lone behind the high wall. The courtyard was now filled with artisans busy fashioning parts for the wheel under his direction. The courtyard had been turned into an open-air workshop, with forging furnaces and a copper-smelting furnace. In the middle of the yard the contours of a giant wheel seventy-two feet in diameter had been traced on the hard-packed ground, as at a shipyard. Sometimes Fedor actually felt as though he were in the shipyards or in the courtyard of the Smolny palace at St. Petersburg, except that here there was none of the joking, bickering or singing characteristic of Russians at work. Carpenters were making parts of the rim and the buckets of the wheel. The swiftly falling water would turn the wheel, which would convert this simple, comprehensible form of energy into another form, into mysterious, darting lightning. The gigantic rim was made of the finest hardwood. Copper and iron bindings fastened the joints. Once grey-bearded Jogindar Singh, the foreman of the carpenters, came up to Fedor. The two men communicated in an incredible mixture of Uzbek, Indian and Dutch. "I want to ask you how thick the wheel axis will be," said the carpenter. As Fedor started to explain, a graceful girl in a sky-blue sari that left one shoulder bare approached them. The girl said something to Jogindar Singh that Fedor did not understand, gave Fedor a fleeting glance of curiosity, and ran off. "It is now noon," said Jogindar Singh. "My daughter has summoned me to dinner. May we have the honour of your company?" Fedor agreed eagerly. He wanted a chance to talk to that quiet, understanding man. Also, he wanted another glimpse of the girl. Lal Chandra's workmen lived near the workshop, in tents set up among the trees in the big garden. They lived here with their families since they had no right to leave the premises until the job was finished. Each family prepared its food over a fire in front of its tent. On the way, Jogindar Singh and Fedor washed their hands in a large pool of running water. As they entered the tent the girl uttered a low cry and ran out. After a moment she returned carrying a black lacquered tray covered with bright flowers, and placed it on a mat spread on the floor. On the tray lay a mound of boiled rice over which a fragrant spicy sauce had been poured. Then the girl brought in hot flat cakes and a brass pitcher of cold water mixed with the slightly astringent juice of a fruit unfamiliar to Fedor. The girl moved lightly and quickly. She sat down beside her father, and Fedor looked at her dark, slanting eyes and thin brown arms. She dropped her eyes. Jogindar Singh settled down to his dinner. Fedor also dipped his fingers into the rice. "I thought you Hindus weren't supposed to eat in front of other people," he said. "That rule is followed by those who divide people into jaties," or castes," said the elderly carpenter. "To which caste do you belong?" "I'm a Sikh and so are all the others working here," said the carpenter, gazing intently at Fedor. "We do not divide people into castes." "Does that mean you do not recognize Brahmans?" "We do not believe in future reincarnation," Jogindar Singh replied evasively. Just who are you? Moslems?" "No." It was obvious that the carpenter did not want to answer his questions, so Fedor ate in silence. He washed down the rice with water from the pitcher. From time to time he stole glances at the girl, wondering how old she was. He decided she could not be more than eighteen, and he was just about to ask what her name was when her father began to speak. "Look here, foreigner. I do not know how you came to the Punjab but I can see "'it was not because you wanted to." "Wanted to?" Fedor laughed bitterly. " I was sold, like an ox." "Do not put your trust in Lal Chandra," the carpenter went on. "He is your enemy. He is our enemy too." "Then why do you work for him?" "We work for him because- Listen, we Sikhs were forced off our land. Everything was taken away from us." Jogindar Singh's eyes glittered angrily. "But that is not for long! We Sikhs will gather our forces-" The light pouring through the entrance to the tent was suddenly cut off. Fedor turned round to see Ram Das standing there. "You've found a suitable place for such talk, old man," the coachman remarked derisively. "There are no strangers here," the carpenter replied quietly. "Only our brethren live in the garden." "In the garden! That damned house is full of Lal Chandra's spies," Ram Das said as he squatted beside the tray of food. Fedor looked at the coachman's frowning, sharp-featured face and again, as in the temple, a chill ran down his spine. "Foreigner, you are as trusting as a child," Ram Das said. "Lal Chandra has given you a nice toy to play with and you forget that your end is near." Fedor paled. "What can I do?" he asked. "As long