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Title: The Man With the Golden Eyes

Author: Edmond Hamilton

Illustrator: W. E. Terry

Release date: November 23, 2021 [eBook #66802]

Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN EYES ***

Lee Hayden had sent eleven men to their

death in deep space. Now he wanted only to die

himself. It was at this crucial point that he met—

The Man With The Golden Eyes

By Alexander Blade

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy

August 1956

Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that

the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

He lay in the gutter. In his mouth was the taste of whiskey and defeat. There was mud and filth on his face, on his two-week shirt, on his rag-tag suit; and as the street and the buildings rippled and wavered before his eyes, a tape recorder in his mind played over and over:

You're through, Hayden—all washed up—this is the bottom—you can't go any lower—Lee Hayden—boy genius—all washed up—you made the trip in a hurry, son—right down from the top to the bottom in nothing flat—why don't you give up, why don't you kite off, you gutless wonder of the ages—too weak to live—too yellow to die—

On and on the tape played while along the street, came the fastidious to step daintily around the wreck in the gutter; the callous to grin and sneer; the timid to hurry by without looking.

Then a voice: "Can I help you?"

"Go 'way."

A hand on his shoulder. The voice brisk, cheerful. "Come now—the gutter is no place for a man of your caliber."

Lee grunted and rolled over. Someone who knew him evidently; someone echoing the myth of his "brilliance". "I said get the hell—" He opened an eye. If this was an old friend, the man had gone out of memory. Plump, cheerful, rosy-faced, well-cut clothes. A man with an air of confidence.

And something more.

It was the something more that stopped Lee from swinging at the man's plump chin after allowing himself to be lifted to his feet. The man looked critically into Lee's face as the latter swayed. He took a snowy handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped filth from Lee's face in the manner of one wiping the face of a child. "I think you need a drink, young fellow."

Lee grinned crookedly. "Now you're talkin'."

The plump man steered Lee down the street, around a corner, under a glittering marquee. An immaculate doorman glared with frosty eyes. His look of disgust partially sobered Lee. "Now wait a minute," Lee mumbled. After all, a man never lost all his pride.

He was drawing away, instinctively seeking shadows, when the doorman's eyes shifted to the plump man. They cleared instantly. He saluted, bowed, said "Good evening, Mr. Clifford."

"Good evening, John. We need a snifter or two of your excellent scotch."

"Certainly, sir." The doorman opened the portal as though the Secretary of State were honoring the Lotus Room with his presence.

Lee was busy marveling as they crossed the hotel lobby, brushing close to hastily drawn-back mink coats and formal clothes. It was certainly time for the bouncer to appear. But the hostess at the door of the Lotus Room—a blonde dream wearing something that resembled a pink cloud—gave the plump man a look Lee felt should have been reserved only for God.

"Mr. Clifford! What table would you like?"

Mr. Clifford smiled. "Good evening, my dear." He turned to Lee. "Mr. Hayden, this is Daphne—Mr. Lee Hayden, my dear."

Her eyes turned obediently to Lee and he was sober enough to note the complete absence of revulsion; only pity in her friendly, open gaze. He thanked her silently and thought: Even a bum like me still has a little pride and sensitivity left.

But a bum hides it behind grossness. Lee growled, "You got any decent liquor in this snob-joint?"

Snob-joint! Not so long ago he felt entirely at home in such places. Not so long ago? Huh! A thousand years or so.

Mr. Clifford said, "A quiet place, Daphne. Mr. Hayden and I want to talk."

"Hell with that noise. We wanna drink."

As they crossed the room, a man in formal clothes, obviously the manager, stepped aside and bowed deferentially to Mr. Clifford. The latter nodded pleasantly and eased Lee into a chair at a snowy table. The waiter was there instantly. Lee remained silent while Mr. Clifford ordered scotch. Then he could hold it in no longer.

"All right—what the hell is all this?"

Mr. Clifford smiled easily. "You need a drink. Here we are."

"But why here—in this plush joint?"

"Why not. It's open for business. Would you prefer a reeking skid row dive?"

From anyone but Mr. Clifford, Lee thought, that would have been an insult. "I'd be more at home there," he mumbled.

"The greatest spacial flight theorist who ever lived? I think not." Clifford's voice was a trifle sharp and the something stood out again, holding back Lee's retort. At that moment the waiter arrived. He poured the drinks and Mr. Clifford motioned. The waiter set the bottle on the table and left.

