The Island of Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  “Only the heads of departments come up and down,” he added. “Those who load the hoist at the top have no idea where it goes to. Oh! organization can accomplish miracles, Mr. Kerrigan.”

  “I agree with you,” I replied, and spoke with sincerity.

  “The working staff of the sisal corporation have nothing to do with the Si-Fan, you see; they are just ordinary labourers who have no idea that there is a below-ground. If one becomes inquisitive—well, we bring him down, here and let him see for himself! And now, my instructions are to introduce you to Dr. Heron.”

  “Is he—”

  “What Allington calls a conscript?” laughed Perrywell. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. He vised to be chief technician to the German navy. His success attracted the Doctor’s attention. I can assure you that, in the twelve years that he has been employed here and elsewhere, he has evolved something which nullifies the power of every navy afloat.”

  We walked along the busy dock bathed in synthetic sunshine, beside the unknown depths of what must have been one of the largest volcanoes in the world. I talked to a talented and worthy engineer whose brains had been commandeered by Dr. Fu-Manchu. In Europe, battles greater than any known in history were being waged, whilst here, in this community of accumulated genius, a superman quietly planned, in his own words, “to tip the scale.”

  What exactly did he mean and in what direction did he propose to tip it?

  We entered a small, neat office, where an elderly German whose high, bald forehead was almost as striking as that of Fu-Manchu himself, stood up to greet us. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles; a short, bristling, grey moustache lent him some resemblance to pictures I had seen of the former Kaiser. Unlike Perrywell who, most grotesquely as I thought, wore a Harris tweed suit and displayed a thick gold watch chain across his ample waistcoat, Dr. Heron wore blue overalls.

  “Companion Heron—this is Mr. Bart Kerrigan.”

  “I am pleased here to see you, Mr. Kerrigan. Always I am pleased when an opportunity comes my playthings to show off. So rare are opportunities, and always the artist for recognition craves. Eh? Is it not so?”

  “I’m coming too,” said Perrywell. “It’s a long time since I was on board a Shark.”

  Here, in this strange world, England and Germany were not at war.

  “Always I am pleased to show you. Companion Perrywell,” the German replied, “although I know the subject to be beyond your understanding quite.”

  He winked at me with heavy Teutonic humour, then led the way down a stair at the back of his office, I found myself on an iron platform which projected out to the open conning-tower of one of those odd craft which I had sighted on the surface of the lake. From the moment that I climbed down the ladder to the interior I plunged into the heart of a dream; for what I saw and what I heard did not seem sanely to add up. I had expected heavy petrol fumes, but of such there was no trace.

  “But of course not!” said Dr. Heron. “Why, if you please? Because we use no petrol.”

  “Then what is the motive power?”

  “Ah!” he sighed, and shook his head. “A lot I may brag, Mr. Kerrigan, a national characteristic this may be; but always we come back to the genius of Sven Ericksen. Power is generated in the Ericksen room, which takes the place of the engine room in any other submersible craft. I will show you and shall also explain, for at least the credit to me is for this adaptation to under-water vessels.”

  We went along a tiny alley-way—there was no more than room for Perrywell to pass—and into a room which certainly could not have accommodated more than two men. There were fixed revolving chairs or stools before a glittering switchboard, upon which were levers, dials, lamps and indicators of a more complicated character than anything I had ever seen.

  “A protective headdress is worn,” Dr. Heron explained, “by the Ericksen operators; otherwise exposure to the waves created would shorten life speedily. Now, here is the main control. If I am ordered by the officer in the turret to proceed, this lever I depress. It creates before the bows of my ship a new chemical condition.”

  “Call it steam,” suggested Perrywell.

  “Very well. Instantaneously it reduces a large number of cubic feet of water to vapour.”

  “I should expect a tremendous explosion,” I said.