as I am building the wheel no one will touch me. Afterwards, if I have to, I'll stand up for myself." "No one is going to challenge you to a duel. You don't know the customs of the Brahmans. Instead of dying a useless death why do you not remain alive and help us? Jogindar Singh, send your daughter out of the tent. She must not listen to the talk of men." The Punjab was an arid semi-desert in the north-western corner of fabulous, fertile India. It was inhabited by stern, warlike men who passed their lives in a grim struggle against drought in order to earn an austere living for themselves and a life of luxury for their rulers. The Punjab, along the border, had the most extensive trade contacts with other countries and was the part of India that was most often invaded. Alexander the Great's weary warriors came to the Punjab in the year 327 B. C. Later the region was invaded by the Persians and the Afghans. The Punjab, accustomed to foreigners, to foreign merchants and to foreign conquerors, became the centre of the Sikh community. Sikhism was a monotheistic religion that rejected castes, mortification of the flesh, priests, temples and public worship. The Sikhs wanted a better life in this world, and did not believe in reincarnation. Shortly before Fedor Matveyev landed in the Punjab, the Sikhs had risen up against the subahdars, Moslem viceroys of the Mogul dynasty, and the local feudal rajahs. The uprising had been drowned in blood, with mass executions. Although the Sikhs had suffered defeat and bitter losses, and had (been deprived of their lands, they had not lost heart. Feigning submissiveness, they gradually gathered forces for another uprising. Those were troubled times in the Punjab. The dynasty of Great Moguls was clearly on the wane. The Punjab rajahs, whom Lal Chandra served, were preparing to seize power from the weakened hands of the Mohammedan rulers. But the blood-stained spectre of another Sikh uprising haunted the rajahs and Brahmans. As a counter-measure they prepared to work miracles that would distract the people from the sobriety of the Sikh religion, convince them of the might of the old Hindu gods, and persuade them to resign themselves to obeying Hindu rulers. The Brahmans had long possessed a variety of miracles demonstrating the power of their gods. The miracles were performed by wandering fakirs, ascetic wonder-workers and hypnotisers of wide experience. They tortured themselves in public by driving needles into their bodies, walking barefoot over burning coals, and allowing themselves to be buried alive. The idea behind it all was that man can endure whatever trials life may bring him. But it had become difficult to astound the grim people of the Punjab with the old, familiar miracles in which fakirs pierced their bodies, charmed snakes or turned themselves into towering palm-trees. That was why Lal Chandra was preparing new miracles of a kind never seen or heard of before. Fedor Matveyev had .plenty to think about. At home, in Russia, he had known that their family owned some two dozen peasant households, that those peasants belonged to his father. The house in which the Matveyevs lived was much like a peasant's hut, while the family's food differed from that of their peasants only in that there was more of it. However, the lighting in the Matveyev home came not from splinters but from tallow candles, which, true, his frugal mother insisted on using sparingly. The Matveyevs occupied the best pews in the tiny church, and Father Pafnuty never missed an opportunity to sing the praises of the Matveyev family in his prayers. Tallow candles and prayers did not, of course, matter so much as having a familiar, stable way of life. Father owned the peasants. The peasants ploughed, planted, reaped and threshed the grain, and then brought it to the barn of their owner. Thus it had been for centuries, and thus it would always 'be. There had always been masters and there had always been slaves. But now, in a foreign land, Fedor was himself a slave. Not a slave like the servants of Lal Chandra, true, but still a slave. When Ram Das openly urged him to take the side of the Sikhs, Fedor was thrown into the greatest confusion. He recalled his father's stories about the peasant uprising under Stepan Razin, which had so terrified the big landowners. Now Indian peasants were planning the same thing against their masters and, besides, against their gods. How could a man who belonged to the nobility think of making friends with rebels? For that matter, Ram Das was a fine one, pretending to be a humble slave! He was, Fedor guessed, practically the leader of these Sikhs. The Sikhs had placed their trust in him. They had told him that an uprising was planned for the day the Brahmans arranged a festival to celebrate restoration of the temple of the goddess