that you are here, and, being a man, you have the privilege of the inner
mysteries. And possibly a message may be awaiting you. Come."
He took Constans by the hand and drew him towards the vaulted
entrance-way. There was no reasonable opportunity for protest, and
before Constans was fully aware of what was happening he had been
hurried through the passage and into a large, semi-darkened building
that was filled with the rumble and clank of machinery in rapid motion.
Constans, having recovered from the first surprise and his eyes becoming
accustomed to the obscurity, looked about him with a dawning sense of
comprehension.
In the middle of the hall was installed an enormous piece of machinery,
a vast cylindrical construction revolving at great speed, and Constans
became the more certain of its real nature as he proceeded to examine it
in detail. He recalled the illustrations and diagrams that he had been
poring over only the day before at the library building, and he was sure
that this monster could be nothing else than an electric dynamo, and one
of the very largest size, delivering as high as fifteen thousand
horse-power of potential energy. But how to account for the chance that
had preserved this mightiest of the Old-World forces? What miracle had
been wrought to keep this soulless giant in life through so many years
of darkness and of silence? Constans felt his head spinning; the
consciousness of a fact so tremendous was overwhelming; to save himself
he turned away from the dynamo proper and began looking about for the
source of its mechanical energy. He found it in an odd-appearing motor,
to which the dynamo was connected by the ordinary means of a shaft and
belting.
The engine was simple enough in outward construction. All that could be
seen was an apparatus consisting of two ten-foot tuning-forks of steel
supported on insulated pedestals, and between them a disk of some
unknown composition, mounted in a vertical plane and revolving at
inconceivable velocity. The power was taken from the shaft of this
revolving disk and reduced in speed by means of gear-wheels before being
conveyed to the dynamo. The prongs of the big tuning-forks continued to
vibrate strongly, and gave out in unison the loud, humming note that had
originally attracted Constans's attention. It was undoubtedly, a form of
motor whose power was derived from some secret property of vibratory
bodies, a recondite subject to which his books alluded but obscurely.
Yet in the years immediately preceding the Great Change the principle
seems to have been reduced to practical utility. Here was the engine in
actual operation, and whatever its source of fuel supply or the ultimate
secret of its energy there could be no doubt about its production of
power. It moved, it was alive, and Constans gazed upon it with
fascinated eyes.
The priest had risen to his feet; he touched Constans lightly on the
shoulder.
"The presence chamber," he said, in a whisper. "Come, that you may look
upon the face of the Shining One; he will rejoice in knowing that there
is left even one faithful in Doom."
He opened a door leading to a room at the left of the main hall and
motioned Constans to enter. The door closed behind them and they stood
in darkness. Then came the click of a switch-key, and out of the
blackness faint lines of radiance appeared, changing slowly to a fiery
brightness. And as the lines grew visible they resolved themselves into
the semblance of a great and terrible face, the countenance of a man of
heroic size with long hair. There was no suggestion of a body, only that
majestic head crowned with hyacinthine locks and limned in lambent fire.
Constans felt his knees shaking under him, and involuntarily he
prostrated himself; then again he heard the switch click, and the vision
faded into nothingness.
There was the sound of a shutter being thrown back, and the daylight
streamed in. He rose uncertainly to his feet and looked about him.
It was a small apartment, low-studded, with cement walls and a tiled
floor. Near the door and fastened against the wall was a wooden
framework, bearing a complicated arrangement of push-buttons and levers.
Constans had seen its like pictured in his books, and he instantly
conjectured it to be an electrical switch-board, designed to control and
direct the current generated by the dynamo. On the opposite wall was
suspended a thick sheet of some insulating substance--vulcanite--and
fixed upon it was a net-work of wires in whose outlines he could
distinguish the lineaments of the fiery face. Now he understood; it was
simply a trick, the passing of a strong current of electricity through
platinum wires until they became incandescent.
The recognition of those material agencies for the production of the
apparition that had so terrified him gave Constans back his confidence;
his books had not deceived him, and he was ready now for any fresh
marvels that might be on the cards. But the attitude of the priest
puzzled him. Was he really the charlatan, the trickster that he seemed?
