In a few minutes the captain returned and found his prisoners ready to go with him. Thorndyke looked exceedingly handsome in his glossy tights, close-fitting sack-coat, tinsel belt and low shoes with buckles of gold. The natural color had come back into his cheeks, and he was exhilarated over the prospect of further adventure.
It was not so, however, with poor Johnston; his spirits had been so dampened by the physician's words that he could not rally from his despondency. His suit fitted his figure as well as that of the Englishman, but he could not wear it with the same hopeful grace.
“Cheer up!” whispered Thorndyke, as they followed the captain through a long corridor, “if we are on our way to the stake or block we are at least going dressed like gentlemen.”
Outside they found the streets lined with spectators eagerly waiting to see them pass. The men all had suits like those which had been given the captives, and the women wore flowing gowns like those of ancient Greece.
“These are the common people,” whispered Thorndyke to Johnston, “but did you ever dream of such perfect features and physiques? Every face is full of merriment and good cheer. I am curious to see the royalty.”
Johnston made no reply, for Captain Tradmos turned suddenly and faced them.
“Stand here till I return,” he said, and he went back into the house.
“Where in the deuce do you think we are?” pursued Thorndyke with a grim smile.
“Haven't the slightest idea,” sighed Johnston, and he shuddered as he looked down the long white street with its borders of human faces.
Thorndyke was observant.
“There is not a breath of air stirring,” he said; “and yet the atmosphere is like impalpable delicacies to a hungry man's stomach. Look at that big tree, not a leaf is moving, and yet every breath I draw is as fresh as if it came from a mountain-top. Did you ever see such flowers as those? Look at that ocean of orchids.”
“They think we are a regular monkey-show,” grumbled the American. “Look how the crowd is gaping and shoving and fighting for places to see us.”
“It's your legs they want to behold, old fellow. Do you know I never knew you had such knotty knee-joints; did you ever have rheumatism? I wish I had 'em; they wouldn't put me to death—they would make me the chief attraction in the royal museum.” Thorndyke concluded his jest with a laugh, but the face of his friend did not brighten.
“You bet that medical examination meant something serious,” he said.
“Pooh!” and the Englishman slapped his friend playfully on the shoulder.
“Since I have seen that vast crowd of well-developed people, and remember what that medicine man said, I have made up my mind that we are going to be separated.” Poor Johnston's lip was quivering.
“Rubbish! but there comes the captain; put on a bold front; talk up New York; tell 'em about Chicago and the Fair, and ask to be allowed to ride in their Ferris Wheel—if they ain't got no wheel, ask 'em when the first train leaves town.”
“This is no time for jokes,” growled Johnston, as Tradmos returned. Tradmos motioned to something that in the distance looked like a carriage, but which turned out to be a flying machine. It rose gracefully and glided over the ground and settled at their feet. It was large enough to seat a dozen people, and there was a little glass-windowed compartment at the end in which they could see “the driver,” as he was termed by Tradmos. The mysterious machinery was hidden in the woodwork overhead and beneath.
“Get in,” said the captain, and the door flew open as if of its own accord. Thorndyke went in first and was followed by the moody American. “Let up on the ague,” jested Thorndyke, nudging his friend with his elbow; “if you keep on quivering like that you may shake the thing loose from its moorings and we'd never know what became of us.”
Johnston scowled, and the officer, who had overheard the remark, smiled as he leaned toward the window and gave some directions to the man in the other compartment.
“You both take it rather coolly,” he remarked to Thorndyke. “I took a man and a woman over this route several years ago and both of them were in a dead faint; but, in fact, you have nothing to fear. We never have accidents.”
“It is as safe as a balloon, I suppose, and we are at home in them,” said the Englishman, with just the hint of a swagger in his tone.
“But your balloons are poor, primitive things at best,” returned Tradmos in his soft voice. “They can't be compared to this mode of travel, though, of course, our machines would not operate in your atmosphere.”
“Why not?” impulsively asked the Englishman. “I thought——”
But he did not conclude his remark, for they were rising, and both he and Johnston leaned apprehensively forward and looked out of one of the windows. Down below the long lines of people were silently waving their hats, scarfs and handkerchiefs as the machine swept along over their heads. As they rose higher the scene below widened like a great circular fan, and in the delicate roselight, the whole so appealed to Thorndyke's artistic sense that he ejaculated:
“Glorious! Superb! Transcendent!” and he directed Johnston's attention to the wonderful pinkish haze which lay over the view toward the west like a vast diaphanous web of rosy sunbeams.
“You ask why our air-ships would not operate in your atmosphere,” said the captain, showing pleasure at Thorndyke's enthusiasm. “It is simple enough when you have studied the climatic differences between the two countries. You have much to contend with—the winds, for instance, the heat and cold, etc.; this is the only known country where the winds are subjugated. I have never been in your world, but from what I have heard of it I am not anxious to see it. Your atmosphere and climate are so changeable and so diverse in different localities that I have heard your people spend much of their time in seeking congenial climes. I think it was a man who came from London that claimed he once had a cold—'a bad cold,' I think he called it. It was a standing joke in the royal family for a long time, and he heard so much about it that he tried to deny what he had said!”
Johnston glanced at the speaker non-plussed, but the captain was looking at Thorndyke.
“Your climate is delightful here now,” said the Englishman; “is it so long at a time?”
“Perpetually; it is regulated every moment, and every year we perfect it in some way.”
