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 ARTHUR MILLER

An Enemy of the People

An Adaptation of
the Play by Henrik Ibsen

Introduction by JOHN GUARE

4
Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2022 with funding from
Kahle/Austin Foundation
 PENGUIN CLASSICS

ADSENEMY OFTHE: PEOPLE

HENRIK IBSEN was born in 1828 in Skien, Telemark, Norway.

When he was eight years old his father’s business became bank-
rupt, and the rest of his youth was spent in poverty. At fifteen he
was apprenticed to an apothecary in Grimstad and began to pre-
pare for medical school. He was thus required to learn Latin,
an undertaking that led to his interest in the character of the
Roman traitor Catiline. His first play, Catiline, published in
1850, was a failure; but in the same year he moved to Christi-
ania, where a second play was performed with success. In 1851
he became stage manager of a theater in Bergen, with a contract
obliging him to write a new play every year. In 1857 he was ap-
pointed director of the Norwegian Theatre in Christiania, and in
1863 he won a scholarship for travel to Italy, where he wrote
Brand and Peer Gynt. His standing in the theater was now estab-
lished, and in the years that followed he wrote first a group of
social-problem plays (including A Doll’s House and An Enemy
of the People), then psychological dramas (among them, The
Wild Duck and Rosmersholm), and finally the transcendent sym-
bolist pieces (The Master Builder, Little Eyolf, John Gabriel
Borkman, and When We Dead Awaken). He died in Christiania
in 1906.

ARTHUR MILLER (1915-2005) was born in New York City and

studied at the University of Michigan. His plays include All My
Sons (1947), Death of a Salesman (1949), The Crucible (1953),
A View from the Bridge and A Memory of Two Mondays (1955),
After the Fall (1964), Incident at Vichy (1965), The Price (1968),
The Creation of the World and Other Business (1972), and The
American Clock (1980). He also wrote two novels, Focus (1945)
and The Misfits (1957), which was filmed in 1960, and the text
for three books of photographs by Inge Morath: In Russia (1969),
In the Country (1977), and Chinese Encounters (1979). He twice
won the New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award, and in 1949 he
was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. He was the recipient of the Na-
tional Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to
American Letters in 2001, the Prince of Asturias Award for Let-
ters in 2002, and the Jerusalem Prize in 2003.

JOHN GUARE received the 2004 Gold Medal in Drama from the
American Academy of Arts and Letters for his plays, which in-
clude Six Degrees of Separation and The House of Blue Leaves.
 BY ARTHUR MILLER
DRAMA I Can’t Remember COLLECTIONS
The Golden Years Anything (in
Arthur Miller’s
Danger: Memory!)
The Man Who Had Collected Plays
All the Luck Clara (in Danger: (Volumes I and II)
Memory!)
All My Sons The Portable Arthur
The Last Yankee Miller (edited by
Death of a Salesman Christopher Bigsby)
An Enemy of the OTHER WORKS
The Theater Essays of
People (adaptation Situation Normal Arthur Miller
of the play by Ibsen) (Robert A. Martin,
Focus (a novel)
The Crucible editor)
The Misfits (a cinema
A View from the novel) VIKING CRITICAL
Bridge LIBRARY EDITIONS
I Don’t Need You
After the Fall Anymore (short Death of a Salesman
Incident at Vichy stories) (edited by Gerald
Weales)
The Price Theater Essays
The Crucible (edited
The Creation of the In Russia (reportage
by Gerald Weales)
World and Other with Inge Morath
Business photographs) TELEVISION
The Archbishop’s In the Country Playing for Time
Ceiling (reportage with
Inge Morath SCREENPLAYS
The American Clock photographs)
The Ride Down The Misfits
Chinese Encounters
Mt. Morgan (reportage with Everybody Wins
Broken Glass Inge Morath The Crucible
photographs)
Mr. Peters’
Connections Salesman in Beijing
(a4 memoir)
Resurrection Blues
Timebends
ONE-ACT PLAYS (autobiography)
A View from the Echoes Down the
Bridge, one-act Corridor (essays)
version, with A On Politics and the Art
Memory of Two of Acting (essays)
Mondays
Elegy for a Lady (in
Two-Way Mirror)
Some Kind of Love
Story (in Two-Way
Mirror)
 “iii 4a arnt
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ARTHUR MILLER

