by Sax Rohmer
“Be seated, Mr. Kerrigan. You have not failed to note contusion and a slight abrasion in the neighbourhood of my left maxillary muscle. Had your very forceful blow struck me on the bone structure I fear that the damage might have been more serious.”
As I sat down facing him, I ventured to look. His left jaw was bruised and cut. Perhaps his quiet, deliberate speech was responsible (he spoke, in a sense, perfect English, but gave each syllable an equal value which made familiar words sound strange) or perhaps sudden, hot resentment—resentment of all he stood for¯inspired me; but, “A long cherished ambition is realized,” I said. “At least I have hit you once.”
He toyed with a jade snuff-box which lay upon the desk; his disconcerting eyes grew filmed. That sensitive hand, with its long, tended finger-nails, fascinated me.
“I bear no malice, Mr. Kerrigan. Animal courage is not one of the higher human qualities; but it is a quality, nevertheless, and I respect it—I can use courage. You have it. I welcome you. I absorb gladly all that is useful in the animal kingdom. Suitably directed, such a specialized army can defeat great—but ignorant¯ hosts.”
His voice, as always, was acting upon me like a drug. There was something of the inevitable, superhuman, a quality akin to those hidden but known forces of Nature, in his mere presence.
“You have met some of the Companions whom you believed to be dead. No doubt you have studied the tradition of the zombie—a tradition which persists in Haiti. Persistent traditions always rest on fact. It was exactly sixty years ago today that I devoted myself to a close examination of this subject. I had heard, as no doubt you have heard, of dead men working under the orders of witch-doctors: these automata were known as ‘zombies’. There are examples in Haiti at the present moment; and I do not refer to my own experiments.”
During the weeks that had elapsed since I had facedDr. Fu Manchu in that underground laboratory beside the Thames a marked change had taken place in him. Then I had thought him dying; now he was restored to his supernormal self.
“Those hapless creatures are not—as superficial observers have supposed—a kind of vampire, a corpse reanimated by sorcery; they are the products of a form of slow poisoning which induces catalepsy. When buried, they are not in fact dead. The Voodoo man disinters them and bends them to his purpose. They have no conscious identity; they remain slaves of his will.”
Opening the jade box, he raised a pinch of snuff to his nostrils.
“After researches which led me from Haiti to Central Africa, to the Sudan, and finally to Egypt, I discovered the nature of the drugs used and the manner of their administration. The process was known to the priests of Thebes. I was quick to realize that its possession placed a power in my hands which should secure for me mastery of every other secret in Nature!”
His voice rose. His brilliant green eyes, fully opened, revealed momentarily the mad fanaticism which inspired him. I had a glimpse of that terrifying genius which more than once had shaken governments.
“I determined, Mr. Kerrigan, to establish a comer in brains. For the purpose of carrying out those numerous experiments in physics, botany, zoology, biology, which I had projected, I would secure a staff of researchers from the best intellects in those sciences.” He tapped the jade snuff-box with a long, varnished finger-nail. “I sought my staff all over the world, employing the resources of the Si-Fan to aid me. I was not invariably successful; nevertheless, I secured a notable collection of first-class brains. My conquest of that age-old mystery, the Elixir Vitae, enabled me to arrest senility in suitable cases—as, for example, in my own.”
He stood up, and stepping to a door recessed between bookcases, pressed a button. The door slid open.
“Since you are to remain with us as an active participant, if you choose, in our work to create a sane world (but since, in any event, you will remain) I shall give you an opportunity of judging of our labours before any decision is demanded of you.”
A man came in, a young man who had an untidy mop of dark brown hair and very steadfast hazel eyes. He was a powerful fellow, wore blue overalls and had the hands of a toiler; but when he spoke I knew that he was a man of culture.
“Companion Allington,” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “this is Mr. Bart Kerrigan. As you are of about one age, I thought he might appreciate your company as guide. You may show him anything that he wishes to see.”
“Delighted, Mr. Kerrigan, and much obliged to you, sir.”
