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Community Archives The Shaping of Memory Principles
and Practice in Records Management and Archives 1st
Edition Laura A. Millar Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Laura A. Millar
ISBN(s): 9781856046398, 1856046397
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 3.15 MB
Year: 2009
Language: english
Archives
Other titles in the Principles and Practice in Records
Management and Archives series
(Series Editor: Geoffrey Yeo)

Community Archives: the shaping of memory, by Jeannette A. Bastian and

Ben Alexander (eds)
ISBN 978-1-85604-639-8

Management Skills for Archivists and Records Managers, by Louise Ray and
Melinda Haunton (eds)
ISBN 978-1-85604-584-1 (forthcoming)

Managing Records in Global Financial Markets: ensuring compliance and

mitigating risk, by Lynn Coleman, Victoria L. Lemieux, Rod Stone and
Geoffrey Yeo (eds)
ISBN 978-1-85604-663-3

Preserving Archives, 2nd edition by Helen Forde and Jonathan Rhys-Lewis

ISBN: 978-1-85604-823-1

The Silence of the Archive by David Thomas, Simon Fowler and Valerie
Johnson
ISBN 978-1-78330-155-3

Every purchase of a Facet book helps to fund

CILIP’s advocacy, awareness and accreditation programmes
for information professionals.
 PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE IN RECORDS
MANAGEMENT AND ARCHIVES
Series Editor: Geoffrey Yeo

Archives
principles and
practices
SECOND EDITION

Laura A. Millar
© Laura A. Millar 2010, 2017

Published by Facet Publishing

7 Ridgmount Street, London WC1E 7AE
www.facetpublishing.co.uk

Facet Publishing is wholly owned by CILIP: the Library and Information

Association.

The author has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988 to be identified as author of this work.

Except as otherwise permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by
any means, with the prior permission of the publisher, or, in the case of
reprographic reproduction, in accordance with the terms of a licence issued by The
Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those
terms should be sent to Facet Publishing, 7 Ridgmount Street, London WC1E 7AE.

Every effort has been made to contact the holders of copyright material reproduced
in this text, and thanks are due to them for permission to reproduce the material
indicated. If there are any queries please contact the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-78330-206-2 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-78330-207-9 (hardback)
ISBN 978-1-78330-208-6 (e-book)

First published 2010

This second edition, 2017

Text printed on FSC accredited material.

Typeset from author’s files in 10/13pt Palatino Linotype and Myriad Pro by
Flagholme Publishing Services.
Printed and made in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.
Contents

Figures and tables ix

Foreword to the first edition xi

Foreword to the second edition xv

Acknowledgements xvii

Introduction to the second edition xix

About the book xxii
Additional resources xxvi
Striving for diversity and balance xxvi

PART I ARCHIVAL PRINCIPLES 1

1 What are archives? 3

From data to evidence 5
From evidence to archives 8
The qualities of archives 9
Scientific and physical evidence 16
The precarious nature of documentary evidence 17

2 The nature of archives 23

Archives as a continuum of care 24
Archives and what is left behind 25
The forms of archives 27
Archives and art 31
Archives and artefacts 31
Archives and the intangible 33
VI ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

3 Archival history and theory 37

Trends in archival history 37
A brief discourse on archival theories 44
Challenging archival theories 54

4 The uses of archives 67

Archives as sources of history 68
Archives as tools for accountability 70
Archives as touchstones for memory and identity 72

5 Types of archival institution 79

Institutional archives 80
Hybrid archives 81
Collecting archives 83
Community archives 84
Museum archives 85
Integrated institutions 86
Indigenous archives 87
Activist archives 88
Online repositories 89
Trusted digital repositories 90

6 The principles of archival service 93

Archival obligations 94
The role(s) of the archivist 98
The archivist as consultant 99
The education of the archivist 100
The role of professional associations 102
The place of standards 103
The importance of respect 104

7 Balancing access and privacy 107

Respecting intellectual property rights 108
The archivist’s responsibility 112
Addressing privacy concerns 115

PART II ARCHIVAL PRACTICES 121

8 Managing the institution 123

Imagining the ‘ideal’ organizational structure 123
Identifying a strategic direction 124
Establishing a policy framework 129
Administering the archival institution 134
Measuring success 141
 CONTENTS VII

9 Preserving archives 145

What is preservation? 146
Understanding and responding to hazards 148
Caring for materials in different media 159
Digitization for preservation 166
Preserving digital archives 170
Developing preservation and emergency response plans 172

10 Acquiring archives 179

Appraisal for acquisition 180
Appraisal for selection 188
Sampling, weeding and culling 192
Appraisal and the cost of ownership 194
Other appraisal considerations 195
Acquisition and personal bias 197
Dealing with donors 198
The process of acquisition 198
Accessioning archives 204
Monetary appraisal 208
Deaccessioning archives 210
Dealing with the backlog 211

11 Arranging and describing archives 213

Principles of arrangement and description 214
Custodial arrangement and description 217
Functional arrangement and description 221
Bridging the gap 223
Having it both ways ` 225
Controlling language 225
The practicalities of arrangement 228
The practicalities of description 231
Presenting descriptive information 232
Sample descriptive output 235

12 Making archives available 243

Providing equitable access 244
Establishing a reference and access framework 246
Providing reference services 249
Digitization as a reference tool 253
Documenting reference services 254
Outreach and community engagement 255
VIII ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

Conclusion 263

To learn more 269

Records and archives journals 270
Records and archives institutions 271
Records and archives associations 272
Additional readings 273

Glossary of terms 289

Index 307
Figures and tables

Figures
1.1 The progression from data to archives 10
8.1 A SWOT analysis 128
8.2 Cascadia University Archives and Special Collections policy 131
9.1 Wickham County Archives preservation policy 174
10.1 Cascadia University Archives and Special Collections acquisitions policy 182
10.2 Sample donor agreement 200
11.1 Presentation of fonds in a custody-oriented description 237
11.2 Presentation of series in a custody-oriented description 238
11.3 Presentation of items in a custody-oriented description 239
11.4 Presentation of series in a function-oriented description 239
11.5 Presentation of agencies in a function-oriented description 240
11.6 Presentation of functions in a function-oriented description 241
12.1 Cheswick Historical Society Archives reference policy 246

Tables
11.1 Hierarchical levels of arrangement and description 219
11.2 Core descriptive elements in custody-oriented standards 220
11.3 Definitions of functions and sub-functions 222
11.4 Core descriptive elements for the records entity 222
11.5 Core descriptive elements for the agency entity 223
Foreword to the first edition

Archives and records are important resources for individuals, organizations

and the wider community. They provide evidence of, and information about,
the actions of individuals, organizations and communities and the
environments in which those actions occurred. They extend and corroborate
human and corporate memory and play a critical role in maintaining
awareness of how the present is shaped by the past. As Laura Millar notes in
this book, they are among the tools we can use to help us understand where
we came from and where we are going.
Record keeping has a long history. The Gilgamesh epic, originating almost
fifty centuries ago, tells how a woman made marks on a wall to record the
number of days that Gilgamesh slept. Notched sticks or bones were often
used in preliterate societies as a means of recording work done, livestock
counted or hunting expeditions successfully concluded. The invention of
writing opened the way to more sophisticated methods of recording actions
and events, and also to the possibility of communicating information and
sending orders and requests by methods other than word of mouth.
Letter-writing has been used for correspondence for over four thousand years,
and at a very early stage in its development our ancestors discovered that a
letter could serve the dual purpose of communicating a message across space
and preserving it across time. In early civilizations in Asia and the eastern
Mediterranean, the ability to refer back to what had been said and done in
the past without having to rely solely on mental recollection supported the
development of new methods of government and commerce and systems to
monitor the accountability of individuals or workgroups charged by the ruler
with particular tasks. Later came the discovery that writing could be used not
merely to record but also to create a range of abstract phenomena such as
XII ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

permissions, obligations, commitments and agreements, and to provide

evidence of their creation in the event of disputes.
Written records serve these purposes merely by virtue of their persistence
– their ability to endure beyond the cessation of the actions they represent –
but for at least four millennia people have seen the benefit of setting them
aside and organizing their storage in dedicated repositories. As records
proliferated, many such repositories were established in the ancient world.
From a present-day perspective, these repositories resembled the archival
institutions of a later era, and their accumulated holdings can conveniently
be described as archives. After the end of the Roman empire, however, literacy
levels fell and the practice of keeping written records for administrative and
accountability purposes declined. In the early middle ages, archives were
something of a rarity. They were sometimes seen as treasures with symbolic
value, but their chief role was a legal one: as ‘muniments’ of an organization
they served above all to protect its rights and privileges. Royal governments
and ecclesiastical corporations preserved their records to serve their own
interests, and guarded them against outsiders. In England, by the era of the
Reformation, many new forms of record – including minutes of meetings and
account books and registers of various kinds – had come into being, but
records continued to be kept only for use within the organizations where they
were created. By the seventeenth century, the potential value of records for
historical research had become apparent, and historians were occasionally
able to gain access to organizational repositories, but most such repositories
remained closed to all except officers of the parent body.
A change in attitude came during the French Revolution, when a decision
was made to preserve records of the ancien régime and open them to all users,
including those with what we would now describe as cultural interests. The
French Archives Nationales, founded in 1789, set an example for numerous
other institutions; over the next two hundred years, archival services with an
increasingly historical remit were established first by national governments
and then, in many countries, by local governments, universities and other
organizations. Some continental European countries developed a distinction
between archives courantes, maintained for business purposes, and archives
historiques with longer-term cultural objectives; but in English-speaking
countries the role of archival institutions came to be seen as primarily cultural.
Business perspectives were neglected or turned over to a newly-emergent
discipline of records management. Some archival institutions began to take
an interest in the papers of families and individuals, and during the twentieth
century the range of archival institutions expanded to embrace those that
collect archives from a variety of persons and organizations as well as those
 FOREWORD TO THE FIRST EDITION XIII

