Acolytes of Cthulhu

MYTHOS

BY JOHN GLASBY

“WELL,” SAID MITCHELL, SUCKING ON HIS PIPE AND STARING intently across the desk, “what do you make of it? You think it could be a true record of what happened, or is it just another hoax?”

Nordhurst looked bored. He flung the manuscript onto the desk, then straightened in his chair, lit a cigarette, and stared out of the window as he blew smoke through his nostrils. “I was thinking of having a talk with you some time ago about this, Mitchell,” he said quietly. “I know you’ve applied for permission and finances, to fit out an expedition to this place. Personally, I think I ought to warn you that I’m against the entire project. I know you hold very firm, and fixed, views on this subject. You’ve spent the past two or three years delving into the records we have in the library here. I haven’t tried to stop you because you seemed to be doing no harm and it was always possible that you might, conceivably, turn up something new. But this—”

He indicated the manuscript on top of the desk with a sudden sharp jerk of his hand. “Really, Mitchell, I thought better of you.”

“But surely, sir,” protested the other mildly, raising a brow, “you aren’t going to dismiss it like that. There ought, at least, to be some attempt made to look into it. After all, the legends of Easter Island have been known, in part, for a very long time now, ever since the island was discovered—or rediscovered, if you like—by Roggeveen on Easter Day, 1772. But as far as I know, no one has solved the mysteries of the ancient cult or religion which built those tremendous stone statues on the island.”

“Doctor Mitchell,” interrupted Nordhurst acidly. “As head of the Archaeological Department, I can assure you that I know something of Easter Island.”

“I fully acknowledge that fact, Professor,” said the other smoothly. He had the impression that he was getting nowhere fast with this man. “Your personal knowledge and integrity are not being challenged. All I ask is that we fit out a small expedition to check on the facts mentioned in this document. I believe that these notes made by Don Felipe Gonzales may help us to clear up some of the mystery which shrouds the place.”

“Nonsense.” Nordhurst shook his head vehemently. “Don’t you realise that if we fitted out an expedition based on such flimsy, not to say ridiculous evidence as this, we might be the laughing stock of the entire University?” He got to his feet and walked to the window, standing with his back to the other. He went quickly, without turning his head: “Try to look at this objectively, Mitchell. I realise that may be difficult for you, because perhaps without even knowing, you’re somewhat prejudiced in your outlook on the matter, but what have we got to go on? Nothing more than a note in the diary of the Spanish Captain who was the second person to land on Easter Island after the Dutch had left.

“Apparently they remained on the island for some time, claiming it in the name of the King of Spain. During that time, seven of their crew disappeared without trace and were never seen again. They certainly never returned to the ships. That much we can be sure of. But they could have remained on the island. It seems quite certain there are many places there where they could hide and not be found by any of their fellow crew members who went out hunting for them. On the other hand, I consider it far more plausible that they were murdered by the islanders and their bodies hidden.”

“I see.” Mitchell tapped out his pipe into the tray and leaned back in his chair. “Does this mean that no approval will be given to this expedition?”

“Not necessarily. I’m merely the Professor here. The question will have to be put to the committee of which I’m merely the Chairman. They will have the last say in the matter. If their decision goes against you, and you’re sufficiently determined, I suppose you could obtain some form of private backing for this idea of yours, always assuming you could find anyone sufficiently interested in your ideas.”

“And you yourself would not be interested in coming along, sir?”

Nordhurst read the expression in the other’s face and a note of authority crept into his voice: “I appreciate your feelings in this case, Doctor Mitchell, and I detect a little sarcasm in your tone. But even though I do not believe in your theories, after all, I’m still an archaeologist first and foremost, and if it is at all possible to get away from my duties here at the University, I shall be only too glad to accompany you, if only to be present when you are proved wrong.”

“And if I’m proved to be right, sir?” The other rose slowly to his feet and stood facing the Professor across the desk. He picked up the manuscript and held it tightly in his hands.

“Then this will be a case, not for an archaeologist, but for an expert on witchcraft and similar related topics, if you can find one.”

Mitchell felt sullen, but tried not to show it. He had expected this, even before he had come to see Nordhurst. The other had no imagination, he told himself fiercely, could see nothing beyond the stones and pottery he found in his excavations. He knew for a fact that Nordhurst had done nothing along similar lines to the problem he had in mind. Mesopotamia and the Tigris Valley were about as far as he got.

He shrugged inwardly. The civilization he was seeking was certainly on a par with those ancient cultures with which Nordhurst was familiar, even though divided from them by thousands of miles of open sea. It would be relatively easy for the other to rig that committee meeting so that they voted to throw out his application and he knew that he would not get a second personal hearing after they had once made their decision.

“You think I’ve merely got a good imagination, don’t you, Professor?”

The other went back to the desk and lowered himself into his chair, stubbing out the cigarette. “You’ve got to admit yourself that it’s a pretty wild theory with nothing to support it.”

He called Mitchell back once before he got to the door. He was seated easily in his chair, completely master of himself, confident that his decision, already made, was the right one and that nothing would ever alter it.

“You know, I think you ought to have a talk with Walton before you go any further with this. He might be able to straighten you out. If not, at least you seem to be thinking along similar lines.” His smile broadened, almost viciously, as he delivered this final, parting shot.

Mitchell eased out of the door and closed it quietly behind him. He didn’t hate the other for what he had said and for what he would undoubtedly do when the committee met; he couldn’t hate him. He was just another of the staff who saw only what they wanted to see in the old legends of the ancient civilizations.

He lit his pipe again, flicked the spent match into the basket halfway along the corridor and started for the hallway.

Halfway along the hall, he stopped. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have a talk with Walton after all, he thought. Walton was a curious fellow who kept to himself. Not merely because he liked it that way, but because the things in which he was interested seemed to have little in common with what was expected of a University. Officially, he was head of the Mythology Department, if it could be called a department, considering that he was the head and solitary lecturer all rolled into one.

He had a curious feeling of disorientation as he made his way to the other’s room. Checking his watch, he saw that it was a little after four o’clock. The other ought to be free at that time of the afternoon, with most of the lectures over. He knocked on the door, went inside.

Walton was seated in the wide-backed chair in front of the empty fireplace. It was far too hot for a fire and even in this room with the window open, it was far too cool.

“Why, Mitchell. Come inside. It isn’t often I have the pleasure of your company. Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind. I assume this isn’t just a social call.”

“Not exactly. I’ve been along to see Professor Nordhurst.”

“About your proposed visit to Easter Island?” The other raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“How did you know?” Mitchell stared at him for a moment in surprise.

“Word gets around a place like this,” said the other easily. “Besides, I must confess I’m quite interested in your ideas myself. I’ve been reading some of the papers you’ve written on these ancient myths. Couldn’t have done better myself and I’m supposed to be the head of that particular department.”

“I assure you I didn’t mean to tread on anyone’s corns when I wrote them,” said the other defensively.

“Think nothing of it. There’s too little interest, real interest, shown in these old legends at the present time. I only hope that you get permission and money to finance this expedition of yours. If you do, I sincerely hope you’ll ask me along. Not only for the ride, but so that I might take a look at some of these things at first-hand.”

Mitchell felt suddenly a little more confident. Walton, of course, would have some say on the committee and he felt that here he had a staunch supporter.

