A VOYAGE TO ARCTURUS.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1. THE SÉANCE

Chapter 2. IN THE STREET

Chapter 3. STARKNESS

Chapter 4. THE VOICE

Chapter 5. THE NIGHT OF DEPARTURE

Chapter 6. JOIWIND

Chapter 7. PANAWE

Chapter 8. THE LUSION PLAIN

Chapter 9. OCEAXE

Chapter 10. TYDOMIN

Chapter 11. ON DISSCOURN

Chapter 12. SPADEVIL

Chapter 13. THE WOMBFLASH FOREST

Chapter 14. POLECRAB

Chapter 15. SWAYLONE’S ISLAND

Chapter 16. LEEHALLFAE

Chapter 17. CORPANG

Chapter 18. HAUNTE

Chapter 19. SULLENBODE

Chapter 20. BAREY

Chapter 21. MUSPEL

On a March evening, at eight o’clock, Backhouse, the medium—a fast-rising star in the psychic world—was ushered into the study at Prolands, the Hampstead residence of Montague Faull. The room was illuminated only by the light of a blazing fire. The host, eying him with indolent curiosity, got up, and the usual conventional greetings were exchanged. Having indicated an easy chair before the fire to his guest, the South American merchant sank back again into his own. The electric light was switched on. Faull’s prominent, clear-cut features, metallic-looking skin, and general air of bored impassiveness, did not seem greatly to impress the medium, who was accustomed to regard men from a special angle. Backhouse, on the contrary, was a novelty to the merchant. As he tranquilly studied him through half closed lids and the smoke of a cigar, he wondered how this little, thickset person with the pointed beard contrived to remain so fresh and sane in appearance, in view of the morbid nature of his occupation.

“Do you smoke?” drawled Faull, by way of starting the conversation. “No? Then will you take a drink?”

“Not at present, I thank you.”

A pause.

“Everything is satisfactory? The materialisation will take place?”

“I see no reason to doubt it.”

“That’s good, for I would not like my guests to be disappointed. I have your check written out in my pocket.”

“Afterward will do quite well.”

“Nine o’clock was the time specified, I believe?”

“I fancy so.”

The conversation continued to flag. Faull sprawled in his chair, and remained apathetic.

“Would you care to hear what arrangements I have made?”

“I am unaware that any are necessary, beyond chairs for your guests.”

“I mean the decoration of the séance room, the music, and so forth.”

Backhouse stared at his host. “But this is not a theatrical performance.”

“That’s correct. Perhaps I ought to explain.... There will be ladies present, and ladies, you know, are aesthetically inclined.”

“In that case I have no objection. I only hope they will enjoy the performance to the end.”

He spoke rather dryly.

“Well, that’s all right, then,” said Faull. Flicking his cigar into the fire, he got up and helped himself to whisky.

“Will you come and see the room?”

“Thank you, no. I prefer to have nothing to do with it till the time arrives.”

“Then let’s go to see my sister, Mrs. Jameson, who is in the drawing room. She sometimes does me the kindness to act as my hostess, as I am unmarried.”

“I will be delighted,” said Backhouse coldly.

They found the lady alone, sitting by the open pianoforte in a pensive attitude. She had been playing Scriabin and was overcome. The medium took in her small, tight, patrician features and porcelain-like hands, and wondered how Faull came by such a sister. She received him bravely, with just a shade of quiet emotion. He was used to such receptions at the hands of the sex, and knew well how to respond to them.

“What amazes me,” she half whispered, after ten minutes of graceful, hollow conversation, “is, if you must know it, not so much the manifestation itself—though that will surely be wonderful—as your assurance that it will take place. Tell me the grounds of your confidence.”

“I dream with open eyes,” he answered, looking around at the door, “and others see my dreams. That is all.”

“But that’s beautiful,” responded Mrs. Jameson. She smiled rather absently, for the first guest had just entered.

It was Kent-Smith, the ex-magistrate, celebrated for his shrewd judicial humour, which, however, he had the good sense not to attempt to carry into private life. Although well on the wrong side of seventy, his eyes were still disconcertingly bright. With the selective skill of an old man, he immediately settled himself in the most comfortable of many comfortable chairs.

“So we are to see wonders tonight?”

“Fresh material for your autobiography,” remarked Faull.

“Ah, you should not have mentioned my unfortunate book. An old public servant is merely amusing himself in his retirement, Mr. Backhouse. You have no cause for alarm—I have studied in the school of discretion.”

“I am not alarmed. There can be no possible objection to your publishing whatever you please.”

“You are most kind,” said the old man, with a cunning smile.

“Trent is not coming tonight,” remarked Mrs. Jameson, throwing a curious little glance at her brother.

“I never thought he would. It’s not in his line.”

“Mrs. Trent, you must understand,” she went on, addressing the ex-magistrate, “has placed us all under a debt of gratitude. She has decorated the old lounge hall upstairs most beautifully, and has secured the services of the sweetest little orchestra.”

“But this is Roman magnificence.”

“Backhouse thinks the spirits should be treated with more deference,” laughed Faull.

“Surely, Mr. Backhouse—a poetic environment...”

“Pardon me. I am a simple man, and always prefer to reduce things to elemental simplicity. I raise no opposition, but I express my opinion. Nature is one thing, and art is another.”

“And I am not sure that I don’t agree with you,” said the ex-magistrate. “An occasion like this ought to be simple, to guard against the possibility of deception—if you will forgive my bluntness, Mr. Backhouse.”

“We shall sit in full light,” replied Backhouse, “and every opportunity will be given to all to inspect the room. I shall also ask you to submit me to a personal examination.”

A rather embarrassed silence followed. It was broken by the arrival of two more guests, who entered together. These were Prior, the prosperous City coffee importer, and Lang, the stockjobber, well known in his own circle as an amateur prestidigitator. Backhouse was slightly acquainted with the latter. Prior, perfuming the room with the faint odour of wine and tobacco smoke, tried to introduce an atmosphere of joviality into the proceedings. Finding that no one seconded his efforts, however, he shortly subsided and fell to examining the water colours on the walls. Lang, tall, thin, and growing bald, said little, but stared at Backhouse a good deal.

Coffee, liqueurs, and cigarettes were now brought in. Everyone partook, except Lang and the medium. At the same moment, Professor Halbart was announced. He was the eminent psychologist, the author and lecturer on crime, insanity, genius, and so forth, considered in their mental aspects. His presence at such a gathering somewhat mystified the other guests, but all felt as if the object of their meeting had immediately acquired additional solemnity. He was small, meagre-looking, and mild in manner, but was probably the most stubborn-brained of all that mixed company. Completely ignoring the medium, he at once sat down beside Kent-Smith, with whom he began to exchange remarks.

At a few minutes past the appointed hour Mrs. Trent entered, unannounced. She was a woman of about twenty-eight. She had a white, demure, saintlike face, smooth black hair, and lips so crimson and full that they seemed to be bursting with blood. Her tall, graceful body was most expensively attired. Kisses were exchanged between her and Mrs. Jameson. She bowed to the rest of the assembly, and stole a half glance and a smile at Faull. The latter gave her a queer look, and Backhouse, who lost nothing, saw the concealed barbarian in the complacent gleam of his eye. She refused the refreshment that was offered her, and Faull proposed that, as everyone had now arrived, they should adjourn to the lounge hall.

Mrs. Trent held up a slender palm. “Did you, or did you not, give me carte blanche, Montague?”

“Of course I did,” said Faull, laughing. “But what’s the matter?”

“Perhaps I have been rather presumptuous. I don’t know. I have invited a couple of friends to join us. No, no one knows them.... The two most extraordinary individuals you ever saw. And mediums, I am sure.”

“It sounds very mysterious. Who are these conspirators?”

“At least tell us their names, you provoking girl,” put in Mrs. Jameson.

“One rejoices in the name of Maskull, and the other in that of Nightspore. That’s nearly all that I know about them, so don’t overwhelm me with any more questions.”

“But where did you pick them up? You must have picked them up somewhere.”

“But this is a cross-examination. Have I sinned against convention? I swear I will tell you not another word about them. They will be here directly, and then I will deliver them to your tender mercy.”

“I don’t know them,” said Faull, “and nobody else seems to, but, of course, we will all be very pleased to have them.... Shall we wait, or what?”

“I said nine, and it’s past that now. It’s quite possible they may not turn up after all.... Anyway, don’t wait.”

“I would prefer to start at once,” said Backhouse.

The lounge, a lofty room, forty feet long by twenty wide, had been divided for the occasion into two equal parts by a heavy brocade curtain drawn across the middle. The far end was thus concealed. The nearer half had been converted into an auditorium by a crescent of armchairs. There was no other furniture. A large fire was burning halfway along the wall, between the chairbacks and the door. The room was brilliantly lighted by electric bracket lamps. A sumptuous carpet covered the floor.

Having settled his guests in their seats, Faull stepped up to the curtain and flung it aside. A replica, or nearly so, of the Drury Lane presentation of the temple scene in The Magic Flute was then exposed to view: the gloomy, massive architecture of the interior, the glowing sky above it in the background, and, silhouetted against the latter, the gigantic seated statue of the Pharaoh. A fantastically carved wooden couch lay before the pedestal of the statue. Near the curtain, obliquely placed to the auditorium, was a plain oak armchair, for the use of the medium.

Many of those present felt privately that the setting was quite inappropriate to the occasion and savoured rather unpleasantly of ostentation. Backhouse in particular seemed put out. The usual compliments, however, were showered on Mrs. Trent as the deviser of so remarkable a theatre. Faull invited his friends to step forward and examine the apartment as minutely as they might desire. Prior and Lang were the only ones to accept. The former wandered about among the pasteboard scenery, whistling to himself and occasionally tapping a part of it with his knuckles. Lang, who was in his element, ignored the rest of his party and commenced a patient, systematic search, on his own account, for secret apparatus. Faull and Mrs. Trent stood in a corner of the temple, talking together in low tones; while Mrs. Jameson, pretending to hold Backhouse in conversation, watched them as only a deeply interested woman knows how to watch.

Lang, to his own disgust, having failed to find anything of a suspicious nature, the medium now requested that his own clothing should be searched.

“All these precautions are quite needless and beside the matter in hand, as you will immediately see for yourselves. My reputation demands, however, that other people who are not present would not be able to say afterward that trickery has been resorted to.”

To Lang again fell the ungrateful task of investigating pockets and sleeves. Within a few minutes he expressed himself satisfied that nothing mechanical was in Backhouse’s possession. The guests reseated themselves. Faull ordered two more chairs to be brought for Mrs. Trent’s friends, who, however, had not yet arrived. He then pressed an electric bell, and took his own seat.

The signal was for the hidden orchestra to begin playing. A murmur of surprise passed through the audience as, without previous warning, the beautiful and solemn strains of Mozart’s “temple” music pulsated through the air. The expectation of everyone was raised, while, beneath her pallor and composure, it could be seen that Mrs. Trent was deeply moved. It was evident that aesthetically she was by far the most important person present. Faull watched her, with his face sunk on his chest, sprawling as usual.

Backhouse stood up, with one hand on the back of his chair, and began speaking. The music instantly sank to pianissimo, and remained so for as long as he was on his legs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness a materialisation. That means you will see something appear in space that was not previously there. At first it will appear as a vaporous form, but finally it will be a solid body, which anyone present may feel and handle—and, for example, shake hands with. For this body will be in the human shape. It will be a real man or woman—which, I can’t say—but a man or woman without known antecedents. If, however, you demand from me an explanation of the origin of this materialised form—where it comes from, whence the atoms and molecules composing its tissues are derived—I am unable to satisfy you. I am about to produce the phenomenon; if anyone can explain it to me afterward, I shall be very grateful.... That is all I have to say.”

He resumed his seat, half turning his back on the assembly, and paused for a moment before beginning his task.

It was precisely at this minute that the manservant opened the door and announced in a subdued but distinct voice: “Mr. Maskull, Mr. Nightspore.”

Everyone turned round. Faull rose to welcome the late arrivals. Backhouse also stood up, and stared hard at them.

The two strangers remained standing by the door, which was closed quietly behind them. They seemed to be waiting for the mild sensation caused by their appearance to subside before advancing into the room. Maskull was a kind of giant, but of broader and more robust physique than most giants. He wore a full beard. His features were thick and heavy, coarsely modelled, like those of a wooden carving; but his eyes, small and black, sparkled with the fires of intelligence and audacity. His hair was short, black, and bristling. Nightspore was of middle height, but so tough-looking that he appeared to be trained out of all human frailties and susceptibilities. His hairless face seemed consumed by an intense spiritual hunger, and his eyes were wild and distant. Both men were dressed in tweeds.

Before any words were spoken, a loud and terrible crash of falling masonry caused the assembled party to start up from their chairs in consternation. It sounded as if the entire upper part of the building had collapsed. Faull sprang to the door, and called to the servant to say what was happening. The man had to be questioned twice before he gathered what was required of him. He said he had heard nothing. In obedience to his master’s order, he went upstairs. Nothing, however, was amiss there, neither had the maids heard anything.

In the meantime Backhouse, who almost alone of those assembled had preserved his sangfroid, went straight up to Nightspore, who stood gnawing his nails.

“Perhaps you can explain it, sir?”

“It was supernatural,” said Nightspore, in a harsh, muffled voice, turning away from his questioner.

“I guessed so. It is a familiar phenomenon, but I have never heard it so loud.”

He then went among the guests, reassuring them. By degrees they settled down, but it was observable that their former easy and good-humoured interest in the proceedings was now changed to strained watchfulness. Maskull and Nightspore took the places allotted to them. Mrs. Trent kept stealing uneasy glances at them. Throughout the entire incident, Mozart’s hymn continued to be played. The orchestra also had heard nothing.

Backhouse now entered on his task. It was one that began to be familiar to him, and he had no anxiety about the result. It was not possible to effect the materialisation by mere concentration of will, or the exercise of any faculty; otherwise many people could have done what he had engaged himself to do. His nature was phenomenal—the dividing wall between himself and the spiritual world was broken in many places. Through the gaps in his mind the inhabitants of the invisible, when he summoned them, passed for a moment timidly and awfully into the solid, coloured universe.... He could not say how it was brought about.... The experience was a rough one for the body, and many such struggles would lead to insanity and early death. That is why Backhouse was stern and abrupt in his manner. The coarse, clumsy suspicion of some of the witnesses, the frivolous aestheticism of others, were equally obnoxious to his grim, bursting heart; but he was obliged to live, and, to pay his way, must put up with these impertinences.

He sat down facing the wooden couch. His eyes remained open but seemed to look inward. His cheeks paled, and he became noticeably thinner. The spectators almost forgot to breathe. The more sensitive among them began to feel, or imagine, strange presences all around them. Maskull’s eyes glittered with anticipation, and his brows went up and down, but Nightspore appeared bored.

After a long ten minutes the pedestal of the statue was seen to become slightly blurred, as though an intervening mist were rising from the ground. This slowly developed into a visible cloud, coiling hither and thither, and constantly changing shape. The professor half rose, and held his glasses with one hand further forward on the bridge of his nose.

By slow stages the cloud acquired the dimensions and approximate outline of an adult human body, although all was still vague and blurred. It hovered lightly in the air, a foot or so above the couch. Backhouse looked haggard and ghastly. Mrs. Jameson quietly fainted in her chair, but she was unnoticed, and presently revived. The apparition now settled down upon the couch, and at the moment of doing so seemed suddenly to grow dark, solid, and manlike. Many of the guests were as pale as the medium himself, but Faull preserved his stoical apathy, and glanced once or twice at Mrs. Trent. She was staring straight at the couch, and was twisting a little lace handkerchief through the different fingers of her hand. The music went on playing.

The figure was by this time unmistakably that of a man lying down. The face focused itself into distinctness. The body was draped in a sort of shroud, but the features were those of a young man. One smooth hand fell over, nearly touching the floor, white and motionless. The weaker spirits of the company stared at the vision in sick horror; the rest were grave and perplexed. The seeming man was dead, but somehow it did not appear like a death succeeding life, but like a death preliminary to life. All felt that he might sit up at any minute.

“Stop that music!” muttered Backhouse, tottering from his chair and facing the party. Faull touched the bell. A few more bars sounded, and then total silence ensued.

“Anyone who wants to may approach the couch,” said Backhouse with difficulty.

Lang at once advanced, and stared awestruck at the supernatural youth.

“You are at liberty to touch,” said the medium.

But Lang did not venture to, nor did any of the others, who one by one stole up to the couch—until it came to Faull’s turn. He looked straight at Mrs. Trent, who seemed frightened and disgusted at the spectacle before her, and then not only touched the apparition but suddenly grasped the drooping hand in his own and gave it a powerful squeeze. Mrs. Trent gave a low scream. The ghostly visitor opened his eyes, looked at Faull strangely, and sat up on the couch. A cryptic smile started playing over his mouth. Faull looked at his hand; a feeling of intense pleasure passed through his body.

Maskull caught Mrs. Jameson in his arms; she was attacked by another spell of faintness. Mrs. Trent ran forward, and led her out of the room. Neither of them returned.

The phantom body now stood upright, looking about him, still with his peculiar smile. Prior suddenly felt sick, and went out. The other men more or less hung together, for the sake of human society, but Nightspore paced up and down, like a man weary and impatient, while Maskull attempted to interrogate the youth. The apparition watched him with a baffling expression, but did not answer. Backhouse was sitting apart, his face buried in his hands.

It was at this moment that the door was burst open violently, and a stranger, unannounced, half leaped, half strode a few yards into the room, and then stopped. None of Faull’s friends had ever seen him before. He was a thick, shortish man, with surprising muscular development and a head far too large in proportion to his body. His beardless yellow face indicated, as a first impression, a mixture of sagacity, brutality, and humour.

“Aha-i, gentlemen!” he called out loudly. His voice was piercing, and oddly disagreeable to the ear. “So we have a little visitor here.”

Nightspore turned his back, but everyone else stared at the intruder in astonishment. He took another few steps forward, which brought him to the edge of the theatre.

“May I ask, sir, how I come to have the honour of being your host?” asked Faull sullenly. He thought that the evening was not proceeding as smoothly as he had anticipated.

The newcomer looked at him for a second, and then broke into a great, roaring guffaw. He thumped Faull on the back playfully—but the play was rather rough, for the victim was sent staggering against the wall before he could recover his balance.

“Good evening, my host!”

“And good evening to you too, my lad!” he went on, addressing the supernatural youth, who was now beginning to wander about the room, in apparent unconsciousness of his surroundings. “I have seen someone very like you before, I think.”

There was no response.

The intruder thrust his head almost up to the phantom’s face. “You have no right here, as you know.”

The shape looked back at him with a smile full of significance, which, however, no one could understand.

“Be careful what you are doing,” said Backhouse quickly.

“What’s the matter, spirit usher?”

“I don’t know who you are, but if you use physical violence toward that, as you seem inclined to do, the consequences may prove very unpleasant.”

“And without pleasure our evening would be spoiled, wouldn’t it, my little mercenary friend?”

Humour vanished from his face, like sunlight from a landscape, leaving it hard and rocky. Before anyone realised what he was doing, he encircled the soft, white neck of the materialised shape with his hairy hands and, with a double turn, twisted it completely round. A faint, unearthly shriek sounded, and the body fell in a heap to the floor. Its face was uppermost. The guests were unutterably shocked to observe that its expression had changed from the mysterious but fascinating smile to a vulgar, sordid, bestial grin, which cast a cold shadow of moral nastiness into every heart. The transformation was accompanied by a sickening stench of the graveyard.

The features faded rapidly away, the body lost its consistence, passing from the solid to the shadowy condition, and, before two minutes had elapsed, the spirit-form had entirely disappeared.

The short stranger turned and confronted the party, with a long, loud laugh, like nothing in nature.

The professor talked excitedly to Kent-Smith in low tones. Faull beckoned Backhouse behind a wing of scenery, and handed him his check without a word. The medium put it in his pocket, buttoned his coat, and walked out of the room. Lang followed him, in order to get a drink.

The stranger poked his face up into Maskull’s.

“Well, giant, what do you think of it all? Wouldn’t you like to see the land where this sort of fruit grows wild?”

“What sort of fruit?”

“That specimen goblin.”

Maskull waved him away with his huge hand. “Who are you, and how did you come here?”

“Call up your friend. Perhaps he may recognise me.” Nightspore had moved a chair to the fire, and was watching the embers with a set, fanatical expression.

“Let Krag come to me, if he wants me,” he said, in his strange voice.

“You see, he does know me,” uttered Krag, with a humorous look. Walking over to Nightspore, he put a hand on the back of his chair.

“Still the same old gnawing hunger?”

“What is doing these days?” demanded Nightspore disdainfully, without altering his attitude.

“Surtur has gone, and we are to follow him.”

“How do you two come to know each other, and of whom are you speaking?” asked Maskull, looking from one to the other in perplexity.

“Krag has something for us. Let us go outside,” replied Nightspore. He got up, and glanced over his shoulder. Maskull, following the direction of his eye, observed that the few remaining men were watching their little group attentively.

The three men gathered in the street outside the house. The night was slightly frosty, but particularly clear, with an east wind blowing. The multitude of blazing stars caused the sky to appear like a vast scroll of hieroglyphic symbols. Maskull felt oddly excited; he had a sense that something extraordinary was about to happen. “What brought you to this house tonight, Krag, and what made you do what you did? How are we understand that apparition?”

“That must have been Crystalman’s expression on its face,” muttered Nightspore.

“We have discussed that, haven’t we, Maskull? Maskull is anxious to behold that rare fruit in its native wilds.”

Maskull looked at Krag carefully, trying to analyse his own feelings toward him. He was distinctly repelled by the man’s personality, yet side by side with this aversion a savage, living energy seemed to spring up in his heart that in some strange fashion was attributable to Krag.

“Why do you insist on this simile?” he asked.

“Because it is apropos. Nightspore’s quite right. That was Crystalman’s face, and we are going to Crystalman’s country.”

“And where is this mysterious country?”

“Tormance.”

“That’s a quaint name. But where is it?”

Krag grinned, showing his yellow teeth in the light of the street lamp.

“It is the residential suburb of Arcturus.”

“What is he talking about, Nightspore?... Do you mean the star of that name?” he went on, to Krag.

“Which you have in front of you at this very minute,” said Krag, pointing a thick finger toward the brightest star in the south-eastern sky. “There you see Arcturus, and Tormance is its one inhabited planet.”

Maskull looked at the heavy, gleaming star, and again at Krag. Then he pulled out a pipe, and began to fill it.

“You must have cultivated a new form of humour, Krag.”

“I am glad if I can amuse you, Maskull, if only for a few days.”

“I meant to ask you—how do you know my name?”

“It would be odd if I didn’t, seeing that I only came here on your account. As a matter of fact, Nightspore and I are old friends.”

Maskull paused with his suspended match. “You came here on my account?”

“Surely. On your account and Nightspore’s. We three are to be fellow travellers.”

Maskull now lit his pipe and puffed away coolly for a few moments.

“I’m sorry, Krag, but I must assume you are mad.”

Krag threw his head back, and gave a scraping laugh. “Am I mad, Nightspore?”

“Has Surtur gone to Tormance?” ejaculated Nightspore in a strangled voice, fixing his eyes on Krag’s face.

“Yes, and he requires that we follow him at once.”

Maskull’s heart began to beat strangely. It all sounded to him like a dream conversation.

“And since how long, Krag, have I been required to do things by a total stranger.... Besides, who is this individual?”

“Krag’s chief,” said Nightspore, turning his head away.

“The riddle is too elaborate for me. I give up.”

“You are looking for mysteries,” said Krag, “so naturally you are finding them. Try and simplify your ideas, my friend. The affair is plain and serious.”

Maskull stared hard at him and smoked rapidly.

“Where have you come from now?” demanded Nightspore suddenly.

“From the old observatory at Starkness.... Have you heard of the famous Starkness Observatory, Maskull?”

“No. Where is it?”

“On the north-east coast of Scotland. Curious discoveries are made there from time to time.”

“As, for example, how to make voyages to the stars. So this Surtur turns out to be an astronomer. And you too, presumably?”

Krag grinned again. “How long will it take you to wind up your affairs? When can you be ready to start?”

“You are too considerate,” said Maskull, laughing outright. “I was beginning to fear that I would be hauled away at once.... However, I have neither wife, land, nor profession, so there’s nothing to wait for.... What is the itinerary?”

“You are a fortunate man. A bold, daring heart, and no encumbrances.” Krag’s features became suddenly grave and rigid. “Don’t be a fool, and refuse a gift of luck. A gift declined is not offered a second time.”

“Krag,” replied Maskull simply, returning his pipe to his pocket. “I ask you to put yourself in my place. Even if I were a man sick for adventures, how could I listen seriously to such an insane proposition as this? What do I know about you, or your past record? You may be a practical joker, or you may have come out of a madhouse—I know nothing about it. If you claim to be an exceptional man, and want my cooperation, you must offer me exceptional proofs.”

“And what proofs would you consider adequate, Maskull?”

As he spoke he gripped Maskull’s arm. A sharp, chilling pain immediately passed through the latter’s body and at the same moment his brain caught fire. A light burst in upon him like the rising of the sun. He asked himself for the first time if this fantastic conversation could by any chance refer to real things.

“Listen, Krag,” he said slowly, while peculiar images and conceptions started to travel in rich disorder through his mind. “You talk about a certain journey. Well, if that journey were a possible one, and I were given the chance of making it, I would be willing never to come back. For twenty-four hours on that Arcturian planet, I would give my life. That is my attitude toward that journey.... Now prove to me that you’re not talking nonsense. Produce your credentials.”

Krag stared at him all the time he was speaking, his face gradually resuming its jesting expression.

“Oh, you will get your twenty-four hours, and perhaps longer, but not much longer. You’re an audacious fellow, Maskull, but this trip will prove a little strenuous, even for you.... And so, like the unbelievers of old, you want a sign from heaven?”

Maskull frowned. “But the whole thing is ridiculous. Our brains are overexcited by what took place in there. Let us go home, and sleep it off.”

Krag detained him with one hand, while groping in his breast pocket with the other. He presently fished out what resembled a small folding lens. The diameter of the glass did not exceed two inches.