Kali. The \Sikhs had told him that he must help them. But how could he bring himself to help rebels? Besides, what if they were lying when they said that as soon as he finished his work on the water-wheel he would be killed? What if they were simply trying to frighten him? Should he go to Lal Chandra and tell him the whole story? No, he couldn't do that either. There was no one to advise him. Fedor's soul was in turmoil. CHAPTER FOUR IN WHICH FEDOR MATVEYEV IS PRESENTED WITH A KNIFE Jogindar Singh asked Fedor to come to the smithy with him. "Kartar Sarabha wants to make you a gift," he said. Thickly-bearded Kartar Sarabha, the blacksmith, smiled broadly. "You have taught me many useful things that I did not know. In gratitude I want to make you a present of a knife. A man should not go about unarmed. I'll work while you look on." This, Fedor realized, was a sign of great trust in him, a foreigner. Craft secrets were being shown to him. The blacksmith picked up a bunch of short wires and sorted them, bending and unbending each one. Fedor noticed that some were made of soft iron and others of firm steel. The steel wires were hard to bend. After making his selection and tightly tying the ends together, Sarabha heated the middle of the bunch in the forge and tied it neatly into a knot. Then he heated it again and began to hammer it with rapid but careful blows. The wires were welded together into a bar. After a few more heatings the blacksmith began to pound with all his might. "Come tomorrow before dinner. We'll finish it," he said, tossing his tongs into a trough of water. The next day Fedor was presented with a blade that had been polished and fitted into a handsome ivory handle. Examining the knife, he gave an exclamation of surprise. Smoky ornamentation with wavy lines ran the length of the bluish-grey steel blade. This was Indian damask steel, famous for its hardness and elasticity. Fedor found himself drawn more and more often to the tents of the Sikhs. He liked these plain, stern men with whom he could talk frankly. Most of all, he was drawn to Bharati, the daughter of the grey-bearded carpenter. Bharati giggled when Fedor tried to converse with her in a hodgepodge of languages. She was merry and bubbled with life, unlike the people around her. On stifling evenings Fedor and Bharati sat by the side of the pool, dangling their bare feet in the cool water. Fedor would absentmindedly launch into a long story in Russian. The girl listened intently, her dark head bent and her big eyes glowing. He told her about his distant homeland with its forests and snow, and rivers whose waters turned white and hard as stone in winter. He talked of great ships with tall masts and white sails taut in the wind, and the thunder of the cannon at Hango-Udd. Of the green meadows in spring, and the song of larks high in the blue sky. Did Bharati understand him? Probably she did, for it was not the words that mattered. From time to time she gave Fedor a sidelong glance. In the starlight his face with its turned-up nose, his fair hair tossed back, and his brown beard, soft and curly, made him look, in her eyes, like a god of the North. She knew that in daylight his eyes were as blue as the water in the ocean. When Fedor caught himself speaking Russian he fell silent in confusion, then shifted to his usual gibberish. Bharati laughed, splashing her brown legs in the pool, but then she would suddenly stop splashing and sit in silence for a long time. Or else she would start telling Fedor, in her West Punjab dialect, about her life, about the travels with her father, about the winter monsoons that blow from the land and the summer monsoons that blow from the ocean and bring rain, about the hot deserts and the swampy jungles. As Fedor listened to the half-understood words pronounced in a high-pitched, flute-like voice, he gazed at the girl's dark, elongated eyes, the black braids hanging over her shoulder, and her strong, slender arms. Now Fedor got down to designing the big lightning machine that would be placed in the temple of Kali. He still knew nothing about the terrible force that had thrown him to the ground that day. He remembered that jolt as a combination of the cold bronze hips of the goddess Kali, the crackle of blue lightning, the smell of a thunderstorm, and the sensation that his body was being pierced by thousands of needles. The instant of pain was followed by a strange shivering and a metallic taste in his mouth. Fedor understood that neither the six-armed Kali nor any other deity had anything to do with shafts and gears. It was just that the Brahman knew something which others did not know. The mysterious force, as Fedor now realized, was produced by the revolving of the disc, and it could travel anywhere along metal. Lal Chandra knew how to accumulate that force