shudder.
He felt for the bruise on the back of his head, suspecting that the blow
received at Wu Tu’s might have affected his vision: he had heard of that
happening to a man. But the bruise had healed, and his eyes felt all right.
Then he reached for a cigarette, but instead of lighting it he went into the
tent and brought out a service revolver. He sat down again and examined the
loading. Then he looked again for those eyes in the dark. They were
there.
They were enormous—no longer in the least like Wu Tu’s. Their
movement was irregular. It was stealthy. They were coming toward
him—high up—twenty feet from the ground. He could see nothing
beneath them—no head —merely eyes, of a luminous, disgusting,
cruel green, like a light he had once seen in a cavern where a fakir wrought
obscene miracles. They suggested a dank smell, but he knew that was
imagination because he could smell the good earthy scent of the dew on the
dust.
He could hear nothing except ordinary night sounds, such as the wing-whirr
of insects and the high, excited, almost inaudible squeak of bats. An owl
hooted two or three times. The eyes came nearer. He began to feel deathly
afraid and thought of summoning the servants, but dismissed that thought the
moment it crossed his mind.
The moon vanished beyond the hump of a hill and utter darkness swallowed
the last shadows. Then the pale light of the monstrous eyes increased. He
could see they were set in a man’s head—or a head like a man’s—a
giant’s, but too small for a man twenty feet high. It seemed to be suspended
in air. Its movement was slow, elastic, partly from side to side with a
swaying effect.
The face was thin, mean, livid. It had a straggling beard. It resembled
the face of a tortured and decapitated hillman he had seen near Quetta, its
beard matted with blood; only this one was alive and moved haggard lips. It
drew nearer. The eyes glared malign intelligence of unintelligible horrors;
their loathsome irises looked dull blood-red; but it was difficult to tell
their real color because the ghoulish green predominated. Presently the gloom
beneath the head grew vaguely luminous, and then horror crept up Blair’s
spine until his short hair rose and he sat rigid, not breathing, with his
heart thumping.
He could see the thing’s body. It resembled a slimy black bag, shaped like
a stomach. The thing was an octopus. It walked on six snake-like tentacles of
prodigious length. There were suckers on them that opened and closed with
rhythmic movement, each one separately. The two foremost arms reached and
writhed slimily green through the dark. He could feel one of them stirring
the air within ten paces. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off the
face. It seemed to see him and yet not to see him—to be conscious of
him—to be feeling for him. Perhaps it was blinded by the light of the
tent, but it stared like a ghoul in the depths of a dark sea.
Suddenly he thought of Wu Tu—saw a mental picture of her coiled on
her lounge in Bombay. He dismissed that with an almost panic-effort of will,
he did not know why; but he felt urged to think of her and he rebelled
against it. The face was coming nearer. One of the long arms almost touched
him. The thing danced—as an octopus does—as big spiders
do—with the pitiless, absolute rage of malice—slowly—on the
tips of its outspread tentacles. He could see the thing’s teeth.
Suddenly he thought of Henrietta. He was instantly bathed in relief that
she was not there. The relief relaxed him. He remembered the revolver then.
He cocked it, rested it on his left elbow, aimed carefully and fired straight
at the thing’s face. It vanished. There was utter and instant darkness where
it had been. The noise of the shot awoke his servants: he could hear them
scurrying out of their tents. But Blair’s attention was riveted on something
else.
Ten feet away, directly in front of him in
He felt for the bruise on the back of his head, suspecting that the blow
received at Wu Tu’s might have affected his vision: he had heard of that
happening to a man. But the bruise had healed, and his eyes felt all right.
Then he reached for a cigarette, but instead of lighting it he went into the
tent and brought out a service revolver. He sat down again and examined the
loading. Then he looked again for those eyes in the dark. They were
there.
They were enormous—no longer in the least like Wu Tu’s. Their
movement was irregular. It was stealthy. They were coming toward
him—high up—twenty feet from the ground. He could see nothing
beneath them—no head —merely eyes, of a luminous, disgusting,
cruel green, like a light he had once seen in a cavern where a fakir wrought
obscene miracles. They suggested a dank smell, but he knew that was
imagination because he could smell the good earthy scent of the dew on the
dust.
He could hear nothing except ordinary night sounds, such as the wing-whirr
of insects and the high, excited, almost inaudible squeak of bats. An owl
hooted two or three times. The eyes came nearer. He began to feel deathly
afraid and thought of summoning the servants, but dismissed that thought the
moment it crossed his mind.
The moon vanished beyond the hump of a hill and utter darkness swallowed
the last shadows. Then the pale light of the monstrous eyes increased. He
could see they were set in a man’s head—or a head like a man’s—a
giant’s, but too small for a man twenty feet high. It seemed to be suspended
in air. Its movement was slow, elastic, partly from side to side with a
swaying effect.
The face was thin, mean, livid. It had a straggling beard. It resembled
the face of a tortured and decapitated hillman he had seen near Quetta, its
beard matted with blood; only this one was alive and moved haggard lips. It
drew nearer. The eyes glared malign intelligence of unintelligible horrors;
their loathsome irises looked dull blood-red; but it was difficult to tell
their real color because the ghoulish green predominated. Presently the gloom
beneath the head grew vaguely luminous, and then horror crept up Blair’s
spine until his short hair rose and he sat rigid, not breathing, with his
heart thumping.
He could see the thing’s body. It resembled a slimy black bag, shaped like
a stomach. The thing was an octopus. It walked on six snake-like tentacles of
prodigious length. There were suckers on them that opened and closed with
rhythmic movement, each one separately. The two foremost arms reached and
writhed slimily green through the dark. He could feel one of them stirring
the air within ten paces. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off the
face. It seemed to see him and yet not to see him—to be conscious of
him—to be feeling for him. Perhaps it was blinded by the light of the
tent, but it stared like a ghoul in the depths of a dark sea.
Suddenly he thought of Wu Tu—saw a mental picture of her coiled on
her lounge in Bombay. He dismissed that with an almost panic-effort of will,
he did not know why; but he felt urged to think of her and he rebelled
against it. The face was coming nearer. One of the long arms almost touched
him. The thing danced—as an octopus does—as big spiders
do—with the pitiless, absolute rage of malice—slowly—on the
tips of its outspread tentacles. He could see the thing’s teeth.
Suddenly he thought of Henrietta. He was instantly bathed in relief that
she was not there. The relief relaxed him. He remembered the revolver then.
He cocked it, rested it on his left elbow, aimed carefully and fired straight
at the thing’s face. It vanished. There was utter and instant darkness where
it had been. The noise of the shot awoke his servants: he could hear them
scurrying out of their tents. But Blair’s attention was riveted on something
else.
Ten feet away, directly in front of him in
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