Dian of the Lost Land

IWhen Doctor Adam Weismann felt discouraged, the view from his window cheered him. Sydney’s waterfront is imposing at all times; now the southern summer had lent it a dreamy beauty peculiarly Australian. For twelve miles up the coast the wharf lights sparkled and glowed; new stars, white, warm, and near, not cold and remote like his own Dakota stars, glimmered in the hushed waters of the bay. Hundreds of ships lay sleeping in the docks or drowsed at anchor. Adam felt queerly about ships. The big liners from San Francisco and London merely made him homesick, but the little ships, the battered freighters and disreputable tramps that came and departed, God knows where, wakened in him an extraordinary delight. True, there was bitter mixed with the sweet, as in all life’s higher moods. What was back of it he did not know—it seemed to be a vague yearning which his scientific mind could not dissect or dispel. He wondered uneasily whether he himself had sailed in too well-traveled ocean lanes, and had lost some splendid fulfilment beyond the sky-line. Yet he had no cause to complain. He had gone far, for one of his years. His patients found it hard to believe that a man so young, scarcely thirty, with a lean youthful face and the lithe hard body of a football star, could hold honorary degrees from two universities and be the foremost authority on an obscure Oriental disease. He had won these distinctions fairly. In his own limited field he stood alone; except for him the new malady still would have remained beyond the light of science. He had isolated its bacillus, and although he had named it Coral Fever—partly because of one of its symptoms but principally because the first cases were discovered in Samarai, at the gate of the Coral Sea—his fellow doctors spoke of it as “Weismann’s disease.” True, Coral Fever was not yet a menace to society. Cases of it were extremely rare, and were but slightly infectious. However, his discoveries were considered important enough to win him not only honors, but some financial backing to continue his study. Scattered cases of the disease had appeared among Sydney longshoremen, and this fact accounted for Adam’s presence in the city. He had engaged rooms on the waterfront, as close as possible to his patients, and was already well liked and respected in Port Jackson’s underworld. Yet perhaps this last was not altogether due to his scientific attainments. The dive-keepers and drug-smugglers knew little of bacteriology. They did, however, know that the young scientist was a “man’s man,” that he could handle his sick stevedores like babies, and that his blond head towered above even the lean mariners from Christiania and Stavanger. Tonight he was spending a typical lonely evening. For an hour he watched the moonlit harbor, then turned on his radio to hear the latest reports from Byrd’s first Antarctic expedition, less than three thousand miles distant. At last he picked up a book—Osborn’s Men of the Old Stone Age—and settled himself for an hour’s quiet reading. His mind was relaxed, but his body kept an arresting look of wild animal vigilance, even when slouched in his chair. It suggested a sleepy lion, tawny, lazy, but instinct with vigor, youth, and power. Less and less he seemed the scientist; more and more the adventurer exiled from his wilderness. One might sense a mysterious symbolism even in his physical features. He was of German descent, and his hair was yellow as a plainsman’s, the exact color of new gold from the gravel of nameless rivers. His blue eyes had the shade and shine and depth which home-bound dreamers picture in uncharted polar seas. An hour before midnight there came a timid knock on his door. When he answered, a Danish sailor stepped into the room. Adam’s eyes kindled. His occasional contacts with such men comprised the bright spots of his studious life. The Dane was a man to notice twice even in the polyglot caravansary which is Sydney’s waterfront. He was a superb specimen; save for his tawny hair and eyebrows, all six feet of him was white as milk. “I’m Lars Kristenson, captain of de Penguin,” the Dane began in labored English. “Gan you come wit’ me to see a sick man?” “Why don’t you go to one of the regular doctors? I don’t take general practice. I do only special work.” “But we coom all de way from Wellington yust to see you. No odder doctor can fix him. His mouth and lips dey turn pink.” Adam knew what this meant. There is only one disease that tints the mucous membrane of the mouth and throat a bright coral pink. “Is the man carrying fever?” “He got hunner and t’ree. He not eat for t’ree days.” Adam nodded grimly. The symptoms tallied only too well. At once he picked up his medical bag and followed the Dane into the street. It was a fact that he felt not the slightest uneasiness about this midnight errand. In the first place, it is a doctor’s duty and province to go on unknown missions at all hours. In the second place, Adam’s scientific interest in the case put him off guard. Finally, and most significant, he was not naturally a timid or a nervous man. His imagination was active enough, but it conjured up forms of beauty rather than bugbears of terror. He had that sense of security, often mistaken and treacherous, which is the psychological outgrowth of great height and powerful physique. He felt perfectly able to take care of himself and never stopped to think that his superb physical strength would avail him nothing against a knife concealed in the Dane’s armpit, or the blackjack of a thug waiting in an alley. But his guide led