“First take a peep at Arcturus through this, Maskull. It may serve as a provisional sign. It’s the best I can do, unfortunately. I am not a travelling magician.... Be very careful not to drop it. It’s somewhat heavy.”

Maskull took the lens in his hand, struggled with it for a minute, and then looked at Krag in amazement. The little object weighed at least twenty pounds, though it was not much bigger than a crown piece.

“What stuff can this be, Krag?”

“Look through it, my good friend. That’s what I gave it to you for.”

Maskull held it up with difficulty, directed it toward the gleaming Arcturus, and snatched as long and as steady a glance at the star as the muscles of his arm would permit. What he saw was this. The star, which to the naked eye appeared as a single yellow point of light, now became clearly split into two bright but minute suns, the larger of which was still yellow, while its smaller companion was a beautiful blue. But this was not all. Apparently circulating around the yellow sun was a comparatively small and hardly distinguishable satellite, which seemed to shine, not by its own, but by reflected light.... Maskull lowered and raised his arm repeatedly. The same spectacle revealed itself again and again, but he was able to see nothing else. Then he passed back the lens to Krag, without a word, and stood chewing his underlip.

“You take a glimpse too,” scraped Krag, proffering the glass to Nightspore.

Nightspore turned his back and began to pace up and down. Krag laughed sardonically, and returned the lens to his pocket. “Well, Maskull, are you satisfied?”

“Arcturus, then, is a double sun. And is that third point the planet Tormance?”

“Our future home, Maskull.”

Maskull continued to ponder. “You inquire if I am satisfied. I don’t know, Krag. It’s miraculous, and that’s all I can say about it.... But I’m satisfied of one thing. There must be very wonderful astronomers at Starkness and if you invite me to your observatory I will surely come.”

“I do invite you. We set off from there.”

“And you, Nightspore?” demanded Maskull.

“The journey has to be made,” answered his friend in indistinct tones, “though I don’t see what will come of it.”

Krag shot a penetrating glance at him. “More remarkable adventures than this would need to be arranged before we could excite Nightspore.”

“Yet he is coming.”

“But not con amore. He is coming merely to bear you company.”

Maskull again sought the heavy, sombre star, gleaming in solitary might, in the south-eastern heavens, and, as he gazed, his heart swelled with grand and painful longings, for which, however, he was unable to account to his own intellect. He felt that his destiny was in some way bound up with this gigantic, far-distant sun. But still he did not dare to admit to himself Krag’s seriousness.

He heard his parting remarks in deep abstraction, and only after the lapse of several minutes, when, alone with Nightspore, did he realise that they referred to such mundane matters as travelling routes and times of trains.

“Does Krag travel north with us, Nightspore? I didn’t catch that.”

“No. We go on first, and he joins us at Starkness on the evening of the day after tomorrow.”

Maskull remained thoughtful. “What am I to think of that man?”

“For your information,” replied Nightspore wearily, “I have never known him to lie.”

A couple of days later, at two o’clock in the afternoon, Maskull and Nightspore arrived at Starkness Observatory, having covered the seven miles from Haillar Station on foot. The road, very wild and lonely, ran for the greater part of the way near the edge of rather lofty cliffs, within sight of the North Sea. The sun shone, but a brisk east wind was blowing and the air was salt and cold. The dark green waves were flecked with white. Throughout the walk, they were accompanied by the plaintive, beautiful crying of the gulls.

The observatory presented itself to their eyes as a self-contained little community, without neighbours, and perched on the extreme end of the land. There were three buildings: a small, stone-built dwelling house, a low workshop, and, about two hundred yards farther north, a square tower of granite masonry, seventy feet in height.

The house and the shop were separated by an open yard, littered with waste. A single stone wall surrounded both, except on the side facing the sea, where the house itself formed a continuation of the cliff. No one appeared. The windows were all closed, and Maskull could have sworn that the whole establishment was shut up and deserted.

He passed through the open gate, followed by Nightspore, and knocked vigorously at the front door. The knocker was thick with dust and had obviously not been used for a long time. He put his ear to the door, but could hear no movements inside the house. He then tried the handle; the door was looked.

They walked around the house, looking for another entrance, but there was only the one door.

“This isn’t promising,” growled Maskull. “There’s no one here..... Now you try the shed, while I go over to that tower.”

Nightspore, who had not spoken half a dozen words since leaving the train, complied in silence, and started off across the yard. Maskull passed out of the gate again. When he arrived at the foot of the tower, which stood some way back from the cliff, he found the door heavily padlocked. Gazing up, he saw six windows, one above the other at equal distances, all on the east face—that is, overlooking the sea. Realising that no satisfaction was to be gained here, he came away again, still more irritated than before. When he rejoined his friend, Nightspore reported that the workshop was also locked.

“Did we, or did we not, receive an invitation?” demanded Maskull energetically.

“The house is empty,” replied Nightspore, biting his nails. “Better break a window.”

“I certainly don’t mean to camp out till Krag condescends to come.”

He picked up an old iron bolt from the yard and, retreating to a safe distance, hurled it against a sash window on the ground floor. The lower pane was completely shattered. Carefully avoiding the broken glass, Maskull thrust his hand through the aperture and pushed back the frame fastening. A minute later they had climbed through and were standing inside the house.

The room, which was a kitchen, was in an indescribably filthy and neglected condition. The furniture scarcely held together, broken utensils and rubbish lay on the floor instead of on the dust heap, everything was covered with a deep deposit of dust. The atmosphere was so foul that Maskull judged that no fresh air had passed into the room for several months. Insects were crawling on the walls.

They went into the other rooms on the lower floor—a scullery, a barely furnished dining room, and a storing place for lumber. The same dirt, mustiness, and neglect met their eyes. At least half a year must have elapsed since these rooms were last touched, or even entered.

“Does your faith in Krag still hold?” asked Maskull. “I confess mine is at vanishing point. If this affair isn’t one big practical joke, it has every promise of being one. Krag never lived here in his life.”

“Come upstairs first,” said Nightspore.

The upstairs rooms proved to consist of a library and three bedrooms. All the windows were tightly closed, and the air was insufferable. The beds had been slept in, evidently a long time ago, and had never been made since. The tumbled, discoloured bed linen actually preserved the impressions of the sleepers. There was no doubt that these impressions were ancient, for all sorts of floating dirt had accumulated on the sheets and coverlets.

“Who could have slept here, do you think?” interrogated Maskull. “The observatory staff?”

“More likely travellers like ourselves. They left suddenly.”

Maskull flung the windows wide open in every room he came to, and held his breath until he had done so. Two of the bedrooms faced the sea; the third, the library, the upward-sloping moorland. This library was now the only room left unvisited, and unless they discovered signs of recent occupation here Maskull made up his mind to regard the whole business as a gigantic hoax.

But the library, like all the other rooms, was foul with stale air and dust-laden. Maskull, having flung the window up and down, fell heavily into an armchair and looked disgustedly at his friend.

“Now what is your opinion of Krag?”

Nightspore sat on the edge of the table which stood before the window. “He may still have left a message for us.”

“What message? Why? Do you mean in this room?—I see no message.”

Nightspore’s eyes wandered about the room, finally seeming to linger upon a glass-fronted wall cupboard, which contained a few old bottles on one of the shelves and nothing else. Maskull glanced at him and at the cupboard. Then, without a word, he got up to examine the bottles.

There were four altogether, one of which was larger than the rest. The smaller ones were about eight inches long. All were torpedo-shaped, but had flattened bottoms, which enabled them to stand upright. Two of the smaller ones were empty and unstoppered, the others contained a colourless liquid, and possessed queer-looking, nozzle-like stoppers that were connected by a thin metal rod with a catch halfway down the side of the bottle. They were labelled, but the labels were yellow with age and the writing was nearly undecipherable. Maskull carried the filled bottles with him to the table in front of the window, in order to get better light. Nightspore moved away to make room for him.

He now made out on the larger bottle the words “Solar Back Rays”; and on the other one, after some doubt, he thought that he could distinguish something like “Arcturian Back Rays.”

He looked up, to stare curiously at his friend. “Have you been here before, Nightspore?”

“I guessed Krag would leave a message.”

“Well, I don’t know—it may be a message, but it means nothing to us, or at all events to me. What are ‘back rays’?”

“Light that goes back to its source,” muttered Nightspore.

“And what kind of light would that be?”

Nightspore seemed unwilling to answer, but, finding Maskull’s eyes still fixed on him, he brought out: “Unless light pulled, as well as pushed, how would flowers contrive to twist their heads around after the sun?”

“I don’t know. But the point is, what are these bottles for?”

While he was still talking, with his hand on the smaller bottle, the other, which was lying on its side, accidentally rolled over in such a manner that the metal caught against the table. He made a movement to stop it, his hand was actually descending, when—the bottle suddenly disappeared before his eyes. It had not rolled off the table, but had really vanished—it was nowhere at all.

Maskull stared at the table. After a minute he raised his brows, and turned to Nightspore with a smile. “The message grows more intricate.”

Nightspore looked bored. “The valve became unfastened. The contents have escaped through the open window toward the sun, carrying the bottle with them. But the bottle will be burned up by the earth’s atmosphere, and the contents will dissipate, and will not reach the sun.”

Maskull listened attentively, and his smile faded. “Does anything prevent us from experimenting with this other bottle?”

“Replace it in the cupboard,” said Nightspore. “Arcturus is still below the horizon, and you would succeed only in wrecking the house.”

Maskull remained standing before the window, pensively gazing out at the sunlit moors.

“Krag treats me like a child,” he remarked presently. “And perhaps I really am a child.... My cynicism must seem most amusing to Krag. But why does he leave me to find out all this by myself—for I don’t include you, Nightspore.... But what time will Krag be here?”

“Not before dark, I expect,” his friend replied.

It was by this time past three o’clock. Feeling hungry, for they had eaten nothing since early morning, Maskull went downstairs to forage, but without much hope of finding anything in the shape of food. In a safe in the kitchen he discovered a bag of mouldy oatmeal, which was untouchable, a quantity of quite good tea in an airtight caddy, and an unopened can of ox tongue. Best of all, in the dining-room cupboard he came across an uncorked bottle of first-class Scotch whisky. He at once made preparations for a scratch meal.

A pump in the yard ran clear after a good deal of hard working at it, and he washed out and filled the antique kettle. For firewood, one of the kitchen chairs was broken up with a chopper. The light, dusty wood made a good blaze in the grate, the kettle was boiled, and cups were procured and washed. Ten minutes later the friends were dining in the library.

Nightspore ate and drank little, but Maskull sat down with good appetite. There being no milk, whisky took the place of it; the nearly black tea was mixed with an equal quantity of the spirit. Of this concoction Maskull drank cup after cup, and long after the tongue had disappeared he was still imbibing.

Nightspore looked at him queerly. “Do you intend to finish the bottle before Krag comes?”

“Krag won’t want any, and one must do something. I feel restless.”

“Let us take a look at the country.”

The cup, which was on its way to Maskull’s lips, remained poised in the air. “Have you anything in view, Nightspore?”

“Let us walk out to the Gap of Sorgie.”

“What’s that?”

“A showplace,” answered Nightspore, biting his lip.

Maskull finished off the cup, and rose to his feet. “Walking is better than soaking at any time, and especially on a day like this.... How far is it?”

“Three or four miles each way.”

“You probably mean something,” said Maskull, “for I’m beginning to regard you as a second Krag. But if so, so much the better. I am growing nervous, and need incidents.”

They left the house by the door, which they left ajar, and immediately found themselves again on the moorland road that had brought them from Haillar. This time they continued along it, past the tower.

Maskull, as they went by, regarded the erection with puzzled interest. “What is that tower, Nightspore?”

“We sail from the platform on the top.”

“Tonight?”—throwing him a quick look.

“Yes.”

Maskull smiled, but his eyes were grave. “Then we are looking at the gateway of Arcturus, and Krag is now travelling north to unlock it.”

“You no longer think it impossible, I fancy,” mumbled Nightspore.

After a mile or two, the road parted from the sea coast and swerved sharply inland, across the hills. With Nightspore as guide, they left it and took to the grass. A faint sheep path marked the way along the cliff edge for some distance, but at the end of another mile it vanished. The two men then had some rough walking up and down hillsides and across deep gullies. The sun disappeared behind the hills, and twilight imperceptibly came on. They soon reached a spot where further progress appeared impossible. The buttress of a mountain descended at a steep angle to the very edge of the cliff, forming an impassable slope of slippery grass. Maskull halted, stroked his beard, and wondered what the next step was to be.

“There’s a little scrambling here,” said Nightspore. “We are both used to climbing, and there is not much in it.”

He indicated a narrow ledge, winding along the face of the precipice a few yards beneath where they were standing. It averaged from fifteen to thirty inches in width. Without waiting for Maskull’s consent to the undertaking, he instantly swung himself down and started walking along this ledge at a rapid pace. Maskull, seeing that there was no help for it, followed him. The shelf did not extend for above a quarter of a mile, but its passage was somewhat unnerving; there was a sheer drop to the sea, four hundred feet below. In a few places they had to sidle along without placing one foot before another. The sound of the breakers came up to them in a low, threatening roar.

Upon rounding a corner, the ledge broadened out into a fair-sized platform of rock and came to a sudden end. A narrow inlet of the sea separated them from the continuation of the cliffs beyond.

“As we can’t get any further,” said Maskull, “I presume this is your Gap of Sorgie?”

“Yes,” answered his friend, first dropping on his knees and then lying at full length, face downward. He drew his head and shoulders over the edge and began to stare straight down at the water.

“What is there interesting down there, Nightspore?”

Receiving no reply, however, he followed his friend’s example, and the next minute was looking for himself. Nothing was to be seen; the gloom had deepened, and the sea was nearly invisible. But, while he was ineffectually gazing, he heard what sounded like the beating of a drum on the narrow strip of shore below. It was very faint, but quite distinct. The beats were in four-four time, with the third beat slightly accented. He now continued to hear the noise all the time he was lying there. The beats were in no way drowned by the far louder sound of the surf, but seemed somehow to belong to a different world....

When they were on their feet again, he questioned Nightspore. “We came here solely to hear that?”

Nightspore cast one of his odd looks at him. “It’s called locally ‘The Drum Taps of Sorgie.’ You will not hear that name again, but perhaps you will hear the sound again.”

“And if I do, what will it imply?” demanded Maskull in amazement.

“It bears its own message. Only try always to hear it more and more distinctly.... Now it’s growing dark, and we must get back.”

Maskull pulled out his watch automatically, and looked at the time. It was past six.... But he was thinking of Nightspore’s words, and not of the time.

Night had already fallen by the time they regained the tower. The black sky was glorious with liquid stars. Arcturus was a little way above the sea, directly opposite them, in the east. As they were passing the base of the tower, Maskull observed with a sudden shock that the gate was open. He caught hold of Nightspore’s arm violently. “Look! Krag is back.”

“Yes, we must make haste to the house.”

“And why not the tower? He’s probably in there, since the gate is open. I’m going up to look.”

Nightspore grunted, but made no opposition.

All was pitch-black inside the gate. Maskull struck a match, and the flickering light disclosed the lower end of a circular flight of stone steps. “Are you coming up?” he asked.

“No, I’ll wait here.”

Maskull immediately began the ascent. Hardly had he mounted half a dozen steps, however, before he was compelled to pause, to gain breath. He seemed to be carrying upstairs not one Maskull, but three. As he proceeded, the sensation of crushing weight, so far from diminishing, grew worse and worse. It was nearly physically impossible to go on; his lungs could not take in enough oxygen, while his heart thumped like a ship’s engine. Sweat coursed down his face. At the twentieth step he completed the first revolution of the tower and came face to face with the first window, which was set in a high embrasure.

Realising that he could go no higher, he struck another match, and climbed into the embrasure, in order that he might at all events see something from the tower. The flame died, and he stared through the window at the stars. Then, to his astonishment, he discovered that it was not a window at all but a lens.... The sky was not a wide expanse of space containing a multitude of stars, but a blurred darkness, focused only in one part, where two very bright stars, like small moons in size, appeared in close conjunction; and near them a more minute planetary object, as brilliant as Venus and with an observable disk. One of the suns shone with a glaring white light; the other was a weird and awful blue. Their light, though almost solar in intensity, did not illuminate the interior of the tower.

Maskull knew at once that the system of spheres at which he was gazing was what is known to astronomy as the star Arcturus.... He had seen the sight before, through Krag’s glass, but then the scale had been smaller, the colors of the twin suns had not appeared in their naked reality.... These colors seemed to him most marvellous, as if, in seeing them through earth eyes, he was not seeing them correctly.... But it was at Tormance that he stared the longest and the most earnestly. On that mysterious and terrible earth, countless millions of miles distant, it had been promised him that he would set foot, even though he might leave his bones there. The strange creatures that he was to behold and touch were already living, at this very moment.

A low, sighing whisper sounded in his ear, from not more than a yard away. “Don’t you understand, Maskull, that you are only an instrument, to be used and then broken? Nightspore is asleep now, but when he wakes you must die. You will go, but he will return.”

Maskull hastily struck another match, with trembling fingers. No one was in sight, and all was quiet as the tomb.

The voice did not sound again. After waiting a few minutes, he redescended to the foot of the tower. On gaining the open air, his sensation of weight was instantly removed, but he continued panting and palpitating, like a man who has lifted a far too heavy load.

Nightspore’s dark form came forward. “Was Krag there?”

“If he was, I didn’t see him. But I heard someone speak.”

“Was it Krag?”

“It was not Krag—but a voice warned me against you.”

“Yes, you will hear these voices too,” said Nightspore enigmatically.

When they returned to the house, the windows were all in darkness and the door was ajar, just as they had left it; Krag presumably was not there. Maskull went all over the house, striking matches in every room—at the end of the examination he was ready to swear that the man they were expecting had not even stuck his nose inside the premises. Groping their way into the library, they sat down in the total darkness to wait, for nothing else remained to be done. Maskull lit his pipe, and began to drink the remainder of the whisky. Through the open window sounded in their ears the trainlike grinding of the sea at the foot of the cliffs.

“Krag must be in the tower after all,” remarked Maskull, breaking the silence.

“Yes, he is getting ready.”

“I hope he doesn’t expect us to join him there. It was beyond my powers—but why, heaven knows. The stairs must have a magnetic pull of some sort.”

“It is Tormantic gravity,” muttered Nightspore.

“I understand you—or, rather, I don’t—but it doesn’t matter.”

He went on smoking in silence, occasionally taking a mouthful of the neat liquor. “Who is Surtur?” he demanded abruptly.

“We others are gropers and bunglers, but he is a master.”

Maskull digested this. “I fancy you are right, for though I know nothing about him his mere name has an exciting effect on me.... Are you personally acquainted with him?”

“I must be... I forget...” replied Nightspore in a choking voice.

Maskull looked up, surprised, but could make nothing out in the blackness of the room.

“Do you know so many extraordinary men that you can forget some of them?... Perhaps you can tell me this... will we meet him, where we are going?”

“You will meet death, Maskull.... Ask me no more questions—I can’t answer them.”

“Then let us go on waiting for Krag,” said Maskull coldly.

Ten minutes later the front door slammed, and a light, quick footstep was heard running up the stairs. Maskull got up, with a beating heart.

Krag appeared on the threshold of the door, bearing in his hand a feebly glimmering lantern. A hat was on his head, and he looked stern and forbidding. After scrutinising the two friends for a moment or so, he strode into the room and thrust the lantern on the table. Its light hardly served to illuminate the walls.

“You have got here, then, Maskull?”

“So it seems—but I shan’t thank you for your hospitality, for it has been conspicuous by its absence.”

Krag ignored the remark. “Are you ready to start?”

“By all means—when you are. It is not so entertaining here.”

Krag surveyed him critically. “I heard you stumbling about in the tower. You couldn’t get up, it seems.”

“It looks like an obstacle, for Nightspore informs me that the start takes place from the top.”

“But your other doubts are all removed?”

“So far, Krag, that I now possess an open mind. I am quite willing to see what you can do.”

“Nothing more is asked.... But this tower business. You know that until you are able to climb to the top you are unfit to stand the gravitation of Tormance?”

“Then I repeat, it’s an awkward obstacle, for I certainly can’t get up.”

Krag hunted about in his pockets, and at length produced a clasp knife.

“Remove your coat, and roll up your shirt sleeve,” he directed.

“Do you propose to make an incision with that?”

“Yes, and don’t start difficulties, because the effect is certain, but you can’t possibly understand it beforehand.”

“Still, a cut with a pocket-knife—” began Maskull, laughing.

“It will answer, Maskull,” interrupted Nightspore.

“Then bare your arm too, you aristocrat of the universe,” said Krag. “Let us see what your blood is made of.”

Nightspore obeyed.

Krag pulled out the big blade of the knife, and made a careless and almost savage slash at Maskull’s upper arm. The wound was deep, and blood flowed freely.

“Do I bind it up?” asked Maskull, scowling with pain.

Krag spat on the wound. “Pull your shirt down, it won’t bleed any more.”

He then turned his attention to Nightspore, who endured his operation with grim indifference. Krag threw the knife on the floor.

An awful agony, emanating from the wound, started to run through Maskull’s body, and he began to doubt whether he would not have to faint, but it subsided almost immediately, and then he felt nothing but a gnawing ache in the injured arm, just strong enough to make life one long discomfort.

“That’s finished,” said Krag. “Now you can follow me.”

Picking up the lantern, he walked toward the door. The others hastened after him, to take advantage of the light, and a moment later their footsteps, clattering down the uncarpeted stairs, resounded through the deserted house. Krag waited till they were out, and then banged the front door after them with such violence that the windows shook.

While they were walking swiftly across to the tower, Maskull caught his arm. “I heard a voice up those stairs.”

“What did it say?”

“That I am to go, but Nightspore is to return.”

Krag smiled. “The journey is getting notorious,” he remarked, after a pause. “There must be ill-wishers about.... Well, do you want to return?”

“I don’t know what I want. But I thought the thing was curious enough to be mentioned.”

“It is not a bad thing to hear voices,” said Krag, “but you mustn’t for a minute imagine that all is wise that comes to you out of the night world.”

When they had arrived at the open gateway of the tower, he immediately set foot on the bottom step of the spiral staircase and ran nimbly up, bearing the lantern. Maskull followed him with some trepidation, in view of his previous painful experience on these stairs, but when, after the first half-dozen steps, he discovered that he was still breathing freely, his dread changed to relief and astonishment, and he could have chattered like a girl.

At the lowest window Krag went straight ahead without stopping, but Maskull clambered into the embrasure, in order to renew his acquaintance with the miraculous spectacle of the Arcturian group. The lens had lost its magic property. It had become a common sheet of glass, through which the ordinary sky field appeared.

The climb continued, and at the second and third windows he again mounted and stared out, but still the common sights presented themselves. After that, he gave up and looked through no more windows.

Krag and Nightspore meanwhile had gone on ahead with the light, so that he had to complete the ascent in darkness. When he was near the top, he saw yellow light shining through the crack of a half-opened door. His companions were standing just inside a small room, shut off from the staircase by rough wooden planking; it was rudely furnished and contained nothing of astronomical interest. The lantern was resting on a table.

Maskull walked in and looked around him with curiosity. “Are we at the top?”

“Except for the platform over our heads,” replied Krag.

“Why didn’t that lowest window magnify, as it did earlier in the evening?”

“Oh, you missed your opportunity,” said Krag, grinning. “If you had finished your climb then, you would have seen heart-expanding sights. From the fifth window, for example, you would have seen Tormance like a continent in relief; from the sixth you would have seen it like a landscape.... But now there’s no need.”

“Why not—and what has need got to do with it?”

“Things are changed, my friend, since that wound of yours. For the same reason that you have now been able to mount the stairs, there was no necessity to stop and gape at illusions en route.”

“Very well,” said Maskull, not quite understanding what he meant. “But is this Surtur’s den?”

“He has spent time here.”

“I wish you would describe this mysterious individual, Krag. We may not get another chance.”

“What I said about the windows also applies to Surtur. There’s no need to waste time over visualising him, because you are immediately going on to the reality.”

“Then let us go.” He pressed his eyeballs wearily.

“Do we strip?” asked Nightspore.

“Naturally,” answered Krag, and he began to tear off his clothes with slow, uncouth movements.

“Why?” demanded Maskull, following, however, the example of the other two men.

Krag thumped his vast chest, which was covered with thick hairs, like an ape’s. “Who knows what the Tormance fashions are like? We may sprout limbs—I don’t say we shall.”

“A-ha!” exclaimed Maskull, pausing in the middle of his undressing.

Krag smote him on the back. “New pleasure organs possible, Maskull. You like that?”

The three men stood as nature made them. Maskull’s spirits rose fast, as the moment of departure drew near.

“A farewell drink to success!” cried Krag, seizing a bottle and breaking its head off between his fingers. There were no glasses, but he poured the amber-coloured wine into some cracked cups.

Perceiving that the others drank, Maskull tossed off his cupful. It was as if he had swallowed a draught of liquid electricity.... Krag dropped onto the floor and rolled around on his back, kicking his legs in the air. He tried to drag Maskull down on top of him, and a little horseplay went on between the two. Nightspore took no part in it, but walked to and fro, like a hungry caged animal.

Suddenly, from out-of-doors, there came a single prolonged, piercing wail, such as a banshee might be imagined to utter. It ceased abruptly, and was not repeated.

“What’s that?” called out Maskull, disengaging himself impatiently from Krag.

Krag rocked with laughter. “A Scottish spirit trying to reproduce the bagpipes of its earth life—in honour of our departure.”

Nightspore turned to Krag. “Maskull will sleep throughout the journey?”

“And you too, if you wish, my altruistic friend. I am pilot, and you passengers can amuse yourselves as you please.”

“Are we off at last?” asked Maskull.

“Yes, you are about to cross your Rubicon, Maskull. But what a Rubicon!... Do you know that it takes light a hundred years or so to arrive here from Arcturus? Yet we shall do it in nineteen hours.”

“Then you assert that Surtur is already there?”

“Surtur is where he is. He is a great traveller.”

“Won’t I see him?”

Krag went up to him and looked him in the eyes. “Don’t forget that you have asked for it, and wanted it. Few people in Tormance will know more about him than you do, but your memory will be your worst friend.”

He led the way up a short iron ladder, mounting through a trap to the flat roof above. When they were up, he switched on a small electric torch.

