I don’t know how it happened, but by some mutual impulse we found ourselves in each other’s arms!
And when Marusa’s sweet lips met mine, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps the explanation may have been that it was the most natural thing in the world.
She snuggled her face against my shoulder; and:
“Have you forgotten,” I said, “that we are heard and seen?”
“We are not!” she replied. “The Master of our Destinies is sleeping!”
The idea—although I had suspected it—struck me with all the charm of novelty. Of course, even the superhuman dwarf must sleep sometimes. Odd that I had never taken this into account!
“But even when Anubis is sleeping,” I said, “surely someone else is watching?”
Marusa stood back from me and nodded slowly.
“The chief chemist takes charge,” she replied. “But the chief chemist will not be watching; because, in the first place, the chief chemist is my friend, and, in the second place, he has other duties to-night.…”
I tried to hold her, but she slipped away and dropped into an armchair. I stood watching her.
Women have told me of men whose glance seems to strip them. I am not one of these, yet I believe that my glance now must have possessed those properties. It was directed and fired by my imagination—and my imagination held before me an image of Marusa as one of that infamous Corps of Pages!
I seemed to see the golden turban tightly knotted about her shapely head.… Suddenly, meeting my glance with one which held a challenge:
“What are you thinking?” she demanded.
“I am thinking of Anubis,” I replied.
“Anubis!”
She grasped my hand. “Do you mean you have seen him?”
“Certainly.”
“How wonderful! Do you know, I have been in this queer place for three months, and I have never set eyes on him yet!”
“What!”
“Truly. He is a sort of nightmare to me. I can’t doubt his powers—who could? There’s no room for doubt. But sometimes I picture him in one way, and sometimes in another.”
Marusa went on talking. But her words came to me as through a mist, dimly perceived.
She had never seen Anubis! Was this a condition imposed on all the Corps of Pages? Had that master brain, knowing the hideousness of the body in which it dwelled, achieved so remarkable a result?
“When you refer to the chief chemist,” I said, “do you mean Mme. Yburg? Because, I know she is your friend. I’ve seen you with her.”
Marusa started.
“Have you? I didn’t know. But, after all, it’s no more than natural. She is my mother.”
“What!”
“Does it seem queer? She has made this thing her life work, you see. She has lots of degrees. She’s clever, far more clever than I shall ever be. My father was killed in the last German attack on Ypres. Yes! He was a Prussian officer. Do you hate me?”
“No. Why should I hate you? How could I? It seems very odd, though, that you should have been educated in England.”
“Yes, it does,” Marusa admitted. “But up to the time of the war it had always been my father’s wish and his intention. Perhaps,” she added simply, “he never had time to tell us that he’d changed his mind. I can’t tell you—can I?—because I don’t know.”
Sometimes one is called upon to make such rapid mental readjustments that they create a sort of gap in the consciousness. This was what happened to me on learning that Mme. Yburg was Marusa’s mother. Then, out of the gap, a great joy rose up—a recognition not only of my love for the girl, but of the hideousness of my former suspicions.
Everything pointed to the fact that Mme. Yburg, next to Anubis, was the most powerful figure in this strange movement, involving, I could not doubt, every inhabitant of the globe. Marusa was her daughter! Therefore, definitely, she was not one of the Corps of Pages; she was not a laboratory product! She was real, as I had first conceived her to be: strong, healthy, beautiful, clean-minded, approaching as nearly as frail flesh can approach to that ideal which every lover builds, a fragile monument, when first he recognizes his idol.
There was an interval which I might be able to recall but which I have no desire to report. There are limits even to the zeal of the professional copy hunter.…
From this phase the first recollection which emerges is an expression of Marusa’s:
“If you don’t want to stay, I can see no reason why I should. I have always enjoyed a certain amount of freedom, and now, after all, I shall be twenty next birthday. I think I’m competent to choose my own course.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mother says there’s no choice in the matter. Until you came, I never doubted her, but Anubis, clever though he is, may nevertheless be wrong.”
“Then you mean… ?”
“I don’t think I’m entirely clear,” Marusa admitted, “as to what I do mean. But I had to see you again to-night, as I understand that it’s critical, in some way.”
“You’re right. Certainly a psychological moment is approaching!”
“I know I’m right. Mother doesn’t quite realize that I’ve outgrown childhood—have ideas of my own. I haven’t done anything definite—I’m not clever enough to have thought of anything. But your friend Mr. Lonergan is practically free of the place—and he’s very clever, isn’t he? You understand? Do you, or don’t you? I mean, I’ve done my uttermost. If, after all, you’re determined to crash with the mob…”
“Yes?”
“Well… I don’t particularly want to go on.”
The silence which followed Marusa’s departure bore down upon me with what seemed almost physical pressure. I had learned so much, and even now I knew so little. But my heart sang; for all those horrible doubts of the past were swept away. At least she was human—real—lovable! I had not, as once my dreadful imaginings had suggested, given my heart to a shadow.
But I was a captive—a fly netted in the web! Always underlying my reflections was the dread from moment to moment of the Voice.
At any instant it might intrude, ending all projects, terminating every hope!
Anubis was sleeping! How soundly did he sleep and for how long? At any time, I thought, he might awake. Secondly, what was the purpose of Mme. Yburg? I understood at last what I had hitherto failed to fathom—the critical interest which I had detected in the laboratory. I knew now, or I thought I knew, why she had seemed to be weighing me up.
I wondered if egoism spoke. I wondered if I might dare to believe that she approved of my love for Marusa—that she countenanced it—was prepared to further it. But how far? Under what conditions?
Always I had distrusted the elegant Mme. Yburg, but hitherto my distrust had been based upon frankly childish superstitions. Now, it had a firmer foundation. I knew her for what she was: chief officer of the blackest menace which had ever threatened the world!
This, Marusa did not know—did not suspect! It was because of my realization of her ignorance that I was so wildly happy.
Happy! Much had I to be happy about! What a fool I was—a vain fool—a selfish fool! Myself, if I could believe the preposterous project of Anubis, I was safe enough. Life and love were in my grasp. But my charge, my duty—my sacred duty to the public—what of these? To what extent was Lonergan’s freedom real?
That it had been secured with the consent of Mme. Yburg, the chief chemist, I found myself unable to doubt. But was she merely humouring Marusa? Was Lonergan actually under close surveillance—a mouse on a wheel?