Was it not equally simple to regard him as the self-deluded votary? He
could not decide.
"You have looked upon the face of the Shining One," said the old man,
breaking the silence. "Now behold his throne; perchance he will accord
you the honor of sharing it with him."
In the middle of the apartment stood the only piece of furniture proper
that it contained, a massive oaken chair, with a head-piece, upon which
was fastened a metal plate. On the arms of the chair were copper clips,
the size of a man's wrist, and all the points of contact were supplied
with cups containing sponges. Again Constans understood. It was only
necessary to dampen these sponges to ensure a perfect discharge of the
electrical current passing through the head-rest and the metal
wrist-clips. Constans shuddered, and this time with reason; he knew
enough of the science to realize that the slightest contact with those
enormously charged electrodes must be fatal.
The priest went to the switch-board, and, after a series of
genuflections and the mumbling of what might have been an invocation, he
turned a lever. Constans stepped back hastily.
"Now is the Shining One come upon his throne. Take your seat at his side
if you would put his divinity to the proof. Or else be content to serve
him in silence and singleness of heart, even as I."
Constans guessed acutely that the full current from the dynamo must be
passing through the metal framework of the great chair; he moved a
little farther back and stood on guard. There was a glitter in the old
man's eye that was disquieting, and Constans did not relish the idea of
a hand-to-hand struggle in this contracted space with these
wicked-looking wires running in every direction. One of them had been
broken, and from the dangling end, which hung close to a metal
wall-bracket, a continuous stream of sparks fizzed and spluttered.
"I am content," he said, quietly.
The priest smiled grimly. "Yet it is a pity that your doubts are not of
a more stubborn growth, for it is many a year since the Shining One has
taken a man to his arms. Of a truth, the ancient faith has failed
miserably among the children of the Doomsmen, and I alone of all his
priests remain to serve our lord."
There was silence, the old man remaining apparently absorbed in his
bitter reverie. Constans had been growing more and more uncomfortable,
and this seemed to be his opportunity to escape. He edged towards the
door. Now the metal knob of the door handle was within reach; he grasped
it, and received a severe electric shock. Unable to master his startled
nerves, he gave utterance to a cry of pain. The priest turned quickly, a
frosty smile upon his lips.
"The sentinels of the Shining One are faithful to their duty," he said,
quietly. He touched a push-button, and Constans was at last able to let
go of that innocent-looking door-knob; he fell to rubbing his arm
vigorously in order to relieve the contracted muscles. What a ridiculous
figure he had made of himself, he thought, vexedly.
"My son."
There was a new note in the old man's voice, an inflection almost
kindly, and Constans wondered.
"Nothing happens of itself," continued the priest, "and it was more than
chance that led you thither. Surely, the Shining One has been mindful of
his own, for I am an old man and my days are numbered. Therefore, has he
sent you, my son, that to you I may commit the secrets of his power and
worship. Then shall I ascend in peace upon the knees of the Silent One,
knowing that his honor is safe in your hands. What say you?"
Constans realized that he was in a difficult position; nay more, that he
was absolutely at the mercy of his new acquaintance. There was no means
of exit save by the one door, and he had no desire for a second trial of
strength with the electric current. The old priest might be ignorant of
the real nature of the forces under his control, but certainly he was
well provided with practical formulas for their exploitation, as witness
the illuminated face and the electrically charged door-knob. Constans
understood that he was in a trap, where even to come into contact with
the walls of his prison-house might mean death. There was but one thing
to do, and that was to surrender.
"I will serve the Shining One," he said, quietly.
"You have chosen well, my son," returned the old man. "Now a fool would
never have understood that a net may be none the less strong for being
invisible, and our lord does not love to speak twice. You have heard
and you have obeyed; it is good."
