The Island of Fu-Manchu (27 page)

But now this man’s sophistries began to infuriate me.

“I regard the heads of such States as glorified gunmen, Mr. Horton. Their methods (I grant the parallel) are the methods of any other criminal.”

“But consider how different their ends are from ours.”

“However noble you believe these to be, I cannot agree that the end justifies the means.”

“Well, well—I am instructed to pass you over to someone who may adjust your standpoint, Mr. Kerrigan.” He stood up. “If you will please come this way.”

He opened a door and invited me to follow. I thought he seemed to be a little crestfallen, as if my obstinacy saddened him. Certainly, one less like a desperate criminal than James Ridgwell Horton it would have been difficult to find. And now, as I walked along an uncarpeted and dimly lighted corridor by his side, a ghastly explanation of his presence there occurred to me. He was dead!

I was in the company of a
zombie
; a soulless intelligence; a robot controlled by a master wizard.

Before an arched opening a green light was burning. Even as Horton stopped, a swift sensation, as of momentary dropping of temperature, warned me of the identity of him to
whom
I was being conducted. He touched a button, and a heavy panelled door slid noiselessly open. On its threshold stood Hassan, the white Nubian!

“Mr. Kerrigan is expected,” said Horton, and Hassan stood aside.

I went in, and the heavy door closed behind me. But the appearance of Hassan had gone far to revive my waning courage. Did it mean that Ardatha was here?

The place was a lobby, lighted by a square, silk lantern and pervaded by a curious perfume: another door was beyond.

“Wait, please.”

Hassan opened the further door, stepped in and immediately came out again, indicating with a movement of one huge, muscular hand that I should enter. Clenching my teeth, I went into a small library. There were volumes on the shelves of a character which I had never come across before. The only illumination was provided by a globular lamp on a square, black pedestal set on a large desk. Upon this desk lay a number of books and papers and other objects which I had no leisure to observe.

For, seated behind the desk, in a grotesquely carved ebony chair, was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

H
e wore a white linen coat, similar to that worn by Marriot Doughty; on his head was a black skull-cap. He glanced at me as I entered—and I avoided his glance: it was a protective instinct.

“Be seated, Mr. Kerrigan. You have not failed to note contusion and a slight abrasion in the neighbourhood of my left maxillary muscle. Had your very forceful blow struck me on the bone structure I fear that the damage might have been more serious.”

As I sat down facing him, I ventured to look. His left jaw was bruised and cut. Perhaps his quiet, deliberate speech was responsible (he spoke, in a sense, perfect English, but gave each syllable an equal value which made familiar words sound strange) or perhaps sudden, hot resentment—resentment of all he stood for—inspired me; but, “A long cherished ambition is realized,” I said. “At least I have hit you
once
.”

He toyed with a jade snuff-box which lay upon the desk; his disconcerting eyes grew filmed. That sensitive hand, with its long, tended finger-nails, fascinated me.

“I bear no malice, Mr. Kerrigan. Animal courage is not one of the higher human qualities; but it is a quality, nevertheless, and I respect it—I can use courage. You have it. I welcome you. I absorb gladly all that is useful in the animal kingdom. Suitably directed, such a specialized army can defeat great—but ignorant—hosts.”

His voice, as always, was acting upon me like a drug. There was something of the inevitable, superhuman, a quality akin to those hidden but known forces of Nature, in his mere presence.

“You have met some of the Companions whom you believed to be dead. No doubt you have studied the tradition of the
zombie—
a tradition which persists in Haiti. Persistent traditions always rest on fact. It was exactly sixty years ago today that I devoted myself to a close examination of this subject. I had heard, as no doubt you have heard, of dead men working under the orders of witch-doctors: these automata were known as
‘zombies’.
There are examples in Haiti at the present moment; and I do not refer to my own experiments.”

During the weeks that had elapsed since I had faced Dr. Fu-Manchu in that underground laboratory beside the Thames a marked change had taken place in him. Then I had thought him dying; now he was restored to his supernormal self.