  “You get one—you get one!” said Dr. Heron. “But what do I do with this tremendous explosion! I use it as the tremendous explosion is used in the Diesel engine. Through the Heron tube”—he turned to Perrywell: “these at least, my own invention are—I transfer that power from the bows to the stern. Here it becomes motive, and because as it is created I withdraw it, what happens?”

  I shook my head blankly.

  “I have before me a continuously renewing partial vacuum. I have behind me a driving power that even without the vacuum would give me great velocity. By means of these two together I have an underwater speed, Mr. Kerrigan, which no submarine engineer has ever to dream of dared.”

  I suppose I bore a puzzled expression, for:

  “Sounds like mumbo-jumbo,” said Perrywell. “But of this I can assure you—these things really go.”

  “But what power do you use to empty your tanks?”

  “Ballast tank? No ballast tanks I carry.”

  “No ballast tanks?”

  “I am weighted so that I sink like a thousand tons of lead. I sink deep, deep, many fathoms deep. But three Swainsten dials, one forward, one amidships, one aft, I operate from Here—see.” He indicated-sections of the switchboard which seemed to be insulated from the others.

  “This, forward, to lift my bows—gently or suddenly as I move the indicator. This, aft, my stern the same. This, the centre control, and I rise up, up, on an even keel.”

  “Where are the torpedo tubes?”

  Perrywell laughed gruffly.

  “The Doctor’s ships come out of Alice in Wonderland,” he said; “they carry no torpedoes.”

  “No torpedoes? Then of what use are they in war?”

  Again the German shook his head anxiously.

  “Again, it is Ericksen. I have no periscope, but I have a complete view of the sea for miles around which reaches me from a float or several floats and is thrown upon the control screen in the conning tower. It is possible that the Doctor has shown you the improved television which we have?”

  “He has not demonstrated it to me,” I replied, “but some time ago in London I came in contact with it.”

  “Good, good—the same thing, or an adaptation of my own. These floats or buoys, of which I shall presently show you several models, are operated from the firing-turret. They remain in contact by means of a cable operating over a drum of a material so light and yet so strong—a preparation of the Doctor’s—that half a mile of such cable weighs only twelve pounds; yet the float can be towed back upon it.”

  “But what are the objects of these floats?”

  “They are motor-driven and radio-steered. Each carries an Ericksen projector.”

  “Ericksen again,” murmured Perrywell.

  “True—too true. The range of such a projector is limited. Some day, no doubt, it will be increased: the Doctor is carrying out experiments; but at present it is limited. When the float is in range of its target, the operator—we carry no gunnery officers—directs the wave—”

  He paused, drew a deep breath, and extended his palms. “There is no substance, Mr. Kerrigan, no form of armour plating, however thick, which is not destroyed by it as if through a paper bag one push one’s finger. From here, our base, we control every movement the United States could make. A fleet of one hundred Sharks—we have more than one hundred—could destroy the whole shipping of the Caribbean in a week.”

  “What is your speed?” I asked.

  “It increases as I dive. At twenty fathoms it is forty knots.”

  “What!”

  “On the surface as you see me now, it is only fifteen. But I have no occasion on the surface to remain. My motive power, my armament,
I draw from the elements through which I pass. I require only material provisions for my crew; and I carry six.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “I GIVE YOU ONE HOUR”

  “Although you belong to a wiser and more imaginative race,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu, “as I have already observed you are curiously English in your outlook. The German hordes overrun Europe. But other governments of the world, including the Government of the United States, continue to treat with them as with equals. I use the methods of those German hordes, but more subtly and more effectively. Quality rather than quantity distinguished the master. Yet, because I hold no diplomatic portfolio, I, Fu-Manchu, am a criminal.”

  He drew himself up to his great height, a grotesque figure in that prosaic office deep in the heart of an extinct volcano. I anticipated an outburst. But as he stood, those glistening eyes grew filmed, introspective. He dropped down again into the chair from which he had risen, and reflectively took a pinch of snuff.

