by Sax Rohmer
Yet another door was opened, and I entered into half light to find myself surrounded by glass cases, their windows set flush with the walls and illuminated from within.
“My mosquitoes and other winged insects,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu. “I am the first student to have succeeded in producing true hybrids. The subject is one which possibly does not interest you, Mr. Sterling, but one or two of my specimens possess characteristics which must appeal even to the lay mind.”
Yes; this was delirium. I recognized now that connecting link, which, if sought for, can usually be found between the most fantastic dream and some fact previously observed, seemingly forgotten, but stored in that queer cupboard which we call the subconscious.
The ghastly fly which had invaded Petrie’s laboratory — this was the link!
I proceeded, now, as a man in a dream, convinced that ere long I should wake up.
“My principal collection,” the guttural voice went on, “is elsewhere. But here, for instance, are some specimens which have spectacular interest.”
He halted before the window of a small case and, resting one long, yellow hand upon the glass, tapped with talon-like nails.
Two gigantic wasps, their wasted bodies fully three inches long, their wingspan extraordinary, buzzed angrily against the glass pane. I saw that there was a big nest of some clay-like material built in one corner of the case.
“An interesting hybrid,” said my guide, “possessing sawfly characteristics, as an expert would observe, but with the pugnacity of the wasp unimpaired, and its stinging qualities greatly increased. Merely an ornamental experiment and comparatively useless.”
He moved on. I thought that such visions as these must mean that I was in high fever, for I ceased to believe in their reality.
“I have greatly improved the sandfly,” Dr. Fu-Manchu continued; “a certain Sudanese variety had proved to be most amenable to treatment.”
He paused before another case, the floor thickly sanded, and I saw flea-like, winged creatures nearly as large as common houseflies...
“The spiders may interest you.”
He had moved on a few steps. I closed my eyes, overcome by sudden nausea.
The dream, as is the way with such dreams, was becoming horrible, appalling. A black spider, having a body as large as a big grapefruit, and spiny legs which must have had a span of twenty-four inches, sat amidst a putrid-looking litter in which I observed several small bones, watching us with eyes which gleamed in the subdued light like diamonds.
It moved slightly forward as we approached. Unmistakably, it was watching us; it had intelligence!
No horror I had ever imagined could have approximated to this frightful, gorged insect, this travesty of natural laws.
“The creature,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu, “has a definitely developed brain. It is capable of elementary reasoning. In regard to this I am at present engaged upon a number of experiments. I find that certain types of ant respond also to suitable suggestion. But the subject is in its infancy, and I fear I bore you. We will just glance at the bacteria, and you might care to meet Companion Frank Narcomb, who is in charge of that department.”
I made no comment — I was not even shocked.
Sir Frank Narcomb — for some time physician to the English royal family, and one of the greatest bacteriologists in Europe, had been a friend of my father’s!
I had been at Edinburgh at the time of his death, and had actually attended his funeral in London!
A door set between two cases slid open as my guide approached it. In one of these cases I saw an anthill inhabited by glittering black ants, and in the other, a number of red centipedes moving over the leaves of a species of cactus, which evidently grew in the case...
In a small but perfectly equipped laboratory, a man wearing a long white coat was holding up a test tube to a lamp and inspecting its contents critically. He was quite bald, and his skull had a curious, shrivelled appearance.
But when, hearing us enter, he replaced the tube in a rack and turned, I recognized that this was indeed my father’s old friend, aged incredibly and with lines of suffering upon his gaunt face, but beyond any question Sir Frank Narcomb himself!
“Ah, doctor!” he exclaimed.
I saw an expression of something very like veneration spring into the tired eyes of this man who, in life, had acknowledged none his master in that sphere which he had made his own.
“The explanation eludes me,” he said. “Russia persistently remains immune!”
“Russia!”
I had never heard the word spoken as Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke it. Those hissing sibilants were venomous.
“Russia! It is preposterous that those half-starved slaves of Stalin’s should survive when stronger men succumb. Russia!”
With the third repetition of the name a sort of momentary frenzy possessed the speaker. During one fleeting instant I looked upon this companion of my dream as a stark maniac. The madman discarded the gown of the scientist and revealed himself in his dreadful, naked reality.
Then, swiftly as it had come, the mood passed. He laid a long yellow hand upon the shoulder of Sir Frank Narcomb.
“Yours is the most difficult task of all, Companion,” he said. “This I appreciate, and I am arranging that you shall have more suitable assistance.” He glanced in my direction, and I saw that queer film flicker across his brilliant eyes. “This is Mr. Alan Sterling, with whom, I am informed, you are already acquainted.”
Sir Frank stared hard. As I remembered him he had been endowed with a mass of bushy white hair; now he was a much changed man, but the shrewd, wrinkled face remained the same. Came a light of recognition.
“Alan!” he said, and stretched out his hand. “It’s good to meet you here. How is Andrew Sterling?”
Mechanically I shook the extended hand.
“My father was quite well, Sir Frank,” I replied in a toneless voice, “when I last heard from him.”
