by Sax Rohmer
Instantly, memory swept back—a flood of horrors.
I sat up and looked about me. . . .
On setting out with Gaston Max I had dressed hastily over my pajamas. I discovered that I still wore them. My outer garments were folded on a chair beside the bed. Upon a small table lay my Colt and some few other personal belongings.
The room in which I found myself was flooded with what appeared to be sunlight. Yet it possessed no window! There was no lamp, nor could I detect the presence of any lighting device whatever. Furthermore, and most staggering discovery of all, there was no door!
This amazing room was square, having a polished wood floor. Its walls were olive green at the base, this green being graduated as the walls ascended and becoming aquamarine where they joined the ceiling which, whilst of the same colour, was of even lighter shade.
Immediately facing me and in direct line with my bed, a square opening showed a narrow bathroom. I could see to the end of it and all three walls. There was no window and no door. But, like my bedroom, it appeared to be flooded with sunlight!
Physically I felt as well as I had ever felt in my life. Having taken in my astounding environment, I closed my eyes again for a few seconds and then reopened them.
Yes, it was real! And at this moment:
“Good morning, Brian Woodville!”
The Voice! . . .
I clenched my fists, looking sharply about me.
“Don’t be alarmed,” the Voice went on. “You are my guest and quite safe. Indeed, I am glad you have joined us, although you did so somewhat reluctantly. We shall be meeting later. But in the meantime, what attendance would you like? I can send you a Japanese manservant, an English batman, or a French valet. On the other hand, I can recommend a beautiful Circassian highly accomplished in matters of the toilet, or a Nubian girl like an ebony statue carved by a Greek master, who will prepare your bath in such a manner that it will exhilarate and rejuvenate you.”
The Voice ceased!
“Thank you,” I said, speaking as one who comments upon a radio programme—confident that his criticisms are unheard. “I can dispense with their services. I'm used to preparing my own bath.” A saving sense of humour came to my aid, and: “A cup of tea would be welcome,” I added.
“My dear Woodville,” the Voice assured me, “it shall be brought to you at once.”
I sprang out of bed.
Not only could I hear the Voice, but also . . . the Voice could hear me!
Could he see me? I debated my next step.
A pair of comfortable slippers had been placed beside the bed. Wearing these, I walked into the bathroom, which was tiled in green and gold mosaic. A Gillette razor, evidently new, with a packet of unopened blades lay upon a glass shelf, together with a shaving brush of first quality and a sealed stick of soap.
The hot water proved to be boiling; the cold water was apparently iced. A bath of light green marble looked inviting; and one wall consisted of a single mirror some nine feet high and twelve feet long.
A number of jars ranged upon a shelf contained essences and crystals of various kinds. A jade bowl the size of a cooking pot held some kind of talc powder and was topped by a gigantic puff upon which an ebony negress, possibly resembling that Nubian described by the Voice, crouched to form a handle. Sunshine warmed everything.
Yet there was no window. . . .
I began to shave. Odd how habits of a lifetime cling to us. I suppose a condemned man shaves for his execution. I had little more to look forward to. Yet quite automatically I began to shave. I had not dared to begin to think. Having been once over my aggressive beard, I was relathering lightly when a sound like that made by an elevator arrested me.
Dropping the brush, I hastily wiped soap from my chin and stepped to the outer room.
A section of the wall—floor to ceiling and some four feet wide—had opened. . . . From it stepped a gigantic figure in armour!
I clenched my teeth but uttered no sound. I watched the figure pace slowly across the room. Its armoured hands held a tray. Upon the tray I saw a bowl of fruit, rolls, butter, sugar, cream, and a teapot—also a box of my favourite cigarettes!
The armour of this incredible servant clinked faintly, metallically, as it set the tray upon a table. Then, standing upright and turning—this slowly but with military precision—the figure walked back into the opening and began to sink, apparently into the floor!
Stupid with amazement as I was, nevertheless I saw that a panel was descending correspondingly. With the disappearance of the attendant’s head below floor level, this panel closed completely. The wall became whole again.
I forgot that I had been shaving. I was tied remorselessly to the present. I dropped down upon the bed, staring at my breakfast tray. . . .
2
That I was awake and in possession of my senses was certain. That I was a prisoner in the castle of Felsenweir seemed a reasonable deduction. I ate a roll and butter and a beautifully ripened peach* and I drank two cups of excellent tea.
I completed the operation of shaving and lighted one of the cigarettes so thoughtfully provided by my invisible host.
A pair of new brushes and a comb by a Bond Street firm suggested some rearrangement of my disordered hair.
Having bathed luxuriously, I groomed myself as for a lovers’ meeting, resumed my pajama suit, added socks, shoes, the well-worn flannels, and that pull-over which had formed the hasty make-up in which I had left the Regal.
I sat down in a comfortably cushioned armchair and wondered when the master of my destiny would deign to indicate the next move.
There was perfect silence in the supernaturally sunlighted apartment. Smoking, I meditated. First, and this priority was significant, I thought of Marusa.
