The top arc of its prostrate base reached a thousand feet or more up the precipitous wall; above it all was hidden in sparkling nebulosities that were like still clouds of greenly glimmering fire-flies.Back from the curving sides of this cone, above it and below it, the pressing luminosities stretched into, it seemed, infinite distances.
Through them, suddenly, thousands of bright beams began to dart, to dance, weaving and interweaving, shooting hither and yon--like myriads of great searchlights in a phosphorescent sea fog, like countless lances of the aurora thrusting through its own iridescent veils! And in the play of these beams was something appallingly ordered, appallingly rhythmic.
It was--how can I describe it?--PURPOSEFUL; purposeful as the geometric shiftings of the Little Things of the ruins, of the summoning song of Norhala, of the Protean changes of the Smiting Shape and the Following Thing;and like all of these it was as laden with that baffling certainty of hidden meanings, of messages that the brain recognized as such yet knew it never could read.
The rays seemed to spring upward from the earth.Now they were like countless lances of light borne by marching armies of Titans; now they crossed and angled and flew as though they were clouds of javelins hurled by battling swarms of the Genii of Light.And now they stood upright while through them, thrusting them aside, bending them, passed vast, vague shapes like mountains forming and dissolving; like darkening monsters of some world of light pushing through thick forests of slender, high-reaching trees of cold flame; shifting shadows of monstrous chimerae slipping through jungles of bamboo with trunks of diamond fire; phantasmal leviathans swimming through brakes of giant reeds of radiance rising from the sparking ooze of a sea of star shine.
Whence came the force, the mechanism that produced this cone of clarity, this NOT searchlight, but unlight in the midst of light? Not from behind, that was certain--for turning I saw that behind us the mist was as thick.Iturned again--it came to me, why I knew not, yet with an absolute certainty, that the energy, the force emanated from the distant wall itself.
The funnel, the cone, did not expand from where we were standing, now motionless.
It began at the wall and focused upon us.
Within the great circle the surface of the wall was smooth, utterly blank; upon it was no trace of those flitting lights we had seen before we had plunged down toward the radiant sea.It shone with a pale blue phosphorescence.It was featureless, smooth, a blind cliff of polished, blue metal--and that was all.
"Ruth!" groaned Ventnor."Where is she?"
Aghast at my mental withdrawal from him, angry at myself for my callousness, awkwardly I tried to crawl over to him, to touch him, comfort him as well as I might.
And then, as though his cry had been a signal, the great cone began to move.Slowly the circled base slipped down the shimmering facades; down, steadily down; I realized that we had paused at the edge of some steep declivity, for the bottom of the cone was now at a decided angle while the upper edge of the circle had dropped a full two hundred feet below the place where it had rested--and still it fell.
There came a gasp of relief from Ventnor, a sigh from Drake while, from my own heart, a weight rolled.Not ten yards ahead of us and still deep within the luminosity had appeared the regal head of Norhala, the lovely head of Ruth.The two rose out of the glow like swimmers floating from the depths.Now they were clear before us, and now we could see the surface of the cube on which they rode.
But neither turned to us; each stared straightly, motionless along the axis of the sinking cone, the woman's left arm holding Ruth close to her side.
Drake's hand caught my shoulder in a grip that hurt--nor did he need to point toward that which had wrung the exclamation from him.The funnel had broken from its slow falling; it had made one swift, startling drop and had come to rest.Its recumbent side was now flattened into a triangular plane, widening from the narrow tip in which we stood to all of five hundred feet where its base rested against the blue wall, and falling at a full thirty-degree pitch.
The misty-edged circle had become an oval, a flattened ellipse another five hundred feet high and three times that in length.And in its exact center, shining forth as though it opened into a place of pale azure incandescence was another rectangular Cyclopean portal.
On each side of it, in the apparently solid face of the gleaming, metallic cliffs, a slit was opening.
They began as thin lines a hundred yards in height through which the intense light seemed to hiss; quickly they opened--widening like monstrous cat pupils until at last, their widening ceasing, they glared forth, the blue incandescence gushing from them like molten steel from an opened sluice.
Deep within them I sensed a movement.Scores of towering shapes swam within and glided out of them, each reflecting the vivid light as though they themselves were incandescent.
Around their crests spun wide and flaming coronets.
They rushed forth, wheeling, whirling, driven like leaves in a whirlwind.Out they swirled from the cat's eyes of the glimmering wall, these dervish obelisks crowded with spinning fires.They vanished in the mists.Instantly with their going, the eyes contracted; were but slits; were gone.And before us within the oval was only the waiting portal.
The leading block leaped forward.As abruptly, those that bore us followed.Again under that strain of projectile flight we clutched each other; the pony screamed in terror.
The metal cliff rushed to meet us like a thunder cloud of steel; the portal raced upon us--a square mouth of cold blue flame.
And into it we swept; were devoured by it.
Light in blinding, intolerable flood beat about us, blackening the sight with agony.We pressed, the three of us, against the side of the pony, burying our faces in its shaggy coat, striving to hide our eyes from the radiance which, strain closely as we might, seemed to pierce through the body of the little beast, through our own heads, searing the sight.