An Enemy of
the People
AN ADAPTATION OF
THE PLAY BY HENRIK IBSEN

Introduction by
JOHN GUARE

Preface by
ARTHUR MILLER

PENGUIN BOOKS
 PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 1oo14, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

80 Strand, London WC2R oRL, England
First published in the United States of America by The Viking Press 1951
Published in Penguin Books 1977
This edition with an introduction by John Guare published 2010
Ee 355) 9-9 tOn 8, GY 4 2

Copyright Arthur Miller, 1950, 1951

Copyright renewed ArtHur Miller, 1978, 1979
Introduction copyright © John Guare, 2010
All rights reserved
CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that performance of An Enemy of the
People is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of
America, Canada, United Kingdom and the rest of the British Commonwealth, and of all countries
covered by the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artist Works, the Pan-American
Copyright Conventions, the Universal Copyright Convention, and of all countries with which the
United States has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including but not limited to professional
and amateur stage rights, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, television and radio
broadcasting, video and sound recording, and the rights of translation into foreign languages are
strictly reserved. Particular emphasis is placed upon the matter of readings, permission for which
must be secured in writing. Inquiries should be addressed to International Creative Management,
Inc., 825 Eighth Avenue, New York, New York roorg.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Miller, Arthur, 1915-2005.
An enemy of the people : an adaptation of the play by Henrik Ibsen / Arthur Miller ; introduction by
John Guare ; preface by Arthur Miller.
p. cm.—(Penguin classics)
“First published in the United States of America by the Viking Press, 1951”—T.p. verso.
Previously published: Penguin Books, 1977. With new introduction.
ISBN 978-0-14-310558-9
I. Guare, John. II. Ibsen, Henrik, 1828-1906. Folkefiende. III. Title.
PS3525.I5156E56 2010
813'.52—dc2z2 2010011659
Printed in the United States of America
Set in Adobe Sabon

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by
way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a
similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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 Contents

Introduction by JOHN GUARE ix

Preface by ARTHUR MILLER XXiil

ANCENEMY, © Fel HE-PEOPLE

Act One I
Act Two 36
Act Three 65
 vi 7
> ae bectrsal
i ‘
» 4) woken t
 Introduction

When I first read An Enemy of the People as a high school as-

signment back in the 1950s, I loved it. Besides its being my first
taste of Henrik Ibsen, our teacher pointed out that Arthur Miller
had translated this version. Man oh man, two giants for the
price of one. Book report paradise. The great last line: “[T]he
strong must learn to be lonely!” Yes, that’s me!
Ibsen’s play reminded me of the movie High Noon. Gary Coo-
per, in a lone battle against the bad guys, says to his new bride,
Grace Kelly: “I’ve got to go back . . . I haven’t even got any
guns... They’re making me run. I’ve never run from anybody
before.” Grace Kelly says: “Then don’t go back.” Gary Cooper
says: “I’ve got to. That’s the whole thing.” And Gary turns his
buggy around and rides back into town to face his destiny
alone.
That’s the kind of guy I’d be if I had the chance. Marlon
Brando in The Wild One: “What are you rebelling against?”
“What have you got?” Holden Caulfield, alone in the world
against all the phonies. James Dean, the Rebel Without a
Cause. Jack Kerouac, On the Road.
Add Dr. Thomas Stockmann to that list of guys I wanted
to be.
I could picture the play. The noble Fredric March had played
Stockmann when it opened on Broadway in 1950. He had won
the Oscar for Best Actor in 1946 as the all-American dad in The
Best Years of Our Lives. | had seen him as Willy Loman in the
movie version of Death of a Salesman in 1951. I knew he had
played the father in the original production of The Skin of Our
Teeth. He appeared only in important productions. His heroic
x INTRODUCTION

