The ink finally cleared away; and my own remaining fighters took a hand. The combat turned to slaughter—then a complete rout. . . .
And I had men free now to send to the other sector, weakened by the withdrawal of the girls. The black fishes and the Marinogs there were overpowered. The fishes fought to the last. A few of the Marinogs fled—back to the Water of Wild Things. And from everywhere about the scene of battle, wounded Maagogs were floundering away.
But we let them go.
We had won.
CHAPTER XXXI
Concluding Statement by Ray Cummings
I feel that I should add a few words to this manuscript given me by “Nemo.”
This queer old man has been writing for me these memories of his youth. But the Institution officials, with pardonable skepticism, declare to me privately that he is unbalanced—a victim of amnesia since that day he was found wandering on the streets of an American city, with no memory of who he was or where he came from. They tell me he was, in his youth, probably some obscure European astronomer—which would account for his scientific knowledge. Scandinavian perhaps, they now say. His accent is curious, I can hear for myself. But I would not call it Scandinavian; indeed I have heard nothing like it anywhere.
It was not so many weeks ago—dating from the time you read this—when I interviewed the old man, in the neat little reception room of the Institution. I read over this manuscript which he handed me, while he sat staring with eyes that seemed to see far beyond the narrow walls enclosing us.
“But Nemo,” I protested, “this is not finished. Is this the last you’re going to give me?”
“The last,” he said vaguely. “I cannot remember any more. It is getting blurred—fading.” He passed a palsied hand across his blue-veined forehead. “Getting blurred—for I am an old man and my faculties are going—very fast.”