From that enchanting figure my ideas wandered to the armoured creature. Grotesque—abnormal. It undoubtedly corresponded to the figure photographed by Lonergan—the figure which had patrolled the battlements. It was the same as, or identical with, that black horror which had cut off my escape on the road below Felsenweir.
A possible truth intruded—an unwelcome truth.
The Thing was not human: it was an automaton! My old theories, based on mediaeval superstitions, gave place to new ones. The great bats—were they susceptible of scientific explanation? Now that I had seen one of the armoured men at close quarters, I was disposed to believe, as Gaston Max had suggested, that all the mysteries that puzzled us might prove to be reducible to a reasonable explanation.
So far, so good. But a scientist capable of these achievements, one so far in advance of his generation, might further be capable of producing, not only the activities, but the appearance of humanity!
This was the new horror which obsessed me.
Marusa!
Was she a real woman or a creature of this master illusionist into whose power I had fallen?
The idea was maddening. I cursed the train of reasoning which had created it. I was beginning to ascribe powers almost godlike to my captor. This thralldom 1 must shake off.
I stood up and began closely to examine the walls of my apartment. If Gaston Max had formulated a theory, admittedly never substantiated, respecting the origin of the Voice, surely I could discover some explanation of why a windowless room should be flooded with sunshine.
Carefully I set to work, bringing to bear all I knew, had read, or had heard of modern lighting devices.
I drew a blank. There was no clue to the mystery. And I was about to smoke another cigarette, when:
“My dear Woodville!”
I dropped the match. I stood rigid, cigarette in hand.
It was the Voice!
“I don’t know what you are looking for. If it is a way out, you will never find it. But perhaps the source of the light intrigues you? It will be made clear in time. For the moment I am going to ask you to have a chat with a friend which may perhaps lead to a better understanding between us.” . . .
I heard that faint whining sound which I
had heard before. My glance flashed to a part of the wall. As I watched, swiftly the wall opened. From the gap created, a man stepped out. . . .
3
At great speed the panel reclosed, its descent marked by the characteristic whine. I stared at the newcomer.
I saw a man of about my own build, wearing pajamas, slippers, and a dressing gown of bright yellow. Abundant reddish-brown hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. It was slightly gray at the temples, which added character to a square-cut, clean-shaven face.
He met my regard with a sort of glassy fixity of expression. This expression was unpleasant—in fact ghastly. It was utterly unfamiliar—as was the man’s whole appearance. But his eyes were not!
I experienced a degree of bewilderment to which I had never sunk before.
“Lonergan!” I whispered. . . . “Lonergan!”
“Himself!”
It was the well-known voice! Not the voice of the Rev. Josiah Higgins, but the voice which I had first associated with Aldous P. Kluster. And yet, in some odd way, it was different.
I grasped his hand.
“Thank God!” I exclaimed. “I was afraid-”
But I broke off, knowing myself to be face to face with a proposition in which stark insanity lurked immediately around the corner.
“I can guess,” said Lonergan. “It don’t matter, anyway. Whatever happened before you arrived here—just forget it.”
I stared uncomprehendingly. For some reason I could not focus his glance. He seemed to be looking through me. I struck another match and lighted my cigarette.
“What occurred after you left the note?”
Lonergan’s expression remained obtuse.
“The note,” he repeated. “What note?”
His manner resembled that of one groping for forgotten lines; or, as I realized later, listening for the voice of the prompter.
“The note telling us to follow you to Felsenweir!”
“Oh!” He seated himself upon the side of the bed continuing to stare queerly before him. “Yes. That. . . . Well, it was necessary.”
“Necessary?”
“Sure. Otherwise you’d have crashed with the rest of the world. I didn’t want that to happen— not after I knew.”
I stood in front of him looking down . . . but found myself quite unable to catch his eye.
“After you knew? Lonergan, I don’t understand you. What has happened?”
He looked up. But although he was staring straight at me, there was no clash of interest. He was still looking through me. It was uncanny.
“Just this, Woodville: What I came to the Black Forest looking for, I’ve found. I can explain everything. But first, you’ve got to make a decision.”
“About what?”
“About all of us. The world ends some time this week. Are we to end with it, or are we to go on ? ”
I experienced a keen pang. Lonergan had gone over to the enemy!
In the circumstances I determined to temporize. For how could I know what had led to his defection?
“We’ll go on.”
“That’s sane,” he replied mechanically. “I figured all along there were no bats in your belfry. You know me, and when I say you’re wise it means something. Am I right?”
“Quite right.”
“Take it or leave it, the world checks out. Neither the United States nor Britain nor France are going to mean a damn thing once the die is cast. They’ll just be swept away. Only a fool would fight for a country that’s ceased to exist except as a name—or a memory. There’s suicide. If you like to take that route, I guess it’s open to you. Short of it, there’s no choice.”
He spoke on monotonously. It was the voice of Lonergan—but not his diction, his manner. I was puzzled; horrified.
“The Deluge all over again, Woodville. For you and for me there’s just one question: not what it means to the crowd who must go under, but whether we’re shipping in the Ark or staying to be drowned. Just one question. But I’m here to say you’ve got to answer it in an hour. I had less.”
