XLIII. — THE HOME OF THE JARADOS
Chick had been grievously hurt in the contest with the Senestro, but thanks to the Rhamdas he came round rapidly. It was a matter of less than a week.
Things were coming to a climax; Chick needed no lynx's eye to see that the die had been cast between the Bars and the Rhamdas. Soon the Senestro must make a bold move, or else release the professor.
Chick had not long to wait. It came one evening. Once again he found himself in the June Bug, accompanied by the Geos, the Jan Lucar, and—the little Aradna herself. Their departure was swift and secret.
This time Watson was not worried over height, or any other sensation of flight. The doctor's safety alone was of moment. He said to the Rhamda:
“Are we alone? Where is the Bar MacPherson?”
“He is somewhere near; we are not alone, my lord. Several other machines are flying nearby also; they carry many of the Rhamdas and the crimson guard of the queen. The MacPherson will arrive first. We are going straight to the Palace of Light, my lord.”
“Are we to storm the place?” thinking of the fight MacPherson had predicted.
“Yes, my lord. Many shall die; but it cannot be helped. We must free the Jarados, although we commit sacrilege.”
“But—the Senestro?”
“That depends, my lord. We know not just what may be done.” He gave no explanation.
They had climbed to a tremendous height. The indicator showed that they were bearing east. The darkness was modified only by the faint glow from that star-dusted sky. Looking down, Chick could see nothing whatever. His companions kept silence; only the Aradna, sitting forward by the side of Jan Lucar showed any perturbation. They climbed higher and higher still, until it seemed that they must leave the Thomahlia altogether. Always the course was eastward. At last the Jan said to the Geos:
“We are now over the Region of Carbon, sir. Shall I risk the light? His lordship might like to see.”
“Follow your own judgment.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the Aradna; “do it by all means! There is nothing so wonderful as that!”
The Jan touched a small lever. Instantly a shaft of light cut down through the blackness. Far, far below it ended in a patch on the ground. Watson eagerly followed its movements as it searched from side to side, seeking he knew not what. And then—
There was a flash of inverted lightning, a flame of white fire, a blinding, stabbing scintillation of a million coruscations. Watson clapped a hand to his eyes, to cut off the sight. It was stunning.
“What is it?” he cried.
“Carbon,” answered the Geos, calmly.
“Carbon! You mean—diamond?”
“Yes, my lord. So it interests you? I did not know. Later you shall see it under more favourable conditions.” Then, to the Jan: “Enough.”
Once again they were in darkness. For some minutes silence was again the rule. Watson watched the red dot moving across the indicator, noting its approach to a three cornered figure on one edge. Suddenly there appeared another dot; then another, and another. Some came from below, others from above; presently there were a score moving in close formation.
“They are all here,” said the Jan to the Geos.
The other nodded, and explained to Chick: “It's the Rhamdas and the Crimson guards. The MacPherson is just ahead. We shall arrive in three minutes.”
And after a pause he stated that the ensuing combat would mark the first spilling of blood between the Bars and the Rhamdas. At a pinch the Senestro might even kill the Jarados, to gain his ends. “His wish is his only law, my lord.”
The red dots began to descend toward the three-cornered figure. One minute passed, and another; then one more, and the June Bug landed.
With scarcely a sound the Lucar brought the craft to a full stop. In a moment he was assisting the Aradna to alight. As for the Geos, he took from the machine two objects, which he held out to the Aradna and to Chick.
“Put these on. The rest of us fight as we are.”
They were cloaks, made of a soft, light, malleable glass, or something like it. Watson asked what they were for.
“For a purpose known only to the Jarados, my lord. There are only two of these robes. With them he left directions which indicated plainly they are for your lordship and the Aradna.”
Wondering, Chick helped the Aradna don her garment and then slipped into his own. Nevertheless, he pinned more faith in the automatic in his pocket. He did not make use of the hood which was intended to cover his head.
