In the Avu Observatory

The observatory at Avu, in Borneo, stands on a spur of the mountain. To the north, the old crater rises, black against the deep blue of the night sky. From the little circular building with its mushroom-shaped dome, the slopes plunge steeply into the dark mysteries of the tropical forest below. The small house where the observer and his assistant live is about fifty yards away, and beyond that are the huts of their native attendants.

Thaddy, the chief observer, was down with a slight fever. His assistant, Woodhouse, paused for a moment in silent contemplation of the tropical night before beginning his solitary watch. The night was very still. Now and then voices and laughter came from the native huts, or the cry of some strange animal echoed from the depths of the forest. Nocturnal insects fluttered ghostlike out of the darkness and circled around his light. He thought, perhaps, of all the discoveries that still lay hidden in the black tangle below; for to a naturalist, the virgin forests of Borneo are still a wonderland full of strange questions and half-suspected secrets.

Woodhouse carried a small lantern, and its yellow glow contrasted sharply with the infinite range of tints from lavender-blue to black that painted the landscape. His hands and face were smeared with ointment to ward off mosquitoes. Even in these days of celestial photography, work done in a purely temporary structure, with only the most primitive equipment in addition to the telescope, involved a great deal of cramped and motionless watching. He sighed at the thought of the physical strain ahead, stretched himself, and entered the observatory.

The reader is probably familiar with the structure of an ordinary astronomical observatory. The building is usually cylindrical, with a very light hemispherical roof that can be rotated from the inside. The telescope is mounted on a stone pillar in the center, and a clockwork mechanism compensates for Earth's rotation, allowing a star once found to be continuously observed. There is also a complex system of wheels and screws around the pivot point for making adjustments. A slit in the movable roof follows the telescope's line of sight as it scans the heavens. The observer sits or lies on a sloping wooden platform that can be wheeled around to any part of the observatory as needed. Inside, it's best to keep things as dark as possible to enhance the brilliance of the stars.

As Woodhouse entered his circular den, the lantern flared, and the darkness retreated into the shadows behind the big machine, only to creep back as the light dimmed. The slit revealed a deep, transparent blue, with six stars shining with tropical brilliance, their pale light lying along the black tube of the instrument. Woodhouse shifted the roof, then went to the telescope and turned one wheel and then another, the great cylinder slowly swinging into a new position. He glanced through the finder, made a few more adjustments, set the clockwork in motion, and took off his jacket because the night was hot. He then pushed into position the uncomfortable seat where he would sit for the next four hours. With a sigh, he resigned himself to his watch of the mysteries of space.

No sound now came from the observatory, and the lantern gradually dimmed. Outside, there was the occasional cry of an animal in alarm or pain, or calling to its mate, and the intermittent sounds of the Malay and Dyak servants. Presently, one of the men began a strange chanting song, with others joining in at intervals. Then they seemed to settle in for the night, and the whispering stillness grew deeper and deeper.

The clockwork ticked steadily. A mosquito's high-pitched buzz explored the room, growing shriller in annoyance at Woodhouse's ointment.

Then the lantern went out, and all the observatory was black.

Woodhouse shifted his position when the slow movement of the telescope had carried it beyond the limits of his comfort. He was watching a small group of stars in the Milky Way, one of which his chief had seen or fancied a remarkable color variability. It wasn't part of the regular work, and perhaps for that reason Woodhouse was deeply interested. He must have forgotten earthly matters. All his attention was focused on the great blue circle of the telescope field—a circle powdered, it seemed, with an innumerable multitude of stars, all luminous against the blackness. As he watched, he felt himself become ethereal, as if he were floating in the ether. Infinitely distant was the faint red spot he observed.

Suddenly, the stars were blotted out. A flash of blackness passed, and they were visible again.

"Queer," said Woodhouse. "Must have been a bird."

The thing happened again, and immediately after, the great tube shivered as if it had been struck.

Then the dome of the observatory resounded with a series of thundering blows. The stars seemed to sweep aside as the telescope—which had been unclamped—swung round and away from the slit.

"Great Scott!" cried Woodhouse. "What's this?"

Some huge vague black shape, with a flapping something like a wing, seemed to be struggling in the aperture. In a moment, the slit was clear again, and the luminous haze of the Milky Way shone warm and bright. The inside of the roof was perfectly black, and only a scraping sound marked the creature's whereabouts.

Woodhouse scrambled from his seat. He was trembling violently and sweating with the suddenness of it. Was the thing inside or out? It was big, whatever it was. Something darted across the skylight, and the telescope swayed. He started, raising his arm. It was in the observatory with him! It was clinging to the roof. What could it be? Could it see him?

He stood for perhaps a minute, dumbfounded. The beast, whatever it was, clawed at the inner dome, and then something flapped almost into his face.

He caught a momentary gleam of starlight on skin like oiled leather. His water bottle was knocked off the table with a smash.

The sense of some strange bird-creature hovering a few yards away in the darkness was indescribably unpleasant. As his thoughts returned, he concluded it must be a night bird or a large bat. At any risk, he had to see what it was. Pulling a match from his pocket, he tried to strike it on the telescope seat. There was a smoking streak of phosphorescent light, the match flared for a moment, and he saw a vast wing sweeping toward him, a gleam of grey-brown fur, and then he was struck in the face, and the match was knocked from his hand. The blow was aimed at his temple, and a claw tore downward across his cheek. He reeled and fell, hearing the lantern smash. Another blow followed as he fell. He was partly stunned and felt his own warm blood streaming down his face. Instinctively, he knew it had aimed at his eyes, so he turned over to protect them and tried to crawl under the telescope.