him safely to a nearby wharf and down the gangplank onto the deck of a ship. For one brief moment Adam paused and looked about him. He was not in the least alarmed, in fact rather pleased, to find himself aboard one of the vagabond ships seen from his window. This was a vessel of perhaps four hundred tons, with steam and auxiliary sails, and the lines of an ice-breaker. As yet there was no way to guess her nationality; her flag was not in evidence, and her crew seemed to be a typical mixture of Scandinavians, English, and Germans such as sail almost all ships on the seven seas. The officer on the deck seemed to be a Finn—at least he had the immense shoulders and undersized legs of the skiff-bred men of Helsingfors—and there was an immense n***o, probably a steward or ship’s cook, standing by the rail just forward of the cabin. His eye roved to what seemed a shapeless gray shadow on the after deck. Under close scrutiny it evolved into an airplane, in fact a float-plane. Adam was frankly mystified. Such a vehicle might readily appear on the manifest of an ocean liner, but it seemed singular, to say the least, on the deck of a small tramp steamer. But before he could begin to guess its significance, his attention was directed to a tall man who came out of the cabin to greet him. The thought occurred to Adam that the sailors of this little ship seemed to run large. Six feet men are not common—actually they appear not oftener than one in a hundred—yet he had seen four of them in practically four seconds. The Dane, the n***o, and the Finn were fully six feet, and this giant in the doorway was at least two inches taller, the equal of Adam himself. The latter wondered with some amusement if this were mere chance, or whether superb stature was a qualification for membership in the crew, anent the Doones of Bagworthy and the Potsdam guard of King Frederick William I of Prussia. As the man emerged into the deck light, Adam eyed him in astonishment. He did not in the least conform to the usual deep-water type. Physically he was fit—supple, so lean that he looked emaciated, and probably hard as steel cable—but his deep-set eyes, peering through pince-nez, his bulging forehead, and certain indescribable thought-lines over his brows and around his eyes marked him as a brainworker rather than a man of his hands. His powdered-gray hair, black mustache and small beard had not received their careful trimming in a waterfront barber shop, nor had his garments come from a cut-rate clothing store frequented by seamen. He was a sallow-skinned, rather cold-looking individual, about forty-five years old, with the sign of the Slav in his round head and cast of features. There were further signs in his speech. He spoke well, but with an accent recalling the guttural languages of the Danube countries. “Is this Doctor Weismann?” “Yes, sir——” “I was told I would find you here, but I was afraid I would have to pursue you all the way to Samarai and your more distant seats of operation. I am Karl Belgrade.” Adam breathed deeply. “Karl Belgrade the ethnologist—the anthropologist?” “Of course.” “You are a long way from your usual seats of operation yourself, professor. The last time I heard of you—and I’ve been hearing of you, off and on, ever since I started to school—you were in Patagonia, excavating burial grounds.” “Permit me to say that your own work, with Coral Fever, is quite well known too.” Belgrade spoke in a patronizing tone, but Adam knew by hearsay some of the great Slav’s peculiarities and took no offense. “So we have brought the Penguin all the way from Wellington to see you. “The Penguin?” A vague memory flitted across Adam’s brain. “Haven’t I heard of her?” “Possibly, if you have kept up with polar exploration. She was famous at one time as the flagship of the ill-fated Gilbert Expedition to the Antarctic Continent, in 1939.” “I remember reading about her, in Gilbert’s diary. But it seems to me she was lost, with all hands.” “So the world thinks. Really she was abandoned on the ice. But she came to life—I’ll tell you the whole story later. Now will you come and see the sick man?” Adam followed Professor Belgrade into a small stateroom forward of the cabin. Lying on the cot was an elderly man in the throes of fever. Adam did not have to look twice at the emaciated, pink-lipped face to recognize Coral Fever. He had expected nothing else, after hearing the Dane’s description of the symptoms. And even as his pity went out to the man, he was ashamed to find a certain relish in the situation. It was, from a scientist’s viewpoint, a beautiful case. Adam had never seen the disease take hold of a man of such advanced years. It was a great opportunity for study. He began to give his patient a general examination. With his stethoscope he tested the heart and lungs; he took the blood pressure and the pulse. And now, for the first time, he took an interest in the sick man, not as a case but as an individual. He could not remember when he had looked upon a face quite like this. Suddenly it occurred to him that the man might not be as old as he appeared. His hair was white, his face deeply lined and wrinkled, but the texture and resiliency of his skin were those of a man in early middle-age. Could it be that this pitiable wreck of humankind was only forty-five or fifty years old? And now Adam noticed that he was curiously marked. The top of one ear was missing, and three fingers were gone from his right hand. To complete the sorry picture, one eye was decidedly off center, giving him a sinister appearance which even a cold-blooded doctor, inured