Life flows smoothly for us in this pink lighted community. We are more than content with our lot here. Our only concern has been the grief that must have been occasioned our relatives and friends when the _Rosa_ sailed home without us. Now we have thought of a way in which, with luck, we may communicate with the upper world. By relays of my Queen's fish-servants we believe we can send up the Professor's invaluable notes[A] and this informal account of what has happened since we left San Francisco that.... (Editor's note: There was no trace of any "notes." The yacht, _Rosa_, was reported lost with all hands in a hurricane off New Zealand. Aboard her were a Professor George Berry and the owner, Stanley Browne. There is no record, however, of any passenger by the name of Martin Grey. To date no one has taken this document seriously enough to consider financing an expedition of investigation to Penguin Deep.) [Illustration: _"When I am finished, Dale, I shall probably kill you."_] The Murder Machine _By Hugh B. Cave_ [Sidenote: Four lives lay helpless before the murder machine, the uncanny device by which hypnotic thought-waves are filtered through men's minds to mold them into murdering tools!] It was dusk, on the evening of December 7, 1906, when I first encountered Sir John Harmon. At the moment of his entrance I was standing over the table in my study, a lighted match in my cupped hands and a pipe between my teeth. The pipe was never lit. I heard the lower door slam shut with a violent clatter. The stairs resounded to a series of unsteady footbeats, and the door of my study was flung back. In the opening, staring at me with quiet dignity, stood a young, careless fellow, about five feet ten in height and decidedly dark of complexion. The swagger of his entrance branded him as an adventurer. The ghastly pallor of his face, which was almost colorless, branded him as a man who has found something more than mere adventure. "Doctor Dale?" he demanded. "I am Doctor Dale." He closed the door of the room deliberately, advancing toward me with slow steps. "My name is John Harmon--Sir John Harmon. It is unusual, I suppose," he said quietly, with a slight shrug, "coming at this late hour. I won't keep you long." He faced me silently. A single glance at those strained features convinced me of the reason for his coming. Only one thing can bring such a furtive, restless stare to a man's eyes. Only one thing--fear. "I've come to you. Dale, because--" Sir John's fingers closed heavily over the edge of the table--"because I am on the verge of going mad." "From fear?" "From fear, yes. I suppose it is easy to discover. A single look at me...." "A single look at you," I said simply, "would convince any man that you are deadly afraid of something. Do you mind telling me just what it is?" * * * * *