“I’d very much like to have you along.” Mitchell nodded. “But at the moment, things don’t look too bright for me. Nordhurst is dead against the idea and he had plenty of influence with the committee. If they turn this down, I don’t know where to start.”

“Leave that particular bridge until you come to it,” advised the other. “I may be able to swing things in your favour, although I don’t want you to go building your hopes on that. It’s going to take several thousand dollars to finance an expedition such as that, and in addition, you’ll have to get the permission of the Chilean Government for any exploratory work. You shouldn’t have too much difficulty there, however; they’re usually quite willing to allow genuine archaeological expeditions to work there, provided they don’t try to interfere with the ways of the people.”

Mitchell leaned forward in his chair. “And you think there might be something in this idea of mine, that some of the old religion is still being practiced on the island, and that if we can only find out something about that, something which may have been handed down from before the dawn of history, we may find out more about those statues?”

“It’s an intriguing thought,” said the other slowly. He ran his fingers through his hair. “And I’ve no doubt that there’s still plenty of mystery there for us to clear up.”

“I wish I could think of something which would convince Nordhurst and those others who’re bound to be on the committee. You know what they like, the way they think. Anything as dry as dust and they’re all for it. They’ll spend money like water, just to dig up a few old relics that have been buried for a couple of thousand years in Mesopotamia, but give them something like this, something that could turn out to be really big, and they look on it as so blasphemous, so beyond their limited imagination, that they clamp down on it immediately.”

“Steady, Mitchell, steady,” said the other, watching his face carefully. “We may pull this thing out of the fire yet. Tell me about your theory.”

Ralph Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, a sparse young man in his thirties. He was the tweed-and-pipe man, who never went down well with the real intellectuals at the University. They tolerated him, but he suspected that none of them, especially the older, more dignified ones ever really liked him. Walton was possibly different in that he was only four or five years senior to himself, and his pet subject required far more imagination and intuitive instinct than any other in the entire Faculty.

“These vast stone statues that are present on Easter Island. I believe that they were put there by an advanced civilization many centuries before the present inhabitants, or their ancestors, visited the place. It’s miles from anywhere and way off the main sea routes, although I’m prepared to accept the current theory that ocean currents are such that anyone leaving the coast of South America would be carried there by the currents and the prevailing winds.

“That, perhaps, could tell us how the ancestors of the present islanders arrived there several centuries ago, but I doubt whether we can look to the same explanation for this earlier civilization.”

“Which is still only one of your postulates,” put in the other gravely.

“Yes, that’s perfectly true,” replied the other solemnly, “but I think I have some concrete evidence for it.”

“And what might that be?” The other raised an interrogatory eyebrow and studied him calmly from the depths of the easy chair.

Ralph Mitchell shrugged. “The strange ichthyic figures which have been discovered on the bases of some of these statues and more important still, small statues of birdlike creatures, having human bodies, which are present in the hidden caves on the island.”

“I see.” The other nodded. “You’ve been extremely busy discovering all of this. And from these scattered shreds of evidence, what have you deduced?”

“That there was a civilization on Easter Island many thousands of years ago, an extremely advanced civilization. I don’t know, at the moment, whether or not it was a good or an evil one. Somehow, I think it was evil.”

Walton looked at him sharply. “Why do you say that?”

“From those statues and from the inscriptions which have been carved on them. They all seem to speak of an earlier time, far beyond that of recorded history, possibly before that of the early Egyptian dynasties, when there were strange cultures on Earth. Almost all of them have now been destroyed, and only fragmentary evidence remains. That—and quite a lot of legend and folklore. The difficulty with the latter is, trying to shift the grain of truth from the tremendous mass of exaggeration and fiction which has grown up about it. Remember, these stories which are told in the legends of countless races, all over the world, have been passed down by word of mouth for centuries. It’s only natural that they should have been embellished on the way. And the older they are, the more closely the truth is hidden.”

“And you want to get at that grain of truth which existed in the very beginning. Is that it?” smiled the other.

“Yes.” Mitchell nodded his head slowly. “I’m convinced that the answer, or one of the answers, is there on Easter Island. I’ve spoken to several men who’ve been there and they all say, without exception, that no one can stand and gaze upon those tremendous statues and not feel a sense of terror that lurks still in hidden places. I want to see these things for myself, question the people there with regard to their ancient legends, find out if any of their religion still exists and examine the figures and inscriptions on these monstrous creations for myself.”

“Don’t you think that others must have had the same idea in the past, ever since those stone figures were discovered? If what you say is true, why hasn’t some of it come out into the open by now?”

“I don’t know. I think it may be that some people have discovered the truth for themselves and they’ve either died because of it, or they were made to stay there, out of sight, until the ships had left. I think that was what happened to those sailors mentioned by the Spaniards who visited the island in 1770.”

The other said eagerly, “Now this is the kind of thing I like, Ralph. I’m glad you came to see me. I hadn’t realized you were so serious, nor that you had learned so much. Most of what you’ve told me, I’ve known for some time. The legends of Easter Island have long been one of my favorite topics of research, only I think it only fair to mention now, that I haven’t got very far with them. There’s not only an air of utter secrecy about them, but the natives there simply refuse to discuss them with strangers.”

He gazed at Mitchell without smiling, his eyes very still and hard, with a speculative expression in them. “You are hoping to link these researches of yours with anything in particular?”

“Easter Island could be an outcrop of a larger, submerged land area. Possibly one of the legendary continents which are mentioned in the old books.”

“Mu?” said the other in a whisper. He leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of things. You may be on the track of something important. I don’t think we can persuade Professor Nordhurst of this. He’s far too wrapped up in his own dry-as-dust discoveries. But we may be able to bring it to the notice of the other members of the committee. I’ll certainly do my best.”

“Nordhurst mentioned that if the funds were granted for an expedition, he’d like to come along.”

“Simply for the chance to gloat over us if we found nothing and it all turned out to be a wild goose chase, no doubt.”

“I’m certain those were his only motives,” agreed Mitchell. There was a touch of bitterness in his voice. “Whichever way the decision of the committee goes, he’s determined to be on the winning side.”

Walton nodded. “Whatever happens, until we know their decision, try not to rub him the wrong way. In the meantime, I’ll get in touch with the other committee members and sound them out. There are bound to be a few of them on our side and others I think I might be able to win over. It would be quite ethical for me to do this, whereas you might be reluctant to associate yourself with talking them around, seeing that you’re the proposer of this scheme.”

“Do you think we stand a chance at all?”

The other pursed his lips. “I’ll know the answer to that one once I’ve had a talk with some of the others.”

Mitchell had expected little to come of Walton’s promises. He was, therefore, all the more surprised when Professor Nordhurst called him to his room one afternoon three weeks later.

“Sit down, please, Doctor Mitchell,” he said gravely, indicating the chair in front of his desk. “I’d like to have a talk with you.”

Mitchell sat quite still, wondering what was coming next. Obviously it was something to do with the committee meeting which had been held earlier that day. Probably wondering how he can break the refusal gently, he thought bitterly, without making it obvious that he was the one who had stopped the grant.

“As you know, the committee met this morning to discuss your application for a grant to finance an expedition to Easter Island. I made it quite clear the last time we discussed this question, that I was not in sympathy with such an undertaking, that it did not merit the expenditure of so much money from the University funds.