“Pardon me,” spoke the queen. She reached over and extended the hood till it protected his skull. “Please wear it that way, for my sake. Nothing must happen to you now!”
Chick obeyed with only an inward demur. What puzzled him most was the isolation. Seemingly they were quite alone; there was nothing, no one, to oppose them.
But he had merely taken something for granted. He, being from the earth, had assumed that strife meant noise. It was only when the Aradna caught him by the arm, and whispered for him to listen, that he understood.
It was like a breeze, that sound. To be more precise, it was like the heavy passage of breath, almost uninterrupted, coming from all about them. And presently Chick caught a queer odour.
“What is it?” he breathed in the Aradna's ear.
“It is death,” she answered. “Cannot you hear them—the deherers?”
She did not explain; but Watson knew that he was in the midst of a battle which was fought with noiseless and terribly efficient weapons—so efficient that there were no wounded to give voice to pain. Before he could ask a question a familiar voice sounded out of the darkness at his side.
“Where is the Geos?”
“Here, Bar MacPherson,” answered the Rhamda.
“Good! It is well you came, sir. We were discovered a few minutes ago; already we have lost many men. Just give us the lights, so that we can get at them! It is a waste of men, with the advantage all on their side.”
Then, lapsing into English for Chick's benefit: “'Tis welcome ye are! Ivery mon helps, how.”
“What are these sounds? You say they are fighting?”
“'Tis the deherers ye hear, lad. They fight with silent guns. Don't let 'em hit ye, or ye'll be a pink pool in the twinklin' of yer eyelid. 'Tis no joke.
“Are they more powerful than firearms?”
“I dinna say, lad. But they're th' devil's own weapon for fightin'.”
Chick did not answer—he had heard a low command from the Geos. Next instant the space before them was illuminated by clear white light, in the form of a circle—bright as day. In the centre shimmered an object like a mist of blue flame, a nimbus of dazzling, actinic lightning. There was no sign of man or life, no suggestion of sound—nothing but the nimbus, and the brilliant space about it. The whole phenomenon measured perhaps three hundred feet across.
They were in darkness. Chick took a step forward, but he was held back by MacPherson.
“Nay, lad; would ye be dyin' so soon? 'Tis fearful quick. See—”
He did not finish. A red line of soldiers had rushed straight out of the blackness into the circle of light. It seemed that they were charging the nimbus. They were stooping now, discharging their queer weapons; about three hundred of them—an inspiring sight. They charged in determined silence.
Then—Watson blinked. The line disappeared; the thing was like a miracle. It took time for Chick to realise that he was looking upon the “pink death” MacPherson had warned him against—the work of the deherers, whatever the word meant. For where had been a column of gallant guards there was now only a broad stream of pink liquid trickling over the ground. It was annihilation itself—too quick to be horrible—inexorable and instantaneous. Chick involuntarily placed himself in front of the Aradna.
“The blue thing in the middle,” observed the Irishman, coolly, “is th' Palace av Light; 'tis held by th' Senestro jest now. An' all we got to do is get th' ould doc out.”
“But I see no building!”
“'Tis there jest the same. Ye'll see it whin th' doctor gits time off his rainbows. 'Tis absent-minded he gets when he's on a problem, which same is mostly always, sor. We stay roight here till he gets ready to drop on th' Senestro.”
Watson waited. He knew enough now to cling to the shadow, there with MacPherson, the Geos, and the Aradna. In the centre of the great light-circle the nimbus of blue stood out like a vibrating haze, while all about, in the darkness, could be heard the weird sound made by the passage of life.
“When will the Jarados act?” inquired the Geos of the Irishman. But he got no reply. MacPherson spoke to Watson: “Get yer gun ready, lad; get yer gun ready! Look—'tis th' ould boy himself, now! I wonder what the Senestro thinks of that?”
For the nimbus had suddenly dissolved, and in its place there appeared one of the quaintest, yet most beautiful buildings that Watson had ever seen. It was a three-cornered structure, low-set, and of unspeakably dazzling magnificence; a building carved and chiselled from solid carbon. Chick momentarily forgot the doctor.
