a large order, commander. But I would say we are merely entering a civilized galaxy, and these whispers are simply the outward signs like coming out of a wilderness into an area under cultivation."
"Some cultivation," said Smith in a mournful tone. He hunched his long, bony body back into his seat. "Beg your pardon. As a biologist, I haven't any business in this conversation."
"You have every business." said Morton. "This is life with a capital L. But go on, Kellie."
Kettle said : "Remember, man, too, has left his imperishable imprint on his own galaxy. If he desires he can light fires that will be seen a hundred galaxies away; at his touch suns flash into Nova brilliance; planets leave their orbits, dead worlds come alive with green and wonderful verdure; oceans swirl and rage where deserts lay lifeless under blazing suns.
"And even our presence here in this great ship is an emanation of man's power, reaching out farther than these vibrations around us have ever dared to go."
The long-faced Smith gave a dry laugh, said : "Man's imprints are almost always linear. When he acts in three dimensions, he is restricted to planets, and even there, he is, for all practical purposes, confined to the flat bosom of the land. His ships that cross the sea leave a gentle swell, which merges with the tide and, after an hour, cannot be traced by the finest instruments in the universe.
"His ships that fly the air likewise leave no trail in the wind. When they have passed, they might as well not have been for all the record they make.
"How can you, therefore, speak of such things in the same breath with this? Man, these pulsations are alive. We can feel them; and they mean something; they're thought forms so strong, so all-pervading that the whole of space whispers at us.
"This is no tentacled pussy, no scarlet monstrosity, no single entity, but an inconceivable totality of minds speaking to each other across the miles and the years of their space. This is the civilization of the second galaxy : and if a spokesman for that galaxy has now warned us to go away, all I can say is we'd better watch out."
Kellie said : "Merely a different form of imprint. Man—ugh!"
The exclamation had in it a terrible quality of dismay. As Morton stared at the sociologist in amazement, Kellie snatched his atomic gun. He was not a young man, but the speed of that draw showed reflexes of spring steel.
Almost straight at Morton, the intolerable energy from that gun belched. There was a thunder howl of agony behind Morton, then a crash that shook the floor.
The commander whirled, and stared with a sense of insanity at a thirty-foot armored beast that lay half a dozen feet to one side of him. As he stood there, half-paralyzed, a red-eyed replica of the first beast materialized in mid-air, and landed with a thud ten feet away. A third, devil-faced monster appeared, and half slid off the second, rolled over and over—and got up, roaring.
A second later, there were a dozen of the things.
As the first attack came, Morton drew his own gun, and, desperate, leaped toward the others, who were backed against the towering control board.
Guns raged even as he reached them. The beast-roaring redoubled in intensity; metal-like scales scraped metal walls and metal floors; claws rattled and paws thudded.
Morton paid no attention to the firing, or to the frightful bellowing. Ignoring any possible danger from the side, he ran along the lowest tiered walk; and, in a moment had thrown the switch that activated the multiple energy screens around the outer walls of the ship.
As he turned to help his friends, a hideous shadow loomed beside him. Too late he brought up his gun. A three-foot mouthful of eight-inch teeth lashed forth to embrace him—and dissolved in a spray of violet fire from a gun somewhere to Morton's left.
A minute after that, the fight was over; and Morton turned to the young man who had saved his life.
"Thanks, Grosvenor," he said quietly. "That was fast, efficient work. If that is what Nexial training does for a man, I'll have to see to it that more of it is put into use around this ship."
The young Nexialist flushed. "I'm afraid my training had nothing to do with the fact that I happened to turn and see your danger. Besides—
"Besides, you were the efficient one, sir. By throwing the multiple energy screens around the ship, you prevented more of the beasts from getting through. And, after that, naturally it was simple for us to kill those already inside."
Morton smiled, and put his great arm across the young man's slighter shoulders. Here was, he realized now that the immediate danger was over, an opportunity not to be missed.
Grosvenor was a problem. He was the first of the new, young supermen—so the radio press called the graduates of Nexial training—but just what to do with him, how to use his all-round qualifications had been a puzzle from the day he was posted aboard the ship.
The Space Beagle swarmed with experts, who knew so much about their special subjects that they could not but regard a Jack-of-all-trades as an incomplete development.
For the first part of the trip, Grosvenor had absolutely nothing to do. Morton had noticed him occasionally, a lonely, aloof young man who existed on the outermost fringes of the ship's violent intellectual life. When the assistant of the astrogeologist was killed by a scarlet monster that boarded the ship, Grosvenor agreed to be substitute. But he did so without comment, seemed instead to withdraw further into his shell of reserve. He—
Morton forced the brief reverie out of his mind. "O. K.," he said, "we were all heroes. But now let's see what we've got here."
He did not let go of the young man, but drew him along, diffidence and all. They threaded their way gingerly among squirming remnants of monster bodies, Morton issuing orders in his quietest voice.
He fell silent finally, as a quaver of reaction set in. He thought : This must he a dream; it couldn't be real. These things transported alive across light-centuries!
But a sick odor thickened the air. He kept slipping on the bluish-gray slime that was beast blood. The shiningness of disintegrated matter mingled with the air he breathed, bringing a sense of suffocation.
It was real, all right.
