ight leg, and thrust his knee into the old man's back.
     Fedor saw red. Without thinking, he sprang onto the windowsill. Another
leap,  and he was in the room.  He landed a powerful uppercut to the bearded
chin of the executioner.
     The blow flung the fakir against the wall,  where  he crumpled  into  a
motionless heap.
     Fedor turned to the Brahman and, snatching  out  his knife, stabbed him
in the chest.
     Both  the knife and  Fedor's hand passed through the Brahman's chest as
if it  were thin air.  Fedor  fell forward, and his body also  passed freely
through  the body of  the Brahman. All he felt was a faint warm wave of air.
The Brahman was incorporeal!
     "Ah-h-h!" Fedor screamed in horror. "Begone, demon!"
     The  Brahman  dashed  to  the  thick, iron-bound  wooden door.  Without
opening the door he passed straight through it and vanished.
     "Rise, young man. Time is precious," said the old man in Hindi. "Do you
understand me?"
     Fedor, who was still sitting on the floor, looked about wildly.  He was
shaking. He brought his trembling  hand to  his forehead and quickly crossed
himself.
     "Rise," the old man repeated imperiously. "Rise and bar the door."
     Fedor  obeyed,  muttering  "Begone,  demon! Begone,  demon!"  under his
breath.
     "Now hand me that vessel."
     Like a sleepwalker, Fedor moved over  to a shelf, took down a vessel of
red glass, and handed it to the old man.
     The old man folded the middle section of the chain in two and dipped it
into the vessel, from which acrid smoke arose.
     "By killing  the high priest you will confer a great  blessing  on  the
people.  But  you  cannot  do  it  with  an ordinary  knife. If  we  are not
interrupted you will understand.  I shall  make your knife suitable for that
purpose."
     The old man lifted the chain out of the vessel and examined the links ,
which had grown quite thin. He tore the chain apart.  Then, dragging the end
of the chain behind him, he hurried over to the lightning machine. He picked
up the ends of wires leading from the  machine and connected them to several
copper vessels. Next  he quickly re-arranged some  silver  rings round which
wires had been wound.
     "Quick, your knife!"
     Fedor stood staring  at the machine  with unseeing  eyes.  The old  man
seized him by the collar of his shirt and shook him energetically.
     "Wake up! Wake up! Do you understand me?"
     Fedor nodded weakly.
     "Give me the knife! Now turn the handle!"
     Fedor turned the handle, producing a shower of blue sparks. The old man
thrust the blade  of the knife into  one of the rings. A faint aureole shone
round the knife.
     "Turn faster!"
     The aureole grew brighter, then suddenly died out.
     "That's enough! Now grasp the knife by the blade."
     Fedor saw his fingers pass through the blade as though it were  made of
air. With a cry, he drew back his hand and stumbled towards the window.
     "I was told you were a warrior but I see you are a cowardly old woman!"
the old man cried furiously. This brought Fedor to his senses.
     Hesitatingly, he picked up the  knife by the handle. It was an ordinary
handle, solid all the way through. He touched the  tip of the blade with the
palm of his hand. His palm passed through it and reached the handle.
     "The blade can now injure no one except the high priest," said the  old
man. "But for him it means death."
     Voices came from below. Looking out, Fedor saw that the yard was filled
with men carrying torches.
     "Now listen to me," said the old man. "As  long as I preserve my secret
my life is safe. No matter how hostile they are  they will not  harm me, for
my death would be more terrible to the high priest  than his own death. This
is  not  the first  time they have  tried to frighten  me  by pretending  to
strangle  me. You have  nothing to  fear  either until they  carry out their
plans. They need you to build things for them."
     Footsteps and voices were heard outside the door.
     "Remember  that only this knife can  strike down  the high priest," the
old man whispered rapidly. "Now it is still too early. But you will slay him
when the time is ripe. Hide the knife outside the window. I'll find a way of
getting it to you. Do you understand me?"
     "Yes."
     Fedor thrust his head and shoulders  out of the window and  slipped the
knife into a hollow in the  stone carving.  The old man also thrust  out his
head,  felt  for the knife with his hand, and  gave a satisfied nod. Then he
returned to  his  place  and seated himself on  his cushion, concealing  the
broken chain.
     All of a sudden  the high priest entered  the room  through the  barred
door. He gave Fedor an icy glance.
     "When you raised your hand against me, foreigner, you did not know what
you  were doing", he  said.  "Therefore, I  forgive  you.  Only by  complete
obedience can you atone. Now, unbolt the door!"
     Fedor stared at him in terror.  Fighting down  his fear, he went to the
door and pushed aside the bolt.
     Lal Chandra entered, followed by servants  carrying torches. At  a sign
from their master  two of them lifted  the motionless body  of the fakir and
carried him out.
