The Lamp of Vengeance, page 1
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Fantastic Adventures
Volume 9, Number 7
November 1947
Custom eBook created by
Jerry eBooks
March 2017
HE WALKED with a slight stoop, as if the weight of his upper body was too much for him. His head, which was unadorned, was thrust forward, as if it was seeking something, and the long thin line of his neck was like a bird’s, wrinkled, loose and somehow giving the impression of many-jointedness.
The fog, which had come with the dying of the day’s sun, had grown thicker, more soup-like, and the street lights threw a weird glow, as if seen through a long series of window panes. The street was deserted and was like a narrow funnel of darkness melting into greying darkness. But the man walked with an odd confidence, as if an inner light was lending illumination to his steps.
The man came to an intersection and for an instant he hesitated, though a passerby would only have taken the pause as natural, what with the fog and the chance of a car making a quick turn. But the same passer-by could not possibly interpret the very audible sniffling sound the man made. Nor would he have made sense of the words, muttered in a low undertone:
“Not far, now. The scent lingers in the moist air.”
ROBERT Bruce drew the collar of his topcoat up around his throat. He shivered, and though the air was chilly, it was not alone the cold which made him tremble. There was that note in his pocket; he could feel the grained texture of the paper against his sweating palm. What devil from out of the past, had come to plague him, was the thought in his mind? It was all so long ago. How had they found him?
A ghost cab, its fenders dripping moisture, sloshed to a halt at the curb. Bruce opened the door, slid into a badly-cushioned seat and said:
“164 North Wabash.”
The cabbie, an elderly man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, turned away and ground the gears into play. Bruce saw a semi-profile of greying stubble, an angular chin, bushy grizzled eyebrows and a thick nose. Then the face turned away and Bruce was alone with his thoughts again.
The letter had come in the afternoon mail. It had borne a Loop cancellation although there was no return address. The envelope was quite plain and of cheap paper, but when he ripped it open he saw the letter had been typed on excellent rag-content stationery. He started to pull the letter out, but the hand didn’t come all the way. There was no need for it. He knew what the letter said. The words lay deep in his mind:
“The Lamp never dies. The maker of the Flame has need of his servant. Do not fail to heed the summons! Tonight, at eight. We await thee . . .” No more. Just that and the address.
BRUCE shook his head with a fierce strong gesture. The jutting line of his chin settled into more granite firmness and the slate-grey eyes became agate-hard. Bruce had a heavy, muscular face. It was best described as being, “carved, as if from stone.” Right now the simile seemed perfect. Not a muscle quivered. The flesh lay firm against the bony structure. But in all the tiny cells of his brain, turmoil raged.
Twenty years ago, he thought. It was like twenty centuries ago! The high hard mass of basalt and the waves beating against it. And there, high on the craggy mass of rock was the great arched refuge. He could see the robed figures, silent-treading, head bent forward in a stoop, coming from the niches of their individual sanctuaries, making for the central hall. He started nervously, as a deep-noted sound came to his ears, and for an instant he thought it was the summons of the great gong in the belfry. But it was only his mind playing him a trick.
“Here we are, sir,” the cabbie said.
“Huh?” Bruce said stupidly.
“164 Wabash,” the cabbie said in a tired voice. The fare hadn’t looked drunk. But it was hard to tell with these old-timers. He hoped he wasn’t going to have any trouble. That jerk last night . . . There was a case. Boy!
“Oh!” Enlightenment came into Bruce’s voice. “Right! How much?”
“Forty-five.”
“Keep it,” Bruce said, handing the man a dollar.
“Thanks!”
But Bruce was already on his way toward the dimly-lighted lobby. The night-damp folded him into its clammy clasp and made his bones ache as though with pain. His tall, strong figure bent a little in a slight stoop as he stepped forward. There was the sound of meshing gears; then the street held only the figure of Robert Bruce moving toward the rectangle of dim light in the lobby. And in a second that too was gone.
Bruce ran his fingers down the lines of white names on the black background and stopped at the words, Aijan Machin, Lamp Makers. The room number was 2233.
He signed his name and the hour in the night-man’s book and waited for the elevator. The operator had lost his youth several generations before from his appearance. Even his voice was old, faded and querulous.
Bruce was his only passenger and the operator pushed the stool out, made himself comfortable and observed that the weather was, “Lousy outside, eh?”
“Yeah!” Bruce’s reply was abrupt and to the point.
But the other was in a mood for talk. He made no effort to close the doors. He shifted the wad of gum to the other cheek and peered up at his passenger.
“Come nights like these,” he said, “and an elevator man’s job stinks. ’Specially when he’s on nights. ’Tain’t bad days a guy gets a chance to see people. But nights like this—Stinks!”
A thought came to Bruce. He put it into words:
“Yes, I imagine it is a lonely life. Not many people use their offices at night, eh?”
“There’s some buildin’s what do an’ some what don’t. This is one of those what don’t. Oh, now an’ then there’s some who come up for a couple of hours. Usually got a woman with ’em. Reminds me of the time one of those fancy Dan’s thought I was a bell-boy or somethin’. Wanted me to chase out and get him some whiskey an’ ice. I told that lad off pretty good, I did . . .”