As Morton's commands bore fruit, cranes floated in, and began to remove carcasses, communicators buzzed with a crisscross of messages; and finally the picture was complete.
The reptilian creatures had been precipitated only into the control room. The Sensitives registered no material object such as enemy ship, or anything similar. The distance to the nearest star on the outer fringe of the second galaxy was a thousand light years, two hours journey at top speed.
Around Morton, men cursed as those scanty facts penetrated.
"A thousand light years!" Selenski, the chief pilot, ejaculated. "Why, we can't even send astroradio vibrations that far."
Another man said sharply: "Really, Commander Morton, is it wise to spend time and energy clearing up this mess, and generally concentrating on the inside of the ship, when it is the outside that matters? Come to think of it, you seemed to lose all interest in the outside the moment you had thrown the switch activating the multiscreen. Extremely dangerous, in my opinion."
Morton half turned, wearily. He was startled to realize that the criticism jarred him. He thought: "I'm upset, and if I am, so are the others."
Consciously squaring his great shoulders, he faced his critic, a construction technician, named Delber, a tall man with glasses. Morton said strongly :
"Are you serious?"
The other frowned. "Why, y-yes. A detailed study of space segments for trivia effects would seem simple precaution. This thing is BIG."
Morton said : "Do you realize that the multiscreen is the greatest defense ever devised by man? Either we can move behind its protecting vault calmly oblivious of all extrania, or else nothing can protect us."
Beside Morton, Grosvenor said fiercely to Delber:
"That screen, sir, is flawless not only mechanically but mathematically. It provides an infinite overlapping series; and that's a literal statement of its action". The objector bowed sardonically first to Grosvenor, then to Morton. "In the face of such an ardent argument from one who knows all about every subject, I yield my opposition."
Grosvenor flushed, then turned pale before the satire. He walked off rapidly to one side. Morton half started after him, then stopped himself.
This was no time to nurse the sensitive ego of a bright young Nexialist. A council of war was the imperative necessity of the moment.
When the men were assembled, Morton pushed his bulk along one of the control board tiers overlooking the room. He began :
"We've gotten ourselves into quite a mess; and we're going deeper. I need hardly point out that for one ship to confront a galactic civilization of any real proportions has no relation whatever to our past dangers from individual super beasts.
"For the moment, we're safe behind our superb defenses, but the nature of the menace requires us to set ourselves limited objectives. Not too limited. We must find out why we are being warned away. We must discover the nature of the danger and of the intelligence behind it, and it is just possible we can interpret up to a point what has happened. The facts are as follows:
He enumerated them briefly: The mind whisperings, the mental warning, the attack on the control room only—He finished:
"I see our chief biologist is still examining our late adversaries. Smith, what kind of beasts are they?"
Smith turned from one of the monsters. "Purest primeval reptile," he said briskly. "Earth could have produced their type during the dinosaur age. Judging by the two brains I've cut out, intelligence is about point oh four."
Morton frowned. He said finally, slowly: "Gourlay tells me, the beasts must have been precipitated through hyperspace. I'm sure he can tell us how this will affect our entire offensive and defensive position. Go ahead, Gourlay."
Morton waited, quietly, his gaze expectantly on the slouched figure of the communications expert. Abruptly, he was startled. Gourlay, the great man of the ship next to Kent—that Gourlay slow in responding. Perhaps better than anyone on the ship, Morton knew the extraordinary man, whose drawl and surface laziness concealed a mind that was chain lightning. If the information, the capacity for counteraction existed, Gourlay would know about it; and it would be there on the tip of his tongue, slow, concise, immensely coherent. He—
Gourlay was straightening; and Morton breathed again. "Hyperspace," came the familiar drawl, "is not strictly an energy field, though there is a relation. You all know what space is: a tension in time; the function involved is roughly time plus an environment of the basic energy deka.
"Somebody once likened the result to the skin of an expanded balloon; fortunately, when pricked, this balloon repairs itself, taking eons of time in the emptiness of space, but quickly when there is a gaseous envelope like the atmosphere of a planet surrounding the break. However, the atmosphere required does not have to be dense. So long as there is something, a gap in hyperspace is repaired in a few moments.
"Men have made considerable effort to use hyperspace, but the great drawback has been the need for gas around the outlet and inlet. Otherwise, there is a catastrophic explosion, which reduces all matter in the vicinity to time plus deka."
He stopped there; and it was several seconds before it struck Morton that he was finished.
"Just a moment," the commander said hastily, "we all know that man uses hyperspace in planet to planet transmission of material objects. Why shouldn't he, therefore, be able to transmit from a planet to this ship? After all, we've got an atmosphere inside here."
Gourlay said : "The problem of focusing a hyperspace transmitter on a ship whose speed is measured in light-year units involves about nine hundred thousand dimensions, mathematically speaking. Accordingly, it's impossible even theoretically. I think that should answer all your questions."
Having spoken, Gourlay leaned back and closed his eyes. Morton waited, but there was no further sign from the man.
The whole effect was unpleasantly unsatisfactory; and Morton, who had a very sharp sense of human reaction to bad news, said coolly:
"Obviously, there's no one in the world that much smarter than we are. There must be simple solutions to the problem of hyperspace which our scientists missed out on.
