A desk, also of old, carved teak, was covered with a clutter of papers, notebooks, leather-bound volumes. Egyptian tomb-figurines of blue faience, heavy scarabs of schist, Sumerian tablets inscribed with cuneiform inscriptions, served as paperweights. Above the desk a leering devil-mask, painted scarlet, black, and gold, snarled down from the wall, symbolic gold flames coiling from fanged mouth and dilated nostrils. Winfield gaped at it.
"Tibetan," said a quiet voice from behind him. "It represents Yama, King of Demons; in prehistoric Lemuria he was worshiped as Yamath, Lord of Fire."
Winfield flinched at the unexpected voice and turned to view his host, a lean saturnine individual of indeterminate age, wrapped in a gold and purple dressing-gown. His skin was sallow, his eyes dark and hooded, his black hair seal-slick, with a dramatic streak of pure silver that zigzagged from his right temple.
"You're Zarnak, I guess," blustered Winfield rudely. His host gave a slight smile. Seating himself behind the long, cluttered desk, he gestured toward a marble-topped table where decanters of cut crystal reposed.
"To quote an old adversary rather imprecisely, I have a doctorate in medicine from Edinburgh University, a doctorate in theology from Heidelberg, a doctorate in psychology from Vienna, and a doctorate in metaphysics from Miskatonic; my guests usually address me as Doctor Zarnak. Please help yourself to some brandy, and tell me of what service I can be."
Probably some damnable spic or dago rotgut, thought Winfield, taking up a bell-shaped glass. But from the first gulp, Winfield felt as though he were drinking liquid gold.
"Imperial Tokay," murmured Zarnak, opening a notebook and selecting a pen. “From the cellars of the late Emperor Franz-Joseph. Now: How can I help you?”
"IT’S these damned dreams, you know," began Parker Winfield, settling into a chair. "Always the same damned dream, night after night ... I’m sinking under the sea: At first, the water’s light green, like muttonfat jade, then darker, like turquoise, then malachite. Finally, it’s a green so dark it’s almost black. I ... I see huge stone blocks, thick with seaweed, slimy with mud. There’s a central building, a temple of some sort; virulent green light shines through the portal, luring me toward it—"
"Does this city have a name in your dream?" inquired Doctor Zarnak. Winfield’s weak mouth twisted sneeringly.
“Sure does! Nonsense, though ... 'Arlyah.' "
Zarnak made a note in a small, precise hand. “Please continue,” he said softly. Winfield shrugged uncomfortably.
"That’s really all there is," he admitted. "Except that in the dream. I'm damnably afraid! And every night I get nearer and nearer to that green-lit portal ... before I wake, drenched in cold perspiration. And then, there’s the chanting, you know ... some damnable Eastern gobbledygook ... sheer mumbo-jumbo ...."
“Can you recite any of it?” asked Zarnak. The other nodded, with a small shudder.
“Certainly can: I’ve heard the nonsensical words often enough ... sounds like 'fuh, nug, louis, muggle, waffle, klool, yu, arlyah, waggle, naggle, fong.' "
He broke off, eves defensive. "You must think I’m nuts! Everybody does. Tell me to see an analyst, but they’re just a bunch of witch-doctors after your wallet!"
"Have you consulted a physician of any kind concerning these dreams of yours?"
Winfield nodded. "Dr. Cartwright on Park Avenue; family physician, you know."
"An excellent man," murmured Zarnak. “What was his conclusion?”
Winfield laughed harshly. "Too much champagne, too late hours, not enough exercise, rich diet ... that sort of thing."
“I believe that when you phoned you mentioned that it was Miss van Velt who suggested that you consult me?” Zarnak murmured meditatively.
"Yes, it was Muriel," Winfield muttered. "I thought you'd be some fancy, high-priced nerve specialist on Fifth Avenue or Sutton Place ... why in the world do you live down in this filthy neighborhood?" Winfield suddenly asked.
Zarnak smiled. "The denizens of River Street and its environs know how to mind their own business, since many of them hide guilty secrets in their hearts and a lack of curiosity about their neighbors is an excellent means of preserving their own lives. Also, I have many scholarly colleagues among the Asian populace down here, and thus access to obscure and arcane information ... but let me change the subject, if I may. You mentioned muttonfat jade and gemstones a moment or so earlier; may I assume that you collect antiquities or rare minerals?"
Parker Winfield smirked. "Not me! Know next to nothing about that sort of stuff. But my grandfather, now, he collected all sorts of oddities, from all over."
"Indeed. Was your grandfather born to wealth, or did he establish the family income?" asked Zarnak.
"Gramps? He was in the China trade; all over the Pacific—Indonesia, the Carolines—”
“Ponape?” hazarded Doctor Zarnak.
"Most likely. Not sure where they are, the Carolines, but if they’re in the Pacific, Gramps was there. Brought home a load of junk, Gramps did. Been in storage for years and years, since we closed the country estate and sold it off. Odd you should mention Gramps and his collection; I’ve been unpacking some of it, now that I’ve opened my new apartment. Got an extra room I've fitted out for his collection; nothing else to put in there."
"How very interesting! I should like to visit, just to compare: one antiquarian collection with another. May I call tomorrow morning?"
Winfield looked uneasy. "Thought you'd have some surefire way to get rid of my bad dreams," he complained. “Muriel said—"
Zarnak spoke soothingly. "There are one or two things I could try, but I need more information. There is nothing that I can do at this late hour, and, besides, I am expecting another visitor. But permit me to call on you tomorrow morning, and explore your new residence. There may be something about the apartment that has been causing you to have these dreams of a city in the sea."
"Ghosts, you mean!" demanded Winfield scornfully. "Think the place is haunted, do you?"
Zarnak spread his hands. “Who can say what psychic residue may have been left by former residents? I am sensitive to atmospheres; give me a chance to help you.”
He rose, touched a bell. “My servant will see you out.”
"Hindu, ain't he?" asked Winfield.
"Ram Singh is a Rajput," replied Zarnak. "They are a princely race of noble warriors."
“Where do you find a servant like that? My man Rufus is all right, but I'd give plenty for a fellow like the one you’ve got working for you—”
Zarnak asked, without expression: “Have you ever heard much of werewolves?"
Winfield stared at him. "Like in those old Lon Chaney movies, you mean? Certainly! Bur what's that got to do with India?"
“In India, they have were-tigers," said Zarnak tunelessly. “I was able to save Ram Singh from one. To reply to your question, you cannot hire a Rajput servant, but you can earn their lifelong gratitude and service. A Rajput chooses his own master, and not the other way around.”
"Your hat and coat, sir.” said Ram Singh from the doorway.
When Parker Winfield had left. Zarnak sat down at his desk to look at his notes.
After a moment, under the line of “gibberish" his visitor had heard from the chanting in his dreams, Zarnak wrote in a precise hand: Ph’nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.
Under the name of the sea-drowned city, which Winfield had given him, phonetically, as "Arlyah", he wrote a single name: R'lyeh.
Ram Singh appeared in the doorway.
"Sahib, the Doctor de Grandin is arriving."