     "You do not know our customs, young man,"  Lal Chandra said in  an even
voice. "It was your Karma that brought you here. I advise  you not to meddle
in our concerns, which are beyond your comprehension."
     Thus  ended  a  night  that  had  been  a  nightmare.  But  it  had  an
unexpectedly happy ending for Fedor.
     The next day Lal Chandra took Fedor back to the temple of Kali.


        CHAPTER SEVEN

        IN WHICH LAL CHANDRA SAYS TO FEDOR THAT HE IS NOT NEEDED ANY MORE

     The summer heat began to abate. Monsoonal winds from the ocean piled up
dark rain clouds. The first rains fell in the mountains.
     Lal Chandra went about with  a worried expression on his face. He drove
the builders to exert  themselves to the maximum. Time was running out.  The
stream would start to rise any day now.
     The dam, flood-gate and chute were ready.
     So was the water-wheel. Long wooden shafts now  ran from  it through an
opening in the temple  wall into a room just off the main  hall. Attached to
each shaft were ten wooden discs, each  fourteen feet in  diameter,  covered
with a smooth, shiny coat of a rare resin.
     On either side  of  the discs were gold-leaf plates  across which swept
brushes of fine gold thread.
     Not  far  from the machine stood twelve enormous copper vats.  All this
was  connected  by  an   intricate   system  of  copper  cables  wrapped  in
oil-saturated cloth.  Copper bars  with ebony handles had been inserted into
the cables at intervals. They were used to help switch  the mysterious force
to wherever it was wanted.
     In the main hall of the temple there was a sunken  pool in front of the
statue of  Kali. The copper cables connected with  the concave mirrors  were
hidden in the water of the pool.
     Day by day the  stream rose.  Barred  by  the dam, it filled the  rocky
gorge and raced over the open spillway with a roar.
     After that  memorable  night two sturdy  fakirs openly  followed  Fedor
wherever he went. At  night they slept  outside the  door of his room in the
temple.  It  was utterly  hopeless to  try to  tell Jogindar Singh about the
incorporeal  Brahman,  for  the fakirs  brazenly  squatted  beside  them and
listened to everything they said.
     Could the  incorporeal man have been just  a nightmare? Again and again
Fedor recalled how the knife in his hand had gone through that wraith. Fedor
was not a coward. He had  gone into battle time and again without flinching.
But he felt helpless when it came to mysterious forces.
     Fedor  also  recalled the old  man in the  tower  and the  knife he had
turned  into air  before Fedor's eyes. Fedor  tried to remember  how it  had
happened. While he was turning the lightning  machine the old man had thrust
the knife  into  some  twisted  wires. The  lightning  machine was  somewhat
different from  Lal Chandra's. Fedor vaguely recalled  that  the old man had
said the high priest  could not get along without him. Did that mean the old
man was the one who had made the high priest incorporeal?
     He also recalled the terrified face of the incorporeal high priest when
he, Fedor,  had  rushed at him  with  the knife.  Why  should he  have  been
terrified? Perhaps he had not been incorporeal long and was not yet  used to
it.
     Fedor's head was in a whirl. He simply had to tell  the Sikhs about the
miracle. Ram Das was the one to tell it to. But Lal Chandra had sent Ram Das
off on an errand.
     He  never should have listened to the old man. Instead  of  hiding  the
magic knife he should have plunged it into that  incorporeal high priest and
been done with it.
     Fedor was sitting alone in his room late  one evening when  he suddenly
heard a  deep roar outside. He dashed out of  the room. His guards, sleeping
beside the door, sprang to their feet and ran after him.
     The roar was coming from the chute. Fedor realized that the water  gate
had been raised and water was now rushing towards the wheel. He ran into the
main  room of the  temple. In the darkness  he easily found  the narrow door
behind the six-armed goddess and  stepped into the  secret  room  where  the
lightning machine stood. He saw what he had expected to  see. The discs were
whirling  at a  tremendous  rate, making a soft,  swishing  sound. The  gold
plates had merged  into circles; they reflected the reddish light of the oil
lamps. The air in the room was  filled with the freshness that accompanies a
thunderstorm.
     Six  men, none of whom Fedor  had ever seen before, were tinkering with
the machine. Lal Chandra stood to one side watching. He had not heard  Fedor
enter.
     A  sense of deep injury engulfed Fedor.  He had  put so much hard  work
into building the machine! He had invented so many things connected with it!
Yet they had not even called him to watch the trial run.
     Forgetting  everything  except  his  resentment,  Fedor tugged  at  Lal
Chandra's wide sleeve.
     Lal Chandra started in fright.
     "What are you doing here?" he asked, turning round to face Fedor.
     "Why didn't you tell me?" Fedor shouted.