Above all, where was he? I had left him with Herr Richter. He had not rejoined me.… I looked at the little gold disk, resembling a very flat dress watch, which Marusa had left with me. I recalled her parting words.…
Excepting Marusa, I could trust no one, believe no one, in Felsenweir!
All was mirage—illusion—unreality!
I dropped into an armchair and sank my head. Lives hung in the balance—mine, Lonergan’s, Max’s. Further, the world, or a great part of it, was threatened by a more colossal criminal than society had formerly visualized.
Yet my heart sang!
But my brain spoke urgently; raising queries—doubts—rebukes.
Where was Lonergan? To what extent could I count upon him?
Gaston Max lay in a crystal coffin. Myself, where did I stand?
“My God!”
I sprang up, fists clenched. They were buying me—buying me! I, Brian Woodville, was compromising with my conscience! I had a commission to execute. This, frankly, I had forgotten! But, vastly more important, I had a duty to the world. This—I despised myself—I had been prepared to forget! For what? For a woman… meaning, for my own selfish gratification!
Truly, the atmosphere of Felsenweir was unhealthy! It had already sapped that pride of race which makes a man cling to a higher and cleaner doctrine.
With my soul in torment, I paced up and down that narrow room. I wrestled with my lower nature. And, thank heaven! I can say it with a clean conscience—I conquered.
Facing facts, I realized I was helpless.
It was at the moment that this recognition forced me down again, so that I sat, head clutched in hands, that I heard the whine of an approaching elevator.
I stood up, watching.…
The panel opened.
Dr. Nestor stepped out!
The panel reclosed behind him.
Dr. Nestor bowed.
“I have been unduly nervous,” he declared. “My art is greater than my courage.”
I clenched my hands—unclenched them; then:
“Max!” I whispered—“Max!”
“Quick!” His manner was urgent. “Bring me up to date. We are, I believe, unobserved. Anubis is sleeping. You understand?”
“I know.”
“Ah! You know? Better still.”
He threw his arms about my shoulders and hugged me in Gallic fashion.
“Be brief,” he implored. “Condense your story. I, also, have much to tell. We both have much to do.”
Conquering my amazement, I told him what I had to tell, nor did I withhold one single fact. No sound disturbed my story. We were not interrupted. But, at its conclusion:
“I am in a flat spin!” Gaston Max declared. “When I have explained, you will understand. Then it must be up to the two of us to determine upon some move. Because, my friend—— Well… you shall judge! I will tell you what happened.” …
It was fast work, my friend, and faster thinking. But I take no credit. God has been good to me. The moment I lost sight of you, out there upon the road, an irresistible force seized me. My face was covered by what seemed to be a giant hand—the hand of an ogre.… I was lifted, I stifled, I kicked, struggled.
I could not cry out—a complete blank came.
My final thought said to me that I had met my Waterloo. This was the end which must come to every career. At last I had encountered that super-criminal who always has haunted my dreams.
When I fought my way back to life, I found myself seated upon a square wooden chair in a big laboratory. Facing me upon another such chair, his legs tucked up beneath him and his hands resting on his knees, was the dwarf who calls himself Anubis.
You know this one? Then there is no need, my friend, to describe those impressions the extraordinary creature made upon my mind. You have experienced the same. I have nothing to add.
There was no one else in this laboratory.
“You imagine,” said the dwarf—whilst I remained stupefied by my new environment—“that by a sudden exercise of your agility you could perhaps succeed in strangling me? Dismiss, M. Max, this possibility. Your blow could never reach my chin, your hands never clutch my throat.”
And as he spoke I knew that it was so.
I glanced about me, noting many unknown implements, realizing that I was in the stronghold of Felsenweir, in the headquarters of the most formidable criminal with whom my profession so far had brought me in contact. This dwarf, with his great head and tiger eyes, was, then, a genius? His operations were world-wide. Physical violence became out of the question. Only a child could have attempted it. He was right. I bowed.
“I agree with you entirely, monsieur,” I said. “You appear to be familiar with my name and so you have an advantage over me.”
“I am known,” the dwarf replied, “for purposes of my own, as Anubis. This is sufficient for a brotherhood numbering many thousands: it must be sufficient for you, M. Max.”
He proceeded to talk to me as one intelligent man talks to another. His statements would have seemed monstrous—the babblings of a lunatic—to one who had not held my information. But when he spoke of the sound wave which can destroy, and instanced the tragedy in the Pyrenees, I realized that the powers to which he laid claim he truly controlled.
Perhaps, Woodville, you have forgotten the details of that tragedy in the tragedies which have befallen ourselves? No matter. Recollection will come as I tell you what Anubis told me.
You may recall that the only survivors of the mysterious electrical storm which destroyed the inhabitants of that little township were a very old cow in an ancient stone byre, three deaf-mutes, an aged man who lived in a cellar, a woman in childbirth, and her child?
These mysteries Anubis explained to me. And it was his explanation which restored my courage. You do not understand, perhaps? It was that I recognized how even that giant brain had its limitations! In short, my friend, there were things he could not explain—powers over which he had not yet obtained control!
To make my meaning more clear: The ancient byre and the walls of that old cellar—so Anubis had learned—both were constructed of a form of gneiss to-day unobtainable for building purposes; in short, from extinct quarries and of a character no longer employed. This stone, he had realized, was a non-conductor of his wave!
The three deaf men call for no explanation. The wave operates through the eardrum. Absence of an eardrum renders one immune. The woman in childbirth and the newly born infant, Anubis was unable to account for.
“This is a law, M. Max,” he said, “which so far I have failed to grasp, although otherwise the result of my experiment in the Pyrenees—conducted from this laboratory—has enriched my knowledge immeasurably. I can only conclude that that urgent lust of reproduction, to which I have opposed myself in its immediate manifestation, is stronger than my science. In short, plan how I may, the world, after that day which I have fixed for its depopulation, must contain a number of females unaccounted for in my records and at least an equal number of newly arrived young. I include—since I suppose it is unavoidable—the lower animal world. With these intruders I shall prepare to deal as later circumstances may indicate.”
One moment of triumph I knew! The Voice operated—outside Felsenweir—through a delicate mechanism which could be contained, imperceptibly, in a watch! This he told me.
“You may suppose, M. Max,” said he, “that with all our precautions and our influential friends, we are vulnerable from one point? In the event of open warfare, you imagine that aircraft could destroy us? … You are wrong!”