"No doubt, of course, that these beings have got a lot on the ball, but they haven't penetrated the multiple energy screen around the Space Beagle. On top of that they pulled the damnedest, dumbest trick in attacking us with a bunch of mindless monsters, when they could have taken the ship by using a more intelligent and organized attacking force, and exploiting their initial surprise to the full. And, finally, they must be scared stiff of our finding out something dangerous if they don't even want to let us into their galaxy."
"Look, Morton," said a bass-voiced man, "if that little pep talk is designed to brace up our morale, you'd better think again. The fact is we're up against something so big we can't even imagine it. Let's start from there."
It was, Morton reflected grimly, a damned low starting point.
He stood for a moment then, a brooding giant of a man. His heavy face was dark with the determination that was growing into it. He said finally:
"I don't accept that pessimism so completely. We're alive. That's proof that we're not pushovers to whatever is out there."
Slowly, he relaxed. He waved one great hand toward a group of men who sat at his left. He said:
"I see our military expert sitting well to the forefront over there. He's had about point oh four work to do since this voyage started, but I think we can use his knowledge at last. What do you make of the attack, Dysart ?"
Dysart was a medium-sized, oldish man with a lined face and a bushy beard. He had a sour voice. He said:
"If the objective was our destruction, it failed one hundred percent. If the intention was to scare us, the assault was a smashing success."
There was a little flurry of laughter, and Morton smiled with a grim satisfaction at the relaxing of tension in the enormous, domed room. He waited a moment, then said :
"Supposing the intention was not destruction."
Dysart looked abruptly more serious.
"I see this affair as a progression of warnings. First, there was a mental warning, now has come a concrete warning."
His expression grew darker, and the sour rasp in his tone took on a more resonant quality:
"I will not speculate on the purpose behind the warnings. But I think we can safely draw the conclusion that the beasts were symbols of a remorseless and murderous determination, and that the purpose behind them was no mere friendly advice to get out."
"There is no doubt," said a small man at the back of the room, "that a great effort is being made to get us to turn around and go back home—alive!"
Morton called: "Come on out here, Kent, and explain that."
He frowned in puzzlement as the little chemist pushed forward from his seat. Morton regarded Kent as the smartest man on the ship, but the significance of the scientist's words completely escaped him.
In a ringing voice, Kent began : "It's possible I have the wrong slant on things, but I always look for ulterior motives. You people see an effort to keep us away from the galaxy we are approaching. My mind instantly jumped to the possibility that our friend out there would like to know where we came from."
Morton said slowly: "Maybe you've got something there, Kent."
Kent continued : "Just look at it from—his—point of view. Here is a ship approaching from a certain general direction. In that direction, within ten million light years, are a large number of nebulae, star clusters, star clouds. Which is us?"
There was a dead silence in the room. Morton had the queer feeling that men were shuddering, each from his own mental picture of the hell that could be here. It was Smith who said finally in a gloomy voice:
"What would you suggest, Kent ?"
The little chemist replied promptly: "Destruction or scrambling of all identification star charts or pools. Gunlie Lester, his assistant and all the people aboard who have too much astronomical knowledge in their heads, to wear spacesuits with energy guards whenever and wherever we land.
"It is possibly already too late. We know that the creature has been poking around in Morton's brain, and God only knows how many other minds he's ransacked. We'd better start exploring this galaxy at top speed, and we'll be wise to see to it that nowhere along the line does our enemy have even an edgewise chance to study us again."
He broke off. "Morton, when do we get to the nearest star of this galaxy?"
"Approximately three hours," said the commander.
The meeting broke up in silence.
The first sun grew big out of space, a ball of light and heat, burning furiously into the great night, and supporting seven planets.
One was habitable, a world of mists and jungles and nightmare beasts. They left it, unexplored, after flashing low over an inland sea, across a great continent of marsh and fungi growth.
Left it because, as Morton said : "We have set ourselves an objective : to find the nature of the intelligence that dominates this galaxy. Conceivably the clues may exist in the fastness of the jungle below—I wouldn't be surprised if the beasts that were precipitated into the control room came from there—but I think we should search for a more civilized source of evidence."
Lonely and remote were the suns at this distant rim of the galaxy. They spun on their courses, aloof, like glowworms on a clouded night, in their relation one to the other. Three hundred light years, the Space Beagle sped, and came to a small red sun with two planets crowding up close to its cherry-red warmth.
One of the two planets was habitable, a world of mists and jungles and nightmare beasts. They left it, unexplored, after darting down low over a marshy sea and a land choked with fungoid growth.
There were more stars now; a sprinkle of them daubed the near distance of the next hundred light years. A large, blue-white sun sporting thirty-seven planets attracted the superbly swift Earth ship.
The great machine spat out of space, raged past seven planets that were burning hells, spiral-led toward the three close-together planets that were habitable—and flicked off into the night with its startled crew.
Behind, three steamy jungle planets swirled in their separate, eccentric orbits around the hot sun that had spawned them. "Identical triplets, by God!" Gunlie Lester exploded on the general communicator. "Morton, the axial tilt of those planets was a design to regulate their heat to the requirements of a jungle world. Somebody's deliberately creating primeval planets. If the next sun has a jungle world also, I think we'd better investigate."
The fourth star was Sol-size, Sol-type. Of its three planets, one made a neat orbit at eighty million miles, a steaming world of jungle and primeval seas.
