The Blind Spot by Homer Eon Flint and Austin Hall (ebook reader 8 inch .txt) 📕

while Chick reflected upon what she had said. In full rush of returning vigour his mind was working clearly and with analytical exactness.

For the first time he noticed a heaviness in the air, overladen, pregnant. He became aware of a strange, undercurrent of life; of an exceedingly faint, insistent sound, pulse-like and rhythmical, like the breathing undertones of multitudes. He was a city man, and accustomed to the murmuring throbs of a metropolitan heart. But this was very different.

Presently, amid the strangeness, he could distinguish the tinkle of elfin bells, almost imperceptible, but musical. The whole air was laden with a subdued music, lined, as it were, with a golden vibrancy of tintinnabulary cadence—distant, subdued, hardly more than a whisper, yet part of the air itself.

It gave him the feeling that he was in a dream. In the realms of the subconscious he had heard just such sounds—exotic and unearthly—fleeting and evanescent.

The notion of dreams threw his mind into sudden alertness. In an instant he was thinking systematically, and in the definite realisation of his plight.

The woman had spoken of “the Rhamda.” True, she had added a qualifying “Geos,” but that did not matter. Whether Geos or Avec, it was still the Rhamda. By this time Watson was convinced that the word indicated some sort of title—whether doctor, or lord, or professor, was not important. What interested Chick was identity. If he could solve that he could get at the crux of the Blind Spot.

He thought quickly. Apparently, it was Rhamda Avec who had trapped Dr. Holcomb. Why? What had been the man's motive? Watson could not say. He only knew the ethics of the deed was shaded with the subtleness of villainy. That behind it all was a purpose, a directing force and intelligence that was inexorable and irresistible.

One other thing he knew; the Rhamda Avec came out of the region in which he, Watson, now found himself. Rather, he could have come from nowhere else. And Watson could feel certain that somewhere, somehow, he would find Dr. Holcomb.

In that moment Watson determined upon his future course of action. He decided to state nothing, intimate nothing, either by word or deed, that might in any manner incriminate or endanger the professor. It was for him to learn everything possible and to do all he could to gain his points, without giving a particle of information in return. He must play a lone hand and a cautious one—until he found Dr. Holcomb.

The fact of his position didn't appall him. Somehow, it had just the opposite effect. Perhaps it was because his strength had come back, and had brought with it the buoyancy that is natural to health. He could sense the vitality that surrounded him, poised, potential, waiting only the proper attitude on his part to become an active force. Something tremendous had happened to him, to make him feel like that. He was ready for anything.

Five minutes passed. Watson was alert and ready when the woman returned, together with a companion. She smiled kindly, and announced:

“The Rhamda Geos.”

At first Chick was startled. There was a resemblance to Rhamda Avec that ran almost to counterpart. The same refinement and elegance, the fleeting suggestion of youth, the evident age mingled with the same athletic ease and grace of carriage. Only he was somewhat shorter. The eyes were almost identical, with the peculiar quality of the iris and pupil that suggested, somehow, a culture inherited out of the centuries. He was dressed in a black robe, such as would befit a scholar.

He smiled, and held out a hand. Watson noted the firm clasp, and the cold thrill of magnetism.

“You wish to speak with me?”

The voice was soft and modulated, resonant, of a tone as rich as bronze.

“Yes. Where am I—sir?”

“You do not know?”

It seemed to Watson that there was real astonishment in the man's eyes. As yet it had not come to Chick that he himself might be just as much a mystery as the other. The only question in his mind at the moment was locality.

“Is this the Blind Spot?”

“The Blind Spot!”—with the same lack of comprehension that the woman had shown. “I do not understand you.”

“Well, how did I get here?”

“Oh, as to that, you were found in the Temple of the Leaf. You were lying unconscious on the floor.”

“A temple! How did I get there, sir? Do you know?”

“We only know that a moment before there was nothing; next instant—you.”

Watson thought. There was a subconscious sound that still lingered in his memory; a sound full-toned, flooding, enveloping. Was there any connection—

“'The Temple of the Leaf,' you call it, sir. I seem to remember having heard a bell. Is there such a thing in that temple?”

The Rhamda Geos smiled, his eyes brightening. “It is sometimes called the Temple of the Bell.”

“Ah!” A pause, and Watson asked, “Where is this temple? And is this room a part of the building?”

“No. You are in the Sar-Amenive Hospital, an institution of the Rhamdas.”

The Rhamdas! So there were several of them. A sort of society, perhaps.

“In San Francisco?”

“No. San Francisco! Again I fail to understand. This locality is known as the Mahovisal.”

“The Mahovisal!” Watson thought in silence for a moment. He noted the extremely keen interest of the Rhamda, the ultra-intelligent flicker of the eyes, the light of query and critical analysis. “You call this the Mahovisal, sir? What is it: town, world or institution?”

The other smiled again. The lines about his sensitive mouth were susceptible of various interpretations: emotion, or condescension, or the satisfying feeling that comes from the simple vindication of some inner conviction. His whole manner was that of interest and respectful wonder.

“You have never heard of the Mahovisal? Never?”

“Not until this minute,” answered Watson.

“You have no knowledge of anything before? Do you know WHO YOU ARE?”

“I”—Watson hesitated, wondering whether he had best withhold this information. He decided to chance the truth. “My name is Chick Watson. I am—an American.”

“An American?”

The Rhamda pronounced the word with a roll of the “r” that sounded more like the Chinese “Mellican” than anything else. It was evident that the sounds were totally unfamiliar to him. And his manner was a bit indefinite, doubtful, yet weighted with care, as he slowly repeated the question:

“An American? Once more I don't understand. I have never heard the word, my dear sir. You are neither D'Hartian nor Kospian; although there are