Tuesday's Serial: “The Blind Spot” by Austin Hall and Homer Eon Flint (in English) - XII

 

XXXII. — THROUGH UNKNOWN WATERS

The SPOT of Life! And the subject of Dr. Holcomb's lecture, promised but never delivered, had been announced as—The Blind SPOT!

To Watson it was fairly astounding to discover that the two—Holcomb and Avec—had reached simultaneously for the curtain of the shadow. The professor had said that it would be “the greatest day since Columbus.” And so it had proven, did the world but know it.

“And—the Rhamda Avec never returned?” asked Chick.

“No.”

“But he sent back something within three days?” Watson was thinking, of course, of the doctor who had disappeared on the day which, Jerome overheard the Rhamda to say, was the last of his stay.

But Geos did not reply. Why, Chick could not guess. He thought it best not to press the question; in good time, if he went at it carefully, he could gain his end with safety. At the moment he must not arouse suspicion. He chose another query.

“Did Avec go alone?”

“No. The Nervina went with him. Rather, she followed within a few hours.”

“Ah!”

It was out before Watson could think. The Rhamda looked up suddenly.

“Then you have seen the Nervina! You know her?”

Chick lied. It was not his intention, just at present, to tie himself down to anything that might prove compromising or restraining.

“The name is—familiar. Who is this Nervina?”

“She is one of the queens. I thought—My dear sir, she is one of the queens of Thomahlia, half Kospian, half D'Hartian; of the first royal line running through from the day of the Jarados.”

Chick cogitated for a moment. Then, taking an entirely new tack:

“You say the Rhamda and this Nervina, independently, solved the mystery of the Spot of Life, I believe you call it. And that Spot leads, apparently, into the occult?”

“Apparently, if not positively. It was the wisdom of Avec, mostly. He had been in communication with your world by means of his own discovery and application. It was all in line with the prophecy.

“Since he and the Nervina left, the people of the world have been in a state of ferment. For it was foretold that in the last days we would get in communication with the other side; that some would come and some would go. For example, your own coming was foretold by the Jarados, almost to the hour and minute.”

“Then it was fortuitous,” spoke Watson. “It was NOT the wisdom and science of Avec, in my case.”

“Quite so. However, it is proof that the Rhamdas have fulfilled their duty. We knew of the Spot of Life, all the while; it was to be closed until we, through the effort of our intellect and virtues, could lift ourselves up to the plane of the world beyond us—your world. It could not be opened by ourselves alone, however. The Rhamda Avec had first to get in touch with your side, before he could apply the laws he had discovered.”

Somehow, Chick admired this Rhamda. Men of his type could form but one kind of priesthood: exalted, and devoted to the advance of intelligence. If Rhamda Avec were of the same sort, then he was a man to be looked up to, not to hate. As for the Jarados—Watson could not make out who he had been; a prophet or teacher, seemingly, looming out of the past and reverenced from antiquity.

The Blind Spot became a shade less sinister. Already Watson had the Temple of the Leaf, or Bell, the Rhamdas and their philosophy, the great amber sun, the huge birds, the musical cadence of the perfumed air, and the counter-announcement of Rhamda Avec to weigh against the work and words of Dr. Holcomb.

The world of the Blind Spot!

As if in reaction from the unaccustomed train of thought, Watson suddenly became conscious of extreme hunger. He gave an uneasy glance round, a glance which the Rhamda Geos smilingly interpreted. At a word the woman left the room and returned with a crimson garment, like a bath-robe. When Chick had donned it and a pair of silken slippers, Geos bade him follow.

They stepped out into the corridor.

This was formed and coloured much as the room they had quitted; and it led to another apartment, much larger—about fifty feet across—coloured a deep, cool green. Its ceiling, coved like the other, seemed made of some self-radiating substance from which came both light and heat. Four or five tables, looking like ebony work, were arranged along the side walls. When they were seated at one of these, the Rhamda placed his fingers on some round alna-white buttons ranged along the edge of the table.

“In your world,” he apologised, “our clumsy service would doubtless amuse you; but it is the best we have been able to devise so far.”

He pressed the button. Instantly, without the slightest sound or anything else to betray just how the thing had been accomplished, the table was covered with golden dishes, heaped with food, and two flagon-like goblets, full to the brim with a dark, greenish liquid that gave off an aroma almost exhilarating; not alcoholic, but something just above that. The Rhamda, disregarding or not noticing Watson's gasp of wonder, lifted his goblet in the manner of the host in health and welcome.

“You may drink it,” he offered, “without fear. It is not liquor—if I may use a word which I believe to be current in your world. I may add that it is one of the best things that we shall be able to offer you while you are with us.”

Indeed it wasn't liquor. Watson took a sip; and he made a mental note that if all things in the Thomahlia were on a par with this, then he certainly was in a world far above his own. For the one sip was enough to send a thrill through his veins, a thrill not unlike the ecstasy of supreme music—a sparkling exuberance, leaving the mind clear and scintillating, glorified to the quick thinking of genius.

Later Watson experienced no reaction such as would have come from drinking alcohol or any other drug.