whose sole function is to maintain the historic archives of their parent body.
At the start of the new millennium, much theoretical writing has been
influenced by ‘records continuum’ concepts that eschew binary divisions
between business and cultural purposes of record keeping, but in practice
continuum thinking has not wholly dislodged the assumption that business
needs for records expire in the short or medium term and that the rationale for
long-term preservation is essentially cultural. In contrast to the closed archives
characteristic of earlier times, and of some totalitarian regimes today, archival
institutions in democratic societies normally aim to have all, or at any rate the
larger part, of their holdings freely open to all who wish to use them.
The growth of archival institutions over the last two centuries has been
paralleled by the growth of an archival profession. There have been archivists
almost as long as there have been records, but only relatively recently have
they begun to perceive themselves as professionals. It is open to question
whether archival work has been fully professionalized, but archivists have
certainly moved far in this direction, introducing formal qualifications, codes
of ethics and many of the other accompaniments of a profession.
Nevertheless, there is ample scope for members of the wider community to
become involved in archival work, not only as users but also as champions
of archives and as active contributors to the archival mission. Although
written primarily for practitioners and students, this book will be relevant to
anyone with an interest in archives and records.
Latterly, the discipline has experienced rapid changes, not least as a result
of increasing quantities of records and ongoing technological development.
Audiovisual and computing technologies have brought new means of
creating records, and archivists seeking to preserve such records and make
them available to users have found that they require new skills and
competencies. The growing bulk of records led twentieth-century archivists
to reject the notion that all records could be preserved and attempt to identify
criteria for selecting records for long-term preservation. Contentious though
such attempts must be, they have led many archivists to the idea that the term
‘archives’ might be confined to records that have gone through a selection
process and been judged to have continuing value. Archival services that aim
to select records and maintain them indefinitely for future use form the main
focus of this book.
However, in the twenty-first century, perceptions of ‘archives’ have again
become fluid. Should the term be restricted to records that have been kept
because they are believed to have continuing value, or might it have wider
connotations? The computer industry has made everyone familiar with the
notion of ‘archiving’ (a word that, until recently, no self-respecting archivist
XIV ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

would ever have used); but in doing so it has popularized a belief that
‘archives’ can encompass almost any collections of materials, especially
perhaps digital materials, that have been designated for storage for possible
future use. The nascent ‘community archives’ movement in the UK often
emphasizes the keeping of materials that are felt to be meaningful to a
present-day community rather than those that can be specifically identified
as records of past events.
In fact, archivists have long been aware that the boundaries of archives can
sometimes extend beyond records of activities, events and experiences. Millar
recounts the tale, famously told in the 1920s by the English archivist Hilary
Jenkinson, of the elephant despatched to England with a covering note. The
note finds its way to an archival repository; but does the elephant also form
part of the archives? Pragmatically, of course, the elephant cannot be housed
in the repository, but many items despatched with (or without) covering notes
– fabric samples, medals, advertising circulars, posters or magazines, for
example – commonly do find their way into archival collections, even though
such items might not normally be considered records. In practice, archives
frequently appear hospitable to anything that has proved capable of being
stored in an organization’s or individual’s filing system. Archives are often said
to be ‘organic’, insofar as they accrue more or less naturally in the course of
organizational business or personal life, but in another sense they are shaped
by retention and aggregation decisions made by their custodians. Conceptual
and physical notions of archives have a more or less uneasy coexistence.
This book offers a discussion of the principles of archives and archival
management as well as an examination of many of the practices archivists
employ to put those principles into effect. It explores some of the dilemmas
archivists face when they recognize that archives are complex and contentious
phenomena, and that their own interventions in selecting, arranging,
preserving and delivering archives necessarily add further tiers of
contentiousness. Unlike most other texts on the keeping of archives, Millar’s
book does not draw on a single national tradition, but sets out approaches
used in many different parts of the English-speaking world. At another level,
like all the best writings, it is a personal book; Archives: principles and practices
reflects its author’s understanding of archives derived from her extensive
practical experience in Canada and in many other countries. It is to be
commended to all who undertake the rewarding work of maintaining
archives for the benefit of users today and in the future.

Geoffrey Yeo, University College London

May 2010
Foreword to the second edition

Seven years after Laura Millar’s eloquent and wide-ranging book was first
published, it is ever more apparent that in future the great majority of records
will be created and used in digital form. At present, most record-making
environments are hybrid – to varying extents, paper records continue to be
created and kept alongside their digital counterparts – but the balance is
firmly shifting towards the digital. Organizations are now disposing of their
filing cabinets at an unprecedented rate. Even if the wholly paperless office
may still prove to be a chimera, the ‘less-paper’ office is now a visible reality.
It has also become clear that archivists will very soon face, if they are not
already facing, a digital deluge. The world is creating massive amounts of
digital content, and the archivists of the future will encounter quantities of
records that exceed anything that archivists have experienced in the past. In
this age of digital abundance, human society will still look for evidence of,
and information about, actions that have been undertaken, events that have
occurred, decisions that have been made, and rights that have been protected,
abused or amended. Records and archives will still be needed, and the
long-standing archival principles that Millar expounds will be no less valid,
but the methods and techniques required to put those principles into practice
will often be very different.
In this new and extensively revised second edition, Millar provides greatly
expanded coverage of digital concerns. In place of the separate chapter on
digital archives that concluded the first edition, discussion of digital issues is
now woven into every chapter of the book. Of course, we still have – and will
continue to have – the legacy of many centuries of archives created using
paper and other analogue media; the skills to manage records created in the
past by non-digital means will remain essential, and Millar does not neglect
XVI ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

them. But in recasting her book to take account of the fast-moving digital
revolution, she offers us an archival manual for the twenty-first century.

Geoffrey Yeo, University College London

March 2017
Acknowledgements

As I said in the first edition, writing a book is a long and arduous process. It
turns out revising a book is an even more challenging, and lonelier,
experience. It does not seem fair to go back to the well a second time and ask
for input from the same people twice; they will just think I was not paying
attention the first time. I am very lucky that colleagues, friends and family
answered the call as I struggled with what turned out not to be a tweak
around the edges but a fundamental rewrite of this book – it is a new book,
really – which I suspect is a necessary response to the fundamental changes
in information, records and archives in the years since the first edition came
out in 2010.
Damian Mitchell at Facet Publishing was that breath of fresh air an author
wants in an editor: cheerful, supportive and patient. And I am grateful to the
anonymous reviewers who offered comments and suggestions about how I
might integrate the discussion of digital records and archives more fully into
this second edition. (I suspect that completely rewriting the book resolves any
lingering questions there.)
I am grateful to Robin Keirstead and Kelly Stewart for their suggestions
about how to balance specificity and detail in the bibliography and for their
cheerful support during the race to finish revisions. My ever faithful colleague
and friend Heather MacNeil responded with alacrity and good humour to
my many questions about new directions in archival description. In Australia,
Lise Summers set time aside during my visit to Curtin University in Perth, so
that we could share ideas about how the series and function have been
interpreted differently in Australia and North America. (Yes, Lise, Canadians
define the series very broadly. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, talks
like a duck . . . )
XVIII ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

Richard Valpy, always my champion and ally, opened my eyes to the

challenges archivists face between doing what they might want to do as
dedicated professionals and what they might have to do as officers
answerable to sponsor agencies and the public. Geoff Yeo continues to offer
unwavering support and remarkable faith as the series editor who convinced
me to write the book in the first place.
I am indebted to my students over more than 30 years, including those I
taught in a classroom and those I ‘adopted’ along the way. Whether they like
it or not, I think of them as my ‘chicks’. I learn more than I teach when I
interact with students, many of whom are now colleagues and friends. Their
innovative ideas and fresh insights encourage me to keep moving with the
times. I particularly thank three of the newest and brightest in this next
generation of record-keeping professionals: Drs Donald Force, Elaine Goh
and Anthea Seles. By accepting me as cheerleader, den mother and agony
aunt during their PhD studies over the last few years, they each let me glean
insights from their innovative research into concepts of evidence, the
strengths and weaknesses of archival legislation, and the challenges of
building ‘trustworthy’ digital repositories. I have learned much from, and
will always cherish, those experiences.
To my long-suffering and uncomplaining husband, yet again I owe a great
debt. Brian took over the full spectrum of domestic duties with a smile, kept
me plied with tea and made sure hot meals and chilled wine were available
as and when, while I locked hands to keyboard to finish this book. We make
a great team.
Laura A. Millar
May 2017
Introduction to the second
edition

Habit is either the best of servants or the worst of masters.

Nathaniel Emmons (1745–1840)

I began the first edition with a story that bears repeating, which goes as
follows. A young woman asked her mother why she always cut the end off
her roast before putting it in the oven. ‘You have to’, her mother replied. ‘It’s
the only way to cook a roast. That’s what my mother taught me’. Not satisfied
with this explanation, the woman posed the same question to her
grandmother. ‘Cutting the end off is critical’, said the grandmother. ‘If you
don’t, the roast comes out tough and flavourless. That’s how my mother did
it, and that’s the way it is done’. Still unsatisfied, the woman asked her
great-grandmother, a matriarch of 90-plus years, if she always cut the end off
her roast before cooking it. ‘Absolutely’, replied the great-grandmother,
‘Without fail’. ‘But why?’ begged the young woman, looking for some logic
behind the tradition. Her great-grandmother looked puzzled. ‘Well, dear’, she
finally said, ‘I had to. My roasting pan was too small’.
My point then and now is that much of what we do in life comes from habit
and tradition. Our parents did it that way, and so do we; our supervisor
showed us that method, and we adopted it on as our own; our teacher insisted
on that approach, and we have never tried another. Individual and group
behaviour – from cooking food to building houses to communicating and
documenting ideas and information – are as much a result of the repetition
of habits and traditions as the application of theories and principles. We do it
that way because ‘that’s the way it is done’.
From time to time, though, we need to step back and ask why we do
something in a particular way, especially if other options are available. Why
XX ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

do we build houses out of wood or brick or stone? Why do some of us prefer

Apple Mac computers and some only use PCs? Why do Americans use
letter-size paper, while the English use A4 paper? Why do we cut the end off
our roast?
Asking why we do something a certain way means examining the theories,
principles and history behind our practice. Only then can we decide if our
actions suit theory or vice versa. What is the principle on which our practice
is grounded? Do theory and reality come together logically? Is the theory
unrealistic or the practice outmoded?
The world of archives is infused with a large dollop of academic theory and
an equally large dose of traditional practice. Too often one or the other –
theory or practice – is over-emphasized. Why do some archivists start
arrangement and description with the fonds? Why do others emphasize
function? If we believe in the philosophy that records follow a life cycle, which
ends in the transportation of archives to some form of documentary heaven,
how can we argue for an archival role in the protection of electronic records
from birth, so that they survive long enough to see the pearly gates? Do we
really need to wear white cotton gloves when handling old documents? Why?
(The answer, by the way, is no. The gloves diminish dexterity, and studies
have shown you are more likely to drop the item if you have thick gloves on.
If your hands are dirty, wash them. But do not touch photographs, films or
negatives with your bare hands; the oils will damage the emulsion. You see,
no rule applies equally.)
Archivists search, sometimes in vain, for a balance between abstract
hypotheses and daily customs, some of which can become increasingly arcane
with time. Archives: principles and practices seeks to strike a balance between
principles and practices. It is as much a ‘why-to’ book as a ‘how-to’ book.
To draw a comparison with cooking, this is a book about culinary practice
rather than a recipe book. A recipe is a ‘how-to’ manual for cooking a
particular dish, providing a list of ingredients and a set of instructions. If the
cook follows the instructions precisely, he or she will end up with a culinary
dish that – one hopes – resembles the recipe. A culinary book, on the other
hand, focuses not on recipes but on the principles of cooking: the concept of
heat transfer; the qualities of different cuts of meat; the chemical reactions
that cause beef fibres to soften. Users of culinary books may not find a recipe
for the ‘perfect’ roast, but they will understand the importance of cooking the
meat on low heat for hours in order to break down tough fibres.
Another difficulty with recipe books is that they are necessarily specific to
particular cultures and regions. Dishes that call for taro root are hard to
prepare in Norway, and meals requiring reindeer are challenging to replicate
 INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND EDITION XXI