in metal vessels filled with a liquid; the bronze statue of Kali was hollow and filled with the same liquid. Fedor was dying to learn the Brahman's secret and carry it home to Russia with him. He did not yet know how to discover the secret, or how to escape afterwards, but he was already wondering how he could get to see the tsar and tell him about the supernatural force. Sometimes Lal Chandra burned spices and gums in a bowl standing on a tripod, from which came odorous smoke, while Fedor helped him to move the bronze spheres of the machine together and apart. Different spices produced different kinds of lightning, from very weak flashes to streaks that leaped across a wide gap between the two spheres. The smell of the burning spices and gums reminded Fedor of incense and church, there was something godly about it. But sometimes there was such a stench that even intrepid Lal Chandra covered his nose, extinguished the fire in the bowl, and aired the premises. Such a stench could not, naturally, be associated with divine guidance. Fedor realized more and more clearly that Ram Das was right and that Lal Chandra was contemplating some evil deed. He was not calling forth lightning for the sake of science, or burning his infernal spices merely to glorify his many-armed idols. One day the corpse of a middle-aged man, thin hut well-built, was brought into the laboratory on a stretcher. A table with a heavy black marble top was placed beside the lightning machine. Two thick, flexible cables woven of bronze wires were attached to the bronze spheres. Bands of thin silk soaked in a resin of some kind were wound round the cables. Needle-sharp silver tips were soldered into the free ends of the silk bands. At a sign from Lal Chandra the servants placed the naked corpse on the marble top of the table and silently vanished. Lal Chandra threw a pinch of spice into the smoking bowl on the tripod. Greenish clouds of smoke filled the room with a pungent odour. Next the Brahman picked up one of the cables. "Take the other but be careful not to touch the tip," he told Fedor. The disc of the lightning machine revolved faster and faster. The gold plates merged into a glowing arc. The room was filled with a monotonous humming. Fedor held the cable with both hands, the sharp-pointed end sticking out like a spearhead. Lal Chandra slowly moved his sharp end of the cable towards Fedor. There was a crackle as a blinding streak of blue lightning leaped between the two ends. A spectral light illuminated the clouds of green smoke. Fedor stood perfectly still. He was accustomed to flashes of lightning. Lal Chandra swept the end he was holding to one side, and the lightning, with a final crackle, ceased. Still holding the cable, he went over to the marbletopped table and pulled off the cloth covering the face of the dead man. Fedor gave a start of horror. The face was a terrifying bluish-white. The tip of the tongue protruded between convulsively twisted lips. The wide-open glassy eyes held an expression of terror. Round the neck ran a blue furrow- the clear mark of a woven noose. Fedor at once remembered the Sikh stories of the abominable sect of thugs. Their "sacred" nooses hidden beneath their robes, members of the sect roamed the highways and the city streets in the evening, lying in wait for victims. Holding the noose by the ends in both hands, the thug crept up from behind, threw the noose round the neck of a lone passer-by, twisted it into a knot in a quick movement and, thrusting a knee into the victim's back, pulled the noose tight. This was done to propitiate the wrathful goddess Kali. Fedor had also learned from the Sikhs that such thugs had never appeared in the Punjab, where the cult of the terrible Kali was not held in esteem. Lal Chandra's domain lay far from any community, and the servants did not leave the grounds of the mansion. This meant that the man, one of Lal Chandra's slaves-Fedor recognized him in spite of his distorted features-was not the accidental victim of a fanatic. He had been strangled on the grounds, inside the high wall, for some transgression, or simply because Lal Chandra needed a corpse. A terrifying thought struck Fedor. Lal Chandra was not concealing anything from him, did not hesitate to show him a man whom he had seen alive the day before and who had been strangled in such a fashion. This could only mean that Lal Chandra considered Fedor as good as dead. When the job was finished Fedor would be strangled just as efficiently as this poor creature had been. For an instant Fedor thought he could feel the noose round his neck. He swallowed convulsively. Without thinking, he took a step towards Lal Chandra. The Brahman glanced at him in alarm. The silent duel lasted for no more than a second. Then Fedor pulled himself together, turned and asked in a toneless