Abraham Merritt Premium Collection: 18 Sci-Fi Books in One Edition. Abraham Merritt

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ flesh, and the pony no longer the steed of death, but our shaggy, patient little companion.

      The light had changed; the high violet had gone from it, and it was shot with yellow gleamings like fugitive sunbeams. We were passing through a wide corridor that seemed to be unending. The yellow light grew stronger.

      “That light wasn’t exactly the Roentgen variety,” Drake interrupted my absorption in our surroundings. “And I hope to God it’s as different as it seemed. If it’s not we may be up against a lot of trouble.”

      “More trouble than we’re in?” I asked, a trifle satirically.

      “X-ray burns,” he answered, “and no way to treat them in this place — if we live to want treatment,” he ended grimly.

      “I don’t think we were subjected to their action long enough —” I began, and was silent.

      The corridor had opened without warning into a place for whose immensity I have no images that are adequate. It was a chamber that was vaster than ten score of the Great Halls of Karnac in one; great as that fabled hall in dread Amenti where Osiris sits throned between the Searcher of Hearts and the Eater of Souls, judging the jostling hosts of the newly dead.

      Temple it was in its immensity, and its solemn vastness — but unlike any temple ever raised by human toil. In no ruin of earth’s youth giants’ work now crumbling under the weight of time had I ever sensed a shadow of the strangeness with which this was instinct. No — nor in the shattered fanes that once had held the gods of old Egypt, nor in the pillared shrines of Ancient Greece, nor Imperial Rome, nor mosque, basilica nor cathedral.

      All these had been dedicated to gods which, whether created by humanity as science believes, or creators of humanity as their worshippers believed, still held in them that essence we term human.

      The spirit, the force, that filled this place had in it nothing, NOTHING of the human.

      No place? Yes, there was one — Stonehenge. Within that monolithic circle I had felt a something akin to this, as inhuman; a brooding spirit stony, stark, unyielding — as though not men but a people of stone had raised the great Menhirs.

      This was a sanctuary built by a people of metal!

      It was filled with a soft yellow glow like pale sunshine. Up from its floor arose hundreds of tremendous, square pillars down whose polished sides the crocus light seemed to flow.

      Far, far as the gaze could reach, the columns marched, oppressively ordered, appallingly mathematical. From their massiveness distilled a sense of power, mysterious, mechanical yet — living; something priestly, hierophantic — as though they were guardians of a shrine.

      Now I saw whence came the light suffusing this place. High up among the pillars floated scores of orbs that shone like pale gilt frozen suns. Great and small, through all the upper levels these strange luminaries gleamed, fixed and motionless, hanging unsupported in space. Out from their shining spherical surfaces darted rays of the same pale gold, rigid, unshifting, with the same suggestion of frozen stillness.

      “They look like big Christmas-tree stars,” muttered Drake.

      “They’re lights,” I answered. “Of course they are. They’re not matter — not metal, I mean —”

      “There’s something about them like St. Elmo’s fire, witch lights — condensations of atmospheric electricity,” Ventnor’s voice was calm; now that it was plain we were nearing the heart of this mystery in which we were enmeshed he had clearly taken fresh grip, was again his observant, scientific self.

      We watched, once more silent; and indeed we had spoken little since we had begun that ride whose end we sensed close. In the unfolding of enigmatic happening after happening the mind had deserted speech and crouched listening at every door of sight and hearing to gather some clue to causes, some thread of understanding.

      Slowly now we were gliding through the forest of pillars; so effortless, so smooth our flight that we seemed to be standing still, the tremendous columns flitting past us, turning and wheeling around us, dizzyingly. My head swam with the mirage motion, I closed my eyes.

      “Look,” Drake was shaking me. “Look. What do you make of that?”

      Half a mile ahead the pillars stopped at the edge of a shimmering, quivering curtain of green luminescence. High, high up past the pale gilt suns its smooth folds ran, into the golden amber mist that canopied the columns.

      In its sparkling was more than a hint of the dancing corpuscles of the aurora; it was, indeed, as though woven of the auroral rays. And all about it played shifting, tremulous shadows formed by the merging of the golden light with the curtain’s emerald gleaming.

      Up to its base swept the cube that bore Ruth and Norhala — and stopped. From it leaped the woman, and drew Ruth down beside her, then turned and gestured toward us.

      That upon which we rode drew close. I felt it quiver beneath me; felt on the instant, the magnetic grip drop from me, angle downward and leave me free. Shakily I arose from aching knees, and saw Ventnor flash down and run, rifle in hand, toward his sister.

      Drake bent for his gun. I moved unsteadily toward the side of the clustered cubes. There came a curious pushing motion driving me to the edge. Sliding over upon me came Drake and the pony —

      The cube tilted, gently, playfully — and with the slightest of jars the three of us stood beside it on the floor, we two men gaping at it in renewed wonder, and the little beast stretching its legs, lifting its feet and whinnying with relief.

      Then abruptly the four blocks that had been our steed broke from each other; that which had been the woman’s glided to them.

      The four clicked into place behind it and darted from sight.

      “Ruth!” Ventnor’s voice was vibrant with his fear. “Ruth! What is wrong with you? What has she done to you?”

      We ran to his side. He stood clutching her hands, searching her eyes. They were wide, unseeing, dream filled. Upon her face the calm and stillness, which were mirrored reflections of Norhala’s unearthly tranquillity, had deepened.

      “Brother.” The sweet voice seemed far away, drifting out of untroubled space, an echo of Norhala’s golden chimings —“Brother, there is nothing wrong with me. Indeed — all is — well with me — brother.”

      He dropped the listless palms, faced the woman, tall figure tense, drawn with mingled rage and anguish.

      “What have you done to her?” he whispered in Norhala’s own tongue.

      Her serene gaze took him in, undisturbed by his anger save for the faintest shadow of wonder, of perplexity.

      “Done?” she repeated, slowly. “I have stilled all that was troubled within her — have lifted her above sorrow. I have given her the peace — as I will give it to you if —”

      “You’ll give me nothing,” he interrupted fiercely; then, his passion breaking through all restraint —“Yes, you damned witch — you’ll give me back my sister!”

      In his rage he had spoken English; she could not, of course, have understood the words, but their anger and hatred she did understand. Her serenity quivered, broke. The strange stars within her eyes began to glitter forth as they СКАЧАТЬ