He stepped to the switch-board, and, after going through a series of
genuflections, accompanied by an undertone of carelessly gabbled ritual,
he depressed a lever. Instantly the room was in darkness and the
spluttering wire ceased its crackling. The priest passed into the great
hall, motioning Constans to follow him. Another brief and
incomprehensible ritual and he approached the vibratory motor. Constans
watched intently as he proceeded to manipulate a series of polished rods
and levers. Suddenly the loud, humming note separated into two distinct
tones, at first in musical accord and then becoming more and more
dissonant. The revolving disk slowed down and stopped, and with it the
dynamo came finally to rest. The hour of worship had come to an end; the
Shining One had departed from his sanctuary.
At the suggestion of his ecclesiastical superior Constans brought within
doors the offerings of food that had been left by the earlier
worshippers. There were some dry cakes, baked of rye flour, a pot of
honey, cheese, milk, and two bottles of wine. These provisions he was
ordered to carry to a room on the story above the street, where a fire
of sea-coal burned cheerfully in a brazier. Here they sat down and
feasted amicably together, for the frosty air had put a keen edge to
appetite and the noon hour was long overpast. And then as they sat at
ease after the meal and the old man was well started on his second pipe,
Constans came directly to the point.
"If I am to serve the Shining One acceptably," he said, "there are many
things that I should know. May I speak, my father?"
The priest looked at him searchingly. "As you will," he replied.
All through the afternoon and deep into the night they talked earnestly
together. And so, from time to time, in the days that were to follow,
for it was a question of many things, and of some that were hard of
understanding.
XIV
ARCADIA HOUSE
Little by little, Constans succeeded in piecing together the puzzle, for
puzzle indeed it was. Here in this city of the dead he had found in
actual operation one of the great power-producing plants of the ancient
world. How to account for the miracle of its preservation during the
generations that had passed since the sun of knowledge had disappeared
beneath the sea of mental darkness. What sufficient explanation could
there be for this amazing fact?
From Prosper, the priest, Constans drew the main outlines of the story,
and his studies enabled him to fill in the details. In brief, it may be
set down as follows:
When the convicts and criminals, who were the ancestors of the Doomsmen,
took possession of the old-time city, it is reasonable to suppose that
among them were a certain proportion of technically educated
men--artisans, mechanics, engineers. A power-plant of such imposing
proportions (designed, we may conjecture, for the furnishing of motive
power to one of the great transportation systems) could hardly escape
their notice, and they would certainly know how to utilize it if they
cared to do so. And they did--for a peculiar reason.
It is a matter of record that in the twentieth century the universal
form of capital punishment was execution by electricity. In every
state-prison stood the "death-chair," the visible embodiment of the
moral force which the wrong-doer had defied, and which, in the ensuing
struggle, had proved too strong for him. No wonder that it was both
feared and hated by the citizens of the underworld of crime.
Now that the social fabric lay in ruins, now that the very foundations
of law and order had been razed, what could be more natural than the
impulse to turn this instrument of legal punishment into one of
unlicensed vengeance? Society had dealt, mercilessly, with the breaker
of laws, and now it was to suffer in its turn. So it came to pass that
whenever a House-dweller (as representative of the old law-creating and
law-abiding classes) fell alive into the hands of the Doomsmen, it was
invariably ordained that he must take his seat in the chair of death and
in his own body make satisfaction for the ancient debt.
But the years rolled on, and with the new generations came a slow but
sweeping change in sentiment. The Doomsmen were now the dominant race,
and the Housemen had become their vassals. It was not good policy for a
master to wantonly destroy productive property, and so by degrees these
barbarous reprisals slackened. The time was now ripe for the second
stage of the evolution--the introduction of the religious element and
the final conversion of the execution into the sacrifice. That the
transformation was a natural one may be easily shown.
Even among the ancient scientists the nature of electricity was but
imperfectly understood, and as the night of ignorance settled down upon
the world it was inevitable that the various phenomena of electrical
energy should come to be regarded with ever-increasing awe. To the
commonalty among the Doomsmen this invisible, inaudible, intangible
force which slew at a breath, became invested with supernatural
attributes; it was the spirit of a god that came and sat in the chair of
death, now transformed into the high altar of his chosen sacrifice.
