Short Fiction

Kralitz to be hidden here.

Abruptly I realized that I was alone, save for the bearded man with the disfiguring scar. The others had vanished, and, deep in my thoughts, I had not missed them. My companion stretched out his black-swathed arm and halted my progress, and I turned to him questioningly. He said in his sonorous voice, “I must leave you now. I must go back to my own place.” And he pointed to the way whence we had come.

I nodded, for I had already recognized my companions for what they were. I knew that each Baron Kralitz had been laid in his tomb, only to arise as a monstrous thing neither dead nor alive, to descend into the cavern below and take part in the evil saturnalia. I realized, too, that with the approach of dawn they had returned to their stone coffins, to lie in a deathlike trance until the setting sun should bring brief liberation. My own occult studies had enabled me to recognize these dreadful manifestations.

I bowed to my companion and would have proceeded on my way to the upper parts of the castle, but he barred my path. He shook his head slowly, his scar hideous in the phosphorescent gloom.

I said, “May I not go yet?”

He stared at me with tortured, smoldering eyes that had looked into hell itself, and he pointed to what lay beside me, and in a flash of nightmare realization I knew the secret of the curse of Kralitz. There came to me the knowledge that made my brain a frightful thing in which shapes of darkness would ever swirl and scream; the dreadful comprehension of when each Baron Kralitz was initiated into the brotherhood of blood. I knew⁠—I knew⁠—that no coffin had ever been placed unoccupied in the tombs, and I read upon the stone sarcophagus at my feet the inscription that made my doom known to me⁠—my own name, “Franz, twenty-first Baron Kralitz.”

The Crystal Circe

Prologue

The stratoship from Cairo was late, and I was wondering whether the newsreel theatre or a couple of drinks would make time pass faster. It was early dusk. Through the immense, curved wall-window of the Manhattan Port Room I could see the landing field, with a silvery ship being rolled over the tarmac, and the skyscrapers of New York beyond.

Then I saw Arnsen.

It was Steve Arnsen, of course. No doubt about that. No other man had his great breadth of shoulders, his Herculean build. Ten years ago we had been classmates at Midwestern. I remembered rakehell, laughing, handsome Steve Arnsen very well, with his penchant for getting into trouble and out of it again, usually dragging Douglas O’Brien, his roommate, along with him like the helpless tail of a kite. Poor Doug! He was the antithesis of Arnsen, a thoughtful, studious boy with the shadow of a dream lurking always in his dark eyes. An idealist was Douglas O’Brien, as his Celtic ancestors had been. Strong friendship had existed between the two men⁠—the mental communion of laughter and a dream.

Arnsen was looking up into the darkening sky, a queer tensity in his posture. He turned abruptly, came to a table near me, and sat down. From his pocket he took a small box. It snapped open. His gaze probed into the unknown thing that was hidden by his cupped hands.

I picked up my drink and went to Arnsen’s table. All I could see was the back of his sleek, massive head. Then he looked up⁠—

If ever I saw hell in a man’s face, I saw it in Arnsen’s then. There was a dreadful longing, and an equally horrible hopelessness, the expression one might see on the face of a damned soul looking up from the pit at the shining gates forever beyond his reach.

And Arnsen’s face had been⁠—ravaged.

The searing mark of some experience lay there, branded into his furrowed cheeks, his tightened lips, into his eyes where a sickness dwelt. No⁠—this was not Steve Arnsen, the boy I had known at Midwestern. Youth had left him, and hope as well.

“Vail!” he said, smiling crookedly. “Good Lord, of all people! Sit down and have a drink. What are you doing here?”

I sought for words as I dropped into a chair. Arnsen watched me for a moment, and then shrugged. “You might as well say it. I’ve changed. Yeah⁠—I know that.”

“What happened?” There was no need to fence.

His gaze went beyond me, to the dark sky above the landing field. “What happened? Why don’t you ask where Doug is? We always stuck together, didn’t we? Surprising to see me alone⁠—”

---

He lit a cigarette and crushed it out with an impatient gesture. “You know, Vail, I’ve been hoping I’d run into you. This thing that’s been boiling inside of me⁠—I haven’t been able to tell a soul. No one would have believed me. You may. The three of us kicked around together a lot, in the old days.”

“In trouble?” I asked. “Can I help?”

“You can listen,” he said. “I came back to Earth thinking I might be able to forget. It hasn’t worked. I’m waiting for the airliner to take me to Kansas Spaceport. I’m going to Callisto⁠—Mars⁠—somewhere. Earth isn’t the right place any more. But I’m glad we ran into each other, Vail. I want to talk. I want you to answer a question that’s been driving me almost insane.”

I signalled the waiter and got more drinks. Arnsen was silent till we were alone once more. Then he opened his cupped hands and showed me a small shagreen box. It clicked open. Nestling in blue velvet was a crystal, not large, but lovelier than any gem I had ever seen before.

Light drifted from it like the flow of slow water. The dim shining pulsed and waned. In the heart of the jewel was⁠—

I tore my eyes away, staring at Arnsen. “What is it? Where did you get the thing? Not on Earth!”

He was watching the jewel, sick hopelessness on