Life — July 23, 1925 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

NOTICED Steve's excitement the instant I took the receiver off the hook, and knew a big story had broken or was about to break, Steve is the least excitable of editors. “Bill"—he fairly shouted—“whatever you're doing, chuck it. Get over to the Lincoln Hotel for the biggest beat of the age. God has just checked in!” “What?” I supposed Steve must have gone loco, or I had not heard correctly. “Repeat that name, Steve.” “God, I said—God—Ruler of the U verse. It's a straight tip and exclusive. till, rush, rush for—” he halted lamely “—for hen’s sake!” “All right, Steve; s'long.” All the world grows stale to a special writer. But never before had an as- signment even remotely like this come my way, and knowing Steve I suspected —or did I suspect? No, Steve had never been a practical joker. On the job he was always intensely serious; that was why he was the best of city editors. So, I reflected, if he said God had checked in at the Lincoln, he must think it was true. But, of course, it couldn't be. evertheless, as I settled back in the cab during the short ride to the hotel, I tried to fix my mind on the questions I would ask God, if the un- thinkable should be true and He really were waiting in a hotel room near by, willing to be interviewed. In reverence there came to my mind some of the questions I had pon- dered all my life, and to which I had nowhere, even among the wisest, found an- swers. At the hotel I wasted no time. I asked Jimmy Sparks, one of the clerks whom I knew very well, to show me the last few sheets of the register, and from them T quickly learned the number of the room occu- pied by this Guest whom I had been sent to interview. Three minutes later I stood outside the door, and a moment afterwards, in re- sponse to my knock, I found myself facing a clean-shaven, healthy, out- doors-looking young fellow apparently - LIFE: “And God Said— By Neil M. Clark about my own age. He gave a nod. “Pardon me,” I said, “I'm Harrigan of the Times. 1 was sent here to find God and get a story.” “Come in,” said the I did so, looking about, and saw a mod- est room which boasted only two chairs, the straight-backed one at the writing-desk, and another more comfort- able one. The man who had met me at the door motioned me to the lat- ter, taking the straight- backed chair himself. There followed a mo- ment of embarrassed silence for me, which I finally broke with ques- tions. “Is this. the right place?” I asked. “Is God her The young man nodded, faintly smil- ing. “I—" he began. “You—” incredulously; but suddenly knowledge seemed to come to me. I do not know what happened exactly, but instantly it appeared to me that every- thing was all right, the youngster was truly God, knowing all, seeing all, as old and as young as time, and bearing authority. And I realized that I was there to ask whatever I chose. oung man, “pi” — SHOUTED NE EVER YOU'RE DOING, CHUCK How does life continue in a seed? What greater men than us dwell on other carths? When “did time begin?” The great mysteries, life, death and the cternal; about these, question after eager question sprang to my lips, and I had no need of note pad or pencil to record the replies, which came fully and serenely, Every word spoken was burned unfor- getably on my brain. Hours must have turned to minutes; and when at last, I do not know quite how, I found myself out of that modest hotel room and back in my own more sumptuous apart- ment, [ was deeply ir- ritated by an interruption to my thoughts, which I recognized as the telephone. “Yes,” I said, picking up the instru- ment. “Bill, is that you?” Tt was Steve. “Yes,” I replied. “Did you get the story?” “I did.” I said, “the greatest story ever told. Hold the presses, Steve. Send boys to my place every fifteen minutes or so for copy. I'll write till it’s finished.” T turned to, writing madly. The great truths learned direct that FAIRLY “WHAT “BOYS CAME, GRABBED THOSE SHEETS, AND MISTILY DEPARTED.” “Tell mce—” the words suddenly poured out in a veritable Niagara— “tell me what lies beyond the stars. Where are all the ancient dead? How does the non-sentient become sentient? day from the lips of God him- seli—a news feat never be- fore imagined—got themselves down on sheet after sheet of yellow paper. Boys came, grabbed those sheets, and mistily departed. I scarcely saw or heard them. I wrote inspiredly, knowing that no story ever had compared with mine or ever could. Finally, it was finished. When the last copy boy stumbled off, I sank back on the bed and slept the sleep of exhaustion, A couple of hours later I awoke, and rushed out to get copies of the paper and my story. I wanted to see how it looked in type, with the (Continued on page 31) comicbooks.com