“Excellent! I wish he could join us.”
In the circumstances, I could think of nothing further to say, but:
“Follow!” came the guttural order.
And once more I followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. THE HAIRLESS MAN
Our route led up a flight of stairs, rubber-covered like every other place I had visited with the exception of that strange study pervaded with opium fumes.
“The physiological research room,” Dr. Fu-Manchu said, “would not interest you. It is very small in this establishment, although Companion Yamamata, who is at present in charge, is engaged upon a highly important experiment in synthetic genesis.”
We entered a long, well-lighted corridor, with neat white doors right and left, each bearing a number like those in a hotel. These doors were perfectly plain and possessed neither handles nor keyholes.
“Some of the staff reside here,” my guide explained.
He pressed a button in the wall beside a door numbered eleven, and the door slid noiselessly open. I saw a very neat sitting room, with other rooms opening out of it.
“Temporarily...” the guttural voice continued.
There was a strange interruption.
A sort of quivering note sounded, a gong-like note, more a vibration of the atmosphere than an actual sound. But Dr. Fu-Manchu stood rigidly upright, and his extraordinary eyes glanced swiftly left along the corridor.
“Quick!” he said harshly, “inside! And close the door — there is a corresponding button in the wall. One pressure closes the door; two open it. Remain there until you are called, if you value your life.”
His harsh imperious manner had its effect. Some of the secret of this strange man’s power lay in the fact that he never questioned his own authority, or the obedience of those upon whom he laid his orders.
The force behind those orders was uncanny.
With no other glance in my direction he set off along the corridor, moving swiftly, yet with a sort of cat-like dignity.
With his withdrawal, some part of my real
self began to clamour for recognition. I hesitated on the threshold of the little room, watching him as he went. And when the tall figure, with never a backward glance, disappeared where the corridor branched right, something like a cold wave of sanity came flooding back to my brain.
This was neither delirium nor death! It was mirage. This place was real enough — the long corridor and the white doors — but the rest was hypnotism; a trick played for what purpose I could not imagine, by a master of that dangerous art!
That the woman called Fah Lo Suee was an adept, Sir Denis had admitted. This was her father, and her master.
Those living-dead men were phantoms, conjured up by his brain and displayed before me as an illusionist displays the seemingly impossible. Those vast forcing houses, the big laboratory, the horrible insects in their glass cases! It was perhaps his method of achieving conquest of my personality, submerging me and then using me.
Very well! I was not conquered yet. I could still fight!
That curious throbbing, as of a muted gong, continued incessantly.
What did it mean? What was the explanation of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s sudden change of manner and his hurried departure?
“Close the door... and remain there until you are called, if you value your life!”
These had been his words. He had spoken with apparent sincerity.
And now, as I watched, I saw a strange thing. At the foot of the stairs which we had ascended, I saw a door dropping slowly from the roof. I could feel the slight vibration of the mechanism controlling it.
I glanced swiftly left, along the corridor.
A similar door was descending just where the passage branched off!
They were stone doors, or something very like them, such as are used in seagoing ships. Was this the meaning of that constant vibrating note which now was beginning to tell upon my nerves?
What had happened? Had fire broken out? If so, I might well be trapped between the two doors, for I knew of no other exit. Further reflection assured me that these devices could not be intended for use in such an emergency as fire. What then was their purpose, and what was it that Dr. Fu-Manchu had feared?
The answer came, even as the question flashed into my mind.
Heralded by a hoarse, roaring sound, a Thing, neither animal nor human, a huge, naked, misshapen creature resembling an animated statue by Epstein, burst into view at the end of the corridor!
It had a huge head set upon huge shoulders. The head was hairless, and the entire face, trunk, and limbs glistened moistly like the skin of an earthworm. The arms were equally massive; but I saw that the hands were misformed, the fingers webbed, and the thumbs scarcely present.
The legs were out of all proportion to that mighty trunk, being stumpy, dwarfed, and terminating in feet of a loathsome pink colour — feet much smaller than the great hands, but also webbed.
From the appalling, glistening, naked face, two tiny eyes set close together beside a flattened nose with distended nostrils, glared redly, murderously, in my direction.
Uttering a sound which might have proceeded from a wounded buffalo, the creature hurled itself towards me...
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. HALF-WORLD
I sprang back, looking wildly right and left for the button which controlled the door.
The worm-man was almost upon me, and transcending all fear of a violent death was the horror of contact with those moistly glistening limbs. The control button proved to be on the right. I pressed it.
And the door began to close rapidly and smoothly.
In the very instant of its closing, a loathsome, moist mass appeared at the narrowing opening.
My heart leapt and then seemed to stop. I thought that one of those great pink arms was about to be thrust through. Judging the door to be a frail one, I looked in those few instances upon a fate more horrible than any which had befallen man since prehistoric times.
The door closed.
And now came a hollow booming, and a perceptible vibration of the floor upon which I stood.