He was struck again on the back, heard his jacket rip, and then the thing hit the observatory roof. He squeezed himself as far as possible between the wooden seat and the eyepiece, turning so his feet were exposed; with those he could at least kick. He was still in a daze. The strange beast banged about in the darkness, then clung to the telescope, making it sway and the gears rattle. Once it flapped near him, and he kicked out madly, feeling a soft body with his feet. He was terrified. It must be a large creature to swing the telescope like that. For a moment, he saw the outline of a head black against the starlight, with sharply pointed, upright ears and a crest between them. It seemed as big as a mastiff's. Then he shouted loudly for help.

At that, the thing came at him again. As it did, his hand touched something on the floor. He kicked out, and the next moment his ankle was gripped by a row of sharp teeth. He yelled and tried to free his leg by kicking with the other. Then he realized he had the broken water bottle at hand.

Snatching it, he struggled to a sitting position and, feeling in the dark toward his foot, gripped a velvety ear like a big cat's. He smashed the bottle down on the creature's head with all his might, repeated the blow, and then stabbed and jabbed with the jagged end wherever he guessed the face might be.

The teeth relaxed their hold, and Woodhouse pulled his leg free and kicked hard. He felt the sickening sensation of fur and bone giving under his boot. A tearing bite hit his arm, and he struck over it at the face, hitting damp fur.

There was a pause. Then he heard the sound of claws and the dragging of a heavy body retreating across the floor. Silence fell, broken only by his own sobbing breaths and a sound like licking. Everything was black except the parallelogram of the skylight with the luminous dust of stars, against which the end of the telescope appeared in silhouette. He waited, what seemed an eternity.

Was the thing coming again? He felt in his pocket for matches and found one. He tried to strike it, but the floor was wet, and it sputtered and went out. He cursed. He couldn't see where the door was; he had lost his bearings. The creature, disturbed by the match, began to move again. "Time!" called Woodhouse with a grim laugh, but it wasn't coming at him. He must have hurt it with the broken bottle. He felt a dull pain in his ankle; probably he was bleeding. He wondered if he could stand. The night outside was still; no one had heard the wings or his shouts. It was pointless to shout. The monster flapped its wings, startling him. He hit his elbow on the seat, and it fell with a crash. He cursed the seat, then the darkness.

Suddenly, the oblong patch of starlight seemed to sway. Was he going to faint? He couldn't faint. He clenched his fists and set his teeth. Where was the door? He realized he could use the stars through the skylight to orient himself. The patch he saw was in Sagittarius, to the southeast; the door was north—or was it north by west? He tried to think. If he could reach the door, he might escape. Perhaps the thing was wounded. The suspense was unbearable. "Look here!" he said, "if you don't come on, I shall come at you."

Then the thing began climbing up the side of the observatory, and its black outline gradually covered the skylight. Was it retreating? He forgot about the door and watched as the dome shifted and creaked. Somehow he no longer felt frightened or excited—just a curious sinking sensation. The patch of light with the dark shape moving across it seemed to shrink. That was odd. He grew very thirsty but didn't feel like getting a drink. He seemed to be sliding down a long funnel.

He felt a burning sensation in his throat, and then he realized it was broad daylight, and a Dyak servant was looking at him with a curious expression. Then he saw Thaddy's face upside down. Funny fellow, Thaddy, to be standing like that! Then he understood better: his head was on Thaddy's knee, and Thaddy was giving him brandy. He saw the eyepiece of the telescope with red smears on it. He began to remember.

"You've made this observatory in a pretty mess," said Thaddy.

The Dyak boy was beating an egg into brandy. Woodhouse drank it and sat up. He felt a sharp pain. His ankle was bandaged, as were his arm and the side of his face. Broken glass, stained red, lay about the floor. The telescope seat was overturned, and by the wall was a dark pool. The door was open, and he saw the grey summit of the mountain against a brilliant blue sky.

"Pah!" said Woodhouse. "Who's been killing calves here? Take me out of this."

Then he remembered the Thing and the fight. "What was it?" he asked Thaddy. "The thing I fought with?"

"You know that best," said Thaddy. "But don't worry now. Have another drink."

Thaddy was curious, but it took a struggle between duty and inclination to keep Woodhouse quiet until he was properly put to bed and slept after a large dose of meat extract. Then they talked it over.

"It was," said Woodhouse, "more like a big bat than anything else.

It had sharp, short ears, soft fur, and leathery wings. Its teeth were small but devilish sharp, and its jaw couldn't have been very strong, or it would have bitten through my ankle."

"It's pretty nearly," said Thaddy.

"It seemed to hit out with its claws pretty freely. That's about all I know. Our conversation was intimate, so to speak, but not confidential."

"The Dyak fellows talk of a Big Colugo, a Klang-utang—whatever that is. It doesn't often attack men, but I suppose you made it nervous. They say there's a Big Colugo and a Little Colugo, and something else that sounds like gobble. They all fly about at night. For my part, I know there are flying foxes and flying lemurs here, but none of them are very big."

"There are more things in heaven and earth," said Woodhouse, and Thaddy groaned at the quotation, "and more particularly in the forests of Borneo, than are dreamt of in our philosophies. On the whole, if the Borneo fauna is going to disgorge any more novelties on me, I'd rather it happened when I'm not alone in the observatory at night."