by Talbot Mundy
“Whose face was the other?”
He didn’t answer for nearly a minute. When he did, he had dismissed equivocation. He spoke bluntly: “It looked to me like Lobsang Pun’s face.” But then he raised his guard: “As far as I’m concerned that was a memory picture — from the photograph of Lobsang Pun in Nancy Strong’s room in Darjeeling! There was even a bullet hole in the forehead.”
“But you admit you saw it?”
“Yes. And Lung-gom-pa saw something too. It scared him. What I saw was a memory picture of Lobsang Pun. It obliterated the first face. It was like an eclipse. I can’t explain it.”
“May I try to explain?”
“Sure. Go ahead. But you’ll have to more than explain if you want me to more than believe. I ‘d like to know. I’m fed up with believing.”
“Andrew — you’ll have to find this out. I had to. We all have to — each for himself. But we can help each other, the way Nancy Strong helped me, by showing which way to look.”
He interrupted: “Let’s see if I get your thought: ‘... and I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto me’? — Is that the idea? I’ve tried it. I’ve been a horrible example of pious rectitude, courageous consistency and all that stuff. People don’t copy you. They throw stink bombs. It’s no good.”
“Andrew, please, I’m trying my very best to tell what I know.”
“You mean, what you believe?”
“What I know! Andrew, this is what did happen. My mental image of Lobsang Pun, that I conceived with every scrap of will I could bring to bear, let into the consciousness of everyone in the room, you and me included, a thought force so tremendous that it overwhelmed the magician’s. That dreadful living death mask was Lung-gom-pa’s own picture of his own soul — of his own black mahatma — his own ideal. He projected it to arouse the vilest instincts of every person in the room, because he knows how to manipulate those. But I have been taught what to do. So I shouted for Lobsang Pun. That may be hard for you to believe. I shouted for him — yelled for help — in silence. You saw what happened.”
“I admit I saw his face.”
Elsa was into her stride. Nothing now could stop her. “You couldn’t possibly have seen it if you hadn’t concentrated your will on one thing!”
“What do you mean? I swear to God I wasn’t thinking of Lobsang Pun.”
“Shall I say what you were doing?”
“Yes. If you think you know.”
“You were searching — not for the lesser evil, but for the greater good. Isn’t it true?”
“Yes. I guess that’s true. I’ve never believed in that fool doctrine of the lesser evil. It’s defeatist, degenerate, negative, no good. It’s Jesuitical. It leads downhill — all the way to the bottom of rotten politics and rot-gut religion. The hell with it. But say: are you trying to tell me that Lobsang Pun appeared in person and scared Lung-gom-pa and his brigands, just in answer to your—”
“Oh well, if you want to be cruel—”
“I swear I didn’t mean to be. Sorry, Elsa. I wouldn’t hurt you for worlds. I know you’re trying to say something important. But I happen to know that Old Ugly-face is a fugitive. He’s running for his life. There’s a price on his head. Morgan Lewis asked me to find him and to help him if I possibly can.”
“And you will?”
“If I can, yes. Sure I will. I mean to try to find him.”
“Then mayn’t he help us?”
“How can he? He’s on the lam. Down and out. Say, see here: if Lobsang Pun were the magician that you seem to think — who can appear when you summon him — he’d use his magic — wouldn’t he? — to get himself out of the mess he’s in. If he can’t help himself, how can he help you and me?”
“Andrew, did you ever hear of superconsciousness?”
“I’ve heard Nancy Strong speak of it.”
“There are subconsciousness — consciousness — and superconsciousness. Lung-gom-pa used black magic to project that living death mask face from the very depth of subconsciousness. That’s where his black magic comes from, out of the infinite dark ocean of all the evil that ever was from the beginning of time until now.”
“That sounds like Nancy Strong talking.”
“Lobsang Pun derives intelligence from superconsciousness. That is to say not from the past, but from the future, which is all new and has nothing to do with the past. Become conscious of him, and his super-consciousness reaches us. Subconsciousness can’t touch it.”
“That doesn’t begin to explain why he’s on the lam in danger of his life. Are you feeding me Nancy’s pap about evolution?”
