“It was deathly still. For the first time he saw through the half light an oaken table and on it the heavy book chained, as was the custom in older days. The links had rusted, and he snapped one of them between his nimble fingers. He looked closely at the yellow pages, marveling at the wondrous artwork of the master who had illuminated them. Great capital letters stretched down the margins in faded greens, yellows, and reds. It was well-nigh impossible to read the sentences. He had brought a huge magnifying glass with him. He applied it, and was surprised to see how the words leaped at him as though greedy to be deciphered after a half century of retirement. In spite of the age Carson saw that the strong lines plainly held their shape. With the aid of his glass he might easily read what he desired. Raising his head, he spoke to the monk. His eye happened to catch sight of an ancient cupboard in one end of the cell. Leaving the monk to examine the Bible, he stepped over the musty floor and turned the knob. He found nothing within except a very strange odor. It might have been that of almonds. He wasn’t sure. Just then he heard a cry which he admitted to me had clung to him ever since. It wasn’t so much a cry as a sort of long-drawn-out sob that filled every crook and cranny of the tiny room. He swung about on his heels, and saw the monk falling to the floor, dragging the table over on his head. The candle went out as it followed the book in the downward crash. Carson was left in absolute, impenetrable darkness.
“As he said, it took him about a minute to collect his senses. That, as you know, is a mighty long time under such circumstances. He didn’t hear another sound, but his nostrils began to fill with that nasty odor. It seemed to madden him. He wasted twenty matches trying to light one of them. When he had found the candle and raised it above his head so as to obtain a better view of the cell he saw that the monk lay perfectly still. A corner of the table had crashed through his skull. A moving thread curled back into the leaves of the book lying at his feet. Carson saw this with startled eyes. Letting out a silly shriek, he rushed out of the door and up the winding stairs, down the long corridors, and out into the sunlight. There is something about the sun which is friendly and warm, and in a little while he was feeling better. The prior came running out into the garden, followed by the other monks. They heard the story with absolute silence. Carson spoke, as he described it to me, through chattering lips. His voice sounded far off. He waved his hands foolishly, and then collapsed.
“That was all there was to the adventure. He kept still about it because the good old prior begged him to. It would have been disbelieved anyhow. The story was given out that a heavy table killed the monk. Indeed, Carson was sure that this was what really had killed him. He was taken into a quiet room and nursed back to reason in a very short while. He really possessed a fairly level head. It isn’t surprising that he attributed the whole thing later on to some queer delusion. His fear of the tarantula, however, grew out of this. He couldn’t have sworn that that was the thing which had haunted the book. It was too large, anyhow. It was very much like one. This much he knew absolutely.”
Kennedy lit another cigar and made himself a bit more comfortable. I was conscious of not having moved during the whole recital of the story. My cramped muscles ached, and I moved a sleeping leg with some difficulty. The noise of the ceaseless drums beat on my ears more aggravatingly than ever. We waited silently. He went on:
“Well, there isn’t much more to tell. Birney came to me the following morning with white lips and begged me to go to Carson’s room. I had parted from him the night before feeling that I had effectually quieted his aroused nerves. Birney’s frightened countenance left me cold. I opened Carson’s door, and found him sitting before the mirror, clasping in one hand a large revolver. I saw what happened in a moment. While Birney ran for the servants I looked down at the smile which had frozen itself into the tight lips of the dead man. I have always been a close observer. At this time I was especially so. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why Carson had killed himself so suddenly. Then, as I heard the steps of the servants down the hallway, my eye caught the end of a red tie protruding from a book lying on the table. I glanced back at Carson’s body, and then in the mirror for some unknown reason. I saw the book clearly. The glass was cheap and the red tie seemed to waver and fade in the distance. After they took him away I sat down in the chair myself. Turning my head slightly to the left, I could catch just a glimpse of the tie. I was startled by it. To my muddled mind it seemed to be a monstrous spider. In a flash the whole thing came over my mind. Poor Carson had returned to his room thinking that he would get a good night’s sleep. He lit the light; this was still burning, by the way, and sat down before his dresser for a second. Perhaps he was looking for something in one of the drawers. He found it, I have no doubt. When the cold steel touched his sensitive fingers he must have started back and gained his first glimpse of the tie resting in the book. I tried the same trick. I knew which drawer the revolver was kept in, as I had often seen him take it out before we went beyond the compound on a business trip. That was when the order first went into effect that no white man could go out without a revolver or rifle.
“Still sitting in the chair, I lifted my hand, as though I were holding the weapon, and pointed it over my shoulder. The reflection in the glass was so indistinct and blurred that it was difficult to aim at the book. It was clear enough to me then. He had meant to shoot what he thought was a tarantula and had by mistake killed himself. In fact the bullet had passed through the back part of his head. I have never said anything about this before because of Birney. He was sorry enough afterward, as it was, without my adding the true story of how Carson died. I have never felt that I had a right to until I learned of Birney’s death the other day.”