     "You  are  not needed  any  more." Lal  Chandra's  voice  was no longer
gentle.
     Fedor seized the Brahman by the collar and shook him.
     "I'm not your slave! I'm a lieutenant in the Russian  Navy!" he shouted
angrily. He spoke in Russian, as he always did when excited. "I'll shake the
wits out of you."
     Lal Chandra screamed hoarsely.  The men turned round, dropped what they
were doing, and flung  themselves on Fedor. Fedor fought back furiously. The
Indians  were unfamiliar with fist fighting,  and he knocked  them down  one
after  another. But  they immediately rose  to  their feet and  attacked him
again.
     Lal Chandra bent  down and scuttled  through the  low door.  Fedor tore
himself away from the clinging hands of his attackers and  dashed after him.
Lal Chandra ran back and  forth, hampered by his long robe. For a moment the
two men raced round the grim goddess like children, changing their direction
all the time.
     Men carrying torches appeared, and half a dozen  of them fell on Fedor.
But  he tore loose once more and, making a  leap, caught Lal Chandra  by the
sleeve. With the deepest satisfaction he drew  back his  arm and smashed his
fist into Lal Chandra's cheekbone. The Brahman fell backwards into the pool.
     The last thing Fedor remembered was the sensation  of being  strangled.
When he recovered consciousness he was lying in his room.  His head rang and
his arms ached. He went to the door and gave a pull. It was locked from  the
outside.
     Fedor saw no hope of ever being set free.
     Twice a  day he was  brought a bowl of meagre  fare. Lal Chandra's  men
kept a close watch over him.
     One evening he was sitting on  the floor  of his vaulted room, beside a
low table, going over his notes by  the light of an oil lamp. He had started
a diary long ago, while on  the way to India. But what was the  use of these
notes  now? His eyes wandered sadly  around the dusk-filled room.  He  would
never be able to escape from here.
     He closed his eyes and let his head drop into his hands.
     A pebble suddenly fell on  the floor. Fedor gave a start and jumped  to
his feet.  A faint rustling came from somewhere above his  head. Lifting his
eyes, he saw a swarthy bare arm thrust through the ventilation opening.
     "It's starting," he  thought in alarm. "They'll let snakes down through
holes or sprinkle poison on me."
     "Fedor,"  a  voice  softly  called.   Fedor's  heart  lightened  as  he
recognized  the  voice  of Ram Das. How had he made  his way through  such a
narrow passage? He must have removed some bricks.
     "Let me hear your voice," said Ram Das from behind the wall.
     "It's  me,  all right. Who else  could it  be? Listen to what I have to
say, Ram Das." Fedor quickly told him what had taken place in the tower.
     "Did you say the Brahman is incorporeal?" Ram Das interrupted him. "Did
you say he can pass through solid walls?"
     "Yes."
     "You saw it with your own eyes?"
     "Yes."
     "Are  their gods really so  powerful?" There was a note of  fear in Ram
Das's voice.
     "All is lost," thought Fedor in despair. "The Sikhs were  my only hope.
When they see this miracle at the festival they'll give up all resistance."
     "Listen, Ram Das,  but that's not all." Fedor hurriedly related how the
old man had given the blade of his knife the property of penetrability.
     "Can the incorporeal Brahman really be slain with that knife?" came Ram
Das's hollow-sounding voice.
     "Yes, yes, he can! The knife is  hidden  in a crack in the wall outside
the old man's window. Be sure to get it, Ram Das."
     "The  old  man is kept under such heavy  guard that it's hard  to break
through to  him.  But  I'll  do  whatever I can to  help  you.  You must  be
prepared. Goodbye. I must go now."


        CHAPTER EIGHT

        WHICH TELLS OF THE END OF THE INCORPOREAL BRAHMAN

     The roads were thronged. From Gujarat and Rajputana in the south,  from
the foothills of the mountain ranges in the north, and from Lahore and Delhi
in the east crowds of people converged on the  river Sutlej, a tributary  of
the Indus, where the miracle had taken place.
     In  the land where lived the apostate Sikhs, who had rejected the  gods
of the Brahmans, these gods had  decided to remind  men of their  existence.
The  goddess  of  love and  death,  the  awe-inspiring  Kali, was displaying
mysterious powers in a long-abandoned temple.
     That was what friendly men told the pilgrims at crossroads and villages
on  the way. These men distributed food and  pointed out the  route. Closing
their eyes as  though in  prayer,  they  related  that a certain pundit  had
attained the highest knowledge.  Although he had  repudiated his body he was
still visible, and hence he  was  called the Mahatma Ananga, the "great soul
without flesh".
     Tales  were told at roadside campfires of how Mahatma Ananga, gathering
his faithful  pupils  about him, had begged the gods, through Kali, who  had
close ties with humans, to bring accord to an earth torn by dissent.
