Hugo had no friends. One single individual whom he loved, whom he could
have taken fully into his confidence, might, in a measure, have resolved
his whole life. Yet so intense was the pressure that had conditioned him
that he invariably retreated before the rare opportunities for such
confidences. He had known many persons well: his father and mother, Anna
Blake, Lefty Foresman, Charlotte, Iris, Tom Shayne, Roseanne, even
Skorvsky--but none of them had known him. His friendlessness was
responsible for a melancholy yearning to remain with his kind. Having
already determined to go away, he sought for a kind of compromise.
He did not want to be in New York, or Washington, or any other city; the
landscape of America was haunted for him. He would leave it, but he
would not open himself to the cruel longing for his own language, the
sight of familiar customs and manners. From his hotel in New York he
made excursions to various steamship agencies and travel bureaus. He
had seen many lands, and his _Wanderlust_ demanded novelty. For days he
was undecided.
It was a chance group of photographs in a Sunday newspaper that excited
his first real interest. One of the pictures was of a man--erect,
white-haired, tanned, clear-eyed--Professor Daniel Hardin--a procession
of letters--head of the new expedition to Yucatan. The other pictures
were of ruined temples, unpiled stone causeways, jungle. He thought
instantly that he would like to attach himself to the party.
Many factors combined to make the withdrawal offered by an expedition
ideal. The more Hugo thought about it, the more excited he became. The
very nascency of a fresh objective was accompanied by and crowded with
new hints for himself and his problems. The expedition would take him
away from his tribulations, and it would not entirely cut him off from
his kind: Professor Hardin had both the face and the fame of a
distinguished man.
A thought that had been in the archives of his mind for many months came
sharply into relief: of all human beings alive, the scientists were the
only ones who retained imagination, ideals, and a sincere interest in
the larger world. It was to them he should give his allegiance, not to
the statesmen, not to industry or commerce or war. Hugo felt that in one
quick glimpse he had made a long step forward.
Another concept, far more fantastic and in a way even more intriguing,
dawned in his mind as he read accounts of the Maya ruins which were to
be excavated. The world was cluttered with these great lumps of
incredible architecture. Walls had been builded by primitive man,
temples, hanging gardens, obelisks, pyramids, palaces, bridges,
terraces, roads--all of them gigantic and all of them defying the
penetration of archæology to find the manner of their creation. Was it
not possible--Hugo's heart skipped a beat when it occurred to him--that
in their strange combination of ignorance and brilliance the ancients
had stumbled upon the secret of human strength--his secret! Had not
those antique and migratory peoples carried with them the formula which
could be poured into the veins of slaves, making them stronger than
engines? And was it not conceivable that, as their civilizations
crumbled, the secret was lost, together with so many other formulæ of
knowledge?
He could imagine plumed and painted priests with prayer and sacrifice
cutting open the veins of prehistoric mothers and pouring in the magic
potion. When the babies grew, they could raise up the pyramids, walls,
and temples; they could do it rapidly and easily. A great enigma was
thus resolved. He set out immediately to locate Professor Hardin and
with difficulty arranged an interview with him.
Preparations for the expedition were being carried on in an ordinary New
York business office. A secretary announced Hugo and he was conducted
before the professor. Daniel Hardin was no dusty pedagogue. His
knowledge was profound and academic, his books were authoritative, but
in himself he belonged to the type of man certain to succeed, whatever
his choice of occupation. Much of his life had been spent in field
work--arduous toil in bizarre lands where life depended sometimes on
tact and sometimes on military strategy. He appraised Hugo shrewdly
before he spoke.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Danner?"
Hugo came directly to the point. "I should like to join your Yucatan
expedition."