Out of the Silence (Sci-Fi Classic). Erle Cox
mind on it. It was about eleven in the morning when he had adjusted the weights and started the wheels, and he had decided that he would not return until four o'clock. It took a good deal of self-discipline to adhere to his determination. However, he succeeded, but it must be confessed that the author of "The Origin and Development of Moral Ideas" never had a less enthusiastic reader. At last! He flung the heavy volume on the table and hurried to the shaft; then downward. He had noticed in the morning that until he had half completed his ascent he could hear the sound of the flying blade. Now, on the way down he strained his ears to catch every sound. As he went lower and lower his heart beat faster, now and then he paused to listen, and then hope became conviction. Even when he had reached the lower landing and stood before the shadowy figure no sound broke the silence. He hurried onwards, quivering with excitement. As he stepped down into the lower stairway he saw in an instant that the blade had ceased its movement. He took his bar and carefully tested the danger step, but this time without result. His way was clear at last. Even so, he knew the risk of any relaxation in his precautions. He had gained too wholesome a respect for the abilities of the builders in the way of unpleasant surprises to have any illusions that there was nothing more to follow. Treading as delicately as a cat he went down the remaining steps.
At last he stood on the lower floor. The lamp showed up a wonderful pattern of mosaic that radiated from the sculptured group in the centre, so that he seemed to stand on a vast jewelled carpet. Everywhere the white light fell it was flashed back from a thousand gleaming multi-coloured points of light. It seemed sacrilege to set foot upon it, and Alan felt pleased that his rubber-shod shoes would not be likely to mar its beauty.
His first idea was to examine that strange ball of light that projected its rays through the landing above, and, walking carefully, a few steps brought him before it. The most minute scrutiny failed to show any attachment to the tripod. It looked like the lens from a lantern that had been carefully placed to throw its rays in the desired direction. For a long time he stared, hesitating to touch it. Holding his hand within an inch before it he found not the slightest trace of warmth. "Light without heat," Alan murmured, bending over and gazing into the brilliant glare. He touched the lens with a tentative finger, expecting developments. Nothing happened. Then he boldly closed his hand over it, and without difficulty lifted it from its stand. He turned it over and over, sending its dazzling rays erratically round the vestibule. All he could discover was that behind the lens appeared to be a cavity containing something self-luminous, but whether liquid or gas he could not determine. Set deep in it was a tiny opaque human figure–the origin of that spectre that had caused Dundas his wild stampede. Alan chuckled when he realised the simplicity of the cause of the nerve-racking effect. "Cold; perfectly cold," he muttered. "And yet how may centuries has it been spreading that light? What a thing! Why, the formula for making that light alone would stagger half the world. I wonder how the Standard Oil Company, for instance, would view the idea as a commercial rival. Or the electric lighting companies or the gas companies. No oil–no wires–no pipes–no nuffin, just light. Guess I could retire on this alone. Seems to me I'll have to do some pretty solid thinking before I'm through with this business." He replaced the lens carefully in its original position and turned to the centre of the vestibule, taking his stand beneath the group on the pedestal. From here he saw to the full the wonderful beauty of the place. It seemed with its exquisite soft lighting like a chapel in some cathedral. Each doorway was quite twenty feet in width, and extended almost to the roof. It was hard to believe that the light that filtered through was not the light of day.
He was now able to inspect the remaining figures at his leisure. They were both statues of men, and were doubtless from the same hand as the one he had examined from the stairway. One was represented seated in a high-backed chair, looking down at a strange instrument he held in his hand. His face was one that blended in a high degree both intellect and benevolence. The features were perfectly regular, and the slight smile that marked the corners of the lips took away any trace of hardness. "I should say," reflected Alan, "that you were a jolly good sport in your time. Fifty if you were a day, and your heart was never older than fifteen. I should like to have had a smoke and a yarn with you, and that's more than I would wish for with the imperial gentleman beside you. Humph! Now, he was never younger than fifty." The other figure stood stiffly erect. His robe fell in straight folds to his feet. His whole attitude was one of overbearing arrogance and command. The right arm pointed rigidly before him in the superb gesture of one who has the right and the power to enforce obedience. The head was held high. It was not a cruel face, but it was haughty and pitiless, without one redeeming and softening feature, but at the same time there was nobility about it that conveyed the idea of unswerving devotion to ideals. As Alan expected, he found beneath each figure a repetition of the other inscriptions at the entrance. He looked up again at the tall, commanding figure above him.
"By Jove!" he thought, "I'd not care to come before you for sentence, my friend; you look as if you'd give a man ten years hard for a plain drunk and disorderly. Shouldn't be surprised if you had a finger in the building of this place, the nasty parts, at any rate." He paused, and followed with his eyes the direction of the outstretched hand. "By Jove! Now I wonder–it does look as though he were ordering me to try that door first." For a long time Alan looked round the vestibule thoughtfully. It was to him a matter of indifference which door he approached first. From where he stood there was nothing to choose between them. There appeared to be no reason for preference and yet, that commanding figure seemed to speak with a voice more eloquent than words. He looked from the door to the figure. "I may seem prejudiced, but I don't like the look of you, my friend. If I try that door I may get a cracked skull or a broken neck or some other delicacy not in season. It looks too easy a solution of my choice. If you'll pardon my discourtesy I think I'll try the opposite one." He turned, and, walking round the group, went slowly towards the opposite side of the vestibule. He trod carefully, feeling each step as he went. It was well for him that he had not relaxed his guard. He was within twelve feet of the door he was approaching, when, without a sound, just as his outstretched foot touched the pavement before him, a great section of it, fully ten feet wide and as long as the width of the door, swung over as if on an axis, disclosing a black gulf below, and then as swiftly returned to its place. It made absolutely no sound or jar in its movement, and the very silence added to the shock that Dundas felt at the narrowness of his escape. He had thrown himself back at the first movement, instinctively, but even then he was scarcely able to retain his balance. How he had escaped treading on the trap as he walked from the stairway in the first place he could not conceive. He could only have missed it by a few inches. He sat down and wiped his forehead while he recovered from the nervous jolt his latest experience of the peculiarities of the vestibule had given him, and while he considered his position he delivered himself aloud of his whole-souled opinion of the originators of the scheme. He leaned forward and scrutinised the pavement carefully, but, search as he would, he could discover no trace of the line along which it had opened. Then he pressed forwards with his hand until he felt it give again. He had one fleeting glimpse of the chasm below, and drew back more than satisfied with his experiment. "Lucky for me," he murmured, "that it was adjusted so delicately; had it worked the least bit stiffly my exploring would have terminated somewhere in the dark. Whew! What a place!"
He sat up again and looked round. "Well, I'll try the door his majesty commands me to, but I'll do it on my hands and knees. I won't be had that way again. The attitude may be ridiculous, but it's tolerably safe–if anything is safe here." He returned to the pedestal, and in a humble and lowly manner, testing each inch of the pavement before him, he approached the doors on the opposite side. He was so intent in his watch for a repetition of his former danger that he did not notice the progress he was making. His face was close to the floor, and his eyes were fixed on the glittering mosaic, when suddenly he started backward. He had heard no sound, but without the slightest warning a great brightness poured over him. It was as if the midday sun had blazed out suddenly from twilight. An involuntary cry of amazement escaped him. Of their own accord the doors had parted in the middle and swung wide open, flooding the vestibule with light, and disclosing what lay beyond.
CHAPTER XI
Dundas rose slowly to his feet, and then