As I followed my new acquaintance along a short passage and out into a tree shaded courtyard, I thought that he had used first the words and just the tone of one speaking to his commanding officer.
* * *
“Do you mean that you are Squadron Leader Allington?”
““Well I used to be,” said Allington, grinning, cheerfully. “Only regret I’m out of the Service because I’m missing the gorgeous show over there.”
“You held the Royal Air Force altitude record.”
“Yes, for a time. Then I tried to be too clever on a non-stop flight and crashed into the Timor Sea. Remember?”
“Well, I remember you were missing. Were you—?” I hesitated, looking almost furtively into those smiling eyes. “Killed? Oh, no! I’m not one of the conscripts” I’m a volunteer!”
He laughed gaily, grasping my arm and leading me in the direction of a long, low building on the right. But his reference to “the conscripts” had turned me cold.
“Do you mean that you voluntarily joined the—”
“The Si-Fan? Yes, rather. So will you when the time comes. I was picked up by a steamer which happened to belong to them, you see. You have a lot to learn yet, Kerrigan. Whatever your job may be, this is the most wonderful service in the world.”
He selected a key from a number attached to a chain and opened the door of what I assumed to be one of a range of garages. If there had never been a Fuehrer or a Duce—one who had persuaded an entire nation to believe in his godlike mission—I should have been unable to trust my senses, to credit my reason; but what such men could do, certainly Dr. Fu Manchu could improve upon.
“Here we are,” said Allington, wheeling the wide doors apart. “You’ve got to see my taxis first, whether you want to or not!”
His buoyant enthusiasm, his typical Air Force manner, at that time and in those circumstances, I bracket in my memories with the informative remarks of Dr. Marriot Doughty as he had conducted me to my interview with Fu Manchu.
I found myself to be in a place resembling a long garage. Some twenty machines were there in line. At first sight they looked like small monoplanes: further inspection led to confusion. Squadron Leader Allington laughed.
“Screams, aren’t they?” he cried. “No undercarriage, no propeller! And”—he tapped my shoulder knowingly—”how do you suppose we get ‘em into the air?”
It was a poser. There was no airfield outside, no runway. “Look!”
He moved a lever. That section of roof immediately above the machine which I had been inspecting, swung open. I saw the sky.
“Straight up, Kerrigan! Even a hawk needs a take-off, but these birds rise straight from their heels.”
“How?”
“One of our conscripts. Professor Swain—whose name you may have heard—discovered a meteoric substance in Poland (his native land) which was anti-gravitational—”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that these planes are fitted with an insulated disc of Swainsten (named after its discoverer) which, when exposed, or partially exposed, to the earth’s influence, sends the bus flying upwards towards some unknown planet for which Swainsten has so keen an affinity that it overcomes gravity and atmosphere to get there! Uncontrolled, one would reach the stratosphere!”
“But—”
“The Swainsten disc is operated from the controls. The pilot can climb at terrific speed, or hover. It’s simply miraculous. I have learned, since I came here, that I didn’t know the first thing about flying! You begin to feel the fascination of hav
ing access to knowledge which others are groping to find. The whole show is like that. These things take the air as silently as owls.One could start from a bowling green and alight on a billiard table. Once afloat, propulsion is obtained from Ericksen waves—”
“But the Ericksen wave—”
“Disintegrates? I agree—if so directed. But, as fitted to the Bats (that is our name for these small planes) it enables the pilot to tune in to a suitable wavelength as one does with a radio set, and to pick up from it all the power he needs to develop anything up to three hundred miles an hour. There are larger models, of course, which can do more. I had the pleasure of bringing you here in one from the jamboree at Mome la Selle.”
It was dawning upon my mind that I was acquiring knowledge which I should never live to use: part, at least, of the mystery ofDr. Fu Manchu’s secret journeys was explained.