“And you chose . . .?”
“The Ark, sure.”
“You were wise.” I marvelled that I had my voice in such good control.
Lonergan, who had been staring past me whilst he spoke, now looked up. For a brief moment I caught and held the fugitive glance. But that moment told me all. . . . Warning—entreaty—agony. These I read, and more!
Then his stare cut through mine again and became fixed on some distant spot far behind me, so that his eyes appeared to be slightly crossed.
“Have I convinced you?”
“Entirely!”
He stood up.
“We’re here,” he said with a sudden odd note of weariness. He moved in a mechanical way across the room. “And we’re safe.”
That whining noise accompanied his last words. A panel opened and Lonergan stepped through. Immediately he began to drop floorward.
“But I’m glad you’re wise, Woodville,” came as the panel closed.
CHAPTER XVI - ALL WE SAY IS HEARD.,.,
1
Time had no existence in Felsenweir.
Endless sunshine and silence created an impression of eternity utterly beyond my powers to describe. That it was morning I had many reasons for supposing. But so far as other evidence went it might equally well have been midnight. (As a matter of fact, it was neither.)
Lonergan’s visit had appalled me. Behind those glassy eyes I had glimpsed a soul in torment.
Was he bewitched—or under the influence of a drug? A drug! Here lay a possible explanation! At last I identified a hazy impression which had haunted me during the time Lonergan had been with me. t saw in imagination the witch doctor of a tribe Jiving far up the Rio Negro as once I had seen him in the flesh. Again I listened to his oddly mechanical speech and tried in vain to hold his glassy and oblique glance. That man had been under the influence of a drug—a drug unknown to European pharmacists, but possessing seemingly magical properties.
I stared about my prison with a new apprehension. Lonergan’s curious evasion of the point which I considered of paramount interest—namely, under what circumstances he had left the Regal—now presented itself in a new light.
Hazily, I started to formulate a theory. Purpose began to appear in what had seemed purposeless, and I saw that Max and I had walked into a cunningly laid trap.
I too had been drugged! The nude horror from which I had fled, only at last to fall a captive, had contrived in some way to drug me. . . .
Even now, was I really master of my own will?
Suspecting myself to be constantly watched from some hidden spy-hole, I recognized the uselessness of any exploration. This idea of sleepless espionage was definitely horrible.
I dropped in the armchair and lighted a cigarette. Come what may, I must not lose my nerve. As I did so, the Voice addressed me.
“Woodville,” came those cold tones in which I now seemed to detect a mocking note, “as I am anxious that you should understand the facts of your position, I have asked Marusa to come and talk to you.”
My heart leaped. But I succeeded in retaining immobility.
“Since you are interested in her, she can possibly make you see reason. We are a friendly company, Woodville. When you have had a chat, I shall be ready to receive you."
Silence again!
Between horror of this proof, if proof were necessary, that Marusa was indeed a member of the shadowy group surrounding the Voice, and joy of knowing I was about to meet her again, I found myself in a chaotic frame of mind. Forces outside my knowledge and beyond my control stormed and tossed about me. Why I had been spared and what I was expected to do, I could only surmise. But, that cunning coercion would be brought to bear to influence that “decision” for which the Voice had made me responsible, I could not doubt.
I was to be offered apparently some alternative to death. Except that his behaviour was not that of one strictly compos mentis, it would seem that Lo
nergan had already made this decision.
What of Gaston Max?
The world was to be destroyed. This, frankly, I didn’t believe. It might be possible for that terror behind the Voice to decimate a village in the Pyrenees, to strike down one of his unhappy creatures whose evidence threatened to be dangerous. But the whole of the world presented a vastly bigger proposition.
Nevertheless, my life was certainly at stake, however great or small might be the peril of the general population.
And Marusa was coming to see me. . . .
Abruptly I stood up. I had heard that dim whine heralding the elevator’s approach. A section of wall slid silently upward. In the car, which was only large enough to accommodate one passenger, Marusa stood. She wore a smart walking suit and a little green hat crushed down upon her coppery hair.
Her attitude surprised me.
She held a white handkerchief outstretched against her breast. Her glance was eloquent—urgent!
My stupidity, looking back, amazes me. Thank heaven, the meaning of her pantomime at last, and in time, dawned upon me!
Written in red, probably with lipstick, upon the cambric were these words:
ALL WE SAY IS HEARD ALL WE DO IS SEEN
Marusa, realizing that I had read and understood, crumpled up the handkerchief in her hand and stepped out of the elevator. The panel dropped down behind her.
We were alone.
2
“Your personal ideas of right and wrong are of no importance,” Marusa explained.
As I bent over her, lighting a cigarette which she had taken from the packet on my tray, her blue eyes were wells of unspoken eloquence.
“It’s just a question whether you prefer to survive with the few, or pass out with the many. It’s really quite simple, isn’t it?”
ALL WE SAY IS HEARD. . .
“Painfully simple.”
I extinguished the match and dropped it into a teacup.
“You see, the Master is a sort of Higher Power. One might as well disagree with the behaviour of a volcano as disagree with Anubis.”