But outside of the vulgar crowd were the initiated, the _illuminati_,
the technically trained adepts who managed the whole business. How about
them? In the beginning, doubtless, they would be tempted to foster the
new cult, recognizing in it a weakness upon which they could profitably
play. And this they did, only to be trapped, in turn, in the net of
superstition which they had helped to weave. It was now three
generations back to the electricians and mechanical experts to whom the
care of the great engines had originally been intrusted. Their sons and
grandsons continued to preserve the practical knowledge which was
required for the management of the machinery under their charge, but as
time went on they cared less and less about the principles of the
mysterious forces that they controlled. Now, let the tide of religious
fervor sweep onward to its flood, and inevitably the apprentice would be
replaced by the acolyte; the neophytes of the fourth generation would be
taught only so much about the engines as was absolutely necessary for
their maintenance in running order. At last, the Shining One had come to
his own, and all bowed before his throne.
Following upon this culmination came decadence; it is the universal
law. Through imperceptible degrees men fell away from the faith of their
fathers, and the worship of the god had become unfashionable. The
devotees were reduced to a handful of women; of the once all-powerful
priesthood, Prosper alone remained, and he was an old and feeble man.
One man but he had stood unfalteringly at his post; every Friday for
more than thirty years he had caused the spirit of the god to descend
into his sanctuary, and had called upon all true-hearted believers to
draw near and worship. That they would not heed was no concern of his;
his duty was accomplished, and beyond this no man may go.
"And surely the Shining One is jealous of his own honor," said Constans,
guardedly. "Will he not bring to naught these foolish contemners of his
majesty? Without doubt, else he were no god."
It was the afternoon of the following day, and the two men had been busy
with the care of the machinery in the great hall, polishing up the
bright parts and examining with infinite patience the innumerable
bearings, their oil-cups and dust-caps. The conversation had naturally
been colored by the pious character of their task, and Prosper had
spoken more unreservedly than was his wont, emboldening Constans to ask
the question recorded above. "Else he were no god," he repeated,
insistently. The old man turned on him.
"And who shall tell us whether he be a god or no?" he demanded, with
startling vehemence. "What manner of divinity can he be who allows these
feeble hands to call him into existence and again to reduce him to
nothingness? A god! This senseless block of iron that lives only at my
will and pleasure. Behold, boy! shall the Shining One suffer indignity
such as this and not worthily avenge himself?" and as he spoke, he
caught up a handful of refuse from the floor and deliberately threw it
at the great dynamo before which they were standing.
"A god!" he reiterated, with contemptuous bitterness, and spat upon the
mass of polished metal.
There was a moment of suspense so real that Constans, despite his
vantage ground of superior knowledge, trembled with an inexplicable
terror. Surely, the outraged divinity had started into life; it was
preparing to strike down the blasphemer.
"Perchance he is on a journey, or he sleeps," said the old priest,
coldly. "He is a wise man who knows in whom he believes, and the Shining
One shall, doubtless, be justified of his children." Then, with a
gesture of indescribable dignity, he drew a corner of his flowing outer
cape across his face and passed out into the gathering shadows of the
winter day.
The task was still unfinished, but not for worlds would Constans have
remained alone in that echoing, wind-swept cavern, surrounded by these
monstrous shapes of metal. Lever and piston, wheel and shaft, the
familiar outlines had disappeared, and in their stead a vast,
indefinable bulk loomed through the dusk. It hung in the background like
a wild beast, eternally watchful and waiting, waiting. Of a sudden,
Constans felt horribly afraid. Stumbling and panting he ran up-stairs
and gained the shelter of his own little room. A fire was smouldering on
the hearth; he blew the log into a flame and lighted every candle upon
which he could lay his hand. Then as mind and body relaxed under the
cheering influence of light and warmth he drew a chair to the fire and
sat down to seriously consider his future course of action. The
situation had forced itself upon him. How was he to grapple with it?
