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The Night WirebyH. F. Arnold"New York, September 30 CP FLASH"Ambassador Holliwell died here today. The end camesuddenly as the ambassador was alone in his study...."There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here onthe top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of acivilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore -- they're yournext-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the world has gone tosleep.Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receiving operators dozeover their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters andsuicides. Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with acasualty list as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almostin his sleep, picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You've heard of someone you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe they've beenpromoted, but more probably they've been murdered or drowned. Perhaps theyjust decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made it interestingenough to get in the news.But that doesn't happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and tap,tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and Ihaven't got over it yet. I wish I could.You see, I handle the night manager's desk in a western seaport town; whatthe name is, doesn't matter.There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, a fellownamed John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a sober,hard-working sort.He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a "double"man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and type thestories on different typewriters at the same time. He was one of the threemen I ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after hour, and nevermake a mistake.Generally, we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when it was lateand the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stations would open asecond wire, and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a wizard, amechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but was withoutimagination.On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. It was thefirst and last time I had ever heard him say a word about himself, and Ihad known him for three years.It was just three o'clock and we were running only one wire. I was noddingover the reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him, when hespoke."Jim," he said, "does it feel close in here to you?""Why, no, John," I answered, "but I'll open a window if you like.""Never mind," he said. "I reckon I'm just a little tired."That was all that was said, and I went on working. Every ten minutes or soI would walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked up neatly besidethe typewriter as the messages were printed out in triplicate.It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed he hadopened up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought it was alittle unusual, as there was nothing very "hot" coming in. On my next tripI picked up the copy from both machines and took it back to my desk to sortout the duplicates.The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I just lookedover it hurridly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. I remembered itparticularly because the story was from a town I had never heard of:"Xebico." Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate of it from our files:"Xebico, Sept 16 CP BULLETIN"The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled overthe town at 4 o'clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic hasstopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lightsof ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which isconstantly growing heavier."Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, andthe local weather bureau states that the like has never occurredbefore in the history of the city."At 7 P.M. last night the municipal authorities...(more)That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureauheadquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of the name of thetown.------------------------------------------------------------------------It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over for another batchof copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switched his greenelectric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and hit only the topof the two typewriters.Only the usual stuff was in the righthand pile, but the lefthand batchcarried another story from Xebico. All press dispatches come in "takes,"meaning that parts of many different stories are strung along together,perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming through at a time. Thissecond story was marked "add fog." Here is the copy:"At 7 P.M. the fog had increased noticeably. All lightswere now invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness."As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompaniedby a sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experiencedhere."Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and the initialsof the operator, JM.There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire. Here itis:"2nd add Xebico Fog."Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly.Among the most unusual is that of the sexton of the localchurch, who groped his way to headquarters in a hystericalcondition and declared that the fog originated in the villagechurchyard."'It was first visible as a soft gray blanket clinging tothe earth above the graves,' he stated. 'Then it began to rise,higher and higher. A subterranean breeze seemed to blow it inbillows, which split up and then joined together again."'Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist intoqueer forms and figures. And then, in the very thick midst ofthe mass, something moved."'I turned and ran from the accursed spot. Behind me Iheard screams coming from the houses bordering on thegraveyard.'"Although the sexton's story is generally discredited, aparty has left to investigate. Immediately after telling hisstory, the sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital,unconscious."Queer story, wasn't it. Not that we aren't used to it, for a lot of unusualstories come in over the wire. But for some reason or other, perhapsbecause it was so quiet that night, the report of the fog made a greatimpression on me.It was almost with dread that I went over to the waiting piles of copy.Morgan did not move, and the only sound in the room was the tap-tap of thesounders. It was ominous, nerve- racking.There was another story from Xebico in the pile of copy. I seized on itanxiously."New Lead Xebico Fog CP"The rescue party which went out at 11 P.M. to investigatea weird story of the origin of a fog which, since lateyesterday, has shrouded the city in darkness has failed toreturn. Another and larger party has been dispatched."Meanwhile, the fog has, if possible, grown heavier. Itseeps through the cracks in the doors and fills the atmospherewith a depressing odor of decay. It is oppressive, terrifying,bearing with it a subtle impression of things long dead."Residents of the city have left their homes and gatheredin the local church, where the priests are holding services ofprayer. The scene is beyond description. Grown folk andchildren are alike terrified and many are almost besidethemselves with fear."Amid the whisps of vapor which partly veil the churchauditorium, an old priest is praying for the welfare of hisflock. They alternately wail and cross themselves."From the outskirts of the city may be heard cries ofunknown voices. They echo through the fog in queer uncadencedminor keys. The sounds resemble nothing so much as windwhistling through a gigantic tunnel. But the night is calm andthere is no wind. The second rescue party... (more)"------------------------------------------------------------------------I am a calm man and never in a dozen years spent with the wires, have Ibeen known to become excited, but despite myself I rose from my chair andwalked to the window.Could I be mistaken, or far down in the canyons of the city beneath me didI see a faint trace of fog? Pshaw! It was all imagination.In the pressroom the click of the sounders seemed to have raised the tempoof their tune. Morgan alone had not stirred from his chair. His head sunkbetween his shoulders, he tapped the dispatches out on the typewriters withone finger of each hand.He looked asleep, but no; endlessly, efficiently, the two machines rattledoff line after line, as relentlessly and effortlessly as death itself.There was something about the monotonous movement of the typewriter keysthat fascinated me. I walked over and stood behind his chair, reading overhis shoulder the type as it came into being, word by word.Ah, here was another:"Flash Xebico CP"There will be no more bulletins from this office. Theimpossible has happened. No messages have come into this roomfor twenty minutes. We are cut off from the outside and eventhe streets below us."I will stay with the wire until the end."It is the end, indeed. Since 4 P.M. yesterday the fog hashung over the city. Following reports from the sexton of thelocal church, two rescue parties were sent out to investigateconditions on the outskirts of the city. Neither party has everreturned nor was any w...
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