Can you conceive it, Woodville! Bombs dropped on Felsenweir would explode a mile above the castle! Planes flying lower would be lost. Their pilots would reach the sound zones!
It was a question of mine—yes, we were on a footing most amicable—respecting Mme. Yburg which brought up this point.…
There is what Anubis terms an “energy wave.” This wave it is which renders air bombing ineffective. It is sent out at a sympathetic elevation of one mile above ground level. The “bats”—those bats, my friend, which turned our hearts cold—are flying suits! They function on this wave. They carry a simple steering gear and one of those mechanisms which we know, whereby the Voice—or some controlling officer—can keep in touch with the flyer.
The purpose of Mme. Yburg’s visit to America was to learn if these energy waves functioned in the atmosphere of that continent. Her experiments, conducted from Hartford, Connecticut, proved that beyond cutting in on radio, the waves were powerless. A scientific mystery.…
There is capital, Woodville, colossal, criminal capital, behind this monster! And he is the greatest evil genius the good God has ever allowed upon earth. Like Satan before him, he disputes the powers of Heaven.…
“Energy has a limited range,” he said to me. “One station is insufficient. Unlike sound. Sound can be transmitted from this laboratory all round the world. And sound can kill.…”
He showed me—he showed me, my friend! … From the spot he calls “the control tower,” those death waves may be sent in uniting circles! There is a great model of the terrestrial globe… Anubis can cover all its surface with his waves of sound. He can focus them—or deflect them. It is for him a matter of choice only. Where he wishes to spare—he spares!
Do you understand? What have you reasoned out? In only one respect is this Anubis vulnerable.… Artillery, I think, could destroy the control tower!
This monster was then so good as to give me particulars of his system of automatic hypnosis. Lonergan, he informed me, knew it well! You see how much I have learned?
It was through the ear that the sound wave struck—through the eye that mental paralysis came!
I saw that I had two hopes. First, this small piece of knowledge; second, the vanity of Anubis! You follow me? Like all scientists, of whom he is undoubtedly the greatest, he counts any type of brain, other than the purely scientific, as negligible!
Presently, in response to some signal which I failed to detect, a third person entered the laboratory.
Astounded, I stared at him. We were introduced, the new arrival and I. His name was Nestor and his nationality Graeco-American. He wore a black moustache. In one glance I had realized that, deprived of this moustache, M. Nestor and myself might have passed for twin brothers!
He was, I learned, the second chemist. We exchanged some amiable conversation, which later was to be profitable—to me. He withdrew, this unhappy one, when his part was played. Some secrets of that great laboratory he had explained… and I had realized that the dwarf—conscious of his deformity—remained always seated. Bien.…
Two damsels entered. Name of a name! What exquisite perfection! One was of that yellow of old ivory, a perfectly moulded Chinese maiden; the other a red-brown daughter of the Sioux, with black, tragic eyes. They brought light refreshments.
Instantly, I scented danger! I have studied murder, ancient and modern, my friend. People have died in Paris this very year simply because they ate an apple! Poisoned peaches were used by the Borgias.… Childish, these doubts, as I was soon to learn; but excusable, I think?
As those beautifuls placed a tray of refreshment between Anubis and myself, I determined upon direct action.
“Since I cannot believe, M. Anubis,” I said, “that your great intelligence could stoop to so common a device as that of drugging me, I shall be honoured to take wine with you.”
The effect of this speech was electrical. Anubis forced himself upright in the chair, pressing tiny skeleton hands upon those slender knees. He spoke gutturally: the handmaidens disappeared. The glare of his eyes was dreadful to sustain. His white anger, which I had so deliberately provoked, was more horrible than I could have anticipated.
“You insult me, Gaston Max!” he said.
I could have stung him again, but I decided that now I must endeavour to pacify this distorted, formidable creature; therefore:
“I have no reason to trust your hospitality,” I explained, “since I am at this moment your unwilling guest.… Where then is the insult?”
He continued to glare at me in a manner which I cannot describe. There was a fire behind those wild-animal eyes. But, as I watched him, and it was a monstrous effort, slowly he sank back again to his former pose.
“I am not angry,” he replied, “because you distrust me! I had looked upon you as a clever man. If I had thought you to be a fool, you would not be here now. But if you will consider your position it must become apparent, I think, that secret drugging is quite unnecessary. Whatever I may desire of you—your life or your death—I could accomplish by a movement of the hand. You forget that you are utterly at my mercy. You forget your American friend Mr. John Lonergan, whom I did not find it necessary to drug.…”
His emphasis on the last word started a fresh line of reflection in my brain. And, watching him, I began to think hard.
I drank wine with Anubis.
He was good enough to explain that in my own province he regarded me as unique. He thought there might be work for my type of intelligence in that New World which he planned to erect upon the ashes of the Old. He assured me that you, my friend, had appreciated his aims and had decided to join the crew of this Ark which alone was destined to survive the catastrophe.
The dimensions of this catastrophe I was at first unable to accept. But shall I say that Anubis convinced me completely?
I realized there might be flaws in his monstrous project. But also I realized that he intended to loose upon the world a blast of sound, a thing invisible, above the conception of any other living scientist, which—I remembered the Pyrenees—could not fail to mean death to thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions perhaps!
It was then that he definitely invited me to join the brotherhood.
I hesitated, watching him; whereupon:
“Explanation,” he said, and his voice was very soft, “is never so convincing as demonstration.”
M. Nestor returned, carrying a small ebony box. This he placed upon the table between Anubis and myself, and withdrew.
When we were alone together:
“I shall ask you, Gaston Max,” said my truly appalling host, “to open this box for me. Be good enough to raise the lid.”
I am trained to quick action. It is only because of my power to act quickly that I am alive to-day. Now, I thought swiftly. If he meant to attack me through my ears, I was helpless—I must die! If through my eyes—the automatic hypnosis—I might act, I might malinger!
Standing up, I bowed to Anubis… and in the act of bowing I opened the lid of the box—at the same time closing my eyes!
That a bright light shone out I could detect even through lowered lids. It scorched me. I stood motionless. I opened my eyes. I looked down fixedly at the legs of the table on which this box was set.
A blue light shone up from it so that it must have touched the crown of my head.…
“You will note, Gaston Max,” said Anubis, “that your brain is now powerless to control your body. As you stand, so you would remain until death came and you fell forward—unless I willed otherwise.”
It was my cue! I remained as I found myself.