The Space Beagle settled through that gaseous envelope and began to fly along at a low level, a great, alien ball of metal in a fantastic land.
In the geology lab, Grosvenor watched the bank of instruments that registered the nature of the terrain below. Particularly, he stared with strained attention at the density recorder needle as it shifted along its thin range of mud, stone, clay, mud, water, fungi—
The needle jumped like flame in high wind—steel, clay, concrete, steel.
Steel!
Grosvenor reacted. His hand snatched up at the geared alarm, and tugged with the frantic sense that it was his strength that must stop the mighty ship. He let go only when the voice of Jarvis, his superior, rasped beside him, reporting to the control room :
". . . Yes, Commander Morton, steel not just iron ore. Our instruments are registering developed metal, not nature in the raw. Depth? . . . What's the depth there, Grove?"
"T-ten, twenty, f-fifty feet!" Grosvenor stammered. Inwardly, he cursed the way his heart was pounding, caught his voice into a stiff bar of sound. "It varies, and it's spread over a wide area."
Jarvis was saying into the communicator: "As you know, Commander, we set our instruments at fifty feet maximum. This could be a city buried in the jungle mud."
It was, in a way. It was an incredible rubble of what had been a city. The scenes uncovered by the drillers were shambles. Everywhere was shattered steel and concrete and stone. And bodies!
The bodies were at the street line about fifty feet below the surface; a whole pack of them turned up where Grosvenor was directing a drilling crew. Everything stopped as the great men of the ship came over to examine the find.
"Rather badly smashed," said Smith, "but I think I can piece together a coherent picture."
His skillful fingers arranged an assembly of scattered bones into a rough design. "Four-legged," he said. He turned a curious hazy light on the fragile structure. "This one has been dead about twenty-five years."
He frowned, and picked up a bone, and brought the hazy, whitish light nearer to it. "Funny," he said, "there's a resinous substance on this end of the bone that's impervious to ultra-light. It reflects it. In all my experience, nothing concrete, nothing except energy itself has ever stopped ultra-light. Rent, what do you make of that ?"
He handed the bone over; and Grosvenor stood, watching and waiting. He felt fascinated, not by the mystery of the bone, but because time and again, since he had joined the ship's company, he had tried to picture the difference between himself and these men.
Perhaps, he thought now, with intense absorption, it was this ability of theirs to concentrate utterly on some detail of their special science.
Whereas he, Grosvenor, had already rejected as irrelevant everything directly connected with the bones of these long-dead creatures. These were the pitiful victims, not the arrogant and deadly destroyers.
The shattered relics that lay around in such abundance might hold the secret of the fundamental physical character of a vanished race, but no clue could there be in them of the unimaginably merciless beings who had murdered them.
The incredible beings who went around deliberately jungle-izing habitable planets.
In spite of his conviction of irrelevancy, Grosvenor had a brief, vivid, mental picture of a civilization of four-legged, two-armed, small-headed creatures whose bodies could reflect every wave of light. And then, Morton's voice was resonating quietly on the general communicator:
"The . . . curious . . . reflecting feature of the bone . . . undoubtedly deserves study, but in more leisurely moments, not now when our whole will and effort must be concentrated on our search to locate the great forces that rule this galaxy."
It was vindication for his own opinion. But Grosvenor said nothing. A dark thought came that the vanished race had not been able to reflect the millions of tons of earth that buried them and all their works. But he had no sense of tragedy.
There was excitement in him, and an intense pleasure in the scene of men working with machines that were almost human in their sensitivity, abnormal and terrible in their irresistible power.
For the moment, he felt a part of the scene. Up to a point, it was a geology show. As the geologists were Jarvis and himself, and Jarvis was too busy to bother him, for the first time Grosvenor was on his own.
He flew from drill crew to drill crew, setting up his instruments, registering for five hundred feet now, testing the earth the drills removed.
His communicator buzzed with voices, but only occasionally did he tune them in. Once when he heard Jarvis talking, he listened as his superior said:
"Commander Morton, I'm willing to commit myself. The jungle is a superimposed layer. It was brought here in some sort of a cataclysm. The strata below resembles that of an older, less primitive planet. It could have been Earth, with certain variations. I would suggest that an astronomical study be made of nearby planets to determine if they show any of the effects that must have resulted when this planet was violently moved out of its original orbit, and violently put into its present one."
It was about half an hour later that Zeller, the metallurgist, added his words to the developing picture of a cosmic catastrophe. Zeller's voice blurred on the communicator:
"This broken steel girder was rolled less than seventy-five years ago. Its electronic fatigue gap is only 23x10-14."
"Thanks!" Morton's voice was quiet. "I think we can be pretty safe now in assuming that the catastrophe was of comparatively recent origin. Accordingly, our work on this planet may be considered finished. I'm going back to the ship now, and I'll issue a general recall from there."
Grosvenor was thinking unsteadily : "If I could solve this mystery! If I could even get the first clue— The next planet, of course, will be jungle, too, and I'll concentrate on—"
His thought drained like water running down a sinkhole. His brain twirled. He whispered finally, shakily :
"The next planet will be jungle, too—Good God, that's it ! That's the angle—and I'm the only one on all the ship who can handle it."
With an effort, he caught that egotistical twist of his mind. He thought with wry grimness : It was the solution of the problem that counted, not who solved it. But the thought that had come wouldn't go away.
