A Voyage to Arcturus
by David Lindsay
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

1 The Seance
2 In the Street
3 Starkness
4 The Voice
5 The Night of Departure
6 Joiwind
7 Panawe
8 The Lusion Plain
9 Oceaxe
10 Tydomin
11 On Disscourn
12 Spadevil
13 The Wombflash Forest
14 Polecrab
15 Swaylone's Island
16 Leehallfae
17 Corpang
18 Haunte
19 Sullenbode
20 Barey
21 Muspel

Chapter 1

THE SEANCE

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 seance 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
Halbert 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 again 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.

Chapter 2

IN THE STREET

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 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, gleaning 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 tor 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 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 an down. Krag
laughed sardonically, and returned the lens t 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 a satisfied. I don't
know, Krag. It's miraculous, and that' 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."

Chapter 3

STARKNESS

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
cast wind was blowing and the air was salt and cold. The dark green
waves were flecked with white. Through
out 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 cast 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.

Chapter 4

THE VOICE

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.

Chapter 5

THE NIGHT OF DEPARTURE

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 you 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 stepping, 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.

Chapter 6

JOIWIND

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 neat 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 <a href="http://www.selfknowledg