in Papua New Guinea. Culinary books take into account the fact that one cook
may have a wood stove, another may use gas and another electricity; they
present principles that can be adapted for use in different environments.
Just as there is no one ‘right way’ to cook; there is no one ‘right way’ to
manage archives. There are too many social, cultural and practical variations
in the way records, archives and evidence are created, managed and used to
allow one set of procedures, one recipe, to meet the needs of practitioners in
different parts of the world.
To address variations in practice while introducing important principles
and concepts, the second edition of Archives: principles and practices is divided
into two parts. Part I addresses the theoretical, conceptual and philosophical
issues associated with archives: their creation, management and use. Part II
introduces ideas about the strategic, operational and logistical issues
associated with archival practice. Where the book provides guidance on many
aspects of archival practice, every attempt is made to reconcile specific
instructions with the reality that circumstances will vary from one
environment to another.
The hope is that you the reader can learn about the principles behind
archival practice, balance theories against your own institutional realities, and
then identify the best practical actions for your particular circumstances. A
business archives equipped with sophisticated information and
communications systems needs to develop and deliver systems and services
quite unlike those in a remote, poorly resourced community archives. A
repository that only acquires historical photographs has different priorities
for description and digitization from an institution that collects not only
archives but also publications, artefacts and art.
The approach presented here does not eliminate the need to articulate core
archival principles. One of the obstacles to the development of consistent
archival practice around the world has been an insistence on doing things a
certain way because ‘we’ve always done it that way’. Archivists and their
institutions can become stuck, and it can be easier to criticize other approaches
than to go back and start again. To combat idiosyncrasies, archivists develop
standards, which offer a useful bridge between theory and practice. But
standards are not laws, and they should not always be accepted as gospel.
This book looks for a balance among, first, the theoretical environment,
secondly the ideal world of archival standards, and lastly the reality of
archival management in practice. My goal is to help bridge the gap between
‘we’ve always done it this way’ and ‘we can never do it that way’.
XXII ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

About the book

This book is written primarily for records and archives practitioners,
particularly those ‘lone arrangers’ working in small, often inadequately
resourced, institutions who may have inherited an array of archival
procedures from their predecessors and need to understand whether those
approaches still work and, if not, how to conceptualize new and different
models. This book will also be valuable for students of archival management,
in universities and colleges, especially the archivist just embarking on a career
in archives and still unclear about what the profession exists to do and how
she might ply her trade in the working world. I also hope that the book will
be useful to anyone interested in or involved with records and archives.
In the ideal world, documentary evidence will be managed effectively from
the moment it is created, if not before, within an accountable environment
for record keeping (a term used throughout the book). In this environment, the
best service the archivist as record keeper can provide is not to manage an
archival collection after the fact but to ensure the creation and protection of
valuable evidence from the beginning.
But reality being what it is, the care of records (mistakenly defined as ‘new’)
and the care of archives (erroneously perceived as ‘old’) are still considered
separate responsibilities in many parts of the world, though the borders are
blurring significantly. While the care of current records is essential to effective
information management and the creation of authentic and reliable archives,
addressing both current records management and archival management in one
book is not possible, at least not without providing the most superficial of
discussions in a publication that could pass as a doorstop. And simply defining
it all as record keeping and not discussing custodial archival care sweeps
centuries of archival history and practice under the reference room carpet.
Since this is a book about archival principles and practices, then, I have
focused my attention on the archival end of the equation: the processes
needed to identify materials with evidential value and ensure they are
protected and made available for use. But I cannot stop myself from
reminding the reader that quality records care is going to be even more
important as we struggle with protecting evidence in a mutable digital world.
The 12 chapters in this book are divided as follows.
In Part I, Chapter 1, the concept of archives as documentary evidence is
examined, by tracing a path from the communication of an idea, to its capture
as information, to the retention of that information as evidence and then to
its preservation as archives. The chapter also discusses the importance of
content, context and structure to the authenticity and reliability of records
and archives. It ends with a comparison of documentary evidence, scientific
 INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND EDITION XXIII

evidence and physical evidence and with a discussion of the perilous path
from data to archives.
Chapter 2 looks at the nature of archives, starting with the ideal scenario
in which archives are managed as part of a continuum of care. I then turn to
reality, considering how archives might be defined on the basis of what is left
behind, not on what should have been kept. The form of archives, or, more
appropriately, the fact that documentary evidence can take many forms, is
also considered. I look then at the relationship between archives, art and
artefacts and end the chapter with a reminder that archives are only the
smallest portion of the residue of our lives. Much that is intangible still has
much value, even if not defined as ‘archival’.
Chapter 3 highlights significant events in archival history, from the time
when archives were only used by records creators to the time when the public
began to use archives for historical research. The evolution of life cycle and
continuum approaches to archives is outlined, and the impact of postmodern-
ism on archival thinking is addressed. I then connect those historical events to
archival theories, explaining the principles of provenance, original order and
respect des fonds, as well as the concept of a functional, series-based approach
to archival management and the notion of a records continuum. I also look at
how those theories are being challenged, as archivists debate whether they
remain relevant today.
Chapter 4 looks at archives from the perspective of the user. Archives can
be sources of history, whether for professional, amateur or family and
personal reasons. Archives also serve as tools for accountability, providing
evidence to uphold the law or provide proof of infractions. And archives serve
as touchstones for memory and identity, finding value as sources for scientific
research, social and political studies, popular fiction and film and, ultimately,
as a window into the lives of others.
In Chapter 5, I outline different types of archival institution, specifically:
institutional archives, hybrid archives, collecting archives, community-based
archives, museum archives, integrated institutions, indigenous archives and
activist archives. I also address the rise of online repositories and suggest we
need to distinguish data or records ‘warehouses’ from trusted digital
repositories; it is the latter that archivists are striving to create in order to
manage electronic evidence safely.
In Chapter 6, I look at the fundamental principles of archival service. I
believe that archivists must work within a sound ethical framework,
especially given that archival work is not a regulated profession. I outline
standards of practice I hope archivists will embrace, above and beyond
existing codes of ethics. I also comment on the education of the archivist, the
XXIV ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

role of archival associations and the nature and purpose of records and
archives standards.
Chapter 7 ends Part I by looking specifically at the legal and ethical
requirements of balancing access with privacy. How does the archivist
address copyright and intellectual property requirements? How does the
archivist provide equitable access to holdings and still respect the rights not
only of records creators but also of those identified in archives, who may wish
to remain invisible to the world?
Part II focuses on archival practice, beginning in Chapter 8 with a
discussion of the tasks involved in managing the archival institution itself.
What is the ideal organizational structure for an archival operation, and how
can the archivist identify the right strategic vision for her own institution?
What policy framework is needed, and how should the archival institution
be administered, from finances to facilities to staff?
In Chapter 9, I review concepts and best practice requirements for archival
preservation, emphasizing the need to ensure the security and sustainability
of the environment in which archives will be housed. I identify specific
archival hazards, such as: acidity, fluctuations in temperature and relative
humidity, excessive light levels, pollution, fire and water damage, biological
agents such as mould, insects and rodents, and abuse and mishandling. For
each hazard I offer suggestions for mitigating the risk. I also offer guidance
about the management of different media materials. I consider digitization
as a preservation tool, and I offer a short introduction to the challenge of
preserving digital archives. The chapter ends with suggestions for developing
preservation and emergency plans, both of which are critical tools for
ensuring archival holdings are kept safe.
In Chapter 10, the acquisition of archives is examined, starting with a
discussion of the two aspects of appraisal: appraisal for acquisition and
appraisal for selection. The advantages and limitations of sampling, weeding
and culling are considered, along with other appraisal criteria that the
archivist should take into account. I explain the different ways archival
materials can be acquired, including transfer, donation, loan and purchase;
outline the legal and administrative process of accessioning archives; and
consider the work involved in deaccessioning archives that the archivist
decides do not belong in the institution. The chapter concludes with a brief
look at the thorny topic of monetary appraisal.
In Chapter 11, I revisit some of the theories and principles introduced in
Chapter 3, including provenance and original order, in order to consider how
they work, or do not work, in practice. Two sometimes competing
philosophies with a direct impact on arrangement and description – custodial
 INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND EDITION XXV

and post-custodial archives management – are examined. I then look at the

challenge of controlling language when describing archival materials, which
is important to providing quality access and reference. The practicalities of
arrangement and description are outlined, followed by a discussion of the
ways in which descriptive information might be presented for research use.
In Chapter 12, I look at how archivists can and should make archives
available for use, considering not only the role of reference services but also
the importance of outreach and engagement. Creating an effective frame-
work for reference and access is addressed, along with a discussion of issues
associated with providing personal or virtual reference services. The role of
digitization as a reference tool is examined, and the importance of
documenting reference services is emphasized. I end the chapter by suggest-
ing ways in which the archivist can engage with the community, including
through online and social media applications, to support research use and to
raise awareness of the archives and the archival institution.
The book concludes, as the first edition did, with a brief speculation on
where archives and archivists are going as we pursue this new digital frontier.
As society begins to embrace the ‘internet of things’, and our refrigerators
and garage doors start to communicate with us while we are on vacation, will
the archivist of the future be capturing evidence of spoiled milk in the fridge
or the damage wrought (at least where I live, here in western Canada) by
black bears digging for breakfast in our garbage cans?
When the first edition was published, digital archives were addressed in a
separate chapter. They were treated as something special and different, not
directly relevant to ‘the rest’ of archival practice. How much has changed in
a few short years. In this edition, I have integrated discussion of the digital
into all chapters, based on my belief that evidence is evidence is evidence,
whether it comes in a clay tablet or a digital photograph.
But there is still not enough room to address the care of digital records and
archives fully. The content in a digital record may still be archival, but the
context in which that record was created and the structure and form it takes
are markedly divergent from paper ledgers or black and white photographs.
I have neither the room in this book, nor the technical knowledge in my head,
to examine in depth the specific technological requirements that govern, or
should govern, the care of digital records. Fortunately, many others with
greater knowledge than I have written excellent books on digital preservation
and electronic records management. I have drawn on these tools for this
edition, and I encourage the reader to use these works, which are identified
in the resources section at the end of this book, to learn more about the
specifics of digital records and archives care.
XXVI ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

Additional resources
A book like Archives: principles and practices can only provide an overview of
the complexities and nuances of archival theory and practice. A paragraph in
this book – indeed, sometimes a single sentence – can summarize ideas
addressed in entire volumes. The first edition of this book attempted the
impossible, by being as comprehensive as possible and identifying all manner
of readings that might be of interest. Common sense prevails in the second
edition. Now the list of resources follows a minimalist approach. Only a
handful of core and recommended readings have been included, almost
exclusively book-length works, on the assumption that these books will lead
readers to more specific sources. I have also included links to journals, archival
agencies and relevant websites, as some of the most useful new research is now
easily accessed online, at least for those with a robust internet connection.