“Perfect it?”
“Yes, of course, why not? If it ever fails to be up to the usual high standard, it is owing to neglect of those in charge, and neglect is punished severely.”
Thorndyke's eyes sought those of the American incredulously. Seeing which Tradmos looked amused.
“You doubt it,” he smiled. “Well, wait till you have been here longer. The fact is, any one born in our climate could not live in yours. The king experimented on a man who claimed to have only one lung, but who had two sound ones when he was cut open. Well, the king sent him to China, or America, or some such place, and he wheezed himself to death in a week by your clocks. The weather was too fickle for him. Our system has been perfected to such an extent that we live four lives to your one, and our fruits and vegetables are a hundred per cent. better than those in other countries.”
“What is the name of your country?” asked Thorndyke, feeling that he was not losing anything by his boldness.
“Alpha.”
“Where is it located?”
“I don't know.” Tradmos looked out at the window for a moment as if to ascertain that they were going in the right direction, then he fixed his dark eyes on Thorndyke and asked hesitatingly:—
“I never thought—I—but do you know where your country is located?”
“Why, certainly.”
“Well, I don't know where this one is. We are taught everything, I think, except geography.” Nothing more was said for several minutes, then an exclamation of admiration broke from the Englishman. The color of the sunlight was changing. From east to west within the entire arc of their observation rolled an endless billow of lavender light leaving a placid sea of the same color behind it. On it swept, slowly driving back the pink glow that had been over everything.
“I see you like our sunlight?” said Tradmos, half interrogatively.
“Never saw anything like it before.”
“Yours is, I think, the same color all day long.”
“Except on rainy days.”
“Must be a great bore, monotonous—too much sameness. It is white, is it not?”
“Yes, rather—between white and yellow, I call it.”
“Something like our sixth hour, I suppose; this is the fourth hour of morning. Then come blue, yellow, green, and at noon red. The afternoon is divided up in the same way. The first hour is green, then follow yellow, blue, lavender, rose, gray and purple. Yes, I should think you would find yours somewhat tiresome.”
“We can rely on it,” said Johnston speaking for the first time and in a wavering voice, “it is always there.”
“Doing business at the old stand,” laughed Thorndyke, attempting an Americanism.
“Well, that is a comfort, anyway,” said the captain seriously. “In my time they have had no solar trouble, but some of the old people tell horrible tales of a period when our sun for several days did not shine at all.”
“Can it be possible?” said the Englishman dubiously.
“Oh, yes; and the early settlers had a great deal of trouble in different ways; but I am not at liberty to give you information on that head. It is the king's special pleasure to have new-comers form their own impressions, and he is particularly fond of noting their surprise, and, above all, their approval. People usually come here of their own accord through the influence of our secret force of agents all over the earth, but you were brought because you happened to drop on our island and would have found out too much for our good, and that red light you kept burning night and day might have given us trouble. There is no telling how long you could have kept alive on those clams.”
“We meant no offence,” apologized Thorndyke; “we——”
“Oh, I know it, I was only explaining the situation,” interrupted the officer.
“What is that bright spot to the right?” asked Thorndyke, to change the subject.
“The king's palace; that is the dome. We shall soon be there. Now, I must not talk to you any longer. Somebody may be watching us with glasses. I have taken a liking to you, and some time, when I get the opportunity, I shall give you some useful advice, but I must treat you very formally, at least till you have had audience with the king.”
“Thank you,” said the Englishman, and Tradmos stood up in the car to watch their progress through the circular glass of a little cupola on top. Thorndyke smiled at Johnston, but the American was in no pleasant mood. The indifference with which Tradmos had treated him had nettled him.
The machine was now slowly descending. A vast pile of white marble, with many golden domes and spires, rose between them and the earth below.
“To the balcony on the central dome,” ordered Tradmos through the window of the driver's compartment; and the adventurers felt the car sweep round in a curve that threw them against each other, and the next moment they had landed on a wide iron balcony encircling a great golden cone that towered hundreds of feet above them.
“Follow me,” said the captain stiffly, for there were several guards in white and gold uniforms pacing to and fro on the battlement-like walls. He led the two adventurers through a door in the base of the dome. At first they were dazed by a brilliant light from above, and looking up they beheld a marvel of kaleidoscopic colors formed by a myriad of electric-lighted prisms sloping gradually from the floor to the apex of the dome. Thorndyke could compare it to nothing but a stupendous diamond, the very heart of which the eye penetrated.
“Don't look at it now,” advised Tradmos, in an undertone; “it was constructed to be seen from below, and to light the great rotunda.”
Mutely the captives obeyed. At every turn they were greeted with a new wonder. The captain now led them round a narrow balcony on the inside of the vast dome, and, looking over the railing down below, they saw a vast tessellated pavement made of polished stones of various and brilliant colors and so artistically arranged that, from where they stood, lifelike pictures of landscapes seemed to rise to meet the vision wherever the eye rested. Statues of white marble, gold and bronze were placed here and there, and, in squares of living green, fountains threw up streams of crystal water. Tradmos paused for them to look down and smiled at their evident admiration.
“How far is it down there?” Thorndyke ventured to ask.
“Over a thousand feet,” replied Tradmos. “Look across opposite and you will see that there are fifty floors beneath us, and each floor has a balcony like this overlooking the court.”
“What is the sound that comes up from below?” asked the Englishman.