In front of it stood a line of Blue Guards, headed by the Senestro. Their confusion showed that something altogether unexpected had happened. They were ducking here and there, seemingly bewildered by the sudden vanishing of that protecting blue dazzle. The Senestro was trying to restore order; and in a moment he succeeded. He led the way toward a low, triangular platform, at the entrance—a single white door—to the palace.
Pat MacPherson's automatic flashed and barked. Next instant Watson was in action. The Bar next to the Senestro staggered, then collapsed against his chieftain. Another rolled against his feet, causing him to stumble; an act that probably saved his life, for the platform in a second was covered with writhing, bleeding, dying Bars.
The Senestro managed to reach the doorway. MacPherson cursed.
“Come on!” he yelled to Watson. “Well git him alive!” Watson remembered little of that rush. There stood the great Bar at the doorway, surrounded by his dying and panic-stricken men. The cloak given Chick by the Geos impeded his progress; with a quick movement he threw it off and ran unprotected alongside the Irishman. The Blue guards saw them coming; they levelled their weapons. But before they could discharge them they met the same fate as had the Reds. A tremor in the air, and they were gone, leaving only a pink pool on the ground.
Senestro alone remained untouched. He was about to open the white door; for a second he posed, defiant and handsome. Then the great Bar ducked swiftly and almost with the same motion dodged into the building. Chick and Pat were right after him.
Inside was darkness. Chick ran head on against the side wall; turning, he bumped into another. The sudden transition from brilliance to blackness was overwhelming. He stopped and felt about carefully—momentarily blind. What if the Senestro found him now?
He called MacPherson's name. There was no reply. He tried to feel his way along, finding the wall irregular, jagged, sharp cornered. But the way must lead somewhere. He reached a turn in the passage; it was still too dark for him to see anything. He proceeded more cautiously, wondering at those craggy walls. And then—
Chick slapped his hands to his eyes. It was as if he had been shot into the core of the sun—the obsidian darkness flashed into light—a light beyond all enduring. Chick staggered, and cried in pain. And yet, reason told him just what it was, just what had happened. It was the carbon; he was in the heart of the diamond; the Senestro had led him on and on, and then—had flashed some intense light upon the vast jewel. Watson knew the terrible helplessness of the blind. His end had come!
And so it seemed. Next instant someone came up to him—someone he could hear if he could not see. It was the Senestro.
“Hail, Sir Phantom! Pardon my abrupt manner of welcome. I suppose you have come for the Jarados?” And he laughed, a laugh full of mockery and triumph. “Perhaps you think I intend to kill you?”
Watson said no word. He had been outwitted. He awaited the end. But the Senestro saw fit to say, with an irony that told how sure he was:
“However, I am opposed to killing in cold blood. Open your eyes, Sir Phantom! I will give you time—a fair chance. What do you say—shall we match weapon against weapon?”
Watson slowly opened his eyes. The blinding light had dimmed to a soft glow. They were in a sort of gallery whose length was uncertain; between him and the outlet, about ten feet away, stood the confident, ever-smiling Bar.
“You or I,” said he, jauntily. “Are you ready to try it? I have given you a fair chance!”
He raised his dagger-like weapon, as though aiming it. At the same instant Chick pulled the trigger from the hip, snap aim.
The gun was empty.
Another second, and Watson would have been like those spots of colour on the ground outside. He breathed a prayer to his Maker. The Senestro's weapon was in line with his throat.
But it was not to be. There came a flash and a stunning report; the deherer clattered against the wall, and the Senestro clutched a stinging hand. He was staring in surprise at something behind Chick—something that made him turn and dart out of sight.
Chick wheeled.
Right behind him stood the familiar form of the Jan Lucar; and a few feet beyond, a figure from which came a clear, cool, nonchalant voice;
“I would have killed that fellow, Chick, but he's too damned handsome. I'm going to save him for a specimen.”