For beyond all doubt, the hour of hope had struck for the lone, despised Nexialist of the battleship Space Beagle.
Now that the moment was here, felt a spasm of doubt. He stood near Morton looking at the seated scientists and there was no sense of satisfaction in the victory that was going to be his. He grew aware of Morton pushing forward, and raising his hand for silence. The commander said:
"You have probably been wondering, all of you, the purpose of our careening around during the past two days. As you know, we have visited three widely separated star systems, and it is interesting to note in that connection that no interference has been offered to our flight. Where we willed to go we went.
"What you do not know is that the stars we visited were selected for investigation by Nexial mathematics under a theory conceived and executed by Elliott Grosvenor. Grosvenor, tell your colleagues what you discovered."
Astoundingly, it was a bad moment for Grosvenor. He stood, shaking inwardly, in abrupt funk. He stood in the grip of a hell of unexpected thoughts that included the devastating realization that you couldn't just face men whose attitude had denied your intelligence and training. All the months that he had been treated like a grown-up child reached at his tongue and twisted at it, striving to stop him from speaking.
The curious thought came finally that there was only one way to begin a speech; and that was to begin it. He said:
"What I did was to obtain from Gunlie Lester his most developed photographic map of this galaxy. The important thing there was that he had already marked the galactic longitude and latitude planes, and the course we had taken.
"I must now call your attention briefly to a branch of science which has not, I know from experience"—Grosvenor smiled bleakly—"commended itself very highly to the science specialists of this great ship with which we are to explore the entire attainable universe. I refer to the science of Nexialism, which has its own mathematics, and is a method of training designed to bridge the gap between facts that are related but separated, for instance, by being contained in the brainpans of two individuals. Nexialism joins. It seeks to unify apparent irrelations; and its scope is so great that the data of an entire galaxy is not too complicated for it to cast into a recognizable design."
Grosvenor paused. Because he was doing well. His voice was cool and steady. His brain was working with hair-trigger, split-second alertness. He went on; and his voice sounded thrillingly clear in his own ears :
"As I saw it, what we were primarily interested in was this: Are all the planets of this galaxy jungle-ized, or aren't they? The mathematics involved—"
He saw that the men were staring at him. "Good heavens," somebody said, "if you can prove that—"
Triumph was sweet, but it had a strong drink quality, too. It put a tremor into Grosvenor's voice, as he interrupted:
"It is proved, sir. The three-star systems we have just visited were selected by Nexial mathematics. When examination verified that their habitable planets were jungle worlds, it followed automatically that every habitable globe in this entire vast galaxy was a land of jungle and beasts."
He had them now; there was no doubt of that. Men stirred, and looked at each other. Finally, the great Smith said:
"But, Grosvenor, what about the intelligences that rule this galaxy? We've opened the multiscreen several times; and the roar of myriad thoughts remains. There are colossal minds out there. They can't possibly be living on monster-inhabited jungle planets."
Grosvenor said quietly : "Mr. Smith, this whole problem is solved. The intelligence out there is a single entity. We know what it is. If you will have a moment of patience—"
"Gentlemen"—it was Morton, smiling but grim—"what you are hearing is no fantastic theory. These are the facts. You are listening to the recount of the most brilliant one-man shows that has ever been staged. Go on, Grosvenor."
There was dead silence, then, except for the pattern that Grosvenor's voice made against the quiet vastness of the control room.
He told them the thoughts that had led up to the finale, his attempts to fit what Gourlay had said about hyper-space, the need for a gas environment, and possibly for some nearby directive to control the aim of the transmitter:
"I went down finally to the engine room to check the graph of power discharge of automatic C-9." Grosvenor smiled almost apologetically. "We have so many automatic devices aboard this ship, that some of them never receive any attention except mechanical check-ups. This is particularly true of our automatic screens against the presence of tenuous matter in space.
"Suffice to say that C-9 had been on from the moment we heard the space whisperings until we slapped on the multiple screen, the complicated energy structure of which, of course, assumed C-9's duties."
Grosvenor went on : "With Commander Morton's permission I then had the multiple screen briefly cut off, sent out a G-ship and obtained a representative sample of the space around us. I tested this myself, then for verification took it to Mr. Kent who—"
"What's that?" Kent was on his feet; there was a wild look in his eyes. "Was that gas you brought me a sample of surrounding space? Why, it's a hydrogen carbon compound, stabilized by a three-tie juncture with the brain cell element that—"
He broke off: "Good heavens, man, it's life. It's—"
"But why does it jungle-ize planets?" a man cried.
Grosvenor silenced the gathering clamor by raising his hand. "I can answer that, too. The problem actually was, what did it feed on? I tried various methods of stimulation and—"
The Anabis lay in an immense, suffused, formless form, spread through all the space of the second galaxy. It writhed a little, feebly, in a billion portions of its body, shrinking with automatic adjustment away from the destroying fury of two billion blazing suns, but pressing down tight against the myriad planets, sticking with a feverish, insatiable hunger around the quadrillion tingling points where were dying the creatures that gave it life.
It wasn't enough. Through all the countless, tenuous cells of its titanic structure, that dread knowledge of an imminent starvation seeped to the farthest reaches of its weakened body-gigantic.
