The Bride of Fu Manchu

“Object?” He wrinkled his brow comically. “Object to enthusiasm?—object to be admitted to knowledge conserved for hundreds of centuries?—to salvation physical as well as intellectual? Ha, ha! that is funny.”

He went on with his preparations.

I reviewed the words of the woman Fah Lo Suee.

To what extent could I rely upon them? Did they mean that for some reason of her own she was daring to cross the formidable mandarin, her father? If so, what was her reason? And supposing that she had lied or had failed, what was this Blessing of the Celestial Vision to which I should be admitted?

I suspected that it was the administration of some drug which would reduce me to a condition of abject mental slavery.

That there was vast knowledge conserved in this place, that experiments ages ahead of any being carried out in the great cultural centres of the world were progressing here, I could not doubt; I had had the evidence of my own eyes. But to what end were these experiments directed?

Something of my thoughts must have been reflected upon my face, for:

“My dear Mr. Sterling,” said the Japanese doctor, “it is so useless to challenge the why and demand the wherefore. And you are about to be admitted to the Company of the Si-Fan. A new world which trembles in the throes of birth will be your orange, of which you shall have your share.”

I made to stand up—to confront him. I could not move! And Dr. Yamamata laughed in the most good- humoured manner.

“Many jib at the last fence,” he assured me, “but what is to be, will be, you know. Allow me to assist you, Mr. Sterling.”

He stepped behind me, and with the adroit movement of a master of jiu-jitsu, peeled my overalls down over my shoulders, pinioning my arms. He unbuttoned my shirt collar.

“Injections are always beastly,” he admitted. “For myself, they induce a feeling of nausea; but sometimes they are necessary.”

I experienced a sharp stab in the shoulder and knew that the needle point of the syringe had been thrust into my flesh. I clenched my teeth; but I was helpless....

He was cleaning the syringe at a wash-basin on the other side of the room. His manner was that of a dental surgeon who has deftly made a difficult extraction.

“A pleasant glow pervades your body, no doubt?” he suggested. “You see, I am accustomed to these small operations. It will be succeeded, I assure you, by a consciousness of new power. No task which may be set—and the tasks set by the doctor are not simple ones—will prove too difficult.”

He replaced the parts of the syringe upon a glass rack and began to wash his hands.

“When you are rested I shall prescribe a whisky-and-soda, which I know is your national beverage, and then you will be ready for your second interview with the doctor.”

He glanced back at me smilingly.

“Is my diagnosis correct?”

“Perfectly.” I replied, conscious of the fact that no change whatever had taken place in my condition, and mindful of the words of that strange, evil woman.

I had a part to play. Not only my own life, but other lives— thousands, perhaps millions—depended upon my playing it successfully!

“Ah!” he beamed delightedly, and began to dry his hands. “Sometimes novitiates shout with joy—but blackwater has somewhat lowered your normal vitality.”

“Nevertheless,” I replied, grinning artificially, “I feel that I want to shout.”

“Then, shout!” he cried, revealing those gleaming teeth in a happy smile. “Shout! the chair is disconnected. Jump about! Let yourself go! Life is just beginning!”

I moved. It was true...I could stand up.

“Ah!” I cried, and stretched my hands above my head.

It was a cry and a gesture of relief. Fah Lo Suee had tricked the Japanese doctor! And I was free—free in mind and body...but in China, and under the roof of Dr. Fu Manchu!

“Splendid!” Yamamata exclaimed, his small, bright eyes registering pure happiness. “My congratulations, Companion Sterling. We will drink to the Master who perfected this super-drug—which makes men giants with the hearts of lions.”

He took up a decanter and poured out two liberal pegs of whisky.

“There was a slight faux-pas earlier this evening,” he went on. “A nearly perfected homonculus—not in your province, Companion, but I am an enthusiast in my own— escaped from the incubator. The formula is, of course, the doctor’s. I had contributed some small items to its perfection, and the specimen who disturbed the household had points of great interest.”

He added soda to the whisky and handed a glass to me. I resigned myself to this gruesome conversation and merely nodded. Yamamata raised his glass.

“Comrade Alan Sterling—we drink to the Mandarin Fu Manchu, master of the world!”

It was a badly needed drink, and I did not challenge his toast; then:

“The specimen had enormous physical strength,” he went on, “and that blind elemental fury which characterises these products—a fact recognized even by Paracelsus. The section doors had to be closed. And I felt dreadfully guilty.”

I drank down half the contents of my tumbler; and:

“What became of...the thing?” I asked.

“Most regretfully,” Yamamata replied, shaking his head, “the vital spark expired. You see, the temperature of the corridors was unsuitable.”

I stopped short.

That clear, indefinable sound or vibration which I had first heard upon the beach of Ste Claire de la Roche came to me again. I saw Yamamata raise one hand and press it against his ear. The sound ceased.

“Dr. Fu Manchu is waiting for you,” he said.

He extended both hands cordially, and I grasped them.

For a moment I had all but forgotten my part; in the horror of the story of that life which was not human, which had been bred, I gathered, in an incubator....

But now, in time—I remembered.

“I am going to kneel at his feet,” I said, endeavouring to impart a quality of exaltation into my voice.

And as I spoke, the smile vanished from the face of Dr. Yamamata as writing sponged from a slate.

“We all kneel at his feet,” he said solemnly.

chapter twenty-fifth

THE LIFE PRINCIPLE

drenched in the opium fumes of that stygian room, I stood again before Dr. Fu Manchu. His eyes were brilliant as emeralds, the pupils mere pin-points, and he lay back in a padded chair, watching me. I had thought out the words which I would speak, and I spoke them now.

“I salute the Master of the World,” I said, and bowed deeply before him.

That the Blessing of the Celestial Vision produced some kind of mental exaltation was clear to me. This I must enact; but it was a mighty task which rested upon my shoulders. That cold hatred which had possessed me at the moment that the news of Petrie’s death had come, now again held absolute sway. I knew that Sir Denis Nayland Smith had not romanced when he had said that this man was Satan’s own—apparently eternal.

At whatever cost—my life was nothing in such a contest!— I would help to throw him down. I would be the feeble instrument which should prove that the was not eternal.

He was monstrous—titanic—dreadful—hell’s chosen emissary. But if I could live, if I could hope to trick this gigantic evil brain, I would find means to crush him; to stamp him out;

to eradicate this super-enemy of all that was clean and wholesome.

I could not forget the dead men in his workshops. This monster clearly possessed knowledge transcending natural laws. He laughed at God. No matter! he was still human—or so I must continue to believe.

The price of doubt was insanity....