Khan seemed to catch the faint hum of a city's roar. It was as if he had cast a
mental message upon the wind, and all New York had answered!
Livid eyes bored toward the opposite wall. Amazing in their sharpness,
they could have detected the cracks of a sliding door that the reflected
shimmer hid from ordinary sight. But Shiwan Khan was looking beyond that
barrier.
Though solid obstructions could not melt before his gaze, Shiwan Khan's
mental efforts could produce the same effect. The perfume that filled the
golden room tuned his brain to its objective. From the leer that spread upon
his lips, it was plain that he had completed a process of mental television.
He spoke again, his tone clear as a bell:
"Lana Luan... Lana Luan... You hear me... you will obey... Lana Luan -"
The repeated words stood out amid a low murmur, which faded curiously
under the power of the Golden Master's tone.
Shiwan Khan, himself, was no longer conscious of the walls about him. Even
the atmosphere was icy, like his voice. But the chill still held the odor of
lilacs.
STRANGE, the fragrance of lilacs. Standing by a train gate in the
Pennsylvania Station in New York, Beatrice Chadbury breathed the aroma of the
flowers that she held. She favored lilacs, and it was thoughtful of Paul Brent
to present her with this bouquet as a farewell gift before he left for
Washington.
Somehow, when Beatrice smelled the lilacs everything else faded away. The
vast spaces of the great railway terminal absorbed the murmurs of the passing
throngs. The girl's eyes seemed to close of their own accord. Beatrice was in a
void, a pleasant one, where distance seemed endless.
The through train from Boston was ten minutes late. People crowded close
as the attendant opened the gate. Then the throng was pressing through. Brushed
aside, Beatrice stood unnoticed, except by a few persons who happened to glance
her way.
They were a bit puzzled when they saw a very beautiful raven-haired girl
whose face was inclined toward the lovely bouquet of lilacs that she carried.
Primly attired in a dress of midnight blue, with large white cuffs and collar,
Beatrice looked quite young and sentimental. Perhaps that was why passers
smiled.
They did not hear the voice that spoke to the girl in a far-away, frigid
tone. It was speaking a name that Beatrice remembered from long ago:
"Lana Luan... Lana Luan -"
"Yes!" The girl's lips barely opened. "Yes! I am Lana Luan."
"I am Shiwan Khan," announced the voice. "I am the Golden Master -"
"Yes!"
As Beatrice's lips moved in reply, a young man detached himself from the
throng that was going through the gate. He was carrying magazines and
newspapers that he had hurriedly purchased for his journey.
The arrival was Paul Brent. His tanned squarish face lost its serious
expression, his eyes showed sympathy, as his lips relaxed into a smile. Paul
was starting on a journey that might lead to a longer one; he could understand
why Beatrice felt sentimental over the lilacs that were his parting gift.