“However, a majority of the committee members were of the opinion that something useful might come from such an expedition and consequently it has been decided to finance this trip of yours. I hope for your sake, and that of the University as a whole, that something will be discovered which is of concrete, scientific interest.”

He twisted his lips into a dry smile. “I would also like to remind you that I would like to be included in the group to go on this trip.”

“But of course, Professor.” Mitchell felt a sensation of sudden exultation and excitement rising within him. This was far more than he had ever dared hope. Most of it, he owed to Walton, he reflected. The other had certainly been busy during the past three weeks.

“Then that’s settled. All that remains now is to settle on a date. I realize that it will take some time to make the preliminary arrangement, but I’d certainly appreciate it if you’d keep in close touch with me.”

Mitchell nodded in silent agreement. Now that everything had turned out in his favour, he could forget the way in which Nordhurst had reacted when they had first talked this idea over.

“I’ll begin the necessary arrangements right away,” he said quickly, getting to his feet. There was a sudden sense of urgency in him now that the first obstacle had been cleared. He had the strange feeling that time was somehow running against them. It was a peculiar sensation, one which he could not even begin to explain. Somewhere out there in the heart of the Pacific, he thought tensely, lay the secret to most of the ancient legends, he felt certain of that. If only he could find it, prise it loose from whatever it was, from whoever held it.

Mitchell stirred restlessly under the sheets, then swung his legs to the floor of the cabin and sat on the edge of the bunk. The ship was rolling slightly in the swell and it was still dark outside. He tried to make out details through the porthole close to his head, but could see nothing through the thick glass. The previous evening, the Skipper had estimated that they were little more than seventy miles from Easter Island and that they ought to reach it some time the following evening.

There was no light in the cabin, and he was content to sit in the darkness, smoking. During the past weeks when progress had seemed slow and at times non-existent, the urgency within him had risen to the point where he could scarcely stand it any longer. Even now, when they were almost within hailing distance of their objective, he still felt tense and tight inside, as if something were bottled up inside him, waiting for release.

They had easily picked up a crew for the converted fishing vessel which they had succeeded in fitting out, and the journey so far had proved uneventful. The ship had proved to be extremely seaworthy and had been sufficiently large to carry all of their equipment. The necessary permission had been received from the Chilean Government to land on Easter Island and carry out their investigations.

He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another almost immediately. If only he could rid himself of this feverish tension which seemed to be riding him incessantly, never leaving him. Was it because he was inwardly afraid of what he might find here? That there might be something in the tales of horror which the other men he had talked with had spoken of? Or was it because, deep down inside, he was afraid of being proved wrong by Nordhurst?

Deliberately, he considered the various alternatives and immediately dismissed the last one. Simply because he was wrong would not bring this subtle fear in its train. There might be a little ridicule, and an I-told-you-so attitude on the part of Professor Nordhurst, but that was about all.

On the other hand, if there was anything in his belief in an older, tremendously ancient civilization on Easter Island, and vestiges of it still remained there, it might conceivably be dangerous to probe too deeply. He tried to dismiss the idea, to put it out of his mind altogether. Whatever his reasons for coming here, he was still a scientist, first and foremost. And as such, he had trained his mind to examine everything minutely and carefully and reject anything which had no scientific reasons for its existence.

Well, to hell with it, he thought savagely, drawing deeply on the cigarette, watching the tip glow redly in the darkness. Very soon, he would be in a position to find out things for himself. Not that he expected to make much headway at first. The natives would undoubtedly be reluctant to talk with total strangers, especially about their ancient beliefs, and even when they did, he would still have to sift the truth from the mass of spurious data with which it would be embellished.

He sat there for a long time, so sunk in thought that he scarcely noticed the darkness fading beyond the porthole, and the sun climbing up out of the sea. He dressed after a while and went up on deck. There was a stiff breeze that caught hold of his shirt and flapped it around his waist.

Walton was already there, leaning over the rail, peering into the sun-hazed distance. He turned as the other approached.

“Not much further now, Ralph,” he said genially. “Beginning to get excited, I suppose.”

“A little,” admitted the other quietly. He fell silent and stared down at the water which ran in a stream of white foam past the hull of the ship.

“Something wrong?” inquired the other concernedly. “You don’t look so good.”

“Just that I didn’t sleep much during the night, got too much on my mind, I guess.”

“Well, whatever happens, don’t let it get you down. There’s one hell of a lot to be discovered here, I can feel it in my bones. You may be on to the discovery of the century before very long.”

“I only hope you’re right.” Mitchell’s laugh was oddly brittle and hollow, with little mirth to it. “I’d hate to have to go back to the University and live with Nordhurst telling me all the time how wrong I had been and that he had advised against this expedition in the first place. Superior knowledge and all that, you know.”

Walton grinned and nodded in sympathy. “I know how you feel. But somehow, I don’t think you ought to let that worry you. I’ve been thinking about this place myself and the more I consider the possibilities here, the more convinced I am that you’re on to something, something big. Only don’t take that as anything definite, it’s only a hunch at present, although I must admit, I’m very seldom wrong about anything like this. Some kind of instinct I’ve developed over the past years, I reckon.”

He clapped Mitchell on the back. “How about getting something to eat? I’m starving. It’ll help to pass the time until we sight Easter Island. After spending all of this time on the ship, I’ll be glad to set my feet on dry land again.”

They went below where the others were already at their morning meal. Nordhurst looked up from his half-empty plate. “Still confident that there’s something here worthy of all the money we’ve spent, Doctor Mitchell?” he asked. His voice was toneless.

“I think so.” Ralph forced evenness into his tone. “We will soon know now.”

The other shook his head slowly, dubiously. “I’ve spent almost twenty-five years hunting through the ruins of the Tigris and Euphrates valley and I’ve found no indications of any older civilizations than those whose existence we’ve been able to prove. In my opinion, the Sumerian is the oldest of all proven cultures.”

“Aren’t you forgetting Atlantis and Mu?” asked Walton innocently.

Nordhurst grimaced. “I said proven cultures, Doctor Walton,” he murmured acidly. “There’s no evidence whatever for the existence of Atlantis or Mu.”

“What about all of the old manuscripts? The Popul Vuh of the Mayas and the Hindu Vedas? Don’t they speak of a far more ancient civilization on Earth which predated that of even the Sumerians by several thousand years?”

“I’m afraid I possess an utterly scientific outlook when it comes to records such as those you have just mentioned,” went on the other calmly, regarding Walton closely. “These old records have all been shown to be fiction. Certainly it is fiction of a highly skilled order, but none the less, there isn’t a grain of truth in any of them.”

“Oh, come now, Professor,” grinned the other easily. “You can’t possibly dismiss everything as easily or as simply as that. Life would be extremely easily and well-ordered for people such as myself, if we looked at things that way. And there’s no doubt it would remove some of the fascination out of life.”

“It would also relegate these works to where they belong,” snapped the other sharply. “To the realms of fiction.”

“I’m sorry you think that way, Professor,” said the other, still retaining his equanimity. “But I’ve a feeling that, skeptic as you are, even your faith in the scientific approach to these problems will be severely shaken when we get to Easter Island.”

“That remains to be seen,” said the other in a tone which ended the conversation on that particular topic.

