Here he stopped a split second in open-mouthed amazement. He had expected a statue of Buddha. The colophon was explicit. Yet what a statue! From the wide base to the top of the broad forehead was at least fifty feet! The altar, surrounded by fire at the base, though itself the height of a man, seemed a puny thing.
“Hold the doorway!” cried Roberts to his two rescued companions. “Now, Bowen....”
But there was no need to ask the derelict. Reeling forward out of Roberts’ arms, he pointed to a knob seven feet from the floor. “Turn ... turn that ... and press here ... and here!” he gasped, choking.
Roberts obeyed. A second later he was scrambling up to force further open a slab which swung creakingly. Perched there on the slab to hold it open—it was weighted, and after the initial swing of opening, began to close—he glanced inward. There, stacked before him, were tiers and tiers of the eight-paneled jars that Bowen had mentioned. One, as if it had been opened, stood on the floor of the storage chamber. He seized it, finding it heavy in his hands, and leaped down.
Bowen clawed off the cover, reached in, and came forth with three greenish, soft masses clutched in his skinny fingers.
“The eggs!” he cried. “Seven hundred years old! Make ... make each of them eat one right away! We’ll have a hard time....” He choked, flinging a thin, trembling arm in the direction of Christensen and Porterfield, who were having their hands full at the doorway.
Roberts seized his own weapons, ran up, and in terse sentences explained the situation.
“A ... a cure?” cried Porterfield, incredulously.
“Bowen says so. Try them, anyway. Eat one apiece. I’ll hold the door. Hm!”
The last was an exclamation of pain. A thrown knife had sliced a six-inch cut just above his knee. He fired, conserving bullets now, for down the corridor as far as he could see the Yengi had banked themselves. Already a breastwork of Chinese bodies was growing in front of the chamber entrance.