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  THE CRACK OF DOOM

  BY

  ROBERT CROMIE _Author of "A Plunge into Space," etc._

  _SECOND EDITION_

  LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO. 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. 1895

  PREFACE

  The rough notes from which this narrative has been constructed weregiven to me by the man who tells the story. For obvious reasons I havealtered the names of the principals, and I hereby pass on the assurancewhich I have received, that the originals of such as are left alive canbe found if their discovery be thought desirable. This alteration ofnames, the piecing together of somewhat disconnected and sometimesnearly indecipherable memoranda, and the reduction of the mass toconsecutive form, are all that has been required of me or would havebeen permitted to me. The expedition to Labrador mentioned by thenarrator has not returned, nor has it ever been definitely traced. Hedoes not undertake to prove that it ever set out. But he avers that allwhich is hereafter set down is truly told, and he leaves it to mankindto accept the warning which it has fallen to him to convey, or await theproof of its sincerity which he believes the end of the century willproduce.

  ROBERT CROMIE.

  BELFAST, _May, 1895_.

  CONTENTS

  CHAP. PAGE

  I. THE UNIVERSE A MISTAKE! 1

  II. A STRANGE EXPERIMENT 10

  III. "IT IS GOOD TO BE ALIVE" 21

  IV. GEORGE DELANY--DECEASED 32

  V. THE MURDER CLUB 41

  VI. A TELEPATHIC TELEGRAM 51

  VII. GUILTY! 62

  VIII. THE WOKING MYSTERY 72

  IX. CUI BONO? 81

  X. FORCE--A REMEDY 93

  XI. MORITURI TE SALUTANT 104

  XII. "NO DEATH--SAVE IN LIFE" 111

  XIII. MISS METFORD'S PLAN 123

  XIV. ROCKINGHAM TO THE SHARKS 133

  XV. "IF NOT TOO LATE" 146

  XVI. L5000 TO DETAIN THE SHIP 160

  XVII. "THIS EARTH SHALL DIE" 174

  XVIII. THE FLIGHT 184

  XIX. THE CATASTROPHE 197

  XX. CONCLUSION 208

  THE CRACK OF DOOM

  CHAPTER I.

  THE UNIVERSE A MISTAKE!

  "The Universe is a mistake!"

  Thus spake Herbert Brande, a passenger on the _Majestic_, making forQueenstown Harbour, one evening early in the past year. Foolish as thewords may seem, they were partly influential in leading to my terribleassociation with him, and all that is described in this book.

  Brande was standing beside me on the starboard side of the vessel. Wehad been discussing a current astronomical essay, as we watched the hazyblue line of the Irish coast rise on the horizon. This conversation wasinterrupted by Brande, who said, impatiently:

  "Why tell us of stars distant so far from this insignificant littleworld of ours--so insignificant that even its own inhabitants speakdisrespectfully of it--that it would take hundreds of years to telegraphto some of them, thousands to others, and millions to the rest? Whylimit oneself to a mere million of years for a dramatic illustration,when there is a star in space distant so far from us that if a telegramleft the earth for it this very night, and maintained for ever itsinitial velocity, it would never reach that star?"

  He said this without any apparent effort after rhetorical effect; butthe suddenness with which he had presented a very obvious truism in afresh light to me made the conception of the vastness of spaceabsolutely oppressive. In the hope of changing the subject I replied:

  "Nothing is gained by dwelling on these scientific speculations. Themind is only bewildered. The Universe is inexplicable."

  "The Universe!" he exclaimed. "That is easily explained. The Universe isa mistake!"

  "The greatest mistake of the century, I suppose," I added, somewhatannoyed, for I thought Brande was laughing at me.

  "Say, of Time, and I agree with you," he replied, careless of myastonishment.

  I did not answer him for some moments.

  This man Brande was young in years, but middle-aged in the expression ofhis pale, intellectual face, and old--if age be synonymous withknowledge--in his ideas. His knowledge, indeed, was so exhaustive thatthe scientific pleasantries to which he was prone could always bejustified, dialectically at least, by him when he was contradicted.Those who knew him well did not argue with him. I was always stumblinginto intellectual pitfalls, for I had only known him since the steamerleft New York.

  As to myself, there is little to be told. My history prior to myacquaintance with Brande was commonplace. I was merely an active,athletic Englishman, Arthur Marcel by name. I had studied medicine, andwas a doctor in all but the degree. This certificate had been dispensedwith owing to an unexpected legacy, on receipt of which I determined todevote it to the furtherance of my own amusement. In the pursuit of thisobject, I had visited many lands and had become familiar with most ofthe beaten tracks of travel. I was returning to England after an absenceof three years spent in aimless roaming. My age was thirty-one years,and my salient characteristic at the time was to hold fast by anythingthat interested me, until my humour changed. Brande's conversationalvagaries had amused me on the voyage. His extraordinary comment on theUniverse decided me to cement our shipboard acquaintance before reachingport.