paternal presence added even more luster to the Ibsen/Miller An

Enemy of the People.
But the Broadway premiere was not a success.
Time went on. I became a playwright. Ibsen never grabbed
me. His naturalism seemed to me the enemy. Like Blanche
DuBois, I wanted the poetry. Okay, I liked some Ibsen. The
poetic Ibsen. Peer Gynt. But then he seemed to forgo poetry in
exchange for dreary naturalism.
Then, in the early ’70s, Ingmar Bergman’s revelatory pro-
duction of Hedda Gabler, with Maggie Smith at the National
Theatre in London, made me see Ibsen in a new light, through
the prism of Riad Munch. It was naturalism, but bursting
at the seams. I remembered John Gassner, Yale School of Drama’s
legendary playwriting teacher, saying to our class in the early ’60s,
when you’re young you love Chekhov because he constructs in
gossamer, but as you get older you'll reach out to Ibsen, who con-
structs in steel.
I was older. I might need Ibsen.
I picked up Michael Meyer’s biography of Ibsen. The poetic
epics like Peer Gynt and Brand that I loved had been written
first. To track his development as a playwright of steel, I gave
myself the task of reading each of the plays in the order in
which Ibsen wrote them. I began with Pillars of Society. Okay.
Check that off. Then A Doll’s House. Liked that. Onto Ghosts,
for which he was castigated for writing about syphilis. Very
nifty. In response to the outrage provoked by that play, Ibsen
next wrote An Enemy of the People to show that the majority
is not always right.
I wouldn’t have to read that play. I knew it. But wait: Meyer
quoted Ibsen writing to his publisher, “I am still a little uncer-
tain whether to call An Enemy of the People a comedy or sim-
ply a play; it has much the character of a comedy, but there is
also a serious basic theme.”
The character of a comedy? I remembered no comedy in my
Enemy of the People.
I hate going back to reread work I had loved at another time.
Books like Saul Bellow’s Henderson the Rain King that had
meant the world to me at one time vanished on the page when
INTRODUCTION xl

I came back to them years later, as if someone had broken in

and changed all the words. Would that betrayal happen with
An Enemy of the People?
I still had my treasured teenage version. The hero, Dr. Stock-
mann, the Fredric March role, makes his first entrance:

He is in the prime of his life . . . a lover of things, of people, of

sheer living, a man for whom the days are too short, and the fu-
ture fabulous with discoverable joys. And for all this most people
will not like him—he will not compromise for less than God’s
own share of the world while they have settled for less than
Man’s.

Yes! I could still hear noble Fredric March. Since I last read
the play, I had seen him play James Tyrone in the original pro-
duction of Long Day’s Journey into Night and the Clarence
Darrow part in the movie version of Inherit the Wind.
At the first act curtain, he asks his young sons what they
learned in school that day. The boys tell him they learned what
an insect Is.
Stockmann/March replies, “From now on I’m going to teach
you what a man is.”
But he fears that once “this exposé breaks they’re liable to
start making a saint out of me.”
When the town is against him, he won’t run away but chooses
to stay where he is, an outcast, and start a school, educating
ordinary street children in the ways of the Truth. “We'll want
about twelve of them to start.” Twelve? Did Miller really mean
for him to become Christlike?
And then the ending:

DR. STOCKMANN:... we are all alone. And there’ll be a long

night before it’s day—

A rock comes through a paneless window. CAPTAIN HORSTER

goes to the window. A crowd is heard approaching.

HORSTER: Half the town is out!

Xi INTRODUCTION

MRS. STOCKMANN: What’s going to happen? Tom! What’s

going to happen?
DR. STOCKMANN, holding his hands up to quiet her, and with
a trembling mixture of trepidation and courageous insistence:
I don’t know. But remember now, everybody. You are fighting
for the truth, and that’s why you’re alone. And that makes you
strong. We’re the strongest people in the world...

The crowd is heard angrily calling outside. Another rock comes

through a window.

DR. STOCKMANN: ... and the strong must learn to be

Ld

lonely!