“It is the voices of the people and their footsteps on the stone.”
“What people?”
“Don't you see them? Your eyes are dazzled by the light; I ought to have warned you against looking up into the dome. The people are down there; do the views in the pavement not look a little blurred?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you will look more closely you will see that it is a multitude of people.”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed the Englishman, and he became deeply absorbed in the contemplation of the rarest sight he had ever seen. As he looked closely he noticed a black spot growing larger and nearer, and he glanced inquiringly at the captain.
“It is an elevator. There are a great many of them used in the palace, but none have happened to rise as high as this since we came. The one you see is coming for us.” The next moment the strange vehicle was floating toward them. The captain opened the door and preceded the captives into the interior.
“The royal audience chamber,” he said, carelessly, to the driver behind the glass of the adjoining compartment, and down they floated as lightly as a bubble—down past balcony after balcony, laden with moving throngs, until they alighted in a great conservatory.
Near them was a tall fountain the water of which was playing weird music on great bells of glass, some of which hung in the fountain's stream and others rose and fell, giving forth strange, submerged tones in the foaming basin.
“It is a new invention recently placed here by the king's son who is a musical genius,” explained Tradmos. “You will be astonished at some of his inventions.”
He led them, as if to avoid the great crowds that they could now hear on all sides, down a long vista of palms, the branches of which met over their heads, to the wide door of the audience chamber. A party of men dressed in uniforms of white silk with gold and silver ornaments bowed before the captain and made way for him.
The captives now found themselves in the most splendid and spacious room they had ever seen, at the far end of which was a long dais and on it an elaborate throne.
“I shall be obliged to leave you when the king comes,” said Tradmos to Thorndyke, “but I shall hope to see you again. Don't forget my name and rank, for I may send you a message some time that may aid you.” “Thank you,” replied the Englishman, and then as a throng of beautiful young women came from a room on the side and gathered about the throne he added inquisitively: “Who are they?”
“The wives and daughters of the king and the wives of the princes,” was the cautious answer, “but don't look at any one of them closely.”
“I don't see how a fellow can help it; they are ravishingly beautiful, don't you think so, Johnston?”
“Don't be a fool,” snapped the American, “don't you know enough to hold your tongue.”
Tradmos smiled as if amused, and when he had shown them to seats near the great golden throne, he said:
“Stay where you are till the king sends for you, and then go and kneel before the throne. Do not rise till he bids you.”
The captives thanked him and the captain turned away. The eyes of all the royal party now rested on the strangers, and it was hard for them to appear unconscious of it. A great crowd was slowly filling the room and an orchestra in a balcony on the left of the dais began to make delightful music on instruments the strangers had never before seen. After an entrancing prelude a sound of singing was heard, and far up in a grand dome, lighted like the one the captives had just admired over the central court of the palace, they saw a bevy of maidens, robed in white, moving about in mid-air, apparently unsupported by anything.
“How on earth is that done?” asked Thorndyke.
“I don't know,” returned Johnston, speaking more freely now that the captain had gone. “I am not surprised at anything.”
“Their voices are exquisite, and that orchestra—a Boston symphony concert couldn't be compared to it.”
“There goes the sunlight again,” cried Johnston, “by Jove, it is blue!”
The transition was sublime. They seemed transported to some other scene. The great multitude, the elegantly-dressed attendants about the throne, the courtiers, the beautiful women, all seemed to change in appearance; on the view through the wide doors leading to the conservatory, and the great swarming court beyond, the soft blue light fell like a filmy veil of enchantment.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the American.
“It is ahead of our clocks, anyway,” jested Thorndyke. “Any child that can count on its fingers could tell that this is the fifth hour of the day.”
The music grew louder; there was a harmonious blare of mighty trumpets, the clang of gongs and cymbals, and then the music softened till it could scarcely be heard. There was commotion about the throne.
The king was coming. Every person on the dais stood motionless, expectant. A page drew aside the rich curtain from a door on the right, and an old man, wearing a robe of scarlet ornamented with jewels and a crown set with sparkling gems, entered and seated himself on the throne. The music sank lower; so soft did it become that the tinkling bells of the great fountain outside could be heard throughout the room.
The king bowed to the throng on the dais and spoke a few words to a courtier who advanced as he sat down. The courtier must have spoken of them, for the king at once looked down at Johnston and Thorn-dyke and nodded his head. The courtier spoke to a page, and the youth left the dais and came toward the captives.
“We are in for it,” cautioned Thorndyke, “now don't be afraid of your shadow; we'll come out all right.”
“The king has sent for you,” said the page, the next instant. “Go to the throne.”
They were the cynosure of the entire room as they went up the carpeted steps of the dais and knelt before the king.
“Rise!” commanded the king, in a deep, well-modulated voice, and when they had arisen he inspected them critically, his eyes lingering on Thorndyke.
“You look as if you take life easily; you have a jovial countenance,” he said cordially.
Thorndyke returned his smile and at once felt at ease.
“There is no use in taking it any other way,” he said; “it doesn't amount to much at best.”
“You are wrong,” returned the king, playing with the jewels on his robe, “that is because you have been reared as you have—in your unsystematic world. Here we make life a serious study. It is our object to assist nature in all things. The efforts of your people amount to nothing because they are not carried far enough. Your scientists are dreaming idiots. They are continually groping after the ideal and doing nothing with the positive. It was for us to carry out everything to perfection. Show me where we can make a single improvement and you shall become a prince.”
