Rene LaRauche was never seen again. In my opinion the poor old man, terrified at the sudden turn of events, and rational enough to realize that he would be involved in the death of Orkins, made his reckless escape by plane. No one will ever know, I dare say, and it doesn't matter now.
A week after he had winged his way into the night, portions of his plane were washed ashore at Cape Henry, in Virginia. He had set out on his night flight, apparently purposeless, and had perished at sea. All very sad and regrettable, but out of his tragedy, buried deep in the dark waters of the Atlantic, his fame survived, and rose transcendently to heights he had never attained while alive.
Henry knew how to take advantage of his opportunities. Immediately he founded and sponsored a nation-wide movement among scientists to glorify and immortalize the name of Rene LaRauche. Thus, strange as it may seem, the perpetration of the greatest hoax known within living memory became the crowning achievement of the scientist's career.
In the deviltries of a deranged mind, prompted by his insane jealousy and hatred of Henry, LaRauche had made the world Mars-conscious to a degree greater than ever before in its history. Through his original and astounding conceptions of life and conditions on that planet, he had brought within the bounds not merely of possibility, but of almost immediate probability, the establishing of direct radio communication between Mars and the earth. All this had made a tremendous and lasting impression on the people.
He had proved almost conclusively that life, as we know it, exists on Mars. Actually, he had created a new Mars, and brought it within neighborly distance from the earth. The American people especially were anxious to preserve the feelings of friendliness and sympathy towards a kindred race which he had aroused in their hearts by his Martian revelations, however false. But were they false? Were they not rather prophetic of the true revelations that are destined to come in time?
Now and then I visit the Museum of Science, to see his portrait bust, which adorns a special niche in the museum's hall of fame, and to again survey, with varying emotions, the Martian rocket and the scroll, reposing under glass.
Only recently I drove along the lonely road that winds through the desolate hills which encompass his estate. The old house is closed, doors and windows boarded up, the whole place in utter decay, with a "For Sale" sign, swinging and creaking in the wind, over the front gate. Mrs. LaRauche lives in southern France; we hear she is about to publish a new mystery novel.
Winter has gone, and once again we are ensconced for the summer in the spooky-like castle at Sands Cliff, with the difference that it is no longer spooky. Our heritage of privacy and seclusion regained, life goes on much as before, in peaceful and ordered living.
But still everything is not quite the same. As a family we seem to have outgrown our weak spots. At least, some good has come out of all the exciting and horrible events through which we passed. Our arrogant detachment from the outside world, for one thing, has given way to a more neighborly feeling. We are trying to think more of others than we do of ourselves; we are sharing our inherited benefits with those less fortunately placed, whenever the opportunity presents itself.