“This is the fate which befell your American friend. It has now befallen you. I must approach your conversion, Gaston Max, from a new and a different angle. Stand upright!”
I stood straight up.
“Your body is now dead,” Anubis continued; “only your brain lives. You are rigid as the dead are rigid.”
It was sufficient! I knew I must remain stiff as a mummy. Again the Greek gentleman who was so strangely like my brother entered that laboratory. There was a short conversation in what I suppose was modern Greek—it sounded like it, but I am unfamiliar with the language.
I stood motionless, staring straight before me. As M. Nestor went out, Anubis, I realized, was watching me. There was an interval—a dreadful interval. M. Nestor returned with another man, carrying a stretcher! This I divined, for I could not glance aside or downward—only straight before me. I never blinked. I congratulate myself on one of the supreme achievements of my career.
A few words were spoken by Anubis. My clothes were stripped from my rigid body, Nestor using surgical scissors to cut the garments. I was laid upon the stretcher.
“Gaston Max,” said Anubis, “fold your arms upon your breast.”
I obeyed mechanically. A word of command was added in Greek and I was carried from the laboratory! …
Staring up at the ceiling with eyes which I tried to make appear sightless, I was brought to a smaller room on the same floor. I was lifted into a sort of crystal shell! A crystal lid was placed over me, and clamped down!
This coffin of a living death was raised upright. It rested upon a sort of trolley with rubber-tired wheels. I was pushed out into some place of darkness.…
For the first time I closed my weary eyes and relaxed my tired muscles. There was air in this crystal coffin. It was possible to breathe. But every minute seemed like an hour, and the hours interminable. How long I lay there, mon Dieu! I cannot even guess. But suddenly—so suddenly that I had barely time to stare before me and become rigid again—I felt myself moving upward! I was in some kind of lift! The movement ceased. Curtains were parted before my glass tomb, and I saw a strange, dimly lighted room.…
You were in it, Woodville, seated on a low stool! Before you, on a platform, was Anubis. Two beautiful creatures, one of ebony and one of ivory, moved dimly within my plane of vision.
Vaguely, because of the glass box which surrounded me, I heard Anubis speak to you.… The curtains were reclosed. I was in darkness again.… I was returned to that small apartment adjoining the laboratory and my sarcophagus was lowered to the floor.
There was a dim light in this room. By his shadow, I traced the one who had moved me. I saw him go.
Then I ventured to relax, and to think—to think—to think! Plans I could make none, for I had no idea what would happen next. My greatest chance lay in a surprise attack. If such an opportunity presented itself, on me, I reflected, must rest the fate of the world!
I heard vague sounds—once, the voice of Anubis. That peculiar whining noise, too, which is made by the elevators. But no one entered the room. It was an ordeal which I cannot describe, which, honestly, my friend, I do not think I could survive a second time. Hours passed—many, many hours! If it were day or night, I could not know. It seemed to me that it did not matter.
Then, suddenly, I saw a moving shadow!
I became rigid. I stared straightly upward.
Mme. Yburg stood watching me!
Except that she wore some white garment, I could not, dared not, learn more. She began to speak.
“Well, my brilliant friend,” she said, “is it clear to you what occurred at Bagnères-dès-Barèges? You come at a critical moment—for at dawn to-morrow it occurs to all the world!”
I began to wonder. Had she detected my trickery? How far could I trust her?
“Short of joining us, there is only death.” She mused on. “How strange! If it were otherwise I would help you.… Stare, my friend—and accept.…”
She knew! She fell silent.
M. Nestor entered.
“Ah! Good-evening, my dear Chief!” he exclaimed. He spoke in German. “This pleasure was unforeseen. I expected Richter.”
“Herr Richter is with Anubis,” Mme. Yburg replied—so coldly. “I am standing by until he is free. Your watch ends, Dr. Nestor, when you have given the patient his first shot. Good-night.”
I saw, from her shadow, that she was going; then:
“May I hope,” said he, “when the anxieties of to-morrow are ended, that you will think over——”
Mme. Yburg laughed.
“You are very persistent!” she replied… and went out.
It was clear. M. Nestor found encouragement. He hummed a song—a popular dance melody. Yes, he was happy. It was sad. At all costs I must avoid the “first shot”!
Quickly, and in a workmanlike manner, M. Nestor removed the lid of my glass sarcophagus. He raised it upright. He rested it against some place which I could not see, since I did not dare to move my eyes. An itching, a tear, a sneeze—any of these must betray me—ruin me!
He came presently into view, his back turned in my direction. He wore dinner kit. I looked at him. He was charging a hypodermic syringe! …
I acted.
Silent, in my nakedness, and in spite of my cramped muscles, I rose from that glass coffin and hurled myself upon M. Nestor! We of the French police are trained in jiu-jitsu. (So also is Mr. Lonergan!) I threw the unsuspecting Greek without difficulty.…
Let me make my meaning clear; for that which followed was horrible. I had secured a stranglehold—you understand? It was necessary that he should be not only helpless, but silent. Apparently he did not understand the nature of these circumstances. And—how shall I express this thing?
My friend… the unhappy M. Nestor strangled himself!
Realizing what had occurred, I looked down at him… I listened. All was silent! I crossed to the table at which he had been charging a syringe. This syringe lay upon the floor. On the table were surgical implements, including those very scissors which he had employed to cut my garments from my body.
I used them for another purpose. I cut off his black moustache! Much stubble was left—keen though the blades were. Myself, I was now unshaven for many hours and the difference between us was not great.
His garments I removed while yet it was possible to stir his limbs. I shudder when I think of it!
The dinner suit fitted me badly, but well enough. I broke one of the studs in removing his shirt—although this shirt was unstarched and of an impossible pattern. No one disturbed me. Only my own movements broke the silence. I wondered… but went on. I placed him in the coffin from which I had escaped and returned the lid, crossing his stiffening arms upon his breast, as mine had been crossed. One hand concealed the identification disk he wore. I ruffled his hair.
Yes, it was ghastly! But it was his life, or the life of millions!
Roughly I arranged my own hair in the manner which he had affected. There was a washbowl on one side of this small room and a mirror above it. The moustache, you understand, was tiny, like that worn by M. Charles Chaplin. I had cut a lock from the head of the dead man. I laid it on the bowl and in despair plunged my hands into the pockets of his dinner jacket.…
This gesture saved me! What do you think I found? Chewing gum!
It was enough! My moustache was attached. I trimmed it with the surgical scissors.
