In his normal condition, explanations that laid on impersonal forces outside himself the responsibility for all this life of dust and broken bottles would have occurred at once to his mind and been at once accepted. It would have been “the system” or “an inferiority complex” due to his parents, or the peculiarities of the age. None of these things occurred to him now. His “scientific” outlook had never been a real philosophy believed with blood and heart. It had lived only in his brain, and was a part of that public self which was now falling off him. He was aware, without even having to think of it, that it was he himself nothing else in the whole universe-that had chosen the dust and broken bottles, the heap of old tin cans, the dry and choking places.
An unexpected idea came into his head. This-this death of his-would be lucky for Jane. Myrtle long ago, Pearson at school, Denniston while they were undergraduates, and lastly Jane had been the four biggest invasions of his life by something from beyond the dry and choking places. Myrtle he had conquered by becoming the clever brother who won scholarships and mixed with important people. They were really twins, but after a short period in childhood during which she had appeared as an elder sister, she had become more like a younger sister and had remained so ever since. He had wholly drawn her into his orbit: it was her large wundering eyes and naif answers to his accounts of the circle he was now moving in which had provided at each stage most of the real pleasure of his career. But for the same reason she had ceased to mediate life from beyond the dry places. The flower, once safely planted among the tin cans, had turned into a tin can itself. Pearscn and Denniston he had thrown away. And he now knew, for the first time, what he had secretly meant to do with Jane. If all had succeeded, if he had become the sort of man he hoped to be, she was to have been the great hostess-the secret hostess in the sense that only the very esoteric few would know who that striking-looking woman was and why it mattered so enormously to secure her good will. Well . . . it was lucky for Jane. She seemed to him, as he now thought of her, to have in herself deep wells and knee- deep meadows of happiness, rivers of freshness, enchanted gardens of leisure, which he could not enter but could have spoiled. She was one of those other people-like Pearson, like Denniston, like the Dimbles-who could enjoy things for their own sake. She was not like him. It was well that she should be rid of him. Of course she would get over it. She had tried to do her best, but she didn’t really care for him. Nobody ever had, much.
At that moment came the sound of a key turning in the lock of the cell-door. Instantly all these thoughts vanished; mere physical terror of death, drying the throat, rushed back upon him. He scrambled to his feet and stood with his back against the farthest wall, staring as hard as if he could escape hanging by keeping whoever entered steadily in sight.
It was not a policeman who came in. It was a man in a grey suit whose pince-nez, as he glanced towards Mark and towards the light, became opaque windows concealing his eves. Mark knew him at once and knew that he was at Belbury. It was not this that made him open his own eyes even wider and almost forget his terror in his astonishment. It was the change in the man’s appearance-or rather the change in the eyes with which Mark saw him. In one sense everything about Professor Frost was as it had always been-the pointed beard, the extreme whiteness of forehead, the regularity of features, and the bright Arctic smile. But what Mark could not understand was how he had ever managed to overlook something about the man so obvious that any child would have shrunk away from him and any dog would have backed into the corner with raised hackles and bared teeth. Death itself did not seem more frightening than the fact that only six hours ago he would in some measure have trusted this man, welcomed his confidence, and even made believe that his society was not disagreeable.
Twelve
WET AND WINDY NIGHT
I
“WELL,” said Dimble, “there’s no one here.”
“He was here a moment ago,” said Denniston.
“You’re sure you did see someone?” said Dimble.
“I thought I saw someone,” said Denniston. “I’m not positive.”
“If there was anyone he must still be quite close,” said Dimble.
“What about giving him a call?” suggested Denniston.
“Hush! Listen! “said Jane. They were all silent for a few moments.
“That’s only the old donkey,” said Dimble presently, “moving about at the top.”
There was another silence.
“He seems to have been pretty extravagant with his matches,” said Denniston presently, glancing at the trodden earth in the firelight. “One would expect a tramp--”
“On the other hand,” said Dimble, “one would not expect Merlin to have brought a box of matches with him from the Fifth Century.”
“But what are we to do?” said Jane.
“One hardly likes to think what MacPhee will say if we return with no more success than this. He will at once point out a plan we ought to have followed,” said Denniston with a smile.
“Now that the rain’s over,” said Dimble, “we’d better get back to the car and start hunting for your white gate. What are you looking at, Denniston?”
“I’m looking at this mud,” said Denniston, who had moved a few paces away from the fire and in the direction of the path by which they had descended into the dingle. He had been stooping and using his torch. Now he suddenly straightened himself. “Look,” he said, “there have been several people here. No, don’t walk onto it and mess up all the tracks. Look. Can’t you see, sir?”
“Aren’t they our own footprints?” said Dimble.
“Some of them are pointing the wrong way. Look at that-and that.”
“Might they be the tramp himself?” said Dimble.
“If it was a tramp.”
“He couldn’t have walked up that path without our seeing him,” said Jane.
“Unless he did it before we arrived,” said Denniston.
“But we all saw him,” said Jane.