Watson peered closer. He gave a gasp, half of amazement, half of delight. For the words were in English, and the voice—
It was Harry Wendel.
XLIV. — DR. HOLCOMB'S STORY
If there was the least doubt in Chick's mind that this was really Harry, it was dispelled by the sight of the person who the next moment stepped up to his side. It was none other than the Nervina.
“Harry Wendel!” gasped Watson. It was too good to be true!
“Surest thing you know, Chick. It's me, alive and kicking!” as they grabbed one another.
“How did you get here?”
“Search me! Ask the lady; I'm just a creature of circumstance. I merely act; she does all the thinking.”
The Nervina smiled and nodded. Her eyes were just as wonderful as Chick remembered them, full of elusiveness, of the moonbeam's light, of witchery past understanding.
“Yes,” she affirmed. “You see, Mr. Watson, it is the will of the Prophet. Harry is of the Chosen. We have come for the great Dr. Holcomb—for the Jarados!”
And she led the way. Watson followed in silent wonder; behind him came the Geos and the rest, quiet and reverent. The soft glow still held, so that they seemed to be walking through the walls of cold fire. At the end of the passage they came to a door.
The Nervina touched three unmarked spots on the walls. The door opened. The queen stood aside, and motioned for Chick and Harry to enter.
It was a long room, pear-shaped, and fitted up like the most elaborate sort of laboratory. And at the far end, seated in the midst of a strange array of crystals, retorts and unfamiliar apparatus, was a man whom the two instantly recognised.
It was the missing professor, looking just as they remembered him from the days when they sat in his class in Berkeley. There was the same trim figure, the same healthy cheeks, pleasant eyes and close-cropped white beard. Always there had been something imperturbable about the doctor—he had that poise and equanimity which is ever the balance of sound judgment. Neither Chick nor Harry expected any rush of emotion, and they were not disappointed.
Holcomb rose to his feet, revealing on the table before him a queer, dancing light which he had been studying. He touched something; the light vanished, and simultaneously there came an unnameable change in the appearance of certain of those puzzling crystals. The doctor stepped forward, hand extended, smiling; surely he did not look or act like a prisoner.
“Well, well,” spoke he; “at last! Chick Watson and Harry Wendel! You're very welcome. Was it a long journey?”
His eyes twinkled in the old way. He didn't wait for their replies. He went on:
“Have we solved the Blind Spot? It seems that my pupils never desert me. Let me ask: have you solved the Blind Spot?”
“We've solved nothing, professor. What we have come for is, first, yourself; and second, for the secrets you have found. It is for us to ask—what is the Blind Spot?”
The professor shook his head.
“You were always a poor guesser, Mr. Wendel. Perhaps Chick, now—”
“Put me down as unprepared,” answered Chick. “I'm like Harry—I want to know!”
“Perhaps there are a lot of us in the same fix,” laughed Holcomb. “We, who know more than any men who ever lived, want to know still more! It may be, after all, that we know very little; even though we have solved the problem.” His eyes twinkled again, aggravatingly.
“Tell us, then!” from Harry, on impulse as always. “What is the Blind Spot?”
But Holcomb shook his head. “Not just now, Harry; we have company.” The Geos and the Jan had entered. “Besides, I am not quite ready. There remain several tangles to be unravelled.”
As he shook hands with the Geos, he spoke in the Thomahlian tongue. “You are more than welcome.”
The Rhamda bent low in reverence and awe. His voice was hushed. He spoke:
“Art thou the Jarados, my lord?”
“Aye,” stated the doctor. “I am he; I am the Jarados!”
It was a stagger for both young men. Neither could reconcile the great professor of his schooldays with this strange, philosophic prophet of the occult Thomahlians. What was the connection? What was the fate that was leading, urging, compelling it all?
“Professor, you will pardon our eagerness. Both Harry and I have had adventures, without understanding what it was all about. Can't you explain? Where are we? And—why?” And then:
“Your lecture on the Blind Spot! You promised it to us—can you deliver it now?”
