It was Hobart who came to first. His voice was good to hear. It
was natural; it was sweet and human, but it was pregnant with
disappointment: “We are fools, Harry; we are fools!”
But I could only stare. I remember saying: “The Blind Spot?”
“Yes,” returned Hobart, “the Blind Spot. But what is it? We saw him go.
Did you see it?”
“It gets me,” I answered. “He just vanished into space. It--” Frankly I
was afraid.
“It tallies well with the reports. The old lady and Jerome. Remember?”
“And the bell?” I looked about the room.
“Exactly. Phenomena! Watson was right. I just wonder--but the bell?
Remember the doctor? 'The greatest day since Columbus.' No, don't cross
the room, Harry, I'm a bit leery: A great discovery! I should say it
was. How do you account for it?”
“Supernatural.”
Fenton shook his head.
“By no means! It's the gateway to the universe--into Cosmos.” His eyes
sparkled. “My Lord, Harry! Don't you see! Once we control it. The Blind
Spot! What is beyond? We saw Chick Watson go. Before our eyes. Where did
he go to? It beats death itself.”
I started across the room, but Hobart caught me with both arms: “No, no,
no, Harry. My Lord! I don't want to lose you. No! You foolhardly little
cuss--stand back!”
He threw me violently against the wall. The impact quite took my breath.
On the instant the old rush of temper surged up in me. From boyhood we
had these moments. Hobart settled himself and awaited the rush that he
knew was coming. In his great, calm, brute strength there was still a
greatness of love.
“Harry,” he was saying, “for the love of Heaven, listen to reason! Have
we got to have a knock-down and drag-out on this of all nights? Have I
got to lick you again? Do you want to roll into the Blind Spot?”
Why did God curse me with such a temper? On such moments as this I could
feel something within me snapping. It was fury and unreason. How I loved
him! And yet we had fought a thousand times over just such provocation.
Over his shoulders I could see the still open door that led into the
street. A heavy form was looming through the opening; out of the corner
of my eye I caught the lines of the form stepping out of the shadows--it
crossed the room and stood beside Hobart Fenton. It was Rhamda Avec!
I leaped. The fury of a thousand conflicts--and the exultation. For the
glory of such moments it is well worth dying. One minute flying through
the air--the old catapult tackle--and the next a crashing of bone
and sinew. We rolled over, head on, and across the floor. Curses and
execrations; the deep bass voice of Hobart:
“Hold him, Harry! Hold him! That's the way! Hold him! Hold him!”
We went crashing about the room. He was the slipperiest thing I had ever
laid hold of. But he was bone--bone and sinew; he was a man! I remember
the wild thrill of exultation at the discovery. It was battle! And
death! The table went over, we went spinning against the wall, a crash
of falling bookcases, books and broken glass, a scurry and a flying heap
of legs and arms. He was wonderfully strong and active, like a panther.
Each time I held him he would twist out like a cat, straighten, and
throw me out of hold. I clung on, fighting, striving for a grip, working
for the throat. He was a man--a man! I remembered that he must never get
away. He must account for Watson.
In the first rush I was a madman. The mere force of my onslaught had
borne him down. But in a moment he had recovered and was fighting
systematically. As much as he could he kept over on one side of me,
always forcing me toward the inner room where Watson had disappeared. In
spite of my fury he eluded every effort that I made for a vital part. We
rolled, fought, struck and struggled.
I could hear Hobart's bass thundering: “Over! Over! Under! Look out! Now
you've got him! Harry! Harry! Look out! Hold him, for the love of Heaven
I see his trick. That's his trick. The Blind Spot!”
We were rolled clear over, picked, heaved, shoved against the front
wall. There were three! The great heaving bulk of Fenton; the fighting
tiger between us; and myself! Surely such strength was not human; we
could not pin him; his quickness was uncanny; he would uncoil, twist
himself and throw us loose. Gradually he worked us away from the front
wall and into the centre of the room.
Could any mere man fight so? Hobart was as good as a ton; I was as much
for action. Slowly, slowly in spite of our efforts, he was working us
towards the Blind Spot. Confident of success, he was over, around, and
in and under. In a spin of a second he went into the attack. He fairly
bore us off our feet. We were on the last inch of our line; the stake
was--
What was it? We all went down. A great volume of sound! We were inside
a bell! My whole head buzzed to music and a roar; the whir of a thousand
vibrations; the inside of sound. I fell face downwards; the room went
black.
What was it? How long I lay there I don't know. A dim light was burning.
I was in a room. The ceiling overhead was worked in a grotesque pattern;
I could not make it out. My clothes were in tatters and my hand was
covered with blood. Something warm was trickling down my face. What was
it? The air was still and sodden. Who was this man beside me? And what
was this smell of roses?
I lay still for a minute, thinking. Ah, yes! It came back. Watson--Chick
Watson! The Blind Spot! The Rhamda and the bell!
Surely it was a dream. How could all this be in one short night? It was
like a nightmare and impossible. I raised up on my elbow and looked at
the form beside me. It was Hobart Fenton. He was unconscious.
For a moment my mind was whirring; I was too weak and unsteady. I
dropped back and wondered absently at the roses. Roses meant
perfume, and perfume meant a woman. What could--something touched my
face--something soft; it plucked tenderly at my tangled hair and drew it
away from my forehead. It was the hand of a woman!
“You poor, foolish boy! You foolish boy!”
Somewhere I had heard that voice; it held a touch of sadness; it was
familiar; it was soft and silken like music that might have been woven
out of the moonbeams. Who was it that always made me think of moonbeams?
I lay still, thinking.
“He dared; he dared; he dared!” she was saying. “As if there were not
two! He shall pay for this! Am I to be a plaything? You poor boy!”
Then I remembered. I looked up. It was the Nervina. She was stooping
over with my head against her. How beautiful her eyes were! In their
depths was a pathos and a tenderness that was past a woman's, the same
slight droop at the corners of the mouth, and the wistfulness; her
features were relaxed like a mother's--a wondrous sweetness and pity.
“Harry,” she asked, “where is Watson? Did he go?”