I had become M. Nestor… except that I did not talk Greek!
In the pockets of this unhappy’s garments, I found several significant things. In order of interest they were:
A very neat and unusual folding headpiece, having tiny caps to fit the ears. (The purpose of this was apparent.) A case of good cigars—quite full. In the case a photograph of Mme. Yburg. A visiting card of one Dr. Schreiber, upon it pencilled: “9:30 Regal garden.” And, as I have already stated, a packet of chewing gum.
In a little lobby I discovered a light overcoat and soft gray hat, also a gold-mounted malacca cane. Upon a side table lay a pair of gloves.
It is at such moments, my friend, that one calls upon one’s experience. I had no clue to the hour. But it was safe to assume that, as M. Nestor had worn evening dress, it was night. Nevertheless, the appointment with Dr. Schreiber might not be for this night.
I was in a quandary—and for more reasons than one. The poor Nestor’s spectacles not only fitted me badly but contained such powerful lenses that, wearing them, I saw everything through a fog! Supreme problem: how did I get out of the laboratory—and what was M. Nestor’s behaviour in departing?
The anteroom, as well as the room containing my glass coffin, was dimly lighted. This, by heaven, was fortunate!
As I stood before the little mirror, endeavouring to adjust those spectacles, I heard footsteps! I turned.
A stout man, a German, in white overalls—and who also wore spectacles—was approaching. He was blond, half blind, and good-humoured.…
He smiled.
“Forgive me, Doctor,” he said, speaking in English, “if I have detained you. But you know how particular he is at his rest hours. He insisted upon a last word with the English journalist before retiring. Then, ‘Herr Richter,’ he said, ‘it is death for anyone to wake me before midnight.’ Thank God, he is asleep now! The Chief stood by. She is a darling. I know you agree with me?”
Swiftly, I became M. Nestor. This was leg pulling! Silence was indicated.
Herr Richter glanced at the crystal coffin.
“Another injection at midnight—is it so?” he asked.
I nodded. I recalled perfectly the speech of M. Nestor, and:
“Sure,” I replied—“right arm. Don’t move him.”
Herr Richter nodded comprehendingly.
“A and B Zones are down,” he said, turning away. “You will require your crown.”
I understood. “Crown” was their name for the headpiece!
At what point of the journey was it usual to attach one’s “crown”? More urgent—in which direction should I proceed? This Richter was half blind, but I might meet others who could see too well.… Name of a good little man, it was nervous work!
“Elevator waiting!” the German called over his shoulder as he passed from the room.
I followed him.
At the farther end of the great laboratory, I saw a gap in the wall—the car of an elevator! My unsuspecting confrère was bending over a table on which were a number of books and papers. I hoped he would not ask me to explain anything; I hoped I should not meet Mme. Yburg. As I passed Richter and had nearly reached the elevator:
“Doctor!” he called.
I paused—afraid to look back!
“Well?” I spoke over my shoulder.
“Crown!” he said. “Always put it on before you leave, Doctor, when the zones are down. You know what happened last week!”
Relief drew a great sigh from me.
“Sure!” I replied. “Thanks. Good-night!”
I stepped into the lift. Immediately, it descended. It stopped. I saw before me a great hall supported by square pillars and having in the middle a monstrous statue. In a corner, beside an open doorway, stood a giant figure, black-armoured, a mace upon its shoulder!
No other opening was visible. My heart in my mouth, I advanced in the direction of this one.…
I was some ten paces off, when the figure in mail lowered his mace to the floor with a crash! I nearly choked. But he remained motionless. I continued to advance. I passed through the doorway, glancing back as I did so. The man at arms had replaced his mace upon his shoulder.
It was a salute!
Now I found myself upon a winding stair of ancient stonework. Above, it was in shadow; below, illuminated with what seemed to be bright moonlight. But there were no windows! I descended.
Presently I reached a great iron gate. Everything was silent—deathly silent! Here at this gate stood another of the gigantic black figures—dreadful to contemplate in that artificial moonlight. I was six steps above the gate; but the figure reached out a mailed black arm and opened it. I passed through and continued to descend. The gate closed with a clang behind me.
Down I went, at last reaching a low, arched doorway. I stepped through, and found myself… where do you think?
Clearly, in the ancient guard room of the castle! It retained many of its original features. But new and strange ones had been added. Behind a table near the great open fireplace, a table which contained a number of extraordinary-looking switchboards and other paraphernalia, a man was seated.
This room, alas! was more brightly lighted—as I had observed from the stairs. I now wore the headpiece and carried the hat, coat, and cane of M. Nestor.
The man at the table, an ascetic-looking creature who might have been a monk except that he wore quite ordinary and shabby clothes, stared at me hard with light blue eyes. He was, I think, a Swede. I did not care for his appearance, until:
“I am glad to see, Doctor,” he said, speaking in English, but now his Swedish accent was unmistakable, “that your experience of last week has taught you wisdom.”
He tapped his ear.
I nodded. That stare had been harmless. He had merely wished to learn if I wore the protective “crown”! Evidently M. Nestor was notoriously absent-minded.
So far, very good.
The Swede took up a bunch of keys, crossed, and opened a heavily iron-studded door—part, one could see at a glance, of the old fortress. He stood aside as I went through, and:
“If you return by road,” he advised, “use the zone path after midnight. But go out by the main gate. The Watch will open. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” I replied.
I walked out to find myself in an ancient courtyard.
Before me, at the foot of a declivity, were twin towers joined by a gateway above which projected the teeth of a portcullis. The night was perfect. I proceeded.
Clear of the castle and before trees obtruded, I turned, looking back. My friend, Felsenweir from that point presents a wonderful spectacle in the moonlight! Its silhouette against the sky took me back into the Middle Ages. From that point of view, nothing seemed to have changed.
This road upon which I found myself presently plunged into a perfect tunnel of pines. I pulled up, unable to proceed. Moonlight failed to penetrate; and I wondered why the lamented M. Nestor carried no torch.
Then my stupidity became apparent.
Some heavy object contained in the pocket of that light overcoat I carried, and which had been bumping against my leg, proved to be just the torch which I required!
I continued my journey.
It was a longer journey than I had anticipated. But at last it brought me to the foot of the slope. Ahead, I saw an iron gate. As I moved the ray of the torch right to left, presently it rested upon another of those gigantic black figures.…
I doubted. I wondered.… Name of a little dog! Since I had left, everything might have been discovered!
