Ch.94Ch.7 – Elegy to Reason (1)

June 3, 1929. 9:12 AM

Arkham General Hospital Parking Lot

Arkham

After completing the discharge procedures, Crayfield and I headed to the parking lot.

“I rented a car. It’s difficult to enter Innsmouth without a private vehicle. Public transportation consists of just an old bus that runs twice a day. Besides, didn’t you say our client is a political aide? I boldly added that to the contract.”

The rental car was an older Ford model. Being somewhat dated, it was quite noisy. Every time the brakes were applied, there was a metallic grinding sound, and when turning corners, the car felt like it was drifting, which was unsettling.

Crayfield didn’t seem to mind, though. Once we got somewhat accustomed to the jalopy, he shared a brief history of Innsmouth and explained why politicians were flocking there recently.

The reason Innsmouth was gaining attention was because of election season. Human rights issues, racial discrimination problems, a declining provincial town neglected by policies—it was essentially a comprehensive package of political issues.

So Innsmouth had been dragged onto the stage of political debate out of nowhere. And like all flash-in-the-pan performers, it was destined to be forgotten so thoroughly after the election season that people would wonder if it had ever existed.

“The Congressional Special Committee sounds grand, but there’s not a single active congressman who’s actually come to Innsmouth. Whether from the Progressive Party or the Patriot Party, it’s all just political aspirants—aides, youth representatives, and secretaries of this or that.

Of course, when policies are announced later, they’ll go out under the congressmen’s names. Looking on the bright side, it’s an opportunity for novice politicians to show their capabilities. But then again, who would really care about a place like Innsmouth?”

I remembered Crayfield mentioning that our client was an aide. I asked if he was part of the committee.

“Ah. This player. According to the setting, he’s an aide to Senator Annette Cole. Cole herself is quite problematic. The Cole family is one of the distinguished Pollard families.

Anyway, the aide’s mission is to find out what difficulties Innsmouth is facing and how to solve them, then report back with his own solutions.

And the fact that he hired two private detectives suggests that the job wasn’t easy. Guess what he asked us to do?”

The work of private detectives is fairly standard—protection of individuals or property, information gathering. But I couldn’t quite see how these would be professionally related to an aide on a special investigation committee.

I could only guess that he must be facing significant difficulties since he hired both Crayfield and me. Crayfield cackled at my response.

“What were you doing in Kingsport that improved your insight so much? You’ll have to tell me the details later.

Yes, you’re right. Innsmouth is a much more closed-off town than those folks expected. The contempt for outsiders has grown stronger since last year’s mass arrests, and now even Congress is getting involved.

So, how do you think it is? He needs to show results, but the residents are uncooperative, competitors are increasing daily, and he can’t even sleep.”

I asked if his inability to sleep was due to pressure or terrorist threats.

“To start this story, we need to go back to when you were sound asleep in your room at Arkham General Hospital.

While I was tending to you, Agent Scully was looking for a doctor. She’s a doctor herself, but performing medical procedures in someone else’s hospital is a bit much, even for a federal agent.

But she couldn’t find a doctor anywhere, so she ‘jumped in’ to help you herself.”

I thanked Crayfield. Come to think of it, I hadn’t properly thanked Scully either.

“I thought you might have gained some training in Kingsport, but you’re still at square one. As I’ve told you many times, you lack awareness.

You could have at least bought lunch, if not dinner, for the princess who slew the evil dragon and saved you. Agent Scully is also going to Innsmouth, so try to seize the opportunity.”

Crayfield guessed that Scully was going to Innsmouth because of last year’s mass arrests in 1928. The organized business closures and detentions were led by the Federal Bureau of Security, he said. And to explain Innsmouth’s decline, one would have to address those arrests.

“Anyway, Arkham General Hospital is quite large, with many doctors. But finding a psychiatrist wasn’t easy. An unexpected group of visitors had arrived.

People from the Congressional Special Committee and the Innsmouth Redevelopment Committee were collectively suffering from insomnia, hallucinations, and mass hysteria.

Professors from Miskatonic Medical School and even medical students were mobilized for the investigation. One common factor emerged: they had all entered tunnels connected to the basement of the Dagon Church.

You saw the newspaper clippings, right? Those tunnels filled with toxic gas where traces from the Salem witch trials were supposedly found.”

Despite difficulties, Miskatonic Medical School and Arkham General Hospital had collected samples of the problematic gas. From what I heard, they were struggling with the research analysis, though the exact cause was still unknown.

“The Miskatonic chemistry professors said it has an extremely unusual molecular structure, but I don’t know about that. Anyway, it’s a big deal. The congressmen are pressuring them to submit reports quickly, journalists are watching their every move, and civic groups are arriving in Innsmouth one after another, seizing the opportunity to voice all sorts of opinions.

In this situation, our client asked you and me to find out ‘what the biggest problem in Innsmouth is right now.’ That’s also the content of the quest he received.

And from my experience, these investigation quests always end badly. Things that were normally fine suddenly start popping up as soon as you begin investigating.

You know that feeling—’How have I been breathing the same air as these people?’ That feeling you get every time you read the social section of the morning news.

So it’s better to stay away from newspapers and read cookbooks instead. At least then you won’t have to worry about how much jail time the pepper shaker deserves to make you feel better. By the way, open the glove box.”

When I opened the box, I found a small cloth pouch. Inside was a wristwatch—a Doomsday Clock, the one whose glass had broken during the Pollard East Coast incident.

Its appearance had changed somewhat. The watch face was now divided into outer and inner tables. The inner table still had only one hand, while the outer table had something like beads embedded in it. The inner hand pointed to 1, and the outer to 12.

