A Voyage to Arcturus. David Lindsay

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      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

       Table of Contents

      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 СКАЧАТЬ