In the first place, here was this tremendous power whose secret he alone
possessed; the day and hour might even now be at hand when he should be
able to wrest this superior knowledge to advantage.
Secondly, there was the question of personal safety, and assuredly it
would be to his interest to be numbered among the accredited servants of
the Shining One. The people might have grown indifferent to the worship
of their ancient gods, but superstition still counselled an outward
measure of respect towards those who wore the priestly garb. Finally,
there was the pressing necessity of putting food into his mouth, a
commonplace but still cogent consideration. Constans had been living on
short rations now for a week past, his provisions were just about
exhausted, and the prospects for the future had caused him no little
anxiety. In the service of the Shining One he would at least be fed. So
he resolved to accept the issue that had been forced upon him: he had
passed his word, and he would keep it until destiny itself absolved him.
Several days later Constans adventured forth, making directly for the
Citadel Square and from thence into the Palace Road. His official garb,
a long black soutane and hood, was a tolerable disguise in itself, while
the emblem of the forked lightning, worked in gold thread upon his left
sleeve, vouched for his sacerdotal character as a member of the
inferior priesthood. The Doomsmen whom he encountered looked at him
with indifference, a very few saluted him with a perfunctory respect. It
was plain that his appearance awakened neither interest nor distrust,
and during the course of his walk he was enabled to add materially to
his stock of knowledge about the city and its defences.
Half way down the Palace Road he overtook a man, a squat,
broad-shouldered fellow, who limped as he walked. Constans would have
brushed by, but the man plucked at his sleeve, and he was forced to stop
and accommodate his pace to that of his interlocutor. A disagreeable
appearing personage, with a crafty face, yet he spoke civilly enough.
"A fair day, master. Eh! but a black cassock's a rare bird nowadays upon
the Palace Road."
"Is it not wide enough for us both?" returned Constans, as easily as he
could.
"Oh, of a most noble broadness; I've no complaint to make on that score.
It's the length of the way that is troubling me just now--this cursed
leg of mine! Might I be so bold to ask the loan of your arm so far as
the fortress? An old sailorman with a sprung spar navigates but badly on
these icy stones."
Constans could do nothing but comply, albeit somewhat ungraciously. His
new acquaintance did not seem to notice his coldness. He went on
volubly:
"A fair day, as I have said, but I should prefer a leaden sky and the
fighting-deck of the _Black Swan_, with the oars ripping through the
yeast of a north-wester."
"The _Black Swan_!" ejaculated Constans, forgetting himself for the
moment.
"Ay, master, and I may well curse my luck in missing the chance,"
continued the fellow grumblingly. "There is always fat picking to be had
under that same bird's beak, but this bad knee of mine has kept me out
of it for twice a twelvemonth. Perhaps it might be worth my while," he
added, hesitatingly, "to humble myself before the Shining One. Who knows
but that he might help me, seeing that all the physicians have failed.
How about a quarter of hung venison, my lord, and a gallon or so of the
best apple-wine--just by way of a peace-offering?"
"The Shining One makes no bargains," answered Constans, sternly, in
virtue of his assumed office. "Submit yourself to his will, and then
perchance our lord may deign to hear. He grants his favors to his
obedient children; he sells them to none."
"But, my father----"
"Our ways part here," said Constans, decidedly, for they had now reached
the north gate of the citadel and he was beginning to feel more and more
uncomfortable under those sharp eyes. "Farewell, my son, and remember
that penitence precedes healing, whether of soul or of body."
Constans passed on, and the man stood looking after him with a certain
malevolent curiosity.
"Now so surely as I am Kurt, the Knacker, there is more in this
priestling than meets the eye," he muttered. "Is a blithe young chap,
with such a pair of shoulders, to willingly prefer a black robe to a
velvet jacket, a priest's empire over a score of silly women to a seat
in a trooper's saddle, and the whole green world from which to pick and
choose his pleasures? Bah! it isn't reasonable, and if this knee of mine
will permit me to hobble into the presence of the Shining One some fine
morning I will have another guess at the riddle.