Striving for diversity and balance

As noted in the first edition, I have been an archival consultant for over 30
years. I have travelled from my home in British Columbia to countries as far
afield as Fiji, Botswana, Hungary, Singapore, France and Brazil. I have seen up
close the work of dedicated archivists in national institutions with hundreds of
employees and in church archives staffed by octogenarian volunteers. Many of
these people are the first line of defence for their society’s documentary
heritage, and too often they work in severely constrained circumstances.
Repositories may come without shelving or desks or doors. Storage vaults may
be subject to temperatures that exceed 40℃ above or −40℃ below. Reference
rooms may be occupied by rodents as well as researchers. The ‘budget’ may be
whatever can be eked out of a book sale or a donation box.
That said, I have seen archival practice grow more and more sophisticated
over time. Computerized databases are replacing paper finding aids in
institutions from the USA to Namibia. Archival institutions from Bangladesh
to Iceland have Facebook pages. I am continually amazed and energized by the
effort, dedication and sheer determination of archivists to be as engaged with
their communities as possible, even if they have had to drape their holdings in
tarps to keep out the rain after the window panes have been stolen.
To try to write a book that meets all the needs of all these different
practitioners, from the Arctic to the tropics and from major urban centres to
remote hamlets, is an exercise in creativity and flexibility. I have tried to make
my words as meaningful as possible in all these diverse archival
environments. Occasional real-world examples are included, but for the most
part I have created fictitious scenarios. There is, at least to my knowledge, no
 INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND EDITION XXVII

Cascadia University, no Wickham County Archives and no Cheswick

Historical Society. Maureen Lee and James Carstairs are my own inventions.
For instance, the examples related to environmental records, particularly in
the discussion of arrangement and description in Chapter 11, are a wondrous
conflation of reality and fantasy.
For that fictitious case study, I drew on examples from the State Records
Office of Western Australia and the Archives of Ontario, Canada, then I tossed
in some functional descriptions fabricated out of real examples from the
National Archives of Australia’s functional thesaurus. Finally, I stirred them
all together into a description of archival materials housed in an entirely
made-up provincial archives in Canada. I am grateful to the dedication and
meticulousness of the archivists in all these real institutions for making their
archival resources so readily available on the internet, allowing me to make
up new descriptive fictions to my heart’s content. And I also send sincere
thanks to the very real Provincial Archives of Alberta, which has amazing
staff, a beautiful building and probably all sorts of terrific records related to
the environment, but which is decidedly not the Provincial Archives and
Library of Alberta, which remains a figment of my imagination.
Still, imagination has its limits. I am a Canadian and proud to be so. While
I use my imagination and experiences to try and place myself in the shoes of
an archivist in Kenya or Egypt, inevitably I will fall back on my own cultural
experiences, as everyone does. All I can do, as I hope everyone would, is
explain my own perspectives and let others translate those explanations into
ideas meaningful in their own environment.
The battle between British and American spelling rages on in this book, as
it did in the first. I leave it to the editorial dictates of the publisher to
‘standardize’ language. (Or should that be ‘standardise’?) I define archival
and technical terms on first use whenever possible, and I have included a
glossary at the end of the book for ease of reference. My approach is not to
present authoritative statements on archival language, though. I prefer to
discuss the various meanings of terms such as archives, fonds, function or
series, opening the door to deeper evaluation of the underlying concepts.
The word ‘archives’ is traditionally defined in three ways: the organization
dedicated to preserving the documentary heritage of a particular group, such
as a national government, a city, a university or a village; the materials
acquired, preserved and made available for use; and the building or part of a
building in which archival materials are kept – the archival repository itself.
I have given preference to ‘archives’ for the materials and ‘institution’ for the
agency whenever I could, though occasionally I talk about ‘facility’ or
‘repository’ to avoid repetition.
XXVIII ARCHIVES: PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICES

Faced with the awkwardness of using ‘he or she’, or opting for ‘they’, I have
stayed with my choice in the first edition to have one female representative
archivist for the book: ‘she’. To balance the equation, many (but not all) of the
researchers, donors, records creators and other fictitious characters that
populate the case studies are addressed in the masculine: ‘he’. The intent
remains not to presume all archivists are women and all researchers are men;
the intent is to help distinguish all the players in a particular scenario.
Whether you are an archival student, a practitioner with years of experience
or someone simply intrigued by archives, I hope you find this book a useful
starting point for your study of a fascinating and critically important topic. The
safe preservation and widespread use of archives is fundamental to
accountability, identity and memory in society. Archives join museum artefacts,
works of art, oral histories and family and community customs and traditions
as the tools we rely on to understand who we are, where we came from and
where we are going. They are part of the essence of our individual and
collective sense of self, part of the foundations of a civilized society. I hope you
enjoy this exploration of the principles and practices of archival work.
PART I
Archival principles

Part I of this book looks at the principles and theories within which archival
practice is situated. How do we define archives, and what types of material
fall within and outside that definition? How did archival theory and practice
develop throughout history, and how do we position our work today within
existing theoretical frameworks? Theory notwithstanding, how do people
actually use archives? What types of institutions are created to hold archival
materials, and what are the similarities or differences between them?
Regardless of institution, what are the guiding principles – the golden rule(s)
– of effective and ethical archival service? And, especially in a world
abounding with cloud computing systems, data security concerns, identity
theft and 24-hour news cycles, how can the archivist balance the right of
citizens to access evidence with the right of individuals to retain their privacy?
These topics are addressed in the following chapters:

Chapter 1: What are archives?

Chapter 2: The nature of archives
Chapter 3: Archival history and theory
Chapter 4: The uses of archives
Chapter 5: Types of archival institution
Chapter 6: The principles of archival service
Chapter 7: Balancing access and privacy.
1
What are archives?

A wise man proportions his belief to the evidence.

David Hume (1711–76) An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, 1748

The word ‘archives’ conjures up different images. Some people picture dusty,
dry storage rooms where stuffy, brown-bow-tie curators enveloped in ancient
cardigans look askance at anyone who speaks above a whisper. Others
imagine websites where listeners can download podcasts of radio
programmes aired just hours before. Some people think of old parchments,
scrolls and leather-bound volumes of medieval treatises; others imagine
electronic back-up copies of a corporate report or membership database.
Two centuries ago, the majority of archival materials were two-
dimensional, manually created items such as papyrus scrolls, parchment
codices, bound ledgers, or black and white photographs. Today, the holdings
of archival institutions may include e-mail messages, relational databases,
YouTube videos and interactive web pages. Digital technologies have
transformed our understanding of the nature of information and commun-
ications; what were considered archives a century ago are only the smallest
subset of what might be defined as archives today.
Computers and the internet have also bred a growth industry in the
dissemination of digital archival information. Governments, corporations,
publishers, music producers, writers, performers and artists have all
discovered the value of sharing information, including historical records,
electronically. Newspapers reprint archived articles in print and online
editions. Radio stations post copies of concerts and interviews on their
websites. Music producers repackage old recordings, billing them as treasures
from the vault. Entire television channels are devoted to broadcasting ‘classic’
TV shows and movies, and historical documentaries and ‘find your ancestor’
4 PART I: ARCHIVAL PRINCIPLES

genealogical shows are among the most popular subset of reality TV on air
today. Even local churches record their Sunday sermons and post them on
their Facebook pages to serve home-bound parishioners.
As more and more people are exposed to digital information, both old and
new, the concept of archives has become more ambiguous. The blanket
depiction of archives as brittle old documents used only by scholars has been
replaced by another stereotype: that archives comprise any piece of
information older than yesterday that might be worth referring to again
tomorrow. For those who decide to create an online repository of their
favourite recipes or music or newspaper articles and call it their ‘archive’, the
subtleties of language may be of little consequence. But for people whose job
is to acquire and preserve documentary evidence and ensure it is available
for public use, understanding the concept of archives is critical.
Archives are defined not by their form but by their purpose. A handwritten
letter can have archival value, and a data element in a computer’s hard drive
can have archival value. A collection of all the recordings of Frank Sinatra, or
copies of every issue of National Geographic, however old, may not have
archival value. Why?
A full definition of ‘archives’, encompassing the three primary ways in
which the word may be used, is this:

1. Documentary materials created, received, used and kept by a person, family,

organization, government or other public or private entity in the conduct of their
daily work and life and preserved because they contain enduring value as
evidence of and information about activities and events. 2. The agency or
institution responsible for acquiring and preserving archival materials and
making those items available for use. 3. The building or other repository housing
archival collections.

So the word ‘archives’ can be used to refer to the materials themselves, to the
institution caring for them or to the repository holding those materials. So
one could argue, correctly, that ‘the archives’ archives are in the archives’.
The focus in this chapter is on the first part of the definition: that small
portion of all the information, communications, ideas and opinions that
people or organizations create and receive as part of their daily life and work,
that are captured in recorded form and kept because they have some value
beyond the moment. That worth may be not only for the creator or recipient
of the ‘information, communications, ideas and opinions’ but also for others,
in the present and future.
In order for something to be preserved for its archival value, then, it must
 WHAT ARE ARCHIVES? 5

be tangible, whether physical or electronic, visual, aural or written. Archives

must exist in some concrete form outside our own minds. There is no way
that ‘documentary evidence’ can be preserved and used if it does not take
real form. Further, archives are something other than mere information:
archives serve as a form of proof.
To understand how archives come to be, we must start by understanding how
data becomes knowledge and knowledge becomes information. Then we can
consider how information becomes evidence and evidence becomes archives.

