THE RIDDLE OF TANYE
by W. P. Cockroft

(Author of "The Alien Room," "The Thing in the Ice," etc.)
How real are dreams? Tate's experiment started out as psychological, but the 
four lives of Hoffman were just a little more than mere brain-figments. A 
novelette you will remember.



CHAPTER I
THE RAIN CAME down in a deluge over the windswept Yorkshire moors. One lone 
figure fought his way, staggering, along the rough path, cursing as the rain and 
wind smote him, preventing him from going as quickly as he wished, and drenching 
him to the skin. At last there loomed before him, out of the mist, a large 
gateway, strangely out of place in this deserted spot. The gates were open; he 
passed through them, clutching tightly to him with one hand his raincoat, and 
with the other gripping the heavy case he carried.
Stunted bushes lined the neglected drive he followed and the wind moaned 
ceaselessly.
"What an infernal place to have a home!" The traveler grunted.
Through the driving mist there showed before him a large house. It bore a 
dilapidated appearance and promised no comfort to the dispirited traveler. He 
staggered to the door and used the iron knocker with such force that it echoed 
and reechoed throughout the building. Impatiently he knocked again as no answer 
was forthcoming. Then there was the sound of footsteps, bolts were withdrawn, 
and the door was flung open.
"Hoffman!" exclaimed the man inside. "I am glad you've come."
Hoffman pushed his way into the house and dropped his case while the other shut 
the door. Then they turned to look at each other.
"You haven't changed much," remarked the host as they shook hands.
Hoffman smiled. "Nor have you, Tate," he returned. "Five years ago, and you do 
not look a day different."
"We'll discuss things later," Tate said, briskly. "First of all you want a 
change. I'll take you to your room."
"Yes. Why on earth do you live in a place like this? I couldn't even get a taxi 
from the station."
"Good reasons," the other grinned. "We'll talk after you have changed and had 
something to eat."
IT WAS half an hour later when Hoffman faced his host at the front of a roaring 
fire.
"Now let's get down to it," he said. "If you knew how curious I was, you would 
not keep me in suspense."
Tate lighted his pipe before speaking "You are impatient," he grunted. "All 
right. You will remember that eight years ago, when I used to talk about other 
dimensions, you often said that if you tired of this life I ought to propel you 
into another life. That was because I thought I could make a machine to do so."
"Correct," murmured the other man.
"Yes. Well, it is five years ago that you married. I did not like your wife and 
she didn't like me. Your marriage to her meant the breaking of our friendship. 
But still you wrote to me, perhaps in defiance of her wishes. Yet you never came 
to visit me. So things went until I received news from you that you were getting 
a divorce. I had expected that. I had also expected the bitterness which 
characterized your letter. It was obvious that you were at a loose end. And so I 
asked you to visit me, knowing the mood you would be in. I want to make an 
experiment, and if you are ready to take a few chances, you can take part in 
it."
"What is this experiment?"
"Patience, Hoffman. You recall that in your schooldays--days when we really did 
enjoy ourselves--you often bemoaned the fact that time seemed to fly," observed 
Tate.
"I did," confessed Hoffman. "You cannot deny that it seems to fly, especially 
our happier days. There seems to be no method of preventing time's flight."
"I wonder!"
"What do you mean? Do you think we can find a method of stopping it?"
"My dear friend, only Change is existent. Time never was a reality."
"Tell me what you are getting at."
"I will," replied Tate. "You have dreamed, and you know the fact that has been a 
never-ending source of wonder to you: that you can dream hours in a few seconds. 
Is that not so?"
"That's true. Concentrated life," Hoffman ventured.
"Exactly." Tate was pleased. "I am glad you used that term. Within the space of 
a few seconds you live several hours. If your life was a very happy one, you 
would want it to last an unlimited length of time, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, but--"
"Let me put it in another way. Some of your dreams are more pleasant than life. 
Is that correct?"
Hoffman smiled wryly. "Quite a lot of them. No financial worries, no matrimonial 
troubles. . . . No hatred. . . . 
"HOW WOULD YOU like to live continuously for four hours in dreams? Would you 
care to risk some of them being abnormal?"
"I would risk it for four hours, even if the experience was ghastly. Nothing 
terrible could really happen to me, could it? My physical body could undergo no 
hardship, not being in the dream with me?"
"That is true. It is a matter of bringing the thing we call time into touch with 
dreams. I can put you into the dream-state for hours at a time. In that 
dream-state there will be no such thing as time, because time is man-created and 
is not even an actual thing. Do you understand me?"
"Not exactly."
Tate shook his head. "My dear young friend, you seem in a dense mood, if I may 
say so. I remember that in the old days you would have gathered what I meant 
immediately."
"A lot has happened since then," returned Hoffman. He thought a minute. "Do you 
mean to say that in the dream-state I can live in any period?" he said at last.
"Yes."
"But how shall I pass from this period into another period? How is the 
transition effected?"
"That is easily done. While you are dreaming, I shall create the artificial 
atmosphere of the period I wish you to be in."
"It sounds crazy to me."
"Hoffman! You are such a doubter!"
"I like to see proof of things before I believe."