“If my life depended on that, my head would be off this instant,” was the quick-witted reply of the Englishman.
This so pleased the king that he laughed till he shook. “Well said,” he smiled; “so you like our country?”
“Absolutely charmed; my friend (Thorndyke was determined to bring his companion into favor, if possible) and I have been in raptures ever since we rose this morning.”
A flush of pleasure crossed the face of the king. “You have not seen half of our wonders yet. I confess that I am pleased with you, sir. The majority of people who are brought here are so frightened that they grow morbid and desirous to return to their own countries as soon as they learn that such a thing is out of the question.”
Thorndyke's stout heart suffered a sudden pang at the words, but he did not change countenance in the slightest, for the king was closely watching the effect of his announcement.
“Of course,” went on the ruler, gratified by the indifference of the Englishman, “of course, it could not be done. No one, outside of a few of the royal family and our trusted agents, has ever left us.”
“I can't see how any one could be so unappreciative as to want to go,” answered Thorndyke, with a coolness that surprised even Johnston. “I have travelled in all countries under the sun—the sun I was born under—and got so bored with them that my friend and myself took to ballooning for diversion; but here, there is a delightful surprise at every turn.”
“I was told you were aeronauts,” returned the ruler, deigning to cast a glance at the silent Johnston, who stood with eyes downcast, “and I confess that it interested me in you.”
At that juncture a most beautiful girl glided through the curtains at the back of the throne and came impulsively toward the king. Her brown hair fell in rich masses on her bare shoulders; her eyes were large, deep and brown, and her skin was exquisitely fine in texture and color; her dress was artistic and well suited to her lithe figure. She held an instrument resembling a lute in her hands, and stopped suddenly when she noticed that the king was engaged.
“It is my daughter, the Princess Bernardino,” explained the king, as he heard her light step and turned toward her; “she shall sing for you, and, yes (nodding to her) you shall dance also.”
As she took her position on a great rug in front of the throne, she kept her eyes on the handsome Englishman as if fascinated by his appearance. Thorndyke's heart beat quickly; the blood mantled his face and he stood entranced as she touched the resonant strings with her white fingers and began to play and sing. An innocent, artless smile parted her lips from her matchless teeth, and her face glowed with inspiration. Far above in the nooks and crannies of the vast dome, with its divergent corridors and arcades, the faint echoes of her voice seemed to reply to her during the pauses in her song. Then she ceased singing and to the far-away and yet distinct accompaniment of some stringed instrument in the orchestra, she began to dance. Holding her instrument in a graceful fashion against her shoulder as one holds a violin, and with her flowing white gown caught in the other hand, she bowed and smiled and instantly seemed transformed. From the statuesque and dreamy singer she became a marvel of graceful motion. To and fro she swept from end to end of the great rug, her tiny feet and slim ankles tripping so lightly that she seemed to move without support through the air.
Thorndyke stood as if spell-bound, for, at every turn, as if seeking his approval, she glanced at him inquiringly. When she finished she stood for a moment in the centre of the rug panting, her beautiful bosom, beneath its filmy covering of lace, gently rising and falling. Then, asking her father's consent with a mute glance, she ran forward impulsively, and, kneeling at Thorndyke's feet, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips. And rising, suffused with blushes, she tripped from the dais and disappeared behind the curtain.
The king frowned as he looked after her. “It is a mark of preference,” he said coldly. “It is one of our customs for a dancer or singer to favor some one of her spectators in that way. My daughter evidently mistook you for an ambassador from one of my provinces, but it does not matter.”
“She is wonderfully beautiful,” replied the tactful Englishman, pretending not to be flattered by the notice of the princess.
“Do you think our people fine looking as a rule?” asked the king, to change the subject.
“Decidedly; I never imagined such a race existed.”
Again the king was pleased. “That is one of the objects of our system. Generation after generation we improve mentally and physically. We are the only people who have ever attempted to thoroughly study the science of living. Your medical men may be numbered by the million; your remedies for your ills change daily; what you say is good for the health to-day is to-morrow believed to be poison; to-day you try to make blood to give strength, and half a century ago you believed in taking it from the weakest of your patients. With all this fuss over health, you will think nothing of allowing the son of a man who died with a loathsome hereditary disease to marry a woman whose family has never had a taint of blood. Here no such thing is thought of. To begin with, no person who is not thoroughly sound can remain with us. Every heart-beat is heard by our medical men and every vein is transparent. You see evidences of the benefit of our system in the men and women around you. All our conveniences, the excellence of our products, our great inventions are the result.”
“I have been wondering about the size of your country,” ventured Thorndyke cautiously.
The king smiled. “That will be one of the things for you to discover later,” he returned. “But this, the City of Moron, is the capital; our provinces, farming lands, smaller cities, towns and hamlets lie around us. Come with me and I will show you something.”
He waved his hand and dismissed a number of courtiers who were waiting to be called, and rose from the throne and led the two captives into a large apartment adjoining the throne-room. Here they found six men in blue uniforms looking into a large circular mirror on a table. They all bowed and moved aside as the king approached.