“Yes. But with, oh, what a long spoon!”
He laughed, touched. But in another moment he was back at her: “It’s like Christian Science. Too much profit and loss.”
“Andrew, you don’t know any Christian Science. And if you wish to understand what I’m trying to tell, you must open your mind, not think of all the silly secondhand objections that fools have put into your mind.”
“Have one more try.”
“Very well. This is the law. In superconsciousness, in which the Christ Force is, there is no such idea as profit and loss. Personal profit — any kind of profit — can only enter from subconsciousness. Whoever clings to the idea of profit can’t become superconscious. It’s impossible. Does that explain why Lobsang Pun can come to our aid spiritually, but can’t help himself materially?”
Andrew turned it over and over in his mind. He didn’t answer for so long that Elsa at last sought for some new form of words in which to reach his thought.
“Andrew,” she said suddenly, “would you care to tell me, in strict confidence, why you left the United States?”
It was as if the night wind had swept down a house of cards. She could feel him draw back into himself and slam the mental door. After a full minute he said: “I have never told anyone that. It’s better dead and buried. — Do you see that low hill? That’s where we’ll pitch camp until the wind drops tomorrow evening. From there to the river is three days’ hard marching. If we’ve luck we’ll make it.”
PART THREE
CHAPTER 41
One week’s march north of the Shigatse, the roar of the flood-borne ice was still in Elsa’s ears whenever she thought backward. She was trying to think forward. Thought wouldn’t obey. It flowed backward most of the time, marveling at Andrew — where had he learned such super-human gift of leadership? — in a law office? — loving him, trying to understand him, baffled. The first sight of that river had seemed to set his heart on fire. He became a new-world Hannibal, a Caesar, compelling men and beasts to do what they all knew was impossible until he showed the way, and drove, and led. But he was far from pleased with himself. He had turned morose, almost speechless, kind when spoken to but doling words as if they hurt him: She didn’t know why he suffered. She suspected herself of having caused it. She didn’t know how.
By night, under the stars, she could see, and even feel the unimportance of herself and of Andrew too, and of the earth and all its ways. Then they were less than microbes in an infinite mystery. It was comforting to feel how small they were. But under the tent they grew larger again. And by day there were no stars by which to measure the absurdity of fear.
There’s an irritating magnetism in the Tibetan wind at high levels. The aneroid registered seventeen thousand feet. The Kunlun Range was in sight whenever a buzz-saw wind worried the horizon clouds sufficiently to give a glimpse of the snow-clad peaks. It was typical Tibetan spring. You couldn’t hear yourself shout. That increased the irritation. It was further increased by Bulah Singh’s hostile calm — his ominous good behavior — his glowering look of gloating over private information that would presently emerge to everyone’s discomfort but his own.
Andrew was having hard work to keep his temper with the men. Bompo Tsering resented his concern for the pack animals.
“Don’t you understand we can’t reach Tum-Glain with dead ponies?”
“Gunnigun, no beating, going too sl
ow. By-um-by coming soldiers, catching us, then—”
“See here! Next time there’s a gall or a sore or a whip mark, you lose a day’s pay. That’s final.”
Less cruelty for a while. More miles covered in consequence. But there was no change in Andrew’s mood. He continued to be too polite to Elsa — too considerate of all her possible needs except the only one that mattered. He revealed of his own inner consciousness nothing. Less than nothing. What he did apparently let slip at odd moments was merely some new phase of the veil that concealed tormented thought. The strain was made almost unbearable by their continuing to sleep together, under doubled blankets. She knew he did it to save her feelings, so that she shouldn’t feel demoted. She couldn’t refuse for fear of hurting his feelings; he might have thought she no longer trusted him. She didn’t believe he believed his own excuse that Bulah Singh might play some trick on her if she were left alone at night. Bulah Singh was under constant observation by never less than two Tibetans, who delighted in watching him because it made themselves feel important. He was behaving discreetly. He had kept himself to himself ever since having been thoroughly snubbed at the river crossing, where Andrew had forbidden him to help or to give orders to anyone. He had been made to wait until the last, to be brought over between Andrew and Bompo Tsering — humiliated, relegated to the category of useless baggage. Since then he rode alone, ate alone, pitched his tent alone, and kept his own unsmiling counsel.
