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.”
XLV. — THE ARADNA
Thus had the professor got into actual touch with the occult—by sheer accident. Up to that time it had been only a hypothesis; now it was a fact. Next step was to open up direct communication.
“That was difficult. To begin with, I worked to repeat the phenomena I had seen, getting some haphazard results from the start. My purpose throughout was to exchange intelligent comment with the individual I had beheld on that snow-stone within the Spot; and in the end I succeeded.
“He gave me fairly explicit warning as to when the Blind Spot should open, not only to the eye, but in its entirety, as it had done for the young man of whom the old lady had told me. We agreed through signs that he would come through first.
“Understand, up to the instant of his actual arrival, I didn't know just what he was like. I had to be content with his sign-talk, by which he assured me he was a real man, material, of life and the living.
“I made my announcement. You know most of what followed. The Rhamda came to Berkeley; together we returned to Chatterton Place, for it was imperative that we hold the Spot open or at least maintain the phenomenon at such a point that we could reopen it at will. Both of us were guessing.
“Neither of us knew, at the time, just how long the Rhamda could endure our atmosphere. He had risked his life to come through; it was no more than fair that I should accede to his caution and insure him a safe return to his own world.
“But things went wrong. It was ignorance as much as accident. At Chatterton Place I was caught in the Blind Spot, and without a particle of preparation was tossed into the Thomahlia.
“When I came through, the Nervina went out. Thus I found myself in this strange place with no one to guide me. And unfortunately, or rather, fortunately, I fell into the hands of the Bar Senestro.
“Now, for all that he is a sceptic, the Senestro is a brave man; and like many another unbeliever, he has a sense of humour. My coming had been promised by Avec; so he knew that somehow I was a part of the Prophecy—the prophecy which, for reasons of his own, he did not want fulfilled.
“So he isolated me here in the house of the Jarados. A bold sort of humor, I call it—to defy the Prophecy in the very spot where it was written!
“But it was fortunate. I was in the house of the old prophet, with its stores of wisdom, secrets, raw elements and means for applying the laws of nature. All that I hitherto had only guessed at, I now had at my disposal: libraries, laboratories, everything. I was a recluse with no interruptions and perfect facility for study.
“First of all I went into their philosophy. Then into their science, and afterwards into their history. Whereupon I made a rather startling discovery.
“Apparently I AM THE JARADOS.
“For my coming had been foretold almost to the hour. As I went on with the research I found many other points that seemed familiar. Plainly there was something that had led me into the Spot; and most certainly it was not mere chance. I became convinced that not merely my own destiny, but a higher, a transcendental fate was at stake.
“In the course of time I became certain of this. Meanwhile I mastered most of the secrets of this palace—the wisdom of the ancient Jarados. Though a prisoner, I was the happiest of men—which I still remain. The Bars kept close watch over me, constantly changing their guard. And it was on one of those occasions that I found MacPherson.
“Well, after MacPherson's coming I was pretty much my own master. I induced the Senestro to allow MacPherson to remain as a constant bodyguard. But I never told Pat what was what, except that some day we should extricate ourselves.
“You may wonder why I did not open the Spot.
“There were several reasons: First, in the nature of the phenomenon it must be opened only on the earth side, except on rare occasions when certain conditions are peculiarly favourable. That's why the Rhamda Avec could not do it alone; I know now that I should have imparted to him certain technicalities. I possessed two of the keys then; now, I know there are three.
“And I have learned that each of these is a sinister thing.
“The blue stone, for instance, is life, and it is male. Rather a sweeping and ambiguous statement; but you will comprehend it in the end. Were a man to wear it it would kill him, in time; but a woman can wear it with impunity.
“Perhaps you will appreciate that statement better if you note what I have just done through the medium of that crystal. The blue gem is an inductor of the ether; in a sense, it is one of the anchors of the Spot of Life, or the Blind Spot—whatever we want to call it—the Spot of Contact.
“The other two particles—the red and the green one—are respectively the Soul and the Material. Or, let us say, the etheric embryos of these essentials.
“The three stones constitute an eternal trinity.
“As for the substance of the Spot itself, that I cannot tell, just yet. But I do know that the whole truth will come out clear in the fulfilment of the Prophecy. I am convinced that it has translated Watson, and now Harry Wendel and the Nervina.”
“Can you control it?” asked Chick.