Lee knocked off his drink. His belligerence returned. "If you're doing this for laughs, that's okay. I've got it coming. If you want an autograph—no soap. I couldn't hold a pencil."

Mr. Clifford picked up the bottle and poured a second drink for Lee. He had not touched his own. "So you failed," he said, pensively.

"Yes, I failed."

"So have others."

Lee sneered. "You can pass it off with such beautiful casualness. Do you realize eleven men were killed on that ship?"

"I know. And it seems to me they faced their destiny with a lot more courage than you are facing yours."

"If I have to take a lecture with your liquor, I'd rather—"

"Certainly not. Have another."

Mr. Clifford poured and Lee had the grace to feel ashamed. "Look—I'm done—washed up—I'm at the bottom. Why should you—?"

"On the bottom, yes. But sometimes people have to hit the bottom in order to ascend to the top."

Lee tossed off the third scotch. "Well I've hit bottom, that's for sure."

"You asked me why I brought you here, Mr. Hayden. That's the reason."

"What's the reason?"

"To see if you've really hit bottom."

"You make it sound important," Lee sneered.

"Believe me, it is."

"To my enemies?"

"No, not them alone. To your friends also—to all mankind."

"What kind of guff you handing me?"

"It is also important to you."

"Nothing's important to me." Lee's head began swimming. And he knew—without seeing it or being able to prove it—that Mr. Clifford had drugged the last one. He eyed Mr. Clifford's throat and tried to raise his hands. Impossible....

Mr. Clifford, a blurred figure spinning in a whirlpool said, "Important, Mr. Hayden, because I think you are now ready to see the man with the golden eyes."

"The ma-man—wha' silly nonsense—"

Lee Hayden passed out.

He awoke in softness. He opened his eyes and knew he was in bed. He was also aware of three other things—a horrible taste in his mouth—a splitting headache—and the fact he was not alone. He blinked and the form beside the bed sharpened from a blur and turned into a beautiful girl; a girl he felt he should know. Then he remembered. He had met her the previous night in the Lotus Room. She had been introduced to him as Daphne. She was still very beautiful; cool as a summer afternoon in the woods.

Though he had on completely adequate pajamas, Lee felt naked and ducked again behind his belligerence. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She regarded him with an almost childlike seriousness. "Mr. Clifford thought you ought not to be alone when you awakened."

"Very thoughtful of him since he was the guy who put me under. How long have you been here?"

"About two hours."

Filled with contempt for himself, Lee unconsciously used the device of redirecting it on the first handy person. Daphne was handy. His mouth twisted knowingly. "Sure you're not here for another reason?"

"What reason?"

"Trying to pick up a few bucks, maybe?"

The question in her eyes was obviously sincere, her look entirely innocent, and he knew she was not that kind of a girl.

Her expression changed only in that the question vanished. The innocence remained. Yet there was something about this last that caught Lee's attention. He tried to define it. The innocence of knowledge rather than that of ignorance? He wondered.

"If you want me to," Daphne said. "But no money would be required."

Stunned, Lee forgot his headache and slowly swung his feet to the floor. He studied her, the analytical mind that had made him a great scientist while still a young man now framing the questions.

"Why?"

"I do not need money."

"I mean why are you willing to—"

"Because Mr. Clifford asked that I serve you in any way I'm able."

"Why the rotten—!"

"Oh, no! Mr. Clifford is one of the Great Ones." There was reverence in her voice.

"You must be a fool! Trusting a man who would ask you to do a thing like that!"

"You're putting words in my mouth. Mr. Clifford did not mention sleeping with you. He only asked that I render any service possible."

"And you don't think that was included?"

"Possibly it was."

"And you respect a man who would let it be included?"

Daphne smiled, brilliantly, quietly. "Perhaps Mr. Clifford knew I would not be asked to render any such service."

"How could any man know that?"

"I told you. Mr. Clifford is one—"

"I know—I know. One of the Great Ones. What's that? A lodge of some kind?"

She pondered for a moment. "In a sense."

Suddenly Lee's decency took command. "I'm sorry—more sorry than I can say. Forgive me?"

She returned his smile. "There is nothing to forgive. Would you like some coffee?"

"That's an idea, but mainly I want to talk."

"About what?"

