HASSAN brought a case of instruments. Doctor Palermo had discarded the guise of a mandarin for that of a surgeon. He made careful, methodical arrangements that Harry had never before witnessed.
The preparations made Harry tremble. He could only stare in horrified fascination. The motor began to buzz. It purred with a steady rhythm, that made the scene more terrible.
“You are about to witness a most delicate operation,” said Palermo in a cold, heartless tone. “It will be performed on the base of the brain. I shall proceed slowly. It will be several minutes — I hope— before the subject loses consciousness.”
The noise of the motor was maddening. To Harry’s ears it seemed to come from all parts of the room.
His senses were rendered more acute, perhaps, by this terrible drama before him.
He was not thinking of his own doom; he was overwhelmed by his desire to aid his friend. The clamps held Harry as he struggled to free himself from the restraining chair.
Doctor Palermo was oblivious to everything except his intended work. Hassan seemed occupied in watching him. The image of Chong glared steadily, an outlandish figure in this room which had been changed from an Oriental chamber to an improvised laboratory.
Palermo’s right hand was steady as it held a long, thin knife. His left hand turned the head of Clyde Burke as though it were an inanimate object instead of a portion of a living human being.
Clyde’s eyes still held their helpless appeal. The point of the knife rested high on Clyde Burke’s neck.
The throbbing purr that had come to Harry’s ears was dying. Still, the motor was whirling as before. It was a peculiar, unexplainable phenomenon.