XXX
THE PLUNGE
The woman left him. For a while Chick reflected upon what she had said.In full rush of returning vigour his mind was working clearly and withanalytical exactness.
For the first time he noticed a heaviness in the air, overladen,pregnant. He became aware of a strange, undercurrent of life; of anexceedingly faint, insistent sound, pulse-like and rhythmical, like thebreathing undertones of multitudes. He was a city man, and accustomedto the murmuring throbs of a metropolitan heart. But this was verydifferent.
Presently, amid the strangeness, he could distinguish the tinkle ofelfin bells, almost imperceptible, but musical. The whole air was ladenwith a subdued music, lined, as it were, with a golden vibrancy oftintinnabulary cadence--distant, subdued, hardly more than a whisper,yet part of the air itself.
It gave him the feeling that he was in a dream. In the realms ofthe subconscious he had heard just such sounds--exotic andunearthly--fleeting and evanescent.
The notion of dreams threw his mind into sudden alertness. In an instanthe was thinking systematically, and in the definite realisation of hisplight.
The woman had spoken of "the Rhamda." True, she had added a qualifying"Geos," but that did not matter. Whether Geos or Avec, it was still theRhamda. By this time Watson was convinced that the word indicated somesort of title--whether doctor, or lord, or professor, was not important.What interested Chick was identity. If he could solve that he could getat the crux of the Blind Spot.
He thought quickly. Apparently, it was Rhamda Avec who had trapped Dr.Holcomb. Why? What had been the man's motive? Watson could not say.He only knew the ethics of the deed was shaded with the subtlenessof villainy. That behind it all was a purpose, a directing force andintelligence that was inexorable and irresistible.
One other thing he knew; the Rhamda Avec came out of the region in whichhe, Watson, now found himself. Rather, he could have come from nowhereelse. And Watson could feel certain that somewhere, somehow, he wouldfind Dr. Holcomb.
In that moment Watson determined upon his future course of action. Hedecided to state nothing, intimate nothing, either by word or deed, thatmight in any manner incriminate or endanger the professor. It was forhim to learn everything possible and to do all he could to gain hispoints, without giving a particle of information in return. He must playa lone hand and a cautious one--until he found Dr. Holcomb.
The fact of his position didn't appall him. Somehow, it had just theopposite effect. Perhaps it was because his strength had come back, andhad brought with it the buoyancy that is natural to health. He couldsense the vitality that surrounded him, poised, potential, waiting onlythe proper attitude on his part to become an active force. Somethingtremendous had happened to him, to make him feel like that. He was readyfor anything.
Five minutes passed. Watson was alert and ready when the woman returned,together with a companion. She smiled kindly, and announced:
"The Rhamda Geos."
At first Chick was startled. There was a resemblance to Rhamda Avecthat ran almost to counterpart. The same refinement and elegance, thefleeting suggestion of youth, the evident age mingled with the sameathletic ease and grace of carriage. Only he was somewhat shorter. Theeyes were almost identical, with the peculiar quality of the iris andpupil that suggested, somehow, a culture inherited out of the centuries.He was dressed in a black robe, such as would befit a scholar.
He smiled, and held out a hand. Watson noted the firm clasp, and thecold thrill of magnetism.
"You wish to speak with me?"
The voice was soft and modulated, resonant, of a tone as rich as bronze.
"Yes. Where am I--sir?"
"You do not know?"
It seemed to Watson that there was real astonishment in the man's eyes.As yet it had not come to Chick that he himself might be just as mucha mystery as the other. The only question in his mind at the moment waslocality.
"Is this the Blind Spot?"
"The Blind Spot!"--with the same lack of comprehension that the womanhad shown. "I do not understand you."
"Well, how did I get here?"
"Oh, as to that, you were found in the Temple of the Leaf. You werelying unconscious on the floor."
"A temple! How did I get there, sir? Do you know?"
"We only know that a moment before there was nothing; nextinstant--you."
Watson thought. There was a subconscious sound that still lingered inhis memory; a sound full-toned, flooding, enveloping. Was there anyconnection--
"'The Temple of the Leaf,' you call it, sir. I seem to remember havingheard a bell. Is there such a thing in that temple?"
The Rhamda Geos smiled, his eyes brightening. "It is sometimes calledthe Temple of the Bell."
"Ah!" A pause, and Watson asked, "Where is this temple? And is this rooma part of the building?"
"No. You are in the Sar-Amenive Hospital, an institution of theRhamdas."
The Rhamdas! So there were several of them. A sort of society, perhaps.
"In San Francisco?"
"No. San Francisco! Again I fail to understand. This locality is knownas the Mahovisal."
"The Mahovisal!" Watson thought in silence for a moment. He noted theextremely keen interest of the Rhamda, the ultra-intelligent flicker ofthe eyes, the light of query and critical analysis. "You call this theMahovisal, sir? What is it: town, world or institution?"
The other smiled again. The lines about his sensitive mouth weresusceptible of various interpretations: emotion, or condescension, orthe satisfying feeling that comes from the simple vindication of someinner conviction. His whole manner was that of interest and respectfulwonder.