"Who brought me here? Who—" he rubbed a hand across his chin. "Who cleaned me up and shaved me?"

"Mr. Clifford."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I imagine he had a reason."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know. In China perhaps—South America—India."

Lee smiled wryly. "Okay—okay. Ask a foolish question, you get a foolish answer."

"I spoke the truth."

"What is he? A traveling sales man?"

Again Daphne considered with deep seriousness. "I suppose you could call him that?"

"When will he be back? I want a few more words with him."

"I doubt," Daphne said, "if you will ever see him again."

Lee tried to stand. He made a bad job of it. He swayed and sat down again. She was beside him instantly. "Your head?"

"My two heads."

"Perhaps I can help." Her fingers were cool on his skin; live, soothing, merciful. Lee closed his eyes and was enveloped in a wonderful sense of well-being. Then he realized what seemed like a long time had been only a few moments. But his headache was gone.

He turned on her sharply. "How did you do that?"

"It's very simple." Daphne went quickly to the phone and ordered coffee and orange juice. She put down the receiver, faced Lee, and said, "You wanted to talk?"

"Yes. I have one big fat question. Why?"

"Why?"

"Don't evade—please. You know what I mean. I was lying drunk in the gutter. This man picked me up and put me here. Why?"

"Perhaps you are more important to humanity than you realize."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Mr. Clifford concerns himself with humanity."

Lee felt a quick exasperation. Daphne seemed perfectly willing to answer any question he asked, but her answers were about as enlightening as midnight in a dark closet. He sought a different tack. "Tell me about these Great Ones."

"I'm afraid I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I know so little about hem."

"They don't tell you much, then?"

"I am unworthy of knowing much. As yet I am hardly an initiate."

A waiter brought the coffee and departed. Daphne poured from the silver pot. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"I think you've done enough. And I'm grateful. I haven't got the least idea as to reasons—but I'm grateful."

"I'll be at the Lotus Room if you want me."

Daphne picked up her coat, smiled at Lee, and started toward the door. As she extended her hand toward the knob, Lee said, "Just one more thing."

She turned. "Yes?"

"Before I passed out, there was something this Clifford said. Something about my being ready to meet the man with the golden eyes. What kind of gibberish was that?"

Daphne hesitated. For the first time, she seemed at a loss for an answer.

Lee asked, "Was it just my imagination?"

"No."

"What did he mean?"

"Just what he said, I'm sure."

Lee smothered his exasperation. "All right—then who is the man with the golden eyes?"

Daphne regarded Lee with a sort of impersonal fondness. "Someone I'm sure you will meet very, very soon."

She left before Lee could get in another question. He sat on the edge of the bed staring moodily at his coffee cup. "She cured my headache," he muttered, "but I've got a hunch this guy with the golden eyes is going to bring it right back again...."

There was a complete new wardrobe on a chair by the bed, but Lee—loaded down as he was by unanswered questions—refused to wonder where it had come from. As he showered, towelled and dressed, his thoughts were centered upon Mr. Clifford to the exclusion of all else.

Mr. Clifford. Who was he? Why had he done all this? A devious plot of International Electronics to get one Lee Hayden back on his feet and on the job again? Lee thought not. Two points stood against this idea. First, International had definitely charged him off. Second, granted they were having a last try, their procedure would in no way resemble the mad pattern of Mr. Clifford.

Then what lay behind this? Was it the amused gesture of a dilettante philanthropist? No. There was something about this Clifford that put him a cut above that. He was no idle operator. There was purpose involved. But what purpose? Daphne had told him he would probably never see Mr. Clifford again. So how could he ever make any sense out of what had transpired in the last few hours?

As Lee snatched up his key and headed for the lobby, he told himself, She put her hands on my forehead and the headache was gone instantly. Or did I really have a headache?

The clerk nodded deferentially. Lee faced him behind his old shield of belligerence. "My name is Lee Hayden."

"I know, sir."

"I was in room 1106."

The clerk nodded.

"Who rented it for me?"

"Why, Mr. Clifford, sir. I thought you knew."

"I just wanted to find out if you knew." Lee tossed down his key. "I'm going out."

"Certainly, sir."

"Well?"

"Well, what, sir?"

"The bill. Don't people pay to stay here—or is it a charity institution?"

"Oh, no sir. We are not a charity institution. But your bill was paid for by—"

"I know—by Mr. Clifford." Lee scowled and strode out into the street.