The crowd noise gets louder.He walks upstage toward the

windows as a wind rises and the curtains start to billow out to-
ward him.
The curtain falls.

Billowing curtains? “A trembling mixture of trepidation and

courageous insistence”? Did the play I had loved as a teen now
seem—dare I say it?—self-righteous? It still seemed like High
Noon. But not in a good way.
Where were the nuanced relations of All My Sons and Death
of aSalesman? There was no character of a comedy here.
Miller’s Stockmann seemed to be a descendant of Captain
Ahab. Not a Norwegian Quixote but a new face on the prob-
lematic American loner who could just as easily morph into
Sylvester Stallone’s Rambo, Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry. The
world of Ayn Rand with Howard Roark, the lonely architect
against the crass world. Steve McQueen, another lonely wild
one, even played Dr. Stockmann in a disastrous 1978 film of
Miller’s An Enemy of the People. It’s listed in IMDB as having
the alternate title Danger Planet Earth.
Thad to ask, Couldn’t the defiant, self-righteous loner against
the world just as easily become Lee Harvey Oswald or Charlie
Manson?
“Character of a comedy”? This can’t be what Ibsen intended.
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 The golden guardians denied mankind
the stars. They were irresistible in their
might ... and they were something more!

"Why did you come creeping into the house last night like a thief?"
Mrs. Sanchez asked her son.
Lithe, dark Roberto set down his breakfast coffee and smiled up at
her. "Ah, Mama, you are the owl. I was certain I moved quiet as
moonlight."
"I always hear the sounds of my children. Even the little one when
he stirs in his grave. It is the way of a mother." She drew a cup of
coffee and sat with them at the table in the small kitchen patio.
"The hour was late," Roberto said, "and I did not wish to disturb you
with greetings that would keep until morning. You sleep little enough
as it is. Though the hard days are gone, the sun still rises after you."
Roberto's father looked up from his newspaper. "She will always be
full of the old ways," he said with fond gruffness. "For her there is
no change. Our children have grown proud and fine and freed us
from bondage to the soil. Yet she still behaves as a peon. To her we
still toil in the fields of the patron, bent with exhaustion over the
planting or harvesting consoles, struggling to control the many field
machines. She bakes her own bread. The market vegetables do not
please her so she chafes her hands with the buttons and switches of
a garden. And a robot to scrub the floors she will not hear of.
Perhaps she thinks it would be prettier than she and I might run off
with it to Mexico City."
"Foolish old man," Mrs. Sanchez said with mock severity, "you have
lost even the memory of what it is to run."
"Mama," Roberto said, "I have a present for you."
Something of an eager little girl looked out of the wise eyes.
"I have no need of a present," she said but her eyes searched the
leafy little patio. "All I ask as a gift is for you to come out of the sky
for a little while and marry."
Roberto smiled. "Have not my brothers and sisters given you
grandchildren enough? And what woman will marry the captain of a
space vessel? With my journeys to Jupiter and Saturn and outermost
Nyx, I would forever be a stranger to my children and an occasional
guest to my wife." From under his napkin he drew forth a small
silvery box. "Mama, your present."
She gasped with delight when she opened it. In a black velvet womb
nested a strange glittering jewel suspended on a delicate, spider-
strand, silver chain. "Roberto!" she exclaimed with a feeble
remonstrance.
"Like the others I have brought it is not expensive," Roberto said.
"The stone is a common one on Nyx. But it is very beautiful and
when I found it I thought of you."