"You have never heard of the Mahovisal? Never?"
"Not until this minute," answered Watson.
"You have no knowledge of anything before? Do you know WHO YOU ARE?"
"I"--Watson hesitated, wondering whether he had best withhold thisinformation. He decided to chance the truth. "My name is Chick Watson. Iam--an American."
"An American?"
The Rhamda pronounced the word with a roll of the "r" that sounded morelike the Chinese "Mellican" than anything else. It was evident thatthe sounds were totally unfamiliar to him. And his manner was a bitindefinite, doubtful, yet weighted with care, as he slowly repeated thequestion:
"An American? Once more I don't understand. I have never heard the word,my dear sir. You are neither D'Hartian nor Kospian; although there aresome--materialists for the most part--who contend that you are just asany one else. That is--a man."
"Perhaps I am," returned Watson, utterly confounded. He did not knowwhat to say. He had never heard of a Kospian or a D'Hartian, nor of theMahovisal. It made things difficult; he couldn't get started. Most ofall, he wanted information; and, instead, he was being questioned. Thebest he could do was to equivocate.
As for the Rhamda, he frowned. Apparently his eager interest had beendashed with disappointment. But only slightly, as Watson could see; theman was of such culture and intellect as to have perfect control overhis emotions. In his balance and poise he was very like Avec, and he hadthe same pleasing manner.
"My dear sir," he began, "if you are really a man, then you can tell mesomething of great importance."
"I" Chick retorted, "can tell you nothing until you first let me knowjust where I stand!"
Certainly there was a lack of common ground. Until one of them suppliedit, there could be no headway. Watson realised that his whole futuremight revolve about the axis of his next words.
The Rhamda thought a moment, dubiously, like one who has had a pettheory damaged, though not shattered. Suddenly he spoke to the woman.
"Open the portal," said he.
She stepped to the oval window, touched a latch, and swung the panehorizontally upon two pivots. Immediately the room was flooded with astrange effulgence, amber-like, soft and mellow, as real sunshine.
But it was NOT real sunshine!
The window was set in a rather thick wall, beyond which Watson cou
ldsee a royal sapphiric sky, flecked with white and purple andamethyst-threaded clouds poised above a great amber sleeping sun.
It was the sun that challenged attention. It was so mild, and yet soutterly beyond what might be expected. In diameter it would have madesix of the one Watson had known; in the blue distance, touching the rimof the horizon, it looked exactly like a huge golden plate set edgewiseon the end of the earth.
And--he could look straight at it without blinking!
His thoughts ran back to the first account of the Rhamda. The man hadlooked straight at the sun and had been blinded. This accounted forit! The man had been accustomed to this huge, soft-glowing beauty. Anamberous sun, deep yellow, sleeping; could it be, after all, dreamland?
But there were other things: the myriad tintinnabulations of thesemicroscopic bells, never ceasing, musically throbbing; and now, theexotic delight of the softest of perfumes, an air barely tinted withviolet and rose, and the breath of woodland wild flowers. He couldnot comprehend it. He looked at the purple clouds above the lotus sun,hardly believing, and deeply in doubt.
A great white bird dived suddenly out of the heavens and flew intothe focus of his vision. In all the tales of his boyhood, of large andbeautiful rocs and other birds, he had come across nothing like this.From the perspective it must have measured a full three hundred feetfrom tip to tip; it was shaped like a swan and flew like an eagle, withmagnificent, lazy sweeps of the wings; while its plumage was as white asthe snow, new fallen on the mountains. And right behind it, in pursuit,hurtled a huge black thing, fully as large and just as swift; atremendous black crow, so black that its sides gave off a greenishshimmer.
Just then the woman closed the window. It was as well; Watson was onlyhuman, and he could hide his curiosity just so long and no longer. Heturned to the Rhamda.
The man nodded. "I thought so," said he with satisfaction, as one mightwho has proven a pet and previous theory.
Watson tried from another angle.
"Just who do you think I am, sir?"
The other smiled as before. "It is not what I may think," he replied:"but what I know. You are the proof that was promised us by the greatRhamda Avec. You are--THE FACT AND THE SUBSTANCE!"
He waited for Watson's answer. Stupefaction delayed it. After a momentthe Rhamda continued:
"Is it not so? Am I not right? You are surely out of the occult, my dearsir. You are a spirit!"
It took Chick wholly by surprise. He had been ready to deal withanything--but this. It was unreal, weird, impossible. And yet, why not?The professor had set out to remove forever the screen that had hithertoshrouded the shadow: but what had he revealed? What had the Spotdisclosed? Unreality or REALITY? Which is which?
In the inspiration of the moment, Chick saw that he had reached thecrossroads of the occult. There was no time to think; there was timeonly for a plunge. And, like all strong men, Watson chose the deeperwater.
He turned to the Rhamda Geos.
"Yes," said he quietly. "I--am a spirit."
The Blind Spot Page 32