“To a limited extent. I have been able to watch you ever since your coming. You did not know about Harry, but I saw him come—in the arms of the Nervina.”
The Nervina nodded.
“It is so. I knew the Senestro. I was afraid that Harry would fall into his hands. I had previously endeavoured to have him give the jewel to Charlotte Fenton. I didn't trust the great Bar—”
Harry interrupted, “Only because of her distrust of the Senestro did she decide to come through the Blind Spot with me. She knew what to do. As soon as we got here, she bundled me off, privately nursed me back to health if not strength, and when the time came rushed me up here at the last second to be in at the finish.”
Watson thought of the dog, Queen. She also had come through just in time to save his life. Did Harry know anything about her? When Wendel had related what he knew, Chick commented:
“It's almighty strange, Harry. Everything works out to fit in exactly with that confounded Prophecy. Perhaps that accounts for your affinity for the Nervina; it is something beyond your control, or hers. We'll have to wait and see.”
There was not long to wait. The days passed. The palace was full of Rhamdas, summoned by Dr. Holcomb, who, as the Jarados himself, was now issuing orders concerning the great day, the last of the sixteen days, now very close at hand; the day which the Rhamdas constantly alluded to as “the Day of Judgment.”
The Senestro went unmolested. Returning to the Mahovisal, he worked now to further the truths of the Prophecy.
Still the millions continued to descend upon the Mahovisal. Coming from the furthermost parts of the Thomahlia, the pilgrims' aircraft kept the air above the city constantly alive. There were days such as no man had ever known. Even the Rhamdas, trained to composure, gave evidence of the strain. The atmosphere was tense, charged with expectancy and hope. A whole world was coming to what it conceived as its judgment, and its end. And—the Spot of Life was the Blind Spot!
At last the doctor summoned the two young men. It was night, and the June Bug was waiting. This time the Geos himself was at the controls.
“We are going to the Mahovisal,” spoke the doctor—“to the Temple of the Bell and Leaf. There is still something I must know before the Judgment.” He was speaking English. “If we can bring the Prophecy to pass just so far, and no farther, we shall be able to extricate ourselves nicely. Anyway, I think we shall not return to the Palace of Light.”
He held a black leather case in his hand. He touched it with a finger.
“If this little case and its contents get through the Blind Spot it will advance civilisation—our civilisation—about a thousand-fold. So remember: Whatever happens to me, be sure and remember this case! It must go through the Spot!”
He said no more, but took his seat beside the Geos. The young men took the rear seats. In a short time they had crossed the great range of mountains and were hovering over the Mahovisal.
There was no sound. Though the city was packed with untold millions, the tension was such that scarcely a murmur came out of the metropolis. The air was magnetic, charged, strained close to the breaking point; above all, the reverence for the Last Day, and the hope, rising, accumulating, to the final supreme moment.
For the Sixteenth Day was now only forty-eight hours removed.
Both Chick and Harry realised that their lives were at stake; the doctor had made that clear. In the last minute, in the final crisis, they must crowd their way through the Blind Spot. Only the professor knew how it was to be done.
At the temple they found the Nervina and the Aradna waiting. The Jan Lucar was with them. The Geos had secured entrance by a side door. From it they could look out, themselves unobserved, over the entire building and upon the Spot of Life. The place was packed—thousands upon thousands of people, standing in silent awe and worship, one and all gazing toward the all-important Spot. There was no sound save the whisper of multitudinous breathing.
Said Harry to Chick:
“I see Queen up there!”
Harry circled the group, and bounded up the great stairs. In a moment he was patting his dog's head. She looked up and wagged her tail to show her pleasure. But she was not effusive. Somehow she wasn't just like his old shepherd. She glanced at him, and then out at the concourse below, and lolled her tongue expectantly. Then she settled back into her place and resumed watch—exactly as any of her kind would have held guard over a band of sheep.
The dog was serious. Afterward, Wendel said he had a dim notion that she was no longer a dog at all, but a mere instrument in the hand of Fate.
“What's the matter, old girl?” he asked. “Don't you like 'em?”
For answer she gave a low whine. She looked up again, and out into the throng; she repeated the whine, with a little whimper at the end.
Harry returned to the others. Nothing was said of what he had done. At once the Geos led the group through a small, half-hidden door, beyond which was a narrow, winding stairway of chocolate-coloured stone. The Geos halted.
