Page:Weird Tales Volume 36 Number 06 (1942-07).djvu/50

 once more within the guarded confines of his own home. There were plenty of servants, strong northern hillsmen who would have wrestled dragons at his command. They were stalwart and fearless, men to whom a good fight was a tonic. That they were lazy as well, did not detract from their efficiency as bodyguards. They were above doing menial things which they left for lesser men. Nevertheless, Ah Chow felt repaid when occasionally they ejected a too ardent visitor from the tranquil gardens.

Ah Chow had accumulated vast wealth, nor cared he about the price he had to pay for it. He had a generous supply of enemies. But now one of them, Dr. Shen Fu, was dead—all but his hand. The living hand was a nuisance. He couldn't bury it in his garden and defile the earth. Besides, the hand was not dead. This was not, however, the real reason he decided to keep it, to hide it away in a teakwood chest in his sleeping room. There was a force that directed his mind, a force greater than curiosity, though that was considerable.

He wondered how long it would take for the hand to die. He tried to banish from his mind the knowledge that to dispose of that hand was an impossible thing. He could still feel the steel-trap grip of those fingers biting into the flesh of his arm as he had carried it home in his sleeve.

HAT night as he sat alone at his evening meal, he had no appetite. The tea had a bitter taste. His mouth balked at accepting food even though his stomach growled for sustenance. Like a fool he had plunged into peril that he might have avoided. How now could he enjoy the last few days that remained to him of life? He fretted because the poison was not acting quickly enough. He who had been afraid to die was now afraid to live even though it was but for a few more days.

He retired early. For hours he lay and tossed on his kong, sleeping in snatches. Every once in a while he listened as though to the echo of words gently spoken. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. What if it were the voice of Dr. Shen Fu? Ridiculous. The Doctor was dead, all but his hand and a hand cannot talk. He rose and walked to the window. In the moonlight the garden was a lovesome place. The sky was so clear the stars gazed down like startled eyes. The air was sweetened by the breath of countless flowers. Lovely was the night. The breeze was cool, the trees murmured eloquently. There was enchantment in that garden but nothing of fear. A child might have lain in the perfumed darkness wooed to sleep by the lullaby of trees. He was a fool, Ah Chow whom all called the porcelain monarch! Hundreds of workers toiled in his shops. All looked up to him. And now he was afraid.

He returned resolutely to his kong. This time reason reasserted itself. He was able to sleep. How long he slept he did not know, but suddenly he awakened. He tried to cry out but no sound came from his lips other than that which might have been attributed to a green frog sobbing. Had the moon exploded? Was there no air to breathe? He gasped for breath, something was choking him. The fingers of a hand were about his throat. The fingers bit into his flesh like hungry mouths. And then it was that he knew, knew that the hand of Dr. Shen Fu was clutching at his life. The blood in his veins congealed, his body became rigid, cold. No longer was his face a healthy yellow. It took on a tinge of blue that blended into green as the yellow moonbeams fell upon it. All power had left him, he couldn't struggle, he couldn't cry out, he couldn't breathe but his bulging eyes had doubly-acute sight. And then it was that he made out