     In response, the gods had given a sign. When the body of a pupil of the
Mahatma  Ananga,  who had died  in  the cause of  the highest knowledge, was
brought to the temple of Kali, the goddess had refused to accept his death.
     The body of the righteous man had been lying in trepidation at the feet
of the ruler  over life and death for many days. Kali  refused to accept his
death.
     Since the goddess kept  a strict account of those who were born, coming
from their  past  incarnation,  and those  who died, passing  into  the next
incarnation, the return to  life  of the righteous man would have to be paid
for by the sacrifice of another life.
     The day of  the sacrifice had been appointed. On that day awe-inspiring
Kali would show one and all the power of the ancient gods.
     The pilgrims arrived  in large groups, keeping  close together.  To lag
behind was dangerous. The elusive brotherhood of Thug assassins  had already
strangled several people to death in honour of their goddess.
     There were crowds of people all around  the temple. The  hollow between
the temple  and the  bank of the  stream was closely packed  with tents  and
primitive shelters.
     Bright  sunlight illuminated a colourful scene: white-robed  men, women
in  flowered  veils,  bronze  faces  and  bodies,  countless  carts.  Temple
attendants distributed an infusion of thorn apple leaves among the pilgrims,
to  "free  them from  their  sins."  This was  a narcotic  that  temporarily
deprived people of their reason and memory. They also distributed a beverage
made  of poppy-seed called "the tears of  oblivion".  They were particularly
generous with bhang, a  beverage made from the juice  of the tender  tops of
Indian hemp mixed with an infusion of nutmeg and cloves.
     Clouds of flies  hovered  above  the camp of the pilgrims. The odour of
fragrant spikenard mingled with the smells of food, human and  animal sweat,
aromatic incense, the  smoke  of  camp-fires, and the wormwood-like odour of
narcotics.
     The pilgrims grew more and more excited. They demanded miracles.
     The  Sikhs, bearded and in turbans, did not take part in  the religious
frenzy. They camped to  one  side  and  seemed to be waiting  for something.
People scowled at them  because the Sikhs were  apostates. Knowing, however,
that the Sikhs did not recognize the philosophy of Ahimsa, or non-injury  of
animal life, they took care to give them a wide berth.
     In the evening innumerable campfires burned bright as people made their
evening ablutions and cooked food.  Temple attendants distributed rice and a
powerful mixture of  opium  and bhang. The excitement that now swept through
the crowd was even stronger than in the daytime. To the beat of drums inside
the temple a Brahman emerged to  announce  that  the  temple was now open. A
howling crowd surged in through the doors, filling the vast hall and all the
passages. The  Sikhs were the last to enter. They  took up places along  the
walls, none of them mingling with the crowd.
     Semi-darkness reigned  inside the temple. The oil  lamps cast quivering
shadows on the sinister faces of the goddess, on the garland of human skulls
round her bronze neck, and on her belt, an interlacing of chopped-off hands.
The rubies in her eye-sockets glowed.
     A human body lay motionless at the  feet of the goddess,  its  outlines
vague beneath the white shroud.
     Suddenly the drums fell  silent. An imposing  Brahman  (appeared on the
small open space between the pool and the goddess. He waited until the crowd
was quiet, then said in a resounding voice:
     "Brothers, do  not be surprised at what your  eyes will see. Keep calm,
for each has his own Karma and the  gods are all-powerful. Let us praise the
great Kali. May the gods show us miracles to strengthen our faith!"
     There was a faint crackle in the dead silence.
     Suddenly, flames leaped  up out of the bowls on the tripods around  the
pedestal of the goddess. A murmur of astonishment ran through the crowd.
     The Brahman pressed  his hands  together in prayer and  turned  to  the
statue.
     "Oh  mighty  one,  oh   black-faced   one!  She  who  tramples  on  the
decapitated!" he intoned. "Manifest your will, for through  you the Creator,
the Preserver and the Destroyer rule us! Give us life or give  us a merciful
reincarnation!"
     His last  words  were drowned by peals of thunder. Dazzling  streaks of
lightning  flashed through the clouds  of  smoke, in  the  direction  of the
crowd,  from the pointed fingers  of the terrible goddess, from the tips  of
her pointed nipples, and from the ends of her long eyelashes.
     The crowd was gripped  by terror. Shouting and pushing,  people hurried
towards  the exit.  But  their way  was barred by crackling  blue flashes of
lightning that came from the bronze lances decorating the archway.
     "Oh you of little faith!" intoned the Brahman. "Why are you frightened?
Did I not announce that the will of the gods would be manifested to you?"
     The lightning stopped, and the crowd ceased to mill about. Silence fell
as the people timidly  pressed closer  to  one another.  Suddenly cries came
from the hall:
     "Look, a dead man!"