Maskull beheld with awe the torpedo of crystal that was to convey them through the whole breadth of visible space. It was forty feet long, eight wide, and eight high; the tank containing the Arcturian back rays was in front, the car behind. The nose of the torpedo was directed toward the south-eastern sky. The whole machine rested upon a flat platform, raised about four feet above the level of the roof, so as to encounter no obstruction on starting its flight.

Krag flashed the light on to the door of the car, to enable them to enter. Before doing so, Maskull gazed sternly once again at the gigantic, far-distant star, which was to be their sun from now onward. He frowned, shivered slightly, and got in beside Nightspore. Krag clambered past them onto his pilot’s seat. He threw the flashlight through the open door, which was then carefully closed, fastened, and screwed up.

He pulled the starting lever. The torpedo glided gently from its platform, and passed rather slowly away from the tower, seaward. Its speed increased sensibly, though not excessively, until the approximate limits of the earth’s atmosphere were reached. Krag then released the speed valve, and the car sped on its way with a velocity more nearly approaching that of thought than of light.

Maskull had no opportunity of examining through the crystal walls the rapidly changing panorama of the heavens. An extreme drowsiness oppressed him. He opened his eyes violently a dozen times, but on the thirteenth attempt he failed. From that time forward he slept heavily.

The bored, hungry expression never left Nightspore’s face. The alterations in the aspect of the sky seemed to possess not the least interest for him.

Krag sat with his hand on the lever, watching with savage intentness his phosphorescent charts and gauges.

IT WAS DENSE NIGHT when Maskull awoke from his profound sleep. A wind was blowing against him, gentle but wall-like, such as he had never experienced on earth. He remained sprawling on the ground, as he was unable to lift his body because of its intense weight. A numbing pain, which he could not identify with any region of his frame, acted from now onward as a lower, sympathetic note to all his other sensations. It gnawed away at him continuously; sometimes it embittered and irritated him, at other times he forgot it.

He felt something hard on his forehead. Putting his hand up, he discovered there a fleshy protuberance the size of a small plum, having a cavity in the middle, of which he could not feel the bottom. Then he also became aware of a large knob on each side of his neck, an inch below the ear.

From the region of his heart, a tentacle had budded. It was as long as his arm, but thin, like whipcord, and soft and flexible.

As soon as he thoroughly realised the significance of these new organs, his heart began to pump. Whatever might, or might not, be their use, they proved one thing—that he was in a new world.

One part of the sky began to get lighter than the rest. Maskull cried out to his companions, but received no response. This frightened him. He went on shouting out, at irregular intervals—equally alarmed at the silence and at the sound of his own voice. Finally, as no answering hail came, he thought it wiser not to make too much noise, and after that he lay quiet, waiting in cold blood for what might happen.

In a short while he perceived dim shadows around him, but these were not his friends.

A pale, milky vapour over the ground began to succeed the black night, while in the upper sky rosy tints appeared. On earth, one would have said that day was breaking. The brightness went on imperceptibly increasing for a very long time.

Maskull then discovered that he was lying on sand. The colour of the sand was scarlet. The obscure shadows he had seen were bushes, with black stems and purple leaves. So far, nothing else was visible.

The day surged up. It was too misty for direct sunshine, but before long the brilliance of the light was already greater than that of the midday sun on earth. The heat, too, was intense, but Maskull welcomed it—it relieved his pain and diminished his sense of crushing weight. The wind had dropped with the rising of the sun.

He now tried to get onto his feet, but succeeded only in kneeling. He was unable to see far. The mists had no more than partially dissolved, and all that he could distinguish was a narrow circle of red sand dotted with ten or twenty bushes.

He felt a soft, cool touch on the back of his neck. He started forward in nervous fright and, in doing so, tumbled over onto the sand. Looking up over his shoulder quickly, he was astounded to see a woman standing beside him.

She was clothed in a single flowing, pale green garment, rather classically draped. According to earth standards she was not beautiful, for, although her face was otherwise human, she was endowed—or afflicted—with the additional disfiguring organs that Maskull had discovered in himself. She also possessed the heart tentacle. But when he sat up, and their eyes met and remained in sympathetic contact, he seemed to see right into a soul that was the home of love, warmth, kindness, tenderness, and intimacy. Such was the noble familiarity of that gaze, that he thought he knew her. After that, he recognised all the loveliness of her person. She was tall and slight. All her movements were as graceful as music. Her skin was not of a dead, opaque colour, like that of an earth beauty, but was opalescent; its hue was continually changing, with every thought and emotion, but none of these tints was vivid—all were delicate, half-toned, and poetic. She had very long, loosely plaited, flaxen hair. The new organs, as soon as Maskull had familiarised himself with them, imparted something to her face that was unique and striking. He could not quite define it to himself, but subtlety and inwardness seemed added. The organs did not contradict the love of her eyes or the angelic purity of her features, but nevertheless sounded a deeper note—a note that saved her from mere girlishness.

Her gaze was so friendly and unembarrassed that Maskull felt scarcely any humiliation at sitting at her feet, naked and helpless. She realised his plight, and put into his hands a garment that she had been carrying over her arm. It was similar to the one she was wearing, but of a darker, more masculine colour.

“Do you think you can put it on by yourself?”

He was distinctly conscious of these words, yet her voice had not sounded.

He forced himself up to his feet, and she helped him to master the complications of the drapery.

“Poor man—how you are suffering!” she said, in the same inaudible language. This time he discovered that the sense of what she said was received by his brain through the organ on his forehead.

“Where am I? Is this Tormance?” he asked. As he spoke, he staggered.

She caught him, and helped him to sit down. “Yes. You are with friends.”

Then she regarded him with a smile, and began speaking aloud, in English. Her voice somehow reminded him of an April day, it was so fresh, nervous, and girlish. “I can now understand your language. It was strange at first. In the future I’ll speak to you with my mouth.”

“This is extraordinary! What is this organ?” he asked, touching his forehead.

“It is named the ‘breve.’ By means of it we read one another’s thoughts. Still, speech is better, for then the heart can be read too.”

He smiled. “They say that speech is given us to deceive others.”

“One can deceive with thought, too. But I’m thinking of the best, not the worst.”

“Have you seen my friends?”

She scrutinised him quietly, before answering. “Did you not come alone?”

“I came with two other men, in a machine. I must have lost consciousness on arrival, and I haven’t seen them since.”

“That’s very strange! No, I haven’t seen them. They can’t be here, or we would have known it. My husband and I—”

“What is your name, and your husband’s name?”

“Mine is Joiwind—my husband’s is Panawe. We live a very long way from here; still, it came to us both last night that you were lying here insensible. We almost quarrelled about which of us should come to you, but in the end I won.” Here she laughed. “I won, because I am the stronger-hearted of the two; he is the purer in perception.”

“Thanks, Joiwind!” said Maskull simply.

The colors chased each other rapidly beneath her skin. “Oh, why do you say that? What pleasure is greater than loving-kindness? I rejoiced at the opportunity.... But now we must exchange blood.”

“What is this?” he demanded, rather puzzled.

“It must be so. Your blood is far too thick and heavy for our world. Until you have an infusion of mine, you will never get up.”

Maskull flushed. “I feel like a complete ignoramus here.... Won’t it hurt you?”

“If your blood pains you, I suppose it will pain me. But we will share the pain.”

“This is a new kind of hospitality to me,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t you do the same for me?” asked Joiwind, half smiling, half agitated.

“I can’t answer for any of my actions in this world. I scarcely know where I am.... Why, yes—of course I would, Joiwind.”

While they were talking it had become full day. The mists had rolled away from the ground, and only the upper atmosphere remained fog-charged. The desert of scarlet sand stretched in all directions, except one, where there was a sort of little oasis—some low hills, clothed sparsely with little purple trees from base to summit. It was about a quarter of a mile distant.

Joiwind had brought with her a small flint knife. Without any trace of nervousness, she made a careful, deep incision on her upper arm. Maskull expostulated.

“Really, this part of it is nothing,” she said, laughing. “And if it were—a sacrifice that is no sacrifice—what merit is there in that?... Come now—your arm!”

The blood was streaming down her arm. It was not red blood, but a milky, opalescent fluid.

“Not that one!” said Maskull, shrinking. “I have already been cut there.” He submitted the other, and his blood poured forth.

Joiwind delicately and skilfully placed the mouths of the two wounds together, and then kept her arm pressed tightly against Maskull’s for a long time. He felt a stream of pleasure entering his body through the incision. His old lightness and vigour began to return to him. After about five minutes a duel of kindness started between them; he wanted to remove his arm, and she to continue. At last he had his way, but it was none too soon—she stood there pale and dispirited.

She looked at him with a more serious expression than before, as if strange depths had opened up before her eyes.

“What is your name?”

“Maskull.”

“Where have you come from, with this awful blood?”

“From a world called Earth.... The blood is clearly unsuitable for this world, Joiwind, but after all, that was only to be expected. I am sorry I let you have your way.”

“Oh, don’t say that! There was nothing else to be done. We must all help one another. Yet, somehow—forgive me—I feel polluted.”

“And well you may, for it’s a fearful thing for a girl to accept in her own veins the blood of a strange man from a strange planet. If I had not been so dazed and weak I would never have allowed it.”

“But I would have insisted. Are we not all brothers and sisters? Why did you come here, Maskull?”

He was conscious of a slight degree of embarrassment. “Will you think it foolish if I say I hardly know?—I came with those two men. Perhaps I was attracted by curiosity, or perhaps it was the love of adventure.”

“Perhaps,” said Joiwind. “I wonder... These friends of yours must be terrible men. Why did they come?”

“That I can tell you. They came to follow Surtur.”

Her face grew troubled. “I don’t understand it. One of them at least must be a bad man, and yet if he is following Surtur—or Shaping, as he is called here—he can’t be really bad.”

“What do you know of Surtur?” asked Maskull in astonishment.

Joiwind remained silent for a time, studying his face. His brain moved restlessly, as though it were being probed from outside. “I see.... and yet I don’t see,” she said at last. “It is very difficult.... Your God is a dreadful Being—bodyless, unfriendly, invisible. Here we don’t worship a God like that. Tell me, has any man set eyes on your God?”

“What does all this mean, Joiwind? Why speak of God?”

“I want to know.”

“In ancient times, when the earth was young and grand, a few holy men are reputed to have walked and spoken with God, but those days are past.”

“Our world is still young,” said Joiwind. “Shaping goes among us and converses with us. He is real and active—a friend and lover. Shaping made us, and he loves his work.”

“Have you met him?” demanded Maskull, hardly believing his ears.

“No. I have done nothing to deserve it yet. Some day I may have an opportunity to sacrifice myself, and then I may be rewarded by meeting and talking with Shaping.”

“I have certainly come to another world. But why do you say he is the same as Surtur?”

“Yes, he is the same. We women call him Shaping, and so do most men, but a few name him Surtur.”

Maskull bit his nail. “Have you ever heard of Crystalman?”

“That is Shaping once again. You see, he has many names—which shows how much he occupies our minds. Crystalman is a name of affection.”

“It’s odd,” said Maskull. “I came here with quite different ideas about Crystalman.”

Joiwind shook her hair. “In that grove of trees over there stands a desert shrine of his. Let us go and pray there, and then we’ll go on our way to Poolingdred. That is my home. It’s a long way off, and we must get there before Blodsombre.”

“Now, what is Blodsombre?”

“For about four hours in the middle of the day Branchspell’s rays are so hot that no one can endure them. We call it Blodsombre.”

“Is Branchspell another name for Arcturus?”

Joiwind threw off her seriousness and laughed. “Naturally we don’t take our names from you, Maskull. I don’t think our names are very poetic, but they follow nature.”

She took his arm affectionately, and directed their walk towards the tree-covered hills. As they went along, the sun broke through the upper mists and a terrible gust of scorching heat, like a blast from a furnace, struck Maskull’s head. He involuntarily looked up, but lowered his eyes again like lightning. All that he saw in that instant was a glaring ball of electric white, three times the apparent diameter of the sun. For a few minutes he was quite blind.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “If it’s like this in early morning you must be right enough about Blodsombre.” When he had somewhat recovered himself he asked, “How long are the days here, Joiwind?”

Again he felt his brain being probed.

“At this time of the year, for every hour’s daylight that you have in summer, we have two.”

“The heat is terrific—and yet somehow I don’t feel so distressed by it as I would have expected.”

“I feel it more than usual. It’s not difficult to account for it; you have some of my blood, and I have some of yours.”

“Yes, every time I realise that, I—Tell me, Joiwind, will my blood alter, if I stay here long enough?—I mean, will it lose its redness and thickness, and become pure and thin and light-coloured, like yours?”

“Why not? If you live as we live, you will assuredly grow like us.”

“Do you mean food and drink?”

“We eat no food, and drink only water.”

“And on that you manage to sustain life?”

“Well, Maskull, our water is good water,” replied Joiwind, smiling.

As soon as he could see again he stared around at the landscape. The enormous scarlet desert extended everywhere to the horizon, excepting where it was broken by the oasis. It was roofed by a cloudless, deep blue, almost violet, sky. The circle of the horizon was far larger than on earth. On the skyline, at right angles to the direction in which they were walking, appeared a chain of mountains, apparently about forty miles distant. One, which was higher than the rest, was shaped like a cup. Maskull would have felt inclined to believe he was travelling in dreamland, but for the intensity of the light, which made everything vividly real.

Joiwind pointed to the cup-shaped mountain. “That’s Poolingdred.”

“You didn’t come from there!” he exclaimed, quite startled.

“Yes, I did indeed. And that is where we have to go to now.”

“With the single object of finding me?”

“Why, yes.”

The colour mounted to his face. “Then you are the bravest and noblest of all girls,” he said quietly, after a pause. “Without exception. Why, this is a journey for an athlete!”

She pressed his arm, while a score of unpaintable, delicate hues stained her cheeks in rapid transition. “Please don’t say any more about it, Maskull. It makes me feel unpleasant.”

“Very well. But can we possibly get there before midday?”

“Oh, yes. And you mustn’t be frightened at the distance. We think nothing of long distances here—we have so much to think about and feel. Time goes all too quickly.”

During their conversation they had drawn near the base of the hills, which sloped gently, and were not above fifty feet in height. Maskull now began to see strange specimens of vegetable life. What looked like a small patch of purple grass, above five feet square, was moving across the sand in their direction. When it came near enough he perceived that it was not grass; there were no blades, but only purple roots. The roots were revolving, for each small plant in the whole patch, like the spokes of a rimless wheel. They were alternately plunged in the sand, and withdrawn from it, and by this means the plant proceeded forward. Some uncanny, semi-intelligent instinct was keeping all the plants together, moving at one pace, in one direction, like a flock of migrating birds in flight.

Another remarkable plant was a large, feathery ball, resembling a dandelion fruit, which they encountered sailing through the air. Joiwind caught it with an exceedingly graceful movement of her arm, and showed it to Maskull. It had roots and presumably lived in the air and fed on the chemical constituents of the atmosphere. But what was peculiar about it was its colour. It was an entirely new colour—not a new shade or combination, but a new primary colour, as vivid as blue, red, or yellow, but quite different. When he inquired, she told him that it was known as “ulfire.” Presently he met with a second new colour. This she designated “jale.” The sense impressions caused in Maskull by these two additional primary colors can only be vaguely hinted at by analogy. Just as blue is delicate and mysterious, yellow clear and unsubtle, and red sanguine and passionate, so he felt ulfire to be wild and painful, and jale dreamlike, feverish, and voluptuous.

The hills were composed of a rich, dark mould. Small trees, of weird shapes, all differing from each other, but all purple-coloured, covered the slopes and top. Maskull and Joiwind climbed up and through. Some hard fruit, bright blue in colour, of the size of a large apple, and shaped like an egg, was lying in profusion underneath the trees.

“Is the fruit here poisonous, or why don’t you eat it?” asked Maskull.

She looked at him tranquilly. “We don’t eat living things. The thought is horrible to us.”

“I have nothing to say against that, theoretically. But do you really sustain your bodies on water?”

“Supposing you could find nothing else to live on, Maskull—would you eat other men?”

“I would not.”

“Neither will we eat plants and animals, which are our fellow creatures. So nothing is left to us but water, and as one can really live on anything, water does very well.”

Maskull picked up one of the fruits and handled it curiously. As he did so another of his newly acquired sense organs came into action. He found that the fleshy knobs beneath his ears were in some novel fashion acquainting him with the inward properties of the fruit. He could not only see, feel, and smell it, but could detect its intrinsic nature. This nature was hard, persistent and melancholy.

Joiwind answered the questions he had not asked.

“Those organs are called ‘poigns.’ Their use is to enable us to understand and sympathise with all living creatures.”

“What advantage do you derive from that, Joiwind?”

“The advantage of not being cruel and selfish, dear Maskull.”

He threw the fruit away and flushed again.

Joiwind looked into his swarthy, bearded face without embarrassment and slowly smiled. “Have I said too much? Have I been too familiar? Do you know why you think so? It’s because you are still impure. By and by you will listen to all language without shame.”

Before he realised what she was about to do, she threw her tentacle round his neck, like another arm. He offered no resistance to its cool pressure. The contact of her soft flesh with his own was so moist and sensitive that it resembled another kind of kiss. He saw who it was that embraced him—a pale, beautiful girl. Yet, oddly enough, he experienced neither voluptuousness nor sexual pride. The love expressed by the caress was rich, glowing, and personal, but there was not the least trace of sex in it—and so he received it.

She removed her tentacle, placed her two arms on his shoulders and penetrated with her eyes right into his very soul.

“Yes, I wish to be pure,” he muttered. “Without that what can I ever be but a weak, squirming devil?”

Joiwind released him. “This we call the ‘magn,’” she said, indicating her tentacle. “By means of it what we love already we love more, and what we don’t love at all we begin to love.”

“A godlike organ!”

“It is the one we guard most jealously,” said Joiwind.

The shade of the trees afforded a timely screen from the now almost insufferable rays of Branchspell, which was climbing steadily upward to the zenith. On descending the other side of the little hills, Maskull looked anxiously for traces of Nightspore and Krag, but without result. After staring about him for a few minutes he shrugged his shoulders; but suspicions had already begun to gather in his mind.

A small, natural amphitheatre lay at their feet, completely circled by the tree-clad heights. The centre was of red sand. In the very middle shot up a tall, stately tree, with a black trunk and branches, and transparent, crystal leaves. At the foot of this tree was a natural, circular well, containing dark green water.

When they had reached the bottom, Joiwind took him straight over to the well.

Maskull gazed at it intently. “Is this the shrine you talked about?”

“Yes. It is called Shaping’s Well. The man or woman who wishes to invoke Shaping must take up some of the gnawl water, and drink it.”

“Pray for me,” said Maskull. “Your unspotted prayer will carry more weight.”

“What do you wish for?”

“For purity,” answered Maskull, in a troubled voice.

Joiwind made a cup of her hand, and drank a little of the water. She held it up to Maskull’s mouth. “You must drink too.” He obeyed. She then stood erect, closed her eyes, and, in a voice like the soft murmurings of spring, prayed aloud.

“Shaping, my father, I am hoping you can hear me. A strange man has come to us weighed down with heavy blood. He wishes to be pure. Let him know the meaning of love, let him live for others. Don’t spare him pain, dear Shaping, but let him seek his own pain. Breathe into him a noble soul.”

Maskull listened with tears in his heart.

As Joiwind finished speaking, a blurred mist came over his eyes, and, half buried in the scarlet sand, appeared a large circle of dazzlingly white pillars. For some minutes they flickered to and fro between distinctness and indistinctness, like an object being focused. Then they faded out of sight again.

“Is that a sign from Shaping?” asked Maskull, in a low, awed tone.

“Perhaps it is. It is a time mirage.”

“What can that be, Joiwind?”

“You see, dear Maskull, the temple does not yet exist but it will do so, because it must. What you and I are now doing in simplicity, wise men will do hereafter in full knowledge.”

“It is right for man to pray,” said Maskull. “Good and evil in the world don’t originate from nothing. God and Devil must exist. And we should pray to the one, and fight the other.”

“Yes, we must fight Krag.”

“What name did you say?” asked Maskull in amazement.

“Krag—the author of evil and misery—whom you call Devil.”

He immediately concealed his thoughts. To prevent Joiwind from learning his relationship to this being, he made his mind a blank.

“Why do you hide your mind from me?” she demanded, looking at him strangely and changing colour.

“In this bright, pure, radiant world, evil seems so remote, one can scarcely grasp its meaning.” But he lied.

Joiwind continued gazing at him, straight out of her clean soul. “The world is good and pure, but many men are corrupt. Panawe, my husband, has travelled, and he has told me things I would almost rather have not heard. One person he met believed the universe to be, from top to bottom, a conjurer’s cave.”

“I should like to meet your husband.”

“Well, we are going home now.”

Maskull was on the point of inquiring whether she had any children, but was afraid of offending her, and checked himself.

She read the mental question. “What need is there? Is not the whole world full of lovely children? Why should I want selfish possessions?”

An extraordinary creature flew past, uttering a plaintive cry of five distinct notes. It was not a bird, but had a balloon-shaped body, paddled by five webbed feet. It disappeared among the trees.

Joiwind pointed to it, as it went by. “I love that beast, grotesque as it is—perhaps all the more for its grotesqueness. But if I had children of my own, would I still love it? Which is best—to love two or three, or to love all?”

“Every woman can’t be like you, Joiwind, but it is good to have a few like you. Wouldn’t it be as well,” he went on, “since we’ve got to walk through that sun-baked wilderness, to make turbans for our heads out of some of those long leaves?”

She smiled rather pathetically. “You will think me foolish, but every tearing off of a leaf would be a wound in my heart. We have only to throw our robes over our heads.”

“No doubt that will answer the same purpose, but tell me—weren’t these very robes once part of a living creature?”

“Oh, no—no, they are the webs of a certain animal, but they have never been in themselves alive.”

“You reduce life to extreme simplicity,” remarked Maskull meditatively, “but it is very beautiful.”

Climbing back over the hills, they now without further ceremony began their march across the desert.

They walked side by side. Joiwind directed their course straight toward Poolingdred. From the position of the sun, Maskull judged their way to lie due north. The sand was soft and powdery, very tiring to his naked feet. The red glare dazed his eyes, and made him semi-blind. He was hot, parched, and tormented with the craving to drink; his undertone of pain emerged into full consciousness.

“I see my friends nowhere, and it is very queer.”

“Yes, it is queer—if it is accidental,” said Joiwind, with a peculiar intonation.

“Exactly!” agreed Maskull. “If they had met with a mishap, their bodies would still be there. It begins to look like a piece of bad work to me. They must have gone on, and left me.... Well, I am here, and I must make the best of it. I will trouble no more about them.”

“I don’t wish to speak ill of anyone,” said Joiwind, “but my instinct tells me that you are better away from those men. They did not come here for your sake, but for their own.”

They walked on for a long time. Maskull was beginning to feel faint. She twined her magn lovingly around his waist, and a strong current of confidence and well-being instantly coursed through his veins.

“Thanks, Joiwind! But am I not weakening you?”

“Yes,” she replied, with a quick, thrilling glance. “But not much—and it gives me great happiness.”

Presently they met a fantastic little creature, the size of a new-born lamb, waltzing along on three legs. Each leg in turn moved to the front, and so the little monstrosity proceeded by means of a series of complete rotations. It was vividly coloured, as though it had been dipped into pots of bright blue and yellow paint. It looked up with small, shining eyes, as they passed.

Joiwind nodded and smiled to it. “That’s a personal friend of mine, Maskull. Whenever I come this way, I see it. It’s always waltzing, and always in a hurry, but it never seems to get anywhere.”

“It seems to me that life is so self-sufficient here that there is no need for anyone to get anywhere. What I don’t quite understand is how you manage to pass your days without ennui.”

“That’s a strange word. It means, does it not, craving for excitement?”

“Something of the kind,” said Maskull.

“That must be a disease brought on by rich food.”

“But are you never dull?”

“How could we be? Our blood is quick and light and free, our flesh is clean and unclogged, inside and out.... Before long I hope you will understand what sort of question you have asked.”

Farther on they encountered a strange phenomenon. In the heart of the desert a fountain rose perpendicularly fifty feet into the air, with a cool and pleasant hissing sound. It differed, however, from a fountain in this respect—that the water of which it was composed did not return to the ground but was absorbed by the atmosphere at the summit. It was in fact a tall, graceful column of dark green fluid, with a capital of coiling and twisting vapours.

When they came closer, Maskull perceived that this water column was the continuation and termination of a flowing brook, which came down from the direction of the mountains. The explanation of the phenomenon was evidently that the water at this spot found chemical affinities in the upper air, and consequently forsook the ground.

“Now let us drink,” said Joiwind.

She threw herself unaffectedly at full length on the sand, face downward, by the side of the brook, and Maskull was not long in following her example. She refused to quench her thirst until she had seen him drink. He found the water heavy, but bubbling with gas. He drank copiously. It affected his palate in a new way—with the purity and cleanness of water was combined the exhilaration of a sparkling wine, raising his spirits—but somehow the intoxication brought out his better nature, and not his lower.

“We call it ‘gnawl water’,” said Joiwind. “This is not quite pure, as you can see by the colour. At Poolingdred it is crystal clear. But we would be ungrateful if we complained. After this you’ll find we’ll get along much better.”

Maskull now began to realise his environment, as it were for the first time. All his sense organs started to show him beauties and wonders that he had not hitherto suspected. The uniform glaring scarlet of the sands became separated into a score of clearly distinguished shades of red. The sky was similarly split up into different blues. The radiant heat of Branchspell he found to affect every part of his body with unequal intensities. His ears awakened; the atmosphere was full of murmurs, the sands hummed, even the sun’s rays had a sound of their own—a kind of faint Aeolian harp. Subtle, puzzling perfumes assailed his nostrils. His palate lingered over the memory of the gnawl water. All the pores of his skin were tickled and soothed by hitherto unperceived currents of air. His poigns explored actively the inward nature of everything in his immediate vicinity. His magn touched Joiwind, and drew from her person a stream of love and joy. And lastly by means of his breve he exchanged thoughts with her in silence. This mighty sense symphony stirred him to the depths, and throughout the walk of that endless morning he felt no more fatigue.