“Dost wish the building emptied, O Jarados?”
“I do. When we come back from under the Spot of Life, we should have the place to ourselves.”
Accompanied by the two queens the Rhamda returned to the main body of the temple. Dr. Holcomb, Harry and Chick were left to themselves.
The professor took out a notebook. In it was traced a map, or chart, together with several notations.
“The three of us,” said he, “are going to take a look at the under side of the Blind Spot. This stairway leads into a secret chamber inside the foundations of the great stair; and according to this data I found in the palace, together with some calculations of my own, we ought to find some of the secrets of the Spot.”
He led the way up the steps. At the top of the flight they came to a blank, blue wall. There was no sign of a door, but in the front of the wall stood a low platform, in the centre of which was set a strange, red stone. The professor consulted his chart, then opened his black case. From it he took another stone, red like the other, but not so intense. This he touched to the first, and waited.
Inside a minute a light sprang up from the contact. Immediately Harry and Chick beheld something they had not seen on the wall—a knob, or button. The doctor pulled sharply on it. Instantly a door opened in the wall.
They passed into another room. It was not a large place—about thirty feet across, perhaps, stone-walled and with a low ceiling. From all sides a soft, intrinsic glow was given off. There were no furnishings.
But in the centre of the ceiling, occupying almost all the space overhead, a snow-white substance hung as if suspended. Were it not for its colour and its size, it might have been likened to an immense, horizontal grindstone hung in mid-air, with apparently nothing to hold it there. Around its side they could make out a narrow gap between it and the ceiling. And directly along its lower edge was a series of small, fiery jewels inset, and of the order and colour of the sign of the Jarados—red, blue and green, alternating.
The professor produced an electric torch and held it up to show that the gap between the stone and the ceiling was unbroken at any point. Then he counted the jewels on the lower edge. Chick made out twenty-four. Three were missing from their sockets—all told, then, there should have been twenty-seven.
The doctor noted the positions of the three empty sockets and, drawing a tapeline from his pocket, proceeded to measure the distances from each of the three—they were widely separated round the circle—from each other. Then he turned to Chick and Harry.
“Do you know where we are?”
“Under the Spot of Life,” it was easy to answer.
“You are in San Francisco!”
“Not in—in—” Chick hesitated.
“Yes. Exactly. This is 288 Chatterton Place—the house of the Blind Spot.” He paused for them to digest this. Then, “Harry—did you say Hobart Fenton was with you on that last night?”
“Hobart and his sister, Charlotte. I remember their coming at the last minute. They were too late, sir.”
The professor nodded.
“Well, Harry, the chances are that Hobart is not more than twenty feet away at the present moment. Charlotte may be sitting right there”—pointing to a spot at Harry's side—“this very instant. And there may be many others.
“No doubt they are working hard to solve the mystery. Unfortunately the best they can do is to guess. We hold the key. That is—I should correct that statement—we hold the knowledge, and they hold the keys.”
“The keys?” Harry wanted to know more.
The professor pointed to the three empty sockets in the great white stone above their heads. “These three missing stones are the keys. Until they are reset we cannot control the Spot. I had found two of them before I came through. I take it that both of you remember the blue one?”
“I think,” agreed Chick, “that neither of us is ever likely to forget it! Eh, Harry?”
The professor smiled. He was holding the light up to the snow-stone, at a spot that would have been the point of intersection had lines been drawn from the three missing gems, and the resulting triangle centred. He held his hand up to the substance. It was slightly rough at that point, as though it had been frozen.
Then he ran his fingers across the surrounding surface.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “I thought so! That helps considerably. Chick—put your hand up here. What do you feel?”
“Rough,” said Chick, feeling the intersection point. “Slightly so, but cold and—and magnetic.”
“Now feel here.”
“Cool and magnetic, doctor; but smooth. What does it prove?”
“Let's see; do you understand the term 'electrolysis'? Good. Well, there should be another clue—not similar, but supplementary, or rather, complementary—on the earth side. Perhaps one of you found it while you lived in that house.” The professor eyed both men anxiously. “Did either of you find a stain, or anything of that sort, on the walls, ceiling, or floor of any room there?”
Both shook their heads.
“Well, there ought to be,” frowned the doctor. “I am positive that, should we return now, we could locate some such phenomenon. From this side it is very easy to account for; it's simply the disintegrating effect of the current, constantly impinging at the point of contact or the intersection. Having acted on this side, it must have left some mark on the other.”