“Come,” said Dimble. “Let’s follow them up to the top. I don’t suppose we shall be able to follow them far. If not, we must get back to the road and go on looking for the gate.”
As they reached the lip of the hollow, mud changed into grass under foot and the footprints disappeared. They walked twice round the dingle and found nothing: then they set out to return to the road. It had turned into a fine night: Orion dominated the whole sky.
II
The Deputy Director hardly ever slept. When it became absolutely necessary for him to do so, he took a drug, but the necessity was rare, for the mode of consciousness he experienced at most hours of day or night had long ceased to be exactly like what other men call waking. He had learned to withdraw most of his consciousness from the task of living, to conduct business, even, with only a quarter of his mind. Colours, tastes, smells, and tactual sensations no doubt bombarded his physical senses in the normal manner: they did not now reach his ego. The manner and outward attitude to men which he had adopted half a century ago were now an organisation which functioned almost independently, like a gramophone, and to which he could hand over his whole routine of interviews and committees. While the brain and lips carried on this work, and built up day by day for those around him the vague and formidable personality which they knew so well, his inmost self was free to pursue its own life. That detachment of the spirit not only from the senses but even from the reason which has been the goal of some mystics was now his.
Hence he was still, in a sense, awake-that is, he was certainly not sleeping-an hour after Frost had left him to visit Mark in his cell. Anyone who had looked into the study during that hour would have seen him sitting motionless at his table, with bowed head and folded hands. But his eyes were not shut. The face had no expression; the real man was far away, suffering, enjoying, or inflicting whatever such souls do suffer, enjoy, or inflict when the cord that binds them to the natural order is stretched out to its utmost but not yet snapped. When the telephone rang at his elbow he
took up the receiver without a start.
“Speaking,” he said.
“This is Stone, sir,” came a voice. “We have found the chamber.”
“Yes.”
“It was empty, sir.”
“Empty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure, my dear Mr. Stone, that you have found the right place ? It is possible . . .”
“Oh yes, sir. It is a little kind of crypt. Stonework and some Roman brick. And a kind of slab in the middle, like an altar or a bed.”
“And am I to understand there was no one there? No sign of occupation?”
“Well, sir, it seemed to us to have been recently disturbed.”
“Pray be as explicit as possible, Mr. Stone.”
“Well, sir, there was an exit-I mean a tunnel, leading out of it to the south. We went up this tunnel at once. It comes out about eight hundred yards away, outside the area of the wood.”
“Comes out? Do you mean there is an arch-a gate-a tunnel mouth?”
“Well, that’s just the point. We got out to the open air all right. But obviously something had been smashed up there quite recently. It looked as if it had been done by explosives. As if the end of the tunnel had been walled up and had some depth of earth on top of it, and as if someone had recently blasted his way out. There was no end of a mess.”
“Continue, Mr. Stone. What did you do next?”
“I used the order you had given me, sir, to collect all the police available and have sent off search-parties for the man you described.”
“I see. And how did you describe him to them?”
“Just as you did, sir: an old man with either a very long beard or a beard very roughly trimmed, probably in a mantle, but certainly in some kind of unusual clothes. It occurred to me at the last moment to add that he might have no clothes at all.”
“Why did you add that, Mr. Stone?”
“Well, sir, I didn’t know how long he’d been there, and it isn’t my business. I’d heard things about clothes preserved in a place like that and all falling to pieces as soon as the air was admitted. I hope you won’t imagine for a moment that I’m trying to find out anything you don’t choose to tell me. But I just thought it would be as well to . . .”
“You were quite right, Mr. Stone,” said Wither, “in thinking that anything remotely resembling inquisitiveness on your part might have the most disastrous consequences. I mean, for yourself; for, of course, it is your interests I have chiefly had in view in my choice of methods. I assure you that you can rely on my support in the very-er-delicate position you have-no doubt unintentionally-chosen to occupy.”
“Thank you very much, sir. I am so glad you think I was right in saying he might be naked.”
“Oh, as to that,” said the Director, “there are a great many considerations which cannot be raised at the moment. And what did you instruct your search-parties to do on finding any such-er-person?”
“Well, that was another difficulty, sir. I sent my own assistant, Father Doyle, with one party, because he knows Latin. And I gave Inspector Wrench the ring you gave me and put him in charge of the second. The best I could do for the third party was to see that it contained someone who knew Welsh.”
“You did not think of accompanying a party yourself?”
“No, sir. You’d told me to ring up without fail the moment we found anything. And I didn’t want to delay the search-parties until I’d got you.”
“I see. Well, no doubt your action (speaking quite without prejudice) could be interpreted along those lines. You made it quite clear that this-ah-Personage-when found, was to be treated with the greatest deference and-if you won’t misunderstand me-caution?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Stone, I am, on the whole, and with certain inevitable reservations, moderately satisfied with your conduct of this affair. I believe that I may be able to present it in a favourable light to those of my colleagues whose good will you have, unfortunately, not been able to retain. If you can bring it to a successful conclusion you would very much strengthen your position. If not . . . it is inexpressibly painful to me that there should be these tensions and mutual recriminations among us. But you quite understand me, my dear boy. If only I could persuade-say Miss Hardcastle and Mr. Studdock-to share my appreciation of your very real qualities, you would need to have no apprehensions about your career or-ah-your security.”