When it was drawing near to Blodsombre, they approached the sedgy margin of a dark green lake, which lay underneath Poolingdred.

Panawe was sitting on a dark rock, waiting for them.

The husband got up to meet his wife and their guest. He was clothed in white. He had a beardless face, with breve and poigns. His skin, on face and body alike, was so white, fresh, and soft, that it scarcely looked skin at all—it rather resembled a new kind of pure, snowy flesh, extending right down to his bones. It had nothing in common with the artificially whitened skin of an over-civilised woman. Its whiteness and delicacy aroused no voluptuous thoughts; it was obviously the manifestation of a cold and almost cruel chastity of nature. His hair, which fell to the nape of his neck, also was white; but again, from vigour, not decay. His eyes were black, quiet and fathomless. He was still a young man, but so stern were his features that he had the appearance of a lawgiver, and this in spite of their great beauty and harmony.

His magn and Joiwind’s intertwined for a single moment and Maskull saw his face soften with love, while she looked exultant. She put him in her husband’s arms with gentle force, and stood back, gazing and smiling. Maskull felt rather embarrassed at being embraced by a man, but submitted to it; a sense of cool, pleasant languor passed through him in the act.

“The stranger is red-blooded, then?”

He was startled by Panawe’s speaking in English, and the voice too was extraordinary. It was absolutely tranquil, but its tranquillity seemed in a curious fashion to be an illusion, proceeding from a rapidity of thoughts and feelings so great that their motion could not be detected. How this could be, he did not know.

“How do you come to speak in a tongue you have never heard before?” demanded Maskull.

“Thought is a rich, complex thing. I can’t say if I am really speaking your tongue by instinct, or if you yourself are translating my thoughts into your tongue as I utter them.”

“Already you see that Panawe is wiser than I am,” said Joiwind gaily.

“What is your name?” asked the husband.

“Maskull.”

“That name must have a meaning—but again, thought is a strange thing. I connect that name with something—but with what?”

“Try to discover,” said Joiwind.

“Has there been a man in your world who stole something from the Maker of the universe, in order to ennoble his fellow creatures?”

“There is such a myth. The hero’s name was Prometheus.”

“Well, you seem to be identified in my mind with that action—but what it all means I can’t say, Maskull.”

“Accept it as a good omen, for Panawe never lies, and never speaks thoughtlessly.”

“There must be some confusion. These are heights beyond me,” said Maskull calmly, but looking rather contemplative.

“Where do you come from?”

“From the planet of a distant sun, called Earth.”

“What for?”

“I was tired of vulgarity,” returned Maskull laconically. He intentionally avoided mentioning his fellow voyagers, in order that Krag’s name should not come to light.

“That’s an honourable motive,” said Panawe. “And what’s more, it may be true, though you spoke it as a prevarication.”

“As far as it goes, it’s quite true,” said Maskull, staring at him with annoyance and surprise.

The swampy lake extended for about half a mile from where they were standing to the lower buttresses of the mountain. Feathery purple reeds showed themselves here and there through the shallows. The water was dark green. Maskull did not see how they were going to cross it.

Joiwind caught his arm. “Perhaps you don’t know that the lake will bear us?”

Panawe walked onto the water; it was so heavy that it carried his weight. Joiwind followed with Maskull. He instantly started to slip about—nevertheless the motion was amusing, and he learned so fast, by watching and imitating Panawe, that he was soon able to balance himself without assistance. After that he found the sport excellent.

For the same reason that women excel in dancing, Joiwind’s half falls and recoveries were far more graceful and sure than those of either of the men. Her slight, draped form—dipping, bending, rising, swaying, twisting, upon the surface of the dark water—this was a picture Maskull could not keep his eyes away from.

The lake grew deeper. The gnawl water became green-black. The crags, gullies, and precipices of the shore could now be distinguished in detail. A waterfall was visible, descending several hundred feet. The surface of the lake grew disturbed—so much so that Maskull had difficulty in keeping his balance. He therefore threw himself down and started swimming on the face of the water. Joiwind turned her head, and laughed so joyously that all her teeth flashed in the sunlight.

They landed in a few more minutes on a promontory of black rock. The water on Maskull’s garment and body evaporated very quickly. He gazed upward at the towering mountain, but at that moment some strange movements on the part of Panawe attracted his attention. His face was working convulsively, and he began to stagger about. Then he put his hand to his mouth and took from it what looked like a bright-coloured pebble. He looked at it carefully for some seconds. Joiwind also looked, over his shoulder, with quickly changing colors. After this inspection, Panawe let the object—whatever it was—fall to the ground, and took no more interest in it.

“May I look?” asked Maskull; and, without waiting for permission, he picked it up. It was a delicately beautiful egg-shaped crystal of pale green.

“Where did this come from?” he asked queerly.

Panawe turned away, but Joiwind answered for him. “It came out of my husband.”

“That’s what I thought, but I couldn’t believe it. But what is it?”

“I don’t know that it has either name or use. It is merely an overflowing of beauty.”

“Beauty?”

Joiwind smiled. “If you were to regard nature as the husband, and Panawe as the wife, Maskull, perhaps everything would be explained.”

Maskull reflected.

“On Earth,” he said after a minute, “men like Panawe are called artists, poets, and musicians. Beauty overflows into them too, and out of them again. The only distinction is that their productions are more human and intelligible.”

“Nothing comes from it but vanity,” said Panawe, and, taking the crystal out of Maskull’s hand, he threw it into the lake.

The precipice they now had to climb was several hundred feet in height. Maskull was more anxious for Joiwind than for himself. She was evidently tiring, but she refused all help, and was in fact still the nimbler of the two. She made a mocking face at him. Panawe seemed lost in quiet thoughts. The rock was sound, and did not crumble under their weight. The heat of Branchspell, however, was by this time almost killing, the radiance was shocking in its white intensity, and Maskull’s pain steadily grew worse.

When they got to the top, a plateau of dark rock appeared, bare of vegetation, stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see. It was of a nearly uniform width of five hundred yards, from the edge of the cliffs to the lower slopes of the chain of hills inland. The hills varied in height. The cup-shaped Poolingdred was approximately a thousand feet above them. The upper part of it was covered with a kind of glittering vegetation which he could not comprehend.

Joiwind put her hand on Maskull’s shoulder, and pointed upward. “Here you have the highest peak in the whole land—that is, until you come to the Ifdawn Marest.”

On hearing that strange name, he experienced a momentary unaccountable sensation of wild vigour and restlessness—but it passed away.

Without losing time, Panawe led the way up the mountainside. The lower half was of bare rock, not difficult to climb. Halfway up, however, it grew steeper, and they began to meet bushes and small trees. The growth became thicker as they continued to ascend, and when they neared the summit, tall forest trees appeared.

These bushes and trees had pale, glassy trunks and branches, but the small twigs and the leaves were translucent and crystal. They cast no shadows from above, but still the shade was cool. Both leaves and branches were fantastically shaped. What surprised Maskull the most, however, was the fact that, as far as he could see, scarcely any two plants belonged to the same species.

“Won’t you help Maskull out of his difficulty?” said Joiwind, pulling her husband’s arm.

He smiled. “If he’ll forgive me for again trespassing in his brain. But the difficulty is small. Life on a new planet, Maskull, is necessarily energetic and lawless, and not sedate and imitative. Nature is still fluid—not yet rigid—and matter is plastic. The will forks and sports incessantly, and thus no two creatures are alike.”

“Well, I understand all that,” replied Maskull, after listening attentively. “But what I don’t grasp is this—if living creatures here sport so energetically, how does it come about that human beings wear much the same shape as in my world?”

“I’ll explain that too,” said Panawe. “All creatures that resemble Shaping must of necessity resemble one another.”

“Then sporting is the blind will to become like Shaping?”

“Exactly.”

“It is most wonderful,” said Maskull. “Then the brotherhood of man is not a fable invented by idealists, but a solid fact.”

Joiwind looked at him, and changed colour. Panawe relapsed into sternness.

Maskull became interested in a new phenomenon. The jale-coloured blossoms of a crystal bush were emitting mental waves, which with his breve he could clearly distinguish. They cried out silently, “To me! To me!” While he looked, a flying worm guided itself through the air to one of these blossoms and began to suck its nectar. The floral cry immediately ceased.

They now gained the crest of the mountain, and looked down beyond. A lake occupied its crater-like cavity. A fringe of trees partly intercepted the view, but Maskull was able to perceive that this mountain lake was nearly circular and perhaps a quarter of a mile across. Its shore stood a hundred feet below them.

Observing that his hosts did not propose to descend, he begged them to wait for him, and scrambled down to the surface. When he got there, he found the water perfectly motionless and of a colourless transparency. He walked onto it, lay down at full length, and peered into the depths. It was weirdly clear: he could see down for an indefinite distance, without arriving at any bottom. Some dark, shadowy objects, almost out of reach of his eyes, were moving about. Then a sound, very faint and mysterious, seemed to come up through the gnawl water from an immense depth. It was like the rhythm of a drum. There were four beats of equal length, but the accent was on the third. It went on for a considerable time, and then ceased.

The sound appeared to him to belong to a different world from that in which he was travelling. The latter was mystical, dreamlike, and unbelievable—the drumming was like a very dim undertone of reality. It resembled the ticking of a clock in a room full of voices, only occasionally possible to be picked up by the ear.

He rejoined Panawe and Joiwind, but said nothing to them about his experience. They all walked round the rim of the crater, and gazed down on the opposite side. Precipices similar to those that had overlooked the desert here formed the boundary of a vast moorland plain, whose dimensions could not be measured by the eye. It was solid land, yet he could not make out its prevailing colour. It was as if made of transparent glass, but it did not glitter in the sunlight. No objects in it could be distinguished, except a rolling river in the far distance, and, farther off still, on the horizon, a line of dark mountains, of strange shapes. Instead of being rounded, conical, or hogbacked, these heights were carved by nature into the semblance of castle battlements, but with extremely deep indentations.

The sky immediately above the mountains was of a vivid, intense blue. It contrasted in a most marvellous way with the blue of the rest of the heavens. It seemed more luminous and radiant, and was in fact like the afterglow of a gorgeous blue sunset.

Maskull kept on looking. The more he gazed, the more restless and noble became his feelings.

“What is that light?”

Panawe was sterner than usual, while his wife clung to his arm. “It is Alppain—our second sun,” he replied. “Those hills are the Ifdawn Marest.... Now let us get to our shelter.”

“Is it imagination, or am I really being affected—tormented by that light?”

“No, it’s not imagination—it’s real. How can it be otherwise when two suns, of different natures, are drawing you at the same time? Luckily you are not looking at Alppain itself. It’s invisible here. You would need to go at least as far as Ifdawn, to set eyes on it.”

“Why do you say ‘luckily’?”

“Because the agony caused by those opposing forces would perhaps be more than you could bear.... But I don’t know.”

For the short distance that remained of their walk, Maskull was very thoughtful and uneasy. He understood nothing. Whatever object his eye chanced to rest on changed immediately into a puzzle. The silence and stillness of the mountain peak seemed brooding, mysterious, and waiting. Panawe gave him a friendly, anxious look, and without further delay led the way down a little track, which traversed the side of the mountain and terminated in the mouth of a cave.

This cave was the home of Panawe and Joiwind. It was dark inside. The host took a shell and, filling it with liquid from a well, carelessly sprinkled the sandy floor of the interior. A greenish, phosphorescent light gradually spread to the furthest limits of the cavern, and continued to illuminate it for the whole time they were there. There was no furniture. Some dried, fernlike leaves served for couches.

The moment she got in, Joiwind fell down in exhaustion. Her husband tended her with calm concern. He bathed her face, put drink to her lips, energised her with his magn, and finally laid her down to sleep. At the sight of the noble woman thus suffering on his account, Maskull was distressed.

Panawe, however, endeavoured to reassure him. “It’s quite true this has been a very long, hard double journey, but for the future it will lighten all her other journeys for her.... Such is the nature of sacrifice.”

“I can’t conceive how I have walked so far in a morning,” said Maskull, “and she has been twice the distance.”

“Love flows in her veins, instead of blood, and that’s why she is so strong.”

“You know she gave me some of it?”

“Otherwise you couldn’t even have started.”

“I shall never forget that.”

The languorous heat of the day outside, the bright mouth of the cavern, the cool seclusion of the interior, with its pale green glow, invited Maskull to sleep. But curiosity got the better of his lassitude.

“Will it disturb her if we talk?”

“No.”

“But how do you feel?”

“I require little sleep. In any case, it’s more important that you should hear something about your new life. It’s not all as innocent and idyllic as this. If you intend to go through, you ought to be instructed about the dangers.”

“Oh, I guessed as much. But how shall we arrange—shall I put questions, or will you tell me what you think is most essential?”

Panawe motioned to Maskull to sit down on a pile of ferns, and at the same time reclined himself, leaning on one arm, with outstretched legs.

“I will tell some incidents of my life. You will begin to learn from them what sort of place you have come to.”

“I shall be grateful,” said Maskull, preparing himself to listen.

Panawe paused for a moment or two, and then started his narrative in tranquil, measured, yet sympathetic tones.

PANAWE’S STORY

“My earliest recollection is of being taken, when three years old (that’s equivalent to fifteen of your years, but we develop more slowly here), by my father and mother, to see Broodviol, the wisest man in Tormance. He dwelt in the great Wombflash Forest. We walked through trees for three days, sleeping at night. The trees grew taller as we went along, until the tops were out of sight. The trunks were of a dark red colour and the leaves were of pale ulfire. My father kept stopping to think. If left uninterrupted, he would remain for half a day in deep abstraction. My mother came out of Poolingdred, and was of a different stamp. She was beautiful, generous, and charming—but also active. She kept urging him on. This led to many disputes between them, which made me miserable. On the fourth day we passed through a part of the forest which bordered on the Sinking Sea. This sea is full of pouches of water that will not bear a man’s weight, and as these light parts don’t differ in appearance from the rest, it is dangerous to cross. My father pointed out a dim outline on the horizon, and told me it was Swaylone’s Island. Men sometimes go there, but none ever return. In the evening of the same day we found Broodviol standing in a deep, miry pit in the forest, surrounded on all sides by trees three hundred feet high. He was a big gnarled, rugged, wrinkled, sturdy old man. His age at that time was a hundred and twenty of our years, or nearly six hundred of yours. His body was trilateral: he had three legs, three arms, and six eyes, placed at equal distances all around his head. This gave him an aspect of great watchfulness and sagacity. He was standing in a sort of trance. I afterward heard this saying of his: ‘To lie is to sleep, to sit is to dream, to stand is to think.’ My father caught the infection, and fell into meditation, but my mother roused them both thoroughly. Broodviol scowled at her savagely, and demanded what she required. Then I too learned for the first time the object of our journey. I was a prodigy—that is to say, I was without sex. My parents were troubled over this, and wished to consult the wisest of men.

“Old Broodviol smoothed his face, and said, ‘This perhaps will not be so difficult. I will explain the marvel. Every man and woman among us is a walking murderer. If a male, he has struggled with and killed the female who was born in the same body with him—if a female, she has killed the male. But in this child the struggle is still continuing.’

“‘How shall we end it?’ asked my mother.

“‘Let the child direct its will to the scene of the combat, and it will be of whichever sex it pleases.’

“‘You want, of course, to be a man, don’t you?’ said my mother to me earnestly.

“‘Then I shall be slaying your daughter, and that would be a crime.’

“Something in my tone attracted Broodviol’s notice.

“‘That was spoken, not selfishly, but magnanimously. Therefore the male must have spoken it, and you need not trouble further. Before you arrive home, the child will be a boy.’

“My father walked away out of sight. My mother bent very low before Broodviol for about ten minutes, and he remained all that time looking kindly at her.

“I heard that shortly afterward Alppain came into that land for a few hours daily. Broodviol grew melancholy, and died.

“His prophecy came true—before we reached home, I knew the meaning of shame. But I have often pondered over his words since, in later years, when trying to understand my own nature; and I have come to the conclusion that, wisest of men as he was, he still did not see quite straight on this occasion. Between me and my twin sister, enclosed in one body, there never was any struggle, but instinctive reverence for life withheld both of us from fighting for existence. Hers was the stronger temperament, and she sacrificed herself—though not consciously—for me.

“As soon as I comprehended this, I made a vow never to eat or destroy anything that contained life—and I have kept it ever since.

“While I was still hardly a grown man, my father died. My mother’s death followed immediately, and I hated the associations of the land. I therefore made up my mind to travel into my mother’s country, where, as she had often told me, nature was most sacred and solitary.

“One hot morning I came to Shaping’s Causeway. It is so called either because Shaping once crossed it, or because of its stupendous character. It is a natural embankment, twenty miles long, which links the mountains bordering my homeland with the Ifdawn Marest. The valley lies below at a depth varying from eight to ten thousand feet—a terrible precipice on either side. The knife edge of the ridge is generally not much over a foot wide. The causeway goes due north and south. The valley on my right hand was plunged in shadow—that on my left was sparkling with sunlight and dew. I walked fearfully along this precarious path for some miles. Far to the east the valley was closed by a lofty tableland, connecting the two chains of mountains, but overtopping even the most towering pinnacles. This is called the Sant Levels. I was never there, but I have heard two curious facts concerning the inhabitants. The first is that they have no women; the second, that though they are addicted to travelling in other parts they never acquire habits of the peoples with whom they reside.

“Presently I turned giddy, and lay at full length for a great while, clutching the two edges of the path with both hands, and staring at the ground I was lying on with wide-open eyes. When that passed I felt like a different man and grew conceited and gay. About halfway across I saw someone approaching me a long way off. This put fear into my heart again, for I did not see how we could very well pass. However, I went slowly on, and presently we drew near enough together for me to recognise the walker. It was Slofork, the so-called sorcerer. I had never met him before, but I knew him by his peculiarities of person. He was of a bright gamboge colour and possessed a very long, proboscis-like nose, which appeared to be a useful organ, but did not add to his beauty, as I knew beauty. He was dubbed ‘sorcerer’ from his wondrous skill in budding limbs and organs. The tale is told that one evening he slowly sawed his leg off with a blunt stone and then lay for two days in agony while his new leg was sprouting. He was not reputed to be a consistently wise man, but he had periodical flashes of penetration and audacity that none could equal.

“We sat down and faced one another, about two yards apart.

“‘Which of us walks over the other?’ asked Slofork. His manner was as calm as the day itself, but, to my young nature, terrible with hidden terrors. I smiled at him, but did not wish for this humiliation. We continued sitting thus, in a friendly way, for many minutes.

“‘What is greater than Pleasure?’ he asked suddenly.

“I was at an age when one wishes to be thought equal to any emergency, so, concealing my surprise, I applied myself to the conversation, as if it were for that purpose we had met.

“‘Pain,’ I replied, ‘for pain drives out pleasure.’

“‘What is greater than Pain?’

“I reflected. ‘Love. Because we will accept our loved one’s share of pain.’

“‘But what is greater than Love?’ he persisted.

“‘Nothing, Slofork.’

“‘And what is Nothing?’

“‘That you must tell me.’

“‘Tell you I will. This is Shaping’s world. He that is a good child here, knows pleasure, pain, and love, and gets his rewards. But there’s another world—not Shaping’s—and there all this is unknown, and another order of things reigns. That world we call Nothing—but it is not Nothing, but Something.’

“There was a pause.

“‘I have heard,’ said I, ‘that you are good at growing and ungrowing organs?’

“‘That’s not enough for me. Every organ tells me the same story. I want to hear different stories.’

“‘Is it true, what men say, that your wisdom flows and ebbs in pulses?’

“‘Quite true,’ replied Slofork. ‘But those you had it from did not add that they have always mistaken the flow for the ebb.’

“‘My experience is,’ said I sententiously, ‘that wisdom is misery.’

“‘Perhaps it is, young man, but you have never learned that, and never will. For you the world will continue to wear a noble, awful face. You will never rise above mysticism.... But be happy in your own way.’

“Before I realised what he was doing, he jumped tranquilly from the path, down into the empty void. He crashed with ever-increasing momentum toward the valley below. I screeched, flung myself down on the ground, and shut my eyes.

“Often have I wondered which of my ill-considered, juvenile remarks it was that caused this sudden resolution on his part to commit suicide. Whichever it might be, since then I have made it a rigid law never to speak for my own pleasure, but only to help others.

“I came eventually to the Marest. I threaded its mazes in terror for four days. I was frightened of death, but still more terrified at the possibility of losing my sacred attitude toward life. When I was nearly through, and was beginning to congratulate myself, I stumbled across the third extraordinary personage of my experience—the grim Muremaker. It was under horrible circumstances. On an afternoon, cloudy and stormy, I saw, suspended in the air without visible support, a living man. He was hanging in an upright position in front of a cliff—a yawning gulf, a thousand feet deep, lay beneath his feet. I climbed as near as I could, and looked on. He saw me, and made a wry grimace, like one who wishes to turn his humiliation into humour. The spectacle so astounded me that I could not even grasp what had happened.

“‘I am Muremaker,’ he cried in a scraping voice which shocked my ears. ‘All my life I have sorbed others—now I am sorbed. Nuclamp and I fell out over a woman. Now Nuclamp holds me up like this. While the strength of his will lasts I shall remain suspended; but when he gets tired—and it can’t be long now—I drop into those depths.’

“Had it been another man, I would have tried to save him, but this ogre-like being was too well known to me as one who passed his whole existence in tormenting, murdering, and absorbing others, for the sake of his own delight. I hurried away, and did not pause again that day.

“In Poolingdred I met Joiwind. We walked and talked together for a month, and by that time we found that we loved each other too well to part.”

Panawe stopped speaking.

“That is a fascinating story,” remarked Maskull. “Now I begin to know my way around better. But one thing puzzles me.”

“What’s that?”

“How it happens that men here are ignorant of tools and arts, and have no civilisation, and yet contrive to be social in their habits and wise in their thoughts.”

“Do you imagine, then, that love and wisdom spring from tools? But I see how it arises. In your world you have fewer sense organs, and to make up for the deficiency you have been obliged to call in the assistance of stones and metals. That’s by no means a sign of superiority.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Maskull, “but I see I have a great deal to unlearn.”

They talked together a little longer, and then gradually fell asleep. Joiwind opened her eyes, smiled, and slumbered again.

Maskull awoke before the others. He got up, stretched himself, and walked out into the sunlight. Branchspell was already declining. He climbed to the top of the crater edge and looked away toward Ifdawn. The afterglow of Alppain had by now completely disappeared. The mountains stood up wild and grand.

They impressed him like a simple musical theme, the notes of which are widely separated in the scale; a spirit of rashness, daring, and adventure seemed to call to him from them. It was at that moment that the determination flashed into his heart to walk to the Marest and explore its dangers.

He returned to the cavern to say good-by to his hosts.

Joiwind looked at him with her brave and honest eyes. “Is this selfishness, Maskull?” she asked, “or are you drawn by something stronger than yourself?”

“We must be reasonable,” he answered, smiling. “I can’t settle down in Poolingdred before I have found out something about this surprising new planet of yours. Remember what a long way I have come.... But very likely I shall come back here.”

“Will you make me a promise?”

Maskull hesitated. “Ask nothing difficult, for I hardly know my powers yet.”

“It is not hard, and I wish it. Promise this—never to raise your hand against a living creature, either to strike, pluck, or eat, without first recollecting its mother, who suffered for it.”

“Perhaps I won’t promise that,” said Maskull slowly, “but I’ll undertake something more tangible. I will never lift my hand against a living creature without first recollecting you, Joiwind.”

She turned a little pale. “Now if Panawe knew that Panawe existed, he might be jealous.”

Panawe put his hand on her gently. “You would not talk like that in Shaping’s presence,” he said.

“No. Forgive me! I’m not quite myself. Perhaps it is Maskull’s blood in my veins.... Now let us bid him adieu. Let us pray that he will do only honourable deeds, wherever he may be.”

“I’ll set Maskull on his way,” said Panawe.

“There’s no need,” replied Maskull. “The way is plain.”

“But talking shortens the road.”

Maskull turned to go.

Joiwind pulled him around toward her softly. “You won’t think badly of other women on my account?”

“You are a blessed spirit,” answered he.

She trod quietly to the inner extremity of the cave and stood there thinking. Panawe and Maskull emerged into the open air. Halfway down the cliff face a little spring was encountered. Its water was colourless, transparent, but gaseous. As soon as Maskull had satisfied his thirst he felt himself different. His surroundings were so real to him in their vividness and colour, so unreal in their phantom-like mystery, that he scrambled downhill like one in a winter’s dream.

When they reached the plain he saw in front of them an interminable forest of tall trees, the shapes of which were extraordinarily foreign looking. The leaves were crystalline and, looking upward, it was as if he were gazing through a roof of glass. The moment they got underneath the trees the light rays of the sun continued to come through—white, savage, and blazing—but they were gelded of heat. Then it was not hard to imagine that they were wandering through cool, bright elfin glades.

Through the forest, beginning at their very feet an avenue, perfectly straight and not very wide, went forward as far as the eye could see.

Maskull wanted to talk to his travelling companion, but was somehow unable to find words. Panawe glanced at him with an inscrutable smile—stern, yet enchanting and half feminine. He then broke the silence, but, strangely enough, Maskull could not make out whether he was singing or speaking. From his lips issued a slow musical recitative, exactly like a bewitching adagio from a low toned stringed instrument—but there was a difference. Instead of the repetition and variation of one or two short themes, as in music, Panawe’s theme was prolonged—it never came to an end, but rather resembled a conversation in rhythm and melody. And, at the same time, it was no recitative, for it was not declamatory. It was a long, quiet stream of lovely emotion.

Maskull listened entranced, yet agitated. The song, if it might be termed song, seemed to be always just on the point of becoming clear and intelligible—not with the intelligibility of words, but in the way one sympathises with another’s moods and feelings; and Maskull felt that something important was about to be uttered, which would explain all that had gone before. But it was invariably postponed, he never understood—and yet somehow he did understand.

Late in the afternoon they came to a clearing, and there Panawe ceased his recitative. He slowed his pace and stopped, in the fashion of a man who wishes to convey that he intends to go no farther.

“What is the name of this country?” asked Maskull.

“It is the Lusion Plain.”

“Was that music in the nature of a temptation—do you wish me not to go on?”