Not enough food, the dreary message pulsed on and on through its imponderable elements, not enough, not enough—its mass was too big. It had made a fatal mistake in growing with such vast abandon during the early days.
In those years the future had seemed limitless, the Galactic space where its form could wax ever huger had seemed of endless extent; and it had expanded with all the vaunting, joyous egoism of a lowborn grown conscious of stupendous destiny.
It was lowborn. In the dim beginning was only gas oozing from a mist-covered swamp. Odorless, tasteless, colorless gas, yet somehow, someway, a dynamic combination was struck; and there was life.
At first it was nothing but a puff of invisible mist ardently darting hither and thither over the muggy, muddy waters that had spawned it, darting, twisting, diving, pursuing, incessantly and with a gathering alertness, a gathering need, striving to be present while something—anything—was being killed.
For the death of others was its life.
What a terrible joy it was to swoop over two insects buzzing in a furious death struggle, envelope them, and wait, trembling in every gassy atom, for the life force of the defeated to spray with tingling effect against its own insubstantial elements.
There was a timeless period then when its life was only that aimless search for food; and its world was a narrow swamp, a gray, nubiferous environment where it lived its contented, active, idyllic, almost mindless existence.
But even in that world of suffused sunlight it grew bigger imperceptibly. It needed more food, more than any haphazard search for dying insects could bring it.
And so it developed cunning, special little knowledge that fitted the dank swamp. It learned which were the insects that preyed and which the prey. It learned the hunting hours of every species, and where the tiny non-flying monsters lay in wait—the flying ones were harder to keep track of. It learned to use its eviscerated shape like a breeze to sweep unsuspecting victims to their fate.
Its food supply became adequate, then more than adequate. It grew and once more it hungered.
By purest necessity it became aware of a world beyond the swamp. And, oh, what a day it was when it ventured forth, and came upon two gigantic armored beasts at the bloody climax of a death struggle. The sustained thrill of the defeated monster's life force streaming through its vitals, the stupendous quantity of force provided ecstasy greater than that experienced during all its previous life put together.
In one brief hour, while the victor devoured the writhing vanquished, the Anabis grew by ten thousand times ten thousand.
During the single day and night period that followed, the steaming jungle world was enveloped. The Anabis overflowed every ocean, every continent, and spread up into the brighter reaches of the atmosphere, where the sun shone on it directly for the first time.
Explosive result! Later, in the days of its intelligence, it learned that sunlight provided a necessary reaction on its elements, provided mass and weight.
But in that first minute there was only the effect, the dynamic expansion. On the second day it reached the first, adjoining planet. It reached the limits of the galaxy in a measurable time, stretched out instinctively for the shining stuff of other star systems and met defeat in distances that seemed to yield nothing to its groping, tenuous matter.
The days of its power seemed but a moment. Jungle worlds, with their prolific life-and-death cycles chilled; the supply of life force diminished notably. It hungered and once more grew in cunning.
It discovered that by concentrating its elements it could make holes in space, go through, and come out at a distant point. It learned to transport matter in this fashion. It began to jungle-ize planets long before it discovered that some of them were inhabited by curious, intelligent things.
It believed—and there was no one to dispute—that primeval worlds provided the most life force. It transported great slices of other jungle worlds through hyperspace. It knocked cold planets nearer their suns.
And it wasn't enough.
The coming of the ship brought hope. It would follow the ship to wherever it had come from; and, after that, no more wild, mindless, greedy growth—
Pain! The ship after darting aimlessly about, landed on a barren planet, and was sending forth incredible agony.
Darkness made no difference. The Space Beagle crouched on a vast plain of jagged metal, every porthole shedding light, great searchlights pouring down their flood of illumination on the row on row of engines that were tearing enormous holes into the hard, all-iron world.
There was no attempt to make steel, simply the creating of unstable iron torpedoes that were launched into space at the rate of one a second. That was the beginning.
By midnight the manufacturing machine itself began to be manufactured; and each one in turn created those slim, dark torpedoes that soared into the surrounding night scattering their substance a quarter of a light year to every side. Thirty thousand years those torpedoes would shed their destroying atoms; and they were designed to remain within the gravitational field of their galaxy, but never to fall on a planet or into a sun.
As the slow, red-dawn crept toward fruition, Engineer Pennons reported hoarsely to Morton:
"We're now turning out nine thousand a second; and I think we can safely leave the machines to finish the job. I've put a partial screen around the planet to prevent interference. Three more iron worlds properly located; and I think our bulky friend will begin to have a hollow feeling in his vital parts. But what comes after that?"
Morton smiled grimly: "N. G. C. fifty thousand three hundred forty-seven."
Pennons whistled. "Nine hundred million light years! Do you think it will follow?'
"It's got to. The alternative is to be destroyed by our torpedoes, or a blind stab at another galaxy of its own choosing. But we'll see—"
Through telescopes they watched the faint fuzz of gas stream out behind them and follow.
Morton turned finally from the eyepiece. "We'll go on for about a year," he said, "then go invisible and turn aside."
As he was going out of the door a few minutes later, he came upon Zeller and Grosvenor. The metallurgist was saying:
"Er, Grosvenor, I have a little problem in metal chemistry that I think needs tying up with an energy function. Do you think Nexialism could—"
Grosvenor said: "Why, I think so, Mr. Zeller. What—"
Morton passed on, smiling.