A bell-light flashed on the kitchen console. Mrs. Sanchez went to it

as a shallow dish slid from the oven. She set it, sizzling softly, on the
table. "And a present for you," she said. "Your favorite, quinquaños.
Fresh from Venus yesterday, or so the vendor tells me." She
shrugged dubiously. "In this sinful age even the machines lie."
"But, Mama, the money I send is not to be wasted on me! These are
so expensive."
"And small," Mrs. Sanchez said. "Why is there not a garden
manufactured that can be programmed for quinquaños so that I
might grow my own?"
"Because five fortunes could not pay for it," Mr. Sanchez said. "Try as
they might, such delicacies come only through the grace of God and
not General Electric." He set aside his newspaper and accepted
another coffee. "Does this not complete your collection?" he asked
his wife. "Roberto has brought for you a stone from every planet he
has touched. Even the moon and the grand asteroids."
"I know not how many worlds there are in the sun's family. But if it
is done, then it is done." She tried to make her words unconcerned
but there was a shadow of regret across them. "The stones are
beautiful. But they are frivolous and the end to them is not to be
mourned."
"Ha!" Mr. Sanchez snorted. "She pretends, the sly one, she does not
care. But I know how she delights in them, these gifts from her son.
I have seen her in a stolen moment open the box and gaze with
pleasure upon them. And when we go to the opera in Mexico City it
is one of your single-stoned necklaces which adorns her simple black
dress. She will have no other ornament."
"I no longer have a husband in this house," Mrs. Sanchez said, "only
an old woman whose mouth talks away the day."
"Old woman, eh?" Mr. Sanchez leered and playfully slapped his wife
on her backside.
She pretended to be shocked. "In front of the child! But what can
one expect from an evil old lecher?"
The three of them laughed and basked in the warmth of their blood
bonds. Mr. Sanchez resumed his coffee. "Is it really done, Roberto?
Have you taken cargoes from all twelve planets?"
"Yes."
"Even the one just beyond Pluto? Is it Oceanus or Atlas? I can never
remember which it is ... but for a long while you were missing one of
them."
"I have them all. I am still a young man and yet I have taken my
ship to all the planets in many voyages. But of course that is not
unusual," he lectured, for he knew that was what they wanted, "for
in the thousand years since man first stepped forth on the moon the
solar commerce has so increased that there are hardly enough
suitable men for the ships that bridge the now familiar worlds. So
familiar, I could fly to the rings of Saturn or to dark Nyx in my
slumber."
"Then you also must also feel a sadness because there will be no
more stones to pluck from a new planet," Mr. Sanchez said. "Perhaps
there is a thirteenth yet to be found."
"No, Papa. It is certain. There are no more children of our sun. But I
am not sad. The stones are not finished. Mama shall have other
pretty baubles to be caged in fine silver or gold and hung about her
neck."

Mrs. Sanchez was programming a day of cooking and baking on the

autochef. At her son's words her hands poised in mid-flight over the
console. She did not quite comprehend but an intuitive wisp of alarm
darkened her face.
She turned to her husband, as if for some reassurance that her
dread was of no substance.
Mr. Sanchez said in perplexity, "I do not understand, Roberto. If
there are no more planets—"
"In this system!" Roberto said.
Neither of his parents said a word. They stared at him and waited.
"In a few days it will be officially announced," Roberto said. "With
the perfection of the new Korenyik propulsion, a starship will be
built. A starship! And I have been selected to take it through the
other space to Alpha Centauri."
Mr. Sanchez embraced his son. "Roberto, I am so proud." He turned
to his wife. "Is it not a great—" He stopped at the look of her.
"This Alpha Centauri," she said, pronouncing it badly, "it is a planet?"
"It is a star, Mama. Like our sun. It may have a family of planets. It
will be exciting to discover them."
"Why?" she asked with a mother's quiet challenge.
The word echoed in Roberto's mind—why? The very core of his
being strained to shout out why. Space was why! Each blazing star
was a compelling, beckoning finger. Every constellation a covenant
with his heart. And somewhere out in the majestic, wheeling Galaxy
his soul wandered, waiting for him to come.
"Mama, I will show you why," he replied as quietly. "As I promised
Papa the last time, I have borrowed from the company a star
projector. This time you must put aside the household and watch
and listen and learn something about the universe out of which my
life and my dreams are made. Of all your children I am the only
stranger to you. And before I go out to the stars I want you to know
something of that which fills my heart."
He went to his room and returned with a foot-square case which he
set on a table in the living area. He pressed a stud. A transparent
globe inflated over it to a four foot diameter. He dimmed the lights,
manipulated the controls and a tiny sun burned in the center of the
globe. Another adjustment brought into view the solar planets
orbiting around it. The device was an educational tool; it projected
as desired, within the envelope of gas, three-dimensional mockups
of the solar system, star clusters and galaxies that moved almost as
incandescently beautiful as the originals.
Mrs. Sanchez was delighted with the views of the solar system and
the surface scenes of the various planets. She had as much general
knowledge of the planets as she had of India or France—which had
all come to her through the distorting medium of television dramas.
The moon had observatories and mad scientists; India had elephants
and sinister maharajas; Mars had deserts and fragile ghost people;
Venus had quinquaños and swamp dragons; and France was
overflowing with sin.
Roberto did not utilize the projector narrative. He explained with his
own intense words as he took his parents across the gulf to the
constellations. He skipped about the Galaxy, astounding them with
the sheer billions of stars. He insinuated the possibility of millions of
inhabited planets and then he flung them across the abyss of space
to view the Local Group of the Milky Way, its sister Andromeda and
the satellite galaxies. Then he plunged them into infinity for a time-
lost glimpse of the billion other galaxies thus far discovered.