But Bulah Singh’s dark glance indicated he had drawn his own conclusions about that two-in-one-tent business. As he doubtless intended, it filled Andrew with glowering anger, knowing that Elsa couldn’t fail to understand. Keeping herself tidy and good-looking in spite of difficulties, Elsa was desperately careful not to create the impression that her make-up was to please Andrew. But the Sikh’s glance dourly inferred the opposite. She had to cold-cream her skin continually against the searing wind. But she removed the smear whenever possible, to escape Andrew’s pity — worse, his tolerance. That stuff soon turns to contempt. So she studied her mirror. When each supper-time came she was presentable. By bedtime she was even almost pleased with her own appearance. Andrew would need another excuse than physical distaste for keeping away. But the Sikh could draw his own inferences — or pretend to. He did.
And the strange thing was that Andrew didn’t keep away. That was one of the comforting things about him. By candlelight, in the tent, under the blankets, he began to thaw out and become human, giving a little of his confidence, even sometimes speaking first without being questioned, volunteering conversation. When his physical muscles relaxed on the air mattress, his mental strain seemed to let go simultaneously. He never shrank away from her or seemed self-conscious. She got a sensation then that he wasn’t so nervously on guard against trap questions. He was trusting her. So she was extra careful, silently rehearsing words before she said them, testing each phrase to be sure it shouldn’t sound like an entering wedge.
But except for short moments and trifling details his reserve held, until one night when he sat up suddenly under the candle-lantern listening to the whining yowl of a snow leopard, answered by its mate from not far off. The pair were prowling around the camp, calling to each other, trying to scare loose a sheep or a young yak. But Bompo Tsering was making the rounds. He came and reported the animals all secure, Bulah Singh in his tent, and the watchmen awake. After that the Tibetans kept up a devil’s clatter of camel bells and tin cans. Someone sang to the yaks to keep them from stampeding. Sleep was impossible. Andrew didn’t even lie down again. He sat, elbows on knees, head between his hands, looking dejected. It might be an opportunity. Elsa at last threw caution to the winds and seized it:
“Andrew — would it help to talk? Being listened to is sometimes a great help.”
He didn’t answer. But during the pause she felt no sharp reaction — no sudden retreat into his inner self. She dared again, carefully:
“Andrew, it’s sometimes said that great leaders don’t appreciate what they have done. It seems all small to them and disappointing. But I can’t believe many of them ever took it as badly as you do.”
His reserve broke down a little. But he was captious because she had more than hinted at praise.
“You’re not calling me great?” he suggested. He laughed dryly, to take the edge off rudeness. “I ask just to be sure you’re in your right mind.”
That gave her the idea. She put spunk into it, and came back at him: “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m trying to point out what a little-minded man you are, in spite of all your bigness in some ways.”
“What d’you mean?”
That was a fair question. He was startled — touched — interested. Elsa cut loose:
“Any man I ever heard of, except you, who was big enough to do what you’ve done, would have been big enough to chest himself, and thank whatever Gods there be, and even brag a little for the sake of his companions. After all, we all believed in you. That’s how and why you got us safely across the Shigatse without losing a man or a load, and only one pony. You’re our hero. Haven’t we a right to see the leader we trusted look at least a bit proud of himself? Are we nothing? Is it worth nothing that—”
He interrupted with another of his dry laughs. “I get you. There’s a lot in what you say. Yes. I know, I’ve been difficult.”
“Difficult? You’ve been ungracious and contemptible. You haven’t had enough grace to thank your own soul for the privilege of playing the man!”
He laughed, not sourly this time. She had touched his humor.
“But you don’t understand,” he retorted lamely.
“I know I don’t. I wish I did.”
“Did you never feel your own soul mocking you?”
“Andrew! How can you ask that question with a straight face? Have you no memory? Or are you pretending to forget, just to be polite?”