This one’s orders were perhaps to dash out my brains with that great mace which he carried! My torchlight touched his figure.… He lowered the mace, reached out one black arm—and opened a wicket gate!
Teeth very tightly clenched, I passed through to the road. I was in sight of the spot where I had been captured! The gate was closed behind me. I switched off my torch.
A smart two-seater stood by the roadside, no lights showing. I opened the door, removed the headpiece, threw in coat and cane, put up the lamps, and lighted one of M. Nestor’s cigars.…
This was an exercise; but exercises are useful at times, Woodville. The road I knew well. I seated myself at the wheel and drove off. No one checked me! I left the castle of Felsenweir unchallenged. Your fate, my friend, and the fate of many millions, I held in my hands.
Upon me rested the mighty task of saving the world!
My first problem was where I should park the car. I had now no key to my private garage. I sank myself into the personality of Nestor, the chemist. I determined that he would park his car north of the church, behind the Regal.
This guess was good, for the man there seemed to know me. He hailed me as “Herr Doktor.” Some trifling formalities being completed, I now faced the greater problem. The time, I learned, was nine o’clock, and I was uncertain of myself, you understand—particularly of my moustache! Nevertheless, since no dressing room was available, I entered the Regal.
The hall porter and the clerk on duty both greeted me as “Herr Doktor”! Bien.
“I wish to see M. Gaston Max,” I said. “Can you tell me if he is in?”
“Why! he left three days ago,” the clerk exclaimed.
“What!” I cried.
And truly I was astounded. Three days had elapsed since we had been kidnapped on the road below Felsenweir!
“He left hurriedly with his friend Mr. Woodville,” the clerk went on to say. “Someone from Cook’s came, settled their accounts, and collected their baggage. Unfortunately, I have no address, Herr Doktor. These French people are nearly as mad as the English!”
How thorough were the methods of our enemies! “Someone from Cook’s.” No loose end had been left! But I wondered what had become of my car! To use the name of the great Cook was audacious, and, I thought, significant. Things must be coming to a head or so great a risk would never have been taken.
I left the Regal and hurried to a quiet café. Desperately, I needed nourishment. I devoured sandwiches and drank beer. Certainly the Germans can brew beer!
Then I called at the headquarters of police and made myself known.
It was a sensation! It covers me with embarrassment this, but it is a fact—my name was famous even in Baden-Baden! The German authorities, little as I have cause to love them, are efficient!
I left that office certain that all I had suggested would be carried out; that Paris, London, Washington, and Berlin from now onward would be actively behind me. I hurried back to the Regal. It might be that my appointment was for to-night; that in Dr. Schreiber I should find a link with Felsenweir which should enable me to get in touch with those I had left behind, and to return as an advance guard of reinforcements to the post I had deserted—or so I felt.…
Along that path beside the little singing stream I walked. Your room, Woodville, was dark—no one else had occupied it. Moonlight aided me. Since I could not recognize Dr. Schreiber, I could only trust that he would recognize me. And, sure enough, presently a portly figure rose from a chair.
“Dr. Nestor!” I heard.
I paused. I was unaware of the exact intimacy which existed between us. I must be tactful; and so:
“Surely Dr. Schreiber!” I replied.
“My dear Dr. Nestor!” He grasped my hand. “It is a long time since we have met!” (I was glad of this.) “But it appears to me that you have not changed in the slightest.”
Always, I discovered, this Dr. Nestor was addressed in English. It was fortunate, since I have a good knowledge of the language. If I had been compelled to speak in German I might have betrayed myself. In Greek, I should have been lost!
“I return the compliment with pleasure!” I said. “Perhaps we have time to celebrate our meeting?”
“Why,” the doctor replied, “I think we might venture so far.”
“The Regal?”
“No, no! It is too public. I mean, one is noticed in hotels. Let us walk along to the Kurhaus and sit at a quiet table.”
We did as he suggested. And the table selected was not only quiet but in deep shadow. There we talked.
He was, or so it appeared, this worthy Dr. Schreiber, a high official of the brotherhood from the United States. Much of his conversation was unintelligible to me, although I contrived to pretend otherwise. But some of it was illuminating! The affiliated brethren on that continent, I gathered, had been broken up by the authorities. This had been a great disappointment, but it did not disturb their ultimate plans.
“I was told,” Dr. Schreiber continued, “that you would introduce me this evening, before visiting headquarters, to my British colleague, Sir Rathbone Edwardes, to Kluen Yung, of Hankow, and last but not least to that very remarkable man, Professor Dimes, of Melbourne. Where are we to meet them?”
You can imagine, my friend, the state of mind to which this remark reduced me! What I had learned was useless.
That there was a Kluen Yung, a Sir Rathbone Edwardes, and a Professor Dimes associated in this gigantic conspiracy would have been priceless information, if only I could have imparted it to the prefect of police! Now, it was too late!
I realized that I was getting out of my depth! But my experience with “Mr. King” of London, with “Diamond Ned” of New York, and at least one other super-criminal with whom I had come in contact, in this crisis served me well. “By the beard of the Prophet!” I exclaimed to myself—“now it is wit, for you have no data to act upon!”
“The Master has not advised you of the change of plan?” I asked.
“No!”
“We are meeting these gentlemen at Felsenweir. There is a certain urgency, you understand? Therefore we do not remain unduly long in Baden.”
Dr. Schreiber nodded.
“I understand,” he replied. “The hour draws near. And perhaps, as happened in America, interference threatens?”
“Serious interference,” I assured him. “John Lonergan of the United States Secret Service is here, in Baden.”
It is a compliment to Lonergan: Dr. Schreiber was staggered.
“What!” he exclaimed—“Lonergan! Then most certainly there is urgency!”
“I agree,” said I. “There is a famous English journalist here also, hot upon the scent, and worse, an agent of the Sûreté Générale!”
“Which agent?” Dr. Schreiber demanded.
“Gaston Max!”
“The Gaston Max?”
“There is only one Gaston Max,” I assured him.
He leaned across the table and pressed my arm.
“More and more I understand!” he declared. “What then are our orders?”
Again I found myself at a deadlock!
I must return. So much was evident. In the short time at my disposal I had done all that lay in my power. Now, my place was beside you. I must return! I must return!
But once I had done so, what were our chances?