WHEN SUPER-APES PLOT, by Anthony Wilder
CHAPTER I
FROM ANOTHER WORLD
Dawn in the Borneo jungle! The rising sun shone down upon what may have been the strangest sight seen in that vast wilderness since the beginning of time. A dark and gloomy lake, some ten miles wide, lay shimmering beneath gray mists which rose like clouds of steam from its glassy surface; here and there this surface was broken by waterspouts which constantly boiled up and fell back again as though heated from the depths’ beneath by gigantic fires.
On all sides was virgin jungle. A dense rank growth of trees and vines rose up from the very edge of the water like a living wall, hemming in the lake with an almost solid mass of vegetation which reached unbroken for miles and miles.
Near the center of this lake there was an island. Like the mainland, this island seemed to be covered with verdure, but from near the middle of it the twin peaks of a great mountain reared up far above the treetops, and from between these peaks rose a tall column of yellowish smoke that spiraled sullenly into the upper atmosphere. To the eyes of the initiated this lazy smoke wreath told the reason for those boiling waterspouts: the whole region was volcanic, undermined with sleeping fires of a vastness beyond the conception of man.
Unusual as were these natural phenomena, however, there was a far stranger thing in the lake that morning—a thing which had not been there when the sun rose on the previous day. Some two hundred feet from the shore of the island, near a point where a little sandy beach broke the monotony of the tree-fringed coast and where the black water was free from geysers, a huge seaplane lay floating gently on the still surface.
Like some great fowl of an unknown species this visitor from another world rested in its dark setting, its metal parts and white planes, nearly a hundred feet across, reflecting the early rays of the sun, its propellers and engines motionless and silent.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky and the lake mists evaporated and disappeared, there were sundry indications of life in the anchored seaplane. A canvas curtain which inclosed the entire hull was rolled up, and a tall, strong-looking man, about thirty years of age, thrust his head and shoulders over the side to survey the island.
Presently this man was joined by another, shorter and of dark complexion; then came a
thin, gray-haired old fellow; and last of all a very pretty young woman with a wealth of yellow hair, which reflected the sun’s rays like polished gold.
For a few minutes the four people contemplated the scene before them in silence; then the younger white man—he of the tall figure and wide shoulders who had first appeared—grinned boyishly.
“Some scenery, isn’t it?” he remarked, dropping one big arm caressingly around the waist of his wife, who had come close up to him. “It’s the island all right; there can’t be another place just like this anywhere on earth. That beach yonder looks like a scene from a comic opera—one almost expects to see a group of chorus girls come dancing out of the trees.”
“A band of naked savages would be more in order,” the old man chuckled, as he removed his spectacles to wipe them with his handkerchief. “One must expect the unexpected in such a place as this. Nature is nowhere more wonderful than in the tropics; she works slowly, but with a lavish hand. Our plane gives things a distinctly up-to-date touch, however.”
“You’re right there, doctor,” the first speaker agreed, letting his eyes wander pridefully over the great machine which had brought them all the way from America to that little-known land. “No place on earth is inaccessible these days. The trip has been nice and comfy, too; no hardship at all.”
“It’s been glorious!” his wife exclaimed, snuggling closer to his side. “Perfectly glorious! Not a single hitch since we left San Francisco—if only it will continue!”
“No reason in the world why it shouldn’t, honey,” the big man declared. “We haven’t a single thing to worry about. The Bamangani are harmless enough if they’re decently treated, and the presents we’ve brought them will keep them jabbering with delight for years to come. There’s no reason why they should not be friendly. Now, we’d better have breakfast. We’ve got lots to do, you know. Batu and I must go ashore and explain matters to these ape-men. If they should happen to catch a glimpse of the Condor before we talk with them they’ll likely be scared stiff. Eh, Batu?”
The Dyak grinned broadly. “Yes, tuan,”—master—he answered. “Bamangani not understand flying through the air—think we are gods or devils when they see big bird-boat. Think us very much taboo. Sure, Mike!” He turned and ducked down into the little cabin amidships to attend to his cooking, and the others smiled.
Several years of city life had made some wonderful changes in Batu, and the most noticeable of these, perhaps, was the aptitude he had shown for English, especially American slang. With the exception of the word “tuan,” by which term of affectionate respect he always addressed his employer, he reverted to his mother tongue only in moments of great stress or excitement.
When he left Borneo to follow the master, whom he loved even better than his native jungle, to America he had been an untamed son of the wilderness; now he was a more-or-less-finished product of the land of his adoption. Nominally, he was Thomas Hardin’s personal servant; actually he was a friend, almost a member, of the family, as indispensable to them as the banker and his wife were to him.
