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

some—materialists for the most part—who contend that you are just as any one else. That is—a man.”

“Perhaps I am,” returned Watson, utterly confounded. He did not know what to say. He had never heard of a Kospian or a D'Hartian, nor of the Mahovisal. It made things difficult; he couldn't get started. Most of all, he wanted information; and, instead, he was being questioned. The best he could do was to equivocate.

As for the Rhamda, he frowned. Apparently his eager interest had been dashed with disappointment. But only slightly, as Watson could see; the man was of such culture and intellect as to have perfect control over his emotions. In his balance and poise he was very like Avec, and he had the same pleasing manner.

“My dear sir,” he began, “if you are really a man, then you can tell me something of great importance.”

“I” Chick retorted, “can tell you nothing until you first let me know just where I stand!”

Certainly there was a lack of common ground. Until one of them supplied it, there could be no headway. Watson realised that his whole future might revolve about the axis of his next words.

The Rhamda thought a moment, dubiously, like one who has had a pet theory damaged, though not shattered. Suddenly he spoke to the woman.

“Open the portal,” said he.

She stepped to the oval window, touched a latch, and swung the pane horizontally upon two pivots. Immediately the room was flooded with a strange effulgence, amber-like, soft and mellow, as real sunshine.

But it was NOT real sunshine!

The window was set in a rather thick wall, beyond which Watson could see a royal sapphiric sky, flecked with white and purple and amethyst-threaded clouds poised above a great amber sleeping sun.

It was the sun that challenged attention. It was so mild, and yet so utterly beyond what might be expected. In diameter it would have made six of the one Watson had known; in the blue distance, touching the rim of the horizon, it looked exactly like a huge golden plate set edgewise on the end of the earth.

And—he could look straight at it without blinking!

His thoughts ran back to the first account of the Rhamda. The man had looked straight at the sun and had been blinded. This accounted for it! The man had been accustomed to this huge, soft-glowing beauty. An amberous sun, deep yellow, sleeping; could it be, after all, dreamland?

But there were other things: the myriad tintinnabulations of these microscopic bells, never ceasing, musically throbbing; and now, the exotic delight of the softest of perfumes, an air barely tinted with violet and rose, and the breath of woodland wild flowers. He could not comprehend it. He looked at the purple clouds above the lotus sun, hardly believing, and deeply in doubt.

A great white bird dived suddenly out of the heavens and flew into the focus of his vision. In all the tales of his boyhood, of large and beautiful rocs and other birds, he had come across nothing like this. From the perspective it must have measured a full three hundred feet from tip to tip; it was shaped like a swan and flew like an eagle, with magnificent, lazy sweeps of the wings; while its plumage was as white as the snow, new fallen on the mountains. And right behind it, in pursuit, hurtled a huge black thing, fully as large and just as swift; a tremendous black crow, so black that its sides gave off a greenish shimmer.

Just then the woman closed the window. It was as well; Watson was only human, and he could hide his curiosity just so long and no longer. He turned to the Rhamda.

The man nodded. “I thought so,” said he with satisfaction, as one might who has proven a pet and previous theory.

Watson tried from another angle.

“Just who do you think I am, sir?”

The other smiled as before. “It is not what I may think,” he replied: “but what I know. You are the proof that was promised us by the great Rhamda Avec. You are—THE FACT AND THE SUBSTANCE!”

He waited for Watson's answer. Stupefaction delayed it. After a moment the Rhamda continued:

“Is it not so? Am I not right? You are surely out of the occult, my dear sir. You are a spirit!”

It took Chick wholly by surprise. He had been ready to deal with anything—but this. It was unreal, weird, impossible. And yet, why not? The professor had set out to remove forever the screen that had hitherto shrouded the shadow: but what had he revealed? What had the Spot disclosed? Unreality or REALITY? Which is which?

In the inspiration of the moment, Chick saw that he had reached the crossroads of the occult. There was no time to think; there was time only for a plunge. And, like all strong men, Watson chose the deeper water.

He turned to the Rhamda Geos.

“Yes,” said he quietly. “I—am a spirit.”