Even now, the substitution might have been discovered! Certainly, it must be discovered within a very few minutes of my reëntering Felsenweir. The action I had requested of the German police authorities—no! name of a good little man! had demanded of them—could result in what? …
Felsenweir was impregnable! Those gallant troops formerly commanded by Foch could never have stormed it! Only by destruction with heavy artillery could access be obtained! Cunning—some treachery of the inhabitants—alone could aid us! Or, if the gun should arrive. This, I will explain later.
And it was then, my dear Woodville, that I thought of you!
Forgive me if I am obscure! This grotesque creature Anubis had said to me: “Your friend Woodville will join us. Because he is interested in the little Marusa and I will give her to him!”
How slender a thread! How hollow a hope! Yet I must hope for something. And above all, at the moment, I had to reply to Dr. Schreiber’s inquiry.
“It would be best,” I said, “if we returned immediately by road. My car is waiting.”
“Very good,” he agreed. “Let us go.”
You can imagine with what feelings I drove back! My chances were a thousand to one. I had no knowledge of the routine—how to demand that the gates should be opened—how to proceed when they were opened!
Dr. Schreiber unconsciously aided me. For, as we drew up:
“At last!” he cried, “I am to meet the Master face to face!”
He leaped out upon the road. Rushing to the gates, he beat upon them with clenched fists.
“Anubis!” he cried.
There was an interval.
“Anubis!”
The wicket opened.
I switched off the car lights and followed Dr. Schreiber into Felsenweir.…
When, at the end of that tedious climb, as we passed between those twin towers, under the teeth of the portcullis, and I saw light streaming out from Felsenweir’s ancient guardroom, I said good-bye to myself.
It was too much to suppose that Herr Richter, or Mme. Yburg, had failed to discover who lay in the crystal coffin! Of Madame I was uncertain. I dared not to believe what I longed to believe.… How far was she to be trusted? Already, perhaps, she had betrayed me! For she knew I had tricked Anubis! …
The ascetic Swede was not on duty. The door stood open. A very genial Dutchman greeted us. He welcomed Schreiber with enthusiasm. He was second Watch master, I learned. I kept my hat on—the brim pulled down.
“Your baggage is already in your room, Doctor,” he said. “Directly Anubis awakes he will see you. If you will be good enough to follow Yamamata…”
A Japanese manservant had appeared.
Presently, having made certain arrangements for a later meeting with Dr. Schreiber:
“I’ve got to see the Englishman,” I explained. “What room is he in?”
I remembered that M. Nestor was absent-minded. The second Watch master was genial… Is it sufficient? Here I am. And here—name of a good little man!—it appears to me I remain!
Three hopes we have, Woodville: First—Lonergan. Where is he? Second—myself. It is not known yet that I have left the crystal coffin! Third—Anubis. He is sleeping!
“With such a dial as you describe in our possession, Woodville, why should we…”
I produced the little apparatus.
“Good God! Let’s get out of here!”
“I am all for it! Demonstrate, my friend.”
With nervous fingers I moved the indicator until that hieroglyphic resembling an Arab A occupied the open space. There was a moment of tense silence, then:
“Listen!”
The elevator was ascending!
“Quick! We are perhaps going to our death—but what does it matter? If we stay, death is coming to us! Show me how I recall the lift… wait for me below.”
It was soon done. I saw the panel slide up. I stepped into the car. Silently I said good-bye to the watching Gaston Max.… Below, the great hall was empty—except for one of the Black Watch posted before that door which led to the laboratory and the apartments of Anubis.
I waited. The panel closed behind me—and I heard the lift reascending.
A few moments later, Max joined me.
“We must be greatly daring,” he whispered. “I shall become, in voice, M. Nestor.”
I nodded.
“Your anxiety is very natural, Mr. Woodville,” Max went on (his imitation of the dead man amazed and startled me). “Come right along. I expect your friend Lonergan is with Richter.”
Confidently he walked toward the Black Watch! If this elevator automatically stopped at the laboratory, he could know no more than I knew… nor if the giant guard would give us passage…
We were within three paces of this monster when it lowered the mace crashingly, stepped aside and revealed that opening in the wall which I knew!
“Go right ahead, Woodville,” Max directed in the voice of Nestor. “Wait for me.”
I entered. In darkness I moved up. Light came. I stepped out.…
This was the top of the staircase which once I had climbed! The elevator, this time, had brought me higher! Below, to the right, lay steps bathed in apparent moonlight; above, was the iron grille and the gaping pit. Before me, unguarded, I saw the opening in the wall and the short passage leading to the laboratory.
I heard the elevator going down.
A silence absolutely complete reigned about me.
I stood still. I listened.
Two—five—ten—fifteen seconds passed.… I heard the elevator ascending. I turned.
Max stepped out.
“Come this way, sir,” he directed, and walked along the corridor. “We’ll soon find Mr. Lonergan.”
Holding myself strictly in hand, I followed. I entered the laboratory. Across a maze of apparatus I saw the third chemist, Herr Richter. He was bending over that circular table which enabled the creatures of Felsenweir to watch the surrounding roads. He looked up.
“Hullo, Doctor! You are back early. Where are Sir Rathbone, Professor Dimes, and…”
“Following. I brought home-news for our friend, here, and for Mr. Lonergan, too. Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Herr Richter answered. “But I am glad you returned. I saw you arrive. Come and look. The roads below are curiously busy! I have put down Zone 3.”
Max turned to me.
“Be very careful,” he advised. “But I’ve warned you before. Follow me closely.”
We bent over that wonderful panorama.
I suppressed an exclamation.
The roads surrounding Felsenweir were animate with tiny figures!
“What do you make of it?”
Max considered the picture, then:
“Trouble!” he announced laconically.
Mentally, I sat at the feet of this master of his art; who, aided only by dim lighting and a self-possession unparalleled in my experience, carried out his monstrous illusion with the audacity of a Houdini.
“To wake Anubis before midnight,” Herr Richter went on, “would be fatal. He has not slept for over eighty hours. Dawn comes early. And we can laugh, after dawn!”
Max stood upright and spoke—but kept his back to Richter.
“Listen. I’ll take charge.”
“Excellent, Doctor! I am greatly obliged. I, also, am overtired, as you know.”
“Go and sleep. I’ll have you called ten minutes before twelve.”
“You take a great responsibility—to-night.”
“I’m taking it! We need to be fresh. All set?”
