Produced by Judy Boss
THE METAL MONSTER
By A. Merritt
PROLOGUE
Before the narrative which follows was placed in my hands, I had never
seen Dr. Walter T. Goodwin, its author.
When the manuscript revealing his adventures among the pre-historic
ruins of the Nan-Matal in the Carolines (The Moon Pool) had been given
me by the International Association of Science for editing and revision
to meet the requirements of a popular presentation, Dr. Goodwin had left
America. He had explained that he was still too shaken, too depressed,
to be able to recall experiences that must inevitably carry with them
freshened memories of those whom he loved so well and from whom, he
felt, he was separated in all probability forever.
I had understood that he had gone to some remote part of Asia to pursue
certain botanical studies, and it was therefore with the liveliest
surprise and interest that I received a summons from the President of
the Association to meet Dr. Goodwin at a designated place and hour.
Through my close study of the Moon Pool papers I had formed a mental
image of their writer. I had read, too, those volumes of botanical
research which have set him high above all other American scientists in
this field, gleaning from their curious mingling of extremely
technical observations and minutely accurate but extraordinarily poetic
descriptions, hints to amplify my picture of him. It gratified me to
find I had drawn a pretty good one.
The man to whom the President of the Association introduced me was
sturdy, well-knit, a little under average height. He had a broad but
rather low forehead that reminded me somewhat of the late electrical
wizard Steinmetz. Under level black brows shone eyes of clear hazel,
kindly, shrewd, a little wistful, lightly humorous; the eyes both of a
doer and a dreamer.
Not more than forty I judged him to be. A close-trimmed, pointed beard
did not hide the firm chin and the clean-cut mouth. His hair was thick
and black and oddly sprinkled with white; small streaks and dots of
gleaming silver that shone with a curiously metallic luster.
His right arm was closely bound to his breast. His manner as he greeted
me was tinged with shyness. He extended his left hand in greeting, and
as I clasped the fingers I was struck by their peculiar, pronounced, yet
pleasant warmth; a sensation, indeed, curiously electric.
The Association's President forced him gently back into his chair.
“Dr. Goodwin,” he said, turning to me, “is not entirely recovered as
yet from certain consequences of his adventures. He will explain to you
later what these are. In the meantime, Mr. Merritt, will you read this?”
I took the sheets he handed me, and as I read them felt the gaze of Dr.
Goodwin full upon me, searching, weighing, estimating. When I raised my
eyes from the letter I found in his a new expression. The shyness was
gone; they were filled with complete friendliness. Evidently I had
passed muster.
“You will accept, sir?” It was the president's gravely courteous tone.
“Accept!” I exclaimed. “Why, of course, I accept. It is not only one of
the greatest honors, but to me one of the greatest delights to act as a
collaborator with Dr. Goodwin.”
The president smiled.
“In that case, sir, there is no need for me to remain longer,” he said.
“Dr. Goodwin has with him his manuscript as far as he has progressed
with it. I will leave you two alone for your discussion.”
He bowed to us and, picking up his old-fashioned bell-crowned silk hat
and his quaint, heavy cane of ebony, withdrew. Dr. Goodwin turned to me.
“I will start,” he said, after a little pause, “from when I met Richard
Drake on the field of blue poppies that are like a great prayer-rug at
the gray feet of the nameless mountain.”
The sun sank, the shadows fell, the lights of the city sparkled out, for
hours New York roared about me unheeded while I listened to the tale
of that utterly weird, stupendous drama of an unknown life, of unknown
creatures, unknown forces, and of unconquerable human heroism played
among the hidden gorges of unknown Asia.
It was dawn when I left him for my own home. Nor was it for many
hours after that I laid his then incomplete manuscript down and sought
sleep--and found a troubled sleep.
A. MERRITT
CHAPTER I. VALLEY OF THE BLUE POPPIES
In this great crucible of life we call the world--in the vaster one we
call the universe--the mysteries lie close packed, uncountable as grains
of sand on ocean's shores. They thread gigantic, the star-flung spaces;
they creep, atomic, beneath the microscope's peering eye. They walk
beside us, unseen and unheard, calling out to us, asking why we are deaf
to their crying, blind to their wonder.
Sometimes the veils drop from a man's eyes, and he sees--and speaks of
his vision. Then those who have not seen pass him by with the lifted
brows of disbelief, or they mock him, or if his vision has been great
enough they fall upon and destroy him.
For the greater the mystery, the more bitterly is its verity assailed;
upon what seem the lesser a man may give testimony and at least gain for
himself a hearing.
There is reason for this. Life is a ferment, and upon and about it,
shifting and changing, adding to or taking away, beat over legions of
forces, seen and unseen, known and unknown. And man, an atom in the
ferment, clings desperately to what to him seems stable; nor greets with
joy him who hazards that what he grips may be but a broken staff, and,
so saying, fails to hold forth a sturdier one.