“Those hapless creatures are not—as superficial observers have supposed—a kind of vampire, a corpse reanimated by sorcery; they are the products of a form of slow poisoning which induces catalepsy. When buried, they are not in fact dead. The Voodoo man disinters them and bends them to his purpose. They have no conscious identity; they remain slaves of his will.”

Opening the jade box, he raised a pinch of snuff to his nostrils.

“After researches which led me from Haiti to Central Africa, to the Sudan, and finally to Egypt, I discovered the nature of the drugs used and the manner of their administration. The process was known to the priests of Thebes. I was quick to realize that its possession placed a power in my hands which should secure for me mastery of every other secret in Nature!”

His voice rose. His brilliant green eyes, fully opened, revealed momentarily the mad fanaticism which inspired him. I had a glimpse of that terrifying genius which more than once had shaken governments.

“I determined, Mr. Kerrigan, to establish a corner in brains. For the purpose of carrying out those numerous experiments in physics, botany, zoology, biology, which I had projected, I would secure a staff of researchers from the best intellects in those sciences.” He tapped the jade snuff-box with a long, varnished finger-nail. “I sought my staff all over the world, employing the resources of the Si-Fan to aid me. I was not invariably successful; nevertheless, I secured a notable collection of first-class brains. My conquest of that age-old mystery, the Elixir Vitae, enabled me to arrest senility in suitable cases—as, for example, in my own.”

He stood up, and stepping to a door recessed between bookcases, pressed a button. The door slid open.

“Since you are to remain with us as an active participant, if you choose, in our work to create a sane world (but since, in any event, you will remain) I shall give you an opportunity of judging of our labours before any decision is demanded of you.”

A man came in, a young man who had an untidy mop of dark brown hair and very steadfast hazel eyes. He was a powerful fellow, wore blue overalls and had the hands of a toiler; but when he spoke I knew that he was a man of culture.

“Companion Allington,” said Dr. Fu-Manchu, “this is Mr. Bart Kerrigan. As you are of about one age, I thought he might appreciate your company as guide. You may show him anything that he wishes to see.”

“Delighted, Mr. Kerrigan, and much obliged to you, sir.”

As I followed my new acquaintance along a short passage and out into a tree shaded courtyard, I thought that he had used just the words and just the tone of one speaking to his commanding officer.

* * *

“Do you mean that you are Squadron Leader Allington?”

“Well I used to be,” said Allington, grinning, cheerfully. “Only regret I’m out of the Service because I’m missing the gorgeous show over there.”

“You held the Royal Air Force altitude record.”

“Yes, for a time. Then I tried to be too clever on a non-stop flight and crashed into the Timor Sea. Remember?”

“Well, I remember you were missing. Were you—?”

I hesitated, looking almost furtively into those smiling eyes.

“Killed? Oh, no! I’m not one of the
conscripts
; I’m a volunteer!”

He laughed gaily, grasping my arm and leading me in the direction of a long, low building on the right. But his reference to “the conscripts” had turned me cold.

“Do you mean that you voluntarily joined the—”

“The Si-Fan? Yes, rather. So will you when the time comes. I was picked up by a steamer which happened to belong to them, you see. You have a lot to learn yet, Kerrigan. Whatever your job may be, this is the most wonderful service in the world.”

He selected a key from a number attached to a chain and opened the door of what I assumed to be one of a range of garages. If there had never been a Fuehrer or a Duce—one who had persuaded an entire nation to believe in his godlike mission—I should have been unable to trust my senses, to credit my reason; but what such men could do, certainly Dr. Fu-Manchu could improve upon.

“Here we are,” said Allington, wheeling the wide doors apart. “You’ve got to see my taxis first, whether you want to or not!”

His buoyant enthusiasm, his typical Air Force manner, at that time and in those circumstances, I bracket in my memories with the informative remarks of Dr. Marriot Doughty as he had conducted me to my interview with Fu-Manchu.

I found myself to be in a place resembling a long garage. Some twenty machines were there in line. At first sight they looked like small monoplanes; further inspection led to confusion. Squadron Leader Allington laughed.