     "This man is dead too!"
     "Death has entered the temple!"
     Here and there in the crowded hall lay the bodies of those who had been
struck by lightning.
     "Frightened, you of little faith?" the Brahman shouted. "How can flight
save you from the will of the gods? Does not death at the hands of Kali give
the chosen a better incarnation? Pray! Beg the goddess to open your eyes!"
     Where space  permitted in  the tightly-packed crowd, people  prostrated
themselves, their hands pressed together devoutly.
     "Now gaze on this!" the Brahman commanded. "The Mahatma Ananga himself,
the man without flesh, will appear before you!"
     The Brahman stepped to one side, his hands pressed together in front of
his face.
     A sigh of wonderment swept through the temple as a man in  a long white
robe came  into sight  straight  out of the pedestal. He silently spread his
arms, blessing  the pilgrims, and strode into the crowd. People separated to
let him pass, but he did not need an opening. He walked straight through the
crowd, straight through people. They realized  that he was incorporeal. Some
tried  to  grasp the  hem of  his robe to kiss it  but  their fingers passed
through the fabric as though it were woven of air.
     There were cries of awe-stricken horror beneath the vaulted  ceiling of
the temple.  Men fell to their knees to kiss the floor where the Incorporeal
Brahman had walked.
     After  passing through the  amazed crowd Mahatma Ananga returned to the
Kali pedestal. With an imperious gesture he commanded silence. Then he began
to speak.
     "The gods have  liberated me  from the flesh  that  oppresses man. I am
incorporeal. No human weapon can harm me. I need neither food nor drink. Yet
I am alive. My soul has not  been reincarnated. This is the gift of the gods
to those  who obey them implicitly.  But what do  you  live for, you who are
wrapped up in  concern for your  pitiful bodies? A handful  of rice  is more
precious to you than Nirvana."
     He talked for a  long  time, wrathfully condemning those  who preferred
the miserable  blessings  of  the  present  life  to  future  reincarnation.
Untouchables   must  stop   the  practice   of   adopting  Mohammedanism  or
Christianity. The gods would not forgive those who failed to keep the faith.
The apostate Sikhs had not resigned themselves to their fate. They wanted to
gain possession of lands  that  belonged,  by the  will of the gods, to  the
Brahmans. They must repent and return to the ancient faith before it was too
late. Otherwise the gods would punish them so sternly that no trace  of them
would  remain. The patience of the gods  was exhausted. They were  incensed.
Through him, Mahatma Ananga, they had resolved  to  manifest their  will and
punish the recalcitrants and apostates.
     While all  this was  going on Fedor Matveyev languished in the  machine
room next door, his arms chained to rings in the wall.
     The enormous discs revolved and hummed  rhythmically. Lal Chandra stood
with his eye at a tiny hole in the wall,  watching  what was going on in the
hall.  From time to time,  without turning round, he said something, and his
assistants did his  bidding, moving  the copper bars back and forth to  open
and shut the path of the mysterious force.
     From the way  they moved the bars  Fedor could  imagine what was taking
place in the temple. He could  hear the roar of the crowd and the awe-struck
cries as the miracles were performed.
     He  himself had built these machines whose lightning would  soon reduce
him to ashes. His friends, the Sikhs, were somewhere near,  but  what  could
they  do? They were  lost in  the frenzied  crowd.  Besides,  they too might
succumb to the Brahmans at sight of the miracles.
     Two fakirs approached Fedor, untied his bonds and, gripping him  by the
arms, thrust him through the low door into the hall. He found himself facing
the  Incorporeal Brahman. On  the other side of the pool was a sea of heads,
malicious grimaces and hateful eyes.
     "This wretched foreigner wished to deprive me of life," the Incorporeal
Brahman said disdainfully. "He did not know that only the gods can  do that.
Give him a knife. Let him try once again to pierce my body."
     An expectant  murmur ran through the crowd. A  grinning fakir stretched
out a knife to Fedor, who struck it from the man's hand. The knife clattered
as it fell on the stone paving.
     "If only  I  had  the  knife  the  old man  hid."  Fedor  thought. "But
evidently that is not to be. Say your last prayers, naval lieutenant."
     "Remove the shroud," said the Brahman.
     When the  shroud was lifted,  a naked corpse was revealed lying at  the
bronze feet of the goddess.
     Lightning streaked from the fingers of Kali.
     A  scream  of  horror  rang  through the  hall  and was then echoed and
re-echoed  time  and again.  The corpse  had come to  life.  It quivered and
stirred at the feet of the terrible goddess.
     "Look here, one and all!" the Incorporeal Brahman shouted. "The goddess
refuses to accept the  death of my finest  pupil. He hovers between life and
death. The  time has not yet come for his  reincarnation! But if  Kali is to
return him to life she must receive a sacrifice in exchange!"
