“Mr. Hall?” said the professor, with a smile. “I am Alfred Stein of Northwestern. I have done some work with radioactive elements, and that interest brings me here.”
“I am familiar with your work, Professor Stein,” said
Edmond, “having attended several of your courses in 1920.”
“Ach, I should perhaps have remembered.”
“Not at all; they were simply lecture courses. I have followed your work since, however.”
The other beamed.
“That pleases me, Mr. Hall. It is something I seldom hear. And you agree with me?”
“I do not question your figures,” said Edmond, “but your inferences are erroneous.”
The professor winced.
“Well, let us not argue that. When someone offers a better hypothesis, I will listen. Meanwhile I am satisfied with mine.”
Edmond nodded, and was silent. The little man blinked at him through his thick lenses, and continued.
“I am very much interested in this stuff you call Activated Lead, that the Stoddard company is using for filaments in radio tubes. We bought some of them, and took out the lead, but frankly, none of us has been able to make much out of it. I went to Stoddard’s plant and they gave me some, and also I got a fantastic explanation from a fellow named Hoffman, from whom I had your name. So,—” he spread his hands, “I came to you. For a considerable time I have been trying to see you.”
“For what purpose?”
“Why, to learn from you the true explanation of this amazing phenomenon.”
“I do not doubt that Mr. Hoffman’s explanation was accurate to the extent of his knowledge.”
“A fairy tale about cosmic rays and neutronium that one does not believe.”
“I can offer you no other solution, Professor Stein.”
“You say it’s true?”
“Yes.”
“Bah! That is an impossibility!”
Edmond smiled in his exasperatingly superior manner, but it failed to irritate the other whose blinking near-sighted eyes did not perceive his face except as a blur.
“Listen, my friend! You have a duty to consider. You owe something to the advancement of knowledge, and it is unfair of you to try to conceal any important discovery. The tube is patented; you can lose nothing by explaining.”
“You are thinking,” Edmond said slowly, “that the material can be used to replace radium in medical work—the treatment of cancer and the like.”
“Yes, I had thought of it.”
“You would like to patent that application for your personal gain.”
The little professor blinked at him in surprise.
“Why—I give you my word I had no such thought!”
Edmond was slightly puzzled. It was apparent to him that the other was speaking the truth.
“I meet for the first time a true scientist,” he reflected. “Altruism becomes more than a gesture.” He turned to Stein.
“Professor, you are as you say entitled to an explanation. If you will step upstairs with me, I shall endeavor to supply it.”
They entered the dark little laboratory with the blackened windows. Stein peered eagerly about as the light flashed on. The fragments of Edmond’s disrupter were still scattered about; the table still showed the blackened pit of the atomic blast. Stein was examining the remnants of the interrupter as Edmond found a small reflector and lifted it to the table.
He repeated in somewhat greater detail the demonstration he had given Bohn and Hoffman. Stein watched him silently, intently; at the conclusion he laughed.
“This much I saw at the Stoddard plant, but they never let me touch their reflectors. I think, if you’ll pardon me, that there is a trick.”
“One can hardly wonder at their solicitous care of the reflectors,” said Edmond. “They are irreplaceable—except by me.”
“I should like to know how you make this so-called neutronium.”
Edmond shook his head. “I cannot reveal that.”
Stein chuckled. “Either way I don’t blame you. If this is a fraud, certainly not—and if it’s true, the danger in the hands of industry is appalling.”
“You have my reason.”
“Which one?” said Stein, and chuckled again. “Well, we have reached an impasse.”
“Not necessarily,” said Edmond. “I offer you this reflector—in return for a service and under conditions.”
“The conditions?”
“Primarily that you make no more A-lead than you must to study the device, as the element is dangerous, and as indestructible as any element.”
“That is easy.”
“Then of course the material must be kept out of the channels of trade. Should you accumulate a surplus, it must be delivered to Stoddard.”
“That too is easy.”
“That is all.”
“But the service?”
“Yes,” said Edmond, “the service. In return for the gift of the reflector, I wish your aid in some social research I am doing. I should like to know more about people and their lives, and you will spend a certain amount of time as my guide and instructor. We shall explore the human ramifications of the city.” Stein laughed. “Ach, at that I would be a failure! I know less than any one about people and their fives.” He paused a moment. “See here, I will do this. What you need is a young sophisticate, some one who knows the town and is in touch with the people you seek. Me, I am a hermit almost, but I know a young man who would serve well.”
“I will pay for his services,” said Edmond.
“You should know him. He was at N.U. about the same time you were. His father is in the English department—Professor Varney.”
“Yes,” said Edmond. “I remember Paul Varney. We were at high school together as well.”
“I will send him to see you. He has been trying to make a living by writing and will welcome a little additional compensation.’
“I shall be grateful,” said Edmond. “This reflector is small and not very heavy. You may either take it or send for it.”
Stein picked up the bowl, tucked it under his arm. “Thank you,” he said. “If this fails Paul won’t be around to see you.”