“These men are the municipal police,” explained the king, resting his hand on the gold frame of the glass; “they are watching the city.” And when the strangers drew nearer they were surprised to see reflected, in the deeply concave glass, the entire city in miniature; its streets, parks, public buildings, and moving populace. And what seemed to be the most remarkable feature of the invention was, that the instant the eye rested on any particular portion of the whole that part was at once magnified so that every detail of it was clearly observable.
“This is an improvement on your police system,” continued the king. “No sooner does anything go wrong than a red signal is given on the spot of the trouble and the attention of these officers is immediately called to it. A flying machine is sent out and the offender is brought to the police station; but trouble of any nature rarely occurs, and the duties of our police are merely nominal; my people live in thorough harmony. Now, come with me and I will give you an idea of the surrounding country.”
As the king spoke he led them into a circular room, the roof of which was of white glass, and the walls were lined with large mirrors.
“This is our general observatory from which every part of Alpha can be seen,” said the king with a touch of pride in his tone. “Look at the mirror in front of you.”
They did as he requested, and at first saw nothing; but, as he went to a stone table in the centre of the room and touched an electric button, a grand view of green fields, forests, streams, lakes and farm-houses flashed upon the mirror. The king laughed at their surprise and touched another button. As he did so the scene shifted gradually; the landscapes ran by like a panorama. A pretty village came into sight, and passed; then a larger town and still a larger; then fields, hills and valleys and forests of giant trees.
“It is that way all over my kingdom,” said the king; “in an hour I can inspect it all.”
“But how is it done?” asked Thorndyke, forgetting himself in wonder.
“Through a telescopic invention, aided by electricity and the clearness of our atmosphere,” replied the king. “It would take too long to go into the details. The views, however, are reflected to this point from various observatories throughout the land. Such a system would be impossible in any other country on account of the clouds and atmospheric changes; but here we control everything.”
“I noticed,” returned the Englishman, “that green fields lie beside ripening ones and those in which the grain is being harvested.”
“We have no change of seasons,” answered the king. “Change of seasons may be according to nature, but it is in the province of man's intellect to improve on nature. But I must leave you now; I shall summon you again when I have the leisure to continue our conversation.”
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Johnston, as the king disappeared behind a curtain in the direction of the audience chamber.
“I give it up; I only know that the old fellow's daughter, the Princess Bernardino is the most beautiful, the most bewitching creature that ever breathed. Did you notice her eyes and form? Great heavens! was there ever such a vision of human loveliness? Her grace, her voice, her glances drove me wild with delight.”
“You are dead gone,” grumbled the American despondently; “we'll never get away from here in the world. I can see that.”
“I gave up all hope in that direction some time ago,” said Thorndyke; “and why should we care? We were awfully bored with life before we came; for my part I'd as soon end mine up here as anywhere else. Besides, didn't his majesty say that they live longer under his system than we do?”
“I don't take stock in all he says,” growled the American; “he talks like a Chicago real estate agent who wants to sell a lot. Why doesn't he chop off our heads and be done with it?”
Thorndyke burst into a jovial laugh. “You are coming round all right; that is the first joke you have got off since we came here; his royal Nibs may need a court-jester and give you a job.”
“There goes that blamed sunlight again,” exclaimed Johnston, grasping his companion's arm, “don't you see it changing?”
“Yes, and this time it is white, like old Sol's natural smile; but isn't it clear? It seems to me that I could see to the end of the earth in that light. I want to know how he does it.”
“How who does it?”
“Why, the king, of course, it is his work—some sort of invention; but we must keep civil tongues in our heads when we are dealing with a man who can color the very light of the sun.”
They were walking back toward the great rotunda, and, as they entered the conservatory, the crowds of men and women stared at them curiously. They had paused to inspect the statue of a massive stone dragon when a young officer in glittering uniform approached and addressed Johnston.
“Follow me,” he said simply; “it is the king's command.”
The American started and looked at Thorndyke apprehensively.
“Go,” said the latter; “don't hesitate an instant.”
Poor Johnston had turned white. He held out his hand to Thorndyke, “Shake,” he said in a whisper, not intended for the ears of the officer, “I don't believe that we shall meet again. I felt that we were to be parted ever since that medical examination.”
Thorndyke's face had altered; an angry flush came in his face and his eyes flashed, but with an effort he controlled himself.
“Tut, tut, don't be silly. I shall wait for you round here; if there is any foul play I shall make some one suffer for it. You can depend on me to the end; we are hand in hand in this adventure, old man.”
Johnston followed his guide to a flying machine outside. He hesitated an instant, as the officer was holding the door open, and looked back toward the conservatory; but he could not see Thorndyke.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked desperately. But the officer did not seem to hear the question. He was motioning to a tall man of athletic build who wore a dark blue uniform and who came hastily forward and pushed the American into the machine. Through the open door Johnston saw Thorndyke's anxious face as the Englishman emerged from the conservatory and strode toward them. The two officers entered and closed the glass door.
Then the machine rose and Johnston's spirits sank as they shot upward and floated easily over the humming crowd into the free white light above the smokeless city. The poor captive leaned on the window-sill and looked out. There was no breeze, and no current of air except that caused by their rapid passage through the atmosphere.
Up, up, they went, till the city seemed a blur of mingled white and gray, and then the color below changed to a vague blue as they flew over the fields of the open country.
The first officer took a glass and a decanter from a receptacle under a seat, and, pouring a little red fluid into the glass, offered it to the American.
“Drink it,” he said, “it will put you to sleep for a time.”
“I don't want to be drugged.”