“But what do you want me to do, sir?”
“My dear young friend, the golden rule is very simple. There are only two errors which would be fatal to one placed in the peculiar situation which certain parts of your previous conduct have unfortunately created for you. On the one hand, anything like a lack of initiative or enterprise would be disastrous. On the other, the slightest approach to unauthorised action-anything which suggested that you were assuming a liberty of decision which, in all the circumstances, is not really yours-might have consequences from which even I could not protect you. But as long as you keep quite clear of these two extremes, there is no reason (speaking unofficially) why you should not be perfectly safe.”
Then, without waiting for Mr. Stone to reply, he hung up the receiver and rang his bell.
III
“Oughtn’t we to be nearly at the gate we climbed over?” said Dimble.
It was a good deal lighter now that the rain had stopped, but the wind had risen and was roaring about them so that only shouted remarks could be heard. The branches of the hedge beside which they were tramping swayed and dipped and rose again so that they looked as if they were lashing the bright stars.
“It’s a good deal longer than I remembered,” said Denniston.
“But not so muddy,” said Jane.
“You’re right,” said Denniston, suddenly stopping.
“It’s all stony. It wasn’t like this at all on the way up. We’re in the wrong field.”
“I think,” said Dimble mildly, “we must be right. We turned half left along this hedge as soon as we came out of the trees, and I’m sure I remember-”
“But did we come out of the copse on the right side?” said Denniston.
“If we once start changing course,” said Dimble, “we shall go round and round in circles all night. Let’s keep straight on. We’re bound to come to the road in the end.
“Hullo!” said Jane sharply. “What’s this?” All listened. Because of the wind, the unidentified rhythmic noise which they were straining to hear seemed quite distant at one moment, and then, next moment, with shouts of “Look out!” “Go away you great brute! “-“Get back “-and the like, all were shrinking back into the hedge as the plosh-plosh of a horse cantering on soft ground passed close beside them. A cold gobbet of mud flung up from its hoofs struck Denniston in the face.
“Oh, look! Look!” cried Jane. “Stop him. Quick!”
“Stop him?” said Denniston who was trying to clean his face. “What on earth for? The less I see of that great clod-hopping quadruped, the better.”
“Oh, shout out to him, Dr. Dimble,” said Jane, in an agony of impatience. “Come on. Run! Didn’t you see?”
“See what?” panted Dimble, as the whole party, under the influence of Jane’s urgency, began running in the direction of the retreating horse.
“There’s a man on his back,” gasped Jane. She was tired and out of breath and had lost a shoe.
“A man?” said Denniston: and then, “By God, sir, Jane’s right. Look, look there! Against the sky . . . to your left.”
“We can’t overtake him,” said Dimble.
“Hi! Stop! Come back! Friends-amici-amici “bawled Denniston.
Dimble was not able to shout for the moment. He was an old man, who had been tired before they set out, and now his heart and lungs were doing things to him of which his doctor had told him the meaning some years ago. He was not frightened, but he could not shout with a great voice (least of all in the Old Solar language) until he had breathed. And while he stood trying to fill his lungs
all the others suddenly cried “Look” yet again: for high among the stars, looking unnaturally large and many legged, the shape of the horse appeared as it leaped a hedge some twenty yards away, and on its back, with some streaming garment blown far out behind him in the wind, the great figure of a man. It seemed to Jane that he was looking back over his shoulder as though he mocked. Then came a splash and thud as the horse alighted on the far side; and then nothing but wind and starlight again.
IV
“You are in danger,” said Frost, when he had finished locking the door of Mark’s cell, “but you are also within reach of a great opportunity.”
“I gather,” said Mark, “I am at the Institute after all and not in a police station.”
“Yes. That makes no difference to the danger. The Institute will soon have official powers of liquidation. It has anticipated them. Hingest and Carstairs have both been liquidated. Such actions are demanded of us.”
“If you are going to kill me,” said Mark, “why all · this farce of a murder charge?”
“Before going on,” said Frost, “I must ask you to be strictly objective. Resentment and fear are both chemical phenomena. Our reactions to one another are chemical phenomena. Social relations are chemical relations. You must observe these feelings in yourself in an objective manner. Do not let them distract your attention from the facts.”
“I see,” said Mark. He was acting while he said it-trying to sound at once faintly hopeful and slightly sullen, ready to be worked upon. But within, his new insight into Belbury kept him resolved not to believe one word the other said, not to accept (though he might feign acceptance) any offer he made. He felt that he must at all costs hold on to the knowledge that these men were unalterable enemies: for already he felt the old tug towards yielding, towards semi-credulity, inside him.
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