“Your work lies before you, and not behind you.”

“What was it, then? What work do you allude to?”

“It must have seemed like something to you, Maskull.”

“It seemed like Shaping music to me.”

The instant he had absently uttered these words, Maskull wondered why he had done so, as they now appeared meaningless to him.

Panawe, however, showed no surprise. “Shaping you will find everywhere.”

“Am I dreaming, or awake?”

“You are awake.”

Maskull fell into deep thought. “So be it,” he said, rousing himself. “Now I will go on. But where must I sleep tonight?”

“You will reach a broad river. On that you can travel to the foot of the Marest tomorrow; but tonight you had better sleep where the forest and river meet.”

“Adieu, then, Panawe! But do you wish to say anything more to me?”

“Only this, Maskull—wherever you go, help to make the world beautiful, and not ugly.”

“That’s more than any of us can undertake. I am a simple man, and have no ambitions in the way of beautifying life—But tell Joiwind I will try to keep myself pure.”

They parted rather coldly. Maskull stood erect where they had stopped, and watched Panawe out of sight. He sighed more than once.

He became aware that something was about to happen. The air was breathless. The late-afternoon sunshine, unobstructed, wrapped his frame in voluptuous heat. A solitary cloud, immensely high, raced through the sky overhead.

A single trumpet note sounded in the far distance from somewhere behind him. It gave him an impression of being several miles away at first; but then it slowly swelled, and came nearer and nearer at the same time that it increased in volume. Still the same note sounded, but now it was as if blown by a giant trumpeter immediately over his head. Then it gradually diminished in force, and travelled away in front of him. It ended very faintly and distantly.

He felt himself alone with Nature. A sacred stillness came over his heart. Past and future were forgotten. The forest, the sun, the day did not exist for him. He was unconscious of himself—he had no thoughts and no feelings. Yet never had Life had such an altitude for him.

A man stood, with crossed arms, right in his path. He was so clothed that his limbs were exposed, while his body was covered. He was young rather than old. Maskull observed that his countenance possessed none of the special organs of Tormance, to which he had not even yet become reconciled. He was smooth-faced. His whole person seemed to radiate an excess of life, like the trembling of air on a hot day. His eyes had such force that Maskull could not meet them.

He addressed Maskull by name, in an extraordinary voice. It had a double tone. The primary one sounded far away; the second was an undertone, like a sympathetic tanging string.

Maskull felt a rising joy, as he continued standing in the presence of this individual. He believed that something good was happening to him. He found it physically difficult to bring any words out. “Why do you stop me?”

“Maskull, look well at me. Who am I?”

“I think you are Shaping.”

“I am Surtur.”

Maskull again attempted to meet his eyes, but felt as if he were being stabbed.

“You know that this is my world. Why do you think I have brought you here? I wish you to serve me.”

Maskull could no longer speak.

“Those who joke at my world,” continued the vision, “those who make a mock of its stern, eternal rhythm, its beauty and sublimity, which are not skin-deep, but proceed from fathomless roots—they shall not escape.”

“I do not mock it.”

“Ask me your questions, and I will answer them.”

“I have nothing.”

“It is necessary for you to serve me, Maskull. Do you not understand? You are my servant and helper.”

“I shall not fail.”

“This is for my sake, and not for yours.”

These last words had no sooner left Surtur’s mouth than Maskull saw him spring suddenly upward and outward. Looking up at the vault of the sky, he saw the whole expanse of vision filled by Surtur’s form—not as a concrete man, but as a vast, concave cloud image, looking down and frowning at him. Then the spectacle vanished, as a light goes out.

Maskull stood inactive, with a thumping heart. Now he again heard the solitary trumpet note. The sound began this time faintly in the far distance in front of him, travelled slowly toward him with regularly increasing intensity, passed overhead at its loudest, and then grew more and more quiet, wonderful, and solemn, as it fell away in the rear, until the note was merged in the deathlike silence of the forest. It appeared to Maskull like the closing of a marvellous and important chapter.

Simultaneously with the fading away of the sound, the heavens seemed to open up with the rapidity of lightning into a blue vault of immeasurable height. He breathed a great breath, stretched all his limbs, and looked around him with a slow smile.

After a while he resumed his journey. His brain was all dark and confused, but one idea was already beginning to stand out from the rest—huge, shapeless, and grand, like the growing image in the soul of a creative artist: the staggering thought that he was a man of destiny.

The more he reflected upon all that had occurred since his arrival in this new world—and even before leaving Earth—the clearer and more indisputable it became, that he could not be here for his own purposes, but must be here for an end. But what that end was, he could not imagine.

Through the forest he saw Branchspell at last sinking in the west. It looked a stupendous ball of red fire—now he could realise at his ease what a sun it was! The avenue took an abrupt turn to the left and began to descend steeply.

A wide, rolling river of clear and dark water was visible in front of him, no great way off. It flowed from north to south. The forest path led him straight to its banks. Maskull stood there, and regarded the lapping, gurgling waters pensively. On the opposite bank, the forest continued. Miles to the south, Poolingdred could just be distinguished. On the northern skyline the Ifdawn Mountains loomed up—high, wild, beautiful, and dangerous. They were not a dozen miles away.

Like the first mutterings of a thunderstorm, the first faint breaths of cool wind, Maskull felt the stirrings of passion in his heart. In spite of his bodily fatigue, he wished to test his strength against something. This craving he identified with the crags of the Marest. They seemed to have the same magical attraction for his will as the lodestone for iron. He kept biting his nails, as he turned his eyes in that direction—wondering if it would not be possible to conquer the heights that evening. But when he glanced back again at Poolingdred, he remembered Joiwind and Panawe, and grew more tranquil. He decided to make his bed at this spot, and to set off as soon after daybreak as he should awake.

He drank at the river, washed himself, and lay down on the bank to sleep. By this time, so far had his idea progressed, that he cared nothing for the possible dangers of the night—he confided in his star.

Branchspell set, the day faded, night with its terrible weight came on, and through it all Maskull slept. Long before midnight, however, he was awakened by a crimson glow in the sky. He opened his eyes, and wondered where he was. He felt heaviness and pain. The red glow was a terrestrial phenomenon; it came from among the trees. He got up and went toward the source of the light.

Away from the river, not a hundred feet off, he nearly stumbled across the form of a sleeping woman. The object which emitted the crimson rays was lying on the ground, several yards away from her. It was like a small jewel, throwing off sparks of red light. He barely threw a glance at that, however.

The woman was clothed in the large skin of an animal. She had big, smooth, shapely limbs, rather muscular than fat. Her magn was not a thin tentacle, but a third arm, terminating in a hand. Her face, which was upturned, was wild, powerful, and exceedingly handsome. But he saw with surprise that in place of a breve on her forehead, she possessed another eye. All three were closed. The colour of her skin in the crimson glow he could not distinguish.

He touched her gently with his hand. She awoke calmly and looked up at him without stirring a muscle. All three eyes stared at him; but the two lower ones were dull and vacant—mere carriers of vision. The middle, upper one alone expressed her inner nature. Its haughty, unflinching glare had yet something seductive and alluring in it. Maskull felt a challenge in that look of lordly, feminine will, and his manner instinctively stiffened.

She sat up.

“Can you speak my language?” he asked. “I wouldn’t put such a question, but others have been able to.”

“Why should you imagine that I can’t read your mind? Is it so extremely complex?”

She spoke in a rich, lingering, musical voice, which delighted him to listen to.

“No, but you have no breve.”

“Well, but haven’t I a sorb, which is better?” And she pointed to the eye on her brow.

“What is your name?”

“Oceaxe.”

“And where do you come from?”

“Ifdawn.”

These contemptuous replies began to irritate him, and yet the mere sound of her voice was fascinating.

“I am going there tomorrow,” he remarked.

She laughed, as if against her will, but made no comment.

“My name is Maskull,” he went on. “I am a stranger—from another world.”

“So I should judge, from your absurd appearance.”

“Perhaps it would be as well to say at once,” said Maskull bluntly, “are we, or are we not, to be friends?”

She yawned and stretched her arms, without rising. “Why should we be friends? If I thought you were a man, I might accept you as a lover.”

“You must look elsewhere for that.”

“So be it, Maskull! Now go away, and leave me in peace.”

She dropped her head again to the ground, but did not at once close her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he interrogated.

“Oh, we Ifdawn folk occasionally come here to sleep, for there often enough it is a night for us which has no next morning.”

“Being such a terrible place, and seeing that I am a total stranger, it would be merely courteous if you were to warn me what I have to expect in the way of dangers.”

“I am perfectly and utterly indifferent to what becomes of you,” retorted Oceaxe.

“Are you returning in the morning?” persisted Maskull.

“If I wish.”

“Then we will go together.”

She got up again on her elbow. “Instead of making plans for other people, I would do a very necessary thing.”

“Pray, tell me.”

“Well, there’s no reason why I should, but I will. I would try to convert my women’s organs into men’s organs. It is a man’s country.”

“Speak more plainly.”

“Oh, it’s plain enough. If you attempt to pass through Ifdawn without a sorb, you are simply committing suicide. And that magn too is worse than useless.”

“You probably know what you are talking about, Oceaxe. But what do you advise me to do?”

She negligently pointed to the light-emitting stone lying on the ground.

“There is the solution. If you hold that drude to your organs for a good while, perhaps it will start the change, and perhaps nature will do the rest during the night. I promise nothing.”

Oceaxe now really turned her back on Maskull.

He considered for a few minutes, and then walked over to where the stone was lying, and took it in his hand. It was a pebble the size of a hen’s egg, radiant with crimson light, as though red-hot, and throwing out a continuous shower of small, blood-red sparks.

Finally deciding that Oceaxe’s advice was good, he applied the drude first to his magn, and then to his breve. He experienced a cauterising sensation—a feeling of healing pain.

Maskull’s second day on Tormance dawned. Branchspell was already above the horizon when he awoke. He was instantly aware that his organs had changed during the night. His fleshy breve was altered into an eyelike sorb; his magn had swelled and developed into a third arm, springing from the breast. The arm gave him at once a sense of greater physical security, but with the sorb he was obliged to experiment, before he could grasp its function.

As he lay there in the white sunlight, opening and shutting each of his three eyes in turn, he found that the two lower ones served his understanding, the upper one his will. That is to say, with the lower eyes he saw things in clear detail, but without personal interest; with the sorb he saw nothing as self-existent—everything appeared as an object of importance or non-importance to his own needs.

Rather puzzled as to how this would turn out, he got up and looked about him. He had slept out of sight of Oceaxe. He was anxious to learn if she were still on the spot, but before going to ascertain he made up his mind to bathe in the river.

It was a glorious morning. The hot white sun already began to glare, but its heat was tempered by a strong wind, which whistled through the trees. A host of fantastic clouds filled the sky. They looked like animals, and were always changing shape. The ground, as well as the leaves and branches of the forest trees, still held traces of heavy dew or rain during the night. A poignantly sweet smell of nature entered his nostrils. His pain was quiescent, and his spirits were high.

Before he bathed, he viewed the mountains of the Ifdawn Marest. In the morning sunlight they stood out pictorially. He guessed that they were from five to six thousand feet high. The lofty, irregular, castellated line seemed like the walls of a magic city. The cliffs fronting him were composed of gaudy rocks—vermilion, emerald, yellow, ulfire, and black. As he gazed at them, his heart began to beat like a slow, heavy drum, and he thrilled all over—indescribable hopes, aspirations, and emotions came over him. It was more than the conquest of a new world which he felt—it was something different....

He bathed and drank, and as he was reclothing himself, Oceaxe strolled indolently up.

He could now perceive the colour of her skin—it was a vivid, yet delicate mixture of carmine, white, and jale. The effect was startlingly unearthly. With these new colors she looked like a genuine representative of a strange planet. Her frame also had something curious about it. The curves were womanly, the bones were characteristically female—yet all seemed somehow to express a daring, masculine underlying will. The commanding eye on her forehead set the same puzzle in plainer language. Its bold, domineering egotism was shot with undergleams of sex and softness.

She came to the river’s edge and reviewed him from top to toe. “Now you are built more like a man,” she said, in her lovely, lingering voice.

“You see, the experiment was successful,” he answered, smiling gaily.

Oceaxe continued looking him over. “Did some woman give you that ridiculous robe?”

“A woman did give it to me”—dropping his smile—“but I saw nothing ridiculous in the gift at the time, and I don’t now.”

“I think I’d look better in it.”

As she drawled the words, she began stripping off the skin, which suited her form so well, and motioned to him to exchange garments. He obeyed, rather shamefacedly, for he realised that the proposed exchange was in fact more appropriate to his sex. He found the skin a freer dress. Oceaxe in her drapery appeared more dangerously feminine to him.

“I don’t want you to receive gifts at all from other women,” she remarked slowly.

“Why not? What can I be to you?”

“I have been thinking about you during the night.” Her voice was retarded, scornful, viola-like. She sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, and looked away.

“In what way?”

She returned no answer to his question, but began to pull off pieces of the bark.

“Last night you were so contemptuous.”

“Last night is not today. Do you always walk through the world with your head over your shoulder?”

It was now Maskull’s turn to be silent.

“Still, if you have male instincts, as I suppose you have, you can’t go on resisting me forever.”

“But this is preposterous,” said Maskull, opening his eyes wide. “Granted that you are a beautiful woman—we can’t be quite so primeval.”

Oceaxe sighed, and rose to her feet. “It doesn’t matter. I can wait.”

“From that I gather that you intend to make the journey in my society. I have no objection—in fact I shall be glad—but only on condition that you drop this language.”

“Yet you do think me beautiful?”

“Why shouldn’t I think so, if it is the fact? I fail to see what that has to do with my feelings. Bring it to an end, Oceaxe. You will find plenty of men to admire—and love you.”

At that she blazed up. “Does love pick and choose, you fool? Do you imagine I am so hard put to it that I have to hunt for lovers? Is not Crimtyphon waiting for me at this very moment?”

“Very well. I am sorry to have hurt your feelings. Now carry the temptation no farther—for it is a temptation, where a lovely woman is concerned. I am not my own master.”

“I’m not proposing anything so very hateful, am I? Why do you humiliate me so?”

Maskull put his hands behind his back. “I repeat, I am not my own master.”

“Then who is your master?”

“Yesterday I saw Surtur, and from today I am serving him.”

“Did you speak with him?” she asked curiously.

“I did.”

“Tell me what he said.”

“No, I can’t—I won’t. But whatever he said, his beauty was more tormenting than yours, Oceaxe, and that’s why I can look at you in cold blood.”

“Did Surtur forbid you to be a man?”

Maskull frowned. “Is love such a manly sport, then? I should have thought it effeminate.”

“It doesn’t matter. You won’t always be so boyish. But don’t try my patience too far.”

“Let us talk about something else—and, above all, let us get on our road.”

She suddenly broke into a laugh, so rich, sweet, and enchanting, that he grew half inflamed, and half wished to catch her body in his arms. “Oh, Maskull, Maskull—what a fool you are!”

“In what way am I a fool?” he demanded, scowling—not at her words, but at his own weakness.

“Isn’t the whole world the handiwork of innumerable pairs of lovers? And yet you think yourself above all that. You try to fly away from nature, but where will you find a hole to hide yourself in?”

“Besides beauty, I now credit you with a second quality: persistence.”

“Read me well, and then it is natural law that you’ll think twice and three times before throwing me away.... And now, before we go, we had better eat.”

“Eat?” said Maskull thoughtfully.

“Don’t you eat? Is food in the same category as love?”

“What food is it?”

“Fish from the river.”

Maskull recollected his promise to Joiwind. At the same time, he felt hungry.

“Is there nothing milder?”

She pulled her mouth scornfully. “You came through Poolingdred, didn’t you? All the people there are the same. They think life is to be looked at, and not lived. Now that you are visiting Ifdawn, you will have to change your notions.”

“Go catch your fish,” he returned, pulling down his brows.

The broad, clear waters flowed past them with swelling undulations, from the direction of the mountains. Oceaxe knelt down on the bank, and peered into the depths. Presently her look became tense and concentrated; she dipped her hand in and pulled out some sort of little monster. It was more like a reptile than a fish, with its scaly plates and teeth. She threw it on the ground, and it started crawling about. Suddenly she darted all her will into her sorb. The creature leaped into the air, and fell down dead.

She picked up a sharp-edged slate, and with it removed the scales and entrails. During this operation, her hands and garment became stained with the light scarlet blood.

“Find the drude, Maskull,” she said, with a lazy smile. “You had it last night.”

He searched for it. It was hard to locate, for its rays had grown dull and feeble in the sunlight, but at last he found it. Oceaxe placed it in the interior of the monster, and left the body lying on the ground.

“While it’s cooking, I’ll wash some of this blood away, which frightens you so much. Have you never seen blood before?”

Maskull gazed at her in perplexity. The old paradox came back—the contrasting sexual characteristics in her person. Her bold, masterful, masculine egotism of manner seemed quite incongruous with the fascinating and disturbing femininity of her voice. A startling idea flashed into his mind.

“In your country I’m told there is an act of will called ‘absorbing.’ What is that?”

She held her red, dripping hands away from her draperies, and uttered a delicious, clashing laugh. “You think I am half a man?”

“Answer my question.”

“I’m a woman through and through, Maskull—to the marrowbone. But that’s not to say I have never absorbed males.”

“And that means...”

“New strings for my harp, Maskull. A wider range of passions, a stormier heart...”

“For you, yes—But for them?...”

“I don’t know. The victims don’t describe their experiences. Probably unhappiness of some sort—if they still know anything.”

“This is a fearful business!” he exclaimed, regarding her gloomily. “One would think Ifdawn a land of devils.”

Oceaxe gave a beautiful sneer as she took a step toward the river. “Better men than you—better in every sense of the word—are walking about with foreign wills inside them. You may be as moral as you like, Maskull, but the fact remains, animals were made to be eaten, and simple natures were made to be absorbed.”

“And human rights count for nothing!”

She had bent over the river’s edge, to wash her arms and hands, but glanced up over her shoulder to answer his remark. “They do count. But we only regard a man as human for just as long as he’s able to hold his own with others.”

The flesh was soon cooked, and they breakfasted in silence. Maskull cast heavy, doubtful glances from time to time toward his companion. Whether it was due to the strange quality of the food, or to his long abstention, he did not know, but the meal tasted nauseous, and even cannibalistic. He ate little, and the moment he got up he felt defiled.

“Let me bury this drude, where I can find it some other time,” said Oceaxe. “On the next occasion, though, I shall have no Maskull with me, to shock.... Now we have to take to the river.”

They stepped off the land onto the water. It flowed against them with a sluggish current, but the opposition, instead of hindering them, had the contrary effect—it caused them to exert themselves, and they moved faster. They climbed the river in this way for several miles. The exercise gradually improved the circulation of Maskull’s blood, and he began to look at things in a far more cheerful way. The hot sunshine, the diminished wind, the marvellous cloud scenery, the quiet, crystal forests—all was soothing and delightful. They approached nearer and nearer to the gaily painted heights of Ifdawn.

There was something enigmatic to him in those bright walls. He was attracted by them, yet felt a sort of awe. They looked real, but at the same time very supernatural. If one could see the portrait of a ghost, painted with a hard, firm outline, in substantial colors, the feelings produced by such a sight would be exactly similar to Maskull’s impressions as he studied the Ifdawn precipices.

He broke the long silence. “Those mountains have most extraordinary shapes. All the lines are straight and perpendicular—no slopes or curves.”

She walked backward on the water, in order to face him. “That’s typical of Ifdawn. Nature is all hammer blows with us. Nothing soft and gradual.”

“I hear you, but I don’t understand you.”

“All over the Marest you’ll find patches of ground plunging down or rushing up. Trees grow fast. Women and men don’t think twice before acting. One may call Ifdawn a place of quick decisions.”

Maskull was impressed. “A fresh, wild, primitive land.”

“How is it where you come from?” asked Oceaxe.

“Oh, mine is a decrepit world, where nature takes a hundred years to move a foot of solid land. Men and animals go about in flocks. Originality is a lost habit.”

“Are there women there?”

“As with you, and not very differently formed.”

“Do they love?”

He laughed. “So much so that it has changed the dress, speech, and thoughts of the whole sex.”

“Probably they are more beautiful than I?”

“No, I think not,” said Maskull.

There was another rather long silence, as they travelled unsteadily onward.

“What is your business in Ifdawn?” demanded Oceaxe suddenly.

He hesitated over his answer. “Can you grasp that it’s possible to have an aim right in front of one, so big that one can’t see it as a whole?”

She stole a long, inquisitive look at him, “What sort of aim?”

“A moral aim.”

“Are you proposing to set the world right?”

“I propose nothing—I am waiting.”

“Don’t wait too long, for time doesn’t wait—especially in Ifdawn.”

“Something will happen,” said Maskull.

Oceaxe threw a subtle smile. “So you have no special destination in the Marest?”

“No, and if you’ll permit me, I will come home with you.”

“Singular man!” she said, with a short, thrilling laugh. “That’s what I have been offering all the time. Of course you will come home with me. As for Crimtyphon...”

“You mentioned that name before. Who is he?”

“Oh! My lover, or, as you would say, my husband.”

“This doesn’t improve matters,” said Maskull.

“It leaves them exactly where they were. We merely have to remove him.”

“We are certainly misunderstanding each other,” said Maskull, quite startled. “Do you by any chance imagine that I am making a compact with you?”

“You will do nothing against your will. But you have promised to come home with me.”

“Tell me, how do you remove husbands in Ifdawn?”

“Either you or I must kill him.”

He eyed her for a full minute. “Now we are passing from folly to insanity.”

“Not at all,” replied Oceaxe. “It is the too-sad truth. And when you have seen Crimtyphon, you will realise it.”

“I’m aware I am on a strange planet,” said Maskull slowly, “where all sorts of unheard of things may happen, and where the very laws of morality may be different. Still as far as I am concerned, murder is murder, and I’ll have no more to do with a woman who wants to make use of me, to get rid of her husband.”

“You think me wicked?” demanded Oceaxe steadily.

“Or mad.”

“Then you had better leave me, Maskull—only—”

“Only what?”

“You wish to be consistent, don’t you? Leave all other mad and wicked people as well. Then you’ll find it easier to reform the rest.”

Maskull frowned, but said nothing.

“Well?” demanded Oceaxe, with a half smile.

“I’ll come with you, and I’ll see Crimtyphon—if only to warn him.”

Oceaxe broke into a cascade of rich, feminine laughter, but whether at the image conjured up by Maskull’s last words, or from some other cause, he did not know. The conversation dropped.

At a distance of a couple of miles from the now towering cliffs, the river made a sharp, right-angled turn to the west, and was no longer of use to them on their journey. Maskull stared up doubtfully.

“It’s a stiff climb for a hot morning.”

“Let’s rest here a little,” said she, indicating a smooth flat island of black rock, standing up just out of the water in the middle of the river.

They accordingly went to it, and Maskull sat down. Oceaxe, however, standing graceful and erect, turned her face toward the cliffs opposite, and uttered a piercing and peculiar call.

“What is that for?” She did not answer. After waiting a minute, she repeated the call. Maskull now saw a large bird detach itself from the top of one of the precipices, and sail slowly down toward them. It was followed by two others. The flight of these birds was exceedingly slow and clumsy.

“What are they?” he asked.

She still returned no answer, but smiled rather peculiarly and sat down beside him. Before many minutes he was able to distinguish the shapes and colors of the flying monsters. They were not birds, but creatures with long, snakelike bodies, and ten reptilian legs apiece, terminating in fins which acted as wings. The bodies were of bright blue, the legs and fins were yellow. They were flying, without haste, but in a somewhat ominous fashion, straight toward them. He could make out a long, thin spike projecting from each of the heads.

“They are shrowks,” explained Oceaxe at last. “If you want to know their intention, I’ll tell you. To make a meal of us. First of all their spikes will pierce us, and then their mouths, which are really suckers, will drain us dry of blood—pretty thoroughly too; there are no half measures with shrowks. They are toothless beasts, so don’t eat flesh.”

“As you show such admirable sangfroid,” said Maskull dryly, “I take it there’s no particular danger.”

Nevertheless he instinctively tried to get on to his feet and failed. A new form of paralysis was chaining him to the ground.

“Are you trying to get up?” asked Oceaxe smoothly.

“Well, yes, but those cursed reptiles seem to be nailing me down to the rock with their wills. May I ask if you had any special object in view in waking them up?”

“I assure you the danger is quite real, Maskull. Instead of talking and asking questions, you had much better see what you can do with your will.”

“I seem to have no will, unfortunately.”

Oceaxe was seized with a paroxysm of laughter, but it was still rich and beautiful. “It’s obvious you aren’t a very heroic protector, Maskull. It seems I must play the man, and you the woman. I expected better things of your big body. Why, my husband would send those creatures dancing all around the sky, by way of a joke, before disposing of them. Now watch me. Two of the three I’ll kill; the third we will ride home on. Which one shall we keep?”

The shrowks continued their slow, wobbling flight toward them. Their bodies were of huge size. They produced in Maskull the same sensation of loathing as insects did. He instinctively understood that as they hunted with their wills, there was no necessity for them to possess a swift motion.

“Choose which you please,” he said shortly. “They are equally objectionable to me.”

“Then I’ll choose the leader, as it is presumably the most energetic animal. Watch now.”

She stood upright, and her sorb suddenly blazed with fire. Maskull felt something snap inside his brain. His limbs were free once more. The two monsters in the rear staggered and darted head foremost toward the earth, one after the other. He watched them crash on the ground, and then lie motionless. The leader still came toward them, but he fancied that its flight was altered in character; it was no longer menacing, but tame and unwilling.

Oceaxe guided it with her will to the mainland shore opposite their island rock. Its vast bulk lay there extended, awaiting her pleasure. They immediately crossed the water.

Maskull viewed the shrowk at close quarters. It was about thirty feet long. Its bright-coloured skin was shining, slippery, and leathery; a mane of black hair covered its long neck. Its face was awesome and unnatural, with its carnivorous eyes, frightful stiletto, and blood-sucking cavity. There were true fins on its back and tail.

“Have you a good seat?” asked Oceaxe, patting the creature’s flank. “As I have to steer, let me jump on first.”

