Chapter XXXII: Through Unknown Waters

The SPOT of Life! And the subject of Dr. Holcomb’s lecture, promised but never delivered, had been announced as--The Blind SPOT!

To Watson it was fairly astounding to discover that the two--Holcomb and Avec--had reached simultaneously for the curtain of the shadow. The professor had said that it would be “the greatest day since Columbus.” And so it had proven, did the world but know it.

“And--the Rhamda Avec never returned?” asked Chick.

“No.”

“But he sent back something within three days?” Watson was thinking, of course, of the doctor who had disappeared on the day which, Jerome overheard the Rhamda to say, was the last of his stay.

But Geos did not reply. Why, Chick could not guess. He thought it best not to press the question; in good time, if he went at it carefully, he could gain his end with safety. At the moment he must not arouse suspicion. He chose another query.

“Did Avec go alone?”

“No. The Nervina went with him. Rather, she followed within a few hours.”

“Ah!”

It was out before Watson could think. The Rhamda looked up suddenly.

“Then you have seen the Nervina! You know her?”

Chick lied. It was not his intention, just at present, to tie himself down to anything that might prove compromising or restraining.

“The name is--familiar. Who is this Nervina?”

“She is one of the queens. I thought--My dear sir, she is one of the queens of Thomahlia, half Kospian, half D’Hartian; of the first royal line running through from the day of the Jarados.”

Chick cogitated for a moment. Then, taking an entirely new tack:

“You say the Rhamda and this Nervina, independently, solved the mystery of the Spot of Life, I believe you call it. And that Spot leads, apparently, into the occult?”

“Apparently, if not positively. It was the wisdom of Avec, mostly. He had been in communication with your world by means of his own discovery and application. It was all in line with the prophecy.

“Since he and the Nervina left, the people of the world have been in a state of ferment. For it was foretold that in the last days we would get in communication with the other side; that some would come and some would go. For example, your own coming was foretold by the Jarados, almost to the hour and minute.”

“Then it was fortuitous,” spoke Watson. “It was NOT the wisdom and science of Avec, in my case.”

“Quite so. However, it is proof that the Rhamdas have fulfilled their duty. We knew of the Spot of Life, all the while; it was to be closed until we, through the effort of our intellect and virtues, could lift ourselves up to the plane of the world beyond us--your world. It could not be opened by ourselves alone, however. The Rhamda Avec had first to get in touch with your side, before he could apply the laws he had discovered.”

Somehow, Chick admired this Rhamda. Men of his type could form but one kind of priesthood: exalted, and devoted to the advance of intelligence. If Rhamda Avec were of the same sort, then he was a man to be looked up to, not to hate. As for the Jarados--Watson could not make out who he had been; a prophet or teacher, seemingly, looming out of the past and reverenced from antiquity.

The Blind Spot became a shade less sinister. Already Watson had the Temple of the Leaf, or Bell, the Rhamdas and their philosophy, the great amber sun, the huge birds, the musical cadence of the perfumed air, and the counter-announcement of Rhamda Avec to weigh against the work and words of Dr. Holcomb.

The world of the Blind Spot!

As if in reaction from the unaccustomed train of thought, Watson suddenly became conscious of extreme hunger. He gave an uneasy glance round, a glance which the Rhamda Geos smilingly interpreted. At a word the woman left the room and returned with a crimson garment, like a bath-robe. When Chick had donned it and a pair of silken slippers, Geos bade him follow.

They stepped out into the corridor.

This was formed and coloured much as the room they had quitted; and it led to another apartment, much larger--about fifty feet across--coloured a deep, cool green. Its ceiling, coved like the other, seemed made of some self-radiating substance from which came both light and heat. Four or five tables, looking like ebony work, were arranged along the side walls. When they were seated at one of these, the Rhamda placed his fingers on some round alna-white buttons ranged along the edge of the table.

“In your world,” he apologised, “our clumsy service would doubtless amuse you; but it is the best we have been able to devise so far.”

He pressed the button. Instantly, without the slightest sound or anything else to betray just how the thing had been accomplished, the table was covered with golden dishes, heaped with food, and two flagon-like goblets, full to the brim with a dark, greenish liquid that gave off an aroma almost exhilarating; not alcoholic, but something just above that. The Rhamda, disregarding or not noticing Watson’s gasp of wonder, lifted his goblet in the manner of the host in health and welcome.

“You may drink it,” he offered, “without fear. It is not liquor--if I may use a word which I believe to be current in your world. I may add that it is one of the best things that we shall be able to offer you while you are with us.”

Indeed it wasn’t liquor. Watson took a sip; and he made a mental note that if all things in the Thomahlia were on a par with this, then he certainly was in a world far above his own. For the one sip was enough to send a thrill through his veins, a thrill not unlike the ecstasy of supreme music--a sparkling exuberance, leaving the mind clear and scintillating, glorified to the quick thinking of genius.

Later Watson experienced no reaction such as would have come from drinking alcohol or any other drug.

It was the strangest meal ever eaten by Watson. The food was very savoury, and perfectly cooked and served. Only one dish reminded him of meat.

“You have meats?” he asked. “This looks like flesh.”

Geos shook his head. “No. Do you have flesh to eat, on the other side? We make all our food.”

MAKE food. Watson thought best simply to answer the question:

“As I remember it, Rhamda Geos, we had a sort of meat called beef--the flesh of certain animals.”

The Rhamda was intensely interested. “Are they large? Some interpret the Jarados to that effect. Tell me, are they like this?” And he pulled a silver whistle from his pocket and, placing it to his lips, blew two short, shrill notes.

Immediately a peculiar patter sounded down the corridor; a ka-tuck, ka-tuck, ka-tuck, not unlike galloping hoof-beats. Before Watson could do any surmising a little bundle of shining black, rounded the entrance to the room and ran up to them. Geos picked it up.

It was a horse. A horse, beautifully formed, perfect as an Arab, and not more than nine inches high!

Now, Chick had been in the Blind Spot, conscious, but a short while. He knew that he was in the precise position that Rhamda Avec had occupied that morning on the ferry-boat. Chick recalled the pictures of the Lilliputian deer and the miniature kittens; yet he was immensely surprised.

The little fellow began to neigh, a tiny, ridiculous sound as compared with the blast of a normal-sized horse, and began to paw for the edge of the table.

“What does he want?”

“A drink. They will do anything for it.” Geos pressed a button, and in a moment he had another goblet. This he held before the little stallion, who thrust his head in above his nostrils and drank as greedily as a Percheron weighing a ton. Watson stroked his sides; the mane was like spun silk, he felt the legs symmetrical, perfectly shaped, not as large above the fetlocks as an ordinary pencil.

“Are they all of this size?”

“Yes; all of them. Why do you ask?”

“Because”--seeing no harm in telling this--”as I remember them, a horse on the other side would make a thousand of this one. People ride them.”