voice what he was to do next. Lal Chandra calmly approached the corpse and plunged the sharp tip into the brown shoulder. "Stick your tip into his foot," he ordered. "I ought to stick it into you," went through Fedor's mind. "But where would that get me? There are probably thugs in the next room. Never mind, your turn will come." Fedor silently pushed the tip of the cable into the dead man's foot-and leaped aside with a cry. The man's leg had jerked, bent at the knee and then jerked forward as though it was about to kick Fedor. Lal Chandra's laughter rang out beneath the vaulted ceiling of the laboratory. "Scared, Russian warrior?" he asked mockingly. "Don't be afraid. He cannot harm you." Fedor took a deep breath. He gave the Brahman a challenging look and said: "I am a man of war accustomed to dealing with living adversaries." He added in Russian: "May the dogs sniff at you, you murderer!" Later, Fedor found an opportunity to tell Jogindar Singh about the horrifying experiment. "That means he is gathering thugs," said the elderly carpenter. "Well, thugs are mortal. When the time comes we'll see whether the goddess Kali is pleased by the death of her priests." CHAPTER FIVE WHICH ACQUAINTS THE READER WITH NEWCOMERS IN LAL CHANDRA'S HOUSE A long caravan passed through the iron gate leading out of Lal Chandra's garden. In front went eight elephants loaded with the wooden and metal parts of the water-wheel and the big lightning machine. After the elephants came several two-horse carts carrying the workmen. Fedor, Jogindar Singh and Bharati rode in the first cart. Far behind rolled carts drawn by longhorn oxen, carrying materials that would not be needed at once. The slow oxen would reach the temple only on the third day. The elephants and the horse-drawn carts would arrive there in about twenty hours. The caravan crossed rivers and small streams that were beginning to dry up. Each time the elephants entered a stream they behaved the way elephants always do, sucking up water with their trunks and then spraying it over their heads and backs. "What wonderful animals!" Fedor exclaimed. "So clever and so industrious." "Aren't there elephants in your country?" Bharati asked. "No," said Fedor, suppressing a sigh. "They're fine animals but I'd willingly never see another elephant again if only I could return home." Jogindar Singh glanced at Fedor, noting the sad expression on his face. "Is there anyone waiting for you at home?" "Yes, of course. My mother, my father and my sister." "No wife or children?" Fedor gave a wry smile. "When you're in the navy you don't have much time to build a nest of your own." "Father," said Bharati, "the foreigner is weary from the long journey, yet you plague him with questions." Fedor stretched out a hand and gently touched the girl's shoulder. With a graceful movement she freed her shoulder from his hand. The cart shook as it rumbled across the stony, practically dry, bed of one of the numerous tributaries of the Ravi. On the other side they halted, unharnessed the horses, and settled down to rest in the shade of a large tree. The carpenter built a fire and Bharati began to prepare their evening meal. It was still so light that the flames looked pale. Fedor picked up a dry stick and started to whittle it. "If you have courage you can escape from here," the old man said all of a sudden in a low voice. "Escape?" Jogindar Singh squeezed Fedor's arm above the elbow. "Speak softly. There are many alien ears here. Listen carefully. The river on which the Kali temple stands flows into the Indus. If you sail down the Indus for ten days you will reach the sea." "The sea?" Fedor whispered. "Just before it enters the sea the Indus divides into many arms," the carpenter went on. "If you follow the northernmost arm you will reach the sea near the village of Karachi. But if you take the southernmost arm and then sail along the coast to the southeast you will come to the Island of Diu. The Portuguese seized it long ago and have built a fortress there. Do you know the Portuguese?" Fedor rubbed his brow with his hand, straining his memory to recall the Portuguese maps he had seen in France when he was studying navigation there. "But Diu is somewhere far to the south. About 500 sea miles from Karachi." "I do not know how to measure that distance," said Singh, "but it is no longer than the voyage down the Indus. Look." He took the stick Fedor had been whittling and sketched, in the sand, a plan of the route along the coastline. Fedor sprang to his feet and walked around the campfire. The sea! He could hear the hurricane wind roaring in his ears and see the blue expanses shining in the sun. The sea! Only the sea route could bring him home. Suddenly he remembered where he was. He sat down and picked up the stick again. As he whittled he said, his voice