Earth is a ship, plowing her way through uncharted oceans of space
wherein are strange currents, hidden shoals and reefs, and where blow
the unknown winds of Cosmos.
If to the voyagers, painfully plotting their course, comes one who cries
that their charts must be remade, nor can tell WHY they must be--that
man is not welcome--no!
Therefore it is that men have grown chary of giving testimony upon
mysteries. Yet knowing each in his own heart the truth of that vision he
has himself beheld, lo, it is that in whose reality he most believes.
The spot where I had encamped was of a singular beauty; so beautiful
that it caught the throat and set an ache within the breast--until from
it a tranquillity distilled that was like healing mist.
Since early March I had been wandering. It was now mid-July. And for the
first time since my pilgrimage had begun I drank--not of forgetfulness,
for that could never be--but of anodyne for a sorrow which had held fast
upon me since my return from the Carolines a year before.
No need to dwell here upon that--it has been written. Nor shall I recite
the reasons for my restlessness--for these are known to those who have
read that history of mine. Nor is there cause to set forth at length the
steps by which I had arrived at this vale of peace.
Sufficient is to tell that in New York one night, reading over what is
perhaps the most sensational of my books--“The Poppies and Primulas of
Southern Tibet,” the result of my travels of 1910-1911, I determined to
return to that quiet, forbidden land. There, if anywhere, might I find
something akin to forgetting.
There was a certain flower which I long had wished to study in its
mutations from the singular forms appearing on the southern slopes of
the Elburz--Persia's mountainous chain that extends from Azerbaijan
in the west to Khorasan in the east; from thence I would follow its
modified types in the Hindu-Kush ranges and its migrations along the
southern scarps of the Trans-Himalayas--the unexplored upheaval, higher
than the Himalayas themselves, more deeply cut with precipice and gorge,
which Sven Hedin had touched and named on his journey to Lhasa.
Having accomplished this, I planned to push across the passes to the
Manasarowar Lakes, where, legend has it, the strange, luminous purple
lotuses grow.
An ambitious project, undeniably fraught with danger; but it is
written that desperate diseases require desperate remedies, and until
inspiration or message how to rejoin those whom I had loved so dearly
came to me, nothing less, I felt, could dull my heartache.
And, frankly, feeling that no such inspiration or message could come, I
did not much care as to the end.
In Teheran I had picked up a most unusual servant; yes, more than this,
a companion and counselor and interpreter as well.
He was a Chinese; his name Chiu-Ming. His first thirty years had been
spent at the great Lamasery of Palkhor-Choinde at Gyantse, west of
Lhasa. Why he had gone from there, how he had come to Teheran, I never
asked. It was most fortunate that he had gone, and that I had found him.
He recommended himself to me as the best cook within ten thousand miles
of Pekin.
For almost three months we had journeyed; Chiu-Ming and I and the two
ponies that carried my impedimenta.
We had traversed mountain roads which had echoed to the marching feet of
the hosts of Darius, to the hordes of the Satraps. The highways of the
Achaemenids--yes, and which before them had trembled to the tramplings
of the myriads of the godlike Dravidian conquerors.
We had slipped over ancient Iranian trails; over paths which the
warriors of conquering Alexander had traversed; dust of bones of
Macedons, of Greeks, of Romans, beat about us; ashes of the flaming
ambitions of the Sassanidae whimpered beneath our feet--the feet of an
American botanist, a Chinaman, two Tibetan ponies. We had crept through
clefts whose walls had sent back the howlings of the Ephthalites, the
White Huns who had sapped the strength of these same proud Sassanids
until at last both fell before the Turks.
Over the highways and byways of Persia's glory, Persia's shame and
Persia's death we four--two men, two beasts--had passed. For a fortnight
we had met no human soul, seen no sign of human habitation.
Game had been plentiful--green things Chiu-Ming might lack for his
cooking, but meat never. About us was a welter of mighty summits. We
were, I knew, somewhere within the blending of the Hindu-Kush with the
Trans-Himalayas.
That morning we had come out of a ragged defile into this valley of
enchantment, and here, though it had been so early, I had pitched my
tent, determining to go no farther till the morrow.
It was a Phocean vale; a gigantic cup filled with tranquillity. A spirit
brooded over it, serene, majestic, immutable--like the untroubled calm
which rests, the Burmese believe, over every place which has guarded the
Buddha, sleeping.
At its eastern end towered the colossal scarp of the unnamed peak
through one of whose gorges we had crept. On his head was a cap of
silver set with pale emeralds--the snow fields and glaciers that crowned
him. Far to the west another gray and ochreous giant reared its bulk,
closing the vale. North and south, the horizon was a chaotic sky land of
pinnacles, spired and minareted, steepled and turreted and domed, each
diademed with its green and argent of eternal ice and snow.
