Amazing Stories, Vol. 2, No. 2 — page 31: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE MO bing. And as I rushed behind the German I saw Larry lean over the lip of the Pool and cover his eyes with a shaking hand; saw von Hetzdorp peer into it with real pity in his cold eyes. Then I stared down myself into the Moon Pool, and there, sinking, was a little maid whose dead face and fixed, terror-filled eyes looked straight into mine; and ever sinking slowly, slowly—vanished ! And I knew that this was Olaf’s Freda, his beloved yndling ! But where was the mother, and where had Olaf found his babe? The German was first to speak. “You have nitroglycerin there, yes?” he asked, pointing toward my medical kit that I had gripped unconsciously and carried with me during the mad rush down the passage. I nodded and drew it out. “Hypodermic,” he ordered next, curtly: took the syringe, filled it accurately with its one one-hun- dredth of a grain dosage, and leaned over Huldricks- son. He rolled up the gailor’s sleeves half-way to the shoulder. The arms were white with some- what of that weird semitranslucence that I had seen on Throckmartin’s breast where a tendril of the Dweller had touched him; and his hands were of the same whiteness—like a baroque pearl. Above the line of white, von Hetzdorp thrust the needle. “He will need all his heart can do,” he said to me. Then he reached down into a belt about his waist and drew from it a small, flat flask of what seemed to be lead. He opened it and let a few drops of its contents fall on each arm of the Norwegian. The liquid sparkled and instantly began to spread over the skin much as oil or gasoline dropped on water does—only far more rapidly. And as it spread it drew a sparkling film over the marbled flesh and little wisps of vapor rose from it. The Norseman’s mighty chest heaved with agony. His hands clenched. The German gave a grunt of satisfac- tion at this, dropped a little more of the liquid, and then, watching closely, grunted again and leaned back. Huldricksson’s labored breathing ceased, his head dropped upon Larry’s knee, and from his arms and hands the whiteness swiftly withdrew. Von Hetzdorp arose and contemplated us—almost benevolently. “He will be all right in five minutes,” he said. “TI know. I do it to pay for that shot of mine, and also _ because we will need him. Yes.” He turned to Larry. “You have a poonch like a mule kick, my young friend,” he said. ‘Some time you pay me for that, too, eh?” He smiled: and the quality of the grimace was not exactly reassuring. Larry looked him over quizzically. “You’re von Hetzdorp, of course,” he said. The German nodded, betraying no surprise at the recog- nition. “And you?” he asked. “Lieutenant O’Keefe of the Royal Flying Corps,” replied Larry, saluting. “And this gentleman is Dr. Walter T. Goodwin.” Von Hetzdorp’s face brightened. “The American botanist?” he queried. I nodded. _ “Ach!” cried von Hetzdorp eagerly, “but this ig fortunate. Long I have desired to meet you. Your work, for an American, is most excellent; surpris- ON POOL 135 ing. But you are wrong in your theory of the de- velopment of the Angiosperme from Cycadeoidea dacotensis. Ja—all wrong ae I was interrupting him with considerable heat, for my conclusions from the fossil Cycadeoidea I knew to be my greatest triumph, when Larry broke in upon me rudely. “Say,” he sputtered, “am I crazy or are you? What in damnation kind of a place and time is this to start an argument like that? “Angiosperme, is it?” exclaimed Larry. “Hell!” Von Hetzdorp again regarded him with that irri- tating air of benevolence. “You have not the scientific mind, young friend,” he said. “The poonch, yes! But so has the mule. You must learn that only the fact is important— not you, not me, not this”—he pointed to Huldricks- son—“or its sorrows. Only the fact, whatever it is, is real, yes. But’—he turned to me—“another time——”’ | Huldricksson interrupted him. The big seaman had risen stiffly to his feet and stood with Larry’s arm supporting him. He stretched out his hands to me. “I saw her,” he whispered. “I saw mine Freda when the stone swung. She lay there—just at my feet. I picked her up and I saw that mine Freda was dead. But I hoped—and I thought maybe mine Helma was somewhere here, too. So I ran with mine yndling—here—” His voice broke. “I thought maybe she was not dead,” he went on. “And I saw that”—he pointed to the Moon Pool—“and I thought I would bathe her face and ghe might live again. And when I dipped my hands within—the life left them, and cold, deadly cold, ran up through them into my heart. And mine Freda—she fell—” he covered his eyes, and dropping his head on O’Keefe’s shoulder, stood, racked by sobs that seemed to tear at his very soul. CHAPTER XI The Flame-Tipped Shadows ON HETZDORF nodded his head solemnly as V Olaf finished. “Jar he said. “That which comes from here took them both—the woman and the child. Ja! They came clasped within it and the stone shut upon them. But why it left the child behind I do not understand.” “How do you know that?” I cried in amazement. “Because I saw it,” answered von Hetzdorp simply. “Not only did I see it, but hardly had I time to make escape through the entrance before it passed whirling and murmuring and its bell sounds all joyous. Ja! It was what you call the squeak close, that.” “Wait a moment,” I said—stilling Larry with a gesture. “Do I understand you to say that you were within this place?” Von Hetzdorp actually beamed upon me. “Ja, Dr. Goodwin,” he said, “I went in when that which comes from it went out!” I gaped at him, stricken dumb; into Larry’s belli- cose attitude crept a sAcomichoo! CS'GQm silently. . spect; Olaf, trembling, watche