  “Yes, you possess a good, but not a first-rate intelligence,” he went on, musingly, his voice now low. ‘You have trained powers of observation. You possess that Celtic fire which, transmuted, sometimes produces genius. You are a man who honours his word; I recognize one when I meet him, since I honour my own. I could take other steps, but I trust my judgement. The world is in the balance. I hold in my hand that decimal of a gramme which shall determine which way the scale tips. I am going to send you as my nuncio to Sir Denis Nayland Smith and the American authorities. Neither he nor Washington has communicated with me.”

  Only one thought entered my mind at that moment: Smith has escaped—Smith was free! Thank God for this knowledge! Smith was free!

  “You will say that my services are at the disposal of the Allied governments and of the Government of the United States. You will tell him what you know of my facilities; and you will make it your business to bring him back with you entrusted by his own Government, by that of the United States, or by both, with plenipotentiary powers to negotiate—not with a criminal, but with one who holds the destiny of the world in his hands. I have said that I am prepared to accept your word; but Sir Denis, being bound by no such obligation, might forcibly detain you. Therefore, I shall take steps to limit the time of your absence. You will have seventy-two hours in which to return. It is a painless operation: I shall operate personally. You may decline this commission if you wish. It is now six o’clock. I give you one hour. Report to me here at seven.”

  Faced by this ghastly prospect, every hissing syllable of Fu-Manchu’s ultimatum repeating itself over and over again in my brain, I wandered along the busy quays of that subterranean dockyard. No one paid the slightest attention to my presence. I walked straight ahead—aimlessly—hopelessly—thinking. For me it was the end: I should never see Ardatha again; for that Nayland Smith should compromise with Dr. Fu-Manchu was a thing unthinkable. Yet, whatever became of me, heaven be thanked. Smith was free! The fight went on!

  And now, as I wandered along past the groups of workers, some of whom glanced at me—but none with any evidence of curiosity—an explanation presented itself. In my shabby drill suit, my skin reduced by the hot sun to a dusky brown, I was indistinguishable from many of the labourers: they mistook me for one of the “below-ground” staff!

  This theory to explain their indifference to the presence of a stranger was strengthened a moment later. At the head of some steps against which a boat was tied up, a man dressed almost as I was dressed sat splicing a length of rope. There was no one within twenty yards of the spot, and for this reason I particularly noticed him. His bowed shoulders were turned to me as he bent over his task. I had almost passed him when he spoke:

  “Don’t stop—don’t look back. Walk straight ahead.”

  The speaker was Nayland Smith!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHRISTOPHE’S PATH

  “Smith!” I gasped, “this is a miracle!”

  “No. Sound organization and top marks go to Barton. This way, and mind you don’t stumble.”

  A coil of rope slung over his shoulder, Smith had slouched along in my wake until, leaving dockside activity behind, I had found myself on the farther shore, pursuing a path overhung by frowning rocks. Then, suddenly, he had caught me up and thrust me into a narrow cavity.

  One backward glance I threw across the waters of the inky lake, glittering in synthetic sunshine. I could see gangs at work on the quays. One of the Sharks was submerging: it disappeared with the speed of a moorhen. Ring after ring of gleaming black water spread out from the spot where it had been.

  Then, as I stumbled along behind Smith in impenetrable darkness, he turned, grasped my hand and pulled me up and round a bend into a small cave. Several electric lamps were set on the rocky floor, casting their light upon a group of armed and uniformed men. It was a party of United States Marines!

  They had their carbines at the ready.

  “Made a capture, sir?” growled the petty officer who was evidently in charge.

  “Yes!” snapped Smith, “the one I went for: Mr. Kerrigan.”

  A sort of gruff murmur greeted this announcement.

  “And now,” Smith continued rapidly, “we have to work fast. Stand easy, you fellows. Come over here, Kerrigan—thank God you are here! And tell me all you can in the fewest possible words.”

  Madly excited as I was, frantically keyed up by this unforeseen solution of a problem which had threatened my faith, my principles, my soul, I strove hard to comply. I told him of the infra-azure lamp; described The Snapping Fingers: I named some of those brilliant men who laboured here to bring the world under the domination of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

  “He has agents everywhere, Smith!” I cried.