And all the valley was carpeted with the blue poppies in wide, unbroken
fields, luminous as the morning skies of mid-June; they rippled mile
after mile over the path we had followed, over the still untrodden path
which we must take. They nodded, they leaned toward each other, they
seemed to whisper--then to lift their heads and look up like crowding
swarms of little azure fays, half impudently, wholly trustfully, into
the faces of the jeweled giants standing guard over them. And when the
little breeze walked upon them it was as though they bent beneath the
soft tread and were brushed by the sweeping skirts of unseen, hastening
Presences.
Like a vast prayer-rug, sapphire and silken, the poppies stretched
to the gray feet of the mountain. Between their southern edge and
the clustering summits a row of faded brown, low hills knelt--like
brown-robed, withered and weary old men, backs bent, faces hidden
between outstretched arms, palms to the earth and brows touching earth
within them--in the East's immemorial attitude of worship.
I half expected them to rise--and as I watched a man appeared on one of
the bowed, rocky shoulders, abruptly, with the ever-startling suddenness
which in the strange light of these latitudes objects spring into
vision. As he stood scanning my camp there arose beside him a laden
pony, and at its head a Tibetan peasant. The first figure waved its
hand; came striding down the hill.
As he approached I took stock of him. A young giant, three good inches
over six feet, a vigorous head with unruly clustering black hair; a
clean-cut, clean-shaven American face.
“I'm Dick Drake,” he said, holding out his hand. “Richard Keen Drake,
recently with Uncle's engineers in France.”
“My name is Goodwin.” I took his hand, shook it warmly. “Dr. Walter T.
Goodwin.”
“Goodwin the botanist--? Then I know you!” he exclaimed. “Know all
about you, that is. My father admired your work greatly. You knew
him--Professor Alvin Drake.”
I nodded. So he was Alvin Drake's son. Alvin, I knew, had died about a
year before I had started on this journey. But what was his son doing in
this wilderness?
“Wondering where I came from?” he answered my unspoken question. “Short
story. War ended. Felt an irresistible desire for something different.
Couldn't think of anything more different from Tibet--always wanted to
go there anyway. Went. Decided to strike over toward Turkestan. And here
I am.”
I felt at once a strong liking for this young giant. No doubt,
subconsciously, I had been feeling the need of companionship with my own
kind. I even wondered, as I led the way into my little camp, whether he
would care to join fortunes with me in my journeyings.
His father's work I knew well, and although this stalwart lad was unlike
what one would have expected Alvin Drake--a trifle dried, precise,
wholly abstracted with his experiments--to beget, still, I reflected,
heredity like the Lord sometimes works in mysterious ways its wonders to
perform.
It was almost with awe that he listened to me instruct Chiu-Ming as to
just how I wanted supper prepared, and his gaze dwelt fondly upon the
Chinese busy among his pots and pans.
We talked a little, desultorily, as the meal was prepared--fragments of
traveler's news and gossip, as is the habit of journeyers who come upon
each other in the silent places. Ever the speculation grew in his face
as he made away with Chiu-Ming's artful concoctions.
Drake sighed, drawing out his pipe.
“A cook, a marvel of a cook. Where did you get him?”
Briefly I told him.
Then a silence fell upon us. Suddenly the sun dipped down behind the
flank of the stone giant guarding the valley's western gate; the whole
vale swiftly darkened--a flood of crystal-clear shadows poured within
it. It was the prelude to that miracle of unearthly beauty seen nowhere
else on this earth--the sunset of Tibet.
We turned expectant eyes to the west. A little, cool breeze raced down
from the watching steeps like a messenger, whispered to the nodding
poppies, sighed and was gone. The poppies were still. High overhead a
homing kite whistled, mellowly.
As if it were a signal there sprang out in the pale azure of the western
sky row upon row of cirrus cloudlets, rank upon rank of them, thrusting
their heads into the path of the setting sun. They changed from mottled
silver into faint rose, deepened to crimson.
“The dragons of the sky drink the blood of the sunset,” said Chiu-Ming.
As though a gigantic globe of crystal had dropped upon the heavens,
their blue turned swiftly to a clear and glowing amber--then as abruptly
shifted to a luminous violet A soft green light pulsed through the
valley.
Under it, like hills ensorcelled, the rocky walls about it seemed to
flatten. They glowed and all at once pressed forward like gigantic
slices of palest emerald jade, translucent, illumined, as though by a
circlet of little suns shining behind them.
The light faded, robes of deepest amethyst dropped around the mountain's
mighty shoulders. And then from every snow and glacier-crowned peak,
from minaret and pinnacle and towering turret, leaped forth a confusion
of soft peacock flames, a host of irised prismatic gleamings, an ordered
chaos of rainbows.