The globe deflated, the lights went on and Roberto leaned toward
his mother. "Does not the thought of all this catch at your heart a
little?"
There was an uncertainty in her voice that Roberto missed because
he was so intent upon her answer. "All those stars," she said.
"Something like that I saw once on the television—about strange
people who lived on those stars. I did not like it very much. Perhaps
because it is not true."
"Not true?" Roberto echoed. "Yesterday, yes. Today, not quite.
Tomorrow ... your own son is going to the stars!"
"It is beyond my understanding why men cannot be content to
remain where they were meant to be."
"But the stars were meant for us. They are our destiny!" Roberto
realized he was speaking too loudly.
Mrs. Sanchez looked squarely at her son. Her words were measured
and solemn like some solitary, tolling bell. "If God meant us to be on
those stars he would have put us there. Roberto, take care. Listen to
the word of your mother. I have not the cleverness of my children
but I know things here." She touched her hand over her heart. "It
may be as you say, all the millions of great stars. But they are God's
high places and I tell you, my son, whoever dares violate them will
be struck down."
"But, Mama! In ancient times, when man first took to the air, there
were those who proclaimed man presumed too much and would be
punished. And a thousand years ago there were people who spoke
as you do when man first went into space. They too said God gave
us the earth and to covet the moon and the planets was a grievous
sin."
Mrs. Sanchez shrugged. "There are always the fanatics. Your mama
is not one of them. God gave men the sun and the moon and the
planets and set them apart from the stars for him to work out his
salvation. It is natural and right."
"And he did not give us the stars also?"
"In the sky He put them as a testament to His glory. You have
shaken my poor head with the measure of their distance. But it
serves to show that they would not have been placed out of reach if
they were intended for us to have."
"But Mama, soon they will no longer be out of reach. Your own son
will go to the first one in a great new ship."
Mrs. Sanchez turned troubled eyes on her son. "I will pray for you."
She averted her face and would no longer look directly at him.
Roberto angrily snatched up the star projector and went to his room.
His father followed. "You must understand," he said, "your mother is
a simple woman. She would rather think of the stars as the lamps of
the angels than the huge blazing spheres that they are."
"I do understand," Roberto said bitterly. "I have heard her words a
thousand times from as many mouths. They have sounded through
history and are chains meant to bind man to his few worlds. It is the
eternal voice of the heavy, peasant mind which tries to shout down
every soaring dream of mankind."
"Your words are too hard," his father said.
Roberto's lips curled to say something cruel but he refrained, not
wanting to hurt this fine, little man whose blood was his own.
"Yes," Roberto said, softening, "for after all there are always the
minds which struggle free and lift us up. They have carried us to the
threshold of the stars. And the time will come, a thousand years
perhaps, when we will be ready to try for our sister Galaxy,
Andromeda." Roberto smiled. "Of course it is certain we will still
have our simple folk who will warn us and tell us to beware; that it is
not the will of the Almighty that we leave the Milky Way; that we
presume too much and we will be struck down. And—" Roberto
stopped in mild surprise. He saw in his father's expression the
reflection of his mother's apprehension.
Roberto turned away sadly and began to pack away the star
projector.
Someday, he thought, in spite of the little minds, we will have one of
these that will show the other space as commonly as our own. And
all their phantom angels and devils shall not bar man from the
universe.

