For a moment, a long moment, Alan Sterling hesitated; in fact, until the uncanny quality of these words had penetrated to his brain. Then he realized, as others had realized before him, that Dr. Fu Manchu had been reading his thoughts. He stood quite still; he was recovering from the effects of the assault which had terminated his memories of Rowan House, and now was capable of standing unsupported.
“There is a monastery in Thibet,” the cold voice proceeded;
“it is called Rache Churan. Those who have studied under the masters of Rache Churan have nothing to fear from Western violence. Forget your projects. Rejoice only that you live—if you value life.”
CHAPTER 27
THE PIT AND THE FURNACE
Alan Sterling stood upon a wooden platform, clutching a rusty iron rail and looking down upon a scene which reminded him of nothing so much as an illustration of Dante’s Inferno.
Dim figures, inhuman, strangely muffled like animated Egyptian mummies, moved far below. Sometimes they were revealed when the door of some kind of furnace was opened, to disappear again like phantom forms of a nightmare, when the door was closed. A stifling heat rose from the pit.
“The simile of a mummy has occurred to you,” said the voice of Dr. Fu Manchu out of the darkness, that strange voice which stressed gutturals and lent to sibilants a quality rarely heard in the voice of an English speaker. “You are ignorant of Ancient Egyptian ritual, or other images would occur to you. In point of fact, these workers are protected against the poisonous fumes generated at certain points in the experiment now taking place below. These gases do not reach us here. They are consumed by a simple process and dispersed by means of a ventilation shaft. Pray continue to descend.”
Sterling, clutching the rusty iron rail, went down more wooden steps.
To some degree he was regaining mastery of himself, but his brain failed to suggest any plan of action other than to accept the orders of the uncanny being into whose power, once again, he had fallen. Something which Nayland Smith had said, long, long ago—he was quite unable to recall when— came buzzing through his brain like a sort of refrain:
“Behind a house which we have passed a hundred times, over a hill which we have looked at every morning for months together, on the roof of a building in which we have lived, beneath a pavement upon which we walk daily, there are secret things which we don’t even suspect. Dr. Fu Manchu has made it his business to seek out these secret things. . . .”
Here was the theory demonstrated! He was in a trap: he hadn’t the remotest idea where he was. This ghastly place might be anywhere within a fifty mile radius of the house in Surrey. He must wait for a suitable opening; try to plan ahead. He went on down the steps; the heat grew greater and greater. Dr. Fu Manchu followed him.
“Stop!” the harsh voice directed.
And Sterling stopped.
One thing there was which gave him power to control his emotion, which gave him strength to temporize, patience to wait: Fleurette was alive!
Some wizardry of the Chinese physician had perverted her outlook. He, Sterling, had seen such cases before in households belonging to Dr. Fu Manchu. The man’s knowledge was stupendous—he could play upon the strongest personality as a musician plays upon an instrument in an orchestra.
“You will presently observe something phenomenal.” The high voice continued, “something which has not occurred for several centuries. The mating of the elements. At the moment of transmutation, the fumes to which I have referred escape to a certain extent from the furnace.”
Sterling paused, looking down into the hot darkness.
“My facilities here are limited,” Dr. Fu Manchu continued, “and I am using primitive methods. I am cut off from my once great resources—to a certain extent by the activities of your friend—” he stressed the word, speaking it upon a very high note—”Sir Denis Nayland Smith. But it is possible to light a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together, if your burning glass is absent or if one has no matches. The work is about to complete itself——” his voice rose to a key which Sterling had thought, before, indicated that Nayland Smith was right when he had declared Dr. Fu Manchu to be a brilliant madman. “Note the fires of union!”
The heat of the place as they descended nearer and nearer to the furnace was becoming almost unendurable. But now came a loud and vicious crackling, the clang of metal, and the furnace door was thrown open.
A blaze of light from the white-hot fire poured across the floor below. Mummy-like figures moved in it to approach that miniature hell, now extending instruments resembling long narrow tongs.
From the white heat of the furnace they grabbed what looked like a ball of light, and lowered it to the floor.
The furnace doors were reclosed by two more mummy-like figures which appeared out of the shadows.
The scene became more and more fantastic. The incandescent globe was shattered. Where it had been, Sterling saw a number of objects resembling streaks of molten metal; their glow grew dim and more dim.
“This work,” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “will engage your attention in the immediate future. You have grossly interfered with my plans in the past, and I might justly and perhaps wisely, kill you. Unfortunately, I am short of labour at the moment, and you are a physically strong man——”
“You mean,” asked Sterling, “that you are going to make me work down in that hell?”
“I fear it must be so——” the speaker’s voice was very sibilant. “Continue to the base of the stairs.”
And Sterling, descending, found himself at the bottom of the huge black shaft. The furnace was closed—the Inferno dimly lighted. Not one of the mummy-wrapped figures was to be seen. But the heat——
A tunnel sloped away on his right. Far down it, a solitary lantern appeared, as if to indicate its clammy extent—for, as he could see, this tunnel dripped with moisture and its floor was flooded in places. A grateful coolness was perceptible at the entrance to this unwholesome looking burrow.
“You will observe,” said Dr. Fu Manchu—who invariably spole as if addressing a class of students—”that the temperature is lower here than on the stairs. We are actually a hundred and twenty feet below the surface. . . . We will return.”
The authority behind Dr. Fu Manchu’s orders had a quality which created awe, without making for resentment. Sterling had expereinced in the past this imposition of the Chinaman’s gigantic will. The power of Fu Manchu’s commands lay in his acceptance of the fact that they would never be questioned.
He passed the Chinaman, stepped on to the narrow stair, and clutching the iron rail proceeded upwards.
“It may interest you to learn,” came the harsh voice from behind him, “that human flesh is excellent fuel in relation to this particular experiment. . . .”
Sterling made no reply . . . the implication was one he did not care to dwell upon. He remembered that Dr. Fu Manchu had said, “I had intended to incinerate your body.”
These stairs with their rusty hand-rails, seemed all but interminable. Descent had been bad enough, but this return journey, following on the spectacle below, was worse. Vague gleams from the pit fitfully lighted the darkness. From behind, Dr. Fu Manchu directed a light upon the crude wooden steps. . . .
Sterling found himself back again in a curiously high, narrow, brick corridor which led to the vault in which he had first awakened. He had just passed a low door, deep sunken in brickwork, when:
“Stop,” the imperious voice directed.
There came a sound of rapping on the door—that of a bolt shot free—a faint creaking.