The Dark Star

To Neeland, the entire affair had seemed as though it were some rather

obvious screen-picture at which he was looking--some photo-play too

crudely staged, and in which he himself was no more concerned than any

casual spectator.

Until now, Neeland had not been scared; Ali Baba and his automatic

pistol were only part of this unreality; his appearance on the scene

had been fantastically classical; he entered when his cue was given by

Scheherazade--this oily, hawk-nosed Eurasian with his pale eyes set

too closely and his moustache hiding under his nose à la Enver

Pasha--a faultless make-up, an entry properly timed and prepared. And

then, always well-timed for dramatic effect, Golden Beard had

appeared. Everything was en règle, every unity nicely preserved.

Scheherazade had protested; and her protest sounded genuine. Also

entirely convincing was the binding and gagging of himself at the

point of an automatic pistol; and, as for the rest of the business, it

was practically all action and little dialogue--an achievement really

in these days of dissertation.

All, as he looked on at it over the bandage which closed his mouth,

had seemed unreal, impersonal, even when his forced attitude had

caused him inconvenience and finally pain.

But now, with the light extinguished and the closing of the door

behind Golden Beard and Ali Baba, he experienced a shock which began

to awaken him to the almost incredible and instant reality of things.

It actually began to look as though these story-book conspirators--these

hirelings of a foreign government who had not been convincing because

they were too obvious, too well done--actually intended to expose him to

serious injury.

In spite of their sinister intentions in regard to him, in spite of

their attempts to harm him, he had not, so far, been able to take them

seriously or even to reconcile them and their behaviour with the

commonplaces of the twentieth century in which he lived.

But now, in the darkness, with the clock on the washstand shelf

ticking steadily, he began to take the matter very seriously. The gag

in his mouth hurt him cruelly; the bands of linen that held it in

began to stifle him so that his breath came in quick gasps through his

nostrils; sweat started at the roots of his hair; his heart leaped,

beat madly, stood still, and leaped again; and he threw himself

against the strips that held him and twisted and writhed with all his

strength.

Suddenly fear pierced him like a poignard; for a moment panic seized

him and chaos reigned in his bursting brain. He swayed and strained

convulsively; he strove to hurl all the inward and inert reserve of

strength against the bonds that held him.

After what seemed an age of terrible effort he found himself breathing

fast and heavily as though his lungs would burst through his

straining, dilating nostrils, seated exactly as he had been without a

band loosened, and the icy sweat pouring over his twitching face.