Bruce leaned back against the metal side and felt sorry he had brought the subject up. Then something brought him erect:
“. . . Gotta admit that lamp outfit comes in regular, though. Usually has eight, ten customers. Like tonight. I’ll bet I’ve taken at least twenty men up there. Even a couple of women. Must be doin’ a right smart piece of business up there. Well, guess you’re goin’ to ride alone. Floor?”
“Twenty-two,” Bruce said.
The operator gave him a quick, side-wise look, but said nothing. He pulled the lever over and the car started.
It was a plain door, frosted for its top half with two neat rows of letters, the top giving the name of the firm and the lower, the name, Aijan Machin. Bruce waited until he heard the elevator start downward before knocking.
He became aware of his quickened breathing as he waited for an answer to his summons. He let it out in a shallow sigh as the door opened softly and slowly and he saw a wide room at the far end of which was a semi-circular desk of a rich looking mahogany color. There were a couple of leather seats along the wall to his left; the angle of the door cut off all vision of what the right side of the room held. He also caught a glimpse of a water color above two of the chairs. Then a voice said:
“Won’t you come in?”
It was a young voice, a woman’s. It was a trifle brusque as though its owner was not in the habit of waiting for things. Bruce stepped further into the office, turned and surveyed the woman standing with one hand on the door knob. He made a mental note that the organization was doing much better these days. The women they employed were certainly lovelier and of better physical charm than in the old days.
ROBERT BRUCE was known for many qualities. The least of these because he made little effort to show charm, was the warmth of his affection. Mona Lavy noticed, before her eyes took in the rest of the six-foot figure standing, head bowed slightly, eyes quirked in amused glance, that this man had a physical impact on the senses. It was strange, she thought, that she should become warm so suddenly. Was it his eyes, his superb figure or some odd quality?
“Thank you,” Bruce said. “I will.”
“I’m Mona Lavy,” Mona said. “And you?”
“Robert Bruce.”
“How nice. Sounds like a sweater . . .”
“Yes. Scotch plaid. The others?” Bruce looked inquisitively toward the closed stained door at the far end of the room.
“Of course,” Mona said severely. “You’re the last. Aijan asked me to admit you.”
“Aijan,” Bruce said, rolling the name over his tongue as though there was an odd flavor to it. “Odd. Frankly, I must admit to have never known him.”
“I don’t think it matters,” she said. “The point is he knows you. Well,” she sighed, “I hate waiting for things. And I’m glad that you came along at last. Frankly I was about to give you another three minutes . . .”
“Then?” Bruce asked.
“The door would have been closed.”
“Surely, some one else would have answered to my knock,” Bruce said smiling.
“That is a problematical something to which I don’t happen to have the answer,” the girl said, and turning on a smart-looking-trim-ankle, started for the inner door.
Bruce took two quick steps and was at her side before she quite reached it. It was his hand which went to the knob.
“Allo
She turned eyes which were warm sparks of blue fire up to him. He smiled down into them. He became aware of the closeness of her, realized that her body was mature, that her figure was a thing of beauty beneath the black jersey of her blouse, that his breath had subtly quickened and opened the door before he gave way to the terrific impulse to kiss her.
He caught the murmur of voices just as he opened the door. But as the two stepped into the room there was only silence to greet them. He brought a smile to the surface, looked about the room and as the girl moved to one of two chairs which stood, side by side before a narrow short platform, followed her and took the empty one beside her.
It seemed that he saw nothing, so shallow was his glance, but that single glance catalogued the room and its contents, people and props. There were a half dozen wall lights, shallow lights in wall brackets. On the stage there was only a deep arm chair, beside which stood a pair of incense standards. Smoke curled from them. His nostrils quivered and memory brought back the same smell. The smile remained but his eyes narrowed a trifle. There were two rows of chairs arranged in a semi-circle before the stage. There were twelve chairs in each row, the sacred twelve, Bruce remembered. There were only three women present so he knew there were twenty-one men. But of the one called Aijan Machin, Bruce saw nothing.
“Heavens!” a voice said in exasperation. “Are you that slow about everything? Sit down, man!”
IT was Mona and she was looking up at him with fury in her eyes. He saw that her hands were clenched in her lap.
His sitting down was as a signal. For suddenly the lights in the wall brackets went out, and hidden lights on the stage went on. And seemingly from nowhere, a man stepped out of the darkness from the right. He was on the small side, neatly put together, well-dressed in dark, clean fitting suit, white shirt and dark tie. He had a small, narrow head and the features were almost feminine in the proportion to the rest of the face. He walked quickly to the chair, sat down, brought his fingers up in an arch in front of his eyes and began speaking:
“Tonight, friends, I have summoned you to come to me. I am glad that there was no one who heeded me not.”
The words, or rather their presentation, sounded a familiar strain to Bruce.
He waited for the rest.
“. . . For surely that one would have missed the message of the,” there was a pause, “Lamp!” He brought the word out in odd fervor.