“The journey will try your nerves. It is harmless.”
“I don't want it; if I take it, you will have to pour it down my throat.”
The officer smiled as he put the glass and decanter away. Faster and faster flew the machine. They had to put the window down, for the current of air had become too strong and cool to be pleasant. The color of the sunlight changed to green, and then at noon, from the zenith, a glorious red light shimmered down and veiled the earth with such a beautiful translucent haze that the poor American for a moment almost forgot his trouble.
The afternoon came on. The sunlight became successively green, white, blue, lavender, rose and gray. The sun was no longer in sight and the gray in the west was darkening into purple, the last hour of the day. Night was at hand. Johnston's limbs were growing stiff from inaction, and he had a strong desire to speak or to hear one of the officers say something, but they were dozing in their respective corners. The moon had risen and hung far out in space overhead, but they seemed to be leaving it behind. Later he felt sure of this, for its light gradually became dimmer and dimmer till at last they were in total darkness—darkness pierced only by the powerful search-light which threw its dazzling, trumpet-shaped rays far ahead. But, search as he would in the direction they were going, the unfortunate American could see nothing but the ever-receding wall of blackness.
Suddenly they began to descend. The officers awoke and stretched themselves and yawned. One of them opened the window and Johnston heard a far-off, roaring sound like that of a multitude of skaters on a vast sheet of ice.
Down, down, they dropped. Johnston's heart was in his mouth.
The machine suddenly slackened in its speed and then hung poised in mid-air. The rays of the search-light were directed downward and slowly shifted from point to point. Looking down, the American caught glimpses of rugged rocks, sharp cliffs and yawning chasms.
“How is it?” asked the first officer, through a speaking-tube, of the driver.
“A good landing!” was the reply.
“Well, go down.” And a moment later the machine settled on the uneven ground.
The same officer opened the door, and gently pushed Johnston out. Johnston expected them to follow him, but the door of the machine closed behind him.
“Stand out of the way,” cried out the officer through the window; “you may get struck as we rise.”
Involuntarily Johnston obeyed. There was a sound of escaping air from beneath the machine, a fierce commotion in the atmosphere which sucked him toward the machine, and then the dazzling search-light blinded him, as the air-ship bounded upward and sailed back over the course it had come.
Johnston stood paralyzed with fear. “My God, this is awful!” he exclaimed in terror, and his knees gave way beneath him and he sank to the rock. “They have left me here to starve in this hellish darkness!” He remained there for a moment, his face covered with his hands, then he sprang up desperately, and started to grope through the darkness, he knew not whither. He stumbled at almost every step, and ran against boulders which bruised his hands and face, and went on till his strength was gone. Then he paused and looked back toward the direction from which he had come. It seemed to him that he could see the straight line of mighty black wall above which there was a faint appearance of light. A lump rose in the throat of the poor fellow, and tears sprang into his eyes.
But what was that? Surely it was a sound. It could not have been the wind, for the air was perfectly still. The sound was repeated. It was like the moaning of a human voice far away in the dark. Could it be some one in distress, some poor unfortunate, banished being, like himself? Again he heard the sound, and this time, it was like the voice of some one talking.
“Hello!” shouted the American, and a cold shudder went over him at the sound of his own husky voice. There was a dead silence, then, like an echo of his own cry, faintly came the word, “Hello!”
Filled with superstitious fear, the American cautiously groped toward the sound. “Hello, there, who are you?”
“Help, help!” said the voice, and it was now much nearer.
Johnston plunged forward precipitately. “Where are you?”
“Here,” and a human form loomed up before him.
For a moment neither spoke, then the strange figure said: “I thought at first that you were some one sent to rescue me, but I see you are alone—damned like myself.”
“It looks that way,” replied Johnston.
“When did they bring you?”
“Only a moment ago.”
“My God, it is awful! A week ago I did not dream of such a fate as this. I had enemies. The medical men were bribed to vote against me. Am I not strong? Am I not muscular? Feel my arms and thighs.”
He held out an arm and Johnston felt of it. The muscles were like stone.
“You are a giant.”
“Ah! you are right; but they reported that there was a taint in my blood. I was to marry Lallio, the most beautiful creature in our village—Madryl, you know, the nearest hamlet to the home of the Sun. I was rich, and the best farmer there. But Lyngale wanted her. She hated him and spat at him when he spoke against me. He proved by others that my lungs were weak, and showed them the blood of a slain dog in my fields that they said had come from my lungs. Ah, they were curs! My lungs weak! Strike my chest with all your might. Does it not sound like the king's thunder? Strike, I say!” and as the enfeebled American struck his bare breast he cried:—“Harder, harder! Pooh, you are a child, see this, and this,” and he emphasized his words with thunderous blows on his resounding chest.
“But it has been so for a century,” he panted; “hundreds have been unjustly buried alive here. The king thinks it is not murder because they die of starvation. I have stumbled over the bones of giants here in the dark lands, and have met dying men that are stronger than the king's athletes.”
“What, are there others here?” gasped the American.
The Alphian was silent in astonishment.
“Why, where did you come from?” he asked, after a pause.
“From New York City.”
“I don't know of it, and yet I thought I knew of all the places inside the great endless wall.”
Johnston was mystified in his turn. “It is not in your country—your world, or whatever you call it. It is far away.”