It was almost dark that evening before they came within sight of Easter Island. It rose up out of the sea like a great smudge on the horizon, taking shape as they bore down upon it through the surging swell. Mitchell stood on the deck and watched it through narrowed eyes. Even from that distance, he could sense the strange air of mystery which lay like an invisible pall over it.

Small wonder, he reflected, that the people who had been living here when the Dutch had first arrived, had known more about the sun and moon and stars than about any other land on the face of the earth. They were so far removed from the nearest land, from the nearest place of human habitation, that their language had been filled with references to the celestial bodies which were visible all the time in the clear sky above their heads, rather than to other islands, which were so far away that they had almost sunk to the status of myth.

They sailed closer and dropped anchor in a small bay which sheltered them from the current. Mitchell could feel the breeze on his body, a breeze which blew off the island, bringing with it a feeling of mystery, and a little touch of terror also as he thought of those carved stone images which dotted the grassy slopes. What race of creatures had posed for those vast statues? he wondered inwardly. A race of men long dead who had left behind these relics of civilization at which it was only possible to guess?

When he finally went below, a riot of thoughts ran through his spinning mind. In the morning, they would go ashore and their work would begin. Above all, he wanted to see these weird inscriptions on the stone statues and to talk with the people, try to dig back into their past, not to the legends of their own race, but those, if any, of the race which had inhabited this place possibly thousands of years ago.

He slept little that night and his uneasy dozing seemed troubled by strange dreams, more real and frightening than any he could remember before. Mostly, they consisted of a jumbled series of kaleidoscopic scenes or vivid glimpses of vast, hideous creatures walking a landscape which seemed totally unfamiliar to him, but which he felt he had seen before. He seemed, in his dreams, to hear a weird and awful chant that seemed never-ending and he worked with it ringing in his ears, the sweat starting out on his body and a shivering fit which seized him in spite of all he could do to fight it off.

He sat up in the bunk and looked about him, trying to force calmness into his mind. What had brought about that nightmare? he wondered as his heart slowly thumped into a more normal, slower beat. It was now almost dawn and there was a faint grey light showing through the porthole. He got up and stood on the cold floor of the cabin in his bare feet, staring out at the island less than a quarter of a mile away.

It looked bare and deserted, an undulating place with rocky, rising hummocks of land here and there and a few of the enigmatic statues just visible on the slopes. The sight of them stirred something inside his mind, and for a moment, he felt his breath catch at the back of his throat.

The air over the island seemed laden with mystery. He wondered whether Nordhurst was awake yet and if so, what emotions were running through his mind as he gazed out at the curious, almost awe-inspiring landscape which had opened before them. Possibly, he too, would be a little apprehensive, wondering what they might find out there. And Walton. He would be excited now, he felt sure of that. A fellow-spirit, he reflected, among the disbelievers.

Breakfast was a meal of silence, quickly over. Everyone, including Nordhurst, seemed anxious to get ashore, if only to get away from the monotonous swaying and pitching of the vessel. Even though they were at anchor here, there was still a swell running from the ocean.

Mitchell went in the first boatload, along with Walton and the Professor.

By now, the grey of the dawn had turned to roseate light edged with gold and suddenly, above the rim of the sea, the sun came up, leaping into the cloudless heavens. The boat touched down on the rock-strewn beach and Walton clambered out, giving a hand to Professor Nordhurst. Mitchell stepped out after them and stood looking about him in awed wonder for several moments. It seemed scarcely credible that he was here at last, that the mystery of which he had dreamed for so many years was actually there, all about him, spread out on all sides.

Stretching in both directions, the grey lava beach curved away around the rocky headland, cut here and there with precipices and loose blocks of stone, but these had obviously been carved by time and not by man.

“God, what a place,” breathed Walton hoarsely. His eyes were wide in his head. “If there are ghosts of ancient civilizations anywhere in the world, surely they must be here.”

Nordhurst snorted derisively. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said thinly. “I suppose we’d better find a suitable place to set up camp first of all and then start exploring the area. I noticed several of those huge stone figures on that slope over there about a half a mile away. It ought not to be difficult to locate them.”

“It also looks as though we have company,” said the Skipper, pointing.

Mitchell glanced up in the direction of the other’s finger. A crowd of natives had gathered at the top of a narrow, winding lava path which ran up the steep side of the slope in front of them, meandering between grotesquely etched boulders, like a naturally formed stairway.

“I wonder how many of them speak English?” muttered Mitchell.

Before anyone could answer, Walton had stepped forward. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled at the top of his voice:

“Ia-o-rana kurua!”

“Ia-o-rana kurua!” Yelled from a score of voices, the sound came rushing down the cliff wall, bouncing from boulder to boulder like a crushing wave. They came down, following the vast shout.

Mitchell stood to one side as Walton spoke quickly to the natives who crowded around them. Several of them spoke English, he discovered, and almost all of them spoke some form of Spanish. It was not going to be difficult to converse with them, he decided, but how difficult it would be to get anything worthwhile out of them was another matter altogether.

After setting up camp, under the inquisitive eyes of the natives, bringing most of their supplies ashore, they left two of the ship’s crew on guard, the natives of Easter Island being well-known for their thievery. It seemed almost a fetish with them and was certainly not looked upon as a crime on the island.

Mitchell set off with Professor Nordhurst and Walton, accompanied by a score of the crew members and many natives. Half an hour later, after stumbling over uneven, treacherous ground, they reached the place which Nordhurst had spotted from the ship, where the great stone statues stared out across the island with their backs to the sea.

All of them, thought Mitchell, with a faint sense of curiosity, facing away from the sea.

A coarse type of grass, yellowed by the sun, grew around the bases of the statues which towered above them, to a height of twenty feet or more. Mitchell shivered a little as he stared at that strange, frightening, inscrutable gaze. There was something here which he could not understand. But what it was, he didn’t quite know.

He turned, looked around at Nordhurst. The other stood several yards away, issuing a few orders to the ship’s crew as they lowered their spades and picks from their shoulders and stood ready to begin excavations. How far they would have to dig before they came upon anything important was something no one knew at that time. Mitchell could only guess that they would have to dig at least as far as the feet of these statues, if they had any feet, and judging from the side of the heads, which was all that stood out above the ground, they would have to go down at least forty feet; and if they hit solid rock on the way, then it would undoubtedly slow up their progress in that direction to an unguessable extent.

“What do you think of it, Professor?” he asked, going over to the other.

“I’m not sure, Doctor Mitchell. We may find something of archaeological importance here, but I’m not banking on anything. Certainly, I’m convinced there’s nothing here to support your theory, that of an ancient, almost prehistoric civilization.”

“Not even forty feet down at the base of these statues?”

“Not even there.” The other shook his head and there was a gleam in his eyes which Mitchell had never seen there before. Goddamnit, he thought savagely, the other was actually enjoying himself now, playing like a cat with a mouse, waiting for the expedition to turn up nothing more important than a few earthenware pots, relics of the recent civilization. Then he would really be on top of his form.

The men started digging in the hot sunlight. Sweat boiled off their brown bodies as they worked. The earth was reasonably soft on top, easily loosened by the picks. Within three hours, the earth had been cleared away to a depth of almost seven feet. As Mitchell had guessed, the statues had been buried in the earth and the bodies, brought to light for the first time in God knew how many years, were made of exactly the same kind of stone as the inscrutable heads which gazed out across the land towards the center of the island.