"Er--do you believe in God?"
"Yes, but there is plenty of proof."
Tate held up his hand. "Not so fast, my friend. These things about you which you 
attribute to the work of a God may have come by chance."
"What of--"
"Stop! I have no wish to enter into a metaphysical argument with you. I am quite 
prepared to offer you proof of this concentrated existence."
"Proof? What proof can you offer me?"
Tate glanced at his watch. "It is a quarter to eight. I will give you four hours 
from eight till midnight. All is prepared. If you are ready for your long period 
of life, I am ready to give it you."
"Right."
Tate rose to his feet and, Hoffman following, went along a passage to one 
solitary door at the end. This he unlocked and they passed in.
Hoffman whistled. "Fine place you have here," he said, taking in the well-filled 
laboratory.
"Not bad," Tate remarked, absently. "However, it is not as complete as I would 
have it. That case in the center of the room is your dreaming-chamber."
Hoffman crossed to the large glass case and stared at it. There flashed across 
his brain the thought that it looked like a coffin. He stared up to see Tate 
eyeing him, inscrutably.
"How do you create the effects?" Hoffman asked.
"As yet that is my secret. I shall elucidate to you at a later period. When you 
are ready, we will begin."
Hoffman crawled into the case, lying down on the soft cloth which covered the 
floor of it. Tate carefully closed the glass pane. The other man lay still, 
filled with a sudden fear of this confinement. He stared at the top of the case, 
in which was a row of holes and from which rose a welter of tubes. He laughed 
shortly, thinking what a quaint experiment it was. What was he reminded of? An 
insect prepared for dissection, perhaps.... He shivered at that thought, and 
glanced out for Tate. The inventor was busy moving before a large panel on the 
wall. He did not look back at Hoffman. Apparently something was troubling him, 
for there was a frown on his face. Suddenly his brow cleared, and he crossed to 
another panel in the wall. A row of bulbs flickered into light, and Hoffman 
heard a purring noise. Somehow that noise seemed like a lullaby to Hoffman, for 
he felt himself drifting, drifting, drifting. . . .

CHAPTER II of The Riddle of Tanye



WITH A START Hoffman became conscious. He felt as if a sudden shock had just 
prevented him from slipping into an abyss of sleep. He blinked in the intense 
darkness and wondered idly why the lights in the laboratory had been put out. 
The windows were all shuttered, he had noticed before, so that would account for 
no light stealing in from outside. But why had Tate put the laboratory lights 
out? It was pitch-dark and he could neither see Tate nor anything else.
But after a while a kind of glow seemed to emanate from somewhere, as if either 
it was slowly coming into being or his eyes were just getting used to the 
darkness and it was not as deep as he had thought. And then it seemed to him 
that it was rather an extraordinary sort of light. For instance, it made things 
look different from what they had looked when he climbed into the case. The case 
itself had shrunk, so that, lying down inside it, it looked like a coffin. He 
could see that the sides turned in above the shoulder level, a thing he had not 
noticed before. Until then he had felt no fear. Perhaps that was because he 
could see through the coffin. He had been so intent on studying the strange 
change that had taken place in the thing he was imprisoned in, he had not 
thought to look just outside.
At last, however, he bethought himself to do so. There was a rhythmical play of 
something all about him; this seemed to him to be ghastly. He had not 
anticipated such a horrible sensation as he felt. For the whole thing in which 
the coffin rested was moving. It looked like nothing else than if the whole 
earth round it was falling away from him. It was horrible, so he looked above 
him and found a more cheerful sight. Directly overhead he could see the moon. 
And yet, as he stared up at it, it struck him that there was something queer 
about the moon. Still, he was glad that he was able to see it; he knew then that 
he was not buried alive.
He began to hear noises. It sounded as if someone was talking, or rather 
mouthing dull sounds which had no real meaning. Then he saw them.
They were strange creatures without shape or form. Or rather they had form, but 
it was a flowing form that constantly changed. They were all round the coffin, 
battering on it with little weak hands. In a little while Hoffman began to feel 
sorry for them, for they seemed so anxious to get into the coffin. He thought if 
he got out it would help them, so he did so, with such ease that he was 
surprised. Then he stared back at the coffin, which had gone opaque. The queer 
creatures had disappeared. He did think he saw one of them just disappearing 
into the coffin, but felt too lazy to try to puzzle out why they wanted to go 
there.
The first thing Hoffman noticed when he climbed out of the pit where the coffin 
lay was his own physical comfort. But as he reached the ground and stared back 
he was filled with sudden fear. For the ground had sealed up and he could not 
see the coffin. Then he laughed out loud. What did he want to see it for? He had 
no need of it. The world was his. So he stood on a little knoll and stared out 
across the spaces before him.
Away to the left of him was a great stretch of water, lined with banks of 
sombre-colored vegetation. To the right was an unbroken expanse of flat plain, 
bare and desolate. Directly before him, apparently about two miles away, was a 
hill. At the top of it was what appeared to him to be a large stone temple. It 
was square and somehow conveyed an impression of brutality.