“Screams, aren’t they?” he cried. “No undercarriage, no propeller! And”—he tapped my shoulder knowingly—“how do you suppose we get ’em into the air?”

It was a poser. There was no airfield outside; no runway.

“Look!”

He moved a lever. That section of roof immediately above the machine which I had been inspecting, swung open. I saw the sky.

“Straight up, Kerrigan! Even a hawk needs a take-off; but these birds rise straight from their heels.”

“How?”

“One of our conscripts, Professor Swain—whose name you may have heard—discovered a meteoric substance in Poland (his native land) which was anti-gravitational—”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that these planes are fitted with an insulated disc of Swainsten (named after its discoverer) which, when exposed, or partially exposed, to the earth’s influence, sends the bus flying upwards towards some unknown planet for which Swainsten has so keen an affinity that it overcomes gravity and atmosphere to get there! Uncontrolled, one would reach the stratosphere!”

“But—”

“The Swainsten disc is operated from the controls. The pilot can climb at terrific speed, or hover. It’s simply miraculous. I have learned, since I came here, that I didn’t know the first thing about flying! You begin to feel the fascination of having access to knowledge which others are groping to find. The whole show is like that. These things take the air as silently as owls. One could start from a bowling green and alight on a billiard table. Once afloat, propulsion is obtained from Ericksen waves—”

“But the Ericksen wave—”

“Disintegrates? I agree—if so directed. But, as fitted to the Bats (that is our name for these small planes) it enables the pilot to tune in to a suitable wavelength as one does with a radio set, and to pick up from it all the power he needs to develop anything up to three hundred miles an hour. There are larger models, of course, which can do more. I had the pleasure of bringing you here in one from the jamboree at Morne la Selle.”

It was dawning upon my mind that I was acquiring knowledge which I should never live to use: part, at least, of the mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s secret journeys was explained.

“The whole outfit is silent as a radio set; in fact it is broadly operated on the same principle, except that the energy is converted. I would give you a trial spin, but I have no instructions. Some other time…”

When he had partially exhausted his enthusiasm for this, his pet subject (I gathered that he was Chief Pilot) I asked him a question which had been in my mind throughout.

“Aren’t there—urges, to return to your former friends?”

His mouth twisted into a wry expression.

“At first—yes; lots. I believe there have been cases where unwilling workers have been allowed to go. We have Professor Richner here—”

“But Professor Richner—”

“Is dead, you mean? My dear, Kerrigan, every soul on the Headquarters Staff (I refer to the officers) is legally dead!
I
am legally dead; we are all dead. But in those rare cases I have mentioned, Companion Richner has prescribed and one of the doctor’s medical staff has dealt with, the case. A painless injection and the patient returns to the world with a blind spot in his memory. He can tell his friends nothing: he remembers nothing. Do you see?”

I saw. Ardatha had had such a “painless injection.”

“When, as it were, normally one goes on leave—well, it is merely necessary to avoid old haunts and, if caught up, to stick to the new identity; profess ignorance and say ‘Sorry you must be mistaken’.”

“But even when you elect to stay under these conditions, there must be pulls to your old life?”

We were walking along a path which evidently led back to the main quadrangle, and Allington grabbed my arm in his impulsive way.

“In my own case, as no doubt it would be in yours, the pull was a girl. I was crazy about her. All the same, I consented to see Richner and I submitted to the injection he prescribed.”

“What occurred?”

“Well—it was a good deal like recovering from a tropical fever. I saw Joan—she is one of the many Joans—in correct perspective. I realized, for the first time, that she had most irritating mannerisms, and that although her figure was good, her complexion was dreadful! It became clear to me, Kerrigan, that there are millions of pretty women in the world and that a Companion of the Si-Fan has a wide field of choice.”

I was silent for a while. My feelings about Squadron Leader Allington underwent a swift change.

I understood—and that first moment of understanding was a shattering moment. It became evident to me why Marriot Doughty, Horton and Allington—men, in their normal lives, honourable, above reproach—now embraced the ideals of the Si-Fan wholeheartedly, unquestioningly. They were truly
zombies
, slaves of a master physician. Better death than the “painless injection!”