“It’s an upgraded Doomsday Clock. They’ve updated it again. The inner 12 indicates how close our protagonist is to the truth, just like the old Doomsday Clock.

The outer 12 shows how far the conspiracy of those desperate to destroy the world has progressed. So now we have two tracks to worry about.

Of course, you only need to remember one thing: we must stop both from reaching 12.”

I stared at the watch for a long time. I already knew that updates were determined through the nail on the office staircase landing.

But making such a watch is quite different from the nail. Where does Crayfield make these things? Or perhaps he gets them from somewhere? I asked him.

“Of course I make them by hand. That’s what I do while you’re trying to save the world alone. My workshop is in my boarding room, so drop by when you have time. I also have a computer that I nearly died getting. The fascist-ridden British Empire strictly prohibits the export of personal analytical engines. Anyway, you.”

I waited for him to continue, but Crayfield didn’t say anything more. It was unlike him. His smile seemed somewhat melancholic. I asked what was wrong.

“Nothing. I’m just in a good mood. You’ve been asking a lot more questions. That fact makes me unbearably sad yet truly happy.”

I asked what on earth he was talking about. But his next words were even more unexpected.

“‘Do not seek answers for the unresolved problems in your heart. Just live with those problems. Then someday, without even knowing it, you will naturally come to know the answer. What meaning is there in knowing an answer you cannot understand?’

It’s not 100% exact, but Rainer Maria Rilke said something along those lines. I thought he was a woman because of the middle name Maria, but it turns out he was a man.”

I had never heard Crayfield speak like this before. But even with my lack of awareness, I could easily tell that he didn’t want to answer my question.

We drove in silence for a while. The scenery wasn’t conducive to conversation anyway. As we got closer to Innsmouth, the road conditions worsened. There were puddles here and there, as if no one had bothered to patch them, and the road was extremely bumpy. Some roads weren’t even paved, raising clouds of dusty soil.

Stunted shrubs that refused to grow any further. Utility poles that faced the passing years standing upright. Dilapidated houses and collapsed walls abandoned on hillsides. Occasionally wooden bridges appeared, below which coastal waters could be seen flowing in.

To reach Innsmouth, we had to climb a mountain along the coast. The sky and mountain didn’t seem to meet naturally but looked awkwardly forced together. Between the old Ford’s exhaust sounds, the laments of aged crows could be heard clearly.

At the mountain’s summit, a long valley and cliff came into view. Far below the diverging road lay our destination, Innsmouth. There were many houses and chimneys, but no smoke—evidence that few people lived there.

The roofs of the houses were connected to each other. Such connected roofs, if well-maintained, would give the entire town a strong character, like a romantic village from a storybook.

But with holes in the walls large enough for bears to pass through, miscellaneous garbage piled between buildings, and roofs sagging like punctured spider webs, it looked as ugly as a crushed wedding cake.

Away from the gloomy downtown, the wharf was quite impressive. Factory buildings lined the dock, their solid red brick standing out in contrast to the dilapidated downtown houses.

Next to a large lighthouse were moored fishing boats, shrimp traps, and what appeared to be warehouses and huts used by fishermen, all yellowed like dried barnacles.

Even Mother Ocean seemed to harbor malice toward Innsmouth. Rather than sending waves, she seemed to shove them away, and the subdued waves lost their vitality and died as soon as they entered the dock, as if resigned to their fate.

Perhaps it was because of the thin, long, dark sandbar beyond the beach, like the Grim Reaper’s scythe. It wasn’t hard to understand why people called it “Devil’s Reef.”

I tried to spot the reef where a US Navy submarine had reportedly fired torpedoes, but it wasn’t visible from here.

“Hey, assistant. What do you think about politics?”

Crayfield, too, seemed unable to bear this atmosphere. And at times like this, he always made such frivolous remarks. I replied that I didn’t have any particular thoughts, but I disliked irritating political news.

“I once knew a man who was a positive pessimist. You might think that sounds like a warm iced Americano? He was always full of humor because of his way with words.

But his humor was always a bit bizarre. Like this: A friend of his was in love with a woman who suddenly left to become a nun. Everyone consoled him, but this guy said, ‘Oh dear. God as a rival in love. That was beyond your control, wasn’t it?’ and laughed.

Anyway, this friend was always entertaining while you were talking to him, but after it ended, you’d feel terribly bad. Like food with too much seasoning.”

As we approached a curve in the road, Crayfield slowed down a bit.

“Then there was also a negative optimist. She was a woman who always had hopeful conclusions. ‘Still, tomorrow’s sun will rise again.’ Not bad, right?

But to reach that conclusion, she always had the talent for making her today the worst it could be. ‘I should have done this today but couldn’t. Another bad thing happened today. The weather was nice today, but I alone was depressed. There must be something wrong with me.’

So friends plotted together to somehow match these two hopeless people. Do you know what happened?”

I asked what happened.

“The man didn’t like her face, and the woman didn’t like that he was short.

Now, friend, this is the aesthetics of politics. Politics is the field where human desires of all kinds must be dealt with rationally. It’s like an arena of reason versus emotion. That’s why I like politics.”

I asked if our client liked it too. Crayfield grimaced.

“No, my friend. You didn’t listen properly. I said I like politics, not politicians. Anyway, brace yourself. We’re on our way to meet some truly bizarre people.

Innsmouth is strange enough on its own, and now politicians are gathering there too. So before we arrive at Innsmouth City Hall, why don’t you tell me about your memories from Kingsport? Looking at this scenery, I feel like I’m becoming a negative pessimist myself.”