Out of the Silence (Sci-Fi Classic). Erle Cox
square, and with these and some twine he hurried back to the shaft. "Now, my friends," he said, as he seated himself on his box before the recess. "We'll see who knows most." Holding a piece of the cloth-cased rubber carefully in his fingers, he pressed it to the knob with, as he expected, entire success, for his simple non-conductor answered his purpose. Then he folded the cloth carefully about the shank, and fastened it in place with twine, working gingerly, so as to keep his hands from coming into contact with the other danger points. Then he treated the other three in the same manner, and found he could handle them all without fear.
So far so good. Now what were the knobs for? How were they to be operated? A few tentative presses and twists soon found an answer. Each one could move in four directions, for deep in the cement the shanks worked on a pivot that allowed the knobs to follow the lines of the crossed grooves, up or down, and right or left, and realising this, Alan realised, too, that he was face to face with a problem that might baffle him for an indefinite time. That the door could be operated by the knobs he felt certain, but he felt more certain that he was faced by a cunningly contrived combination lock that would test his wits to the uttermost before he won success.
There were in all five positions, counting the upright, in which each knob might be placed, and there were four knobs. "Now bless my soul," Dundas murmured, "I wonder how many thousand variations the dashed things are capable of, and must I go on fiddling with them until I'm grey-headed? Reminds me of how many places nine men in a boat can be put in. Only this is worse."
With a silent prayer for patience he began to work, moving the levers to and fro, trying them systematically in rotation, combination after combination, till his arms ached from being held in the one position, and his fingers almost refused to do his bidding. Then in the end he sat back and filled his pipe. So busy had he been that time had passed unnoticed, and it was only the clamouring of an angry stomach that directed his attention to the hour, and he found to his surprise that night had fallen while he worked. Another night, and he was still outside the longed-for goal! It was no use going on, he told himself. For all he knew, unless he stumbled on the right combination by accident, it might take him weeks or months to exhaust all possible variations of the levers. Stiff and tired, he dragged himself to the surface, and then to the homestead, disgusted with his failure.
Alan set out for the shed next morning in a cheerful mood, and with the determination to stick to his task, in spite of failure. He had re-charged his lamp, and he set to work, whistling light-heartedly. Following up his first idea, he commenced by numbering the levers from one to four, and then he moved them alternatively in numerical rotation, thus avoiding a repetition of variations. It was a tiresome task, but he relieved the monotony with an occasional pause for a smoke, and to stretch his cramped limbs. As time passed his movements became mechanical. He leaned forward with his face close to the recess, and his elbows against the wall to relieve his tired body, for he found his occupation more trying than the hard manual work that had preceded it. He was thinking vaguely that it was about time for lunch, when he suddenly started up. He had heard nothing move, but some subtle sense told him of a change. He turned his head slightly, and an involuntary cry broke from his lips. The mighty door had disappeared, and he was staring into the blackness beyond where it had been.
CHAPTER VIII
For a little space Alan could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes. With wildly beating heart and shaking hands he reached for his lamp, and without rising from his seat he turned its glare into the gloom beyond. Then he sat staring before him, big-eyed and wondering. What he saw was a bare circular apartment about twelve feet in diameter. Immediately inside the doorway was a small landing not more than 3 feet square, surrounded on two sides by a balustrade of the same familiar concrete about three feet high, while from the third side appeared a flight of steps that curved with the wall down into the darkness. Right before him near the low ceiling on the opposite wall his eyes were held by a tablet, on which stood out in bold relief three groups of characters, one below the other. The characters were evenly spaced, the top group having three, the middle four, and the lower one six. Moving his light slightly from side to side, Alan's eyes rested on the doorway. "Well! May I be hanged, what's become of the door?" for truly it had vanished. He had heard no sound as it opened, and within there was no trace of it. Then with a chuckle of pleasure he solved the mystery: there was a foot-wide groove where it had been, and flashing his light to his feet he saw that it had slipped downwards into the thickness of the wall till its upper edge came exactly to a level with the floor.
Allowing for eighteen inches outside, a foot for the thickness of the door, and another eighteen inches inside Alan estimated the thickness of the wall to be about four feet, and four feet of such material as he knew it to be composed of meant practical indestructibility. In spite of his quivering excitement, Dundas held himself in hand. His previous experience had made him very wary, and the possibility of unpleasant results made him curb his impatience to investigate further. Without leaving his seat, he turned the light over every visible portion of the interior. Again the tablet with its bold inscription took his eye, and he studied the characters long and thoughtfully. "It might be an address of welcome," he mused, "or, again, it might be a notice to keep off the grass. Looks like a mixture of Russian and Hebrew, with a dash of Persian. Anyway, it's been dead a lot longer than any of the dead languages I've rubbed against, and methinks I'll find no Rosetta stone lying about." Then he turned his light to the winding staircase. "It would appear," he went on, half to himself, "as if I'd found an entrance from the attic, and if I go downstairs I'll come on the furnished apartments." He half rose, but came to rest again in answer to a warning thought. "Alan, my son, it behoves you to move carefully, or you may find yourself in a nasty fix. The architects of this problematically desirable building were no second-raters."
First he turned to the levers, and after carefully noting their position, he again commenced to work them. Watching the door carefully, and as nothing occurred he returned them to the combination that had gained him entrance. Then he went to his tool shed and procured a crowbar. Armed with this he returned to the doorway, and while standing outside he carefully tested the landing within for any hidden trap that might lead to trouble. He satisfied himself that all was secure, and then took up his lamp and stepped over the threshold. Standing on the landing he turned his light into the darkness below him, but all he could see was the stairway winding down into the blackness beyond the lamp's rays. As the chamber was about twelve feet in diameter, and the stairway about three feet wide, it followed that there was a circular shaft about six feet across down the middle leading to goodness only knew where. Strain his eyes as he would, Dundas could only penetrate the darkness some twenty or thirty feet, where the light caught on the winding balustrade below. He returned to the outside of the shaft and picked up a small piece of clay, and, holding it well over, he let it drop, and listened intently. In the silence he heard the whiz of its passage through the air, but no sound of its fall. He straightened up, and looked about thoughtfully, and as he did so, the light falling on the balustrade drew his attention to a small but significant matter. He rubbed his finger carefully over its smooth surface, and then examined it under the lamp. "Not a trace. Not a particle of dust. And yet–countless centuries–good God! What does it all mean?" He broke off, murmuring disjointedly. One thing was clear to his mind. It would be madness to attempt to descend without ascertaining as far as possible the state of the air in the shaft.
Back to the homestead he hurried, and after rummaging in the drawer of his sideboard he found several fishing lines, then from its hook in the kitchen he took a hurricane lamp, and with these he returned to the shed. He lit the hurricane lamp and attached it to one of his lines, and, leaning over the balustrade, he lowered it slowly, using a short piece of wood with a groove in the end to keep the lamp in the centre of the shaft, and prevent it from striking against the balustrade in its descent. He played out his line carefully yard after yard, and watched the glow grow fainter and fainter as the depth increased.
At twenty yards his line ran out, and he attached another, and continued lowering. By hanging over and watching carefully he could follow the course of the lamp, but it was too far down for him to distinguish anything. Then the second line came to an end, another twenty yards, or one