AND THEN there came to Hoffman a great loneliness. He was aware of a strong 
yearning for companionship and, with this in mind, he set off towards the 
temple, thinking that there he should find some life. The idea that there would 
be a priest there if no one else ran through his mind. He reflected that if the 
place was deserted he would at least be able to look about him, perhaps see 
something indicating civilization.
It seemed to take him an extraordinary length of time to reach the temple, but 
at last he reached the bottom of the flight of broad steps which led up to what 
was obviously the entrance. From the top of the steps, square stone pillars rose 
to a great height, giving an impression of awesome grandeur and solemn 
magnificence that startled him. The pillars sloped inwards as they rose, and 
were crowned by a flat platform.
Slowly Hoffman climbed the steps, thinking what a good view of the surrounding 
country he would be able to get from that vantage point. The entrance was open, 
he found, when he reached it. He went inside and paused, bewildered.
For from a room directly before him was coming singing, but such singing as he 
had never imagined in his life. Its beauty made him think irresistibly of a 
country glade, peaceful except for the sound of water bubbling over a fall. 
Every so often there was a cadenced syllable which the voices fell over.
Hoffman entered the room from which the singing came. He stood on the threshold, 
swaying slightly, staring at the faces which were in turn staring to the other 
end of the room. They did not appear to see him, and he studied their faces with 
feelings of disgust and revulsion. They were flat and almost featureless; the 
noses were small protuberances on the white masses which were their faces. And 
presently Hoffman's eyes were drawn to what they were looking at. He gasped with 
astonishment, for the accompaniment to the singing was not of sound, as one 
would expect. It was visual! At the far end of the room was a vague swaying as 
of vapor. The movements of this vapor coincided exactly with the cadences of the 
singing in such a fitting and beautiful manner that Hoffman knew it was no 
coincidence. He watched for a long time; then there came an interruption. A dull 
booming sound which filled the air with reverberations; it seemed to be a signal 
of some kind, for all the people made ready to go. Hoffman, not wishing to face 
them all at once, went out, and began climbing a flight of steps. After what 
seemed hours he reached the platform which was at the top of the building. He 
stood there, staring at the moon, vaguely aware of some annoying detail. It was 
one of those little things which plague one when everything seems all right. At 
last it came to him what it was. The moon had been behind him when he had 
entered the temple. He was now staring opposite to the entrance and it was 
before him. It was larger, too. He stared at it, then swung around, and the 
mystery was solved. There were two moons!
Reflecting that this was probably due to some refraction of light, he turned to 
a survey of the horizon, and gasped. For across the plain before him was rushing 
a great wall of water. At terrific speed it swept onwards. Soon it was washing 
at the foot of the hill. Higher and higher climbed the angry waves, surging 
round the very foot of the temple itself. And above, inscrutable, the two moons 
passed each other. Sick and dizzy, Hoffman clung to the platform, staring down 
on the sea. He heard the thunder of feet on the stairs, knew that the people 
were coming. Suddenly he felt afraid of them, and looked for a way of escape. 
Above him was circling a large bird, of such a size that he thought it would be 
well able to bear his weight. He leapt from the platform as it circled nearer. . 
. To miss . . . He was falling . . . below him the hungry waves waited. Then 
blackness...
WHEN HOFFMAN recovered consciousness he was lying on a grass bank, clutching the 
thick and abundant grass with both hands. lt was a beautiful green bank that 
bordered a slow-moving stream. Wisps of steam curled leisurely from the surface 
of the stream; the ground, Hoffman noticed, was very hot. The earth trembled 
continually. All these things were subservient to what he really looked at.
At his side was standing the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. 
He thought to himself as he lay looking at her that if he had ever had an ideal 
at all in his mind, she filled it. Her dark eyes looked back at him as she said, 
in a voice that was soft and fitting to her appearance: "You have come, my lord. 
I have waited for you so long. You must never leave me again."
For a long time Hoffman was content to lie there, looking at her. But presently 
he began to take notice of other things. One was the sky, which was a heavy grey 
in colour, without trace of sun. This greyness shrouded the hill-tops and was 
only just above them. From out of it a forest ran down to the bank of the 
stream; a thick forest unlike any he had seen before. The trees in it were thick 
and contorted, as if living things that had once been animate and had frozen 
into immobility while they writhed. Hoffman turned his attention to the girl 
again.
"Where am I?"
"In the forest of Ardu."
"The forest--never heard of it."
"Have you not?"
"No."
"That is strange," she replied, non-committally.
"What country is this?"
"Avina."
Hoffman shook his head. "I thought I knew every country there was, but I have 
never heard of that."
She smiled in a carefree manner. "Never mind."
"Where are the people?" the man asked.
She looked puzzled. "Which people? No people live here."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"I came alone, to find you."
"Then how did you know I was coming?"
This time she laughed in such a strange and mysterious manner that for a moment 
Hoffman thought her mad.
"My lord," she said, "I knew you were coming. Was it not written that you should 
come? Did not the authorities of Tanye inform me that my mate was to he found 
here in so many days? Have I not come and found you? Have I not passed through 
the jungle unharmed, as was prophesied? The immutable laws said that I would 
come safely here and find you, and the immutable laws cannot be wrong. I am here 
and you are here. It is enough."