She pulled up her gown, then climbed up and sat astride the animal’s back, just behind the mane, which she clutched. Between her and the fin there was just room for Maskull. He grasped the two flanks with his outer hands; his third, new arm pressed against Oceaxe’s back, and for additional security he was compelled to encircle her waist with it.

Directly he did so, he realised that he had been tricked, and that this ride had been planned for one purpose only—to inflame his desires.

The third arm possessed a function of its own, of which hitherto he had been ignorant. It was a developed magn. But the stream of love which was communicated to it was no longer pure and noble—it was boiling, passionate, and torturing. He gritted his teeth, and kept quiet, but Oceaxe had not plotted the adventure to remain unconscious of his feelings. She looked around, with a golden, triumphant smile. “The ride will last some time, so hold on well!” Her voice was soft like a flute, but rather malicious.

Maskull grinned, and said nothing. He dared not remove his arm.

The shrowk straddled on to its legs. It jerked itself forward, and rose slowly and uncouthly in the air. They began to paddle upward toward the painted cliffs. The motion was swaying, rocking, and sickening; the contact of the brute’s slimy skin was disgusting. All this, however, was merely background to Maskull, as he sat there with closed eyes, holding on to Oceaxe. In the front and centre of his consciousness was the knowledge that he was gripping a fair woman, and that her flesh was responding to his touch like a lovely harp.

They climbed up and up. He opened his eyes, and ventured to look around him. By this time they were already level with the top of the outer rampart of precipices. There now came in sight a wild archipelago of islands, with jagged outlines, emerging from a sea of air. The islands were mountain summits; or, more accurately speaking, the country was a high tableland, fissured everywhere by narrow and apparently bottomless cracks. These cracks were in some cases like canals, in others like lakes, in others merely holes in the ground, closed in all round. The perpendicular sides of the islands—that is, the upper, visible parts of the innumerable cliff faces—were of bare rock, gaudily coloured; but the level surfaces were a tangle of wild plant life. The taller trees alone were distinguishable from the shrowk’s back. They were of different shapes, and did not look ancient; they were slender and swaying but did not appear very graceful; they looked tough, wiry, and savage.

As Maskull continued to explore the landscape, he forgot Oceaxe and his passion. Other strange feelings came to the front. The morning was gay and bright. The sun scorched down, quickly-changing clouds sailed across the sky, the earth was vivid, wild, and lonely. Yet he experienced no aesthetic sensations—he felt nothing but an intense longing for action and possession. When he looked at anything, he immediately wanted to deal with it. The atmosphere of the land seemed not free, but sticky; attraction and repulsion were its constituents. Apart from this wish to play a personal part in what was going on around and beneath him, the scenery had no significance for him.

So preoccupied was he, that his arm partly released its clasp. Oceaxe turned around to gaze at him. Whether or not she was satisfied with what she saw, she uttered a low laugh, like a peculiar chord.

“Cold again so quickly, Maskull?”

“What do you want?” he asked absently, still looking over the side. “It’s extraordinary how drawn I feel to all this.”

“You wish to take a hand?”

“I wish to get down.”

“Oh, we have a good way to go yet.... So you really feel different?”

“Different from what? What are you talking about?” said Maskull, still lost in abstraction.

Oceaxe laughed again. “It would be strange if we couldn’t make a man of you, for the material is excellent.”

After that, she turned her back once more.

The air islands differed from water islands in another way. They were not on a plane surface, but sloped upward, like a succession of broken terraces, as the journey progressed. The shrowk had hitherto been flying well above the ground; but now, when a new line of towering cliffs confronted them, Oceaxe did not urge the beast upward, but caused it to enter a narrow canyon, which intersected the mountains like a channel. They were instantly plunged into deep shade. The canal was not above thirty feet wide; the walls stretched upward on both sides for many hundred feet. It was as cool as an ice chamber. When Maskull attempted to plumb the chasm with his eyes, he saw nothing but black obscurity.

“What is at the bottom?” he asked.

“Death for you, if you go to look for it.”

“We know that. I mean, is there any kind of life down there?”

“Not that I have ever heard of,” said Oceaxe, “but of course all things are possible.”

“I think very likely there is life,” he returned thoughtfully.

Her ironical laugh sounded out of the gloom. “Shall we go down and see?”

“You find that amusing?”

“No, not that. What I do find amusing is the big stranger with the beard, who is so keenly interested in everything except himself.”

Maskull then laughed too. “I happen to be the only thing in Tormance which is not a novelty for me.”

“Yes, but I am a novelty for you.”

The channel went zigzagging its way through the belly of the mountain, and all the time they were gradually rising.

“At least I have heard nothing like your voice before,” said Maskull, who, since he had no longer anything to look at, was at last ready for conversation.

“What’s the matter with my voice?”

“It’s all that I can distinguish of you now; that’s why I mentioned it.”

“Isn’t it clear—don’t I speak distinctly?”

“Oh, it’s clear enough, but—it’s inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?”

“I won’t explain further,” said Maskull, “but whether you are speaking or laughing, your voice is by far the loveliest and strangest instrument I have ever listened to. And yet I repeat, it is inappropriate.”

“You mean that my nature doesn’t correspond?”

He was just considering his reply, when their talk was abruptly broken off by a huge and terrifying, but not very loud sound rising up from the gulf directly underneath them. It was a low, grinding, roaring thunder.

“The ground is rising under us!” cried Oceaxe.

“Shall we escape?”

She made no answer, but urged the shrowk’s flight upward, at such a steep gradient that they retained their seats with difficulty. The floor of the canyon, upheaved by some mighty subterranean force, could be heard, and almost felt, coming up after them, like a gigantic landslip in the wrong direction. The cliffs cracked, and fragments began to fall. A hundred awful noises filled the air, growing louder and louder each second—splitting, hissing, cracking, grinding, booming, exploding, roaring. When they had still fifty feet or so to go, to reach the top, a sort of dark, indefinite sea of broken rocks and soil appeared under their feet, ascending rapidly, with irresistible might, accompanied by the most horrible noises. The canal was filled up for two hundred yards, before and behind them. Millions of tons of solid matter seemed to be raised. The shrowk in its ascent was caught by the uplifted debris. Beast and riders experienced in that moment all the horrors of an earthquake—they were rolled violently over, and thrown among the rocks and dirt. All was thunder, instability, motion, confusion.

Before they had time to realise their position, they were in the sunlight. The upheaval still continued. In another minute or two the valley floor had formed a new mountain, a hundred feet or more higher than the old. Then its movement ceased suddenly. Every noise stopped, as if by magic; not a rock moved. Oceaxe and Maskull picked themselves up and examined themselves for cuts and bruises. The shrowk lay on its side, panting violently, and sweating with fright.

“That was a nasty affair,” said Maskull, flicking the dirt off his person.

Oceaxe staunched a cut on her chin with a corner of her robe.

“It might have been far worse.... I mean, it’s bad enough to come up, but it’s death to go down, and that happens just as often.”

“Whatever induces you to live in such a country?”

“I don’t know, Maskull. Habit, I suppose. I have often thought of moving out of it.”

“A good deal must be forgiven you for having to spend your life in a place like this, where one is obviously never safe from one minute to another.”

“You will learn by degrees,” she answered, smiling.

She looked hard at the monster, and it got heavily to its feet.

“Get on again, Maskull!” she directed, climbing back to her perch. “We haven’t too much time to waste.”

He obeyed. They resumed their interrupted flight, this time over the mountains, and in full sunlight. Maskull settled down again to his thoughts. The peculiar atmosphere of the country continued to soak into his brain. His will became so restless and uneasy that merely to sit there in inactivity was a torture. He could scarcely endure not to be doing something.

“How secretive you are, Maskull!” said Oceaxe quietly, without turning her head.

“What secrets—what do you mean?”

“Oh, I know perfectly well what’s passing inside you. Now I think it wouldn’t be amiss to ask you—is friendship still enough?”

“Oh, don’t ask me anything,” growled Maskull. “I’ve far too many problems in my head already. I only wish I could answer some of them.”

He stared stonily at the landscape. The beast was winging its way toward a distant mountain, of singular shape. It was an enormous natural quadrilateral pyramid, rising in great terraces and terminating in a broad, flat top, on which what looked like green snow still lingered.

“What mountain is that?” he asked.

“Disscourn. The highest point in Ifdawn.”

“Are we going there?”

“Why should we go there? But if you were going on farther, it might be worth your while to pay a visit to the top. It commands the whole land as far as the Sinking Sea and Swaylone’s Island—and beyond. You can also see Alppain from it.”

“That’s a sight I mean to see before I have finished.”

“Do you, Maskull?” She turned around and put her hand on his wrist. “Stay with me, and one day we’ll go to Disscourn together.”

He grunted unintelligibly.

There were no signs of human existence in the country under their feet. While Maskull was still grimly regarding it, a large tract of forest not far ahead, bearing many trees and rocks, suddenly subsided with an awful roar and crashed down into an invisible gulf. What was solid land one minute became a clean-cut chasm the next. He jumped violently up with the shock. “This is frightful.”

Oceaxe remained unmoved.

“Why, life here must be absolutely impossible,” he went on, when he had somewhat recovered himself. “A man would need nerves of steel.... Is there no means at all of foreseeing a catastrophe like this?”

“Oh, I suppose we wouldn’t be alive if there weren’t,” replied Oceaxe, with composure. “We are more or less clever at it—but that doesn’t prevent our often getting caught.”

“You had better teach me the signs.”

“We’ll have many things to go over together. And among them, I expect, will be whether we are to stay in the land at all.... But first let us get home.”

“How far is it now?”

“It is right in front of you,” said Oceaxe, pointing with her forefinger. “You can see it.”

He followed the direction of the finger and, after a few questions, made out the spot she was indicating. It was a broad peninsula, about two miles distant. Three of its sides rose sheer out of a lake of air, the bottom of which was invisible; its fourth was a bottleneck, joining it to the mainland. It was overgrown with bright vegetation, distinct in the brilliant atmosphere. A single tall tree, shooting up in the middle of the peninsula, dwarfed everything else; it was wide and shady with sea-green leaves.

“I wonder if Crimtyphon is there,” remarked Oceaxe. “Can I see two figures, or am I mistaken?”

“I also see something,” said Maskull.

In twenty minutes they were directly above the peninsula, at a height of about fifty feet. The shrowk slackened speed, and came to earth on the mainland, exactly at the gateway of the isthmus. They both descended—Maskull with aching thighs.

“What shall we do with the monster?” asked Oceaxe. Without waiting for a suggestion, she patted its hideous face with her hand. “Fly away home! I may want you some other time.”

It gave a stupid grunt, elevated itself on its legs again, and, after half running, half flying for a few yards, rose awkwardly into the air, and paddled away in the same direction from which they had come. They watched it out of sight, and then Oceaxe started to cross the neck of land, followed by Maskull.

Branchspell’s white rays beat down on them with pitiless force. The sky had by degrees become cloudless, and the wind had dropped entirely. The ground was a rich riot of vividly coloured ferns, shrubs, and grasses. Through these could be seen here and there the golden chalky soil—and occasionally a glittering, white metallic boulder. Everything looked extraordinary and barbaric. Maskull was at last walking in the weird Ifdawn Marest which had created such strange feelings in him when seen from a distance.... And now he felt no wonder or curiosity at all, but only desired to meet human beings—so intense had grown his will. He longed to test his powers on his fellow creatures, and nothing else seemed of the least importance to him.

On the peninsula all was coolness and delicate shade. It resembled a large copse, about two acres in extent. In the heart of the tangle of small trees and undergrowth was a partially cleared space—perhaps the roots of the giant tree growing in the centre had killed off the smaller fry all around it. By the side of the tree sparkled a little, bubbling fountain, whose water was iron-red. The precipices on all sides, overhung with thorns, flowers, and creepers, invested the enclosure with an air of wild and charming seclusion—a mythological mountain god might have dwelt here.

Maskull’s restless eye left everything, to fall on the two men who formed the centre of the picture.

One was reclining, in the ancient Grecian fashion of banqueters on a tall couch of mosses, sprinkled with flowers; he rested on one arm, and was eating a kind of plum, with calm enjoyment. A pile of these plums lay on the couch beside him. The over-spreading branches of the tree completely sheltered him from the sun. His small, boyish form was clad in a rough skin, leaving his limbs naked. Maskull could not tell from his face whether he were a young boy or a grown man. The features were smooth, soft, and childish, their expression was seraphically tranquil; but his violet upper eye was sinister and adult. His skin was of the colour of yellow ivory. His long, curling hair matched his sorb—it was violet. The second man was standing erect before the other, a few feet away from him. He was short and muscular, his face was broad, bearded, and rather commonplace, but there was something terrible about his appearance. The features were distorted by a deep-seated look of pain, despair, and horror.

Oceaxe, without pausing, strolled lightly and lazily up to the outermost shadows of the tree, some distance from the couch.

“We have met with an uplift,” she remarked carelessly, looking toward the youth.

He eyed her, but said nothing.

“How is your plant man getting on?” Her tone was artificial but extremely beautiful. While waiting for an answer, she sat down on the ground, her legs gracefully thrust under her body, and pulled down the skirt of her robe. Maskull remained standing just behind her, with crossed arms.

There was silence for a minute.

“Why don’t you answer your mistress, Sature?” said the boy on the couch, in a calm, treble voice.

The man addressed did not alter his expression, but replied in a strangled tone, “I am getting on very well, Oceaxe. There are already buds on my feet. Tomorrow I hope to take root.”

Maskull felt a rising storm inside him. He was perfectly aware that although these words were uttered by Sature, they were being dictated by the boy.

“What he says is quite true,” remarked the latter. “Tomorrow roots will reach the ground, and in a few days they ought to be well established. Then I shall set to work to convert his arms into branches, and his fingers into leaves. It will take longer to transform his head into a crown, but still I hope—in fact I can almost promise that within a month you and I, Oceaxe, will be plucking and enjoying fruit from this new and remarkable tree.”

“I love these natural experiments,” he concluded, putting out his hand for another plum. “They thrill me.”

“This must be a joke,” said Maskull, taking a step forward.

The youth looked at him serenely. He made no reply, but Maskull felt as if he were being thrust backward by an iron hand on his throat.

“The morning’s work is now concluded, Sature. Come here again after Blodsombre. After tonight you will remain here permanently, I expect, so you had better set to work to clear a patch of ground for your roots. Never forget—however fresh and charming these plants appear to you now, in the future they will be your deadliest rivals and enemies. Now you may go.”

The man limped painfully away, across the isthmus, out of sight. Oceaxe yawned.

Maskull pushed his way forward, as if against a wall. “Are you joking, or are you a devil?”

“I am Crimtyphon. I never joke. For that epithet of yours, I will devise a new punishment for you.”

The duel of wills commenced without ceremony. Oceaxe got up, stretched her beautiful limbs, smiled, and prepared herself to witness the struggle between her old lover and her new. Crimtyphon smiled too; he reached out his hand for more fruit, but did not eat it. Maskull’s self-control broke down and he dashed at the boy, choking with red fury—his beard wagged and his face was crimson. When he realised with whom he had to deal, Crimtyphon left off smiling, slipped off the couch, and threw a terrible and malignant glare into his sorb. Maskull staggered. He gathered together all the brute force of his will, and by sheer weight continued his advance. The boy shrieked and ran behind the couch, trying to get away.... His opposition suddenly collapsed. Maskull stumbled forward, recovered himself, and then vaulted clear over the high pile of mosses, to get at his antagonist. He fell on top of him with all his bulk. Grasping his throat, he pulled his little head completely around, so that the neck was broken. Crimtyphon immediately died.

The corpse lay underneath the tree with its face upturned. Maskull viewed it attentively, and as he did so an expression of awe and wonder came into his own countenance. In the moment of death Crimtyphon’s face had undergone a startling and even shocking alteration. Its personal character had wholly vanished, giving place to a vulgar, grinning mask which expressed nothing.

He did not have to search his mind long, to remember where he had seen the brother of that expression. It was identical with that on the face of the apparition at the séance, after Krag had dealt with it.

Oceaxe sat down carelessly on the couch of mosses, and began eating the plums.

“You see, you had to kill him, Maskull,” she said, in a rather quizzical voice.

He came away from the corpse and regarded her—still red, and still breathing hard. “It’s no joking matter. You especially ought to keep quiet.”

“Why?”

“Because he was your husband.”

“You think I ought to show grief—when I feel none?”

“Don’t pretend, woman!”

Oceaxe smiled. “From your manner one would think you were accusing me of some crime.”

Maskull literally snorted at her words. “What, you live with filth—you live in the arms of a morbid monstrosity and then—”

“Oh, now I grasp it,” she said, in a tone of perfect detachment.

“I’m glad.”

“Well, Maskull,” she proceeded, after a pause, “and who gave you the right to rule my conduct? Am I not mistress of my own person?”

He looked at her with disgust, but said nothing. There was another long interval of silence.

“I never loved him,” said Oceaxe at last, looking at the ground.

“That makes it all the worse.”

“What does all this mean—what do you want?”

“Nothing from you—absolutely nothing—thank heaven!”

She gave a hard laugh. “You come here with your foreign preconceptions and expect us all to bow down to them.”

“What preconceptions?”

“Just because Crimtyphon’s sports are strange to you, you murder him—and you would like to murder me.”

“Sports! That diabolical cruelty.”

“Oh, you’re sentimental!” said Oceaxe contemptuously. “Why do you need to make such a fuss over that man? Life is life, all the world over, and one form is as good as another. He was only to be made a tree, like a million other trees. If they can endure the life, why can’t he?”

“And this is Ifdawn morality!”

Oceaxe began to grow angry. “It’s you who have peculiar ideas. You rave about the beauty of flowers and trees—you think them divine. But when it’s a question of taking on this divine, fresh, pure, enchanting loveliness yourself, in your own person, it immediately becomes a cruel and wicked degradation. Here we have a strange riddle, in my opinion.”

“Oceaxe, you’re a beautiful, heartless wild beast—nothing more. If you weren’t a woman—”

“Well”—curling her lip—“let us hear what would happen if I weren’t a woman?”

Maskull bit his nails.

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t touch you—though there’s certainly not the difference of a hair between you and your boy-husband. For this you may thank my ‘foreign preconceptions.’... Farewell!”

He turned to go. Oceaxe’s eyes slanted at him through their long lashes.

“Where are you off to, Maskull?”

“That’s a matter of no importance, for wherever I go it must be a change for the better. You walking whirlpools of crime!”

“Wait a minute. I only want to say this. Blodsombre is just starting, and you had better stay here till the afternoon. We can quickly put that body out of sight, and, as you seem to detest me so much, the place is big enough—we needn’t talk, or even see each other.”

“I don’t wish to breathe the same air.”

“Singular man!” She was sitting erect and motionless, like a beautiful statue. “And what of your wonderful interview with Surtur, and all the undone things which you set out to do?”

“You aren’t the one I shall speak to about that. But”—he eyed her meditatively—“while I’m still here you can tell me this. What’s the meaning of the expression on that corpse’s face?”

“Is that another crime, Maskull? All dead people look like that. Ought they not to?”

“I once heard it called ‘Crystalman’s face.’”

“Why not? We are all daughters and sons of Crystalman. It is doubtless the family resemblance.”

“It has also been told me that Surtur and Crystalman are one and the same.”

“You have wise and truthful acquaintances.”

“Then how could it have been Surtur whom I saw?” said Maskull, more to himself than to her. “That apparition was something quite different.”

She dropped her mocking manner and, sliding imperceptibly toward him, gently pulled his arm.

“You see—we have to talk. Sit down beside me, and ask me your questions. I’m not excessively smart, but I’ll try to be of assistance.”

Maskull permitted himself to be dragged down with soft violence. She bent toward him, as if confidentially, and contrived that her sweet, cool, feminine breath should fan his cheek.

“Aren’t you here to alter the evil to the good, Maskull? Then what does it matter who sent you?”

“What can you possibly know of good and evil?”

“Are you only instructing the initiated?”

“Who am I, to instruct anybody? However, you’re quite right. I wish to do what I can—not because I am qualified, but because I am here.”

Oceaxe’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re a giant, both in body and soul. What you want to do, you can do.”

“Is that your honest opinion, or are you flattering me for your own ends?”

She sighed. “Don’t you see how difficult you are making the conversation? Let’s talk about your work, not about ourselves.”

Maskull suddenly noticed a strange blue light glowing in the northern sky. It was from Alppain, but Alppain itself was behind the hills. While he was observing it, a peculiar wave of self-denial, of a disquieting nature, passed through him. He looked at Oceaxe, and it struck him for the first time that he was being unnecessarily brutal to her. He had forgotten that she was a woman, and defenceless.

“Won’t you stay?” she asked all of a sudden, quite openly and frankly.

“Yes, I think I’ll stay,” he replied slowly. “And another thing, Oceaxe—if I’ve misjudged your character, pray forgive me. I’m a hasty, passionate man.”

“There are enough easygoing men. Hard knocks are a good medicine for vicious hearts. And you didn’t misjudge my character, as far as you went—only, every woman has more than one character. Don’t you know that?”

During the pause that followed, a snapping of twigs was heard, and both looked around, startled. They saw a woman stepping slowly across the neck that separated them from the mainland.

“Tydomin,” muttered Oceaxe, in a vexed, frightened voice. She immediately moved away from Maskull and stood up.

The newcomer was of middle height, very slight and graceful. She was no longer quite young. Her face wore the composure of a woman who knows her way about the world. It was intensely pale, and under its quiescence there just was a glimpse of something strange and dangerous. It was curiously alluring, though not exactly beautiful. Her hair was clustering and boyish, reaching only to the neck. It was of a strange indigo colour. She was quaintly attired in a tunic and breeches, pieced together from the square, blue-green plates of some reptile. Her small, ivory-white breasts were exposed. Her sorb was black and sad—rather contemplative.

Without once glancing up at Oceaxe and Maskull, she quietly glided straight toward Crimtyphon’s corpse. When she arrived within a few feet of it, she stopped and looked down, with arms folded.

Oceaxe drew Maskull a little away, and whispered, “It’s Crimtyphon’s other wife, who lives under Disscourn. She’s a most dangerous woman. Be careful what you say. If she asks you to do anything, refuse it outright.”

“The poor soul looks harmless enough.”

“Yes, she does—but the poor soul is quite capable of swallowing up Krag himself.... Now, play the man.”

The murmur of their voices seemed to attract Tydomin’s notice, for she now slowly turned her eyes toward them.

“Who killed him?” she demanded.

Her voice was so soft, low, and refined, that Maskull hardly was able to catch the words. The sounds, however, lingered in his ears, and curiously enough seemed to grow stronger, instead of fainter.

Oceaxe whispered, “Don’t say a word, leave it all to me.” Then she swung her body around to face Tydomin squarely, and said aloud, “I killed him.”

Tydomin’s words by this time were ringing in Maskull’s head like an actual physical sound. There was no question of being able to ignore them; he had to make an open confession of his act, whatever the consequences might be. Quietly taking Oceaxe by the shoulder and putting her behind him, he said in a low, but perfectly distinct voice, “It was I that killed Crimtyphon.”

Oceaxe looked both haughty and frightened. “Maskull says that so as to shield me, as he thinks. I require no shield, Maskull. I killed him, Tydomin.”

“I believe you, Oceaxe. You did murder him. Not with your own strength, for you brought this man along for the purpose.”

Maskull took a couple of steps toward Tydomin. “It’s of little consequence who killed him, for he’s better dead than alive, in my opinion. Still, I did it. Oceaxe had no hand in the affair.”

Tydomin appeared not to hear him—she looked beyond him at Oceaxe musingly. “When you murdered him, didn’t it occur to you that I would come here, to find out?”

“I never once thought of you,” replied Oceaxe, with an angry laugh. “Do you really imagine that I carry your image with me wherever I go?”

“If someone were to murder your lover here, what would you do?”

“Lying hypocrite!” Oceaxe spat out. “You never were in love with Crimtyphon. You always hated me, and now you think it an excellent opportunity to make it good... now that Crimtyphon’s gone.... For we both know he would have made a footstool of you, if I had asked him. He worshiped me, but he laughed at you. He thought you ugly.”

Tydomin flashed a quick, gentle smile at Maskull. “Is it necessary for you to listen to all this?”

Without question, and feeling it the right thing to do, he walked away out of earshot.

Tydomin approached Oceaxe. “Perhaps because my beauty fades and I’m no longer young, I needed him all the more.”

Oceaxe gave a kind of snarl. “Well, he’s dead, and that’s the end of it. What are you going to do now, Tydomin?”

The other woman smiled faintly and rather pathetically. “There’s nothing left to do, except mourn the dead. You won’t grudge me that last office?”

“Do you want to stay here?” demanded Oceaxe suspiciously.

“Yes, Oceaxe dear, I wish to be alone.”

“Then what is to become of us?”

“I thought that you and your lover—what is his name?”

“Maskull.”

“I thought that perhaps you two would go to Disscourn, and spend Blodsombre at my home.”

Oceaxe called out aloud to Maskull, “Will you come with me now to Disscourn?”

“If you wish,” returned Maskull.

“Go first, Oceaxe. I must question your friend about Crimtyphon’s death. I won’t keep him.”

“Why don’t you question me, rather?” demanded Oceaxe, looking up sharply.

Tydomin gave the shadow of a smile. “We know each other too well.”

“Play no tricks!” said Oceaxe, and she turned to go.

“Surely you must be dreaming,” said Tydomin. “That’s the way—unless you want to walk over the cliffside.”

The path Oceaxe had chosen led across the isthmus. The direction which Tydomin proposed for her was over the edge of the precipice, into empty space.

“Shaping! I must be mad,” cried Oceaxe, with a laugh. And she obediently followed the other’s finger.

She walked straight on toward the edge of the abyss, twenty paces away. Maskull pulled his beard around, and wondered what she was doing. Tydomin remained standing with outstretched finger, watching her. Without hesitation, without slackening her step once, Oceaxe strolled on—and when she had reached the extreme end of the land she still took one more step.

Maskull saw her limbs wrench as she stumbled over the edge. Her body disappeared, and as it did so an awful shriek sounded.

Disillusionment had come to her an instant too late. He tore himself out of his stupor, rushed to the edge of the cliff, threw himself on the ground recklessly, and looked over.... Oceaxe had vanished.

