served the dual purpose of heating our little party and brewing our tea and other small luxuries, and though we enjoyed the social occasion of this hour after sunset, the gritty sand which flew about took away what small pleasure the picnic had given and after that first evening we took to gathering within Scarsaale's command tractor for the communal meal, before dispersing to our beds for the night.
Zalor, for some reason best known to himself, did not like the tractors when at rest, though he was comfortable enough when they were mobile, and wrapping himself in his cloak slept under the command vehicle, in a sort of nest he scratched for himself in the sand. This suited me perfectly and the first evening I locked the door after him, content in knowing that he would be spending the following day in Van Damm's vehicle. The doctor would be leading and all I need do was follow in his wake.
I had long debated with myself the secret knowledge of the tablet the dwarf bore within his robe; he himself had never so much as referred to it by word or sign after that first moment on the tractor steps. I felt I ought to discuss it with Scarsdale at the earliest opportunity yet at the same time I feared any disruption it might bring to our little band. After all, there might be some perfectly ordinary explanation; perhaps the Professor himself had given him the tablet to assist in his guiding the party.
And yet, as I lay comfortably on my bunk, listening to the gritty sand dashing with low clicks against the windscreen glass, backgrounded by the moaning sigh of the wind as it gusted at the corners of the vehicle, I could not bring myself to broach the subject and during the day there never seemed the opportunity. As though by tacit agreement the Professor himself was now no longer communicative; he lay on his own bunk opposite, a great steaming metal mug of tea at his elbow and pored over voluminous pencilled notes he had made in a tattered exercise book.
Every now and again he would refer to sets of figures he had inked on a small chart he kept pinned during the day to the navigation table and his mumbled calculations sometimes went on into the small hours. The tiny circle of luminosity thrown by the chart-table lamp, which he kept directed on to his bunk for this purpose, outlined his beard with golden light and the long wisps of steam ascending towards the lamp from his untasted tea made a homely touch in the remote spot in which we found ourselves.
This was the image, the last thing usually noted before sleep, which stayed with me and haunts me still in the long reaches of the night in these wretched after-years. As late as his figures kept him, Scarsdale was usually the first abroad in the early morning. We were astir before six a.m., in order to catch the cooler hours of the day — the desert was a furnace by nine o'clock — and the Professor made himself unpopular every morning around six by operating the klaxon on the front of our vehicle, which must have stirred the echoes for miles around.
We usually ate our breakfast — made from tins and packets — while we were under way and the Professor took over the controls from me for half an hour to enable me to eat each morning; this was a blessed relief and I spent the time at the chart-table looking at the strange lunar scenery ahead, which was a unique experience for me, as I usually steered by the compass bearing and had little time to note the more subtle gradations of landscape.
Indeed, this would have been difficult in any case, as I was no longer leading and Scarsdale was at this time swinging the tractor wildly, following Van Damm's dust. All the while we progressed, the rim of the dark mountains on the horizon slowly climbed up the sky.
The desert seemed devoid of life of any sort and the only figures we ever saw were near dusk on the afternoon of the second day; the outlines of three tattered nomads on a distant billow of sand who regarded us as though we were carven images on some distant tomb of ancient Karnak. I know not why such a conception flowed into my mind but this desert, though it is nothing like that of Egypt, ancient or modern, could not help reminding me of that younger civilisation.
I say younger advisedly for the region into which we were penetrating in such an erratic but remorseless manner was infinitely older and more blasphemous. I think we all sensed that after our arrival at Nylstrom, on the evening of the fourth day. I do not know what we had expected; Scarsdale, of course, had been there before and the town was no surprise to him. I am selecting my words imprecisely here because town was hardly the one to describe Nylstrom, which was nothing more than a huddled collection of baked-brick hovels, divided into three or four rectangular streets, with a small brackish lake and a few miserably stunted trees which were, however, such a rarity in this area that they appeared to stand out on the horizon from a long way off. The contrast with the splendours of Zak were so marked that I felt a sinking of the heart as we came within view of this abominable village which seemed to crouch like the refuse flung down at the skirts of the mountains which now loured gigantically in the middle distance before us.
Strangely enough the people, though gaunt and sallow and much given to eye-disease, were far more friendly and forthcoming than those of Zak; paradoxically, they would have greatly appreciated the splendours of the latter city while the Mir and his followers, I reflected, with their mean and withdrawn natures, should have inhabited Nylstrom, which was all they deserved. I was standing at the door of the tractor a few minutes after our arrival, surveying the busy crowd which had gathered in the wretched town square to welcome us, and my thoughts must have been transparently obvious on my features for the dwarf Zalor, squeezing past me in the dusk, turned to give me a look of hatred over his shoulder and hissed something in his unintelligible, broken- tongued language.
Though I detested the fellow, I must admit that he had done his job well and he had brought us here safely and with the least waste of time. Scarsdale, of course, was on familiar ground again and I could see his huge figure bobbing about the crowd and now and again he paused to shake hands with someone he recognised from his earlier expedition. I was still of two minds regarding Zalor's stone tablet but the events of the next few hours and our settling in at Nylstrom temporarily banished the incident from my mind. We had a brief conference over supper in the command tractor that evening; Scarsdale told us we would be in Nylstrom only two days before setting out on the last stage of our journey to the Black Mountains.
This was the first time he had used the correct topographical title for this group and we all looked at him with interest as though we were about to hear major revelations, but he did not let drop any further information that evening. He did say, however, that we would leave Number 4 tractor in reserve at Nylstrom and proceed with the other three, which would make things much easier. There was just time, on our arrival, in the last light of the fading sun, to stroll to the edge of the village to glimpse what we would be facing. The Black Mountains were only a bare fifty miles from us now and the going promised to be easier.
There was merely a flat plain of black volcanic ash and the scouring winds which blew continually from off the mountains raised a low, fog-like cloud which would cause some discomfort. But the compensating factor was that the temperature was lower here and we would not have to endure such heat as we had encountered in the desert. Prescott and Van Damm accompanied me on the walk; our other two companions were with the excited crowds in the square. Zalor had disappeared somewhere on an errand of his own.
The view was both bizarre and magnificent. The wind had temporarily dropped and the shifting storms were subsiding; through the unearthly veil they drew over the Plain of Darkness the sun shone in carmine splendour, staining the distant tops of the blunt-spiked mountains until it seemed as though the whole of the far horizon were a mass of shimmering blood. Across the face of the mountain mass were striated white lines which looked, at that distance, like nothing so much as an intricately traced map or, if one were particularly fanciful, the many-stranded structure of a spider's web.
Even the normally icy-tempered Van Damm seemed affected, for he gave a low, muttered exclamation under his breath, the gist of which I did not catch.
'I wish I had brought along my camera/ I exclaimed involuntarily. 'This would make a splendid subject for the film introduction to the final approach.'
The doctor shook his head.
'You are young, Plowright,' he said slowly. 'I don't like it. I don't like it at all.'
And he turned his back resolutely on that scene of brooding splendour and neither would he enlarge on his remarks at all, though I several times returned to it that evening.
All he would say at a later stage was, 'There is northern blood in my veins, some generations removed, Plowright. The northern races are, as you know, mystics. The Black Mountains as a geographic conception on the map are splendid. Seen as a reality they arouse in me feelings which you, as an extremely young man from my standpoint of years, could hardly be expected to share. I pray that you do not come round to my way of thinking before this trip is over.'
I retired to bed somewhat irritated and puzzled at Van Damm's attitude. The whole idea of the Great