"It seems to be," Hoffman remarked. He was taken aback by the information. "And 
do we go back to Tanye?"
She shook her dark-haired head. "The laws of Tanye are that the newly-mated must 
remain away from Tanye for a period of one year. For that time they must live 
where they first met. Then they may go to the city."
"Oh! It seems as if someone has been planning my fate for me."
Hoffman ventured what he thought was a cruel thrust. "How will it be if I do not 
agree to this and tell you that I do not wish to mate with you?"
The girl laughed outright. "You cannot go against your own self, nor against 
your own destiny. The laws of Tanye are never wrong. They knew that you would 
love me and that I would love you, so the meeting was made. The only thing we 
have to do is to get accustomed to each other in the period of time allowed us. 
That is so we go back to Tanye balanced. It is all arranged."
"And do the immutable laws of Tanye say that I shall stay?"
She turned mystical eyes on him.
"That is unknown to me. Only the Ruling Ones know whether our mating will last 
or end. May it endure as Tanye endures."
"So be it," answered Hoffman. "What is your name?"
"Lulla," was the answer.
DAYS CAME and went. To Hoffman it was the happiest time he had ever known. There 
were strange beasts and creatures in the jungle, but these did not furnish 
Hoffman and the girl with food, for they lived entirely off vegetables and 
fruit. But if they were vegetarians; the animals were not; often the two would 
have to flee from the wrath of some malignant brute whose path they had chanced 
to cross.
Until there came a day when the smile was missing from the face of Lulla.
"What is the matter?" Hoffman asked, taking her in his arms.
"We must part, I do not know for how long. Tomorrow we should have gone to 
Tanye. But I shall wait for your return."
"Who says we must part?" asked the man.
The girl smiled sadly. "The laws of Tanye," she murmured, softly. "A messenger 
has been."
The afternoon of that day was hot; Hoffman thought it the hottest day in this 
so-hot land. He fell asleep on the grass bank where he and Lulla had first met . 
. .
There came to him the touch of her lips on his mouth, filling his sleep with 
sweetness, and he awoke to find her gone. The sun had sunk below the horizon, 
for the sky was dark, hanging like a pall. Hoffman felt that it was choking him.
"Lulla! Lulla!" he cried, raising himself. The echo seemed to come back 
mockingly from the jungle.
He staggered across the clearing; as he did so, it seemed the ground itself 
opened. It shook and from it rose great flames. And then his whole self was 
blotted out in the death that came upon him; the torturing agony of death by 
fire. Abruptly it was over, and he was thrown into the blackness of nothing . . 
. .

CHAPTER III of The Riddle of Tanye



HOFFMAN'S EYES, almost against his will, forced themselves open. He lay on a 
couch in a small room; the walls rose around him, translucent and glowing. He 
rose, and crossed to the window of the room. He saw that he was in a very high 
building and that all around him rose other high buildings. Overhead, aeroplanes 
made transit. Hoffman turned, and passed through the door. In the passage 
outside, people were crowding into an elevator. He joined them, and was borne 
downward at a terrific rate. Then he found himself standing alone, while all the 
other people rushed headlong in one direction. More leisurely he followed, but 
once outside the building he found himself being borne along in a great throng 
of people. At last he succeeded in forcing his way out of the crush, to stare at 
a great dancing sign on a wall. In great red letters the flickering sign 
shouted: "Telenews. Danger! Danger! Buy the Telenews! Enemy's new electric 
death-ray! Buy the Telenews!"
Instantly the letters shouted danger, repeated the news over and over again like 
a mad refrain. At the other side of the road, a man had climbed on to a low roof 
and was standing staring down on the throng. His hands were crossed on breast 
but his eyes flashed fire. "Mad city!" he screamed suddenly at the top of his 
voice. "Repent! Repent! The Kingdom is at hand!"
What kingdom he meant Hoffman never knew, for at that moment some men in uniform 
ran on to the roof, and the man, still gesticulating wildly, disappeared from 
view. So Hoffman turned, followed the throng into a large building close by. The 
room they entered was a bedlam of noise, for a thousand bells seemed to be 
ringing. On a dais in the center stood a man, loudly reciting what to Hoffman 
was a meaningless string of figures. He was dressed in a loose robe and the 
sweat dripped continuously from his face. He never paused to wipe it off, but 
recited, rapidly: "War Loans 496 . . 496 . . Death Ray Trust 795 . . 795 . . 
Electric Ray Co. 697 . . 697 . . Amalgamated Chemicals 777 . . 777 . ."
And on the wall behind him, making his crying seem useless, a large screen was 
portraying every figure he cried, flashing them across, one after the other. The 
people were as if intoxicated, drinking in the figures which apparently meant 
either ruin or triumph for them; head aching with the noise, Hoffman staggered 
out into the street. Tranquil a moment, he breathed deeply. The sign was still 
active: "Battle of death-rays! Buy the Telenews! Our rays checking the enemy's!"
Abruptly it flickered out, and the one word rose in enormous letters of red: 
"Danger!" As that happened, there came the sound of a hundred sirens, shrilly 
rending the air to atoms, breaking the peace that had held it. The voice of the 
sirens screamed "Danger!"