He continued staring wildly down for several minutes, and then began to sob. Tydomin came up to him, and he got to his feet.

The blood kept rushing to his face and leaving it again. It was some time before he could speak at all. Then he brought out the words with difficulty. “You shall pay for this, Tydomin. But first I want to hear why you did it.”

“Hadn’t I cause?” she asked, standing with downcast eyes.

“Was it pure fiendishness?”

“It was for Crimtyphon’s sake.”

“She had nothing to do with that death. I told you so.”

“You are loyal to her, and I’m loyal to him.”

“Loyal? You’ve made a terrible blunder. She wasn’t my mistress. I killed Crimtyphon for quite another reason. She had absolutely no part in it.”

“Wasn’t she your lover?” asked Tydomin slowly.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” repeated Maskull. “I killed him because he was a wild beast. She was as innocent of his death as you are.”

Tydomin’s face took on a hard look. “So you are guilty of two deaths.”

There was a dreadful silence.

“Why couldn’t you believe me?” asked Maskull, who was pale and sweating painfully.

“Who gave you the right to kill him?” demanded Tydomin sternly.

He said nothing, and perhaps did not hear her question.

She sighed two or three times and began to stir restlessly. “Since you murdered him, you must help me bury him.”

“What’s to be done? This is a most fearful crime.”

“You are a most fearful man. Why did you come here, to do all this? What are we to you?”

“Unfortunately you are right.”

Another pause ensued.

“It’s no use standing here,” said Tydomin. “Nothing can be done. You must come with me.”

“Come with you? Where to?”

“To Disscourn. There’s a burning lake on the far side of it. He always wished to be cast there after death. We can do that after Blodsombre—in the meantime we must take him home.”

“You’re a callous, heartless woman. Why should he be buried when that poor girl must remain unburied?”

“You know that’s out of the question,” replied Tydomin quietly.

Maskull’s eyes roamed about agitatedly, apparently seeing nothing.

“We must do something,” she continued. “I shall go. You can’t wish to stay here alone?”

“No, I couldn’t stay here—and why should I want to? You want me to carry the corpse?”

“He can’t carry himself, and you murdered him. Perhaps it will ease your mind to carry it.”

“Ease my mind?” said Maskull, rather stupidly.

“There’s only one relief for remorse, and that’s voluntary pain.”

“And have you no remorse?” he asked, fixing her with a heavy eye.

“These crimes are yours, Maskull,” she said in a low but incisive voice.

They walked over to Crimtyphon’s body, and Maskull hoisted it on to his shoulders. It weighed heavier than he had thought. Tydomin did not offer to assist him to adjust the ghastly burden.

She crossed the isthmus, followed by Maskull. Their path lay through sunshine and shadow. Branchspell was blazing in a cloudless sky, the heat was insufferable—streams of sweat coursed down his face, and the corpse seemed to grow heavier and heavier. Tydomin always walked in front of him. His eyes were fastened in an unseeing stare on her white, womanish calves; he looked neither to right nor left. His features grew sullen. At the end of ten minutes he suddenly allowed his burden to slip off his shoulders on to the ground, where it lay sprawled every which way. He called out to Tydomin.

She quickly looked around.

“Come here. It has just occurred to me”—he laughed—“why should I be carrying this corpse—and why should I be following you at all? What surprises me is, why this has never struck me before.”

She at once came back to him. “I suppose you’re tired, Maskull. Let us sit down. Perhaps you have come a long way this morning?”

“Oh, it’s not tiredness, but a sudden gleam of sense. Do you know of any reason why I should be acting as your porter?” He laughed again, but nevertheless sat down on the ground beside her.

Tydomin neither looked at him nor answered. Her head was half bent, so as to face the northern sky, where the Alppain light was still glowing. Maskull followed her gaze, and also watched the glow for a moment or two in silence.

“Why don’t you speak?” he asked at last.

“What does that light suggest to you, Maskull?”

“I’m not speaking of that light.”

“Doesn’t it suggest anything at all?”

“Perhaps it doesn’t. What does it matter?”

“Not sacrifice?”

Maskull grew sullen again. “Sacrifice of what? What do you mean?”

“Hasn’t it entered your head yet,” said Tydomin, looking straight in front of her, and speaking in her delicate, hard manner, “that this adventure of yours will scarcely come to an end until you have made some sort of sacrifice?”

He returned no answer, and she said nothing more. In a few minutes’ time Maskull got up of his own accord, and irreverently, and almost angrily, threw Crimtyphon’s corpse over his shoulder again.

“How far do we have to go?” he asked in a surly tone.

“An hour’s walk.”

“Lead on.”

“Still, this isn’t the sacrifice I mean,” said Tydomin quietly, as she went on in front.

Almost immediately they reached more difficult ground. They had to pass from peak to peak, as from island to island. In some cases they were able to stride or jump across, but in others they had to make use of rude bridges of fallen timber. It appeared to be a frequented path. Underneath were the black, impenetrable abysses—on the surface were the glaring sunshine, the gay, painted rocks, the chaotic tangle of strange plants. There were countless reptiles and insects. The latter were thicker built than those of Earth—consequently still more disgusting, and some of them were of enormous size. One monstrous insect, as large as a horse, stood right in the centre of their path without budging. It was armour-plated, had jaws like scimitars, and underneath its body was a forest of legs. Tydomin gave one malignant look at it, and sent it crashing into the gulf.

“What have I to offer, except my life?” Maskull suddenly broke out. “And what good is that? It won’t bring that poor girl back into the world.”

“Sacrifice is not for utility. It’s a penalty which we pay.”

“I know that.”

“The point is whether you can go on enjoying life, after what has happened.”

She waited for Maskull to come even with her.

“Perhaps you imagine I’m not man enough—you imagine that because I allowed poor Oceaxe to die for me—”

“She did die for you,” said Tydomin, in a quiet, emphatic voice.

“That would be a second blunder of yours,” returned Maskull, just as firmly. “I was not in love with Oceaxe, and I’m not in love with life.”

“Your life is not required.”

“Then I don’t understand what you want, or what you are speaking about.”

“It’s not for me to ask a sacrifice from you, Maskull. That would be compliance on your part, but not sacrifice. You must wait until you feel there’s nothing else for you to do.”

“It’s all very mysterious.”

The conversation was abruptly cut short by a prolonged and frightful crashing, roaring sound, coming from a short distance ahead. It was accompanied by a violent oscillation of the ground on which they stood. They looked up, startled, just in time to witness the final disappearance of a huge mass of forest land, not two hundred yards in front of them. Several acres of trees, plants, rocks, and soil, with all its teeming animal life, vanished before their eyes, like a magic story. The new chasm was cut, as if by a knife. Beyond its farther edge the Alppain glow burned blue just over the horizon.

“Now we shall have to make a detour,” said Tydomin, halting.

Maskull caught hold of her with his third hand. “Listen to me, while I try to describe what I’m feeling. When I saw that landslip, everything I have heard about the last destruction of the world came into my mind. It seemed to me as if I were actually witnessing it, and that the world were really falling to pieces. Then, where the land was, we now have this empty, awful gulf—that’s to say, nothing—and it seems to me as if our life will come to the same condition, where there was something there will be nothing. But that terrible blue glare on the opposite side is exactly like the eye of fate. It accuses us, and demands what we have made of our life, which is no more. At the same time, it is grand and joyful. The joy consists in this—that it is in our power to give freely what will later on be taken from us by force.”

Tydomin watched him attentively. “Then your feeling is that your life is worthless, and you make a present of it to the first one who asks?”

“No, it goes beyond that. I feel that the only thing worth living for is to be so magnanimous that fate itself will be astonished at us. Understand me. It isn’t cynicism, or bitterness, or despair, but heroism.... It’s hard to explain.”

“Now you shall hear what sacrifice I offer you, Maskull. It’s a heavy one, but that’s what you seem to wish.”

“That is so. In my present mood it can’t be too heavy.”

“Then, if you are in earnest, resign your body to me. Now that Crimtyphon’s dead, I’m tired of being a woman.”

“I fail to comprehend.”

“Listen, then. I wish to start a new existence in your body. I wish to be a male. I see it isn’t worth while being a woman. I mean to dedicate my own body to Crimtyphon. I shall tie his body and mine together, and give them a common funeral in the burning lake. That’s the sacrifice I offer you. As I said, it’s a hard one.”

“So you do ask me to die. Though how you can make use of my body is difficult to understand.”

“No, I don’t ask you to die. You will go on living.”

“How is it possible without a body?”

Tydomin gazed at him earnestly. “There are many such beings, even in your world. There you call them spirits, apparitions, phantoms. They are in reality living wills, deprived of material bodies, always longing to act and enjoy, but quite unable to do so. Are you noble-minded enough to accept such a state, do you think?”

“If it’s possible, I accept it,” replied Maskull quietly. “Not in spite of its heaviness, but because of it. But how is it possible?”

“Undoubtedly there are very many things possible in our world of which you have no conception. Now let us wait till we get home. I don’t hold you to your word, for unless it’s a free sacrifice I will have nothing to do with it.”

“I am not a man who speaks lightly. If you can perform this miracle, you have my consent, once for all.”

“Then we’ll leave it like that for the present,” said Tydomin sadly.

They proceeded on their way. Owing to the subsidence, Tydomin seemed rather doubtful at first as to the right road, but by making a long divergence they eventually got around to the other side of the newly formed chasm. A little later on, in a narrow copse crowning a miniature, insulated peak, they fell in with a man. He was resting himself against a tree, and looked tired, overheated, and despondent. He was young. His beardless expression bore an expression of unusual sincerity, and in other respects he seemed a hardy, hardworking youth, of an intellectual type. His hair was thick, short, and flaxen. He possessed neither a sorb nor a third arm—so presumably he was not a native of Ifdawn. His forehead, however, was disfigured by what looked like a haphazard assortment of eyes, eight in number, of different sizes and shapes. They went in pairs, and whenever two were in use, it was indicated by a peculiar shining—the rest remained dull, until their turn came. In addition to the upper eyes he had the two lower ones, but they were vacant and lifeless. This extraordinary battery of eyes, alternatively alive and dead, gave the young man an appearance of almost alarming mental activity. He was wearing nothing but a sort of skin kilt. Maskull seemed somehow to recognise the face, though he had certainly never set eyes on it before.

Tydomin suggested to him to set down the corpse, and both sat down to rest in the shade.

“Question him, Maskull,” she said, rather carelessly, jerking her head toward the stranger.

Maskull sighed and asked aloud, from his seat on the ground, “What’s your name, and where do you come from?”

The man studied him for a few moments, first with one pair of eyes, then with another, then with a third. He next turned his attention to Tydomin, who occupied him a still longer time. He replied at last, in a dry, manly, nervous voice. “I am Digrung. I have arrived here from Matterplay.” His colour kept changing, and Maskull suddenly realised of whom he reminded him. It was of Joiwind.

“Perhaps you’re going to Poolingdred, Digrung?” he inquired, interested.

“As a matter of fact I am—if I can find my way out of this accursed country.”

“Possibly you are acquainted with Joiwind there?”

“She’s my sister. I’m on my way to see her now. Why, do you know her?”

“I met her yesterday.”

“What is your name, then?”

“Maskull.”

“I shall tell her I met you. This will be our first meeting for four years. Is she well, and happy?”

“Both, as far as I could judge. You know Panawe?”

“Her husband—yes. But where do you come from? I’ve seen nothing like you before.”

“From another world. Where is Matterplay?”

“It’s the first country one comes to beyond the Sinking Sea.”

“What is it like there—how do you amuse yourselves? The same old murders and sudden deaths?”

“Are you ill?” asked Digrung. “Who is this woman, why are you following at her heels like a slave? She looks insane to me. What’s that corpse—why are you dragging it around the country with you?”

Tydomin smiled. “I’ve already heard it said about Matterplay, that if one sows an answer there, a rich crop of questions immediately springs up. But why do you make this unprovoked attack on me, Digrung?”

“I don’t attack you, woman, but I know you. I see into you, and I see insanity. That wouldn’t matter, but I don’t like to see a man of intelligence like Maskull caught in your filthy meshes.”

“I suppose even you clever Matterplay people sometimes misjudge character. However, I don’t mind. Your opinion’s nothing to me, Digrung. You’d better answer his questions, Maskull. Not for his own sake—but your feminine friend is sure to be curious about your having been seen carrying a dead man.”

Maskull’s underlip shot out. “Tell your sister nothing, Digrung. Don’t mention my name at all. I don’t want her to know about this meeting of ours.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wish it—isn’t that enough?”

Digrung looked impassive.

“Thoughts and words,” he said, “which don’t correspond with the real events of the world are considered most shameful in Matterplay.”

“I’m not asking you to lie, only to keep silent.”

“To hide the truth is a special branch of lying. I can’t accede to your wish. I must tell Joiwind everything, as far as I know it.”

Maskull got up, and Tydomin followed his example.

She touched Digrung on the arm and gave him a strange look. “The dead man is my husband, and Maskull murdered him. Now you’ll understand why he wishes you to hold your tongue.”

“I guessed there was some foul play,” said Digrung. “It doesn’t matter—I can’t falsify facts. Joiwind must know.”

“You refuse to consider her feelings?” said Maskull, turning pale.

“Feelings which flourish on illusions, and sicken and die on realities, aren’t worth considering. But Joiwind’s are not of that kind.”

“If you decline to do what I ask, at least return home without seeing her; your sister will get very little pleasure out of the meeting when she hears your news.”

“What are these strange relations between you?” demanded Digrung, eying him with suddenly aroused suspicion.

Maskull stared back in a sort of bewilderment. “Good God! You don’t doubt your own sister. That pure angel!”

Tydomin caught hold of him delicately. “I don’t know Joiwind, but, whoever she is and whatever she’s like, I know this—she’s more fortunate in her friend than in her brother. Now, if you really value her happiness, Maskull, you will have to take some firm step or other.”

“I mean to. Digrung, I shall stop your journey.”

“If you intend a second murder, no doubt you are big enough.”

Maskull turned around to Tydomin and laughed. “I seem to be leaving a wake of corpses behind me on this journey.”

“Why a corpse? There’s no need to kill him.”

“Thanks for that!” said Digrung dryly. “All the same, some crime is about to burst. I feel it.”

“What must I do, then?” asked Maskull.

“It is not my business, and to tell the truth I am not very interested.... If I were in your place, Maskull, I would not hesitate long. Don’t you understand how to absorb these creatures, who set their feeble, obstinate wills against yours?”

“That is a worse crime,” said Maskull.

“Who knows? He will live, but he will tell no tales.”

Digrung laughed, but changed colour. “I was right then. The monster has sprung into the light of day.”

Maskull laid a hand on his shoulder. “You have the choice, and we are not joking. Do as I ask.”

“You have fallen low, Maskull. But you are walking in a dream, and I can’t talk to you. As for you, woman—sin must be like a pleasant bath to you....”

“There are strange ties between Maskull and myself; but you are a passer-by, a foreigner. I care nothing for you.”

“Nevertheless, I shall not be frightened out of my plans, which are legitimate and right.”

“Do as you please,” said Tydomin. “If you come to grief, your thoughts will hardly have corresponded with the real events of the world, which is what you boast about. It is no affair of mine.”

“I shall go on, and not back!” exclaimed Digrung, with angry emphasis.

Tydomin threw a swift, evil smile at Maskull. “Bear witness that I have tried to persuade this young man. Now you must come to a quick decision in your own mind as to which is of the greatest importance, Digrung’s happiness or Joiwind’s. Digrung won’t allow you to preserve them both.”

“It won’t take me long to decide, Digrung, I gave you a last chance to change your mind.”

“As long as it’s in my power I shall go on, and warn my sister against her criminal friends.”

Maskull again clutched at him, but this time with violence. Instructed in his actions by some new and horrible instinct, he pressed the young man tightly to his body with all three arms. A feeling of wild, sweet delight immediately passed through him. Then for the first time he comprehended the triumphant joys of “absorbing.” It satisfied the hunger of the will, exactly as food satisfies the hunger of the body. Digrung proved feeble—he made little opposition. His personality passed slowly and evenly into Maskull’s. The latter became strong and gorged. The victim gradually became paler and limper, until Maskull held a corpse in his arms. He dropped the body, and stood trembling. He had committed his second crime. He felt no immediate difference in his soul, but...

Tydomin shed a sad smile on him, like winter sunshine. He half expected her to speak, but she said nothing. Instead, she made a sign to him to pick up Crimtyphon’s corpse. As he obeyed, he wondered why Digrung’s dead face did not wear the frightful Crystalman mask.

“Why hasn’t he altered?” he muttered to himself.

Tydomin heard him. She kicked Digrung lightly with her little foot. “He isn’t dead—that’s why. The expression you mean is waiting for your death.”

“Then is that my real character?”

She laughed softly. “You came here to carve a strange world, and now it appears you are carved yourself. Oh, there’s no doubt about it, Maskull. You needn’t stand there gaping. You belong to Shaping, like the rest of us. You are not a king, or a god.”

“Since when have I belonged to him?”

“What does that matter? Perhaps since you first breathed the air of Tormance, or perhaps since five minutes ago.”

Without waiting for his response, she set off through the copse, and strode on to the next island. Maskull followed, physically distressed and looking very grave.

The journey continued for half an hour longer, without incident. The character of the scenery slowly changed. The mountaintops became loftier and more widely separated from one another. The gaps were filled with rolling, white clouds, which bathed the shores of the peaks like a mysterious sea. To pass from island to island was hard work, the intervening spaces were so wide—Tydomin, however, knew the way. The intense light, the violet-blue sky, the patches of vivid landscape, emerging from the white vapour-ocean, made a profound impression on Maskull’s mind. The glow of Alppain was hidden by the huge mass of Disscourn, which loomed up straight in front of them.

The green snow on the top of the gigantic pyramid had by now completely melted away. The black, gold, and crimson of its mighty cliffs stood out with terrific brilliance. They were directly beneath the bulk of the mountain, which was not a mile away. It did not appear dangerous to climb, but he was unaware on which side of it their destination lay.

It was split from top to bottom by numerous straight fissures. A few pale-green waterfalls descended here and there, like narrow, motionless threads. The face of the mountain was rugged and bare. It was strewn with detached boulders, and great, jagged rocks projected everywhere like iron teeth. Tydomin pointed to a small black hole near the base, which might be a cave. “That is where I live.”

“You live here alone?”

“Yes.”

“It’s an odd choice for a woman—and you are not unbeautiful, either.”

“A woman’s life is over at twenty-five,” she replied, sighing. “And I am far older than that. Ten years ago it would have been I who lived yonder, and not Oceaxe. Then all this wouldn’t have happened.”

A quarter of an hour later they stood within the mouth of the cave. It was ten feet high, and its interior was impenetrably black.

“Put down the body in the entrance, out of the sun,” directed Tydomin. He did so.

She cast a keenly scrutinising glance at him. “Does your resolution still hold, Maskull?”

“Why shouldn’t it hold? My brains are not feathers.”

“Follow me, then.”

They both stepped into the cave. At that very moment a sickening crash, like heavy thunder just over their heads, set Maskull’s weakened heart thumping violently. An avalanche of boulders, stones, and dust, swept past the cave entrance from above. If their going in had been delayed by a single minute, they would have been killed.

Tydomin did not even look up. She took his hand in hers, and started walking with him into the darkness. The temperature became as cold as ice. At the first bend the light from the outer world disappeared, leaving them in absolute blackness. Maskull kept stumbling over the uneven ground, but she kept tight hold of him, and hurried him along.

The tunnel seemed of interminable length. Presently, however, the atmosphere changed—or such was his impression. He was somehow led to imagine that they had come to a larger chamber. Here Tydomin stopped, and then forced him down with quiet pressure. His groping hand encountered stone and, by feeling it all over, he discovered that it was a sort of stone slab, or couch, raised a foot or eighteen inches from the ground. She told him to lie down.

“Has the time come?” asked Maskull.

“Yes.”

He lay there waiting in the darkness, ignorant of what was going to happen. He felt her hand clasping his. Without perceiving any gradation, he lost all consciousness of his body; he was no longer able to feel his limbs or internal organs. His mind remained active and alert. Nothing particular appeared to be taking place.

Then the chamber began to grow light, like very early morning. He could see nothing, but the retina of his eyes was affected. He fancied that he heard music, but while he was listening for it, it stopped. The light grew stronger, the air grew warmer; he heard the confused sound of distant voices.

Suddenly Tydomin gave his hand a powerful squeeze. He heard someone scream faintly, and then the light leaped up, and he saw everything clearly.

He was lying on a wooden couch, in a strangely decorated room, lighted by electricity. His hand was being squeezed, not by Tydomin, but by a man dressed in the garments of civilisation, with whose face he was certainly familiar, but under what circumstances he could not recall. Other people stood in the background—they too were vaguely known to him. He sat up and began to smile, without any especial reason; and then stood upright.

Everybody seemed to be watching him with anxiety and emotion—he wondered why. Yet he felt that they were all acquaintances. Two in particular he knew—the man at the farther end of the room, who paced restlessly backward and forward, his face transfigured by stern, holy grandeur; and that other big, bearded man—who was himself. Yes—he was looking at his own double. But it was just as if a crime-riddled man of middle age were suddenly confronted with his own photograph as an earnest, idealistic youth.

His other self spoke to him. He heard the sounds, but did not comprehend the sense. Then the door was abruptly flung open, and a short, brutish-looking individual leaped in. He began to behave in an extraordinary manner to everyone around him; and after that came straight up to him—Maskull. He spoke some words, but they were incomprehensible. A terrible expression came over the newcomer’s face, and he grasped his neck with a pair of hairy hands. Maskull felt his bones bending and breaking, excruciating pains passed through all the nerves of his body, and he experienced a sense of impending death. He cried out, and sank helplessly on the floor, in a heap. The chamber and the company vanished—the light went out.

Once more he found himself in the blackness of the cave. He was this time lying on the ground, but Tydomin was still with him, holding his hand. He was in horrible bodily agony, but this was only a setting for the despairing anguish that filled his mind.

Tydomin addressed him in tones of gentle reproach. “Why are you back so soon? I’ve not had time yet. You must return.”

He caught hold of her, and pulled himself up to his feet. She gave a low scream, as though in pain. “What does this mean—what are you doing, Maskull?”

“Krag—” began Maskull, but the effort to produce his words choked him, so that he was obliged to stop.

“Krag—what of Krag? Tell me quickly what has happened. Free my arm.”

He gripped her arm tighter.

“Yes, I’ve seen Krag. I’m awake.”

“Oh! You are awake, awake.”

“And you must die,” said Maskull, in an awful voice.

“But why? What has happened?...”

“You must die, and I must kill you. Because I am awake, and for no other reason. You blood-stained dancing mistress!”

Tydomin breathed hard for a little time. Then she seemed suddenly to regain her self-possession.

“You won’t offer me violence, surely, in this black cave?”

“No, the sun shall look on, for it is not a murder. But rest assured that you must die—you must expiate your fearful crimes.”

“You have already said so, and I see you have the power. You have escaped me. It is very curious. Well, then, Maskull, let us come outside. I am not afraid. But kill me courteously, for I have also been courteous to you. I make no other supplication.”

BY THE TIME that they regained the mouth of the cavern, Blodsombre was at its height. In front of them the scenery sloped downward—a long succession of mountain islands in a sea of clouds. Behind them the bright, stupendous crags of Disscourn loomed up for a thousand feet or more. Maskull’s eyes were red, and his face looked stupid; he was still holding the woman by the arm. She made no attempt to speak, or to get away. She seemed perfectly gentle and composed.

After gazing at the country for a long time in silence, he turned toward her. “Whereabouts is the fiery lake you spoke of?”

“It lies on the other side of the mountain. But why do you ask?”

“It is just as well if we have some way to walk. I shall grow calmer, and that’s what I want. I wish you to understand that what is going to happen is not a murder, but an execution.”

“It will taste the same,” said Tydomin.

“When I have gone out of this country, I don’t wish to feel that I have left a demon behind me, wandering at large. That would not be fair to others. So we will go to the lake, which promises an easy death for you.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “We must wait till Blodsombre is over.”

“Is this a time for luxurious feelings? However hot it is now, we will both be cool by evening. We must start at once.”

“Without doubt, you are the master, Maskull.... May I not carry Crimtyphon?”

Maskull looked at her strangely.

“I grudge no man his funeral.”

She painfully hoisted the body on her narrow shoulders, and they stepped out into the sunlight. The heat struck them like a blow on the head. Maskull moved aside, to allow her to precede him, but no compassion entered his heart. He brooded over the wrongs the woman had done him.

The way went along the south side of the great pyramid, near its base. It was a rough road, clogged with boulders and crossed by cracks and water gullies; they could see the water, but could not get at it. There was no shade. Blisters formed on their skin, while all the water in their blood seemed to dry up.

Maskull forgot his own tortures in his devil’s delight at Tydomin’s. “Sing me a song!” he called out presently. “A characteristic one.”

She turned her head and gave him a long, peculiar look; then, without any sort of expostulation, started singing. Her voice was low and weird. The song was so extraordinary that he had to rub his eyes to ascertain whether he was awake or dreaming. The slow surprises of the grotesque melody began to agitate him in a horrible fashion; the words were pure nonsense—or else their significance was too deep for him.

“Where, in the name of all unholy things, did you acquire that stuff, woman?”

Tydomin shed a sickly smile, while the corpse swayed about with ghastly jerks over her left shoulder. She held it in position with her two left arms. “It’s a pity we could not have met as friends, Maskull. I could have shown you a side of Tormance which now perhaps you will never see. The wild, mad side. But now it’s too late, and it doesn’t matter.”

They turned the angle of the mountain, and started to traverse the western base.

“Which is the quickest way out of this miserable land?” asked Maskull.

“It is easiest to go to Sant.”

“Will we see it from anywhere?”

“Yes, though it is a long way off.”

“Have you been there?”

“I am a woman, and interdicted.”

“True. I have heard something of the sort.”

“But don’t ask me any more questions,” said Tydomin, who was becoming faint.

Maskull stopped at a little spring. He himself drank, and then made a cup of his hand for the woman, so that she might not have to lay down her burden. The gnawl water acted like magic—it seemed to replenish all the cells of his body as though they had been thirsty sponge pores, sucking up liquid. Tydomin recovered her self-possession.

