Ten days later they took off the bandages. The doctor had changed them
and examined my eyes a number of times, but always in what was to me
total darkness; I believe he used some sort of queer light, infra-red
or black or what-have-you. I'm not up on these medical and scientific
gadgets.
The last layer of gauze came off. Nothing happened. The world to me was
all a pinkish-red blurring.
"I can't see," I said. "John! I can't see!"
"Neither can I when my eyes are closed," said Marion, with a nervous
choked laugh.
So I opened my eyes.
I saw a tall straight old man, a one-armed chap, a young fellow in
dark glasses, a rather stuffy-looking retired colonel, a middle-aged
physician with a worried face, and a girl as radiant as a spring
morning.
"Greetings," I said unsteadily. "Greetings, little army. Don't look so
scared."
Alec Talbot grinned and Marion gulped with relief, Colonel Bedford
clapped me hard on the shoulder, muttering something that was probably
"Stout fella!" Geoff Exeter said, "You can see, Will? Your eyes are all
right?"
"I think so. Yes, there isn't anything but a little fuzziness around
the edges."
"That may be the result of the long spell of darkness," said John
Baringer, fussing about professionally.
"Well, let's get out and test the old orbs," said I, throwing off the
covers. John pushed me back into the pillow.
"Not for a day or two. You've got to regain your strength. Been in bed
a long time."
I raged, but it did no good. It was three mornings later when at last
I was allowed to leave the old castle--it belonged to Geoff Exeter's
family, by the way, Geoff's father being old Lord Joseph Exeter--and go
into town, with Colonel Bedford at the wheel of my Jaguar.
We averaged a wild and impetuous thirty-two miles per hour all the way
there. The Colonel was a driver of the old, the very old, school, and
obviously wished that the sleek little sports car were a two-wheeled
tonga. As for me, I fidgeted and mumbled and longed to get behind
the wheel myself; I had once clocked the two-seater at a hundred and
fourteen m.p.h., and when she was forced to creep along like this,
both she and I were unhappy. However, my job was to observe, and so I
contained my impatience perforce.
* * * * *
We circled the village and came in from the opposite end. No one knew
we were staying at the long-deserted Exeter Castle, and we meant to
keep it that way. It was a priceless hideaway, an excellent G.H.Q. for
our planned insurgence.
The village of Exeter Parva contained some three hundred souls, if one
included eighteen large placid-faced farm horses and ninety-seven dogs
more or less. It was market day. The countryside had boiled into town
for a hectic time. You might have scraped more citizens out of the pubs
of one short London lane, and heard more noise in Westminster Abbey;
but for Exeter Parva it was a gala morning.
We drove down the main street--I believe it was the _only_ street, but
this may be prejudice on my part--and stopped to let a couple of deeply
suspicious cows pass by on either side. "Well?" asked the Colonel.
I had nearly forgotten the purpose of the jaunt. I narrowed my eyes
and stared keenly about me. I saw farmers in dull blue and faded gray,
women in carefully mended finery, children in everything from Sunday
bests to Saturday rags. I saw what one might see in any small village
on market day. I saw no monsters whatever. I sighed and gave a weak
grin. "Just people," I told him. "Just Englishmen."
He attempted to gnaw his short mustache. "Which means either that
_they_ don't foregather in small towns, or that _they_ existed only in
Captain Wolfe's brain," said he meditatively. "Which, mind you, young
fella, I don't believe for a minute. If there was ever a sane 'un,
Wolfe was he. Besides, he'd served in my old stations in India." He
pronounced it "Injuh." He edged the Jaguar forward through what Exeter
Parva doubtless considered its heavy traffic. "Or else the experiment
didn't work. When you think about it, that's the logical explanation.
Whatever happened to the Captain's eyes must have been almighty
complicated. Don't understand a tenth of it myself, these dimensions
and whatnot, but there it is. Frightfully complex changes must ha' been
wrought."
* * * * *
I was too dispirited to answer that. "Let's have a drink," I said.
"There's a tavern. At least we can have a mug of ale before we go back."
"Right." He parked the Jaguar expertly if rather slowly. We went into
the tavern, which was called The Leathern Funnel.
"Well, gents, what'll it be?" inquired the barmaid affably.
"Two ales, miss, if you please," said the Colonel. It was lucky for
me that he ordered. I could not have produced anything but a squeak
or a howl. The mugs bumped down before us and I picked mine up with
both hands and drank it off like a thirst-mad sot after a month of
bread-and-water. Then I aimed myself carefully at the door and put
on the greatest piece of acting of my career; I walked casually and
without a single stumble all the way to the street. The Colonel came
after me.
"What the deuce, Chester! You don't allow a chap much time to enjoy
his bit of ale," he grumbled.
I got in at the off side of the Jaguar without speaking and put my
hands on the wheel. "Ready?" I managed to ask.
"Here, I'm to drive."
"You are like hell. Get in." He did. "Hang on." I nudged the old girl
out of the village and when we were hidden by the first hill I trod on
her pedals with all my weight and terror behind my feet. We crashed off
into a beautiful eighty m.p.h., which I held or surpassed all the way
home. Three or four times he tried to bellow something at me. I ignored
him.
When we had flown up the long winding drive I put her into the stables,
part of which we had fitted up as a garage. Then I sat there in the
gloom and shook with what felt like fever.
"Here, what is it, laddie?" he barked. "What's wrong?"
"Describe the barmaid," I said.
"What?"
"Describe the barmaid."
"Fortyish, plain, thickset, red hands, red face, couple of warts.
Pleasant expression. Right?"
"Not exactly. You left out a few things."
"What on earth?"
"The green horns, six of 'em, growing out of her face in the middle
where the nose should have been. The shifting outlines that looked
now like a tree stump and now like an octopus. The pulsing heart of
scarlet fire in the belly. The dusky-pink tentacles that pushed the
mugs across the bar. The pure _hatred_ that throbbed visibly and seemed
to feel cold when it got near you. The eyes like bursting orchids full
of slimy white worms."
He put his hand on my arm and tightened his grip until his knuckles
grew pale. "Merciful God!" he said quietly. "Merciful God!"