“I guess I know what you mean.”
“Yes. Indeed you can’t help knowing. How long is it since I was hopeless in Darjeeling? If it hadn’t been for you and your strong friendship I don’t like to think what might have happened.”
“You don’t have to think about it,” he answered. “It didn’t happen.”
She had another flash of inspiration. She bit back the retort that almost left her lips. “It didn’t happen,” she said, “because I had you to talk to.”
He thought that over. Suddenly he said: “Is that an invitation?”
“Yes. Let me do for you perhaps a fraction of what you did for me.”
“Okay. I accept. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell you what’s burning me up. But it’s for your ears only. And it won’t bear contradiction.”
“I won’t contradict. And I promise I’ll never tell anyone else in the world.”
“You won’t want to, if you hear me through to a finish.”
“I will listen, Andrew. I won’t interrupt.”
“You brought this on yourself, remember. I didn’t ask you to listen.”
“I know you didn’t. I asked you. Do you want me to sit upright?”
“No. Lie where you are and keep warm under the blankets. If I bore you, you can fall asleep.”
She turned over, away from him, snuggling down so that he couldn’t see even the tip of her nose in the candlelight. She felt she couldn’t waits for him to begin. But she had to. He sat a long time, listening to the leopards and to the noises the Tibetans made. He seemed unable to force himself to lay bare his thought. But he plunged in suddenly at last:
“I’ll tell it all. But please don’t talk back. There are two reasons why I’ll carry on to the end of this job. One is that I passed my word to Tom Grayne. Maybe you don’t know it, but Tom happens to be ranking Number One, in Asia, on the U.S. secret list. Tom isn’t the kind of man that one lets down.”
“Did you ever let anyone down?”
“Did we agree you’d listen?”
“Sorry.”
“Most people think a Number One secret agent’s the s
ame as a spy. He isn’t. All spies are rats. Every last damned one of them. There isn’t a spy in the world, from a cabinet minister or a full-blown general, all the way down to a Wop peepshow guide in Marseilles, who wouldn’t sell out his own crowd for his own profit. Never forget that, because it’s true. The more a big bug uses spies and believes in ’em the more he himself is corrupt or a stupid fool or both. You can buy anything he knows or thinks he knows from any spy in the world, and you can blackmail it out of any spy-master. Spying and self-respect can’t live together under the same scalp. No self-respecting man is a spy. No spy has any self-respect. A spy is a stinker who peeps through keyholes, and pilfers, and betrays, not necessarily for money. Some of ’em do it for excitement and for the feeling of importance it gives ’em.
“But a Number One secret agent is different, and Tom is head and shoulders above all of ’em. Tom does no dirty work. His job is to find out what is really going on beneath the surface, beneath the tides of diplomatic bushwa, that might start the Continental armies marching — and perhaps drag America in. Tom is out for the truth that’s somewhere down underneath the cowardly treachery and lies of the world’s so-called statesmen and their toadies. I mean the men who make the headlines. Most of the world’s big shots are merely ignorant crooks. Some of ’em know what they’re lying about. But they’re all unscrupulous. They’re criminals in fancy dress. There isn’t one so-called statesman or diplomat in the whole world whose word of honor is worth more than Bulah Singh’s. Some of ’em can put on a better front, and that’s all.
“So why is Tom Grayne in Tibet? Nine-tenths of the world’s ruling men don’t even know where it is. Tibet cause a world war? Or be a key to world victory? A fine laugh that ‘ud give ’em. But it’s the truth. Tibet and Jerusalem are two of the three surprises in store for the stinkers who’re running us all into hell.”
“What is the third one?”
“Russia.”
“You mean Communism?”
“No, I don’t. Communism is a mental sickness that will hardly outlast Stalin. But I was talking about Tibet. Tom Grayne has been all winter long in that cave in the side of a cliff in the Kunlun Mountains, to get the lowdown on what’s moving below the surface. Being the man he is, I bet he knows more now than anyone else guesses. But he must be tightening his belt. If I can keep our overloaded animals on their feet, there’s a chance of our reaching him within a week or ten days.”