“Ah, under the white sun! In the 'Ocean Country,' and the world of fierce winds and disease. And you are from there. I had heard of it before they banished me; but two days since I came across a dying man, away over there. He was huddled against the wall, and had fallen and killed himself in his efforts to climb back to food and light.
“I saw him die. He told me that he had come from your land when he was a child. His trouble was the lungs and he had fallen off to a skeleton. He talked to me of your wide ocean land. Is it, indeed so great? And has it no walls about it?”
“No, it is surrounded by water.”
“I cannot understand,” and, after a pause, in which Johnston could hear the great fellow's heart beating, he continued; “That must be the Heaven the man spoke about. And beyond the water is it always dark like this, and do they banish people there as the king has us?”
“No; beyond are other countries. But is there no chance for us to escape from here?”
The Alphian laughed bitterly. “None. What were you banished for?”
“I hardly know.”
“Hold out your arm. There,” as he grasped Johnston's arm in a clasp of iron, “I see; you are undeveloped, unfit—none but the healthy and strong are allowed to live in Alpha. It is right, of course; but it is hard to bear. But I must lie down. I am wearied with constant rambling. I am nervous too. I fell asleep awhile ago and dreamt I heard all my friends in a great clamoring body calling my name, 'Branasko!' and then I awoke and cried for help.”
As he spoke he sank with a sigh to the ground and rested his head on his elbows and knees and seemed asleep. The American sat down beside him, and, for a long time, neither spoke. Branasko broke the silence; he awoke with a start and eyed his companion in sleepy wonder.
“Ugh, I dreamt again,” he grunted, “are you asleep?”
“No,” was Johnston's reply. “I am hungry and thirsty and cannot sleep.”
“So am I, but we must wait till it is lighter, then we can go in search of food. When I was a boy I learned to catch fish in pools with my hands and it has prolonged my life here. When the light comes again, I shall show you how I do it.”
“Then the day does break? I thought it was eternally dark here.”
“It does not get very light, because we are behind the sun; but it is lighter than now, for we get the sun's reflection, enough at least to keep us from falling into the chasms.”
Branasko lowered his head to his knees and slept again, but the American, though wearied, was wakeful. Several hours passed. The Alphian was sleeping soundly, his breathing was very heavy and he had rolled down on his side.
Far away in the east the darkness gradually faded into purple, and then into gray, and slowly hints of pink appeared in the skies. It was dawn. Johnston touched his companion. The man awoke and looked at him from his great swollen eyes.
“It is day,” he yawned, rising and stretching himself.
“But the sun is not in sight.”
“No; it shows itself only in the middle of the day, and then but for a few minutes. We must go now and search for food. I will show you how to catch the eyeless fish in the black caverns over there.” And he led the American into the blackness behind them. Every now and then, as they stumbled along, Johnston would look longingly back toward the faint pink light that shone above the high black wall. But Branasko hastened on.
Presently they came to the edge of a black chasm and the American was filled with awe, for, from the seemingly fathomless depths, came a great roaring sound like that of a mighty wind and the air that came from it was hot, though pure and free from the odor of gas.
“What is this?” he asked.
“They are everywhere,” answered Branasko, “if it were not for their hot breathing the Land of the Changing Sun would be cold and damp.”
“Then the sun does not give out heat?”
“No.”
“It is cold?”
“I believe so, I have never thought much about it.”
The American was mystified, but he did not question farther, for Branasko was carefully lowering himself into the hot gulf.
“Follow me,” he said; “we must cross it to reach the caves. I will guide you. I have been over this way before.”
“But can we stand the heat?”
“Oh, yes; when we get used to it, it is invigorating. I perspire in streams, but I feel better afterward. Come on.”
Branasko's head only was above the ground. “I am standing on a ledge,” he said. “Get down beside me. Fear nothing. It is solid; besides, what does it matter? You can die but once, and it would really be better to fall down there into the internal fires than to starve slowly.”
Johnston shuddered convulsively as he let himself down beside Branasko. His foot dislodged a stone. With a crash it fell upon a lower ledge and bounded off and went whizzing down into the depths. Both men listened. They heard the stone bounding from ledge to ledge till the sound was lost in the internal roaring.
“It is mighty deep,” said Johnston.
“Yes, but follow me; we cannot stop here; we must go along this ledge till we get to the point where the chasm is narrow enough to jump across. I have done it.”
“The American held to his companion with one hand and the rock with the other, and they slowly made their way along the narrow ledge, pausing every now and then to rest. At every step the path grew more perilous and narrower, and the cliff on their left rose higher and higher, till the reflected light of the sun had entirely disappeared. At certain points the hot wind dashed upon them as furiously as the whirling mist in 'The Cave of Winds' at Niagara Falls. Once Johnston's foot slipped and he fell, but was drawn back to safety by the strong arm of the Alphian.
“Be careful; hold to the cliff's face,” warned Branasko indifferently, and he moved onward as if nothing unusual had occurred. Presently they reached a point where a narrow boulder jutted out over the chasm toward the opposite side, and Branasko cautiously crawled out upon it. When he had got to its end, Johnston could not see him in the gloom, but his voice came to him out of the roaring of the chasm.
“I can see the other side, and am going to jump.” An instant later, the American heard the clatter of the Alphian's shoes on the rock, and his grunt of satisfaction. Then Branasko called out: “Come on; crawl out till you feel the end of the rock, and then you can see me.”