It was the strangest meal ever eaten by Watson. The food was very savoury, and perfectly cooked and served. Only one dish reminded him of meat.

“You have meats?” he asked. “This looks like flesh.”

Geos shook his head. “No. Do you have flesh to eat, on the other side? We make all our food.”

MAKE food. Watson thought best simply to answer the question:

“As I remember it, Rhamda Geos, we had a sort of meat called beef—the flesh of certain animals.”

The Rhamda was intensely interested. “Are they large? Some interpret the Jarados to that effect. Tell me, are they like this?” And he pulled a silver whistle from his pocket and, placing it to his lips, blew two short, shrill notes.

Immediately a peculiar patter sounded down the corridor; a ka-tuck, ka-tuck, ka-tuck, not unlike galloping hoof-beats. Before Watson could do any surmising a little bundle of shining black, rounded the entrance to the room and ran up to them. Geos picked it up.

It was a horse. A horse, beautifully formed, perfect as an Arab, and not more than nine inches high!

Now, Chick had been in the Blind Spot, conscious, but a short while. He knew that he was in the precise position that Rhamda Avec had occupied that morning on the ferry-boat. Chick recalled the pictures of the Lilliputian deer and the miniature kittens; yet he was immensely surprised.

The little fellow began to neigh, a tiny, ridiculous sound as compared with the blast of a normal-sized horse, and began to paw for the edge of the table.

“What does he want?”

“A drink. They will do anything for it.” Geos pressed a button, and in a moment he had another goblet. This he held before the little stallion, who thrust his head in above his nostrils and drank as greedily as a Percheron weighing a ton. Watson stroked his sides; the mane was like spun silk, he felt the legs symmetrical, perfectly shaped, not as large above the fetlocks as an ordinary pencil.

“Are they all of this size?”

“Yes; all of them. Why do you ask?”

“Because”—seeing no harm in telling this—“as I remember them, a horse on the other side would make a thousand of this one. People ride them.”

The Rhamda nodded.

“So it is told in the books of Jarados. We had such beasts, once, ourselves. We would have them still, but for the brutality and stupidity of our ancestors. It is the one great sin of the Thomahlia. Once we had animals, great and small, and all the blessings of Nature; we had horses and, I think, what you call beef; a thousand other creatures that were food and help and companions to man. And for the good they had done our ancestors destroyed them!”

“Why?”

“It was neglect, unthinking and selfish. A time came when our civilisation made it possible to live without other creatures. When machinery came into vogue we put aside the animals as useless; those we had no further use for we denied the right to reproduce. The game of the forest was hunted down with powerful weapons of destruction; all went, in a century or two; everything that could be killed. And with them went the age of our highest art, that age of domesticated animals.

“Our greatest paintings, our noblest sculpture, came from that age; all the priceless relics that we call classic. And in its stead we had the mechanical age. Man likewise became a mechanism, emotionless, with no taste for Nature. Meat was made synthetically, and so was milk.”

“You don't mean to say they did not preserve cows for the sake of their milk?”

“No; that kind of milk became old-fashioned; men regarded it as unsanitary, fit only for the calves. What they wanted was something chemically pure; they waged war on bacteria, microbes, and Nature in general; a cow was merely a relic whose product was always an uncertainty. With no reason for the meat and no use for the milk, our vegetarians and our purists gradually eliminated them altogether. It was a strange age; utilitarian, scientific, selfish; it was then headed straight for destruction.”

And he went on to relate how men began to lose the power of emotion; there were no dependent beasts to leaven his nature with the salt of kindness; he thought only of his own aggrandisement. He became like his machine, a fine thing of perfectly correlated parts, but with no higher nature, no soul, no feeling; he was less than a brute. The animals disappeared one by one, passing through the channel of death, into the world beyond the Spot of Life, leaving behind only these tiny survivors, playthings, kept in existence longer than all others because of a mere fad.

“Does your spiritism include animals as well as men?”

“Naturally; everything that is endowed with life.”

“I see. Let me ask you: why didn't the Rhamdas interfere and put a stop to this wanton sacrilege against Nature?”

The Rhamda smiled. “You forget,” replied he, “that these events belong far in the past. At that time the Rhamdas were not. It was even before the coming of the Jarados.”

Watson asked no more questions for a while. He wanted to think. How could this man Rhamda Geos, if indeed he were a man, accept him, Watson, as a spirit? Solid flesh was not exactly in line with his idea of the unearthly. How to explain it? He had to go back to Holcomb again. The doctor had accepted without question Avec's naturalness, his body, his appetite. Reasonably enough, Geos, with some smattering of his superior's wisdom, should accept Watson in the same way.

And then, the Jarados: at every moment his name had cropped up. Who was he? So far he had heard no word that might be construed as a clue. The great point, just now, was that the Rhamda Geos accepted him as a spirit, as the fact and substance promised by Avec. But—where was the doctor?

Chick ventured this question:

“My coming was foretold by the Rhamda Avec, I understand. Is this in accord with the words of the Jarados?”

The Rhamda looked up expectantly and spoke with evident anxiety.

“Can you tell me anything about the Jarados?”