Watson was still running his hand over the snow-stone. Once before, when he had stood barefooted in the contest with the Senestro, he had noted its cold magnetism.
“What is this substance, professor?”
“That, I have not been able to discover. I would call it neutral element, for want of a more exact term; something that touches both aspects of the spectrum.”
“Both aspects of the spectrum?”
“Yes; as nearly as the limitations of my vocabulary will permit. If you recall, I showed you a simple experiment the other day in the palace. By means of an inductor I drew out the iron principle from the ether and built up the metal. Only it was not precisely iron but its Thomahlian equivalent. Had you been on the earth side you would have seen nothing at all, not even myself. I was on the wrong aspect of the spectrum.
“Also, you see here the Jaradic colours—the crimson, green and blue—the shades between, the iridescence and the shadows. Had you been on the other side you wouldn't have seen one of them; they are not precisely our own colours, but their equivalents on this side of the Spot.
“In the final analysis, as I said before, it gets down to ether, to speed and vibration—and still at last to the perceptive limitations of our own earthly five senses. Just stop and consider how limited we are! Only five senses—why, even insects have six. Then consider that all matter, when we get to the bottom of it, is differentiated and condensed ether, focused into various mathematical arrangements, as numberless as the particles of the universe. Of these our five senses pick out a very small proportion indeed.
“This is one way to account for the Blind Spot. It may be merely another phase of the spectrum—not simply the unexplored regions of the infra-red or the ultra-violet, but a region co-existent with what we normally apprehend, and making itself manifest through apertures in what we, with our extremely limited sense-grasp, think to be a continuous spectrum. I throw out the idea mainly as a suggestion. It is not necessarily the true explanation.
“Let us go a bit farther. Remember, we are still upon the earth. And that we are still in San Francisco, although all the while we are also in the Mahovisal. This is 288 Chatterton Place, and at the same time it is the Temple of the Bell. It might be a hundred or a thousand other places just as well, too, if my hypothesis is correct; which we shall see.
“Now, what does this mean? Simply this, gentlemen, that we five-sensed people have failed to grasp the true meaning of the word 'Infinity.' We look out toward the stars, fancying that only in unlimited space can we find the infinite. We little suspect we ourselves are infinity! It is only our five senses that make us finite.
“As soon as we grasp this the so-called spiritual realm becomes a very substantial fact. We begin to apprehend the occult. Our five-sensed world is merely a highly specialized phase of infinity. Material or spiritual—it is all the same. That's why we look on the Thomahlians as occult, and why they consider us in the same light.
“It is strictly a question of sense perception and limitations, which can be covered by the word, 'viewpoint.' Viewpoint—that is all it amounts to.
“There is no such thing as unreality; but there is most certainly such a thing as relativity, and all life is real.
“Of course I knew nothing of this until the discovery of the Blind Spot. It will, I think, prove to be one of the greatest events in history. It will silence the sceptics, and form a bulwark for all religion. And it will make us all appreciate our Creator the more.”
The professor stopped. For some moments there was silence.
“What are we to do now?” asked Harry.
But the professor chose not to answer. With his tape he began taking a fresh series of measurements, with reference to the empty sockets and one particularly brilliant red gem, which seemed to be “number one” in the circle. From time to time the doctor jotted down the results and made short calculations. Presently he said: “That ought to be enough. Now suppose we—”
At that instant something happened. Harry Wendel caught him by the shoulder. He pointed to the suspended stone.
It was moving!
It was revolving, almost imperceptibly, like some vast wheel turning on its axis. So slowly did it rotate, the motion would have escaped attention were it not for the gems and their brilliance.
Suddenly it came to a stop, short and quick, as though it had dropped into a notch. And from above they heard the deep, solemn clang of the temple bell.
“What is that?” asked Harry, startled. “Who moved the stone?”
“Can it be,” flashed Chick, “that Hobart Fenton has found the keys?”
“That remains to be seen!” from the doctor. “Come—we must find out what has happened!”
Within a minute they knew. As they came out of the private door on the now emptied floor of the great temple, they saw the senior queen, the Nervina, coming down the great stairway from the Spot of Life.
“What is it?” called Harry, apprehensively.
“The Aradna!” she replied. Her voice was curiously strained. “Something happened, and—she has fallen through the Spot!”