And as he spoke the word, there came a collective gasp from the audience. For though Aijan’s appearance was odd, it was explainable. The appearance of the man who now stood by his side was mysterious in the extreme.
Bruce found himself breathing softly, shallowly, through parted lips. The Servant of the Lamp! He hadn’t seen him in almost twenty years.
The man on the stage was robed in a blood-red cowled robe. The face was hidden in the folds of the cowl. He held one hand extended in front of him. A spear was held firmly in that hand. The blade of the spear was a full two feet in length, curved, gleaming steel, on which could be dimly seen odd characters. His left hand was held close to his body. In it there was a lamp of antique design that was more bowl than anything else. Smoke curled from the tiny spout. Suddenly the stranger raised the lamp on high. Like magic, a bright flame poured from its covered top.
“Bowl Bow before the might of the Lamp!” the Servant said in trumpet-like tones.
Bruce didn’t want to. He willed himself not to. Yet, as though his action was automatic and beyond will or muscle control, his feet swept the chair back, and he went down to his hands and knees. Nor was he alone. So did everyone else there. Everyone, that is, but Mona. She turned her head back and forth, a startled look of bewilderment in her eyes.
“. . . I am come from the Keeper of the Lamp,” the hooded, cowled figure said in sonorous tones. “Hear and obey! The time has come for which we have waited. That is the message I bring. You will each of you wait for instructions. There is not one of you who knows not his duties. There is not one of you, but knows not the reason for his being here. Let you not forget why you have been instructed. Bow before the Lamp and the Flame, before knowledge and death! For the Flame and the Lamp is eternal and one without the other cannot be. Return ye to your places of Being until the Servant of the Lamp calls again. The day approaches when what has been taught ye will be put to use. In darkness ye came: In darkness go . . .”
There was a weird sound, like that of wind whistling through the forest growth, like that of spirits wailing and a great swoosh, as if a bird had passed in close flight. And with the passing of the giant bird, there came utter darkness! Then, from the throats of the kneeling men and women there came a great sobbing sound, and a single word:
“Aaiee!”
The spell passed for Robert Bruce. He stood, brushed his knees free of dust and looked about. There was a peace in his soul. Mona, who, had a look of supreme stupefaction on her lovely features, looked not alone at the man at her side, but at all the rest who were now standing about. There were a hundred questions in her mind. But the one which pressed most closely to her consciousness was:
“Why do I think they’ve been hypnotized?”
Yet that was precisely the outward appearance of them. There was that odd look of daze in their eyes. And as though they had all donned the same mask, there was a singleness of blankness in their faces.
The lights came on again. And it brought a return to normalcy at least. For the lights were the familiar glow from the wall brackets. She turned her head toward the stage. There was Aijan Machin sitting in the too-high chair for him. His head was bent forward, as though he was asleep. But he was not. For even as she wondered he lifted his head and spoke:
“We have heard the Servant. Let us leave now. There is no need for questions. For certainly there will come the moment when all our questions will be answered. Good night, friends.”
BUT there was a question Mona Lavy wanted answered. She wanted it answered then and there. Where was the robed, cowled figure? What had happened to him? She had to have the answer to those questions. For it was all too-apparent that the stage was now empty but for Machin.
Suddenly she realized that he was smiling directly at her. There was something strange in the smile, a quality of weirdness, and oddly, she couldn’t put her finger on it. She knew, though, that she didn’t like it. And turning, she looked about, as though for help.
“Wait,” she whispered to Bruce, who had taken a few steps to the door.
Bruce turned at the word and looked inquiringly at her.
“Mind if I walk with you?” she asked.
“Come along,” he said.
They were the last to leave the room. At the door to the outer office she linked arms with him. She pretended it was another reason, but deep within her she knew it was fear alone which had made her take his arm.
The fog had lifted somewhat, at least enough so that things could be distinguished in their proper lights. The rain had also ceased.
“Can I drop you somewhere?” Bruce asked.
She nodded but said nothing. Bruce looked sharply at her. When she said nothing to his question, he asked again: “I’m taking a cab. I’m sure it won’t be out of my way. May I?”
“Why not come up to my place?” she asked.
He did a double-take at the words. But her smile robbed the words of any implication he might have assumed. It was a smile of pure mischief.
“Why—why,” he stuttered. “Er . . .”
“I thought you might like some coffee,” she said. “And frankly, without too great an effort at boasting, I make the best coffee west of Brazil.”
“I’d be delighted,” he said. And turning, whistled up a cab.
SHE lived in a very modern five-room place on Cambridge Place on the near north side. She flicked the wall switch on and Bruce looked about in pleasure. For the most part he didn’t like modern decor, but Mona’s sense of the artistic, and feeling for proportion saved the apartment from being too much on the arty side. First modern place he’d seen, Bruce thought, that could be called homey.
“That armchair there,” Mona said, pointing to a deep-pile chair, “is just meant for a man your size. Go ahead. Make yourself to home while I cook up a pot of mocha Say!” she burst out suddenly.