“Let us forgo that,” side-stepped Watson. “Possibly I can tell you much that you would like to know. What I want to know is, just how well prepared you are to receive me?”

“Then you come from the Jarados!”

“Perhaps.”

“What do you know about him?”

“This: someone should have preceded me! The fact and the substance-you were to have it inside three days! It has been several hundred times the space allotted! Is it not so?”

The Rhamda's eyes were pin-pointed with eagerness.

“Then it IS true! You are from the Jarados! You know the great Rhamda Avec—you have seen him!”

“I have,” declared Watson.

“In the other world? You can remember?”

“Yes,” again committing himself. “I have seen Avec—in another world. But tell me, before we go on I would have an answer to my question: did anyone precede me?”

“No.”

Watson was nonplussed, but he concealed the fact.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite, my dear sir. The Spot of Life was watched continually from the moment the Rhamda left us.”

“You mean, he and the Nervina?”

“Quite so; she followed him after an interval of a few hours.”

“I know. But you say that no one came out ahead of me. Who was it that guarded this—this Spot of Life? The Rhamdas?”

“They and the Bars.”

“Ah! And who are the Bars?”

“The military priesthood. They are the Mahovisal, and of the Temple of the Bell. They are led by the great Bar Senestro.”

“And there were times when these Bars, led by this Senestro, held guard over the Spot of Life?” To this Geos nodded; and Watson went on: “And who is this great Senestro?”

“He is the chief of the Bars, and a prince of D'Hartia. He is the affianced of the two queens, the Aradna and the Nervina.”

“The TWO of them?”

Whereupon Watson learned something rather peculiar. It seemed that the princes of D'Hartia had always married the queens. This Senestro had had a brother, but he died. And in such an event it was the iron custom that the surviving brother marry both queens. It had happened only once before in all history; but the precedent was unbreakable.

“Then, there is nothing against it?”

“Nothing; except, perhaps the prophecy of the Jarados. We now know—the whole world knows—that we are fast approaching the Day of Life.”

“Of course; the Day of Life.” Watson decided upon another chance shot. “It has to do with the marriage of the two queens!”

“You DO know!” cried the Rhamda joyously. “Tell me!”

“No; it is I who am asking the questions.”

Watson's mind was working like lightning. Whether it was the influence of the strange drink, or the equally strange influence of ordinary inspiration, he was never more self-assured in his life. It seemed a day for taking long chances.

“Tell me,” he inquired, “what has the Day of Life to do with the two queens and their betrothal?”

The Rhamda throttled his eagerness. “It is one of the obscure points of the prophecy. There are some scholars who hold that such a problem as this presages the coming of the end and the advent of the chosen. But others oppose this interpretation, for reasons purely material: for if the Bar Senestro should marry both queens it would make him the sole ruler of the Thomahlia. Only once before have we had a single ruler; for centuries upon centuries we have had two queens; one of the D'Hartians, and the other of the Kospians, enthroned here in the Mahovisal.”

Watson would have liked to learn far more. But the time seemed one for action on his part; bold action, and positive.

“Rhamda Geos—I do not know what is your version of the prophecy. But you are positive that no one preceded me out of the Spot?”

“I am. Why do you persist?”

“Because”—speaking slowly and with the greatest care—“because there was one greater than I, who came before me!”

The Rhamda rose excitedly to his feet, and then sank back into his chair again. In his eyes was nothing save eagerness, wonder and respect. He leaned forward.

“Who was it? Who was he?”

Watson's voice was steady as stone.

“The great Jarados himself!”

 

 

XXXIII. — A LONG WAY FROM SHORE

Once more Watson had taken the kind of chance he preferred—a slender one. He took the chance that these people, however occult and advanced they might be, were still human enough to build their prophecy out of an old foundation. If he were right, then the person of the Jarados would be inviolable. If the professor were prisoner, held somewhere in secret, and it got noised about that he was the true prophet returned—it would not only give Holcomb immense prestige, but at the same time render the position of his captors untenable.

Chick needed no great discernment to see that he had touched a vital spot. The philosophy of the Rhamdas was firmly bound up with spiritism; they had gone far in science, and had passed out of mere belief into the deeper, finer understanding that went behind the shadow for proof. Certainly Watson inwardly rejoiced to see Rhamda Geos incredulous, his keen face whitening like that of one who has just heard sacrilege uttered—to see Geos rise in his place, grip the table tightly, and hear him exclaim:

“The Jarados! Did you say—the Jarados? He has come amongst us, and we have not known? You are perfectly sure of this?”

“I am,” stated Watson, and met the other's keen scrutiny without flinching.

Would the game work? At least it promised action; and now that he had the old feeling of himself he was anxious to get under way. Any feeling of fear was gone now. He calmly nodded his head.

“Yes, it is so. But sit down. I have still a bit more to tell you.”

The Rhamda resumed his seat. Clearly, his reverence had been greatly augmented in the past few seconds. From that time on there was a marked difference in his manner; and his speech, when he addressed Chick, contained the expression “my lord”—an expression that Watson found it easy enough to become accustomed to.

“Did you doubt, Rhamda Geos, that I came from the Jarados?”