Time passed.
The ship was launched.
Six long years, Roberto thought. Long years of preparation, testing
and training. Hard, bone-wearying hours of familiarization and
shakedown with nerve-straining, experimental jumps into the other
space. Now at last they were in that other space—that strange,
blazing white elsewhere that Korenyik had given to mankind as the
trail to the stars—the Horsehead Nebula clear before them.
Six years of frantic activity ... and now he was launched and there
was nothing to do in transit but wait. Six years since he had been to
the little sun-faded stone house near Mexico City and felt the warm
blood-tug of his parents. Papa now dead and Mama with her dark
forebodings of angels and God.
He gazed at the dark screens in the starship and wondered what he
might see if they were on.
In the intense, brilliant region under the vault of heaven the two
great creatures, their golden coruscating substance flung across the
white space, sensed their coming. My-Ky-El limned the ship with a
golden halo and knew the creatures within. He linked with Ra-Fa-El
and they communed in soaring crystal carillions of thought.
—they are come from the Black Space Hell. The brood of Satan has
broken its bonds and penetrated the barrier!
—how is it so? the Fallen were shrivelled of substance and energy;
shorn of motion and thrust down into the Black Space with no
memory of their origin....
—nevertheless they are here in a devious shape and White Space is
once again threatened....
—they must be annulled NOW!

!!!A-ROORRR-UH!!!A-ROORRR-UH!!!
The Klaxon howled out the alarm. The control board erupted into a
swiftly spreading plague of red warning lights, indicating the
Korenyik Matrix Units were being subjected to incredible strain.
Roberto punched a row of screen tabs. The normal-space view
screens showed nothing. He punched in the E-screens. He gasped at
the sight, struck with an awful dread. Great golden mists were
clustering, bursting, swirling and spiralling in the blinding whiteness.
They wreathed the ship, and the KM units sobbed as they strained
against the rending golden energies. Roberto fought against odd,
thick fear that tried to prostrate him on the deck and make him
grovel in utter, abject terror. This icy dread that freezes my blood is
not of my making, Roberto thought. With a desperate effort of will
he hurled his leaden fingers at the keys and punched in the Omega
beams. Eyes burning, he saw ashen whorls spin through the golden
mists and crystal screams seemed to splinter in his mind.
For a fragment of time the KM units ceased their belabored sobbing
and the fear drained from Roberto. In the instant he slammed the
jump bar and they were in their own Black Space.
"We'll never get home this way," the navigator said. He was
trembling with shock.
Roberto struggled to keep his own body from quivering. "I will take
us home. We will dodge in and out of the two spaces. The danger
seems unable to follow. Can you navigate such a course?"