Pell-mell, people began pouring out of the building from which Hoffman had just 
emerged. Their faces were drawn and haggard, as if at one moment everything was 
lost. Panic seized them; they rushed headlong, as if aware of some destination 
that promised safety. And then there came, seemingly from far away, a long-drawn 
out screaming. Louder it roared, then was within the city. With its coming, came 
a wave of intense heat. In the distance the buildings seemed to sway, melt, and 
fall. Onward the destruction raced, lapping everything in its path. . . Again 
nothingness claimed Hoffman . . .
GRADUALLY the blackness turned to grey, then that too dissolved. Hoffman found 
himself lying on a stone slab. In direct contrast to the roar of noise that had 
last held his ears, everything was still and silent. He slid from the slab to 
the ground and stared about him. Around rose great stone arches, or rather great 
upright stones that had other stones laid across the top of them. The scene was 
crude, yet imposing; a certain rugged grandeur was suggested. A cold wind was 
driving between them, bringing with it sleet and rain. Hoffman felt miserable, 
wished himself far from the ill-chosen place. He was about to set out across the 
moor which stretched in every direction when he observed a group of men 
approaching. Quickly he concealed himself behind one of the great stones and 
watched as a row of men in long white robes marched slowly to the center where 
the great slab stood on which he had first found himself. They bore with them a 
bound captive whom they placed on the slab. Curious, Hoffman went nearer. A 
knife was brandished by one of the men, one who seemed to be the leader. Hoffman 
stood rooted in horror. And as he stood there, it seemed that the man assumed 
the features of the inventor, Tate--his friend--and the knife became a syringe. 
The robe he wore became a long white coat. The rough stone arches around him 
fell away; the walls of the laboratory came into being and hardened beneath the 
glare of electric lights. In the center of the room stood the glass case, with 
the side open. The slab was no longer there. Hoffman leaned forward and saw that 
his own form lay there.
"Stop!" he cried, as Tate prepared to thrust the syringe in. Incontinently, he 
leaped and fell heavily across himself, his arms outstretched to protect 
himself. "Stop!" he cried again. Then he felt the stab of the thing in Tate's 
hand and knew no more.
HOFFMAN DRANK the whisky-and-soda at one gulp. His friend stared at him over the 
glasses.
"Well, did you enjoy yourself?"
Hoffman nodded. "An interesting experience. And all in four hours!"
"Three and a half, to be precise," returned the other.
"The time was not evened out, was it?"
"How do you mean?"
"As far as I see, there were four periods. They were quite distinct from each 
other, and they did not occupy the same length of time. I suppose you were 
responsible for that?"
"Yes, I must confess that that was my work. They were not even, as you surmise. 
The first period ran from eight o'clock until ten o'clock, the second from ten 
o'clock until 11:05, the third from 11:05 until 11:20, and the last from 11:20 
to 11:30."
"What was your reason for doing that?"
"It depended upon the effects. In the first and second period, I had better 
effects to use."
"Could you tell me what you represented?"
"Yes. But first let me hear your adventures."
Hoffman recounted to him all that had happened. "And the next time," he said, "I 
want to go back to the second life. I want to see what the outcome of that life 
is."
Tate was strangely excited. "I wonder? Is it not strange that such a working of 
mind should be created? Could you almost believe in the existence of those 
worlds you dreamed, even now?"
"They are the clearest dreams I ever had," Hoffman confessed, frankly. "So much 
so that I can hardly believe they are dreams but fragments of some other lives."
"And you would like to return to them?"
"To the second," his friend corrected. "For after all that was the most 
interesting life. It was full of the promise of things to come, too. The first 
one was not, nor was the third and fourth."
"I will now tell you what I did to cause you to have such dreams," Tate said. I 
put you into a trance-like state through the use of Ni-gas."
"Ni-gas?"
"Yes, I have called it 'Ni-gas' for want of a better name. lt is somewhat 
similar to chloroform in that it creates strange fancies . . . I put you in that 
state, and then you were ready. In the first dream I forced upon you the 
conception of life on Mars."
"So that's why there were two moons?"
"Yes," retorted his friend, laughing. "I concentrated on what I knew of Mars, 
which was not really much. The idea of lashing tides of Mars is entirely my own 
idea. I do not know whether it is a false theory or not. If the Martian moons 
have as much effect on the Martian seas as Earth's moon has upon ours, there is 
bound to be a stormy sea, because of the different position of the moons. The 
rest you yourself were responsible for."
". . . . you concentrated on what knew of Mars. Yes, but how did you communicate 
that to me?"
"Your ears are wide open even while you are unconscious. Through them I sent 
what noises I made. On that bench is a microphone. It is connected to 
your--er--coffin. Through that microphone I sent the sound which you interpreted 
as the tides of Mars."
"Yes," Hoffman persisted, "but that does not explain your transmission of 
thought."
"That was not difficult. Telepathy. You know that telepathic communication is 
possible between two people who are awake. When one lies under the influence of 
Ni-gas and the other is aware of that, the thing is easy. . . From the bounds of 
impracticability it becomes a thing of normality; sensible, easy; and lo! the 
thing was done . ."
