The Day the World Ended

by Sax Rohmer

“Woodville! For God’s sake, where are you?”

  The latter voice was Lonergan’s.

  Racing footsteps sounded. I turned as Hen Richter, his eyes glaring through the pebbles of his glasses, followed by Lonergan who looked very paler ran into the room.

  “You alarmed me, Mr. Woodville!” said Richter “I am relieved to find you here.”

  I was my own master again.

  “I merely stepped aside, meaning to overtake you. But these ...” I pointed . . . “interested me.”

  “The flying suits?”

  Richter nodded, and turning, drew Lonergan forward. For he too had been hesitating on the threshold, as I had hesitated.

  “They function, gentlemen, on energy waves sent out at a sympathetic elevation of one mile above ground level. At suitable spots for alighting and departure are stations. Ascent and descent are vertical. These suits carry a simple steering gear, a radio attachment, and are absolutely fool-proof.”

  Lonergan joined me, gingerly touching one of the suits.

  “Our chief chemist,” Richter went on, “recently visited the United States to learn if energy waves functioned in the atmosphere of that continent. It is curious that even the brilliant brain of the Master has so far failed to solve the problem. Beyond cutting in on radio, those waves are powerless in America!”

  Lonergan grasped my arm so tightly that I winced. The mystery of Hartford had been explained in one sentence!

  “Energy waves have a limited range.” Herr Richter was speaking again. “One station is insufficient. Unlike sound. Sound can be transmitted from the laboratory here, all around the world, and sound can kill.”

  His enthusiasm carried him away.

  “I will demonstrate, gentlemen, while we are here, this revolutionary system of flying. Imagine a series of overhead cables, a mile above the earth—invisible, as radio waves are invisible. No cumbersome mechanism is necessary. We carry no juice. Through the observation openings known as the ‘eyes/ we can study our course. Within the limitations of the route, this course is not constrained. There is a simple control. A child could master it. These suits are ready for use: allow me to show you.”

  Lonergan and I watching with all our eyes, Herr Richter stepped to a sort of narrow trench running parallel with the beam above from which the “bats” were suspended.

  “Movement one!”

  He pulled a lever—and stepped aside.

  The suit above slowly dropped. As it dropped, it opened out its pendulous belly.

  “Standing beneath the flying harness,” Herr Richter explained, “it would have enveloped me.

  All I should have to do would be this-”

  He dived into the suit. It closed upon him. ... It opened. Sweating with enthusiasm, he dived out again.

  “Then,” he continued, “this happens-”

  He moved sundry things, and the “bat” sank to the paved floor.

  “Note the launching rail.” He indicated it—a steel bar along the floor. “If I were now inside the suit, I should press my elbows outward, and the wings would expand! I should then watch for a blue light beyond the pit, there, and when I saw it, I should thrust hard against the launching rail.”

  “Gee!” said Lonergan. “That’s marvellous!”

  “I regret,” Herr Richter continued, “that Nicholson, the flight controller, is not on duty. Otherwise, I could complete my demonstration. But—please be very careful—we can peep down to the control platform from which he directs outgoing and incoming flights. . . . He is a Canadian. You would like him, Mr. Lonergan.”

  “I never met a Canadian I liked,” Lonergan growled. “May be my misfortune. But it’s a fact.”

  4

  Back in my room I tried to marshal in some order the incredible facts which I had learned.

  Not the least of the wonders was that of the Black Watch, those caricatures of humanity having each definite but limited functions, and controlled by the Watch master. His duties resembled those of the captain of the Guard in ancient days. But how much more intricate they were!

  The troops under his command responded to a sort of amazing keyboard by means of which he could control them, limit their actions, follow their courses!

  It was science gone mad—or, rather, it was a small piece of the world in charge of a superman whose genius had leaped many centuries into the future. I tried to review what Richter had told me about the “neutral zones,” in charge of local officials all over the globe. The Brothers of Anubis all were armed with some sort of contrivance which insured immunity from that sound blast which was to destroy humanity. . ..

  Here at last was the explanation of those vampire rumours which had brought me to the Black Forest! Lonergan’s mission and the tragedy of the Pyrenees appeared in a new light.

  With these data in my possession, plus what Lonergan, Max, and I had learned from personal observation, it was obvious that the creature who called himself Anubis held the fate of millions of lives in the hollows of those talonlike hands!

  I was assured—I dared not doubt—that the sound waves which he proposed to send around the globe in geometrically considered directions, so that no inhabited territory was left out of the design, must end life . . . whenever he willed!

  Anubis, whoever he might be, possessed the brain of six men of genius. He was a dreadful phenomenon!

  Curious to reflect that with such gigantic intelligence he yet was not immune from the vice of ambition. He aspired to rule the world, but recognized that, with the millions now populating it, such an aspiration was futile. Therefore, coldly logical, he had determined to reduce his vast kingdom to controllable dimensions.

  Frenziedly, I paced up and down my silent apartment. I believed myself free temporarily from the ever watchful Master. Richter, that cold-blooded enthusiast with the eyes of a child, had said something which had led me to believe that the dreaded Lord of Felsenweir was resting. After all, the most gigantic brain cannot dispense entirely with sleep!

  But I knew that I was very near to the borderland—for why otherwise should I drop on the bed and clutch my head with twitching fingers?

  To be defeated, helpless, with one's future in pawn, was a condition calculated to madden any man of action. Yet, at this moment, such was my state.

  I heard the familiar whine of an ascending elevator. I raised my face. I don’t doubt it was haggard. The panel lifted. The elevator reached floor level.

  Marusa stepped out.. ..

  CHAPTER XX - MARUSA

  1

  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 tonight. . .

  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 ab
out 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 Fm entirely clear,” Marusa admitted, “as to what I do mean. But I had to see you again tonight, as I understand that it’s critical, in some way.”

  “You’re right. Certainly a psychological moment is approaching!”

  “I know Fm right. Mother doesn’t quite realize that I've outgrown childhood—have ideas of my own. I haven’t done anything definite—Fm 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 ally you’re determined to crash with the mob . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well ... I don’t particularly want to go on.”

  2

  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. j 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 un healthy! 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.” . . .

  CHAPTER XXI - GASTON MAX EXPLAINS

  1

  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 supercriminal 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.