The Crack of Doom (Dystopian Novel). Robert Cromie

him to take a turn with me round the lake. I smoked strong cigars, and made one of these my excuse.

      The sun was setting when we started, and as we walked slowly the twilight shadows were deepening fast by the time we reached the further shore. Brande was in high spirits. Some new scientific experiment, I assumed, had come off successfully. He was beside himself. His conversation was volcanic. Now it rumbled and roared with suppressed fires. Anon, it burst forth in scintillating flashes and shot out streams of quickening wit. I have been his auditor in the three great epochs of his life, but I do not think that anything that I have recollected of his utterances equals the bold impromptus, the masterly handling of his favourite subject, the Universe, which fell from him on that evening. I could not answer him. I could not even follow him, much less suppress him. But I had come forth with a specific object in view, and I would not be gainsaid. And so, as my business had to be done better that it should be done quickly. Taking advantage of a pause which he made, literally for breath, I commenced abruptly:

      "I want to speak to you about your sister."

      He turned on me surprised. Then his look changed to one of such complete contempt, and withal his bearing suggested so plainly that he knew beforehand what I was going to say, that I blurted out defiantly, and without stopping to choose my words:

      "I think it an infernal shame that you, her brother, should allow her to masquerade about with this good-natured but eccentric Metford girl — I should say Miss Metford."

      "Why so?" he asked coldly.

      "Because it is absurd; and because it isn't decent."

      "My dear Abraham," Brande said quietly, "or is your period so recent as that of Isaac or Jacob? My sister pleases herself in these matters, and has every right to do so."

      "She has not. You are her brother."

      "Very well, I am her brother. She has no right to think for herself; no right to live save by my permission. Then I graciously permit her to think, and I allow her to live."

      "You'll be sorry for this nonsense sooner or later — and don't say I didn't warn you." The absolute futility of my last clause struck me painfully at the moment, but I could not think of any way to better it. It was hard to reason with such a man, one who denied the fundamental principles of family life. I was thinking over what to say next, when Brande stopped and put his hand, in a kindly way, upon my shoulder.

      "My good fellow," he said, "what does it matter? What do the actions of my sister signify more than the actions of any other man's sister? And what about the Society? Have you made up your mind about joining?"

      "I have. I made it up twice to-day," I answered. "I made it up in the morning that I would see yourself and your Society to the devil before I would join it. Excuse my bluntness; but you are so extremely candid yourself you will not mind."

      "Certainly, I do not mind bluntness. Rudeness is superfluous."

      "And I made it up this evening," I said, a little less aggressively, "that I would join it if the devil himself were already in it, as I half suspect he is."

      "I like that," Brande said gravely. "That is the spirit I want in the man who joins me."

      To which I replied: "What under the sun is the object of this Society of yours?"

      "Proximately to complete our investigations — already far advanced — into the origin of the Universe."

      "And ultimately?"

      "I cannot tell you now. You will not know that until you join us."

      "And if your ultimate object does not suit me, I can withdraw?"

      "No, it would then be too late."

      "How so? I am not morally bound by an oath which I swear without full knowledge of its consequences and responsibilities."

      "Oath! The oath you swear! You swear no oath. Do you fancy you are joining a society of Rechabites or Carmelites, or mediæval rubbish of that kind. Don't keep so painstakingly behind the age."

      I thought for a moment over what this mysterious man had said, over the hidden dangers in which his mad chimeras might involve the most innocent accomplice. Then I thought of that dark-eyed, sweet-voiced, young girl, as she lay on the green grass under the beech-tree in the wood and out-argued me on every point. Very suddenly, and, perhaps, in a manner somewhat grandiose, I answered him:

      "I will join your Society for my own purpose, and I will quit it when I choose."

      "You have every right," Brande said carelessly. "Many have done the same before you."

      "Can you introduce me to any one who has done so?" I asked, with an eagerness that could not be dissembled.

      "I am afraid I can not."

      "Or give me an address?"

      "Oh yes, that is simple." He turned over a note-book until he found a blank page. Then he drew the pencil from its loop, put the point to his lips, and paused. He was standing with his back to the failing light, so I could not see the expression of his mobile face. When he paused, I knew that no ordinary doubt beset him. He stood thus for nearly a minute. While he waited, I watched a pair of swans flit ghost-like over the silken surface of the lake. Between us and a dark bank of wood the lights of the house flamed red. The melancholy even-song of a blackbird wailed out from a shrubbery beside us. Then Herbert Brande wrote in his note-book, and tearing out the page, he handed it to me, saying: "That is the address of the last man who quitted us."

      The light was now so dim I had to hold the paper close to my eyes in order to read the lines. They were these —

      George Delany,

       Near Saint Anne's Chapel,

       Woking Cemetery.