Great and small, interlacing and shifting, they ringed the valley with
an incredible glory--as if some god of light itself had touched the
eternal rocks and bidden radiant souls stand forth.
Through the darkening sky swept a rosy pencil of living light; that
utterly strange, pure beam whose coming never fails to clutch the throat
of the beholder with the hand of ecstasy, the ray which the Tibetans
name the Ting-Pa. For a moment this rosy finger pointed to the east,
then arched itself, divided slowly into six shining, rosy bands; began
to creep downward toward the eastern horizon where a nebulous, pulsing
splendor arose to meet it.
And as we watched I heard a gasp from Drake. And it was echoed by my
own.
For the six beams were swaying, moving with ever swifter motion from
side to side in ever-widening sweep, as though the hidden orb from which
they sprang were swaying like a pendulum.
Faster and faster the six high-flung beams swayed--and then broke--broke
as though a gigantic, unseen hand had reached up and snapped them!
An instant the severed ends ribboned aimlessly, then bent, turned down
and darted earthward into the welter of clustered summits at the north
and swiftly were gone, while down upon the valley fell night.
“Good God!” whispered Drake. “It was as though something reached up,
broke those rays and drew them down--like threads.”
“I saw it.” I struggled with bewilderment. “I saw it. But I never saw
anything like it before,” I ended, most inadequately.
“It was PURPOSEFUL,” he whispered. “It was DELIBERATE. As though
something reached up, juggled with the rays, broke them, and drew them
down like willow withes.”
“The devils that dwell here!” quavered Chiu-Ming.
“Some magnetic phenomenon.” I was half angry at myself for my own touch
of panic. “Light can be deflected by passage through a magnetic field.
Of course that's it. Certainly.”
“I don't know.” Drake's tone was doubtful indeed. “It would take a whale
of a magnetic field to have done THAT--it's inconceivable.” He harked
back to his first idea. “It was so--so DAMNED deliberate,” he repeated.
“Devils--” muttered the frightened Chinese.
“What's that?” Drake gripped my arm and pointed to the north. A deeper
blackness had grown there while we had been talking, a pool of darkness
against which the mountain summits stood out, blade-sharp edges faintly
luminous.
A gigantic lance of misty green fire darted from the blackness and
thrust its point into the heart of the zenith; following it, leaped into
the sky a host of the sparkling spears of light, and now the blackness
was like an ebon hand, brandishing a thousand javelins of tinseled
flame.
“The aurora,” I said.
“It ought to be a good one,” mused Drake, gaze intent upon it. “Did you
notice the big sun spot?”
I shook my head.
“The biggest I ever saw. Noticed it first at dawn this morning. Some
little aurora lighter--that spot. I told you--look at that!” he cried.
The green lances had fallen back. The blackness gathered itself
together--then from it began to pulse billows of radiance, spangled with
infinite darting swarms of flashing corpuscles like uncounted hosts of
dancing fireflies.
Higher the waves rolled--phosphorescent green and iridescent violet,
weird copperous yellows and metallic saffrons and a shimmer of
glittering ash of rose--then wavered, split and formed into gigantic,
sparkling, marching curtains of splendor.
A vast circle of light sprang out upon the folds of the flickering,
rushing curtains. Misty at first, its edges sharpened until they rested
upon the blazing glory of the northern sky like a pale ring of cold
flame. And about it the aurora began to churn, to heap itself, to
revolve.
Toward the ring from every side raced the majestic folds, drew
themselves together, circled, seethed around it like foam of fire about
the lip of a cauldron, and poured through the shining circle as though
it were the mouth of that fabled cavern where old Aeolus sits blowing
forth and breathing back the winds that sweep the earth.
Yes--into the ring's mouth the aurora flew, cascading in a columned
stream to earth. Then swiftly, a mist swept over all the heavens, veiled
that incredible cataract.
“Magnetism?” muttered Drake. “I guess NOT!”
“It struck about where the Ting-Pa was broken and seemed drawn down like
the rays,” I said.
“Purposeful,” Drake said. “And devilish. It hit on all my nerves like
a--like a metal claw. Purposeful and deliberate. There was intelligence
behind that.”
“Intelligence? Drake--what intelligence could break the rays of the
setting sun and suck down the aurora?”
“I don't know,” he answered.
“Devils,” croaked Chiu-Ming. “The devils that defied Buddha--and have
grown strong--”
“Like a metal claw!” breathed Drake.
Far to the west a sound came to us; first a whisper, then a wild
rushing, a prolonged wailing, a crackling. A great light flashed
through the mist, glowed about us and faded. Again the wailing, the vast
rushing, the retreating whisper.
Then silence and darkness dropped embraced upon the valley of the blue
poppies.