Schrodinger's cat trilogy - By Robert Anton Wilson Page 0,155

early decades of our century. The model of the English nobleman. The idol of young boys everywhere. General Crowley, indeed.” He paused dramatically.

“Look at those eyes.” Clem’s voice suddenly had the tone of Perry Mason addressing the court. “How would you describe those dark and brooding orbs, my friends?”

“Well,” Dr. Williams said, “he has what I believe is called um a piercing gaze.”

“Exactly,” Cotex said. “A piercing gaze.”

Another picture of General Crowley came on the screen. And another. And another.

“The same piercing gaze,” Clem said pointedly, “year after year. No matter where he is when a photographer pops up—Africa, Mexico, the North Pole; it doesn’t matter—always the same piercing gaze.”

“Well ah aren’t heroes supposed to have a piercing gaze?” Old Prime Time protested, wondering if this was just another of Clem’s wild-goose chases.

“In a certain class of sensational fiction,” Clem said tightly, “heroes have a piercing gaze. Sometimes the villains do too—Fu Manchu for instance. But we are not living in that kind of novel,” he went on, not bothering to tell them his opinion of what kind of novel they were living in. “In our reality, a piercing gaze means only one thing, and you all know what it is, gentlemen.”

Another picture of General Crowley came on the screen, one in which he was much older than in the previous four photos; but he still had the same dark and deep—yes, piercing—gaze.

“These are the eyes,” Clem said, “of a hopeless slave of the hashish habit. Now, as you all know, many English military men acquired a taste for the resin of the Cannabis Indica plant while in India, and were none the worse for it. Certainly, an occasional smoke of the hash is an enjoyable, even a mind-expanding, experience. I daresay most of you here have tried it, and I gladly admit that I have. But a sensible man keeps such diversions within certain bounds. Such a sane, sound man does not ‘do a number’ (as our younger people call it) until evening, or at least until twilight. Well, maybe late afternoon, occasionally. Perhaps in the morning once in a while. But not one stick of hash after another, day after day, year after year, for twenty, thirty, forty years! No: one who fits that description is a slave of the habit, a hashish robot, a man whose mind has lost contact with Reality (whatever that is) and wanders amid the phantasms of his own poisoned brain. A man, as the Irish say, whose mind had been taken away by the Wee People.”

All gazed up at the photo of General Crowley, “the last of the Kipling heroes,” as a journalist had called him, and Crowley gazed back at them, stony-eyed, impassive, enigmatic.

“Now, I have been studying all of General Crowley’s wanderings,” Clem went on. “He was, in fact, back in England during November of 1881. The crab and periwinkle prank would have been easy for a man of his wealth, if his mind had already acquired that strange quirk, that twist in the sensibility, which cannabis abusers refer to in their own argot as ‘a spaced-out sense of humor.’

“In 1893, what do we find?” Clem continued. “General Crowley was visiting the Jersey shore, right here in Unistat, ‘fishing and relaxing,’ he says in his autobiography. And that very summer we see the first record of ‘the Jersey Devil,’ that fabulous monster that looked like a gorilla, jumped like a kangaroo, and glowed in the dark.

“I think we can discount later appearances of the Jersey Devil,” Clem said argumentatively, “as the work of lesser pranksters, inspired by General Crowley’s initial success.

“In 1904,” Clem went on, “there was the famous werewolf scare in Northumberland. General Crowley was back in England that year. In 1905 we have the first major UFO flap in Spain. General Crowley was vacationing there. In 1908 gnomes and other Little Green Men were reported in Switzerland. General Crowley was there, allegedly only to climb mountains.

“And so it goes,” Clem said bluntly, flicking the lights back on. “Over fifty-six percent of all the weird data collected by the conservative Forteans, by our own more imaginative group, and by all the UFO buffs, for the years of 1860 to 1930—the years of General Crowley’s life—correlate with the General’s own movements. Even the Loch Ness Monster first began to appear after he bought Boleskine House, on the shore on Loch Ness.

“I think, gentlemen, that the conclusion is inescapable. General Edward A. Crowley, the mountaineer, the adventurer, the explorer, was a