He walked from the hotel straight to the nearest bar. He knocked off a double bourbon, neat, and let it warm the lining of his stomach. It felt good. He set down his glass and gestured to the barkeep. Then he was looking into the refilled glass and making no move to lift it. A moment later he was out in the street, realizing this was the first time in eighteen months that he'd walked away from a drink.

It was no reformation, though; merely a temporary diversion of his mind from a prime objective; that of drinking himself to death; that of blotting from his brain the picture of eleven men dying horribly as the ship he had designed shivered and buckled and collapsed in deep space.

Not even a temporary respite, because the horrible vision of his own shortcomings—his own failure—was still there. But how could he have known? Neither he nor anyone else could possibly have been aware of the true conditions encountered out there. Theories and abstracts were fine; almost enough to go on. But not quite. The payoff is always in the doing. Otherwise, test pilots would not command fabulous salaries to risk their necks on the first try-out. But eleven men! Snuffed out because Lee Hayden's word had been taken. Eleven young men.

And here he was, many hours later—back in his room with the bottle on the table ready to blot out the dream—the nightmare of their final agony—that ripped and tore at him everytime he closed his eyes.

Still half sober, he fell into bed and began living it again, tasting the horror, feeling his own flesh grind, his own bones break; living their deaths over just as he had from that first moment when he'd gotten word of the disaster; the last message they'd sent from space.

He awoke in a pool of sweat and realized where he was. He snatched at the bottle, hit it, knocked it off the table. He watched the liquor slop out onto the carpet. He sobbed.

Then, wide-awake—with the stench of fresh whiskey in his nostrils—he saw the man with the golden eyes.

Or at least he thought he was awake. And even as it happened, there was a certainty in his mind.

This is no dream.

He was standing, apparently unobserved, in a huge cave; a strange, fabulous place and the wonder of it caught at his breath and made his heart race.

The cave was high in the side of a mountain. It was as though a huge knife had cut horizontally into solid rock and sliced out a chunk nine feet thick, fifty feet wide, and one hundred feet deep. The walls and ceiling of the cave were of burnished black stone, the floor laid with thick, silken carpet.

Light came soft and shadowless from somewhere, seemingly sourceless, and from the outer lip of the cave where Lee stood, he could see a full, yellow moon riding the night-sky.

The scene—above and below—was one of ecstacy; an overwhelming sensation swept through Lee, something he had never known before. At his feet was a sheer drop of ten thousand feet straight down the face of the mountain to a green valley below. A silver river threaded delicately through a valley hemmed in by towering snow-covered giants. The air was like sharp wine and something within Lee said, I am not dreaming. I know I am here. I can feel the air in my lungs. I can feel a new life vibrating through my flesh. I am still drunk but now it's different. Now I'm drunk from a feeling of complete freedom. I know for the first time that I have never been really alive.

He raised his eyes to the stars above—steel-blue stars in the clear air. I know too, that these are the Himalaya mountains—that this is the roof of the world.

He turned and looked into the cave. A man stood nearby. He wore a white gown, yet his form was not hidden; a magnificent six-foot body supported a head of majestic proportions. The man's face was a magnet and Lee would never know whether or not he was handsome. He would remember that the mouth was firm, the nose straight, the eyes dark and arresting. They were not golden, yet the light that came from them, illuminating the face that would forever leave an impression of shining gold.

The man with the golden eyes.

Lee said, "I am a stranger. How did I get here? Why have I come?"

The man moved forward and stood looking out across the mountains. But he appeared to be seeing much further—into infinity itself. He said nothing.

"Please. Why am I here?"

The man paid no attention. He finished regarding whatever had interested him and turned back into the cave.

"Please."

At this word, the man stopped and turned. He looked at Lee for a long moment. Then he said, "Be very careful. A fall from this height would be fatal." With that he moved back into the cave, and....

Lee Hayden was lying in a sweat-soaked bed.

But his awakening was different from any he had ever known. Later, trying to analyze this, he concluded he had awakened from not having been asleep; awakened as it were, from an awakened state. When he tried to rationalize this contradiction he could not do so. Neither could he change it.

But he sprang from the bed with a wordless cry and was on his knees clawing for the whiskey bottle. There was more than a double shot left. He gulped it down. He dropped the bottle and sobbed. Then all strength went out of him and he collapsed into sleep there on the whiskey-soaked carpet....