“We did not doubt. We were certain.”

“I see. You were not expecting the Jarados.”

“Not yet, my lord. The coming of the Jarados shall be close to the Day of the Judgment. But it could not be so soon; there were to be signs and portents. We were to solve the problem first; we were to know the reason of the shadow and the why of the spirit. The wisdom of the Rhamda Avec told that the day approaches; he had opened the Spot of Life and gone through it; but he had NOT sent the fact and the substance.” Watson smiled. There was just enough superstition, it seemed, beneath all the Rhamda's wisdom to make him tractable. However, Chick asked:

“Tell me: as a learned man, as a Rhamda, do you believe in the prophecy implicitly?”

“Yes, my lord. I am a spiritist; and if spiritism is truth, then the Jarados was genuine, and his prophecy is true. After all, my lord, it is not a case of legend, but of history. The Jarados came at a time of high civilisation, when men would see and understand him; he gave us his teaching in records, and imposed his laws upon the Thomahlia. Then he departed—through the Spot of Life.”

And the Rhamda Geos went on to say that the teachings of the Jarados had been moral as well as intellectual. Moreover, after he had formulated his laws, he wrote out his judgment.

“What was that?”

“An exhortation, my lord, that we were to give proof of our appreciation of intelligence. We were to use it, and to prove ourselves worthy of it by lifting ourselves up to the level of the Spot of Life. In other words, the spot would be opened when, and only when, we had learned the secrets of the occult, and—had opened the Spot ourselves!”

Watson thought he understood partly. He asked:

“And that is why you doubt me?”

“You, my lord? Not so! You were found in the Temple of the Bell and Leaf; not on the Spot itself, to be sure, but on the floor of the temple. You were, both in your person and in your dress, of another world; you had been promised by the Rhamda Avec; and, in a sense, you were a part of the prophecy. We accepted you!”

“But I speak your language. Account for that, Geos.”

“It need not be accounted for, my lord. We accept it as fact. The affinity of spirit would not be bound by the limitation of artificial speech. That you should talk the Thomahlia language is no more strange than that Rhamda Avec, when he passed into your world, should speak your tongue.”

“We call our language English,” supplied Watson. “It is the tongue of the Jarados and of myself.”

“Tell me of the Jarados, my lord!” with renewed eagerness. “In the other world—what is he?”

It was Chick's opportunity. By telling the simple truth about Dr. Holcomb he would enhance himself in the eyes of Rhamda Geas.

“In the other world—we call it America—the Jaradas is a Rhamda much like yourself, the head and chief of many Rhamdas sitting in a great institution devoted to intelligence. It is called the University of California.”

“And this California; what is it, my lord?”

“A name,” returned Chick. “Immediately on the other side of the Spot is a region called California.”

“The promised land, my lord!”

“The promised land indeed. There are some who call it paradise, even there.” And for good measure he proceeded to tell much of his own land, of the woods, the rivers, the cities, animals, mountains, the sky, the moon, and the sun. When he came to the sun he explained that no man dared to look at it continuously with the bare eyes. Its great heat and splendour astounded Geos.

Concerning himself he nonchalantly stated that he was the fiance of Holcomb's daughter; that is, son-in-law-to-be of the prophet Jarados; that he was sort of Junior Rhamda. He declared that he had come from the occult Rhamdas, through the other side of the Spot, in search of the Jarados who had gone before. As to his blankness up to now, and his perplexity—he was but a Junior; and the Spot had naturally benumbed his senses. Even now, he apologised, it was difficult to know and to recall everything clearly.

Through it all the Rhamda Geos Listened in something like awe. He was hearing of wonders never before guessed in the Thomahlia. As the prospective son-in-law of the Jarados, Watson automatically lifted himself to a supreme height, so great that, could he only hold himself up to it, he would have a prestige second only to that of the prophet himself.

All of a sudden he thought of a question. It gripped him with dread, the dread of the unknown. The question was one of TIME. “How long have I been here, Rhamda Geos?”

“Over eleven months, by our system of reckoning. You were found on the floor of the temple three hundred and fifty-seven days ago; you were in a lifeless condition; you must have been there some hours, my lord, before we discovered you.”

“Eleven months!” It had seemed but that many minutes. “And I was unconscious—”

“All the time, my lord. Had we caught you immediately upon your coming, we could have brought you around within three days, but in the circumstances it was impossible to restore you before we did. You have been under the care of the greatest specialists in all Thomahlia.”

Geos himself had been one of these. “The council of Rhamdas went into special session, my lord, immediately after your materialisation, and has been sitting almost continually since. And now that you are revived, they are waiting in person for you to show yourself.

“They accept you. They do not know who you are, my lord; none of us has guessed even a part of the truth. The entire council awaits!”

But Chick wanted more. Besides, he looked at his clothing.

“I would have my own garments, Geos; also, whatever else was found on my person.”

For Watson was thinking of a small but powerful pistol, an automatic, that he had carried on the night when he fell through the Blind Spot. This question of materiality was still a puzzle; if he himself had survived there was a chance that the firearm had done the same. It might and it might not preclude the occult. Anyway, he treasured the thought of that automatic; with it in his possession he would not be bare-handed in case of emergency.

