A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 39: what you’re looking at

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

38 A. MERRITT’S FANTASY Exclamations of wonder and delight ourst from his lips as, with the trained observation of a doctor, he took note of the rounded contours which but so short a time before had been hollowed, scrawny, despicable. He inflated his chest, he beat upon it with both fists till it resounded like adrum. The excess of oxygen dizzied him. He staggered, drunk with power. “Life! Life!’’ cried he. Then clambering up a wave-worn mass of rock that rose amid the surf, he plunged. And—all his one-time skill in- stinctively reverting—he reveled for a full half-hour in the invigorating flood. ‘Out through the yeasty toss he struck, boldly out toward the open sea; he turned and swam back, under water. He let the breakers bear him in, up, up; then, clutch- ing a barnacled rock, clung while the thunderous green surges spilled over him, recoiled, and once more swung him sea- ward. Weary a little, he climed ashore. He sat there by a pool, wherein prawns and claw-fingered little mollusks, star-fish, and hermit crabs were carrying on their tiny businesses. Delighted as a child at play, he dabbled his feet in the miniature lake; he found a bit of driftwood, and with it stirred the denizens to flight or masterly inactivity. Tired of this, he plunged again ; and finally, when an hour or so was past, emerged to sit upon a little sandy strip at the end of the cove, where the soft summer breeze dried his glowing body. Then he dressed again. | “H-m! What’s the matter with my clothes?” asked he. ‘‘This coat’s certainly too tight under the arms, too loose around the belt-line, the equator, as it were! These sleeves seem rather skimped too; and—well—the whole outfit’s out of shape. I’ll have to take a trip down to Cette in a day or two, and have another wardrobe, if—if this sort of things keeps on!” Impatiently he jerked the lapels of his waistcoat, to bring them togethe: over his enlarged chest. As he did so, a tiny flash flicked through the air. He heard a click of metal as his match-box glinted off a huge boulder. Came a quick splash. “Thunder!” he cried, scrambling after it. “‘Can’t afford to have that get wet!” Wet, however, it was when he re- covered it. For by ill luck it had fallen into one of the little pools, far in under a half-ton boulder; and before Dennison with his stick could poke it within reach again, the salt water had seeped in around the spring which controlled the cover. Anxiously he snapped the match-box open. yo an exclamation more of disgust than of alarm, he drew out the matches, one by one. All alike, all ruined. He tried two or three with no success. Beyond producing a disagreeable paste of sulfur and sending out a thin white vapor, they remained inert. Cursing the luck, Dennison got out his remaining sheets of paper, sought a shel- tered nook and successively experimented with every match. Should only one ignite, he could then light a sheet and keep the fire going until he could reach the little door half-way up the cliff. But no, never a one would serve. And finally, sur- rounded by a litter of broken, soggy, use- less matches, he stood up and darkly eyed the entrance to the stairway. He cast a farewell glance about him, at the friendly little cove, the rocks, the sandy strip, the surf and the bright sea, then with confident step entered the nar- row slit in the cliff and addressed him- self to the long climb through wet and dark and slime, up toward the free air of heaven once more. The splendid energy that now coursed through him, the keen invigoration of his salt dip, proved by no means superfluous for the great task ahead of hint. For now, after that fresh, vital air, the fetid black on the stairway seemed doubly mephitic ; the slimy walls along which he had per- force to feel his way, ten times more re- pellent. Still, on he kept, along the left- hand wall step by step working his way upward. And three minutes lengthened into five, five into ten, yet the little door at the top seemed as far off as ever. All at once, puzzled, he stopped and thought a moment. “What?” he asked, peering about him, behind him, then in front, as though by any possibility he might make out his situation. ‘Why haven't I felt that same cross-current of air going up, that I felt an) (C 6)(0)©) Ss (C(O)