The professor smiled his acknowledgement.
“Part of it,” he said; “enough to answer your questions to some extent. Had I stayed in Berkeley I could have delivered it all, but”—and he laughed—“I know a whole lot more, now; and, paradoxically, I know far less! First let me speak to the Geos.” He learned that the struggle outside had terminated successfully for the Rhamda and his men. All was quiet. The Senestro had made his escape in safety back to the Mahovisal. The doctor ordered that he was not to be molested.
The Geos and the others left the room, escorting the Aradna, who was too exhausted for further experiences. There remained with the doctor, Chick, Harry, and the Nervina.
“I will reduce that lecture to synopsis form,” began the professor. “I shall tell you all that I know, up to this moment. First, however, let me show you something.”
He indicated the table from which he had risen. Chief among the objects on its top were fragments of minerals, some familiar, some strange. Above and on all sides were the crystal globes or, at least, what Chick named as such—erected upon as many tripods. One of these the professor moved toward the table.
Simultaneously a tiny dot appeared on a small metal plate in the centre of the table. At first almost invisible, it grew, after a minute or so, to a definite bit of matter.
The professor moved the tripod away. Nearby crystals, inside of which some dull lights had leaped into momentary being, subsided into quiescence. And the three observers looked again and again at the solid fragment of material that had grown before their eyes on that table.
Something had been made out of nothing!
The doctor picked it up and held it unconcernedly in his fingers.
“Can anybody tell me,” asked he, “what this is?”
There was no answer. The professor tossed the thing back on the table. It gave forth a sharp, metallic sound.
“You are looking at ether,” spoke he. “It is the ether itself—nothing else. You call it matter; others would call it iron; but those are merely names. I call it ether in motion—materialised force-coherent vibration.
“Like everything else in the universe it answers to a law. It has its reason—there is no such thing as chance. Do you follow? That fragment is simply a principle, allowed to manifest itself through a natural law!
“Try to follow me. All is out of the ether—all! Variety in matter is simply a question of varying degrees of electronic activity, depending upon a number of ratios. Life itself, as well as materiality and force, comes out of the all-pervading ether.
“This object here,” touching the crystal, “is merely a conductor. It picks up the ether and sends it through a set degree of vibrational activity. Result? It makes iron!
“If you wish you may go back to our twentieth century for a parallel—by which I mean, electricity. It is gathered crudely; but the time will come when it will be picked up out of the air in precisely the same manner that men pick hydrocarbons out of petroleum, or as I sift the desired quality of ether through that globe.
“This, I am convinced, is one of the fundamental secrets of the Blind Spot. Is there any question?”
Wendel managed to put one.
“You said, 'back in the twentieth century.' Is it a question of time displacement, sir?”
“Suppose we forgo that point at present. You will note, however, that the Thomahlian world is certainly far in advance of our own.”
“Professor,” asked Watson, “is it the occult?”
“Ah,” brightening; “now we are getting back to the old point. However, what is the occult?” He paused; then—“Did it ever occur to you, that the occult might prove to be the real world, proving that life we have known to be merely a shadow?”
Silence greeted this. The professor went on:
“Let me ask you: Are you living in a real world now, or an unreal one?” There was no response. “It is, of course, a reality; just as truly as if you were in San Francisco. So,” very distinctly, “perhaps it is merely a question of viewpoint, as to which is the occult!”
“Just what we want to know,” from Harry.
“And that,” tossing up his hands, “is exactly what I cannot tell you. I have found out many things, but I cannot be sure. I left certainty in Berkeley.
“Today I feel that there is some great fate, some unknown force that defies analysis, defies all attempts at resolution—a force that is driving me through the role of the Jarados. We are all a part of the Prophecy!
“We must wait for the last day for our answer. That Prophecy must and will be fulfilled. And on that day we shall have the key to the Blind Spot—we shall know the where of the occult.”
