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 with
analytical exactness.
For the first time he noticed a heaviness in the air, overladen,
pregnant. He became aware of a strange, undercurrent of life; of an
exceedingly faint, insistent sound, pulse-like and rhythmical, like the
breathing undertones of multitudes. He was a city man, and accustomed
to the murmuring throbs of a metropolitan heart. But this was very
different.
Presently, amid the strangeness, he could distinguish the tinkle of
elfin bells, almost imperceptible, but musical. The whole air was laden
with a subdued music, lined, as it were, with a golden vibrancy of
tintinnabulary 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 of
the subconscious he had heard just such sounds--exotic and
unearthly--fleeting and evanescent.
The notion of dreams threw his mind into sudden alertness. In an instant
he was thinking systematically, and in the definite realisation of his
plight.
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 the
Rhamda. By this time Watson was convinced that the word indicated some
sort of title--whether doctor, or lord, or professor, was not important.
What interested Chick was identity. If he could solve that he could get
at 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 subtleness
of villainy. That behind it all was a purpose, a directing force and
intelligence that was inexorable and irresistible.
One other thing he knew; the Rhamda Avec came out of the region in which
he, Watson, now found himself. Rather, he could have come from nowhere
else. And Watson could feel certain that somewhere, somehow, he would
find Dr. Holcomb.
In that moment Watson determined upon his future course of action. He
decided to state nothing, intimate nothing, either by word or deed, that
might in any manner incriminate or endanger the professor. It was for
him to learn everything possible and to do all he could to gain his
points, without giving a particle of information in return. He must play
a lone hand and a cautious one--until he found Dr. Holcomb.
The fact of his position didn't appall him. Somehow, it had just the
opposite effect. Perhaps it was because his strength had come back, and
had brought with it the buoyancy that is natural to health. He could
sense the vitality that surrounded him, poised, potential, waiting only
the proper attitude on his part to become an active force. Something
tremendous had happened to him, to make him feel like that. He was ready
for 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 Avec
that ran almost to counterpart. The same refinement and elegance, the
fleeting suggestion of youth, the evident age mingled with the same
athletic ease and grace of carriage. Only he was somewhat shorter. The
eyes were almost identical, with the peculiar quality of the iris and
pupil 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 the
cold 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 much
a mystery as the other. The only question in his mind at the moment was
locality.
“Is this the Blind Spot?”
“The Blind Spot!”--with the same lack of comprehension that the woman
had 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 were
lying 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; next
instant--you.”
Watson thought. There was a subconscious sound that still lingered in
his memory; a sound full-toned, flooding, enveloping. Was there any
connection--
“'The Temple of the Leaf,' you call it, sir. I seem to remember having
heard a bell. Is there such a thing in that temple?”
The Rhamda Geos smiled, his eyes brightening. “It is sometimes called
the Temple of the Bell.”
“Ah!” A pause, and Watson asked, “Where is this temple? And is this room
a part of the building?”
“No. You are in the Sar-Amenive Hospital, an institution of the
Rhamdas.”
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 known
as the Mahovisal.”
“The Mahovisal!” Watson thought in silence for a moment. He noted the
extremely keen interest of the Rhamda, the ultra-intelligent flicker of
the eyes, the light of query and critical analysis. “You call this the
Mahovisal, sir? What is it: town, world or institution?”
The other smiled again. The lines about his sensitive mouth were
susceptible of various interpretations: emotion, or condescension, or
the satisfying feeling that comes from the simple vindication of some
inner conviction. His whole manner was that of interest and respectful
wonder.
“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 this
information. He decided to chance the truth. “My name is Chick Watson. I
am--an American.”
“An American?”
The Rhamda pronounced the word with a roll of the “r” that sounded more
like the Chinese “Mellican” than anything else. It was evident that
the sounds were totally unfamiliar to him. And his manner was a bit
indefinite, doubtful, yet weighted with care, as he slowly repeated the
question:
“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 are
some--materialists for the most part--who contend that you are just as
any one else. That is--a man.”
“Perhaps I am,” returned Watson, utterly confounded. He did not know
what to say. He had never heard of a Kospian or a D'Hartian, nor of the
Mahovisal. It made things difficult; he couldn't get started. Most of
all, he wanted information; and, instead, he was being questioned. The
best he could do was to equivocate.
As for the Rhamda, he frowned. Apparently his eager interest had been
dashed with disappointment. But only slightly, as Watson could see; the
man was of such culture and intellect as to have perfect control over
his emotions. In his balance and poise he was very like Avec, and he had
the same pleasing manner.
“My dear sir,” he began, “if you are really a man, then you can tell me
something of great importance.”
“I” Chick retorted, “can tell you nothing until you first let me know
just where I stand!”
Certainly there was a lack of common ground. Until one of them supplied
it, there could be no headway. Watson realised that his whole future
might revolve about the axis of his next words.
The Rhamda thought a moment, dubiously, like one who has had a pet
theory 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 pane
horizontally upon two pivots. Immediately the room was flooded with a
strange 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 could
see a royal sapphiric sky, flecked with white and purple and
amethyst-threaded clouds poised above a great amber sleeping sun.
It was the sun that challenged attention. It was so mild, and yet so
utterly beyond what might be expected. In diameter it would have made
six of the one Watson had known; in the blue distance, touching the rim
of the horizon, it looked exactly like a huge golden plate set edgewise
on 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 had
looked straight at the sun and had been blinded. This accounted for
it! The man had been accustomed to this huge, soft-glowing beauty. An
amberous sun, deep yellow, sleeping; could it be, after all, dreamland?
But there were other things: the myriad tintinnabulations of these
microscopic bells, never ceasing, musically throbbing; and now, the
exotic delight of the softest of perfumes, an air barely tinted with
violet and rose, and the breath of woodland wild flowers. He could
not 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 into
the focus of his vision. In all the tales of his boyhood, of large and
beautiful rocs and other birds, he had come across nothing like this.
From the perspective it must have measured a full three hundred feet
from tip to tip; it was shaped like a swan and flew like an eagle, with
magnificent, lazy sweeps of the wings; while its plumage was as white as
the snow, new fallen on the mountains. And right behind it, in pursuit,
hurtled a huge black thing, fully as large and just as swift; a
tremendous black crow, so black that its sides gave off a greenish
shimmer.
Just then the woman closed the window. It was as well; Watson was only
human, and he could hide his curiosity just so long and no longer. He
turned to the Rhamda.
The man nodded. “I thought so,” said he with satisfaction, as one might
who 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 great
Rhamda Avec. You are--THE FACT AND THE SUBSTANCE!”
He waited for Watson's answer. Stupefaction delayed it. After a moment
the Rhamda continued:
“Is it not so? Am I not right? You are surely out of the occult, my dear
sir. You are a spirit!”
It took Chick wholly by surprise. He had been ready to deal with
anything--but this. It was unreal, weird, impossible. And yet, why not?
The professor had set out to remove forever the screen that had hitherto
shrouded the shadow: but what had he revealed? What had the Spot
disclosed? Unreality or REALITY? Which is which?
In the inspiration of the moment, Chick saw that he had reached the
crossroads of the occult. There was no time to think; there was time
only for a plunge. And, like all strong men, Watson chose the deeper
water.
He turned to the Rhamda Geos.
“Yes,” said he quietly. “I--am a spirit.”