CHAPTER VIII
GUINEA PIG
SEVERAL days later Edmond returned from a casual walk to the lake shore to find a slender blond young man awaiting him, who forced a smile to his sensitive mouth.
“Good afternoon, Paul.”
Paul’s grin became more strained as he extended his hand. A shudder shook him as Edmond’s supple fingers closed on it.
‘Strange,” reflected Edmond, “that the few women I have encountered have not hated me so intensely.” He formulated his own reply. “Men hate their masters; women love them.”
He led the way into the library.
“Sit down, Paul.”
Paul seated himself, gazing curiously at the titles of the volumes that lined the walls. The skull of Homo above the fireplace startled him for a moment. “Professor Stein asked me to call here.”
“Doubtless he explained what I desire.”
“To some extent. I gathered that you wanted a sort of guide to Chicago’s night life.” Paul smiled nervously. “I supposed you were writing a book.”
“Not exactly,” said Edmond, watching his companion. “But that will develop later. I will undertake to pay whatever expenses we incur, and will give you, say ten dollars per evening.” In his mind’s background he was reflecting, “This one will serve; this is a good specimen. High strung and sensitive, his reactions show on the surface for my observation.”
“That is more than fair,” said Paul a little bitterly. “I cannot afford to reject it.”
“Then it is settled. I shall require you for a month or longer, though perhaps not every evening.” He reached for the inevitable cigarette; Paul shifted as if to rise. “I understand that you still write.”
“I am trying, or rather failing, to make a living at it.”
“What type of writ
ing?”
“Mostly poetry. I try my hand at a short story now and then.”
“Have you any with you?”
Paul shook his head.
“Perhaps a note book? Or a few fragments?”
Reluctantly Paul drew a paper covered note book from his pocket. “I had rather not show these. They are merely jottings for the most part, and nothing finished.”
“I am neither writer nor critic. You need fear neither ridicule nor plagiarism; it is merely that I wish to understand you. It occurs to me that a glance at your work may supplant some hours of getting acquainted.” Paul silently passed the note book to Edmond who spun the pages with his miraculous rapidity. Twice he paused for a longer glance. Paul fidgeted in his chair, watching the facile hands. As always, they fascinated him. Finally he selected a cigarette from the box beside him, lit it, and smoked in silence; after a moment more his companion flipped the last pages, glanced casually at them, and returned the booklet.
“You didn’t read a great deal of it,” remarked Paul, as he dropped it into his pocket.
“I read all of it.”
The other looked his incredulity, but said nothing. “There is one fragment that merits completion,” continued Edmond, “the ballad that begins,
Thotmes, loud tramping over Abyssinia,
Swearing an oath of vengeance on its king Seized then the ebon monarch’s first-born Musa, Blasted his manhood as a shameful thing.
Thotmes of Egypt, mighty builder of images,
Graven at Kamak, Lord of the North and South, Made of the tall black prince a slave, first tearing The tongue that cursed him from the bleeding mouth.’ ”
His cold tones ceased for the moment, then continued.
“It will doubtless surprise you to know that something similar actually occurred, though not exactly as you have noted it in your synopsis.” He turned his intense eyes again on Paul. “Would you like me to tell you the story as it should be written?”
“If you think you can.” Paul’s mouth tightened into the trace of a sneer.
For some minutes thereafter Paul listened with a growing horror and a curious fascination to the meters that flowed in icy tones from his companion.
“Thus it goes,” said Edmond at the conclusion. “It is susceptible to much polish as I gave it, since I do not pretend to be a poet. The thing is yours to use if you wish, though”—he smiled—“I do not imagine that a very large portion of the public would approve of it. However, I am glad to note that your work escapes at least one fault; few creatures to my mind are so valueless as the poet who writes vapid optimisms about this somewhat horrible process of living.”
Paul departed, feeling dazed, and not a little angry. He felt somehow as though he had been subjected to innumerable subtle insults, though exactly how he did not understand.
The following evening at the appointed hour he presented himself at Edmond’s home, finding his strange employer twirling the leaves of a book and smoking.
“Tonight you shall take me to some place of amusement,” he said as Paul waited, “where there is music and dancing.”
“The crowd is going to Spangli’s just now.”
“Spangli’s will do,” said Edmond rising. “I have been there.”
“Why on earth do you need me as guide, if you’ve been there?”
“You shall interpret for me.”
They entered the low roadster; Paul marveled at the liquid ease with which the vehicle slid through traffic. The car seemed elastic and flexible as a living, sentient being.
At Spangli’s they seated themselves at an obscure comer table, whence the panorama of the room was observable as from a vantage point. The orchestra was resting for the moment; a clatter of conversation and laughter assailed their ears. Paul was silent, a little puzzled as to just what was expected of him; Edmond smoked and watched the tables around him. A waiter came up; they ordered.
With a moan of chords, the orchestra swung into action. Several couples rose and moved to the dance floor, followed by most of the remainder. Everyone, it seemed, was young; skirts which last year had swept the floor were this year almost non-existent, and the girls moved with the slim charm of youth. They swung into their partner’s arms with an eager buoyancy, merged into a rippling stream of dancers that drifted past. Paul watched them sympathetically; Edmond with a more critical observation.