About three-quarters of an hour later they worked around the second corner, and entered into full view of the north aspect of Disscourn.

A hundred yards lower down the slope on which they were walking, the mountain ended abruptly in a chasm. The air above it was filled with a sort of green haze, which trembled violently like the atmosphere immediately over a furnace.

“The lake is underneath,” said Tydomin.

Maskull looked curiously about him. Beyond the crater the country sloped away in a continuous descent to the skyline. Behind them, a narrow path channelled its way up through the rocks toward the towering summit of the pyramid. Miles away, in the north-east quarter, a long, flat-topped plateau raised its head far above all the surrounding country. It was Sant—and there and then he made up his mind that that should be his destination that day.

Tydomin meanwhile had walked straight to the gulf, and set down Crimtyphon’s body on the edge. In a minute or two, Maskull joined her; arrived at the brink, he immediately flung himself at full length on his chest, to see what could be seen of the lake of fire. A gust of hot, asphyxiating air smote his face and set him coughing, but he did not get up until he had stared his fill at the huge sea of green, molten lava, tossing and swirling at no great distance below, like a living will.

A faint sound of drumming came up. He listened intently, and as he did so his heart quickened and the black cares rolled away from his soul. All the world and its accidents seemed at that moment false, and without meaning....

He climbed abstractedly to his feet. Tydomin was talking to her dead husband. She was peering into the hideous face of ivory, and fondling his violet hair. When she perceived Maskull, she hastily kissed the withered lips, and got up from her knees. Lifting the corpse with all three arms, she staggered with it to the extreme edge of the gulf and, after an instant’s hesitation, allowed it to drop into the lava. It disappeared immediately without sound; a metallic splash came up. That was Crimtyphon’s funeral.

“Now I am ready, Maskull.”

He did not answer, but stared past her. Another figure was standing, erect and mournful, not far behind her. It was Joiwind. Her face was wan, and there was an accusing look in her eyes. Maskull knew that it was a phantasm, and that the real Joiwind was miles away, at Poolingdred.

“Turn around, Tydomin,” he said oddly, “and tell me what you see behind you.”

“I don’t see anything,” she answered, looking around.

“But I see Joiwind.”

Just as he was speaking, the apparition vanished.

“Now I present you with your life, Tydomin. She wishes it.”

The woman fingered her chin thoughtfully.

“I little expected I should ever be beholden for my life to one of my own sex—but so be it. What really happened to you in my cavern?”

“I really saw Krag.”

“Yes, some miracle must have taken place.” She suddenly shivered. “Come, let us leave this horrible spot. I shall never come here again.”

“Yes,” said Maskull, “it stinks of death and dying. But where are we to go—what are we to do? Take me to Sant. I must get away from this hellish land.”

Tydomin remained standing, dull and hollow-eyed. Then she gave an abrupt, bitter little laugh. “We make our journey together in singular stages. Rather than be alone, I’ll come with you—but you know that if I set foot in Sant they will kill me.”

“At least set me on the way. I wish to get there before night. Is it possible?”

“If you are willing to take risks with nature. And why should you not take risks today? Your luck holds. But someday or other it won’t hold—your luck.”

“Let us start,” said Maskull. “The luck I’ve had so far is nothing to brag about.”

Blodsombre was over when they set off; it was early afternoon, but the heat seemed more stifling than ever. They made no more pretence at conversation; both were buried in their own painful thoughts. The land fell away from Disscourn in all other directions, but toward Sant there was a gentle, persistent rise. Its dark, distant plateau continued to dominate the landscape, and after walking for an hour they seemed none the nearer to it. The air was stale and stagnant.

By and by, an upright object, apparently the work of man, attracted Maskull’s notice. It was a slender tree stem, with the bark still on, imbedded in the stony ground. From the upper end three branches sprang out, pointing aloft at a sharp angle. They were stripped to twigs and leaves and, getting closer, he saw that they had been artificially fastened on, at equal distances from each other.

As he stared at the object, a strange, sudden flush of confident vanity and self-sufficiency seemed to pass through him, but it was so momentary that he could be sure of nothing.

“What may that be, Tydomin?”

“It is Hator’s Trifork.”

“And what is its purpose?”

“It’s a guide to Sant.”

“But who or what is Hator?”

“Hator was the founder of Sant—many thousands of years ago. He laid down the principles they all live by, and that trifork is his symbol. When I was a little child my father told me the legends, but I’ve forgotten most of them.”

Maskull regarded it attentively.

“Does it affect you in any way?”

“And why should it do that?” she said, dropping her lip scornfully. “I am only a woman, and these are masculine mysteries.”

“A sort of gladness came over me,” said Maskull, “but perhaps I am mistaken.”

They passed on. The scenery gradually changed in character. The solid parts of the land grew more continuous, the fissures became narrower and more infrequent. There were now no more subsidences or upheavals. The peculiar nature of the Ifdawn Marest appeared to be giving place to a different order of things.

Later on, they encountered a flock of pale blue jellies floating in the air. They were miniature animals. Tydomin caught one in her hand and began to eat it, just as one eats a luscious pear plucked from a tree. Maskull, who had fasted since early morning, was not slow in following her example. A sort of electric vigour at once entered his limbs and body, his muscles regained their elasticity, his heart began to beat with hard, slow, strong throbs.

“Food and body seem to agree well in this world,” he remarked smiling.

She glanced toward him. “Perhaps the explanation is not in the food, but in your body.”

“I brought my body with me.”

“You brought your soul with you, but that’s altering fast, too.”

In a copse they came across a short, wide tree, without leaves, but possessing a multitude of thin, flexible branches, like the tentacles of a cuttlefish. Some of these branches were moving rapidly. A furry animal, somewhat resembling a wildcat, leaped about among them in the most extraordinary way. But the next minute Maskull was shocked to realise that the beast was not leaping at all, but was being thrown from branch to branch by the volition of the tree, exactly as an imprisoned mouse is thrown by a cat from paw to paw.

He watched the spectacle a while with morbid interest.

“That’s a gruesome reversal of rôles, Tydomin.”

“One can see you’re disgusted,” she replied, stifling a yawn. “But that is because you are a slave to words. If you called that plant an animal, you would find its occupation perfectly natural and pleasing. And why should you not call it an animal?”

“I am quite aware that, as long as I remain in the Ifdawn Marest, I shall go on listening to this sort of language.”

They trudged along for an hour or more without talking. The day became overcast. A thin mist began to shroud the landscape, and the sun changed into an immense ruddy disk which could be stared at without flinching. A chill, damp wind blew against them. Presently it grew still darker, the sun disappeared and, glancing first at his companion and then at himself, Maskull noticed that their skin and clothing were coated by a kind of green hoarfrost.

The land was now completely solid. About half a mile, in front of them, against a background of dark fog, a moving forest of tall waterspouts gyrated slowly and gracefully hither and thither. They were green and self-luminous, and looked terrifying. Tydomin explained that they were not waterspouts at all, but mobile columns of lightning.

“Then they are dangerous?”

“So we think,” she answered, watching them closely.

“Someone is wandering there who appears to have a different opinion.”

Among the spouts, and entirely encompassed by them, a man was walking with a slow, calm, composed gait, his back turned toward Maskull and Tydomin. There was something unusual in his appearance—his form looked extraordinarily distinct, solid, and real.

“If there’s danger, he ought to be warned,” said Maskull.

“He who is always anxious to teach will learn nothing,” returned the woman coolly. She restrained Maskull by a pressure of the arm, and continued to watch.

The base of one of the columns touched the man. He remained unharmed, but turned sharply around, as if for the first time made aware of the proximity of these deadly waltzers. Then he raised himself to his full height, and stretched both arms aloft above his head, like a diver. He seemed to be addressing the columns.

While they looked on, the electric spouts discharged themselves, with a series of loud explosions. The stranger stood alone, uninjured. He dropped his arms. The next moment he caught sight of the two, and stood still, waiting for them to come up. The pictorial clarity of his person grew more and more noticeable as they approached; his body seemed to be composed of some substance heavier and denser than solid matter.

Tydomin looked perplexed.

“He must be a Sant man. I have seen no one quite like him before. This is a day of days for me.”

“He must be an individual of great importance,” murmured Maskull.

They now came up to him. He was tall, strong, and bearded, and was clothed in a shirt and breeches of skin. Since turning his back to the wind, the green deposit on his face and limbs had changed to streaming moisture, through which his natural colour was visible; it was that of pale iron. There was no third arm. His face was harsh and frowning, and a projecting chin pushed the beard forward. On his forehead there were two flat membranes, like rudimentary eyes, but no sorb. These membranes were expressionless, but in some strange way seemed to add vigour to the stern eyes underneath. When his glance rested on Maskull, the latter felt as though his brain were being thoroughly travelled through. The man was middle-aged.

His physical distinctness transcended nature. By contrast with him, every object in the neighbourhood looked vague and blurred. Tydomin’s person suddenly appeared faint, sketch-like, without significance, and Maskull realised that it was no better with himself. A queer, quickening fire began running through his veins.

He turned to the woman. “If this man is going to Sant, I shall bear him company. We can now part. No doubt you will think it high time.”

“Let Tydomin come too.”

The words were delivered in a rough, foreign tongue, but were as intelligible to Maskull as if spoken in English.

“You who know my name, also know my sex,” said Tydomin quietly. “It is death for me to enter Sant.”

“That is the old law. I am the bearer of the new law.”

“Is it so—and will it be accepted?”

“The old skin is cracking, the new skin has been silently forming underneath, the moment of sloughing has arrived.”

The storm gathered. The green snow drove against them, as they stood talking, and it grew intensely cold. None noticed it.

“What is your name?” asked Maskull, with a beating heart.

“My name, Maskull, is Spadevil. You, a voyager across the dark ocean of space, shall be my first witness and follower. You, Tydomin, a daughter of the despised sex, shall be my second.”

“The new law? But what is it?”

“Until eye sees, of what use it is for ear to hear?.... Come, both of you, to me!”

Tydomin went to him unhesitatingly. Spadevil pressed his hand on her sorb and kept it there for a few minutes, while he closed his own eyes. When he removed it, Maskull observed that the sorb was transformed into twin membranes like Spadevil’s own.

Tydomin looked dazed. She glanced quietly about for a little while, apparently testing her new faculty. Then the tears started to her eyes and, snatching up Spadevil’s hand, she bent over and kissed it hurriedly many times.

“My past has been bad,” she said. “Numbers have received harm from me, and none good. I have killed—and worse. But now I can throw all that away, and laugh. Nothing can now injure me. Oh, Maskull, you and I have been fools together!”

“Don’t you repent your crimes?” asked Maskull.

“Leave the past alone,” said Spadevil, “it cannot be reshaped. The future alone is ours. It starts fresh and clean from this very minute. Why do you hesitate, Maskull? Are you afraid?”

“What is the name of those organs, and what is their function?”

“They are probes, and they are the gates opening into a new world.”

Maskull lingered no longer, but permitted Spadevil to cover his sorb.

While the iron hand was still pressing his forehead, the new law quietly flowed into his consciousness, like a smooth-running stream of clean water which had hitherto been dammed by his obstructive will. The law was duty.

Maskull found that his new organs had no independent function of their own, but only intensified and altered his other senses. When he used his eyes, ears, or nostrils, the same objects presented themselves to him, but his judgment concerning them was different. Previously all external things had existed for him; now he existed for them. According to whether they served his purpose or were in harmony with his nature, or otherwise, they had been pleasant or painful. Now these words “pleasure” and “pain” simply had no meaning.

The other two watched him, while he was making himself acquainted with his new mental outlook. He smiled at them.

“You were quite right, Tydomin,” he said, in a bold, cheerful voice. “We have been fools. So near the light all the time, and we never guessed it. Always buried in the past or future—systematically ignoring the present—and now it turns out that apart from the present we have no life at all.”

“Thank Spadevil for it,” she answered, more loudly than usual.

Maskull looked at the man’s dark, concrete form. “Spadevil, now I mean to follow you to the end. I can do nothing less.”

The severe face showed no sign of gratification—not a muscle relaxed.

“Watch that you don’t lose your gift,” he said gruffly.

Tydomin spoke. “You promised that I should enter Sant with you.”

“Attach yourself to the truth, not to me. For I may die before you, but the truth will accompany you to your death. However, now let us journey together, all three of us.”

The words had not left his mouth before he put his face against the fine, driving snow, and pressed onward toward his destination. He walked with a long stride; Tydomin was obliged to half run in order to keep up with him. The three travelled abreast; Spadevil in the middle. The fog was so dense that it was impossible to see a hundred yards ahead. The ground was covered by the green snow. The wind blew in gusts from the Sant highlands and was piercingly cold.

“Spadevil, are you a man, or more than a man?” asked Maskull.

“He that is not more than a man is nothing.”

“Where have you now come from?”

“From brooding, Maskull. Out of no other mother can truth be born. I have brooded, and rejected; and I have brooded again. Now, after many months’ absence from Sant, the truth at last shines forth for me in its simple splendour, like an upturned diamond.”

“I see its shining,” said Maskull. “But how much does it owe to ancient Hator?”

“Knowledge has its seasons. The blossom was to Hator, the fruit is to me. Hator also was a brooder—but now his followers do not brood. In Sant all is icy selfishness, a living death. They hate pleasure, and this hatred is the greatest pleasure to them.”

“But in what way have they fallen off from Hator’s doctrines?”

“For him, in his sullen purity of nature, all the world was a snare, a limed twig. Knowing that pleasure was everywhere, a fierce, mocking enemy, crouching and waiting at every corner of the road of life, in order to kill with its sweet sting the naked grandeur of the soul, he shielded himself behind pain. This also his followers do, but they do not do it for the sake of the soul, but for the sake of vanity and pride.”

“What is the Trifork?”

“The stem, Maskull, is hatred of pleasure. The first fork is disentanglement from the sweetness of the world. The second fork is power over those who still writhe in the nets of illusion. The third fork is the healthy glow of one who steps into ice-cold water.”

“From what land did Hator come?”

“It is not said. He lived in Ifdawn for a while. There are many legends told of him while there.”

“We have a long way to go,” said Tydomin. “Relate some of these legends, Spadevil.”

The snow had ceased, the day brightened, Branchspell reappeared like a phantom sun, but bitter blasts of wind still swept over the plain.

“In those days,” said Spadevil, “there existed in Ifdawn a mountain island separated by wide spaces from the land around it. A handsome girl, who knew sorcery, caused a bridge to be constructed across which men and women might pass to it. Having by a false tale drawn Hator on to this rock, she pushed at the bridge with her foot until it tumbled into the depths below. ‘You and I, Hator, are now together, and there is no means of separating. I wish to see how long the famous frost man can withstand the breath, smiles and perfume of a girl.’ Hator said no word, either then or all that day. He stood till sunset like a tree trunk, and thought of other things. Then the girl grew passionate, and shook her curls. She rose from where she was sitting she looked at him, and touched his arm; but he did not see her. She looked at him, so that all the soul was in her eyes; and then she fell down dead. Hator awoke from his thoughts, and saw her lying, still warm, at his feet, a corpse. He passed to the mainland; but how, it is not related.”

Tydomin shuddered. “You too have met your wicked woman, Spadevil; but your method is a nobler one.”

“Don’t pity other women,” said Spadevil, “but love the right. Hator also once conversed with Shaping.”

“With the Maker of the World?” said Maskull thoughtfully.

“With the Maker of Pleasure. It is told how Shaping defended his world, and tried to force Hator to acknowledge loveliness and joy. But Hator, answering all his marvellous speeches in a few concise, iron words, showed how this joy and beauty was but another name for the bestiality of souls wallowing in luxury and sloth. Shaping smiled, and said, ‘How comes it that your wisdom is greater than that of the Master of wisdom?’ Hator said, ‘My wisdom does not come from you, nor from your world, but from that other world, which you, Shaping, have vainly tried to imitate.’ Shaping replied, ‘What, then, do you do in my world?’ Hator said, ‘I am here falsely, and therefore I am subject to your false pleasures. But I wrap myself in pain—not because it is good, but because I wish to keep myself as far from you as possible. For pain is not yours, neither does it belong to the other world, but it is the shadow cast by your false pleasures.’ Shaping then said, ‘What is this faraway other world of which you say “This is so—this is not so?” How happens it that you alone of all my creatures have knowledge of it?’ But Hator spat at his feet, and said, ‘You lie, Shaping. All have knowledge of it. You, with your pretty toys, alone obscure it from our view.’ Shaping asked, ‘What, then, am I?’ Hator answered, ‘You are the dreamer of impossible dreams.’ And then the story goes that Shaping departed, ill pleased with what had been said.”

“What other world did Hator refer to?” asked Maskull.

“One where grandeur reigns, Maskull, just as pleasure reigns here.”

“Whether grandeur or pleasure, it makes no difference,” said Maskull. “The individual spirit that lives and wishes to live is mean and corrupt-natured.”

“Guard you your pride!” returned Spadevil. “Do not make law for the universe and for all time, but for yourself and for this small, false life of yours.”

“In what shape did death come to that hard, unconquerable man?” asked Tydomin.

“He lived to be old, but went upright and free-limbed to his last hour. When he saw that death could not be staved off longer he determined to destroy himself. He gathered his friends around him; not from vanity, but that they might see to what lengths the human soul can go in its perpetual warfare with the voluptuous body. Standing erect, without support, he died by withholding his breath.”

A silence followed, which lasted for perhaps an hour. Their minds refused to acknowledge the icy winds, but the current of their thoughts became frozen.

When Branchspell, however, shone out again, though with subdued power, Maskull’s curiosity rose once more. “Your fellow countrymen, then, Spadevil, are sick with self-love?”

“The men of other countries,” said Spadevil, “are the slaves of pleasure and desire, knowing it. But the men of my country are the slaves of pleasure and desire, not knowing it.”

“And yet that proud pleasure, which rejoices in self-torture, has something noble in it.”

“He who studies himself at all is ignoble. Only by despising soul as well as body can a man enter into true life.”

“On what grounds do they reject women?”

“Inasmuch as a woman has ideal love, and cannot live for herself. Love for another is pleasure for the loved one, and therefore injurious to him.”

“A forest of false ideas is waiting for your axe,” said Maskull. “But will they allow it?”

“Spadevil knows, Maskull,” said Tydomin, “that be it today or be it tomorrow, love can’t be kept out of a land, even by the disciples of Hator.”

“Beware of love—beware of emotion!” exclaimed Spadevil. “Love is but pleasure once removed. Think not of pleasing others, but of serving them.”

“Forgive me, Spadevil, if I am still feminine.”

“Right has no sex. So long, Tydomin, as you remember that you are a woman, so long you will not enter into divine apathy of soul.”

“But where there are no women, there are no children,” said Maskull. “How came there to be all these generations of Hator men?”

“Life breeds passion, passion breeds suffering, suffering breeds the yearning for relief from suffering. Men throng to Sant from all parts, in order to have the scars of their souls healed.”

“In place of hatred of pleasure, which all can understand, what simple formula do you offer?”

“Iron obedience to duty,” answered Spadevil.

“And if they ask ‘How far is this consistent with hatred of pleasure?’ what will your pronouncement be?”

“I do not answer them, but I answer you, Maskull, who ask the question. Hatred is passion, and all passion springs from the dark fires of self. Do not hate pleasure at all, but pass it by on one side, calm and undisturbed.”

“What is the criterion of pleasure? How can we always recognise it, in order to avoid it?”

“Rigidly follow duty, and such questions will not arise.”

Later in the afternoon, Tydomin timidly placed her fingers on Spadevil’s arm.

“Fearful doubts are in my mind,” she said. “This expedition to Sant may turn out badly. I have seen a vision of you, Spadevil, and myself lying dead and covered in blood, but Maskull was not there.”

“We may drop the torch, but it will not be extinguished, and others will raise it.”

“Show me a sign that you are not as other men—so that I may know that our blood will not be wasted.”

Spadevil regarded her sternly. “I am not a magician. I don’t persuade the senses, but the soul. Does your duty call you to Sant, Tydomin? Then go there. Does it not call you to Sant? Then go no farther. Is not this simple? What signs are necessary?”

“Did I not see you dispel those spouts of lightning? No common man could have done that.”

“Who knows what any man can do? This man can do one thing, that man can do another. But what all men can do is their duty; and to open their eyes to this, I must go to Sant, and if necessary lay down my life. Will you not still accompany me?”

“Yes,” said Tydomin, “I will follow you to the end. It is all the more essential, because I keep on displeasing you with my remarks, and that means I have not yet learned my lesson properly.”

“Do not be humble, for humility is only self-judgment, and while we are thinking of self, we must be neglecting some action we could be planning or shaping in our mind.”

Tydomin continued to be uneasy and preoccupied.

“Why was Maskull not in the picture?” she asked.

“You dwell on this foreboding because you imagine it is tragical. There is nothing tragical in death, Tydomin, nor in life. There is only right and wrong. What arises from right or wrong action does not matter. We are not gods, constructing a world, but simple men and women, doing our immediate duty. We may die in Sant—so you have seen it; but the truth will go on living.”

“Spadevil, why do you choose Sant to start your work in?” asked Maskull. “These men with fixed ideas seem to me the least likely of any to follow a new light.”

“Where a bad tree thrives, a good tree will flourish. But where no tree at all can be found, nothing will grow.”

“I understand you,” said Maskull. “Here perhaps we are going to martyrdom, but elsewhere we should resemble men preaching to cattle.”

Shortly before sunset they arrived at the extremity of the upland plain, above which towered the black cliffs of the Sant Levels. A dizzy, artificially constructed staircase, of more than a thousand steps of varying depth, twisting and forking in order to conform to the angles of the precipices, led to the world overhead. In the place where they stood they were sheltered from the cutting winds. Branchspell, radiantly shining at last, but on the point of sinking, filled the cloudy sky with violent, lurid colors, some of the combinations of which were new to Maskull. The circle of the horizon was so gigantic, that had he been suddenly carried back to Earth, he would by comparison have fancied himself to be moving beneath the dome of some little, closed-in cathedral. He realised that he was on a foreign planet. But he was not stirred or uplifted by the knowledge; he was conscious only of moral ideas. Looking backward, he saw the plain, which for several miles past had been without vegetation, stretching back away to Disscourn. So regular had been the ascent, and so great was the distance, that the huge pyramid looked nothing more than a slight swelling on the face of the earth.

Spadevil stopped, and gazed over the landscape in silence. In the evening sunlight his form looked more dense, dark, and real than ever before. His features were set hard in grimness.

He turned around to his companions. “What is the greatest wonder, in all this wonderful scene?” he demanded.

“Acquaint us,” said Maskull.

“All that you see is born from pleasure, and moves on, from pleasure to pleasure. Nowhere is right to be found. It is Shaping’s world.”

“There is another wonder,” said Tydomin, and she pointed her finger toward the sky overhead.

A small cloud, so low down that it was perhaps not more than five hundred feet above them, was sailing along in front of the dark wall of cliff. It was in the exact shape of an open human hand, with downward-pointing fingers. It was stained crimson by the sun; and one or two tiny cloudlets beneath the fingers looked like falling drops of blood.

“Who can doubt now that our death is close at hand?” said Tydomin. “I have been close to death twice today. The first time I was ready, but now I am more ready, for I shall die side by side with the man who has given me my first happiness.”

“Do not think of death, but of right persistence,” replied Spadevil. “I am not here to tremble before Shaping’s portents; but to snatch men from him.”

He at once proceeded to lead the way up the staircase. Tydomin gazed upward after him for a moment, with an odd, worshiping light in her eyes. Then she followed him, the second of the party. Maskull climbed last. He was travel stained, unkempt, and very tired; but his soul was at peace. As they steadily ascended the almost perpendicular stairs, the sun got higher in the sky. Its light dyed their bodies a ruddy gold.

They gained the top. There they found rolling in front of them, as far as the eye could see, a barren desert of white sand, broken here and there by large, jagged masses of black rock. Tracts of the sand were reddened by the sinking sun. The vast expanse of sky was filled by evil-shaped clouds and wild colors. The freezing wind, flurrying across the desert, drove the fine particles of sand painfully against their faces.

“Where now do you take us?” asked Maskull.

“He who guards the old wisdom of Sant must give up that wisdom to me, that I may change it. What he says, others will say. I go to find Maulger.”

“And where will you seek him, in this bare country?”

Spadevil struck off toward the north unhesitatingly.

“It is not so far,” he said. “It is his custom to be in that part where Sant overhangs the Wombflash Forest. Perhaps he will be there, but I cannot say.”

Maskull glanced toward Tydomin. Her sunken cheeks, and the dark circles beneath her eyes told of her extreme weariness.

“The woman is tired, Spadevil,” he said.

She smiled. “It’s but another step into the land of death. I can manage it. Give me your arm, Maskull.”

He put his arm around her waist, and supported her along that way.

“The sun is now sinking,” said Maskull. “Will we get there before dark?”

“Fear nothing, Maskull and Tydomin; this pain is eating up the evil in your nature. The road you are walking cannot remain unwalked. We shall arrive before dark.”

The sun then disappeared behind the far-distant ridges that formed the western boundary of the Ifdawn Marest. The sky blazed up into more vivid colors. The wind grew colder.

They passed some pools of colourless gnawl water, round the banks of which were planted fruit trees. Maskull ate some of the fruit. It was hard, bitter, and astringent; he could not get rid of the taste, but he felt braced and invigorated by the downward-flowing juices. No other trees or shrubs were to be seen anywhere. No animals appeared, no birds or insects. It was a desolate land.

A mile or two passed, when they again approached the edge of the plateau. Far down, beneath their feet, the great Wombflash Forest began. But daylight had vanished there; Maskull’s eyes rested only on a vague darkness. He faintly heard what sounded like the distant sighing of innumerable treetops.

In the rapidly darkening twilight, they came abruptly on a man. He was standing in a pool, on one leg. A pile of boulders had hidden him from their view. The water came as far up as his calf. A trifork, similar to the one Maskull had seen on Disscourn, but smaller, had been stuck in the mud close by his hand.

They stopped by the side of the pond, and waited. Immediately he became aware of their presence, the man set down his other leg, and waded out of the water toward them, picking up his trifork in doing so.

“This is not Maulger, but Catice,” said Spadevil.