     Twelve attendants marched up to the pool in single file. Each carried a
pitcher  on  his shoulder,  the  thick, dark,  odorous contents of which  he
poured into the pool.
     "We  have  brought  you  precious oil as a  sacrifice," the Incorporeal
Brahman  intoned,  turning to the goddess. "Will  you  accept this bloodless
sacrifice?"
     There was a sound of gurgling. The water in the pool began to boil. The
oil  gathered  into a  dark  ball,  then  streaked through the  water to the
opposite side of the pool, throwing up a fountain. For an instant the pillar
of oil  stood  motionless,  then it  collapsed,  sprinkling  the  crowd with
fragrant drops.
     "The goddess rejects  a bloodless sacrifice!" cried the Mahatma Ananga.
"She gives it to you with her blessing. She demands a human sacrifice. Those
pilgrims who  were  chosen  by the sacred lightning have been given a  happy
reincarnation. Their death was a joy to them. But this foreigner will meet a
terrible death, for he  is  alien to  our gods  and will be given the lowest
reincarnation. His soul will pass  into the body of  a blind worm that gnaws
away at seaside cliffs!"
     The water in the pool began to seethe. A bright flame  appeared  on top
of it.
     "See,  the goddess agrees!" shouted the Incorporeal Brahman. "The water
has turned to fire! May the foreigner die without bloodshed.
     Kali herself will give him death. Place him at the feet of the goddess,
beside my pupil. Let  everyone see the goddess take the life of  one man and
transfer it to another man!"
     Fedor  desperately  ran  his  eyes across  the  crowd.  The faces  were
hostile. "This is the end, Fedor Matveyev," he said  to himself.  "Here come
the fakirs. Now they'll seize you-"
     "Watch out, Fedor!"
     Suddenly  he was gripped by  a  feeling of  grim merriment.  He  stared
eagerly at the back of the hall, where the light was dim.
     Something flew over the heads of the crowd and fell at Fedor's feet. In
a flash he bent  down, snatched up his  knife by  the handle, and plunged it
into the breast of the Incorporeal Brahman.  He felt  the cloth of  the robe
resist as it tore.
     A  spreading patch of  blood stained  the  white  robe  of  the Mahatma
Ananga.  He wheezed, choked and would have  fallen  if  Fedor had  drawn his
knife from the wound. But Fedor did not release the handle. He realized in a
flash that if the Incorporeal Brahman fell he would sink through the ground,
creating a miracle that would spoil everything.
     His  ears  failed to register the shouts  of the  crowd, and he did not
know  what was going  on behind  his back. All he  felt was that the Mahatma
Ananga was growing heavier and was slipping sideways.
     Death had returned the usual properties to  the body of the Incorporeal
Brahman.  Although Fedor firmly clasped the handle  the  knife pulled itself
out of the body.  No longer supported by the  knife, the body dropped to the
stone floor with a dull thud.
     An instant of eerie silence was followed by cries of rage and fear.
     Ram Das ran up to Fedor and seized him by the arm.
     "This way!" he cried. "Hurry!"


        CHAPTER NINE

     IN WHICH A STAR ABOVE THE WATER TURNS OUT TO BE A SHIP'S LIGHT

     Fedor let the helm slip out of his hands. It did not  matter  since  he
could see nothing whatsoever in the utter  darkness. Besides, it was raining
violently.
     The powerful current swept the small boat downstream. The heavens split
open with a  sound like the ripping of a sail. Streaks of lightning lit up a
wide, swollen river, uprooted trees and a thick wall of rain.
     "We're being carried by  the  current," he thought. "Let's hope we hold
out until dawn." He sat in the stern, trying to shield Bharati from the rain
with his  body.  The girl's  head was in his lap. She  was trembling.  Fedor
stroked her wet hair. He could find no words with which to comfort her.
     Jogindar Singh's body lay  on the  deck, his white robe  a  blur in the
black night. His strong  arms lay by his side.  Never again would those arms
wield an axe.
     The Sikhs had failed to find Lal Chandra. The  sly Brahman  had escaped
through secret  passages.  Almost  immediately after,  armed  men  began  to
encircle the  temple.  The Brahmans and rajahs had evidently  stationed them
nearby in case something went wrong. Shots rang out in the  courtyard of the
temple  and  in  the  dark  passageways. The  Sikhs brandished  their curved
daggers.
     Ram  Das had  led  Fedor unnoticed out  of the temple and  down  to the
stream,  where Bharati  and her  father  were waiting.  They  set out in the
direction of the Sutlej in the rain, stumbling over the rocks in their path.