  “I know that.”

  “Six of his submarines could destroy a battle fleet. His planes, armed with Ericksen projectors, can manoeuvre like hawks. Whatever happens to Europe and the rest of the world, it is certain that at the present moment he holds the fate of the United States Navy in his hands.”

  “At this stage of history, that means the rest of the world,” said Smith gravely. He turned. “Stand by here, sergeant,” he directed. “Post your men one in touch with another along the passage. When a search party comes—and it can’t fail to be long, now—all fall back to the ladder, haul it up and leave no sign.”

  “All clear, sir.”

  In single file we walked up a narrow passage in which there were many bends, and at each of the bends a man dropped out, until at the point where passage seemed to end in a great jagged, natural chamber in the rock, I saw a rope ladder hanging from a ledge high above.

  “This was Christophe’s road to the great cavern,” said Smith. “Just above this point, as we explored, it seemed that we had come to the end. You see, there have been earth tremors during the past century, and in places the way is blocked.” He raised his head. “All ready above there?” he hailed.

  “All ready, sir,” came a distant reply.

  “We brought climbing tackle, and fortunately the kind of men who know how to use it. Hang on to the ladder there. Up you go, Kerrigan.”

  There were two more Marines on duty at the head of the ladder. As one helped me to scramble up:

  “Welcome, Mr. Kerrigan!” he said; “I guess you are lucky to be alive!”

  “I think so, too!”

  I was in a much wider passage, which, however, was obviously natural; and when Smith had joined me and had given directions to the men, we began to climb up a steep ascent, he carrying an electric lamp.

  “Smith,” I said, “at all costs we must rescue Ardatha!”

  “Leave Ardatha to me,” he replied shortly. “Her safety is assured. We have a long way to go, Kerrigan, and so we must step out.”

  We stepped out, along that mounting, winding rock corridor, the floor of which was icy smooth in places where in some earth agony of long ago streams of lava had flowed down, or, perhaps, steam had spurted up from the great cavern below which had been the crater. The air wa
s foul as that inside a pyramid; colonies of bats clung to the roof in places and sometimes came sweeping down to the light.

  Smith rapped out a staccato, abbreviated account as we climbed:

  “In distraction caused by your striking at Voice—cursed you at the time but seems to have come out for the best—I dived down into shadow. Invisible Fu-Manchu had not had time to indicate me to smeller-out with big sword. Blow had staggered him, and, for reasons understood now, he became partially visible for a moment. Effect on those poor devils—glimpse of ghostly green figure—something I can’t describe. One long wail went up and all fell flat on their faces.”

  At a bend in the passage we passed another armed Marine, who saluted.

  “All clear. Stand by,” said Smith.

  “But what did you do?”

  “About you could do nothing. Two masked thugs picked you up as you fell; carried you into the temple. Sticking to shadow of stockade, got back to the gate. Two masks on duty there, but I flashed the master amulet in the moonlight. Never questioned me: just saluted. I made along the path through trees to the rest-house and big clearing, at which it had been arranged for three planes to alight. Got through unchallenged. Saw a sight I shall never forget. Minor ceremony being performed, with drums, feathered witch doctor, and number of Voodoo priestesses, dancing until they fell in convulsions. Everyone dancing; drums beating; scores of panting bodies on the ground; shrieks, half animal cries…

  “The rest-house was deserted. I stood there watching the orgy. Often glanced at my watch; wondered if you were dead or alive, counting the minutes, seconds. Then, on the dot of appointed time, came drone of the engines. The scene changed magically. As the fighters circled overhead and then glided down to that perfect landing-ground, every soul scattered to cover! Most of those who had seemed to be insensible staggered to their feet—joined in the rout; others dragged away. Drums ceased, the witch doctor alone continued frenzied dancing. He did not seem to come to his senses until the first plane grounded right beside him.”