do not know, and surmises are valueless.” He shrugged. “You have an idea?”
“Hardly, yet—you say that Brent is ill. Could he be seen?”
“I fancy not. He is in a California sanitarium, broken down from overwork, the doctors informed me.”
“I see.” Gray scrutinized his companions. The same eagerness showed in each face, the craving for discovery which is greater than the lust of the gold prospector. They were hanging on his next words. “Gentlemen, do you realize that three great difficulties are to be met? Money—China—and a knowledge of science. By that I mean my own qualifications. I am an explorer, not a scientist——”
At this point Balch, the financier who had not spoken before, leaned forward.
“Three excellent points,” he nodded. “I can answer them. We can supply you with funds, Captain Gray,” he said decisively.
“And permission from the Chinese authorities?”
“We have passports signed, in blank, for an American hunter and naturalist to journey into the interior of China, to the Gobi Desert.”
“You will not go alone,” explained Van Schaick. “We realize that a scientist must accompany you.”
“We have the man,” continued Balch, “an orientologist—speaks Persian and Turki—knows Central Asia like a book. Professor Arminius Delabar. He’ll join you at Frisco.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Gray, you’re the man we want! I like your talk.” He laughed boyishly, being young in heart, in spite of his years. “You’re equal to the job—and you can shoot a mountain sheep or a bandit in the head at five hundred yards. Don’t deny it—you’ve done it!”
“Maps?” asked Gray dryly.
“The best we could get. Chinese and Russian surveys of the Western Gobi,” Balch explained briskly. “We want you to start right off. We know that our dearest foes, the British Asiatic Society, have wind of the Wusun. They are fitting out an expedition. It will have the edge on yours because—discounting the fact that the British know the field better—it’ll start from India, which is nearer the Gobi.”
“Then it’s got to be a race?” Gray frowned.
“A race it is,” nodded Balch, “and my money backs you and Delabar. So the sooner you can start the better. Van Schaick will go with you to Frisco and give you details, with maps and passports on the way. We’ll pay you the salary of your rank in the army, with a fifty per cent bonus if you get to the Wusun. Now, what’s your answer—yes or no?” He glanced at the officer sharply, realizing that if Gray doubted, he would not be the man for the expedition.
Gray smiled quizzically.
“I came to you to get a job,” he said, “and here it is. I need the money. My answer is—yes. I’ll do my best to deliver the goods.”
“Gentlemen,” Balch turned to his associates, “I congratulate you. Captain Gray may or may not get to the Wusun. But—unless I’m a worse judge of character than I think—he’ll get to the place where the Wusun ought to be. He won’t turn back.”
Their visitor flushed at that. He was still young, being not yet thirty. He shook hands all around and left for his hotel, with Balch and Van Schaick to arrange railroad schedules, and the buying of an outfit.
This is a brief account of how Robert Gray came to depart on his mission to the Desert of Gobi, as reported in the files of the American Exploration Society for the summer of 1919.
It was not given to the press at the time, owing to the need of secrecy. Nor did the Exploration Society obtain authority from the United States Government for the expedition. Time was pressing, as they learned the British expedition was getting together at Burma. Later, Van Schaick agreed with Balch that this had been a mistake.
But by that time Gray was far beyond reach, in the foothills of the Celestial Mountains, in the Liu Sha, and had learned the meaning of the pale sickness.
CHAPTER III
DELABAR DISCOURSES
GRAY had meant what he said about his new job. Van Schaick pleaded for haste, but the army officer knew from experience the danger of omitting some important item from his outfit, and went ahead with characteristic thoroughness.
He assembled his personal kit in New York, with the rifles, medicines and ammunition that he needed. Also a good pair of field glasses and the maps that Van Schaick furnished. Balch made him a present of twenty pounds of fine smoking tobacco which was gratefully received.
“I’ll need another man with me,” Gray told Van Schaick, who was on edge to be off. “Delabar’ll be all right in his way, but we’ll want a white man who can shoot and work. I know the man for the job—McCann, once my orderly, now in the reserve.”
“Get him, by all means,” agreed the scientist.
“He’s in Texas, out of a job. A wire’ll bring him to Frisco in time to meet us. Well, I’m about ready to check out.”
They left that night on the western express.
Gray was not sorry to leave the city. Like all voyagers, he felt the oppression of the narrow streets, the monotony of always going home to the same place to sleep. Wanderlust had gripped him again at thought of the venture into another continent.
He took his mission seriously. On the maps that Van Schaick and Balch had given him they had pointed out a spot beyond the known travel routes, a good deal more than a thousand miles into the interior of China. To this spot Gray was going. He had his orders and he would carry them out.
Van Schaick talked much on the train. He explained how much the mission meant to the Exploration Society. It would give them world-wide fame. And it would add enormously to the knowledge of humankind. Gray, he said, would travel near the path of Marco Polo; he would tear the veil of secrecy from the hidden corner of the Gobi Desert. It would be a victory of science over the ancient soul of Mongolia.
It would shake the foundation of the great jade image of Buddha, of the many-armed Kali, of Bon the devil-god, and the ancient Vishnu. It would strengthen the hold of the Bible on the Mongolian world.
If only, said Van Schaick wistfully, Gray could find the Wusun ahead of the expedition of the British Asiatic Society, the triumph would be complete.
Gray listened silently. It was fortunate, in the light of what followed, that his imagination was not easily stirred.
He looked curiously at the man who was to be his partner in the expedition. Van Schaick introduced them at the platform of the San Francisco terminal.
Professor Arminius Delabar was a short, slender man, of wiry build and a nervous manner that reminded Gray of a bird. He had near-sighted, bloodshot eyes encased behind tinted glasses, and a dark face with well-kept beard. He was half Syrian by birth, American by choice, and a denizen of the academies and byways of the world. Also, he spoke at least four languages fluently.
The army man’s respect for his future companion went up several notches when he found that Delabar had already arranged competently for the purchase and shipment of their stores.
“You