Shots sounded  behind them. Suddenly Jogindar Singh  pitched forward to  the
ground with  an anguished cry.  Fedor  picked  him up and carried him on his
back.  He and Bharati pushed through  thickets  for a long time  before they
finally  reached  the Sutlej. There  Bharati found the sailboat,  tied to  a
boulder.
     Dawn came at last, the grey light revealing  a rain-spattered river the
colour of yellowish mud. Bharati,  petrified by  sorrow, sat beside the body
of her father.
     It  took every  ounce of  Fedor's strength to guide  the boat towards a
small island. Near the shore he leaped  into the water and  then dragged the
boat up onto the wet sand.
     In the  tiny cabin under the deck  he  found an axe.  The carpenter had
seen to it that the  boat was fully  equipped. Fedor  hacked  out  a shallow
grave in the rain-soaked earth and tenderly  laid the body of Jogindar Singh
in it. After covering the grave with earth he built a mound of stones on top
of it.
     Bharati's rigid  face frightened him.  It  would be  easier for her, he
thought, if she would give way to tears. He touched her shoulder.  Silently,
she turned away from the grave, and silently she climbed back into the boat.
     Waist-deep in the water,  Fedor tugged at the boat to free it from  the
sand. His feet  sank in the silt. Finally he gave a push that took  his last
strength. Dislodged, the boat slid forward into the river.
     Suddenly he heard Bharati scream in terror. Turning his head, Fedor saw
that  her face was  drained of colour. She was pointing at  something with a
hand  that trembled, keeping up  a  piercing cry. Fedor swung round to see a
long  brown  log  heading  rapidly  towards him.  Suddenly the log opened  a
monstrous mouth lined with sharp teeth.
     Fedor  pushed off from the bottom as hard as he could  and scrambled up
onto the  deck of the boat. That very instant he heard teeth snap behind his
back. Before  he  could catch  his breath Bharati flung  her  arms round his
neck,  buried  her  head  on  his chest, and  burst into  tears. She  sobbed
convulsively, her thin shoulders quivering under his hands.
     "You must be careful," she whispered through her tears.  "I have no one
else but you now. Promise you will take care."
     Fedor guided  the boat back into  the  mainstream.  He had never seen a
crocodile  before,  although he  had heard  much about them. He  recalled  a
sentence  from  one of  the  first books  he  had  read in  childhood.  "The
crocodile  is an aquatic reptile  which  weeps as  it  kills  and  eats  its
victim." Fedor gave a wry  smile as he remembered the crocodile's terrifying
jaws. He  did  not  think it  likely that  such  a  monster would mourn  its
victims.
     After  two days of rain the sun reappeared. Meanwhile, they had reached
the Indus, and the mighty river was steadily carrying them towards the sea.
     Fedor  now  tied up  the boat  on  the bank  for the night. He  built a
campfire over which Bharati prepared their simple meal.
     At the end  of a week Fedor noticed that the river  was growing  wider;
the water was turning clearer by the hour. Finally there came a morning when
the boat ceased to  move at all. The incoming  tide was preventing the river
from reaching the sea.
     That meant  the ocean was near. The light northerly breeze carried with
it a tang of salt air.
     Fedor raised the foresail, woven of strong palm leaves. Then he lowered
the heavy copper-bound sliding keel into the water and hauled in the sheets.
The sound of water gurgling underneath the boat filled his heart with joy.
     The water grew  lighter  and bluer until  it was the colour of the sky.
The banks receded farther and farther, fading into a haze. Finally,  a  long
blue sea wave picked the boat up, rocked it gently, and then smoothly passed
it on to the next wave. They had reached the sea!
     Fedor gave a deep sigh of relief and smiled at Bharati. The girl smiled
back at her blue-eyed, good-natured, merry god.
     "Where are we going now?" she asked.
     Fedor had  given  the  matter  a good  deal  of  thought. He remembered
Bharati's  father  saying  that  if  he turned to the right  he would  reach
Karachi,  which Persian  merchants visited frequently.  To turn to the  left
meant sailing southeast towards the Portuguese possessions.
     The idea of travelling across Persia worried Fedor. Although it was the
shorter route he  had heard,  in  Lal  Chandra's  house, vague rumours  that
things were not quiet in the land of the Persians.
     No, it  would  be better to sail  to Diu. Portugal  was  far  away from
Russia and had no reason to quarrel with her.
     And so Fedor turned to the left and sailed southeast, following the low
coast.
     Bharati grew more cheerful.  The sea breezes  put colour in her cheeks.
She boiled rice  and  baked freshly-caught  fish on the hot clay of  a small
hearth  that  Fedor  had fashioned at one of their  stopping places  on  the
Indus. She quickly learned to handle the sails and was soon able to sail the
boat single-handed, giving  Fedor  an opportunity  to  snatch a few hours of
sleep.
     The wind rose. Whitecaps rippled and foamed on the high waves. The mast
swayed, the boards creaked. The boat lay on  its  side, the deck half in the
water.