From data to evidence

Only the smallest fraction of knowledge we carry around in our minds ever
makes its way outside our heads and into some external form. Human beings
gather data through our senses. We absorb the experience of a sunset by
perceiving the setting sun through our eyes, and we come to know a piece of
music by listening to a concert. With each experience, we compile data – from
the Latin datum or ‘(thing) given’ – putting together sights and sounds in our
brains and then mentally organizing that data to make sense of what we have
perceived. When we read or listen or watch or smell or taste anything, we are
gathering data.
Once we have gathered the data, we interpret those signals and symbols to
make sense of them. We turn our data into knowledge. We read symbols on a
sheet of paper, raw data, and know we are reading a newspaper, in part
because we know the alphabet. We read another set of symbols on a computer
screen, again raw data, and know we are looking at a balance sheet, in part
because we understand that the symbols represent numbers.
We know we are watching a sunset not just because we see an orange ball
in the sky but also because we know how to read the clock and see the time
of day: it is evening, not morning. We know we are listening to music instead
of noise not only because we hear sounds but also because we have taken
ourselves to a concert hall, to a place where music is performed. (Admittedly,
the distinction between music and noise is sometimes quite blurry, especially
as one gets older.)
We take in the knowledge gleaned, from the daily news stories to the
company’s financial health, and then we can share that knowledge, turning
it into information. When we call our friends to describe the sunset or chat
about the concert, and we listen to their reactions, we are exchanging
information. When we e-mail our accountant to query the company’s
financial statements, and we receive our accountant’s explanations, we are
exchanging information.
6 PART I: ARCHIVAL PRINCIPLES

Sometimes, we act on this information. We might decide to buy a recording

of the concert or authorize increases in staff pay. Our decisions will be based
on our interpretation and analysis of the knowledge we gained from the data
we collected.
We might decide that the information should be captured so that we can
remember it later. When we take a photograph of the sunset, we are capturing
information. If we e-mail our friend to tell him about our night listening to
the symphony, we are capturing information about the event and our
impressions of it. When we decide to increase staff pay, we capture that
information in our personnel and financial records, noting the amount of the
increase, the additional taxes to be paid and the justification for the change.
We also update our payroll software so that the increased payment can be
processed automatically. When we capture this information, we create
documentation, which may take the form of a discrete document, such as a
photograph, memo or e-mail, or it may be a piece of digital data (note the
different interpretation of the term ‘data’) that we add to a larger information
resource, such as an updated address in an electronic mailing list or a change
in pay rates in payroll database.

Information versus evidence

Some of the documentation we create provides us with information, and some
provides us with evidence. The question to ask when deciding if a piece of
information serves as evidence is simple to ask but often hard to answer. Does
the information in question substantiate an assertion? Could we use that
information later to confirm facts or decisions? Do we need that evidence in
order to corroborate our actions? Do we need proof?
Documentary evidence, whether a written record or a digital data element,
is captured in order to remember something – a piece of information, a
decision or an opinion – at a particular moment. The record is not made with
the sole purpose of serving history a century from now. But sometime in the
near or distant future, that evidence may be brought out to help ‘remember’
whatever it documents: a date, a face, an event or even an emotion.
The best evidence is not created long after the events in question, when our
memories are fallible and subject to after-the-fact reinterpretations of events.
Rather, the best evidence is a natural by-product of the activity itself. An
authentic photograph of a sunset is taken during that sunset, not the next day.
An official memo authorizing a payroll change is issued before the new
payment is made, not several months after.
The best evidence also contains enough contextual information to
 WHAT ARE ARCHIVES? 7

guarantee its authenticity. When we take a picture of a sunset, we have

captured information about an event: the setting of the sun. But if we do not
provide context about when the picture was taken, where, and by whom, we
cannot use that image as evidence of anything more than the fact that the sun
sets. It will not serve as proof that our family went to the seaside last August.
The ‘who, what, where, when and why’ that contextualizes documents gives
them greater meaning and allows them to serve as evidence.
Part of that contextual information is the relationship of documents or
pieces of data one to another within a file, binder, database or e-mail thread.
The real evidence of our holiday on the coast is not one photograph of a
sunset but an entire album of family photographs, showing us swimming and
sightseeing, dining in a restaurant and sailing in a boat, with dates and places
and people clearly identified.
Similarly, context is essential to proving that a staff pay increase is
legitimate. If our payroll software shows simply that someone is making more
income now than he was a month ago but does not tell us when the change
was made and who approved it, we cannot prove that the increase was
authorized. How do we know someone didn’t just break into the computer
and change the payroll figures without permission? The real evidence of an
increase in staff pay would be formal, written confirmation, safely stored with
other personnel records, serving as proof that the head of personnel services
authorized the change.

Capturing evidence
When we capture evidence, the resulting product may be a record in the
traditional sense: a physical or digital item that carries documentary value,
such as a letter, contract or photograph. This record purports to be objective.
In other words, the record claims to represent actual decisions or opinions or
experiences, not fictionalized descriptions.
The strength of static records such as paper documents or printed
photographs is their inviolability. Once this type of record exists, the words or
numbers or images on the page stay put; changing them is difficult (though
admittedly not impossible). A bound ledger, with all the pages intact, is a whole
record, which cannot be altered without leaving some obvious evidence of
change. An original photographic print that is not faded or torn is complete in
itself: a discrete, finished object that cannot be edited after the fact.
But in the digital world, evidence can also be a piece of data: an entry in a
database, a message circulated through Twitter or a blog post on a website.
(A blog, from ‘web log’, is a type of online diary, journal or discussion page.)
8 PART I: ARCHIVAL PRINCIPLES

The raw data we took into our senses – the view of the sunset or the sound
of the orchestra – is captured in digital data: a photograph of the sunset stored
in our cellular telephone; a recording of the performance saved as an MP3
audio file. (MP3 is a coding format for compressing and storing audio input
into a small file, allowing the recorded sounds to be saved and shared easily.)
Unlike paper records, digital data can be altered or deleted in a
microsecond. A digital sound recording, unlike a vinyl LP recording, can be
manipulated and updated instantaneously. Editing may remove coughs and
interruptions and applause but the new version ceases to be an authentic
representation of the performance. A digital photograph can be enhanced,
with the sunset made brighter or the dog in the background removed, but it
is no longer a true representation of the event.
This malleability means that digital evidence is tricky both to authenticate
and to preserve. How do we know that a membership database is secure and
accessible only to those with proper authority? How do we know that a
message sent through Twitter shows the right time and date and so is
chronologically accurate? A critical archival task in the digital age is not just to
capture and preserve pieces of data but to ensure that, if they are to serve as
proof, they are captured with their authenticity intact. Only then can that digital
data serve as evidence for as long as needed, whether a week, a year or forever.

From evidence to archives

Only a portion of the information we generate or receive throughout our lives
is worth keeping for even a short time, and only a portion of that subset is worth
keeping indefinitely. When and how do pieces of evidence become archives?
A sales receipt for a container of milk is useful until the milk is home, stored
in the refrigerator and consumed by thirsty teenagers. If the milk is sour when
the container is opened, the receipt is proof that the milk was purchased from
a particular store on a particular day, so that the purchaser can replace it with
a fresh container free of charge. Days or weeks after the milk is gone, the
receipt has no continuing value.
Receipts for oil changes and engine tune-ups may be useful for as long as
the warranty on the car is in effect, which may be four or five years. After the
warranty has expired, the owner of the car needs no proof that he abided by
the terms of the warranty. Those receipts can be destroyed, unless the car’s
owner has an abiding interest in the life and history of his vehicle.
Of course, some scrupulous car owners keep all their maintenance
documentation until they sell their cars, providing the buyer with a detailed
true history of the vehicle. And a devoted car lover might keep a receipt for the
 WHAT ARE ARCHIVES? 9

very first car he purchased, when he was 18, as a testimonial to that thrilling
first taste of adult life. If, 60 years later, that car becomes ‘vintage’ and is
considered a collector’s item, all the documentation surrounding its life may
have significant long-term value. The records may be seen as archives.
The challenge with this scenario is that the records need to have been
created in the first place, and then kept over decades, which demands that
the first owner, and all subsequent owners, need to share an abiding (perhaps
even obsessive) interest in the story of that vehicle. It takes remarkable
prescience to know in 1964 that one’s brand-new Chevrolet Corvette will
become a collector’s item in 2014. Sometimes, the records left behind are
valuable not because of the importance of their content but because they
survived, intact, against all odds.
Rather than wait and hope that authentic and accurate archives will come
into custody someday, many archivists prefer to work with the creators of
records and information now: raising awareness of and encouraging the
protection of valuable evidence. In governments or corporations, this advisory
work often comes as part of a formal records and information management
programme, which helps ensure that quality documentary evidence is kept for
as long as needed for legal, administrative, financial, historical and other
purposes.
In a structured record-keeping environment, archivists help the creators of
records and information to define some of their information sources as
‘transitory’: they have little long-term value and can be destroyed once they are
no longer needed. They define other information sources as records or
evidence, because they have evidential, administrative or other value that
warrants their retention for a certain time. The archivist also determines which
evidence has enduring value and should be kept permanently as archives.
Figure 1.1 on the next page summarizes the progression discussed thus far:
from data to knowledge, to information, to evidence, and finally to archives.

The qualities of archives

When deciding if something has archival value, it is not enough for the creator
of a record, or an archivist, simply to hold up an individual documentary
item and say ‘this is truly an authentic and original contract between Robert
Kessler and William Edelman’ or ‘this is absolutely a diary written by Adele
Chiabaka’. The item in question cannot be confirmed as authentic proof of
something just because an archivist has put it into a storage box in her
institution. Archival materials derive their value as evidence from a
combination of three qualities: content, context and structure.
10 PART I: ARCHIVAL PRINCIPLES

We receive data: sights, sounds, smells, words, symbols

We interpret that data to generate and share knowledge

A portion of that data may be documented –

visually, aurally, digitally or textually – serving
as information

Some of the information we

document may provide evidence:
proof of events, experiences, actions,
decisions or ideas

A portion of evidence
may be preserved as
archives for its enduring
value, worthy of
preservation as proof or
as information of long-
term interest to a wider
audience

Figure 1.1 The progression from data to archives

Content, structure and context

An isolated photograph of a sunset is only information. But a photograph of
a sunset contained in an album called ‘The Taylor Family Trip to Florida, 1968’
– with dates, people and places clearly documented – is evidence. Evidential
value increases if there is a clear and authentic relationship between individual
items within a larger body of unified records. Consider this example.
 WHAT ARE ARCHIVES? 11