M33 in Andromeda - Kindle version
M33 in Andromeda - ePub version
More of A. E. van Vogt's best late-period stories
Three of A. E. van Vogt's best late-period stories: "Itself" (1963), "Lost: Fifty Suns" (1972) and "The Timed Clock" (1972)
"The Expendables" and other stories by A. E. van Vogt
"The Ghost" and other golden-age stories by A. E. van Vogt
"Ride In, Killer!" (1951) - a golden-age Western story by A. E. van Vogt
"The Perfect Day" (1981) by A. E. van Vogt - never before published in English
The Silkie Stories (1964-1967) by A. E. van Vogt
"The Weapon Shops of Isher" (1949) - a major golden-age novella by A. E. van Vogt never before republished!
"The Weapon Shop" (1942) by A. E. van Vogt
"War of Nerves" (1950) by A. E. van Vogt

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Taika Oyata's Journey to Ryu-Te
by Hanshi Albert O. Geraldi
Why did you choose to study Ryukyu Kempo?
Over the past few decades, the many systems of martial art seemed to have evolved into one big melting pot; whereby most people today are unaware of the distinction in style or lineage. Having no idea myself at one time of the different styles, I believe it was destiny that led me to choose Kempo.
One day in my early twenties, I wandered down an obscure muddy back alley in Makiminato, a small Okinawan Village; and found inside a non-descript concrete building, Master Seiyu Oyata sitting cross-leg on a stool in front of the dojo. That was the beginning of my journey into the martial arts.
Why did Master Nakamura call his style "Okinawa Kempo?"
Many mistake kempo and karate to be one and the same or use the term "kempo" generically for "karate." This is not true. Ancient Masters, such as Funakoshi and Choki Motobu, understood the difference between the two and even wrote about this in their books.
Okinawan calligraphy for "karate" means "empty hand." For "kempo" the characters mean "fist law" or the older generation recognize the characters as "Chinese hand."
Master Shigeru Nakamura's teachers studied under a Chinese Ambassador to Okinawa (whose name may have either been Ku San Ku or his form was called Ku San Ku).
In any event, Master Nakamura decided to call his system "Okinawa Kempo" (Okinawa-Chinese Hand), and established his organization as "All Okinawa Kempo Karate-Do Association" clarifying that Kempo was a form of empty hand fighting.
Karate, as we know it today, was developed on Okinawa with roots going back to Ancient China.
The names of the original 12 katas had no meaning in the Japanese language; therefore, it is my belief the kata names may have either been in the old Okinawan dialect or may have been rooted in Chinese origin. For example, Chizi-Kun-Bo, "Kun" means "Bo" in Chinese or Nai-Han-Chi, "Chi" is the Chinese equivalent of "Ki" which is Japanese.
Around 1937, when Funakoshi began teaching in Japan, the names of the katas, for better recognition, were changed to Japanese. Shodokan, the Japanese style taught by Master Gichin Funakoshi, had its foundational roots in Kempo.
The flowchart below illustrates the transition of martial art knowledge from China down to all of Europe and America.
If Karate came from China, why is it different from Kung-Fu?
Chinese martial arts, particularly Kung-Fu, have long held philosophical and spiritual significance within the culture.
Along with this, the Chinese martial arts grew alongside the ideas of Confucianism and Taoism during the Zhou Dynasty (1045 B.C.- 256 B.C.) and beyond, not in isolation from them. For example, the Taoist concept of Ying and Yang, the universal opposites, ended up being tied in a large way to the hard and soft techniques that make up what is kung fu. The arts from flower arranging to archery including all boxing arts also became a part of the concepts of Confucianism, as they were tied to the ideal things people should practice.
From the late 1800's to the early 1900's, the Boxer Rebellion broke out in China; their goal was to remove foreign influence from China. "Boxers" was a name that foreigners gave to a Chinese secret society known as the Yihequan ("Righteous and Harmonious Fists"). The group practiced certain boxing and calisthenic rituals in the belief that this made them invulnerable.
After the rebellion had failed, the Dowager Empress Cixi ordered the purging of all the Martial Arts Schools and execution of teachers especially the leaders of the revolt, emphasizing Kempo (fist law or doctrine), which put an end to this hard system of boxing in China.
In the early 20th century, another purge was instituted by Mao-Tse-tung and his Communist Red Guard, destroying all cultural symbols.
What is the significance of these events?
By this time in history, karate had already been well established on Okinawa mainly due to their trade relations with China dating back as far as the 14th Century.
The martial arts were considered to be a secret art. For survival reasons alone, ancient martial arts were always taught in secret. Even as recently as fifty years ago, some schools on Okinawa would not teach Americans; even Chinese Kung-Fu studios in New York City would not accept American students.
Teaching in secret resulted in a minimal dissemination of information which ultimately allows the teacher to distort what they teach. When students begin training, they think they are entering a "doctoral program," so to speak, when they seek to achieve Black Belt status, but the information they really learn after years of practice amounts to a basic First Aid course.
Due to this lack of information, down through the years, much of what is now being taught is just that – basic information – even to the point of being newly invented.
The truth is often difficult to accept as it sometimes conflicts with what we have for so long been hearing and practicing. In knowing and accepting the truth, the question is "Can you make the decision to live accordingly with or without it?" Remember: making such a decision, in any walk of life, can affect all future decisions and outcomes.