“The whole outfit is silent as a radio set; in fact it is broadly operated on the same principle, except that the energy is converted. I would give you a trial spin, but I have no instructions,. Some other time . . . . ”
When he had partially exhausted his enthusism for this, his pet subject (I gathered that he was Chief Pilot) I asked him a question which had been in my mind throughout.
“Aren’t there—urges, to return to your former friends?”
His mouth twisted into a wry expression.
“At first—yes; lots. I believe there have been cases where unwilling workers have been allowed to go. We have Professor Richner here—”
“But Professor Richner—”
“Is dead, you mean? My dear, Kerrigan, every soul on the Headquarters Staff (I refer to the officers) is legally dead! I am legally dead: we are all dead. But in those rare cases I have mentioned. Companion Richner has prescribed and one of the doctor’s medical staff has dealt with, the case. A painless injection and the patient returns to the world with a blind spot in his memory. He can tell his friends nothing: he remembers nothing. Do you see?”
I saw. Ardatha had had such a “painless injection.”
“When, as it were, normally one goes on leave—well, it is merely necessary to avoid old haunts and, if caught up, to stick to the new identity, profess ignorance and say ‘Sorry you must be mistaken’.”
“But even when you elect to stay under these conditions, there must be pulls to your old life?”
We were walking along a path which evidently led back to the main quadrangle, and Allington grabbed my arm in his impulsive way.
“In my own case, as no doubt it would be in yours, the pull was a girl. I was crazy about her. All the same, I consented to see Richner and I submitted to the injection he prescribed.”
“What occurred?”
“Well—it was a good deal like recovering from a tropical fever I saw Joan—she is one of the many Joans—in correct perspective. I realized, for the first time, that she had most irritating mannerisms, and that although her figure was good, her complexion was dreadful! It became clear to me, Kerrigan, that there are millions of pretty women in the world and that a Com” panion of the Si-Fan has a wide field of choice.”
I was silent for a while. My feelings about Squadron Leader Allington underwent a swift change.
I understood—and that first moment of understanding was a shattering moment. It became evident to me why Marriot Doughty, Horton and Allington—men, in their normal lives, honourable, above reproach—now embraced the ideals of the Si-Fan wholeheartedly, unquestioningly. They were truly zombies; slaves of a master physician. Better death than the “painless injection!”
Perhaps Nayland Smith was already dead—perhaps I was alone in this head office of Hell!
CHAPTER XXXV
ARDATHA REMEMBERS
Allington left me in my new quarters: the number on my door was 13, and I disliked the omen. I had seen so many things which transcended what hitherto I had regarded as natural laws that I was bewildered. There was a well-stocked buffet in the small sitting-room and I was about to take a drink when I paused, glass in hand.
The power of the Si-Fan was appalling; I was afraid to think about it. Men of genius laboured in the workshops, in the laboratories; men, some of them, whose names figure in every work of reference. “The conscripts,” as Allington termed them, had been poisoned, buried for dead, and then secretly exhumed. Their lives had been prolonged by means of some process known only to Dr. Fu Manchu. Allington had introduced me to Professor Richner. At the time of his death, in 1923, he had been seventy-two. He looked like an old man, but not like one nearing ninety!
Four days—I had been here for four days.
I set the glass down. Even as I did so, I knew that I flattered myself; for Dr. Fu Manchu would not go to so much trouble about a mere journalist. A comer in brains? I had seen but a small part of what this meant, but already I was appalled. The fate, not only of the United States but of the world, hung in the balance. I turned swiftly. Someone had opened my door.
Dr. Marriot Doughty came in.
You’re very jumpy, Kerrigan,” he said, professionally. “I was anxious to see how you had taken your first tour of headquarters.If you are going to have a whisky and soda may I join you? It’s an allowance, you know, and not deducted from pay!”
Reassured, I served out two drinks.
“You know,” said the physician, “I have got to get your bloodstream clean. Yours is one of those cases that put me on my mettle. You consulted Partlake in London, you told me. Between ourselves, Partlake is an old fool. I’ll have you fit inside a month.”
