The Flying Legion | Page 5

before, on one of his
exploring tours in Yemen. He could hardly remember just when and where he had first
come to know the extraordinary mental and physical stimulus of this strange plant, dear
to all Arabs, any more than he definitely recalled having learned the complex, poetical
language of that Oriental land of mystery. Both language and the use of khat had come to
him from contact with only the fringes of the country; and both had contributed to his
vast, unsatisfied longing to know what lay beyond the forbidden zones that walled this
land away from all the world.
Wherever he had gone, whatever perils, hardships, and adventures had been his in many
years of wandering up and down the world, khat, the wondrous, had always gone with
him. The fortune he had spent on keeping up the supply had many times over been repaid
to him in strength and comfort.
The use of this plant, containing obscure alkaloids of the katinacetate class, constituted
his only vice--if you can call a habit such as this vice, that works great well-being and
that leaves no appreciable aftermaths of evil such as are produced by alcohol or drugs.
For a few minutes the Master sat quite motionless, pondering. Then suddenly he got up

again, and strode to one of the westward-looking windows. The light was almost wholly
gone, now. The man's figure, big-shouldered, compact, well-knit, appeared only as a dim
silhouette against the faded blur in the west; a blur smoky and streaked with dull smudges
as of old, dried blood.
Far below, stretching away, away, shimmered the city's million inconsequential lights.
Above, stars were peeping out--were spying down at all this feverish mystery of human
life. Some of the low-hung stars seemed to blend with the far lights along the Palisades.
The Master's lips tightened with impatience, with longing.
"There's where it is," he muttered. "Not five miles from here! It's there, and I've got to
have it. There--a thing that can't be bought! There--a thing that must be mine!"
Among the stars, cutting down diagonally from the north-west, crept a tiny, red gleam.
The Master looked very grim, as his eyes followed its swift flight.
"The Chicago mail-plane, just getting in," he commented. "In half an hour, the Paris
plane starts from the Cortlandt Street aero-tower. And beyond Paris lies Constantinople;
and beyond that, Arabia--the East! Men are going out that way, tonight! And I--stick here
like an old, done relic, cooped in Niss'rosh--imprisoned in this steel and glass cage of my
own making!"
Suddenly he wheeled, flung himself into the big chair by the table and dragged the faun's
head over to him. He pressed a button at the base of it, waited a moment and as the
question came, "Number, please?" spoke the desired number into the cupped hand and
ear of the bronze. Then, as he waited again, with the singular telephone in hand, he
growled savagely:
"By Allah! This sort of thing's not going to go on any longer! Not if I die stopping it!"
A familiar voice, issuing from the lips of the faun--a voice made natural and audible as
the living human tones, by means of a delicate microphone attachment inside the bronze
head--tautened his nerves.
"Hello, hello!" called he. "That you, Bohannan?"
"Yes," sounded the answer. "Of course I know who you are. There's only one voice like
yours in New York. Where are you?"
"In prison."
"No! Prison? For the Lord's sake!"
"No; for conventionality's sake. Not legally, you understand. Not even an adventure as
exciting as that has happened to me. But constructively in jail. De facto, as it were. It's all
the same thing."
"Up there in that observatory thing of yours, are you?" asked Bohannan.

"Yes; and I want to see you."
"When?"
"At once! As soon as you can get over here in a taxi, from that incredibly stupid club of
yours. You can get to Niss'rosh even though it's after seven. Take the regular elevator to
the forty-first floor, and I'll have Rrisa meet you and bring you up here in the special.
"That's a concession, isn't it? The sealed gates that no one else ever passes, at night, are
opened to you. It's very important. Be here in fifteen minutes you say? First-rate! Don't
fail me. Good-bye!"
He was smiling a little now as he pressed the button again and rang off. He put the faun's
head back on the table, got up and stretched his vigorous arms.
"By Allah!" he exclaimed, new notes in his voice. "What if--what if it could be, after
all?"
He turned to the wall, laid his hand on an ivory plate flush with the surface and pressed
slightly. In silent unison, heavy gold-embroidered draperies slid across every window. As
these