Moon of Skulls by Robert E. Howard Page A

fact that he was one of the greatest living authorities on flora. And his notes again and again emphasize the enormous age of the thing. He admitted that there was no way of telling how old the mummy was, but his hints intimate that he believed it to be, not thousands of years old, but millions of years!
    “No. We must face the facts. Since you are positive that the picture of the mummy is the picture of Kathulos — and there is little room for fraud — one of two things is practically certain: the Scorpion was never dead but ages ago was placed in that mummy-case and his life preserved in some manner, or else — he was dead and has been brought to life! Either of these theories, viewed in the cold light of reason, is absolutely untenable. Are we all insane?”
    “Had you ever walked the road to hashish land,” I said somberly, “you could believe anything to be true. Had you ever gazed into the terrible reptilian eyes of Kathulos the sorcerer, you would not doubt that he was both dead and alive.”
    Gordon gazed out the window, his fine face haggard in the gray light which had begun to steal through them.
    “At any rate,” said he, “there are two places which I intend exploring thoroughly before the sun rises again — Kamonos’ antique shop and Soho 48.”
    18. The Grip of the Scorpion
     
    “While from a proud tower in the town
    Death looks gigantically down.”
— Poe
     
    Hansen snored on the bed as I paced the room. Another day had passed over London and again the street lamps glimmered through the fog. Their lights affected me strangely. They seemed to beat, solid waves of energy, against my brain. They twisted the fog into strange sinister shapes. Footlights of the stage that is the streets of London, how many grisly scenes had they lighted? I pressed my hands hard against my throbbing temples, striving to bring my thoughts back from the chaotic labyrinth where they wandered.
    Gordon I had not seen since dawn. Following the clue of “Soho 48” he had gone forth to arrange a raid upon the place and he thought it best that I should remain under cover. He anticipated an attempt upon my life, and again he feared that if I went searching among the dives I formerly frequented it would arouse suspicion.
    Hansen snored on. I seated myself and began to study the Turkish shoes which clothed my feet. Zuleika had worn Turkish slippers — how she floated through my waking dreams, gilding prosaic things with her witchery! Her face smiled at me from the fog; her eyes shone from the flickering lamps; her phantom footfalls re-echoed through the misty chambers of my skull.
    They beat an endless tattoo, luring and haunting till it seemed that these echoes found echoes in the hallway outside the room where I stood, soft and stealthy. A sudden rap at the door and I started.
    Hansen slept on as I crossed the room and flung the door swiftly open. A swirling wisp of fog had invaded the corridor, and through it, like a silver veil, I saw her — Zuleika stood before me with her shimmering hair and her red lips parted and her great dark eyes.
    Like a speechless fool I stood and she glanced quickly down the hallway and then stepped inside and closed the door.
    “Gordon!” she whispered in a thrilling undertone. “Your friend! The Scorpion has him!”
    Hansen had awakened and now sat gaping stupidly at the strange scene which met his eyes.
    Zuleika did not heed him.
    “And oh, Steephen!” she cried, and tears shone in her eyes, “I have tried so hard to secure some more elixir but I could not.”
    “Never mind that,” I finally found my speech. ‘“Tell me about Gordon.”
    “He went back to Kamonos’ alone, and Hassim and Ganra Singh took him captive and brought him to the Master’s house. Tonight assemble a great host of the people of the Scorpion for the sacrifice.”
    “Sacrifice!” A grisly thrill of horror coursed down my spine. Was there no limit to the ghastliness of this business?
    “Quick, Zuleika, where