"BUT THE SECOND dream?" Hoffman interrupted, breathlessly.
"Venus. I have always imagined a cloud-wrapped planet, although I have never 
studied astronomy. Also abundant plant life. Get that?"
Hoffman nodded. "In plenty. Animals, too. No, Tate, it won't do; that world was 
not a dream."
Tate shook his head. "It was only a dream, Hoffman."
Hoffman insisted, "I know there is such a place as entered into the second 
dream."
"If you allow the truth of the second dream, then you must be prepared to allow 
the truth of them all."
"Then I am."
Tate sighed. "Have it your own way. I have just told you that they were created 
artificially. If you cannot believe that, I cannot compel you to do so."
"But, Tate," Hoffman interrupted, trying to explain his point of view, "I am not 
denying that you compelled the effects. I will agree that you did. But still 
those worlds were true."
"How could they be?"
"Don't you see? You propelled me into some other world. That is what you tried 
to do, and that is what you succeeded in doing."
"You mean to say that there are real substantial worlds in these dream worlds we 
know?"
"That is right. It is not substantial, to our ideas; that I will not for a 
moment presume to say, but that it is substantial in its own way I know. I mean, 
you know very well that when you are dreaming that dream is very lifelike. Is 
that not so? Yes. That dream, if it is not lifelike, is very real. You know 
nothing of your real life in it; you live in it just as fully as you do in real 
life. Or such is my experience, at any rate."
"I begin to follow your argument."
"Good. I maintain that there are other worlds--call them shadow worlds if you 
wish--but they are just as real as this is, and they are just as ephemeral as 
this is."
"I understand what you mean."
"I am glad . . .What of the third and fourth dreams?"
"The third dream was an attempt to send you into the future. Hell! What if you 
have really been there?"
"Maybe. I can imagine the end of the world coming via man's own folly."
"The last dream was an attempt to send you into the past. It was short because I 
did not like the way you were breathing. Very heavily."
"I did not want to go back into the past again. It was dreadful. Let me live in 
the present in the world of Tanye."
"I will admit that the second dream had the greatest effect upon me of the 
four," Tate said. "I received from you some thought of the world; towards the 
latter end I was almost with you. But for the alarm going I might have been."
"The alarm?"
"Yes. Because I had no alarm the first dream overran its proper boundary. So I 
fixed an alarm for the second dream."
Hoffman yawned.
"Yes," said Tate, rising, "I think we will get some rest. We could both do with 
some."
"I may even dream of the world without your help," laughed Hoffman.
"I don't think you will. At least, not without the help of Ni-gas."

CHAPTER IV of The Riddle of Tanye



IT SEEMED to Hoffman the next day that Tate was a different man. He spoke very 
little, as if he had no wish to talk to his friend.
"Take a walk this afternoon," he remarked in response to something Hoffman had 
said. "It is beautiful over the moors." And he added pointedly: "I wish to be 
alone for a while."
Hoffman, thinking it best to humor him, did as he ordered. But he found nothing 
beautiful about the moors. They may have been so in the summer, he thought; 
certainly they were not in the winter.
It was twilight when he made his way back to the home of Tate, aware of a 
strange quickening of his pulse. Grey and somehow threatening, the house lay 
athwart a small rise, a bulk that in the dusk of day seemed full of evil. At 
least it seemed so to Hoffman, and he shook his head as if to dispel the 
illusion.
He knocked and the door opened immediately. Tate stood on the threshold, staring 
at him. "Come in," he said, curtly.
Hoffman did as he ordered. "What's the matter?" he asked. "You do not seem as if 
you wanted me to come back."
"Perhaps I didn't," was the startling answer. "You see, Hoffman, I am afraid."
"Afraid? Of what?"
"I am afraid because I do not like how this thing is going. It is going too far 
for me. Why must you return to this dream-world of Venus? The thought of going 
again to Venus is the predominant thought in your mind, and has been all day."
"I must know this Tanye," the other said, quietly.
"Tanye? Tanye? A dream city, you fool!"
"Tate!"
Tate shook his head slowly. "I am sorry. My nerves are in shreds. I have had a 
bad night . . . Tanye . . . It is a dream; there never was and never will be 
such a place."
"There is a city of Tanye. I know there is. I must go and see it. I shall give 
you facts about it; tell you what it is like and how life is governed, and tell 
you how the rulers of Tanye can see into the future."
"See into the future! A gipsy's dream, my dear Hoffman. Your senses are warped; 
you are not normal. Leave it for tonight. Remember I have a strain to bear in 
this work . . ."
"I understand that. But cannot you see that it is absolutely necessary for me to 
go back to Tanye? I must, I must!"
The last word was almost shrieked out. Tate stared up, bitterly, at his friend.
"Really, there is no need to shout at me. This thing seems to be driving us 
apart. If you are going to carry on in this way I shall refuse to take part in 
another experiment."
"You--you would not do that?"
"Don't tempt me to back out. I have signed no contract to go ahead with it, 
anyway."