Then, if the art is so secret, why would the Okinawans even begin to teach karate?
From the mid-to-late fifties, the American Armed Forces began a physical education program for military personal, which included martial arts.
Okinawan karate instructors were invited to teach their art and were paid each month five dollars per student. Some karate instructors actually traveled to the bases to teach. This not only became a financial windfall for the teachers; the program had increased the number of schools on the Island.
Even though karate was becoming a popular sport, the meaning of the moves ("Bunkai") were being withheld from foreign students. The secret is in the meaning.
What are kata's?
According to Webster's Dictionary, Kata is "a set combination of positions and movements (as in karate) performed as an exercise."
Kata's are the most effective original techniques of the masters we were never meant to learn. They are movements placed in a certain sequence to be memorized and practiced.
Katas were usually practiced in private or, on rare occasions, only to students the master approved of. The only time techniques were ever revealed were in either an actual match defending life or reputation. As a matter of pride, when Okinawans teach kata, they insist the form be taught and performed correctly.
If you ever watch a kata performance and recognize it, but it seems a bit different than what you have learned, it is probably due to the individual instructor's personal training and his/her interpretation of technique.
Keep this in mind: The forms taught by Master Nakamura are the most accurate and are relatively unchanged. Therefore, Kata's taught by our system's teachers are more accurate than the version you are seeing.
Who was Master Seiyu Oyata?
There are three original letters in my possession written by three Okinawan
Masters: Shihan Toma, Seitoku Higa and Master Seikichi Ueihara in Japanese
and later translated to English. Written as character references over fifty years
ago these letters were sworn statements affirming Master Seiyu Oyata's ability,
power, skill and knowledge as a teacher.
Master Seikichi Ueihara, the patriarch of the Motobu system and considered to be an Okinawan national treasure, wrote in his letter that Mr. Oyata was "one of four of the last great Kempo masters still alive."
Few can claim the remarkable years I had training with Taika, who was then only thirty-six years of age and a fifth dan, in his Makiminato Dojo. My first experience with Taika in his dojo was being kicked in the head by him while wearing bogu equipment.
Sometime later, after Taika broke his right hand (his right index finger knuckle pushed half way up his hand), he experimented with second and third knuckle punching techniques, but was unsuccessful and from that point on he started stressing open hand techniques.
As his kicks gradually lowered, he focused more on self-defense and seminars saying, "Real self-defense is different from sport fighting". Here he meant no-contact sport fighting that was already well established in the U.S.
Kumite, on the other hand, is foundational in the practice and testing of skill in martial arts. Kumite literally translated means "grappling hands" and is the part of karate in which a person trains against an adversary, using the techniques learned from kata. Full-contact Bogu Kumite is more like real self-defense.
Why change the name from Okinawa Kempo to Ryukyu Kempo?
In 1969, after Master Nakamura's death, his family reserved the rights to the name "Okinawa Kempo." In 1975, myself and two of Oyata's other American students changed the name to "Ryukyu Kempo".
Prior to arriving in the U.S. in 1976, Taika was using Masters Shihan Toma and Ueihara organization's name "Ryukyu Karate." After Taika arrived in the U.S. in 1976, he adopted the name that we had established.
After years passed, he became disheartened with the misuse and plagiarism of the system's identity. He began to believe his legacy would be better served in having his own system name.
Who was the man - Taika?
Few people understand the complexity and depth of this man outside of being the great Kempo Master and his teaching experience.
Before becoming an American citizen, on Okinawa he had held other jobs, distributing food and supplies for the U.S. government; a diesel mechanic, a salesman, and a bouncer for the Tea House owners in his area.
He lost three brothers to war, was drafted and became a Japanese Lieutenant at the age of sixteen. He had a son who died in a motorcycle accident in Okinawa, he raised his brother's children a niece and nephew.
Who is the Legend?
Taika's mission here in the United States, first was economic survival. Secondly, he wanted to present the unique concepts of Okinawan Kempo never revealed before. His rare perceptiveness gave insight to many instructors who had only experienced the rudiments of martial arts.
From his years of teaching experience, Taika grew justifiably wary of other karate instructors. As a result, he undertook to employ change and sometimes misdirection in teaching his techniques which caused some confusion among the ranks. To hold the student's attention, though, he had to drop nuggets of gold every so often.
On October 16, 1993, Taika was awarded masters grade by the United States Okinawan Cultural Society. In 1994, he formed his Shin-Shu-Ho-Ryu organization.
Taika has given much over years, not only to his students, but to others within his community through his charitable works. We all knew Taika Seiyu Oyata in different ways.
He was a complex, multi-faceted person. Those who knew Taika would describe the part of the man and teacher they knew best. As a teacher, he is held in high-esteem by his students and recognized world-wide for his contribution to the martial arts. As a businessman, he is well-respected by other leaders within the martial arts industry.
Which path of study will you decide to take?
The decision depends, as mentioned before, either on choosing the path paved by authentic teaching or one of inventive fantasy. Remember, authentic teaching derives from history and the Masters who originated their forms which are the most accurate.
I and my senior students have always kept faithful to the teachings of the way of Ryukyu Hands, and we will continue to do so in memory of our legacy.


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