Shadows Out of Time

Leng was populated, thinly, by more prepossessing people, who lived in stone villages and traveled only in armed caravans. There was supposed to be at least one city, but that was long abandoned and its history enigmatic. There were ancient burial mounds and strange towers, said to be as deserted as the city. There was a sprawling stone monastery or temple, also without inhabitants, except a high priest who wore robes and mask of yellow silk, and whom it was death to see even hidden in his vestments. Seeing him without them, wrote Huang (and Gottfried Mülder, too) meant a less comfortable fate.

Having got that far, I decided I might as well be reading Sax Rohmer. Yet von Junzt had died mysteriously and badly after his return from Mongolia, terrible things had evidently happened there, no-one ever caught his murderer, and his friend Ladeau had destroyed von Junzt’s last manuscript and then suicided. Any real clues to where Leng can be found were probably crushed ashes with the manuscript. All of this meant dead ends.

I said slowly, “Connie, maybe you’re right and I’ve no way to go now but with psychometry experiments. If they don’t give me a thing, I’m no worse off.”

“Of course you’re not!” she said. Then she pulled a face. In a lot of ways she’s as spontaneous as a kid. “It’ll mean going through Tindall. And a certain amount of butt-kissing.”

Neither of us liked the Dean of Arts and Sciences. He resembled an intensely staring owl. His people were rich, he’d been a force in getting some grants Miskatonic needed badly, and he was a player in the university’s politics. By that I mean he excelled at planting knives in backs. The trustees didn’t quite jump to attention when he spoke, but they certainly didn’t ignore him, and he had a weakness for bizarre projects. Perhaps, then, even though he no more liked me than I did him, he’d approve this one.

Among Tindall’s oddities was an office that would have been bang up-to-date a hundred years ago. His desk, bookcases and filing cabinets were carved black oak, with matching chairs. These had no upholstery and were ugly, wide enough for people with backsides like Percherons, standing on four thick legs. A despot’s interrogators would have approved them for discomfort. Even Tindall could not do without a computer, printer and fax, but he kept them in a broad alcove behind a tawny plush curtain.

His social attitudes were as far behind the times. I think he’d prefer that no-one with a name like Orlanski trod the hallowed precincts of Miskatonic. Believe me, he talked like that, and I’d heard him refer in public speeches to “the charmed circle of New England life”. Polacks should have the grace to stay out, was his meaning, and maybe that’s why he treated Connie with respect. Ancestors of hers fought in what Tindall still calls “King Philip’s War”, and they’ve lived in Massachusetts ever since. That meant a lot to the dean. His own forebears were Providence folk and had been there a long time, but still only since 1750 or so, when they arrived as merchants. (They were Tories during the Revolution, by the way.) Connie’s family can beat that by a full lifetime.

“Ah, Orlanski,” he said as we entered. “Doctor Burcham. Sit down, please.”

I have a doctorate myself, but that was Tindall.

There he sat, behind his broad desk in his own chair, which was as unyielding as the others. As I say, he looked like an owl. His large, round, sharp-sighted hazel eyes and small hooked nose made the impression a strong one. If he’d only had a thick head of hair tufted at the sides the resemblance would have been perfect, but he was stone bald.

“I’ve seen the analyses,” he said, when those damned chairs were digging into our napes and shoulders. “They really are unique. I take it those are the samples, there in that satchel?”

“That’s right, dean.”

“You know findings like that will be challenged? Of course we can defend them. It isn’t just Miskatonic’s high repute and facilities. Places outside our campus have confirmed them, unimpeachable institutions. I never imagined you’d falsify such tests anyway. It’s inconceivable that you’d be so stupid.”

Apparently he thought he was complimenting me. He hadn’t said it was inconceivable I would do something so unethical, you’ll notice. Well, that was Tindall too. I gave him a humble coprophagous smile and thought how fine it would feel to hit him.

Connie said from the side of her mouth, “Lucid and impartial, Roy.”

I kept a grip, and described the difficulty of confirming the samples’ source in China — if it had been that — or Mongolia. Connie took over for a while and suggested that psychometry might give some answers. That wouldn’t impress geologists, but could lead to a specific locale where solid evidence could be obtained.

“Maybe a whole area of rocks like these,” I added. “Crags, bluffs, a range of hills. It’s a lot to hope for. But it’s worth a try. It’d be revolutionary.”