Hoffman clasped his hands to his face. "What is this life coming to? Today what 
has it been? It has been like a nightmare to me. How I have hated it, longing as 
I was for that Avina landscape. I am afraid, Tate; afraid! I am afraid of these 
worlds that cross each other as they do; I am afraid of this shadow world we 
live in; for pity's sake let me go to that world where Lulla waits!"
"Lulla," said the other man, sourly. "I think that is the only reason why you 
wish to go back there. It is your dream-ideal--creation that appeals to you; 
that is all. Lulla! You madman, you are in love with a dream and nothing more. 
You talk like a fool."
Hoffman stared at his friend, his hands clenched. "How you have changed! Is this 
a dream? Only yesterday and you were as full of eagerness for the experiment as 
I am, and now . . . ."
Tate glared back at him with burning eyes. "Why don't you understand, you fool? 
You poor deluded idiot! Can you not see that you are the only one getting any 
happiness out of the thing? Can you not see that what means happiness to you 
means hell to me? Can you not see that I, too, want to see this world fully for 
myself?"
"You!" Hoffman hissed the word. He drew nearer to Tate. "You want to go? You? I 
know you! You want to go to Avina, to Tanye and to Lulla, and to rob me of my 
rightful adventures. That is why you are talking like this; you are madly 
jealous of the happiness that I am going to find."
"Hoffman! Don't look at me like that! Are you mad to talk such balderdash? I 
only want to see those worlds from a scientific point of view; I want to see 
them and see if there is any basis of reality in them. I only want to test them 
and see if any part can be true--"
"I know, I know," Hoffman interrupted wearily. "I know what you want. I took the 
first risk, didn't I? It is only right that I should go again."
"How do you mean you took the first risk?"
"Surely you understand that I had to risk going mad when I embarked on this 
strange quest?"
"Mad? If you ask me, I think you have gone mad. There never was any danger of a 
normal person going mad, or I would not have had the experiment."
"I think you are the mad one," returned the other man, steadily. "What could I 
have met in those lives that would have driven me mad? Many things! If I had not 
been abnormally steady in mind I should have gone mad when I was in the future 
world."
"Then let me go this time, and you concentrate."
"To which world would you go?"
"Any--any, I am not particular."
Hoffman laughed harshly. "You wait. I must go back to Avina first. Perhaps some 
other time you will get your turn. Hold fast to your promise and your science, 
Tate. You're older than I, and too scientific for time-travel or interplanetary 
travel, either. I go, and you may go some other time."
"You make me feel like giving you an overdose of Ni-gas!"
"I cannot help that. You have tried my patience to its farthest extent. Come, 
let us get to work."
"You go for only thirty minutes this time."
"That will be long enough. Heaven knows what you are talking about when you say 
it is hard work. The whole thing will be over in thirty minutes."
"That's not it; it is the strain that counts. I will give that half-hour on 
condition that when you return you serve me for half an hour."
"I am agreeable to that. The only fault is that my mind will be full of Venus, 
and you are not going there."
"Why not?"
"Why not?" Hoffman repeated. "Because you are not. I've staked my claim in that 
world and no one else can go. Get ready. Let us have no more arguments."
"As you wish," the other retorted, in a low voice.
TOGETHER they entered the laboratory. Tate switched on some lights and Hoffman, 
without a glance around, went to the glass case and got in, pulling the hinged 
side shut after him. Tate stood staring at him until a muffled curse from the 
case reached him. Then he put his hand out, and turned on the Ni-gas. Carefully 
he watched the regulator which measured every thousandth-part of it. He checked 
it when it reached the point he knew was the safety limit; his scowl had not 
left him. He glanced at the clock and set an alarm for thirty minutes. Then a 
thought struck him. Surely if Hoffman's mind was so full of the thought of Venus 
he could carry himself there? And if so, could he not take himself also if he 
were under the influence of Ni-gas?
Tate crossed to a small cupboard and took from it a thing like a gas-mask. It 
had a long tube attached to it. This he connected to a socket on the Ni-gas 
container. For a moment he held the gas full on, then forced it back as he felt 
his brain slipping.
And suddenly, to Tate, the walls of the laboratory had dematerialized and were 
gone. Around him rose great trees. Warily he stepped behind one as he saw 
Hoffman enter a clearing in front of him. Through narrowed lids he watched the 
man as he crossed the clearing and came out on the grass bank by the steaming 
river. Hoffman stood there a moment, his eyes on the water. Then suddenly his 
cry rang out: "Lulla! Lulla!"
There was no answer. Time after time Hoffman called, and then with a despairing 
cry flung himself on to the grass bank. Presently he set off through the forest, 
Tate at his heels, watching him closely, and never letting him get far in front. 
For many days they journeyed thus, Hoffman never seeming to suspect that he was 
followed. Until a day came when they stood on the edge of the forest, staring 
down into a hollow where lay a shining silvery city.

