The Island of Fu Manchu

Vickers’ senior engineers, who is with us. It is the second deepest in the world.”

When, after an awe-inspiring descent, the elevator stopped, the door opened and I stepped out, a new amazement claimed me.

I was in a stone-faced corridor brightly lighted; many doors were visible right and left. There were thousands of such corridors in the office buildings of New York.

“We are now,” came the cold voice of Dr. Fu Manchu, “only thirty feet above sea level, and you are one of that privileged few who have entered the interior of a volcano.”

* * *

In the company of Mr. Perrywell, late of Vickers, a prosaic Manchester man whose presence enhanced the fantastic character of my surroundings, I set out.We walked down a flight of steps, he opened a door and I found myself to be in broad daylight!

I stood on a long, wide quay where coloured gangs were at work unpacking crates and loading the contents, which I thought were machine parts, on to trucks. The still water had a strange black appearance; it resembled ink; and ten or twelve small vessels were dotted about its surface. I supposed myself to be in a small land-locked harbour, for from where I stood I could see right to the other side, formed by a sheer wall of towering black rock.

The fact dawned upon me that whether I looked to right or left it was the same, and that when I looked upward I could see no sky, only a sort of mist out of which glowed the light of a brazen sun, or so one might at first have assumed. A moment’s consideration convinced me of my error. The sun should not be directly above, nor, looking harder, was this the sun!

I turned in bewilderment to my guide. He was lighting a cigar and smiling with quiet amusement.

“In heaven’s name where amI, and where does the light come from?”

“You are in the interior of a volcano, Mr. Kerrigan. The light comes from a Ferris Globe. The Doctor may have shown you the one in the laboratory.”

“Yes, he did. But this is not artificial light—this is sunlight.”

Perrywell nodded, staring at the glowing end of his cigar thoughtfully for a moment.

“I suppose in a way, it is,” he conceded. “Speaking unscientifically, the Ferns Globe absorbs energy from the sun and redistributes it as required. It’s a revolutionary system, of course, and in use nowhere in the world but here. Yes—” he saw me staring upward—”it’s very deceptive. You see at one point the roof is higher than the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral; and now”—he grasped my arm and turned me about, pointing—”do you notice a red buoy floating out there, roughly halfway across?”

I looked, and out on the surface of this vast subterranean lake presently picked up the object to which he referred.

“That marks the deepest spot. We haven’t been able to plumb it, yet.”

“What!”

“It’s true, Mr. Kerrigan. That’s put there for navigational purposes. The sea off this coast is very deep, you know. So what occurred in some past age was this: the sea broke in—we use the opening it made as our water- gate—and, quite simply, put out the volcano.”

“But such a thing—”

“Would make a lot of steam? I agree that it would. It was the steam that made this huge cavern, and that buoy marks the very centre of what used to be the crater.”

I said nothing; I could think of nothing to say.

“he potentialities of such a base as this it would be difficult to exaggerate. The use that has been made of it under the driving genius of the Doctor surprises even those who work on the spot. In addition to the private lift by which no doubt you came down, I completed here, less than two years ago, the deepest hoist in the world, or the deepest known to me. There is no difficulty about shipping stuff to the works and no questions are asked. It’s brought down here in sections if necessary. As you see, labour is cheap.”

I looked at the coloured gangs working.

“Surely, where so many men are employed, secrecy is impossible?”

“Not at all, Mr. Kerrigan—just a question of organization. You won’t find happier coolies anywhere, as you can see for yourself. Once these fellows are brought below-ground they stay below.”

“What do you mean? Like pit ponies?”

“That is, until we are done with them. Then they are shipped across to Tortuga, with plenty of money and a blank spot in the memory.”

I wanted to say to him, I wanted to shout at him: “You, too, have a blank spot in your memory! You, too, are living in a delusion! Your fine intellect is enslaved to a madman who one day will destroy the world, unless some miracle intervenes!” But, looking at this comfortably stout person as he puffed away at his cigar, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, I remained silent, for words would have been of no avail.

“Only the heads of departments come up and down,” he added. “Those who load the hoist at the top have no idea where it goes to. Oh! organization can accomplish miracles, Mr. Kerrigan.”

“I agree with you,” I replied, and spoke with sincerity.

“he working staff of the sisal corporation have nothing to do with the Si-Fan, you see; they are just ordinary labourers who have no idea that there is a below-ground. If one becomes inquisitive—well, we bring him down here and let him see for himself! And now, my instructions are to introduce you toDr. Heron.”

“Is he—”

“What Allington calls a conscript?” laughed Perrywell. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. He used to be chief technician to the German navy. His success attracted the Doctor’s attention. I can assure you that, in the twelve years that he has been employed here and elsewhere, he has evolved something which nullifies the power of every navy afloat.”

We walked along the busy dock bathed in synthetic sunshine, beside the unknown depths of what must have been one of the largest volcanoes in the world. I talked to a talented and worthy engineer whose brains had been commandeered by Dr. Fu Manchu. In Europe, battles greater than any known in history were being waged, whilst here, in this community of accumulated genius, a superman quietly planned, in his own words, “to tip the scale.”

What exactly did he mean and in what direction did he propose to tip it?

We entered a small, neat office, where an elderly German whose high, bald forehead was almost as striking as that of Fu Manchu himself, stood up to greet us. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles; a short, bristling, grey moustache lent him some resemblance to pictures I had seen of the former Kaiser. Unlike Perrywell who, most grotesquely as I thought, wore a Harris tweed suit and displayed a thick gold watch chain across his ample waistcoat.Dr. Heron wore blue overalls.

“Companion Heron—this is Mr. Bart Kerrigan.”

“I am pleased here to see you, Mr. Kerrigan. Always I am pleased when an opportunity comes my playthings to show off. So rare are opportunities, and always the artist for recognition craves. Eh? Is it not so?”

“I’m coming too,” said Perrywell.“It’s a long time since I was on board a Shark.”

Here, in this strange world, England and Germany were not at war.

“Always I am pleased to show you. Companion Perrywell,” the German replied, “although I know the subject to be beyond your understanding quite.”

He winked at me with heavy Teutonic humour, then led the way down a stair at the back of his office. I found myself on an iron platform which projected out to the open conning-tower of one of those odd craft which I had sighted on the surface of the lake. From the moment that I climbed down the ladder to the interior I plunged into the heart of a dream; for what I saw and what I heard did not seem sanely to add up. I had expected heavy petrol fumes, but of such there was no trace.

“But of course not!” said Dr. Heron.- “Why, if you please? Because we use no petrol.”

“Then what is the motive power?”

“Ah!” he sighed, and shook his head. “A lot I may brag, Mr. Kerrigan, a national characteristic this may be; but always we come back to the genius of Sven Ericksen. Power is generated in the Ericksen room, which takes the place of the engine room in any other submersible craft. I will show you and shall also explain, for at least the credit