discouraged, "Thank you for your kind advice. But I cannot go to sea in a nutshell." "Listen further." Singh moved closer to him. "Draw me the plans and I'll build you just the kind of boat you want," he whispered. "There will be a great deal of work going on at the Kali temple, and I'll be able to deceive Lal Chandra's men. They won't notice anything." The old carpenter fell silent. Then he said, "But before you make your escape you must tell us everything you know about the miracles Lal Chandra is preparing." Soon after, the caravan set out again. Jogindar Singh fell asleep inside the cart. Fedor sat on the box in front, gazing thoughtfully at the road, white in the moonlight, which stretched ahead. He could see only one thing before his eyes- a sturdily built boat with low sails. It must have a sliding keel, like those on Turkmen feluccas. Then no squall could overturn the boat. Oh Lord, could freedom really be so near? Suddenly he heard soft weeping. He turned round to look into the dark depths of the cart, which was covered with linen cloth. It was Bharati! Fedor felt ashamed of himself. There he was, rejoicing like a child and forgetting all about her! He stroked her hair and patted her shoulder in the darkness. "Darling," he whispered. "Did you think I would go anywhere without you? Don't be afraid. Your seas are warm, and I'm a good sailor. I'll take care of you. We'll make our way to Russia. Then everything will be fine." The girl gave a sob and raised her tear-stained face. "How can I leave Father?" she whispered. "Why, we'll take him along too! When the time comes we'll tell him everything. He'll understand." Bharati shook her head sorrowfully. "No, he won't go anywhere. He won't leave his people. And I can't leave him." Fedor fell silent, overwhelmed by despair. The caravan reached the temple at dawn. Fedor sprang down to the ground at once. He felt light-headed from lack of sleep and his thoughts were confused and disconnected. From dawn to dusk sweat poured from the slaves of Lal Chandra and from the Sikh artisans as they laboured beneath the merciless sun. They drove piles for a dam into the bed of the dried-up stream just above the waterfall, and hacked through the rocky bank so that the water behind the dam could reach the chute. In the hollow leading to the temple they set up thick logs to support the chute. They made a frame for the water-wheel. Fedor was so busy from morning to night that he hardly ever saw Bharati. He had no chance to talk with her father except about the dam or the chute, for Lal Chandra's overseers were always close by. "Will Jogindar Singh be able to handle the job without you if we return to the house for a few days?" Lal Chandra asked Fedor one evening. "Yes, of course." "I want you to talk to him tomorrow morning and tell him what to do. Give him and his men an assignment for each day. I want you to be prepared to leave tomorrow evening, as soon as the heat abates." The next morning Fedor handed Jogindar Singh several drawings and took him aside to explain what they were about. They seated themselves on planks laid across the posts which would support the chute. There was no one nearby. As they examined the drawings Fedor discarded one of them. The carpenter took the crumpled sheet from him and smoothed it out on his knee. It was a drawing Fedor had made during a sleepless, lonely night, a sketch of a sailboat with a sliding keel. "This sketch is all to no purpose," Fedor muttered gloomily. "I don't need a boat at all because I love your daughter and she cannot leave you at such a time." Jogindar Singh closed his eyes. "We'll do everything we can to save you before the festival," he said finally, after a long silence. "But anything could happen-" Many changes had taken place in Lal Chandra's mansion. Here, there and everywhere Fedor saw strangers who spoke dialects he could not understand. These were itinerant fakirs. They showed one another the miracles they were preparing to perform at the festival in honour of the renovated temple. They completely ignored Fedor and he was able to see what was behind their miracles. One morning three men with heavy sacks appeared at the gate and asked to see Lal Chandra. They were ragged and emaciated, with long hair and matted beards, their dark-skinned bodies were covered with scratches and bruises. Ram Das learned afterwards that they were just back from the Himalayas. Lal Chandra sent them there at a time when the stars were propitious to lay large cakes of rare, precious resins on top of the highest snowy peaks in order to bring the resins closer to the stars. They had spent some time there in the mountains- suffering from the intense cold, living on scanty rations, and trembling in fear of the mountain spirits. Of the seven whom Lal Chandra had sent, four perished in the