CHAPTER V of The Riddle of Tanye



INSTINCTIVELY, Tate knew this was the city of Tanye. He watched as Hoffman began 
descending the slope, then followed, circumspectly. They entered the glowing 
mass, with its strange square buildings; buildings which did not seem real, or 
if they were, were made of some material akin to glass. And Hoffman went on into 
the centre of this mass that was Tanye. He went as if there was a purpose in his 
mind. He went as if his will was no longer his own. He went as if he was drawn 
by some alien power. And the city was silent, as if it were dead and knew not 
mankind. It seemed to Tate like a thing with a soul of its own, aloof and 
distant from them. Relentlessly he followed on the heels of Hoffman.
At last they came to a towering edifice which seemed to be the heart of the 
strange city. It was of the same glass-like material as all the other buildings, 
but overshadowed them with its height, rising as it did into the mists that 
filled the sky. This building Hoffman entered, Tate so close behind him that had 
he turned he would have seen him. But Hoffman never looked behind. Unchallenged, 
they came to a great room. In the centre of it was a platform, and on this 
platform lay a woman . . . A woman who seemed of substance and yet at the same 
time of no substance, so that Tate paused and watched, silent and astonished. 
Not so Hoffman. His wild cry rang out: "Lulla! Lulla!"
The woman looked at him. "You have come," she said softly, and rose.
"I have come," he retorted, and stopped short, looking at her.
"Why do you not come to me?" she murmured.
Hoffman backed a step. "No . . . No . . . You are not Lulla."
A strange look contorted the face of the being. "I am Lulla," she said, in a 
husky voice that tore across the heart of the watcher by the door.
"Come," she ordered.
Slowly, step by step, Hoffman went to her, drawn seemingly against his will. Up 
the steps he went to the platform as if an invisible wire was drawing him, 
marionette-like. Tate gulped and stared, the scene stamping itself on the retina 
of his brain.
Suddenly, in this tense moment of silence, Hoffman reached the platform.
"Come," she repeated, in that deadly whisper that stirred Tate with its 
malevolence.
And abruptly her hand was out and she had drawn Hoffman on to the platform. As 
she laid her hands on him the beads of sweat started out from Hoffman's face. 
And as he stood there, on the platform, the whole devil's maze of things in this 
city seemed to commence working. From every side great shafts of light came, all 
the colors of the spectrum meeting in a blinding glare of white on the platform 
and lighting up the two figures. They were swaying as if in a rhythmic dance of 
death. And out of the heart of that light there came to Tate words, the words of 
the woman, sibilant and passionate.
"This is our marriage . . . This is the marriage of Tanye . . . This is the 
culmination in the Purifying Light. . . . This . . Man of other world, this is 
my way of escape. Long have I waited your coming, for it was written that I 
would not escape from this world until I was released by the coming of one from 
another. That release lies here. I change to your world and you remain, the 
vague and chained spirit of Tanye. You will remain here for all time, alone, or 
until your freedom comes and you escape as I have escaped. I go to your world to 
work my will amongst the inhabitants. Alone no longer! You have lost your world; 
and in the losing of it you have lost your soul; that vague combination of 
elements whose secrets Tanye solved and which shall remain for ever the riddle 
of Tanye. And the glory of Tanye is no more; there remains only the lost city, 
unpeopled now. . . . Except by you. . ."
TATE SCREAMED out in the horror that gripped him, stifling and choking him. He 
rushed forward to that platform. "Stop! Stop!" His voice echoed through the 
hall. . . It was followed by the scream of the Being of Tanye.
There came a wild clamoring that seemed to shake the very building. The light 
burst apart, and Tate found himself abruptly back in the laboratory, bathed in 
the cold glow of the white electric light. The alarm was ringing; he tore the 
mask from his face. He stared at the case in the centre of the room, and 
shuddered in terror. That body in the case was moving, contorting itself; 
flinging itself against the glass as if it did not know the way out! He rushed 
madly forward and stared at it, then saw the eyes. His wild scream rang out as 
he stared in them and recognized the eyes of the Being of Tanye! It was come to 
work havoc on earth! He plunged across the room and tore down the Ni-gas 
regulator. He saw the finger of it leap round as he put it at full speed and 
heard the subdued hiss of it entering the glass case. The figure seemed to be 
motionless again. Leaving the regulator open, Tate went forward to look. It was 
still alive, for the eyes were open. With the wild cry of a wounded animal, the 
man ran into another room, to return with a can, the contents of which he 
scattered on the floor. The liquid seeped deeply into the floor. The Thing in 
the case was moving again, was fumbling at the side. Tate thanked heaven for the 
heavy glass plate that kept it from bounding out to throw itself at his throat, 
and rushed to the door. There he paused to strike a match and toss it on the 
floor. There was a roar and the flames shot to the ceiling . . . He rushed 
outside and stood rocking on his heels as he watched the flames shoot out of the 
windows. Watched, too, as the chemicals exploded, hurling masses of brickwork 
into the air. Then presently the flames died down, and he approached nearer. 
Suddenly he gave a wild cry, backed away. Shriek followed shriek and he 
staggered away, and ran. Half-running, half-leaping, he threw himself onwards. 
Foam flecked his lips and he cast himself down, his limbs refusing to carry him 
any further.
There he was found later, gibbering to himself. And the verdict at the trial of 
Reginald Tate for the murder of Arthur Hoffman was "guilty but insane."