He took a sip from a tumbler of the familiar green fluid.
“Now that I have told you this much, I am going back to the beginning. I, too, have had adventures.
“How did I come to discover the Blind Spot?
“It was about one year prior to my last lecture at the university. At the time I had been doing much psychic-research work, all of which you know. And out of it I had adduced some peculiar theories. For example:
“Undoubtedly there is such a thing as a spirit world. If all the mediums but one were dishonest, and that one produced the results that couldn't be explained away by psychology, then we must admit the existence of another world.
“But reason tells us that there is nothing but reality; that if there were a spirit world it must be just as real, just as substantial as our own. Moreover—somewhere, somehow, here must be a definite point of contact!
“That was approximately my theory. Of course I had no idea how close I had come to a great truth. To some extent it was pure guesswork.
“Then, one day Budge Kennedy brought me the blue stone. He told me its history, and he maintained that it was lighter than air, which of course I disbelieved until I took it out of the ring and saw for myself.
“I went at once to the house at 288 Chatterton Place. There I found an old lady who had lived in the house for some time. I asked to see the cellar where the stone had been unearthed. Understand, I had no idea of the great discovery I was about to make; I merely wanted to see. And I found something almost as impossible as the blue stone itself-a green one, heavier than any known mineral, answering to no known classification but of an entirely new element. It was no larger than a pea, but of incredible weight.
“Coming upstairs I found the old lady a bit perturbed. I had told her my name; she had recognised me as well.
“'Come with me,' she said.
“With that she opened a door. She was very old and very uncertain; yet she was scarcely afraid.
“'In there,” she said, and pointed through the door.
“I entered an ordinary room, furnished as a parlour. There was a sofa, a table, a few chairs; little else.
“'What do you mean?' I asked.
“'The man!'
“'The man! What man?”
“'Oh!' she exclaimed, 'he came here one night when the moon was shining. He sat down on the doorstep. He was just the kind of a lad that's in need of a mother. So I asked him to lie on the sofa. He was tired, you see, and—I once had a son of my own.'
“She stopped, and it was a moment before she continued. I could feel the pressure of her hand on my arm, pitiful, beseeching.
“'So I took him in there. In there; see? On that sofa. I saw it! They took him! Oh, sir; it was terrible!'
“She was weird, uncanny, strangely interesting.
“'He just lay down there. I was standing by the door when—they took him! I couldn't understand, sir. I saw the blue light; and the moon—it was gone. And then—' She looked up at me again and whispered: 'And then I heard a bell—a very beautiful bell—a church bell, sir? But you know, don't you? You are the great Dr. Holcomb. That's why you went into the cellar, wasn't it? Because you know!'
“Her manner as much as her story, impressed me. I said:
“'I must give this room a careful examination. Would you be good enough to leave me to myself?'
“She closed the door after her. I had the green stone in my hand; it was very heavy, and I placed it on one of the chairs. The blue stone I still held. At the moment I hadn't the least notion of what was about to happen; it was all accident, from beginning to end.
“All of a sudden the room disappeared! That is, the side wall; I was not looking at the dingy old wallpaper, but out through and into an immense building, dim, vast and immeasurable.
“Directly in front of me was a white substance like a stone of snow. Upon this substance was seated a man, about my own age, as nearly as I could make out. He looked up just as I noted him.
“Our recognition was mutual. Immediately he made a sign with one hand. And at once I took a step forward; I thought he had motioned. It was all so real and natural. Though his features were dim he could not have been more than ten feet distant. But, at that very instant, when I made that one step, the whole thing vanished.
“I was still in the room at Chatterton Place!
“That's what started it all. Had this occurred to any one else in the world I should have labelled it an unaccountable illusion. But it had happened to me.
“I had my theory; between the spiritual and the material there must be a point of contact. And—I had found it! I had discovered the road to the Indies, to the Occult, to all that other men call unknowable. And I called it—
“The Blind Spot.”
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