fissures of glaciers or fell over precipices. This was all that Ram Das was able to learn. He predicted that no one would ever again see the three men who had returned with the resins. Soon after, a tall, portly Brahman in white robes appeared in the mansion. Lal Chandra treated him with great deference. On the morning of the Brahman's arrival Lal Chandra sent Fedor away for the whole day. Fedor had a great many things to keep him busy. On Lal Chandra's orders he stretched the plaited copper cables covered with resin-impregnated silk from the lightning machine into the garden, to the pool at whose edge he and Bharati used to sit in the evenings. Posts which had been soaked in oil were set up on both sides of the pool. Copper bars attached to the posts were lowered into the water. At the ends of the bars there were highly polished concave copper mirrors that faced one another in the water. An enormous, tower-like barrel, fourteen feet in diameter and a good thirty-five feet high, made of sheets of copper, stood beside the pool. Fedor had drawn the plans of the barrel only a short while before, at the Kali temple, and he was amazed to see it completed when he returned to Lal Chandra's house. For two days in a row men had scooped water out of the pool, had climbed up to a platform on top of the copper barrel, and had poured more than 10 000 pails of water into it. Then Lal Chandra himself had climbed to the top of the barrel and sprinkled several bags of spices and gums into the water. A thick copper chain hung from the platform into the water. Similar copper cables covered with silk connected the barrel and the chain with clips at the pool. Fedor knew that the force produced by the lightning machine could pass anywhere along metal, but not through silk and wood soaked in oil. He also knew that this force was strongly drawn to the ground, from which all metal parts had to be kept away. Lal Chandra and Fedor carefully examined all the connections. "Strike the gong to set the machine in motion," Lal Chandra said in his gentle voice. The imposing Brahman strolled towards the pool. Lal Chandra deferentially explained something to him in a language Fedor did not understand. They both kept their eyes on the surface of the pool. Near one of the bars the water bubbled and boiled as though it were being heated by invisible fires. At the other bar the water was far less turbulent but a faint, strange-smelling mist was rising from it. Lal Chandra picked up the free end of a wire and, holding it at arm's length, brought it up to the bar where the water was bubbling. There was a crackle, a flash of lightning, and a great pillar of fire shot out of the water. Fedor leaped aside; he stared flabbergasted at the bright pillar of flame. The flame shrank in size but it remained as bright as ever. If anyone had told Fedor that water could burn he would not have believed it. Yet now- "Break the path of the mysterious force," Lal Chandra commanded. One of the cables ran through a wooden frame to which a copper bar was attached at one end by a hinge, while the other rested on a copper plate. Fedor tugged at a silk cord, and the bar rose. Lightning streaked between the bar and the plate for an instant. The water near the bar immediately stopped bubbling and the flame died down. "Now open the path to the force," Lal Chandra said. Fedor released the cord. The copper bar dropped to the plate. Again the water bubbled and seethed, but there was no flame. Lal Chandra picked up a clay pitcher of fragrant oil and, tipping it cautiously, poured some oil into the water above the mirror attached to the bar. The oil instantly flowed through the water to the other side of the pool. They could see the oil forming a ball as it stopped above the opposite mirror. With Fedor's help Lal Chandra lifted a huge pitcher containing at least three pails of the same fragrant reddish oil and poured it into the pool. Instead of spreading across the surface the oil sank into the water and flowed in a long stream to the opposite mirror. A fairly large-sized ball of oil had now formed there. Lal Chandra picked up a ladle with a long handle and dipped out the oil. The mysterious force did not strike him. Fedor was so impressed by everything he had seen that he could not get it out of his mind. That night he lay awake a long time. "I must get to the bottom of it, no matter what," he resolved. CHAPTER SIX IN WHICH FEDOR MATVEYEV TRIES TO KILL THE BRAHMAN Fedor lay in bed with open eyes, unable to fall asleep. Scenes from the past went through his mind. How fed up he was with this foreign land! How he wished he were home! More than five years had passed since Prince Bekovich-Cherkassky's detachment met its doom. He had been in the service of Lal Chandra for nearly five long years. "I'll probably be granted a good long