     Bharati pressed close to Fedor.
     "Why don't you go down below?" he said. "You'll get wet."
     The girl  shook  her head. "I'm  not  afraid of anything when I'm  with
you."
     "Then hold on tight. Otherwise you may be washed overboard. We're going
to be shaken up properly."
     Fedor knew that it would be far from easy to ride out a storm at sea in
their small craft.
     But Bharati trusted him, and he would do everything he could to protect
her.  This  was  not  his first  storm  at sea. He still remembered  how the
Caspian Sea had boiled and raged beneath his ship.
     With great effort Fedor managed to take down the sail. He folded it and
covered Bharati with it.
     The wind continued  to rise as night fell. The sea was a black, howling
wall. It tossed the boat like a nutshell from wave  to wave, up and down, up
and down.
     Fedor's  sole aim now was to hold the  bow into the waves. If he turned
broadside to them, the waves would capsize the  boat at once. It was  a good
thing that  Jogindar Singh had followed Fedor's instructions  to the  letter
when making the boat.  A boat without  a deck  or keel would  have sunk long
since.
     With Bharati's help he fashioned  a  floating anchor. He  took down the
mast, laid it beside the spanker-boom, wrapped both of them in the sail, and
tied  the bundle  together. He attached one end to a long rope tied  to  the
prow. Then he threw the  heavy bundle overboard.  The prow immediately swung
into  the wind.  Held  by the floating  anchor,  the boat  barely moved  and
offered the storm no resistance. The raging wind simply streamed around it.
     Fedor opened the hatch.
     "Down below, quick!" he shouted. He pushed Bharati in front of him  and
jumped down inside after  her,  banging  down  the cover of  the  hatch  and
fastening it.
     It was dark in  the  little cabin but at least it was dry and they were
out of the wind.
     The  boat pitched and tossed, up and down, up and  down. They  lost all
sense of time. Had the night come to an  end? Or had  two nights passed? All
they heard was the thunder of the waves and the creaking of the deck boards.
     "Are you asleep, Bharati?"
     "No."
     "Feel all right?"
     "Y-yes."
     Fedor  rose and groped  about  in the  dark, swearing as he knocked his
head and banged his knees.  Then he  struck flint against steel, there was a
shower  of sparks, and a tiny red  glow  appeared. Fedor blew on the tinder,
lit the oil lamp, and looked at Bharati's pale face.
     "Feel all right, dear? Not seasick?" "No," she whispered obstinately.


     The setting  sun warmed his back.  A  northerly  wind  drove lazy waves
ahead of it. The storm was over.
     But it did not make any difference now.
     Fedor sat  in  the stern, stubbornly  holding  the boat  to an eastward
course. The  coastline was  still invisible. He had no idea of how many days
and nights they had been sailing in the Arabian Sea.
     Bharati lay at his knees. That  morning he had poured the last drops of
water in the pitcher through her parched, compressed lips.
     Alas, Fedor  Matveyev!  You are  evidently  not destined  to reach your
native land. Can it  really be that you escaped  death from lightning in the
temple only to die an agonizing death at sea?
     Bharati lay with closed eyes. Fedor anxiously bent over her to reassure
himself  that  she was breathing. One thought was  uppermost in  his mind: I
must save her.
     Night fell instantly, without twilight. The black sky was soon spangled
with bright but remote stars.
     The gentle rocking of the boat made Fedor feel drowsy, but he knew that
if he fell asleep it would  be the end.  With  a tremendous effort he  shook
himself awake and swept his eyes across the sea. What was that large reddish
star that hung  so low in the sky on the  port side? Why was it  so low? And
why did it sway? Fedor sprang to his feet to take a better look at the star.
Why, it was a ship's light! "Bharati! Wake up! A ship!" As if to confirm his
words the wind  brought them the sound  of a guitar and snatches  of a song.
Fedor jumped down  into the cabin. He rummaged about searching for an Indian
gunpowder  rocket. There it was!  He tied it to a stick which he attached to
the bow. Striking flint against steel until his hands bled, he produced fire
and brought the tinder up to the rocket. A hissing red arc soared across the
dark sky.


        CHAPTER TEN

     IN WHICH FEDOR'S MYSTERY REMAINS UNSOLVED

     The January frost had thickly iced the small windowpanes and was making
the pine logs of the walls creak.
     It was warm  inside the house. The long table standing against the wall
was   covered   with  samples   of  ore,   metal  and  coal,   draughtsman's
paraphernalia, manuscripts, and vessels  containing  powders and liquids. In
the  corner stood  a machine  which was  unique in that part  of Russia.  It
consisted  of a lacquered disc covered  with  shiny strips of metal and  set
between two supports topped by copper