“Do you like to dance, Paul?”
“Why—of course.”
“What is the nature of your enjoyment?”
“Well,” said Paul reflectively, “it is a pleasure allied to music and poetry, melody and meter. One naturally enjoys the narmonious mingling of sound, motion and rhythm. There is a pleasure in using one’s muscles gracefully.” He paused.
“Explain it to me as if I were utterly strange to any of these feelings you describe, like a being from another planet.”
“You are,” thought Paul, “or else crazy.” But he continued: “Dancing is as truly a creative art as any other, since it produces the sense of beauty, if only for the participants. In the circle of the arts, it verges into dramatic art or acting on the one side, and into sculpture and painting on the other. It is an evanescent art, dying as soon as created, but so too is the playing of music. And of all arts it is the most widely practised; vast numbers of people have no other means of self-expression.”
Edmond, who had followed this with apparent intentness, crushed out his cigarette and smiled. Paul wondered momentarily whether his every smile was a sneer because of some distorted facial muscles. “A sort of Gwynplaine,” he phrased it to himself.
“I will tell you what I think,” said Edmond. “I think that all dancing of whatever sort, is sexual, allied to the wooing dances of birds, and that ball room dancing is most purely erotic. The pleasure therein in the sensual rubbing of body on body, the more alluring because it is conventionalized and performed in public. It represents a secret triumph over the conventions”
Paul smiled. “No woman will concede that.”
“No, since a woman must seem to be passionate against her will. To be successful—that is, to create the strongest appeal to males—a woman must seem to yield despite her inclinations. This is in the nature of a compliment to a man’s attractions.” He exhaled a plume of smoke. “Some of our nicest conventions in the attitudes of men and women are based on this fact.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right. But I think there is a true beauty, a sort of poetry of motion, distinct from sex. The swaying of reeds in a storm, the rippling of a field of grain, these are very lovely things.”
“Bah! Your mind translates them to the undulations of female hips.”
Paul shrugged and glanced at the dancing couples on the floor. For the tiniest fraction of a moment he had a curious illusion. From the comer of his eye his companion seemed to duplicate himself; there was a momentary impression that two men sat facing him, four eyes regarded him steadily. Startled, he altered his oblique glance; his companion sat as before, with a speculative gleam in his bright amber eyes, and feathery smoke stream exhaling from his parted lips. The faintest trace of expression lingered on his usually stony face—amusement, contempt, triumph? Paul could not read it as the thin lips drew another deep draught of smoke. “Probably the lights,” he thought, as he turned again toward the floor.
A mass of dark bobbed hair drew his eyes. The girl turned, glanced over her shoulder at him, smiled in recognition.
“Hello, Vanny,” he called.
The slow drift of the dancing current brought her closer. She saw Edmond, nodded slightly.
“Come sit at our table,” she said as she passed on into the crowd.
Paul’s eyes followed her. The music stopped. Her companion took her arm and strolled to a table across the room. Edmond watched the two casually. He was a little charmed by the girl’s grace; she bore herself with a pertness and spirit that he liked.
“That’s little Vanny Marten. You must remember her from school. Shall we move to their table
?”
“I remember her. No,” said Edmond. “However, you may do so. This is sufficient for tonight, and I am leaving.” He called their waiter and took the check.
“Now what do you suppose,” thought Paul, as he watched his employer depart. “What do you suppose he got out of this evening’s activities that is worth ten dollars?”
He made his way to Vanny’s table still wondering.
“Hello, Paul. What were you doing with him?”
“Hello, Walter. My new job. Pushing him around to study night life.”
Vanny laughed. “May keep you away evenings,” she mocked. “Never mind—I’ll manage without you.” She smiled mischievously, and chantea:
“There was a young fellow named Paul
Whom his friends told to hire a hall,
But the way things fell out,
They were twisted about,
For they found that a Hall hired Paul.”
Walter laughed a trifle loudly, he was feeling the first exaltation of liquor. Paul grinned, somewhat embarrassed. Walter filled a glass below the table’s edge, passed it to him, reaching for Vanny’s almost empty one. She refused with a smile and a gesture.
“Practically on the wagon,” said Walter.
“No, merely a desire to remain within my capacity”
“How does one learn that?”
“Trial and error. I prefer public trials and private errors.”
“Smart girl. System no good for me, though. I always err on the same side.”
Paul set down his glass nearly empty. He was still thoughtful, silent. Vanny turned to him.
“What’s the matter, Paul? Are you stunned into silence by this brilliant conversation?”
Paul smiled at her.
“I can’t get him out of my mind. He’s so—well, so abnormal, physically and mentally.”
“Ought to be an interesting job.”
“Oh, I won’t be bored!” He finished the remainder of his glass. “Say, Vanny, you’ve got a pat sort of mind for impromptu limericks; you should have heard what I heard yesterday afternoon. He reeled off a thousand lines just to show me how it was done.”
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