to unpleasant sights, found hard to ignore. The crossed eye was probably a congenital defect, but his other disfigurements were plainly the result of accident and disease. Indeed, Adam found himself thinking that what was now a broken, battered wreck was at one time a goodly vessel. The wasted frame was once powerfully muscled, the mutilated right hand strong as a bear’s. He turned to Belgrade, waiting impatiently beside the door. “This man looks as if he’s been through the devil. If I’m not mistaken, the fingers and ear were frozen off.” “Yes, but that is not what you came to determine.” Belgrade spoke with ill-concealed annoyance. “I determined that he had Coral Fever from the officer’s description. Obviously he must be taken to shore and placed under my care.” Belgrade now beckoned the doctor into the passageway. “How sick is he, Weismann? I understand that Coral Fever is almost invariably fatal, but I want to know just how long can he last.” The Slav spoke eagerly, and his eyes had an odd shine. Adam felt a sudden, inexplicable distaste for him and his affairs. “He’s in the last stage of the infection. Even if his general condition were good, he’d go out within a year. As it is, it is a matter of weeks.” “Be definite, doctor, if you can.” Belgrade rubbed his lean, wiry hands. “How many weeks?” “That depends entirely on the care he receives. With proper care—the right food and treatment—he may live from four to eight weeks. Otherwise a week or two will see the finish.” “A week or two! That won’t help me at all. And you, doctor, are the only man who can keep him alive longer than that.” “That’s probably true. You see, Coral Fever is a relatively new disease, unknown until the present century. I am the only doctor who has gone into it thoroughly, and there’s no standard technique for treating it. This is why he must be put ashore under my care.” “But doctor—he can’t be put ashore. I need him here, on the ship, I can’t continue my expedition without him; he alone can guide me into the country I want to enter. So that means—you’ll have to come with us.” He was wholly in earnest. His tone was determined, and there were telltale signs of excitement in his sallow countenance. “That’s out of the question,” Adam answered coldly. “I have my own work to do here.” “But you don’t understand. I am offering you a wonderful opportunity. Your assistants can do your work here, and after all, it’s a minor matter compared to this. Coral Fever! An obscure Oriental disease that may take off two score useless lives each year.” Adam began to bristle. “You don’t seem to think that the life of that man in the cabin is altogether useless.” “I alone have made it useful. He is merely one of a particularly fecund species—of no more importance, actually, than one ant in a hill—and it is just a trick of Fate that his life has suddenly become so desperately important to science. Be reasonable, doctor. I grant that you have accomplished a good deal, but you won’t miss two or three months, and on the other hand, you’ll never have another chance like this. I am about to make the most sensational discovery in modern ethnology. You can take my word, the word of one who has always been cautious in his statements, that the whole scientific world will be thunderstruck. And as my assistant, you will get more recognition at one stroke than in a lifetime’s research into Coral Fever. New knowledge of vast importance will be given to the world.” Adam fought back his anger and resolved to find out how far this strange scientist would go. “Do you mean you are offering me a partnership in the enterprise? That it will be called the Belgrade-Weismann expedition?” “We can safely leave that for the future. In any event, I shall see that you get proper credit in my reports, and besides, you will have the satisfaction of helping me add to the world’s store of knowledge.” “It is very tempting, of course. Just the same, I have my own work to do, and I can’t go with you.” “Even though I assure you that the trip will not only be of great scientific and popular interest but extremely venturesome and novel?” “No, not even with that assurance.” “In other words, you definitely refuse to go, under any conditions?” “Yes, I definitely refuse. If I am to treat the sick man, he must be put ashore.” “Then I will have to make other plans. Excuse me while I speak to the captain.” While Belgrade was making arrangements for moving the invalid—this seemed the most likely reason for his absence—Adam returned to the sickroom. He found the patient aroused from his stupor and sitting up in bed. This seeming miracle did not surprise the doctor. Occasional bursts of strength are characteristic of Coral Fever. The professional zeal that flashed across his face was due solely to his desire to question the sick man before he sank again. But Adam paused when he saw the patient’s eyes sunken and glittering. He could not talk dependably tonight. He was in that curious rational state which lies on the far side of delirium, a kind of fourth-dimension land which is stranger than delirium itself. “My name’s Hull,” he said clearly. “I don’t believe I know you.” “No wonder. I’m Doctor Weismann. You’ve never seen me before.” “No, but I’ve seen what no other civilized man has seen.” In his brief years of practice, Adam had listened to a great deal of delirious raving, and usually did not remember a word of it. But this man’s quiet declaration, coming out of a clear sky, startled him profoundly. Every ounce of romance in his make-up was stirred, and he vaguely sensed that in some fashion he was being hurled headlong into adventure. He looked at Hull’s face and thought it entirely possible that those haunted eyes had beheld scenes hidden from all others. “For instance, what?” Adam asked. He spoke casually, lest he should excite the patient into incoherent frenzy. “I’ve seen men die on the ice, while I lived on. I’ve seen the Moss Country, lyin’ under the range, sheltered from the cold south wind. I’ve seen the Maun ig Mero.” “I don’t know what that last means. What language is it?” “It’s a language only one other livin’ Englishman has heard except me. The words mean the ‘Cave of Death.’ They’ll put Belgrade in that cave too, if he don’t look out. As for me, I’ll be rich, and get square with them at the same time. Gold and ivory and fur.” He chuckled quietly. “Women too. Plenty women, and not too bad looking, neither.” At this instant the conversation was interrupted by Belgrade’s return. To Adam came a queer feeling, psychic and inexplicable, that he and this Slav were somehow at odds, that what seemed a casual acquaintance was actually a far-reaching, vital enmity the potentiality of which was violence and death. But Adam’s sophisticated mind refused to accept such a far-fetched notion. It seemed too absurd for credence. Belgrade, smiling and bright-eyed, was offering him a smoke. “I am always entertained by human beings,” he said. He spoke as if human beings were some odd kind of animal, exhibited for his amusement in a zoo. “In what way?” “I was thinking then of the typical Nordic’s incorrigible love of violence. A Danish seaman—and he is typical of the blond North—hates to use his brain almost as much as one of your own countrymen, but give him a chance to thrash around and use his muscles, he is immediately enthusiastic. I shall no longer marvel at prominent military leaders. To incite men to fight is simply child’s play. They’ll accept any kind of a reason, no matter how far-fetched, and take any kind of a risk.” “What put that thought into your head?” Adam asked curiously. “A conversation I just had with Lars, the Danish skipper whom I sent to bring you. It was merely incidental. With his help, I have made arrangements for the patient to be placed immediately under your care.” Adam was greatly astonished at this easy victory. It did not accord with Belgrade’s character: according to tales told by his colleagues, the great anthropologist was utterly ruthless and invincible when the welfare of science was concerned. “At once, I hope. There is no time to be lost.” “Certainly at once.” A brief silence followed his words. To Adam it seemed electric, charged with suspense; he wondered what caused his imagination to play him such tricks. Then his attention was caught by a subdued rumble under his feet. Belgrade smiled into his guest’s eyes. His white teeth flashed through his black beard. “The engineer has put new bearings on the shaft,” he explained. “I suppose he is trying them out.” Adam nodded. “Industrious fellow, to do his experimenting at this hour of night.” “It is all the same to a sailor. You probably know that the day is divided roughly into four-hour periods. It is now Macdougal’s time to stand watch.” This seemed an especially trivial conversation, and Adam resolved to end it. “It’s my time to be in bed, getting some rest,” he said. “When can the patient be moved?” “Be moved, Doctor?” Belgrade spoke lightly, almost impudently. Adam whirled toward him, to see the corners of his eyes crinkled with silent laughter. But whatever the joke was, Adam did not relish it. His straightforward nature had no sympathy for Slavic subtleties; besides, he felt he was being made light of. His face flushed and his eyes glistened. But this was no time for heady anger. Unless he kept cool, he could not hear the vague warning of his instincts, now whispered in his brain, nor could he hope to grasp the facts of the situation in time to control them. Perhaps it was already too late. Belgrade’s air of impudence implied that the affair, whatever it might be, was settled. “I thought that you agreed that the patient was to be moved,” Adam said coldly. “I did agree to that. It is now being done.” “Please tell your men to take him to the Mercy Hospital near my quarters. Now I must be going.” Belgrade slapped his lean thigh, a report sharp and startling in the silent room. “Doctor Weismann, you can’t imagine how amusing you are. I don’t mean you particularly—I mean you downright, solemn fellows of German ancestry. Of course you must be going, but you just aren’t aware of it.” “See here, Belgrade.” Almost ready to fight, Adam leaned toward the slim, smiling professor. “I don’t like your attitude. You may be the greatest anthropologist in the world, but I don’t propose to be laughed at by you or any one else. You seem to be deliberately making light of what I say.” “I beg your pardon, Weismann. But it is a diverting situation, as you will see in a moment.” Revelation came not in a moment, but instantly. The floor on which Adam stood began to tilt gently. He felt the motion, and with an oath, flung through the cabin door onto the deck. He almost collided with two men who were standing guard at the threshold—one of them Lars and the other the gigantic n***o—but they stepped back and did not interfere with him other than to flank him at each side. With starting eyes he looked toward the wharf. The lights of Sydney were swaying, swinging, slowly sailing by. The whole city seemed a brightly lighted ship in slow, stately motion. Between the ship and the wharf lay a broad river of black water. The Penguin stood out to sea.