“Only too glad! I am dreadfully sleepy. Zone 3 is down, and you know that the control tower is cut off? Don’t move anything. Anubis is sleeping there. He will remain now at Central Control until the moment.… The injection at midnight also you should remember.…”
“The Frenchman?”
“Yes.”
“Good-night.”
“Good-night, Doctor.”
Gaston Max peered down again at those busy roads mirrored minutely upon opaque glass. Richter, silent in rubber soles, went away.
“They are acting,” he murmured. “After all, these Germans are efficient! We are surrounded, my friend! Witness, before you, the authority of my Sûreté Générale even in Germany! One thing only I doubt. Troops are bringing up a Krupp gun, resembling our own .75. Can they possibly get it placed upon the Devil’s Elbow in time?”
“What!”
“The control tower, Woodville! A perfect target… and the brain of Felsenweir!”
In a small room adjoining the laboratory I looked down upon Dr. Nestor in his crystal coffin. The thing lay in partial shadow, so that only the dead man’s face was lighted.
So startling was his resemblance—sans moustache and with his dark hair rearranged—to Gaston Max, that I gasped, and stared.
“Fate,” said my companion, drawing on white overalls over his dinner kit. “Nearly, the poor M. Nestor was my double. This, my friend, is ‘as it was written.’ So Moslems say. They are very wise. It is not meant that the world should end yet.” Suddenly, he resumed the voice of the dead man; and: “No, sir!” he added.
I dragged my gaze away from that ghastly thing.
“One point worries me. Where is Lonergan?”
“Mr. Lonergan is a clever man. Wherever he is, he is somewhere useful. Another point worries me! This point is: Since the Brotherhood of Anubis runs to timetable, what will happen when Sir Rathbone Edwardes, Professor Dimes, and Kluen Yung of Hankow realize that M. Nestor has missed his appointment?”
“They will come direct to Felsenweir.”
“I agree. But before they arrive, my friend, we must be gone!”
“How?”
Gaston Max, so ghastly a double of the dead man that I shuddered as I watched him, shrugged his shoulders in a way that was not that of the late Dr. Nestor.
“This,” he confessed, “is a small matter I have so far found myself unable to clear up!”
“Even if the gun is got there in time——” I cried.
“Ssh!”
I lowered my voice.
“We shall——”
“We shall have saved millions of lives,” Max interrupted simply. “For me, such an end would be sublime!”
Two problems held my mind: (a) Lonergan had joined Marusa in some plan. What? (b) Where were they?
Max, before the small mirror, was adjusting his simple but surprisingly effective make-up. He was now clad in white overalls. The illusion was complete—hideous. A dead man lived again.
At risk of that mysterious espionage which we knew to be a feature of Felsenweir, we talked—but in tones low-pitched.
And at what point of our conversation a newcomer entered the room I cannot say.
Some slight sound brought me sharply about.
Marusa was standing in the doorway!
I ran to her.
She was dressed as I had last seen her. But, now, her face looked unnaturally pale. As I put my arms around her:
“What is this?” I heard from Max.
“You are mad!” Marusa whispered to me… but, though it meant destruction, I think she was glad of this madness of mine.
She drew back, and faced the speaker.
“I want a word with Mr. Woodville,” she said composedly. “Please excuse us, Dr. Nestor.”
“Mon Dieu!” Max slapped his thigh in the high ecstasy of an artist. “I am, then, perfect!”
Marusa stared at him—and I saw fear growing in her eyes. With that automatic gallantry of his race, he threw Nestor’s light overcoat, which he had been carrying hitherto, across the shadowed crystal coffin, and stepped swiftly forward so that the girl never had a chance to see that horrible white face.
“Who are you? You are not Dr. Nestor!”
She clung to me.
“It is a friend,” I said in a low voice—“Gaston Max… Marusa Yburg.”
Max bowed.
“I have enjoyed the honour of admiring Mademoiselle,” he said, “but never until now that of speaking to her.”
There was an electrical moment, then:
“But Dr. Nestor——” Marusa began.
“Has gone away, dear Mlle. Yburg. I am impersonating him. It is only business. Until I met you I had succeeded!”
Marusa stared as if entranced.
“You are very wonderful,” she declared.
Gaston Max seized and kissed her hand.
“You are truly adorable,” he replied. “Quick! Where is Lonergan? What do we do?”
“We join him quickly.”
Marusa bit her lip—and I realized that she was dangerously tensed up.
“Where?”
“Follow me. It’s hell for leather. But we have a chance!” …
And so presently, our going unchallenged, we found ourselves upon an ancient staircase. Down we went, and down. Presently, came a memory. We had reached a point where a narrow flight of steps descended on the left, whilst rather farther ahead a second flight led upward.
The Bat Room! Those ascending steps led to that gloomy place where the flying suits were kept!
“I learned the truth to-night,” Marusa exclaimed suddenly—and I realized that what she had to say lay at the root of her suppressed hysteria. “Anubis is a fiend! He’s going to destroy the world!…”
Firmly I grasped her shoulders and held her.
“You are a wonderfully brave little lady,” I whispered. “I understand…”
Still holding her, I stopped short in my stride. Max pulled up.
A low, wailing sound had broken the silence of those subterranean passages! I felt Marusa grow tense.
“Someone is flying in!” she murmured. “Oh, please God, he can see it through! Quick! Down here!”
We hurried down those narrow steps on our left. In a small, square, dimly lighted room—obviously an old dungeon—we paused. On the stairs and in the passages we had followed so far an unnatural moonlight had prevailed. This place was lighted differently.
Our hurried entrance, followed by silence, provoked a vague rustling.… I looked about me. The room was lined with glass cases. It was insufferably hot. I saw eyes watching me! …
“Spiders!” Max hissed—“Giant spiders!”
“Ssh!” Marusa clutched him. “For heaven’s sake…”
This was the home of those “noxious creatures” to which I had heard Richter refer. But, swamping the horror of my surroundings and claiming priority of attention, was Marusa’s expression—“please God, he can see it through!”
What could she have meant?
I became aware of an indefinable throbbing sensation.
In a tense silence I looked about me. My attention was swiftly arrested.
A man, stripped to trousers and vest, gagged and bound, lay in a shadowy corner!
Then, dimly, came a sound of voices.
Marusa grasped my hand.
One voice asserted itself. The speaker drew nearer—nearer. I heard footsteps—a dim, vaguely familiar booming. There was now a definite throbbing in my ears.
“Straight up the steps, Professor. I shall join you in a moment.”