In great trepidation the American slowly crawled out on the narrow rock. Below him yawned the hot darkness, above hung that black ominous canopy of nothingness. Slowly he advanced on hands and knees, every moment feeling the sharp rock growing narrower, till finally he reached the end. He looked ahead. He could but faintly see the ledge and Branasko's tall form silhouetted upon it.
“See, this is where you have to alight,” cried the Alphian. “Jump, I will catch you!”
“I am afraid I shall topple over when I stand up,” replied the American. “The rock is narrow and my head is already swimming. I fear I cannot reach you. It is no use.”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed Branasko. “Stand up quickly, and jump at once. Don't stop to think about it.”
Johnston obeyed. He felt his feet firmly braced on the rock and he sprang toward the opposite ledge with all his might. Branasko caught him.
“Good,” he grunted. “There is another place, we must jump again. It is further on.” Along this ledge they went for some distance, Branasko leading the way and holding the arm of the American.
“Now here we are, the chasm is a little wider, but the ledge on the other side is broader.” As he spoke he released Johnston's arm and prepared to jump. He filled his lungs two or three times. But he seemed to hesitate. “Pshaw, watching you back there has made me nervous. I never cared before. If I should happen to fall, go back to where we met, it is safer there without a guide than here.”
Without another word Branasko hurled himself forward. Johnston held his breath in horror, for Branasko's foot had slipped as he jumped. The Alphian had struck the opposite ledge, but not with his feet, as he intended. He clutched it with his hands and hung there for a moment, struggling to get a foothold in the emptiness beneath him.
“It's no use, I am falling; I can hold no longer!” And Johnston,—too terrified to reply,—heard the poor fellow's hands slipping from the rock, causing a quantity of loose stones to go rattling down below. With a low cry Branasko fell. An instant later Johnston heard him strike the ledge beneath, and heard him cry out in pain. Then all was still except the echoes of Branasko's cry, which bounded and rebounded from side to side of the chasm, and grew fainter and fainter, till it was submerged in the roaring below. Then there was a rattle of stones, and Branasko's voice sounded: “A narrow escape!” he said faintly. “I am on another ledge”—then after a slight pause, “it is much wider, I don't know how wide. Are you listening?”
“Yes, but are you hurt?”
“Not at all. Simply knocked the breath out of me for a moment. There is a cave behind me, and (for a moment there was silence) I can see a light ahead in the cave. I think it must be the reflection of the internal fire. Come down to me and we will explore the cavern, and see where the light comes from.”
“I can't get down there!” shouted Johnston, to make himself heard above a sudden increase in the roaring in the chasm, “there is no way.”
“Wait a moment!” came from the Alphian. “This ledge seems to incline upward.”
Johnston stood perfectly motionless, afraid to move from the ledge either to right or to left, and heard Branasko's footsteps along the rock beneath. “All right so far,” he called up, and his voice showed that he had gone to a considerable distance to the left, “the ledge seems to be still leading gradually upward. I think I can reach you.”
Fifteen minutes passed. The lone American could no longer hear Branasko's footsteps. Johnston was becoming uneasy and the hot air was causing his head to swim. He was thinking of trying to retrace his footsteps to a place of more security when he heard footsteps, and then the cheery voice of Branasko nearly opposite him across the chasm:
“Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“It is well; I have discovered a good pathway down to the cave, and a pool of fish besides. I have saved some for you. I was so hungry I had to eat. Now, you must jump over to me.”
“I cannot,” declared the American. “I cannot jump so far; besides, you failed.”
Branasko laughed. “I did not leap in the right direction. It is this point on which I am now standing that I should have tried to reach. Come, I will catch you.”
Johnston could not bear to be considered cowardly, so he stepped to the verge of the chasm and prepared to jump. His head felt more dizzy as he thought of the fathomless depths beneath, and the rush of hot air up the side of the cliff took his breath away, but he braced himself and said calmly: “All right, I am coming.” The next instant he sprang forward. Branasko caught him into his arms and they both rolled back on the level stone.
“Good,” cried the Alphian, trying to catch his breath, which Johnston had knocked out of him by the fall. “You did better than I; you are lighter.”
“Where shall we go now?” asked Johnston, regaining his feet and feeling of his legs and arms to see if he had broken any bones.
“Down this winding path to the place where I saw that light. I want to understand it. But you must first eat this fish. It is delicious. They are swarming in the pools below.”
“And water?” said Johnston.
“An abundance of it, and as cold as ice.”
As Branasko preceded him down the tortuous path, Johnston ate the raw fish eagerly. Presently they came to a deep pool of water, and both men threw themselves down on their stomachs and drank freely. After this they proceeded slowly for several hundred yards, and finally reached the entrance to the cave in which Branasko had seen the light. At that distance it looked like the light of some great conflagration reflected from the face of a cliff.
They entered the cave and made good progress toward the light, for it showed them the dangerous fissures, sharp boulders and stalactites. They had walked along in silence for several minutes when the Alphian stopped abruptly and turned to his companion. “What is the matter?” asked Johnston.
“It cannot come from the internal fires,” replied Branasko, “for the atmosphere grows cooler as we get nearer the light and away from the chasm.”
Johnston was too much puzzled to formulate a reply, and he simply waited for the Alphian to continue.
“Let's go on,” said Branasko; and in his tone and hesitating manner Johnston detected the first appearance of superstitious fear that he had seen in the brawny Alphian.