The navigator was trembling violently and he began to sob. "What

were they? So ma—magnificent ... and ... terrifying ... like great
golden angels...."
"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" Roberto screamed, his control shattering. He
leaned to the limit of his pad straps and struck once and again at the
navigator. Roberto pulled his hands back and crowded his anger and
fear to the back of his mind. "Can you skip us home?" he again
demanded of the navigator.
The man's voice was steadier. "I'll need three minutes in black each
time to compute position and plot the next jump. But, yes, I can do
it."
"I make you a gift of three hours right now." And perhaps more we
will need, Roberto thought, to recover the courage for venturing
again into the White Space. And my navigator spoke of angels but
where were the faces and wings? And why did I also think of angels
almost as if I felt a nebulous ancient memory of them? And do the
others feel as my navigator and I?
They did! Roberto had gone around the ship carefully questioning
his men. No matter how delicately he inquired, whenever he touched
upon what they might have seen on the E-screen the fear would
come into their eyes. Some spoke directly of heavenly creatures,
others embarrassedly admitted such impressions and a few averted
their eyes and denied such thoughts. But the words of them all were
edged with terror and awe.
Roberto and his shaken crew were slowly regaining confidence. They
had made a jump into the White Space and remained there for some
hours before being frightened back into the Black by a vague alarm.
Nothing more than a quivering needle and a lighter patch on an E-
screen; but they had remained hidden in Black for many hours and
now they were ready to make another jump.
Roberto pressed the jump bar, throwing them into White Space ...
and the golden fury struck!!!! A-ROORRR-UH!!! A ROORRR-UH!!! The
board blazed red. There were screams on the intercom. There was
heat and savage bucking with a crashing and screeching tear of
ultra-steel. The E-screens flared with a terrible molten dancing of
golden fire. Roberto punched in the Omega beams in a shell pattern,
cut them and snapped on the force shield in full crackling Power. It
flared greenly against the golden furies. The reactive thrust slammed
hard against the hull and the ship went hurtling end over end.
Roberto slapped the jump bar but the ship remained trapped in the
White Space. Blue energy licked along the heaving bulkheads and
decks. There were more cries and an odor of scorched flesh, and the
corpse of his first officer went spinning limply through the control
cabin. Something wrenched loose and crunched heavily on Roberto's
leg before bouncing away. Too much red! Roberto cried within,
looking from his crimsoning leg to the carmine lights of the board.
He pounded his fists on the unresponsive jump bar. "Mama," he
whispered in agony, and suddenly something connected, and the
tortured ship tumbled shudderingly into Black Space.
Mrs. Sanchez sat in the twilight with the darkened house at her back
and unmovingly faced the mountains. She heard the jet whine of the
taxi helicopter but could not see it because it landed in front of the
house. She listened as the whine faded. And in the silence she heard
an odd step that she could not recognize.
"Mama."
The voice was different. There was no longer a smile under it. But it
was Roberto's.
She did not answer, but as she stood the noise of her chair brought
him limping toward her. She started to move to him but he stopped
abruptly and she suddenly felt a new bitter distance between them
that mere steps could never cross. In the dusk she stared at his
twisted leg.
"Roberto," she whispered sadly.
"Call me Jacob," he said harshly. "I have wrestled with angels." He
thrust out his crippled leg. "... and behold a man wrestled with him
till morning. And when he saw that he could not overcome him he
touched the sinew of his thigh and forthwith it shrank!"
With no triumph, but only a mother's distressed remonstrance, Mrs.
Sanchez softly wailed, "O Roberto, Roberto, I warned you. I told
you."
"Yes, Mama, you told me," he said. "But you did not tell me the
thing most important. You did not tell me that we are devils!"
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
"Yes, my fine, good Mama! With all your thoughts of heaven, we are
a world of devils. How or why or from whence I do not yet know.
But I am going back to the White Space to seek and I only come
now to see you once more and say good-by ... and...." Roberto
faltered and leaned toward her as if straining to see her face in the
evening gloom that had almost deepened into night. "... and ... ask
your blessing." The words were hardly more than a whisper.
"Going back?" she said incredulously.
"I must."
Anger was in her voice as she pointed to his leg. "Even with the
mark of wrath you carry? You dare make more sacrilege?"
She turned to go into the house. Roberto limped a few steps after
her. "Mama, as you love me, your blessing! For your son."
She turned in the doorway, her face hard. "I can only pray for you."
Roberto watched her go inside. No light appeared and he knew she
would be kneeling before the shelf of holy things in the small
flickering light of the votive candle. He made his way to the front of
the house to the waiting heli-taxi. He looked back at the house. This
is no longer my home, he thought. And then, a moment later: Was it
ever?
He looked up at the stars and thought of the pure brilliance of White
Space and the magnificent golden creatures. Why the sweet anguish
in the depths of my being when I think of them and the white place?
Why in spite of my fear am I drawn to it more than I am to this
house which is my home? Home?
Roberto climbed into the machine and it moved upward a little closer
to the stars before turning south.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAMPS OF THE
ANGELS ***

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to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
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