Daphne led Lee to a table and asked, "What would you like to drink?"

"Nothing. Do you have a little time?"

"Of course." She sat down opposite him.

"I had a—well, a dream last night."

"A dream?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "You ask that as a question. Don't you think it was a dream?"

"I would have no way of knowing."

"I don't think that's quite true."

"You feel I would deceive you then?"

"No, just that we're talking on different planes perhaps. I think you know far more than you reveal. You knew Mr. Clifford told me I was ready to see the man with the golden eyes."

"Yes."

"I saw him."

She was regarding him with the abstract warmth he had seen in her eyes before. "What do you wish of me?"

"I—I don't know. I came here to—"

Daphne reached out suddenly and laid her hand on his. "All I can tell you is this, Lee. Neither I nor Mr. Clifford nor anyone else can help you anymore. All that can be done for you has been done. From here you rise or fall by what's inside you."

"Then you're resigning your job?" Lee spoke lightly, but with a touch of bitterness underneath.

"What job?"

"Mr. Clifford told you to serve me in any way you could."

"That still goes, Lee. What do you want?"

"You're a very beautiful girl. What do you suppose I want? You."

"You mean you're in love with me?"

"Does it seem so incredible?"

She smiled at him. "You're just exploring—hunting—aren't you? Still trying to get answers to questions. You know that as a man and woman we have nothing for each other?"

He was trying to look behind her eyes. "Yes, I know it. Where is your love, Daphne?"

"The same place yours is. We're looking for the same thing."

"But can't we hunt for it hand in hand?"

"No. Each must seek in his own way."

"But you have a clearer idea of what it is we seek than I?"

"Perhaps—perhaps not. Who can say?"

Lee got up and extended his hand. "Thanks. You've been very good to me."

"You're going now?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"To find the man with the golden eyes."

"Where is he?"

"He's somewhere in the high Himalayas. That wasn't a dream I had. I was there. I saw him."

"But this time it will be different. The way is uncharted. There are no road maps."

"I can only do my best. I may fail. I may never find him."

There was tenderness in her eyes. "I think you will. I'm very sure you will...."

"Goodbye, Daphne."

Lee walked the streets until dawn and as he reentered his room it was to pack a bag and check his cash resources. And it was as if he had become two men walking in one skin; two minds housed in one brain. One mind was that of a fanatic; the other, reasonable and cautious.

The reasonable man said, You're a fool. They lock up people like you. Too much whiskey. Too much of a mental beating. You've gone off your rocker.

The fanatic said, He's in the Himalayas. I'm going to find him. So that's where I'm going.

The reasonable man said, You're nuts.

The fanatic said, Granted, but this nut's heading for India.

Lee flew east. Seven days later he was in Karachi. He scarcely looked at the place, his eyes turning northward toward Baluchistan; eastward toward Lucknow and Delhi. In that direction, the roof of the world was a faint blue haze on the horizon of his imagination. His face was grim and cold. Seven days had changed him. The fanatic rode high, now. The reasonable man was a dim spector lurking uneasily in the background.

He changed his money into the coin of the realm and took a train for Delhi. He rode with strange people, scarcely aware of their presence.

He discovered that traveling from Karachi to Delhi on the railroad of India was a frustrating and confusing business. He began counting his money carefully; hoarding it; haggling. When he arrived in Delhi, he was a lean, bearded stranger with a fever behind his eyes.

But there was a glory in his heart because of a new and sharpened sensitivity. He was alone and friendless and almost without funds, yet he had never before felt so able, so competent.

While stalking the streets of Delhi looking for a cheap hotel, he heard a cheerful voice calling his name. He turned. The voice came from a car at the curb. A brand new Ford convertible. Lee spoke casually. "How are you, Mr. Clifford?"

The meeting was as strange and illogical as all the other events and incidents of Lee's life had been since he had lain in a New York City gutter.

Mr. Clifford smiled warmly. "Mr. Hayden—I'm glad to see you."

"A real surprise," Lee said.

"How have you been?"

"Fine—just fine."

"Taking a little trip, I see."

"Yes. Getting around a little. Seeing the world."

A mad conversation in the light of the questions he had for Mr. Clifford; and the things Mr. Clifford could logically have had to tell him.