They returned to the room in which Chick had awakened. The Rhamda left him. A few moments later he came back with a squad of men. Chick noted their discipline, movement, and uniforms, and classed them as soldiers. Two men were stationed outside the door—one, a stout, dark individual in a blue uniform; and the other a lithe, athletic chap, blond and blue-eyed, wearing a bright crimson dress. Chick instinctively preferred both man and garb in crimson; there was a touch of honour, of lightness and strength that just suited him. The other was dark, heavy and sinister.

Both wore sandals, and upon their heads curious shakos, made of the finest down, not fur. Both displayed a heavy silken braid looped from one shoulder. Each carried a spear-like weapon, of some shining black material, straight-tapered to a needle-point; but no other arms.

Watson pointed to the two uniforms.

“What is the significance, Geos?”

“One is from the queen, my lord; the other from Bar Senestro. The blue is the cloth of the Bars; the red, that of the queens. The Bar and the queen send this bodyguard with their respective compliments.”

Chick took the bundle that Geos had brought, and proceeded to don his own clothes, finding deep satisfaction in the fact that they had arrived as intact as he. He felt carefully in his hip pocket; the automatic was still there, likewise the extra magazine of cartridges that he had carried about with him on that night.

In his other pockets he found two packets of cigarettes, a pouch of tobacco, some papers, a few coins, a little money and two photographs, one of Bertha and the other of her father. Not a thing had been disturbed.

He announced himself ready.

The Rhamda conducted him down the corridor, which he found to be lined with guards; red on one side, blue on the other. These men fell in behind in two parallel files, one of the one colour and one of the other.

It was a building of great size. The corridors were long and high, all with the wide-coved ceiling, and of colours that melted from one shade to another as they turned, not corners, but curves. Apparently each colour had its own suggestive reason. Such rooms as Chick could look into were uniformly large, beautiful, and distinctly lighted.

The guard moved in silent rhythm; the chief sound was that made by Watson's leather-heeled shoes, drowning out, for once, the everlasting tinkling undertone of those unseen fairy-bells; that running cadence, never ceasing, silver, liquid, like the soul of sound.

Though Watson walked with head erect, he had eyes for every little thing he passed. He noted the material of the structure and tried to name it; neither plaster nor stone, the walls were highly polished and, somehow or other, capable of emitting perfume—light and wholesome, not heavy and oppressive. And in dark passages the walls glowed.

The corridor widened, and with a graceful curve opened upon a wide stairway that descended, or rather sank—to use Watson's own words for the feeling—into the depths of the building. To the right of one landing was a large window reaching to the floor; its panes were clear and not frosted as had been the others.

Chick got his first glimpse here of what lay outside—an iridescent landscape, at first view astonishingly like an ocean of opals; for it was of many hues, red and purple and milky white, splashed violantin blue and fluorescence—a maze and shimmer of dancing, joyful colours, whirring in an uncertainty of polychromatic harmony. Such was his first fleeting impression.

At the next landing he looked closer. It was not unlike a monster bowl of bubbles; the same illusion of movement, the same delicacy and witchery of colour, only here the sensation was not that of decomposition but of life; of flowers, delicate as the rainbow, tenuous, sinuous, breathing—weaving in a serpentine maze of daedalian hues; long tendrils of orchidian beauty, lifting, weaving, drooping—a vast sea of equatorial bloom; but—no trees.

“This is our landscape,” spoke the Rhamda. “According to the Jarados, it is not like that of the next world—your world, my lord. After you meet the Rhamdas, I shall take you into the Mahovisal for a closer view of it all.”

They reached the bottom of the stairway. Chick noted the architecture in the entrance-way at this point; the seeming solidness of structure, as if the whole had been chiselled, not built. The vestibule was really a hall, domed and high, large enough to shelter a hundred. Like the corridor outside Chick's room, it was lined with a row each of red and blue uniformed guards.

Invariably the one belonged to the blond, lithe, quick-feeling type, the others heavy, sturdy, formidable. The extremities of the two lines converged on an oval-topped doorway, very large, having above it a design conventionalised from the three-leafed clover. One leaf was scarlet, one blue, the other green.

The door opened. The guards halted. Geos stepped aside with a bow, and Watson strode forward into the presence of the Council of the Rhamdas.

 

 

XXXIV. — THE BAR SENESTRO

It was a critical moment for Chick. Out of the impulse of his inner nature he had chosen the odds that he must now uphold against the combined wisdom of these intellectuals. He was alone, with no one to guide him save Geos, who undoubtedly was his friend, but who as undoubtedly would desert him upon the slightest inkling of imposture.

He found himself in a great, round room, or rather an oval one, domed at the top but tinted in a far more beautiful colouring—lazuli blue. The walls were cut by long, narrow windows reaching far up into the sweep where the side melted into the ceiling. The material of the windows was of the same translucent substance already noted, but slightly tinged with green, so that they shed a soft light, cooled and quiet, over the whole assembly.