At the breakfast table in the cheerful little cabin, around which they presently gathered, the various members of the expedition discussed their plans for the day. They all were in high good humor that morning. Their journey had been a wonderful success so far. The seaplane—the very latest thing in flying craft, and capable of carrying twice its present allotment of passengers as well as the immense amount of fuel, arms, and provisions with which it was stored—had made the long flight with remarkable ease and speed. They had not found it necessary to make a single unscheduled stop, and they had not encountered a single storm en route.
This in itself was enough to put them in buoyant spirits; but this was not all. For various reasons they were all of them glad to reach the island. Doctor Thorold Dumont, famous scientist and exponent of Darwinism, was glad because he was going to have an opportunity of studying the strange race of natives which lived there. Thomas Hardin, wealthy banker and sportsman of world-wide reputation, and Irene, his wife and Doctor Dumont’s niece, were happy because Borneo brought back memories of the days when they first had met and learned to love each other; and Batu, the former Dyak chieftain, was elated at the thought of spending a few days in his native jungle.
“Batu and I will do some scouting and prospecting this morning,” Hardin decided. “We’ll tramp inland toward the volcano and try to get in touch with the natives. After we’ve established friendly relations with them—a mere formality, of course—you two can land, and we’ll all go on to their village.”
Doctor Dumont nodded. “All right,” he said; “but be as quick as you can, please. Remember, I am exceedingly anxious to test my theories. I want to see if there is any ground for the current belief that they are directly descended from the ape. If they are, if any of them have rudimentary tails, as I am inclined to believe, Professor Archer’s statement to the contrary notwithstanding, it will be a big step forward. When I was in Borneo years ago I was interrupted before I could prove or disprove this important fact. This time I must not fail.”
“You’ll be careful, won’t you, Tom?” Irene begged, looking at her big husband anxiously. “Don’t forget that these ape-men are only a little way removed from brutes. They used to be head hunters and cannibals, you know, and we must be on our guard against treachery.”
“I know, dear,” he assured her, smiling; “but that was long ago. Conditions are very different now. The Bamangani have absolutely no reason to be hostile; quite the contrary, in fact. They should be glad to see us, and they will be when they see what we’ve brought them. Our presents will tickle them to death. There’s no danger—if there was, we wouldn’t have come. Besides, at the very first hint of trouble we can fly away again. You mustn’t worry, honey.”
“Oh, I’m not worrying,” Irene declared, although her eyes belied her words; “but I can’t help thinking. I wish uncle’s business wasn’t forever taking him into such outlandish places. This island is a spooky place; it makes me uneasy. We must be very careful until we’re sure of our reception.”
“We will be, of course. We’ll take every precaution. After we land, you must run the Condor out here again and anchor until we return. We’ll be back before dark. Some of the natives might wander this way in the meantime, however, and it would be better in such an event for the plane to be out of reach. Except Batu, none of us can speak their language, you know. At the least hint of danger take to the air or the middle of the lake and fire a gun twice rapidly for a signal—sounds like that will travel far in this still atmosphere.”
CHAPTER II
SIGNS OF TROUBLE
As soon as breakfast was finished and he and Batu had strapped cartridge belts and revolvers around their waists, Hardin started the engines and maneuvered the bird-boat close in to the beach so that he and the Dyak could jump ashore. Then, standing on the sand, he watched Irene return to their former anchorage.
When she had done so and killed the engines, he waved his hand in good-by and followed Batu up a deep, rock-walled gully which, they knew, would take them through the fringe of jungle to the open plateau which lay between the shore and the foot of the mountain.
In the beginning they proceeded slowly, for they were in no particular hurry; the path was steep and treacherous, and there was much to see. Ten yards from the beach they were as completely surrounded by bushes and lianas as if the lake had been miles away. The walls of the gorge were matted with creeping vines which interlaced overhead, so that the two men walked in a kind of tunnel that was carpeted with ferns and moss-covered stones.
Batu was pleased to the point of elation at this chance to revisit old scenes and renew old acquaintances. His ordinarily somber features were continually wreathed in smiles as they clambered along over the many obstructions which blocked the path.
“Look, tuan,” he kept saying, “look, tuan, there is the place near that great rock where my people camped once. I remember this place well, tuan; I came here many
years ago with my father, the headman, when we were on our way to visit the Fire Mountain. Great Ji-meeny!” The last exclamation was called forth by the sight of a great brown snake in the rocks ahead of them, and he bounded off to investigate.
Hardin smiled good-naturedly. Naturally very strong, he had kept his body hard as nails by sports and exercise so that he was not wearied by the steep climb as many men of sedentary occupations would have been. He was interested, however, in the many new and strange sights which were constantly appearing, and his thoughts were too engrossing to permit him to hurry.
He was wondering, too, just where they would first meet some member of the Bamangani tribe and what sort of a reception they would receive when they did so. The thought of danger never entered his head, but he knew that the ape-men would be surprised and at first suspicious, and he had, therefore, taken such precautions as he thought best to insure his wife’s safety until after the first flurry of explaining their presence on the island was over.
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