A scribbled reminder on a sticky note, or a single entry extracted from a

digital calendar, might remind the author to ‘meet Mike’. The note captures
a piece of information. Someone – we do not know who – intends to meet
someone named Mike, at some unknown time and place. The reminder does
not prove that the meeting happened, only that it seems to have been planned.
The structure of the note is an isolated piece of paper or a few lines taken from
a computer database. Was the information captured informally, perhaps in
haste? Or was it planned well in advance?
Further, the reminder all by itself does not identify who was going to meet
Mike. It could have been a man, woman or child; a colleague, friend, brother
or used car salesman. Without any wider context, the content of the message
– ‘meet Mike’ – is vague to the point of being meaningless.
But what if the reminder to ‘meet Mike’ was found inside the pages of a
paper ‘day timer’ or within a digital calendar, surrounded by information
about other appointments and activities? What if the reminder showed the
specific date: 8 July 2016? And what if the appointment calendar was
maintained by the personal secretary to Donald Trump, who in July 2016 was
the Republican candidate for the presidency of the USA?
Now the reminder that says ‘meet Mike’ contains a great deal more
meaning. On 15 August 2016, Mr Trump sent out a message on his Twitter
account announcing that Mike Pence, Governor of Indiana, was going to be
his running mate in that year’s American presidential election. Now that the
short aide memoire is infused with greater structure and more context, the
reader of ‘meet Mike’ can surmise, though perhaps not yet confirm, that the
Mike in question might well have been Mike Pence. The reader can further
deduce that the meeting might just relate to the selection of Mr Pence as vice-
presidential candidate.
The content of the note has not changed. It still says ‘meet Mike’. But now
the content is accompanied by structure and context. The structure of the
record is now an entry on the 8 July page of the calendar for 2016, allowing
the reader to see other appointments and perhaps glean more meaning
through other references to Mike. Context comes by the knowledge that the
day timer was Donald Trump’s, kept during the weeks and months leading
up to the presidential election. The context of the 8 July meeting may be
illuminated further by accompanying records: phone records showing that
Mike Pence and Donald Trump chatted several times; nomination papers
showing Mike Pence’s name; other tweets from Donald Trump’s account
about the nomination; minutes of meetings between the two; and so on.
With this contextual information available, other discrete pieces of
information may take on more meaning. What if the calendar also included
12 PART I: ARCHIVAL PRINCIPLES

reminders to ‘meet Chris’, ‘meet Jeff’ or ‘meet Mary’? Would it be reasonable

to speculate that those might be meetings with other potential running mates:
Chris Christie, Jeff Sessions or Mary Fallin? The location of the notes in the
calendar allows that speculation, but other records would be needed to
support the hypothesis. At some time in the future, after Donald Trump’s
tenure as American President has ended, these small pieces of evidence will
provide a wealth of information about Trump’s decision to select Mike Pence
as his running mate.
The principle underlying this ability to clarify content, structure and context
is known as the value of the chain of custody: the idea that the integrity of
records and archives depends in part on a measure of control not only over
their creation but also of their management through time. Knowing who
created records, how this person maintained those records, and when and
how those records were transferred into a custodial environment such an
archival institution helps to explain – and prove or disprove – the integrity of
the body of evidence. (The concept of a chain of custody is expanded later,
particularly in relation to the archival principle of provenance.)
To summarize, content is the text, images, sounds or other information that
make up the substance of a piece of evidence. Content is the ‘what’ in the
documentary equation. To preserve content, a piece of evidence must be
‘fixed’ in space and time. The ink that conveys words must remain on the
sheet of paper, and the chemicals that capture an image must remain on the
photographic base.
The challenge with electronic records is the difficulty of fixing the content
when the very nature of electronic technologies allows us to change that
content so easily. Strict controls are needed over who is allowed access to
digital data, and details of any changes to digital records need to be preserved,
so that the evidence can be preserved over time with its accuracy and
authenticity intact. (A digital record is a record that can be stored, transmitted
or processed by a computer.1)
Structure relates to the physical and intellectual characteristics that define
how a piece of evidence was created and maintained. Structure provides the
‘how’ of a document. A page within a bound day timer has a different
structure from a loose sticky note found stuck to a blank sheet of paper. A
page ripped out of a day timer, sitting by itself in a box of loose papers, has a
different structure from an intact day timer. An electronic calendar in a
government’s official record-keeping system or a tweet stored in a cloud
computing system both have different structures from each other. Their
location gives more precise meaning to the words ‘meet Mike’.
Context is the functional, organizational and personal circumstances
 WHAT ARE ARCHIVES? 13

surrounding the creation of the documentary evidence. If content is the ‘what’

and structure the ‘how’, context is everything else: the ‘who’, ‘where’, ‘when’
and possibly even ‘why’. Context identifies who created the information, how
that information was used and stored and perhaps even why the information
existed in the first place.
Regardless of media, documentary evidence gains its context by being kept
as part of a larger, organic, unified body of physical or digital records and
data, not as a single item separated from its documentary origins. Context
can also relate to how the information was used both before and after it came
into archival control. Evidential context changes as the piece of information
moves from creator to custodian to user to public.
Content, context and structure do not necessarily provide absolute,
unquestionable proof. The only way we could know who really went to ‘meet
Mike’, or who ‘Mike’ was, would be for us to have been present at the
meeting. But until Einstein’s theory of a space-time continuum becomes
reality and we can transport ourselves backwards in time, we cannot be
witnesses to all that has transpired in life. By preserving the content, context
and structure of documentary materials, archivists help researchers interpret
the evidence and understand historical events more fully.

Static, unique and authentic

Beyond the notion of content, structure and context, archives retain, or ought
to retain, three other desirable qualities that help ensure they serve as
trustworthy proof. Ideally, anything defined as evidence, be it a handwritten
diary or a membership database, should be static, unique and authentic.

Static
When a document is being generated – when meeting minutes are being
drafted or an e-mail message is being composed – that document is not
considered complete. It is a work in progress. But once the minutes are
complete or the e-mail message has been sent, the document becomes a
record. That record needs to be secured so that it cannot be changed,
intentionally or accidentally. It needs to be static, fixed in time and space, or
else it cannot easily serve as evidence of the transaction or event it documents.
The committee in charge of a particular activity is responsible for
confirming that the minutes of a meeting accurately represent the discussions
held and decisions made. So the committee needs to ensure that those minutes
are accurate when created and safeguarded ever after. If someone alters the
14 PART I: ARCHIVAL PRINCIPLES

minutes of a meeting after the document has been approved, that document
is no longer an authentic record of the meeting. Similarly, if an e-mail is sent
but the receiver edits the message later, the e-mail is no longer reliable
evidence. The removal of a page from Donald Trump’s day timer or the
deletion of ‘meet Mike’ from his digital calendar alters the evidential value
of the information.
In order to provide evidence, a record needs to be fixed in time and space:
a paper record should be filed securely, and a digital record should be secured
within a computer system so that no one can change the contents, which
would negate the authenticity of the evidence. Paper records such as written
memos or reports or letters are relatively easy to secure. They can be stored
away, with controls placed on access, so they cannot be lost or destroyed.
Digital records are harder to protect. The joy of computers is that they allow
data and information to be manipulated with great ease, but malleability of
digital data, which makes it so useful, means it is also extremely difficult to
manage and protect. Concepts of originality and uniqueness apply differently
in the digital world.
For instance, a membership database is a constant and ever-changing
snapshot of the number and nature of the members of an association or group.
Tracking memberships in a computer is so much easier than retyping lists or
adding and removing address cards in a Rolodex. But in order to rely on the
database as evidence, the organization needs to apply policies and procedures
to ensure that essential information can be confirmed for a particular time,
even if that time is months or years in the past. Was Alfredo a member in 1993
but not in 1994? Did Camelia pay her dues regularly every year? How many
members were late with their payments in 2006?
When digital records are deemed archival, steps must be taken to ensure
that, while the evidence can still be used and shared and interpreted widely,
the original data cannot be tampered with or changed. Still, researchers
should be able to take advantage of the fact that the data is in digital form,
reordering elements in a database to reach different conclusions based on the
outputs of the analysis. The archival challenge is to balance the public’s ability
to use evidence in creative ways, whatever its form, with the need to ensure
the resulting evidence remains inviolable.

Unique
In addition to being static, archives are also considered unique. Uniqueness
does not derive from each individual piece of paper or data element being
unlike any other but from the fact that the evidence – if maintained with its
 WHAT ARE ARCHIVES? 15

content, context and structure intact – presents a single sequence of facts and
information. The minutes of a meeting, stored in the company’s official
record-keeping system, may not be unique in the purest sense: the three pages
in a file folder may very well not be the one and only version in existence.
Quite the contrary. The administrative assistant may have printed and filed
the ‘master’ version but also e-mailed copies to each of the dozen members
of the committee for their information. Duplicates abound. The uniqueness
of the ‘official’ copy, whether paper or electronic, derives from its content,
context and structure: as evidence stored safely within the company’s records
system, located among other records related to that same meeting.
Still, each copy of the meeting minutes may also be unique in its own
context. The committee chair may have annotated her copy with notes to help
her prepare for the next meeting. Another committee member may have put
the minutes in a digital folder along with a series of e-mails about tasks he
has to complete in the next month. As discussed in Chapter 3 and again in
Chapter 11, preserving the order in which documents are created, used and
stored can be central to preserving not just content but also context and
structure, infusing archives with the quality of uniqueness.

Authentic
Archives should also be authentic. This means that the item in question can
be proven to be what it purports to be: that the contract between Robert
Kessler and William Edelman is legitimate, or that the diary was written by
Adele Chiabaka. Authenticity is demonstrated if it is possible to prove that
the person who appears to have created, sent or received a piece of evidence
actually did create, send or receive that piece of evidence. Further, authenticity
means being able to prove that the record or data element is exactly the same
now as it was when it was first created and then stored for later use.
For paper records, the existence of original signatures, the use of letterhead
paper or the addition of official stamps and seals (the hallmark, as it were, of
medieval officialdom) are all indicators of the authenticity. Handwriting, for
instance, can be analysed to authenticate the authorship of a document. The
six remaining signatures purported to be in William Shakespeare’s hand have
been studied in microscopic detail to confirm his authorship, even though he
spelled his name differently each time. Storing records securely and protect-
ing them from unauthorized access also help to ensure authenticity. As noted
already, the challenge with digital evidence is ensuring that such an easily
changeable piece of information is secured so that it remains stable and
authentic over time.
16 PART I: ARCHIVAL PRINCIPLES