On the wall opposite the doorway was a large replica of the clover-leaf design outside, even more gem-like in brilliance; its three colours woven into a trinity almost of flame. Whether the light was artificial or intrinsic, Chick could not say. The floor of the place accommodated some three hundred tables, of the library type, and the same number of men bearing the distinguished stamp of the Rhamda. All were smooth-shaven, comparatively tall, and possessing the same aesthetic manner which impressed one with the notion of inherited, inherent culture. The entire hall had the atmosphere of learning, justice and the supreme tribunal.

For a moment Watson felt weak and uncertain. He could hold up against Geos and Avec, but in the face of such an array he wasn't so sure. There was but one thing to encourage him; the faces into which he looked. All were full of wonder and reverence.

Then he looked about him more carefully. He had come out upon a wide platform, or rostrum. He now noticed that he was flanked on either side by thrones—two of them; they seemed made of golden amber. The one on the right was occupied by a man, the other by a woman. In the pause that was vouchsafed him Chick took note of these two, and wondered.

In the first place, the man was not a Rhamda. The jewelled semi-armour that he wore was more significant than the dignified garb of the Intellectuals; at the same time, his accoutrements cheapened him, by contrast. He was executive, princely, with the bearing that comes of worldly ambitions and attainments; a man strangely handsome, vital, athletic; curling hair, dark, quick eyes and even features; except only for the mouth he might have been taken as a model of the Greek Alexander.

The clothes he wore were classic, as was everything else about him, even to his sandals, his bare arms and his jewelled breastplate.

Watson had studied history. He had a quick impression of a composite—of genius, cruelty and sensuality. Here was one with three strong natures, a sort of Nero, Caligula and Alexander combined: the sensuality of the first, the cruelty of the second, and the instinctive fire and greatness of the immortal Macedonian. The man was smiling; not an amused smile, but one of interest, humorous tolerance.

When their eyes met, Chick caught the magnetic current of personality, the same sense of illusiveness that he and Harry Wendel had noted in the Nervina; only here it was negative, resisting instead of aiding. A number of the blue guard surrounded the throne, their faces dark, strong, and of unconquerable resolution, though slow to think.

On the other throne was a girl. Chick had heard enough from the Geos to guess her identity: one of the queens, the Aradna; frail, delicate, a blue-eyed maiden, with a waving mass of straw-gold hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. She too was classically attired, although there were touches of modernity here and there in the arrangement of ribbons; the garment matched her guards' crimson, and was draped about her shoulders so as to leave one bare, together with that arm. Across her forehead was a band of dark-blue gems, and she wore no other jewels.

She was not more than seventeen or eighteen, with eyes like bluebells, lips as red as poppies, features that danced with delight and laughter and all the innocence that one would associate with elfin royalty. Instinctively Chick compared her with the Nervina.

The senior queen had the subtle magnetism, the uncountable fascination, the poise and decision that held and dictated all things to her fancy.

Not so the Aradna. Hers was the strength of simplicity, the frank, open delight of the maiden, and at the same time all the charm and suggestion of coming womanhood. When she caught Watson's eye she smiled; a smile free and unrestrained, out of an open, happy heart. She made a remark to one of her guards, who nodded a reply after the manner of a friend, rather than a courtier.

Watson turned to the Geos, who stood somewhat to one side, and a little to the rear.

“The Aradna?”

“Yes. The queen of D'Hartia. The man on the other side is the Bar Senestro.”

Whatever feeling Chick entertained for the one was offset by what he felt for the other. He was between two forces; his instinct warned him of the Bar, sceptical, powerful, ruthless, a man to be reckoned with; but his better nature went out to the young queen.

At a motion from Geos, the whole assembly of Rhamdas stood up. The action was both dignified and reverent. Though Chick was, in their eyes, a miracle, there was no unseemly staring nor jarring of curiosity; all was quietness, ease, poise; the only sound was that of the constant subtle music of those invisible bells.

Rhamda Geos began speaking. At the same time he placed a friendly hand on Watson's shoulder, a signal for every other Rhamda to resume his seat.

“The Fact and the Substance, my brothers.”

Geos paused as he made use of the ultra-significant phrase. And then, in a few rapid sentences, he ran over the synopsis of that affair, beginning with some philosophy and other details that Watson could only half understand, making frequent allusions to the Jarados and other writers of prophecy; then he made some mention of his own particular brand of spiritism and its stand on materialisation. This he followed with an account of the finding of Watson in the temple, his long sleep and ultimate reviving. At greater length he repeated the gist of their conversation.

Not until then was there a stir among the Rhamdas. Chick glanced over at the Aradna. She was listening eagerly, her chin cupped in her hand, her blue eyes full of interest and wonder, and natural, unfeigned, child-like delight.

Then the Bar caught Chick's glance; the newcomer felt the cold chill of calculation, the cynical weight of the sceptic, and a queer foreboding of the future; no light glance, but one like fire and ice and iron. He wondered at the man's beauty and genius, and at his emotional preponderance manifest even here before the Rhamdas.