But a new and exhilarating independence had sprung up in Lee Hayden. He realized he was not the same man Clifford had rescued and drugged in New York.

"You really get around," Lee said.

"Oh, yes. I have a lot to do."

Lee turned away.

"See you again sometime."

"I hope so—and by the way, there's a man you might like to talk to. I think you'd feel free to ask him questions. Perhaps he'd feel free to answer."

"Good—where can I find him?"

Mr. Clifford considered for a moment, then said, "I'm going in that direction. Jump in."

Lee obeyed, throwing his rucksack in the back seat—the rucksack he'd acquired, along with cash, for his expensive pigskin two-suiter.

Mr. Clifford tooled the Ford carefully through the streets and out onto the dusty, country road leading northeast. No word was spoken for many miles; until Lee extended a hand toward the horizon. "Beautiful mountains."

"The Himalayas. The roof of the world."

"No mountains on earth quite like them."

"Rugged, aren't they?—and beautiful."

"By the way, how is Daphne?"

"In excellent health, I'm sure. I haven't seen her for a long time."

Mr. Clifford turned off the road and pulled up beside a parked Cadillac sedan. Nearby was a small hut and a tiny enclosure. Within the enclosure, a goat munched on dry, colorless hay.

In front of the hut a man sat cross-legged. He was very old and thin. His skin was burned black by the sun and he wore only a white sheet wound loosely around his body. His head was completely hairless and he looked as though he had sat there for years without moving a muscle.

A woman sat on the ground in front of him. The sun was just setting and its rays played on her magnificent white hair; upon the wealth of color in her dress—a dress, Lee estimated, that must have cost several hundred dollars. Yet she sat in the dust before this ancient Indian and hung upon his every word.

"We will wait," Mr. Clifford said.

After a while, the woman got to her feet and approached the Cadillac. Lee saw her beautiful, calm, unlined face, and he was struck by her resemblance to Daphne. She looked nothing like Daphne in either face nor figure, yet they had in common an arresting mystic beauty that seemed to come from within.

The woman smiled at Mr. Clifford who smiled back. No word was said. After she backed the car out and swung into the road, Mr. Clifford said, "Wait, please," and got out of the car. He approached the cross-legged man and sat down in the dust.

They talked for a long time and when Mr. Clifford got up and returned to the car, it was after dusk, and the heavens over India were filled with great flaming stars.

"I'll leave you now," Mr. Clifford said. "The man by the hut is known only as Abat Krishna. You may approach and talk to him."

"Thank you."

Clifford hesitated before getting in behind the wheel. His eyes turned toward the dark horizon.

"There is danger ahead for you."

"I am not afraid."

"Perhaps you will find what you want. Perhaps you will die."

"I will find my way. You said I might question this man?"

"You may ask him anything you like. Goodbye."

Mr. Clifford started the motor and drove away. The goat sent a bleat of farewell through the star-lit darkness.

Lee went to the hut and sat down in front of Abat Krishna. The Indian regarded the heavens and remained silent.

"Who," Lee asked, "are the Great Ones?"

"There are many names for the group. They have been called the Great White Brotherhood. They have been referred to as the Chosen Ones. But that name is misleading in that none are really chosen. The way is open to all. Nothing is given, all is earned."

"Is Mr. Clifford a Great One?"

"Possibly. I do not know."

"Was it sheer chance that he found me in the gutter and lifted me up?"

"Nothing is sheer chance, my son. The most casual movement of an insect's antenna is carefully planned."

"What do the Great Ones do?"

"Their duty—which is as simple and ordinary to them as ours is to us."

"How may they be recognized?"

"That would be difficult."

"Where may one find a Great One?"

"Anywhere. Wherever their duties and their destinies call them."

"What, exactly, is a Great One?"

"A child of God who, through his own efforts, has prepared himself—or herself—for greater understanding of God's laws; for deeper awareness. With this of course, comes greater responsibilities, and greater achievements."

"I have heard that there are men in India—"

"Why necessarily India?"

"—that there are men on this earth who can walk on water; who can pass through solid substances. Is there any truth in that?"

"I do not know. I have never met such a person."

"Do you believe that such persons exist?"

"The answer to that is difficult. Do you have complete understanding of all natural laws? All God's laws?"

"No. I have very little knowledge of them."