Scientific and physical evidence

In order to place this discussion of documentary evidence in context, it is
useful to reflect on differences between documentary evidence and two other
forms of evidence found in society: scientific and physical. (As any lawyer
knows, a broad range of types of evidence exist, from testimonial to statistical;
only scientific and physical evidence are considered here.)
Scientific evidence might take the form of an ice core drilled from a glacier
in Antarctica or the cross section of a tree trunk from a forest in British
Columbia. The existence of trace gases in ice rings may substantiate or refute
hypotheses about weather patterns. Changes in the width or composition of
tree rings may help demonstrate fluctuations in temperature or rainfall over
centuries.
To make use of these samples as scientific evidence, a researcher must first
extract the samples from their natural surroundings, documenting where and
when they were gathered, then preserving them so they cannot be destroyed
or altered: the ice cores would be frozen, and the tree samples would be kept
in a climate-controlled storage room. Then the researcher must devise an
experiment to measure or assess a particular substance or quality, after which
he compiles and studies the data gathered. The resulting findings can be
calculated, recalculated, interpreted and reinterpreted in innumerable ways
to prove or disprove particular theories.
The chunk of ice or piece of tree was not created in the course of business,
like a report or an e-mail. Neither the ice nor the wood carry documentary
value. Although they may be invaluable parts of scientific study, they are not
documentary evidence. But by analysing that scientific evidence, the research
creates information, such as a statistical table or database of measurements.
That new information may be considered documentary evidence, but it is
different from the original ice core or cross section, which remains as objective
scientific evidence, available for use in a new experiment.
Documentary evidence is also different from physical evidence, a term
most familiar in the world of lawyers and courtrooms. Physical evidence
includes tyre tracks, footprints, DNA samples or other material items. Like
scientific evidence, physical evidence is collected and used to substantiate or
rebut assertions or hypotheses. Physical evidence is usually collected in
relation to a particular situation, with little expectation that anyone would
use the same item for a completely different purpose.
A fingerprint on a wine glass can identify an individual beyond doubt.
Footprints can confirm that a certain shoe stepped into a certain flowerbed,
an important piece of information when considering whether a suspect did
or did not break into a house through the window in the drawing room. Of
Discovering Diverse Content Through
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Out of the sea
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
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Title: Out of the sea

Author: Leigh Brackett

Illustrator: John Giunta

Release date: August 9, 2022 [eBook #68718]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Fictioneers, Inc, 1942

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUT OF THE

SEA ***
OUT OF THE SEA
 By Leigh Brackett

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Astonishing Stories, June 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
 CHAPTER ONE
The Hordes from Below
Anyone but Webb Fallon would have been worried sick. He was
down to his last five dollars and quart of Scotch. His girl Madge had
sketched him categorically in vitriol, and married somebody else. His
job on the Los Angeles Observer was, like all the jobs he'd ever had,
finally, definitely, and for all time, cancelled.
Being Webb Fallon, he was playing a fast game of doubles on the
volley-ball court at Santa Monica Beach, letting the sun and the salt
air clear off a hangover.
When he came off the court, feeling fine and heading for the water,
big Chuck Weigal called to him.
"So the Observer finally got wise to you, huh? How come?"
Fallon grinned, his teeth white against the mahogany burn of his
hard, lean oval face. His corded body gleamed in the hot sun, and
his slanting grey-green eyes were mockingly bright.
"If you must know," he said, "I was busy drowning my sorrows on the
night of the big quake, two weeks ago. I didn't know anything about it
until I read the papers next morning. The boss seemed to think I was
a little—er—negligent."
Weigal grunted. "I don't wonder. A quake as bad as the 'Frisco one,
and you sleep through it! Phew!"
Fallon grinned, and went on. About half-way down the beach a bright
yellow bathing suit caught his eye. He whistled softly and followed it
into the water. After all, now that Madge was gone....
He knew the girl by sight. Fallon had an eye for blonde hair and
Diana-esque figures. That was one thing Madge and he had fought
about.
The girl swam like a mermaid. Fallon lengthened his stroke, came up
beside her, and said, "Hello."
She blinked salt water out of sapphire blue eyes and stared. "I know
you," she said. "You're Webb Fallon."
"I'm flattered."
"You needn't be. I know a girl named Madge, too."
"Oh." Fallon's grey-green eyes narrowed. His lean face looked
suddenly ugly, like a mean dog. Or more like a wolf, perhaps, with
his thin straight lips and slanting eyes.
"What did Madge tell you about me?" he asked softly.
"She said you were no good." The blue eyes studied his face. "And,"
added the girl deliberately, "I think she was right."
"Yeah?" said Fallon, very gently. He hadn't yet got over his cold rage
at being jilted for a dull, prosperous prig. The girl's face was like a
mask cut out of brown wood and set with hard sapphires. He made a
tigerish, instinctive movement toward it.
A wave took them unawares, knocked them together and down in a
struggling tangle. They broke water, gasping in the after-swirl.
Then, quite suddenly, the girl screamed.
It was a short scream, strangled with sea-water, but it set the hairs
prickling on Fallon's neck. He looked past the girl, outward.
Something was rising out of the sea.

Webb Fallon, standing shoulder-deep in the cold water, stared in a

temporary paralysis of shock. The thing simply couldn't be.
There was a snout armed with a wicked sword. That and the head
behind it were recognizable as those of a swordfish. But the neck
behind them was long and powerful, and set on sloping shoulders.
Members like elongated fins just becoming legs churned the surface.
A wholly piscine tail whipped up gouts of spray behind the
malformed silver body.
Fallon moved suddenly. He grabbed the girl and started toward
shore. The Thing emitted a whistling grunt and surged after them.
Waves struck them; the aftersuck pulled at their legs. They
floundered, like dreamers caught in nightmare swamps. And Fallon,
through the thrashing and the surf and the sea-water in his ears,
began to hear other sounds.
There was a vast stirring whisper, a waking and surging of things
driven up and out. There were overtones of cries from unearthly
throats. Presently, then, there were human screams.
Fallon's toes found firm sand. Still clutching the girl, he splashed
through the shallows. He could hear the wallowing thunder of
creatures behind them, and knew that they had to run. But he
faltered, staring, and the girl made a little choked sound beside him.
The shallow margin of the sea was churned to froth by a nightmare
horde. The whole broad sweep of the beach was invaded by things
that, in that stunned moment, Fallon saw only as confused shadows.
He started to run, toward the hilly streets beyond the beach. The
creature with the swordfish snout was almost on them. A fish, out of
the sea! It reared its snaky neck and struck down.
Fallon dodged convulsively. The sword flashed down and buried
itself in the sand not five inches from his foot.
It never came out of the sand. A tail-less, stub-legged thing with
three rows of teeth in its shark-like jaws fastened onto the creature's
neck, and there was hot mammalian blood spilling out.
They ran together, Fallon and the girl. The summer crowds filling the
beaches, the promenade, the hot-dog stands and bath-houses, were
fighting in blind panic up the narrow streets to the top of the bluff. It
was useless to try to get through. Fallon made for an apartment
house.
Briefly, in clear, bright colors, he saw isolated scenes. A starfish
twenty feet across wrapping itself around a woman and her stupefied
child. A vast red crab pulling a man to bits with its claws. Something
that might once have been an octopus walking on four spidery legs,
its remaining tentacles plucking curiously at the volley-ball net that
barred its way.
The din of screaming and alien cries, the roar of the crowds and the
slippery, thrashing bodies melted into dull confusion. Fallon and the
girl got through, somehow, to the comparative safety of the
apartment house lobby.
They found an empty place by a bay window and stopped. Fallon's
legs were sagging, and his heart was a leaping pain. The girl
crumpled up against him.
They stared out of the window, dazed, detached, like spectators
watching an imaginative motion-picture and not believing it.

There was carnage outside, on the broad sunlit beach. Men and
women and children died, some caught directly, others trampled
down and unable to escape. But more than men were dying.
Things fought and ate each other. Things of mad distortion of familiar
shapes. Things unlike any living creature. Normal creatures grown
out of all sanity. But all coming, coming, coming, like a living tidal
wave.
The window went in with a crash. A woman's painted, shrieking face
showed briefly and was gone, pulled away by a simple marine worm
grown long as a man. The breeze brought Fallon the stench of blood
and fish, drowning the clean salt smell.
"We've got to get out of here," he said. "Come on."
The girl came, numbly. Neither spoke. There was, somehow, nothing
to say. Fallon took down a heavy metal curtain rod, holding it like a
club.
The front doors had broken in. People trampled through in the blind
strength of terror. Fallon shrugged.
"No way to get past them," he said. "Stay close to me. And for God's
sake, don't fall down."
The girl's wet blonde head nodded. She took hold of the waistband
of his trunks, and her hand was like ice against his spine.
Out through broken doors into a narrow street, and then the crowd
spread out a little, surging up a hillside. Police sirens were beginning
to wail up in the town.
Down below, the beaches were cleared of people. And still the things
came in from the sea. Fallon could see over the Santa Monica Pier
now, and the broad sweep of sand back of the yacht harbor was
black with surging bodies.
Most of the yachts were sunk. The bell-buoy had stopped ringing.
The sunlight was suddenly dim. Fallon looked up. His grey-green
eyes widened, and his teeth showed white in a snarl of fear.
Thundering in on queer heavy wings, their bodies hiding the sun,
were beasts that stopped his heart in cold terror.
They had changed, of course. The bat-like wings had been
broadened and strengthened. They must, like the other sea-born
monsters, have developed lungs.
But the size was still there! Five to ten feet in wing-spread—and
behind, the thin, deadly, whip-like tails.
Rays! The queer creatures that fly bat-like under water—now
thundering like giant bats through the air!
There were flying fish wheeling round them like queer rigid birds.
They had grown legs like little dragons, and long tails.
A pair of huge eels slid over the rough earth, pulled down a man and
fought over the body. Policemen began to appear, and there was a
popping of guns. The sirens made a mad skirling above the din.
Some of the rays swooped to the crowded beach. Others came on,
scenting human food.
Guns began to crack from the cliff-tops, from the windows of
apartment houses. Fallon caught the chatter of sub-machine guns.
One of the rays was struck almost overhead.
It went out of control like a fantastic plane and crashed into the
hillside, just behind Fallon and the girl. Men died shrieking under its
twenty-foot, triangular bulk.
It made a convulsive leap.
The girl slipped in the loose rubble, and lost her hold on Fallon. The
broad tentacles on the ray's head closed in like the horns of a half
moon, folding the girl in a narrowing circle of death.

