A people who had conquered death! A people so old that their ancient cities were covered by the Antarctic ice! The latter—well, that was possible. Certainly, the South Polar continent had once basked beneath a warm sun. Its fossils of palms and other vegetation that could only have lived at tropical temperatures were proof of that. And quite as certainly what are now the poles at one time were not. Whether the change had come about by a sudden tipping of earth’s axis, or a gradual readjustment, science was not agreed. But whatever it was that had happened, it must have taken place at least a million years ago. If Suarra’s story were true, if she were not merely reciting myth, it placed the origin of man back into an inconceivably antiquity.
And yet . . . it might be . . . there were many mysteries . . . legends of lost lands and lost civilizations that must have some basis in fact . . . the Mother Land of Mu, Atlantis, the unknown race that ruled Asia from the Gobi when that dread desert was a green Paradise . . . yes, it might be. But that they had conquered Death? No! That he did not believe.
He spoke with an irritation born of his doubts.
“If your people were so wise why did they not come forth and rule this world?”
“Why should they have?” she asked in turn. “If they had come forth what could they have done but built the rest of earth into likeness of this Yu-Atlanchi—as it was built in likeness of that older Yu-Atlanchi? There were none too many of them. Did I not say that when the Door of Death was closed so also was the Door of Life? It is true that always there have been some who elect to throw open these doors—my father and my mother were of these, Graydon. But they are few—so few! No, there was no reason why they should go beyond the barrier. All that they needed, all that they wanted, was here.
“And there was another reason. They had conquered dream. Through dream they create their own worlds; do therein as they will; live life upon life as they will it. In their dreams they shape world upon world—and each of these worlds is as real to them as this is to you. And so—many let the years stream by while they live in dream. Why should they have gone or why should they go out into this one world when they can create myriads of their own at will?”
“Suarra,” he said, abruptly. “Just why do you want to save me?”
“Because,” she murmured, slowly, “because you make me feel as I have never felt before. Because you make me happy—because you make me sorrowful! I want to be close to you. When you go—the world will be darkened—”
“Suarra!” he cried, and drew her, unresisting now, to him. His lips sought hers and her lips clung.
“I will come back,” he whispered. “I will come back, Suarra.”
“Come back!” her soft arms tightened round his neck. “Come back to me—Graydon!”
She thrust him from her, leaped to her feet.
“No! No!” she sobbed. “No—Graydon! I am wicked. No—it would be death for you.”
“As God lives,” he told her, “I will come back to you.”
She trembled; leaned forward, pressed her lips again to his, slipped from his arms and ran to the silken tent. For a moment she paused there—stretched wistful hands toward him; and was hidden in its folds. There seemed to come to him, faintly, heard only by his heart, her voice—
“Come back! Come back—to me!”
6
THE FACE IN THE ABYSS
The white sands of the barren were wan in the first gleam of the dawn. A chill wind was blowing down from the heights. Graydon walked over to the three men, and drew their blankets aside. They were breathing normally, seemed to be deep in sleep, and the strange punctured wounds had closed. And yet—they looked like dead men, livid and wan as the pallid sands beneath the spreading dawn. He shivered again, but this time not from the touch of the chill wind.
He drew his automatic from Soames’ belt, satisfied himself that it was properly loaded and thrust it into his pocket. Then he emptied all their weapons. Whatever the peril they were to meet, he was convinced that it was one against which firearms would be useless. And he had no desire to be again at their mercy.
He went back to the fire, made coffee, threw together a breakfast and returned to the sleeping men. As he stood watching them, Soames groaned and sat up. He stared at Graydon blankly, then stumbled to his feet. His gaze roved round restlessly. He saw the golden panniers beside Suarra’s tent. His dull eyes glittered, and something of crafty exultance passed over his face.
“Come, Soames, and get some hot coffee in you,” Graydon touched his arm.
Soames turned with a snarl, his hand falling upon the butt of his automatic. Graydon stepped back, his fingers closing upon the gun in his pocket. But Soames made no further move toward him. He was looking again at the panniers, glinting in the rising sun. He stirred Starrett with his foot, and the big man staggered up, mumbling. The movement aroused Dancret.
Soames pointed to the golden hampers, then strode stiffly to the silken tent, useless pistol in hand, Starrett and Dancret at his heels. Graydon began to follow. He felt a light touch on his shoulder. Suarra stood beside him.
“Let them do as they will, Graydon,” she said. “They can harm no one—now. And none can help them.”
They watched silently as Soames ripped open the flap of the silken tent and passed within. He came out a moment later, and the three set to work pulling out the golden pegs. Soames rolled tent and pegs together and thrust them into one of the hampers. They plodded back to camp, Starrett and Dancret dragging the hampers behind them.
As they passed Graydon, he felt a wonder filled with vague terror. Something of humanness had been withdrawn from them, something inhuman had taken its place. They walked less like men than like automatons. They paid no heed to him or the girl. Their eyes were vacant except when they turned their heads to look at the golden burden. They reached the burros and fastened the hampers upon two of them.
“It is time to start, Graydon,” urged Suarra. “The Lord of Folly grows impatient.”
He stared at her, then laughed, thinking her jesting. She glanced toward the figure in motley.
“Why do you laugh?” she asked. “He stands there waiting for us—the Lord Tyddo, the Lord of Folly, of all the Lords the only one who has not abandoned Yu-Atlanchi. The Mother would not have let me take this journey without him.”
He looked at her more closely—this, surely, was mockery. But her eyes met his steadily, gravely.
“I bow to the wisdom of the Mother,” he said, grimly. “She could have chosen no fitter attendant. For all of us.”
She flushed; touched his hand.
“You are angry, Graydon. Why?”
He did not answer; she sighed, and moved slowly away.
He walked over to the three. They stood beside the embers of the fire, silent and motionless. He shivered—they were so much like dead men, listening for some dread command. He felt pity for them.
He