That night, as he lay in his blankets, inside the white tent which had been thrown up along with several others, on a smooth plateau, Mitchell felt strangely contented. There was still a feeling of tension in his body, a tightness which had not yet gone away, would probably not go away until he knew for certain what lay under the ground around those graven images. The moon had risen and was gleaming vividly over the great stone faces, some of which he could see through the half open flap of the tent. For some reason, he felt a trifle afraid as he lay there on his side, his head pillowed in his arm, eyes running through his mind; a hundred burning questions to which he had, as yet, no answers, but which he knew he would have to answer before he left Easter Island.

What strange race of people had hewn and erected these great images and how long ago? Five hundred—a thousand years? Or beyond the dawn of recorded history as they knew it? During the daytime, he had questioned one or two of the natives as to the origin of the statues and had learned that they had been dug by the Old Ones, the Long Ears, from a quarry inside the extinct volcano of Rano Raraku.

So far, he had seen no reason to doubt this statement. There had to be somewhere on the island where these vast colossi had been hewn from the solid rock. It was totally inconceivable that they could have been brought there from any other islands so many miles away.

Yet somehow, he had the strange and unshakable impression that there was something more about the island than they had seen. It was true that they had only been there for a day and, quite naturally, there was a lot they had yet to see. But he had the feeling that there was something hidden—but where? Possibly inside the crater of Rano Raraku. Possibly even somewhere underground. In the morning, he would question the natives still further. Any who were unable to speak English or Spanish, he would bring along to Walton and allow him to act as interpreter. It had been a stroke of unexpected luck to find that the other was able to speak the native language sufficiently to make himself understood.

All in all, he mused, Walton was proving himself to be something of a mystery. There were many things about him which he was only beginning to realise. The strange way in which he was able to find his way around the island. The way in which he could converse fluently with these people.

None of this had been apparent while they had been at the University. The man’s talents were entirely unexpected.

In the moonlight darkness, before he finally fell asleep, fragments of half-forgotten demoniac lore flashed through his mind, things he could just remember reading in his student days. He shivered. There was a strangeness about this island, set so far from any other inhabited place, holding its mystery hidden from prying eyes. And what had happened to those seven men from the Spanish ship which had anchored offshore as their own vessel was at that very moment? Where had they vanished to, in the darkness of the abysmal night?

It was just possible, he reflected, that even if he discovered the secret, he might not live to tell it. The natives seemed friendly enough at the moment, willing to help in the excavations provided they were well paid, but they might change completely if he started probing too deeply into the past, into things which they might consider did not concern him. Holding this view, he fell asleep and when he woke, the yellow moonlight was gone and the greyness of dawn was giving way to the full light of day.

In spite of his thoughts the previous night, he ate a hearty meal and then went off with the others to the excavation site. Work was progressing a little more slowly now that they were digging deeper into the ground. Here the earth was far harder than before and on many occasions, the picks struck sparks from hidden rocks under the soil and large boulders had to be heaved manually out of their age-old resting place.

A few of the natives had gathered to watch once more and he walked over to them, motioning to Walton to accompany him.

“Are you going to question them, Ralph?” asked the other, and there seemed to be a touch of uneasiness in his deep voice.

“That’s the general idea. Apart from what we manage to find down there, I think there’s a lot more we can learn by questioning the natives. They must have some legend, some myths.”

“It’s quite likely, but whether or not they’ll talk about them is a different matter,” warned the other. “We can only try to worm something out of them, but something tells me they’ll be very reticent.”

They approached the small knot of natives. Mitchell eyed them curiously. Olive-skinned, they seemed to bear no resemblance whatsoever to the images which dotted the plain. It was quite obvious that the human, or subhuman likenesses which had been the models for those stone faces, had long since left the island, had vanished in mystery somewhere in the far mists of time.

One of the men, a tall, stern-faced man in his fifties as near as Mitchell could judge, spoke reasonably good English.

“Those statues over there,” began Mitchell, waving an arm which embraced the plateau where the rest of the crew were toiling in the glaring sunlight. “Do any of you know when they were made, and who carved them?”

The man regarded him closely for a long moment, so long that Mitchell had half despaired of an answer. Then he said slowly: “They have been here since the beginning of time. They came from the inside of Rano Raraku. If you go there you can see many more which have not been taken to their final resting place. They are waiting there now.”

Almost foolishly, Mitchell went on: “And do you believe that they will ever go to their final resting place? Or will they remain there forever?”

“That we do not know. If they wish to go, then they will go.”

“And yet you have no stories about them—no legends as to why they were carved?”

“There are stories, but they cannot be told, not to strangers.”

“Why not?” pressed Mitchell sharply. “Are you afraid to tell us?”

He had noticed the brief expression which had flickered over the man’s face, and there seemed to have been a fragmentary glance in Walton’s direction. Mitchell felt puzzled. He could understand a reticence on the other’s part if he was trying to hide something until the price had been made right for any information, but this was something he did not understand. That the other seemed afraid was obvious. But afraid of what? Of some reaction on the part of the other natives if he should talk of sacred things, or reveal any of the carefully guarded secrets of the island?

It seemed feasible, but the other must have known that none of his companions spoke a word of English and therefore could not understand anything he said.

“These are things so old that no one can talk about them. They have been guarded from the beginning of time.”

So that was that, thought Mitchell angrily. Once again, he had come up against this stone wall of impenetrable silence. It was almost as if this was killing knowledge, as if possession of it could be dangerous. But now, more than ever before, he felt certain that it had been handed down by word of mouth from one generation to another on the island, that the old knowledge was still there, but whispered around the fires in the night, or perhaps incorporated in the weird chants he had heard the previous night, the eerie sound wailing over the silent plateau.

He brushed aside the other’s sudden silence and said harshly: “If you won’t talk to me about these things, then at least tell me someone who will, someone who isn’t afraid like a child.”

If he had expected the insult to sting the other into some unguarded retort, he was sadly disappointed. The other merely pursed his lips, then shook his head, turned on his heels and stalked off with his head held stiffly in the air. After a moment’s pause, the other natives followed him.

Mitchell turned impulsively, exasperated, to Walton. “How in God’s name do you get stubborn people like that to talk?”

“I warned you that it wouldn’t be easy,” said the other evenly. He took out his pipe, filled it slowly, methodically, and lit it carefully, blowing the smoke into the air through pursed lips. “But there may be a way. I think we may have our friend Professor Nordhurst to thank for it, too.”

“How do you mean?” countered Mitchell.

“He’s been spreading it around that he doesn’t believe in the old legends, whatever they are. Sooner or later, I have the idea that someone is going to show him how wrong he is. We only have to wait until then to find out some of the answers.”

Mitchell gazed at him without smiling. “You seem to know a lot more about these people than I ever gave you credit for,” he said eventually. “Just where do you fit into this deal? First I discover that you can speak their language, speak it fluently, too. Secondly, you seem to know how their minds work.”

“Let’s say I’ve made quite a study of them, especially on the voyage here. I’ve had plenty of time to read up on most of what there is to know about them.”

Mitchell would have liked to have questioned the other further, but at that moment there was a sudden shout from the valley a little below them and he turned to see. Nordhurst was waving his arms excitedly. They hurried down the grassy slope.

“What is it?” he asked breathlessly.