"Then I might put it this way: A man walking through solid matter would seem to you to be violating a natural law. But a trick of elementary sleight-of-hand—the vanishing of a coin—could appear the same to a child. So perhaps the answer lies in comparatively greater understanding."

Lee regarded Abat Krishna. Abat Krishna calmly regarded the heavens. Lee said, "But the greatest Great One of all is the man with the golden eyes. Am I correct?"

"You are correct."

"I seek him."

"A worthy endeavor. I have sought him for many years."

"But I know where he is."

"You are indeed fortunate."

"I saw him in what many might consider a dream. But I know it was not a dream!"

"I'm sure it was not."

"I saw him in a cave high in one of the Himalaya Mountains."

"There are many mountains in the chain."

"I shall find the right one."

"I'm sure you shall."

Lee leaned forward. "You said you seek him too. Then come with me."

"I cannot. Each man follows his own destiny."

"And yours—?"

"To sit and study the heavens until I find myself worthy of lowering my eyes."

"A strange destiny."

"All destinies are strange."

"I am selfish enough to ask your help."

"I have none to give."

"No advice?"

"One inconsequential bit perhaps. To the east is a settlement called Almora. Trading caravans leave from there for the higher country—and across."

"Thank you."

"The goat is ready to be milked. Refresh yourself before you go...."

Now Almora was far behind. And far behind was the trading caravan and the men who took his money and left him to die many days later in the cold foothills. But he had not died.

And far behind were the more kindly natives of the colder, windier places who clothed and fed him, treating him as a mad child rather than a man. He left them and they shrugged and let him go. As though perhaps they had seen other mad ones go before him.

And he had gone on—higher and higher—driven by an ever-increasing fever in an ever thinner and more emaciated body. Until, it seemed, he could go no further. He lay for days in a small cave with the icy winds snarling at the entrance while he wrestled with two fevers—one in his spirit and one flaming through his flesh and his bones.

He called in his agony to the man with the golden eyes, but there was no response. An age passed; an age of semiconsciousness; another; then he slept.

When he awoke the physical fever was gone and the spiritual fever had changed to something else; something he had never before known. He lay for a long time, studying it, analyzing it.

Then he knew.

He knew and he smiled and got up and walked out of the cave, a pale wraith of a wasted man; little more than an apparition that appeared hardly able to stand. Yet he felt stronger and happier than ever before in his life. His happiness came from the knowledge that his new strength and understanding had not been given him; that he had earned it; that he had paid bit by bit with his suffering.

He told himself, I was not helped. Only guided. I could have died. No one protected me.

And now I understand.

He left the cave and climbed, sure-footed, to a higher plateau. Here there was no snow. Only wind-swept rock and meager soil. He walked until he came to his destination.

It was another hut; this one of sod and rock to stand against the wind and the cold. A man sat in the doorway, swathed in furs. His skin was dark from the weather, but it was impossible to call him either old or young.

Lee did not even dwell on these points. He only knew—from his new perception, from the new mysticism he had earned with his suffering—that the hut and the man would be there; that no chance had brought him; that all had been arranged as surely as sunrise.

He stood before the man and raised his eyes. "The mountains are high."

"The mountains are always high. No man ever reaches the summit of his mountain."

"I know that now."

"Nor even a cave halfway up the mountain's side."

"That I know too. I also know—"

"That the man with the golden eyes—?"

"Is myself. He was there within me back in my room half a world away, not in a cave in the Himalayas."

"The man with the golden eyes, my son, is every man—the symbol of perfection every man carries in his heart. It is the seeking after this perfection that is life: The man with the golden eyes is the image of what every man has the power to be."

"I know these things now, but tell me. Why was it given to me to see the image so clearly?"

"Each man who reaches the depths is given a choice. On one hand is death; on the other, the long climb back."

"But there was more in my case. I was given help. I was guided."

"Your footsteps may have been directed but you had to make the climb yourself. You could always have given up and died along the way."

"But why was I guided?"

"There is a reason for everything, and there are Great Ones aware of great necessities. You tried to invade outer space and failed. Perhaps the time now demands that space be conquered, and thus your talents are precious to the cosmic scheme."

"There is so much I must learn. So far I must go in so little time. To conquer space, a man must first conquer himself."

The furred figure smiled. "Good. Now you are ready to learn. Sit down my son. The teaching must begin."

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Table of Contents

The Man With The Golden Eyes

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