“What does it matter!”
“Oh! feeling like that about it? Well, well—I passed through that phase myself. When I “died* it was Partlake who signed my death certificate! I was conscious all the time, Kerrigan!”
“Good God!”
“They did me well and consigned me to the family vault in a Roman Catholic cemetery: we are a Catholic family, as you know. I knew that I was a case of catalepsy; I knew that Partlake had failed to make the proper tests. I wondered how long the agony would last.”
“How long did it last?”
“I was exhumed the same night! I believe the watchman had been drugged. The fellows who hauled me out were Asiatics: they belong to a special guild and do no other work. My coffin was replaced and the tomb re-sealed. A smart job. They hoisted me over a wall into a waiting car, and I was rushed to a house in Cadogan Square. A very competent Japanese surgeon gave an injection—and I was a living man again!”
“But,” I said breathlessly, “after that—what happened?”
John Marriot Doughty finished his whisky and soda and stood up.
“No time to tell you, now. I have been sent to take you to a second interview with the Doctor.”
“Why? Does this mean that I have to make a decision—at once?”
“My dear Kerrigan, only the Doctor knows that.” Once more I walked along a tiled, palm-bordered path across the big quadrangle; once more Marriot Doughty rang a bell. This time, for it was a different door Hassan the Nubian opened, I was conducted straight to the room of Dr. Fu Manchu.
He sat behind the big desk, and through half-closed eyes watched me.
“Be seated, Mr. Kerrigan.”
I was fighting for self mastery. Some great ordeal pended: I knew that its outcome meant compromise—or extinction.
“You have had an opportunity to glance over some of the work being done here. I would not hurry you. Clearly, you apprehend that my design is to force a decision. Mr. Kerrigan, you must correct your perspective. You are not of sufficient value to the Si-Fan to justify your extravagant egoism. I could bind you to me now, if I wished; I- could kill you by merely depressing a switch. Search your memory.”
That hard guttural voice was mastering me, as always it had mastered me.
“What do you wish me to remember?”
“Two things. The first, that I have never broken my word; the second, that I promised to restore Ardatha to complete freedom.”
And a
s he spoke a sort of violet haze seemed to obstruct my vision—a haze which resembled in colour Ardatha’s eyes. I saw the pit yawning before me, the trap set for my feet. I knew that when I chose the path—death, or service toDr. Fu Manchu—I should make no free choice. He pressed a button. A door opened, silently. Ardatha came in.
* * *
“The part played by Ardatha in my organization,” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “is an important one. She is the successor to some of the most beautiful women who have decorated the world. I employ beauty, Mr. Kerrigan, as a swordsman employs a rapier. Now, she has gone the way of her predecessors. I accept the fact because you have twice succeeded in transmuting the base metal of feminine caprice into the gold of love.”
Ardatha stood motionless, watching me. In the subdued light of Fu Manchu’s study she looked like a lovely phantom; her eyes seemed to hold some message which I could not read. Dr. Fu Manchu opened his jade snuff-box.
“I said”—he spoke softly—”that I would restore her: there is, as you know, a blind spot in her memory, which I shall presently correct.” He raised a pinch of snuff; Ardatha did not move. “You have had an opportunity of meeting members of my staff, of glancing over some of the results which we have achieved. There has been, for the second time within ten years, an attempt, and an attempt from the same quarter, to disturb my authority. Ardatha was one of the enemy’s prizes. I recovered her.”
He took up a sycamore box from the desk and opened it.
“This attempt shall be the last.”
His long nails scratched unpleasantly on the surface. He took out a small telescopic rod attached to a metal base, and set it on the desk before him. From a projecting arm at the top of the rod an object which resembled a large black diamond hung suspended upon what seemed to be two strands of silk.
“A form of lignite—known to commerce as jet; a remarkably fine specimen from an ancient British barrow of the Bronze Age.”
Fu Manchu turned the fragment of mineral between his long fingers until the suspended strands were knotted. His gaze became fixed upon me.
