message — truth?”
“Ask yourself that question,” I said. “Man — you know it was truth. Had not inklings of it come to you even before he spoke? They had to me. His message was but an interpretation, a synthesis of facts I, for one, lacked the courage to admit.”
“I, too,” he nodded. “But he went further than that. What did he mean by the Keeper of the Cones — and that the Things — were vulnerable under the same law that orders us? And why did he command us to go back to the city? How could he know — how could he?”
“There’s nothing inexplicable in that, at any rate,” I answered. “Abnormal sensitivity of perception due to the cutting off of all sensual impressions. There’s nothing uncommon in that. You have its most familiar form in the sensitivity of the blind. You’ve watched the same thing at work in certain forms of hypnotic experimentation, haven’t you?
“Through the operation of entirely understandable causes the mind gains the power to react to vibrations that normally pass unperceived; is able to project itself through this keying up of perception into a wider area of consciousness than the normal. Just as in certain diseases of the ear the sufferer, though deaf to sounds within the average range of hearing, is fully aware of sound vibrations far above and far below those the healthy ear registers.”
“I know,” he said. “I don’t need to be convinced. But we accept these things in theory — and when we get up against them for ourselves we doubt.
“How many people are there in Christendom, do you think, who believe that the Saviour ascended from the dead, but who if they saw it today would insist upon medical inspection, doctor’s certificates, a clinic, and even after that render a Scotch verdict? I’m not speaking irreverently — I’m just stating a fact.”
Suddenly he moved away from me, strode over to the curtained oval through which Norhala had gone.
“Dick,” I cried, following him hastily, “where are you going? What are you going to do?”
“I’m going after Norhala,” he answered. “I’m going to have a showdown with her or know the reason why.”
“Drake,” I cried again, aghast, “don’t make the mistake Ventnor did. That’s not the way to win through. Don’t — I beg you, don’t.”
“You’re wrong,” he answered stubbornly. “I’m going to get her. She’s got to talk.”
He thrust out a hand to the curtains. Before he could touch them, they were parted. Out from between them slithered the black eunuch. He stood motionless, regarding us; in the ink-black eyes a red flame of hatred. I pushed myself between him and Drake.
“Where is your mistress, Yuruk?” I asked.
“The goddess has gone,” he replied sullenly.
“Gone?” I said suspiciously, for certainly Norhala had not passed us. “Where?”
“Who shall question the goddess?” he asked. “She comes and she goes as she pleases.”
I translated this for Drake.
“He’s got to show me,” he said. “Don’t think I’m going to spill any beans, Goodwin. But I want to talk to her. I think I’m right, honestly I do.”
After all, I reflected, there was much in his determination to recommend it. It was the obvious thing to do — unless we admitted that Norhala was superhuman; and that I would not admit. In command of forces we did not yet know, en rapport with these People of Metal, sealed with that alien consciousness Ruth had described — all these, yes. But still a woman — of that I was certain. And surely Drake could be trusted not to repeat Ventnor’s error.
“Yuruk,” I said, “we think you lie. We would speak to your mistress. Take us to her.”
“I have told you that the goddess is not here,” he said. “If you do not believe it is nothing to me. I cannot take you to her for I do not know where she is. Is it your wish that I take you through her house?”
“It is,” I said.
“The goddess has commanded me to serve you in all things.” He bowed, sardonically. “Follow.”
Our search was short. We stepped out into what for want of better words I can describe only as a central hall. It was circular, and strewn with thick piled small rugs whose hues had been softened by the alchemy of time into exquisite, shadowy echoes of color.
The walls of this hall were of the same moonstone substance that had enclosed the chamber upon whose inner threshold we were. They whirled straight up to the dome in a crystalline, cylindrical cone. Four doorways like that in which we stood pierced them. Through each of their curtainings in turn we peered.
All were precisely similar in shape and proportions, radiating in a lunetted, curved base triangle from the middle chamber; the curvature of the enclosing globe forming back wall and roof; the translucent slicings the sides; the circle of floor of the inner hall the truncating lunette.
The first of these chambers was utterly bare. The one opposite held a half-dozen suits of the lacquered armor, as many wicked looking, short and double-edged swords and long javelins. The third I judged to be the lair of Yuruk; within it was a copper brazier, a stand of spears and a gigantic bow, a quiver full of arrows leaning beside it. The fourth room was littered with coffers great and small, of wood and of bronze, and all tightly closed.
The fifth room was beyond question Norhala’s bedchamber. Upon its floor the ancient rugs were thick. A low couch of carven ivory inset with gold rested a few feet from the doorway. A dozen or more of the chests were scattered about and flowing over with silken stuffs.
Upon the back of four golden lions stood a high mirror of polished silver. And close to it, in curiously incongruous domestic array stood a stiffly marshaled row of sandals. Upon one of the chests were heaped combs and fillets of shell and gold and ivory studded with jewels blue and yellow and crimson.
To all of these we gave but a passing glance. We sought for Norhala. And of her we found no shadow. She had gone even as the black eunuch had said; flitting unseen past Ruth, perhaps, absorbed in her watch over her brother; perhaps through some hidden opening in this room of hers.
Yuruk let drop the curtains, sidled back to the first room, we after him. The two there had not moved. We drew the saddlebags close, propped ourselves against them.
The black eunuch squatted a dozen feet away, facing us, chin upon his knees, taking us in with unblinking eyes blank of any emotion. Then he began to move slowly his tremendously long arms in easy, soothing motion, the hands running along the floor upon their talons in arcs and circles. It was curious how these hands seemed to be endowed with a volition of their own, independent of the arms upon which they swung.
And now I could see only the hands, shuttling so smoothly, so rhythmically back and forth — weaving so sleepily, so sleepily back and forth — black hands that dripped sleep — hypnotic.
Hypnotic! I sprang from the lethargy closing upon me. In one quick side glance I saw Drake’s head nodding — nodding in time to the movement of the black hands. I jumped to my feet, shaking with an intensity of rage unfamiliar to me; thrust my pistol into the wrinkled face.
“Damn you!” I cried. “Stop that. Stop it and turn your back.”