Fallon raised his iron curtain rod. He was irrationally conscious, with
a detached fragment of his brain, of the girl's sapphire eyes and the
lovely strength of her body. Her face was set with terror, but she
didn't scream. She fought.
Something turned over in Fallon's heart, something buried and
unfamiliar. Something that had never stirred for Madge. He stepped
in. The bar swung up, slashed down.
The leathery skin split, but still the feelers hugged the girl closer. The
great ray heaved convulsively, and something whistled past Fallon's
head. It struck him across the shoulders, and laid him in dazed
agony in the dirt.
The creature's tail, lashing like a thin long whip.
Webb Fallon got up slowly. His back was numb. There was hot blood
flooding across his skin. The girl's eyes were blue and wide, fixed on
him. Terribly fixed. She had stopped fighting.
Fallon found an eye, set back on one of the tentacles. He set the end
of the iron rod against it, and thrust downward....
Whether it was the rod, or the initial bullet, Fallon never knew, but
the tentacles relaxed. The girl rose and came toward him, and
together they went up the hill.
They were still together when sweating volunteers picked them up
and carried them back into the town.
Fallon came to before they finished sewing up his back. The
emergency hospital was jammed. The staff worked in a kind of quiet
frenzy, with a devil's symphony of hysteria beating up against the
windows of the wards.
They hadn't any place to keep Fallon. They taped his shoulders into
a kind of harness to keep the wound closed, and sent him out.
The girl was waiting for him in the areaway, huddled in a blanket.
They had given Fallon one, too, but his cotton trunks were still
clammy cold against him. He stood looking down at the girl, his short
brown hair unkempt, the hard lines of his face showing sharp and
haggard.
"Well," he said. "What are you waiting for?"
"To thank you. You saved my life."
"You're welcome," said Fallon. "Now you'd better go before I
contaminate you."
"That's not fair. I am grateful, Webb. Truly grateful."
Fallon would have shrugged, but it hurt. "All right," he said wearily.
"You can tell Madge what a little hero I was."
"Please don't leave me," she whispered. "I haven't any place to go.
All my clothes and money were in the apartment."
He looked at her, his eyes cold and probing. Brief disappointment
touched him, and he was surprised at himself. Then he went deeper,
into the clear sapphire eyes, and was ashamed—which surprised
him even more.
"What's your name?" he asked. "And why haven't you fainted?"
"Joan Daniels," she said. "And I haven't had time."
Fallon smiled. "Give me your shoulder, Joan," he said, and they went
out.

CHAPTER TWO
Catastrophe—or Weapon?
Santa Monica was a city under attack. Sweating policemen struggled
with solid jams of cars driven by wild-eyed madmen. Horns hooted
and blared. And through it all, like banshees screaming with eldritch
mirth, the sirens wailed.
"They'll declare martial law," said Fallon. "I wonder how long they
can hold those things back?"
"Webb," whispered Joan, "what are those things?"
Strangely, they hadn't asked that before.
They'd hardly had time even to think it.
Fallon shook his head. "God knows. But it's going to get worse. Hear
that gunfire? My apartment isn't far from here. We'll get some clothes
and a drink, and then...."
It was growing dark when they came out again. Fallon felt better,
with a lot of brandy inside him and some warm clothes. Joan had a
pair of his slacks and a heavy sweater.
He grinned, and said, "Those never looked as nice on me."
Soldiers were throwing up barricades in the streets. The windows of
Corbin's big department store were shattered, the bodies of dead
rays lying in the debris. The rattle of gunfire was hotter, and much
closer.
"They're being driven back," murmured Fallon.
A squadron of bombers droned over, and presently there was the
crump and roar of high explosives along the beaches. The streets
were fairly clear now, except for stragglers and laden ambulances,
and the thinning groups of dead.
Fallon thought what must be happening in the towns farther south,
with their flat low beaches and flimsy houses. How far did this
invasion extend? What was it? And how long would it last?
He got his car out of the garage behind the apartment house. Joan
took the wheel, and he lay down on his stomach on the back seat.
His back hurt like hell.
"One good thing," he remarked wryly. "The finance company won't
be chasing me through this. Just go where the traffic looks lightest,
and shout if you need me."
He went to sleep.
It was morning when he woke. Joan was asleep on the front seat,
curled up under a blanket. She had spread one over him, too.
Fallon smiled, and looked out.
The first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar roar of motors overhead,
and the faint crackling undertone of gunfire. They were still under
siege, then, and the defenders were still giving ground.
They were parked on Hollywood Boulevard near Vine. Crowds of
white-faced, nervous people huddled along the streets. The only
activity was around the newsboys.
Fallon got out, stiff and cursing, and went to buy a paper. An extra
arrived before he got there. The boy ripped open the bundle, let out
a startled squawk, and began to yell at the top of his lungs.
A low, angry roar spread down the boulevard. Fallon got a paper,
and smiled a white-toothed, ugly smile. He shook Joan awake and
gave her the paper.
"There's your answer. Read it."

She read aloud: "Japs Claim Sea Invasion Their Secret Weapon!
"Only a few minutes ago, the Amalgamated Press recorded an
official broadcast from Tokyo, declaring that the fantastic wave of
monsters which have sprung from the ocean at many points along
the Western Coast was a new war-weapon of the Axis which would
cause the annihilation of American and world-wide democratic
civilization.
"The broadcast, an official High Command communique, said in part:
'The Pacific is wholly in our hands. American naval bases throughout
the ocean are useless, and the fleet where it still exists is isolated. In
all cases our new weapon has succeeded. The Pacific states, with
the islands, come within our natural sphere of influence. We advise
them to submit peacefully.'"
Joan Daniels looked up at Fallon. At first there was only stunned
pallor in her face. Then the color came, dark and slow.
"Submit peacefully!" she whispered. "So that's it. A cowardly,
fiendish, utterly terrible perversion of warfare—something so horrible
that it...."
"Yeah," said Fallon. "Save it."
He was leafing through the paper. There was a lot more—hurried
opinions by experts, guesses, conjectures, and a few facts.
Fallon said flatly. "They seem to be telling the truth. Fragmentary
radio messages have come in from the Pacific. Monsters attacked
just as suddenly as they did here, and at about the same time. They
simply clogged the guns, smothered the men, and wrecked ground
equipment by sheer weight of numbers."
Joan shuddered. "You wouldn't think...."
"No," grunted Fallon. "You wouldn't." He flung the paper down. "Yah!
Not an eyewitness account in the whole rag!"
Joan looked at him thoughtfully. She said, "Well...."
"They fired me once," he snarled. "Why should I crawl back?"
"It was your own fault, Webb. You know it."
He turned on her, and again his face had the look of a mean dog.
"That," he said, "is none of your damned business."
She faced him stubbornly, her sapphire eyes meeting his slitted
grey-green ones with just a hint of anger.
"You wouldn't be a bad sort, Webb," she said steadily, "if you weren't
so lazy and so hell-fired selfish!"
Cold rage rose in him, the rage that had shaken him when Madge
told him she was through. His hands closed into brown, ugly fists.
Joan met him look for look, her bright hair tangling over the collar of
his sweater, the strong brown curves of cheek and throat catching
the early sunlight. And again, as it had in that moment on the cliff,
something turned over in Fallon's heart.
"What do you care," he whispered, "whether I am or not?"
For the first time her gaze flickered, and something warmer than the
sunlight touched her skin.
"You saved my life," she said. "I feel responsible for you."
Fallon stared. Then, quite suddenly, he laughed. "You fool," he
whispered. "You damned little fool!"
He kissed her. And he kissed her gently, as he had never kissed
Madge.
They got breakfast. After that, Fallon knew, they should have gone
east, with the tense, crawling hordes of refugees. But somehow he
couldn't go. The distant gunfire drew him, the stubborn, desperate
planes.
They went back, toward the hills of Bel Air. After all, there was plenty
of time to run.
Things progressed as he had thought they would. Martial law was
declared. An orderly evacuation of outlying towns was going forward.
Fallon got through the police lines with a glib lie about an invalid
brother. It wasn't hard—there was no danger yet the way he was
going, and the police were badly overburdened.
Fallon kept the radio on as he drove. There was a lot of wild talk—it
was too early yet for censorship. A big naval battle east of Wake
Island, another near the Aleutians. The defense, for the present, was
getting nowhere.
Up on the crest of a sun-seared hill, using powerful glasses from his
car, Fallon shook his head with a slow finality.
The morning mists were clearing. He had an unobstructed view of
Hollywood, Beverly Hills, the vast bowl of land sloping away to the
sea. The broad boulevards to the east were clogged with solid black
streams. And to the west....

To the west there were barricades. There were clouds of powder

smoke, and fleets of low-flying planes. And there was something
else.
Something like a sluggish, devouring tide, lapping at the walls of the
huge M-G-M studios in Culver City, swamping the tarmac at Clover
Field, flowing resistlessly on and on.
Bombs tore great holes in the restless sea, but they flowed in upon
themselves and were filled. Big guns ripped and slashed at the
swarming creatures. Many died. But there were always more. Many,
many more.
The shallow margin of the distant ocean was still churned to froth.
Still the things came out of it, surging up and on.
Fighting, spawning, dying—and advancing.
Joan Daniels pressed close against him, shuddering. "It just isn't
possible, Webb! Bombers, artillery, tanks, trained soldiers. And we
can't stop them!" She stiffened suddenly. "Webb!" she cried. "Look
there!"
Where the bombers swooped through the smoke, another fleet was
coming. A fleet of flat triangular bodies with bat-like wings, in
numbers that clouded the sun. Rays, blind and savage and utterly
uncaring.
Machine guns brought them down by the hundred, but more of them
came. They crashed into heavy ships, fouled propellers, broke
controls.
Joan looked away, "And there are so few planes," she whispered.
Fallon nodded. "The whole coast is under attack, remember, from
Vancouver to Mexico. There just aren't enough men, guns, or planes
to go round. More are coming from the east, but...." He shrugged
and was silent.
"Then—then you think we'll have to surrender?"
"Doesn't look hopeful, does it? Japan in control of the Pacific, and
this here. We'll hold out for a while, of course. But suppose these
things come out of the sea indefinitely?"
"We've got to assume they can." Joan's eyes were dark and very
tired. "What's to prevent Japan from loaning her weapon to her
friends? Think of these things swarming in over England."
"War," said Fallon somberly. "A hell of a long, rotten war."
He leaned against the car, his grey-green eyes half closed. The
breeze came in from the sea, heavy with the stench of amphibian
bodies. The radio droned on. The single deep line between Fallon's
straight brows grew deeper. He began to talk, slowly, to Joan.
"The experts say that the Little Brown Brothers must have some kind
of a movable projector capable of producing rays which upset the
evolutionary balance and cause abnormal growth. Rays like hard X-
rays, or the cosmic rays that govern reproduction.
"California Tech has dissected several types of monsters. They say
that individual cell groups are affected, causing spontaneous growth
in living individuals, and that metabolism has been enormously
speeded, so that life-cycles which normally took years now take only
a few weeks.
"They also say that huge numbers—the bulk of these creatures—are
mutants, new individuals changed in the egg or the reproductive cell.
All these monsters are growing and spawning at a terrific tempo.
Billions of eggs, laid and hatched, even with the high mortality rate.
"They're evolving, at a fantastic rate of speed. They're growing legs
and lungs and becoming mammals. They're coming out of the sea,
just as our ancestors did millions of years ago. They're coming fast,
and they're hungry."
He fixed the girl suddenly with a bright, sharp stare.
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