The Geos went on. His words, now, were simple and direct. Watson felt himself almost deified by that reverent manner. The Rhamdas listened with visibly growing interest; the Aradna leaned slightly forward; even the Bar dropped his interest in Watson to pay closer attention to the speaker. For Geos had come to the Jarados; he was an orator as well as a mystic, and he was advancing Chick's words with all the skill of a master of language, ascending effect—climax—the Jarados had come among them, and—They had missed him!

For a moment there was silence, then a rustle of general comment. Chick watched the Rhamdas, leaning over to whisper to each other. Could he stand up against them?

But none of them spoke. After the first murmur of comment they lapsed into silence again. It was the Bar Senestro who broke the tension.

“May I ask, Rhamda Geos, why you make such an assertion? What proof have you, to begin with, that this man,” indicating Watson with a nod, “is not merely one of ourselves: a D'Hartian or a Kospian?”

The Geos replied instantly: “You know the manner of his discovery, Bar Senestro. Have you not eyes?” Geos seemed to think he had said the last word.

“Surely,” rejoined the Bar good-humouredly. “I have very good eyes, Rhamda Geos. Likewise I have a mind to reason with; but my imagination, I fear, is defective. What I behold is just such a creature as myself; not otherwise. How hold you that this one is proof out of the occult?”

“You are sceptical,” returned the Rhamda, evenly. “Even as you behold him, you are full of doubt. But do you not recall the words of the great Avec? Do you not know the Prophecy of the Jarados?”

“Truly, Geos; I remember them both. Especially the writing on the wall of the temple. Does not the prophet himself say: 'And behold, in the last days there shall come among ye—the false ones. Them ye shall slay'?”

“All very true, Bar Senestro. But you well know—we all know—that the true prophecy was to be fulfilled when the Spot was opened. Did not the fulfilment begin when the Avec and the Nervina passed through to the other side?”

“The fulfilment, Geos? Perhaps it was the sign of the coming of impostors! The end may not be until ALL the conditions are complied with!”

But at this moment Aradna saw fit to speak.

“Senestro, would you condemn this one without allowing him a word in his own defence? Is it fair? Besides, he does not look like an impostor to me. I like his face. Perhaps he is one of the chosen!”

At the last word the Bar frowned. His glance shifted suddenly to Watson, a swift look of ice-cold calculation.

“Very, very true, O Aradna. I, too, would have him speak in his own behalf. Let him amuse us with his tongue. What would your majesty care to hear, O Aradna, from this phantom?”

The words were of biting satire. Chick wheeled upon the Bar. Their eyes clashed; an encounter not altogether to Watson's credit. He was a bit unsteady, a trifle uncertain of his power. He had calculated on the superstition of the Rhamdas to hold him up until he caught his footing, and this unexpected scepticism was disconcerting. However, he was no coward; the feeling passed away almost at once. He strode straight up to the throne of the Bar; and once more he spoke from sheer impulse:

“The Aradna has spoken true, O Senestro, or sinister, or whatever you may be called. I demand fair hearing! It is my due; for I have come from another world. I follow—the Jarados!”

If Watson had supposed that he had taken the Bar's measure, he was mistaken. The prince's eyes suddenly glinted with a fierce pleasure. Like a flash his antagonism shifted to something astonishingly like admiration.

“Well spoken! Incidentally, you are well made and sound looking, stranger.”

“Passably,” replied Watson. “I do not care to discuss my appearance, however. I am certainly no more ill-favoured than some others.”

“And impertinent,” continued the other, quite without malice. “Do you know anything about the Bar, to whom you speak so saucily?”

“I know that you have intimated that I may be an impostor. You have done this, after hearing what the learned Rhamda Geos has said. You know the facts; you know that I have come from the Jarados. I—”

But it wasn't Watson's words that held the Bar's attention. Chick's straight, well-knit form, his quick-trained actions, overbalanced the question of the prophet in the mind of the man on the throne. His delight was self-evident.

“Truly you are soundly built, stranger; you are made of iron and whipcord, finely formed, quick and alert.” He threw a word to one of his heavy-faced attendants, then suddenly stood up and descended from his throne. He came up and stood beside Watson.

Chick straightened. The prince was an inch the taller; his bare arms long-muscled, lithe, powerful; under the pink skin Chick could see the delicate, cat-like play of strength and vitality. He sensed the strength of the man, his quick, eager, instinctive glance, his panther-like step and certainty of graceful movement.

“Stranger,” spoke the Bar, “indeed you ARE an athlete! What is your nationality—Kospian?”

“Neither Kospian nor D'Hartian; I am an American. True, there are some who have said that I am built like a man; I pride myself that I can conduct myself like one.”

“And speak impertinently.” Still in the best of humour, the prince coolly reached out and felt Watson's biceps. His eyes became still brighter. If not an admirer of decorum, he could appreciate firm flesh. “Sirra! You ARE strong! Answer me—do you know anything about games of violence?”

“Several. Anything you choose.”

But the prince shook his head. “Not so. I claim no unfair advantage; you are well met, and opportune. Let it be a contest of your own choosing. The greater honour to myself, the victor!”

But the little queen saw fit to interfere.

“Senestro, is this the code of the Bar? Is not your proposal unseemly to so great a guest? Restrain your eagerness for strength and for muscle! You have preferred charges against this man; now you would hurl your body as well. Remember, I am the queen; I can command it of you.”