The Professor pointed. Mitchell stared down at the body of the great stone statue where it had been uncovered by the sweating men. He leaned forward, realising as he did so, that Walton was peering intently over his shoulder. He heard the other’s sharp intake of breath.

The designs etched into the solid stone sent little shivers running up and down his spine. They were unlike anything he had ever seen before, carvings of unmistakable significance, of brooding terror, of creatures which were neither man nor bird, but something inexplicably between the two, all speaking mutely of a way of life, strange and terrible, led by inhabitants which were perhaps half-beast, half-man, possibly gigantic, although there was nothing there to give any indication of their true size.

“You’re thinking of those strange images carved on the walls of the caves in New Guinea,” said Walton quietly.

“Yes—and in a few other places of the world,” Mitchell nodded. “Those in Peru are extremely similar to these, although there are some differences which may be significant.”

“Hasn’t it already been established that the people of Easter Island must have originally come from South America?” suggested Nordhurst.

“That’s true,” agreed Mitchell, straightening his back. “But those carvings weren’t quite like these. There’s something—well, terrible—about these, something you can almost feel.”

“Nonsense! It’s merely because these have just been exposed after centuries. I’ve seen those ancient Aztec and Mayan inscriptions for myself first-hand.” The other spoke with a certain amount of pomposity. “At least give me some credit for knowing what I’m talking about.”

“My apologies,” said Mitchell thinly. He kept his temper with a supreme effort of will. “I didn’t mean to question your authority to speak on that point. I gather that we differ only on one point, Professor. I firmly believe these drawings had once a living model, you don’t.”

“Certainly not,” Nordhurst stared at him as though doubting his sanity. “Surely you aren’t going to suggest that at some time, on this island, there was a race of creatures like that. But it’s utterly preposterous, completely ridiculous.”

“Professor Nordhurst,” muttered Mitchell hoarsely, keeping his temper tightly under control. “I not only believe that at one time such a race existed here on Easter Island, but that another race co-existed with them, namely the race of giants who built and erected these images. And furthermore, I’m equally convinced that we shall find sufficient evidence here to convince you.”

He half expected the other to make some form of protest, but Nordhurst merely smiled knowingly and bent to examine the carvings more closely. As the work went on, more and more carvings were found on the trunk of the stone giant which lay half-uncovered now. All in all, Mitchell judged its length to be close on sixty feet and its weight many tons. How it had been brought down from the interior of Rano Rardaku without machinery of any kind, seemed an insoluble problem.

* * *

Three weeks later, the excavations had reached a stage where a few questions had been answered to Mitchell’s satisfaction; but a hundred more had been posed. To them, there seemed no possible answer. The natives still refused to speak in spite of everything that Walton had been able to do to make them talk. None of the presents which had been offered to them, to their headman, or the religious head, had made the slightest effect on their refusal to talk.

On any other subject, they would converse for hours in an extremely friendly manner, but once he tried to turn the conversation towards the old times before their race had come to the island, to what they had discovered when they arrived there, the talk had abruptly dried up and they had politely refused to be drawn into any further conversation.

He was beginning to despair of ever finding out anything of importance with which to counter the sarcasm of Professor Nordhurst which was daily becoming less veiled and more direct in its manner. Then, one evening, shortly after dark, Walton came into his tent and sat down on the stool with his back to the flap.

For a long moment, he remained silent, then he said very softly: “I’ve been talking with one of the old men on the island. I think I’ve finally talked him around to telling you something. How important it will be, I don’t know. But it seems that he’s heard what the Professor has been saying and it must hurt his pride because he seems ready to talk.”

“Did he ask you to come and fetch me?” asked Mitchell carefully. So many times in the past, he had gone out to meet these natives, only to be disappointed when he arrived. Either they had suddenly shut up like a clam or they had talked endlessly about nothing important, merely telling him several things which he already knew.

“Yes,” Walton nodded. “I think we may be on to something this time. I think he’s a little scared, but he’ll talk. And what’s more to the point, I really believe that he knows something. Not the lies they’ve tried to give us in the past whenever they’ve claimed to tell us the old secrets, but something worth knowing.”

“Very well, I’ll come,” said Mitchell wearily, as he got to his feet. “But if this is just another false trial, then—” He left the rest of his sentence unsaid and followed the other out into the darkness. The moon was half full, lying out over the smooth water, throwing weird, grotesque shadows across the lava track which they followed around the shoulder of the hill.

Mitchell shivered as the night wind blew about him. There was sweat on his forehead and across the small of his back and it made his thin clothing stick uncomfortably to his flesh. Time seemed to pass with abnormal slowness that was oddly disconcerting and he had the feeling of eyes watching him every step of the way, unfriendly eyes, not those of the natives, but of something else which crouched in the black, moon-thrown shadows.

His ears seemed at times to catch faint sounds along the track, sounds which could not quite be identified with anything which seemed to inhabit the island normally. He wished that his senses were not so preternaturally keen in the darkness. But something in the solitude and the stillness seemed to have sharpened them above their normal pitch.

He thought of vague, irrelevant things as he stumbled close behind the other, of the strange things he had seen in other places, how they fitted in with what was here, and of the unknown, inaccessible, alien things which must have existed at the very beginning of time and which could, conceivably, still exist in such an out-of-the-way place as this, where civilization had barely touched the people, where they could still believe in the old things. This could be one of the last outposts of these alien things on earth, he reflected. He often liked to speculate about these things, but never had they seemed so vivid as at that particular moment.

Whether it was the surroundings or the utter stillness which had brought such ideas to his mind, he did not know. But in spite of everything he did, it was impossible to rid his mind of them. The deadness and the silence were virtually complete. After a while, he found himself deliberately shuffling his feet on the smooth rocks to make some kind of noise, to still the nerves which jumped and twitched spasmodically in his body.

Around him there was the suggestion of odd stirrings. Of things, half-hidden at the edge of his vision, which moved over that strange and alien landscape, lurching forward with a cumbersome manner out of the black shadows. It seemed abnormally cold, too; a coldness which could not be completely explained by the fact that they were some distance above sea level and the wind was blowing directly off the water. Nothing was so definite he could put his finger on anything wrong, and yet he felt that the swirling air about him was not uniformly quiet, that there were strange variations in pressure which made themselves felt, but which he couldn’t even begin to understand.

They made their way down the narrow, twisting path as they came over the top of the hill. In front of him, he could make out nothing but blackness, then he saw the small cluster of native huts. Walton walked directly towards one of them, climbed the narrow, swaying ladder and went inside, motioning Mitchell to follow.

For some odd reason, his heart was bumping madly inside his chest as he followed on the other’s heels. He hardly knew what to expect inside. There was a little candle flickering on a small table and behind it sat an old, wizened figure, skinny hands pressed firmly on top of the table.

Mitchell judged the other to be almost ninety, but from his features, it was impossible to be sure. He could have been far older than that, with only the black swiftly darting eyes alive in the skeletal face.

“Does he speak English?” asked Mitchell, seating himself in front of the other.

Walton shook his head. “No. But he knows some Spanish. I think you ought to be able to converse in that language.”

Mitchell nodded, tried to force his heart into a slower, more normal beat. After all, he tried to tell himself, there was nothing to fear from the other. Merely an old man who thought he knew some of the ancient secrets, who was possibly the only one on the island who did. But would he talk? And if he did, would he be telling the truth, or were there more lies to come?