  "That explanation of yours," I said, lighting a fresh cigar, andreturning to a subject which I had so recently tried to shelve, "isn'tit rather vague?"

  "For the present it must serve," he answered absently.

  To force him into admitting that his phrase was only a thoughtlessexclamation, or induce him to defend it, I said:

  "It does not serve any reasonable purpose. It adds nothing to knowledge.As it stands, it is neither academic nor practical."

  Brande looked at me earnestly for a moment, and then said gravely:

  "The academic value of the explanation will be shown to you if you willjoin a society I have founded; and its practicalness will soon be madeplain whether you join or not."

  "What do you call this club of yours?" I asked.

  "We do not call it a club. We call it a Society--the _Cui Bono_Society," he answered coldly.

  "I like the name," I returned. "It is suggestive. It may meananything--or nothing."

  "You will learn later that the Society means something; a good deal, infact."

  This was said in the dry, unemotional tone which I afterwards found wasthe only sign of displeasure Brande ever permitted himself to show. Hisarrangements for going on shore at Queenstown had been made early in theday, but he left me to look for his sister, of whom I had seen verylittle on the voyage. The weather had been rough, and as she was not agood sailor, I had only had a rare glimpse of a very dark and handsomegirl, whose society possessed for me a strange attraction, although wewere then almost strangers. Indeed, I regretted keenly, as the time ofour separation approached, having registered my luggage (consistinglargely of curios and mementoes of my travels, of which I was verycareful) for Liverpool. My own time was valueless, and it would havebeen more agreeable to me to continue the journey with the Brandes, nomatter where they went.
br />   There was a choppy sea on when we reached the entrance to the harbour,so the _Majestic_ steamed in between the Carlisle and Camden forts, andon to the man-of-war roads, where the tender met us. By this time,Brande and his sister were ready to go on shore; but as there was aheavy mail to be transhipped, we had still an hour at our disposal. Forsome time we paced the deck, exchanging commonplaces on the voyage andconfidences as to our future plans. It was almost dark, but not darkenough to prevent us from seeing those wonderfully green hills whichlandlock the harbour. To me the verdant woods and hills were delightfulafter the brown plains and interminable prairies on which I had spentmany months. As the lights of Queenstown began to speck the slowlygathering gloom, Miss Brande asked me to point out Rostellan Castle. Itcould not be seen from the vessel, but the familiar legend was easilyrecalled, and this led us to talk about Irish tradition with its weirdromance and never failing pathos. This interested her. Freed now fromthe lassitude of sea-sickness, the girl became more fascinating to meevery moment. Everything she said was worth listening to, apart from thecharming manner in which it was said.

  To declare that she was an extremely pretty girl would not convey thestrange, almost unearthly, beauty of her face--as intellectual as herbrother's--and of the charm of her slight but exquisitely mouldedfigure. In her dark eyes there was a sympathy, a compassion, that wasnew to me. It thrilled me with an emotion different from anything thatmy frankly happy, but hitherto wholly selfish life had known. There wasonly one note in her conversation which jarred upon me. She was apt todrift into the extraordinary views of life and death which wereinteresting when formulated by her eccentric brother, but pained mecoming from her lips. In spite of this, the purpose I had contemplatedof joining Brande's Society--evoked as it had been by his own whimsicalobservation--now took definite form. I would join that Society. It wouldbe the best way of keeping near to Natalie Brande.

  Her brother returned to us to say that the tender was about to leave theship. He had left us for half an hour. I did not notice his absenceuntil he himself announced it. As we shook hands, I said to him:

  "I have been thinking about that Society of yours. I mean to join it."

  "I am very glad," he replied. "You will find it a new sensation, quiteoutside the beaten track, which you know so well."

  There was a shade of half-kindly contempt in his voice, which missed meat the moment. I answered gaily, knowing that he would not be offendedby what was said in jest:

  "I am sure I shall. If all the members are as mad as yourself, it willbe the most interesting experience outside Bedlam that any man couldwish for."

  I had a foretaste of that interest soon.

  As Miss Brande was walking to the gangway, a lamp shone full upon hergypsy face. The blue-black hair, the dark eyes, and a deep red rose shewore in her bonnet, seemed to me an exquisite arrangement of harmoniouscolour. And the thought flashed into my mind very vividly, howevertrivial it may seem here, when written down in cold words: "The queen ofwomen, and the queen of flowers." That is not precisely how my thoughtran, but I cannot describe it better. The finer subtleties of the braindo not bear well the daylight of language.

  Brande drew her back and whispered to her. Then the sweet face, nowslightly flushed, was turned to me again.

  "Oh, thank you for that pretty thought," she said with a pleasant smile."You are too flattering. The 'queen of flowers' is very true, but the'queen of women!' Oh, no!" She made a graceful gesture of dissent, andpassed down the gangway.

  As the tender disappeared into the darkness, a tiny scrap of lace waved,and I knew vaguely that she was thinking of me. But how she read mythought so exactly I could not tell.

  That knowledge it has been my fate to gain.