The Senestro bowed.

“Your wishes are my law, O Aradna.” Then, turning to Watson: “I am over-eager, stranger. You are the best-built man I have seen for many a circle. But I shall best you.” He paced to his throne and resumed his seat. “Let him tell us his tale. I repeat, Geos, that for all his beauty this one is an impostor. When he has spoken I shall confute him. I ask only that in the end he be turned over to me.”

It was plain that the Thomahlia was blest with odd rulers. If the Bar Senestro was a priest, he was clearly still more of a soldier. The fiery challenge of the man struck an answering chord in Watson; he knew the time must come when he should weigh himself up against this Alexander, and it was anything but displeasing to him.

“What must I say and do?” he asked the Rhamda Geos. “What do they want me to tell them?”

“Just what you have told me: tell them of the Nervina, and of the Rhamda Avec. The prince is a man of the world, but from the Rhamdas you will have justice.”

Whereat Chick addressed the Intellectuals. They seemed accustomed to the outbursts of the handsome Bar, and were now waiting complacently. In a few words Watson described the Nervina and Avec; their appearance, manners—everything. Fortunately he did not have to dissemble. When he had finished there was a faint murmur of approval.

“It is proven,” declared the girl queen. “It is truly my cousin, the Nervina. I knew not the Rhamda, but from your faces it must have been he, Senestro, what say you to this?”

But the Bar was totally unconvinced.

“All this is childish. Did I not say he is of our world—D'Hartian or Kospian, or some other? Does not all Thomahlia know of the Nervina? Few have seen the Rhamda Avec, but what of it? Some have. What this stranger says proves nothing at all. I say, give him a test.”

“The test?” from Geos, in a hushed tone.

“Just that. There is none who knows the likeness of the Jarados; none but the absent Avec. None among us has ever seen his image. It is a secret to all save the High Rhamda. Yet, in cases like this, well may the Leaf be opened.”

Watson, wondering what was meant, listened closely to the prince as he continued: “It is written that there are times when all may see. Surely this is such a time.

“Now let this stranger describe the Jarados. He says that he had seen him; that he is the Prophet's prospective son-in-law. Good! Let him describe the Jarados to us!

“Then open the Leaf! If he speaks true, we shall know him to be from the Jarados. If he fail, then I shall claim him for purposes of my own.”

Whatever the motives of the Senestro, he surely had the genius of quick decision. Watson knew that the moment had come to test his luck to the uttermost. There was but one thing to do; he did it. He said to the Rhamda Geos, in a tone of the utmost indifference:

“I am willing.”

Geos was distinctively relieved, “It is good, my lord. Tell us in simple words. Describe the Jarados just as you have seen him, just as you would have us see him. Afterwards we shall open the Leaf.” And in a lower tone: “If you speak accurately I shall be vindicated, my lord. I doubt not that you are a better man than the prince; but place your reliance in the Truth; it will be one more proof of the occult, and of the Day approaching.”

Which is all that Watson told. But first he breathed a prayer to One who is above all things occult or physical. He did not understand where he was nor how he had got there; he only knew that his fate was hanging on a toss of chance.

He faced the Rhamdas without flinching; and half closing his eyes and speaking very clearly, he searched his memory for what he recalled of the old professor. He tried to describe him just as he had appeared that day in the ethics class, when he made the great announcement; the trim, stubby figure of Professor Holcomb, the pink, healthy skin, the wise, grey, kindly eyes, and the close-cropped, pure white beard: all, just as Chick had known him. One chance in millions; he took it.

“That is the Jarados as I have seen him; a short, elderly, wise, BEARDED man.”

There was not a breath or a murmur in comment. All hung upon his words; there was not a sound in the room as he ceased speaking, only the throb of his own heart and the subtle pounding of caution in his veins. He had spoken. If only there might be a resemblance!

The Geos stepped forward a pace. “It is well said. If the truth has been spoken, there shall be room for no dispute. It shall be known throughout all Thomahlia that the Chosen of the Jarados has spoken. Let the Leaf be opened!”

Chick never knew just what happened, much less how it was accomplished. He knew only that a black, opaque wave ran up the long windows, shutting off the light, so that instantly the darkness of night enveloped everything, blotting out all that maze of colour; it was the blackness of the void. Then came a tiny light, a mere dot of flame, over on the opposite wall; a pin-point of light it was, seemingly coming out of a vast distance like an approaching star, growing gradually larger, spreading out into a screen of radiance that presently was flashing with intrinsic life. The corruscation grew brighter; little tufts of brilliance shot out with all the stabbing suddenness of shooting stars. To Chick it was exactly as though some god were pushing his way through and out of fire. In the end the flame burst asunder, diminished into a receding circle and sputtered out.

And in the place of the strange light there appeared the illuminated figure of a man. Leaning forward, Chick rubbed his eyes and looked again.

It was the bust of Professor Holcomb.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "First Come, First Served" by Unknown Writer (in English)

   art by Tony Mortellaro - Weird Mysteries #2 - Stanley Morse, December 1952.