“My friend tells me that you have something you wish to speak to me about,” he said slowly, loudly, speaking in Spanish.

The other’s lips moved and his voice, like a dry whisper said, “You come here asking questions about the stone faces of the island. Who made them and who carried them here?”

“That’s right. Do you know anything of this?”

The other nodded his head almost imperceptibly. “I would not have agreed to tell you these things had I not thought that you might believe,” whispered the other thinly. He sat very still, watching Mitchell unwinkingly with black, empty eyes. “But your friend has assured me that you are not like the others, that you might believe.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.” Once again, Mitchell felt that curious twinge of doubt about Walton, but let it pass in the sudden surge of excitement. At last, he thought with a savage exultation, he might discover something which would show Nordhurst who had been right from the very beginning.

“If I told you that the great statues moved themselves down from Rano Raraku to where you now find them—would you believe that?” There was a beat of sarcastic humor in the dry voice.

For a moment, Mitchell felt his hands tighten on the table in front of him, then he forced himself to relax. Somehow, at the back of his mind, he had always subconsciously known that it might have been something like this, incredible as it was.

“Go on,” he said tightly. “I’m not going to deny what you say.”

“That is good.” The other nodded his head slightly once more. “We have been here on Easter Island for many centuries, but as you will have guessed, we were not the first to come. Long before we arrived, there were others. They were not like us. Compared to them, we are as pygmies. They were the long ears whose stone faces you can see outside. Now they ring the island, watching for any who may try to escape to the sea.”

“And those others. The bird-men!”

“Yes. They were here, too. The struggle between those two mighty forces was long indeed. This was the primal struggle of good and evil between the Old Ones and the Gods.”

Ralph Mitchell nodded. Everything seemed to fit into place. The carvings and the manner in which those huge figures had been brought many miles from that quarry in the heart of Rano Raraku.

“So good finally triumphed,” he said finally. “At least Nordhurst will have to believe me now.”

He grew aware that the other was shaking his head and there was a curious smile on his lips.

“No,” said the reedy voice. “That is not so. The good were not triumphant.”

Mitchell stared at him, scarcely able to frame his thoughts and put them into words. He remembered the feeling which had all but overpowered him on the way there in the darkness. Suddenly, he knew what the other meant, but he wanted to hear him say it.

“No?” He forced his voice to remain steady.

“No. It was the forces of evil which triumphed over those of good. The Gods were defeated and that evil still exists here to this day. The struggle continues and will do so until the end of time.”

Mitchell turned his head to glance at Walton. The other, he saw, was not looking at him, but was staring straight ahead, his lips pursed into a hard, thin line, his face fixed into a strange expression.

“Do you believe what he’s saying?” he asked, switching to English. “It seems utterly fantastic.”

“I warned you it might be difficult to believe,” said the other quietly. “But I see no reason to disbelieve him. After all, why on earth should he lie to us? He isn’t making anything out of it; and he was the one who approached us with this story.”

“It’s possible,” admitted the other. “But somehow, I don’t think that’s the answer. I’m inclined to believe that he’s telling us the truth.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying? That there still exists on the island, if not actual remains of that lost race, people who can perpetrate this evil he speaks of?”

“I know. I find it incredible, difficult to believe, but I’ve studied enough of these people to get to know when they’re lying and when they’re telling the truth.”

Mitchell turned back to the old man. While they had been speaking, he had been staring into space, taking no interest in what they were saying. He scarcely seemed aware of their presence there.

Mitchell swallowed hard and forced down the sudden inexplicable rising of fear in his throat. The dark, empty eyes stared impassively into his and for a moment, the feeling was there that a black, intensely malignant aura lay around the other like some odd cocoon, spreading out from him in an evil wave. He blinked his eyes rapidly several times and forced himself to look away. It was more than likely that such men had mastered the art of some form of hypnotism, he thought tightly.

Finally, he forced himself to speak quietly. “There are writings of my people which tell of men who landed here from a ship many, many years ago. They were never seen again and the ship had to leave without them. Do you know what happened to them?”

The eyelids never flickered. “The Old Ones must have taken them,” was the simple reply.

“The Old Ones?” persisted Mitchell, “and are they still here?”

“They are all here. Those that the Old Ones take to themselves have immortality. They cannot die.”

Mitchell shrugged. What the other was saying was impossible, of course. This didn’t make sense at all. He had the feeling that this conversation was about two different things, that neither of them was on common ground. But he was damned if he was going to let this superstitious old fool beat him. He had come here for information and he intended to get it at any cost. These natives had fobbed him off once too often. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Walton, but the other had fallen strangely silent and seemed reluctant to take any further part in the proceedings.

“This immortality you speak of,” he went on, “just what does that mean? That they still live here, as you or I, and that they’ll go on living for all time?”

For the first time, the other smiled; a toothless grin that sent an involuntary shiver through him.

“They are here with the others and here they will remain,” was all that he could get out of the old fellow. Finally, in exasperation, he climbed sharply to his feet, and stood looking down at the other, his face angry.

“This is what I expected, of course,” he said tightly, deliberately speaking in Spanish so that the old man could understand every word. “A pack of lies and half forgotten superstitions which anyone could have told me. I don’t know why I listened to you, Walton. I thought I might learn something here which would be important. More and more, I’m getting the impression that perhaps, although I don’t like to admit it, Professor Nordhurst had been right all along the line. There is nothing here to bear out my ideas and theories. This expedition was nothing more than a complete waste of time. I’m going and this is the last time I agree to come and meet any of these—fools!” He spat the words out as he turned on his heel and moved towards the door. He had almost reached it when the old man called him back. There was a sharp, biting quality in his voice now, a note of warning.

“Just before you go, señor, there’s one thing I want to tell you. Don’t make the mistake of thinking as your friend thinks. He came here disbelieving everything and swears that nothing will change his mind. He is a very foolish man, because there are things here far beyond anything he can comprehend. I know them for what they are, the power of darkness and evil that were spawned thousands of years ago, between good and evil on this lonely island.

“Things which were born then and have not died over the centuries. They can never die so long as the island is alive. They’re out there now, in the darkness. Perhaps you felt their presence on your way here tonight. But your friend will soon discover these things for himself and when that happens, be sure that you are not of the same mind as he is. Be guided by your friend here,” he inclined his head slowly in Walton’s direction. “He can see these things, he has the mind of one who believes.”

“Is that a threat?” asked Mitchell thinly.

“Not a threat, but a warning. Believe me when I tell you that it is not a good thing to gain immortality—this way.”

Ralph Mitchell glared at him in silence for a long moment, then pushed aside the straw over the entrance of the hut, clambered swiftly down the shaking ladder to the ground and stood in the cold darkness. Above him, he could hear Walton saying something to the old man in his own tongue. Waiting for him to come, Mitchell smiled grimly. Probably the other was apologizing for what had happened. If so, he could save his words. His patience was finally almost exhausted.

From now on, he would look for these hidden things himself and take little notice of what was told him by the natives. If there was anything hidden here which they did not want him to find, then by God, he would never rest until he did find it. Until he had brought it out into the light of day and shown it proudly to the skeptics.