That unnameable thing was endeavouring to batter a way in! I inhaled deeply, and knew such a sense of relief as I could not have believed possible under the roof of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
The door was of metal. Not even the unnatural strength of the monster could prevail against it.
All sounds were curiously muted here; but one harsh bellow of what I took to be frustrated rage reached me very dimly. Then silence fell.
I pressed my ear against the enamelled metal but could hear nothing save a vague murmuring, with which was mingled the rumble of those descending doors.
Thereupon I stood upright; and as I did so, a stifled exclamation brought me sharply about.
Fleurette was in the room just behind me!
She wore a blue-and-white pyjama suit and blue sandals. Her beautiful eyes registered the nearest approach to fear which I had seen in them. She had told me, I remembered, that nothing frightened her, but today — or tonight, for I had lost all count of time — something had definitely succeeded in doing so. Her face, which was so like a delicate flower, was pale.
“You!” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”
I swallowed, not without difficulty. I suffered from an intense thirst, and my throat remained very sore by reason of its maltreatment at the hands of the Dacoit.
My heart began jumping in quite a ridiculous way.
Yet I suppose the phenomenon was not so ridiculous, for Fleurette was more lovely than I had ever believed a woman could be. Oddly enough, her beauty swamped the last straw of reality upon which I had clutched in the corridor with its rows of white doors and which had remained with me up to the moment that the worm-man had appeared. I sank back again into a sea of doubt, from which, agonizingly, I had been fighting to escape.
Fleurette was dead! I was dead! This was a grim, a ghastly halfworld, horribly reminiscent of that state which Spiritualists present to us as the afterlife.
“I have joined you,” I replied.
My words carried no conviction even to myself.
“What?”
Her expression changed; she watched me with a new, keen interest.
“I have joined you.”
Fleurette moved towards me and laid one hand almost timidly upon my shoulder.
“Is that true?” she asked, in a low voice.
I had thought that her eyes were blue, but now I saw that they were violet. The life beyond, then, was a parody of that which we had lived on earth. I had seen travesties of my own studies in those monstrous houses; I had met with the fabulous Dr. Fu-Manchu; I had watched men still pursuing the secrets they had sought in life — amid surroundings which were a caricature of those they had known during their earthly incarnation.
Horror there was, in this strange borderland, but, as I looked into those violet eyes, I told myself that death had its recompenses.
“I am glad you are here,” said Fleurette.
“So am I.”
She glanced aside and went on rapidly:
“You see, I have been trained not to feel fear, but whenever I hear the alarm signal and know that the section doors are being closed — I feel something very like it! I don’t suppose you know about all this yet?” she added.
Already normal colour was returning to those rose-petal cheeks, and she dropped into a little armchair, forcing a smile.
“No,” I replied, watching her; “it’s unpleasantly strange.”
“It must be!” She nodded. “I have lived among this sort of thing on and off as long as I can remember.”
“Do you mean here?”
“No; I have never been here before. But at the old palace in Ho Nan the same system is in use, and I have been there many times.”
“You must travel a lot,” I said, studying her fascinatedly, and thinking that she had the most musical voice in the world.
“Yes, I do.”
“With Mahdi Bey?”
“He nearly always comes with me: he is my guardian, you see.”
“Your guardian?”
“Yes.” She looked up, a puzzled frown appearing upon her smooth forehead. “Mahdi Bey is an old Arab doctor, you know, who adopted me when I was quite tiny — long before I can remember. He is very, very clever; and no one in the world has ever been so kind to me.”
“But my dear Fleurette, how did you come to be adopted by an Arab doctor?”
She laughed: she had exquisite little teeth.
“Because,” she said, and at last that for which I had been waiting, the adorable dimple, appeared in her chin, “because I am half an Arab myself.”
“What!”
“Don’t I look like one? I am sunburned now, I know; but my skin is naturally not so many shades lighter.”
“But an Arab, with violet eyes and hair like... like an Egyptian sunset.”
“Egyptian, yes!” She laughed again. “Evidently you detect the East even in my hair!”
“But,” I said in amazement, “you have no trace of accent.”
“Why should I have?” She looked at me mockingly. “I am a most perfect little prig. I speak French also without any foreign accent; Italian, Spanish, German, Arabic, and Chinese.”
“You are pulling my leg.”
That maddening dimple reappeared, and she shook her head so that glittering curls danced and seemed to throw out sparks of light.
“I know such accomplishments are simply horrible for a girl — but I can’t help it. This learning has been thrust upon me. You see, I have been trained for a purpose.”
And as she spoke the words, dancing, vital youth dropped from her like a cloak. Those long-lashed eyes, which I had an insane desire to kiss, ceased to laugh. Again that rapt, mystical expression claimed her face. She was looking through me at some very distant object. I had ceased to exist.
“But, Fleurette,” I said desperately, “what purpose? There can be only one end to it. Sooner or later you will fall in love with — somebody or another. You will forget your accomplishments and everything. I mean — it’s a sort of law. What other purpose is there in life for a woman?”