Then came the brief time-exposures of tabulations, preserved thus.
But nowhere, except for natural sounds, the squeak of mice when a movement of a high-frequency ray cast it upon them—the chatter of the squirrels—ordinary lab. sounds of moving feet and muttered words by the old man, did Roger hear what he sought—enlightenment.
He was near the end of the reel, about to give up, when his ears sent a message that snapped his muscles into taut tension.
“Hear me. I am The Voice of Doom!”
He saw, in the picture, the astrologer wheel and stare. He saw him turn and run out of view.
Then, with scream subsiding in moan, the Voice of Doom repeated its earlier moaning, ending in the grind and sudden cessation.
The film, unnoticed, ran out of the gate, and the magazine clicked to the slap of its still revolving free end.
Roger let it run on. He had discovered a strange clue!
Once coming from a deserted room, and once spoken on a record that had been considered blank, and then a third time from a record that had been set to catch sound in Doctor Ryder’s home, had come that same Voice of Doom, the identical moaning and grating.
In reality, in the heart of Tibet, Roger had also heard that sound.