But in spite of all this and the seething rage inside him, he felt oddly disturbed by what the old man had said. This veiled threat against Professor Nordhurst. What exactly had that meant? Did they intend to murder him because of his beliefs—or to be more precise, his disbeliefs? On the face of it, it seemed hardly likely that anything such as that would happen at the present day, even here. Nevertheless, he wondered whether or not he ought to warn the Professor. He would probably only laugh in his face, call him a superstitious fool and tell him that all of this work was simply beginning to get on his nerves.

He decided against telling him anything of what had happened that night. Two minutes later, Walton came down the ladder, dropped to the ground beside him. Without saying a word, he led the way back along the path, towards the top of the lava ridge, on the other side of which lay their camp.

The wind had risen now and shrieked at them like a mad thing, whirling their clothing about them, hammering at their faces and yelling in their ears. Spray seemed to reach up from the depths and lash at their bodies until they were soaked to the skin. There was the sharp taste of salt on Mitchell’s lips and he had to lean forward against the wind to make any headway.

The moon still shone, close to the sea now, where it was dipping towards the horizon. Gradually, however, the wind dropped until it became quite calm. Mitchell struggled forward, feet slipping on smooth lava underfoot. Walton seemed to have little difficulty in walking, holding himself stiffly upright, not having to look down at where he placed his feet. He seemed to know every inch of this way, although Mitchell could have sworn that the other had trod this path only twice since they had been on the island. The man’s memory seemed fantastic, to be able to pick his way amid that jumble of rocks in almost pitch darkness.

At the top of the low, saddle-backed ridge, they paused and looked about them. Mitchell was breathing heavily by this time, his breath coming in great, gasping sobs which burst from his lips in the silence. Presently, however, as he stared about him, his eyes becoming more accustomed to the blackness, he had the peculiarly illusory impression that there were dark shapes which moved in the darkness on either side of them. He screwed up his eyes in order to see them better, knowing that in the night, averted vision was far more acute than looking straight at anything which moved.

The first movement was of tall, grotesque shadows, far taller than a man, but having human shape which seemed to glide down the side of Rano Raraku some distance to the east. Then, abruptly, they were no longer shadows, but solid things, most of them upright but some wriggling along the ground with a terrible sinuous motion. He opened his mouth to scream, but Walton, stepping forward to his side, clamped a hand over his mouth and muttered a hissed warning.

Not until the convulsive shivering in his body had died away, did the other remove his hand and release his restraining hold on Mitchell’s arm. Then he could only stand there, dumbly, the muscles of his throat constricted so that no sound could possibly have been uttered even if he had wanted to shriek out loud with what he saw. Those vast colossi, those graven images which looked out forever across the rolling, undulating hills of Easter Island, were moving in utter silence through the darkness.

Oh God, his mind screamed at him, colossi like this had no right to be moving around at all, and certainly not in such utter silence. The sight caused every hair, even the tiny growths on the back of his hands, to rise with a vague fright beyond all description or classification. For a moment, he lost all power to draw a single breath. His lungs seemed crushed and paralyzed. His eyes were starting from his head.

Was this what the old man had meant when he had said that the Old Ones, the evil ones, were still on the island, that they had immortality?

Now, he saw it all clearly and the thought itself was what brought all of the horror to a head. Of course the Old Ones were immortal. There was nothing on the island which could outlive those vast stone images.

The terror seeped through him in a surging wave, leaving his body exhausted, his spirit spent. How long they stood there, watching that terrible sight, it was impossible to estimate. When he could finally think clearly again, when the breath came back into his body and the mad thumping of his heart had subsided, the moon had sunk out of sight below the western horizon and there was no further movement in the pitch blackness where only the bright, alien stars looked down on the scene.

It was a long time before he could pull himself together completely. Then he turned to look at Walton. If he had expected to see an expression of fear on the other’s face, he was strangely disappointed. Instead, there was a look which he could not analyze.

“I think we had better go now,” said Walton in a strange voice. “The others will be wondering where we’ve got to and I think you’ve seen enough.”

“It must have been imagination,” whispered Mitchell, more to himself than to the other. “Yes, yes, that’s it. Nothing but imagination, something conjured up by that old fool’s talk.” He was babbling a little wildly now, but he did not realize it.

The other smiled, turned and led the way down the side of the ridge, back to camp. As they approached, Mitchell saw that there were torches burning among the tents and that most of the men were still awake and moving hurriedly around, fully dressed. Possibly they were making ready to come looking for Walton and himself, he thought, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Nobody would believe their story, even if they told it to them. He licked his lips dryly and knew that he would have to remain silent, would have to keep it to himself unless he wanted them to lock him away in some asylum.

He could imagine what Nordhurst would say if he ever learned of it. The Skipper came rushing towards them as they came within the circle of torchlight. He seemed agitated.

“Where’ve you been at this time of night, Doctor Mitchell?” he asked harshly. “And is the Professor with you?”

“Professor Nordhurst—why no, he isn’t with us.” There was a sudden feeling of alarm in Mitchell’s mind. That strange threat which the old native had made against Nordhurst. Had there been anything in it?

“He must have gone off somewhere,” said the other throatily. “His bed seems to have been slept in, but judging from the ground around the hut and inside, there seems to have been some kind of struggle. We wondered whether any of the natives had come while we were asleep and the Professor had caught them at the usual game of stealing our equipment. Nobody seems to have heard anything, although Carlton here thought he heard a faint scream, but imagined that it had been one of the sea-birds. It wasn’t until we decided to check with the lookout that we found he had gone. Then we discovered you and Doctor Walton were missing too.”

“Doctor Walton and I have been over to the native village,” said Mitchell, just a trifle too quickly. “But we saw nothing of the Professor. If he did decide to go anywhere, it must have been in the opposite direction. In the moonlight, we ought to have seen him if he had been anywhere in that direction.”

“We’ll make a thorough search in the morning, sir,” said the Skipper tightly. “He may have gone over to have a word with the Governor, but I wouldn’t have thought that would be likely at this hour of the night.

“Don’t worry, though, we’ll find him even if we have to take this whole island apart. There isn’t going to be any repetition of what happened when the Spaniards came.”

But though they searched all of the following day, and for several days afterwards, there was no sign of Professor Nordhurst. The Governor ordered all of the natives to make a search in any of the secret places known to them, but without avail. The only possible explanation was that the Professor had vanished off the face of the island as if he had never existed.

For six weeks, while the search continued, excavations were made at various points on the island. Some evidence to support Mitchell’s theory was turned up, but with Nordhurst’s mysterious disappearance, there was no sense of triumph in this. Now that the chief antagonist of his ideas had vanished, he lost all interest in the expedition. He was strangely glad when the time came for them to leave.

As the anchor rattled metallically up the sides of the ship, Mitchell stood on deck, leaning against the rail, staring at the dim greenness of Easter Island. Through the powerful binoculars, he could make out the various landmarks which he had grown to know so well. Halfway up the wide slope was the isolated figure of the statue they had dug out of the ground, exposing the entire body for its tremendous length of sixty feet. Around it were others, still standing there or lying on their faces. He moved the binoculars gently from side to side, studying the faces with a detached interest.

That there was some mystery, there was not any doubt but—

His thoughts gelled in his head. His hands shook so violently that he could scarcely hold the glasses steady as he stared at the vast stone face, the only one looking out to sea, the face of Nordhurst as he had seen him just before he had vanished.