furlough if I ask for it as a reward for what I've gone through," he reflected. "Then I can have a holiday at home. Mother and Father probably think I am dead. Father Pafnuty must have conducted a funeral service." Sleep was out of the question. Fedor rose from his bed. In a loin-cloth and a thin shirt he stepped across the windowsill to a covered gallery that ran round the inner courtyard. There it was somewhat cooler than in his room. Fedor leaned against the railing and again gave himself up to thought. Suddenly he heard voices. He pricked up his ears and listened. They were speaking a language he did not know, the language in which Lal Chandra talked to the fakirs. He recognized Lal Chandra's gentle voice. Sometimes it was interrupted by an imperious, sharp, threatening voice. Fedor realized it was the voice of the Brahman who had been present during the experiment with water, fire and oil. He must be an important person. The third voice was unfamiliar. It spoke more rarely than the other two and repeated the same phrase, in the same tone, in reply to everything the Brahman said. The voices were coming from a window on the upper storey of an intricate tower that rose above the central hall in which the altar to Kali stood. The tower was a square, ledged pyramid covered with sculptured figures of elephants, horses and many-armed gods. Fedor had always thought the tower was purely ornamental since there was no way of entering it from the house. But now, in the middle of the night, a faint light glowed in the window and it was from there that the voices came. Something urged Fedor to act. He slipped back over the windowsill into his room, took his knife from its hiding place in the bedding, and tucked it inside his loin-cloth. Then he returned to the gallery, scrambled up a post to its flat roof, and from there made his way to the roof of the house. As he approached the tower Fedor realized that the window with the light in it was all of forty feet from the roof. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound! Clinging to the high-reliefs of gods and sacred animals, Fedor clambered upwards from ledge to ledge. It was a moonless night, and he thought it unlikely anyone would notice his white-shirted figure against the white masonry of the tower. Clasping the stone body of a deity, Fedor cautiously peered through the window. An oil lamp illuminated a round room. The floor was covered with rugs on which bright cushions were scattered. An imposing-looking old man was seated on cushions in front of a low table covered with papers and rolls of parchment. His thin, deeply wrinkled face, framed in long grey hair, was impassive. In front of the old man, their backs to Fedor, stood Lal Chandra and the distinguished Brahman. Lal Chandra was now shouting in a high-pitched, venomous voice. The elderly Brahman's voice was also savage. But the old man kept calmly repeating the same words. Fedor glanced about the room with curiosity. The shelves along the walls and the tables were covered with glassware and instruments, and a small lightning machine stood in the corner. So this was where Lal Chandra got his ideas, thought Fedor. He did not invent his "miracles" himself but took the ideas for them from this old man whom he kept locked up and whom he forced to create all those mysteries for his own purposes. Now the two Brahmans were evidently trying to force the old man to tell them something. Suddenly the old man rose to his feet. Tall and thin, he looked at the two Brahmans scornfully from beneath thick grey eyebrows. He began to speak, slowly and calmly. Judging by their expressions, Lal Chandra and his distinguished companion found his words unpleasant. As the old man moved, Fedor saw something glitter behind his back. Looking more closely, he saw a thin chain leading from the man's belt to a ring attached to the wall. A feeling of pity mingled with anger swept over Fedor. How he wanted to spring into the room and throw himself on those two torturers. His hand involuntarily sought his knife. "I'll strike that aristocratic viper first," he thought. "Then I'll settle with Lal Chandra, may the dogs sniff at his corpse. But what next? With all those menials everywhere I won't be able to get out of the house. There are probably guards inside the tower too." The aristocratic Brahman said something to Lal Chandra in a low voice. Lal Chandra bowed and went out through a small door under the vaulted ceiling. A second later a tall fakir with a caste mark on his forehead entered. Placing the palms of his hands together, he bowed to the Brahman. Then he went up behind the old man and, taking a thin cord out of his robe, wound it round the neck of his victim, carefully passing it under the old man's grey beard. He twisted the ends of the cord round his hands, raised his r